#so that crisis was averted. but again: months ago)

[cultivating-wildflowers]

brought two projects to the knitting/crochet circle last night: the sweater I've been working on at church and a blanket I put down in February for some reason and have been too embarrassed to get back to.

friends.

I had nine rows left on the blanket.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Hello, Congratulations on the 5k follows!!

I discovered this fandom a few months ago and have been living for your writing ever since.

I was thinking as a drabble of the taskforce gentlemen coming home at the crack of dawn from a long mission and seeing their spouse's hand, limp on the ground peeking out from the side of the couch. All the panic and worry going thru their heads, so much bubbling up, horrible scenarios. They rush over and find you sleeping on the floor. The power had gone out last night and the hardwood floor was the coolest place to be (you didn't want to open the window because you know how they worry), so you were watching stuff on your phone and drifted off. Crisis averted!

Thank you for your time 💜

—Wide-Eyed Panic

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [Why were you behind the couch?] ❞

I’ll start by saying all of them would be concerned and immediately go into panic mode—why were you behind the couch? Why was your hand sticking out? Why, in God's name, were you not moving? Cue the horrible thoughts and flashes of what went on in their work lives.

John Price ➺

John entered the house with a sigh, slipping off his boots as the door was closed and deftly locked behind him. Grunting under his breath, the man rubs over his face, the lights off as he calls out with a tired grumble to his voice. 

“I’m back,” his voice echoes, the tone moving through the darkness far louder than it should have. There’s no answer. “Love…?” Pausing, John blinks slowly at the wall, ear twitching to the utter silence of the home. No water in the pipes. No buzzing of electricity. No you. Eyes rising, they dart around quickly as his finger moves out to the light switch. A small push elicits nothing, just as he thought. The power was out. 

Dread slowly creeps into John’s chest.

Hand reaching behind his back, the man’s fingers inch over the smooth metal of a pistol, grasping the weapon before he begins walking forward. He keeps silent, feet moving to where he knows the wood won't creak. 

His mind runs. 

Why was the power off? Where were you? Why didn’t you respond—were you hurt? John’s mind goes to blood and bullets, his jaw clenching tightly as the pistol comes out to rest in front of him; hands shifting the grip as he takes a soothing breath. Panicking wouldn’t help anyone, but it would be pointless to lie about how his heart hammers. 

“Fuck,” he growls, eyes going tight. 

That’s when he sees it. Blue eyes widen sharply. 

“Love!” John shouts, all other concerns about intruders meaningless to him. Your hand was sticking out from behind the couch, a dark shadow in the low light. He rushes over as you jerk, yelling in alarm as he rushes to grab you, pulling you up into his arms and pulling you away into the closet across the room.

“John!” You blink rapidly as you’re set back against the wall. 

“Shush now,” he grunts, eyes panicked. “Keep awake, let me look.” A hand moves all over your body, searching and pulling at clothes to touch the skin for any wounds. “Tell me where it hurts, then. Quickly. We have to move—”

“John, what the hell,” you push at him, moving him back. Your eyes try to adjust to being so rudely awakened at such an hour. “What are you doing?!”

You weren’t hurt. 

The Captain’s face pulls in with confusion, back against the closet door and now in more darkness than ever before. He can barely make out your face before you sigh and put your hands against his arms. 

Things begin to calm down as his hand rests at your hip, nearly tight enough to bruise. In his other is the gun just before you put your hand to it and softly peel the item away from him—putting it on the shelf that you know is to your left. 

Hands find John’s cheeks as he pants.

“John,” you say his name again. “...what happened.”

“Why were you on the ground?” He forces out firmly, voice a low grunt. “Why were the lights not—”

“The power went out for everyone, okay?” You speak slowly, rubbing your thumbs over his beard. “It was on the news. I didn’t open a window because I knew you would worry about that—the floor was cool and it was getting too hot in here.” 

Your mind tells you to explain quickly and fluently. You move forward and press your forehead into John’s as he sags with a great exhalation of breath—his arms circling you tightly until your spine might crack. 

He doesn’t speak for a long while, just holding you.

“Scared me,” he mutters, missing you deeply on the forehead, speaking into your skin. “Fuck, you scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. 

He keeps you to his chest, eyes fluttering shut and his spine hunching over you, fingers splayed over your back. You run your hands through his hair and calm the swelling of your heart.

You can feel his pulse mirroring your own.

Simon Riley ➺

When he sees your hand, he freezes. 

Simon wasn’t a stranger to the lights being off in the home—you opted for lamps and low light more often than not; this wasn’t new. He had only quirked a brow when he came home to the pitch-blackness, off from his recent deployment and eager for a warm bed to fall into. He admits he’d let himself calm down on the car ride home—your home was where he could relax and release tension until it became as unimportant as an ant on the pavement. 

But when he’d closed the door silently behind him and walked the few steps it would take to enter the living room, where he was sure you were still up either reading or watching something on your phone under a blanket, his body had stiffened immediately. 

Your hand sticking out from behind the couch. Limp. 

Lifeless.  

He’d been staring at it for only a few seconds before the memories came back—the ones of gore splattered to the walls and ceiling of an old flat back in Manchester. 

Simon’s thoughts had hit him like a bullet.

Not again.

Rushing forward like a bear, the man slips along the hardwood as his knees go down, shaking the home at the force at which he grabs at your body and flips you from your side to your back. 

You gasp awake and instinctually throw out a fist, connecting with a stone chest as you hiss and blink in panic. 

Fingers ruthlessly dig into your shoulders, wide brown eyes open, and…and afraid. 

“Simon?” You mutter softly, all fear in your heart is squished in an instant. 

The man breathes through wheezes, balaclava fabric moving from the force of his breaths. His fingers are shaking, blinking as his head jerks to look your lying form up and down swiftly. 

You hesitantly put a hand on his cheek and he flinches before nuzzling into it. 

“Don’t…” he takes a quivering breath into his lungs, and after, loosens his grip on your skin. Simon’s hands go to your waist, dragging you up and stapling you to his chest. “Don’t do that again.”

His voice is low. Vulnerable. 

You blink, hands holding him back on the floor. 

“...The power went out,” you try to explain only half of it softly, muffled by his neck. 

He only holds you harder, eyes open and blankly staring at the floor a foot away.

Johnny MacTavish ➺

Johnny hums a song under his breath, hanging his keys on the hook near the door.

“Dearie!” He calls to you loudly, itching at the side of his head and chuckling. “Don’t run too fast to me now, I’m all yours for two w—”

The light switch is moved by his finger, but no light illuminates his path to the living room. Pausing in the entrance, the man’s brows furrow tightly, speech cutting off like scissors to paper. 

“...eeks?” Johnny ends his sentence, turning back around to look at the switch in confusion. “The hell’s going on with that?” He mutters to himself, a frown growing on his face before he refocuses on his mission to find you—now with the added task of figuring out why the power was out in the house. 

“Swear,” the man grumbles, huffing while he runs a hand over his face, “if those kids down the street did something I’ll be livid. Little devils, I swear.” 

Johnny steps farther into the living room, glancing around. 

“Dearie?” He pauses, listening before calling out your name. “Where’s she off to?”

He sighs softly, wanting to hold you now that he’s home to do so—squeeze you in his arms and take in your scent again; he’d missed you immensely while he was away.

Johnny came across your hand sticking out from behind the couch by accident, moving to make his way into your bedroom thinking that you were sleeping. He sees an odd shape in the blackness and pauses, feet slowing to a stop. 

When he notices that it’s a hand—your hand, he doesn’t even realize that he’s completely gripped the side of the couch and wrenched it back until the scratch of the wood floors screams in his ears. 

You wake up to hands on your cheeks, sharp yelling, and your head being shaken up and down until you’re conscious. 

“Dearie, hey! What the fuck,” the last sentence is growled on fast lips. “What the fuck.”

Your hands slap to Johnny’s wrists, nails digging in. 

He breathes out quickly, looking into your eyes to look for dilation as the darkness forces him closer. “There we are, tell me where you’re hurting, now, yeah? Did you hit your head? Let me take a look. It’s okay, I’ll get you all fixed up, there’s no need to worry.”

“Hey!” Your hands push at his, trying to shove the brick wall away from you. “Quit it! Johnny! I’m fine! ”

The man pauses at your animated movements, blinking rapidly before his grip loosens. 

When it’s obvious that you’re perfectly fine, he moves back and groans, thumb and forefinger digging into his nose bridge. 

“Hell’s bells, Hen.” You glare, panting on the floor before you push yourself up. 

“‘Hell’s bells’, me?” Johnny’s head plops to your shoulder. “You just shook me like a fucking rabbit!” 

“Scared the shite out of me, you terror.” The man huffs. “Need to put a heart monitor on you.”

“Piss off,” you sigh, putting a hand to your chest to feel the pace of your pulse and the blood that runs furiously.

Johnny, moments later as he’s still resting on your shoulder, starts…laughing. Low at first, then gaining noise the more it goes unchecked—a deep rumble into chest-jerking amusement. You look down at him, the couch tilted and long scratches over the floor. Pausing, you blink at his shaking shadow before your lungs start quivering. The two of you bend over one another with shared, house-shaking laughter. 

“What the fuck were you doin’ behind the damn couch?” Johnny grabs you close, kissing along your neck as he picks you up, dragging you to your feet. 

“The power went out!” You giggle, chest hurting from the fast gasps of breath as more kisses are spread over your skin. “It was colder down there and I didn’t want to open one of the windows because I knew you’d throw a pouting match about it.”

“Christ, Dearie.” Lips meet your own. “I had half the mind to think you had a heart attack. Nearly gave me one.”

Kyle Garrick ➺

Kyle sighs as he rubs at his jaw, itching the skin and slipping out of his jacket. 

“I’m home, Love!” He says, his voice echoing over the flat. “Want me to start on supper or have you eaten yet?” The man smiles, taking off his cap and putting it on the coat rack, sighing softly. 

It was good to be back. 

Bending down to unlace his boots, he pulls at them until they’re loose enough to slip out of, thumping to their sides on the rug until he reaches out and fixes them. 

“What’s that, then?” He calls into the darkness, not hearing your answer as he quickly checks the time on his phone. “Fuck, it’s late,” Kyle utters to himself. 

Walking into the kitchen, he touches the light switch only to be met with nothing. Pausing, the man’s face pulls in—fingers twitching at his sides as he glances at the window and the moonlight that seeps in to glare along the floor. 

A deep frown takes hold of him, and he looks around once more before backing up.

“...Love?” Kyle wasn’t too concerned—the building wasn’t always the best, and power outages weren’t unheard of. But, damn, if the high of getting off of a deployment didn’t put him in a negative head-space when it came to a change in routine involving you. 

Why weren’t you answering him?

Walking slightly faster into the living room, his hand nearly reaches into his pocket to call your phone if you didn’t end up in any of the rooms—pulse beginning to be infected with a steady injection of adrenaline. 

Brown eyes find your hand behind the couch when they’re about to shift to the open door of your bedroom. A sharp gasp is inhaled instantaneously. 

Kyle races over, grappling to it and pressing his fingers to your neck for a pulse. You softly breathe, none the wiser as you lightly shift and sigh in your sleep; a delicate hum moving out as familiar fingers dig into you. 

It’s through his panic that a thought quickly cuts through the man’s mind. You’d mentioned this before. 

Kyle pauses, just about to loudly wake you. 

‘It gets hot when the power goes out, Kyle, I swear one of these days I’m going to just fall asleep on the floor. At least it’s cool down there.’

Well, the power was out, and, it seemed, you really had fallen asleep on the floor. Now that he thought about it, the flat was running hot—and he also knew that you knew he had gotten nervous of late when you left the windows open at night. 

“Bloody hell,” the man releases a long breath, free hand moving to grip the back of his head. A few seconds later, Kyle chuckles to himself, shaking his head with a small smile. “You are losing it, Mate. Losing it.” 

Without another word, he grips you, and with a grunt, picks you up and takes you to bed, setting you down on the pillows and making sure to leave the sheets off of you so you don’t grow uncomfortable.

A kiss is pressed to your forehead, and you hum in slumber, smiling unconsciously.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Love.” 

He leaves to go make a quick supper of cereal and milk.

[hulknussen]

For a situation for Nico -

Only one bed, but with a more interesting reason

Nico flirts and brings back a girl from the bar (making k-mag unnecessary jealous of course) to try and get Kevin out of his head.

Tries to sleep with her but finds himself unable to “perform”. She gets annoyed and kicks him out of his own room.

So now Nico is left alone in his boxers in the hallway. Very embarrassed. Either he knocks or Kevin finds him, but in any case, he ends up letting Nico stay in his room for the night 🤭

hello anon who rocked my world a little bit... gave me a lovely excuse to stew on some amazing themes. I made this post already vaguely spinning this further but I also have about 900 words of word vomit (think a sketch of a fic) on the topic for anyone who is interested in--lets see, what's the list--feminization, humiliation, premature ejac, general performance issues, and overall themes of a "straight" man who has been in denial for easily fifteen years if not more. it'll be below the cut

alright. hear me out. picture this. 2017. or later, doesn't matter; renault nico. who still has his weird obsessive dislike for kevin. who's been going through this absolute crisis ever since his last relationship ended (we can even say this last relationship is the cop gf if we want, for spice). he's been in a relationship basically for the last decade, if with different women. now it's been what, 6 months, 12 months, and he doesn't know what to do with himself. because suddenly there's space again, to think about other things. like the way his eyes used to linger in the locker room at school. like that second, faint, very distant feeling that accompanied his little cat fight in hungary. the one he's grown to associate with kevin, humiliation and embarrassment and anger and something else entirely.

so okay. he's a bit out of his tree, has a bit of a screw loose. it happens, midlife crisis. good thing about being single is that he can have hook ups to his hearts content. so he does. only women, of course, but every now and then one of them… clocks him. he bottomed for one of his hookups three weeks ago. never spoke to her again. hasn't had sex since out of shame. really fucking liked it.

but he's almost open to it by now. when they suggest things, more jokingly, maybe even a bit teasingly to see if someone like him, a race car driver full of testosterone, tall and handsome--if he would agree to a proposition like putting him in lingerie. if he would laugh and scoff when they suggest he maybe tone it down a bit; let someone else tell him what to do for once. and then he doesn't and the sex gets a lot better for everyone involved.

he meets this one woman. dark haired, his age, his height. his type. they get talking. it's pretty sexually charged. both of them know what they want, and that's fine. but they somehow end at the same topic nico has been finding himself at surprisingly often: what if they did things differently?

they go back to his room. there's some foreplay, it's exciting enough, nothing crazy. nico isn't worried.

but then they put him in her clothes. hard shell bra (cause man, that guy has tits) and lace panties. nico is hard, but maybe worst of all, barely interested in her anymore. like, had a sexual awakening sort of experience. won't stop staring at himself in the mirror sort of experience. tries to go back to having sex with her but just… can't, sort of experience. and yeah she agreed to put him in her clothes, because it would be funny, and taboo, and maybe a little bit hot. but she still wanted what she came here for, and he's no longer giving her that.

he ends up in the hallway to his hotel room. still in her clothes, with a pair of pants and shirt thrown after his way. it's clear he's not getting back into that room tonight. maybe more pressingly, bro is stood in a hallway with a semi and wearing women's underwear. puts his clothes back on; crisis averted.

cue kevin. light of my life. tamer of this horny and impossible beast we have made out of nico (okay sorry ignore me). he sees nico (dressed!) standing aimlessly in that hallway. kevin tries to be nice to nico, but nico just views it as an attempt to humiliate him. obviously kevin doesn't know what went down before, but nico already has kevin on his no-no list.

he also gets embarrassingly aroused at the knowledge that he is wearing lace under those clothes. and well; it's not like he's wearing a hoodie. youre gonna see a bra under a t shirt after a second look. so kevin notices. and nico notices that he notices. and they stand there, both knowing what's going on. and nico is trying so hard to not get more horny, he really, really is, because he does not like kevin--hell, he's not even into men. but they're in a public hallway, and kevin, the little bastard; he lifts his hand, squeezes nico's chest like you would tits. no shame, no decency. nico is a goner, man. if he thought anything before was a sexual awakening he is about to get hit like a truck with a restructuring of his world now.

they start out simple. kevin just offers him to stay the night. and nico can't think clearly anymore, anyway, so yeah maybe he dislikes kevin, but he also doesn't want to stay in that damn hallway anymore. it's like 1am, he might still be feeling that gin and tonic he had earlier. so fuck, he agrees. beyond kevin doing, well, that, it's not like anything else happened. he seems normal now. nico would almost think it was a figment of his imagination.

inside. maybe the lighting is a bit too dim to be innocent, but nico isn't gonna call it out. casually, very much casually, kevin asks "so how did you end up in that?"

nico embarrasses himself trying to answer that. kevin is enjoying it thoroughly. kevin enjoying it is making nico enjoy it. he probably comes in his cute little set of lace panties after kevin gives him half a handjob through his pants. it really does not take long or much.

kevin teases him he'll have to get that poor woman a new set now that he's ruined hers. it's a good opportunity to get nico his own set, though, so it all works out.

[antiquepearlss]

Late Night Phone Call (WIP)

Eugene receives a phone call late at night from his cousin whom he has never had a relationship with.

Eugene knew he was an insomniac. He was well aware of his awful habit of staying up late. But, he rarely had days off as a detective. If he didn’t have work the next day, he was going to stay up as late as he pleased, sleep schedule and overall health be damned.

And, if he hadn’t been awake, he wouldn’t have received what he considered to be one of the most important phone calls of his life. Even if it was at first, an odd and unexpected, downright bizarre call.

See, at two am, Eugene Fitzherbert, the estranged member of his family, received a Messenger call from the cousin he had only had one conversation with in the past decade. That conversation being them awkwardly catching up at the latest family reunion a few months ago. (It was odd that he got along better with Rapunzel than Eugene, the two seemed to instantly become best friends.) They added eachother on Facebook soon after and since then, their conversations had simply been the occasional meme or TikTok the two shared with eachother.

Eugene felt bad, the kid had tried to make conversation with him at first, and he tried to reciprocate. It just felt too weird and awkward to return the favor. Thus, the two barely talked.

All of this to say that the call was very odd, especially considering the late hour. But Eugene had a bad feeling in his gut. Something was wrong, he needed to answer the call. Even if it was likely a bored teenager wanting to ramble or a prank call of sorts.

“Hey kiddo, what’re you doing up so late?”

A small sniffled sound rang through the silence, and Eugene could feel his hairs stand on end. He may not be close with his cousin, but he already knew he would end anyone who hurt him. He was precious and innocent, and already probably had daddy issues (it runs in the family.)

“Hey, sorry I didn’t mean to bother you. I can hang up if you want I just thought you were awake because your icon said you were active butifyoudontwanttotalkitsfinejustignoremeillhangupnow.” The last part being said in a rushed whispery way, the kid sounded like he was trying not to wake someone up, and trying not to cry, or like he had been crying.

Something was wrong, Eugene could feel it. “You’re not bothering me, I’m just watching tv. Day off tomorrow yaknow.” Eugene chuckled, tone light. The kid was clearly upset and needed someone right now, and may not have anyone considering he was reaching out to his estranged cousin.

Eugene may not be close with Varian, but he was that kid before. And he’d be damned before he acted like the only adults he had. 

He could hear a shuffle, and Varian spoke again, a little more clearly. “Whatcha watching?”

The kid wasn’t crying or thinking he was a burden, crisis averted.

“Some shitty cop show, I don’t even remember the name of it. It’s all that’s on right now.” Which was true, he had barely been paying attention and had simply been scrolling his phone for the last hour. It might have been NCIS, he wasn’t sure.

“You have cable?” Varian seemed to perk up. Eugene chuckled “Yeah, Rapunzel wanted it. I don’t like it, makes me feel old.”

“We don’t have cable at home, I wish we did, though.” The kid sounded a touch lighter, having actual conversation material now. Eugene took it.

“Trust me, you don’t. It’s a worthless expensive nightmare. You’re better off with Netflix or Hulu.”

A sad chuckle sounded “we don’t have that either, dad’s not a big fan of tv.” Yeah, that sounded like Quirin. Old timey and boring.

“Whatever I watch I usually just pirate it.” 

Eugene snorted “I’m a police officer kid, you can’t just admit to high crime like that in front of me.” He teased.

Varian let out the lightest little huff “like you don’t do it too.”

“Innocent until proven guilty!” 

The lightest, softest little giggle rang through Eugene’s speaker. Then a sniffle. 

“Are you going to come arrest me then?” His tone was teasing.

Eugene hummed a little, pretending to consider it. “If it was your first misdemeanor, then I think I’ll let you off with a warning.”

Varian let out the same sad little laugh, “bummer, I kinda wanted to see what it was like in the back of a cop car.”

Eugene knew he was joking, but the Older Cousin instincts came in. Something was wrong with Varian, he could tell that much, he needed to nip any possible life ruining thoughts in the bud. “Trust me kid, it sucks. Don’t try anything, it will follow you for the rest of your life. Stupid decisions will always haunt you.”

His tone must have been too harsh, because the light mood was instantly destroyed when Eugene could hear a wet voice respond with “oh, sorry.”

Shit. He fucked that up.

[rouzuchan]

The Crush Culture

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈(𝐬): Todoroki Yosuke x Reader(ʏᴏᴜ/ʏᴏᴜʀ) 𝑮𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: oneshot, fluff 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔: gender unspecified; todoroki being a S.I.M.P.

“Fuuuck.”

The only word running through Todoroki’s mind. They were either prolonged or short under his breath. His breath was labored, spending prior moments working out in his room, the dumbbell still within his hard grasp.

His forehead coated in thin sheets of sweat as beads fell from his damp hair. He snatched the nearby towel, roughly running the cloth on his sensitive skin while attempting to calm his rising pulse. 

“Fuck” He muttered again.

The time read 7:12 PM, already behind his routine. He’d spent the day as normal, but something about recent events had his presence somewhere else. 

Throwing the towel somewhere, he grabbed his phone. Inputting his passcode before clicking straight into his messages. 

The screen’s light illuminated his sharp features, his lips cracking into a smirk as he scrolled up into the message feed dating back from last week.

Damn. You just had to prance around his mind, huh?

Who knew getting dragged into his gang’s matchmaking rendezvous would lead him to now? He still remembered standing broody whilst everyone else chatted and danced around, light strobing and flashing in his eyes making him want to escape. 

In his silent ruminations, he was late to notice another suffering individual at his side, a little too uncomfortable in their skin. You were definitely in the same boat as him. 

And the rest was history. 

Because you lived on the other side of town (and went to an actual school), you both opted to text for weeks, promising to jump at any free time you guys had.

It was better than nothing, he thought.

Amid his floating, fluffy daydreams, a notification slid down from above the screen with a ding. His chest palpated when he read who the delivered message was from.

Hey, I’m heading downtown. Can’t sleep and I wanted to take a break from home :>

He bit inside his lip. Todoroki clicked on the message, sending him down to the very bottom of your chat room. His fingers hovered and deleted message after message, word after word. The chat bubbles danced for a while until he unintentionally pressed send. 

He lurched forward with wide eyes, reading his sent message.

Sure,     I’ll go shower rn

“Fuck!-- Nice going, Yosuke.” He breathed out, pinching the bridge of his nose as he dragged it down.

Another ring came from his phone, feeling his dread quickly pushed away as his throat banged as if he could choke his heart at any moment. 

He peeked over the screen. 

Haha, okay ^^ see u [NAME sent a location]

Seeing your lighthearted message, Todoroki released a breath he didn’t know he held. Crisis averted. Would you even mind? Did you get in the same situation as him some time ago? He kinda hoped so…

Brushing the embarrassment off, he got up and made his way to his shower, hoping to clear his muddled mind. 

After dressing up nicely, Todoroki walked down the cool and uncharacteristically quiet streets downtown. 

It only occurred to Todoroki that this would be your first time hanging out in person since the party. Hard to believe, sure, but with your schedules and his intent on never breathing a word about you to his gang, that insignificant time frame of one month suddenly became precious moments he’d never trade.

Todoroki shook his head, sighing as he curved the corner, hands stuffed in his leather pockets. He shouldn’t jump to conclusions. You were technically still acquaintances… Unless sending memes and funny cat videos were a sign of your affection— it was still too soon to call any shots unless this date– hang-out went well. 

What were you planning? You mentioned something about cafe dates being a go-to, but would cafes even allow caffeine during this time? What do they sell in cafes other than caffeine? Is there anything you’d like? 

“Over here!”

Todoroki raised his head and followed the voice, straight to you. Standing underneath the streetlight, you waved toward him. The fluorescent warmth made your features shine in the treacherous sea of strangers.

You didn’t look tired, or was that just the grin on your face? Todoroki couldn’t tell. He felt like he could drop all his worries now. You were there. Mere feet away.

Fuck… he was in deep. And as his body practically gravitated towards yours, Todoroki knew he wasn’t escaping from your fingers any time soon.

But, he’s honest with himself. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

The midnight grind doesn't stop 🙌 /j but anyways... um, listen I don't know either. Words just... spat out... as always. Ugh, why can't I be this sappy on command!? (〃＞目＜) Being fr right now: That image with Todoroki working out has been eating me up, it's insane <(_ _ )> behold, the crew 😎🥂: @airbendertendou, @star2fishmeg, @straysugzhpe, @simpforchuchu, @strxwberrychocolate, @prodbyblush, @thatpoindexterpixy

[emma23]

Turning pages together :

Llewyn Davis x reader

The early afternoon light filtered through the curtains of Llewyn’s modest apartment, casting golden streaks over the cluttered coffee table. Vinyl records and guitar strings competed for space with half-empty mugs and a worn-out copy of The Great Gatsby. You sat cross-legged on the couch, flipping through the book with idle fingers while Llewyn tuned his guitar. The familiar discord of his strings floated through the room like a companionable hum, grounding the space in quiet simplicity.

“You’ve read that thing so many times,” he remarked without looking up, his voice tinged with mock exasperation. “What’s left to discover, huh?”

“Maybe I just enjoy it,” you retorted, not bothering to hide your smile. “Unlike you, I don’t overanalyze everything to death.”

“Yeah?” He plucked a string, testing the sound before nodding in approval. “I’m just saying, don’t get so attached to Gatsby. Spoiler: it doesn’t end well.”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling. “I don’t need a lecture on heartbreak from you, Llewyn. I get enough of that in real life.”

He froze for a moment, his fingers stilling over the strings. The words were lighthearted, but there was an edge to them, a reflection of the struggle you both knew too well—his uphill battle with music, the constant weight of simply surviving.

“Hey,” Llewyn said after a pause, his voice softening. “You’re not exactly stuck in the sunshine business either, you know.”

“Touché,” you admitted with a sigh. “But at least I don’t live with an existential crisis strapped to my back.”

He laughed—a real, throaty sound that made his shoulders shake. “Fair enough.”

Later, the two of you had abandoned your respective distractions and ended up on the floor, a shared blanket draped over your legs. Llewyn, for all his cynicism, had a secret soft spot for reading aloud. It had started accidentally months ago when you’d made him read a passage from your favorite book. Now, it was an unspoken ritual between you.

“You take the next page,” he muttered, nudging the book into your hands.

“No way,” you countered, smirking. “You skipped three lines last time, Mr. ‘Attention to Detail.’”

“Did not!” he protested, his brows furrowing indignantly.

“Did too,” you teased, leaning closer. “You’re just mad because I caught you.”

His gaze flicked to yours, softening. “Maybe I just wanted to hear you talk for a change,” he said, his tone quieter now.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you averted your eyes, suddenly self-conscious. “Flattery isn’t gonna get you out of this, Llewyn.”

He laughed again, and the sound vibrated against your shoulder where he rested his head. You didn’t argue when he reached for the book and continued reading.

The intimacy crept up on you without warning, like a song that began softly before overtaking the room. You didn’t realize how close you’d leaned into him until his voice faltered mid-sentence.

“Y/N?” he murmured, his lips barely brushing your temple.

“Hmm?”

His hesitation was tangible, a pause heavy with unspoken thoughts. When he finally leaned in, the kiss was unhurried, careful, like turning the fragile pages of a beloved book. You melted into it, your fingers tangling in his hair as the paperback fell forgotten between you.

“Been waiting for that all day,” Llewyn confessed when you broke apart, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Could’ve said something,” you teased, breathless.

“Yeah, because I’m great at expressing myself,” he deadpanned, drawing a laugh from you.

Hours later, the afternoon light had faded, leaving the room in a soft glow from the streetlamp outside. You lay tangled in the blankets, your skin pressed against Llewyn’s, the weight of his arm draped over your waist. He was humming softly, an unfinished melody that danced between melancholy and hope.

“What’s that?” you asked, your fingers tracing patterns on his chest.

“Just something I’m working on,” he said.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered.

He leaned down to kiss your forehead, his lips lingering there. “Not as beautiful as you reading Fitzgerald like your life depends on it,” he teased, though his tone was impossibly tender.

You laughed, swatting at his chest. “Shut up.”

“Never,” he replied smugly, holding you closer.

As silence settled over the room, broken only by the distant hum of the city, you felt a rare sense of peace. For once, there was no urgency, no chaos—just you and Llewyn, turning pages together in your own quiet story.

“Guess I’m stuck with you,” Llewyn quipped, breaking the stillness. “Not like anyone else would willingly put up with my crap.”

“True,” you shot back with a grin. “But lucky for you, I’m terrible at making good decisions.”

He smirked. “Guess that’s why you’re here.”

“You’re insufferable,” you groaned, burying your face in his shoulder.

“And yet, you love me.”

“Don’t push your luck, Davis.”

[amethystina]

In chapter 5 of Who Holds the Devil, Ga On doesn't send Elijah a picture of Komi and he wakes up to several messages from her being worried. At this time, what do you think was going on in Switzerland? Because if she was stressing out about it, do you think she spoke to Yo Han or not, and if so, what would be his reaction to this?

Hope you can recover well!

She eventually spoke to Yo Han about it, yes, but it took a while before she got worried enough to do so. She's used to Ga On working late sometimes and so at first she figured her reminders would be enough. Which means she sent the majority of the messages you can read in the chapter before she even considered going to Yo Han.

And, by the time she did, it was mostly because she realised that it was so late in South Korea that Ga On might already have gone to bed, and he still hadn't contacted her. Which she felt was very unlike Ga On.

As for Yo Han's reaction, there is, unsurprisingly, quite a big difference between what he chooses to show Elijah and what he's feeling internally.

He'd be pretty flippant with Elijah, downplaying the severity of the situation, telling her that it's probably nothing to worry about. Maybe Ga On was busy with something and his phone ran out of batteries, so he didn't get her reminders? Or maybe he just forgot? Yo Han can come up with several very rational and logical explanations as to why Ga On didn't send Elijah any pictures.

Basically, Yo Han would try to calm her down by pretending it's no big deal. And tell her to at least wait until tomorrow before she starts freaking out

Internally, however?

He'd be worried, too.

Because no matter what he tells Elijah, Yo Han knows that Ga On wouldn't just forget a promise like that. Ga On cares too much about Elijah to disappoint her. So something must definitely have happened, Yo Han just doesn't know what. And while Yo Han is well aware that the explanation might be perfectly innocent, his mind would also start spinning towards worst-case scenarios — because that's how he works. He needs to be aware of the possibilities and, if need be, prepare for the worst.

And, somewhere around there, Yo Han would be frustrated that he can't track Ga On yet. He already decided that he wants to long before this, but this is one of those things that helps him decide that, yeah, he needs to give Ga On something he can track sooner rather than later so this won't happen again. Yo Han has no idea where Ga On is and it's making him antsy as hell.

The closest he can get is to text Lawyer Ko and ask if Ga On was at work that day. But even if Lawyer Ko says yes, that still leaves far too many possibilities. A lot could have happened to Ga On in the hours after he left work.

But Yo Han would tell Elijah none of this, of course — especially since the crisis is averted the very next day. Nor would Yo Han ever mention it to Ga On. It's just one of those things that stays inside Yo Han's head and influences his choices later, but is more or less invisible to everyone else. Perhaps not so surprisingly, there are a lot of those. As Ga On has pointed out: there's always a reason for the choices Yo Han makes. And, sometimes, the information he's basing that choice on was gathered weeks, months, or even years ago.

That man's brain never stops processing x'D

I hope that answers your question! :D

And thank you so much for the concern 💜 Unfortunately, I'm not feeling the best right now (neither mentally nor physically) but I know it's temporary so I'm just trying to wait it out :)

[doctorstrangereview]

0027: Strange Tales #135

Cover Date: August 1965 On-Sale Date: May 4, 1965

This month Strange Tales introduces its answer to James Bond. Sgt. Fury is recast as super-spy Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Doc is completely absent from the cover bar a tiny portrait in the corner box. I really miss those boxes. In this issue we get a nice amount of intrigue and back stabbing as Doc fully embraces his mission to find "Eternity".

Doc has gone to London to search for "Eternity". He's keeping vigilant this time as he smokes out a Mordo spy in the airport just after he's landed. After wiping the minion's memory, he travels to a castle on a foggy moor. The castle belongs to Sir Baskerville. So far there are no signs of any hounds. Doctor Strange's thought bubble identifies Sir Baskerville as a "former" disciple of Mordo until he met with an accident. The fact that he's Sir and not Lord means he's a pretty minor noble. I wonder if he has his Knight Grand Cross. It's a nice castle whatever the case.

A grey haired gentleman in a rather fine long smoking jack lets Doc in. We see the 'accident' left him with an injured hand that he keeps encased in something. Or did he lose it and this is capping the stump? We may never know, but he's still a proper English gentleman who offers Doc tea. Doc's like "Sorry dude. Got no time for that. Did you happen to hear of 'Eternity'?" "By golly, I believe I have! Let me go get that scroll for you."

Sir Baskerville with no hounds leaves Doc in front of the fireplace to contemplate his situation. Wisely, Doc thinks the situation out rather than his usual shouting out to all who can hear. Just a few stories ago, as Doc was vanishing to Shazana's and her nameless sister's realm, Doc recognized Dormie's voice. Here he thinks "if only I knew from whence Mordo's increased power has come!" which sounds to me like he hasn't a clue. The colors in this panel are delightfully moody.

We change scenes to the Dark Dimension where Dormie is steaming even more than usual. He's still worked up by someone mucking with his Mindless Ones barrier. Fortunately, his security is somewhat better than most magic users in this series. Using a round edition of the magic smoky flat panel TV, he replays the events around the barrier incident. I suppose being and absolute, supremely powerful dictator makes you a bit paranoid and you watch everything. He watches Clea steal the energy draining device and place it by the barrier. It looks like she's in Nightmare's realm instead of the Dark Dimension, but whatever. Of course, if he had truly effective security, Clea wouldn't have been able to steal the device in the first place. Dormie is pissed and does the equivalent of putting his fist through the TV and begins to carefully plot his vengeance. In a better show of continuity Clea wears the same outfit in the flashback as when she first seen stealing the device last issue.

Going back to Castle Baskerville, we find out Sir Baskerville is still in the thrall of Mordo. Whoa! Would have never suspected that! Sir Baskerville contacts Mordo mentally who dispatches Kaecilius to take care of things. Unlike previous teleportation, Mordo has to speak a spell to achieve it this time. Arriving, Kaecilius and Mordo's giant floating head yell at Sir Baskerville. He grabs a scroll and goes back to Doc. Sneaking up behind, Kaecilius/Mordo attacks. But, Doc is the tricky one this time! It was only an illusion of Doc which quickly fades. A suit of armor begins to move and Kaecilius/Mordo, attack it again and again, but it doesn't fall. Doc's trick #2! Running through a doorway, a hidden Doc clobbers Kaecilius, cutting off his contact with Mordo. There's something very satisfying about that panel.

Doc freezes Sir Baskerville and probes Kaecilius' mind, without consent, of course. Here he confirms that Mordo's secret partner in crime is Dormie. Continuity crisis averted!

While this is going on Mordo is dispatching his ninja minions. Before they can reach the castle, Doc finds out that Mordo promised to restore Sir's hand. Having some knowledge of this particular situation, Doc informs him it can't be done. Then, he actually says "You no longer interest me!" In a race against time Doc retrieves his cloak. This is what caused the armor to move and why the devastating force had no effect. He goes to the roof of the castle as the minions arrive. "You, ninja dudes, my mind to your mind my thoughts to your thoughts. Doc has gone to the netherworld. You should go there to." And the flee.

Mordo realizes something is wrong and goes to the castle himself as Doc flees. Realizing he's been outwitted, Mordo shakes his fist in the air in a classic "I'll get you next time!" moment.

I like this. Doc has a definitive victory against Mordo who clearly outclasses him in power. He achieved this through his wits. Doc is more than a magical blowhard. He's a cunning strategist. Outmanned and outgunned he can still come out on top. It's bittersweet. His mission to find "Eternity" is still a failure. The story moves the arc along at a sufficient, if not brisk pace. Pieces are set in place or have begun to move. Sir Baskerville will return in a number of years in a future story arc that is truly masterful. It will even include some familiar participants. From here to "Eternity," baby!

[mariacallous]

Had the great Maya Angelou been alive to witness Saturday’s climax of the omnishambolic dog’s breakfast of a misbegotten legislative process that took place in the U.S. House of Representatives, surely she would have said, “When a political party tells you over and over again that they have no higher priority than serving Vladimir Putin, believe them.”

Then, again, it didn’t take the genius of Ms. Angelou to get the message. At the critical moment at which they had one last chance to avert a government shutdown, when Republicans in the House were forced to abandon all of their legislative priorities but one, the one they chose to ditch was the vital U.S. aid to Ukraine. In so doing, they sent the world an unmistakable signal once again that the first and guiding loyalty of Donald Trump’s GOP is as it always has been to the Kremlin.

Other messages were sent as well by the week of cringeworthy drama that was to the floor of the House as an untrained puppy would be to the floor of its new home.

Had James Madison, Alexander Hamilton or John Jay been watching, they surely would’ve been compelled to write a new Federalist Paper, likely entitled “On Legislative Clusterfuckery.” Kevin McCarthy, the ragdoll Speaker of the House, was toyed with and tormented by a MAGA alliance that appeared to be made up from a group of particularly inept extras from the movie “Idiocracy.” Neither principles, ideals, nor any sense of responsibility made an appearance during the prolonged floor fight.

Matt Gaetz, the chief tormentor, evoked Shakespeare. But not in a good way. He was more in the sort of character described by Macbeth when he spoke of “an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Gaetz and his misfit supporting cast, including Marjorie Taylor Greene, threatened to oust McCarthy if he did not meet their demand that he break the deal he had made months ago with President Biden to avoid the last government financial crisis. They wanted cuts to critical social programs including child care, Head Start, Meals on Wheels, law enforcement, housing and more. They wanted to cut the salaries of senior officials including Secretary of Defense Lloyd Austin. And they seemed willing to throw millions of government employees—including the military, the Border Patrol, the IRS, administrators of aid programs and others—out of work, thus harming the lives of tens of millions more Americans.

But they also knew that every recent past government shutdown—and all were the handiwork of Republican House majorities—backfired on its authors. And so, just as many had given up hope and every agency of the U.S. government was making plans for a government shutdown that would have begun at midnight of Oct. 1, McCarthy agreed to put forward a so-called “clean” Continuing Resolution that would extend funding for government programs until Nov. 17 of this year. They continued funding at prior levels. They even included funding for disaster assistance and cut a pay boost the House GOP was trying to give itself despite their reckless disregard for their responsibilities.

But something had to be given to the far right. The GOP needed some concession to make it seem as though their childish games had all been worth it. What did they choose? What was the one thing they said would be the last hill they would die on, the one issue so important to them that they would turn out the lights of the U.S. government to defend their position? It was to defund Ukraine aid. It was to settle for, in the words of progressive commentator Josh Marshall, “one sloppy kiss with Vladimir Putin.”

The message that it sent to the world was unmistakable. Economist Timothy Ash tweeted, “Staggering that the GOP, the party of Reagan, has been captured by Russian fascists.”

French writer and philosopher Bernard-Henri Levy wrote that U.S. aid to Ukraine should not be politicized, saying “it is about freedom and democracy, good over evil, right over wrong. Support for Ukraine is essential for the entire free world.”

Yale history professor Timothy Snyder wrote, “Cutting off Ukraine aid makes America unreliable, weakens the cause of democracy, threatens the international legal order, encourages tyrants around the world, and hastens Chinese aggression.”

Liz Cheney, one of the last Republicans with a conscience still standing, pointedly noted that the decision by the MAGA GOP to deny Ukraine funding came on the 85th anniversary of Neville Chamberlain’s 1938 “peace in our time” speech.

It was an apt point. Just as Hitler saw Chamberlain’s weakness as the opening he was looking for, surely Vladimir Putin saw the GOP message for what it was, encouragement for his aggression and his war crimes from the Party of Trump, a clear signal that all he would have to do was wait until the next election cycle and if they won, a GOP-led U.S. would abandon Ukraine, our allies in Europe, and reward Putin’s brutality by extending his reach ever more deeply into the heart of Europe.

Democrats and a handful of more moderate Republicans promised in the wake of the deal that they would seek and expected to get a new supplemental bill that would ensure Ukraine aid continued to be funded.

Let us all hope they are successful and it passes. But the damage has been done. The Putin wing of the GOP and all those who have enabled them made it crystal clear that of all their dangerous priorities, the most important was to strengthen America’s enemies, weaken our allies, and to put democracy at risk overseas just as they are doing here at home.

Nobody is cheering the last-minute deal to keep the government open that cleared the House and then, late Saturday, the Senate. McCarthy, seen as weak before, is seen as even more spineless and at risk than he was. The reprieve that was won is only temporary. The future is uncertain. While the Biden administration and Democrats handled this as well as possible, it is clear that getting anything done in Congress will be very difficult. And while the lunatics from the GOP’s MAGA ward may have temporarily gained control of the congressional asylum, they damaged their tattered reputations even further by achieving not a single solitary thing for any of their supporters—any that is, except their cackling Russian patron whose Bond villain laughter from deep within his bunker home could be heard round the world by all who understand the menace and his Trumpist supporters represent.

[pearl484-blog]

Deleted Scene: Chloe is Ladybug?!

This scene is from Replay, depicting Blue talking to Nox after Nox comes to him despondent. Originally, it was going to be a set up to an explanation of the glamour in-story, however, it has been replaced by a shorter version. We worked hard on it though, so here is the original for your enjoyment

“What happened? What’s going on?” Blue asked. Had something happened? Had someone died? 

“I can’t believe it,” Nox despaired. “Chloe’s Ladybug.” Blue bit back a scream. This was what Nox had woken him for?

“Oh, really?” Blue asked. “Chloe is Ladybug?” If this was some kind of joke, it had horrible timing. Although he had to admit, the acting tips he was giving to Nox seemed to really be paying off. Blue was almost convinced that Nox was upset.

And then,  Nox looked at Blue sadly and nodded, “Alya confirmed it. She found her suit in her locker.” 

Blue snorted. Wow, his counterpart was committed to this. “Really?” Blue asked. “She had her magical suit in her locker?”

Nox nodded sadly and then cried, “And then, Chloe got Alya got expelled! How could I have fallen in love with Chloe?”

Oh God. Blue realized. This wasn’t a joke. 

“Okay,” Blue said, sighing as he realized he was going have to break the very obvious truth to his counterpart. “Will you humor me a second?” Nox nodded. 

Blue decided to go with an easy one. “What color is Ladybug’s hair?”

“It’s dark as night,” Nox answered, a bit poetically, but Blue would accept it. 

“And what color is Chloe’s hair?” Blue asked.

“Blonde,” Nox answered, rolling his eyes at such a ridiculous question. Blue waited for his other self to realize his mistake, but instead Nox continued by gushing, “It’s so clever of Chloe to change her hair while she’s in costume. No one will realize it’s her.”

Nox sighed. Okay, he had walked into that one. He’d been the one to tell Nox that some heroes dyed their hair, so maybe he just extended that to Chloe. Nox decided to try again. 

“Okay, well how about this? You know how Chloe is, spoiled, bratty, and a bit demanding? And that’s just around us, you’ve seen her around other people. She’s like a mean girl straight out of a high school show. Do you really think that Ladybug would act like that?”

 Nox gasped, and Blue applauded himself on the crisis averted, before Nox said, “I knew she was faking the mean girl act. It’s genius.” Blue felt the smile fall from his face as Nox continued, “Wow. I almost believed it myself, and we’ve been friends forever. She’s an amazing actor.” 

Blue was stunned at Nox’s amazing thickheadedness and had to think for a moment. What on Earth could possibly be undeniable, indisputable proof that Ladybug and Chloe were not the same person. Then, in a flash of inspiration, he had it. 

“Didn’t Ladybug save Chloe from Stoneheart less than a month ago?”

Nox paused for a minute, and Blue watched the gears in his counterpart’s head turn, and then. 

“I can’t believe it,” Nox moaned. “Chloe is Ladybug!” Blue watched incredulously as Nox went through the same spiel about Alya finding it out that he had done less than 5 minutes ago. 

At this point, Blue wasn’t really sure what he could do. Clearly Nox was convinced that Chloe was Ladybug, despite all the evidence saying otherwise, but it also seemed like maybe he was having memory problems, or brainwashing?

Cautiously, Blue had Archie carefully start exploring Nox’s head for any sore spots, and Blue kept a careful ear out for any winces or complaints. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if Nox had a concussion, but Blue figured it couldn’t hurt to know. 

But before Blue could finish, the Adriens’ phone started playing a demand from Lady Wifi. Apparently, being suspended caused people to get upset. Who’d have thunk?  

Without a word, Nox brushed Archie off and transformed, racing off to face Lady Wifi. And although Blue tried to stay awake to keep an eye on his possibly concussed counterpart, in the end, his attempts were for naught and he was dragged back into the realm of sleep. ~*~

Thankfully, Chat did manage to defeat Lady Wifi on his own, and much to the superhero’s delight, he’d also managed to get to lay in Ladybug’s lap and snuggle her, after he nearly died of hypothermia. He’d been so excited about the feeling of safety and concern that Ladybug had for him. It made Argos try to remember when the last time he’d felt that Ladybug had been for himself. He wasn’t sure when it was, honestly, but it couldn’t have been too long ago. 

Even more surprising though, had been Plagg’s complaining about Chat Noir passing up the opportunity to look at Ladybug that day. Plagg had complained over and over that they could’ve solved all of Adrien’s problems with just one peek, but Nox seemed resolute that he should not do that, albeit he didn’t seem to quite understand why he’d felt such a strong need to just leave her be.

The entire fiasco seemed so bizarre to Blue. Ladybug had trusted him enough to detransform in front of him a number of times. Everytime, he’d never been so much as tempted to open his eyes. Perhaps it was just how often it had happened, but the idea that Ladybug had been standing a few feet in front of him de-transformed wasn’t a big deal to Blue anymore.  

Honestly, though, the thing that mattered most to Blue is that he’d finally gotten the notion that Ladybug was not Chloe out of his head. Apparently, what had really been helpful was seeing the two of them together. Not just reminding Nox of when the two were together, but an actual moment for him to look at them side by side to re-evaluate. God, he had been such an idiot.

Of course, when he complained about Nox had been, Nox had been thoroughly confused, and Plagg had just laughed it off as people being so oblivious sometimes. And so Blue sat and stewed. Now, Blue knew he had been naive in the past, but he refused to believe that he’d been that bad. Plus, Nox had been acting very weird. 

So, of course, during his next appointment with Master Fu, he asked if they could check Nox as well. 

Master Fu raised an eyebrow, and in a carefully measured voice, asked, “And why do you think we should check your other self?”

And so, Blue explained everything, detailing how strangely Nox had been acting and his apparent amnesia near the end. 

Unconcerned, Fu simply said, “I wouldn’t worry about that. As a wielder of the Miraculous, you, Chat Noir, and Ladybug all have a special magical protection designed to prevent others from seeing through your disguises. It’s not foolproof,” Fu said sternly, as if in warning. “But it is a nice bit of protection.” Master Fu stroked his beard in contemplation. 

“It is unusual to see anyone affected so strongly by a glamour though, especially a wielder. Perhaps the city itself has made everyone a bit less immune,” he mused. “It will certainly make finding Hawk Moth harder.”

Blue sighed. Wasn’t that the truth? If this protection extended to all Miraculous wielders then he’d be dealing with a city that might even be able to watch Hawk Moth transform right in front of them, and not notice.  ~*~ Later:

Plagg laughs and says that you could dress up a mannikin in a ladybug suit and throw a red wig on it, and everyone would be convinced that it was her.

Blue says that Plagg is exaggerating. Plagg smugly asks “Wanna bet?” Blue laughs and says that it can’t possibly be that hard to get a manikin and a red wig. In the end, the manikin did fool the class, although it didn’t fool Alya after it was painted green. As a matter of fact, an inflatable Ladybug, gnome dressed like a ladybug, and a hand puppet all fooled the class. The lawn flamingo dressed like ladybug needed a little convincing, and the Ladybug cake didn’t fly for a minute, but throughout the next two weeks, both Blue and Plagg had a heck of a time coming up with new ways to test the glamour, somehow missing the dirty looks given to him by one Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

[lover-of-mine]

Anna!! Just wanted to come here to, one, say hi, and two, tell you I'm so sorry about your computer. Even if it's kinda working already, it was still something that upset you, so hopefully you're feeling better and it doesn't happen again in the nearest (or furthest, really) future.

Thank you for all the sets you always do. Whether it's the countdown, or another kind, it's always good to see you on the dashboard. 🩵🩵🩵

Hi darling 🩷 I did get it to work now, but the thing was way more frustrating because this is the sixth time (I think it's the sixth it might've been more but there was a period there where multiple things stopped working in quick succession that I just count as one time lol) that it stopped working in like, a year and half, and I have a bachelor in comp sci so I use my computer a lot (it stopped working the first time when I was working on my thesis and I legit cried for an hour straight lol) and every time it gives up on me it gets more frustrating, specially because the thing that stopped working now was the power source and I got it not six months ago because the old one caught on fire, so to have the same issues again made me a bit irrationally upset about it, because a new one would take up to 2 weeks to get here, but my dad managed to fix it and it got it to work so that crisis was averted, just not before I lost it a little bit tho.

But thank you, I really like making the sets, and it makes me really happy that you like seeing them 🩷🩷🩷

[totaldramafan-lauri]

*falls over*

DONE.

I GOT THROUGH IT. IT'S OVER, IT'S DONE, I'M GRINNING SOOOO WIDE LIKE AN IDIOT AND I WAS GIGGLING FOR LIKE FIVE MINUTES STRAIGHT >////////<

Sh-she didn't do the voice THAT much, but she did bring it out JUST enough to get me to freak out, hhhhhhhhh......Th-the part about channeling her to get a lotto ticket and her peeking out to say "Give it to me!" I WAS CHOKING I COULDN'T BREATHE- A-and the funny part is, that usually, Golden Cheese's regular voice doesn't make me flip out that much anymore! I love her voice, but i-it's usually only when she speaks in certain tones (softening and/or lowering it, of course) when I react this strongly.....Th-that wasn't heard here! It was just her normal tone, and I'M STILL! FLIPPING! OUT! X///////D

I-I think part of the reason is that words can't describe how ecstatic I am that Ms. Uribe loves voicing her so much, and seems so cool with the fans....! I-I was LEGIT worried this'd be awkward.....cuz, again, there was a stream just like this last year that she wasn't in! She could've easily shown up to that one (Mozzarella and Fettuccine's VAs did), but she didn't! C-combine that with how she'd done little to no promotion of CRK on her social medias, AND that she's not primarily a voice actor to begin with (she's an actor actor) and it just appeared like she was a private person who wasn't ready to interact with a fandom as intense as this.....and I am SOOOOOOO SO SO SO SO HAPPY I WAS WRONG! SHE EVEN ACKNOWLEDGED THAT GOLDEN CHEESE CAN BE "SEXY" IN FANART HHHHHHHHHHH??!?!!?!?!? I-I can breathe ALL the sighs of relief now! I-I'm good! Crisis averted! X////D

I-I keep thinking back to that one time I tuned in to a Streamily signing for this one CRK VA of one of my fav characters a couple years ago, and....I-I won't say who it was, but....He acted like he barely remembered the role at all, and only talked about "lol I voiced a cookie, isn't that cool".....when his character was literally one of the most important and developed in the game even back then, and.....I-I couldn't sit through that, it was so awkward....I-I don't hate him for it, cuz these stories are recorded months in advance and he's busy, but....I-I much prefer when I can tell how much a VA loves their character and remembers the story, cuz it makes me feel better about how into voices I can get......y'know?

I-I'm so, so happy I can relax now....I-I wanna listen back to it, but I gotta finish the rest of the stream first. X//////D O-oh, and I'll......I'll do the thing, too......I-I just gotta think of the right quote to request on it! I-I have, like....a short list in my head right now, just gotta narrow it down....>///////<

[cdyssey]

Barbara and Melissa - microprompt: you scared me

Well, I said a 500 word maximum, but then I kept going gdi HSIOHSIOOA. l’m going to get better at this, I swear.

CW: Minor Pregnancy Complications

AO3 Link

—

“You scared me,” Melissa says as she gently drapes the damp rag against Barbara’s clammy forehead.

They’re in the nurse’s office, the lights comfortably dimmed, and Barbara is stretched out on the slightly raised cot, holding the heavily rounded curve of her belly. She’s over eight months pregnant to the date and feels every microsecond of it—swollen and tired and so sick all the damn time.

It hadn’t been like this with Taylor, whom she had carried as easily as a summer’s breeze a little over six years ago now.

But her baby—Gina, they want to eventually call her—has been terribly hard on her body, from the first trimester of constant morning sickness to now, weeks and horrible weeks down the line, when she can barely bend down to pick up a stray crayon. This is what she’d been trying to do anyway before her surroundings had started to blur around the edges, darkness encroaching upon her vision like a fade to black at the end of a movie.

“Go get Mrs. Schemmenti,” she’d just been able to gasp as she managed to lower herself to the ground, and one of her children—(she isn’t sure who)—capably did.

And then—within what only felt like seconds to her, though it was surely much longer than that—there was Melissa, calm, reassuring, and so totally in control, kneeling next to her head and consoling the crying and frightened kindergarteners swarming all around them. Shhh. Mrs. Howard’ll be okay. Don’t worry, kiddos. The nurse is comin’.

And when Barbara herself could not speak, her tongue leaden inside her mouth, tears trickled from the corners of her eyes, terror radiating through her entire nervous system. 

But Melissa, exceedingly soft, haloed by the harsh fluorescent overheads above her, only tenderly thumbed them away.

“That goes for you too, Barb,” she’d said, grinning crookedly, as though they were just having another one of their early morning chats. There was nothing of fear in her eyes. There was only love. “You don’t have to worry. I’m here now.”

It had been more than a promise.

It had been a Melissa Schemmenti guarantee.

Fifteen minutes after the fact, though—as they wait for Gerald to arrive to take her to the hospital for a check-up—here the same woman is, finally admitting to having been scared despite all the incredible composure she had shown just moments before. Barbara, who had been staring at a random stain on the ceiling—deeply uncomfortable with being fussed over—slowly tilts her head to the left, where Melissa is standing over her.

Hovering.

Her own personal savior.

“You heard the nurse,” Barbara says hoarsely, her mouth cavernous and unbearably dry. “She just thinks my blood pressure may have bottomed out."

She bites her lower lip at this.

In her defense, it had sounded much better in her head.

"God," Melissa snorts darkly, now smoothing the threadbare blanket that had been loosely thrown across her legs, now shifting her weight from boot-to-boot. "Y'say that like it’s supposed to be a consolation..."

It seems that with the immediate crisis being over, the younger teacher's usual restlessness has returned. She fidgets. She looks at Barbara. She just as quickly glances away. But she can never seem to help herself in the end, her darkly lashed eyes always returning to the perfect roundness of Barbara's belly with an inscrutable expression.

Barbara averts her own gaze then.

She knows that pregnancy is a difficult subject for Melissa.

"My dear husband will be happy," she sighs bitterly, finding her ceiling stain again. (She idly wonders why it looks a little too much like crusted blood.) "They'll likely put me on bedrest after this."

As excited as she is to meet the newest member of her family, she dreads the isolation of the next month—sitting at home with nothing to do all day except watch TV, being unable to stay on her feet for very long, counting down the interminable minutes on the grandfather clock in the living room, feeling like a stranger in her own body...

She'll miss her kids—devastated that she won't get to read to them and play with them and work with them on their shapes and numbers for at least three months, if not longer.

She won't know what to do with herself in the absence of Melissa.

Even though they've only known each other for five years now, it's felt like an entire lifetime and then some.

"Your work wife'll be happy too," Melissa chortles, placing a palm over her knuckles. Barbara inadvertently shivers when their wedding rings clink—one ornate and carefully chosen, one randomly bought from that sketchy pawn shop off 7th Street.

"You're gonna go, have the most kickass baby ever, and rest your tired body for a while," she continues, now running her thumb across the side of Barbara's hand. "And then, when you're ready... you'll come back to me, and I'll have your chair in the break room all ready for ya and everything."

Barbara swallows thickly, moved by this image, so perfectly touched. Home is at her little house with Gerald and their soon-to-be two beautiful daughters—sure, yes, absolutely. But somewhere, in the last couple of years, home has also become a certain round table in the teacher's lounge, where there is room enough for only two.

"Promise?" She hates how desperate that she sounds, clinging to this barest morsel of normality like it's a lifeline.

But Melissa doesn't judge; Melissa has never judged her; she's a saint like that; her recurring joke is that she's God's favorite sinner.

"I guarantee it," she smirks, playful and perpetually teasing, though she is nothing but solemnity, all tenderness, when she lightly squeezes Barbara's hand.

[go-follow-vibingouthere]

Kaimelia Fic Update/Sneak Peek

For anyone that cares...

I'm still writing the post 18x20 Kaimelia fic I posted about 2 months ago lol. Had a bit of an identity crisis after graduating college + the hyper fixation was becoming less... hyper, so I haven't actually worked on it since late June until this week. RN I've got ~3.5k words that are actually useable and good and another ~13k (I know 🙃) of... Over stuff lol (some of it's useable, some of it's redundant, etc.). I won't post it until it's done; I hate disappointing people and wouldn't wanna get anyone's hopes up just to never finish it. I am fucking DETERMINED to get this out before the new season starts.

However... Because I'm a glutton for attention and I know the fandom is in a drought rn... I wanna give y'all a sneak peek of the first 500 words or so. Without further ado:

Kai had never kissed anybody in the rain before… It was nice. Like a scene from a movie. Kai could imagine some grandiose love song playing in the background of this moment, the music swelling when Amelia’s lips met their own. Picture-perfect…

It had been a long day. A long few weeks, really. Whatever anxiety Kai had experienced during that dinner party, surrounded by Amelia’s intimidating web of a family, had only increased after their semi-break up on the swings; and, with it, came wave after wave of self-loathing, anger, and despair. They couldn’t eat, they couldn’t work, they couldn’t sleep, they couldn’t function.

Not even the paper being published—years and years of work and effort finally being recognized—was enough to lift their spirits. Every potentially happy thought about it—every stray thought they’d had since the last time they were in Seattle—just led back to her. Their text to her upon hearing the news (“thinking of you”) wasn’t a lie: if anything, it was an understatement.

The irony plagued them. They had once boasted to Amelia that they needed very little sleep to function and look where that had landed them: impulse buying a plane ticket to Seattle after another restless 24 hours, running through the airport to make it on time, all 6’ 1” of them jammed into a middle seat on a rickety Spirit Airlines flight, their hastily packed carry-on containing nothing but two shirts, pajama bottoms, underwear, and a toothbrush. All without a shred of hope to cling to that she’d even want to see them, let alone take them back.

But she did… at least, tentatively.

She was kissing them, in the rain, and Kai felt like they could finally breathe again. The risk of drowning at sea was averted: her presence alone pushed their exhausted, waterlogged mind back to shore. The monumental pain of their actions was gone. The weight and stress that had sat in their shoulders and upper back had finally dissipated. Relief flooded over them and they were left to ponder happier ideas… like which movies had the best rain kiss scenes.

(They managed The Notebook, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Spider-Man, A Cinderella Story, and that one episode of Friends before Amelia pulled away for breath, her forehead slumped against theirs.)

The rain was getting worse by the second; having started as barely a sprinkle, it was now quickly becoming a considerable downpour. They could feel their hair getting heavier, sticking to their forehead in odd spots, matted after Amelia’s handiwork.

Her hands eventually came down to rest on their shoulders. They stayed breathing each other’s breath, eyes closed and hands still, for a long time, quiet despite the environmental rage surrounding them…

They were tempted to kiss her again, being that close for so long. And they nearly did. Hesitantly brushing their nose alongside hers, receiving no comments or requests to stop, they brought their hand up to her cheek, ready to join their lips again and—

“Amelia!” someone called out from the hospital exit, their voice carrying over the dense rain.

The bubble popped.

Hope you enjoyed :) I hope to have it out in full beginning/mid-September.

[molotovmetro]

Day 2: (Toaster, Baker AU, Humor)

Italics is Chris's inner monologue

Chris Redfield x gn reader

Words: 632

Warnings: none that I can think of, let me know if I need to add something

Flame Grilled

Chris Redfield never quite imagined himself to be in the position he is today.

A few months ago S.T.A.R.S. was disbanded by Police Chief Irons in favour if a true swat team. The man didn't care about the people who would lose their jobs, the only thing that mattered to him is how profitable it was.

Wesker kind of disappeared, no one has heard of him since that last day at work. He was never an open person anyway. Jill managed to get a job at a local locksmith, which isnt surprising with her skills, they don't call her the master of unlocking for nothing. Barry and his family moved to Canada, Brad is still looking for a job as far as he knows, as are Joseph and Forest, the rookie Rebecca Chambers went back to school, and he was honestly not close enough to the others to know what they're up to these days. Still, they made a lot of good memories with the team.

He considers himself lucky that his sister was looking for help in her bakery at the right moment, although he suspects she just felt bad for him. It isn't exactly his dream job, but it pays the bills, so he can't complain.

Plus, sometimes the costumers are really cute. Like right now for example. Alright, stay professional, Chis.

The man gives his best costumer service smile, "Hi, how can I help you?"

They smile back, "Hi, two toasted croissants, please."

Toasted. He freezes. Do they even have a toaster? Who wants toasted croissants?

He's trying not to make it painfully obvious that he's completely lost, looking around slowly with slightly widened eyes as he's grabbing the croissants.

Ah! There in the corner! Okay. Toaster located and crisis averted.

Time for problem two.

How the hell is he going to fit these in there?!

The brunette standing in front of a toaster with a pastry in each hand was quite frankly a hilarious sight.

"Is everything alright..?" The cute costumer asked.

Chris jumped, "Yeah! Well... not really..." he turns to them, "Do you mind if I squash these a bit?"

Very eloquent there, Chris.

They laugh, where did Claire find this guy? "Not at all, go ahead."

The man smiles and proceeds to ungracefully stuff the croissants in the toaster.

Problem three. How should he program the timer?

Alright, Chris. We can wing this. Just go for about two minutes and go from there.

He walks back to the counter and leans an elbow on it, feeling pretty proud of himself –but mainly relieved– that he didn't have to call Claire. "You come here a lot?"

"Does that line ever work for you?"

Taken aback a little, he takes a step backwards. "That- that wasn't a line!"

"Uhuh. Yeah, sometimes. Enough that Claire considers me a regular." They smile.

Oof. At least they're not mad.

He opens his mouth to respond, but gets interrupted by a loud beeping.

Fuck. That's the fire alarm!

We whips around to see flames coming from the toaster.

"Wow, flame grilled. What service!" The costumer jokes.

Chris pays their comment no mind, busying himself with pulling the cord and wetting a towel to throw on it, which luckily seems to put it out.

That's coming out of my paycheck.

He walks back to the counter again and puts two croissants in a paper bag and hands it to the poor person whose lunch got ruined.

"Here, on the house. Sorry about that... Although, maybe I can take you out for dinner later to make up for it?" He says with a sheepish smile.

"Sounds good, what time to you get off? Though, we should probably stay away from flammable appliances." They winked.

"In two hours. And yeah, you're probably right."

[mypoisonedvine]

Seeing Red | bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x actress!reader (part 3)

(part 1) (part 2) 

series summary: bucky used to brag that he didn’t have a celebrity crush, or really care about famous people at all, which is what made him the perfect person to start working for a celebrity like yourself.  except, of course, it’s just his luck that he’d fall for you.  

word count: 3k

chapter warnings: mention of past sexual harassment, very mature karaoke (lol), mention of pornography

Day 63 and you still hadn’t talked about it.  He’d actually gotten to know you a lot better over the past two months, even almost confessing his feelings for you with that stupid half-asleep storybook thing he’d done way back when, but you still hadn’t talked about the night you saw him looking in the rearview mirror.

Tonight actually reminded him of that night; this time was a premiere, for a movie you hadn’t actually been in but apparently you were supposed to go anyways?  He didn’t get it but he figured he didn’t need to.  As long as you came back alone this time, he’d be happy.

Of course, when he saw you step out to the car to leave for the venue, he was confident that would be impossible— not that you ever looked bad on a red carpet or anything, but wow… this was different.

“It’s not too slutty, is it?” you asked him nervously, spinning around to show him the back.  Don’t look at her ass don’t look at her ass don’t look at her ass—   

“Just slutty enough,” he responded with a gloved thumbs up.

“Perfect,” you smiled, and he opened the door for you to get in the back.  He took a moment to catch his breath before circling around to the driver’s side.

You actually chatted with him on the way, which was a new thing you two had started doing when he drove you.  He looked forward to your talks a lot— especially the ones where you ranted about whatever was on your mind.  You would usually apologize for rambling but he liked it; and, you were cute when you got really worked up about something, even if he thought it was kind of trivial.

As he pulled up to the red carpet, with cameras flashing and the indistinguishable yelling of reporters and fans, you shot him a look as if you didn’t want to go.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” you shook your head incredulously, “I just… I wish you would’ve come and seen it.”

He recalled a few weeks back when you offered him a ticket to the premiere showing, but he’d insisted on just sticking to what he knew and letting your assistant have the spare ticket.  “I’ll catch it on Netflix,” he dismissed.

“No, I mean, I wish you were coming with me,” you explained.

Was it hot in here, all of a sudden?  Because his cheeks felt warm.  “Uh, you don’t want me in there.  I always fall asleep in theaters anyways.  Just go have fun and I’ll catch you after.”

“Okay,” you nodded with an adorable little smile.

So he waited, wondering if he should’ve taken you up on it all those weeks ago, but decided he probably made the right call.  He would just embarrass you in a place like that, more than likely, and you had enough to deal with already.  He felt more useful waiting in the wings than being in the spotlight, to use a fittingly-timed theater metaphor.

It was a few hours of him killing time in the car, but he got to relax a little more since the event already had pretty good security on its own.  You’d recommended a book called Flowers for Algernon to him, even lending him your copy for the time being, and so he leaned his seat back and picked up where he’d left off from this morning.  Of course, if he had known that you’d be gone long enough for him to finish, and that the ending was going to make him cry, he probably wouldn’t have read it.  WIth his luck, it was inevitable that he’d be all but sobbing when you texted him to pull the car around.

Wiping his tears and hoping his eyes wouldn’t be too red, he tossed the book into the glovebox and started the engine.  You waved cheerily when you saw him from the entrance, and he attempted to navigate through all the other cars pulling up so he could reach you.  Thankfully, you didn’t have a new friend with you this time— or an old friend.  Jealousy crisis averted, for now.

“How was it?” he asked with a smile as you opened the door and slipped in, unable to hide how happy he was to see you.

“The premiere itself was a lot of fun, I got to see some people I hadn’t seen in ages; the movie, though?  Sort of pretentious,” you admitted as you shut the door and he got the car moving again.  “And way too long!  I could watch movies all day, but that doesn’t mean I want to watch a movie all day!”

“Fair enough,” he laughed.

“What did you do?” you asked innocently.

“I finished your book,” he frowned, trying not to think about it so he wouldn’t get emotional again.  

“Ah, I can tell you’re still a little hurt about it,” you smiled mischievously.  “Should’ve warned you about the ending.”

“No, no,” he disagreed, “it’s not a bad ending just because it’s a sad one… it was a good book.”

You’d already been smiling, but your smile undeniably changed as he watched it in the rearview mirror.  Something softer, something more sensitive.  He liked this one better.  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

Just in time to interrupt the moment, you saw something on the passing street outside that caught your attention.

“Ooh, karaoke!” you piped up, pressing your face against the inside of the window excitedly.  “Pull over!”

He chuckled at how easily distracted you were, but did as you’d asked.  He barely found time to slow down to a stop before you were opening the door and running out, flashing your ID to get inside.

He groaned as he realized how completely unsafe it was for you to be in a bar… especially now, when you were at your most recognizable and literally still wearing what you’d had on at the premiere.  Thankfully, he managed to pull the car around and park in the closest spot he could find, jogging to join you inside the bar and hoping you hadn’t already made too much of a scene.  His hopes were dashed the moment he pushed through the door, however.

“Is she perverted like me?  Would she go down on you in a theater?” you sang along with the grungy backing track of Alanis Morrisette’s You Oughta Know; your lips were curled into a faux snarl as you stood on stage with your heels in one hand and the microphone in the other.

Bucky’s head fell into his hands, looking around to see hundreds of bar patrons, nearly all of them with their phones out filming you.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Bucky mumbled to himself, hoping you would somehow hear it and take his advice.  Instead, you pantomimed sucking a dick with a cute little wink and everyone cheered.  “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“And I’m here, to remind you,” you continued, jumping around wildly; you looked like you were having the time of your life, honestly.  If he wasn’t so worried about you, he would’ve let himself smile seeing you so happy.

During the bridge, you stole someone’s water off their table and poured a bit on your head, slicking your hair back and shivering from the cold.  There was something about the water dripping down your face, starting to soak your clothes and make your skin glisten...

Bucky glanced around to make sure no one was looking at him before subtly adjusting his jeans.

He watched you sing the entire song, making most of the notes and definitely capturing the anger of the original song— if clearly having a lot more fun with it than most would.  The entire bar cheered when you finished, and you took a moment to take some pictures with people and meet a few fans, which he thought was sweet even if his bodyguard instincts forced him to interrupt after a moment.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he guided you away gently.

“Goodnight!” you waved goodbye to someone who was already buried in her phone and posting the photo you’d taken with her.

“Have a good time?” he asked sarcastically as the two of you began to walk out together.

“Would’ve been better if you hadn’t been glaring at me the whole time,” you smirked.

“I wasn’t glaring, I was just… watching.  You have a good voice, you know.”

You seemed surprised by the compliment.  “Oh.  Thanks.”

“And your stage presence is certainly… energetic,” he grinned.  “I bet your little charade is already trending.”

“I checked, and it is,” you giggled, showing him your phone for a moment where Twitter was open and you were the #7 topic in the United States and climbing.  “And the part where I poured that water on myself is pretty gif-able, don’t you think?”

He raised a brow as he held the back door of the bar open as you slipped back on your heels and walked past him.  “Is that why you did it?  For the reaction?”

“I did it cause it was fun,” you corrected.  “You wouldn’t know anything about that.  And the water thing was just practical, I was getting hot in this dress.”

That didn’t seem to be a problem anymore with the way you shivered in the night air as he walked you through the parking lot.  “Want my jacket?” he offered.

“No,” you frowned, but you eyed the leather with a hungry stare.  He chuckled and took it off, draping it over your shoulders anyways.  “How far is the car?” 

“Uh, a block?  Not much parking this time of night,” he explained.

“Ugh, these heels,” you groaned, “they hurt so bad.  I don’t know if I can make it.”  You began to slip them off but he stopped you.

“You can’t go barefoot out here, god knows what’s on the ground,” he shuddered; what if there was broken glass or something?

“Well, I can’t wear these,” you frowned, “and I probably shouldn’t be walking on asphalt in red bottoms anyway…”

He probably should’ve warned you before he scooped you up into his arms, but it was sort of instinct and he kinda forgot to say anything first.  You squealed a little but then went lax in his grip.

“You’re gonna carry me the whole way?” you asked incredulously.

“It’s only a block,” he shrugged, adjusting you in his arms a bit before starting the walk. 

It got quiet after that, the cool night air rustling the trees and blowing through his hair— frankly, he was a little chilly without his jacket, but it looked better on you anyhow.  The drive home was quiet, too, or at least quieter than usual, but it didn’t feel awkward, necessarily.  It didn’t feel like a lull in the conversation; it felt more like the conversation had just changed from verbal to non-verbal.  You both looked around at the city lights surrounding you on the drive, silent because there was nothing that needed to be said.  It wasn’t nervous, or tense, or anxiety-inducing like most of his interactions with you (or with anyone) could be.

It felt like time spent with an old friend.  He hadn’t known you long enough for that to be accurate, but he was happy to think of you as a new friend.  He just hoped you thought the same.

Arriving at the house, he dropped you off at the front and watched you make a mad dash for the stairs and presumably your bedroom, smiling to himself as he parked the car and came in to follow you.  He saw his jacket tossed onto the couch and your expensive shoes discarded right by the door.  Going upstairs and peeking into your room, he saw your limp form flopped onto the bed, your back exposed from the low cut of the dress.

“You’d better not get comfortable, you’ll kill me if I let you fall asleep with all that makeup on,” he frowned, leaning against the doorway.

"I couldn't fall asleep yet, anyways.  I'm wired."

“Any plans to burn off all that energy?” he pressed.

You groaned a little as you sat up, starting to unclasp all the jewelry on your wrists, around your neck, and on your ears.  “It’ll take me a while to get out of all of this— but not as long as it took me to get into it,” you laughed.  “Then I’m thinking TV and beers.”

“Beers?” he questioned, emphasizing the plural.  “You plannin’ to get toasted right before you go to sleep?”

“No, it’s plural because there’s one beer for me and one beer for you,” you explained with the slightest air of condescension, but he couldn’t really think of it as rude since it was an invitation.

“I don’t want to intrude on your chill evening,” he refuted.

“No, really, you’re not intruding!” you insisted, standing up and setting the jewelry on a nightstand before approaching him and turning to face away from him.  “Will you unzip me please?”

He stammered a little.  “I don’t… see a zipper,” he admitted with a weak voice.

“It’s on the side here, see?” you lifted your arm a bit, and pointed to it.  

Reaching out to touch your zipper was reminiscent of that old boardgame Operation: he needed to touch the zipper and only the zipper, cause if he bumped into anything else nearby, he got the feeling he’d get zapped.

His breath caught a bit as he watched more and more of your skin become exposed, the zipper ending up so low that he could just barely see the top of something lacy around your hips— and he had to stop there because anything more could induce cardiac arrest.  

“Thanks!” you piped up happily, slipping away to your closet to do the rest in private.  “Will you get the beers while I take my makeup off?” you requested through the shut door.

“Sure,’ he replied, turning to leave but realizing he should ask first: “Shiner or Pabst?” 

“Don’t patronize me,” you grumbled, and he laughed because it was a stupid question.  Trodding downstairs, he grabbed the Shiners from the fridge, stopping to check his phone only to see that it had started to automatically send him headlines pertaining to you.

‘Touch of Blood’ star gives impromptu karaoke performance at Queens dive bar!

He laughed at the picture of you onstage, even though he thought it was kind of reductive to describe you by a movie you’d been in so long ago when you had so much great new stuff coming out.  Jumping back up the stairs, beers in hand, he found you makeup-free (aside from some leftover mascara and eyeliner that hadn’t really made it all the way off) and in a robe, laying on the bed as you pointed the remote at your TV.  He thought you looked almost more beautiful like this than you did on the red carpet; of course, objectively, everybody looks better when they’ve been painted to the point of perfection, but he liked the domesticity of this.  When you were casual and relaxed like this, he could almost, almost pretend you were his girlfriend or something.  And not, you know, a global superstar and his employer.

“Beer me,” you requested as he sat down next to you, handing you a bottle and trying to ignore the thorough view of your legs he was getting in that robe.

“Anything good on?” he prompted as he watched you scroll through the channels on the guide.

“Uh, not particularly,” you frowned.  

“They’re showing a game,” he pointed out as you passed the sports channels.

“I’d rather watch this pay-per-view porn,” you rolled your eyes.

He cleared his throat but said nothing because he was confident there was no good response to that.

“Hey, I’m in this!” you beamed, changing the channel quickly.  He nearly had a heart attack until he realized you weren’t scrolling through the porn channels anymore.

He recognized the film instantly as the one of yours that he’d seen the most, for one very embarrassing and slightly sinister reason; looking down to the corner, he saw the HBO logo and realized it wasn’t going to be edited.  His palms got a little clammy but he tried not to worry about it too much.

“Oh, this girl was super nice,” you remembered as you pointed to a character on-screen.  “She had a bigger role but most of it got edited out.”

“That must be a bummer,” he imagined.

“Eh, it happens,” you shrugged.  “Beats getting fired, or recast in the sequel.”

“Have you ever been fired during filming?” he pressed, morbidly curious.

“Once,” you nodded.  “We were only a few days into it so they had no trouble finding somebody new and redoing my scenes.  Just think: I could’ve been a Bond girl if I’d slept with that producer.”

“You— what?!” he squawked.  “You got fired because you wouldn’t have sex with a film exec?”

“I got fired because of ‘creative differences,’” you explained with exaggerated air quotes, “and, unrelatedly, those creative differences surfaced the morning after I refused to get down and dirty with the EP.”

“Jesus,” he shook his head, “that’s… I hope you told someone.”

“Yeah, anonymously.  Somebody will care someday, but not yet.  He’s still too profitable, and not enough people have come forward.”

He glanced over at you, admiring your profile as you kept your eyes on the TV and took a sip of your beer.  When you turned your head and looked back at him, he realized he’d been staring a bit too long.

“What?” you asked, quirking your brow a bit. 

“What?” he repeated.

“You’re staring at me,” you frowned.

“Sorry, I was just… sorry,” he shook his head and looked back ahead.  What he found there wasn’t much less embarrassing, though: he knew all too well that this was the scene right before THE scene.  The scene he’d watched over and over until his arousal overpowered his shame.  The scene that he’d used to try to satisfy his crush on you, but it only made it worse.  The scene that had burrowed into his mind and deepened his obsession even as he fought it with everything he had…

You know, that scene.  And he was about to watch it with you.  

Bucky was completely, entirely, and supremely fucked.