#someone needs to write this fic and it might be me

[noblesandsstories]

Gods damn it all. Now I'm paranoid. I might make my fics on AO3 where you need an account to read them. I never wanted to do this, I want everyone who can to read my stuff, but I don't want the stories that took me so long to write, past or future, to be used for someone else's shit

AO3 has been scraped, once again.

As of the time of this post, AO3 has been scraped by yet another shady individual looking to make a quick buck off the backs of hardworking hobby writers. This Reddit post here has all the details and the most current information. In short, if your fic URL ends in a number between 1 and 63,200,000 (inclusive), AND is not archive locked, your fic has been scraped and added to this database.

I have been trying to hold off on archive locking my fics for as long as possible, and I've managed to get by unscathed up to now. Unfortunately, my luck has run out and I am archive locking all of my current and future stories. I'm sorry to my lovelies who read and comment without an account; I love you all. But I have to do what is best for me and my work. Thank you for your understanding.

[sirxaibs]

BLACK BUTLER IDEA!!!

I still will probably write this but I want to know if there is a demand at all for black butler content. Please like and reply if you’re up for a new fic!!!! here is a sample of what I was thinking

݁ᛪ༙The clock ticked steadily in the dim sitting room. Moonlight spilled through the large windows, catching the sharp gleam of Y/n’s eyes as she stood by the fireplace, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Sebastian entered soundlessly, like a shadow come to life. He bowed with his usual mockery of politeness.

“You wished to speak with me, Lady Y/n?”

Y/n said nothing at first, letting the silence stretch and coil between them.

She studied him the impeccable suit, the flawless manners, the thin smile that never reached his eyes. Everything about him felt wrong.

Finally, she spoke, voice low and edged with steel.

“I know what you are,” she said. “Maybe not the name for it, but I know you are not human.”

Sebastian’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it grew.

“How very observant,” he mused, clasping his hands neatly behind his back. “And what, may I ask, do you intend to do with this knowledge?”

Y/n stepped closer, her boots whispering against the rug. She tilted her head slightly, the fire casting half her face in shadow.

“Nothing,” she said. “Because Ciel trusts you. For now.”

Her eyes hardened.

“But know this, Sebastian Michaelis: if you harm him if you let him slip further into whatever darkness is trying to swallow him I will tear you apart myself. Piece by piece.”

Sebastian chuckled, the sound low and amused, like a cat toying with a mouse.

“You are quite ferocious for someone so…fragile.”

Y/n didn’t flinch. She stepped even closer, close enough to smell the unnatural, cold clean scent of him.

“You think I’m fragile?” she whispered. “Try me. You’ll find out exactly how far a sister will go for her brother.”

For the first time, something flickered in Sebastian’s gaze interest, perhaps. Amusement tinged with a thread of caution.

“Noted,” he said smoothly, bowing his head slightly. “I shall continue to serve the Young Master with the utmost…care.”

Y/n stared him down a moment longer before turning away, her heart pounding.

“See that you do,” she said coldly. “Because if you don’t hell won’t be the only place you’ll answer to.”

As she left the room, Sebastian stood still, a gloved hand resting lightly on his chest where, for a brief, strange moment, he thought he might have felt something almost human: respect.

݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙ The hem of your dress swirled around your ankles as you hurried through the entrance hall, the air thick with the scent of polished wood and new paint.

The rebuilt Phantomhive Manor loomed above you, so pristine it almost mocked the memory of ashes and ruin still seared into your heart.

You clutched the sides of your gown an elegant deep navy silk dress with delicate lace sleeves, a gift from Aunt Angelina. But you hardly noticed its weight now.

All you could hear was the hammering of your heart.

Ciel.

Your little brother your baby was alive.

You had been staying with Aunt Angelina ever since the fire, trapped in a haze of grief and guilt, believing there was nothing left. When the letter arrived, hastily penned with shaking hands by your aunt herself, you thought it a cruel dream. But now standing here the heavy doors of the manor open, the world spinning in your ears he was truly here.

A butler you didn’t recognize bowed you inside. His voice was smooth.

“Welcome home, Lady Y/n. The Young Master is awaiting you in the drawing room.”

You barely heard him. Your body moved of its own accord, feet flying across the marble, ignoring decorum, ignoring appearances. You needed to see him.The door to the drawing room creaked as you pushed it open.

And there he was. Ciel stood by the window, framed in silver light. He was wearing a black velvet suit, a rich blue eye staring outward only one eye. The other hidden behind a black eyepatch.

His posture was perfect, his chin tilted up in practiced nobility.

But he was still so small.

Still just a boy.

Your throat closed. A sob broke free before you could contain it. He turned at the sound and his eye widened, just barely.

“Y/n,” he said, voice smooth and measured, as if tasting the word for the first time in years.

Your vision blurred with tears.

Before you knew it, your knees buckled beneath you. You fell. Not out of weakness out of relief. You crashed to the carpeted floor, arms flinging around him, dragging his tiny, stiff body against yours. You pressed your forehead to his stomach, clutching him as if he might vanish again if you let go.

“My Ciel,” you gasped out, voice cracking. “My sweet boy, my precious ”

For a long, breathless moment, he said nothing. You felt the way he tensed, the way he hesitated awkward, uncertain, like a child who no longer knew how to receive love. Then slowly one small, gloved hand touched your head. Not like he used to not with the easy affection of the boy you remembered.

It was a stiff, careful gesture.

“…You’re wrinkling your dress,” he muttered, trying for irritation but failing miserably. His voice shook ever so slightly.

You let out a watery laugh, pulling back just enough to look up at him. He was trying so hard to be composed. To be grown. But you could see it the glimmer of your little brother beneath the armor. The scared, exhausted boy who had come home. You reached up, cupping his cheek gently with your gloved hand.

“You’re home,” you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “You’re home, and I will never, ever leave you again.”

His eye softened so quick, you might have missed it if you hadn’t known him so well.

“You’re being dramatic,” he said, brushing a hand down his jacket, pretending indifference.

You smiled through your tears, standing finally and straightening your dress. You took a deep, trembling breath, smoothing his hair back with motherly care.

“You’ll have to get used to it,” you said, voice steadying. “Because I plan to be dramatic for the rest of your life, Ciel Phantomhive.”

The corners of his mouth twitched just slightly. A ghost of a smile. And you felt it you knew that somewhere deep inside, he was still your brother. you would love him with every fiber of your soul, no matter how cold he tried to be.

You linked your arm through his before he could protest, guiding him further into the room like you used to when he was a shy toddler hiding behind your skirts.

“Now,” you said brightly, “you’re going to sit with me and tell me everything.”

He sighed, a sound of long suffering patience far too old for his little body.

“…I suppose I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” he said.

You smiled, squeezing his arm gently.

“Not when it comes to me, dear heart. Never.”

You hadn’t felt this complete in so long.

But then a presence. You felt it like a prickle at the back of your neck, a gentle tug in the air, a ripple where everything should have been still. Your eyes drifted, pulled by instinct toward the doorway.

There he stood. The butler. Tall, impossibly composed, crimson eyes gleaming like molten garnets in the low light. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, posture perfect, expression unreadable.

The sight of him sent a strange chill along your spine not fear exactly, but something close to wrongness.

And something else, too something painfully familiar. For just a moment, your heart squeezed. He looks like Father.

Not exactly your father’s features had been warmer, his smiles real. there was something in the way this man carried himself, the precise way he tilted his head, the quiet strength wrapped in civility.

You tore your gaze away and turned to Ciel, lowering your voice.

“Who is that?” you asked, smoothing your skirts with trembling hands to hide your nerves.

Ciel followed your gaze casually, as if he hadn’t noticed the butler lingering nearby until now.

“Sebastian Michaelis,” Ciel said. His tone was clipped but neutral. “My butler. He’s been serving me since… I returned.”

You nodded slowly, lips pressing together.

You wanted to ask more but Ciel’s body language warned you off.

The stiff shoulders, the slight narrowing of his eye. He trusted this man. you had just gotten your brother back. You would not push. Not yet. You turned back toward the butler, offering a polite, practiced smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“Thank you,” you said softly, inclining your head just slightly, as a lady should. “For taking care of my brother.”

Sebastian’s crimson gaze flickered briefly curiosity, perhaps but his bow was perfect.

“It is my duty and my pleasure, Lady Y/n,” he said smoothly.

[illuminetic]

Some thoughts about Mel King, Kingdon, autism, and sexuality under the cut.

So I can't help but get a little peeved by this because it's personal for me — as an autistic woman who loves sex yet often gets infantilized by people who know me in real life because I'm supposedly so 'cute' and 'pure' — but GOD. I cannot stand when I see comments from people about Mel King being so 'sibling coded' with Langdon. And the thing is, I understand not everyone will ship them, and that's not a problem at all. I have a life outside of the internet so I don't really care in that deep a way lol. And I don't even entirely blame people who say they're like siblings, because Patrick Ball DID said he felt that way about Taylor and that was how he kind of conceptualized the Mel/Langdon relationship to begin with. But at the same time, I just feel like a lot of the 'omg they're so siblings!' chat is based in the belief that Mel can't be sexually desirable to a man who is traditionally handsome in the way Frank Langdon is. Or people are uncomfortable imagining Mel might have sexual desires or a sexual life at all, with Langdon involved or otherwise.

And then also there's this fine line too of some people saying they head-canon Mel as asexual and/or aromantic — and it's like. I'm not necessarily pissed at that or think it's a problem, because we all want representation and project our own traits onto characters to better understand ourselves or draw comfort. And again — I've heard that apparently Taylor Deardon said that's a valid interpretation of the character. And it is! But it's also like. Oh. So we're completely de-sexualizing the autistic girl. Cool. That makes sense — she's a little socially awkward and nerdy so of course she's not interested in sex! And even if she was interested in all that icky stuff her handsome coworker would never be into sex with her omg that would be so weird they're so siblings coded!!

Idk. This is nuanced — because again, if you're asexual I would never want to say it's wrong to conceive of Mel that way. We're all just playing barbies in our heads with our blorbos, I get it. I'm literally projecting my own sexuality onto Mel because I relate to her, so I guess I've actually just entirely talked myself out of being angry at all lol. So to any and all asexuals who headcanon Mel that way, keep doing you.

It's just a personal annoyance for me more than anything to see comments that imply Mel is a non-sexual being, as someone who sees myself in her a lot and also happens to really like sex. I feel like, because of the social cues I miss sometimes, and the way I am at work and in my personal life with friends and stuff — I am constantly fighting against the belief that I'm somehow 'innocent' or 'naive' when it's like. bud. I've literally had the kinkiest sex. I go to a sex club fairly regularly where I have sex with and/or in front of strangers. In fact, I'd argue part of the reason I like sex so much — and particularly kinky sex — is BECAUSE of the autism. I've noticed, from my time being in the community, that the kink world is filled with people on the spectrum lol. Makes sense — kink is all about rules and structure, controlled and safe (yet intense!) physical sensation. All things that attracted me to the lifestyle because I'm autistic, and the straightforwardness and clarity of communication about sex in the kink community felt like such a god-damned relief to me after struggling to have a sex-life out there in the neurotypical world.

Anyway. Long story short I'm just saying it's absolutely Frank who is the vanilla one in the Kingdon relationship. He's been married for years to someone I assume was probably his college girlfriend. 'Kinky' for him is breaking out the fuzzy hand-cuffs for anniversary sex or something, maybe some light spanking thrown in idk.

To end — I need someone to write a fic where the Pitt-crew plays never-have-I-ever during a night out, and Mel gets shit-faced and has to put down all her fingers before anyone else because there's so little she hasn't done. People keep throwing out more and more outrageous things, eyes going saucer-wide, and Mel's ears are burning but also she just keeps putting fingers down, throwing back shots, and raising a scornful eyebrow at anyone who dares to doubt her or make some comment like 'but Mel you don't seem like that type at all!!'

And Frank is. Sitting there quietly vibrating. Horny as hell. Having some thoughts and feelings about the fact that he knows Mel owns a strap now.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 4 - The Ascent

Main Masterlist - Mini-Series Masterlist

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, soulmates, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff, eventual happy ending.

Summary/Warnings: You wait, and Bucky makes a choice.. Usual Warnings.

Author's Note: I love writing these fics cause it gives me an amazing excuse to just. Watch CATWS. Enjoy!

Word Count: 5.5k

Chapter 3 - Chapter 5

Read on A03!

You can feel him. Every single night when you get home, you feel the same song. The one you’ve always had, only when Bucky was close.

Home. Home is near, and you just have to go to it. Have it. Keep it. Let it keep you.

You’re not sure if home wants to keep you.

Because you can always feel Bucky. Somewhere above or around you, every single fucking night. And it’s not just his constant, dormant and strong presence in your mind and body. He’s on the air and in the sky, but never at your side. 

And you don’t know what they told him, about what happened to you. If they showed him the pictures. If Steve’s explained to him that they set you up with a job, and an apartment, and that Hydra wasn’t going to touch you again if they tried. You’re not even sure if Bucky was really even there, the day they rescued you. 

You’d felt him. But you hadn’t seen him. 

Haven’t seen him. 

He hasn’t come to see you. Bucky’s on the TV—his arms folded over his chest and his expression not in the harsh I can’t do anything but stand and follow way, but rather the I don’t want to talk, and I’ve got nothing to say anyways way—but he’s never on your front door. He’s in the wind, but that’s the only feeling of him you get. No hands skimming over your hips, or deep voice saying your name like it’s the only thing that’s ever been real, or fingers playing with your hair as your head rests on his knee. 

He got a haircut. You don’t hate it. It never would’ve happened on your watch, but Bucky wasn’t on your watch, and you’ll have him however you can get him. If that means shorter hair and a new, black arm, you’ll take it without a single fucking thought.

You still love him. You’ll always love him. Even if you never see Bucky again, you don’t know how to stop loving him.

He’d been the first thing you asked about, when they’d cleared you after your rescue.

“Bucky?” It had been all you could say. All you needed to say. Steve and Tony—it was really weird to be on a first-name basis so fast, but this whole thing was weird, so you’d gotten over it quick—had exchanged a look that you didn’t understand, and your arms had started to curve around your stomach.

You hadn’t seen him at all, but he was okay. He’d had to be okay. You would’ve known if he wasn’t, and you’d felt him in the Hydra base, and Steve and Tony were still having a silent conversation, but you just wanted Bucky-

“He’s your old pal, Cap.” Tony had finally muttered, jerking his head towards you. “I can make Nat do it, but it’ll be better coming from you.”

Something had formed a noose around your throat. “What will be better?”

Steve had sighed, shooting you an unreadable look. “Tony, I still think-“

“There’s nothing we can do about it right now. Talk to her before she goes crazy and we need to turn on the chill pill gas.”

“Do not use the chill pill gas-“

“I won’t if you handle this like a big boy.” Tony had shrugged, and given you a tight-lipped smile. “Sorry, kid. I looked at your file earlier, by the way. Impressive stuff. Won’t be hard to set you up after this is over. We’ll talk.”

“I…” You’d swallowed, shaking off the impressive stuff compliment from Tony Stark. “I don’t- Where’s Bucky?”

Steve had sighed. Again. Someone needed to help him work on that. 

All you’d gotten was a grimacing smile and shake of his head from Tony, and then he was gone.

“Steve?” You’d whispered, and he’d been rigid in front of you.  “Where’s Bucky?”

“He’s safe.” Steve had said, his tone impossibly even. Words almost rehearsed. “But it’s been… decided, that given the nature of your disappearance and his mental state, it might be best to keep you apart. Indefinitely.”

Indefinitely.

That meant forever, but Steve hadn’t known how to tell you.

You’d understood that. You hadn’t known how to react. You’d just felt numb. Hollow. Stuck in a loop where your brain simply had been unable to comprehend what apart meant. There would be Bucky. There had to be Bucky. That was just how the world worked. He came back. He always came back. 

Bucky was supposed to come back.

“Oh.” You’d whispered, your head still spinning around the words. “Okay.”

“You’re going to be fine.” Steve had muttered, still watching you like he was afraid you’d shatter at any second. “We’ll set you up so you can keep, you know. Having a life. Tony’s already expressed interest in all your research, so I don’t think he was joking when he said he’s hire you, but it’s hard to tell sometimes. And we’ve all volunteered to make sure you’re settled. Get you set up in an apartment, make sure it’s got the proper security. We’ve got some contacts working on overturning your legal death.”

And Steve had kept talking about logistics, and you’d barely been listening.

The thing in your head had been the word apart. Over and over and over.

So maybe home didn’t want you.

But that’s not possible. Every time the heavy, mind crushing thought crosses your head, you can cling to reality and know it’s not true. You can grab all the evidence you’ve spent so long gathering, and know that Bucky has to want you. You’ve dedicated your life to proving that Bucky has to want you. You’ve received awards and gotten paid more than you reasonably should, just because Bucky has to want you, and you need to prove it. 

He was still home. Your heart felt like it had been splintered, but you also knew Bucky. He wouldn’t have done that to you on purpose. He’d gotten worried when you’d been a little sad about a dog dying in a movie. And it wasn’t lovesick denial, like how the shitty therapist you got set up with said it was.

“Have you considered,” she’d hummed, sitting across from you on an ugly, boring fucking chair. “That maybe you romanticized this relationship-“

“No.”

She’s sighed. “I wasn’t finished with the question, you know. And it’s not a good sign that your response was that certain, without any evidence at all-“

“I have evidence.” You’d snapped, folding your arms over your chest. “And Steve told me that he was looking for me. That he turned himself in for help to find me.”

“What if Steve was lying? To preserve your feelings?”

You’d swallowed. “He wouldn’t do that.”

“Maybe. I don’t know him. I do know,” the therapist had given you a mockingly pointed look, and you’d wanted to punch her in the face. “That you claim that Bucky loves you, but he’s made no attempt to contact or see you. In your time of need, he wasn’t there. Is that how you treat someone you love?”

“Yes.”

The therapist had sighed your name, but you weren’t going to let Her keep going. You’d simply left, and texted Sam that you wanted that link to his survivors group therapy thing.

And the therapist hadn’t gotten it. No one really got it. They couldn’t. The symptoms, as it were, appeared stupid and irrational to everyone else, but you had proof. You weren’t an idiot. You’d picked up the blood-covered man on the side of the road not to be a Samaritan or out of naivety, but because you had to.

And Bucky had been there. He’s been here.

But you know him. And you know that he’s hiding from you on purpose, but he’s still there, because he always comes back.

You know he’s blaming himself. That he’d refused to even tell you about Hydra, because it would put you in just a little more danger. And you know about all the things they made him do, and that—when he’d been himself the most, before he’d leave and come back in the shell—he’d have nightmares about blood on his hands and choking down his throat.

And he’d let you hold him. But that was before. When some of that blood hadn’t been yours. 

Perceived as yours. As far as you’re concerned, none of this was even close to his fault. And if he’d show himself, you’d grab his face between your hands and tell him that, over and over and over, until he got it. 

But for now, indefinitely meant until you found where he was hiding, or he showed himself. 

You’d wait for him.

That’s how this works. You wait for him, and Bucky comes back.

And you’re still living, even without him. You’ve made friends. You got a cat, small and white and kind of a dramatic little bitch, and you named her Alpine. You don’t really go out, but you didn’t do that before, either. When someone asks you out, you polity turn them down and explain that you do have someone, they’re just solider. And you’re waiting for them to come home from war.

It’s not a lie. 

It’s just a different kind of war than they assume. 

Time continues to pass. Sometimes you’ll let your gaze linger on the sky for a little longer, just so Bucky knows you’re looking for him. You like your job—especially the money, you’ve never had money before, and most of it ends up donated but it’s good to know it’s there—and you like your apartment, and nothing really changes but that’s okay. You don’t need it to change. 

You’ve had enough change for a while. You still have to do the group therapy thing, and you get nightmares about Rumlow fisting a hand in your hair and forcing your jaw open, and you don’t wear swimsuits or tank tops, because you don’t have any desire the explain the Hydra brand on your shoulder.

Tony had offered to fix it. He’d said that, if you wanted, he could make it disappear. 

You’d turned him down. You won’t erase it. Won’t pretend it never happened, because it did, and you’re still standing despite of it. 

Hydra won’t hurt you again. If, somehow, all of Tony and Steve’s measures—along with Bucky’s nightly vigils he thinks you don’t know about—fail, you won’t let Hydra take you. You can shoot a gun now, and Nat taught you how to do the thigh move thing, and you can build a bomb.

You’d gone to the compound, to learn all those things. And you’d felt Bucky there the whole time, even if you’d never seen him.

It was more than enough. To know he was safe, and somewhere that he could exist without pain. 

And time just keeps moving. And you just keep waiting.

There’s a habit you’ve developed, and you know it’s not healthy, and you don’t really fucking care. 

You go to DC a fair amount, for work. And the Smithsonian exhibit about Captain America has been there forever, and it’s been altered since the everything that comes with the passage of time, but never anything you don’t know. There are things that are wrong, parts that Bucky had told you that hadn’t made it into the updated Fall of Hydra and freedom of the Winter Solider bit of the exhibit. Bits about his childhood with Steve the public didn’t get to know about, but you did. 

It’s one of the reasons visiting the exhibit helps. You get to see his face, but you can just google that. It’s mostly just reading over all the information, and being able to fill in a lot of the gaps. It’s even further proof that he existed with you, and you hadn’t just gone fucking insane. You knew about Bucky’s sisters, even though they were never mentioned. You know that this exhibit painted Steve to be a perfect little patriotic angel, but brave and good of heart meant reckless and good of heart. That it wasn’t an ironic twist of fate that Bucky was rescued by Steve. 

Steve had gone looking for Bucky. He’d gotten that mission together to save Bucky, because Bucky was worth saving.

“Ma’am?”

You glance to the side, and find a wide-eyed teenage boy bouncing on his toes. 

“Are you alright?” He asks, watching you carefully. “You been standing here for like, a really long time. And I’ve just been doing my report,” he holds up a notebook and pen, as if to prove their existence. “But you looked a little sad. I just wanted to check.” 

You just stare at him, and he swallows, extending a hand.

“I’m Peter by the way.”

He’s bouncy. A little puppy like. And when you give him a soft smile and your name he relaxes, even as you can see that concern starting to spread across his face. 

You have been here for a while. You’re always here for a while. But nobody’s ever asked you about it. And now you have to come up with a really good reason. 

“I’m just waiting for someone.” You shrug, and the Peter’s eyes widen.

“At a museum? Is he supposed to meet you here?” He pauses. “Or she? Or, is it multiple people? Maybe two people? There’s no reason for me to think it’s a he-“

“It’s a he.” You hum, and Peter relaxes. “And I doubt he’s coming. I just like to wait here.”

“Why?”

This kid is nosy. He’s lucky he looks so earnest, or you’d walk away. “It reminds me of him.”

“Oh. Did you guys… Go to a lot of museums together?” Peter glances at the Bucky exhibit. “Was he a fan of Mr. Barnes?”

You snort at that. “No, I don’t think he was.”

“Were you?”

“Yes.” You answer without a thought. Bucky’s the whole world. “Still am.”

Peter’s silent for a long moment. “How long have you been waiting for him? Your guy?”

“A while.” You shrug, glancing down at his notebook. “Don’t you have a report to be doing?”

“I- Uh, yeah. Are you sure you’re okay? I can wait with you-“

“No.” You let out a long breath, looking back to the exhibit. To Bucky’s face, a little younger than you’ve ever gotten to see it. 

But he’d still look youthful, when he helped you plant your flowers, and frowned at the TV, and laughed like nothing had ever been wrong in the world.

“He probably won’t show up today.” You say, trying not to let your own words break your head. “I’m just here. In case.”

“Oh.” Peter frowns at you. “When do you stop waiting?”

“I don’t.”

Peter’s just a kid, but you also don’t feel like trying to dance around it today. Bucky’s yours. He’s home.

He comes back, and you wait. 

He just has to come back.

“If it helps,” Peter mumbles. “Maybe he wants to come back, but can’t. That could’ve happened, right?”

You shake your head. “He can. And I know he wants to. He just has to be ready.”

“And you’re just gonna… wait?”

You nod, and you can almost feel Peter’s gaze shift from you to the picture of Bucky. He really is handsome. And you’d waited a whole lifetime for him before.

What’s a little while longer.

“Good luck with your report.” You give Peter a small smile, and he smiles back at you, his expression still nervous. 

“Thank you. I’m, uh- I’m sorry for bothering you-“

“It’s fine.”

“Okay.” He nods to himself, then starts to back away. “I hope your guy shows up for you!” 

Peter smiles at you one last before he bounces away, and you give him a small wave in return.

You don’t move. That’s part of the waiting. 

And Bucky won’t show up today.

But you hope he does, too.

——————

“Barnes!”

Stark’s shout was coming from behind him, but Bucky didn’t break pace. He didn’t want to talk to Tony right now. He didn’t want to talk to anyone right now. He needed to get on his bike, so he could make it down to the city and continue his creepy ritual. 

If he missed Her, he’d have no way of knowing if She was safe. And Steve had promised She’d be fine, but there was always a fucking chance. A small but real chance that, the one night Bucky didn’t check on Her, Hydra would find her and she wouldn’t come home. And they wouldn’t know She was gone until it was too late. Hydra wasn’t supposed to take prisoners, but they’d take Her. And they’d still know what She meant to Bucky, and this time, he’d lose Her.

His soulmate. 

Peter’s word had been rattling around in Bucky’s head for weeks. Soulmate. Bucky’s soulmate. That was why She was an instinct. Why She was safe. The safest place. They vibrated together—whatever the hell that meant—so She was for Bucky, the same way part of him always wanted to crawl back and be for Her. Be wanted, and cared for, and safe.

Bucky didn’t deserve to be safe. He barely deserved the government’s forgiveness, let alone Her’s. The only star that had been left in the sky, guiding him home whenever he got lost. The wind that turned to blow him where he needed to go, and the sunlight that sometime filtered through his windows in the compound, reminding him that things did get better. She’d made everything better. 

He’d have to live with this, though. Just seeing Her, like the work of art She was. Watching, but never, ever touching. 

“I know you can hear me, terminator!” Stark shouted, and Bucky sped up.

He was faster. If he just got away-

“Friday! Lock the hallway doors!”

“Right away, sir.”

The door locked, seconds before Bucky got to freedom. 

“What the fuck, Stark-“

“Don’t throw a tantrum.” Stark waved him off, panting slightly as he caught up. “I’m trying to have a conversation with you like an adult, Barnes, you’re the one who- Never mind. Not important. Why have you been sending my prodigal child to spy on your girlfriend?”

Bucky blinked. “You’ve got kids?”

“I’ve got the kid. Peter.”

“The spider-boy?”

“He prefers man.” Stark shrugged. “But yes. He’s been stalking your girl, Barnes, and I want to know why.”

Bucky stared at Stark for a long moment, the word processing through his head. His girl. Her. Peter was followed Her. Stalking Her. Maybe keeping tabs on Her for Bucky, but Peter knew Bucky had been watching Her, and maybe this was a trap, and Peter had snitched, and now Bucky was supposed to admit he’d been following Her, but if Stark had something to say about that he better damn say it and move on, because Bucky wasn’t going to be stopping until one of them was dead. Preferably him, as if She died first, he’d plant all those flowers on Her grave then crawl into the coffin at Her side, holding Her until she remembered who She was and came back home, home to Bucky-

“Hey!” Stark snapped his fingers in Bucky’s face. “Answer my question, tin man. Why’s the kid following her around?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky grunted, and Stark sighed.

“Here’s the deal, okay? I know about your little trips. I’ve known about them, because, as I attempted to explain before, I am keeping her safe. But apparently I should stop trying to tell super-soldiers from the 40s to trust technology, cause Cap keeps throwing out his very expensive Starkwatch, and you feel the need to act as a personal body guard to a woman who you refuse to even speak to.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Watch it-“

“No.” Stark pointed a stern finger at him, eyes narrowing. “I will not watch it, because I’m find with the stalking, but I will not let you loop the kid into your crimes. You know, besides the one he’s doing on purpose.”

“I didn’t loop the kid into anything.”

“Then why was he trying to talk to me about-“

“He followed me.” Bucky snapped, taking a firm step forward. “And I told him to drop it. That’s all that fucking happened, Stark, so unlock the doors or I will break them open.”

If Stark was fazed, he didn’t show it. Of course he didn’t. Asshole. “That wasn’t all that happened.” 

“Yes it-“

“Peter told me about your conversation.” Stark snapped, holding Bucky’s gaze. “About the soulmate shit. And that you thought it was bullshit.”

“He fucking what-“

“I just wanted to help!” Peter squeaked, seeming to fucking materialize from the ceiling before dropping down at Stark’s side. “And Mr. Barnes didn’t make me talk to her, Mr. Stark, I did that myself-“

“You talked to her.” Bucky was trying to keep his voice from being a shout, but it was just coming out poisonous. “I told you that was it.”

“But it’s not it-“

“Peter.” Stark stepped forward, and Peter’s mouth snapped shut. “How did you get into this hallway?”

Peter bowed his head, his voice only a mumble. “Clint showed me the vents.”

“And why the fuck did you go after-“

“Barnes.” Stark snapped, his eyes narrowed. “Deep breaths. We’re handling this. Peter, why did you go talk to our lovely, angry ex-assassins soulmate-“

“She’s not-“

“She is.” Stark shrugged. Like the words were fucking nothing, instead of a grenade straight to Bucky’s heart every time they were said, because the universe couldn’t do that to Her. “I’d bet most everything I own that she is. I am more worried about why you,” he glared at Peter. “Felt the need to participate in their sad little pining situation.”

“I just wanted to talk to her,” Peter mumbled, staring at the floor. “I didn’t mean to run into her, I promise, but I was on a field trip, and she was there. Looking at your exhibit!” Peter gave Bucky a wide, almost hopeful smile. “And she said she was waiting for someone! And that she was still a fan of you-“

Stark’s nose wrinkled. “A fan? She collecting little Barnes stickers?”

Peter shook his head. “No, it- It made more sense in context. But she’d said she’d wait for you forever, Mr. Barnes! So that’s what she wants, right? You?”

Bucky couldn’t move. Him. She wanted him. 

The kid could be lying, but he didn’t seem like the type. 

But there was no reason for Her to want Bucky. He’d never done anything for Her. He’d only gotten Her hurt, and failed Her.

Yet She was still waiting for him. 

She’d always been waiting for him. Every time he’d left, Bucky could remember Her waiting for him. And She was beautiful and kind and smart, and could’ve had anyone, but She’d chosen to wait for Bucky. There had been times where he’d be gone for months on end, but still.

She’d be waiting for him.

“Stark.” He grunted. “Let me out. Now.”

“But-“

Stark placed a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder, and the kid shut his mouth. “Friday, open the doors.”

It wasn’t a trap. Stark didn’t do traps like that. He only held Bucky’s gaze, and nodded to the exit.

“Make good choices.”

Bucky grunted, and walked away. 

Choices.

That hadn’t been something he’d had, for so long. And they were fucking hard.

Nobody talks about how fucking hard choices are. 

You have to make all the right ones. For yourself. For everyone else. And there are so many options, and they’re all complicate and simple all at once, and you’re always supposed to just make the right ones. Maybe it was an instinct he’d had before, then lost, but Bucky doesn’t have a goddamn clue which ones are the right ones. He doesn’t have a clue about anything.  

He had a clue about Her. No matter how many times he’d been wiped, Bucky had always had a clue about Her. At first it would just be a breach in the programming, telling him to go. Go to Her. Then it was the flowerbed that some part of his brain had understood to mean if he stood there, he’d be somewhere better. And he’d always be flooded with more and more knowledge of everything when She was lying in his arms, and he was at peace. 

He hadn’t done peace in a while, either. Here—at the compound—Bucky had the choices, but he didn’t have peace.

He missed it. 

Missed Her. 

All the fucking time, Bucky missed Her.

And he could spend another night on the roof, but She was already home. Bucky could feel it, running right along that instinct, that She was here but out of his sight.

He didn’t want Her to be out of his sight. He just wanted Her. And Peter said She was waiting for him. Looking at his exhibit and waiting for him. Just like how, every night, he returned to watch Her. 

And Bucky hated not being in control. He hated not having a choice. 

But he’d never had a choice with Her. It had always just been find Her. Go to Her. Go, go, go, you have to go to Her. First disguised as the program, but deeper. Part of Bucky, instead on just a voice in his head and strings on his body. 

She was deeper.

She was his. 

And before Bucky knew it, he was in the building. At Her doorstep.

Knocking on the door. 

It was a horrible, terrible, god fucking awful idea. His fist had barely left the wood, and Bucky knew it had been a terrible idea.

And it was far too late to turn back. The door swung open, and there She was.

Even more beautiful up close. Still clear. Colorful and made of sharp lines, and a soft, gentle smile. Like She’d been expecting him. And every bit of Her could split the heaviest of fogs, and guide Bucky home. 

To Her. 

“You’re here.”

He cleared his throat. “I’m here.”

“Do you want to come inside?” Her voice was soft too. Every bit of Her had always been soft. Not movable, not weak, but soft.

Like a ton of feathers. Just as heavy as iron. Just as strong. 

But crushing Bucky down softly, easily. 

He’d been fighting for so long. Every time he’d found Her, he’d been fighting something. His body, a target, Hydra, himself. 

And She’d been waiting. 

Bucky might be done fighting. And this—strong, suffocating, clear softness—was maybe the best place to rest. The safest place.

So he nodded, and Her smile grew as she stepped aside. 

“I didn’t know when you’d be… back.” She mumbled, scanning over Her apartment as she led him inside. “It’s a little bit of a mess, but-“

Bucky cut Her off with a grunt. “It’s good.” You’re good. Perfect. I’m home, and I don’t know where to go from here-

“Do you want to sit down?”

She’d always done that a lot. Understood what he needed. Taken care of him, even when he’d really been nothing more than a burden. 

“You- You don’t have to-“

Bucky sat down before She could finish, and her lips twitched slightly. 

There was a soft, rolling squeak, and suddenly something was jumping onto Bucky. He barely had time to brace his body back, before he realized that it wasn’t an attacker, or bomb, or any sort of threat to Her.

It was a cat. A pure white cat, purring on his lap and examining Bucky with big, curious eyes.

“That’s Alpine.” She mumbled, and Bucky glanced up at Her, clearing his throat.

“I, uh. I didn’t know you had a cat.”

“I didn’t.” She shrugged. “Let her smell you.” Bucky nodded, offering his hand, and Alpine had barely smelled it for a second before She was head-butting him, settling further into his lap.

A soft smile grew on Her face. “She likes you.”

“Gesso so.”

“Do you want-“

“I want you.” Bucky muttered, trying not to think too much. Thinking had always been his enemy. And She needed to stop asking what he wanted, because this wasn’t supposed to be about him. He was the one who failed, then left, then stayed away. 

“I-“

“I want to talk, doll.” He looked up at Her, not caring how much of his voice sounded like pleading. “Please, sit.”

She swallowed, and nodded. Dropping right at Bucky’s side, where he could feel the warmth of Her body. He reached out a slow, careful hand, keeping Alpine in his lap and giving Her plenty of time to swat it away.

But She didn’t. She let Bucky trace his thumb over Her cheekbones, then tuck some hair behind Her ears. Let him linger.

“Hi.” She whispered, Her eyes locked on his. “You’re back.”

“I’m back.” He murmured, giving Her a tiny and weak, but real, smile. 

She returned it. Like it wasn’t even a thought. “How long are you staying?”

“As long as you’ll have me.” His voice was a rasp, and what if She didn’t want to have him. What if She didn’t want him, and the spider-kid had been gone-

“Bucky?”

He nodded, something starting to sting at his eyes and strangle him, and She took a long breath.

“Why now?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Why- Why now?” She whispered. “I know you’ve been watching me, I just- I need to know why you were gone. And what made you came back. So I- I want you to stay, this time.” She swallowed, and Bucky could feel it in his own throat. “Please stay this time.”

Bucky couldn’t think about how She’d known he was watching Her. He only thought about the tears starting to roll down Her cheeks, and how She’d been waiting. Alpine was strolling away from Bucky to comfort Her, and that should’ve been his problem. Not the damn cat’s.

He never should’ve made Her cry. Ever.

He’d made the wrong choice. So many wrong choices. There was blood on his hands, over his heart, and beaten and painted over his skull. 

He wanted to start making the right choices.

He wanted to be clean.

“I didn’t want to leave you, babydoll.” He kept his voice low and slow, and She made a weak, choked sound. “I- I’m so fucking sorry. I was comin’ to get you, but Hydra got you first. Then I couldn’t find you, and I had to get mixed up in a lot of stuff to find you and- You’ve always deserved better than me, sweet girl. Better than an old man covered in blood, and I was tryin’ to be- I needed to be selfless. Needed to give you a shot at something better, and that meant me staying away. And I’m so fuckin’ sorry for not being there, and makin’ you wait, and- I’m-“ Bucky slid to his knees before Her, wrapping his arms around Her stomach. “I’m sorry. I never shoulda ever left, and I’m sorry.”

There was a long silence, as Bucky stayed on his knees, and She scanned over his face. She could break him. Cast him out, and he’d deserve it, make him repent a little more than just tear and apologies, make him earn it-

“I forgive you.” 

Bucky blinked. “But-“

“I do. I forgive you. But it’s not selfless to leave me, Bucky. And I don’t care who I deserve. And I don’t want better. I want you.” She swallowed, Her eyes going glossy on his. “And I need you to believe me when I say that.”

Believe Her.

That was easy.

She’d always helped him remember, always cared for him, always trusted Bucky not to hurt Her, even when She really shouldn’t have. 

If all Bucky had to do for Her to forgive him was believe Her, that was going to be the easiest thing in the world.

“I believe you.” He muttered, and Her smile is going to make him move mountains. “Thank you.” 

“Can we start over?” She whispered, Her eyes so bright on Bucky’s, and no choice had ever been easier.

“I’d… Like that. Please.”

“Good.” She gave him a small smile, extending out one hand. “Nice to meet you. What’s your name?”

Bucky swallowed, taking Her hand slowly. It didn’t vanish. 

This was real.

“James Buchanan Barnes.” His voice was a little hoarse. She didn’t seem to mind. “But you can call me Bucky, doll. What’s, uh- You got a name?”

Her smile grew, She said Her name and Bucky had never heard her last name before. It suited Her well.

Barnes would suit Her better.

But he’d deal with that later. Right now, they were starting over. Bucky was starting over. 

With Her.

And there was no solider programming to breathe through, but there was still the sheer power of Her. And there it was. The calmness and clarity through his whole body. Bucky could feel it.

He was home.

End Note: Are y'all ready for some toothrotting fluff and a-grade smut. They're about to be so happy you have no idea.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[milkstore]

thank you for the tag!! not only is this a cool game, it reminded me why i wanted to keep a fic-only blog (thomine saved from deactivation). i just searched the blog and picked the most recent search result, skipping some so there was no repeats.

i'll be tagging... @dkniade @mimi-cee-genshin @andromeda-nova-writing @painom @perpetualcynicism @wordsofelie (no pressure :D)

and my words to search are... charm, deal, card, listen, point

GLISTEN / “I admire your passion,” he takes out a single mora and holds it upright so that it glistens in the sun. “But that isn’t the principle of this world. Can you see my side of the coin?” -> only fools are satisfied (kaeya x reader)

MARK / Oz flaps his wings, following in tow. Past the bridge, milady catches up with you and an easy conversation flows. She asks how you’ve been in her own unique way, adding hints for you to ask how she’s been which you take. It’s about the halfway mark that Oz knows where you’re taking the Prinzessin, the route all too familiar. -> balter (fischl x reader)

WEEK / “What are we?” Kaveh asks one quiet evening as you tear through your dinner. He has become such a staple in your life silence feels comfortable. His question, however, rips the atmosphere like you and your meal. You tongue feels heavy as your mind replay scenes that happened last week. He tried to bring it up once too, but the moment you expressed discomfort, he surrendered. It seems the water in the kettle has finally reached its boiling point. -> i care more to be loved (kaveh / reader)

SIGH / But somehow, despite your disagreement, you’re touched by his words, and you heave a sigh that takes away the worries of your mind. It is reminiscent of the moment snow that piled on you grew lighter as someone dug with all their might. The apricity against your freezing face was the hope you needed to stretch out and grab the hand that never gave up on you. -> apricity (thoma / reader)

STEP / “You were missing for 3 days! Thank the shogun the guard on patrol found you,” she cries, but as she nears, her light steps morphs into stomps. “Who do you think you are? Running off into the dangerous forest by yourself and making everyone worry? Your father already caused so much trouble with his disappearance, but they say you take after him so—” -> noceur (thoma x reader)

Writing Tag Game 🏷️

Rules: I'll give you five words. Find the word (or the closest approximation you can) in your works and post an excerpt. Tag others to play and give them new words too!

My words were: Touch, Heat, Lick, Time, Ache — tagged by @oncasette, original post here! (This is such a sweet idea, thank you for thinking of me!!)

New words: Home, Dream, Hand, Think, Feel — Tagging: @solifloris @irandial @zara-renata @kentofic @grabby-smitten @comatosebunny09 @leighsartworks216 and anyone else who writes!

Touch

When Sylus touches you— when the tip of his finger catches yours and makes an honest, desperate request— you don’t pull away. Something inside tugs at you, warns you, tells you a monster without a sword in its chest is one that can bite. What colour of blood would your hands prefer? His? Your own? — (Monster)

Heat

It’s hard to believe when he’s staring back at you, oh so solid, oh so perfect. Always a picture of strength: of fiery determination or calculated coolness. Everything in extremes; nothing by halves. Except… his hair is slightly dishevelled from where he’s been working away in the heat. There’s a damp patch on his shirt. He’s wearing your pink apron, and there’s mascara on his sleeves. — (Technical Difficulties)

Lick

You’re feeling everything too keenly: the water licking at your throat, the darkness beneath you, around you, waiting to pull you under and fill your mouth. You never feel further from Rafayel than when you remember he calls that darkness home. — (Practice Makes Perfect)

Time

Pretend you have time: His gaze is full of faith and oh, the world is going to enjoy punishing the two of you. “I know,” he insists, because this is the second time you’ve fooled him tonight. You feel his hand on your face and you let him kiss you— again, then again— so achingly slow, so arrogant. The world can wait; he wants to punish you first.  — (To Remain Silent)

Ache

Your life is hunting monsters, and his is finding beauty in a world where they exist. It’s not what you see, it’s how you see it. Crimson to him is a sunset; to you it’s blood. Something in you aches as your eyes roam over his latest work. He won’t tell you what it’s meant to be, not really: that’s a private understanding between him and the canvas, his heart and every stroke of paint. — (Perspective)

[axescryinwater]

Hi! I had this idea and thought you might be the perfect person to bring it to life: a Bucky Barnes x Reader fic where Reader finds an old journal of Bucky’s from his early post Winter Soldier recovery days. She reads it without meaning to at first, but what she finds inside is raw and heartbreaking. stuff he never talks about. Maybe they’ve been growing distant lately, and this gives her a look into just how much he’s been struggling. Would love if it ends with her wanting to comfort him but him not being ready to let her in yet. Quiet, emotional tension, please!

I READ YOUR DIARY EVERY LINE.

it starts with dust. not metaphorical, just actual dust.

you’re cleaning. or pretending to. rearranging the living room like that’s gonna fix the silence that’s been creeping in between you and bucky like fog under the door. you’ve been feeling it for weeks now. how he’s been moving quieter, speaking less, disappearing into rooms with the kind of stillness that makes it hard to follow. you don’t even remember the last time he touched you without pulling back like his hands burned after.

so, yeah. you’re cleaning. touching all his stuff like you’re trying to find a thread back to him. and then a book falls. black. beat up. spiral bound, barely hanging on. it looks like it’s been shoved there on purpose—stuffed behind old war books and a mug you’re pretty sure he stole from a hotel in zurich. you almost leave it. almost. but then you see the corner of a folded photo sticking out from between the pages. and your name, just a sliver of it, so you sit. floor cold against your legs, journal in your lap, breath a little too tight. you tell yourself you’re just gonna peek. just a glance.

but it’s not that simple. because the first thing you read feels like walking in on someone mid nightmare, mid prayer, mid– something holy and bleeding.

“it’s been 2,190 days since she stopped calling me asset. i still don’t feel like a person.”

the handwriting’s rough. not messy, just tired. you can feel it in the way the letters lean too hard in places, press too deep in others. like he needed to write it down or it would claw its way out some other way.

“i keep dreaming about the way the metal felt when it was first fused to me. like i was being welded shut.”

you shift. knees pulled up now. the room’s gone quiet in that specific way that makes you feel like the walls are listening.

“sometimes i think about running. not because i want to leave, but because i don’t want to rot here. it feels like i’m leaking poison into the lives of people who love me. like i’ll never stop being dangerous.”

you swallow. the last few months fall into place, a soft collapsing. all the nights he stood outside on the fire escape, just watching the sky. the mornings he’d say he was fine but his voice would crack on the i. the way he stopped playing music in the apartment. stopped sitting beside you on the couch. stopped falling asleep beside you, slowly replacing your shared bed with the cold of the guest room. your eyes burn but you keep reading.

“she touches me like i’m breakable. looks at me like i’m something to fix. i don’t know how to be held without feeling like an apology.”

you don’t even realize you’re crying until the page blurs. until the paper soaks a little beneath your fingertips. and you hate that he felt like this. that he couldn’t tell you. that you didn’t see it sooner. that he had to carve this into paper in the middle of the night instead of speaking it out loud to someone who would’ve dropped everything just to hold his face and remind him he's still here. still human. still loved.

there’s one more entry. dated a week ago.

“she asked if i wanted to go out tonight. i told her i was tired. the truth is, i didn’t want to be seen. some days i still feel like a weapon pretending to be a man. and i think if she ever looked too close, she'd see right through me.”

you close the journal. you sit with it in your lap for a long while. the kind of long that makes the afternoon light shift across the floor like slow, golden water. you don’t say anything when you hear the door open. keys hitting the bowl. footsteps slow.

he sees you before he says anything. standing in the doorway to the living room, hand still on the frame, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed in. his eyes drop to the journal in your hands. they stay there. his mouth twitches. not quite a flinch. not quite anything. "you read it," he says, voice low. not accusing. just… accepting. you nod. barely.

he closes his eyes. presses his lips together like he’s swallowing something sharp.

"i didn’t mean for you to see that."

“i know,” you say. voice softer than it’s ever been. “i didn’t mean to find it.”

the silence that follows isn’t empty. it’s full of everything you don’t say. everything he can’t. he walks past you. sits down on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. you want to go to him. every cell in your body wants to close the space. to curl up beside him and press your forehead to his shoulder and tell him he’s not too broken to be loved. not too sharp to be touched. but you don’t. you sit down a few feet away. not touching. not even looking directly at him. just… near. a presence. a quiet offering.

“i didn’t know,” you whisper.

his voice cracks when he says, “i didn’t want you to.”

and there it is. the heart of it. he’s not ready. maybe he never will be. but he’s here and so are you.

the room is dim now. soft golden light painting the walls. somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaks as the house settles around you. the air smells like dust and the last bit of coffee he made this morning.

you don’t speak again. you just sit. two people in the quiet. the kind of quiet that aches and comforts at the same time. maybe this is love, too. not the easy parts. just the staying.

a/n: luv this req. i literally just need to hug him omg... also sorry this is terribly written i was almost blackout drunk when writing it

[salty-fryingpan]

WIP WHENEVER

tagged by the lovely @patolemus and despite being at a total loss on what to write for any of my fics I do actually have a short snippet I'm working on from my historical mpreg piece

"I need a spare."

"What?"

"I have an heir, I need a spare." Stiles was officially lost. "Is Lady Krasikeva with child?" They weren't even wed yet, and while he knew Derek wasn't one to wait for such formalities, he thought Paige might be. But it appears he is wrong. Derek always had been quite insatiable during their time together.

Derek's face filled with a cold calm that was hiding an anger trying to bubble to the surface. "I would never touch her." His nostrils flare and his eyes flash just for a moment. "I'm going to put another child in you." He said and started advancing on Stiles who was now scrambling back as his head filled with alarm bells. "Your Highness!"

That got a dangerous growl from the man. "Derek I can hardly afford one child. I'll starve to death with two." Between one blink and the next the wolf was on him, body pinning him to to wall unable to remove himself from the golden cage of the man's arms. "You are going to marry me Stiles."

Stiles choked back his sound of horror. "We cannot marry! You are to have a wife! Paige is to be your wife!"

"I need a womb not a wife, someone to bare my children. You have bore me a son and now you will be my bride."

"YOUR HI-"

Stiles' protest was bitten off by Derek's rough lips on his own. They were everything he remembered, everything he dreamed of. They tasted exactly the same, down to the mulberry wine stickiness.

Anyone who wants to go is more then welcome!! I love seeing peoples process!!

[luckycharmedpuff]

Motivation needed...

I'm not trying to get too into this, and I originally wasn't going to at all. but can someone renew my enthusiasm to share fics? I used to write on wattpad like eight years ago and stopped around four or five years ago. I was starting to write again, on Tumblr, a couple of years ago then deleted the account on a whim.

Flash forward to now. I've been working on some pieces/stories and I was originally excited. I was looking forward to be apart of the community again but over the past few months I've been seeing a shit ton of, in my opinion, weird and/or entitled complains and asks of readers.

From people complaining about too much of an attribute in reader an au (like dumb!, vampire! etc [not the complained attributes but I'm also not trying to call people out]), too much smut being written, or now, someone complaining about writers saying that since not everyone can walk or run so they shouldn't say the reader isn't really described (if the write mentions said action). Like I said, I'm NOT trying to call anyone out.

It's also the weird ass hate I see people I follow get because they write a similar/same au as someone. I don't get that because every fanfiction writer is basing their work off of someone's original work. As long as no one is plagiarizing, what's the problem, here??"

But the complaints and nitpicking about shit just keep getting added to and I'm starting to lose sight of the appeal.

It didn't used to be like this. AT ALL. And I'm not even saying that people can't have opinions but a lot of them are SO rude about it. What happened to being kind?

I just really miss how it used to be and I'm just starting to think I'd prefer working on original work where I don't have to worry or see any of this negativity anymore. If I'm doing something for free, I might as well be working on something I could actually make money from, which isn't even the sole motivator or focus of writing in general, let alone here.

(tagging fandoms I'm active in, in hopes other similar writers can help me see the brighter side again lol.)

[lovealwayssay]

I would pay an ungodly amount of money for a Supernatural finale where Dean rescues Cas from the Empty and tells him he loves him too, Eileen comes back to be with Sam, and Jack chooses to live with the four of them in the bunker as a happy family.

[goosecastle41]

Idk just the imagery of Kremy using Gideon for warmth

Like yeah okay we’ve all thought of this cause duh alligator man and fire man go good together blah blah

But the imagery of Kremy slinking out of his tent on a cold night out in the woods. He and Gideon have been traveling together for a good while now; started just as the weather was wearing off from winter, the warmth coming back into the world. They’ve been traveling together for so long the weathers turning bitter.

Their fire had long since been extinguished and the wind whips around their makeshift campsite. Even despite the trees, the cold air rushes through like waves, chilling Kremy’s already cold blood to ice. No matter how deeply he burrows into his tent, swathed in his blankets, he can’t seem to retain any of his heat.

I just I magine him pulling his thickest blanket tighter around himself as the wind beats against his shivering body, looking towards the second tent in the small clearing. Debating with himself; “Would he even be okay with this?” “It’s just for warmth.. He’s a god damn walkin’ heater, it only makes sense…” “But he didn’t sign up for THIS-“

Another wash of icy wind sweeps through, making Kremy flinch and pull the blanket just the smallest bit closer. He concludes as he walks to Gideons tent that, Gideon in fact DID sign up for this when they created their contract. Gideon is Kremy’s bodyguard, and in return Kremy feeds Gideon and gives him a percentage of whatever cons he helps Kremy pull off. Kremy can’t feed and pay him if he freezes to death in his tent overnight.

Imagine Kremy creeping towards the tent, seeing a soft glow emanating from inside. He can see from a crack in the tent flap the embers in Gideons hair and beard. Even in his sleep Gideon burns hot. Opening the tent flap is like opening the door to a stove; hot air rushing out at him due to the colder air outside. The warmth blankets Kremy and he can’t even begin to think about stopping the sigh that leaves him.

I imagine Gideon as a light sleeper. He never slept well while he was held on the train; hell he couldn’t even sleep laying down without his arms being hung in the air thanks to the chains attached to the car walls.. But he could and did sleep on the train. The constant noise and rattle of the cars, the sound of the fire he constantly stoked, the voices and laughter of those awful hobgoblins, the trains blaring whistle.. it was all his lullaby for years. Despite how horrible those years on the train had been, the first night he tried to sleep off of it, he laid awake in bed until sunrise.

Gideon couldn’t hear a thing over the sounds of the train. There really wasn’t much else to hear expect for the sounds stated above. There wasn’t much else to worry about. But outside of the train and it’s constant noise… there was so much more. Gideon knew what to expect from the train.

The sigh wakes Gideon from his sleep. His eyes pop open, immediately alert as he quickly scans around his tent. It takes nothing more than a second for Gideon to spot Kremy and relax the tension that flooded into his shoulders.

“Krem? Ever’thin’ ‘lright?” He’d ask, his voice thick with sleep as he moves to sit up in his bedroll.

Kremy would hesitate to open his mouth a moment, having forgotten to actually come up with what to say to Gideon. He could just be upfront and explain that he’s cold… But making up some long winded excuse that doesn’t involve looking weak willed has always been Kremy’s go to.

When he does actually open his mouth to start on the second option, another blast of cold air hits and makes Kremy shiver hard, eyes squinting against the torrent of sharp winds. He ducks deeper into his blanket cocoon, anything he could have said blown away with the wind.

Gideon watches this and immediately gets the picture here. Gideon can be.. a dense man. He’s not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer ya know. But he cares for Kremy. Kremy’s done so much for him over the time they’ve been together.. He’s given Gideon some kind of purpose. He’s given Gideon a sense of belonging. He’s given Gideon a constant companion… He gave Gideon that little comb, the first thing anyone has ever given to him of their free will.

The least Gideon can give back is some warmth.

“Geez, man, get in here and close that behind ya, would ya? Lettin’ all the heat out.” Gideon would say, moving to lay back down again while shuffling to the side to allow Kremy into the warm spot that had been beneath Gideon.

Kremy blinks once, twice.. Unsure. A smaller gust beats at his back, forcing Kremy into the heat of Gideons tent. He quickly secures the tent flaps closed before he practically dives into the warmth Gideon has offered.

Kremy curls up on the warm patch of tent ground Gideon had just been on moments before while Gideon is radiating heat to Kremy’s back that he can feel even through his blanket burrito. Kremy closes his eyes, more than content with the way these events have gone.

That is until he feels Gideons hand on the blanket. Kremy’s eyes pop open again as he hears Gideon speak,

“Share. You’ll get warmer faster and stay warm.”

He feels Gideon pull one side of the blanket out from under him, moving to pull it over himself before he shuffles back closer to his original spot. He’s practically pressed against Kremy’s back, hardly an inch separating them. Kremy stiffens up like a board, waiting with almost bated breath to see what comes next… But Gideon just settles behind Kremy, not touching him but just a hairsbreadth away from it…

“Can’t have you freezin’ on me now…” Kremy hears Gideon mutter behind him.

“Yeah… who would feed ya if I did?”

[moeblob]

Yeah! I haven't read any fics focusing on them but I have seen that they exist! And also there's like a five sentence interaction in a fic I read ages ago that lives rent free in my brain. I think about it all the time when I draw Sixty.

[viperwhispered]

Rest

Guess what? I've got more Jamil x reader for y'all. You can also find this on ao3. No warnings, just 866 words of kinda fluffy(?) caretaking stuff with gender-neutral reader.

At this point, you know Jamil’s schedule almost as well as he does. So, when you have the chance, you head to Scarabia’s kitchen, hoping to spend some time with Jamil while he and the other students prepare dinner. 

However, when you enter, it takes you but a moment to notice Jamil’s uncharacteristic fumbling and the tired look in his eyes. The way Jamil’s chopping the vegetables has you worried about him cutting himself with that knife he’s usually so adept with, and it seems it’s only force of habit that’s keeping him on track.

You frown, and when your eyes meet Jamil’s, you can already see him put his guard up.

So he knows what state he is in, huh? And still, here he is.

It seems Jamil is reading your thoughts, all of him telling you drop it before any words are even said.

At least he still lets you lean in and give a quick kiss to his cheek in greeting.

“Hello love. Do you still have a lot on your agenda for today?” you ask, keeping your tone low for at least some semblance of privacy in the busy kitchen.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” is the response you get.

Of course.

It takes a little more pestering before Jamil actually answers your question. Your lips purse. That list is far too long to your liking.

You take a moment to think, juggling your own plans and to-do list against the urgency of the things Jamil mentioned.

“Will Kalim be eating from that?” you ask, pointing at the food Jamil is preparing.

“Yes.”

“Alright, I won’t be touching that one, then. I’ve gotta do a few things but I’ll be back when you’re done here.”

“Don’t,” Jamil says with a glare, clearly aware of what you’re thinking.

Yet even his disapproving look doesn’t have the usual weight behind it.

“Yes. I will,” you say firmly, even as your heart curls inwards with another bout of concern.

Really, when did he get so tired?

And how did you not notice it earlier?

You leave the kitchen before Jamil can protest further, hurrying through the dorm corridors to find Kalim.

Soon you have an enthusiastic – and concerned – supporter for your plans. You have Kalim point out a few reliable Scarabia students to help with a few of the most urgent matters Jamil mentioned – cleaning up the common areas, delivering some paperwork to Crowley, preparing some dorm-wide notices – while you see to Kalim getting his school supplies in order for the following day. You even recruit a couple of third years to help Kalim with his homework.

You’ll see to the rest tomorrow – after all, you do also have a boyfriend to look after.

Your conversation over dinner can hardly be called anything else than an argument – despite Kalim’s best attempts at acting as a moderating force between you two. It is very tempting to ask Kalim to tell Jamil to take the rest of the day off – it’s not like Jamil would be willing to openly disobey a direct order. Still, you really don’t need to remind Jamil of his position on top of everything else that you’re already doing more or less against his wishes.

Eventually, however, Jamil’s had a square meal, the most urgent things on his to-do list are being taken care of, and you’ve managed to drag him to his bed.

“I really wish you wouldn’t push yourself so hard,” you murmur, your arms wrapped tightly around Jamil. You’re telling yourself you really do just want to cuddle, to offer some respite to Jamil. Still, there might also be a part of you worried that if you were to let go, he’d just jump up and get back to working himself to the bone.

Yet, for all his protestations, just the fact that you’ve gotten Jamil to lay down with you speaks volumes of his current exhaustion.

“I can’t just leave my duties, albi. You know this.”

“Making yourself too indispensable, is what you’re doing,” you protest.

Oh, you know it’s not so simple. Not with his background, not with all the expectations and assumptions.

But sometimes you really wish it would be.

Jamil merely scoffs in response to your words.

Still, it is undeniable that he is slowly beginning to relax in your arms, slowly bringing his head closer to yours. His eyes are starting to flutter, too.

“I will still need to help Kalim with his homework, at the very least.”

You wonder who he is trying to convince more, you or himself.

“Amin and Khalil are helping him. They’re basically top of their classes, aren’t they? I’m sure they’ve got it.”

Still, Jamil frowns.

You sigh. He really is not letting go, is he?

“Do you want me to go supervise?” you ask.

And leave you, unsaid yet hanging there right after your words.

“Don’t,” Jamil eventually says, the word barely more than a breath.

It seems he has accepted his fate.

You softly caress Jamil’s hair, listening to his softening breathing.

And when you wake up, wholly unaware of having been lulled to sleep in the first place, it’s to the lightest of touches from Jamil’s fingers.

Tagging @diodellet @twstgo @crystallizsch @jamilvapologist @jamilsimpno69 as per request If you'd like to be tagged for any future works, let me know!

[dragqueenstarscream]

Having S3 Knockout/Starscream thoughts because auuuuu they’re so doomeeeeed.

Like, you’ve got Knockout, who needs his aftercare, (and like, yeah, everyone does, but Knockout is especially dependent on it, plus he’s used to Breakdown who was the aftercare master, and ofc those two facts both amplify eachother), and Starscream, who is almost certainly going to insist on domming because by Primus he is not ready to be vulnerable, and is probably gonna be giving no aftercare after because 

A: He’s never really received it himself that often if at all, 

B: Receiving it itself requires that level of emotional vulnerability that low key terrifies him, 

C: Given that aftercare is generally a foreign concept to him, his preference of what he prefers his doms to do once they’re done is to just leave so he has space to dissociate (why is this man so tragic), he probably on some level figures that’s probably also what Knockout wants him to do, so he thinks he’s doing him a favor,

and D: He probably still needs to go dissociate himself, which he didn’t expect would still happen even though he wasn’t subbing, the deeply traumatized fuck he is.

And given that they’re both catty bitches it’s not like they’re gonna talk about this afterwards and try and work through these problems, Knockout is probably gonna just say “yeah, this was a mistake, let’s not do that again” the next day and internally Starscream will be like oh thank Primus because he was just not ready for all that.

And the thing about them is that under non-toxic circumstances while they’d still probably be friends, they would under most circumstances probably never fuck, because they’re really not sexually compatible. They’re just not eachothers types, they both are mostly into big hunky mechs and the only reason they, being a pair of twinks, fucked is because at that point in time they were eachothers only non-actively-hostile relationships, and they were both desperate for the idealized version of a (for lack of a better term) human connection that they both were deeply craving but not ready to deal with the real, messy, complicated version of.

As decent as the sex itself might have been, the overall experience was deeply unsatisfying for both of them, so in the end this whole situationship gets filed away as an unfulfilling rebound fling, so it's really no wonder that when push came to shove the prospect of aimlessly roaming the galaxy with this guy didn't really appeal to Knockout.

and it's just this deeply tragic situation where while someone (Optimus, it's Optimus) could have "fixed" (read: assisted in the healing process of) Starscream, Knockout was under no obligation to be that person, even if it meant the end of Starscream's story was him getting tossed around by dragons. It's just so unfortunate.

anyways, just so this post isn't a complete downer, I do see a few circumstances where things could have worked out between them, I could see Starscream getting thrown into KO/BD working out well, maybe in some universe where Starscream succeeded in killing Megatron in S1 and ended up leader of the Decepticons with Knockout as his 2IC. Not only because Breakdown is just the absolute sweetest and as stated before, the master of aftercare, but also because Knockout still having his stability in Breakdown and not being high key depressed would probably make him more likely to want to take on a "pet project" in Starscream, so to speak. I also remember a while ago you made a post about a OP/KO/SS (sidenote, its so funny to me how the moment Knockout enters a ship the names just get reduced to letters) fic you wanted to write, I don't think I mentioned it at the time but I absolutely would read that if you made it.

So yeah, Knockout and Starscream aren't inherently doomed, but boy howdy did it turn out that way.

ohhhhhh man, these two are another guilty pleasure of mine, but yes. they are absolutely doomed with the way the narrative played out.

the way you said it pretty much sums it up. these two are searching for something in each other that neither of them will be able to find.

knock out needs someone to take care of him. he needs someone to really love him the way breakdown did. he needs someone who's willing to take care of him and make him feel like he's needed, even if he's not that open about it. it's why ratchet being grateful for him was one of the big tipping points which led him to join the autobots, the way i see it. whether or not he was into ratchet, that's up to you, but either way, he was needed.

and starscream needs to heal. this bot has been through so much, from leaving cybertron to losing his trine, and that's not even getting into all of the bullshit he's had to put up with concerning megatron. he doesn't have the strength to be emotionally vulnerable because he's afraid of the consequences of opening himself up. knock out can be a release for him, a way to just forget everything for a while, to not be himself.

so, these two, being each other's only stable relationship aboard the nemesis, sought what they needed in each other. of course this was never going to end up healthy. if they were just back on cybertron, away from the war, they probably would've been those catty best friends who are practically attached at the hip and love to judge everyone together. but in a sexual relationship? aboard the nemesis? in the middle of a war? this was doomed to fail.

it could work, though. i can see where you're coming from with ko/bd/ss, especially if megatron either stayed gone or straight up died. starscream wouldn't have to put up with megatron's shit anymore, and, since breakdown was still there, knock out and breakdown would be able to have that stability. this might leave knock out with a desire to bring starscream into their relationship, should the three of them be into that.

and i'm glad you brought up ko/op/ss or knockstarop, because it's an underrated idea and probably my ot3! the way i see them, optimus and knock out would probably get together first, but the both of them have expressed interest in starscream, so they invite him into their relationship and now they don't have to pick and choose between each other. more love to go around!

but yeah. as much as i enjoy ko/ss, they were probably never gonna turn out healthy with how canon went.

[lale-txt]

he's just like me

[soineffablygay]

we watched the whole cars trilogy last night and ofc i immediately went to look for formula one / cars movie fanfics and i am shocked to report that there seems to be not a single fanfiction that puts formula one drivers into the cars 1 storyline of getting lost in a small town having to interact with locals while actually needing to prepare for a race, but unexpectedly not only finding guidance and mentorship but also falling in love with one of the locals.

[old-danmei-fan]

Why do I always become the most delulu over characters that have the least amount of love 😩

I just caught up on a 500k word Kakashi fic and it is amazing and still ongoing, but I NEED a long ass Shino fic so bad. Shino Aburame may be the character that I actually attempt to write my first fic about. Might just throw some Kankuro in there too for good measure.