#put them side by side and look at my insanity

[omgfangirlland]

I'd love for a part 2! It'd be really funny if she did get taken in by Slade or by Ra.. But I kinda want her to be taken in by the Winchesters 😈😈😈 (my brain is itching to write another idea but I'm also having a mental block.. Dang it.. So many possibilities.. So many ideaaaas....i wannnnnna write and writeeeeeee but I feel like my head is gonna explode)

-🔱

Here's a kinda part 2/kinda thoughts to add 🙃

I think the Reader knows some things from the goons and the other clients of The Lounge- like one taught her how to throw knives, maybe another gave her the basics for shooting a gun, and another gave her inside tips on stocks.

Either way, along the way, her speech does get better, she still stutters and is still selectively mute, but she grows and learn a lot, one particular man seemingly taking him under his wing while all she needs to do is listen to his madness.

Reader is still a skeptic and swears John Winchester is a madman, but you also know he tips nicely and buys you nice things, from silly drawing books to necessities like jackets and groceries, so you let him talk. Unknowingly, you're actually helping him a lot.

You don't notice it, you have learned to brush it off, actually, but John is always alone. When you first asked him what he'd like and then turned to his left, asking his "friend"(maybe a hunter who died on the job due to John) the same question, he immediately knew. And not like the ghosts would tell you they're dead- they like to be treated s if they're still alive.

Now, years later, when three men walk in, stiff and eyes jumping from one side to the other, you know they're asking for trouble, but you have a job to do. So, you put on a fake smile and ask what they'd like while kindly asking the shining meta to close his wings and, if possible, to dim his light.

Dean and Sam look at Castiel, normal, human-looking Castiel who simply apologizes and seemingly does as told, as you stop squinting. They both throw a glance at each other before turning to you, introducing themselves, and asking about the strange missing people turning up drained of blood, not giving anything away as Dean jokingly calls them paranormal fanatics like old Pops Winchester.

Your smile immediately drops. As you ask why they want to know, and if they know a John Winchester, the brothers have a moment of dread as the possibility of this being another Adam moment crosses their minds.

"He's dead. I'm sorry." Castiel says plainly, deadpan, making Dean and Sam cringe. And you snort, calling him a fucking liar because you just rented the man a room. And when John appears behind you out of no where, is the moment everything went to shit.

Finding out you weren't insane and unnecessarily dipping yourself with pills wasn't something that was on your bingo sheet- alas, the memories of Thomas and Martha were long forgotten, and with the newfound reality came fears bigger than just being homeless. So you stuck with the team, left your... It wasn't home. Housing seemed more fitting.

The impala and the men have become your house along the way, through every bullshit, every almost jail time, every starving con artist moment. And if you and Dean became something more along the way, it felt right.

As it is, despite it all, you still found your way back to Gotham due to another John. You four had met Constantine on a few jobs, mostly demon hunts. The boys hated him, you found him sad, like a wet puppy, and yet he opened so much for you, after all, he's the reason you learned magic. So when he sent a signal for help, you begged your lover and his brother to go help.

The moment you met, the first thing he said is "Don't be mad," and by the time you blinked, you were in the middle of the manor, eyes locked on a pale, shaking Bruce and two happy, teary-eyed Martha and Thomas.

I don't know how to carry it on, so have these headcannon style stuff:

Dean goes out of his way to be even more clingy just to piss off Bruce. He addresses(even if he can't see them) Martha and Thomas as Mama and Papa, and just calls Bruce that or Wayne.

Bruce is beyond angry at the simple idea of Dean, let alone at actually seeing the man interact with you.

Sam is ready to brawl, Dean didn't let him beat John up, but he'll let his dear Sammy throw hands with this deadbeat.

John C. is drinking behind the couch. John W. is sweating in Heaven(CAN'T BELIVE HE MADE IT THERE BTW) as he watches the shitshow.

I have a thought that your mom actually called from the asylum and screamed at Bruce about where her baby is, why is she on the news being called a criminal, and Bruce just brushed it off as another mental break, crying himself to sleep that night.

Discourse insues, yelling, almost throwing shit. Just to scare Bruce even more, Reader fakes a vision where everyone he loves dies, telling him he'll try and fail like he's failed with her, before "passing out".

Cue John C. terrified because 1. he didn't know she could do that 2. he doesn't know she's lying her ass off

Sam and Dean buy you your fav meal and extra dessert after carrying you out to baby and driving off.

Bruce, of course, doesn't let go.

All the kids locked themselves in a room with Damian to keep him from breaking out because he's mad that nobody told him he wasn't the firstborn and that his big sister's mom was actually married to Bruce.

Tag list: @simpingpandas

I feel like @venomsvl and @beyondblissxoxo would also appreciate the tag, but I'll take it down if you two want that.

[scary-noodlesblog]

Soulbound Ch 10

The Monster At The End Of This Book

Soulbound Masterlist

1st Person POV:

The boys and I walk into a comic book shop in our FBI outfits, suits and long coats. The man behind the counter looks up at us as we approach, already reaching into our coats for our badges.

"Uh... can I help you?" The man asks. Dean holds up his FBI badge, "Sure hope so. Agents DeYoung, Shaw, and Mustaine. Just need to ask you a few questions." "Notice anything strange in the building, last couple of days?" Sam asks. The man gives us a confused look, "Like what?" "Well, some other tenants reported flickering lights." I reply. The man shakes his head, "Uh, I don't think so. Why?" "What about noises? Any skittering in the walls? Kind of like rats?" Sam continues to interrogate. "And the FBI is investigating a rodent problem?" The man's eyebrows furrow, getting skeptical of us. "What about cold spots? Feel any sudden drops in temperature?" I ask. A big grin breaks out on the man's face as he points at us. "I knew it! You guys are LARPing, aren't you?" "Excuse me?" Dean questions, sounding a little offended.

"You're fans." The man smiles.

"Fans of what?" Sam looks at the man in confusion. Dean's eyebrows crinkle, "What is 'LARPing'?" "Like you don't know." The man chuckles. At the sight of our confused expressions the man explains. "Live-Action Role-Play! And pretty hardcore, too." "I'm sorry, I have no idea what you're talking about." Dean shrugs. "You're asking questions like the building's haunted. Like those guys from the books. What are they called? Uh... 'Supernatural.' Two guys and their sister, use fake IDs with rock aliases, hunt down ghosts, demons, vampires. What are their names? Uh... Steve, Dirk, and (Similar name)? Uh, Sal, Dane, and (Other Similar Name)?" "Sam, Dean and (Y/N)?" Sam asks hesitantly. The man points at Sam, "That's it!" "You're saying this is a book?" I tilt my head. "Books. It was a series. Didn't sell a lot of copies, though. Kind of had more of an underground cult following." The man gets up from his stool, walking over to the bargain bin. We follow him over as he pulls a book out, handing the book to Dean. "That's the first one, I think." 

The book has two men and a woman on the cover, standing by an illustration of Dean's Impala. The long haired man is shirtless, I'm assuming that's Sam based off the hair. Dean's counterpart is wearing a black tank top. Standing on the other side of Sam's character is who I assume to be my persona. Her features are exaggerated like Sam and Dean's, a ripped, black dress barely covering her hips and breasts. Sex sells, right? "'Supernatural' by Carver Edlund." Dean flips the book over, reading the back. "Along a lonely California highway, a mysterious woman in white lures men to their deaths." "Give me that." Sam says, snatching the book from Dean's hands. After a moment, he looks up at the man, "We're gonna need all the copies of 'Supernatural' you've got."

~~~~~~~

Back in the motel, Sam is at the dining table on his laptop. Dean lays on the bed, reading the book where we dealt with that racist truck. I sit cross-legged on the other bed, reading the book where the boys and I dealt with the vengeful spirit drowning people related to the men who killed a little boy. 

"This is freakin' insane. How's this guy know all this stuff?" Dean asks, making me look up from the book. "You got me." Sam shakes his head.

"Dude, in this book it talks all about us saving Lucas and his mom. Even down to what kind of sandwiches they made us." I hold up the book titled 'Dead In The Water'. "Everything is in here. I mean everything. From the to – to me having sex. I'm full-frontal in here, dude." Dean says.

I cringe, closing my book, "Ew, Dean."

Dean ignores me save for sticking his tongue out at me. He rolls off the bed and walks over to Sam. "How come we haven't heard of them before?" "They're pretty obscure. I mean, almost zero circulation. Uh, started in '05. The publisher put out a couple dozen before going bankrupt. And, uh, the last one – 'No Rest For The Wicked' –" Sam turns his laptop towards Dean. "Ends with you going to Hell." "I reiterate. Freaking insane." Dean scrolls through the website as I stand up, walking over to look over his shoulder. 

"Check it out. There's actually fans. There's not many of them, but still. Did you read this?" I point at the screen.  Sam scratches the back of his head, "Yeah." "Although for fans, they sure do complain a lot. Listen to this – Simpatico says 'the demon story line is trite, clichéd, and overall craptastic.' Yeah, well, screw you, Simpatico. We lived it." Dean says.

"Well, thankfully they didn't get to the storyline where I have an angel up my ass." I mumble. Sam chuckles, "Yeah. Well, keep on reading. It gets better." Dean grins. "There are 'Sam girls' and 'Dean girls' and '(Y/N) guys'– what's a 'slash fan'?"

"As in..." Sam hesitates. "Sam-slash-Dean. Together. Or Sam-slash-(Y/N). Or Dean-slash-(Y/N)." I cringe while Dean looks horrified, "Like, together together?" Sam nods, "Yeah." "They do know we're brothers, right? And (Y/N)'s pretty much our sister, I mean, we've known her since she was in diapers." Dean argues. "Doesn't seem to matter." Sam almost sounds like he's gonna be sick.

I fake gag, "Dude, they have 'Sam-slash-(Y/N)-slash-Dean'. Oh my God, they have us having threesomes."  "Oh, come on. That... That's just sick." Dean shuts the laptop in disgust, pushing it away from him. "We got to find this Carver Edlund." Sam leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Yeah, that might not be so easy." "Why not?" Dean asks. "No tax records, no known address. Looks like "Carver Edlund" is a pen name." Sam explains. I cross my arms over my chest, shifting my weight to my right leg, "Somebody's gotta know who he is."

~~~~~~~

"So you published the "Supernatural" books?" I ask the woman. 

The publisher's gray sweater flows a little behind her as she walks over to the shelf of books. "Yep. Yeah. Gosh. These books... You know, they never really got the attention they deserved. All anybody wants to read anymore is that romance crap. You know – 'Doctor Sexy, M.D.'?" She scoffs, "Please." "Right. Well, we're hoping that our article can... shine a light on an underappreciated series." Sam smiles softly. The publisher starts to get excited, "Yeah, yeah, because, you know, if we got a little bit of good press then m-maybe we could start publishing again." Dean interrupts her, "No, no, no, no. God, no. I mean, why – why would you want to do that? You know, it's, uh, such a complete series, what with Dean going to Hell and all."

The publisher smiles, fangirling a little bit. "Oh, my god! That was one of my favorite ones, because Dean was so... strong... and sad and brave. And in 'In My Time Of Dying' when John said (Y/N) wasn't real family, and Sam defended her to the end. And Sam... I mean, the best parts are when they'd cry. You know, like in – In 'Heart,' when Sam had to kill Madison, the first woman since Jessica he really loved. And in 'Home,' when Dean had to call John and ask him for help." She gets emotional, sniffling, "Gosh... if only real men were so open and in touch with their feelings."  "Real men?" Dean asks, a little offended. "I mean, no offense. How often do you cry like that, hmm?" The woman shrugs. Sam grins a little as Dean says, "Well, right now, I'm crying on the inside." The publisher tilts her head, "Is that supposed to be funny?" Dean smiles sarcastically. "Lady, this whole thing is funny." "How do I know you three are legit, hmm?" The woman walks around her desk and sits in her office chair. "Oh, trust me. We, uh... we're legit." I give her a slight grin. "Well, I don't want any smart-ass article making fun of my boys, and their sister." She says. I frown a little, is that all that I am? Just their sister? "No! No, no, no. Never." Sam stammers.

"No, that's..." Dean trails off, looking at Sam for help. "We – We are actually, um... big fans." I interject, saving their asses. The publisher hums, "Hmm. You've read the books?" I nods, "Cover to cover." She starts a trivia, "What's the year and model of the car?" Dean smiles proudly, "It's a 1967 Chevy Impala." "What's May 2nd?" "That's my – Uh... that's Sam's birthday." Sam replies, almost slipping up. "January 24th is Dean's." Dean shrugs.

"September 8th is (Y/N)'s." I grin softly. "Sam's score on the LSAT?" Sam's eyebrows furrow. "One...Seventy-four?"

"When did Bobby Singer adopt (Y/N)?" 

"Bobby took her in on November 26th 1987, but the official adoption wasn't done for a few months after that." I reply. The publisher looks impressed, "Dean's favorite song?" Dean grows a smug look, "It's a tie. Between Zep's 'Ramble On' and 'Traveling Riverside Blues.'" She smiles and shifts in her chair, "Okay. Okay. What do you want to know?" "What's Carver Edlund's real name?" Sam asks. The woman's eyes widen and she shakes her head, "Oh, no. I – No. Sorry, I can't do that." "We just want to talk to him. You know, get the 'Supernatural' story in his own words." I say with a slightly pleading tone.

She shakes her head again. "He's very private. It's like Salinger." "Please. Like I said – we are, um..." He undoes the top few buttons on his shirt, cringing a little as he shows off his anti-possession tattoo on his chest. "... big... big fans." Sam gives Dean and I pointed looks. Dean sighs and I roll my eyes, both of us pulling the collars of our shirts aside to show the same tattoos in the same spots. The publisher giggles. "Awesome. You know what?" She turns around, hiking up her skirt to show the same tattoo on her ass cheek. "I got one, too." I quickly look away, anywhere but there. But, of course, Sam and Dean don't. Dean chuckles. "Whoa. You are a fan."

"Okay." She scribbles something on a piece of paper. "His name's Chuck Shurley. And he's a genius, so don't piss him off."

~~~~~~~

Dean, Sam and I get out of the Impala, walking up the porch steps of the deep burgundy house. We share a look before Dean rings the doorbell. A man opens the door. Dean asks, "You Chuck Shurley?" "The Chuck Shurley who wrote the 'Supernatural' books?" I interject. Chuck's eyebrows furrow, "Maybe. Why?" "I'm Dean. This is Sam and (Y/N). The Dean, Sam, and (Y/N) you've been writing about." Chuck scoffs softly and closes the door. Chuck reopens the door after Dean rings the doorbell again, "Look, uh... I appreciate your enthusiasm. Really, I do. It's, uh, it's always nice to hear from the fans. But, uh, for your own good, I strongly suggest you get a life." Chuck tries to close the door again but I put my hand on it, keeping it open, "See, here's the thing. We have a life. You've been using it to write your books."

I push the door open the rest of the way and walk inside, Chuck taking a few steps back as Sam and Dean follow me in. Chuck backs into his living room, "Now, wait a minute. Now, this isn't funny." "Damn straight, it's not funny." I retort, crossing my arms over my chest. "Look, we just want to know how you're doing it." Sam says. Chuck argues, "I'm not doing anything." Dean's eyebrows crinkle, "Are you a hunter?" "What? No. I'm a writer." Chuck replies, confused and a little afraid. "Then how do you know so much about demons?" Dean advances on Chuck, who falls back on the couch. "And Tulpas, and changelings?" "Is this some kind of 'Misery' thing? Ah, it is, isn't it? It's a 'Misery' thing!" Chuck tries to reason. My eyebrows furrow as my hands fall to my sides, "No, it's not a "Misery" thing. Believe me, we are not fans!" Chuck lays back on the couch, "Well, then, what do you want?!" "I'm Sam. And that's Dean and (Y/N)." Chuck's voice raises in disbelief, "Sam, (Y/N) and Dean are fictional characters. I made them up! They're not real!"

~~~~~~~

We take Chuck outside, Dean opening the trunk of the Impala to show him the arsenal of guns, salt, ammo, and all the other shit we use.  "Are those real guns?" Chuck squeaks. "Yup." Dean says, pointing to the bag of rock salt. "This is real rock salt." He opens the box of IDs. "These are real fake IDs." "Well, I got to hand it to you guys. You really are my number one fans." Chuck chuckles nervously. "That's, that's awesome. So, I-I think I've got some posters in the house." He starts to walk back to his porch. "Chuck, stop." Dean demands. "Please. Wait. Please, don't hurt me." Chuck pleads and turns around. "How much do you know? Do you know about the angels? Or Lilith breaking the seals?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. Chuck's eyebrows furrow in confusion, "Wait a minute. How do you know about that?" "The question is how do you." "Because I wrote it?" Chuck says. "You kept writing?" Sam questions. "Yeah, even after the publisher went bankrupt, but those books never came out. Okay, wait a minute." Chuck laughs softly. "This is some kind of joke, right? Did that – Did Phil put you up to this?" Dean looks at Sam and I for a moment, "Well, nice to meet you. I'm Dean Winchester, this is my brother, Sam. And our adoptive sister, (Y/N) Singer."

Chuck only seems more confused. "The last names were never in the books. I never told anybody about that. I never even wrote that down." 

~~~~~~~

Chuck pours himself a large glass of whiskey and drinks it all in one go. He sets the glass down on the kitchen sink and turns around, groaning at the sight of myself and the boys. "Oh! Oh, you're still there." "Yup." I say, sitting in at his desk, Sam leaning on the back of my chair. "You're not a hallucination." "Nope."

"Well, there's only one explanation." Chuck says, making us give him confused looks. "Obviously I'm a god." Sam's eyebrows crinkle, "You're not a god." "How else do you explain it? I write things and then they come to life. Yeah, no, I'm definitely a god. A cruel, cruel, capricious god. The things I put you through – The physical beatings alone." Chuck's tone becomes guilty and sympathetic. "Yeah, we're still in one piece." Dean replies from his spot against the wall. "I killed your father. I burned your mother alive. And then you had to go through the whole horrific deal again with Jessica." Chuck looks at me. "I killed both of your parents because I thought being connected to an angel would be cool." "Chuck..." Sam trails off. Chuck just continues, turning his back to us. "All for what? All for the sake of literary symmetry. I toyed with your lives, your emotions, for... entertainment."  "You didn't toy with us, Chuck, okay? You didn't create us." Dean says, walking over to Sam and I. "Did you really have to live through the bugs?" Chuck asks. I cringe and nod, "Yeah." "What about the ghost ship?" "Yes, that too." Dean replies. "I am so sorry. I mean, horror is one thing, but to be forced to live bad writing... if I would have known it was real, I would have done another pass." Chuck says. "Chuck, you're not a god!" Dean yells. "We think you're probably just psychic." Sam shrugs, standing up to his full height. Chuck shakes his head, "No. If I were psychic, you think I'd be writing?" He sits down at his computer. "Writing is hard." "It seems that somehow, you're just... focused on our lives." I explain. "Yeah, like laser-focused. Are you working on anything right now?" Dean asks. "Holy crap." Chuck says, making a realization.  "What?" Sam questions. Chuck picks up from papers next to his computer, "The, uh, latest book? It's, uh, it's kind of weird." "'Weird' how?" Chuck cringes a little, "It's very Vonnegut." Dean leans over Chuck's desk, "'Slaughterhouse-Five' Vonnegut or 'Cat's Cradle' Vonnegut?" Sam looks at him surprised, "What?" Dean gets defensive, "What?" "It's, uh, 'Kilgore Trout' Vonnegut. I wrote myself into it. I wrote myself, at my house... confronted by my characters."

~~~~~~~

We sit at the laundromat, Dean is reading over the latest of Chuck's work while Sam and I are doing the laundry. "I'm sitting in a laundromat, reading about myself sitting in a laundromat reading about myself. My head hurts." Dean says. "There's got to be something this guy's not telling us." Sam says as he tosses his dark clothes into the machine. "'Sam tossed his gigantic darks into the machine. He was starting to have doubts about Chuck, about whether he was telling the whole truth.'" Dean reads, making me chuckle. Dean continues, "'(Y/N) chuckles at Sam's clothes being described as gigantic.' She mentally calls you Sasquatch." 

"Dean!" I chastise. Sam gives me a playful glare before looking back at Dean, "Stop it." "'Stop it,' Sam said." Guess what you do next." Dean asks, making Sam look away with a scowl. "'Sam turned his back on Dean, his face brooding and pensive.' I mean, I don't know how he's doing it, but this guy is doing it. I can't see your face, but those are definitely your 'brooding and pensive' shoulders." Sam sighs as Dean looks back down at the manuscript. "You just thought I was a dick." Sam turns back around to Dean with an impressed face, "The guy's good."

~~~~~~~

The boys and I end up back at Chuck's house the next day. I sit on the couch, Dean in a chair across from me and Sam leaning against the fireplace. Chuck paces the room nervously with pages in his hand. "So... You wrote another chapter?" Sam asks. "This was all so much easier before you were real." Chuck says, not wanting to say what he wrote down. "We can take it; just spit it out." Dean urges. Chuck gestures to Dean, "You, especially, are not gonna like this."

"Oh, joy." I mumble sarcastically. "I didn't like Hell." Dean retorts. Chuck sighs, "It's Lilith. She's coming for Sam." I sit up straighter, "Coming to kill him?" "When?" Sam asks, taking a couple steps forward. "Tonight." "She's just gonna show up? Here?" Dean questions incredulously. Chuck puts on his glasses, "Uh... let's see, uh, 'Lilith patted the bed seductively. Unable to deny his desire, Sam succumbed, and they sank into the throes of fiery demonic passion'." Sam laughs in disbelief, 'You're kidding me, right?" "You think this is funny?" Dean asks. "You don't? I mean, come on. "Fiery demonic passion"?" Sam says, still chuckling. "It's just a first draft." Chuck defends weakly. "Wait, wait, wait, wait. Lilith is a little girl." I point out. Chuck shakes his head, "No, uh, this time she's a 'comely dental hygienist from Bloomington, Indiana'." "Great. Perfect. So what happens after the... "fiery demonic" whatever?" Dean asks. Chuck takes off his glasses, "I don't know, it hasn't come to me yet." "Dean, look, there's nothing to worry about. Lilith and me? In bed?" Sam asks incredulously.

"Thanks for that mental image, Samuel." I roll my eyes.  Sam only gives me a 'bitch' look while Dean glares at his brother while asking Chuck, "How does this whole psychic thing of yours work?" Chuck tilts his head, "You mean my process?" Dean sighs, "Yes, your 'process.'" "Well, it usually starts with a headache. A really bad headache. Aspirin is useless, so... I drink. Until I fall asleep. The first time it happened, I thought it was just a crazy dream." Chuck explains. "The first time you dreamt about us?" I ask. Chuck puts his head in his hands, "It flowed. It just, it kept flowing. It still does. I-I can't stop it, really." "You can't seriously believe –" Dean interrupts Sam, "Humor me." He stands up, "Look, why don't we, we just..." Chuck holds out the papers to him. He pauses and takes them, "Take a look at these and see what's what." Dean looks at Chuck, "You –" Chuck nods, "...knew you were gonna ask for that. Yeah."

~~~~~~~

Dean is driving while Sam reads the next chapter in the passenger seat. "Dean, come on." Sam says as he reads from the manuscript, "'The minivan accident wasn't that bad, but Dean was still seeing stars. He scratched absently at the pink flower Band-Aids on his face'." "So?" Dean asks. "So, I've seen you gushing blood. You'd use duct tape and bar rags before you'd put on a pink flower Band-Aid." Sam retorts.

"What is this? Paul Blart: Mall Cop?" I laugh. Dean gives me a playful glare, "What's your point?" "My point is this – all of this – is totally implausible, it's nuts." Sam argues. "He's been right about everything so far. You think he's just gonna ground out at first now?" I reply. Sam scoffs and continues to read the manuscript, "Huh. 'Dean slid behind the wheel of his beloved Impala and drove off, the plastic tarp on the rear window flapping like the wings of a crow.'" "A tarp?" Dean asks.  "Yeah. On the rear window. And you drive it like that." Sam explains. Dean shrugs, "Well, he might be wrong about the details, but doesn't mean he's wrong about the end result." "So we're just gonna run?" Sam asks. I cross my arms over my chest, "Dude, we are a long way from ready for a face-to-face death match with Lilith." We come up across a roadblock, police cars parked perpendicular to the road. Dean comes to a stop and a deputy walks up to the window. "What seems to be the problem?" Dean asks. "Bridge is out ahead." The deputy explains. "We're just trying to get out of town." Dean says. "Yeah, afraid not." The deputy replies. "Is there a detour?" Dean asks. The cop shakes his head, "Nope." Dean pauses for a second before asking again, "There's not a side road that takes us to the highway?" "To get to the highway, you have to cross that river." The deputy nods his head in the direction of the river, "To cross the river, you have to take that bridge." "How deep's the river?" Dean tries to reason. "Sorry. Afraid you three are gonna have to spend the night in town." 

Dean nods as the deputy walks away, and he turns the Impala back around.

~~~~~~~

Dean is now looking over the chapter while Sam and I look at menus in the little diner we stopped at for some dinner. Dean looks up at Sam and I, "Hey, this could be a good thing. I mean, if this is what puts us on the path to Lilith, then all we got to do is get off the path." "How do you mean?" Sam asks. "It's a blueprint of what not to do. I mean, if the pages say that we go left –" Dean trails off. "Then we go right." I finish. "Exactly. We get off-book. We never make it to the end. It's opposite day. It says that we, uh, we get into a fight. So, no fighting. No research for you..." Sam smirks, "No bacon cheeseburger for you." I laugh softly and Sam turns to me, "No breakfast food for you."

I roll my eyes, "You wound me, Winchester."

Dean chuckles, "Then no sarcasm for you." 

I give Dean a 'bitch' face as the waitress approaches to take out orders. "Hi, uh, what's good?" Dean asks her. "Well, if you like burgers, Oprah's girlfriend said we have the best bacon cheeseburgers in the country." She says. Sam laughs, "I'll just have the cobb salad, please."  "I'll have the... veggie tofu burger. Thanks." 

I raise an eyebrow at Dean and tell the waitress my order, and unfortunately isn't breakfast food. The waitress takes our menus and walks away as Sam says, "This whole thing's ridiculous." "Lilith is ridiculous?" Dean asks. "The idea of me hooking up with her is." Sam explains. "Right. 'Cause something like that can never happen." I mumble sarcastically. Sam glares at me for a moment, "Guys, for the first time, we have warning that Lilith is close." "So?" Dean asks. "So... we've got the jump on her. If we know when she's coming, we know where she's – this is an opportunity." Sam argues. "Are you –" Dean starts.

"Boys." I warn, reminding them that they aren't supposed to fight.

Dean sighs, "It frustrates me when you say such reckless things." Sam's eyebrows furrow, "Well, it frustrates me when you'd rather hide that fight." There's a tense silence before the waitress comes over with our food, "Cobb salad for you. And the tofu veggie burger for you..." She sets each of our plates down. "Thank you." Dean says before leaning in to the table. "It's not hiding. It's being smart. It's picking your battles. This is a battle that we are not ready to fight." He takes a huge bite of his burger and his eyes light up. "Oh, my god. This is delicious. Tofu is amazing!" The waitress comes back over, embarrassed, "I am so sorry. I gave you the bacon cheeseburger by mistake." She takes his plate away again as Sam scowls at his brother.

~~~~~~~

Dean pulls the Impala into the parking lot of a motel, one that looks like its solely made for happy endings if you know what I mean. I lean forward, pulling myself up using the back of Sam and Dean's seats, "Dude, this place charges by the hour. They're gonna think we are recreating that Sam-slash-(Y/N)-slash-Dean things." I cringe. "Yeah, well, the book says Lilith finds Sam at the Red Motel. Hence, the uh, hooker inn. It's opposite day, remember?" Dean argues as we see a man walk by with a very obvious...working woman.

When we get inside the room, Dean drops a bag on the bed and starts pulling out some hex bags, placing them strategically around the room. "What are you doing?" Sam asks. "Couple of hex bags ought to Lilith-proof the room." Dean explains. Sam's tone turns irritated, "So, what? I'm supposed to just hole up here all night?" "That's exactly what you're gonna do, okay? And no research. I don't care what you do –" Dean pauses before gesturing to the bed and the television. "Use the or watch Casa Erotica on Pay-Per-View." Dean reaches in Sam's bag, pulling out his laptop and confiscating it. "Oh, dude, come on." Sam complains. "Just call it a little insurance." Dean smiles. "What are you gonna do?" Sam asks. Dean shrugs, "Well, the pages say that (Y/N) and I spend all day riding around in the Impala. So I'm gonna go park her. Behave yourself, would you? No homework. Watch some porn." Dean smiles like he's pleased with himself, ushering me out the door with him following after me.

~~~~~~~

Dean drives us into town and parks the car. We get out and he double checks the locks before we cross the street. I walk a little ahead of Dean, but turn around when I hear him yell, "Hey!" A couple guys are trying to break into the Impala. Dean goes to cross the street, and right as I step off of the curb a van plows into Dean. Dean rolls onto the hood and windshield before hitting the asphalt.

"Dean!" I shout worriedly, going to kneel next to him. 

The woman driving frantically gets out of the car, "Oh my God is he okay?"

I look Dean over, seeing no visible injuries. "I-I think he'll be fine." I glance up at the woman, her star-shaped earrings making my jaw clench. 'The minivan accident wasn't that bad, but Dean was still seeing stars.' I glance down at Dean again, seeing a little girl putting flowery Band-aids on his face.

Dean slowly starts to come to, making the woman re-explain herself to him, "Oh my god. Just take it easy, you're gonna be okay." Dean blinks and lifts his head as the woman continues. "I'm so sorry. I just didn't see you. Are you okay?" He sits up, the woman gestures to her daughter. "And sorry about... you know. M-My daughter's going through a doctor phase." "What are you talking about?" Dean asks roughly. "You're all better now." The little girl says, making me let out a breathy laugh. Dean glares at me for a moment and I help him stand up. He looks up to the Impala, the back window now shattered and the driver's door is open. His face changes, completely horrified. "Oh, no..." Dean stomps over to the car, fuming before turning to me. "You didn't stop them?"

"I'm sorry, I was worried about my big brother's life." I retort, knowing he isn't that upset with me. I cross my arms over my chest, "You okay, though?"

Dean's face softens and he nods, his hand cupping the back of my head to tilt it down and he kisses the top of my head. He catches his reflection in the side mirror and frowns, peeling one of the Band-Aids off.

"Come on, let's go, Paul Blart."

~~~~~~~

Chuck walks in holding a bottle in a brown bag and six-pack of beer. He doesn't seem surprised to see Dean and I sitting in his living room. "Dean. (Y/N)." He says. "I take it you knew we'd be here." Dean replies. "You look terrible." Chuck points out. "That's 'cause I just got hit by a minivan, Chuck." Chuck sighs, "Oh." Dean leans forward, his voice raising. "That it? Every damn thing you write about me comes true; that's all you have to say is 'oh'?!" Chuck sets the alcoholic drinks next to him, sounding fearful. "Please don't yell at me." Dean stands up. "Why do I get feeling there's something that you're not telling us?" I stand up as well in case I need to intervene. "What wouldn't I be telling you?" Chuck asks nervously. "How you know what you know, for starters!" Dean yells.

"Dean..." I try to reason, taking a couple steps forward. "I don't know how I know, I just do!" Chuck yells back. "That's not good enough." Dean shoves Chuck against the wall, pining him there. "How the hell are you doing this?!"

"Dean!" I move quickly, trying to pull him off of Chuck. "Dean, let him go!" A gruff voice commands. Dean and I both turn to Castiel. "This man is to be protected." "Why?" Dean asks. "He's a Prophet of the Lord." Castiel explains.

"You... You're Castiel... aren't you?" Chuck stammers behind Dean and I, making him and I look over our shoulders while Cas looks between us. "It's an honor to meet you, Chuck. I... admire your work." Castiel gives him a single nod, picking up one of the Supernatural books. Cas looks up briefly, giving me a soft, barely-there smile. I smile back a little, walking up to him to look at the book over his shoulder. Or just to be by him, haven't decided yet which explanation I want to go with. It's the book where Sam leaves Dean and meets Meg hitchhiking while Dean fights a scarecrow.

"Whoa, whoa, what? This guy, a prophet? Come on, he's – he's... he's practically a Penthouse Forum writer." Dean argues. He then looks at Chuck, who has plopped down in an arm chair and cracked open his whisky. "Did you know about this?" "I, uh, I might have dreamt about it." Chuck says nervously. "And you didn't tell us?!" Dean yells. "It was too preposterous. Not to mention arrogant. I mean, writing yourself into the story is one thing, but as a prophet? That's like M. Night-level douchiness." Chuck retorts, finishing his glass of whisky. Dean looks between Castiel and I before asking Cas, "This is the guy who decides our fate?" "He isn't deciding anything. He's a mouthpiece – a conduit for the inspired word." Cas says, not looking up from the book. "The word? The word of god? What, like the new new testament?" Dean asks. Cas closes the book, "One day, these books – they'll be known as the Winchester gospel."

I cross my arms over my chest, mildly offended. "Always the forgotten one." I roll my eyes. Dean and Chuck both say, "You got to be kidding me." Completely ignoring my statement. Castiel's eyebrows furrow in slight confusion, his arms dropping to his sides, "I am not... kidding you." Chuck stands up from his chair, clutching the bottle of whisky. "If you'd all please excuse me one minute." He quickly rushes upstairs. "Him? Really?" Dean asks. Cas sighs, "You should've seen Luke." Dean takes a few steps to the arm chair Chuck was just sitting in. I let my arms drop to my sides, my hand bumping Castiel's. I could feel my cheeks heat up as he looks down at our hands.  "Why'd he get tapped?" Dean asks, making the angel look back up at him. "I don't know how prophets are chosen. The order comes from high up on the celestial chain of command." Castiel explains. "H-How high?" I stutter. Cas looks at me again, "Very." "Well, whatever. How do we get around this?" Dean's tone starts to get more frantic. "Around what?" Castiel's eyebrows furrow in confusion. "The Sam-Lilith love connection. How do we stop it from happening?"  Cas hesitates for a moment. "What the prophet has written can't be unwritten. As he has seen it, so it shall come to pass."

~~~~~~~

The tires of the Impala squeal as Dean pulls into the parking lot of the motel quickly. Both of us get out of the car quickly , rushing into the motel room. 

"Come on. We're getting out of here." Dean says as we enter the room, walking passed Sam. "What? Where?" Sam asks incredulously.  "Anywhere, okay? Out of this motel, out of this town. I don't care if we got to swim, we are getting out." Dean looks at Sam and I for a moment, then glances around the room. "Dude, where are all the hex bags?" Sam takes a breath, "I burned them." I look at Sam like he just grew a second head. "You what?" "Look, if Lilith is coming, which is a big 'if' –"  Dean interrupts Sam, "No, no, no. It's more than an 'if.' Chuck is not a psychic. He's a prophet." Sam's eyebrows crinkle, "What?" I cross my arms over my chest, "Cas showed up, and apparently Chuck is writing the gospel of us. You." I correct myself. It's the Winchester Gospel. Not Winchester and Singer. "Okay." Sam just looks more confused. Dean walks passed Sam to his bag. "Okay. Let's get the hell out of here." I go over to my bag, starting to put my clothes in it. I can hear Sam sigh. "No." He says. The older Winchester pauses for a moment before slinging his shirt into his bag angrily. "Lilith is gonna slaughter you." "Maybe she will, maybe she won't." Sam shrugs. Dean takes a couple steps towards his brother, "So what? You think you can take her?"

I glance at the door for a moment, not wanting to be in the middle of another dick measuring competition. I quietly make my way out of the room, deciding to give them their time. I'm surrounded by too many fucking men.

I walk over to a soda machine nearby, putting some coins in the machine. I sigh, letting my forehead rest on the front of it. I do the only thing I can think of, "Castiel. I don't know if this praying thing actually works but we need help." "Prayer is a sign of faith. This is a good thing." Castiel says, saying something else at the end of the sentence that isn't in English. I turn around and look at him, confused. I shake it off and ask, "So does that mean you'll help me?" "I'm not sure what I can do."  "Drag Sam out of here, now. Before Lilith shows up." I plead, taking a step towards the angel. Castiel shakes his head, a sympathetic look on his face, "It's a prophecy. I can't interfere." "Cas, I have never asked anything of you. Please. I'm...I'm your soulmate Castiel." My voice comes out in a whisper. "Save my brother." I gently reach my hand out, my fingertips brushing over the warm skin of his hand. Castiel looks down at our hands, just like earlier at Chuck's house. "What you're asking, it's... not within my power to do." "Why? 'Cause it's 'divine prophecy'?" I ask. The angel nods, hesitantly lifting his hand, holding mine. "Yes." Castiel's thumb brushes over my knuckles as I ask, "So, what – We're just supposed to sit around and, and wait for it to happen?" I really don't want to be mad at him for something he can't control. Cas sighs, "I'm sorry." He pauses for a moment, his gaze still fixated on our hands. "You must understand why I can't intercede. Prophets are very special. They're protected."

I let out a heavy breath and nod, "I get that." "If anything threatens a prophet, anything at all, an archangel will appear to destroy that threat. Archangels are fierce. They're absolute. They're Heaven's most terrifying weapon." Castiel explains, looking up at me now but keeping his gentle hold of my hand.  I smile softly, catching onto what he's implying. "And these archangels, they're tied to prophets?" "Yes." Castiel confirms. "So if a prophet was in the same room as a demon –" I trail off. "Then the most fearsome wrath of heaven would rain down on that demon. Just so you understand... why I can't help." Castiel's eyes search mine with a barely-there smile. "Thanks, Cassie." I grin, gently squeezing his hand before letting it go. "Good luck." Castiel replies as I start towards the motel room again. "(Y/N), wait a moment." I turn to look at him and he says, "You are not the 'forgotten one'. You are just as important as Sam and Dean."

~~~~~~~

Dean and I enter Chuck's house, and this time, he actually looks surprised to see us.

"What are you doing here? I didn't write this." Chuck says, startled.

Dean grabs Chuck's arm, pulling him up from the couch, "Come on. I need you to come with me." "What? Where?" Chuck asks. "To the motel where Sam is." I explain. "That's where Lilith is." Chuck argues, pointing out the obvious. "Yeah, exactly. We need you to stop her." Dean says. "Are you insane? Lilith? I know what she's capable of, Dean. I wrote her." Chuck shakes his head. "All right, listen to me. You have an archangel tethered to you, okay? All you got to do is show up and boom! Lilith gets smoked." I try to reason with the prophet. Chuck shakes his head again. "But I-I haven't seen that yet. Th-the story –" "Chuck, you're the only shot that I've got left." Dean pleads.  "But... I'm just a writer." "This isn't a story anymore, man. This is real! And you're in it! Now, I need you to get off your ass and fight." Chuck takes a few steps forward, walking between Dean and I. "Come on, Chuck." Chuck hesitates for a moment. "No friggin' way." He replies, sipping his whisky. Dean strides towards him. "Okay, well, then, how about this – I've got a gun in my pocket, so does (Y/N), and if you don't come with me, we'll blow your brains out." "I thought you said I was protected by an archangel." Chuck retorts smugly. "Well, interesting exercise. Let's see who the quicker draw is." Dean says.

"And whoever that archangel kills first will be the perfect distraction for the other one to take the shot." I shrug.

~~~~~~~

It didn't take much convincing after that. We bust into the motel room, seeing Lilith on top of Sam with the demon-killing knife. We take a few steps into the room as Chuck shouts weakly, "I am the prophet Chuck!"

Lilith climbs off of Sam, knife still raised, "You've got to be joking." She glares at Dean, Chuck and I. The walls start to shake, hell, the entire building starts to shake and crumble around us. "Oh, this is no joke." Dean yells, a white light pouring in from the windows and pieces of the ceiling collapse. Chuck flinches and I take a step back away from the rubble. Dean continues to taunt the demon in front of us, "You see, Chuck here's got an archangel on his shoulder. You've got about 10 seconds before this room is full of wrath and you're a piece of charcoal. You sure you want to tangle with that?" Lilith looks at Sam one more time, anger written all over her face. The demon expels from the blonde woman's body, the black smoke breaking out the window next to the bed. Sam pants as the room stops shaking. Chuck, Dean and I approach the woman's body, who has collapsed to the ground. The boys and I share a look and a sigh of relief.

~~~~~~~

Dean is driving, Sam in the passenger seat like always. I sit in the back like normal. The back window is still busted, the tarp flapping in the wind, which, quite frankly, is fucking annoying. "So a deal, huh?" Dean asks randomly. Sam sighs, looking out the window, "That's what she said." "To call the whole thing off – angels, seals, Lucifer rising, the whole nine?" Dean continues to interrogate. "That was the gist of it." Sam says. Dean nods with a hum. "What?" "You didn't think once about taking it?" Dean questions. "You kidding me?" Sam looks over at his brother. "Dude, you and (Y/N) spent all day trying to talk me off the Lilith track." Dean shrugs, "I'm just saying..." "She would have found some way to weasel out of it. And all it would have cost us was our lives." Sam says.  "Yeah, I guess you're right." "Anyway, that's not the point." Sam shakes his head. "What's the point?" I ask. "The point is, she's scared. I could see it. Lilith is running." Sam explains. "Running from what?" Sam shakes his head again, "Don't know. But she was telling the truth about one thing." Dean turns his head to look at Sam, "What's that?" "She's not gonna survive the apocalypse. I'll make sure of that."

(A/N): I hope y'all liked this chapter! I hope (Y/N) and Dean's sibling bonding wasn't weird and I hope (Y/N) and Cas' moments were cute-awkward and not bad writing-awkward. Please give me feedback if you think either of those to be true. And I'm sorry this wasn't finished like 2-3 days ago lol

Soulbound Taglist:

@fairy-alix @ltotheucy @delusional-paradise @moon-trash1507 @bakusquadobsessed @cnme2003 @harryssatellitee

[a-french-guardsman]

So what is kcd about besides…knights? Gay knights? Henry? I am googling it too ofc but I want Your Perspective which is what potentially draws me into the game… 👀

Oh I'm about to yap

I actually played KCD before KCD2 came out, which changes a lot of things, actually. Though Hans' and Henry's relationship was.... AMBIGUOUS, heterosexuality is forced on your player character quite a lot. Moreover, it's the kind of game that (until KCD2) attracted these weird, pseudo-fascist types obsessed with the medieval era. And to top it all, the dev team is Czech. I LOVE the Czechs (I'll expand on that) but I know that they're not the most open-minded people, to put it mildly. So Kingdom Come Deliverance was pretty much the last game on my list of "games that may have a canon gay romance in them".

Despite all that stuff, I loved it instantly. It's the dream roleplaying game if you're a History nerd. They tried to make it historically accurate to an extent that's genuinely surprising for a video game (Kickstarter funded, too!). I really, sincerely felt immersed in the medieval era everytime I played it, like a time travelling machine, and that got me EVERY time. Even the fighting system is fairly accurate to HEMA and period swordfighting, and I don't know another game that does it as accurately, not even Hellish Quart which is entirely HEMA based.

What's more, the setting is medieval Bohemia, aka present day Czechia, and this country's History is very much unknown. However, I've had a liking for Czechoslovak history for more or less 8 years now (see my Czechoslovak tag). So it was a real treat to me.

Despite the historical accuracy, the characters feel alive. They aren't depicted as more serious, more formal, or unhappier than modern people just because they are historical characters. They are lively, humorous, speak just like people their age should, and it's truly refreshing and adds to the immersion.

All the side quests are entertaining, they are not fillers. You'll spend a lot of hours playing the two games without feeling like the devs expanded their playtime artificially.

All and any possible romance was really well written. It's a man's world, so to speak, with Henry being a man-at-arms, and you can feel it, but the female characters were not cast aside and are just as likeable and admirable.

Henry himself is really Just Some Guy. You'd need to start with the first game to really see it, but he's not a hero or the chosen one of a prophecy. He's a blacksmith's boy, starting from pretty much zero, and his personality feels genuine and realistic. He's very easy to like. However, his ascent from practically lower class to the status of knight is not inaccurate, due to (spoil spoil spoil) so that ground's covered too.

Nothing will take you out of the immersion. There are very modern topics, like PTSD, homosexuality, and so on, but they're all treated in a historically compatible manner (looking at you DA: Veilguard).

And if you're here for Hans x Henry, you'll be pleased, too. Be aware that it's a very slow burn, culminating at the end of KCD2, but it was really written like the one canonical romance, which frankly surprised me to the highest extent due to the reasons you now know. And even before KCD2, there's INSANE chemistry between them in KCD1. Not only them, but there's quite a few canonically gay/bi/etc characters in KCD2!

So yeah, don't spoil yourself and play the games for a good time machine session :)

[chensaiy]

“My heart returns to you like spring / Awakening with April rain”

(Faulkner, 1-2)

[snazum]

Little ster edit I made… Cause there needs to be more in the world :>

special thanks to like the 5-10 people on this website who upload ster clips. This is dedicated to y’all <3

Audio: noir.audioss on tiktok

Song: Like Me - Chase Icon

[zaddyazula]

trying to process this fucking masterpiece

[oddogoblino]

Probably gonna be a controversial post buuuttttt

Everytime I see some proshipper encouraging kids to be pro with them, something I've noticed is that they always try and twist what being an anti is to scare them & seem like they're protecting them. They're intentionally trying to make antis out to be like some religious old dad who wants nothing even remotely sexual to be shown & will always be angry, but that's really not true.

If you think that others not being allowed to be disgusting about kids (fictional or not, they're still kids and they know it. Its the whole fucking reason they're into them specifically- how is that not fucked up and cause for concern) and other shit like that that ruins a fandom as "being a prude" then I hope you get a reality check and stay away from minors!

The whole thing of being an anti is just...don't be fucking awful and disgusting towards kids and such like that. That's it. That's the big fucking whoop. Whoa, what a concept. Truly, impossible to please.

It's not the antis harassing people for just "not shipping smth right", those are just assholes who want to feel superior to others. Theyre just assholes, nothing else. That's not being an anti. If it's not over a legit issue, then that's being a dick who thinks their headcanons are gospel. Antis are against the actual bad shit that needs to stop bc it fucks up fandom experiences & gives safe spaces for predators.

You can be perverted all you want, ship things however you want, just don't be a creep and promote gross shit. You can portray this bad stuff, but actually PORTRAY it! Stop romanticizing and fet!shizing it! That's literally all antis want. How hard is that to understand? How hard is that to please?

[foldingfittedsheets]

Every sales job I’ve worked has that one item. The white whale. The biggest ticket you can sell. The sale you brag about when you’re chatting with other industry people.

When I sold mattresses it was a split king adjustable base. That’s two twin extra long mattresses next to each other to make a king, but each side can move independently. They’re insanely expensive and honestly kind’ve impractical but it was the biggest ticket thing to sell.

When I sold sex toys though our white whale was the 20lb ass. It was a female pelvis, a cut out from the waist to the tops of the thighs. It was hyper realistic material and cost about $500. I definitely had bigger tickets but not in one item typically.

In my time at the sex shop, I sold three. Each time was completely different in terms of how the guy acted about buying it. The first man was a little embarrassed and shy about it. I was professional and supportive as I rang it up. Once I handed him the receipt he looked at the box. Then he looked at me.

If you’ve ever wondered how big a box has to be to fit a 20lb ass let me just tell you: it’s pretty damn big. It’s an uncomfortably large armful of box and every side has a picture of the sex toy inside on it. It’s not subtle.

“Could I get a bag���.?”

There was no bag that existed that could possibly contain all that ass. “Hang on,” I told him.

I got scissors and tape and covered the box in cut up black bags. Looking relieved he picked up his purchase and left.

The next man to buy one carried it proudly to the counter; self assured and not embarrassed in the least. When I said I didn’t have a bag, but I could wrap it for him he gave a hearty shrug and hefted it into his arms, marching out the door with the butt on full display.

The last man to get one was just kind’ve an odd guy. Not creepy, but eccentric. We got along great, and as I rang him up I said, “Well one guy wanted his taped over, and one guy carried it out. What would you prefer?”

“There’s no bags?”

“No store bags. I think our jumbo trash bags in the back might fit it….?” It seemed rude to suggest putting a $500 item into a trash bag, but he wasn’t bothered.

He considered this then said, “Bring me the trash bag.”

When I delivered it to him he still managed to surprise me. Instead of shoving the huge box into it he opened the box. He took out his new $500 sex toy, and all the little things it came with, tipping them unceremoniously into the trash bag.

“There! Now I don’t have to deal with the box later!”

I was slightly stunned but agreed that I could easily deal with the trash. Then in a move I still think about with delight he flung the trash bag over his shoulder like a Santa with a sack full of ass and sauntered out the door.

If this or my other escapades made you laugh you could pop a tip into my Ko-fi! For more like this check my tag "ffs foibles".

[kijagf]

ain't no way I collected some empty snail shells and put them on my bookshelf and when I woke up one of them was gone and the others had been moved slightly

[cathnospam]

Bakugo wants sex, but doesn’t know how to ask

You’re fresh out the shower, too lazy to put on anything else so you throw on one of your boyfriend’s shirt that still lingered his scent you loved so much with nothing under and a bit of lotion on your arms.

Absolutely too weak to do your legs you plop on your side of your bed and sigh inching towards your Blondie that decided to spend the night in your dorm.

“Who would’ve thought a lecture would be exhausting. Ugh. Can’t wait to graduate from this damn uni.” You grumbled to yourself tracing against the scars of his biceps, smirking everytime he subconsciously flexes them.

Bakugo just grumbles, mindlessly playing on your gaming console and eyes fixated on the TV he actually wasn’t even paying attention, his mind was on auto pilot and you were the reason:

He’s horny.

All damn week he’s been trying ways to figure out how he can just….

Simply put: Fuck you.

Bakugo never actually initiated sex. You both only have done it 3 times and each time you’ve been the one to start it off. Whether he wants to admit it or not he’s a pussy when it comes to intimacy sometimes. But that doesn’t surpress his needs.

Last time you both had a moment of restless touching was a month ago and it was reasonable since you both been busy with classes and internships, but now that spring break is around the corner and your schedules have began to sync again he almost forgot how fine of a girl he had as a girlfriend.

“Can you lotion my legs oh sweet, strong and great Dynamight?”

He flinched, your words laced with honey even though you were just half joking as you threw your thigh over his bare legs, the contrast from his toned muscle thighs vs your thicker softer ones made him look down, but still not missing how your ass jiggled a little under his top.

“Whatever.” He snatched the bottle from you shaking it and rubbing it against his hands to half assly rub it on your calves.

“Uh helloooo I have a whole leg to prevent being ashy.” Wiggling your thighs against made him huff, are you doing it on purpose? Do you know how badly he wants to lay you on your back and stuff his head between your thighs right now?

His palms began to warm as they slid their way up and down , it was borderline a massage at this point and you wasn’t complaining since he did have a way with his hands.

And fingers.

You noticed his ministrations slowing down, thinking he wanted you to roll on your back to get the other leg he instead kept rubbing extremely close to the bottom of your ass.

“Y’know, you can touch it.” Catching his eye he stopped moving his hand, “You’re always free to touch me whenever….or wherever .”

He lips parted, almost like he wanted to speak, but instead pulled you closer to him to kiss the corner of your lips, it was so soft you nearly couldn’t feel him until he whispered in your ear, “….Are you sure.”

“Of course.” You nod, rubbing your hand on his arm as reassurance “my body….your choice.”

Bakugo’s eyebrows creased, confused why’d you even say that, “No it’s still your choice and rules, dumbass. You’re too trusting.”

“I’m only too trusting for you…” pecking his pouted lips you reposition yourself to allow your big Blondie to hover over you, “I trust you with my life…and my body. It’s all yours.”

Blood filled his ears and cheeks as well as his dick. Something about your trust in him drove him absolutely insane. His body moved before he could respond back latching onto your lips, adjusting his way in between your legs.

You trapped him inside earning a groan out of him when his body weight fell on top of you, “I could’ve crushed you.”

“So?” You tease. You damn tease. That fucking look in your eye gets him everytime when you get like this, wanting him almost as much as he wants you.

It didn’t take long until your laughs and jokes turned into cries and moans of his name.

It was probably one of the most intoxicating nights filled with taboo touches and loves bites everywhere. His hands captured yours when he let you on top, his eyes not tearing from yours, The way his mouth never left an inch away from your body, he actually felt way more needier than usual.

Surely everybody will question and tease you both in tomorrow’s lecture, but it was worth it.

Bakugo now had a new level of confidence when it came to asking you for sex.

[buckiverse]

☆ warnings: mdni, this is literally just a cock analysis for sylus, zayne, and caleb

☆ a/n: SYLUS HOLD MY HAND—CALEB IS ABOUT TO DRAG ME AWAY!

rafayel and xavier ver.

S8GSBTV - #b0685a

As we all know, Sylus is tall, with a broad, muscular frame and an imposing set of shoulders. He’s strong—insanely strong. The man boxes, for god’s sake. I would hate to take a liver shot from him; he might accidentally send me straight to the afterlife. He’s in phenomenal shape, with stamina to match—because, of course, it’s a requirement for his sport.

And his cock? Well, it follows suit. A solid eight inches (20.32 cm), and yes, he’s a shower. I mean, have you seen that perfect print in his pants??? He doesn’t even know where to put all that. It’s big—long, thick, girthy. No wonder he has a size kink. And let’s be real, so do you. The stretch is delicious, always leaving you working to take him all the way.

The head? A deep, rich brown (go look at the hex code <3). His pubic hair? Trimmed, but left a little longer—just how he likes it. And side note? He loves when you do the same. Says he wants to "explore the jungle." Oh, and let’s not forget: it’s straight and a slightly darker gray than his hair. Perfection.

And the veins—the veins. His cock is thick with them, pulsing, prominent. The most sensitive part? That sweet little slit. Run your tongue along it, and he will hiss, grip your hair, and growl something like, “Don’t do that unless you want me to come in your mouth, kitten.”

And, of course, you’ll keep doing it anyway. Hehehe.

Z7LSLCGBPLT - #9C524F

As we all know, Zayne is tall, with a lean yet well-built frame and broad shoulders. He’s strong—moderately muscular—but more refined in his strength. Being a doctor, he has a natural responsibility to stay in shape and take excellent care of himself.

And his cock? It follows suit. A solid seven point three inches (18.542 cm), and he’s a grower. The print in his pants might be deceiving at first, but don’t be fooled—it’s big. Not just long, but with an ideal girth. The best part? It leans slightly to the left, and when he’s inside you, he knows how to move his hips just right, angling to hit that perfect, sensitive spot.

The head? A beautiful brownish pink. His pubic hair? Trimmed low—because he understands the importance of keeping some. He’ll never go completely bare, and honestly? He prefers when you don’t either. And yes, it’s perfectly straight.

Unlike some, his cock isn’t overly veined—but what it lacks in texture, it more than makes up for in sensitivity. The head? Insanely responsive. Pull back his foreskin, drag your tongue along his frenulum, and just like that, he might lose control—maybe even come all over your face.

C7GGPTV - #DF9796

As we all know, Caleb is tall, with a lean yet powerfully built frame. He’s easily the most muscular of the bunch—his body honed to perfection. Being a fighter pilot demands peak physical fitness, not just for endurance but for absolute control in the cockpit.

And his cock? It follows suit. A solid seven inches (17.78 cm), and he’s a grower. The print in his pants might not always give it away, but trust—it’s big. Long, with just a bit more girth than average, making every inch of it something to savor.

The head? A gorgeous pink. His pubic hair? Trimmed low for convenience, though he’ll go completely bare if that’s what you prefer. Naturally, though, he keeps it neat, with a slight, loose curl to it.

And let’s talk about that vein. A single, prominent one that runs up the length of his pretty shaft—one he loves when you trace with your tongue. Oh, and let’s be clear—he’s uncut. Don’t care, won’t argue on that point <33

☆

btw this is what the codes mean (excuse my behavior because now that I actually typed it out i realize how crazy i look rn):

S8GSBTV: sylus-8inch-girthy-shower-brown-trimed-veiny

Z7LSLCGBPLT: zayne-7inch-left slant-long cock-grower-brownish pink-light trim

C7GGPTV: caleb-7inch-grithy-grower-pink-trimed-veiny

[gallusrostromegalus]

The Van Has Officially Declared It Spooky Season

---

I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.

...I might need to back up a bit.

My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.

They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.

Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.

My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.

Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.

It's a Great Van. Very easy and comfortable to drive. Stunningly good MPG for it's size. The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.

It's just also. Quirky. Mischievous, even.

---

If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.

It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.

My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.

On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.

Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.

---

As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.

The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along. Sometimes, they fight for Dominance. The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.

Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.

I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song- The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors -is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.

You all know this song already.

...but in case you've forgotten the tune:

Yeah.

The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.

It does not play this song at a normal volume.

Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.

Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.

...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.

---

So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.

It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening. I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window. My feet are up. There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv. -But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage, including, among other valuable possessions, the keys to her car. ...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.

There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.

Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.

Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.

I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.

The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.

It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.

I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic. It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.

While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.

Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.

I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.

I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.

It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.

I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.

The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.

We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.

I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.

The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.

I look down at myself.

In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:

Flip Flops. Not matching. It's below freezing outside. That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.

Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time. It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.

The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.

A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal. It is also Bright Red. with black accents.

The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.

The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.

My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge. It is ALSO bright red.

A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.

The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.

I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:

The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.

This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes. So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.

The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.

I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.

"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"

The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.

$6.66

"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.

I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.

It also turns on the music player.

I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.

Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.

---

If you enjoyed this story, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi or Pre-ordering my Family Lore Funny Stories book on Patreon

[apatheticsunday]

Phantom of the Manor

AKA "The Batfam unintentionally start giving ritual offerings to the Phantom. Danny, who's been mistaken as the Phantom of the Opera, is wondering why his hoodie pockets are full of tomato slices??" prompt idea!

Headcanon that Ghosts become more powerful the more people believe in them, kind of like deities. Danny's never really had to deal with the whole "ritualistic sacrifices to Bloody Mary" or "superstitious prayers against Davey Jones" because Phantom is a Hafta. Danny doesn't need people to believe in him or worship him.

So, he's never gotten a ritual offering before.

Which is why he's absolutely baffled when he shoves his hand into his hoodie pocket to grab his phone and feels something... squishy. And cold. Both Sam and Tucker scream as Danny jolts to his feet with a squeamish shriek. He damn near Goes Ghost as he tries to tear off his hoodie, regardless of the staring mall-walkers. Danny finally manages to fling the hoodie onto their table, scrambling to Sam and Tucker's sides, trying to breath through a panicked: "There'ssomethinginmypocket!!"

Sam carefully pokes around until she finds... squished tomato slices? They're oily and salted like a tomato caprese without the cheese. Which is an interesting choice for a snack. You'd think Danny would at least use a Ziplock bag or something?

("Ancients! Of course, I didn't put them there, Sam!")

Fast-forward a couple of weeks. Danny's going insane because why the hell are there tomatoes literally everywhere? Every couple of days (or hours, depending on the day), he finds different types of tomatoes all over the place. In bed when he wakes up. In his jean pockets at school. Even in the shower, he'll be blindly trying to find the shampoo bottle and come across a handful of grape tomatoes. He can't. Handle. It. Anymore. Danny's going to become the "Tomato Man" at school from how often he randomly pulls out tomatoes from his pockets. Like he needs another reason for Dash to mock him.

The last straw was when Danny was Full Ghost and felt something... itchy in his suit. He knew before he saw it. Danny tentatively pulled the sleeve of his suit open, silently praying that it wasn't what he thought it was, and- yeah. There's V-8 smeared from his goddamn elbow to wrist. He had to fight with tomato juice in his suit for several hours. And that's it; Danny literally can't take it anymore. He goes to Frostbite, begging the Yeti to help him with his Tomato Problem.

Only to be told he's receiving offerings. Which are apparently incredibly sacred and should be appreciated. (It'd be easier to appreciate if it was, like, cash or something. Maybe a Nintendo Switch. Instead, his patrons are worshipping him by offering... tomatoes. Great.)

So, clearly, the only option is to go straight to the source (i.e., his patrons) and tell them to Fucking Stop Giving Me Tomatoes. The next time he feels something weighty in his pocket (gross!), he follows the thready connection of his worshippers through a portal.

And Danny steps out in his full Ghost Regalia (because clearly they're worshipping Phantom, right? So Danny can't exactly show up in ripped jeans and his favorite NASA hoodie). The family sits at a dinner table... which is a little weird, since he'd expected an altar or something. But even weirder is the beady, predatory that look borderline-violent staring at him from everybody at the table. There's an uncomfortable silence more tense than dinners at Vlad's mansion.

Then, Danny carefully scoops out the soupy, baked grape tomatoes from his pocket and dumps them on the table. He doesn't wait for them to question it, just points to the tomatoes and says, "I appreciate the offerings, really, but it's gotta stop. It's gross. I have to wash tomato juice out of my clothes every day. If you're gonna leave an offering, no. More. Tomatoes. Please."

The oldest man seems jolted out of his stupor.

"Excuse me, but could you please explain why you've come to our home?" The man asks cordially. (As if Danny couldn't see him carefully gripping his steak knife like a throwing dart. And that's just rude, honestly. Danny was invited.)

"Uh, I'm Phantom? You literally give me offerings every day. Again, I appreciate it, I never thought I'd have diehard fans, but I don't even really like tomatoes. I mean, they're fine in salsa and stuff, but even I won't eat pocket-tomatoes."

"I believe there may be a misunderstanding. We don't worship a deity named Phantom nor have we left any offerings." The oldest says. He seems like he's about to continue when one of the black-haired adults interrupts him with a nervous, "Uh, B? About that..."

So. Yeah. It turns out Dick Grayson and Jason Todd forced the family to watch Phantom of the Opera, which spawned the joke of offering any food they don't like (i.e., tomatoes) to "the Phantom" (i.e., their trashcan). More than half the family doesn't like tomatoes and Alfred uses it as a punishment for breaking something, overworking, etc. They'd gotten pretty sneaky about scraping their leftovers into the bin but had gotten into a habit of saying "this one's for the Phantom, a treat for the Phantom," or something incredibly stupid like that.

Danny's just... a little relieved, honestly? Because he's literally fifteen and wouldn't really know what to do with followers if he had them. Plus, now he doesn't have to worry about waking up with tomatoes in his bed or making excuses for all his tomato-hoarding while at school. (Which was not necessarily the right thing to mention to Bruce "Serial Adopter" Wayne. Practically the whole table turned to stare at Bruce when Danny mentioned he's apparently an underage deity, waiting for Bruce to sweep in with a well-executed, "Well, it's getting late. Why don't you stay the night?" Because Bruce apparently can't help himself from collecting another black-haired, blue-eyed kid.)

[hollyoongs]

𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐓 ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ 𝗝𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗪𝗢𝗡's 𝗩𝗘𝗥 !

prólogo You never thought that seeing your boyfriend in a sleeveless denim outfit, his shiny skin from the sweat and the cocky smile he made in each performance could generate a single thought. "What would it look like on the floor of your room?" [MASTERLIST]

elenco yang jungwon x f!reader

género smut with plot

antes de leer slightly mean dom!jungwon and submissive reader (they are so fucking horny) unprotected sex (reader is on the pill but there's no party without a birthday hat!), fingering, oral (both), riding, spit, choking (use of an object: bandana), dirty talk (mixed with praise), degradation at it's peak, petnames (baby, princess, slut, whore), daddy kink, breeding, squirting.

# palabras +2.9k

You have never wanted more for Jungwon to get off the stage, take you backstage, and fuck you senseless just like you are right now.

All the members were putting one hundred and one percent of their energy into the performance. You couldn't believe all this was happening, and you could make sure that even they themselves still didn't believe they were performing at Coachella, but they did. After so much effort and dedication achieved, you can say that they finally reached one of the many goals that they set for themselves.

But watching your boyfriend from the first row was something else; he got a slight modification on his outfit that made his arms visible, but he shone more than any garment he could wear. His sleeveless jacket clung to his skin in all the right places, giving the perfect view of his flexed arms every single time he had to dance, shiny due to the sweat.

Oh, and he fucking knew you were watching him. Otherwise, why would he have that cocky smile on his face?

Every time Jungwon passed by your side of the stage, his gaze would flicker to you—brief yet teasing. You felt your throat sore from all the screaming, your arms practically begging to rest from holding your phone up high for so long, and your body just wanted to lie down.

The only correct answer? There was no way in hell you'd stop. The set was almost over. You could tell by the way the members were pushing themselves even harder for 'Brought the Heat Back.' Jungwon's jaw was clenched when his solo was up, his hair damp and messy, strands sticking to his forehead and temples, looking wrecked in the most beautiful way.

The proud smile on your face was obvious as the lights dimmed and you left the stage quickly, even more so after hearing positive things from locals behind you that were watching them for the first time. You had to wait a moment before moving in the wave of people to the side entrance, hiding yourself from sasaengs that were near and eyeing everything.

After showing the security your pass, he nodded as he let you through. You were guided to the backstage and watched all seven members thanking all their staff for a successful first show. Jungwon was giving you his back, and Jay noticed you, tapping Jungwon's shoulder to get his attention and pointing you out.

The smile was now soft, eyes shining the moment he saw yours tearing up. Jungwon didn't even bother pretending to be chill about it—his feet quickly made their way towards you, his arms wrapping around you tightly.

"You were insane out there," you whispered in his ear, receiving a nod from him. You could hear his sigh, something he used to do when he wanted to prevent himself from crying. He broke the hug, his hands remaining on your waist as he leaned closer to finally kiss you, receiving whistles and screams from the rest.

You couldn't help but smile in the middle of the kiss, Jungwon's lips curving against yours as he pulled away just enough to see his shy smile.

"Jungwon, we are about to record for the 'EN-EPISODE'; be careful." said the manager with a kind smile, and Jungwon took your hand to go to a more private place. It was outside the big tent, but it was enough.

"Now, real question. How long would you take to go to my place?" You asked, your hands on his triceps to squeeze them slightly. He gave you a small smile as his hands went back to your waist, just a little lower this time.

"Honestly? Two hours, they want to do some interviews and videos, and we are doing a Weverse live after Coachella." You pout a little; you knew it would happen, but deep down you believe you had time with him. His fingers lifted your face by your chin and gave a quick peck. "Why the question?"

"Wanted to reward you."

He blinked at you—just once—before raising one of his eyebrows and tilting his head to the side. You could feel how the fingers on your waist tightened slightly.

"Oh yeah? What kind?"

"Can't tell, baby." Jungwon exhaled sharply through his nose, hands slipping just a little lower again, fingertips grazing over the waistband of your denim shorts. Your view went to the bandana around his arm, your fingertip poking it softly. "Just make sure you bring this with you."

"You're evil," he muttered, the smirk still plastered on his face as you laughed a little.

"Learned from the best." It was very short. The moment before Jungwon cut the distance between the two of you, his hand was firmly on the back of your head, the kiss was passionate and a little messy, and his other hand finally arrived at your ass before smacking it lightly. You couldn't hold the whine that escaped from your throat, your mouth open, and Jungwon took that sign to suction your tongue.

His lips finally parted from yours with a soft, wet pop, and he looked at his phone that was vibrating in his jeans. A message from Heeseung to say the final 'goodbye' for the video and start the other activities. "Fuck."

You laughed again as you cleaned the corner of his mouth, both of your lips swollen. "I have to go," he said.

"I know," you breathed, still clinging to him just a little. "I will be waiting."

He gave your cheeks a few kisses before he went back inside the tent, a staff member appeared again and guide you to the exist carefully. Now you had to kill time, two hours to be more specific.

You were amazed at how your neck didn't hurt, considering how many times you had turned your head to check the clock on the wall. Two hours never felt so long—but at least you sent a suggestive picture to your boyfriend after leaving the shower.

You had changed into something a little more comfortable, a baby blue satin slip dress that he bought you, when your phone notified you of a message from him. "On my way."

You tried to distract yourself in every way possible, cleaning up imaginary messes, fixing your hair and adding some gloss on your lips, even spraying a little more of the perfume he always loved to bury his face in.

When the knock finally came, you barely let him finish before opening the door. A black hoodie, grey sweatpants, hair still slightly damp from a quick shower, and the bandana—that was the first thing you noticed—wrapped around his wrist.

The door had barely shut before his hands were on you, your back pressing against the door to shut it completely, lips crashing into yours. You could feel the urgency in it, urgency that you also had.

His hands were south, his long, dainty fingers gripping your ass, a clear signal for you to jump and wrap your legs around his waist, his strong arms under your thighs for support. You were starting to become a moaning mess; maybe it was the heat of his mouth, or it could be the not-so-gentle scrape of his teeth when he sucked your bottom lip like he missed the taste of you—but it made your entrance wetter by the second.

"No underwear? Fuck you."

"I'm trying," you said breathlessly, winning a laugh from him in the middle of it. With one hand, he made sure your door was fully closed before he carried you effortlessly, mouth back on yours, the kiss turning way more messy than before.

Your fingers tugged the bandana from his wrist, letting it fall to the bed as you buried your hands in his hair. He laid you down on the bed like something precious, but the hunger in his eyes said otherwise.

You supported yourself with your elbows as you watched him take off his shirt and hoodie at the same time; his "V" line caught your attention while he was tossing the clothes somewhere behind him. Lean muscle, a sculpted chest, and a face that someone would actually think he doesn't even kill a fly.

"You're staring." Your eyes went to his; you didn't break eye contact when your hands traveled to the waistband of his pants. You lowered it enough to catch two things: the fact that he was also not wearing underwear and how his cock was already leaking pre-cum.

"Somebody missed me…" you teased, gaining a small eyeroll from him. His left hand went to his cock, and his tip met your lips, tapping on them.

"Open up." You did as he said, tongue out, waiting peacefully to have it in your mouth. Once the tip of his cock met your mouth, you started to suck on it, hollowing your cheeks a little as your tongue swirled around his head. The salty and warm flavor had you moaning softly, the sound vibrating against him and making his breath hitch.

"Fuck," he muttered, one hand gripping the back of your head, not to force, but to steady himself properly. His hips gave a small, involuntary thrust forward, and you let him. Your eyes flicking up to meet his again as you took him deeper.

His parted lips, brows furrowed as he was consumed in pleasure, and chest rising fast to control his own orgasm made him look beautifully wrecked.

"You look so pretty like this," he rasped. "Taking my cock so well."

Your hand instantly wrapped around the base of it, stroking in time with the way your mouth moved on him. You could feel the tension in his thighs before he pulled out slowly, a string of saliva and pre-cum connecting your red, swollen lips to his tip, and you licked it away with a grin.

"You are such a tease," he said before his mouth crashed into yours again. You could feel the need to taste him on your tongue that made you whine and close your legs, your clit aching almost painfully. You didn't notice his fingers gliding through your soaked folds until he gave a small pinch to your sensitive bud.

You startled, and he simply smiled. "God, you're dripping," he said against your lips. "I barely touched you."

Your breath hitched as two of his fingers slipped inside you, curling perfectly and touching that sweet spot that made you throw your head back in delight, your hands now gripping the mattress below you two for dear life.

Your legs were already trembling as he worked you open, lips moving down your jaw, your neck, and then to your cleavage—kissing, licking, and gracefully sucking at the sensitive skin until you were gasping his name.

Then his fingers were gone, and you whimpered at the loss, but he was lying on the bed after taking off his pants and shoes. Since you knew what it meant, you put your legs at each side of his head, slowly taking the dress off your body, watching how he licked his lips the moment your dripping pussy was on top of him, clenching around nothing.

His hands gripped your thighs immediately, holding you in place with his eyes locked on your swollen center.

"Look at this," he muttered, almost to himself. "This pretty pussy wants my attention."

"Come on, baby. You earned this." Your hand found the headboard to steady yourself after your said that, but all control that you thought you had left your body the second his tongue flattened against your folds. Your loud and shameless moan combined with the groan he did.

He licked again, a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, repeating the motion again—this time focusing on flicking the sensitive bundle of nerves until your thighs were practically shaking on either side of his head, and he noticed it.

"You like riding my face, baby?" His voice sent vibrations right through your core, and you could swear that your knuckles were white from all the strength you used to hold yourself. "Then do it. Fuck yourself on my tongue. Don't stop unless I say so, princess."

Your stomach clenched at the command, and you simply obeyed—carefully grinding down, hips rolling over his mouth as he groaned once again like a man starved. You could feel his firm hands on your thighs doing everything but letting you loose—just on the edge of bruising.

He sucked your clit into his mouth without a warning, and your hips bucked, a broken cry falling from your lips.

"Yes—daddy!"

The nickname gained you a spank, one that also made you moan.

"Too much?" he asked, still working you. "Then get off. Go on."

You didn't move. You actually couldn't. You were a disaster, shaking, panting, legs like jello as the heat built faster than you could handle.

"That's what I thought," he smirked. His hands went to your hips to push you up just enough for him to sit, his back touching the headboard, and he slowly made his way down. It was embarrassing how easily he got his dick inside you.

"Fuck, I was about to cum."

"Then cum on my dick, princess." One of his hands took a strand of your hair to put it behind your ear. He then put both of his hands behind his head, a resting position to enjoy the moment. Cocky bastard. "You said I earned it, right?"

"You did such a good job on stage." Your hips start slowly going back and forth at the thought of him hours before. "You looked so hot."

"Did I?" You closed your eyes and nodded eagerly.

"I want you to pick me from the crowd and fuck me there." Your hands went to his shoulder to start a pace. He moaned louder; that filthy sentence rolling off your tongue so easily made his dick twitch inside you.

"Fuck, you are such a messy little slut for Daddy." His hands were again on your hips, helping you ride him. His fingers were digging into your flesh as he started guiding your hips into a rougher rhythm, making your nails sink into his shoulders. "Say it again,"

He demanded, eyes locked on yours. "Say what you want Daddy to do."

You could barely manage a whimper, your mind fuzzy from how full you felt.

"I want you to pull me from the crowd, bend me over the nearest surface, and fuck me in front of everyone." He suddenly pulled you out, manhandling you into being on all fours.

From the corner of your eye, you saw how he took the bandana, putting it around your neck, your back completely arched as he once again slammed his dick inside you, a broken moan at the feeling of the delicious intromission.

"Bend like this? You want to be used like that?" he growled against your ear. "Want everyone to see how I fuck you so good?"

"Yes, Daddy!" you cried out, the minimum lack of oxygen increasing the pleasure you were seeing". He used the new angle to fuck you even deeper—every snap of his hips making your moans rise in pitch every single time.

After a few minutes, the grip of the bandana left your neck, making you gasp for air, only to change your position. Now you were facing him from beneath, his hand gently wrapping around your throat—not squeezing, just letting you feel the pressure of it. "You look so pretty wrapping me around your tight little pussy, baby."

Each thrust he made, his pelvis grinded against your clit just right. You were starting to feel that familiar knot that was about to snap in any second. "Open your mouth again, baby. You earned something too for being so good to me today."

Your mouth opened, and you saw his saliva slowly going down to your tongue. He couldn't control how filthy you looked swallowing that, and then he kissed you, his hips non-stop. Your mouth opened, drool coming from the corner of your mouth, and your eyes fluttered shut.

“Are you going to cum just from getting fucked like this?”

Your body jerked beneath him as he drove into you again, angling even more perfectly to hit that spot inside you that made your back arch. You could barely form words anymore—just gasps and broken moans.

“That tight little pussy’s begging for it. Do it. Cum all over Daddy’s cock.”

Your body obeyed, breaking apart as your climax crashed through you alongside him—loud and messy. You shook in his arms, crying out his name, your walls milking him.

Despite your orgasms, he still kept going. He flipped you on all fours again without warning, cock still buried inside you, and slammed back in with a growl. His mouth was giving kisses on your shoulder in a possessive manner.

“I’m going to fill you up,” he growled. “I’m going to make sure you’re dripping with me for days.”

Unlike the first orgasm, this one felt a little too familiar. You were crying again, head spinning as you felt the second orgasm and a big wave of overstimulation. It took you a final, deep thrust to squirt all over his dick, his whole body tensing as he continued to spill inside you, hips twitching through the aftershocks.

He got off of you, watching how his cum was dripping down your thighs alongside your squirt. "Good fucking girl, princess."

Both of you were breathless, drenched in sweat, but it was completely worth it. Because once again, he earned it so well.

TAGLIST (OPEN): @heesexual74 @vixialuvs @riqomi @beomgyus11 @starry-eyed-bimbo @rawrrxan @veilstqr @k1ttyjwon @fancypeacepersona @kittympirty (COMMENT TO BE ADDED)

─── HAPPY ENCHELLA WEEK ngl, i have never wrote something this freaky in a WHILE, but I hope you enjoy reading it, see you tomorrow for Heeseung's one <3

THIS ONE IS DEDICATED TO MY BIRTHDAY GIRL @intromortal happiest birthday love 💗‼️

[cameronsbabydoll]

exhusband!rafe x reader attending their sons t ball game together and the other moms try coming onto him?? maybe reader gets kinda jealous and it confuses her.

ex!husband!rafe and reader going to their sons sports game

wc: 395 — a/n: we love a little jealousy war

you weren’t even trying at first.

okay — maybe the sundress was a little intentional. it was hot out. and yeah, maybe you’d picked the one that hugged your waist just right, dipped just low enough at the neckline to be sweet-but-distracting. totally innocent.

but then you saw him.

rafe in all his cocky, casually devastating glory — standing there like the king of the damn bleachers while those moms practically threw themselves at him.

and the worst part? he let them.

laughing a little too loud at their jokes. smirking in that lazy, arrogant way he knows drives you insane. letting their acrylic-nailed hands touch his arm like they had a damn chance.

so... two can play that game.

you wait until rafe is watching — of course he’s watching, he always watches you — before you drift toward a small group of the other dads.

they're friendly. harmless. a few of them definitely take notice when you walk up, all soft smiles and glowing in the afternoon sun.

"hey, didn’t realize you were single now," one says, clearly fishing. "bet the line’s out the door, huh?"

you laugh, light and easy, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear — fully aware of rafe’s hard stare burning into the back of your neck like a damn laser.

"oh, i don’t know about that," you hum, voice syrupy sweet, "but i guess I’m figuring it out."

and when one of them leans in — harmlessly — to compliment your dress?

boom.

suddenly, he’s there.

rafe appears at your side like a storm cloud, towering, tense, fake smile plastered on.

"hey, man," he greets with that sharp edge to his voice, clapping the dad’s shoulder just a little too hard. "appreciate you keepin' my girl company, but we’re good over here."

the dad laughs nervously, backing off.

and you just blink up at rafe, playing innocent.

"problem, rafe?" you blink.

he looks down at you — jaw tight, nostrils flaring slightly.

"yeah," he says flatly, eyes dragging down your figure like it pains him. "problem is you walk around lookin' like that and expect me to not put a stop to it."

your heart skips.

but you just smile sweetly, dripping with fake concern.

"aw. jealous or somethin', rafe?"

his jaw clenches.

"dead fucking jealous, sweetheart," he mutters darkly — low enough that only you hear — before stalking off like he didn’t just declare silent war.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

It's Been Calling Me

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, light angst, shameless smut (oral f receiving, p in v sex), fluff, soulmates, dreams, told over many years, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: You've had these… dreams. Strange, realistic, detailed dreams of the same man, almost your whole life. But they're just dreams. You've been so sure, for so long, that they're just dreams.

So sure, until you're not.

Author's Note: I love this one. I love using fake Marvel science logic. I love putting sad men in situations where they can't escape love. I love semi-linear storytelling. Enjoy!

Word Count: 10.9k

“I get… dreams.” You mumble, staring at an odd point over Dr. Raynor’s head. It’s always better than looking her in the eyes. “They’re weird.”

“The very nature of dreams is to be strange.” You can see the shrug of Raynor’s shoulders, hear the neural expression that must be on her face. “Although if you feel they’re worthy of note-“

“They are.” 

Raynor hums. She’s probably raising her brows. You still won’t look.

“You sound quite certain of that.”

“I am.” You tuck your knees up to your chest, frowning at the air. “It’s- They’re not new.”

“Ah.” Raynor pauses, then says your name. In the gentle but firm therapist way that you really hate. It makes you feel like a child. “This conversation may be easier if you would look at me.”

“No thanks, I’m-“

She says your name again. A little harsher. “We’ve discussed this. You’re here of your own volition-“

“That’s not true.” You mutter. “Court-ordered isn’t volition.”

“Well you could’ve chosen the inpatient ward.” Raynor’s shrugging again. “Look at me.”

You let out a long breath, and meet her gaze. You’d been right. She was raising her brows.

“Good work.” She gives you a tight-lipped smile and small nod of approval. “Tell me about these dreams.”

It takes a minute to find the words. Not because you don’t have them, but because you’d never expected to use them. You’ve rehearsed them in the mirror a million times, but they always sounded insane, and you didn’t need another reason to be called crazy.

“I’ve had them my whole life.” It’s easiest to start there. “But it’s- they’ve changed. Over time.”

“Changed how?”

“It’s hard to explain-“

“Try.”

You scowl. “I am trying, Christina, but there’s kind of a lot to say-“

Raynor sighs, giving you the patented look of disapproval that you might hate more than how she says your name. “How about telling me when they started. Is that do-able?”

It takes a long, deep breath, but you nod. “I was- I think I was ten. I fell asleep, and it was the first dream I’d ever had. The first one that I remembered when I woke up. It was…” You swallow, and there’s a sting in your nails as you rip more skin away. “Really vivid.”

——

This isn’t your body. It’s too big, too tall, and you’re not nearly strong enough to rip a door off its hinges. This body is sprinting across ice without ever breaking pace or falling flat with a crunch. You can’t even walk up stairs without tripping over thin air.

But this doesn’t really feel like a body at all. It feels like a shell, or tool. Hollow and pressed down, moving so mechanically you’d think it was a machine if you couldn’t hear its heartbeat in your ears. There’s a lot of pain in it. Strangely numb pain, as if the owner of this body doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it, shuttering it off to the side as he moves.

You’re pretty sure it's a he. There’s hair in your eyes, but men can have long hair, and when the body’s arms swing into view they’re big and muscular. You’re also pretty sure there’s something between your legs that wasn’t there when you went to sleep.

And you can feel him. Very, very deep in your head, he’s bellowing and scraping at his own scalp. He feels like a caged animal, but this is his body. He’s roaring things that are more like feral sounds than actual words, and every time he gets loud enough for you to make out a real voice something clamps down on your skull—his skull—and it all goes quiet.

You can see another man in your line of vision. He’s on his knees, trembling and begging, but the noise is muffled and static. As if there’s a filter pushing anything coherent out of your head.

A gloved fist that’s attached to your body—but not yours to control—reaches out and grabs the man by his throat. It squeezes. 

He’s desperate. Locked down and furious, the ‘he’ who you’re possessing is almost pleading with himself to stop. 

But he doesn’t. 

And there’s a sickening snap that will echo in your ears for a long time after you wake up.

——

Raynor’s looking at you like you’re insane. You don’t love it.

“Did you…” She pauses, scanning over you with a small frown. “Did you see the hand?”

You blink at her. “Yeah, I just said-“

“Without the glove.” She clarifies. “The one that snapped the man’s neck. Did you ever see it without the glove.”

It’s an oddly specific question. And she seems to be looking for a certain answer, because in all your time of working with Raynor she’s never looked so obviously invested in a story. 

“Not for a while.” You keep your words slow, watching her wearily. “He always wore the gloves. And when he didn’t, he wouldn’t look at his hands-“

Raynor frowns. “So how did you know he wasn’t wearing the gloves?” 

“Because he knew.” You shrug. “I lived in his brain like, every night.”

“Every-“

“Night, yeah. That’s what I fucking said.”

Raynor hums, and you think she’s going to grab the notebook to write something along the lines of patient has lost her goddamn mind, but she just keeps staring at you. “You said you didn’t see the hand for a while. When did you see it?”

“When I was sixteen. The first time the dreams changed.”

“Changed from-“

“Being in his head.” You pull your lip between your teeth, weighing how much you want to reveal. Too much feels like a violation of his privacy, even if they’re your dreams. He’s a private guy, it took you years to get him to tell you anything, and if you’ve realized turns out to be the truth, you don’t want to ruin anything. “It’s- it was about six years of seeing everything through his eyes-“

“Everything?”

You wish Raynor would stop saying the word every like that. Like it’s a lie.

“All the murders.” You mutter. “There were a lot of murders.”

Raynor nods for you to continue, and you have to take a long, steadying breath.

“One night I went to sleep and he was… attacking some blond guy. We couldn’t really see his face. Then I fell asleep the next night, and it was different.”

——

You can see him. You’ve never seen him before. 

He’d never looked in a mirror, or described himself in his head for you like he’s a Wattpad character. He’s only ever been a body that moves out of your will, and a pained voice deep in your brain that didn’t seemed thrilled with what was happening either. 

But you’re not in his head, or his body. You’re standing in a bathroom—in your own body, wearing the same clothing you’d been wearing when you’d crawled into bed—and looking at him. 

He’s a lot more attractive than you’d anticipated. And you’d anticipated attractive. You’d built an image in your head of your imaginary dream assassin, basing it purely on a level of hotness that would justify all the murders he’d been up to. It had been a little fucked up, but you’d also been so goddamn sure he wasn’t real. That this was just a really odd and worrying coping mechanism for all the messed up shit in your real life. 

But he seems pretty fucking real right now. And almost impossibly handsome. Strong features that look like they’d been carved from marble, an almost hulking frame that’s somehow bigger when you’re looking at it from outside, and tangled, greasy hair that’s really working with the whole tortured expression on his face.

Because he does not look okay.

He’s gripping the sink and glowering at himself, scanning over his own face like he recognizes it less than you do. He’s bent like there’s a weight on his shoulders he doesn’t know how to shake off, and that’s impressive, because you’ve seen him pick up a car. 

The porcelain of the sink cracks, and he flinches back, looking between his hands and the rubble with wide eyes.

His eyes are blue. A really pretty blue. You’d always thought blue eyes were overrated—big whoop, you’re more sensitive to light—but there’s something silver in this man’s eyes that you really love. It feels like a deep storm you’d like to chase.

He’s really pretty. 

He doesn’t seem like the type of guy who would like being called pretty, but he is. In a natural and powerful way. Like something heavenly that’s burned through the atmosphere in a dreadful fall.

Pretty face, pretty eyes, pretty hands-

Metal hand. 

One metal hand.

——

Raynor looks worried now. You wish she’d go back to thinking you’re just batshit crazy. 

“Do you-” she clears her throat, sitting a little taller in her chair. “His name. Did you ever learn his name?”

It’s your turn to raise your brows. “Does that matter?”

“Yes.”

It’s a flat, tense answer. It makes something coil in your throat. 

“I-“ You rub your own calves, soothing yourself in the careful way you’ve always practiced. “I didn’t, for a while-“

Raynor says your name, her tone short and clipped. “Stop telling me something didn’t happen for a while. If I ask a question, it’s because I need to know the answer. Not the buildup.”

You frown. “Need to know?”

“It’s…” Raynor sighs. “It is very important that you give me a name.”

“Why?”

“Therapist reasons.”

You give her a flat look. “That’s not a real thing.”

“Yes, it is. Name.”

“If you need the name,” you say, raising your chin slightly. “You have to sit through my for a while.”

Raynor gives you a look of disbelief, shaking her head and muttering something that sounds like God, I can’t take two of them, before raising her voice. “Fine. What was for a while.”

“I couldn’t talk to him.” You explain. “For like, two years after I got out of his brain, he still couldn’t see me. When I tried to talk to him it was like I was in a- sort of a one-way mirror? And it’s not like he was just walking around telling the air I’m Bucky-“

“Bucky?” Raynor looks downright distressed. “His name was-“

“It’s Bucky.” 

He still is. He’s not a was, Bucky is.

That’s part of the problem.

“And how-“ Raynor swallows. “How did you learn this?”

“He told me.”

——

This is new. You’re not on a street or in a half-empty apartment—the two places you’ve grown most accustomed to seeing in your sleep—but in a field. A very big field with huts and brush and goats.

There are a truly staggering amount of goats.

And there he is. His hair isn’t greasy and unkempt anymore, but looks almost soft, pulled back in a half-up half-down situation that makes him look clean. His metal arm is gone, but he doesn’t seem that bothered by it. He’s standing taller than before, like the weight you’ve grown used to seeing finally has begun to lift.

His outfit is new too. It looks like something traditional and well-made, rather than the off-brand baseball hats—you too are a big fan of the American baseball team, the ‘Doggers’—and shitty polyester t-shirts.

You’re taking him and scenery in, trying to place where your brain could’ve possibly taken you this time, when he does something you’d never expected.

He turns and looks at you.

Not through you. Not around you. Not in your general direction.

At you.

He can fucking see you.

“Hello?”

You’ve heard him speak before, a few times. His voice has always been low and gruff and heavy.

It’s smooth and richer now. You don’t know if that’s because it’s directed at you—setting off small sparks over your ribs—or in relation to that vanished weight, but you like it. It suits him better.

“Hi.” You whisper, your body frozen in place as he moves forward.

He’s right in front of you. Staring at you. 

He’s always gotten prettier every time you’ve seen him. This is different.

This is knocking the air out of your lungs with just the sight of him, because there’s a light in his eyes you’ve never seen before, and it makes something deep inside of you glow.

“I’m, uh, I’m Bucky.” 

He holds out his hand, and you tilt your head at him.

“That’s a weird name.”

He blinks at you, his hand still frozen in the air. “I guess, yeah. Never thought about it. It’s just a nickname.”

“Oh.” That makes more sense. “Sorry. That’s- I just never thought you as- never mind.” 

Bucky frowns at you, opening his mouth—likely ask you what you mean by that—but you say your name and shake his hand because he gets the chance.

He has a nice hand. It warm, and calloused, and fits really well in yours. 

“Why can you see me?” You blurt, and there goes any pretense of containing the truth. 

Bucky frowns at you. “Should I… Not be able to see you?”

“You’ve never seen me before.”

“Before? What do you mean-“

“It’s- It’s weird. And complicated.”

He just stares at you, waiting for you to continue. 

You’re holding his gaze. You’ve never held anyone’s gaze before. 

It’s kind of electrifying.

“I’ve dreamt about you before.” You mumble. “And you’ve never seen me.”

“About me?”

He doesn’t sound like he believes you. You get that. It’s not really a reasonable or believable statement.

“Yeah. But you had two arms. And there weren’t goats.”

Bucky nods slowly, and seems to reach a conclusion in his brain that you don’t get to be privy to. 

It’s enough for him though. Because he gives you a small, almost nervous and apologetic smile. 

“Do you wanna, uh, do you wanna meet the goats?”

You blink at him. You’d expected more questions, or some doubt. But he’s just looking at you, something in his pretty blue eyes almost hopeful.

“Are they...” You trail off, glancing at the goats over his shoulder. “Your goats?”

“They’re community goats.” He shrugs. “But Shuri says connection with life will help my recovery, and I don’t really want to connect with people.” His voice lowers, and it sounds like he’s mostly talking to himself. “They don’t really like connecting with me.”

You don’t know who the fuck Shuri is, but you nod anyway. “So goats?”

He gives you another odd look, like he’d expected you to say something else. 

“Yeah. Goats.” 

“Did you name them?”

He frowns. “They’re goats. They don’t need names.”

You click your tongue, shaking your head. “Wrong. Everything needs a name. I named my car, and my phone.”

“You named your phone?”

“Yep.” You grin at him, and it’s a wide, teasing grin you haven’t given anyone in years. “Bertha.”

“That’s…” Bucky’s still staring at you–he seems to do that a lot—but there’s something like amusement in his eyes. “Bertha is not a good name.”

“Better than Bucky.”

He chuckles at that, and it’s a beautiful sound. Deep and heavy, like a bass drum in your chest.

It’s the sort of thing that could be addicting, if you’re not careful. Worse, it’s the sort of thing you wouldn’t mind being addicted to.

“You’re kinda mean, doll.”

“Yep.” You shrug, ignoring how ‘doll’ makes you feel fuzzy in your gut. “And I’ll be meaner if you don’t let me name your goats.”

He hums, scanning you over with an intensity in his eyes that reminds you of that storm you’d see all those years ago in the bathroom. This time, you’d like to do a little more than chase it.

You think it could be really easy to get wrecked by it. 

“Will you come back if I let you name them?”

He keeps saying things you don’t expect. Of course you’ll come back. You don’t have a choice.

But you nod, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Only if you promise to actually use the names.”

He nods, giving you another smile. “Deal.”

———

“Did you ever learn his last name?”

You shake your head. “I never asked. He mentioned his real name was James at one point, but then I asked why he was called ‘Bucky’ and we got off topic.”

“One… point?” Raynor’s words are slow, and you’ve really never seen her looked lost like this before. You’d be proud of yourself if it wasn’t a bad sign. “Exactly how frequently did these dreams occur?”

———

“You’re back!”

Bucky looks genuinely happy to see you. He does every night. The same surprised joy in his voice, shock always written over his face like it’s truly odd and lovely to see you here.

Like you’re not here every night, for three to four hours, standing in his little hut and wandering the fields.

You’ve worked out that you’ve put him in Africa. Wakanda specifically, likely because you’d seen it all over the news and it seemed pretty interesting. Shuri was the princess, and the guy T’challa Bucky had mentioned a few times was the King. You’d almost certainly heard their names during all those UN conferences—the ones you put on in the background just to hear some noise that wasn’t ringing in your ears—and your brain had just decided to run with it.

At least, you think it’s just your brain. You’ve always assumed this was all in your brain, because this feels like the exact kind of fucked up shit your brain would pull. And Bucky never aged. He’d never really changed, for six years. He’d had just been another way to cope for the longest time, but now—as you actually get to know him—he seems dangerously like a real person.

He looks like he broods less than when you see him hunched over a toilet or glowering at his reflection in a window. His appearance has started to shift in a way it never really had.

The metal arm has permanently departed. He seems fond of keeping his hair out of eyes, and his wardrobe finally has diversity. He talks to you, and he has a personality. An adorable, grumpy, endearing personality that would play into your idea of ‘made up in your brain’ if he couldn’t be so annoying.

He stares. He grunts a lot. He doesn’t get any of your references. If you made up an imaginary dream man to feel more loved, he would like all the things you like and hate all the things you hate.

But he doesn’t.

And it always draws you in further, because he truly does seem like just a perfectly insufferable asshole. 

That’s cruel. He’d been right. You could be mean. 

He never seemed to mind.

And he’s more like a dog anyway. One that escaped the pound and follows you around, not even bothering to beg for scraps because you offer them with a grin.

You like his company. You like his voice. You like that he’s annoying and you like more that it’s your exact type of annoying.

You like that he’s really fucking hot, and get hotter every time you visit. 

You mostly just like him.

“Of course I’m back.” You shrug, kicking a rock with the tip of your foot, watching it bounce through the dirt. “I’m always back.”

“Yeah. So far.” You see Bucky shrug in your periphery, and when you look up, he’s staring again. “Could change.”

“Won’t change.” You counter, giving him a pointed look. “Sorry, Buck. You’re stuck here until I die.”

That’s the first time you’ve called him Buck. He tenses for a moment, seems to shake something physically off his body, and nods slowly.

“Should I be worried about you dying?”

“Not right now, no.” You hum. Another rock gets kicked. “Death doesn’t agree with me.”

He chuckles. “Don’t think it agrees with anyone, doll-“

“Shut up.” Third rock. This one hits a goat, and you cringe slightly. “Shit. Sorry, Bubble McBubbleface-“

“Bubs will be.” Bucky rolls his eyes, moving to your side. He’s standing really close. You can almost feel a phantom heat from his body. “And I still can’t believe you talked me into that name. I had to tell the king of the damn country that his goat was named Bubble McBubbleface.”

You giggle, and Bucky shoots you a glare.

“You think that’s funny? I had to like pretend it was my idea,” he grumbles your name, and you always like how he says it. Like it’s some sort of answer. “I had to look the council of elders in the eyes and tell them that Bubble McBubbleface got Lady Gaga pregnant-“

Your eyes widen. “You let the goats get pregnant?”

“Course I let them get pregnant, doll.”

“But-“

He gives you a dry, amused look. “Would you rather I interfere? You want me to cockblock Bubs?”

You blink at him. “You know what cockblock means?”

Your brain had given him the personality of an eighty-year-old man. You don’t know why, but you stopped asking questions like “why” and “what” a long time ago. You just know that he shouldn’t know what cockblock means, for consistency.  

“Of course I know what it means. You taught it to me.” He winks at you, and you’re pretty sure you’re flushing.

This is meant to be a dream. You shouldn’t be able to flush, or feel a little flutter and hum in your heart, or something molten in your gut when he leans a little further forward to grin down at you.

This seems less like a dream every night.

You’d be worried about that if you had the energy, or foresight, or care.

“Are goats births gross?” You ask, and he chuckles again. The sound has started to inflict a sort of high on your brain, and every color in this dreamworld seems brighter. 

“They’re fucking disgusting.” He leans a little further down. You have to stare at his nose to pretend the proximity isn’t going to make your fall over. “But if you let me show you one in here, I’ll let you name the babies out there.”

You nod kind of stupidly, the whole world shifts into a barn—goat births are disgusting, but Bucky gets a look of intense focus you’d like to see re-aimed in your direction—and four months later Bucky tells you little Oz The Great and Powerful, Donald Duck, and Pants McPantsface have been welcomed into the world.

———

“So you’d see him in… Wakanda.” Raynor takes another long breath. If you didn’t think it would make everything worse, you’d tell her to try some deep breathing exercises. “Did the location ever change? Did you witness any more of those murders from before?”

You feel something spark in your chest like an electric wire, and you sit a little taller. You haven’t seen Bucky kill anyone since you’d been trapped in his brain. He’s a good man. And, as far as Raynor knows, a figment of your imagination. She has no right to fucking imply-

“It’s important that I know,” she says slowly, and you think your oddly blinding and righteous anger had been painted all over your face. “So I better understand what’s been happening to you. Please,” she says your name, leaning somehow further forward in her seat. “Answer my questions.”

You nod, letting out a slow exhale. “No murders. But he did start coming into my brain.”

Raynor frowns at you. “Was he not always-“

“Not like this.”

———

“This is new.”

You whip around, taking a stumbling step back that would’ve landed you on the floor, had Bucky not looped his one arm around your waist.

“Hey, doll. Pleasure seeing you-“ He frowns, glancing around your apartment. “Where the hell am I?”

You don’t answer, only reaching up to touch his face. His beard is soft. His hair is softer. When you trace the line of his nose it does feel like a nose, and when you poke his cheek it seems pretty cheek-like- 

“What, uh,” Bucky say your name, scanning over your face with concern. “What’s happening here.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.” You whisper, poking his cheek again. Just to be sure. “You’ve never been here before.”

“Yeah, figured that one out myself-“

“No.” You shake your head, placing one hand on his chest. It fits well there, slotting right over muscle and warm skin. Every part of him seems to fit perfectly against you, and you’ve never been this close before, but you don’t have any urge to move away. “You don’t get it, Bucky. You’ve never been here. It’s been ten years, and you’ve never been here.”

“I know, doll. Doesn’t seem like there’s much to-“ He pauses, giving you an odd look. “Ten years?”

“Yeah.” You mumble. There’s not much else to say.

He just stares at you, and shakes his head slightly. “Huh. You gonna tell me where I am?”

“My apartment.”

“Your-“ He starts slightly, but you never shake in his arms. “You live in this place?”

You nod, and he pulls you to your feet, scanning over your home. 

The silence wraps around your heart and lungs, and the room is spinning slightly. You’re asleep. You’re pretty fucking sure you’re asleep. You locked the door, turned off the lights, and crawled into bed, so you’re asleep. Bucky’s never been here before, but he’s not really here because this is a dream and he’s not real.

You think. 

You wouldn’t bet on that anymore, though.

And nothing has ever been as important as Bucky liking your room, because the longer he just scans over the space around you the more your skin heats, the more your eyes blur, the more your throat constricts and your heart aches and pounds-

“It’s very… you.” He finally says, and every bit of nerve vanishes into the air.

He’s right. You’ve been very deliberate in making sure your home is yours.

And you’re not sure why you bothered worrying at all. He fits here, just as well as he fits in every other part of you.

“Can I get the grand tour?” He raises his brows, and you nod, leading him through your space, making jokes and feeling your heart do a little flip and spin whenever he chuckles.

And things always do change. Frequently out in the real world, and carefully and easily in here.

And at least with Bucky, the change seems adaptive. You grow, he grows with you, until you’re twined and rooted into each other, and every color in this dreamscape is so vivid it’s the only thing that still tells you:

None of this is real.

———

“It was split after that.” You say. ”Half the dreams in Wakanda, half in New York.” 

You’re watching Raynor carefully. Still on the edge of her seat, legs braced like she’s ready for a fight, a tight expression on her face that Bucky calls the moose in headlights expression.

———

“You got that moose expression again, doll.”

You frown at him. “Stop calling it that, it’s just my face-“

“No. Your normal face has a dimple here, and your brows rest like that.”

He’s touching you as he explains, moving your features to match his words. You’d smack his hand away if his touch wasn’t soothing and flaring all at once. If you didn’t really love the idea of him looking at you long enough to know exactly how to adjust your face, and how to be right about it.

“But it’s not like that now.” He finishes, giving you a pointed look. “You got moose-face.”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Moose-face is worse, Bucky. And it’s still not a real thing-“

“Yeah it is. Most people got a moose face.” He shrugs. He’s staring again. It’s taking a lot of effort not to melt forward into him. “Tight expression. Like a deer in headlights, but they think they’re too good to be in the headlights. They’re gonna go down fighting.”

“Oh.” You tilt your head, giving him a sickly-sweet smile. “Can I see your moose face?”

“I don’t have a moose face-“

“Liar.” You poke his ribs, narrowing your eyes. “You said everyone has one-“

“I said ‘most people.’” Bucky shrugs. “Moose face means you’re gonna get hit, you just don’t believe it yet. I know how to not get hit.”

“Sounds like something someone with a moose-face would say.”

He chuckles. You’re sitting down, and you’re going to fall over. “No luck, doll. I got other faces, but no moose face.” He frowns at the air. “Never could afford to have one.”

There’s suddenly something heavier in his eyes, and it makes your whole body feel wired and heavy. It’s suffocating and crushing and rotten, and it’s just an expression but everything feels worse when you see it—when his shoulders hunch and his face becomes set like stone, just like all those years ago in the bathroom—so it needs to stop right now. 

“What about a wolf face?”

Bucky blinks at you. “What.”

“You said no moose face.” You cross your arms, raising your chin slightly. “Do you have a wolf face?”

“I don’t know what that is-“

“So suddenly you’re the only one who’s allowed to make up expressions?”

You hold is gaze for a long second—you’ve gotten really good at doing that, but only when you’re dreaming of Bucky—until his lips twitch slightly.

And everything feels alright again.

———

“How much of New York appeared in your… dreams? Was is like Wakanda, where you wandered?”

You frown at the air. Raynor’s indulging in this, but not like you’d hoped. Not shutting you down or telling you that you’re crazy. You’d really hoped to hear some validation that you were just plain crazy.

“Not really. I mean, there was one night where we were at my job, a few at the coffee shop I usually go to, and maybe like, five at the park, but we were mostly my apartment when I was showing him stuff.”

“And what did you-“ Raynor’s whole body tenses, and the last part of her question is pushed through her teeth. “What did you show Bucky?”

You flush, your gaze dropping down to your hands. “Stuff. In my apartment.”

———

You don’t know exactly what gives. What straw completely desolates every single bone in your body, and ends with you here.

Maybe it was that you’d finally mentioned all the murders, and you’d never seem him look horrified before, but the sight has dislodged something along your ribs that hadn’t mended until he let you move his head to your lap. Stroking his hair as he stared at you, telling him about your day.

Maybe it’s that you always tell him about your day. That this—whatever this is—has shifted from trading teasing comments and trying to learn about each other, into pure and comfortable understanding, and now that’s how most nights are spent.

Bucky’s reports are short. The goats are being goats—that’s all they know how to do—he doesn’t like a song someone tried to make him listen to because it’s too loud, and Shuri brought him some food that made his face feel like it was going to fall off, but in a good way. You pretty sure he only gives them because you insist upon it, but he always puffs out his chest a little at the end, when you smile at him and start to tell him everything you can remember about your own day.

Maybe it’s how he always hangs onto your every word. Like it’s gospel or scripture, and to do anything but listen and watch would be a higher sin than any blood you’ve imagined on his hands.

And maybe that’s it. 

Maybe it’s how you really don’t believe it anymore, when you remind yourself that he’s not real. That he’s just a figment of your mind, manifested to evolve as you do and always be exactly what you need. 

You still tell yourself the lie, night after night.

But you’re certain it’s a lie. That Bucky is just like that. Meant to be here, with you, the exact same way you’re supposed to be wherever he is.

And now you’re here.

You’d started it. You’d slammed your mouth to his, and he hadn’t moved. There had been a brief moment where you’d been worried you’d made a mistake, but the second you’d tried to push back on his chest and apologize, he’d kicked into gear. 

And wet dreams are supposed to be hazy. Cast in a misting light and more of a halo that brings your body high than an actual, nameable feeling.

But you can really feel this. 

And it’s heaven.

You’d expected Bucky to kiss slowly. Deliberately. It’s how you’d always seen him move and speak, and you hadn’t been against the idea of being kissed in a methodical and careful way.

You’ve never been happier to be wrong.

Bucky kisses you like you’re air and water and every good thing in the world. All passion and spit and burning desire, where you can feel every bit of want in his movements. His mouth is demanding as he traces his tongue over your teeth and groans your name down your throat, his arm snaking around your waist to hold you steady against his chest. When his knee presses between your thighs you have to wrap your arms around his neck for balance, and it’s all you can do to return ever bit of want he throws at you as he walks to backwards to your mattress.

It takes effort to pry your mouth from Bucky’s. He doesn’t want you to go, even a few inches, and when you start to palm him through his pants—smiling against his lips and squeezing his bulge in a silent request—he hisses against your lips.

“You-“ He groans, nipping at your lower lip as you smile, repeating the movement. “You don’t- Shit, doll, you don’t know what you’re doing to me-“

You hum, bumping your nose with his and swaying in his hold. “Maybe. I’d like to do more.”

Bucky chuckles, and the sound rolls right into your core. “Think you could take more, sweetheart? Cause I’ve been a gentleman, but if more is on the table-“

It’s easy to cut him off with a heavy, deep kiss that has him half growling down your throat and his hips jerking against your movements.

“Want more.” You whisper, combing your free hand through his hair and trying to pull yourself impossibly closer. “Want you.”

Bucky tenses against you, and when you lean back to meet his eyes he’s staring again. Looking at you like you’re glowing, kneading your skin under his hand like he’s checking that you’re not going to vanish. 

“You want me.” He mutters, scanning over your flushed face. “You sure about-“

“Yes.” You nod, giving him a small, soft smile. “Only if you do, obviou-“

Bucky cuts you off with another bruising kiss, and before you know what’s happening he’s lowering you onto the mattress, kneeling between your legs, and shoving your thighs apart with a wolf-like grin.

You don’t know when you ended up naked. You can’t really care though, because Bucky shoves his face right into your pussy, and your mind empties of all thoughts that aren’t his name. 

It’s another point in favor of this being a dream. Bucky’s mouth against your cunt feels so amazingly real—licking and biting and eating you out like he’s been starved for a hundred years—but this has to be a dream, because no real man has ever made you feel this good. He knows every single way the plunge his tongue in and out of your pussy until you’re squeezing your thighs around his head and tugging at his hair, and his beard scrapes and tickles at your thighs in a way that’s driving you out of your mind, and fuck, he keeps moving his attention to nip at your clit, sucking it between his lips and letting his teeth graze against you, and-

“Bucky-“ You moan, grinding shameless into his face, trying hopelessly to remain upright with one hand, your fingers fisted into the sheets below you. “Please- I’m gonna- Fuck, I’m so close-“

He growls against you, flatting his tongue against your clit and squeezing his hand on your thigh, and that does it. You cum with a scream of his name, warmth washing over your body as your knees clamp around him and your eyes roll back in your head.

He’s ruined you. All Bucky did was eat you out in a dream, and you’re panting and flushed and drunk on him. You don’t know how you’ll manage to move on from this in real life.

You don’t really care. Not as Bucky runs his hand over your dripping, fluttering cunt with a look of open awe on his face, presses a kiss right over your clit that makes your hips jerk, and moves to his feet.

He’s naked now too. 

And he’s perfect. 

His cock is big and thick, standing at proud attention and jerking slightly as you run a hand up his thighs, your fingers trailing over his balls and a little drool falling out of your lips as you lean to take him in your mouth-

Bucky’s hand tangles in your hair, pulling you back to meet his eyes.

He looks just as wrecked as you feel. Chest heaving and eyes blown with lust. You’re going to lose your mind.

“Bucky-“

“Not now.” He mutters, pulling you a little further back. “Need to be inside of you, doll. Please.”

You’d have to be insane to say no.

You crawl back on the mattress, spreading your legs in silence invitation, and something hot and powerful flashes in his eyes as he takes you in. 

“You-“

“I’m sure.” You squirm in the sheets, running your hand between your legs and starting to rub your clit in slow, strong circles. “God, I’m so fucking sure, please-“

He’s shockingly fast for such a large man. It might be the whole dream thing, but you barely register him moving to kneel over you, swatting your hand away with a darkened gaze a set jaw.

“I do that,” he grunts, running two fingers up and down your cunt, smirking at you high whine. “Legs open, doll, want to see how wet I’m making you.”

You nod, falling flat on your back, and pour all your focus into his order. “Fuck, Bucky-“ He shoves the fingers into your pussy, and your back arches off the bed. “Shit- I- Please-“

“You want my cock?” He drawls your name, and you can only nod dumbly at the ceiling. “Come on, tell me you want it-“

“Want it,” you gasp, hugging your body as he starts to pump his finger, crooking them at the exact right spot deep inside of you. “Fuck, Bucky, you said- You said you’d fuck me-“

He clicks his tongue. “I said I’d be inside of you-“

“But- But I want you to fuck me.” You start to roll your hips as his pace picks up. “Please, Bucky-“

You whine as his fingers vanish, leaving you clenching around only the air, but it’s a short-lived pain.

Bucky slams into you with one thrust, and you’d been wrong again.

He hadn’t ruined you. He’s destroyed you.

You’ve never been so full in your life. You’ve never been fucked like this in your life. With a fervor that should be painful, but just makes you feel wanted. Cared for. Bucky’s every thrust is brutal and rough, and his mouth on yours is that same feral kiss from before, but he’s pressed his body over yours like he’s trying to shield you from the world, and he’s groaning your name down your throat like it’s a hymn.

You’d say his name too, if you could remember how to speak. But Bucky’s hitting every right spot deep in your pussy, and you’re so high the world is just color and light and Bucky, and when he starts to suck and kiss a line down your throat, along your collarbone, and over your tits, you’re sure you’re going to fly out of your skin.

Then he takes your nipple into his mouth, and the sound you make is almost inhuman. Your release crashes over you like a wave, Bucky groans against your breast as you squeeze around his cock, and a burning warmth coats your thighs and cunt as he cums with a roar.

You make a small noise of content as Bucky pulls out, kissing a soft line back up your jaw before dropping his brow to yours and letting out a long, slow breath.

“That was…” He trails off, moving his hand to hold your hips, drawing firm patterns with his thumb that might drive you out of your mind.

“Yeah.” You whisper. “It was.”

He nods, and neither of you move for a really long time. Usually you’ve woken up by now, but no part of you is eager to go, eager to leave where there’s still a little buzz in your heart from the pleasure, where you can feel a perfect ache between your legs and you’re so happily trapped under the warmth of Bucky’s body-

Happy. 

You’re happy. 

This isn’t real, but under Bucky’s body you’re safe and warm and happy. And you don’t want to go. 

Almost as if he can read your mind, Bucky clears his throat.

“Thank you.” He mutters, his breath hot and soft over your ear. “Needed this.” There a long pause, and his hand squeezes on your hips. “Needed you. And I know it’s dumb to thank you, because-“

“It’s not.” You cut him off with a kiss to his neck, rubbing your hand up and down his back. “And I needed you too.”

He lets out a dry laugh that you don’t understand, but doesn’t push on it. Just kisses your brow and rolls onto his back, taking you with him and clinging to you like you’re a tether to something a little more important than just a dream.

And you really don’t know why he’d laughed. 

You do need him. You’re growing more and more certain every night that you need Bucky more than you need anything in real life. That he’s more than anyone else, and that he maybe, possibly, could be real.

He feels real, beneath you with a calloused hand squeezing at your skin and your finger tracing over the scars near his arm. 

He sounds real, when you finally ask why he only has one arm, and he takes a very long breath but mutters that he fell off a train. When he tells you that bad people found him, and he wasn’t really the best guy either, for a really long time. 

He tastes real when you kiss him for comfort, and smells real when you bury your face in his neck as he continues. 

You know he’s not telling you everything, but you also know he’s not lying. 

And you really do know that, in some strange and impossible way, this might be real.

———

“I see.” Raynor swallows, and she won’t stop staring at you. “Did those, ah, occurrences happen again?”

You nod, staring at your hands. “Pretty much every time after.” A smile tugs at your lips. “One time we used the barn.”

“I-“ Raynor sighs. “Understood. How long, exactly, did this continue?”

“They never stopped, not until-“ Your nails dig into your skin, and a heavy stone lodges itself in your throat. “The, uh, the blip.”

———

These have been the worst five years of your life. And they haven’t been amazing for anyone, but no one else has to feel this like you do.

And that’s selfish. A little narcissistic. Incredibly crude.

But it doesn’t make it any less true.

Because everyone lost people. Everyone watched loved ones vanish right in front of them, witnessed the world fall and crumble around them as half of humanity vanished, and got left in the rubble to pick up the pieces. 

But no one else seems to feel this. Nobody else seems to be falling apart at the seams from nothing at all like you are. Because Bucky was probably never real. But he’s gone. 

And you don’t know how to move on.

It’s odd to grieve a dream. It makes living impossible. You go to all the support groups and listen to everyone share their own pain, and it makes your heart ache for them but nothing in you ever seems to heal. It’s as if a piece of you had been ripped out and ground to ash, and mending over it would be blasphemous. You don’t want to fix it. You need to, because this is no way to exist, but it feels wrong every time you try. As if even your body can’t just admit he’s gone, and you need to keep going. But everything feels artificial. Every breath is mechanical, and every beat of your heart feels shallow and deliberate, like it’s only doing just enough to keep you alive.

What’s worse is that you can’t tell anyone why you’ve become a sunken, hollow shell. You’d sound insane. You’re already not winning any points in the sound of mind department, and you do have a record, so if you went to one of the countless therapists who have been making their living off of everyone’s loss and said ‘see, doctor, the person I loved only existed in my dreams, but he vanished with the snap and now it feels like I’ve been cleaved in half’, you’d be locked up in an asylum.

You hate that you’re only realizing it now. That the overwhelming sense of warmth and peace you felt in your dreams with Bucky was love. That you’d fallen in love with a piece of your own mind. You’d basically fallen in love with your reflection. Your annoying, handsome, grumpy reflection that you’d rip your spine out of your body to reshape it back into his form, to bring him back to your side.

And the dreams still happen. He’s just not there, and it’s the worst thing in the fucking universe. You keep coming back to a forest, and there’s a little ash that’s always drifting around in the air, that feels really important.

It all always feels like more than just Bucky being gone. It feels like you’ve missed a train, or taken a wrong turn, and lost a key that double as a compass, and now you’re stranded at the bottom of the ocean. 

Alone. 

You’ve spent your whole life with only yourself to rely on, but you’ve never felt more alone.

———

“And after the blip?”

“He came back.” You’re going to cry. You really hate crying in front of Raynor—she always tells you it’s going to be okay, and you fucking know that—but you can’t stop it. Because Bucky really did come back, and it’s still the best thing that ever happened to you.

———

During the past five years, your sleep has gotten fucked. You get about four hours a night, because that’s just long enough to keep you functional but too short to allow you to appear in the forest.

So it took a while to pass out. You’d curled up in your bed, drank tea, done yoga, followed every ‘how to fall asleep fast’ internet guide until your eyes drooped, and you were gone.

When the dream takes shape around you, you’re not in the forest, but in a sleek, hospital-like room that you don’t recognize. 

And he’s there. 

Bucky’s right fucking there.

You make a small, choked sound, and his eyes shoot to yours in an instant. 

He’s moving in a second. Half launching across the room to grab you before your knees give out, holding you to his chest as you cling to his shirt and press your face into his neck. 

“Hey,” he mutters your name, and you can hear the low horror in it. He’s putting together why you’re crying. Why you’re scratching at his neck and trying to half climb up his body. “You’re alright. It’s all good, doll, everything’s good now-“

You cut him off with a long, heavy kiss, and his hand moves to cup your head. 

He has two hands again. You don’t really care why.

Because Bucky’s rubbing circles on the skin of your waist, and letting you cry without making a big fucking deal about it, and nothing mended. Nothing’s ever mended. You’ve been a little fucking broken for a long time, with or without Bucky. But it had been a kind of broken that had folded and shaped with him, and when he’d been gone it was like half your organs had been frozen and crumbled in your body.

But he’s back. And you feel real again.

———

There’s a long silence in the air, and you know what’s coming. The question. You’ve known she’s going to ask it the whole time—you’d honestly expected it a lot sooner—and you’ve been prepared. You have a very long speech about how Bucky had changed again—short hair, kept the new arm, appearing in his own, mostly empty apartment and trading the Wakandan clothing for jeans and jackets—and that he’d told you how much he hated some guy named John. 

He’d said he despised the asshole. That he was everything Steve had hated—you’d had a pretty good idea who Steve was, based on context and a theory but you hadn’t be quite ready to it yet—and nothing sounded better than punching his lights out. 

And you’re ready to explain that you’d had the news on in the background, a few words had broken from static background noise, and your whole world had shifted. John Walker had been announced as the new Captain America, they’d run a stupid little fluff piece on the life of Steve Rogers, and there was Bucky. Captain America’s best friend and ally, the assumed cause of that whole the Avengers are breaking up thing, and the former Winter Solider. 

You’d mostly stared at the screen for a really long time as everything feel into place—you’d looked him up after, and it was a little embarrassing it had taken you this long given that he has a Wikipedia page—before calling Raynor, and preparing for the question.

But when she asks it, your mind goes blank, and all you can’t think to say is the truth.

“May I ask,” Raynor says carefully. ”Why are you only discussing this now?”

“Because he’s real.”

———

Bucky has dreams. Not nightmares.

Dreams.

He dreams about Her. She’s the only constant in his life, the only solace and purely good thing he knows, and She’s not even damn real.

Bucky’s pretty sure She’s not real. It wouldn’t make any sense for Her to be real. He’d spent most of the years assuming that She was simply a result of him being able to dream again, a trick of his mind that was both a comfort and a torture, because he needed those dreams—needed Her, in a strange way that lived in his chest and was soft on his skin—more than he’d ever needed anything, but they also reminded him of what he’d never have.

A life in a simple apartment, filled with his own presence in a way that was easy. He always loved that about Her apartment. How everywhere he looked, She was there. The colors and furniture and posters and trinkets on the shelves all screamed Her, and no one could ever replicate that if they tried. 

He didn’t know how to do that anywhere. How to just be him in a way that didn’t feel like something was strangling him. His apartment was barren. Every time he spoke it felt like he should be apologize immediately after, because barely anyone seemed to like him, let alone want to hear him.

Bucky understood that. He wasn’t exactly his own biggest fan, and the only time there was no part of him trying to escape his own body was when he was asleep, and She was at his side. 

He liked being himself with Her. It was simple, and natural, and never a labor. She never flinched away from him—She seemed to like being close to him—and Bucky never really wanted to wake up. Part of him always hoped that this time, when he fell asleep and She appeared once more, he’d wake up in Her apartment, and it would all be real.

A very small part of him needed this—needed Her—to be real. It would be really amazing if She was real. It wasn’t something he deserved to ask for, to plead with the universe about, but he did. He kept trying to come up with reasons She could be real.

She felt real, in his dreams. She spoke and acted like a person, and not a doll or shell his brain may have created to get him through his de-programming. She was always saying things and making references he didn’t get until she explained them, things he was certain he hadn’t heard in passing. She was way prettier than anyone Bucky had ever seen, which would contribute to Her being only a dream if he wasn’t so certain that he simply wasn’t that creative.

He could imagine a pretty girl.

He couldn’t imagine Her.

Smart and funny and gorgeous, fitting against him like She’d been molded to, teasing him in ways he’d never thought of and kind to him ways he couldn’t be kind to himself. 

She was never disgusted by the arm, and Bucky was sure that—if She was only a part of his mind given shape—she would know about the whole Winter Soldier thing. But he’d had to explain all he could to Her, and when he’d left certain, darker parts out She hadn’t said but that’s not the truth, is it, James.

She seemed to like Bucky. That was the most concrete proof he had that She had to somehow be real. Nobody liked him. Not in to raw, unrelenting way She did.

So She had to be real.

Bucky really hoped, against all odds, that she was real. 

It would fix a lot of problems if She was real. Sam kept trying to get him to date, and he didn’t want to. He always felt like he was betraying Her. It wasn’t sustainable or logical, but logic didn’t really matter here, because Bucky’s gut would wither and his hands would curl into fists every time he had to try and flirt with another woman. They didn’t fit against him as well as She did. Their teasing would either bite too hard or not bite at all, and the night would end with Bucky falling back into Her arms. 

He asked Shuri—very vaguely, he didn’t want his brain to be poked and prodded again—what reoccurring dreams could mean.

“Reoccurring?” She’d frowned at him over the video call. “You’ll have to clarify, reoccurring can mean many things.”

“Uh,” Bucky had swallowed, glancing at his mattress across the room. “A dream you have every night. And it could change, but it’s always the same person in it?”

Shuri had given him an odd look. “Have you been having a dream like that?”

“No.” His answer had been too fast. He needed to keep it together if he was going to sell this. “Sam has. He mentioned that he kept seeing some lady in his dreams, and she felt real but he’d never met her before. Thought I’d do him a favor and ask about it.”

It wasn’t the best lie he’d ever told, if Shuri look of doubt had been any indication. But she bit, and kept moving.

“Well, it looks as if Sam,” she’d given him a pointed look, and Bucky had forced his face to remain completely neutral. “Has found his soulmate.”

Bucky had stared at her for a really long time. His vision had blurred, there had been a ringing in his ears, and time had seemed to still as Shuri’s words sank in.

Soulmate.

“I thought, uh,” Bucky had cleared his throat, his voice a little hoarse. “Soulmates aren’t real-“

“Of course they’re real.” Shuri had shrugged. “Soulmate is an archaic term for two brains that emit the exact same neuroelectricity, their nerve paths aligning completely. Often they will have differing personalities and lives, but the tie of the biology will link them in sleep, and they will experience incredibly vivid lucid dreams. Like this video conference, but if our minds and bodies were built to fall in love with each other. It is rare, but not impossible.”

Bucky had frowned. “But I- uh, Sam said he’s only had these dreams about four years-“

“Sam’s brain underwent severe rewiring and torment.” Shuri’s voice had been dry, her expression flat. “He would do well to remember that his connection may have been slightly mauled, and only after a certain genius princess fixed him would he have been able to reciprocate the bond fully.”

Oh.

The first time Bucky had appeared in Her apartment, She had said ten years. When She’d appeared to him for the very first time, She’d said she’d dreamt of him before.

Bucky had assumed that had been another way his brain was comforting him. Telling him he could be the type of person a pretty girl like Her dreamed about.

But when he thought about it—clenched his jaw and drew up the heavier, blood-stained memories of the Soldier—there had sometimes been someone in his body with him. Not the Soldier, but the third presence that wasn’t hostile. Wasn’t really foreign. Just was. 

“Could the-“ Bucky had swallowed, watching Shuri carefully as he spoke. “Sam said he could sometimes feel the gal while he was awake. Is that a thing that could happen?”

“If Sam was not himself, and the soulmate was not of full maturity, yes.”

Bucky had felt himself pale. “What do you mean, full maturity-“

“You are a hundred years old, Mr. Barnes.” Shuri had raised her brows, and all pretense of Sam had dropped. “There would have naturally been a point where your soulmate was a child, as that is how most people begin their lives. It is likely that you were still under the control of Hydra in your soulmate’s youth, and she would have only been a growing presence in your mind until she was a full person, and you were no longer only the shell of a man I met after my father’s death.”

“So she- Would she have seen what I did? As the Solider?”

He knew She had. She’d told him She had.

Bucky still didn’t want it to be true.

Shuri had given him a sympathetic look. “Unfortunately, yes. She would have. But if she is what you say, she is a perfect match to you in every way. She will not care what you were before, under the control of Hydra.”

“But-“

“It is not something worth protesting, Bucky.” Shuri had sighed, leaning a little closer to the camera. “This is not something that can be severed or changed, so please do not bother to ask. And remember that she is real. Her own person, with her own pain. I would recommend you attempt to find her, but that is something you will have to decide for yourself.”

And now he was here. Staring at the dark screen where Shuri’s face had been moments before, his head still spinning around the word. 

Soulmate.

She’d made is sound scientific. Possible. Bucky could have a soulmate. 

He didn’t deserve a soulmate. Not one he’d likely trapped in his mind, forced to witness the brutal atrocities he’d committed as the Winter Solider.

And he wanted to find Her. Bucky wanted to touch Her and kiss her and keep her longer than just the night. To wake up and see Her next to him, tangible and all his. 

He’d liked the idea of something being his in a way that wasn’t a curse. In a way he could throw his all right back to Her, and she’d catch it. 

But there was still the sour, molding feeling over his heart that—since She was real, and probably had Her own issues to deal with—She wouldn’t want him in her life. Not Her real life, where everything was more complicate than just them in a literal dream.

He shouldn’t find Her. She’d be better off without him. Bucky would do nothing but make Her life more complicated, and he could get through this know that She was real and safe, far away from him but still haunting his dreams in the best way possible.

He was so lost in his head he misses the first phone call. And the second one.

It was the third one that got his attention—buzzing and ringing on the table next to his computer, Dr. Raynor flashing across the screen—and the fourth one he actually managed to pick up.

Bucky didn’t bother to hide the tension in his voice when he spoke. He really didn’t have the time or energy for this, not right now. “Doc, I’m not due back for another four days-“

“I’m aware, James, I keep a calendar.” Raynor sighed through the speaker, and Bucky had never heard her sound so tense. It was a little concerning. “However, I am going to have to request you come in today. It’s an emergency.”

He scowled. “What emergency, I haven’t done anything emergency worthy-“

“It’s not only about you.” Raynor snapped. “And I’m changing it from a request to an order. Office in twenty minutes.” There was a long pause, and then a whispered, “Please.”

That wasn’t good.

“Did I get in trouble?” Bucky asked, his grip on the phone tightening. “Cause I’ve been following all the stupid rules, and if Sam says I did something he’s just being a dramatic dick-“

Raynor sighed, and Bucky could picture the thin look of exhaustion on her face. “You are not in trouble, James. It’s not- I can’t explain over the phone. It may be better for you to see.”

“See what?”

“Just come to the fucking office.”

Bucky blinked, and the line went dead.

Raynor couldn’t make him go. But he also had never heard her swear like that. Or order him to come in before an appointment.

He was a little curious. And it wasn’t like he had anything else to do today but drown in the knowledge of what Shuri had told him, trying to work out how he’d face Her tonight.

So he went to the office. Chances are it was nothing. Bucky couldn’t imagine it would be something. He spent the whole ride trying to think of an idea, came up blank, and decided that Sam had mentioned something to Raynor about how Bucky had been brooding more than usual, and he was just going to have to explain the whole I’m not brooding, I’m just sick of Sam’s blind date bullshit and also maybe have a soulmate thing. Then he’s kick Sam’s ass, and everything would be fine.

Bucky entered to office with a whole speech ready. His chin raised high and his arms crossed, because he was already having a very weird and complex day, and he didn’t need this. 

All the words were knocked out of him the moment he opened the door, glanced around the room, and saw who was on the couch.

Her.

In person. 

Very, very real, and in Raynor’s office, and here.

Raynor said Her name. The name Bucky knew Her by, and her last name. 

It was a nice last name. Barnes would suit Her better, but the idea that she was real enough to have a last name was already bringing Bucky to his knees, so he’d have to save that thought for later.

“Meet James Barnes.” Raynor was probably looking between them. Bucky couldn’t be sure though, because he couldn’t stop staring at Her.

She was moving to Her feet, and seeing Her in person was somehow even better. She was sharper around the edges, and more colorful in small, bright ways, and nothing about Her felt like it could ever slip between Bucky’s fingers.

She wasn’t mist. She wasn’t an illusion, or a coping mechanism.

She was real.

Walking towards him with wide eyes and an open mouth, reaching a hand up to poke at his face. Tracing his nose and running fingers over his cheekbones, Her eyes never leaving his.

Bucky caught Her hand right as it brushed over his lips, and She made the prettiest gasp he’d ever heard.

“You’re real.” He said, because it was all he could think of. Nothing about this was a dream. Bucky would not have a dream where Raynor was watching him restrain himself from kissing Her until she collapsed in his arms.

“I’m real.” She whispered, and Her voice was better in real life too. “You’re here.”

He nodded. “I’m here.” He paused, scanning over Her open features. “Don’t think I’m going anywhere, doll.”

Her face split into a wide smile, all teeth and light and joy. For Bucky. 

There was adoration on Her face, and it was all for Bucky.

“Good.” Her smile grew, Her fingers tangling with his metal ones. “Because I’m not either.”

End Note: Save me Bucky Barnes raising goats. Bucky Barnes raising goats, save me.

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