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keferon · 6 months ago

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Chapter 3 of Blurr’s storyline in Mecha AU!

Previous chapter

“Speaking of Mechs.” continues Blurr, ”That thing's evacuation system sucks. What if you were stunned by the fall? What if something short-circuits and starts a fire???”

Swindle just clenches the glass in his hands. Feels the cold moisture of condensation dripping down onto his fingers.

“Then I'd burn.” he doesn't say

Under the cut⤵️

——————————————————

It's Swindle's birthday.

He thinks it is.

He's pretty sure.

Since he was taken into the program, it's always hard to tell. It's like time flows differently here. He had a calendar, but Brawl put it somewhere a while ago and then forgot where it was. And they're not allowed to have phones yet. Though Swindle assumes Onslaught managed to steal one from someone anyway.

Shit. Where's the calendar?

Swindle remembers the date, but can't remember the month.

There's a strange static tingling sensation in the back of his head. If he turns his head too fast, it'll grow into an unpleasant pricking pain.

The last time in the lab was disgusting.

He can't remember what month it is. He's not even sure why it bothers him so much. Not that birthdays mean anything within the walls of the program.

He stops in the middle of the living room and looks around with a meticulous eye. He's already checked the beds, desk, and nightstands...hah.

“Hey have any of you seen my calendar?”

Vortex, sitting on top of the bunk bed shakes the ash off his cigarette right down into Blast Off's lap.

“Nope.”

“TEX YOU'RE LITTERING ON MY BED.”

“I could have ..torn it up” offers Brawl from across the room.

Swindle turns on his heels and angrily rests his arms at his sides.

“You tore it?”

“I might have,” Brawl scratches the back of his head.

Swindle pinches the bridge of his nose

That's fine. Not that he cares that much. Not that any celebration at all would save the crappy day.

He has some new “experimental” medical procedure scheduled for later, which generally means suffering. Or if he's lucky, some critter will attack the city and instead of squirming on the slab, he'll have to go cuddle with huge nasty beasts. Which is slightly better than the actual procedures. He'd like that to happen. If only his head would also stop buzzing....

“Happy birthday to me” Swindle thinks, sticking his Mech hand under the plates of a particularly ugly monster and pulling something disgustingly oozing green blood out of there. He can see the faces of the random gawkers who didn't have time to evacuate. Ooh, some of them got that nasty stuff on their faces. Swindle has no time to feel sorry for them.

The monster did attack, but it's entirely possible that this monster ended the last meager supply of luck Swindle had. Because somewhere. Something. In his head begins to hurt again and the world in front of his eyes begins to slowly blur and..

ahh FUCK….

The monster grabs him knocks him to the ground and Swindle can literally feel in his bones that something's wrong, but the data from his Mech doesn't give him any useful information. Which isn't that uncommon. These things are glitchy as hell and aren't designed to recognize anything but the most basic popular malfunctions.

The word “error” shines mockingly in his face. Blurring in his eyes and reflecting in red on his uniform.

Error, error, what the hell is this error. He needs to know what's wrong so he doesn't accidentally kill himself, but all this bucket offers him is oops. You're in trouble teeheee~

He can hear the sound of Blast Off's giant cannon in the distance. And the loud rumble where Vortex and Onslaught are trying to get out of the ring of monsters.

His Mech is unresponsive. His damn machine refuses to move and Swindle isn't quite sure if it's the Mech that's the problem, because his head feels like a piece of raw rotten meat and maybe the error meant that what's broken is him.

The monster leans over him, trying to rip off whatever it can rip off and thank god this thing apparently isn't smart enough to realize that the Mech is controlled from the head because it's aiming straight for his chest.

He needs to get out. If he can't get this thing to move, he needs to get the fuck out of it before the alien gets him.

He manages to open the emergency hatch and quietly slip out and ohhhh the world is spinning, this is not bloody good.

He manages to take a few steps before a loud B A N G comes from somewhere above and IS THAT A TRAIN???? Who in their right mind would think of using a fucking train as a throwing weapon???? Is that Brawl? It's got to be Brawl. Oh, Swindle is so gonna kill him.

Because (sadly) in addition to the monster, the train and Swindle, there's also physics involved in this circus.

So while the monster is effectively brought to rest and knocked sideways with a hole in it’s head, the train stops its forward motion and starts its downward motion.

Right onto Swindle's head.

He just has time to think that dying from a train falling out of the sky is a pretty creative death. His legs are shaking, his head is buzzing and he only manages to take half a sluggish step in an attempt to avoid the inevitable when a loud “MOVE” comes to his ears and something yanks him to the side.

The tug sends fire down his spine and head. The ensuing landing reverberates with pain in his shoulder and sides. He barely has time to process the first two sensations until a moment later he hears a rumble so deafening that he thinks his eardrums are about to burst.

Swindle props himself up on his elbows and hisses in pain as the movement causes the back of his head to sting.

“Ah I'll fuckin' kill him...”

A voice comes above him

“Ouw dude. You okay?”

There's.. Some teenager hovering over him. And behind him is lying...the wrecked train...right where Swindle himself was standing a second ago.

The strange teen frowns worriedly and pulls Swindle upright and drags him somewhere else

“Come on, it's best not to be in the open during monster attacks”

“Ah” thinks Swindle ”right. Without Mech you're a pathetic tiny piece of chop begging to be stomped on by Brawl.”

He tries to focus on balance so he doesn't hang too much on this kid.

They find the nearest unlocked door, which turns out to be the entrance to an underground bar.

“So” says the stranger, letting go of Swindle and shaking the dust off his hair ” You're a pilot! That's so cool, but you're kinda small for a pilot.”

Swindle sighs sullenly.

“I'll let you have that one comment about my height because you helped me, but next time you're dead.”

“Helped? I saved your ass.”

“Helped a lot” says Swindle grudgingly. “Thanks.”

The teen laughs and climbs into the bar. It's a mess everywhere, people clearly evacuated in a hurry and threw everything in haste.

“What's your name? Oh, or, wait. Do you guys use code names? I've heard pilots call each other by call signs, but half the time those call signs sound so dumb, I don't see how they can respond to that.”

He waits for the kid to cut off his flow of words to take a breath. Man, what a chatty boy.

“You can call me Swindle.”

“Kay” the kid pulls out a couple glasses ”I'm Blurr. Would you like something Swindle? I don't mean to brag, but I'm pretty good at mixing cocktails.”

Swindle looks around the room suspiciously. The bar, even though it's underground, looks pretty good. Too good, in fact. The place is clearly not for the poor.

He walks over to the bar and climbs onto a bar stool. There's no one else in here but them, but the electricity is on so he doesn't doubt for a second that they're being filmed by a security camera right now. Maybe a few even.

Blurr throws him an expectant look.

Swindle pretends to go through his pockets. As if there could be money in them out of nowhere. Then he makes a comically confused face and spreads his hands.

“Oh, no, I think I left my millions at home. What's the cheapest thing you have?”

Blurr snorts.

“Ice is free.”

“I'll take the ice then” nods Swindle.

There is a loud rumbling sound above them. It must be Vortex having fun again bouncing on the aliens that have fallen to the ground, crushing their heads.

Swindle is just. He takes off his helmet, takes a glass of ice and presses it to his head enjoying the way the nasty buzzing recedes.

Blurr waits for the rumbling to recede before speaking again.

“But really. You're a pilot but...uh. Are you even old enough to drink?”

Swindle sends him his best grumpy look. It's not exactly a joke about his height, but it's damn close.

“Are you old enough to pour?”

“Sure,” says Blurr too fast for it to be true. If Swindle had to guess, he'd say the guy in front of him is no older than seventeen. The tattered jeans and the T-shirt with the F1 logo printed on it definitely don't help. And, hey, those headphones look very expensive. So do the sneakers. Kid's clearly from a wealthy family.

Blurr pulls out a bottle of syrup from somewhere and pours it straight into his mouth. Doesn't miss, which is amusing. Doesn't wince, which is frankly impressive. Swindle feels the unbearable sweetness just looking at him.

It suddenly hits him

“Hey, do you have a phone?”

“Sure,” Blurr pours himself more syrup. Swindle twitches.

“What's the day today?”

Blurr's mouth is full of an unimaginable amount of sugar, so he just pulls out his phone and turns its screen toward Swindle and oh...oh. He was wrong about the date. And the month, too. It's not his birthday. His birthday was a week ago...

Does that mean he must be nineteen now? Yeah, that makes him nineteen.

Blurr takes the phone back and slips it into his pocket.

“Your face looks funny.”

“I just realized it's my birthday today,” smiles Swindle.

“Oooooooohh~~~” rejoices Blurr ”Congratulations! It's kind of poetic that you almost died just today. Can you imagine how funny the numbers on your tombstone would have looked.”

Swindle chokes on air.

“That's certainly a very appropriate comment, thank you...”

“Sorry haha said without thinking.” Blurr reaches under the counter again and pulls out a bottle from there “Hey, they have more syrups!”

There's another loud rumble from upstairs.

Blurr presses his head into his shoulders and stares up at the ceiling as if hoping to see something through it.

Swindle puts his elbows and head on the tabletop

“Don't worry, it's just Brawl.”

Blurr doesn't take his eyes off the ceiling

“ You can tell that by the sound of falling concrete?”

Swindle lazily dangles his feet. The chair is high and even the toes of his shoes don't reach the floor.

“Brawl is the loudest. And the heaviest, too. He's always crashing into everything, throwing things and breaking things too. You can hear him a mile away.”

He pauses to listen

“And that kch-ooooooooomm is Blast Off's cannon. It's some super rare experimentally advanced one, so it sounds like something out of a space movie. He couldn't stop bragging about it for half a year when he got it.”

Blurr chuckles and leans his elbows on the counter, relaxing.

“ And this...uh...what's this?”

“That's Vortex, he's our local lunatic. Best not to listen too much to what he does, it's almost always disgusting in ways you would never even consider.”

Blurr makes a disgruntled face and is silent for a couple minutes.

“It's weird hearing you call them by their names. I mean, I kind of always knew Mechs were run by people but you guys are never seen, so most of the time it's just.. Huge robots and huge monsters. You know what I mean. I was actually surprised when I saw you get out of that Mech.”

Swindle just nods. Because, what else is there to add.

“Speaking of Mechs.” continues Blurr, ”That thing's evacuation system sucks. What if you were stunned by the fall? What if something short-circuits and starts a fire???”.

Swindle just clenches the glass in his hands. Feels the cold moisture of condensation dripping down onto his fingers

“Then I'd burn.” he doesn't say

Blurr doesn't seem to notice his glum mood

“Oh, hey. If it's no secret, why did you go into piloting in the first place?”

Because he had no choice? He can't answer that, that information isn't for civilians.

Because he didn't know what he was getting into until it was too late? That's not vague enough either.

Because he was up to his neck in debt and barely into college before a smiling man showed up on his doorstep and offered him good money if he agreed to a couple tests...?

“I had to do it for the people.” Swindle decides to repeat a line of propaganda.

“Ohhhh.... That's...a good reason. The monsters are disgusting, of course. But the reason is cool.”

Swindle just. Holds his glass of melting ice, listens to Blurr's mutterings, and enjoys the peace. This random teenager is not his superior or colleague and has nothing to do with the organization at all. Swindle doesn't have to remember to salute or follow orders or fear being reported to his superiors.

He can just. Be.

Just him and his free ice and his saved for free life.

That's. Sweet.

Blurr's drinking syrup again.

...and a little disgusting.

—————————-

Brawl jumps out of bed, hits his head on a shelf hanging on the wall and drops everything on it onto Blast Off's head

“Swindle!!!” yells Brawl.

“Why are these books sticky???” shrieks Blast Off.

“You don't wanna know~” giggles Vortex.

Swindle sighs.

“You're alive!!!” ignores Blast Off Brawl's complaints. And a second later runs up and pulls Swindle off the floor in a crushing bear hug.

Behind them, Blast Off, with his face wrinkled in disgust, gathers all the dropped books back onto the shelf.

Swindle wheezes pathetically and slaps Brawl's arm with his palm, either to reciprocate the gesture or to beg for mercy

“Br...khaaaaah...Brawl I can't breathh.”

“OH. I'm uh. Here. Wait.”

Brawl puts him back on the floor and runs back to the shelf.

Onslaught, who has peeked into the room, puts a hand on Swindle's shoulder

“You've been gone a long time. Boss said you tried to escape.”

His tone isn't judgmental. And not pressuring. Not even questioning, but Swindle knows Onslaught wants more information. Swindle clutches a piece of napkin with a phone number in his pocket and smiles weakly.

“I've found a...friend? I think?”

Onslaught nods. In a manner that only he knows how to do. Not giving an opinion, not encouraging or condemning. Just taking in the information. Swindle admires him for that.

Behind them, Brawl pulls some piece of paper out from under the books that have just been put away and drops them again

“FUCK!” yells Blast Off. Vortex just starts hooting like a hyena.

“Hey Swindle I found the calendar!” yells Brawl waving the paper.

Swindle frowns in surprise.

“It's a different calendar...”

“I found you a new one.” nods Brawl.

“...Why...is it...it's torn in half?”

“It had stupid flowers drawn on it, so I ripped them off. And I accidentally ripped off more than I needed.”

“Ah,” says Swindle, clutching the calendar, ”That's...Thanks. I forgive you for losing the previous one.”

Behind them, Blast Off is trying to strangle Vortex with a jacket.

------------

Blurr waves his arms happily like a hyperactive windmill.

“Swindle!!!”

Swindle smiles and adjusts his glasses

“Your party can be seen from across city.”

“I know~~” primps Blurr “Are you hungry? There was a snack table around here somewhere.”

“I didn't bring any money.” lies Swindle.

“Hey man, it's a party. Help yourself, it's free.”

“Оh.” Swindle's mood instantly brightens. “All right, then.”

“You look terrible” Blurr decides to share.

Swindle, busy shoveling food into his pockets, nods.

“I've had a rough week. Actually, it'd be cool if you didn't tell anyone you saw me here. I'm kind of not supposed to be here.”

He doesn't elaborate.

Blurr is a civilian. In his mind, a rough week is rude people or an exam or bad weather. Swindle's bad week is strap marks on his wrists and double vision. It's nausea from injections and sleepless nights because Vortex won't stop screaming in his sleep.

Blurr doesn't know that. With him, Swindle can pretend to be somewhat normal.

-----------

“Heeeeey“ says Blurr ‘I haven't seen you in a long time~"

“That” thinks Swindle ”is a pretty standard phrase for both of them.

Blurr looks older. Taller too. He was taller than Swindle before, but now that difference is starting to look almost comical. He's also flaunting a cast on his arm.

“Did you get hurt?”

“Didn't make a turn at training” waves Blurr off “It's no big deal. Wanna go find something to eat?”

Blurr is always trying to feed him, Swindle notices over time. Offers him drinks or snacks or whatever.

“ I like your uh..cap?”

“I got a promotion” Swindle smiles proudly “Me and the guys were made a special group...actually you're not allowed to know more than that, so you'll have to take my word for it when I say we are officially cool.”

He purposely adjusts his cap by the brim so Blurr can get a good look at it.

Blurr makes a delighted sound. Something between a “wow” and a giggle. He generally makes a lot of sounds all the time. Tapping his fingers on every hard surface, stomping in place like he's always late for something, laughing, whistling, clicking his tongue. A human orchestra.

__________

Onslaught sits down next to Swindle and clutches his hands in his lap in front of him. This makes the bed legs squeak pitifully. Onslaught has grown surprisingly large. He can almost rival Brawl in height already. Most people find that intimidating, but Swindle just thinks Onslaught is like a wall. A big, solid concrete wall that's so good to hide behind.

“Be careful with what you tell this guy.”

“Don't worry” says Swindle ”He's not the type of friend you tell secrets to. He's just a fun dude who's great to hang out with.”

Onslaught hums.

“And who feeds you for free.”

“If that's how you're trying to ask me to share, you're not doing a very good job.”

Vortex snaps his fingers as he walks past them

“Hey Swindler, the lab is closed for today. It's your day off.”

“Wha...”

Onslaught tilts his head.

“Vortex. What did you do?”

“I spat in their dna sample vault” proudly proclaims Vortex “and didn't tell them exactly where.”

-----———————-

Blurr frowns.

“Hey...are you okay?”

“No” thinks Swindle.

“My friend died” he says instead.

He's not okay. He feels like an animal caught in a beartrap, trying to chew off its own paw to get free.

Except the trap is closed around Swindle's head and it's not a body part he can afford to lose.

There's been a lot of talk. Even more rumors. Swindle listened but tried not to believe.

And then one of pilots, Shockwave… was taken to the lab and brought back a different damn man and it felt like Swindle had the rug pulled out from under his feet with hot coals underneath.

Because Swindle's boss, with his stupid, rehearsed smile, started writing reports about how “human personality flaws are something that can be fixed. That challenging behavior is something that can be repaired with tools.

Blurr freezes.

“Who?”

“Vortex.”

Because of course it's Vortex. Talented but difficult to handle. Powerful but uncontrollable.

They wanted a pilot who would be a beast on the battlefield and a loyal dog on base. And who else would be a more ideal test subject than him?

Vortex was being very rude that day, even by Vortex standards. Yelling and swearing and throwing things around. Kept saying that no shitty lab could make him “a fucking puppet.”

Scratching the stitches on his head until he started leaving a trail of blood behind him.

He went on a mission.

And never came back.

The reports said it was all the monsters' fault. That Vortex was unstable. That the accident had nothing to do with the new technology. But it was nevertheless suspended.

Swindle is both bitter and amused by this. Vortex would eat the same monsters for breakfast any other day. The bastard was unkillable.

“Oh my god” says Blurr “I'm so sorry to hear that.”

He says something else. Probably comforting. About how Vortex died protecting people, maybe. About Vortex being a hero.

“Vortex,” thinks Swindle, ”loved life. He loved adrenaline and danger and pain and thrill and fear, but he never wanted to die. They did something to him. Something that made him go over the edge.”

Vortex got his head in the trap and ripped it off to escape it.

Swindle knows him and the others are next. And knows that no one but themselves can help them.

---------------------------

Blast Off seems...very quiet. He could never stop complaining about Vortex before. Yelling about the garbage. Resenting the unmade bed and the cigarette ashes.

Vortex's bed remains unmade.

Blast Off regularly cleans everything up, but never wipes away the little circles of ash from the places where Vortex used to put out cigarettes on the furniture.

Onslaught puts his hand on Swindle's shoulder and squeezes. Not hard. Just enough for Swindle to register the gesture as important.

Standing nearby, Blast Off lights a cigarette and leans on Onslaught.

“Ons told me about your plan. I want to join in.”

“What kind of plan? Can I get involved?” inquires Brawl.

Onslaught sighs.

“Repeat after me - I don't know, they don't tell me anything.”

“I don't know, they don't tell me anything.”

“Good job” nods Onslaught “From now on, every time they ask you any - listen. Any! Question about us, you will answer them with this phrase.”

“Got it,” grins Brawl.

Swindle smiles.

“Gentlemen, it's time to violate all that is written, and rewrite all that is violated.”

__________________

Blurr lazily takes his eyes off the phone. He's wearing a racing suit and tons of hairspray. He's shiny and gleaming like a fine collectible figurine that should be on the shelf of an expensive exhibit. He's also bored.

“Sorry buddy, the interview is long over, if you have any questions you'll have to pay for the session.”

Swindle smiles.

“How about one tiny little question?”

Blurr makes funny big eyes.

“SWINDLE!!! I haven't seen you in a thousand years! You...oh I didn't recognize you haha sorry. Nice coat. You quit being a pilot?”

Swindle proudly adjusts his glasses. He's wearing a brand-new, ironed shirt that's exactly his size. Nice neat tie, expensive coat. Swindle isn't surprised Blurr didn't recognize him immediately. Sometimes he looks in the mirror and doesn't recognize himself. After all those years of wearing the pilot's uniform, he felt almost attached to it. And yet here he is.

“You could say I moved.” he winks snarkily, “Up. All the Mechs you see on the streets now are my Mechs~”

Blurr completely forgets about his phone.

“REALLY?? Oh man congrats to you!”

“Thanks” nods Swindle ”You want something to drink? I'm buying.”

———————-

Onslaught adjusts his tie. It's still, years later, a little strange to see him in a uniform instead of a pilot's suit.

“You do realize it's going to be hard to find a person like that, right? We need someone famous enough to be effective and dumb enough to want to save mankind instead of sunbathing on a yacht.”

Swindle adjusts his glasses and leans back in his chair.

Someone outgoing so they can quickly befriend all the right people. Handsome enough to have their face printed on a poster. Smart just enough not to say too much. And not associated with Mecha program so they can't be accused of trying to get promoted through their acquaintances.

Someone who already has everything but still willing to put themselves at risk for the cause.

“You know, I think I have a possible candidate.”

#maccadam #tf mecha universe #mecha writing #mecha kef writing #mecha bs writing #mecha cbc writing #Blurr #Swindle #Onslaught #Vortex #Brawl #Blast Off #this one is kinda Swindle centric #I just wanted to give more context for his friendship with Blurr:)#Also some Vortex lore

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whowantstobenormalanyway · 17 days ago

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Tipsy Confusion

Bsf!Reader x Dean who thinks they’re dating

A/N: First attempt at a one shot, and first time writing anything supernatural!! Might make more of these with different readers and the same. Reader in this is a bit naive? But she's drunk, and I think we can let her off because of it! Summary: Dean thinks you're dating, you think you're besties, and usually you're okay with that, but right now you're drunk. Sam is a little menace, but at least he's having fun.

What Dean had done to deserve this, he didn’t know.

Ever-serious Sammy was flirting with his girl, for no reason. Well, sure there were some reasons. I mean, you're hella smart, curvy in all the right places, funny, and have a bangin’ taste in music, but still.

Worse of all, to Dean’s dramatic and pissed off view, it seemed like you were flirting back, laughing and leaning into Sam.

In reality, neither of you were flirting. For one, Sam was fully aware of Dean’s obsession with you, and he saw you as an awesome, annoying sister than anything else; in his mind you were part of the family, but would never be his in that way, and nor would he want you to be. Secondly, you were pretty touchy with everyone, and you were tipsy. Three beers in and you were ready to start serenading the barkeep - it’s just how you were.

Frankly, you would practically be on Dean’s lap right now, but he went to the bathroom and hadn’t come back yet, so you were just chilling with Sam.

You noticed your bottle was empty, and pouted slightly when you noticed Sam and Dean’s were too. You didn’t notice the way Dean’s eyes softened at your expression, or the way they hardened again once you had skipped over to the bar to get them all more drinks and he could focus solely on Sam again.

“You two seemed pretty snug,” Dean said, making Sam jump as he slid into their booth. He ground his jaw at the amused smile playing along his brother's face. He was lucky he was his brother, else Dean would have bashed his face in for smiling like that, thinking about you.

Dean may have been a bit tipsy too.

Sam snorted, “Dean.”

“You think this is funny, Sammy?” Dean growled, “Stealing another man’s girl, man, come on!” He was undoubtedly about to go off on a tangent about the betrayed brother, so Sam cut in before he could spiral.

“I am not trying to steal your girl!”

Dean squinted at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

Now Dean just looked offended. “Why not?”

“What?”

“She’s gorgeous, and smart, and funny. Who are you to think you’re too good for her, huh? She’s too good for you, and anybody else in this crappy bar, did you know that?”

“Oh my god, Dean!”

“What?”

Sam was about to reiterate that he didn’t want you, when you came back and plopped next to Dean holding drinks. “FINALLY!” He threw his hands up exasperated, “You can deal with him.”

“Dean!” You chirped, already invading his personal space, although he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he melted into you, as if your presence was able to relax him enough to melt him into a pile of goo.

“Hi, Sweetheart.” He grinned at you, acting totally cool.

Sam just rolled his eyes and picked up his drink.

“You were gone for ages!” You said glaring at the oldest brother suddenly. “What, did you find a girl or something while you were over there?”

Now Dean was bewildered. You always said shit like that when you were drunk, insecurities festering beneath your skin, waiting to come out. In all honesty, you were just a tiny bit jealous of all those girls, I mean Dean was Dean!

But you could live with being his best friend most of the time. Only when drunk did you feel in anyway inferior.

“The hell would I find a girl for when I’ve already got one?”

“You have a girlfriend?” Your eyes watered. Dean didn’t do girlfriends, and the fact that he hadn’t told you about one hurt just a little.

Dean panicked at your shining eyes. “I think you’ve had enough to drink tonight, huh, baby? Getting a bit forgetful.”

“I’m not your car!”

“...No, you’re you.”

Sam was biting his lip as hard as he could to keep from laughing. The little shit knew exactly what was going on. Dean was never one for grand declarations or romantic dates, so he didn’t think he needed to ask you to be his Girlfriend, but he had told Sammy about a gift he wanted to get you for your anniversary in a few months, which was apparently just a random day Dean had decided you two were officially together.

On the other hand, Sam knew you were pining over his brother, but was fully under the impression that both you and he were single. A couple of weeks ago you had mentioned how, if you were dating someone (Cough, cough, Dean) you would have taken them to a cute little riverside restaurant in the town they were staying in at the time. Another time, you were going on about how you wished his brother would see you as more than a best friend, but understood that commitment was hard for him in general and in their line of work.

And, yeah. Sam could have mentioned the situation to Dean, or to you, but that would have taken the fun out of it. He wanted to see who would realise the other’s beliefs first; he had a bet about it with Bobby actually.

Plus, Dean made his dating life hell as a teenager, so a little payback was rather refreshing.

#dean winchester #sam winchester #dean x reader #Dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #supernatural #bsf!reader #bsf!reader x dean winchester #Sam winchester being a menace #impala #dean winchester fluff #spn

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rebelfell · 5 months ago

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Sooo this started out being all cute and fluffy but veered over the edge into the flangst canyon…my bad. 💌 1.8k

Thinking about bestfriend!eddie who shows up your boyfriend on Valentine’s Day.

Unintentionally, of course.

It was never something he planned to do.

He just happened to be in CVS the night before, blazed out of his mind and wandering aimlessly while the guys argued about what snacks to get. And when he made the mistake of turning onto the designated holiday aisle, he was met with a barrage of pink and red glitter and sparkles and hearts exploding off every shelf—an absolute affrontal assault to his cynical sensibilities.

But then he picks up this one card that catches his eye. It’s got a watercolor painting of this cute little porcupine who’s holding a heart-shaped box of chocolates, and there’s a speech bubble at the top that says “I Porcu-PINE for you!”

Eddie absolutely loses it.

He stands there making these stuttering giggling sounds and they’re coming out way louder than he intended, and the pimply and dead-eyed clerk behind the register leans over to give the laziest evil eye Eddie has ever seen. He does his best to stifle himself, but more little snickers still eke out as he picks up the envelope that goes with the card, and starts scanning the shelves for the Valentine’s variation of your favorite candy.

(Because it would be weird just to do the card, right? If he throws in some other stuff too, maybe it’ll be less conspicuous. Yeah? That makes sense, doesn’t it? Yeah, totally it does.)

Before he knows it, he’s collected a whole armload of crap. Two bags of the candies (they’re 2 for $5, that just makes good business sense), a little plushie with giant sparkly eyes (its stare is hypnotizing in an odd way, it kind of reminds him of you), and a small (tiny, honestly) bouquet of daisies wrapped in crinkly cellophane (he knows you like those way more than you like roses.)

He puts it all down on the counter and gets another withering glare from the cashier after he’s rung it all up. Eddie wonders if this guy is judging him; thinks he’s some lazy, loser boyfriend buying a bunch of junk gifts at the last possible minute. But Eddie doesn’t have the mental capability at the moment to explain that he’s not even buying these for a girlfriend—they’re all for his best friend, who he sometimes, occasionally, has some slightly inappropriate thoughts about, which yeah, is kind of inconvenient in a lot of ways, but it’s cool, he’s fine with that—

There’s another huff from the cashier as he repeats the total due, and Eddie realizes this guy doesn’t give a shit that Eddie might be a crappy boyfriend, he’s much more annoyed by the fact that he has yet to take out his wallet. And as he scrambles to do so, the rest of Corroded Coffin comes up to the front, still loudly arguing about the snacks they’re carrying in their hands.

They all give Eddie a funny look when they see what he’s getting, Grant being the first to bluntly ask who it’s for. They fall silent, exchanging wary glances when Eddie mumbles your name under his breath as he hands over a creased and wrinkled bill to pay at long last.

“That’s super weird, man, don’t do that,” Jeff argues immediately. “Just give it to Gareth, and he can give it to Annie instead. Problem solved.”

“Excuse me,” Gareth snaps, “but I’ve gotten my girl her gifts and they’re a hell of a lot better than this crap. Er, uhh…no offense.”

Their drummer winces, and his eyes dart guiltily between Eddie and his purchases.

“No—” Eddie’s face scrunches and he shakes his head defiantly. “They’re not, like, serious gifts. It doesn’t mean anything. And she’s dating that rich asshole, I’m sure he’s gonna bury her in expensive shit. This is barely gonna land on her radar,” he insists, now clutching his bag in his fist.

“So then why bother?” Jeff asks, widening his annoyingly perceptive eyes under arched brows.

But Eddie doesn’t respond. He just stomps out to the parking lot and waits by the car. All the while thinking about all the things he can never quite manage to say out loud when it comes to you.

The next day, Eddie’s rethinking everything.

Sober now and staring down at the offerings piled up in the van’s passenger seat, he can’t help but think this might be the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his life. And that’s saying something.

He talks himself in and out of going through with it about twenty times just in the ten minute drive it takes him to get to your apartment. And even as he climbs the stairs and raises his hand to knock, he has yet to decide if this is a good idea or not.

He came over semi-early, figuring you’d likely be busy later getting ready for some fancy dinner at some restaurant where Eddie probably couldn’t afford to order so much as a glass of water.

But when you open the door, he can’t help but frown at your appearance. You don’t look like you are getting ready to go out, if anything you look like you’ve retired for the evening before 5pm.

Your face is bare except for a couple spots of zit cream, and you have on an old headband pushing your hair back out of your face. You’re swathed in the kind of baggy, oversized clothes he only sees you in when you’re ass deep in a cold or some other similarly debilitating illness.

You don’t look sick, though. Just…sad?

How can you be sad on Love’s birthday?

“Hey, uhhh,” he says, forcing a tight smile. His palms start to sweat around the plastic handles he’s clutching behind his back. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” you reply.

There’s no sharpness to it, yet it still comes out kind of flat. Like you’re trying not to sound upset. But Eddie doesn’t push it as he follows you to the kitchen, sliding into his usual seat at your bar.

“What’s that?” you ask, eyes falling to the bag he plopped down on top of the counter.

“It’s stupid,” Eddie starts, “just some dumb little things I picked up.” For you, he adds in his head.

A small smile finally breaks the thin line your lips had been set in since he arrived and Eddie’s back broke out in a cold sweat under his leather jacket as he bashfully pushed the bag over to you.

He then watches, choking on his own heart, as you start pulling things out one by one.

You grin at the daisies, bringing them to your nose to sniff even though they probably smell more like weed than flowers after spending all night in the trailer. You squeal over the plushie, holding it up next to your face and squishing it. You hum excitedly at the first bag of candies, and laugh when you pull out a second one.

Then you get to the card.

Your eyes roll, but you can’t help smiling when you see Eddie’s nickname for you scrawled on the front of the envelope in his chicken scratch. And you’re still smiling as you slide your finger under the flap to tear through the bright red casing.

Then you read it, and your smile falls.

Your whole face does, in fact. It starts with a minute tremble of your chin that escalates into your brow pinching and your mouth crumpling into a frown. And you seem to clench every single muscle in your face to stop yourself from crying, but you just can’t keep it from happening.

“Hey, hey, wait, no, no, nooooo—”

Eddie doesn’t think, he doesn’t take a second to consider doing anything differently, he just jumps to his feet and comes around the counter to your side. He puts his arms around you automatically, letting you bury your face in his chest as you cling to him and try to settle yourself.

“I’m so-sorry, I’m s-so sorry, I’m sorry,” you babble, blubbering through the words.

“No, I’m sorry, sweetheart. I swear, I just thought it was cute, I didn��t mean to—”

“It is cute,” you wail as tears stream down your cheeks, “It’s fucking adorable!”

“Okay, then what’s the problem?” Eddie chuckles, pulling back slightly and ducking his head to look you in the eye, trying to get you to smile back.

You sniffle a few more times before you manage to collect yourself and swipe your fingers under your eyes to smear the wetness of your tears across your cheeks. Eddie’s fists clench at his sides to stop them from reaching up to do it again for you when you miss a stray one.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve been in such a weird funk all day since Matt, um…”

Your voice wobbled again and Eddie’s expression turned stony, scolding himself inwardly for letting even a tiny bit of excitement rise in his chest at the thought that you might have broken up.

“Is everything okay?” he asked. “I mean, did you guys…are you…”

“No, nothing like that,” you inhaled shakily. “He just…he doesn’t really do Valentine’s Day. And it feels so stupid to get upset over it. Like it’s just a dumb holiday, and I don’t need, like, presents or a dinner or flowers or anything like that. I just…”

Your arms crossed, as if you were trying to hug yourself. Eddie wished he could do it for you.

“I don’t know, I thought we’d do something,” you finally add quietly.

“He’s not even coming over?” Eddie scoffs. Suddenly the outfit made more sense. “At all?”

Your eyes closed in a pained wince. “Don’t make me feel worse, please,” you beg him somberly.

“No, I—” Eddie sucks in a sharp breath. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to upset you. Honest.”

His head dropped guiltily, eyes glued to his sneakers that stood out against the tile in your kitchen. He glanced one last time at all the stupid stuff he bought now strewn across your counter.

“You don’t have to apologize,” you told him firmly. “That was really sweet, Eddie. Seriously, like the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Your hand reaches out for the plushie again and you cradle it in your palm as you swoop in to drop a light peck on his cheek. The warmth of it makes Eddie’s whole face hot and he feels his neck tense from how much he wishes he could turn his head to the side and allow for his lips to meet yours.

But of course he doesn’t. He wouldn’t dare.

He sure would think about it, though.

Eddie was still staring at his feet, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off you for long. He glanced back up to see you pushing through all of the extraneous things you were feeling to give him a smile, small as it was. He nodded and opened his arms, welcoming you back into them.

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he whispered into your hair. Too quiet even for you to hear him.

I thought for a while about whether or not this is them, but I think this might be an entirely different set of idiots.

also is it just me or is v-day particularly oppressive this year?

#eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie stranger things #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson stranger things

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nerdygirlramblings · 6 months ago

Text

can't get this lyric from Lola Young's "Messy" out of my head: "A thousand people I could be for you and you hate the fucking lot"

thinking about reader with a crappy SO being saved by the 141

fluff with an abrupt ending

cw: bad attempt at accents

The first time Gaz sees you is in the museum. He has paperwork to drop off, and you greet him as he enters. He pulls up short; he's never seen you before. He knows he'd remember your beautiful face.

"G'morning!" you chirp, smiling brightly at him. "How can I help you..." You peer at his uniform, and it takes Gaz a moment to realize you're looking for rank insignia.

"I'm a Sergeant. Sergeant Kyle Garrick. Of the 141. But you can call me Gaz," he says. You look down briefly before meeting his eyes, your smile softer - both more vulnerable and more guarded - and give him your name.

"How can I help you, Sergeant?"

He rolls his eyes, but smiles back and tells you what he needs. You call the Captain who oversees the museum. The older man comes forward from a door along the back wall, claps you on the shoulder as thanks, and guides Gaz away. He chances a look over his shoulder as he leaves, catches your eye, and smiles one more time.

He finds out from the Captain you're a civilian volunteer. "Think she must work remote," he says, "'cause she's here all the time."

A few days later Gaz takes the long route from the mess to the training field with the express intent on trying to find you at the museum. Soap watches him veer left instead of right, a small plate of biscuits in hand, and tags along. "Where're we headed? And more importantly, can I have a biscuit?" Soap asks, hand reaching for the plate.

Gaz doesn't spare Soap a glance, nor does he slow his stride, but he smacks Soap's hand and pulls the biscuits further from the Scot's reach. He keeps walking toward the light infantry museum. As other buildings fell away, Soap figures where they're headed. "Wha's going on a' the museum?" When Gaz stays quiet, Soap amends, "Och, I guess I should ask, who's a' the museum, right?"

Gaz scoffs but can feel the heat in his face. He doesn't know what to say, but he recognizes he's smitten. He doesn't even know why; his interaction with you had been so short-lived. But he can't deny there is something that draws him to you. As they come up to the front doors, Gaz can't see you at the desk, can't see anyone at all in the front of the building, so he opens the door and calls out a greeting.

"Back here!" your voice calls out from the bowels of the museum. Gaz and Soap, who perks up at the mere sound of your voice, make their way past several displays about the history of infantry from Hereford to find you in the back corner. You look up from the open case where you are adjusting something small against black velvet. When you see Gaz, your eyes widen slightly in recognition, and you say, "Oh, Sergeant! Do you need the Captain again?"

He shakes his head and says, "I told you, doll, call me Gaz." He notices how you glance away again, seemingly waffling between discomfort and bashfulness.

Soap takes the break to push past Gaz and stick out his hand. "Name's Soap, bonnie."

You step back from the case, closing the glass and locking it shut. You take two steps towards them and extended your hand to shake Soap's. You give him your name and ask, "Is your name really Soap?"

He laughs. "Well, if ye cannae call Gaz Gaz, I'm nae dafty enough to give ye my full name."

You smile big at that and hold up your hands. "Point taken, Soap. And Gaz," you add, still smiling. "How can I help you today?"

Gaz presents the biscuits and says, "Saw these in the mess, and I thought you might like a little treat."

Your mouth pops open, but before you can respond another voice shouts, "Babe! Hey! Where the hell are ya?" You meet both Gaz's and Soap's eyes, and Gaz see a mixture of regret and shame in your gaze.

"I... I'm sorry," you stammer. Then you quickly turn and head for the front of the museum, leaving Gaz still holding out the plate of biscuits. They hear you call, "I'm coming!"

Gaz looks at Soap, the angry line of his jaw unmistakable. "Who the hell talks to their girl like tha'?" Because clearly, whoever called you is someone you know. Someone close. Gaz flicks his gaze to follow where you went and Soap nods. Both men walk silently towards the front doors and stop just out of sight of you and the man you are speaking with.

Your voice is low, and it is clear your partner is trying to keep his low too, but he is failing miserably. Gaz and Soap can hear grumbled words and phrases, "fuckin' hell" and "goddamn stupid" and "unbelievable." Each word seems to strike true, and you deflate before their eyes, shoulders hunched, arms crossed as if warding off the attack. Your partner seems to be gathering steam when you put a placating hand on his arm. Though you're quite, Soap and Gaz hear you tell him, "I'm sorry. I just thought you'd like me close." The man, shakes your hand off his arm and says, clearly, "What I'd like is if you're home with dinner ready when I get home, not comin' in after me with some take away because you still have your own damn work to do."

Gaz and Soap make their way out, unseen, but when you get back to the information desk, the plate of biscuits is sitting there, waiting.

A week after that ugly confrontation, Gaz and Soap have done some digging around base to find out more about you and the soldier who'd made you feel so small. They're in the briefing room, sharing intel like you're their next op.

Soap opens the flap of a thin folder and slides it across to Gaz. "Wanker's a Warrant Officer. Does some technical shite."

Gaz slams the cover closed. "I don't care what he does, but him being a WO's gonna be a problem." Soap cocks his head to the side, eyebrow raised. "We can't go around talkin' shite about him, Soap. We got Price and Ghost in our corner - or we would if we told 'em - but the fucker outranks us," he says, motioning between himself and the Scot.

"Then we tell Price and Ghost, get them to come down on 'im," Soap replies. "Simple."

Gaz rolls his eyes. "'Cept it isn't simple." He passes his folder to Soap. Your picture is clipped to the front cover. "She applied to volunteer at the museum after he got stationed here. Got a design background, so they snatched up her help. Traced back her last job, and she went from a full-time London agency to mostly freelance." Gaz watches Soap try to piece things together and rushes on, "Seems like she's only here because he is. We make things hard for him, she's likely gone too."

Soap frowns. They need to come up with something. It's in this quiet, frustrated concentration that Price and Ghost find the sergeants.

"Wha's all this, then?" Price asks, noting old To Let ads, examples of your design work, and your significant other's list of commendations.

Gaz looks from the papers on the table to his superior. "Well, Cap, there's this girl..."

It's a fortnight until Soap sees you, this time with Ghost in tow. They'd been making their way back from the motor pool when Soap notices you lingering outside the museum. He walks over, and Ghost follows in his wake.

"Hey, lass," he calls as he approaches. You look up with a slight frown until you see who it is.

"Hi Soap," you reply. He noted your smile is not as sincere as when you'd met. It doesn't reach your eyes.

"Ye okay?" he asks, coming to a stop in front of you.

His question startles you. "What? Oh, yes, I'm fine." He can tell you're distracted but doesn't push. "Can I help you with something, or..." You trail off, and he can see that you're not sure how to handle this interaction.

"Ach, nothing like tha'," he tells you. "Just saw ye oot here and came to say hello." He points to Ghost. "Ye meet Ghost yet?" He knows you haven't. Despite Gaz and Soap singing your praises, and especially extolling all the reasons they needed to step in and save you from the complete horse's ass you call a boyfriend, neither Price nor Ghost has made any attempt to meet you.

"No. I haven't had the pleasure yet, though your work is legendary," you tell Ghost. You put your hand out and offer your name. "It's an honor to meet you, sir."

Ghost glances at your hand for a moment too long and your strained smile falters more, your hand wavering where it's hanging. You're pulling it back when Ghost grips it tightly. "You the museum volunteer?" he asks.

You laugh, a tinkling little giggle, and both Soap and Ghost are amazed. Everyone is so intimidated by Ghost, especially when he wears his skull mask, all but the 141 and Laswell, that it's hard to know how to react when that underlying fear isn't present.

"I'm a volunteer, sir. There are several of us. I just seem to put in more hours than most." Soap knows that's because you do your design work when you're off base.

"Well, my break is almost over, so I should get back inside," you tell them reluctantly. You make a motion to say more when a car pulls into the car park. Soap recognizes your boyfriend and surreptitiously elbows Ghost.

"There you are," the man says with exasperation, leaning out the window. "I called your cell and the front desk, but there was no answer." He turns to glare at Soap and Ghost before realizing who Ghost is. He immediately sits up straight in his seat. There's a shift in his tone, too. He's more conciliatory as he says, "I wanted to tell you I can't drive you back tonight. You'll need to call a cab."

Soap sees the way your jaw ticks before you respond. "Thank you for telling me before my shift ends. Should I expect you home at all tonight?" you ask.

Your boyfriend gives a put-upon sigh before noting your audience. "I should be home, but it'll be late," he admits.

You nod and try to flash a smile. "Okay. Be safe, yeah?"

Soap watches your boyfriend gives a genuine smile in return. "Sure, babe," he says. "Text me when you get home." He's putting up the window and backing the car out as you call out an aborted farewell.

You're a little more crestfallen when you remind Soap and Ghost you have to get back to your museum work. They watch you walk away, and as the door closes behind you, Ghost grunts, "I'm in."

The following month sees one member of the 141 or another drop by the museum every few days. At first they make excuses for why they're there, but eventually Soap admits they like your company. Gaz and Ghost are ready to tear into the man when they hear about it, but the change in you is noticable. You're open, friendlier if possible.

You tell them about your work, the designs you created in London and how you've convinced the Captain in charge of the museum to let you modernize the installations. If they chat with you in the museum, you show them what you've changed and talk about what you want to do next. You open up about your love of baking and find yourself the recipient of a pastry cutter, cookie scoop, and silicone muffin cups. You tell them how you never left the UK but desperately want to travel. A few days later a passport application shows up on your desk clipped to travel brochures for Mallorca, the Canary Islands, Algarve, Benidorm, and Crete.

You talk, reluctantly, about your boyfriend, and only when asked directly. How you've known one another since secondary school. How he worked to woo you when you started university, despite being in basic at the time. How magical those first few years were. How his career took off and quickly trumped yours. How you followed him here at his insistence.

Through all these little conversations, you learn about them too. They tell you about their job, their families, their hobbies, their past. How they came together on the task force. What they want from life. What they want from you. They want you to know them.

As they learn about you, they also start collecting more Intel on said boyfriend. The flat you share is in your name; his housing allowance squirreled away in the bank in an account only he has access to. The car is in his name, forcing you to rely on him or cabs for transport to and from base. Though he works in the admin building, and you volunteer at the museum, he spends a lot of time in medical. The 141 suspects he's running around on you with one of the nurses, and if they could prove it, they would.

Until then, they bide their time.

Nearly two months after meeting Gaz, you have the opportunity to meet Price at a base gala. Your boyfriend invites you as his arm candy, bringing you around to his CO to make a good impression. He's expecting you to be at his side all night and is shocked when, halfway through the night, you wave across the room. You'd spotted the 141 skulking against the back wall.

You try to bring your boyfriend over to them to say hi, but he takes a quick look in their direction and steers you away. It's several minutes until they make their way across the room to you.

Soap reaches you first, arms open for a hug. Before you can step fully into his embrace, he holds you at arm's length. "Bon, ye're a sight! Don't think I've ever seen something so lovely." You giggle and let him pull you close.

Gaz steps up next. "Soap's right. You're a vision, doll. Ya clean up real nice." He smiles big and kisses your cheek. Even Ghost goes for a quick, one-armed hug, eyes crinkling above his mask.

You greet each man and turn to introduce your boyfriend. He opens and closes his mouth several times before stuttering out his name and holding out his hand. The 141 all shake his hand, gripping it a little tighter than necessary. He pinches your elbow and steps back, ignorant of the grimace that flickers across your face. Though he drops his voice, they hear him clearly as he hisses, "You never told me you were so close with the 141! What the hell! Did you even think about me? What will my CO think about you being so close with them, huh?" He tries to move you away from them and over to some members of the medical staff, including a pretty nurse who keeps glaring at you, not that you notice. (The 141 does as she's the one they think your twat of a boyfriend is running around on you with.)

Before he can take more than a few steps away, Price steps forward and holds a hand out to you. "Captain Price, darling. Such a pleasure to put a face to the girl my men have been gushing about these last few weeks."

You stand your ground despite how your boyfriend tries to pull you away. "Captain!" you practically squeal. You open your arms for a hug, ignoring his outstretched hand. "I feel like I know you already."

You chat for another few minutes before your boyfriend succeeds in getting your full attention by telling you he's tired and plans to leave. As you walk away on your boyfriend's arm, Price turns to the others and murmurs, "She's ours, boys. Now to let her know it."

From that moment on, you become the 141's unofficial mission. They go hard on gathering intel, tapping into base cameras to finally catch your boyfriend cheating. Often. And with several different nurses. They talk to the Captain who runs the museum, finding out how you've improved different installations. They take that to base command and convince them to create a non-volunteer civilian curator / exhibition designer position. They find a vehicle in base surplus and grab its on offer ad.

All of this information finds its way to your desk. In a full-circle moment, Gaz is the one stationed near the museum when you find the folder filled with photos of your boyfriend kissing different people; a contract to work at the museum, continuing the work you're already doing and for more money than you're making with your freelance work; and an on offer ad to give you your own transportation. Gaz watches the shock on your face as you try to process everything.

He gives you a few minutes before coming up to you. "Hey," he says softly. "It's a lot, I know."

You look up at him, confusion clear as day across your face. You whisper, "Did you know? About him?" You look heartbroken despite how poorly Gaz knows he's treated you.

"We suspected, but didn't know for sure until the last week or so," he admits.

"We?" you strangle out, meeting his eyes.

He sees the defeat in your eyes. "Me and the others, Soap, Ghost, the Captain. We all like you, doll. And we wanted you to know there are men out there, men like us, who love you and would treat you so much better."

You can't deny the earnest look in his eyes. "What are you saying, Gaz?"

He smiles softly at you. "When you're ready, if you want, we want you. All of us. To be our girl, not his."

main masterlist

#cod #poly!141 #poly!141 x reader #tf 141 #tf 141 x reader #simon riley #kyle garrick #johnny mactavish #john price #nerdygirl says

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mysoulbelongstobuckybarnes · 1 month ago

Text

coney island | bucky barnes

summary: on the day of the election, you find bucky at his safe place and he shows you, his assistant friend around.

warnings: kissing, tooth rotting fluff, angst (if you squint) <3 + sexual tension; bucky is a sweetheart; both are down bad for each other; insecure bucky (?) kinda; i made shit up about coney island, i have never been there, sorry; a LOT of obsession over eyes; use of pet names (doll, sweetheart, sweets); no use of y/n; misuse of political jargon? author is clueless about political jargon lol; author thinks the ending is bad; I AM SHIT AT WRITING SUMMARIES SORRY!

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x assistant!reader

author's note: this is kind of inspired by @dreamwritesimagines lovely series Declassified and its 6th chapter, but its still completely different. but do give Declassfied a read, because it is my favourite congressman bucky fic! i'm sorry if the ending is weird :/ I worked literally two weeks for this fic, pls show some love!

words: 7.2k (my creativity has been sucked out of me)

masterlist | for my other works <3

divider by @toastray

Bucky Barnes didn’t have time for love.

It’s what he believed; It's what he let everyone believe; It’s what you witnessed everyday.

You knew how tight his schedules were; You knew how much work had to be done; You knew how much stress burdened him. He had absurdly timed meetings, endless galas, campaigns that he had to take care of. The whole Valentina thing didn’t help him either. He had too many things on his mind and you noticed how it affected him. His pretty blue eyes would go dimmer, his left shoulder would start to ache more and you don’t even know how many hours he slept during the night.

Actually. You knew.

It was your job to know. To understand how many hours he slept because those eyebags didn’t do well during interviews; to understand how cranky he was going to get during the day so that you could schedule meetings with the more considerate figures amongst USA’s political landscape; to understand whether he would listen to you at least once during the day.

You knew, not only because it was your job as his assistant, manager and manhandler, but also because you have been in the hell that is politics for a long time. He might have been alive for longer than you, but you had more experience in this than him and you understood that the work he was doing, slaving his and your ass off for was worth it. So, yeah, you knew that Bucky Barnes didn’t have time for love.

But maybe, after sleep deprived and joy filling nights under the crappy office lights, your chest bloomed, just a little bit, as you hoped that there might be a cracked window, a chance, for some space in his heavy heart.

—

It was the day of the election.

You were running around with papers in your hand, phones blowing off with god knows what notifications and trying to find where the fuck James Buchanan Barnes is. The office was a whirlpool of chaos; people were sprinting, shouting over phones and all the pots of coffee were empty—and in the middle of this whirlpool, was you.

And all you could think about was why Congressman Barnes not picking up his goddamn phone.

You huffed and smoothened out your dress. He could’ve at least texted you, but now you had to resort to asking his driver, even though the poor man was not a reliable source. Bucky couldn’t stand another person driving him, like a chauffeur, like a child, like a handler. You had tried to convince him it was for his safety and that he was the driver’s boss, not the other way around, but he was so fucking stubborn, it made you want to pull out your hair.

I haven’t got the foggiest clue, ma’am.

Your lips curled a little at the old man’s lingo, but the worry in your heart and the stress in your brain only intensified. You thanked the man and kept your phone aside. You dismissed your manager, who asked you to draft up a speech, one that James Barnes would have to deliver, in case he lost—which was the popular opinion amongst many people. Many people that you threw out of your life, because ever since you started working for him, beside him and by him, and even if he made your life aggravating, you absolutely devoted your time, body, mind and soul to his ideas.

His dedication.

Him.

So, you stood outside his office, his space inside your chaotic office, with a false sliver of hope that he might be hiding himself in there, or maybe a note—tucked under his desk, in the secret crevice that only you knew.

You opened the door, cautiously walked around his desk and put your hand underneath the table to inspect. A sigh of relief left your body and your shoulder relaxed a bit as your fingers felt the small paper, a note in secrecy, left just for you. You hated to admit it but knowing this part of Bucky, knowing that he would inform you, if no one, even with a piece of paper that was meant for you, made you feel special: a warmth, akin to giddiness, settling in your stomach.

You opened the note and opened it up, only to have your hopes crash and burn. Your stomach twisted in knots at the blatant vagueness of the message written.

I can’t be there, but I'm safe. Don’t call for a search party, doll, I want to be alone.

You rolled your eyes at his teasing remark, but the nauseous feeling in your stomach was clawing away at you. You needed to find him. This was his moment. His and yours. You wanted to be with him, enjoy the night, reap the fruits of your hard work. Yes, maybe you were being too sure of him winning, but you had done everything in your capacity and his to make sure he gets this win. Because he deserved it. Because he was the only one that genuinely cared. Which was why you were attracted to him.

In a professional, ideological way, of course.

And if he knew anything about you, it was that you were as stubborn as he was.

So, you almost ran past everyone in your office, ignoring their quizzical, inconsequential looks, your manager’s booming voice and grabbed your coat: because you will not let that man be on his own tonight. You were selfish, perhaps, but he owed you this. After all, you were a team, were you not?

You called his driver and got in the car.

“Coney Island, please?”

—

He recognized your perfume, immediately.

It had notes of lavender, mixed with Jasmine and mandarin: your favourite perfume. At least he hoped it was, considering he was the one that gifted you the YSL perfume on your birthday and since then it was the only one you wore. At least around him. It was sweet and stubborn, just like you. The way you constantly nagged him and bossed him around, never left him alone yet still cared for him in an unconditional, unstaggering kind of way. It reminded him of you: when you calmed him down after one of his panic attacks for the first time, when you fumed at him for not memorizing the speech you had carefully curated for him and when he turned up at your house just for you to yell at him while serving him your sweet, drenched in maple syrup, pancakes.

You didn't approach him, not yet, still a few steps behind. The abundant breeze was doing a splendid job of flying your hair around and you tugged your coat around you, as if it was second skin.

“I told you not to put up a search party for me, doll.”

“I am not a search party, Bucky.”

“You are my assistant.”

There was a pause. A moment of hesitation after his teasing remark, where your heart sank as you spoke up again.

“Do you not want me here? With you?”

Your words were not accusatory, but rather fragile, a soft question that held your heart. Your gentle tone made him shudder, his heart skipping a dangerous beat. He had your back towards you, which tensed and slumped a little. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, breathing in the salty, sea air. “I don’t want numbers. I don’t want the…office.”

“I am not the office.” You recoiled and Bucky pursed his lips.

“You are my assistant.”

Your heart sank. Yes, you were aware he wanted to be alone, but his words still felt like shards in your chest. Your nose started to sting and you looked away from his back, to the ocean and breathed in. Did he only think of you as his assistant? Was that all that entailed between you?

It was a hit you were not prepared for. But Bucky understood your silence, almost reading your thoughts, your questions, your heartbreaking doubts. Because no, you were not only his assistant. After months of working together, spending every waking moment with each other, which ultimately included you holding yourself back from slapping him after his constant non-cooperation and him teasing you to your absolute flustered state: you were not only his assistant—you were his safe space now.

He opened his mouth again, to speak out, tell you that you meant much more to him, to ease the ache in your heart and the hurt in your silence. But before he even got his words out, you plopped down next to him. He turned to look at you, only to have his breath taken away.

You had taken your hair down from your restricting bun that made him wince after he saw it in the morning: it flowed freely now, your beautiful locks flying around haphazardly, just how he liked it. You had taken off your blazer, leaving you in your pretty blouse with a sweetheart neckline and your pantsuit. Your forehead didn’t hold fatigue lines, which he constantly tried to dissipate. But your face held a soft glow; One that he had seen rarely, only when you and him were alone: moments when he made terrible jokes, gossiped about other senators and congressmen, and made you laugh. Moments where he saw you, raw, vulnerable, unbearably you, under the warm light of the lamp in his living room, when you used to come to his aid and cared for him. The soft glow he believed was only reserved for him.

His heart softened in his chest.

You didn’t look like his assistant anymore.

“I am your friend, Bucky.” You gently stated, as if it wasn’t somewhat of a gross understatement. Because you held a place in his heart that was right beside Sam, his other safe space. You turned to look at him, your eyes meeting his, your soft gaze that wrapped him in a hug as it met his clear, stormy blues. You gave him a small smile, easing his heart and looked back at the ocean again.

“I bet you used to drag Steve here for ill-advised mischief.”

He scoffed, playfully rolling his eyes at your teasing remark. But his shoulders were relaxed as he gazed at you. Sweet and stubborn. He shook his head and gave out a chuckle which warmed your heart.

“He was the one who got into ill–advised mischief.” He mocked your words. “I was the one who saved his ass.”

“Whatever you say, Sarge.”

Bucky glared at you, playfully with a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. You giggled and imagined a young Bucky alongside Steve, wreaking havoc wherever they went. There was a comfortable silence between you after, only the crashing of waves and the excited yells of children filling you up with happiness.

Bucky cleared his throat. “How did you find me?”

You turned at him and gave him a deadpan look. He raised his hands in defence at your pointed look with raised brows. “Just asking a question.”

“When your boss tells you all the tales about him and his partner in crime at the Coney Island and how it reminded him of simpler times, you catch on.” You quipped.

“Back to being your boss, again?” He asked. You pursed your lips and glanced at your lap, your fingers fidgeting.

“You know you deserve it, right?”

He huffed, exasperated. “I thought I told you—”

“I am not talking about numbers, James.” His eyes flicked up at you. You only ever used his first name, but the way you said it made his insides melt. “All I am saying is that,” You breathed and bore your eyes in his.

“You have worked so hard. You care more about these people than anyone I have ever seen, talked to or even worked for. The way you speak for them—the veterans, the soldiers, the people of the city ranging from all the minorities that deserve proper rights, such as universal healthcare—Bucky, I could go on and on.” You completely turned your body toward him, your eyes holding more compassion than he had ever witnessed. You held brain–wracking eye contact with him, your body crackling with sudden butterflies and fuzziness.

“All I know is that you actually care, Bucky. You are not one of those wolfish, perverted, power-lusted people that just crave control. You are the exact opposite—genuine, caring…” You gulped under his intense gaze, his blue eyes carving into your soul as you poured your heart out. “...loving. A completely bonafide candidate…and even if this whole thing was just to get information on Valentina, you were still doing good.”

Your hand reached out to his, reassuring. “You deserve it, more than anyone.”

A loud silence took over you both, but you didn’t, or more than that you both couldn’t escape each other’s gazes. Tension crackled between you both, like a silent bonfire, providing intense warmth in the windy atmosphere. Your cheeks and nose were flushed, from the wind or Bucky’s unrelenting eyes, you didn’t know, because all you could think about is how his eyes perfectly resembled the ocean, under a stormy sky. Yet they provided comfort and you couldn’t look away. As if they were a drug.

Bucky cleared his throat and your whole face flushed as you looked away from his face.

“You should be a motivational speaker.” He said quietly.

“There is a reason why I write all of your speeches, Barnes.” You scoffed. He gave you a small smile, but one that reached his eyes, crinkled around his cheeks. Why was he making you feel giddy? “Come on, you gotta show me around this place. You know I have never been here?”

Bucky stared at you incredulously. “What the hell do you mean you’ve never been to Coney Island?”

“You do realize I work 100 hours a week, right?” You quipped, making Bucky shake his head.

“I told you, you can take a leave whenever you want.”

“And leave you alone? How would you even survive without me?” You raised your brows at him, challenging him. He just shook his head, giving you an annoyed look, but safe to say, he was elated. To be here, with you.

“So are you going to show me around or what?”

—

“I am NOT getting on that, Bucky.”

“Live a little, doll. Besides probably isn’t even that hard—”

“Says the super soldier! Did you not see the way that man got yeeted across—”

“He did not get yeeted across—what the fuck is ‘yeeted’?”

You rolled your eyes and stared at the bull ride that they had recently installed at the park—and there was no fucking way you were going to get on that.

“I’ll pay you 100$! Come on, doll—” He spoke up again.

“I may complain about it, but I get paid enough to deal with you.”

Bucky looked at the bull, the girl on it with a cowboy hat letting out drunken yelps while other people cheered her on.

He moved his eyes back and forth, from the ride to you, and then his eyes widened for a fraction of a second, but you could catch on easily. You narrowed your eyes and tilted your head, hardening your glare at his forming smirk.

“What?”

“Nothing,” He shrugged, nonchalantly. “Just thought you never backed down from a challenge.” He said, in a dangerously low tone, challenging you. Your jaw dropped, just a little, at this man’s audacity! Slowly, a ghost of a smirk formed on your face as well.

“Okay, fine, I'll go on the goddamn bull, but only if you come with me.” You raised your brows and Bucky rolled his eyes, tilting his head. “Seriously?”

“Oh, okay. I see you are one of the people that easily backs down from a challenge.” You mocked his words, jabbing back at him. His eyes narrowed at you but then a sly smirk greeted his face. The smirk that made you fucking crazy. It was when you knew he was not going to back down. That smirk aggravated you to no end, because that smirk came into display whenever he was not going to listen to a single word you said about the press training and he’s going fuck up everything. That fucking smirk, infuriated you, because you saw it often, especially after he flustered you, made you stutter or even saw a small sign of a blush dusted on your cheeks. That smirk made you go weak in your knees. And it frustrated you.

Goosebumps arose on your skin as you felt Bucky’s warmth creep up your body, even if he was just walking towards you, agonizingly slowly, as if he was teasing you, hunting you, craving you. He stepped forward, his hands in his pockets, that goddamn smirk paired with those devilish eyes, and did you just notice how hot he looked with just a pair of trousers, shirt and his loosened tie? Fuck.

You gulped as he towered over you. You could smell his cologne. Your knees almost buckled. What the fuck was happening? Why was he so close? And why did it feel like you just wanted to grab that tie and—

Suddenly, the cheers slowed down, faded away, you didn’t know why—because all you could think about was why he was making you feel hot? Parched? Starved? All because of what, his cologne? The tie? His hands? That fucking smirk?

Somewhere in the background, the girl got off the bull, more drunk now than she was before, clinging onto her girlfriends, giggling about god knows what.

The host took the mic again and called out for volunteers—all while your cheeks had turned burning red. Bucky started to lean down, getting closer and closer to your face, his pretty pink lips almost brushing your cheek as he pressed them against your ear. You shuddered, restraining the need to hold onto Bucky’s shoulders so that your trembling knees would have some support.

“After you, sweetheart.”

—

You don’t know how you survived that. But your head was spinning, your body was fuzzy and warm, and your balance—completely uncontrolled. Bucky still had his hands around your waist, steadying you, as he did on the bull ride. You gulped down, the warmth of his hands leaving you trembling, and somehow you found yourself falling again.

Your knees buckled and he held you up, his hands tightening, almost lifting you off the ground, as if you weighed absolutely nothing. It scared you. How comfortable you felt, almost leaning into him, craving more of his touch—not only because of how addicting it was—but also because he grounded you. Comforted you. Kept you steady when you felt like the world was going to disappear underneath you.

“That was one hell of a ride.” He whispered, near your ear, his breath spanning your face, making you go hot. You hummed, voice strained, afraid of what will come out of your mouth. Because all you do, all you could feel right now were his hands. His body. His warmth. The way his metal hand drew soothing circles on your waist, as if he knew it was the perfect cure to your nausea. The way his chest was almost pressed against your back, radiating the kind of intensity you did not dare to confront. The way his sweet words kissed your neck, smooth like honey, voice like velvet.

“Are you okay, sweets?”

Sweets. That was new. You tried not to bask in the tooth rotting attention he gave you, the absolute saccharine–like concern laced in his voice, for you.

You turned around, abruptly, to look at him. His eyes looked at you like as if you were the only person he cared about. Like right now, in this moment, only you mattered. Not the thousand children running around, the women giggling and complaining and the men shouting and groaning. It made you feel…cherished. Something you hadn’t experienced in a long time.

You cleared your throat and looked away, blushing. “Yeah, yeah…”

But he was relentless, determined to hold your eyes, understand how you’re feeling. He bent down, his face looking for your eyes, seeking you out. Your eyes flicked back to him and you almost gasped because those fucking blue eyes, god, they left no room for you to wallow in distress. “I’m perfectly fine, Bucky.” You whispered, your eyes drifting from his eyes to his lips.

Bucky froze. He followed your gaze and reciprocated it. His perfect blue eyes dropped down to your perfect lips. He licked his lips, as if he craved something. Someone. You.

Suddenly, a loud bell rang, a loud announcement, a swift yet harsh slice in the middle of…whatever just happened. You both broke apart, his hands ghosting your waist, and you resisted tugging him close to you again, missing the solace his hands provided.

“The last ride for the Wonder Wheel is starting in 20 minutes!”

It happened fast. His hands found yours again, gripping them like vice, like he wouldn’t let go of you ever again. His eyes widened as he processed the words said over the microphone.

And you started running.

“What—Bucky!”

“Come on, we can’t miss the ferris wheel!” An impish smile adorned his face, and your heart raced faster than ever before. “I’m wearing heels, Bucky!”

“I can carry you—”

“Absolutely not—”

Bucky let out a giggle and it was as if time had stopped because right now, it felt like both of you were back in the 1940’s.

And he was happy.

—

where the fuck are you

and where is the man of the hour

You gulped down the wash of anxiety as you looked at the text. You resisted looking at your watch, but you knew it was time. They were going to start counting the votes. And you both were supposed to be there, at your office, in the conference room, where they had set up a dinner spread. You had insisted on booking the bar that Bucky liked, that all your co–workers liked, but least to say your manager was a bitch. “Keep it professional or you will drown.”

Who even says that?

You internally scoffed and rolled your eyes.

come here, right now, he looks like he’s about to explode.

Your nerves and stress were conjoining hands and you could feel it. There was no way they would get to the office, in time. You imagined your manager throwing disapproving glares at you for more than two months, he will probably give you warnings disguised as threats. Maybe throw in some crude insinuating comments about you and Bucky. “Trust me, committing to your responsibilities is more dignifying than ignoring and…sleeping your way up. Just look at Senator Gray’s assistant—”

You shook your head, remembering the lewdness of his comments. Keep it professional.

He would explode if he could see what was happening right now.

You were standing in the line, ready for the next and last ferris wheel ride for the day. There were kids jumping up and down, frustrated workers who tried to calm the complaining parents.

Your body was tensing up because the count was going to start soon. They will announce who got the most votes. Declare whether your hard work paid off. Whether Bucky won. If it was the end to your team, your partnership, whatever you both were. Would Bucky want a new team in DC? Would you have to move to DC? Or was he going to have to hire another assistant—

Bucky squeezed your hand, gleefully. He looked back at you and all your worries melted away, drained from your body all because of that damn smile. He probably had no idea that he was blowing your concerns away. Because, right now, blind enthusiasm was buzzing from his body, almost resembling that of the kids near you. He looked younger, if that was possible. The worry lines from his forehead, long faded away. His posture was more confident. Welcoming. Relaxed. His shoulders no longer slumped from stress, fatigue and paranoia. No longer was he seeking out the ways anything could go even slightly wrong.

He was just there. In the present, without any burdens on his body, without constantly having to stare down the barrel of a gun. With you.

Not his assistant. Not his manager.

Just you.

You moved ahead of the line and Bucky did not let go of your hand. He kept it, in his, safeguarded, as if he was preventing anyone taking you away. So that you wouldn’t fade into the crowd. So that this moment wouldn’t vanish.

As both of you got in front of the line, waiting to get entry, Bucky immediately reached for his pocket. “How much for two?”

The operator gave the price and then looked up. You felt Bucky’s hand freeze in yours, his body going tense. The operator was giving him weird looks and stood, almost defensive in front of the booth. “Have I seen you somewhere?”

You quickly answered. “No, you haven’t.” But he just looks you over, dismissively. A few seconds after he tries to wrack his brain, Bucky clears his throat. “Listen, we’re just trying to get on the ride…if you could please move aside?”

He hesitantly moves aside, letting you both on the booth. “Have a nice ride, I guess.”

You both sit, side by side, thighs almost touching, intensity crackling. The booth starts to move and the wind sweeps through both of you, calmly. You glance at him; Bucky was peering at the sky, as you moved upwards, towards it.

He looked…melancholic. Longing. Almost forlorn. As if he never thought he’d see the sky like this again. As if he would never feel the same wonder he felt when he was just a boy with a childlike laugh and an unnecessary bravery to take on the world.

But here he was. With you. And it felt surreal.

“Can I ask you something?” You softly broke his silence. He sighed and looked back at you, nodding to let you continue. “For a man who hates being in the spotlight, hates overbearing attention and certainly hates talking to snooty senators, discussing power moves to win over people’s votes, why did you even step into politics?”

He was taken aback. Bucky looked at you as if you asked him to solve the question of all the why’s in the universe—that would have been easier. His gaze started to become distant, his eyes seeking answers that he did not like to face.

“Even if you leave Val aside, Bucky, you have more than enough resources and capabilities to spy on her and her plans. Why politics?” You ask, gently.

Your tone was soft. Free. Like sunshine mixed with the kind of care he didn’t dare yearn for in the last 70 years. Like he wasn’t just a ghost; a trauma–filled bomb that everyone was waiting to blast. Like he was a person. Whole. Deserving. Your words didn’t slash through him; They didn’t glare at him, daunting, demanding, as if they were entitled to an answer. Your words, your sweet words were a soft nudge. A nudge that he needed.

“I–,” His breath shook and you slipped closer to him. Gazing at his eyes, holding his sight, reassuring, that you both were the only one existing there right now. “Amends.” His voice broke. Bucky thought you would flinch, but you stayed put. Not leaving him astray.

“After the court–mandated therapy ended, I didn’t know what to do with myself. With this,” He looked at his hands. “I felt the obligation, the need to make it right. Wipe it off, all of it, from my hands. After the Flag–Smashers and when I saw the things they went through, I couldn’t just sit. I thought—” He gulped, breath trembling. But then you moved closer, held his hand, as if a sign. A silent promise. You rubbed soothing circles on his hand with your thumb and he grasped your small palm with his rough, calloused hand. You didn’t force him. Pressure him to go ahead.

“I thought that maybe, this way, I could make a difference. Make lives easier. Safer.”

He exhaled, like he had just let a flood of his emotions flow after holding it for so long with his walls. And you stayed. You didn’t push. You let him exist. Without any judgement. His breath trembled, heartbeat hammering in his ear, brain numbing as he finally let himself feel. And you.

You grounded him. You let him breathe. Understand his emotions. You weren’t prudent around him like you were watching him; observing; stalking: just so you can capture the moment he fucks up.

A sudden ping threatened to interrupt this. The secret oasis that you both had carved in the night. He thought you would move away to check it, your incessant notifications, abandoning him and leaving him high and dry without your warmth. Your kindness. Your perfume. But you didn’t budge; didn’t move an inch from your place. Your eyes didn’t leave his and it was as if they wrapped him up in a security blanket. You softly smiled at him and lifted your hand, gently tucking Bucky’s outgrown hair behind his hair. You gazed at him with such care, such intricacy, so much affection, that he would have melted right there.

“You can find a way to make a difference without torturing yourself, honey.”

He grew shy. “I didn’t realize it at the moment. Thought this was the only way.” You softly chuckled. “I can make a list for you: community service, youth programs, fundraisers for veterans. You can’t make a difference if you suffer inside. If you feel suffocated.”

He breathed in deeply, taking in your words.

“Thank you.”

“Bucky—”

“No, hush,” He took your face in his pulsing, warm hands. “Let me say this please.” You nodded, wordlessly. “You—” He let out a shaky breath and smiled at you, oh-so-softly. “You have been here for me, through this hell, like no one has.”

“You stood by me, helped me, tolerated my uncooperative ass and you still look at me like I deserve something. Care. Hope. Peace…Love. If it weren’t for you…someone who took more than necessary effort to understand me, help me, know me, I wouldn’t have lasted.” You gasped, and his big hands resting against your reddening cheeks started caressing you. He looked at you like you hung the stars up for him. Like you were the only reason. His oxygen. His breath.

“Thank you so much for everything.”

Tears welled into your eyes. You leaned into his touch, his hands that molded perfectly with your face. You were about to open your mouth to say something, until your phone started buzzing again. “Oh god, it must be the results.” You put your hand on his which was still resting on your cheek. “I won’t ask if you don’t want to know, Bucky. This is your moment,” He pursed his lips, hesitating for a moment. But then he looked at you.

You. Who has been here with him throughout every step. Through his first media press, through all of the stupid, pretentious galas, through all of the debriefs. You, who sat with him in silence when he could not bear another noise; who held him at his worst, when the nightmares used to come back and he couldn’t stop trembling; who made him mac and cheese at 3 am because he hadn’t had any decent meals. You, who worked your ass off, ensuring his ideas would come into execution; You, who defended him at every corner when Bucky’s career as Winter Soldier came up; You, who was more faithful in him than he was in himself.

“This is your moment as much as it is mine, doll.” He leaned forward and your heart started pacing faster. As if his earnest words hadn’t already made your insides flutter: he kissed your forehead. A long, meaningful peck. That held more weight, that defied every other sign of affection ever. He lingered, his lips still ghosting over the crown of your head. You closed your eyes, reeling in this moment, holding it close, not wanting it to fade away. He sighed and you knew it was time.

“Hey?” You picked up the call. Nerves were firing through Bucky’s body and he squeezed your hand, trying to ground himself. He couldn’t bring himself to eavesdrop on your friend’s words nor was his anxiety sparing any energy for him to decipher your expressions. What if he didn’t win? Would you leave him? Would you find some other upcoming political hotshot to work for? What would he do with his life?

Almost as if you could read his doubts and anxiety—you didn’t need to, they were literally jumping off his body—you squeezed his hand back and consoled him. A small gasp left you, spreading rapid goosebumps on his skin. He couldn’t understand whether it was a good one or not. Wouldn’t you smile if it was good news? God, what he would give to see that smile…Does that mean he lost? Your hand slipped out of his and his heart broke in two.

Of course, he lost.

You quietly said goodbye to your friend and cut the call. He gulped as he saw more tears in your eyes and he hoped for the worst. For a regretful look, a fit of anger. But he got something worse: unfathomable silence. Your silence. Not a peep of a word. Not one indication of what you just interpreted from the call. You slowly raised your tear–filled eyes and Bucky was stumped. He didn’t know whether you were going to sob or kiss him. He wished it was the latter. Wait, what?

But then suddenly, in that cramped space of the booth, you lunged towards him.

His breath got knocked out of his lungs as you pressed your body against him. Quivering. Barely Containing. Your hands slid from his shoulders to his neck and you nuzzled your face into his neck. Bucky froze as you whispered something.

“We won.”

Bucky let out a shaky breath. “We won?”

You lifted your head. Tears threatening to fall out, your cheeks filled with glee and your wobbly smile giving him more life than anything else possibly could.

“We won, Bucky. You won.” Bucky completely engulfed you, holding you tighter to his chest, burying his head in your neck. He was consumed. By your sweet and stubborn scent, by your honeyed words and soft sobs of joy. His hands ran from your back to your waist, wrapping them around you as if you would vanish into thin air. He had to cherish you. Hold you.

You sighed into his body, almost as if your souls were entwined, breathing in each other, as if you couldn’t live without each other. You softened more to his touch, melting like snow in his warmth when he ran his hands from your back to your waist. He smelled like faint citrus and lavender, his woody scent completely enthralling your senses.

You both clutched onto each other, embraced each other, because you found comfort. Both of you found home.

“You are the only reason.” He whispered.

“W-What?” You asked, quietly between hiccups.

He cradled your face in his hands and looked at you. He scanned your face, taking in every intricate detail: How cute you looked with your nose red and puffy eyes; How your perfect lips spoke with sweet melodies aligned in every word; Your hair, cascading like an angel’s and your eyes, god, your eyes looking at him like he hung up the moon for you. And to be honest, he would. And you would be worth it.

He locked it in his mind, for safekeeping, because he never wanted anyone else to witness you in your state right now. Because that? That was for him. Just him. And he was damn sure, he wouldn’t let anyone else see you like this. Because right now, even with your eyes, fresh out of tears, your cheeks stained, your face red, and your heaving breaths: you were utter and complete perfection.

“You are the only reason I am right here. As Congressman James Buchanan Barnes. As a man. I wouldn’t have done it without you, doll. You are my reason. My miracle. My rock. You put up with me, you stood by me, you defended me, you trusted me. Believed in me.”

He rested his forehead against yours.

You processed his words, the fervour in his voice, the great vehemence throwing you off. “We did it, James.”

You pulled him closer, tugging him at his shirt, like you couldn’t get enough of him. Your hands travelled from his chest, to his collar, to his stubble. You looked into his eyes, your hands softly caressing his beard, his cheeks, as if you were holding the object of your desires for the first time in your life. Like what you have been waiting for, yearning for is right here, in front of you, close enough to kiss. Both of you understood that this was more than just a victory.

You slowly leaned in. Hesitantly, to see how he would react. But almost immediately, Bucky locked his eyes on your lips; gazing at them like he has been wanting to ravish them for months, years. Your eyes were still on his, shy, asking for permission. But you didn’t need any, because according to Bucky’s mind and body, he has been yours to take for longer than he could care to admit.

His lips brushed against yours, like a question. You gasp, just slightly, with feather-like volume, delicate, willing. But that gasp sent a nuclear reaction through Bucky’s body, like fire; Something more sweeter had taken over him and his mind.

Because then his lips were on you.

Not fast, not rough, not aggressive in any way. But with a slow and agonizing intent. There was desperation, but in a way that said ‘I have been waiting too long for this, so I am going to savor every single second.’ And that, he did.

He tasted you. Gently. Sweetly. Softly. Lightly. Almost as if he kissed you any deeper, he would drown and he would never be able to resurface. As if he was still afraid; Afraid, that you might pull back from him. Feather–like, in case this was just a dream—a figment of his imagination, like paradise—which would make his reality a nightmare.

But god, he was already addicted. To the way you tasted; the way you slightly gasped when he kissed you; to the way you melted into his touch. You tasted like faint cotton candy that he just bought for you and your raspberry mouth freshener—the one you were so picky about because ‘the regular mint ones left a weird aftertaste’. He was addicted to the way you breathed him in, to the way you let him take you. Because that just meant that you trusted him.

And that you did. Butterflies fluttered in the pit of Bucky’s stomach.

When you sighed into the kiss, you knew your soul and heart had been snatched. Stolen. Taken away from you. You poured every ounce of your love in the kiss; your heart was palpitating through your chest, your hands and your ears. You could feel him everywhere.

His breath, his kisses, his soft groans and hums. The tingly feeling in your stomach just raged throughout your body. Just because of him. His scent. His hair. His oh-so-perfectly soft lips.

You felt like you were floating. His lips felt like a dream but also secure. Secure in a way that says ‘I will always be there for you’. In a way that said ‘you are my future’.

What felt like an eternity that fell too short, you both pulled away, unwillingly. But you didn’t let go: none of you wanted to. You were lost in each other, dazed by each other’s touch. His hands were at your waist, now gripping, almost lifting you from your position, putting you on his lap. One of your palms was resting on his broad chest, unclenching and clenching his shirt, the one on his nape, softly scratching his baby hair.

Your heads softly banged against each other as you rested your foreheads. He breathed softly and you bit your lip, shying away from his eyes. He lifted your chin with his index finger, searching for your eyes, his intense gaze making heat crawl up your neck.

Bucky leaned down and softly kissed your nose and you let out a giggle. Joy bubbling up both of you, with barely contained smiles. He took his thumb and sweetly caressed your lower lip and pecked you. “You are my everything.” He whispered, content adorned his face. You kissed his cheek, lovingly: “I love you. Bucky,”

“You have been the only person who made me feel safe, made me feel seen, made me feel special.”

“Do you remember that day when I had to skip work because I couldn’t even get out of my bed?”

He frowned. “Because of your period cramps?” You nodded and scanned his face. “You fought with my manager and you skipped too. You came home with insane amounts of chocolate, cold coffee and even a new heatable plushie.”

“That day, you took care of me, like no one ever had. And I didn't even have to ask you…You made sure my blankets were fresh so I would be comfortable, you put on my favourite TV show and you held me while I cried about a dog I saw on the street.”

“You cooked for me, my favourite meal, that nobody had ever taken the effort to do before. You made sure I didn’t overwork myself and you reassured me again and again. Even if it might’ve been strenuous. How could I not fall for you?” You kissed him again.

"You're perfect, Bucky. I love your eyes and the way they light up when you're with the people you care for. I love your smile and how raw and vulnerable you are when you are actually happy. The way you make sure everybody is comfortable and safe. You, Bucky, you are so much more than you give yourself credit for, my love. Your existence, Bucky; Every since we started working in that crappy office, you made my life easier, you instantly made all my worries fade. I didn't know I could be this happy in my life."

There were unshed tears in Bucky's eyes.

“I love you so much.” You said, gentle tears welling up in your eyes and Bucky cradled your face again. “I love you more, my doll.” You giggled as he leaned in yet again, kissing you more deeply, more fervently, more firm.

So, yes. You concluded that: Bucky Barnes did have time for love. Because Bucky Barnes’ heart belonged to you. He was yours and you were his.

Under that sky, at coney island, on that ferris wheel, you both began. Began to create a life together, for each other and by each other. You both vowed to never let each other go and whatever whirlwinds came in your way, you would face them together.

At coney island, Bucky and you promised each other love, like an oath, never to be broken and always to be held.

if you hold me without hurting me, you'll be the first who ever did —lana del ray thank you for reading! requests are open <3 reblog, like and comment!

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tswwwit · 4 months ago

Text

Here's a thing!

Containing: Bill as a widower, a surprise reincarnation, and dire threats of matrimony.

Despite how things turned out, Dipper has no regrets.

Okay. There is one: Getting caught in the first place.

But other than that, he’s lived his life the way he wanted to. Everyone told him joining the resistance was a terrible idea. That he had a bright future ahead of him, that he was smart, to not throw it all away for a useless, impossible task.

Like he could ever do anything else.

Even at the end of things, Dipper’s proud of what he accomplished. He helped so many people. He picked his fights carefully and mostly had them work out in his favor. He did the best he could, pushed himself to the very limits of his abilities, and it worked so well.

Bright future his ass. Fighting got him further than anything could. When you think of what he’s done. Where he’s clawed back territory. Who he’s saved-

A pang goes through his chest. Dipper ducks his head, hissing against the gag between his teeth.

Okay, second regret: Not saving more people. And not avenging others. Three regrets isn’t so bad. Right?

God, what else could he have managed, if he hadn’t been stupid. If he hadn’t slipped up this one time, if he could have escaped. If he could have-

“NEXT!”

Bill Cipher’s voice rings through the room. Two claps punctuate the statement, and the line moves forward.

Claws dig into Dipper arm, tighter than before. While they still don’t break the skin, the way he’s dragged forward has him hissing again. His skinned knees burn as they slide against stone, and the pain reminds him not to let up his guard.

Not here, in the Fearamid. There’s no worse place.

In a way, he’s kind of lucky. The massive pyramid that makes up Bill Cipher’s headquarters and fortress has never before breached. No member of the resistance has made it into the command base of the terrible demon who rules the west coast.

Dipper never thought he’d end up here, ever. The closest he’d imagined was in vague daydreams. The impossible kind where he had amazing powers, spouted cool one-liners, and could smash through the entire awful fortress to kick Bill Cipher right in his angles.

“Ugh.” Bill’s groan resonates through the room. “Why the hell would I need gold? Real crappy offering.” Another clap, then, “NEXT!”

Being tribute wasn’t exactly on Dipper’s bucket list.

So here he is. Dragged along by his captors to be one more present for the Nightmare King himself.

Demons try to slake their master’s insatiable greed with an endless parade of presents. The raiding never ends. The looting, the theft, the bribes - everything, everywhere gets poured into the coffers of this monster. Nothing is enough for him. It never will be.

So it’s pretty weird that Dipper’s here. By himself.

A hundred humans at once might provoke a passing interest. A few tons of liquor or - apparently not gold, no wonder that assassination attempt failed - could also catch his eye. Only the most elaborate, creative gifts might gain a bit of his favor, which is hard to get on a good day.

One human who really made Bill’s day worse, though? That might get a second look. Dipper didn’t think he was that big of a deal, but it would be kinda cool.

Or he wasn’t, and his captors will twist him into a new flesh configuration once they reach the front of the line, like performance art. Or he has been a pain, and when Bill finally gets his hands on him and can do whatever he wants to him, he’ll do unthinkably horrible -

No. Dipper can’t think like that, not now or ever. Fear won’t help. It never helps.

Terror one of Bill’s tools. He thrives on mortals cowering before him, and Dipper won’t do that.

He shakes his head to clear it, and gets the hood shoved further down for his efforts. The thin string around his neck draws tighter as a demon adjusts the cloth. Then it plucks at it, in an apparent attempt to make its captive look more ‘presentable’.

“You sure it’s-” One of the demons mutters above him. Another pluck at his hood pulls it upwards, and he hears a smack.

“Shh! Don’t show everyone ‘til we take credit,” insists the leader. Tension makes his voice rough. “You saw it. Just like in the pictures. Boss’ll love it.”

Sounds like they’re trying to reassure themselves rather than actually thinking this will go well. Dipper snorts. Amusement on the gallows.

All four demons shush him. He can practically picture them holding fingers to their mouths in unison, hissing at their captive. It makes him snort again, and a hand shoves his head down.

Shushed, of all things. The sheer absurdity makes him want to laugh.

Being captured was bad enough. All his hypervigilance turned out useless when it really counted. Everything he’d taken notes on, the plans, the studies - none of those mattered when he was dangling by his ankle from a snare in the woods like a helpless animal.

But the way he was taken captive? That was notable. A realization that only hit once he was stuffed into a box and had nothing to do except think - but an important one.

For one, most demonic traps leave their victims in multiple pieces. And for another, he wasn’t devoured afterwards. There was an odd amount of caution involved in his handling for a human with so little magic. Almost like they were frightened of doing it wrong.

And after that, he should have been smacked around and beaten for his defiance. Hell knows he didn’t take this bullshit lying down. But instead of ending up with open wounds and a broken jaw, there’s a bag over his head and rough cloth gag to shut him up.

In fact, aside from a few bruises and scrapes, Dipper’s perfectly fine. By all demonic standards, his entire kidnapping makes no sense.

Unless you know what Bill Cipher likes to do to humans.

Dipper tries to swallow past the lump in his throat. He hadn’t wanted to think of it. Now the idea won’t stop popping up, cold grey swimming through his thoughts.

There aren’t many pictures of Bill’s ‘sculpture’ garden. Most aerial shots just get the gist of it, a field spotted grey against green. Stone hands reaching for the sky or clutching their faces, thousands of bodies screaming for their life or hunkered down to the ground -

Swallowing again doesn’t help. His mouth is too dry, even when the gag is damp between his teeth.

Soon he’ll be one of the thousands of ornaments Bill makes of human lives, instead of killing them nice and clean. Another trophy.

Maybe it won’t hurt? Dipper hopes it doesn’t hurt. He hopes that that’s what he’s here for, rather than anything more creative. But it’s the only fate that makes sense.

A bit of cold comfort, then. He might not be mutilated. If he’s ‘just like the picture’ - whatever that means - then Bill will want him to stay exactly as he is.

It sounds absurd. But who knows? Odds are Bill Cipher has a type, and Dipper will make an exceptionally pleasant sight once he’s permanently a part of his estate. Maybe he’s got a thing for rebellious, fashionless nerds having the worst day of their life. Whatever goes on in that triangular brain is too weird for Dipper to fathom.

He hopes that being a statue is peaceful. Or at least not too painful. That it happens in a flash, like he’s seen in video. And if he’s lucky, the company he’ll keep for the next… forever might include his -

“Bo-ring,” Bill interrupts the next offering before the demon gets three words into their speech. “I’d say do better next time, but guess what?”

Two claps this time. Something explodes with a splatter, close enough that Dipper and his kidnapping coterie all flinch back.

“There won’t be another.” Bill finishes. He pauses for laughter at his dry semi-joke, then claps once more. “NEXT!”

The line of supplicants moves forward. Dipper’s knees skid across the floor as he’s dragged forward, sliding to a stop as his captors pause in their line.

They must be pretty far at the front by now. The group of demons in front of Dipper’s speaks excitedly to an unresponsive audience. He swears he hears a yawn.

Impressing Bill Cipher is difficult at the best of times. Doing it with one single human seems reckless even by Dipper’s limited knowledge, but excited murmurs keep darting over his head.

Either they know something he doesn’t, or there’s another factor in play. And hell, considering the tributes Dipper’s overheard, they could hardly do worse. Nothing’s impressed Bill so far. At best he’s waved off their offerings to be piled up with all the, quote, ‘other crap’.

The latest batch doesn’t fare any better than the previous one. Like last time, Bill groans and something goes ‘splat’. A sprinkle of unknown fluid hits Dipper’s knees, soaking into his jeans.

“Ugh,” Bill groans, low and extended. It seems like it’ll go on forever, until he hears, “NEXT!”

Dipper’s shoulders tense. His jaw clenches, arms and legs pressing against their bindings. None of which stops him from being pulled along in his kidnapper’s wake.

This is it, then. Facing the lord of dreams himself, eye to… cloth, Dipper doubts he’s going to get a real look at him.

Which might be for the best. Word is that Bill can manage terrible things to the human psyche, given the chance. Dipper’s very human, and he doesn’t have enough magic to defend himself even if anyone knew how to manage it.

So maybe it’s okay that he’s a little terrified, because it’s natural. And even more importantly, Bill won’t see it.

“My lord,” The demon that captured Dipper speaks in a gravelly voice. He’s a green-gray lizard creature, with several eyes, and his sheer amount of muscles belies a sharper mind than usual. Anyone who fought him might have made that mistake. “I found you somethin’ really cool.”

He sounds strangely excited about presenting a single mortal to his king. A hint of pride, maybe, that he kept it so intact? It could be difficult for demons, because Dipper’s sure never heard of it before.

His thoughts are interrupted by a slow push, sliding him forward across stone. Careful force, that lets him keep his balance instead of planting on his face. At least he’ll face his fate upright.

One more tribute. Sitting in front of a king, in a crowd of monsters, Dipper has his pride. And he will not bow.

And the response from Bill Cipher is… probably not what the leader wanted.

Dipper hears another groan, followed by a heavy sigh. “Wow. A human. Never seen one of those before.”

Ah, great. Sarcasm. Bill Cipher sounds as impressed with Dipper as he was with the dozen tributes before him - bored, tired, blase.

Dipper straightens his back, oddly offended. Wait, he doesn’t suck as tribute, right? Part of his pride hinged on his captor not being an idiot. It made losing less embarrassing.

“Ugh. Seriously getting tired of this crap.” Bill’s voice has a tinge of annoyance to it. Kind of a whine, even. “Like I don’t have enough in the rock garden already. The shine rubbed off that apple a while ago.”

“Er,” The lizard demon hesitates. “Uh, well. Nah, see, there’s-”

“Eh, whatever.” With another sigh, Bill snaps his fingers. “Alright, one statue, coming u-”

“Wait!”

The crowd hushes. A few gasps, a couple whispers at the sheer audacity. Even Dipper twists to look at his captor in sheer surprise. A useless gesture, he still has a hood over his freakin’ face. But, like. What?

That gruff voice burst out so quickly that it sounded almost defensive, and - what the hell is going on?

The too-busy hall has gone eerily quiet. Even the mad Nightmare King doesn’t speak, probably surprised at this act of open defiance.

“I- sorry, sorry, my lord. But, like, you’re gonna really like this one.” The demon continues, rapid like he’s on the verge of panic. But insistent, too. A tense excitement runs through his words. “You gotta take a look.”

Dipper blinks in a fruitless attempt to clear his eyes. Stupid fabric over his face. He’s flying blind here.

He wishes he could see everyone’s reactions. Mortals bore Bill at best. Aside from making them into decorations, he barely bothers interacting directly. One young human shouldn’t make a demon yell at Bill Cipher. He shouldn’t matter, or be important, or even register as anything. What the hell?

The crowd stays deathly silent. Bill doesn’t speak. A slow tapping of fingers thuds like a drum in the quiet, a slow contemplative beat.

The Lord of Nightmares holds his own counsel as he judges this outburst. Weighing his options.

“Huh,” Bill says, a second after Dipper thought everything would explode - “Got a lotta confidence in your prize, I see! Guess that’s kinda interesting.” His voice grows louder as he approaches, but there aren’t any footsteps. This monster floats. “Whatcha got there?”

“Well, he was runnin’ about messing up some stuff, and, well, we saw him and - y’know.” The lead demon continues babbling, voice rising to a squeak. Bill must have closed the distance, meeting him eye to multiple eyes. “And! And we made sure not to leave a mark or anything, we was real careful.” A beat of pause; presumably Bill giving him an askance look. “Aside from tying ‘em up, yeah? He woulda run off otherwise.”

“Huh.” Bill says, again. More thoughtful now.

The same thing Dipper might have said, if he wasn’t gagged. True, he hasn’t been beaten up for fun, or toyed with, or devoured. But he’d guessed it was to leave him a more presentable statue.

Said Nightmare King must be very close by now, intrigued by the semi-sales pitch - or maybe because there’s a secret. Dipper can feel warmth in front of him, radiating from an unseen source.

Another drumming, fingers on metal. Then, with a hint of a shrug. “Alright. Show me.”

The hood whips off, and Dipper gets a dizzying look at a massive room, black stone bricks and red lines, demons everywhere. Adjusting to the light takes a second, until his eyes land on the shape in front of him.

Dipper blinks a few times - then glares at this jackass.

Bill Cipher, King of Nightmares, conqueror of half the country and weird goddamn asshole, blinks right back.

Dipper’s seen this monster before, though not in person. Cipher’s always on the news. Appearing on TV and in print, whenever he conquers another piece of territory. His pictures are in magazines, photographs in articles, he has a few intimidating ad spots online - he’s everywhere, even on some forms of cash. It’s impossible to avoid this stupid shape.

And wow, none of that is photoshopped, huh. Turns out Bill’s exactly as weird as advertised. Polygonal and golden. Noodly limbs, top hat, everything.

A total, monstrous asshole.

Dipper strains at his bindings, rising up on his knees. Unfortunately, the gag’s still in place, so instead of cursing this jackass out like he wants to, it’s all muffled shouting.

Bill Cipher goes perfectly still. He hovers in place, a motionless midair shape.

His single eye has a split pupil, and it meets Dipper’s own without moving. Or blinking, either, even though it’s been long enough that Dipper gave up trying to match it.

He’s just. Staring.

Which is… honestly getting eerie. The motionless focus, the impenetrable gaze. Not intimidating, of course. But weird.

Dipper drops back with a huff. Great. He’s having zero effect on this guy. Not even annoyance, and he hoped there’d be some.

As a last ‘fuck you’, he lifts his bound hands in Bill’s direction, and flips him off.

Bill’s pupil narrows to a single thin line. He makes a strange, back-of-the-throat sound without any visible neck. Like he’s choking.

“So, uh,” The lizard demon rubs at the back of his neck. Greenish sweat pours down his scales, and he wipes it on his tunic in short swipes. “Do you-”

“Shut up and gimme.” Bill interrupts. He darts forward in a blink of motion, making grabby hands in the direction of Dipper’s face. “Gimme gimme gimme!”

Neither Dipper nor his captor have time to react. Bill simply seizes him by the shoulders, hauling him away from his captors and onto his feet so fast his shoes leave streaks on the floor.

“Mh!” Dipper yells against his gag, stumbling to catch his balance. It isn’t the most eloquent protest, but he hopes the ‘you jerk’ gets across anyway.

While Bill’s hands are relatively small, they’re impossibly strong. His grip on Dipper’s biceps feels close to bruising, slightly shaking in its intensity.

Bill tugs him closer. The bizarre pupil flashes through a series of shapes too rapid to parse. A second later it flips horizontal, sweeping a beam of light up and down Dipper, head to toe.

While it doesn’t feel like anything, Dipper does his best to wriggle away. He hopes it messes with whatever scan this bastard’s doing. He hopes it’s as annoying as this demon is. A kick aimed at one of Bill’s floating legs didn't land, but it was worth a shot.

Bill ignores his struggles. He laughs at the kicks, which deserves more kicking. He wraps those horrible noodle arms around Dipper's biceps like ropes and giggles when Dipper growls at him, flickering side-to-side in weird, glitchy glee.

The sound of his stupid laughter makes Dipper want to fight him all the harder - useless, of course, those arms only look noodly. They’re super-magically powered. But that doesn’t mean he won’t try.

“Oh.” Bill says, lower than before. He draws Dipper close, bringing him almost within headbutting range. “Oh, now this is beautiful.”

“Mh?” Dipper tries to glare to poor effect. Confusion and anger keep jockeying for space in his head, and he’s pretty sure it shows.

And Bill starts laughing, high and loud and wild. He’s glowing now, surface lit from within with a bright golden light.

“Well! Gotta say this is interesting!” Bill pushes him back slightly, at a human-ish arm’s length. Though he still keeps a solid grip on Dipper’s arms , squeezing tight. “But man, this wrapping’s crap! What happened to ribbons on presents, guys?” His eye rolls. “Lemme fix that.”

With that said, he grows a third arm from one of his sides and snaps his fingers.

The cloth of Dipper’s gag parts like it was clipped with scissors. The bindings on his wrists cleave open, the chains on his ankles explode off his socks, and it’s only because Bill’s still holding him upright that Dipper doesn’t fall over out of sheer surprise.

He wipes at his mouth - spitting out threads in the process, he’d really been trying to chew through the gag - and coughs. With his wrists untied, he can flex his fingers and drop his arms to his sides, hands clenched into fists.

Because now he’s… free-ish. For some reason. With Bill holding onto him there’s zero chance of getting away, but still.

Dipper works his jaw a little, to loosen it. Rubs his wrists to ease the low ache. There’s a huge crowd of demons in this immense hall, so. No escape routes, not when the place is packed with monsters like a can of sardines.

Eventually he has to admit he’s wasting time. The big problem is right in front of him, if he can just. Face it.

Taking a deep breath, he turns his head to look at the worst creature in the entire goddamn world.

Bill’s lower eyelid has risen up in a curve, kind of like a smile. Still laser-focused on Dipper’s face, boring into him as if he could see into his soul. Or maybe plotting a laser course through his prefrontal cortex.

But there isn’t any mockery. No taunting or yelling or stupid puns. None of the typical theatrics that you’d see on a news report. Just… more staring.

Dipper clears his throat. He tugs at the collar of his shirt.

The whole room has gone so, so quiet. He didn’t think it could get quieter than before, but that was people glancing at each other, waiting for a chance to leave the crime scene. A hush littered with bits of gossip and gasps, warnings passing between the crowd.

This silence is an indrawn breath. Held in anticipation.

So. Here he is. In front of the greatest, most powerful monster in history, and instead of being a cool dramatic confrontation, with like. Action, or a witty back-and-forth - it’s just awkward.

“Well, sapling?” Bill prompts, eye narrowing. He releases Dipper’s arms only to point directly at his face. Like he's accusing him of something. “Got anything to say for yourself?”

Dipper breathes in deep.

Okay, then. Space to talk? A chance to say whatever he wants?

Yeah. That he can work with.

“Fuck you, Bill.” He spits out the words, putting all the hate in his heart into the venom of his tone. He steps forward, getting right in this asshole’s… face? Surface? Whatever. “I hope you die. In a fire. And that your ugly-ass pyramid falls on you, and you get crushed in the rubble, and - and that your exoskeleton gets melted down for scrap, because you just suck that much.”

Bill… says nothing. No magic twists Dipper into a terrible shape. No pain jolts through his body.

And when Dipper dares to look him in the eye, his face reflects back from the infinite depths of Bill’s pupil, blown wide from the tiny slit of seconds ago. By this point it’s nearly a circle. Which is weird, and kind of intimidating -

But he’s not made of rock yet. Bill hasn’t retaliated, probably because he’s too stunned to react. And fuck him.

“And another thing,” Dipper continues, less steadily now. He didn’t have a speech prepared. But since he’s not dead, hell, might as well make the most of it. “You’re dumb as hell, and I hate you. So much. You’re the worst thing that could ever happen to m-”

Something goes ‘splat’ just beside him, making him flinch. Another wet sound lands nearby, followed by another, and another. A slow patter that builds in pace, rapid and thick.

Dipper stares in horror as literal, throbbing hearts pop up and circle around Bill Cipher’s top hat, spinning in a rapid circle. As more manifest, old ones fall to the floor like the world’s worst rainstorm, spattering red across the stone. Even his pupil is that same friggin’ organ now, pumping away in silhouette.

“Aha. Ha ha!” Bill’s voice raises in pitch with his laughter, and his fingers wiggle in anticipatory glee, just before his arms extend and coil around Dipper’s body, pinning his arms to his sides. “HA HA HA HA HA!”

Dipper opens his mouth to protest. Rather pointless in retrospect, though he does get out a “Hey!” as he’s lifted off the ground.

That stupid heart-rain has stopped, at least. Now it’s just Bill, glowing incredibly bright and giggling like the complete madman he is.

Dipper kicks out in protest, swearing and struggling. Bill’s dumb noodle arms have some give to them, but they’re wrapped tight enough that it doesn’t matter.

“YOU!” Bill’s voice was already loud, but now it resonates. Filling the hall with a boom, ringing against the walls. His eye has blown out to a circle again, and in the depths a few strange, starlike dots glimmer. “Of course it’s YOU! Nothing was gonna keep you away, was it? And now you’re back!”

This is the point where Dipper would protest again. Or threaten, or question or - something.

But it’s pretty hard to get words out when an insane demon is spinning you around like a carnival ride, complete with fireworks overhead.

Below him the crowd cheers, a raucous chorus. He could swear more demons are pouring in by the second into an already packed hall. Lights are going off and on in a strobe, with the pop of fireworks ringing overhead. Music blares from one corner, then another as stereo sound kicks on.

Between the explosions, the lightshow, the noise - Dipper would try to figure out what the hell is going on, if he weren’t trying not to be sick from the spinning.

Bill doesn’t seem to notice any of this, focused on the human he’s captured. Eventually he slows, letting Dipper touch solid ground again Dipper with a glimmer in his eye that instantly makes him wary. Something is up, and he doesn’t know -

“I know just what to do with you, kid.” Bill says, eye narrowing. Two hands come up and cup Dipper’s cheeks, strangely warm - “C’mere!”

Watching Bill’s eyeball drop back into its socket, and the huge, sharp teeth emerge from the mouth where his eye should be, Dipper knows immediately that this. This is how he’s going to die.

Then the eyelids purse into lips, and Bill hauls him in face-first.

“Mmmmwha!” A long, exaggerated sound. Pretty dramatic, really. Bill draws back, eye smiling at Dipper as he squeezes his cheeks with both hands. “Oh man! You have no idea how long I’ve waited for that!”

“Whuh.” Dipper says, intelligently.

Bill cackles, chucking Dipper under the chin, then tickling it with a couple fingers. “Ha! Did one little smooch rock your world?” His eye wiggles, with horrible, terrible implications. “Don’t worry, there’s way more where that came from!”

Dipper reels from the sensation of having his whole face - not eaten, or rearranged, but - His legs totter, but the arms around him keep him upright.

A million questions whirl around. None of them have answers. They simply spin and spin and spin until Dipper’s brain feels blank, like -

Oh. Okay.

Intellectually, Dipper knew that Bill could break minds. He just thought it’d be more gory and torturous. For some reason.

“And as for you-” Bill turns towards the cluster of demons that brought Dipper here, to this weirdo showcase. Under his gaze, even the most terrible monsters cluster together with nervous smiles. “Who’s in charge of your little outfit?”

Tentatively, arm shaking, the leader raises a hand. Bill’s eye snaps to it and he floats in, right in front of the lizard demon’s sweating, scaly face.

Then his lower eyelid rises in that strange emulation of a smile, and he gives him an incredibly hard high-five.

“Alright everyone, listen up!” Bill proclaims, turning towards the crowd. Grabbing the lead captor’s wrist, he raises it up like a winning prizefighter. “These guys get free drinks for the next two millennia!”

A cheer rises up from the crowd. The lizard demon’s mouth purses in a ‘o’ of delight, hands fluttering at his cheeks like a human winning a gameshow. Dipper spends a moment staring at the frankly bizarre site of a group of demons clutching each other like giddy highschoolers, bouncing in a circle.

“You heard it here first, guys! The boy is back!” Bill shouts. He whirls in a full circle, nearly giving Dipper a heart attack. It feels like any moment he’s going to fall, even when he’s wrapped up - “And you know what that means?”

Gasps bubble up from the gathered demons. A susurrus of voices starts, fluttering back and forth in the crowd.

‘Party’, is whispered from one corner. Another careful voice ventures to ask, ‘Party?’. The word repeats, flickering in and out of hearing as it spreads through the crowd. Off in the back a single voice lets out a loud ‘Wooo!’

“That’s right!” Bill is so, so loud, and so, so pleased. He holds Dipper overhead, bouncing him up and down. “Iiiiit’s PARTY TIME!”

An explosion of confetti covers the room. A disco ball drops from the ceiling, music bursts from unseen speakers, and Bill sets his captive down on the floor next to him. His arms uncoil, spinning Dipper around like a top until he thinks he’ll fall-

As the room reels around him, Dipper reaches out for the closest solid surface, leaning on it until the room stops whirling around him.

If the surface happens to be the worst asshole ever, well. He didn’t have any other options.

“Hell, free drinks for everyone tonight!” Bill shouts, to a huge, monstrous cheer from the crowd. Part of the room has transformed into a long bar, and a good third of the demons are already rushing towards it. “Get while the getting’s good, guys!”

Watching the stampede, Dipper’s too surprised to move, until the demon under his elbow does it for him.

“Stick close, sapling. These guys can get pretty rowdy!” Bill says. His metallic surface is warm, not quite hot to the touch. The corner pressing into Dipper’s side, though, that’s annoying. “Don’t want you getting lost again.”

A tight belt wraps around his waist and makes him startle - but it’s just Bill again. A small black hand pats his stomach twice before taking hold of his shirt.

And Dipper’s standing here, not dead. Not a statue, not an experiment. Kind of an offering, maybe, but a weird one. He’s just…

Standing beside Bill goddamn Cipher, unharmed by the most unhinged creature in the universe. And why the fuck is that?

An explanation has to be nearby. A reason. For everything.

Why he’s here. Why he got this reaction. Why this Bill is so not like the Bill on the news, and maybe even why demons are chanting ‘chug chug chug!’ to a monster bodysurfing the crowd, drinking from a bottle the size of his arm.

Dipper feels a glass pressed into his hand, cold with a slender stem. He holds it absentmindedly, glancing around the room and the raucous party kicking up, trying to find sense in the nonsensical.

The hall is huge, so. Fits a party atmosphere, he guesses. Bill himself has one ropy arm warped around his waist, with a grip on his shirt so tight he’s pretty sure it’d tear if he took off running. Behind them is the dais where Bill reigned over the tributes, making each and every decision from his throne -

Dipper does a double-take, glancing back over his shoulder.

A second throne sits next to Bill’s on the dais. Way harder to spot, though; it lies in shadow, unlike the brightly lit rest of the room. The dark grey blends with the shaded light until it nearly matches the black walls. A seat too small for any human-sized person, and too human-shaped for any different kind of person. Instead of either, a painting rests on the seat.

Easing out of Bill’s grasp is impossible, but with effort Dipper manages to twist around for a better look.

The painting is set in a gilded frame with elaborate designs - mostly triangle based, no surprise there - but the picture itself is of a human.

Sitting in the smaller throne is a portrait of a young man. Messy brown hair and a lean build, wearing casual clothes and a faint half smile. His head tilts towards the viewer, as if they just caught his attention. His expression looks like he heard a dumb joke and is ready to retort, amusement shining in his dark brown eyes. Beneath his bangs a series dots and lines in pink stands out, like a strangely shaped… birthmark.

Dipper’s hand flies to his chest. His heart feels like it’s stopped for a second.

No, wait. That can’t-

He whips around, getting a ‘hey!’ from Bill who nearly spills his martini at the motion. Dipper smacks him out of the way, his hat is blocking the view.

Now that he’s spotted them, they’re impossible to miss. One portrait hangs out to the left of the throne, sleepy-eyed and cowlicked hair blinking in the viewer's direction. On the right a shirtless human lounges on a couch, jeans slightly undone. Another hangs from the ceiling of all things, glaring down at Bill’s throne from above like an annoyed god.

Shit. The pictures.

They all look exactly like Dipper.

“Geez, aren’t you squirmy? Ha! Figures!” Bill says, floating closer. When one of his arms loops around Dipper’s neck and he tousles his hair, it meets a man gone still as a statue. “You’re always a pain in the angles! It’s adorable!”

“What the fuck is this.” Dipper can’t even make it a question. His voice is too tense to rise at the end.

Bill’s eye swivels from his face, to the portraits, then back again. It rolls in its socket so far back it comes around again. “You. Duh.”

“How-” No, that’s not the right question. “What- Wh- huh?”

Not his best showing. Words aren’t working right; they fail him along with his usually organized thoughts. Dipper can’t concentrate. His mind filled with too much weird and why and - in an insane section of his brain - an incredulous, really, Bill?

“Oh, that.” Bill says, flicking away dismissively. He gestures over the portraits, the party, and then at himself. His arm makes another loop around Dipper’s neck, loosely draped. “What’s to wonder about? It’s simple!”

“Is it.” Dipper says, flat. He stares forward, even as the arm snakes around and around his torso in two loose loops.

“Absolutely!” Bill’s voice drops as he closes in. Not quiet, but muted enough to not be heard over the party crowd. “See, you got away from me once, kid. And fair enough, that’s what mortals do!” The stem of the martini glass shatters in his grasp, and he drops the remains with a casual flick. “They die on ya!”

Dipper glances at the portrait on the throne, then back to Bill. Tries to swallow, though his mouth feels dry with a sudden, looming realization.

“But there’s no escape this time. Never again.” Bill's eye narrows, so close to Dipper's face it's nearly touching. “Prepare for happily ever after.”

#This is not a oneshot #I actually have a whole plot for this and everything #God help me #Do I have to come up with a title for this? Maybe I'll wait on that #In my docs it's called marrying the grief-mad demon scourge but I'll probably pick something Punny #As is my fashion

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cautious-soup · 3 months ago

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Bully!(You're never like that around me.)Satoru Gojo x Fem!Reader

Part 3

Part 2 | Part 1

CW// dubcon, mentions of blood, period sex (hear me out 🙏🏾)

Summary: Satoru mulls over your smile, then fucks your period cramps away.

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♠︎♤♤♤♤♤

"Satoruu~"

Satoru turned at the sound of your voice, "You're not supposed to be in the men's locker room baby,"

You loop your arms around his neck, and he pulls you close, "I know, but I watched the game, and you were absolutely amazing," you coo.

Satoru smirks, "Heh, yeah I know. Those other teams don't stand a chance,"

"Mmm," You hum, trailing a finger down his chest, "Well, you did so good I'm thinking you deserve a reward, Sa-to-ru,"

Satoru feels his face might break in half with how much he's grinning, "Really?"

"Yes, baby, really," You giggle, kneeling down and thumbing the hem of his shorts.

Satoru looks down at you, and you smile up at him.

"Fuuuck, this is amazing," he groaned as you pulled his shorts down, opened your lips and beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep--

Satoru's eyes flew open. He cussed and pawed at the sheets for his phone, shutting off the alarm and trying to go back to sleep.

"God damn it," he grit his teeth, winding himself tight in the covers and willing himself back asleep, "Come on, come on--shit," his mind grabbed uselessly at the fading shape of his dream. It slipped away like mist.

Satoru splayed out on his bed and sighed.

What the hell was wrong with him?

What was the point of dreaming about something he could have whenever he wanted?

Your roommate wasn't even a problem for him anymore. Having RA friends who folded easily under bribes meant he could have you all to himself.

Everything but her smile, her consent.

Satoru scowled, he didn't care about it before, so why now?

You were supposed to be fun, but just thinking about you put him in a crappy mood.

Well, if he was being honest, it was mostly the video.

A few days ago, Satoru took the time to really dig through your friends' social media, just to see what else he could find about you.

One post was a video, you and some guy cozied up to each other. Your highschool boyfriend, he found out.

You touched him so gently, looked at him like he'd hung the moon and stars himself, leaned up and kissed him, then panicked when you saw your friend was recording. The video ended with the sound of both you laughing.

Meanwhile, he still hadn't managed to make you laugh. Tickling was a no. Jokes didn't work, because you were always so fucking miserable around him, it was annoying, you were such a killjoy and he hated killjoys.

So he grabbed his phone again and texted you.

Satoru: wakey wakey

Satoru: im gonna swing by in a bit

Y/N: i cant today

Satoru: lolol doesn't matter if you want to or not im still gonna fuck u

Y/N: i seriously cant, you wouldnt want to either

Satoru frowned down at his screen, then realized what you were talking about.

Satoru: dont care, see you soon~

Y/N: fuck you

Satoru snorted at your response. Seriously, you weren't cute at all. You being on your period should've been a boner killer, since your pussy was all you had going for you.

But, Satoru read somewhere that orgasms helped ease period cramps and well, he couldn't just say no to such an intriguing hypothesis.

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♠︎♤♤♤♤♤

You sigh when Satoru enters your room, dread pooling in your stomach.

You cast a weak glance over to the now empty bed where your roommate once was. She'd just suddenly up and left; your RA said it was a family emergency and didn't elaborate. It was far fetched, but you suspected Satoru had something to do with it--his toxic roots ran all over campus.

"Y/N," Satoru says, waving a hand in front of your face, "Jeez you space out a lot, what's your deal?"

You don't say anything, and wince when a band of pain winds tight around your abdomen. You groan and scoot away from Satoru, "Go. Away. I'm not doing it today, I swear if you try anything I'll bite your dick off."

Satoru rolls his eyes, "Uh, why do you think condoms were invented dummy, a little blood isn't gonna stop me,"

He reaches for you, but you bat his hand away, "Stop! It already hurts and you'll just make it worse--" you say, but Satoru grabs your jaw tightly and forces you to look at him.

"I thought I made it clear that I like hurting you," Satoru says, voice dropping, "You're just a toy for me to have fun with, that's it," he says it like he's talking to himself.

So, you end up on your back, with a stack of towels underneath your hips, absolutely mortified while Satoru rolls a condom onto his dick, looking like a kid in a candy store.

"I genuinely don't know why you wanna do this," you mutter, flinching when Satoru spreads your thighs apart.

"Neither do I," he sighs. He lines himself up with you and, before pushing inside, glances up to meet your gaze. Like he was looking for approval or...consent?

You scoff, "Just get it over with," and look away, biting your lip as Satoru's cock fills your bloody cunt.

"...oh," you both breathe at the same time.

Satoru groans, but tries to play it off as a laugh. Your position is awkward, to try and avoid too much of a mess, but he still finds a way to get close to you.

Always so close...

"F-fuck, ow..." you whimper when he pushes in too far, your aching walls quivering.

"Jesus it's like...totally overflowing," Satoru says.

"That's kind of the point. But sure, push all of that toxic shit back inside with your massive dick,"

"Massive?" Satoru looks back up at you and grins.

The corner of your lip quirks up in a half smile, despite the situation, "Yeah, like the rest of you. Makes you a freak," you say, looking away.

When Satoru doesn't say anything or move for too long, you turn to look back at him.

"U-um," you stammer, "Aren't you gonaaAAH! Fffuck!"

Your breath hitches when you see his face, eyes lidded, lips parted, cheeks flushed the most perfect shade of pink.

Satoru slams into you, his pelvis flush against yours despite the blood. A low, pained whine escapes from his throat.

"Sah, saaht- oh my god," Your head falls to the floor as Satoru starts fucking you.

"So fucking slippery inside," he groans, there's hardly any friction, but it still feels incredible somehow.

Overcome with embarassment, you squeeze your eyes shut, but Satoru is leaning down and kissing you.

The pain radiating through your pelvis gets lost behind the haze of pleasure, you feel yourself rolling your hips against Satoru's.

Satoru pants, and looks down at you with a smoldering expression, "Trust me," he pants, "You're gonna thank me for this."

Before you can ask what he means, you squeal as Satoru presses his thumb against your clit, moving it in tight circles and driving you batshit insane.

"Satoru!" you cry out, eyes fluttering shut and thighs burning. Satoru groans and pulls you impossibly closer, kissing you until his hips start to stutter. When he finally cums, he collapses on top of you.

The room is quiet except for the two of you panting. You whimper when he pulls out of you, flushing as the scent of copper meets your nose.

"That was so gross--hey!"

You're about to answer yes, but then you wiggle your hips and realize, "Um, not as much as it was a little while ago..."

Your jaw falls open as you watch Satoru examine his now very red thumb, "Woah, it really is blood huh," he looks down at the red smears covering his crotch, "Does it hurt?"

Satoru huffs, and you watch him hide a smile behind his hand.

"Can I please just take a shower," you sigh.

"No, you can't," Satoru says, "But we can,"

Satoru picks you up and carries you over to the bathroom.

Under the spray of warm water, you clutch your arms and watch the blood swirl down the drain, while Satoru spends too much time lathering your tits from his spot behind you.

But really, it isn't so bad.

Part 4

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♠︎♤♤♤♤♤

A/N: I swear I don't know how I'm writing this fast, it's insane.

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4v4ia · 7 months ago

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A Long Day | Sam Golbach

A/N: atp my whole blog is becoming a Sam golbach dedication page [gif is made by me]

It was about 11:00 when you got home. Your head was on the steering wheel, you smelt of your job and most of your sweat. You sat like that for ten minutes, before moving and grabbing your personal belongings and getting out of your car and locking it. You sometimes wished you were an influencer like your boyfriend, Sam.

Once you opened the shared apartment of yours, Sam’s, and Colby’s, you heard Sam’s rushing footsteps from the stairs. “Baby I’ve missed you,” he whined, crushing you while you stood there dead. “I’ve missed you too,” you croaked. “It was hell. All hell today. All I want to do is relax and take this ugly stupid uniform off,” you choke out.

“Crappy day?” You hear Colby ask from the kitchen, as soon as you emerge from the hallway, Colby’s eyes widened. “Crappy day…” he whispered to himself. “Black Friday is hell. I think I might quit.” You wail, “you should,” Sam sung out. “You know me and Colby make the most money out of you, there’s no reason you should be working a retail job.” He finished, “I explained to you why I should work though,” Colby looked up from the sandwich he made. “But why should you work?” He asked.

You take a sip from your water before you spoke, “I feel the need to repay you both for letting me live with you guys. Plus, I buy the groceries, and I need my job to buy groceries for us.” You hum, Sam smirked just so slightly but you saw it, “what was that?” You asked him. “Actually…” he coughed out, “I buy the groceries.”

“No you don’t. I do.” Sam shook his head again, “do you ever check your card to see which one you’re using?” He asked. Your eyebrows furrowed. You looked into your purse pocket, and grabbed out your card. “It has my name on it? I’m paying for the groceries.” Sam tch’d, “it might have your name on it, but it’s under my money. I got another card back a while ago for you, you really don’t need to repay us anything you know. You’re my girlfriend, I’m the one who’s supposed to be buying things.” Your jaw dropped.

Your eyes looked back to the card again, looking at it closely this time. It definitely looked like your card, but the numbers definitely didn’t match up with your actual card. “When did you do this? Sam, this feels- illegal?” You question, handing the card to him but he doesn’t even want to take it. “Baby, you work hard every single day. You deserve your money. Colby and I, we’re YouTubers who gets millions of views just for our content and ourselves honestly. You deserve the money you get to not be wasted on us.” Your eyes start to water, Colby awe’s, and Sam does after him. “Come on, let’s get you all relaxed and we can go to sleep later.”

“I really don’t deserve you,” you whispered, walking up the stairs before Sam as he rubbed your back. “I deserve you as much as you deserve me. You and I are like two peas in a pod. We can’t get rid of each other even if we tried,” Sam spoke. You smiled, walking into the shared room and taking everything off while Sam was getting the bath ready. You let go of your hair, and walked to the bathroom. “The water is extra hot, just how you like it.” He kissed your lips longingly, and then you got into the bath.

You moaned, “mhm, this feels nice.” You heard rustling as your eyes clothed, and you assumed its Sam also taking off his clothes to get into the bath with you. You scoot over, and he sits behind you. You relaxed into him, your body slowly sinking. “Can we just stay like this forever?” You asked, looking up at him as you kissed his jaw line. “We’d be all wrinkly.!!” Sam chuckled out, “oh that’s true..” you nodded.

The two of you stayed in the bath for twenty minutes, before that cleaning yourselves obviously. Sam got up first, grabbing two towels. One for you, and one for him. “It’s freezing in here,” you yawned. “We are in the bathroom, it usually is the coldest place in the apartment.” All you do was nod, to tired to talk.

You both get dressed into pajamas, do your night routine, and then finally hop in bed with one little night light besides your bedside. You cuddle into Sam as his arm wraps around you. “Mmhm, just think about it.” He spoke. You already know what he’s talking about, “Colby and I make more than enough and we’re happy to share with you, or at least I am. Quit your job, your managers AND boss suck. Let me spoil you even more than I do now,” he whined out.

You chuckle just a little bit, “I’ll think about it.” You can feel him grin. “I love you I love you I love you I love you—,” he keeps repeating the words, his lips all over your skin that he could reach. You giggle from this, squirming from his touch. “I said I’ll think about it that answer wasn’t a yes,” you reminded him. “But it wasn’t a no like all the other times,” you nod in agreement. “I guess that’s true.”

“Alright, let’s head to bed.. it’s almost 1 in the morning.” You groan, “I gotta be there at 8:30 tomorrow.” Sam gagged, “seriously baby, just quit. Call in sick, then ghost them, and then just never go into work again and never go to that shop. If you do ever need some type of cute clothing from there I’ll go get it as soon as you tell me too,” he rambles on and on, and you laugh at his response from the time you told him you needed to wake up.

“Sam?” You hum out, “im going to bed. I love you,” you close your eyes. His rambling stops, and he smiles as his eyes closes. “I love you too, goodnight sweetheart.” He kisses your head, and silence fills the room.

#sam golbach x you #sam golbach fluff #sam golbach x reader #sam golbach #sam and colby x reader #sam and colby #colby brock #colby brock x y/n #colby brock x reader #sam golbach x y/n

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blood-and-pizza · 1 month ago

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MORE screenshots, because these posts apparently have an image limit. (SPOILERS FOR SECRET OF THE MIMIC BELOW)

A little hideout where The Mimic spends his time...

A parade float of Jugband Monty.

A Jugband Monty water game... anyone from the 80's and 90's remember Waterfuls from Milton-Bradley!? Because I sure did when I saw this!

I can't believe they managed to make Moon simultaneously more goofy AND more terrifying. And his jumpscare? He's so BRIGHT! He also has a lovely singing voice for crooning lullabies...

A portrait of Mr. Helpful, husband of Mrs. Helpful and the avatar of Edwin Murray. Edwin and Fiona are Mr. and Mrs. Helpful... the characters they created together are their children as much as David is.

A close-up of Jugband Hippo.

Edwin Murray's debt... apparently this guy has taken out 11 loans...

A poster for Mystic Hippo.

Nurse Dollie! She runs a recycling center themed around a doll hospital. She was meant to replace all the human workers in that department. She is meant to move on a rail. This might sound crazy, but I think I found my new robot wife. Dollie is oddly adorable!

A progress chart for the building of parade floats. Listed are Fazbear Entertainment, City Council, Mercedes' Nursery, and Construction Union Local 21.

The toy phone from FNAF4. Hmm, I wonder what this guy's doing here...?

Posters of Jackie and The Mycellium Men. And before you ask...

Yes, the Mycellium Men have a misspelling in their name, as confirmed by this work report. Just one sign that Edwin's creations never turn out quite right...

Rocktapus, a drummer octopus animatronic. Captain Springlock and First Mate Puppet Foxy has to deal with this character as an antagonist sometimes. Rockatpus sounds like a stereotypical hippie when he speaks... I wish I got to hear more of him, he was fun!

A dance poster of Sharpay the poodle... at least I think it's Sharpay. She has different colors here, but a lot of the costumes at the manor have various recolors, so...

A Ranger knife... I'm sorry, but I hate this thing. It's a crappy version of a Swiss Army Knife. Disgusting.

I think these are called Star Orphans? The light-up ones have a specific name but I can't remember it.

Swing Bee... mascot of Swing Bee Honey. I hate this thing. This is the worst character Edwin made. To hell with this thing!!

There were many geese in the manor, including this tortured-looking one. Apparently, these are a tribute to @/kathegoose, the biggest fan of The Mimic I have ever seen. I admire them.

A trolley character... it's creepy.

A unicorn... Stanley, maybe?

Blueprints for a pig character from the beginning of the game. He doesn't appear to have a name...

I have a special group of screenshots devoted to Chica to show you guys next... get ready for a surprise!

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laurynjc-art · 3 months ago

Note

what do you think about michaels mothers? did you draw them? \i remember one of them in your comic about boyf's problems in their relationship, but what about other?\, or you see his family in different way?. i have sooooo many thoughts about them \even write some kind of their past and the story about their meeting, their habits and tastes etc\, want to know what do you think about it!

grips you by the shoulders and shakes you violently because yes yes oh please yes I have many so many thoughts about Michael's mothers (this is gonna be long lol)

here they are! (rough sketches but eh whatever)

Rosanne is Michael's biological mother. She had him kind of young, just out of college. And the father, who was a long-term boyfriend, didn't exactly bother to stick around.

Eloise is legally Michael's step-mother but is more importantly the mother who stepped up; Eloise and Rosanne met in high school and were instant BFFs. And when Eloise heard the news about Rosanne's baby and a recently revealed-to-be deadbeat father, holy shit did she feel bad since she'd basically introduced the two.

But eventually Eloise said "yeah fuck that guy, your kid needs a dad? I'll be his dad." Which started as just a joke between friends who then moved in together figuring it'd be easier to juggle work and a baby and Eloise's recent acceptance into med school.

Obviously things weren't easy easy, but having your best friend to lean on and have your back is pretty cool. Until one day you start realizing that you might actually have feelings for her but that's horrendously inconvenient right now so you try to ignore it but soon you're making jokes like "what if we got married for tax reasons lol? Wouldn't it be funny if we were legally unionized so that if something happened to one of us the state and our families wouldn't be fighting over our assets and Michael lmao?"

Well the jokes stopped being jokes, and they got married at a courthouse witnessed by a handful of friends and photographed by a four year old Michael with a disposable camera.

Everything was obviously not perfect; both Eloise and Rosanne were now running with some very demanding jobs, leaving less attention for Michael, which sucked for everyone involved.

And remember that birthday of Michael's everyone but Jeremy forgot? Yeah his moms weren't exempt from that. It was an honest mistake and they both felt horrible, but it severed their relationship with him for quite a few years. Even after Rosanne was able to quit her job so she could be home more, Michael was in high school before things started improving at all.

By the time the events of Be More Chill roll around, their relationship is definitely better. (Minus the fights about this new marijuana habit and you are sixteen why the hell do you think you want a tattoo) He still doesn't tell them everything. (His fight with Jeremy was mostly his burden up until Jeremy was hospitalized.)

But at the end of the end of the day, Rosanne and Eloise love each other, they love their son Michael and his friend Jeremy that they think of as a second son. They're always going to be in Michael's life. And despite everyone's shortcomings and all the things that could have been different, Michael still thinks they're the best moms he could have asked for.

Eloise is a neurobiologist. Rosanne prefers tea to coffee. She also likes medical dramas but doesn't watch them with Eloise because she won't shut up about inaccurate practices. Rosanne likes gardening. Both of their cars are 90% maintained by Michael (at his insistence.) Everyone in that house is trilingual to some degree. All the Mells are smarter than you. Just accept it.

idk Michael and his moms having a good relationship is so important to me. I have enough characters with crappy familial situations I didn't want to do that to him too

#they're so #I've only known them for five minutes but if anything happened to them I'd kill everyone in this room and then myself #to me you know #funny how writing essays about stuff you like doesn't feel like sticking your head through a paper shredder #which means adios back to my homework #anyway #art #fanart #bmc #be more chill #michael mell #hc

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bluemerakis · 10 months ago

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Imagine . . .

❝ Lover Boy Butcher ❞

This is my yapping ass session about what I think Butcher could be like when he’s smitten over you ~

Warnings: mentions of naughty bedroom stuff is all

All likes & reblogs deeply appreciated! Enjoy it my Butcher Babies ᡣ𐭩

Everybody loves talking about mean Butcher, and yeah, well that man is a grade A dick, let’s take a moment to imagine that once he’s actually quite fond of you: he’ll take the time to do the little things that he knows makes your day a little brighter — making you that extra hot cup of coffee/tea in the mornings when the sun’s still rising and the crisp air around your lips thaw with each breath; randomly throwing in a one-line reference of a book or movie you can’t stop talking about (and that you didn’t think he paid attention to) whenever the two of you banter; turning up the radio when a song he knows you love comes on—hell, sometimes he’d catch himself thinking of a snippet of the song you can’t stop randomly erupting into sing over whenever you’re mindlessly tending to chores. You’re all he wants to get back to when he’s out on a job, and definitely the last thing he wants to leave behind when it’s time to go.

When that man loves you, he LOVES you—against his hard-ass will and everything, and he’s still going to be comfortable enough to call you a wanker whenever you’re being a bit of a prude, but it’s never not followed by some form of Billy affection to soften the blow. . . even when you’ve one-upped him with some ball-bruising insult. If you fight—which can be often due to his impulsive brutish nature—he might storm off, or turn to short-lived alcoholism, but he’s always back in your shared bed come nightfall, taking you into his arms, even when you’re not ready to talk to his dumb face. It’s all right, though because depending on how mad you are, he’ll start caressing you in the places he knows you’re sensitive, and if he’s daring enough, he might go in to plant a kiss or two on whichever part of you is most accessible. He might even throw in a crappy, vulgar joke just to elicit some form of acknowledgement from you.

Let me not even get started on how he’ll act in the bedroom—jokes I’m going to tell you anyways: it’s rough—he’s a rough man, he’s unapologetically mean and abrupt in getting to the point, but he’ll slow things down for you. He’s not so much in the rush when it comes to you—why wouldn’t he want to delay every moment spent inside of you, on top of you, in and out, up and about every inch of your body? Come on, what a fucking zone of euphoria to get lost in! Consider him a goddamn hobbyist explorer when it comes to folding you over below him, or hoisting you onto his hard on, or pressing down on the small of your back until you’re wedged between the pillow he’d laid under your lower stomach and the greedy, propulsive thrusts of his hips. Oh, and he’s always going to simultaneously target that clit with a rough fondling of his fingers. This is a man that KNOWS how to pleasure a woman right, good god!

Initially, Billy was not the most educated on aftercare—he’s usually a hit it and quit it type of guy. But since being with you, he’s learning little by little on what he could be doing differently to make the post-sex experience as comfortable and as healthy as possible for you. After holding you close for a few selfish moments, he’ll get up to pour you both a glass of water and bring it to the bedside table before fetching a towel to dab yourself dry. He’ll take off the sheets while you fetch new ones, and you both work to equip the new, clean bedding. If you’re in the mood for it, he’ll draw you both a bath, or steal you away to the shower. But his favourite part? Settling back into the bed, arm hooked around you and pressing you as close to him as humanly possible—your fingers entangled as you chat about the day, about anything and everything, and of course about that one wanker Billy nearly laid to an early grave. Most of the time, it’s you doing the talking, and he’s more than content to listen on—he’s mostly just watching you exist, anyway because he still can’t believe you’re all his. All his. And god, does he love you. He’d do anything for you, kill anybody for you—lay himself down for you.

Okay I’m done now (for now). Enjoy these procrastination thoughts, this is what my brain juice went towards instead of studying because, you know, priorities!

This is not really proof read so apologies if there are any errors—but let’s be real, you just came here for a good wank (jokes?)

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thecaptainofcosmichorrors · 3 months ago

Note

Hello Mr. Captain Cosmic

If you would be so kind to take my offering for a HSR Amphoreous Men (Anaxa, Mydei, and Phainon) x male reader, I would be delighted.

My idea was that the Amphoreous Men to be teaching male reader how to shave with a blade razor. If you don't do scenarios for multiple characters, just Phainon is fine.

[What a delightful little request and you speak so kindly to me as well, I suppose I can make that happen thezboss. (Also, thank you so much for being my first specifically male reader ask)]

Anaxagora

Anaxagoras watched you for a while—not that he wants you to cause yourself harm, it’s just… since you’re just so insistent on failing miserably; he might as well take this as a learning opportunity. Your refusal to ask for help surely means that his assistance is not needed, perhaps you had a special interest in nicking yourself—cleaning the newly formed drops of crimson of your face may be just another weird “quirk” of yours. Who is Anaxagoras to stop you?

Though eventually, you became sick of your crappy shave jobs; practically begging him for help.

…

You had grown far too used to the sensation cutting your skin to really flinch; at least that’s what you told yourself, still didn’t mean the feeling was pleasant—especially when you had to clean em afterwards, it hurt like hell. Eventually, you relented as you struggled quietly; unbeknown to you, your boyfriend saw your… sorry situation on his way in.

“Oh? I take it you started up your weird fascination with cutting yourself again.” His brow arched, taking in your expression. You were not pleased. “Hello to you too, dear.” Putting down the blade, you reached for some tissue; disgruntled.

Though Anaxagoras didn’t seem phased by your snippy response, moving closer to grab your cheek; examining your face just before you could put a newly ripped piece on it. “Not terribly deep,” he hummed. “though what you have chosen to remedy it...” With that, Anaxa let go of your face to dig into your shared medicine cabinet—pulling out a small square of cotton and some disinfectant. Before you knew it, the spot was meant with disinfectant and your gratitude was muddled by the slight sound of discomfort that unwillingly left your lips.

“I suppose since this is so challenging for you, that I can be of assistance.” That wasn’t a request, that much you were sure—but with a little options, you only sighed before nodding. Though your sudden moving was rewarded with more pressure on the newly opened spot, how sweet.

Soon though, his hands rested on top of yours with a surprising gentleness; guiding you along. When your angle was off, Anaxagoras stopped to explain how and why that normally would result in another cut—not that he would let that happen now that he was teaching you. When you two had finally finished, you put down the blade to properly thank your hero.

Yeah Anaxagoras had half the mind to gag at that foolish look of yours, but perhaps… it wasn’t all that bad. Anaxa sighed, “resigning” himself to accepting your praise. “I couldn’t allow you to walk around, face all tatted up. Don’t get comfortable with this arrangement, though.” He claimed, though he would likely be at your beckoning call when asked—so maybe he was softer than he would admit.

Phainon

Bold of you to assume he’s going to let you cut yourself; definitely believe Phainon will do it for you. He’ll say that he’s teaching you by letting you watch what he’s doing, but if you’re not a particularly visual learner? What a shame, because he isn’t fond of the notion of you getting nipped.

Failing is apart of learning, but the faces you make when you cut yourself brings Phainon more distress than he’ll ever vocalize; and if he can prevent you from feeling even the slightest of pain, Phainon will do it in a heartbeat.

“I could do it myself.” You once again groaned, though your white hair lover didn’t hear a lick of it; Phainon was insistent that he needed to make sure the love of his life wasn’t hurt, besides—he was teaching you. Clearly you would just needed to watch and learn! You knew better than to believe that.

“Hey now! I just wanted to help…” For a moment, you couldn’t tell if you should apologize or wait out his antics… you may have a soft spot for him. “Tell you what, I’ll teach you by showing you!”

And, there it was. Despite the eye roll, you begrudgingly stood still as Phainon gets himself into position; settling himself behind you. It was nice, though you would never outwardly admit that—you relaxed in his hold, one of his arms comfortably wrapped around your waist while the other took up the blade.

Occasionally Phainon will pause, if he notices that you’re not truly learning—rather just looking at him, he’ll tease you relentlessly.

Now, If you’re genuinely invested in learning; asking questions as he goes? He’ll smile before explaining, only when you push him to actually teach will he starts explaining. A telltale sign of his true intent with this, and yet, it almost seems like just common knowledge? Not that Phainon makes you feel stupid, more like just something he’d learned long ago. When he was finally finished, he’ll be practically beaming before hugging into you; nestling his face in the crook of your neck—commenting on how he oh-so missed your hair already. You grumble in response, though before you can tell him that it had to go. You noticed something.

Phainon had missed a spot, just was a small patch of hair. Huh. You hadn’t quite noticed it until now… maybe you could just leave it there, man had spotty cuts all the time… who were you kidding? You rinsed off the blade; it would be real quick—it starting to nag you anyhow. Once you finish, you noticed your ever attentive lover; lookin at you, grinning from ear to ear.

“Looks like my teaching was actually helpful, no?” Crap, you fell right into his trap. In Phainon’s defense though, you had technically learned how to do It from him.

Any calls to reason would quickly be ignored as your boyfriend peppered your face with kisses after you rinsed. “I think you’re just embarrassed that you actually learned something, clearly I’m a good teacher.” Phainon grinned, and while you continued to protest against such an assumption; you couldn’t help but smile at the premise of it. Perhaps he was.

#hsr x reader #hsr x male reader #technically didn’t use any masc pronouns but I wrote this fully with that intent #was actually incredibly tired when I read this so my bad I only did two out of three #oh? looky here an offering (a request).#this was a nightmare to edit because he kept breaking my file #Who am I referring to? Anaxa #anaxa x reader #anaxagoras x reader #phainon x reader

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coraniaid · 5 months ago

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I know I keep going on about this, but I really do think that the majority of the Buffy fandom downplays the importance of Buffy's relationship with her mother to, at times, an almost ludicrous extent. Obviously it's not a perfect relationship (if you think Buffy has a perfect relationship with anyone on the show you've really not been paying attention) and indeed at times it's a very strained one, but it's a central part of understanding who Buffy is and why she says and does things that a lot of writing about Buffy on this site just ... pretends isn't there.

There are more or less extreme examples of this -- I saw a "Giles should have adopted Buffy!" post a couple of years ago that didn't even acknowledge that Buffy had a mother who might have objected -- but so much analysis of the show seems not to engage seriously with the thought that Buffy might care about her mother as a person or worry about her mother's opinion of her. And really, the show is very, very clear about this. There are multiple episodes in the high school seasons where the emotional stakes only make sense if you accept that 'demons from hell might end the world' and 'Joyce might think her daughter is getting into trouble at school' are two roughly equivalent problems for Buffy to navigate.

I recently saw a post about Season 5 that listed Joyce's death as just one of several different reasons for Buffy's burgeoning depression that season -- along with Riley leaving and her having to drop out of college -- but .... that's not right, is it? Those aren't three isolated and independent issues at all. All of those factors go back to Buffy's mom. Riley leaves her in Into The Woods because he decided the fact she's too worried about her mom getting sick to spend time humoring his fragile ego means she doesn't really love him. Buffy drops out of college in Tough Love because her mother died and she has to take care of her sister ... which, when you remember that Dawn is explicitly presented as a stand-in for Buffy ("she's more than [my sister]," Buffy tells us in The Gift, "she's me"), can only be read as Buffy dropping out because she has to take care of herself. "Who's going to take care of us?" as she asked Dawn in Forever.

Buffy's depressive spiral in Season 5 happens because her mother dies. There are aggravating factors, sure, but this is surely the heart of it. It's not because her crappy boyfriend left or she suddenly remembered she was a Slayer. It's because her mom gets sick and dies, and Buffy Summers -- who is afraid of hospitals, who blames herself for every death in Sunnydale, who has been trying to protect her mother from the supernatural for years, who hates the very thought of there being problems in the world she can't solve, who loves her mother more than she can say -- doesn't know what to do about it.

"I don't know how to live in the world [...] if everything just gets stripped away. I don't see the point. I just wish my mom was here," she tells Giles in The Gift. It's Buffy who turns to the door to let the shadow of her mother back inside in Forever, and Dawn who has to break the spell that brought her back. In Season 6, Buffy is trapped by a demon in a fantasy world where she was never the Slayer and her mother is still alive, and it's that image of her mother, telling her that she's strong and urging her not to give up which allows her to break free. When Giles comes back to England that season, and offers Buffy a temporary reprieve from all her new financial worries, the highest praise Buffy has for him is that this uncharacteristic generosity on his part is "a little like having Mom back".

There are people in the world Buffy cares about as much as her mother (but not as many as some of you think), and there are perhaps a dozen characters who appear in the show more or get more speaking time than Joyce Summers, and there are certainly lots of characters the writers obviously care much more about as people in their own right. (Like many of you, the writers seem pretty dubious about the idea that middle-aged women could ever be interesting.)

But there is nobody in the world who means more to Buffy than her mother, and I think trying to analyze the show as if there were is going to give you a very strange impression of what's actually going on. Ideas like, well, maybe Giles should have adopted Buffy.

#btvs #PSA: this post is about the fictional character Joyce Summers #I promise that it is not in any way about your mother #nor is this an invitation to complain about her or project her failings onto Mrs Summers #if you have any issues with your own mother you'd like to share with the group then maybe do it in your own fucking post

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wishful-sinful-9 · 1 year ago

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WANNA BE YOUR DOG

Chapter One

Cagefighter!Logan Howlett x Reader

Chapters | Masterlist

Winter already has its icy grip on the world outside, but in this bar, it’s as hot as the equator.

There wasn’t a shot in hell you would’ve picked this job - bartending in a sketchy underground cage-fighting joint - if it weren't for sheer desperation. Sweaty bodies packed tightly together. Impatient men demanding service everywhere you turn. Grunts and shouts and wails of pain from the cage.

When the fighting was over, the majority of patrons stumbling out the door, you could finally breathe. Wipe down the bartop, wipe away the night.

“Hey, bub, can I get a beer?”

The Wolverine heaves his weary body on a barstool and makes his usual request - the bar owners’ main source of income, the undefeatable beast of a man got a drink free after striking every opponent down with a few swings of his fist. The body hit the floor; another bet was won.

“Here you go.” You avoid his gaze as you pass him the bottle. He grunts his thanks.

A few months ago, you lost your previous job, though fortunately you had a roommate to cover your half of the rent until you found another. Unfortunately, said roommate had already planned on moving out around that same time. Therefore this sad little nightly routine was the only means of avoiding homelessness. What would your parents think, if they were to see you in this dingy, overtly illegal, shithole of a bar? You smile slightly at the thought as you dry off a glass.

Sensing eyes on you, you glance up to meet the Wolverine’s dark gaze, expressionlessly trained on you. Heat creeps into your cheeks and you turn away to pick up another glass.

–

“Shit, shit, shit!”

You slam your car door shut behind you, aborting your fruitless attempts to start it. You wrap your fleece-lined jacket tightly around yourself as you glare at the crappy old piece of metal and go over your options. Option, singular. Walk down a pitch-black icy road. You cuss again and ram a boot into the door.

“You alright there?” A gruff voice from behind startles you.

Turning around, you’re met with the looming presence of the cage fighter, donning a motorcycle jacket, the high collar and angular shoulders making him look even more intimidating. He looks at you with a raised brow.

“Er - well - no, not really,” you stammer out, “my car won’t start.”

“Oh.”

He remains several feet away from you, as if approaching a wild animal. You scuff the toe of your shoe in the gravel like a shy schoolgirl. “Yeah. Um…”

“Would you like a ride?”

He’s offering you a ride.

You shouldn’t. This is a dangerous man; a fighter for a living. And beyond that, you had reason to suspect he might not be just a man. You were sceptical of the idea of mutants, but after watching him take many a vicious blow and emerging without so much as a scrape, you had good reason to believe you were in the presence of one. So you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t get into the scary guy’s car. Even if your teeth were chattering and your toes numb in your boots. You shouldn’t.

If your parents would be terrified at the sight of your workplace, they’d faint at the sight of you meekly accepting the Wolverine’s offer.

You put all associations of kidnappers with white vans out of your head as you follow him to his. You jam your hands deep into your pockets and clench your jaw tight to prevent the audible chattering. Once in the passenger seat, you breathe a small sigh of relief when the first thing he does after switching on the ignition is turn the heater all the way up.

“Put your hands on it so they can warm up.” He grumbles. You oblige. “Why don’t you have gloves on?”

“I think I left them in my car,” you reply, feeling somewhat foolish. You wonder if making other people feel about two inches tall was a hobby of his or an unconscious habit.

He says nothing. He doesn’t turn the radio on. His eyes remain trained on the road ahead. You glance at him once or twice, but his expression is blank and his mouth is clamped shut. Behind you, you are aware of the narrow bed and minimalistic living set up that brings to you a wave of affection for your one-storey rental that has caused you so much grief these past few months. You had always assumed cage fighting must be pure sport to him, and that there was some daytime job he worked to support himself, but now you're beginning to wonder if his sole income is the bets placed on his fists.

He parks a little way down the opposite side of the road as there are cars in front of your house. You pause with your hand on the door handle, watching him scan the area before grunting, “Iʼll walk you in.”

You fumble with the latch on your gate, letting your hair sweep over your face to disguise your rosy cheeks when he leans over you to do it himself. Taking extra care not to slip on your doorsteps and make an even bigger fool of yourself, you jiggle your key into the lock and turn to face…you don’t know his real name. Oh god.

“Thank you so, so much…”

“Logan.”

“Yes! Logan. Thank you Logan.” You give him an awkward smile as he nods his head, again, expressionless.

He grunts a humble “no problem,” and turns to walk away as you step halfway over the threshold. Your mind returns to his van. The sorry little bed that you’re quite frankly surprised can support his broad stature. Before you can psych yourself out of it, you blurt out: “Wait! I have a spare room?”

He halts, caught off guard. “What?”

“If you wanted to stay the night,” you cringe at the words as you say them, “since you went through the trouble of taking me home. You're welcome to. If you want.”

The silence is deafening. He blinks at you and the sudden urge to shoot yourself in the head is overwhelming. Oh my god, what am I think-

“Alright. If it’s okay.”

–

Naturally, he’d gone to fetch a change of clothes and a toothbrush, and you took the few minutes to shove stray underwear in your laundry basket, bin the empty bottle of wine on your kitchen counter, and clear away the pile of well-loved makeup products cluttering the bathroom sink. You mentally cursed yourself for living like the cover of the Stereotypical Sad Single Female magazine.

A new wave of embarrassment washed over you when you showed him to your roommate’s old room, the bed still made in the comically girly pink floral sheets she had left behind. “Very feminine.” he’d commented.

When you’d hastily excused yourself to bed, you let out a long, self-loathing groan into your pillow.

–

It’s six-thirty in the morning, a blasphemous hour to be awake at, and Logan is trying to be quiet on the other side of the wall, in spite of his ridiculously heavy footsteps. You lie awake as he shuffles to the bathroom, wait until the shower is on, then haul yourself out of bed because part of you worries he'll sneak out like a guilty one-night stand without you getting the chance to atleast make him coffee.

By the time he’s emerged, dressed, from the bathroom you've managed to stick some bacon in a pan and made a pot of coffee. He seems taken aback, and it makes you far more comfortable to know that there's one emotion that can display itself on his stoic face: surprise.

“Sorry if I woke you up.” He glances at you as you set his plate on the table.

“It’s fine,” you reply, sitting opposite. Now that the Wolverine is sat at your dainty kitchen table, he seems less like a man-bashing beast and more like a stray dog you've ushered into your home. Thoughtfully, you begin to eat, suddenly feeling far more able to look at him directly. “Can I ask you something?”

He stops, looking at you slowly. “Ask me what?”

Now or never. You inhale deeply and softly say, “How come you never have a single bruise to show for those beatings you take?”

A pause. He chews his bacon and swallows it carefully, analysing your face.

“Do you really want to know?” his voice is low and eyes narrow. You nod. With a sigh, he sets down his cutlery and lifts a fist - the swift sound of sharp metal being unsheathed cuts through the domestic morning quiet as three knife-like claws protrude from his knuckles. Your eyes widen and your knife and fork clatter onto your plate.

“You’re a-”

“This metal runs through me. I think it’s attached to my skeleton.” He explains, rotating his fist so you can better gawk at the claws. “I can also heal extremely fast. There’s other things too, like my sense of smell being advanced…”

“Like a wolverine,” you say, “apt name.”

He grunts and you absent-mindedly lift a finger to touch the deadly metal, “They’re sharp.” he snaps, retracting them. You sit back quickly. He clears his throat. “Sorry. Just didn't want you to…”

“It’s okay. Ahem…”

You don’t dare ask another question despite the many that were whirring in your mind, feeling that the tension has risen once more surrounding the subject. The two of you eat, in silence again.

Once he has his shoes and jacket on, you show him to the door. In spite of the information revealed at the table, somehow his presence makes you a little less nervous than it did the previous night. He falters in the threshold, turning to you.

“Thanks, for letting me stay and everything,” he says. “You didn’t have to.”

You smile lightly, “It’s no problem, really. Thank you for the ride home.”

He nods, “See you, then.”

“See you, Logan.”

You watch him from the window in your door as he crosses the street, lighting up a cigar. If your parents could see you now.

a/n: so sorry for this shaky writing 😭 this is my first time working on a series and I suckkk at starting things so sorry if this falls a little flat - might go back and re-edit when I'm not so tired but oh well! if you'd like to be tagged in the next part please let me know :))

@fallout-girl219 @viviannagiorgini

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett #logan howlett imagine #logan howlett smut #smut #wolverine smut #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #wbyd #wannabeyourdog

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