#op i love how you do fabric folds

[writingwhileblvck]

Hi I have a request. Could u pls do a short fic where an pre op MTF is making breakfast early in the morning in a lingerie thong and bra and bakugo comes up behind her and starts to touch her curves and breast pulling up her panties by the thong string while kissing her neck.

if u think this is too short you can add onto it or not. But thanks for giving space for trans readers 😇

yes of course! I hope you enjoy!

What a Surprise

Pairing: ProHero!Bakugou x MTF reader

It's been a tough week for your husband. Between long hours at the agency filling out paperwork, and villains just seeming to be coming out the woodwork, you've barley seen him. And oh how you've missed him. Fortunately for the both of you though, he's finally gotten some time off. So you decided that now would be the best time to give your man a little gift for all his hard work.

Since Bakugou went running every morning, it gave you plenty of time to shower, and put on the new lingerie set he bought you. You loved it because the lacey fabric made you look so delicate. It hugged your hips just right, your tits looked so suckable, and the thong panties were your favorite part cause they made your ass look juicy. You topped off the look with a pretty little see through robe, the wrapping paper for your... Gift. You drapped it over your shoulders and checked yourself out in the mirror.

This man was gonna devour you, okay?

So you make your way down into the kitchen to make you and your husband some breakfast while you wait for him to get home. As your chopping you hear the front door open, your heart was pounding with excitement as the footsteps got closer and closer.

"Holy fuck~" your husbands deep rasp filled the kitchen. He makes his way over to you and you jumped a little feeling a firm slap to your ass.

"You are such a fucking tease" you giggle a bit as he wrapped his strong arms around you.

"Well I wanted to surprise you" you say as you feel his warm lips against your neck, his touch turning you to putty. You feel his hands run up and down your skin, kneading your soft breast, gripping and pulling on every curve, and leaving a sweet burning sensation in its wake.

" and what a surprise it is, baby" he coos, pausing just long enough to spin you around to face him. His large hands continue to explore. He slid them up the curve of your ass, the fabric of the robe pooling around his arms as he did. He squeezed and spanked until your cheeks were red. Then he toyed with band of your thong pulling it higher and higher, watching you squirm from the friction. He loved how sensitive you were.

Then he stopped, folding his arms across his broad chest as he studied you.

"Strip for me. now. But leave the panties, there gonna look real pretty when my dick is inside you." he said with a smirk

God you loved this man, the way he spoke to you fogged your mind. All you could think about was his touch as let the robe slide off your arms to the floor. Slowly you unclipped your bra, the cool air making your nipples harden. Once you were done he sauntered up to you, gently gripping your chin to make you look at him.

"That's my good little slut, now I want you to go upstairs and wait for me. I'll Be up there in a second." He said with one final smack to your ass.

You could feel your husbands burning hot gaze as you slowly walked off. The excitement was bubbling inside of you at the thought of all the unholy things he was about to do to you.

Today was gonna be fun.

[late-to-the-party-81]

Ojos Asi - Part 4 - The Change

AN: Hi all! Hope you are having a good weekend so far.

Here, we are the last part of this mini-series (for now?). Our boy has declared himself so it's all smut for this chapter, although Joaquin can't help but worry about his Sparky.

DISCLAIMER - I know nothing about any Air Force, US or otherwise, or special ops or high-tech tracking systems.

Beta’d by the wonderful @yarnforbrains, brand new dividers by @firefly-graphics and mood board by me (credits to those who took the photos). Spanish help from the lovely @maladaptivexxdaydreaming

Series Master list | Part 3

Find my master list here

Tag list open

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x Fem SWORD Agent! Reader

Chapter Word count: 2.9k

CW: Smut inc Oral (F and M receiving, and Face sitting), Vaginal Fingering, Hand jobs, uprotected PinV sex, Small amount of spanking, Joaquin being infuriatingly gentlemanly, Fluff, laughing during sex, Joaquin talking dirty, Joaquin talking Spanish (that's a warning!)

The first thing you noticed was how soft and warm his lips were. This kiss was gentle and far too brief for your liking. He pulled back, his eyes searching yours, asking for permission.

“Kiss me again, ‘Quin…” Your words were breathy and almost lost as he swooped down again.

You wrapped your good arm around his neck, pulling him in close, and one of his hands left your face to curl around your waist. You took a step forwards, forcing him to step back, then another, until his legs hit the edge of the bed and he sat down, pulling you onto his lap, still kissing you.

The knot in your towel loosened and fell open, and the damp fabric slipped away from your body. With a small growl, Joaquin pulled the towel away and tossed it aside, as if it offended him, before both his hands settled on your bare skin, slowly stroking up and down your ribs and over your back.

“Eres tan suave, tan hermosa. No sabes cuanto he querido tocarte así…”

He murmured against your skin, and you only managed to understand a small part, but it made you smile nonetheless. His lips trailed down your neck, breathing you in, and you couldn’t help but grip his dark hair. He held you carefully and turned, laying you down on the bed. He stood on the floor, but leant over you, kissing over your naked skin. He was still fully clothed, and you pulled at his t-shirt with one hand. He got the message and pulled away from you long enough to take it off. His dog-tags bumped and jingled against his skin, and he was on you again, worshipping your body with his gentle touches and passionate kisses. He reached your stomach, kissing across from one side to the other, fingers gripping your hips and you whined.

Joaquin was kissing you; he was touching you! It felt like the best dream, and you didn’t want it to end. His breath ghosted over your mound, and you felt your legs fall apart instinctively.

“‘Quin!”

“Mi sol, I want to make you feel good. Can I?”

“Please…”

He pressed his lips to your inner thigh, first on one side and then the other, before placing them over his shoulders and nuzzling into the down that hid your centre from his gaze.

“Hueles tan dulce…”

He spread you open with his thumbs, touching his lips gently to your flesh, making you tremble with desire, your hand fisting into the sheets at your side. Then, his tongue swiped up your slit, and you both moaned.

“Oh god!” Your eyes rolled back in your head as he descended on you like a man starved. He curled his tongue into your entrance, like he was trying to scoop your essence out from inside you. His thumb rubbed over your clit that was standing proud, aching for his touch and you writhed under him, small gasps and moans the only sounds you could make.

“Do you like this, mi alma?”

“More, I need more. Uh!”

He chuckled. “My greedy girl.”

Pulling back from you, he stroked his fingers through your folds, covering them in your arousal. He kept his eyes focused on yours as he slowly pressed one digit inside you. You rolled your hips up towards him, pulling him deeper into your pussy. He pumped it a few times, eyes still watching you, before pressing in a second.

“Fuuuuuck! Uuuuhh!”

“So beautiful. Dios mio!”

He brought his mouth back down and pulled your clit into his mouth, sucking on it gently and rolling it with his tongue. His fingers rubbed the walls of your pussy and when he hit that sensitive spot, you bucked up into his face. His free arm wrapped around under your ass, holding you to him as he found that spot within you again, moving over it rhythmically. You could feel the pressure building inside you, insistent and steady. No-one had ever touched you so assuredly before, so unhurried and so totally focussed on your pleasure. You moved your hand from the sheets to his hair again, and as you tugged on it, he sucked on you harder.

You crashed over the edge, breathy little whines escaping your lips and your hips moving to fuck yourself on his face and fingers. The sensations kept coming in waves and stars passed in front of your eyes. As your movements changed to small shudders, as the aftershocks rolled through you, Joaquin slowed his own ministrations. You lay spent and replete, as he crawled up onto the bed next to you, taking you in his arms.

You cupped his face and kissed him, and he moaned into you. His cock was swollen hard, still inside his pants, pressing insistently against your thigh. You trailed your hand down his firm, smooth chest, stopping briefly to rub your thumb over his nipples, before you reached his fly and popped it open. You pulled him out and held his length firmly in your hand.

“Christos!”

You continued to kiss him as you smeared his pre-cum over his cock, before starting to jerk him with long steady strokes. His hand gripped your hip, and his own rutted up against you, whimpers of need moving from his mouth to be swallowed by yours. Your thumb rubbed circles over his tip, pressing into his sensitive slit as you gently squeezed and twisted your wrist.

“Mi alma brillante! Si! Si!”

He shuddered against you, coming into your hand with a small cry. He continued to kiss you softly, and you both smiled at each other between each meeting of your lips. He grabbed some tissues from your bedside table, cleaning your palm before easing you under the covers.

“Get some rest, Chispita. I’ll wake you in a bit for some food and some more painkillers. Alright?”

You nodded slowly, your exhaustion getting the better of you once more, and you drifted off, warm and content.

Four weeks later and you were well on the way to recovering from your injury. You realised how lucky you had been not to have actually lost your arm, or worse and had accepted the counselling services on offer from SWORD. Your stitches had been removed after two weeks, and you had been religiously applying scar oil to the affected skin. You were also attending physiotherapy.

Joaquin drove you everywhere, offering to stay with you, for every appointment. You’d sat down and talked, and it turned out that you were both idiots. You’d been pining for him for a long time, too scared to risk your friendship. He, though, had only realised his feelings for you during the mission, when he’d seen your flare and seen you injured. Although he did admit that he’d always found you attractive, and had wondered, several times, what it would’ve been like to be with you. You’d punched him in the arm at that remark and he’d laughed.

Sam and Bucky were both ecstatic, and, in a thoroughly on brand move for them, had started to loudly plan your eventual wedding, earning them glares from you and terrified looks from Joaquin.

There was only one issue that was bugging you. Okay, two.

The first was the why and how your mission had gone wrong. Your targets had obviously been expecting you and had hoped to get hold of some kind of information from the way they’d gone after you and tried to take your computer. Some of your colleagues were working on it, and you suspected there was a mole, but until you were fully back on duty there was little you could do.

The second issue was far more personal. It was four weeks since you and Joaquin had started this new stage of your relationship.

Four weeks in which he’d made you the happiest woman alive.

Four weeks in which he’d made you come numerous times, with his mouth, with his fingers.

Four weeks in which he’d let you do the same to him, albeit reluctantly, always wanting the focus to be on you and not him. You told him you enjoyed making him feel as good as he made you, but there was always a bit of worry in his eyes, and he never took it further.

Eventually you’d worked out that he was worried about hurting you, that he was being as much of a gentleman as he could, and whilst it was sweet, it was also frustrating with a capital F. You’d been hurt in your shoulder, not in your nether regions and, frankly, if you didn’t get a good dicking down soon you were going to scream.

You were actually feeling feral about it. Now you’d got up close and personal with his cock you were literally aching to have it inside you. You daydreamed about how it would stretch you, fill you, the thoughts getting you so wound up that they had you almost jumping on him as soon as he walked through your door. You’d decided that enough was enough.

You had a long bath, pampering yourself in the process and indulging in a glass of wine now that you were no longer on painkillers. Once you got out you sorted your hair out and applied a small amount of make-up, just enough to make you feel ‘pretty’, before dressing yourself in a new set of lingerie you’d bought for this occasion. Checking the time, and realising you had about 10 minutes before Joaquin arrived, you lit the candles in your bedroom and grabbed a bottle of wine and some glasses from the kitchen. Satisfied that everything was set up and ready, you arranged yourself on the bed to wait.

Joaquin was punctual, as usual. You heard the door open, and his keys jingle as he hung them up.

“Chispita, mi alma! Where are you?”

You smiled and called out to him.

“I’m in the bedroom, baby.”

You heard him stride across your apartment.

“What are you doing in here…” he tailed off as his eyes roved over you and he took in the room.

“Are we… erm …celebrating anything? I know it’s not your birthday…”

God, he was so cute, even if he was a little bit dense at times. You rose up from your lounging position and crawled over to the end of the bed, where he was standing, with an unsure look on his face and a growing tent in his pants.

“Joaquin, you’ve been the absolute best boyfriend over the past few weeks…” You rose up onto your knees, sliding your hands up, under his t-shirt and pushing it off him. “There is just one teeny, tiny, problem…” Your hands dropped to his waist, quickly undoing his belt, and then his fly, pushing his pants to the floor.

“Yeah? What’s that?” His voice was low and husky with desire, his eyes blown so wide they were almost black instead of their normal rich chocolate colour.

You looped your forefinger into his dog tags and tugged, bringing his head down towards you.

“You’ve failed in one particular way.” You kissed and nipped at his jaw line. “You’ve failed to get me screaming on your cock.” He shuddered at your words and swallowed loudly.

“You know I don’t want to hurt you, you’re still recovering.” You pressed a finger to his lips, and moved back up the bed, still tugging on his tags to make him follow you. You pushed him down to the mattress and straddled his hips, rubbing your hands over his chest and rocking your clothed core against his. He moaned, pulling his lower lip between his teeth and took hold of your hips to still you. However, you wouldn’t be denied and ground over him again, feeling his length twitch under your ministrations.

“Mierda, me vas a matar, ¡lo juro!”

You just smiled at him as you reached behind you, unclasped your bra and then slowly drew the straps down each arm in turn. He laughed when you tossed it away dramatically then dragged you up his body and then pulled you down so he could take one of your breasts in his mouth.

“Tan perfecta…”

You sighed in pleasure as he worshipped each breast in turn, his hands massaging your hips before encouraging you out of your panties. The next thing he did was entirely unexpected. He hooked his arms under your thighs and half dragged and half lifted you up into the air, to land on his face. You squeaked in surprise, but Joaquin just winked at you before diving in. You had to grab the headboard for support as he worked you over with his lips and tongue, his hands on your ass, squeezing and giving you the occasional spank. It didn’t take him long to have you trembling and squirming on him as you hit your high.

“Fuck! ‘Quin! Oh god!”

He kept lathing you with his tongue until you pushed him away. Overstimulated, you slid your way down his body, stopping to kiss him deeply, tasting yourself on him, before going lower. As you grabbed the waistband of his briefs, he lifted his hips to assist you, and his cock sprang free. You ran your tongue up his whole length, from root to tip and watched him shudder. You closed your mouth over the head and started to work your way down as far as you could, letting yourself drool over him, so you could jerk his remaining length with your hand.

“Dios mio!” You hummed in smug satisfaction. There was something so intoxicating about the fact that you were making him so weak beneath you.

You came up for air, and Joaquin took over, hauling you up his body and flipping you both, so you were on your back. His body covered yours and he slotted himself between your open thighs.

“Sorry, Sparky, but I had to stop you. You want this dick in you?” He held himself firmly in hand and tapped his tip against your clit, making you shiver.

“Please, Quin! For the love of god!”

He grinned and dipped down to kiss you before sitting up on his knees and pulling your hips up onto his lap. He stared down at your pussy, sliding his fingers through your folds, collecting your slick and then rubbing it all over his cock.

“Mirame, mi sol. I want to see you.”

He leant forwards slightly and pressed his tip to your entrance. Your mouth fell open as he stretched you, rocking each wondrous inch into your quivering hole. His fingers dug into your hips, but he kept his eyes on you, the pair of you staring into each other's souls, until he bottomed out and his eyelids fluttered shut.

“Fuuuuuuuccckkkk! Dios mio, you’re like heaven, bebé.”

He rolled his hips gently and the moan he released made you giggle. He curled his body over yours, a grin on his face and peppered your jaw with kisses.

“Don’t laugh at me, mi corazón.” He rolled his hips again, but a little harder, thrusting deeper, and it was your turn to let out a cry of pleasure. Joaquin chuckled in your ear, nipping at your lobe. You wound your arms around his neck holding him to you and shifted your own hips.

“‘Quin, stop teasing. I need you…”

“You’ve got me, mi alma. Mi sol en mi vida.”

He kissed you and started to move, both of you breathing into the other. You could barely handle just how good it felt; everything you’d ever imagined. When he pulled his lips from yours, you opened your eyes to find him staring down at you and you both continued watching the other, sinking into the pleasure running through your bodies. But you needed more. You whined and writhed under him, rolling your own hips up to meet him.

“Harder, please, Joaquin. I wanna feel it.”

“Always so greedy for me.”

He knelt back, holding onto your hips where they rested on his lap and pulled on your body as he thrust up, driving as deep into you as he could. Your eyes rolled back, and you gripped the sheets.

“God, yes! Just like that, fuck!”

With each moan and cry that fell from your lips, Joaquin’s confidence seemed to grow. He lifted your legs on to his shoulders and leant forwards again, caging you in and almost folding you in half.

“Feels so good. Can you touch yourself? I want to feel you come on me.”

You nodded and bit your lower lip, sliding a hand down between you and drawing tight, fast circles on your sensitive clit. A slight shift in angle and the sensations within you intensified.

“‘Quin, don’t stop. Please don’t stop, oh god…” Your back arched and a keening sound burst from your lips as your orgasm took you, the pulses wracking your body. You could vaguely hear Joaquin murmuring in Spanish to you, but you couldn’t focus until you felt him lose his own rhythm and twitch within you, filling you with warmth as he let out his own cry.

He collapsed down on top of you, breathing hard in your ear, letting out little moans as your aftershocks ran through you, causing you to squeeze around him. When he pushed up on his elbows, he brushed some hair out of your eyes and smiled down at you. You smiled back, losing yourself in his eyes and feeling the most content you’d ever been.

“Hi…” Your voice was husky.

“Hi yourself…”

Everything was perfect. Todo es perfecto.

Tag list: @christywantspizza @jobean12-blog @tinnedowl @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky @tuiccim @beelicious-barnes @sidepartskinnyjeans @krissy25 @bodeckersdiamonddoll @turbolisedcomet @parkjammys

[refinedbuffoonery]

Broken Like Me (1)

masterlist.

THIS FIC IS NOT INTENDED FOR READERS UNDER THE AGE OF 18. Please see the masterlist for content warnings. 

Here it is, the long-awaited dark!MacRiley AU! First, I want to thank my lovely beta readers and my life-saving brainstorming/workshop buddy. You all know who you are. ❤

This fic adheres to canon through 5x05 and then goes off the fucking rails. Backstory and other important tidbits of information revealed in the latter half of season 5 may be used, but timeline-wise anything after 5x05 does not exist in this fic. Also, Jack is dead and is staying dead, so don’t get your hopes up for a happy ending. 

I will do my best to update this regularly, but hanging out in and writing such dark headspaces is HARD. I will definitely be taking breaks to write fluffier fic, because a big chunk of this story is all hurt and no comfort. 

Without further adieu, let’s get this party started. (It’s not a party. In fact, it’s like...the opposite of a party.) 

*****

They say he was a good man. 

A good soldier. 

A good father. 

A good friend. 

They say they are sorry for her loss, sorry he was taken from this world too soon. 

They say Jack would be proud of the legacy he left behind, would be proud to have gone out in a blaze of glory. 

Riley is sick of it. 

It’s like she’s a teenager, and Jack is leaving her all over again. Only this time it’s worse. This time there’s no coming back. 

The guests at the wake gaze at the folded up American flag on the fireplace mantle with deep respect, but Riley only feels anger every time she glimpses the piece of fabric the government sent back in his place. A flag and a life insurance claim feel like a mockery of the kind of man Jack Dalton was. 

Was. Past tense. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

*****

Mac has never been afraid of Riley before. 

He’s seen her angry and upset, but the rage-filled woman he stopped from killing Anya Vitez with her bare hands back in Croatia is someone he does not know. 

The frightening part is that Riley isn’t a hot-headed person. In work mode, she is cold and calculating, so for her to go after Vitez like that...something inside her snapped. 

Three weeks have passed since then, and every time he looks at Riley, Mac remembers holding her back, fingers digging sharply into her waist until she stopped fighting him. He sees the fury radiating off Riley’s body like heat waves off asphalt—sees the way she clings to it, finds purpose in it, letting it consume her so there’s no room for guilt or grief. Mac knows the feeling all too well. And he also knows there will be a very loud thud when she finally comes crashing back down. 

But he also knows that the woman is like a loaded gun, safety off and desperate to fire at something. 

Which is why he worries when Matty calls them in for an op and Riley isn’t there. She’s at Vitez’s trial, Matty informs them, but that doesn’t make Mac feel any better. Whenever there’s downtime during the mission, and Mac’s mind is free to wander, he can't stop thinking about her. This new Riley is becoming obsessively vengeful, and if someone doesn’t reel her back in soon, she might do something she can’t come back from.

The thought plagues Mac every second there aren’t bullets whizzing toward his head. 

After the op, Mac drives to Riley’s apartment. Upon arrival, his ears are assaulted by Riley’s upstairs neighbor blasting Macklemore’s greatest hits. Mac hears the lyrics clear as day, even though both his truck windows and the apartment windows are closed. 

Riley really shouldn’t have moved out of Mac’s house, not if this is her best option. He still doesn’t understand why she did. 

It doesn’t take long to notice the GTO is missing. Riley should be back from the trial by now, but Mac has a sneaking suspicion where she is. 

The drive to Jack’s apartment seems to take forever. The brick building is in an older neighborhood, one of few affordable ones with trees planted along the sidewalks—a luxury in LA. Sure enough, the GTO is parked on the curb, not far from the fire escape that connects to Jack’s living room.

Looking up, Mac spies a familiar body perched on the stairs. 

Riley sits on the fire escape, soaking in the last rays of sunlight. Her eyes are closed, head resting against the brick wall. Mac doesn’t say anything as he sits beside her on the narrow metal stairs, their hips and thighs just touching. 

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Should he hug her? Hold her hand? Leave her alone? Riley isn’t a super touchy person. Mac decides on the latter, picking at his fingernails while his gaze drifts west to study the sunset. 

Several minutes pass before Riley says, “Hey.” Her voice is low and scratchy, like she’s been crying. 

“Hey,” Mac repeats. “How long have you been here?” 

Riley shifts beside him, sitting up. “I don’t know. A while.” 

“This isn’t the first time you’ve come here, is it?” 

A sigh. “No, it’s not.” Mac figures as much. Aside from the constant clamor of the city, Jack’s apartment is relatively quiet. It’s not in the greatest neighborhood, but it’s safe enough for Riley to sit alone and think. Or not think. Whatever she feels like doing. 

Riley rests her head on Mac’s shoulder, and a wave of protectiveness floods his system. It’s new, this need to watch her back more than the others’. It came on so gradually that Mac doesn’t know when it started or what triggered it, only that he feels it all the time now. Especially after Jack’s…

He avoids examining the feeling too closely. 

Without warning, Riley says, “If you hadn’t held me back, I would’ve killed her.” 

Knowing exactly who she was talking about, Mac glances down at Riley in surprise. He knows it’s true—thinks so himself—but hearing it come out of her mouth makes his stomach turn. The last, and only, time Riley killed someone...it took her months to piece herself back together afterward. And that death was in self-defense. 

This one would’ve been murder. Intentional and vindictive. 

Mac isn’t sure Riley could come back from that, at least not as herself. The woman who would emerge from that would be a total stranger inside his best friend’s body. Mac suppresses a shiver. “I know,” he says.

“Thank you for stopping me.” Riley’s voice is quiet. So, so quiet. 

“You would’ve done the same for me.” Gingerly, Mac wraps his arm around Riley’s shoulders, ready to let go at the first sign of her discomfort. When she doesn’t react, he relaxes and holds her more surely. 

The sky is painted in vibrant oranges and reds, fading into deep blue overhead. Subtle strokes of pink outline the scattered clouds hanging above the horizon. Out of all the sunsets Mac has seen, all over the world, nothing quite compares to the ones here at home. He wishes Jack was here to see it. 

Mac spends far too long debating whether to bring it up before asking, “Why did you go to the trial?” Agents, especially secret ones, don’t go to trials, mostly to keep their identities safe. Publicly tying oneself to a case is never a good idea, for more reasons that Mac can begin to name. 

“I swore I’d be there every step of the way. I meant it.” Mac tries not to bristle at the snarling, defensive edge to Riley’s tone. “Eventually, she’ll make a mistake, and I will be there when she does. And then I’m going to rip out her entire organization from the roots up.” 

Fear wraps its ugly hand around Mac’s heart. Until every single person associated with Tiberius Kovac is behind bars, there will be a target on Riley’s back, and Riley will have put it there herself. Losing one person to Kovac is more than enough; Mac refuses to lose Riley too. 

“How can I help you?” 

Riley looks up, eyes wide like she’s expecting him to try to talk her out of it, not offer to help. “You don’t have to do that.” 

“And miss out on all the fun?” Mac almost smiles as he quotes her. Almost. 

She sits up. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’m going to hack Interpol first, to see which of her colleagues might also be dirty. So unless you secretly picked up hacking…” 

Mac huffs. “Sorry, I only hack hardware.” He expects some insane, crackhead plan, not something so…reasonable. Maybe Riley isn’t as off-the-rails as he thought. 

But only maybe. 

A seagull perches on the railing below them, honking and squawking for seemingly no reason at all. Gulls are just like that. It glares at Mac, pinning him to his spot with a beady yellow eye, challenging Mac to shoo it away. 

Go find some tourists to harass, Mac wants to snark at it. Leave us alone. 

The seagull cocks its head, as if to say, I know something you don’t. 

Mac narrows his eyes. I bet you do. 

He swears the seagull shrugs before taking off, flying low over the GTO before sailing over rooftops on its way back to the ocean. It passes a billboard advertising a new blockbuster spy thriller, the product of millions of dollars and Hollywood plot recycling. Mac saw the trailer. The movie is about a soldier who joined the CIA in a quest for retribution after his best friend came home in a box. Usually Mac likes watching spy movies—mostly to make fun of them—but this one hits a little too close to home. 

It takes a monumental effort to tear his gaze away. 

When his eyes finally meet Riley’s, Mac understands the silent ache in them—the ache that’s surely reflected in his own eyes. He and Riley are drowning, but at least they’re drowning together. 

Mac frowns. That must be the dimmest “on the bright side” thought he’s ever had. 

Riley doesn’t say anything more, so neither does Mac. They sit on the fire escape until long after the sun sets and the temperature drops, and the city's nightlife stretches its limbs as it wakes. Mac shivers, but Riley seems oddly unaffected by the cold. That or she’s too numb to notice. 

He threads his still semi-warm fingers through her icy ones, letting their joined hands rest on his knee. It seems like his last tether to the Riley he knows and loves, one who’s slowly slipping away from him and being replaced by a woman who might very well bring the world to its knees as payback for all that it’s done to her. 

Mac has no interest in ever meeting that woman. Mostly because he refuses to lose his Riley, but also because Mac knows he won’t be able to resist that other Riley. She will slash his restraint beyond repair, and Mac will follow her to the ends of the earth. 

He will find a way to keep them both afloat. He has to. 

Or else the Phoenix may very well be hunting him and Riley again, and this time, they’ll deserve it.

*****

Entering her apartment later that night, Riley realizes too late that it isn’t empty. Bozer is still there, and he’s making dinner. Locking the door behind her, she hears a rushed, “Got to go, Matty. She’s home.” 

Bozer crashed on her couch the night they got the news and never left. I don't want you to be alone, Bozer keeps saying, despite her insistence she doesn’t need a babysitter. Other than that, they don’t speak to each other much. In fact, Riley wouldn't have noticed he said anything at all if not for the way he stares at her, standing at the stove and twirling a wooden spoon between his fingers. 

"What?" she snaps. 

Carefully, Bozer asks, "How was the trial?" 

"Fine." Riley knows he cares, and that he’s hurting too, but nothing he says or does is going to help her. The sooner he figures that out the better. She drops her keys and jacket on a chair before heading for her bedroom. 

“You hungry?” he calls after her. 

Riley yanks off her boots, chucking them into the closet with too much force. “No.” 

“Have you eaten anything today?” 

Her fuse is running short these days, and she’s just about had it with his incessant smothering and questioning. Riley marches into the kitchen, rolling her shoulders back and bracing her hands on the counter. “Last I checked, I still have a mother, so if you’re just going to keep nagging me, then I think it’s time you get the fuck out of my apartment.” 

Bozer’s eyes widen and his mouth opens, but no sound comes out. 

“Get out,” Riley snarls. 

Still struggling to regain his ability to speak, Bozer stammers, “At least let me finish making you dinner first.” 

“Fine.” Cracking her knuckles, Riley retreats to her bedroom once more. “I’m taking a shower. You better be gone when I come out.” She doesn’t wait for a response. 

When Riley emerges, her dinner is cold, and Bozer is long gone. 

She doesn’t eat.

*****

On the second day of Vitez’s trial, Riley sits in the back of the room long after the trial adjourns for the day, thinking. She didn’t recognize the witnesses who testified today, and as the prosecutor called each one forward, Riley wished she had her laptop so she could look them up. Now, as she stares over the rows of empty wooden seats to the section where the jury sat, Riley can only hope that the witnesses’ testimonies are enough. 

Riley knows there’s more than enough evidence to convict Vitez—especially since she recorded the confession herself—but obsessing over the trial is easier than facing the reality waiting outside the courthouse doors. 

Her mom invited her to visit his grave today, after the trial, but Riley declined. Facing that slab of granite will make it real, make it…permanent. 

She knows what it says. Jack Dalton. Beloved. Gone too soon. Someone asked for her approval before it was made. It doesn’t say nearly enough to encapsulate all that he was, but at the time Riley couldn’t think about it—couldn’t look at it—long enough to suggest any changes. She still can’t. 

Chewing her lip, Riley anxiously toys with her rings, spinning them and moving them from finger to finger. 

At the wake, one of his old Delta buddies joked that the gravestone should read “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfuckers,” but Riley didn’t laugh. 

Riley hasn’t laughed since Matty broke the news. It’s like the part of her that knows how to feel joy died in that explosion too. 

Instead, she wants to scream at the universe until her voice gives out, cursing it for taking her dad away too soon. Because that’s what he is. Her dad. Riley doesn’t even know when she started calling him that again, but if she has to guess, it was sometime between the first “I’m proud of you, honey” and him kicking her ass at skee-ball for the millionth time.

Tears leak from Riley’s eyes without her consent. 

It feels like she failed him, in a way. By not being there. By not keeping him alive. 

Now the best she can do is make sure his death means something. 

Vitez will go to prison for the rest of her life, that Riley is sure of. But the rest of her organization is still out there, and Riley intends on putting every single member behind bars. No amount of justice will even begin to heal the Jack-shaped wound in her heart, but at least the world will be better for it. Safer. 

But she’d rather live in a more dangerous world with him still in it than a safer one without. That way they could save the world together, like they always did. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

Anger rumbles through her body, like a Texas thunderstorm in her veins. It’s the only emotion Riley feels anymore, ever since the sadness gave way to numbness. 

A woman in a security uniform pokes her head in the room. “Excuse me, ma’am. I need to lock up for the night.” When Riley doesn’t respond, the woman adds, “Are you okay?” 

Are you okay? Riley hates that question more than all the others. How are you? Have you eaten today? What can I do to help? 

She feels like she’s dying. She can’t eat. Nothing will help. 

But that isn’t what people want to hear. Even Mac asked that last question, yesterday on the fire escape, although Riley didn’t automatically despise the question like she usually did. It’s different coming from him than anyone else; his offer was genuine, not coming from pity or obligation.

She isn’t surprised Mac recognized her need to do something. After all, he had been the same way after his dad was killed. 

Coldly, Riley finally says,“I will be.” The woman doesn’t deserve her abrupt answer, but Riley can’t quite bring herself to care. She lets the anger the questions bring up fuel her, lets it hold her together. 

The anger is all she has left. 

Riley stands, her heels clicking on the floor as she exits the courthouse. 

She’s coming for all the monsters who hurt him. She’s coming for the ones who rendered him nothing more than ashes on the wind, the ones who turned her life into a nightmare she can’t wake up from. 

Because she doesn’t need to wake up to become theirs.

~

Want to be tagged in future chapters? Send me an ask.

[nerdy-emo-royal-dad]

I dare you to write sad logan crying into stuffed animal but then stuffed animal hugs back and then he realizes it's either roman or remus-

HEY FOLKS! So yeah that took forever and I have four more prompts. Anon, I do apologize greatly for how long this took. Going to school in your country’s top university apparently means no time for anything else eyyy (I’m dying someone punch college in the face for me). Anyway aaaa I hope you still enjoy it even if took so long. Love y’all!

Feelings of the Mind, Thoughts of the Heart

Warning/s: None but feel free to inform me of you see one

Word Count: 1679 words

Pairing/s: Platonic/Romantic Logince (Logan x Roman) (totes up to you)

~~~

Logan would rather fade than admit that he was this close to breaking. 

He didn’t mean the kind that made his face heat up or his nostrils flare while his taut knuckles shook at his side and his teeth clashed with each other. Though he might have just preferred that. Unfortunately when Logan said “breaking,” he meant it in a way that left an uncomfortable mini-hurricane wreaking havoc within his ribcage while he tried his hardest to contain it inside. 

Logan’s entire frame shook from the effort it took to maintain his composure in front of his fellow sides; not that they were paying attention in the first place, anyway. He didn’t really quite understand why he was having such a reaction right now when this blatant disregard for him, this… this ignorance was something he encountered every single day.

And so he left.

He was willing to bet that no one even noticed him sinking out. If they did, They probably would have just chalked it off to his reputation for having such a short fuse. He could barely make out the room around him as he blindly made his way towards the bed; the tears welling up in his eyes doing nothing to help his vision. He never remembered the bed being that far from his door before, nor his floor being carpeted and soft enough that it silenced his footsteps, but that was the least of his concerns.

If he could scold himself, he would. He felt pathetic and weak and emotional and disgusting as he closed his eyes and released the contents of his tear ducts the second he came into contact with the unrealistic softness of the bed. Eyes still wrenched shut, Logan leaned forward, desperate to find any form of solace or comfort; or at the very least anything he could use to muffle his cries. He felt very much like the polar opposite of logic as his damp forehead finally came into contact with an unidentifiable something, his glasses pushing uncomfortably against the frame of his eyes and the bridge of his nose. 

His vision stayed dark as he forced himself to take any semblance of logic he could. He clasped a hand over his mouth as he buried his face into the smooth, fragrant fabric of this… pillow? Curtain? Blanket? Sheet? Stuffed toy? He wasn’t exactly certain. All that mattered was that he was Logan. Logical, calculated, reserved, put-together, proper, objective Logan; and crying was not something the embodiment of logic should be doing. So he stayed there doing his best to muffle his cries, never daring to open his eyes. He hiccupped, gasped, and heaved in the lowest volume he could. He fisted his hands on the sheets below him and held his mouth as tight as he could. 

Logan tried remembering methods of calming an individual down. They could point out all his errors, but he would never allow them to take his identity from him. He scoured the filing cabinets of his mind ‘till he found a suitable suggestion. Focus. He needed to focus. Logan zeroed in on the feeling of the cloth in his hand. He let it slide through his fingers as he crumpled it, allowing his fingertips to recognize the material -- satin. Wait… satin? His sheets weren’t satin. His sheets were cotton. The thin kind of cotton that felt cool against his skin, comfortable and not all at once. 

He internally winced as a particularly loud sob pushed past his lips, and so he put his focus back on the softness he was leaning on. It simultaneously felt all too cold but oh, so warm. It smelled of flowers; of chrysanthemums and daffodils swaying along a gentle breeze. He took the hand on his mouth away and placed it on the material in front of him. He rubbed the cloth on his fingertips and identified it as...silk. But that… didn’t make sense. Not at all. As he brought up hypotheses in his head and sifted through possibilities, he felt a little pinprick of dread. He looked back on all the little pieces. The carpeted floor, the distance of the bed, the satin sheets and the silky material of--

All the thoughts died down like a flat-lining cardiogram when he felt a tentative hand rub against his back.

Logan dared to lift his forehead off the comfortable something to open his eyes, breath hitching in the process, and all he saw was red. There were many, many shades of red. There was maroon, rose, cherry, garnet, scarlet, currant, and a whole variety more that probably didn’t even have proper names. But Logan recognized the rich crimson of this red all too well; knew how the familiar color matched perfectly with the smoothness of the silk. He’d be an imbecile if he didn’t recognize Roman’s sash by now.

And maybe he already was, considering he made it this far without realizing he sank down into the wrong room. And maybe he was more than just an imbecile for forgetting that Roman had not been summoned for this session, and that’s why he wasn’t up there with the others at the moment. Maybe he was positively beyond an imbecile if he’d been cryi-- trying to stop himself from crying against Roman that entire time.

Logan shot up, consequentially bumping Roman’s hand away, his probably red eyes lookin at the prince’s own wide irises, creased forehead, and damp sash through fogged up spectacles.

“Roman! I-- I deeply apologize. I had not realized-- I should’ve checked first-- It was faulty of me to sink down into the wrong room I apologize greatly, I--”

His stream of words and possibly his airflow were cut off by the same hand coming to rest on Logan’s shoulder and Roman’s eyes looking back at him with such an indistinguishable amount of emotion locked up inside the hues of his iris.

“Logan, it’s okay. I don’t mind. Really.”

He… what? He didn’t mind what?

“I-- I don’t understand--”

Roman’s brows only furrowed further and the hand squeezed his shoulder just the slightest bit harder. “Logan. Let go.”

For a long stretch of time they simply sat facing each other, one cross-legged on the bed and the other with his knees folded in; waiting for… anything to happen. But nothing needed to happen because the sheer weight of Roman’s words digging into Logan’s chest and the warmth of his hand seeping through his black polo was enough to break cracks into the meticulously put up walls around his heart.

It started with a singular sob and a hand unconsciously flying to his mouth. When Roman gently took that hand off Logan’s lips and held it within his own, the walls crumbled down.

This cry was far from the soft, held-back sobs from minutes ago. This one was loud, messy, hoarse, pitiful, and ugly. Before he knew it, his eyes were back closed as he shuddered and snivelled before the fanciful side who was more than willing to take the logical side in his arms. 

Roman scooted closer to Logan, allowing him to melt and break within the embrace, both uncaring for the mess it’ll leave on the prince’s clothes. He continued to run his hands in circles on Logan’s back, making every hicc and whimper heard. It terrified Logan, honestly; opening up to someone like this, making every vulnerability known and presenting his lowest points for all the world, or Roman in this case, to see. The terror was suffocating, the shame was unbearable, and the regret was overwhelming, but Logan couldn’t stop the tears even if he tried.

A long, soft, gentle shush came from Roman as one of his hands lightly set on the back of Logan’s head; his fingers absentmindedly playing with the strands. The shush soon turned into a low hum, and Logan found himself drowning in the waves of Roman’s voice. He recognized the tune, even as he bawled the eyes out of his muddy brain.  It was a piece by Chopin-- Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2. The dynamics and the anatomy of the piece often took Logan’s breath away as it did, but something about the fact that it was Roman, Roman who always seemed to strike every chord and make anything sound infinitely more pleasing made the composition sound like an entirely different thing. It wasn’t perfect, no; as the human voice can never truly replicate the delicate sounds of the piano. But the lullaby-esque hum still resonated just as sweetly in Logan’s mind and sent ripples of comfort in his chest that spread to the rest of him. 

And when the last sigh finally left Logan’s lungs, and he finally had the energy to lift his head back up to meet the prince’s eyes once more, he found he felt lighter than he ever did before. He thought maybe that’s what releasing approximately months or years worth of locked up sentiments within an hour did to an individual. Perhaps that hypothesis could be put on hold ‘till another opportunity.

Later that day they’d talk about that. They’d discuss the sheer ridiculousness of Logan stumbling into the wrong room, Logan mistaking Roman for a stuffed toy, and Roman letting all of it happen without complaint. They’d talk, share, and open up about insecurities, sensitivities, exhaustion, and frustration. They’d exchange “thank you’s,” “sorry’s,” but also laughter and banter. Later in the day they’d take a long, much-needed walk in the imagination while they poked fun at the other sides and named every creature they encountered and every flower they walked past by.

But for now they were here, in Roman’s room, with a tissue box being handed over by a Roman who had a hint of a genuine smile grazing his lips to a swollen-eyed Logan whose face was caked with dry tears.

For now, Logan was glad he stumbled into the wrong room. For now, Logan allowed himself to be a little less than who he was.

For now, Logan allowed himself not to think, but to feel.

~~~

Don’t forget to hit reblog!! HMU if ya wanna be added/removed from the tag list. Stay safe and hydrated folks!! Love y’all!! <3

Tag list:

@pixalysparkelz-blog @cinquefoilelove @randomslasher @ladynikita @thestoryofme13 @fandomsandanythingelse @asexual-trashbag @fandomsofrandom  @moonlace @nyxwordsmith  @freepaperie081 @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @jughead-is-canonically-aroace @areyousirius-noheisdead @fandersides @sincerely-a-dork @lizziepopanime @emo-nightmare @justmeandmygayships  @elizabutgayer @robinwritesshitposts @booklover223 @nadiestar @quackerz-creations @halfwaytoqueens @madly-handsome @im-a-creepy-cookie @anotheregofanficblog @wisherbysharlight @momalkav24 @merlinfreya27 @sweet-hibiscus-tea-art @did-he-just-hiss-at-me @bella-in-a-bag @apatheticlogic-internet @the-fetus-in-the-blender

[let-me-love-you-loki]

Too Late for R-n-R Part 3

Part 3

Mattie

            I hated it. I absolutely hated it. My arm was in a cast, my leg was in a brace, I had to walk on crutches, and I wasn’t allowed anywhere near the ring. At all. Momma was adamant about that much at least.

            There was nothing to do being stuck at all home day hardly able to do more than hobble from my room to the bathroom or living room. Plus, I was stuck at Papa’s house. I couldn’t even go across the patio to Dad’s. It sucked. So fucking hard.

            “What’s got you looking so sour?” Papa said as he plopped down on the sofa, stretching out his leg. He was almost healed—he was already in physical therapy. I hated that too.

            And I hated that I hated it. I wanted to cry because of it.

            “I want to go back,” I whimpered, letting my head fall back against the cushions. “I hate it here.”

            Papa groaned as he turned toward me. He looked sad. Kind of like he had that time when Dad left for a while. “You don’t mean that.”

My head pounded. I could feel my heartbeat beneath my cast. It made my stomach turn upside down. “I want to go back to Jacksonville. I don’t want to be here.”

            “You’ll get back, Tea. I know you don’t think so now,” Papa said quietly. “It’s better to stay out and get healed up than go back to early and be out permanently.”

            I tugged my blanket over my head and huffed. “You don’t understand.”

            “Mattie…”

            “No! Just… leave me the fuck alone, Papa.” I wished I could storm out, go back to my room and slam the door. The sound would have been satisfying.

            “Mattea Kourtney Jackson!” Papa shot up to his feet, yanking the blanket away from me, his voice deep and dangerous. It hit my ears and my gut, making me feel like I was going to puke. “Don’t you ever let me hear you say that again.”

            “I’m nineteen,” I spat back, wishing I could stand up to him. I hated feeling like a little girl. Whenever Papa and Dad were around at shows, everyone treated me like I was five. Most of them had known me since the day I was born. It was hard enough to be taken seriously without my parents breathing down my neck. “Kenny and Adam say it all the time. So do Chuck and Trent and Cassidy and Mox…”

            “I don’t care what they say, Mattie. You were raised better than that!” Papa was practically shouting. “Grandma Buck would pop you in the mouth for that.”

            My chest ached as my heart thundered behind my ribs. I could feel my pulse slamming against the inside of my cast. My stomach turned sideways, and for the first time in a long time, I wanted to wail for my mom. I just wanted her.

            “Why do you care?” I asked suddenly, not sure where the words came from.

            Papa’s face turned red. “Because you’re my daughter!”

            “No, I’m not!” I shouted, absolutely loathing the words the moment they came out of my mouth. I watched Papa’s face crumple. He sank onto the couch like someone had kicked his legs out from under him. His eyes were big and brown, vulnerable and hurt. And they were already spilling over with tears. “Papa… I…”

            His jaw clenched. He settled one hand over his heart, and for a moment I was terrified that he was having a heart attack or something. “Mattie…” Papa’s voice was smaller than I’d ever heard it. Sadder than it had ever been, even when Dad was gone and Mama had been in tears for a week. “How could you…”

            For a moment, he was completely silent. His hands fell into his lap and he stared at them. Tears slid down his cheeks and into his beard. It was the first time I noticed that it was going a little grey.

Matt

            I’d had the air knocked out of me plenty of times in my life. But nothing compared to the ringing sound of Mattie shouting those words at me. It was like gravity fell apart and everything was going topsy turvy. There was a dull ache in my chest, like someone had punched a hole straight through. My gut felt like it was trying to crawl up my throat.

            “I cut your chord… I held you the day you were born… I watched you come into this world…”

            I wondered if she even heard the words. They were so quiet I barely heard them myself. Instead I was lost in memories of the little girl with dark brown hair and bright blue eyes that had stolen my heart the moment she’d let out her first wail. Bringing her home, pacing the floors as Nick and I tried not to wake Y/N with her crying, driving around and around the block to get her to sleep when she had colic. Those petrified months when she started to crawl, when I was obsessed with making sure she didn’t run into anything. Her first tottering steps, watching Nick and Y/N chase her through the yard. Trying so hard to build her swing set and her bicycle and her princess castle. Teaching her to swim.

            Walking through Disneyland with her on my shoulders. Getting buried up to my knees in sand on the beach in Hawaii while she giggled and ran off to catch starfish and sand dollars. Agonizing days and nights when we had to be away from home on loops. Setting her off on her first day of school with her Beauty and the Beast backpack and her light up glitter sneakers.

            My throat threatened to close. I could feel the tears running down my face, but I couldn’t catch a breath. That ache in my chest grew until it felt like that was all I knew.

            Tumbling with her in the ring in the backyard. Teaching her those first few precious things. Helping her with her homework. Watching her paint and sketch, looking for all the world like my wife made over. Christmases and birthdays and Easters and dragging her out of bed at six AM to make breakfast for Y/N on Mother’s Day. Sitting around our picnic style dining table and talking about wrestling, Oreo sleeping on her feet. Watching her sob and curl into a ball after everything that happened at her school. Seeing the temporary loss of Nick break her heart like it had ours. Then following along as she opened up and bloomed in her co-op, in the ring.

            I’d watched every moment of her existence, and I didn’t think I could love someone as much as I loved her and her brothers and sister. Mattie was my oldest, my firstborn, regardless of what the DNA test said. I’d always promised Y/N that… promised Nick that.

            There’d been a moment of terror when Y/N told me what Mattie had wanted for her eighteenth birthday—to know who her birth father was. My wife had taken me aside and told me, so I wouldn’t be blindsided when it happened. And God knew, I’d dreaded the moment that Mattie would look at me and see someone other than her Papa.

            Now that the moment had come, I couldn’t bear it. The pain rocketed through me, radiating out from that excruciating cavern behind my ribs. This is what it feels like, I thought, staring dumbly at my hands, this is what it feels like to have a broken heart.

            “Mattie…” I said her name, and it felt like knives stabbing me in the back. How could I have lost my little girl so completely?

            A noise made me look up. Maybe it was the nineteen years of listening for her every breath and whine and cry that made me hear the whimper that she tried to hide behind her cast. She’d pulled herself to the edge of the sofa and was slowly scooting her way over to me. Her eyes—blue like my brother’s—were full of sadness and regret. Her lip trembled the way it always did when she was about to burst into tears.

            I saw her for an instant as she had been at three. Dark curls and wide eyes, clutching an elephant in one hand and Nick’s ponytail with the other as we told her that he and I were going to Japan for a month. And that she couldn’t come with us. Her bottom lip had trembled, those sapphire eyes had turned glassy, and she’d cried so hard and so long that she made herself sick and we missed our flight.

            “I’m sorry, Papa,” she said softly. The sound of her voice shattered my heart just then. It was the sound she’d made when she told us about the girls at school. About the bruises on her arms and the taunts the kids yelled at her in the halls.

            My next words came out before I had a chance to think about them. “You’re the one who gave me that name.”

Mattie

            My knee hurt so bad as I pulled myself down the sofa toward Papa. I’d never wanted to take words back as badly as I wanted to take back telling him I wasn’t his daughter. I hated myself for making him look so sad.

            His words thumped me in the chest. They were wistful, a little bit sad with a tinge of nostalgic happiness.

            “I did?”

            Papa looked over at me, a smile spreading over his face. “You did. We were sitting on the sofa in Dad’s house. You were all wrapped up in one of his Clippers shirts—” He stopped and let out a laugh. “He was determined that you’d be like him. You didn’t have blankets as a baby. You had Nick’s old Clippers gear. But this one was your favorite.”

            I knew exactly which one he meant. It was folded up in the bottom of my gear bag. The image was faded into almost nothing on the front and the fabric was worn thin in places.

            “I had you right here,” he said, pantomiming holding something against his chest. “Dad was making you laugh and Mama came in. Before you were born, she decided what you’d grow up calling us.” He leaned in, a smile on his face that only showed up when he talked about Mama. “Nick and I didn’t like them, but you know how we are with your mom. I sat you up on my lap and Dad told you to pick which of us was Papa.”

            He stopped, and I couldn’t help but drag myself further over the sofa to put my head against his shoulder. His chest hitched. “And you… you leaned against my chest. Just like that…” Papa reached up and put his hand on the side of my head. “I don’t care that I’m not your biological father, Mattie. You’re my daughter. I’ve loved you with every breath in my body since the second you came into the world. A piece of paper doesn’t change that. Not for me.

            “Do you still… think of me like…”

            I hugged him as tightly as I could. I wished harder than I’d ever wished in my life that I could take back everything I said to him.

            “I didn’t think you…” I whispered against his shoulder. “Not knowing that Dad was…”

            It shocked me when Papa started laughing. He wrapped his arm around me and grinned. “How can you not be my daughter? You’re as stubborn and sometimes stupid just like me.”

            I hid my face against his shoulder just like I’d done my whole life. “You’re my Papa. And I’m your Tea.”

Tag List

@mox-made-me-do-it @not-that-kinda-gurl08 @lilred91 @imagineall-the-fandoms @maelleoute @librathepheonix13​ @justamess44​

[inber]

Anon: Could you write a little thing of Geralt taking care of a depressed™ reader or something pls

Paths - Geralt x Reader Drabble

A/N: Butter my biscuit, I sure can! Feel better, lovely thing; know that the advice Geralt gives is so true. This is a lil' AU (Geralt up in yo' house; I bet he wears skinny jeans. Wait, do they make thicc skinny jeans?). Know that you are loved, and enough. Warnings: depression talk

You found it strange how the weight of nothing could pin you down like the wings of a caught butterfly on cork, exposing the frailty of your psyche behind a pane of glass for the bystanders in your life to examine. Your old sheets were worn soft by years of tumble-drying, and you thought of the churn of your laundry in a hot stink of soap and sadness. If only detergent could scour out the darkness tucked unrepentant in the cerebral folds of your mind. If only softener could blunt the edges of the knife-thoughts that sliced the meat of your moods. Rinse, repeat, you thought. That's what life was becoming.

You heard the laundry door close, muffling the sounds of the machine. Geralt stood in the doorway; your eyes dragged a sluggish line from where they'd been fixated upon a paint-chip on your walls, to the strong silhouette of his body as he leaned against the jamb. He didn't need to be here for this. Fuck, why was he here for this? You could do so much better, you wanted to scream at him, you can't love this away. You can't fix a fractured pane.

"Today's not a winner either, huh?" He murmured, and you blinked slowly at him, wishing you had the energy to at least pretend to be worthy. To be enough. Instead, you soundlessly shook your head.

He crossed the room, sat on the edge of your bed, and put a tentative hand on your leg. When you didn't reject the touch, he ran his fingers in small, soothing circles.

"Why do you stay?" You rasped, your voice cracking from lack of use. He looked taken aback by the question.

"Because I love you." His answer was simple, and so sweet that it made the blackness flinch and fester, digging insidious claws further in. The best defense is offense. Hurt before you get hurt.

"You can't love broken glass." You told him, monotone. Rolling, twisting in those op-shop sheets, you faced the wall so you wouldn't have to look at him. "You'll just cut your hands."

He made a soft sound, and you felt him move. Maybe he was leaving. Maybe he'd finally had enough of the ménage à trois that you'd forced him into; you, him, and the demon of your depression.

Instead, he slotted in behind you, wrapping his arms around you, holding you close. He smelled like shower water and soap, like the fabric softener you always bought because he liked the duck on the label. You felt his fingers in your knotted hair, gentle, and closed your eyes.

"I've taken so many paths in my life." He murmured, "Some of them dark, twisted, rife with heartache and bloodshed. Some of them clawed my skin and left scars. Some of them were seemingly endless stretches of absolutely nothing, the absence of anything meaningful, just my own howling mind." You listened as he spoke, the prick of tears teasing your vision. "But all of them, all of them shared one feature."

You sniffled. "What?"

He placed a kiss against the shell of your ear. "When I reached the end, there was another path."

"More scars, and blood, and nothing." You presumed, spitting the words bitterly.

"Sometimes." He agreed, "But no. Not always. Sometimes I'd walk paths through warm spring rain, soaked with the feel of it until there was nothing to do but laugh at the squish of my boots. Sometimes I'd walk paths with friends, sharing a journey, trading tales of old walks. Sometimes I'd walk sweet, short paths of music, learning the lyrical inflections until they were tattooed on my tongue. At the end, there were more paths."

You fell silent, hearing the spin-cycle of the washing machine begin to slow. "What if I'm tired of walking?" You whispered.

"Then," He tucked your hair behind your ear, "Someone who loves you gives you a piggy-back ride, until you reach the next path." The imagery forced a smile; you thought of all the times you'd complained about sore feet and he'd argued fiercely with you over your shoe choice, only to end up carrying you - and the shoes - anyway. Or the time you'd stood at the beach at sunset, running away from the playful grasp of the lapping waves; he'd lifted you into his arms, twirling in the sand until you begged him to put you down before you threw up on him, through peals of your laughter. Or the time you'd been stuck at the back of the crowd at your favourite musician's concert, hopping up and down like a springtime sparrow 'til he'd hoisted you up onto his shoulders so you could see them play.

"What I'm saying," He continued, "Is that there will always be another path. This one? This one fucking sucks. And it's hard to walk on. But it won't go on forever." His arms squeezed as he hugged you tighter. "I promise you. I promise you there are paths worth walking. I promise they will come."

You traced his forearm thoughtfully, letting the stray tears sneak down your nose. "Thank you," You croaked, "Thank you for being here."

"Darling girl," He purred, kissing your shoulder, "One day you'll be carrying me on a path. And fuck, I'm a lot heavier than you."

The thought burst a bubble of laughter in your chest, a short sound. He hummed softly, ignoring the singing of the washing machine as it announced the end of its cycle. You felt the rise and fall of his chest, the drum of his pulse against your back. You felt his presence. You felt safe, loved -- enough.

"Maybe... I'll take a bath." You ventured, "And wash my face."

"Yeah?" He asked, non-commitally.

"Yeah."

[bestiesenpai]

As some one who loves malicious compliance when someone tells me to do something or I’m doing something wrong. I hate the sweet house wife trope with a passion. Like it’s cute but trust and believe if I do someone’s laundry and I tell them don’t get blood on it and they do and then blame me for it? Or I get told my cooking isn’t like his ____ it’s over for them. Have fun with clothes being washed only with fabric softener, and no dinner because ____ can come cook it

OP your mind🧠 we are the same person lol I can’t tell you how many sweet housewife posts I scroll past💀 some of them are cute but…

Especially if the character is a dick like why am I gonna be nice😂 cuz they’re tomura shigaraki and have no emotional intelligence?? Well oh fucking well he better learn some cuz I ain’t the one two or three! Oh he’s Sukuna, the most powerful curse ever and blah blah but he can’t fold a pile of laundry the one time I ask? He better go back to his other bitch then cuz I’m not a maid!!

Bully housewife >>> sweet housewife any day

[a-mellowtea]

'cause when Atlas shrugs whose back is breaking? and I know how it feels to thе hands; heavy as the Heavens, a weight that could fold you to keep holding.

- Glowing, The Oh Hellos

One-hundred and forty two.

There were one-hundred and forty two steps between the top-most floor of Atlas Academy and the small mortuary wing of the medical ward. James had taken to counting the third time he’d been called to make the torturous walk, shoulders weighed down by the circumstance of another life ended. The softly-lit halls always seemed to stretch longer, the walls closing in; leaning on the verge, waiting to crumble. His men, his Specialists -- Brothers forbid, his students: it never got easier. 

It was usually to Grimm, and grim was the resolve that those losses brought about, because they wouldn’t stop. Not until she could be stopped. Even then, some days the doubt crept in that that wouldn’t end the bloodshed entirely. He could feel it, on those rare occasions: the blood of the good and the brave and those who should have known peace, seeping through his gloves, staining flesh and metal. And with it, ultimately, the question: wasn’t it as much his fault, for sending them out to face her?

Wasn’t this as much his fault?

Today, it was a meagre fifty seven steps. Each took every ounce of his willpower. Each tightened the knot of dread in his stomach with sickening jolts. And still, he counted each that it took to walk from the recovery room to where they waited.

Today, the walls were still, and the distance was as it was meant to be. Somehow, that made it harder to keep moving. It allowed his thoughts to wander, his feet to trail and stumble, where there otherwise should have been naught but focus and steady resolve.

Today, it hadn’t been the Grimm.

James could remember with horrible clarity the first time it had been a child. Lost in a white-out, Scroll signal non-existent, unable to call for help. She’d drowned in the snow; in the crystal and bitter winds, left to sit until her Aura had withered away, and hypothermia had claimed her. An accident, but one that had been entirely avoidable. He’d stood silently in a painfully white room, watching a man weep over the waxy black-and-blue body of his daughter, and sworn to do better. Nothing could justify it: not duty, not necessity, not Ozpin -- though the latter refused to agree. Whether his students or his soldiers; if they were going out there to fight, then he was going to do everything in his power to see to it they all made it back.

It had never been enough.

He had never been enough.

And today, that was all too clear.

When he finally made it, he found Operative Ederne in the hallway. Her arms were crossed, gaze fixed on the tiled floor, expression split in a restrained echo of the grief he remembered so well. Of the team, Elm and Clover had had the closest thing resembling proper, amicable friendship. What felt like a lifetime ago, he’d been concerned that any breakdown of that sort of personal relationship would affect their ability to act professionally; now, he only hoped that it would give her some degree of comfort amidst the pain. 

Glassy eyes were turned his way, and there was a moment of hesitation. He could think of nothing; no condolence, no reassurance, no determination. Elm straightened -- a nod, a tight “Sir”, and she disappeared into the room marked M-019. He caught a glimpse of the rest of the Ace Ops, as the door slid shut; of solemn silence and faux-firm stances and a body on a cot.

James took a shuddering breath. He turned aside -- they deserved more time to mourn without intrusion, as little of that time as they had -- and faced the opposite room instead. M-020. He had to see her. He had to know.

It took conscious effort to force himself through the doorway.

She looked like she was sleeping, the faintest linger of strain and anguish caught on her still features. She was pale; a waif of a woman, nothing left of the strength and adamantine he remembered. He reached for her, and laid a hand on the wrist that had been draped over her stomach. He couldn’t feel it, but his mind unkindly filled in the absence of warmth anyways. His eyes burned, and he swallowed past the bile in his throat, and wished to-- whichever sort of deity that may have chosen to keep watch over them, that she’d stir. That she’d wake, with familiar blue eyes and a tired but gentle smile, and tell him about the tea she’d had that morning or her latest painting.

Her paintings...

James tore his gaze up and scanned the room, half a moment of desperation seizing him. There hadn’t been much he’d been able to give Fria to make her comfortable in her last days, but she had loved art well before her mind had begun to fray. It had seemed the least he could do. The thought of them being lost as well bent something in him; twisted, unrelentingly. It was ridiculous, but that hardly registered. Things had finally crumbled: he just wanted there to be something left.

His search ended on a stack of canvas, leaned beneath the window. He stepped away from her body and rounded to where they sat. On closer inspection, it appeared as though some of them had been charred, the fabric dotted with burns from sparks. A result of Cinder’s initial attack, no doubt. Carefully, ever so carefully, he turned one to face the light. 

The landscape that stared back up at him was one he didn’t know, but it was Solitas: a snowy mountain river, caught in the morning light. Something between a laugh and a sob caught in his throat. Her power may have moved on, and it may have taken a piece of her with it, but these... these were Fria’s soul. The beauty she had continued to see despite her worsening condition, and no matter her state of mind.

A beauty that was about to be destroyed.

Teetering, shoulders shaking on shallow, uneven breaths, he lifted his head to look out through the window. The Ace Ops had barely moved, and hid most of the body behind them, but he could see enough. The torn uniform. The blood. The eyes, closed by a doctor’s hand.

And the report said that Qrow had--...

James pressed a hand over his mouth. Brothers, he felt sick. He felt lost, and alone and, underneath, so impossibly afraid, and worse was that he didn’t know what to do with it. With this.

He thought he’d turned it all to steel long ago. Pushed it aside to stop her, and save Remnant.

Things might’ve been easier were that the truth.

[loubuggins]

Girlfriend

A/N: This story was inspired by an idea given to me by @zuppizup. Thank you, friend! As always, please read and review! 

Summary: The misunderstanding that he was sure would have come around at some point in their relationship and here it was. The inevitable cultural clash. “Rayla, do you know what girlfriend means?”

The first time she heard the word, it had caught her off guard. She and Callum were sitting on the steps leading to the Dragon Queen’s chamber, going about their usual verbal sparring.

“There's no way me ears are that big.” She scolded him as she glared at the open pages of his journal. She looked pointedly at his latest creation, a sketch of her petting Zym in the very spot they were currently sitting in. He had been adding details to the drawing while they cuddled together, enjoying the rare moment of quiet.

“I didn’t make them big.” He defended himself. “Only pointed, because they are.”

The elf shook her head in disapproval. “Ya made them almost as long as me head!”

For added emphasis, she waved a hand beside her face, gesturing to her actual ears. The boy looked up from his drawing and studied her for a second. His green eyes darkened as he concentrated on the body part in question. His stare was a little unnerving to the girl, but he seemed to either ignore or simply not notice the way she began to squirm and awkwardly try to catch his gaze. After what felt like hours, the young artist looked back to his page. His eyes then flickered back and forth between his sketch and his muse. She could practically see the gears turning in his mind as he took her critique seriously and compared his work with the real thing.

His lips finally parted as he appeared to be preparing a retort, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by the sudden interruption of one of their friends.

“Hey, Callum!” The familiar voice of Soren, a Crown Guard, called out to them from across the foyer. In his large arms, he held baskets filled with bread and fruits. “Quit flirting with your girlfriend and come help me feed the troops!”

The younger boy blushed and sighed as he closed his book. “Duty calls.” He mumbled to her, a hint of an apology behind his words. He handed her the leather-bound pages and placed a quick kiss on her cheek before standing up to meet Soren outside. She returned his gesture with a small smile and watched him go.

It had only been a few days since the final battle against Viren and his mutated army. Many of those who had fought in the battle were still camping at the base of the Storm Spire. The Spire itself could only house so many people, not to mention how difficult it would be for Callum and Ibis to perform the special breathing spell on all those people. So they found it best to let the armies rest on the ground before they returned to their proper homes. Thanks to Callum’s new ability to sprout wings where his arms should be, it had made traveling from the top of the Spire down to the ground and back up again much quicker than taking the endless stairs. However, his skill also meant he had to be gone at different times throughout the day, which made alone time all the more difficult.

But their lack of bonding time was not what gripped her thoughts as she sat alone on the top step. Instead, there was a word that the older blonde had used that replayed in her mind on a loop.

Girlfriend?

The word made no sense. Sure it may be easier to say than “the girl who is your friend” or “your friend that happens to be a girl.” But it still sounded wrong. Besides, she was not just Callum’s friend. She had it on a pretty solid record that her relationship with the human mage was well beyond that of just being friends. Perhaps Soren was just unaware of the change in their status? It seemed hard to believe, even for someone as slow to the mark as Soren. They weren’t hiding their relationship and Callum always seemed so eager to tell people that they were now “a thing” as he referred to it.

“But why else would he call me Callum’s girlfriend?”

The question nagged at her as she left her spot and went to return her love’s sketchbook to his room for safekeeping.

~#~#~

She had honestly forgotten about the word after that. At some point in her thinking, she had finally decided that it was no more than just Soren’s playful teasing of the teenage prince and left it at that. She had meant to ask Callum about it later, but when he finally returned, the question had slipped her mind.

It was not until two days later that she remembered and this time, the strange word was used by Callum himself. It was deliberate too. The humans were preparing to leave the Spire and begin their journey back to the human kingdoms. It was her first time back on the ground since she first climbed the steep steps of the mountain with Callum, Ezran, and Zym. Callum had wanted to come to say his goodbyes and had invited her along. She did not know many humans, but she was familiar with a few by this point. She especially wanted to spend every second she still could with Callum’s brother, who had become like a little brother to her as well. So she had agreed to join him, even if leaving Zym was making her anxious.

When they had first arrived at the temporary camp, they helped with the packing. Though Ezran was a King now and Callum was still a Prince, they all still felt the need to lend a helping hand in the cleanup. As the three were working on wrapping up a tent, they were interrupted by a group of somewhat familiar-looking humans. Corvus she remembers, the burly brown man kept his confident stance beside a woman leading them toward the three kids. She could not name the woman, but her white robes and pointed look made her seem like someone of significance. On the woman’s other side was Callum’s Aunt Amaya, who Rayla probably knew best among the group. She respected the general and she was glad that the feeling seemed mutual now.

Ezran was the first to look up and acknowledge them. He greeted them with a polite smile and nod, stopping what he had been doing to meet up with them. Rayla stared at them for a moment, then shrugged and went back to helping Callum fold the fabric of the tent. She figured it was just “Kingly Business” that did not concern her. That was until the woman in white called out Callum’s name. They had just put away the remainder of the tent, so the prince moved to join the other humans. On instinct, Rayla moved to follow him, then quickly stopped herself. This was probably a human thing. Part of his royal duties. It was strange to think of him like royalty. Sure she would frequently mock his royal title, but to her, he was just Callum. An up and coming mage who loved to joke around, doodle in his book, and talk about his feelings. He was her best friend and the only person she has ever fallen in love with. He was a prince, yes, but she saw him as so much more.

She was surprised when he stopped just a few steps ahead of her and turned to give her an expectant smile. He even held out his hand to her, waiting for her to come along. She was not sure if she was actually welcomed to participate in whatever conversation the humans were having, but Callum made it clear that he would not be joining them without her. With a grin on her face, she ran up beside him and eagerly took his hand into hers.

They approached the group of adults together, stopping to stand at Ezran’s side. Rayla studied their faces to try and gauge their reactions to seeing her. Corvus looked perplexed as he stared at her and Callum’s intertwined hands, but he did not seem to disapprove. Amaya gave the young couple a knowing look instead, along with a small smile. The only person Rayla has yet to meet was the blonde woman who had called them over here, but if she was surprised to see an elf and a human holding hands, she did not show it.

“Prince Callum,” the older woman greeted respectfully, adding a short bow that made Rayla feel slightly awkward. “I am saddened to hear you will not be returning to Katolis with us.”

The boy gave her a polite nod in return. “I wish I could come back and help Ezran, but we’ve talked about it and we agree I am more needed here.”

The woman nodded in understanding. “Yes, with your new elf companion.” Her eyes fell on the elf in question. “Well, I hope you know she is welcome to return with you. Do not feel that you must stay behind to be with her.”

Rayla’s hand tightened around Callum’s and her friendly demeanor began to crack. Heat rose in the boy’s cheeks and he quickly exchanged a look with his elven counterpart.

“Oh erm uh, thank you Opeli, I’m glad to hear that. But the main reason we are staying is to take care of Zym. Rayla and I will be putting together a new Dragon Guard. I’m also going to try learning some more magic while I’m here too.”

Opeli regarded the couple thoughtfully, their discomfort clearly unknown to the advisor. “Of course. Might I add, Prince Callum, that your friend and I have not been formally introduced.”

“Oh, right!” The boy looked apologetic as he gestured his free hand over to the girl at his side. “Rayla, this is Opeli. She’s a royal advisor to the King and a member of Ezran’s council.” He then waved his hand over to the blonde. “Opeli, this is Rayla, my...girlfriend.”

He said the word slowly as if he were tasting the word on his lips and enjoying hearing the sound of it. His chest swelled and his posture straightened as he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. The silly mage was practically beaming and for what Rayla did not understand. For she was incredibly pissed.

~#~#~

“Girlfriend, eh? Is that really all you see me as?”

She had been giving him the cold shoulder since their conversation with Ezran’s royal council and Callum had been trying to fix whatever he had said or done wrong to upset her so much ever since. But the poor prince was struggling to get it out of her all day. At least until they reached her empty room in the Storm Spire, where she finally felt comfortable enough to voice her frustrations. Though Callum still wore a look of utter confusion as she glared at him with her arms crossed over her chest, awaiting his response.

But all he could sputter out was a befuddled “What?”

Rayla let out an indignant sigh. “I know us being together is weird to people.” She began as she started pacing the room. “ I know not everyone is going to approve. It will be plenty hard for me to tell Ethari and the rest of Silvergrove about us, but I wasn’t going to lie to them, Callum. I was going to tell them the truth about us, even if I'd be the first elf in history to be ghosted twice!” She came to a halt just inches in front of him and held up two fingers for added emphasis.

“Wait, Rayla, what are you talking about?” He blinked at her as his mind raced to keep up.

“I’m talking about how I love you enough that I’m not afraid of others knowing about it. And up until now, I thought that you weren’t either, but clearly, I was wrong.” She bit back as she folded her arms again. This time her angry stare came with a few tears pulling in the corners of her eyes, threatening to roll down her flushed cheeks.

Callum hated seeing her like this. He did not understand what was causing her so much anguish, but he could not stand being a part of it. He felt his own anger begin to bubble up in his chest, but it was more so at himself than at her.

“Rayla, what do you mean? Of course, I’m not afraid of that! I was the one who asked you if we should tell the Dragon Queen just a week ago! And I told Ez, and my Aunt Amaya, and Ibis, and...and...Rayla I’ve told everyone about us!” He flailed his hands in the air as he looked on to her with exasperation.

His dramatic flair did nothing to dampen her hardened glare. “Yes, but only as your girlfriend.” She stressed out the friend part of the word with the venom of a Soulfang.

Callum blinked at her, his baffled look not leaving his face. “Yes, my girlfriend. What else would I call you? Is there some Moonshadow elf word for girlfriend I should know about?”

The elf gave him an indignant scuff. “We simply call it ‘a friend.’” She bit back in retort.

The mage just stared at her and his voice dropped low. “But Rayla, you’re so much more to me than just a friend.”

Rayla’s hard stare faltered silently at the shift of his tone. She shuffled her weight and crossed her arms over her chest. With her eyes downcast, she spoke up again, softly this time, “If I am, then why do ya keep callin’ me your friend?”

Callum straightened and his mouth fell a gap. He stood there silently searching for the right words in response to her admission. Friend. How could she possibly think that she was just a friend to him? Of course, they were friends, best friends in fact! But they were also something so much more.

“Girlfriend, Rayla. You’re my girl...wait.” And then it dawned on him. The real reason this argument had come about. The misunderstanding that he was sure would have come around at some point in their relationship and here it was. The inevitable cultural clash. “Rayla, do you know what girlfriend means?”

“Of course I know what it means. I’m not daft!” She objected before quickly adding, “It means a girl who is your friend.”

Callum’s face instantly morphed with understanding, a relieved grin spreading across his lips. “No, it means the exact opposite.”

It was Rayla’s turn to look dumbfounded. “What?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but stopped short. He thought about it for a moment, trying to decide the best way for him to explain. “Girlfriend is what someone calls the girl they love.” He started, looking back up at her with an affectionate glint in his eyes. “The girl they have a ‘thing’ with.” He pointed between the both of them. “Don’t elves have a word like that?”

The elf stood astonished for a moment, simply staring wide-eyed at the human boy. Then his words finally soaked in. Her cheeks felt hot as a crimson blush crept it’s way up her neck. She quickly averted her gaze and rubbed the length of her forearms.

“Well, now I feel stupid.” She admitted in a small voice.

Callum’s grin fell as he caught on to her embarrassment. Closing the space between them, he gently ran his hands over her wrists and pulled her crossed arms apart. He slid his fingers over the back of her palms and intertwined their fingers together.

“I’ve never heard someone be referred to as a girlfriend before, but I know Ethari used to call Runaan ‘my heart’ and my parents used to call each other ‘my love.’” Rayla explained, visibly relaxing under his touch. The boy simply smiled reassuringly as he listened to her. “Calling someone yours is the most endearing you get. At least to a Moonshadow Elf.”

“I’m sorry, Rayla.”

Her head snapped up at that. “Sorry? For what?”

“I should have asked you if it was okay, to call you my girlfriend that is. I was just so excited by the idea of actually having a girlfriend and one as beautiful and amazing as you are! And everyone else was calling you my girlfriend so I guess I just started using it too.”

She nodded in understanding. “I should have asked about it earlier. But I had honestly forgotten about it until today. I don’t mind being your girlfriend, Callum.”

The boy perked up at that.

“Now that I know what it means.” She quickly added.

His smile returned and he gave her hands a loving squeeze. “Well, maybe I should call you something from your culture, my heart.” He flashed her a toothy grin.

She shuddered and shook her head. “Bleh no, that’s way too sappy.”

Her disgusted expression earned her a laugh from her prince. “Well, now I’ve got to call you that.” He teased as he pulled her closer and gave her a flirtatious waggle of his eyebrows.

She scoffed at him, yanking her hands back and taking a step back. She tried to shoot him the deadliest glare she could muster in that moment, which was only slightly scary. “Don’t.”

Her command only made him laugh even harder. The sound of his laughter filled the room and made her heart feel lighter.

“Okay, fine, but I will find something that you’ll like.” He declared with an unusual amount of confidence.

“Good luck with that.” She deadpanned as she turned to walked away, but she was stopped by the rise in his voice.

“Wait!” He called out and she paused to look back at him over her shoulder.

“What are you going to call me?” He asked as he caught up to her.

“I call you lots of things.” She offered before smirking at him. “But maybe I’ll try boyfriend.”

He blushed. “Ha, more like manfriend.” He joked while lifting his arm to show off his lean muscles that he had been building since the start of their journey.

His girlfriend rolled her eyes and nudged his side, but laughter still escaped her lips.

“Stupid Prince.”

[roughrudesea]

top 5 Shakespeare monologues?

I DESERVE THIS 😤

1. Richard II 3.2

No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth, Let’s choose executors and talk of wills: And yet not so, for what can we bequeath Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives and all are Bolingbroke’s, And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings; How some have been deposed; some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed; Some poison’d by their wives: some sleeping kill’d; All murder’d: for within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp, Allowing him a breath, a little scene, To monarchize, be fear’d and kill with looks, Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if this flesh which walls about our life, Were brass impregnable, and humour’d thus Comes at the last and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king! Cover your heads and mock not flesh and blood With solemn reverence: throw away respect, Tradition, form and ceremonious duty, For you have but mistook me all this while: I live with bread like you, feel want, Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus, How can you say to me, I am a king?

WHAT CAN I SAY. I heard a friend do this monologue in an acting class almost a decade ago and even with zero context, I thought about it for years. Finally reading the play only made me love it more. 

2. The Tempest 5.1

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves, And ye that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him When he comes back; you demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid, Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds, And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up The pine and cedar: graves at my command Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth By my so potent art. But this rough magic I here abjure, and, when I have required Some heavenly music, which even now I do, To work mine end upon their senses that This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound I'll drown my book.

A solemn air and the best comforter To an unsettled fancy cure thy brains, Now useless, boil'd within thy skull! There stand, For you are spell-stopp'd. Holy Gonzalo, honourable man, Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine, Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace, And as the morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness, so their rising senses Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle Their clearer reason. O good Gonzalo, My true preserver, and a loyal sir To him you follow'st! I will pay thy graces Home both in word and deed. Most cruelly Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter: Thy brother was a furtherer in the act. Thou art pinch'd fort now, Sebastian. Flesh and blood, You, brother mine, that entertain'd ambition, Expell'd remorse and nature; who, with Sebastian, Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong, Would here have kill'd your king; I do forgive thee, Unnatural though thou art. Their understanding Begins to swell, and the approaching tide Will shortly fill the reasonable shore That now lies foul and muddy. Not one of them That yet looks on me, or would know me Ariel, Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell: I will discase me, and myself present As I was sometime Milan: quickly, spirit; Thou shalt ere long be free.

I’m honestly shocking myself slightly by not listing “We are such stuff,” but even thinking about this part of the play gives me chills. I love the journey Prospero goes on in this: watching him give up his magic and decide to forgive his former enemies is so engaging--and the language is completely unmatched.

3. The Tempest 4.1

You do look, my son, in a moved sort, As if you were dismay'd: be cheerful, sir. Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex'd; Bear with my weakness; my, brain is troubled: Be not disturb'd with my infirmity: If you be pleased, retire into my cell And there repose: a turn or two I'll walk, To still my beating mind.

Okay I lied -- had to include “We are such stuff.” How could I not? I’m a Tempest and a Prospero stan. How could I NOT list this one when it is like *THE* iconic monologue?

4. Hamlet, 3.3

O, my offense is rank it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse upon't, A brother's murder. Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will: My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother's blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offense? And what's in prayer but this two-fold force, To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Or pardon'd being down? Then I'll look up; My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? 'Forgive me my foul murder'? That cannot be; since I am still possess'd Of those effects for which I did the murder, My crown, mine own ambition and my queen. May one be pardon'd and retain the offense? In the corrupted currents of this world Offense's gilded hand may shove by justice, And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law: but 'tis not so above; There is no shuffling, there the action lies In his true nature; and we ourselves compell'd, Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then? what rests? Try what repentance can: what can it not? Yet what can it when one can not repent? O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul, that, struggling to be free, Art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the newborn babe! All may be well.

3.3 is my favorite scene in Hamlet. I LOVE the tableau of Claudius praying, and Hamlet right behind him, ready to strike. Hamlet the character obviously has some incredible speeches, but this Claudius monologue is the one that always stands out to me: it is such a juicy glimpse into his inner psyche that is more carefully guarded for the rest of the play, and I love this moment (however brief) of unraveling.

5. Macbeth 5.5

She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

Forgive me for being so basic but I would really be lying to myself if I didn’t list this. Although this one, more than others, really depends on the actor. I have seen some renditions of this monologue I really do not jive with, but when it’s done well, it is top tier. 

[notyetneedcoffee]

Moving Parts, 5

Part Five

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Smut, Soft lovey smut!

You shifted slowly on the sofa, aches still locking up your back. The loose sweats you wore and the messy bun atop your head made you look like a slob, but you were still too sore to care. Binge watching Supernatural ate up the day, but the cabin fever got worse.  

Since coming home from the med wing, the boys kept their word by being there every night as you slept. They chased your nightmares away and soothed you back to sleep. Usually one or the other stayed with you for most of the day. 

The doctor clearer you for light physical activity. You’d been working with the physical therapist to loosen up and regain some of your strength. But like all physical therapy, it hurt before it got any better. You were breathing better. That was a plus.  

Today Steve had some work to do and about an hour ago Bucky went into town to bring back your favorite Thai food for dinner. What you really wanted was to go out yourself, but you hated to admit the bruises on your face kept you home.  

“Miss Y/L/N,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. spoke over the speakers. “I regret to inform you that Captain Rogers will be approximately twenty minutes late for your meeting.”

“What meeting?” You asked.

“Captain Rogers has a standing priority appointment with you from six to ten set each evening for the next month.” The AI replied.

“He does?” You smiled to yourself. Steve was awful about using his calendar. Maria was constantly on his case about it. “Thank you. I’ll just see him when he gets here.”

The door opened a while later. Bucky came in with a big bag of take out and a dazzling smile. “Hey Beautiful, I’m back.”

“Hey.” You stood slowly and shuffled into the kitchenette. Bucky wrapped his arms around your cuddling you close, but not squeezing enough to hurt. You buried your face into his chest. “Thank you for getting dinner.”

“Not a problem.” He pressed his lips into your hair.  

“Did you know Steve put me on his calendar every night as a priority appointment?”

Bucky chuckled. “I didn’t know he used a calendar.” He traced his fingers over your back. “Good. That’s really good of him to do.”

“I think so.” You pressed your face against his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt at the small of his back. “Bucky,” you all but whispered. “Is it just because I’m hurt?”

“Doll.” His fingered combed through your hair.

“I don’t want to get...”

“Listen to me,” Bucky cupped your face. “Yes. Steve was shocked, terrified, when you were taken. We both were. But I think it also made him take a hard look at his priorities. That’s what we wanted, right? It may not be how we wanted it to happen, heaven knows I never want to see you hurt, but I think we’re going to be okay.”

“Really?” The constant dull aches and inactivity wore your nerves down, leaving you emotional and raw.  

His thumb traced over the near healed wound on your lip. His blue eyes bore into yours, filled with nothing but love and patience. The corner of Bucky’s mouth tipped up with a sweet smile. “I would not say so if I didn’t believe it.”

Tears filled your eyes and slipped down your cheeks, though they were not sad tears.

The door opened and Steve came in. He saw the tears in your eyes, face falling from a smile to one of worry. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” You sniffed, pulling away from Bucky and stepped toward Steve. “I’m just a little emotional.”

“Have you taken anything for the pain?” Steve ghosted the backs of his fingers over the bruised flesh below your eye. When you mumbled a negative. He just sighed. “I know you don’t like that stuff. Neither do I.”

Bucky began unpacking the food. “Let’s get some food in you, and then maybe a hot shower.”

“That sounds nice.”  

Steve wrapped his strong arms around you, his lips pressed against your ear. “Maybe tomorrow we’ll get out of here and take in some new scenery.”

The next morning Bucky woke you as he crawled out of bed. You caught his wrist before he stood. “Where you going?”

Steve curled tighter around your back, squeezing you spooned against him. He muttered unintelligible words sleepily into your hair.  

Bucky grinned down at the two of you. “Got work to do today, Doll. Stevie’s going to keep you company.” He pressed his lips to yours. His tongue slipped gently over yours, drawing a small moan from you. “Go back to sleep. I’ll see you tonight.”

Soon after he left your room, you felt Steve’s nose rub in your hair. His large hand spread over your abdomen, pulling you tight against his growing arousal. Your hand reached back to slide along his bare hip. His wet kisses upon your neck sent heat rushing to your core.  

It’d been so long. You sighed. “Steve.”  

His hand drifted lower, dipping between your folds and gathering the slick wet on his fingers. Rubbing the sensitive nerves of your clit, he hummed his delight at your response. “So wet, Sweetheart. But I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m okay.” You breathed. “Please, Steve.”

Steve rolled you over, so his mouth could cover yours. He kissed you slow, deep. Tongues dancing around each other with emotion, you melted against him. Careful not to put too much weight on you, Steve slid down your body, covering your skin with open mouthed kisses.  

“Oh god, yes.” Your fingers gripped his hair as Steve’s tongue trailed over the junction of your hip. Your legs spread as his mouth licked and nipped your inner thigh. The heat of his tongue made your body burn. Steve brought you higher, his touch sure but gentle.

His fingers slipped inside you, rubbing against the perfect spot to curl your toes and cause the tension to coil tighter. Steve’s lips suckled on your clit harder. You shook. His palm pressed down on your abdomen, holding you in place.  

Your orgasm washed over you.  Heat flushed through your body, every nerve lit up. Your muscles quivered. You moaned out a shaky, “Steve.”

He drank down your release with satisfied moans before crawling up your body, hovering over you. Even though his arms held his upper body above you, his hips pressed into you. The tip of his cock slipped against the entrance of your wet cunt. Steve hesitated, kissing you deep. “You okay?”

“Fuck me, Steve. Please.” You breathed into his mouth, moaning as he sunk himself home. It felt like it’d been forever, felt like you’d been missing part of yourself. He moved slow. Your body wrapped around his, as much skin touching as possible.

“Love you so much, sweetheart.” Steve breathed into your hair, his hand nestling your head. His body moved steadily, reacting to yours perfectly.  

You clung to him, fingers digging in to his muscles. His scent filled your head, his taste on your tongue. The tension built again. You panted, “Love you. Steve. Oh god. Yes.”

When your cunt clenched, your body shook, Steve’s hips began to lose their rhythm. You clung to him. A breathless moan escaped your chest as Steve growled into your neck. He held you tight as he emptied himself into you.  

Steve rolled over, pulling you with him. His touch gentle and loving. “You okay?”

“Better than okay.” You kissed his chest, a lazy smile on your face. “So, so much better than okay.”

“Good.” He chuckled. “What do you say to cleaning up and going out for breakfast?”

“You really want to be seen with me still looking all beat to hell?” You tried to make light of it, but the black eyes were taking longer to fade than you’d like.

“You’re beautiful and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.” Steve kissed your forehead. “Come on. I’ll buy you waffles.”

He kept you out all day. After breakfast, Steve asked if you wanted to go into the city or upstate somewhere. You decided on a day museum hopping. By midday, though, you were exhausted. It’s been a while since you’d been on your feet all day.  

Steve got you settled into a comfortable booth, before fetching sodas and snacks. “We can head back, Steve. We don’t need to see everything.”

He sipped on the straw, smiling at you. “Let’s just rest for a while. We’ll see the rest then head back before dinner.”  

You figured Steve just wanted you to himself for a while, so you rested for a while and chatted about the exhibits you’d seen. Steve told you about what used to be in the museums before the war, and how amaze he was by the restoration. 

When you finally drove back to the compound, you knew something was amiss. He practically bounced with excitement. “Steve, what has you all giddy?”

“I am not.” He pulled the car into the garage. He attempted to keep the grin off his face, but couldn’t.  

“You are.”

“Not.”

“Are.”

He laughed. “I had a great day. Isn’t that enough?”

“No.” You giggled. “What is going on?”

He parked and shut off the engine, shifting toward you in the seat. His gorgeous eyes gleamed with mischief. “Just come with me.” He rolled his eyes. “Please.”

“Okay.” You cupped his strong jaw with your hand and kissed him, pulling his lower lip between your teeth.  

A low rumble escaped his chest before he jumped out of the car and ran around to open your door. Holding your hand, he led you through the compound. You gave a wave to Wanda and Vis, who sat on the sofa in the common room watching a movie. Wanda smiled and waved, but didn’t say anything.  

Steve led you towards his suite, not yours. Bucky stepped out of Steve’s door as you approached. They shared a look, one you’d seen before but usually only before they did something very naughty to you. It made you giggle. “What is going on?”

“Hey, Doll. Did you have a good day?” Bucky leaned forward and brushed his lips lightly over yours.  

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Yes. What have you been up to?”

“What make you think I’ve been up to something?” Bucky grabbed you by the hips, pulling you close and grinning down.  

“Really?” Your eyebrow quirked.

Steve’s pined you between them, his hands sliding around your ribs and pushing his chest against your back. “We have a surprise for you.”

Bucky kissed your lips with a grin. “Wanna see?”

“Yes.”

With one hand he turned the nob and let the door swing open. You’re mouth dropped open.

The living room was bigger than it had been. Steve’s favorite chair still sat to the right of the television along a wall of bookshelves, but the sofa was huge and deep. A full kitchen was open to the living space, not just the normal kitchenettes in the other suites. An outdoor patio was beyond the glass doors.  

You wondered further in, noticing the details. Steve’s mementos were mingled both yours and Bucky’s. Your books were mixed with theirs. Your favorite throw blanket lay draped over the sofa. Open mouthed you turned towards the boys.

They both wore giant smiles.  

“You...you really?”

Steve rushed forward taking your hand. “I...we...really want this. I talked to Tony and we came up with a plan. We’ve taken over the space of both my suite and Bucky’s. Totally remodeled. Big bedroom, en suite bathroom, extra closets, office space, all of it.”

“If you want to move stuff around or change colors, anything, just say the word.” Bucky added. “We just wanted to welcome you home with everything done.”

“Home.” You repeated, tears filling your eyes. “Our home.”

“Yeah, Doll.” Bucky’s fingers brushed a lock of hair away from your face.  

Steve brought your fingers to his lips. “Is this okay? Please, Sweetheart, say this is okay?”  

“Yes.” The tears fell down your cheeks. You threw your arms around Steve’s shoulders. “This is amazing.”

You felt Steve exhale a shaky breath. 

Bucky’s hand slid up behind your neck, his other on Steve’s back. “Welcome home.” He laughed, kissing you on the shoulder. “Now who wants to try out that massage shower?”  

“Me!” Steve laughed.  

“Me too!” You’d never been happier.  

TAGS

@rainbowkisses31​ / @dsakita​ / @geeksareunique​ / @lbouvet​ / @buckybarneshairpullingkink​ / @theneuropsychwriter​ / @vanillabunn21​ / @sammghgecko​ / @beautifullungs​ / @badassbaker​ / @the-omni-princess​ / @sebbysstangirl​ / @jesseswartzwelder​ / @unadulteratedwizardlove / @the-reading-octopus​ / @bangtan-serendipity​ / @kiki5283​ / @mindtravelsx​ / @lexie-mo​ / @gifsbysimplysonia​ / @josie605​ / @wildmoonflower​ / @rynabarnesrogers​ / @notyourtypicalrose​ / @sllooney​ / @wwe-fanfiction-queen​ / @thorfanficwriter​ / @scarlettsoldier​ / @morganhoran1671​ / @michelehansel​ / @sexyvixen7​ / @readermia​ /@ykcim24-7

[the-goddamn-queen]

Camping, but make it sexy.

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: SMUT, dirty talk, semi-public, just really the filthiest thing I’ve ever written

Word Count: 1721

A/N: For @sherrybaby14‘s Fall Into You Challenge! My prompt was camping trip.

It was mostly your fault, honestly. The minute you’d made sure everyone was situated after the final battle, you’d practically dragged Bucky into your bedroom with no intention of letting him go until you were well and truly done with him.

You spent five years without him, what were you supposed to do?

The tables had turned rather quickly on you, though, and five days later you found yourself still naked and in bed having only managed to slip out for a couple baths that Bucky insisted on taking with you.

Turns out he missed you too.

Your relief finally comes in the form of F.R.I.D.A.Y. announcing that “Mr. Stark has organized a camping trip that is required for all Avengers personnel.”

Bucky groans into your hair and wraps his arms around you tighter. “Fuck that.” His metal hand starts gliding down your stomach. “We’re not going anywhere.” He finally reaches his destination and you gasp, grasping futilely at his wrist.

“Buck, please, I don’t want to get in trouble.”

He yanks his hand away and flips you, so you’re pinned underneath him by your wrists and hips. “The only trouble you’ll get into is if you try and leave this bed,” he groans into your ear. You whine and buck instinctively. Sure, you were tired, but fuck if that man didn’t do things to you.

 You practically throw yourself out of the van the moment Steve shifts into park. Closing your eyes, you reach your hands out to touch every bit of air you can. Fresh air. Finally.

Bucky seems to take your outstretched arms as an invitation and wraps his own around your middle, hauling you into the air and making you squeal.

“Bucky!” you gasp as he sets you to your feet again. “Get off of me and help me pitch our tent.”

“But, baby, I already pitched a tent.” Your eyes widen a bit at what he’s insinuating, and you smack his arm, wincing when you realize it’s the metal one.

“Watch your mouth. There are children here.”

He smirks and twists an arm around your waist again. “I can think of way better things to do with my mouth.”

You snake away from his arm and snatch up the bag for your tent. “I’m gonna find us a spot,” you say sticking your tongue out, “join me when you’re less of a perv.”

“C’mon, doll!” he calls after you, “don’t tease me with that tongue!”

 It’s dark by the time everyone gets their tents settled. The Starks holed themselves up pretty quickly for the sake of Morgan’s bedtime (despite her very weak protest that she was not, in fact, tired). Everyone else dragged up whatever they could find to sit around the fire; logs, blankets, bucket chairs. Bucky had claimed the bench of a picnic table for the two of you. He’d seemingly calmed down from when you’d first arrived.

You’re snuggled up into his side with his arm wrapped securely around your waist listening to him and Sam bicker over who pulled the cooler rescue op while Nat and Wanda giggle over a shared thermos of something you know Natasha made too strong. You barely notice Bucky’s hand move until its almost enveloped your breast. You try to play it off, laughing at Sam’s jab and slowly reaching to remove Bucky’s hand. Just before you reach it, he swipes his thumb down the center, and you have to bite back a gasp when he grazes your nipple. You hope it’s dark enough that no one can see.

Bucky smirks down at you as pull at his wrist to no avail. He just holds you a little tighter and starts making tight circles with his thumb. You bite your lip to hold back the whine that’s bubbling up in your throat. You’re grateful that the conversation’s drifted, and no one seems to be paying attention to you anymore.

Without letting go of you, Bucky reaches behind him to grab a blanket off the table and drape it around your shoulders. You notice it just barely covers where he’s holding you, just like the one on your legs barely covers your lap…

Oh, shit.

He’s faster than you, locking your thigh to his before you can move them from where they’re folded underneath you. You turn your face to bury it in his shoulder, knowing damn well you won’t be able to hold much back if he decides to touch you there. You feel him smirk against the side of your head. He won, and you both know it.

“Sleepyhead over here and I are gonna call it a night,” Bucky announces to the rest of group. You breathe a sigh of relief that he’s accepted your surrender and manage your own quick goodnight as he drags you away from the fire.

 When you return to your tent, you half expect Bucky to throw you down on the air mattress. Instead, he calmly ducks in after you and settles himself among the blankets, leaving you to crouch awkwardly with your hands on the hem of your shirt.

“You comin’ to bed, sweetheart?”

“Uh, yeah,” you say still thumbing the fabric, “we’re not gonna…”

Bucky smirks. The asshole is toying with you. “Not gonna what, sweetheart?” The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. Getting you all hot and bothered as revenge for dragging him away from your bedroom.

You shake your head. “Never mind,” you manage with a small smile. You can at least pretend he didn’t win your frustration.

You crawl into the makeshift bed and curl into him, his warm, strong body a balm against the slight October chill. A sigh escapes you as one of his hands finds its way under the edge of your shirt to pull you closer. You revel in the skin to skin contact and let it start to lull you under.

Sleep starts to take you, so you barely register Bucky’s fingers skimming the edge of your pants. You’re drifting off as he just begins to slide his hand into the waistband. You think you’re dreaming when he cups the space between your thighs.

You’re eyes snap open and you gasp as he runs his middle finger along your center and presses it firmly against your clit.

“Bucky,” you breathe into his ear.

“Shhh,” he begins rubbing tight circles, “quiet, sweetheart. There’s children here, remember?”

You groan and bury your face in his shoulder, trying to drown out the noises you can’t stop. “Bucky, please, I’m so close. Make me cum.”

He chuckles lowly and slows his fingers. You whine and buck towards his hand. “Now, why should I do that, darlin’?” He moves his finger down, barely pressing it inside you. “Teasing me all day, pushing me away.” He sinks in another centimeter, toying with you. “I think you should convince me.”

You’re desperate now, trying to push yourself down on his finger, but he won’t let you. “Anything, Bucky, please, I’m sorry, I need you, I need–” You’re babbling now. Breathless whispers in his ear. God, if he would just go a little deeper–

He pulls his finger away from you suddenly and shoves it into your mouth. You whimper but close your lips around it, anyway, sucking it down gratefully. “Too much noise, baby,” he muses, “I think there’s better things to do with that mouth of yours.”

You hum in agreement, moving less than gracefully on the unstable air mattress to straddle him, pulling desperately at his pants to pull his cock out. Rock hard and leaking. You hadn’t touched him all day, and it shows.

Bucky lounges back with his arms behind his head, taking in the glazed look in your eyes. You glance up thinking he looks a little too please with the state he’s put you in. You decide not to waste any time.

You sink your head down as far as you can, pressing your tongue up against him and sucking. Hard.

His hands fly immediately to your hair gripping hard as he grounds out a ‘fuck, baby.’ You smile inwardly. Two can play at this game.

You set a fast pace, setting your hands on his thighs for leverage. Truly and completely sucking his soul out through his dick.

He loses himself for a moment letting his hips thrust up into your mouth once, twice, before yanking you off of him and hauling you up to suck the taste of himself off your tongue. “Good girl, baby, good girl,” he mumbles into your mouth as he rolls you over. “Let me give you what you want, sweetheart, remind me.”

He narrowly avoids shredding your pants as he yanks them off you. You do the same for your shirt before tugging at his wanting to feel his skin against yours. “I want you, Bucky, I need you,” you’re babbling again, “I need your cock. I need to come all over you.”

He presses up against, his lips finding yours again, and grasps your thighs to wrap around his hips. “What else, darlin’, one more thing, I need to hear you say it.”

“I love you, Bucky.”

It’s finally enough. He plunges into you, clasping his hand over your mouth to muffle your scream. You claw at his back looking for leverage to thrust back, but all you can do is lay back and take it.

He fucking surrounds you. His whole hulking frame absolutely drowning you as he pounds his hips against yours. It’s so much. It’s almost too much, and you find yourself screaming against his hand again as your pussy clamps down around him over and over again.

“That’s it, honey, that’s what you need, huh?” You nod as best you can, but he doesn’t let up. “Do it again, baby, I need to feel you do it again.” He moves his hand from your mouth, and you moan. “God, I wish I could listen to you but you gotta stay quiet. Bite me,” he orders. And you do. He moves that hand down to where you’re joined and rubs hard, unforgiving circles on your nub.

You squeal into his shoulder and hold him tighter.

“Cum.”

You do. Hard and shaking against him until he stills, filling you gently compared to how he fucked you.

“I love you too.”

[avaantares]

My New Ventilated Social-Distancing Movie Theatre

(or, how I bought a 2020-proof social life for less than $100)

So the USA is (still) a hot mess in terms of pandemic response. Because both my father and I are at increased risk for complications from COVID-19, and my sister and I have to work together in person to run our workshops, my entire family has been in a state of self-quarantine for six months straight (with no end in sight). But it’s hard being in constant isolation, so the four households that comprise my local family have been doing weekly outdoor gatherings -- with plenty of hand sanitizer and safely-spaced tables -- so we can see each other and socialize at a distance. However, that’s only feasible when the weather cooperates.

I’ve also really missed watching movies with friends, which prior to the pandemic had been a regular activity. I have a 70-year-old tripod screen I inherited from my grandfather and a projector I use for running panels at conventions, so we’ve watched occasional DVDs outdoors, but we could only do that on evenings without wind (which could tear the brittle screen) or rain (which would damage the projector), and we have to be careful not to have the sound too loud because it might disturb the neighbors.

A couple weeks ago, when our city delayed reopening again due to rising COVID-19 case numbers, I decided to convert half of my garage into an outdoor movie theatre. It turned out pretty well, and it only cost about what I would spend on movie tickets in an average year (and since I’m not going to any movies in 2020, it’s pretty much a wash). I’m sharing the details in case it gives anyone else ideas for making a health-conscious social hangout!

Obviously YMMV, and in areas with higher case numbers (hi, FL & AZ), this still might be too much contact. Be safe and follow official recommendations to prevent viral spread, folks!

The Space

Before I settled on the garage, I considered building a movie space under a tent canopy (nixed because they’re almost impossible to anchor through Midwest storm winds) or carport kit (too expensive and high-maintenance for me), so there are definitely other options depending on where you live, your typical weather, and what space you have available!

My garage has an unusual layout that allows for better-than-average ventilation. When it was first built, it was a 2 1/2-car garage with the doors facing the street and windows on the side. About 40 years later, the owners decided to move the driveway to the other side of the house, so they built a second garage attached to the drive-door side and knocked out an end wall to put in a new overhead door. This means that by square footage, the garage could hold four cars, but the way the drive doors are situated, it’s a divided two-car garage with a bunch of extra space at the far end. The two sides are connected by one of the original overhead doors, which means that three of the four walls have openings that allow for air movement. (More on that below.)

Normally there’s a car in each side of the garage, but I decided I was willing to park outside all summer for the sake of having a social life. Over the course of a week, I emptied and thoroughly cleaned the half of the garage that has the windows.

Air Flow

Constant fresh air flow is critical to flushing aerosolized particles that can spread the virus, so in order to make a safe indoor space, I had to simulate outdoor air movement. I opened all three overhead doors and both windows, then placed several fans to draw air through the building: One in each window, one along the side wall, and a box fan in the connecting door between the two sides of the garage to pull more air in from the outside. To make sure air was actually moving through the building and not just circulating within it, I turned on all the fans while I was sweeping the (very dusty) floor and walls, and adjusted the fan angles until the dust blew straight out the overhead door, rather hanging in the air or gathering in the corners. (Experts recommend that to prevent virus transmission, indoor spaces should have 100% air turnover every 10 minutes; obviously I have no way of testing that in a garage, but there is a constant light breeze through the building and stuff seems to be blowing out, so I feel pretty good about it.)

Projection Setup

I already had the projector and DVD player (I took the one out of my living room, since I usually just watch DVDs on my game console anyway), but I wanted a larger wall-mounted screen, since my grandfather’s 1950s screen was designed for showing vacation slides in a living room, not wide-screen films. Hanging fabric screens are very cheap, but I opted for a 120″ retractable screen so it would stay clean in the dusty garage. I also have an old set of monitor speakers that provide nice stereo sound.

Seating

The beauty of setting up in a garage is that it’s basically outdoors, so you can use lawn furniture or bean bags or old chairs you pulled out of someone’s trash (I do this regularly; it’s how I got my entire patio set). Measuring out at least 6 feet between each table and staggering their positions so nobody was directly downwind of another table, I set up all the card tables and folding tables I owned, and put a pair of chairs by each one so that couples from the same household could share a table but not be in close contact with any other groups. I put my largest folding table (which was also salvaged from the trash -- seriously, it’s the best way to get stuff!) against the wall right by the open door to serve as a snack table, so it’s on the opposite wall from the seating and nobody would be breathing on the food. I covered all the tables with decorative heavy-duty vinyl tablecloths (mostly for sanitation purposes, because those tables have been sitting out in my garage and I know I’ve had raccoons and opossums out there -- not to mention the colony of bats that lives in the loft off the back of the garage).

This setup can seat up to eight people, and even provides a place for serving food. (I put pump bottles of hand sanitizer on each table and on the food table, and people wear face masks when they’re loading up their plates, so there’s minimal contamination risk there.)

Total Cost

My out-of-pocket cost for this whole project was only about $83, though that’s because I already had a lot of stuff lying around. Here’s a more complete breakdown:

Fans: I already owned the box fan ($25 new) and a couple other fans that I’d picked up super cheap at garage sales ($5 or so), because my house is old and the HVAC is not very efficient. The only new fan I bought for this project was a refurbished air circulator from Amazon ($14), because I needed a small but high-velocity fan to fit in a window.

Projection setup: The only new thing I bought was the screen, which was $65 including shipping (though non-retractable fabric screens start around $10-15, so if you’re on a budget you can get one very cheap). I bought the projector used on eBay about eight years ago. I think I paid around $40 for it then, but prices have come down since; I’ve seen discount projectors for as low as $20. The DVD player is a cheapo region free model, which I got a decade ago for maybe $30. The speakers were secondhand; I’ve also used an old set of external PC speakers ($10 from Goodwill) when running video off my laptop, and they worked well enough in the indoor space.

Seating: Almost all the outdoor furniture I own came from other people’s trash, so I didn’t pay anything for it! Any kind of seating or tables will work, though. I did invest about $4 for new tablecloths, which I got on seasonal clearance.

Bonus Perks

I’ve discovered that the garage walls block a LOT of light and sound unless you’re standing directly outside the drive doors, so we can watch movies for half the night or stay up late chatting and we aren’t disturbing the neighbors! We couldn’t run movies out on the patio late at night because the sound would carry to neighboring houses.

Also, when we’re watching a film in the evening, we get to watch my bats fly through the garage on their way to and from dinner! (Which might be an annoyance to the bats if we were out there all the time, but we try to keep our volume low and we’re only out there about once a week, so I don’t think we’re disturbing them too much.) Bats are protected in my state, as some of the native species are critically endangered, and we try to encourage nesting as they’re essential to pest insect control. I love watching them fly around!

The setup also works well for video games. A local friend and I had been playing online, late at night because it was the only time we could get enough bandwidth to maintain connection (the ISP in my area is not super reliable), but now we can sit on opposite sides of the garage and play local co-op with no lag:

So, in summary, my “movie theatre” is by no means a luxurious setup, but it was cheap :) and it’s a great way for my small pandemic social bubble to get together and chat, have a movie night, or play games without risking being in a closed room together.

[watchmegetobsessed]

Don’t say my name - Shawn Mendes

idea from @bakedmendes

so i might or might not have been a little tipsy when i wrote the second part of it and im not in the mood to read it back so this is all you get. enjoy (yes im still tipsy)

it’s a juicy fucking smut, just sayin

drabble list masterlist

Standing in the shadow of the backstage you follow his bouncy figure on the stage, taking it by storm, making thousands of girls scream, somewhat different than the way he makes you scream in the bedroom.

The sight of him, soaking in his own sweat, skin so shiny and hair messed up, it’s making you cross your legs as you watch him, but there is one tiny detail that’s screwing the whole up. His shirt.

For some reason he has been experimenting with his fashion statements, wearing the weirdest stuff sometimes and somehow he always ended up owning them, but not today. The thin fabric is giving a nice view of what’s under, but the child-like print on it is just making you hate it endlessly, not really matching the vibe of his. You know he bought it because the money went for charity, but that doesn’t mean he must wear it. You begged for him to change into one of his usual tank tops, but as if he wanted to piss you off, he decided he would drop his regular outfit and wear the t-shirt on the stage as well.

The cocky grin on his face tells it all, how much he is enjoying your burning eyes on him when he leaves the stage that night. Leaning in for a kiss you turn your head, his lips ending up on your cheek.

“What? Is it still about the shirt?” he asks, already well-aware of the answer.

“I can’t believe you wore that on stage,” you growl at him, arms crossed on your chest as you head into his dressing room. He grabs a towel from somewhere, gently drying himself with it on the way.

“You can’t be hating it so much.”

“I can and I do.”

An amused chuckle leaves his mouth and leaning closer he makes sure only you can hear his voice.

“I’ll make you love it.”

You gulp hard, knowing him enough to figure out what that means and just his words are making you lose your mind.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” you peek at him, getting into his little game.

“Take it as you want, Honey.”

You patiently wait for him to shower and get ready to leave. His stage clothes are lying on the couch in the dressing room and you stare down at the ugly shirt, suddenly curious about what he has in mind that will make you change your mind about it.

Thoughts racing about the empty hotel room that’s waiting for you, you grab the shirt and tug it into your bag before someone shows up to pick the clothes up for washing. It’s still damp from his sweat, and you try to make yourself not think about how bad you want to sniff it to smell him.

When Shawn returns from his shower and his eyes wander to his stripped clothes he immediately notices the absence of the shirt. His dark eyes move over to you as you try your best to look as innocent as possible.

He doesn’t say anything, just gets dressed and taking your hand you head out. The car ride leaves you a wreck. The driver is playing some unknown music with killer bass that vibrates through your body. Shawn’s hand starts just on your thigh at the beginning, his long fingers stroking the inner side of them, but soon they move up, his pinky sliding under the silky fabric of your underwear. You can barely contain yourself and not moan even though he is hardly touching you.

You grab his hand and push it back to where it was at the beginning just for your own sake, before the driver notices what’s happening at the back, but it doesn’t sit well with Shawn. The look he gives you makes you shiver and you already know tonight will leave you sore.

Your knees are practically shaking from excitement as the two of you stand in the elevator, his tall, calm figure towering above you, eyes avoiding yours. You follow him down the hallway and once the door is closed behind you it starts.

“Take your clothes off,” he simply orders calmly as he throws his bag to the sofa. You kick your shoes off and start stripping while making your way to the bed. You watch him move around, grab something from the closet, but you don’t dare to question anything he does.

“Everything,” he warns you when you stop at your lingerie. Licking your lips you get rid of the lacy bra and matching panties, leaving you in nothing while he is still fully clothed.

He walks over to you, eyes burning as they roam your body up and down, making you wet instantly. He pulls his shirt off and unbuttons his jeans but doesn’t take those off just yet as you stand there, following his every move. Reaching into your bag he grabs the shirt from it, feeling the texture up between his fingers before his eyes flicker up to you. Your lips are parted as you wait for him to tell you what to do.

For now, he drops the shirt to the bed and turning back to you he gets rid of his jeans. The growing bulge on his boxers makes you lick your lips and when his own hand takes a grab on himself you suck your breath in.

“So you’ve been saying stuff about the way I looked today.”

He slowly starts walking around you, taking in every naked inch of your body, hand still gripping his erection through his boxers.

“You didn’t like my shirt?”

“No,” you simply say, knowing he doesn’t like it when you say too much.

“Too bad. I have to teach you a lesson now. I have to make you like my style.”

You almost say that you have nothing against his style, but you stop yourself just in time. His free hand touches your side, fingers gently sliding down to your waist, over your stomach and back up to your breasts. Taking one of them in his palm he squeezes it, making you moan under his touch. You want him to touch you everywhere he can reach, but his touch soon disappears leaving you aching for more.

“Put on the shirt,” he orders turning away from you as he walks over to the side of the bed.

While you put on the famous shirt he pulls down his boxers, his dick already hard for you.

“Lie down.”

Crawling op to the bed you lie down in the middle, patiently waiting without a word.

“Arms up above your head,” he gives the instruction and this is when you see the pair of tights in his hands. Leaning down, one knee on the mattress he starts to tie you up against the headboard while you watch him with parted lips. His face is close as he is working on your wrists, making sure it’s not too tight but strong enough to keep you from using your hands.

“Do you remember our word?” he asks looking into your eyes and you nod.

“Purple,” you say the safety word you two agreed on some time ago, though you haven’t had to use it yet.

Pecking your lips shortly he stands up, leaving you tied up, his shirt covering your upper body, but only until your hip bones since it has ridden up as you pulled your legs up a bit.

“You are not saying my name unless I tell you to, understood?”

You nod eagerly as you watch him get up on the bed, hands grabbing on your ankles as he spreads your legs, exposing you to his greedy, dark eyes. Slowly leaning down he licks his lips, your toes already curl at the thought of his tongue touching your heated, wet skin, but just when it is about to happen his eyes flicker up to you and the corner of his mouth curls up.

Climbing up above your body he grabs the hem of the shirt and pulls up, so it’s covering your head, blocking you from seeing anything. You whimper as his fingers touch your stomach.

“Now the shirt is all you are going to see while I make you cum,” he murmurs as you hear him getting back down, positioning himself between your legs, facing your naked pussy.

The fabric of the shirt is thin, you see shadows and shapes, but that damned drawing is staring right at you.

You’re eagerly waiting for something to happen, but as the seconds pass you don’t feel him touching you anywhere and it’s killing you, not knowing what’s happening. When you are about to question if he is still in the room his tongue connects with your clit, making you shiver immediately.

He shows no mercy on you. One finger sliding into you as his tongue and lips work on your clit, moving in circular motions while he starts pumping.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper to yourself and suddenly he stops.

“Swear as much as you want, but don’t say my name,” he warns you, lips brushing against your center and you can’t stop moving your legs at the feeling.

It doesn’t take too much time for him to add two more fingers, making you moan under the shirt, your eyes rolling back from the sensation.

It’s building up, your body is reacting fast to the way he curly his fingers inside you, hitting that bundle of nerves. Your whole body is about to explode, you can feel the orgasm almost reaching your senses when all of a sudden he pulls away, a choked gasp emitting from your throat.

Breathing feels like the hardest at the moment, your panting warming up the air around you and it’s trapped because of the shirt, making you sweat, your hair sticks to your neck messily. Pushing your heels into the mattress you move your legs up and down, somehow trying to keep up the elevated feeling in yourself, but it’s starting to fade. When your panting calms down slightly, that’s when his touch returns.

His hands push your legs to the side more. giving him more than enough space to make himself comfortable between them, grinding his hips to yours, making you gasp again.

“Fuck!” you whimper feeling his dick slide between your wet folds, the head pushing against your clit.

“So how do you feel about the shirt again?” he asks, his hips moving back and forth, making you want to beg for him to finally fuck you.

“I uhh-“ not able to make up a whole sentence you just whimper under his touch, his hand finding your breasts once more, massaging them, pinching your nipples and just casually making you lose your mind.

“You what? Tell me, how do you feel about the shirt, Y/N?”

When his mouth meets your breasts, sucking on the skin gently, probably leaving a nice hickey you know there’s no way you can answer any question.

“Please,” you beg, grinding your hips, trying to guide him into you, but there’s no use, he is in charge.

“Tell me you like the shirt and you get what you want,” he tells you, hands pushing your hips down, stopping you from moving.

“I love the fucking shirt!” you choke out, barely able to breathe properly.

“Good girl,” he growls before pushing his full length into you without any hesitation.

“Fuck!” you moan at the sensation as he fills you up so abruptly, your walls tightening around his cock. His name almost rolls down your tongue but you stop yourself just in time, obeying his order from earlier.

He doesn’t take it slow, picking up quite a fast pace from the beginning, pounding into you relentlessly.

Your hands curl into fists as you pull against the tights, trying to escape and touch him, but he made sure that can’t happen. Sweat is running down your neck, your eyes glued to the ugly print of the shirt, but the way you feel makes it all nonsense, that damned print is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen if you think about the sensation you feel while Shawn is fucking you hard.

His long fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you in place as he keeps slamming against you. Several moans escape your mouth and you are getting closer to your orgasm once again, his name painfully waiting on the tip of your tongue to finally be said.

“Don’t cum yet,” he tells you, but you need everything in you not to cum just from the way he talks to you. There’s something in the way he takes control, you can’t get enough of him.

Suddenly he pulls out, your body already missing the feeling of him inside you. His hands grip your hips and with one confident move he flips you over, pulling your ass up, legs spread on the mattress as you try to keep yourself up on your elbows. He holds your hips up, as he guides himself into you once again, slamming hard against your butt.

“Oh shit,” he growls as he keeps thrusting into you, making you moan over and over again. “Say my name,” he finally tells you and it burst out of you.

“Shawn! Shawn!” you keep moaning his name in the rhythm he is fucking you, hips meeting your ass every time.

“Cum for me,” he orders and you are already close to the edge, it doesn’t take too much for you to finally finish.

A few more thrusts and you are screaming his name as you ride your orgasm, knees shaking, toes curling at the breathtaking sensation. His hold tightens on you as he reaches his highest high as fell, your face pressed against the shirt, his smell burning into your nose from it.

A few more lazy thrusts later he pulls out, leaving you empty and a few moments later your hands are finally free again and he pulls the shirt off of you, letting you see his beautiful face again.

Leaning in he presses a long kiss to your lips as you run your fingers through your hair, skin still soaked with sweat.

“It wasn’t too much, right?” he asks, worried he might have hurt you, but it’s nothing like that. If it was too much you would have screamed the safety word but you had no intention in stopping him.

“Are you kidding me? I’m gonna criticize your shirts every day after this,” you grin at him making him chuckle.

“Come on, let’s take a shower and get you cleaned up.”

You can’t deny, your thighs sore as you move to get up from the bed, but it’s not a new feeling. You love it when he leaves you in a numbing pain after some wild sex, it feels great to give him the opportunity to live all his kinks out on you and be the person who he can be as free as he wants to.

Moving to the shower his soft sides make an appearance, washing you so gently as if you could break at anytime, and you just love how he can switch so fast, going from a dominant sex god to a literal puppy. You love him just the way he is. And now you kinda love that ugly ass shirt as well.

[goodlucktai]

anon from before: well if it’s okay I’d love to see something with law and the strawhats (Luffy in particular of course!) but no pressure! also let me know if you make a kofi or smth that I can contribute to ;;;

another op prompt, another excuse to write more of the smile again au :’) bless

and my ko-fi page is right here ! 

x

Zoro hates the hospital. 

He has a lot of respect for the people who work there, for the efficient pace of the nurses and staff, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the endless night he and his family spent camped in the waiting room. He dreams of it sometimes. 

The lights, the smell, the sterile emptiness of the waiting room, the third shift receptionist who laughed on the phone as if she didn’t know or didn’t care that the world seemed to be ending. The chairs were uncomfortable and Nami had curled up in one with her head on Usopp’s shoulder, their clasped hands shaking. Robin sat perched on the edge of a bench seat like her namesake, ready at any moment to leap into flight. Sanji had gone without a smoke for longer than Zoro had ever seen, unable to tear himself away long enough to step outside even as the nicotine withdrawal began to make his fingers itch. Chopper was tiny where he huddled against Franky’s side, tucked safely beneath a broad, tattooed arm. Brook was still hours away, but he was on the first flight back; his cancelled tour made headlines. 

Zoro only has to close his eyes and he can see it all, as if it only happened moments ago. As if he’s still there, trapped in that waiting room, more helpless than he’s ever been. 

When Kuina died, it was instant. Zoro was informed of his friend’s fate and dressed for her funeral in just about the same breath. There was no purgatory in the form of white walls and outdated magazines and bitter-tasting coffee. He was so young at the time, and it was so long ago, but he remembers how badly it hurt. 

The waiting– the not knowing– somehow hurt just as much. 

But when Luffy runs ahead, pushing through the revolving door and spilling into the atrium with all the decorum of a storm at sea, Zoro ignores the lead pit in his stomach and follows right behind him.

Shachi is behind the reception desk, a phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder as his fingers fly across a computer keyboard. He looks up when they come in and grins to see them, waving them right on through. Luffy’s sandals smack loudly against the tile floor, and he’s waving his hands as he talks, and he looks like any other person here to visit someone they love.

But normally he wouldn’t walk so close to Zoro that their shoulders bump with every step. And he doesn’t quite make eye contact with anyone else. By the time they make it to a specific office and find it empty, his boisterous energy takes a subtle turn towards manic. 

“Oh,” he says. “I guess he’s not here.” 

Luffy’s bright smile fades and then goes fixed, and Zoro takes it personally. He turns and eyes the fire door directly across the hall. It’s the quickest out, and he’d do a lot worse than set off some emergency alarms in a hospital for his friend. 

As if summoned by the potential disaster, Penny sticks his head around the corner. 

“Hey, I thought I heard you guys!” he says cheerfully. He inserts himself bodily between Zoro and the fire door in a daring maneuver reminiscent of a man getting in the way of a hungry tiger and the injured elk it was stalking. “If you’re looking for our fearless leader, he’s in the lounge. Follow me.”

They fall into step together, but Luffy is still so close to Zoro he’s practically underfoot. To his credit, Penny doesn’t mention it. His stupid penguin hat clashes with his scrubs, as usual, and he keeps up a lively one-sided conversation for the whole four-minute journey to the physician’s lounge. 

He doesn’t bother knocking, simply pushing the door open and ushering them inside with a yell of “Guests!”

The two figures at the table look up, take in Luffy and Zoro’s sudden appearance, and then sort of leap to their feet. The tension blows out of Luffy like an autumn breeze, and he’s laughing as Bepo rounds the table to enfold him in a bear hug. 

“It’s been ages since you came to visit! Penguin, you should have warned me they were coming, I would have made fresh coffee!”

“I didn’t know they were here until like three seconds ago,” Penny contests hotly. 

Ignoring him, Bepo says, “Are the two of you staying for lunch? I can run to the cafeteria for something.”

“No,” Law says abruptly, “we’ll go out. I need a break.”

These are big words from the head surgeon, who has been known to go days without leaving the hospital and has been quoted saying “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” Shachi has told stories about the staff resorting to bribery, coercion, and outright blackmail to convince their boss to rest for ten minutes on the fold-out cot in his office. Even now, in the lounge, he was obviously working through stacks of medical paperwork next to a plate of something probably meant for his lunch long gone cold.

Law clocking out for a break of his own free will was similar to Sanji announcing he’s brought home McDonald’s for dinner because he didn’t feel like cooking– a clear disruption in the fabric of the universe– but Bepo and Penny don’t miss a beat. 

“Oh, of course! I’ll tell Shachi to clear your afternoon.”

“Bring us back something tasty!”

Zoro hates the hospital, but that doesn’t extend to the people who work here. They each, to a man, labored tirelessly for Luffy, made themselves available for his frightened family, and even now continue to care about him past what their job description demands. Law shrugs on a jacket and steers Luffy out into the hall.

“I could have met you in the parking lot,” Law says at length. His expression  gives nothing away, but the quick pace he sets does. “Call ahead next time.”

“Nah, it’s more fun when it’s a surprise,” Luffy says blithely. Law’s silence conveys succinctly that he really doesn’t care about what Luffy thinks is fun. Luffy, who only wields unsettling perception when it suits him, decides to be oblivious today. “Let’s go to the Baratie!”

His brother died in this hospital. Luffy, who was in surgery for eleven hours and then unconscious for the next three days, didn’t get the chance to say goodbye. And Zoro thinks again of the day he learned Kuina died; waking up one morning only to be told that while he was asleep, the world as he knew it had changed, and something was missing from it now that he could never get back. 

It hurts; Zoro knows how much it hurts.

But Luffy grins as they step outside, stretching his arms out wide as though he’s ready to catch the sky should it come tumbling down, and seems determined not to let it. He’s friends with the man who saved his life. He clings to the memory of his brother, but only so he can bring Ace with him into the light of every new day.

“Take care of him for me.”

Watch us, Zoro thinks, following Luffy. Wherever you are, watch. 

[barnesnmrnoble]

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Read on ao3!

Word Count: 2000

Summary: Bucky is moving from the couch, carefully detangling himself from the pile of limbs him, Clint, and Tasha had become, before he really registers the soft knock on the door. Clint is half asleep, curled around Tasha like a koala bear relishing in the feeling of her hand carding through his freshly washed hair, while old Christmas reruns of dog cops play on the big living room tv.

A/n: Merry Christmas to the wonderful and darling @cuddlememerrick​! I hope you enjoy dear! Much love from your no so secret santa! 

The pairings in this are pretty vague, its open to interpretation for whoever you want to be together.Or if you want them all to platonic, there is no real mentions of romantic relationships. I tried to keep the reader gender neutral but I may have missed some pronouns or descriptions so if you see any let me know! anyways!

HAPPY READING!

________

Bucky is moving from the couch, carefully detangling himself from the pile of limbs him, Clint, and Tasha had become, before he really registers the soft knock on the door. Clint is half asleep, curled around Tasha like a koala bear relishing in the feeling of her hand carding through his freshly washed hair, while old Christmas reruns of dog cops play on the big living room tv. He grunts softly when Bucky moves him over, but doesn’t give anymore than the grunt and nuzzles back into the brushing fingers over his scalp. Bucky understands, he feels all soft and cuddly in the god awfully ugly Christmas sweater Clint had brought over and made him wear. He isn’t complaining too much, it’s really soft. 

The door swings open with a loud jingle, damn bells Clint had put on every door as “decoration”. Why does it need to be made known that he is opening literally any door in the house, including the bathroom door. Clint really gets into the Christmas spirit and Bucky may glare at him every time he ends up underneath a doorway, because yeah, every doorway also has mistletoe hanging from it and Clint always catches him and kisses his cheek. It makes it really hard for Bucky to keep up with his grinch-y attitude when Clint does nothing but make him smile all day long. 

 “Hey, I didn’t think you got back until next week?” Bucky doesn’t hide his surprise when he opens the door to see you, and he is clearly happy to see you home finally. It’s been two months since you left on a minimal communication op. Nobody had heard from you in the last two weeks, and there had been no mention of you coming home early. Nevertheless, he is happy to see you and knows that Clint and Nat will be too. The four of you are nearly inseparable. 

You look a little worse for wear, a bruise or two forming on your cheek and around your eye, favoring your left leg and heavily leaning against the doorway. You leaning, seems less out of pain and more out of exhaustion, both physical and emotional. The question he asked nearly a minute ago finally reaches your brain, and you nod. It’s about all you have the energy to muster up as a response. Really you should've just gone to your own place, taken a quick shower and crashed for the next four days but you couldn’t override the part of you that needed to see them, that needed to have company after two very long months being completely alone and isolated. 

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate, he knows just what you need. He bends over and scoops you into his arms, bringing you over to the couch and plopping you down between Clint and Nat. He disappears for a minute and comes back with another one of Clint’s ugly sweaters, strips you of your tac vest, and carefully replaces it with the soft fabric of the sweater. He throws another look to Nat and they do their freaky “silent conversation with their eyes” thing and she kisses your cheek before she runs off down the hallway. With Nat’s departure and Bucky off doing other things again, Clint attaches to you like a sleepy, happy parasite, and you can’t help but join him. 

You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep until you start to wake up to Clint hovering over you with a washcloth, carefully wiping away the dirt and grime on your face. Apparently while you were out, he took the liberty of brushing your hair out and twisting it into a neat braid that pulled everything from your face. You have no idea how he manages, but anytime Clint plays with your hair, it becomes so soft and all you want to do is run your fingers through it. 

The apartment smells different than when you fell asleep, like chocolate. It smells like Bucky’s amazing chocolate chip cookies, and when you see him appear from the kitchen with a plate freshly baked cookies you can’t help the grabby hands you make at him. “Are those…?” There isn’t much need to finish the sentence, by the smile on his face Bucky knows what your about to ask and his dopey grin answers the question. He nods, before he goes back to grab drinks. 

Tasha glides into the room a moment later, three large pizzas and what looks like little jars of black and grey goop balancing precariously on top. With one hand, she grabs onto the jars and blindly throws them your direction and Clint barely moves to catch them both easily.  Nat drops the pizza onto the coffee table, opening the first box and grabbing a piece. She holds it out for Clint and he cranes his neck to take a bite before grabbing one of the jars (of what, you haven’t figured that out yet but you’re too tired to try.) “Bucky, come on, hurry!” You snort quietly when you hear Bucky huff his way back into the room. “Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’.” 

“What's going on? I think I missed a lot in my impromptu nap.” Clint beams with his blindingly bright smile. “You did. Face masks, comfort food, a good christmas movie,” He puts his hand by his mouth and whispers not so quietly, “and a little alcohol.” You hum happily and make grabby hands in the direction of the alcohol and cookies Bucky brought in pointing at him and saying “You. Are my favorite.”

“Hey! What the hell! This was all my idea.” You raise an eyebrow at Clint and he squawks indignantly. “It was!” You can’t help but laugh, pulling your legs from where they were folded underneath you and wrapping them around Clint like he’d been doing earlier. “You’ll always be my favorite, hun.” He winks at you, placing a sloppy kiss on your cheek. Bucky is now grabbing Nat and plopping them both down on the couch at your back, forming a similar cuddle pile to earlier, now just with the addition of you. 

It’s been two long months of being alone with no one to talk to, none of Clint’s big smiles and dumb dad jokes (and most importantly, no Lucky.), none of Tasha’s softness that’s reserved only for the people she loves, none of Bucky’s giant hoodies and his amazing cooking. And maybe two months isn’t that long but it felt like it, and you want nothing more than to be a little buzzed and curled up in between all of them. 

Your peaceful train of thought is interrupted when Clint drops a glob of freezing cold black gel onto your face and starts to spread it around. “God, Clint! That’s freezing!” He just shrugs and smooths it out across your face. Behind you, Tasha is spreading the grey gel on Bucky, who is complaining just as much as you are. This stuff is really really cold.

 Luckily for you, once Clint and Nat finish lathering your faces in the masks, they turn to do it to themselves and Clint spends the entire time complaining much louder than you had. It’s karmic justice, and really, it’s the little things in life that make you happy. 

Clint has yet to tell you what the movie is but when he gets up to get it started, you realize why. He picked Die Hard. You and Tasha have been arguing with Clint and Bucky for months that Die Hard is not a Christmas movie, going as far to tweet Bruce Willis about it. The boys still refuse to believe that it’s not a christmas, even after Bruce Willis replied with “It’s a goddamn Bruce Willis movie, boys. Not Christmas.”

“Really Clint?” He nods, a mischievous smile on his lips before pulling you tight against him again. “Hmm, hand me a piece of pizza?” 

______________

The four of you watch the movie in relative peace, Bucky, -weirdly enough- is the one to cause the ruckus. When the timer you’d set for the face masks goes off, well, let’s just say taking Bucky’s off was a bit more painful than the others.

 “Tash?” She looks up at him, immediately realizes her mistake. Her eyes are wide and a bit sympathetic but she is doing a poor job at hiding her amusement. Bucky sighs. “This stuff isn’t supposed to go in my beard is it?” Nat sputters and shakes her head and Bucky is whining again because they have to peel it off and that shit hurts when it’s not stuck in facial hair. Beyond your laughter, you do sympathize.

But it’s an odd picture to see the fearsome Winter Soldier tearing up while pulling off his face mask.

It takes him almost 20 minutes to finally pull it off, and by the end, it hurts so bad, he makes Nat just rip off the last of it around his eyes. Which of course, was a big mistake. The moment it came off Bucky threw his face into Tasha’s chest and you could hear the litany of curses that bled from his mouth. Clint couldn’t hear it, he’d taken his aids out a while ago, but he could relate, he’d done it the first time him and Tash had done face masks. 

____________

It’s nearly midnight when you start to drift to sleep again, Tasha is asleep, her head in your lap. You’ve bashed through four Christmas movies.  Well three, and Die Hard. Your entirely too full on pizza and cookies. You’re sure you ate through 3/4 of Bucky’s cookies. But it’s nice, it leaves you with this warm and fuzzy feeling that’s entirely too ironic with the holiday cheer surrounding you. 

Clint took your hair out from the braid after you pulled off the face masks and was now running one hand through the hair again, carefully pulling out the flecks of the mask that had gotten in your hairline. It was probably what was lulling you to sleep. You fight the strong pull and press your lips to the calloused skin of his palm, at least where you can reach. You pull your hands from Natasha���s grip and sign as best you can to Clint, Thank you. I didn’t realize how much I needed this. He only hums deep in his chest and presses his lips to your forehead. You reach across Tash and poke Bucky’s shoulder, who is clearly about to crash hard, his eyes flutter close only to spring back open every few seconds and you know the only reason he is staying awake is the bet he made with you and Clint that he would be the last to fall asleep. He is pretty notorious for being the first to fall asleep during team movie nights. 

He won’t ever admit it, but it’s easier for him to fall asleep surrounded by the team and people he trusts then when he is alone with himself. Though it’s extremely rare to find any of the four of you without each other. Whoever is out on an op, it is guaranteed to see the others in together, cuddling or sleeping, or really just spending time together. If the boys are out, its you and Nat, if it’s you and Tash, the boys find comfort in each other. It’s a nice balance for a group of touch starved assassins.

You sign to him as well, unwilling to break the air of comfort by using your voice, thank you. Now, sleep. He gives you an incredulous look, silently telling you he won’t lose the bet. I don’t care about the bet. Sleep. 

You should get everyone at least to the bed or somewhere more comfortable than the couch, you know you are going to wake up with a kink in your neck and most of your body sore but you don’t care, it’s just how it is and you know none of you would ever change it for anything.