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aqricus · 3 years ago

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— HOUSE OF CARDS !!

♥︎.PAIRING … leona kingscholar x chubby! fem reader

♥︎. SYNOPSIS … leona is no stranger to your insecurities, but you wearing your shirt during sex is definitely new to him.

♥︎.CONTAINS … afab reader. minors dni. penetrative sex. hurt/comfort. insecurities about physical appearance.

♥︎.NOTE … i split the writing for this between two days, and somehow i did it all during the ungodly hours of the morning. so, if you see typos or fluctuations in the quality of my writing, idk what to tell you

leona is many things–a cunning ruler who wields dominion over the shadows, a lethargic student who would rather stretch out in a patch of golden sunlight than study and roughs up his peers whenever they so much as brush too close to him, even a questionable uncle whose little nephew sticks to him like velcro. but, among the sprawling list of reputes he’s garnered for himself, he is also your boyfriend.

filling such a position has both allowed him an exclusive insight into your life as well as finely honed his ability to read you like a book. at first, it irked him. he still remembers the first time he realized that your presence was far more ingrained in his life than he’d initially presumed. he’ll never forget the lopsided, shit-eating grin that bloomed across ruggie’s lips after he offhandedly corrected the mistake in your usual cafe order, nor will he forget the way his chest swelled with warmth at your bright chirp of you remembered! when he handed you the flimsy paper bag with a light pat on your head in passing.

but, arguably the most intriguing thing leona has learned about you is your insecurity regarding your physical appearance. he isn’t a fool. he’d have to be blind in order to miss your yearning glances and the lingering hand that ghosts over blouses and dresses a moment after placing them back on the rack, or the way you tug and pluck obsessively at your tops and pants in the mirror when you think that he’s asleep, or the way you seem to melt reservedly into the background when other suitors approach him.

he’s well aware of the way your brain operates. he’s watched the light in your pretty eyes cloud over and your radiant demeanor shrivel and wilt often enough to be able to tell at first glance when venomous thoughts start to seep into your mind, eroding away at your confidence until you draw back into your little shell where it’s safe. your self-assurance is fragile, as delicate as a butterfly’s wing and just as fleeting–a horrible match for a creature with a tongue carved from steel and a set of razor-sharp fangs to match.

so, he blunted his claws, knowing that unless he learned to adapt, he would rip right through the paper-thin stained glass without even meaning to. he’s always been shitty at comforting people, fumbling your emotions with an embarrassing lack of tact and pulling every card from his sleeve to placate the dewy tears that would spill down your cheeks. but, he tries his best; and, he figures he must be doing something right, because you’re still by his side–and, currently, on his lap.

but, whatever he’s doing right clearly isn’t enough.

his canines sink into his tongue, a low groan rumbling in his chest when he feels you sink down on his stiff cock once more with a strained whine, enveloping his shaft in the warm, velvety embrace of your walls until your plump thighs plop down against his. your nails lance into his shoulders, clinging to him for stability, as your cunt drools and twitches around him in an attempt to accommodate his size. your breath hitches in your chest, knees twitching weakly against his hips and a short gasp of his name partially lodging in your throat as his mushroom tip nudges up against your sweet spot, smearing pearls of pre-cum against the slick, gummy area with each unhurried rock of your hips against his. your nails scrape downwards, ghosting along the edge of the violet splotch staining his tan skin–the innocent mark you’d suckled into his skin that’d sparked the entire late-night love-making session to begin with.

you look positively adorable perched on his lap, the pillowy flesh of your lips swollen and ajar, dilated pupils hazy with the softest of hearts brimming in their depths, tongue cumbersome with bliss as you babble intelligible strings of praise. a pair of black cotton panties are hooked around your ankle, the material marred with a gash near the waistband that leona regards with a grin of smug satisfaction that would most certainly earn him a round of teasing if you ever found out.

he’s always had a love-hate relationship with that specific pair of panties. he despised the way his eyes would always zero in on them like a hawk whenever you pranced around in nothing but those and a loose-fitting top, oblivious to the way the tip of his tail twitched erratically every time you stepped into his vicinity. but, he loved the way it clung to you, dipping between your plush thighs and highlighting the curve of your ass in a way that can only be described as downright sinful. god forbid you ever discover the ulterior motive behind his fervent removal of your panties–it makes his stomach churn to even imagine the ways you would abuse your power if you ever decided to dip your toe into the uncharted territory of shimmery silk and strappy garters and sheer panties.

the amber gemstones embedded in the swirly, gold L strung around your neck twinkle beneath the silver moonlight streaming through the glass window panes, the dainty pendant jingling softly between the swells of your supple breasts with each rise and fall of your body. it sparkles like a star nestled in the soft crescent-moon curve of the neckline of the black camisole hugging your figure, and leona’s jaw ticks at the sight of the offending fabric.

this is what he doesn’t understand–this… this newly erected barrier that he just can’t seem to crest or whittle down no matter how hard he tries. lately, you’ve begun keeping whatever top you’re wearing on during sex, deterring the hands that would tug insistently on the hem of your shirt by lacing your fingers through his and pacifying his inquiries with sweet smiles that never really reached your eyes. but, he’s been with you for this long, he figures it’d be embarrassing if he couldn’t detect the underlying sour, wistful tang beginning to ebb through your sugar-coated reassurances and trademark sweet-scented lip balm.

this is a manifestation of the insecurities that plague your mind; that much is obvious, considering its recent development in tandem with your newfound reticence. but he just doesn’t understand why.

“shit–” leona hisses, eyebrows furrowing and slender lips twitching, when he feels you tighten around him. his hands grip at your thighs, his eyes nearly rolling back into his skull at the sight of your doughy flesh dimpling beneath his rough fingertips.

you’re so soft–you always have been, something that he would never change about you. from your warm and welcoming arms to your pliant belly that jiggles when he fucks you just right to your thighs that are just as supple and tender as the love you shower him with every day–you’re his polar opposite. you’re everything that he isn’t. where his palms are calloused and threaten to scrape your heart every time he so much as shifts his body, yours are gentle and soft, handling the battered heart he begrudgingly placed in your palms with unrivaled kindness and attentiveness. where he’s rough around the edges and difficult when it comes to affection, you’re doughy and sweet, offering a unique embrace that swaddles him in warmth and the bewitching fragrance of your perfume. you smooth out his jagged edges. you’re precisely what he needs.

“fuck–you feel so… good,” you whimper, rocking your hips against his with an obscene squelch of his cock sinking deeper into your slick cunt. he can feel you practically dripping around him, rivulets of translucent arousal trickling down his shaft with every lift of your hips to dampen the patch of coarse, dark hair nestled at the base of his cock. your eyebrows knit, forehead creasing. “want a kiss,” it’s spoken quietly, barely more than a sigh feathered across his lips. but, he hears you, nonetheless. usually, he’d tease you, depriving you of affection in exchange for a more bold statement of your desires just to hear you whine; but, tonight is different. tonight, there’s no room for games.

his hands slide up to your hips when he inclines his head to connect his lips to yours, his palm gliding up and over the hem of your camisole. his chest tightens when he feels your lips curve upward into a smile against his and the pressure of your nails clutching at his bare shoulders relieving in favor of looping your arms around his neck. for the sake of sparing his pride, he wants to deny the way his heart tingled with the ticklish brush of butterfly wings and the way he tugged discreetly at your thighs in an attempt at luring you deeper into the kiss–but, he can’t. he just… his blunt fingernails scratch lightly over the fabric shielding your body. he just…

fuck this.

experimentally hooking his fingers under the hem of your top, he doesn’t flinch or chase your lips when you inhale sharply and retract your head. the cloud of bliss blanketing your doe eyes dissipates just enough for you to shrink back, hands immediately flitting to clasp nervously over his. “leona..?” your call of his name is timid, gaze inquisitive as it bounces up from your waist to meet his eyes.

his tug on the fabric is nearly imperceptible, but he feels you stiffen in his hold all the same. “‘s in the way,” he grumbles. he reasons that outright telling you to remove your camisole would disrupt the atmosphere of tranquility and security, most likely resulting in you either scurrying back into your little shell or brushing off his request. akin to the ambiance he threaded together through chaste kisses and languid movements, this situation must be handled delicately, which has never been his strong suit.

“i–” you begin softly, squirming subtly on his lap, “i don’t think i should take it off…”

“why not?” you can feel his timbre rumbling deep in his chest. it’s low and quiet, as if not to startle you. his hands pause, yet he does not release his hold on your top. his expression is unreadable, cloaked in shadow. a pair of emerald gemstones stare back at you evenly, spearing through the gloom like daggers through gossamer and brimming with an intense heat barely capable of being contained beneath their crystalline surfaces. he’s calculating. observing. analyzing. it makes you feel small; but, strangely enough, the warmth of his hands at your hips and the mellow tone of his voice offer comfort all on their own.

leona has never done anything to hurt you, always behaving with good intentions despite his indifferent attitude. still, that doesn’t completely smooth over the uncertainty that prickles on the nape of your neck and along your arms whenever he attempts to peel away the protective layers you’ve cocooned yourself in. why not? you capture your bottom lip between your teeth, warding off a wry smile that you know would only further incriminate you.

you don’t know why you feel this way–why your insecurities always have to corrode your confidence and distort your belief in the assurance proffered by others. maybe it’s because you envy some aspect of them, or maybe it’s simply because self-sabotaging is far easier to do than truly being comfortable with yourself in a society with beauty standards encased in pretty wrapping paper preaching faux self-love. regardless, leona has never abandoned you to converse with other women, and all of his suitors have been either promptly dismissed or blatantly disregarded. yet, all you can do is compare, too feeble and exhausted to resist the self-deprecating thoughts that swallow you up.

you feel stupid.

“because–” there’s a change in your demeanor–a waver in your voice. leona’s eyes widen at the sound, lips parting slightly, only for his gaze to soften moments later once he notices the fractures fissuring through your wall of resolve. your hands constrict around his wrists, nails carving crescent indents into his skin that he doesn’t even blink at. “it doesn’t… i’m–not…” you’re grasping at straws now, he can see it clear as day. but, he doesn’t dare interrupt you, not when you’re finally stepping out of your comfort zone to explain yourself. “look, it’s just not a good idea.”

oh.

he gets it. leona’s quiet for a moment, eyes perusing your expression, before he moves a hand from your waist, gently curling it around the back of your head and angling his head to press his lips against your forehead. he can hear you exhale shakily, feel your warm breath fan over the base of his throat as you begin to relax into his ministrations. but, despite the tension bleeding from your rigid muscles, he can tell it still isn’t enough.

he withdraws, just enough for him to be able to murmur against your skin. “you know you’re the prettiest girl, right? and, unless you turn into a worm or somethin’, that’s not gonna be changing anytime soon.” that earns a quiet chuckle from you, but leona considers it a victory in his book. “not a thing wrong with you. i know you don’t believe me, ‘cause you’re always up in that little head of yours, but… give me the opportunity to show you.” he prods you a bit more by skimming his knuckle against the sliver of skin just under the hem of your top. when you don’t push him away, he retracts completely and slips his hand down to cradle the side of your neck, the pad of his thumb resting against your jawline to tilt your head to his preference. “hey, look at me,” his voice is gruff, but the underlying warmth has your eyes flickering obediently to his. his gaze is gentle. “quit hidin’ from me, alright? i wanna see you. all you gotta do is let me in.”

he plants another kiss on your cheek, and he hums in acknowledgement when he feels the apple of your cheek rise beneath his touch. his forehead bumps against your own, lips parting to flash a small, fanged grin that gleams in the moonlight. “been a while since you let me nap on your stomach, too. seems kinda unfair, y’know. it’s not nice to be so greedy.” but, his words are devoid of any venom, instead laced with a playful lilt.

it’s then that your defenses lower entirely, a moment of hesitation before the concrete prison of insecurity and self-criticism you constructed around yourself crumbles to dust and debris in his hands. a soft, candlelit glow flickers to life in your eyes before your feathery lashes sweep low over your cheeks to glance down at where your hands have softened their hold on his wrists. a genuine smile crosses your lips, paired with a bubbly laugh that tugs at the corners of his own mouth and elicits a pensive tilt of his head as he watches your glowing personality reemerge.

he chuckles. “there’s my girl.”

“you’re a dumbass,” you shake your head with a smile, only to gasp when you accidentally shift, stirring the cock that rests dormant inside your cunt. your inhale trembles, eyelids fluttering as you do your best not to impulsively clench around him. you feel so full, both with leona’s girth stretching your walls and your heart packed with such warmth that you fear it will burst at the seams and overflow in the form of tears pearling along your lash line.

you’re grateful that he’s so patient with you. his leisurely, lackadaisical nature definitely plays a role in enabling him to endure the fluctuations in your self-esteem, regardless of how asinine the reasons behind your negative emotions may be. it’s almost unfair to him, you feel. but, as you sit balanced on his lap and allow his words to skip through your brain on repeat, you figure that if you’re to be greedy about anything, it should be about keeping him by your side.

“why do you…” when you feel his tip kiss your cervix, you inhale deeply and smooth your hands up his toned arms to distract yourself, trailing your fingertips over the rises and dips of muscle. heat rises to your cheeks, a sudden wave of diffidence crashing over you as you mull over the potential consequences of your next inquiry. “why do you always do that?”

“what?” his brow quirks.

“sleep on my stomach.” you clarify. “it’s not that i don’t like it!” your eyes widen, and you rush to correct yourself when you notice his forehead creasing. “it’s just… i just don’t get it.”

“it’s soft.” leona responds with a breezy, carefree shrug. “nothing more to it. it’s soft, so i lay there.” he watches your eyes round, clouding over with something distant and arcane and far too complex for him to decode without taking another nap. he can practically see the wheels rotating in your brain as you process his words, dissecting every vowel and consonant and possible meaning behind his simple revelation. suddenly, it comes.

“you can take it off.”

at first, leona’s eyes cut to yours in surprise, only to relax with a hum and a quiet half-smile when he feels your hands lift away from his wrists to clasp in front of your stomach. your attention is focused on his chest–so focused, in fact, that he briefly contemplates the possibility of your intense gaze boring holes in his skin. but, he doesn’t dwell on it, instead gripping the hem and sliding it up a few more inches before pausing. “you sure?”

you nod once. “i’m sure.”

his gaze remains transfixed acutely on your face, searching for any signs of discomfort or regret as he works the camisole up and over your head and casts it aside. you’re still, watching with bated breath, as he strips away your last flimsy layer of protection and lays you completely bare for the first time in weeks, leaving you vulnerable to his piercing gaze. even so, you don’t pull away.

he waits until he’s certain you won’t recoil or reach for your shirt before he risks touching you. you’re warm, he notices as he slides his hands over your waist. it’s familiar–endearingly so–right alongside the scent of your body wash and the sparkle of the golden pendant resting on your chest. the way you squeak and goosebumps scatter over your arms and breasts at the feeling of his fingertips dappling impressions into the soft flesh of your belly, the silver wash of moonlight that overlays your supple skin in pale satin and makes you appear even more enticing–fuck, he missed this more than he thought.

“don’t just stare,” your sheepish mumble snaps leona out of his stupor. he grins at the small pinch in your brow and releases you in favor of snaking his arms completely around your waist, pressing his palms against your back to tug you flush against him. a small sound of shock escapes you at the close proximity. your hands hover idly—tentatively—over his shoulders as you’re squished against hard-packed muscle, breasts ballooning against his bare chest. “leona?” you question quietly when his chin hooks over your shoulder.

he doesn’t answer immediately. in fact, for a brief moment, the only indication he heard you is the ticklish twitch of his furry ear against your temple. “alright, i won’t keep lookin’. but, let’s at least just sit here for a bit.”

that’s all the encouragement you need to sling your arms around his neck in return and melt into him. you hum in agreement despite the conspicuous shifting of your hips, a subtle reminder of your current position and the way your arousal is still oozing around his cock. your fingertips twitch against the nape of his neck when you feel the sharp tip of one of his canines graze the shell of your ear, followed by a gravelly chuckle.

“i know, i know,” he murmurs. “stay still for a minute, and then i’ll take real good care of you. gotta be patient for me, though.”

“you promise?”

for a second, you swear you can feel him twitch within you, his lips splitting into a grin. “promise.”

🏷 :: @liliapup

#twisted wonderland smut #twisted wonderland x reader #twst smut #leona kingscholar x reader #leona kingscholar smut #leona x reader #twisted wonderland x you #leona Kingscholar x you #leona smut

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honeytae · 4 years ago

Note

if you’re open for regular requests i’d love to request lil scenarios of the boys learning english alongside their english-speaking s/o! this is totally self-indulgent i’m doing the TEFL program and i’m going to south korea next year to teach :)

first of all, that’s amazing omg!! congratulations my love, i hope you have the best time over there and please don’t be shy in sharing your stories with us!!! i tried to stick to the boys actually learning english with their s/o but i strayed from that with a few members just bc i ran out of ideas lol but i hope you still enjoy!

fair warning....i’ve never ~seriously~ tried to learn korean, so i’m not entirely certain of the parallels between korean and english. i just hope these are wholesome enough to override that lmao

namjoon:

“You know,” Namjoon looked up from his phone, “I understand expanding your vocabulary, but why are there so many weird slang words?”

“Kids these days?” You shrugged, the man chuckling in response before flipping his phone around to show you what had puzzled him.

“If something slaps, that’s...good?” He wondered, watching as you suppressed a smile at the tweet he was showing you.

You could tell by the profile picture that the user was an ARMY, one of the many fan profiles on the platform, and the tweet was written completely in English.

Although there was a ‘Translate to Korean’ option readily available with just a tap of his thumb, you knew Namjoon never missed an opportunity to challenge himself to be able to fully comprehend what a native English speaker was trying to say.

You nearly snorted at the tweet’s content, smiling as you read it out loud.

“The Dis-ease bridge just saved my life. Seriously, this song slaps.”

Glancing at Namjoon, he raised his eyebrows, eagerly waiting for you to translate and explain what that could equate to in Korean.

“It’s definitely a good thing, Joon. They love it.”

At your interpretation, Namjoon grinned, nodding to himself as he pulled his phone back in front of his face to scroll through more reaction tweets to the new album release.

seokjin:

“What the hell is that?”

You picked your head up from your sketchbook when you heard Seokjin whine from beside you, eyebrows knitting together at his distressed tone. Taking a glance over at his laptop screen, you found his mouse bouncing from letter to letter on one of his weekly english lessons.

“What is that, like 15 letters? How do you even use that in a sentence?” He went on, obviously flustered by the word on the screen.

Pulchritudinous.

You placed your hand over his to stop his panicked counting of the letters, causing him to look over at you with a sigh as he frowned.

You nearly giggled at his reaction, but the genuine fear in his eyes made you stifle it as you soothingly held his hands in yours.

“It’s just an over complicated way of saying beautiful. I don’t know why they’re teaching you that, nobody ever uses it.” You assured him, his eyes going down in size a bit at your words before he nodded.

Watching as a smirk tilted his lips, you raised your brows at the sudden expression.

“What?”

“Well like, I could say I’m...that?” He said, eyebrows raised cockily as he gestured to the long word stretched across the screen.

“Well it’s actually not used like,” you paused, giving in with a shrug as you grinned back at him.

“Sure, love.”

yoongi:

“Why did I skip English class all the time?” Yoongi sighed, pinching his bottom lip between his fingers as he plucked at the skin in frustration.

“Because you were trying to be a rebel.” You answered without looking up from your phone, the man obviously not liking your answer as he reached over to where you were laying beside him to pinch at your hip.

Yelping, you scooted across the mattress to get away from his hand, whining his name with a scoff before looking over at his notepad.

“What are you doing, anyway?” You asked, leaning on your palm as you scanned the rows of scribbled English letters written on the page.

“I’m trying to get better at writing.” He admitted shyly, a small grin on his face to match the fond one on your own.

“Aw,” you pouted, Yoongi raising his eyebrows at your tone, “but I like your chicken scratch.”

“You’re such a brat.” He chuckled, adjusting the velcro on his brace with a grunt.

Since Yoongi’s shoulder surgery took away obvious straining activities like dancing and performing, he’d turned to studying English from the comfort of your bed during his recovery as one of the only safe activities he could partake in for a while.

It was now one of his favorite past times, learning new words and phrases he could potentially use in the future. It worked for you both because it took his mind off the pain and kept him motivated, and since you could speak both his and your language, you could help him out whenever he got stuck on something.

Usually he did lessons verbally on his phone, but it seemed today he had taken the old fashioned route.

“Your handwriting really isn’t bad, Yoongs.” You observed, the carefully placed tails at the end of each ‘a’ making you smile out of fondness for the man.

“My man has the prettiest handwriting.” You cooed, pushing a strand of his stark black hair out of his eyes as he blushed down at his notebook.

“Stop that.”

hoseok:

“Hey, babe?” Hoseok called for you, listening to your footsteps growing closer before you popped your head into the kitchen doorway.

“Yeah?”

“I’m having a little trouble.” He gestured to his open laptop on the counter, you recognizing it as an assignment from his English course.

“What happened?”

“Pronouns. Pronouns happened.” He pouted, his disdain for the new chapter quite obvious as he stared down his computer screen.

“What about them?” You asked, stepping closer to the man sitting at the kitchen island and placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“I need to make ten sentences using proper pronouns and I feel like I’m doing it all wrong.” He explained, causing you to hum as you looked over his sentences.

“These look great, Hobi.” You smiled as you glanced over the first three he’d written, flawlessly executed on the document.

“Can you help me with the next one?” He wondered, you nodding your head as you took a seat on the stool next to his.

“What do you want the next one to say?” You asked, watching as he glanced off to the side in thought, slightly squinting his eyes at the tile floor beneath the sink.

“My house is next to,” He spoke in English, pausing as he searched his brain for what pronoun to put next.

“Theys?” He answered as more of a question, then shaking his head as he switched back to Korean, “wait, no.” He sighed, placing his chin in his hand in thought before glancing over to you.

“I know it’s wrong, I just don’t know what the right answer is instead.” He explained, you shooting him a loving smile as you pushed the dark raven hair off his forehead and pressed a kiss to the newly revealed skin.

“I’ll help you, Sunshine. No worries.”

jimin:

Flopping onto the bed, you let your tired body fall on top of Jimin’s hoodie clad chest, his arm encircling your body as he mumbled a soft greeting to you.

“Hm, what are you learning about today?” You nuzzled into his chest, peering at his phone propped up on his thigh.

“Animals. Birds, mostly.” He answered, briefly turning from the screen to press a kiss to your head before focusing back on the row of English words matched with pictures of popular birds glowing from the device.

The first was a robin, the next a blue jay, and then a dove.

You listened as the virtual instructor prompted Jimin to repeat after her, spelling out the letters before stating the whole word. You smiled as your boyfriend followed instruction, pronouncing the words the best he could after the microphone chimed for him to do so.

“D-o-v-e. Dove.”

“Dove.” He repeated, smiling to himself as the app announced he got the point with a little heart.

“That’s cute.” He went back to his native language, you humming in confusion as you lifted your head up off his chest to look at him.

“The heart?” You asked, reaching up to twist a stray strand of hair out of his eye as he shook his head.

“Dove.” He said again, making you tilt your head, not knowing what he meant.

“It sounds like ‘love.’” He connected the two English words, you smiling fondly at him in response before scooting up the bed to kiss the tip of his button nose.

“You’re so cute.”

taehyung:

Three knocks at the door announced someone’s arrival to your bedroom, causing your head to lift from the novel you’d been so immersed in. Taehyung was home, but you’d wanted to give him space because you knew he needed to work on lyrics for his mixtape in order to submit them on time.

“Hey,” he poked his head in with a small smile, “can you help me with something?” He asked sheepishly, stepping further into the room when you nodded.

“Of course. What is it?” You set your book down, marking your place before closing it to pay full attention to your boyfriend.

“Well, I’m trying to write this verse in English and,” he trailed off with a shrug, “you know.” He finished, you nodding in response with a gesture for him to come sit next to you.

He eagerly walked over to you with his notebook in hand, lowering himself to the mattress before rolling his way over to where you were leaning against the headboard.

Honestly, Taehyung’s English wasn’t bad at all. He was insecure about it, but you’d never really understood what the reason for that feeling was. His vocabulary was more than decent, his comprehension was good, and his pronunciation was great for having such a thick accent.

But there were many times where Taehyung came to you for guidance, as you were a native English speaker yourself.

And so, as he rested his head on your shoulder confiding in you about everything he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it, you patiently took him through what would work and rhyme best, smiling as he hummed the melody to himself to see if the phrases would work in his creation.

jungkook:

“Baby, can you read it to me again before we go on? Just one more time.”

You glanced over at your boyfriend in his makeup chair, several employees bustling around the man as they attempted to get him ready to go on stage while they had him seated.

With his arm extended backward to where you stood behind his leather chair, he offered his phone to you while shooting you a grin through the reflection in the mirror.

Taking the device from his hand, you opened it to the notes app where he’d written what he wanted to say in his statement on stage in just a few minutes.

You were in London tonight, which meant that all of the boys had been rehearsing their English so that they could communicate easier with their audience.

Jungkook, ever the over-achiever, was determined to do the toughest English tongue twister he could possibly find. Not only that, but in a British accent for his British ARMY’s.

“Betty bought a bit of better butter to make her bitter butter better.” You read from the phone, barely able to read the sentence yourself before you glanced up at Jungkook through the mirror again.

You watched your boyfriend nod as his brain took in the words you’d just said, taking a deep inhale before he began speaking the phrase back to you.

You gawked as the man effortlessly repeated after you, a few of the makeup artists stopping as well as Jungkook raised his eyebrows back at you.

“Was that okay?”

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handcoversheart-76 · 4 years ago

Text

[ 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄 ] My muse gently runs a hand over your muse’s back/arm

She finds him sitting on the studio floor, back to the couch, with his song journal on the floor in front of him. His arms are wrapped tight around himself, rubbing as if he was cold, but Julie knew better. Ghosts couldn't get cold.

No, she knew what this was. She sees it in all her boys, even Willie when he drops by- that self soothing hold, the clinging hands, the way they gravitate towards each other and stick like velcro.

hambre de piel is what her dad calls it, touch deprivation is what Google calls it-

But touch starved sums it up pretty nicely for Julie.

"Luke?" She calls softly, trying her best not to startle him. Thankfully, he doesn't, just looks up, eyes wide.

His expression softens though, probably when he catches sight of her fluffy paw slippers. "Hey Jules, are you heading to bed?"

"I was." She steps closer then sits next to him on the ground. "But I wanted to come down here first. Hang out a little."

Luke hums and opens his mouth to speak before stopping short in surprise. And no kidding, because Julie reached over, curled a hand around his wrist and moved his arm so it's around her shoulders. When she burrows into his side, she can hear his breathing stop.

She lets the moment hang in the air for a second before asking, "What are you working on?"

That seems to jumpstart his brain because he instantly relaxes, curling his arm around her snugly and huffing a laugh of disbelief. Julie smiles. She likes that sound. That's his wow-julie-molina's-knocked-me-off-my-feet-again laugh and it's just for her.

"I was just playing around with some ideas." He says, still sounding a little flustered. "But then I got a little stuck."

"Can I hear it?"

Luke clears his throat and-

strangers that grow, grow into something more

friends that change, change into yours

I think I wanna jump through the clouds with you, burn up the sky and bring it down with you

He drops off there, peeking at her shyly. "That's all I've got so far."

Julie shifts, tucking her arm around his lower back, rubbing gently. He relaxes further, sighing a bit. She bets all the money she's got saved that touching her is different than touching other ghosts. That it feels more solid. She can tell it by the way that the boys cling to her when they're tangible. There's a hidden desperation there that makes Julie wish she could hug them all day.

"Hm, it's a little bit slower than what we're used to." She observes.

"Yeah, I don't know." He says, flipping the book closed with his other hand. "I guess it was more like one of Reggie's country songs. Something just for the band."

Julie likes the sound of that. Of friends that change, change into yours being just for the four of them. Julie and the Phantoms is for everybody, but Julie's phantoms are hers and hers alone. She'll unabashedly keep them tucked inside her heart where they belong.

Julie snuggles closer to Luke, biting back a smile because they fit together like puzzle pieces. "I think it's really well-written. A change of pace can be good sometimes- it keeps us fresh."

"Maybe we'll drop an acoustic album one day." Luke says, voice quieter now. The length of the day clearly just hitting him. "After the country album of course."

"Of course."

"Then maybe we'll dip into the musical scene- write a rock musical like Green Day did."

"Luke?"

"Hmm?" He hums, sounding half awake.

"Hush. Naptime. We'll write albums in the morning."

"Mh'kay."

#:D #i just think abt juke daily. thats all <3 #otp: i think we make each other better #jatp #my fics

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kashimos-hajime · 6 years ago

Text

the dragon and her shadow | b.b.

Summary: You fall in love with the Winter Soldier, and they punish you for it. Sentiment is weakness, but what can they do? After all, they cannot kill the Fist of H.Y.D.R.A. and mortal men cannot even begin to comprehend slaying a dragon.

WARNINGS: HUGE ANGST, but happy ending, DARK, torture, blood, traumatic events, it’s war, massive injuries, angst, swearing, messy lives, everything that comes with the Winter Soldier’s past, love triangle-ish, Bucky’s a sad boy, scene leading up to smut and then mentions of it after so it’s SFW, also HAPPY ENDING Pairing: wintersoldier!Bucky x fem!enhanced!Reader Word Count: 7.1k

A/N: I have no justification for writing this. I’m just in a mood.

Masterlist

It’s 1945 and the war has started. Men come in droves to fight with their enlistment forms. You’re good at swiping blank ones. After all, a nurse can go anywhere. All it takes is a smile and a silly little excuse, and a woman is invisible.

You give them to the scrawny boy waiting outside, cross your arms, and smile fondly.

“You know they won’t accept you,” you tell him and his thin little face turns up to you. You’re wearing your uniform, and there’s your little nurse hat atop your head. He’d say you look gorgeous if you weren’t working and you wouldn’t slap him.

“Then why do you keep giving them to me?” he asks. The expression falters. Your arms uncross and cup his cheek. Leaning down, you press a gentle kiss to his cheek, then his mouth. He kisses you back, and you sweep his hair out of his eyes.

“You know why.” The air shifts. You look away. “I have work to do.”

“Thank you, firebug,” he whispers and you take a glance of him again. He doesn’t say much more, and you turn around, turn to get back to work.

“Wait,” he calls and you pause from where you are halfway into the medical centre. You arch an eyebrow, he smiles in his flustered way. Something inside you melts as he worries and twists the enlistment forms in his hand. “Bucky invited me to the Stark Expo tomorrow, and uh, he’s bringing a date, and I thought…” He trails off and you sigh softly. This adorable man who doesn’t know his way around women really is trying his best. All he needs is your little push.

“Mhm?”

“I was just wonderin’, firebug, if you, uh, wanna go to the Stark Expo? With me?”

Your smile is the summer sun as you tell him, “Of course.”

You fly out to Italy. They tell you Steve Rogers is flying to do a tour around Europe. You frown, because the scrawny kid you’ve known is allowed into a war zone? Unheard of.

But they’re not wrong. Everyone’s speaking of it, of some dancing monkey you know isn’t your Steve. No, your Steve is a fighter, and you want to know what on Earth they’ve done to him because this war can’t take away Bucky and Steve, who doesn’t even know his best friend’s gone.

You tell the Colonel you want to be there when he shows up, and he promises that you will be. You tell him that this is important to you. That your Steve is not going to leave until you see him. The Colonel arches a brow at how familiar you are, and insists that you’ll be there. Don’t get twisted over it. He tells you he’ll be here waiting for you right after an evacuation of a village five miles out.

You plan to ask him the day after the morrow what’s happened to him when you return back to camp with the innocent citizens you’ve rescued from this rural little village on the edge of the water. You stitch up small cuts, ration out food and water, tell them they’re going to be just fine as you rehearse what you’re going to say to the boy turned soldier, but still, your Steve.

But then fire rains down on you, making you seem like a huge liar. It is hell incarnate, the seventh level, and there is blood on your hands as a bullets slam into the dirt around you. The girl you’re treating, her name is — was — Sofia, lays in your arms, three bullet holes punched through her. You can hear the soldiers screaming to run, get back to the truck, and you stand, looking around you.

They drop like flies, and you see the white of one of the uniforms stained with blood and dirt and ash as the body of a nurse is burned alive in one of the homes the Germans torched. The air ranks of rotten flesh and shit and piss, and you remember you have to run if you ever want to think of being alive again. You run through fire and flame, through smoke and ash that stick to your throat and lungs. A soldier is reaching out for you on the back of the truck, and you stretch your hand forward.

The bullet tears through you before you can reach him and the blood seeps into the dirt. You fall.

You watch as the soil drinks your blood hungrily. This land has been torn apart, and the war’s barely started. The soil soaks in every tear that leaks from your eyes, every drop of blood from the river that spills from your chest, near your heart. You know you will die, and you wish it’d come sooner than this.

Flanders fields, you muse, the air thick from the fire, humid from the sea. It causes you to sweat, and the blood to rush thickly under your face as you stare out over the cliff side. The water is so very blue despite the grey skies, and through the smoke, you think you see the sun.

The sea glimmers underneath the sun’s rays far away from this devastation, and you think that perhaps poppies could grow here. Make something savage beautiful. Let flowers drink your blood, taste the burnt ashes of those who’d fallen here, and make it beautiful. The thought brings you peace, as your fellow brothers and sisters fall all around you.

Someone steps on your wound. You see stars and scream. The poppies vanish in your head. When the butt of a rifle slams into your head and your vision goes black, so does everything else.

For every time they put the Winter Soldier in the chair, they do it twice as long for you, for every time you sleep, they can hear you scream for Captain America to save you.

Your cell is made of concrete and glass, things that don’t burn underneath your magma touch, and only opens for a few reasons.

Most often: the Winter Soldier comes to tell you that you have a mission. You follow him easily, get dressed — it’s routine by now, as you strap on Kevlar and Velcro, holsters and knives as your eyes watch the Winter Soldier. His handler puts on his muzzle as someone inserts an electro-chip beneath your neck. One step out of line and you drop, a burning corpse.

Then he asks, if you’re ready. You ask who is the target. That’s how things run between the two of you; you and the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier. Before, you remember you’d think Bucky. Now, the first thing you think is soldat and you wonder who even was Bucky? And Steve? What are these names and why do they float in your head?

It comes with time, you think. You forget the things that don’t matter, but they still linger. No matter. You have a mission to do and the Winter Soldier is your partner. He’s your constant, your guardian and companion, and sometimes something you want to hide from the people who control you.

The two of you bring governments to their knees, the ghost and the rage that follows him. People cannot comprehend the power you possess, so they resort to names you don’t care for. They call you wicked, a beast, dragon.

You merely laugh, the Winter Soldier an ever present shadow behind you, and ask them how they want to die.

Most say bullet to the head, but they all end up in flames. It doesn’t matter, you figure. They’re all corpses in the end.

For some missions, you don’t get to have any part. You merely crouch beside the Winter Soldier and let him take his shot. You tell him he does a good job every time. The only time he thanks you in his way is when the two of you watch as Jackie Kennedy crawls to the back of the limousine, her husband’s blood still splattered on her pretty pink suit. The motorcade stops, and you two leave.

You never stay for the aftermath.

“Dragon,” you repeat thoughtfully as you run a hand over your knee. The Winter Soldier looks to you from where he’s cleaning his gun beside you. He used two bullets, no rifling, Soviet made. One through the throat, one through the head, just to make sure. They’ll be proud of him, even if they never say so.

You flex and squeeze your fingers over your knee. The thought nags you. That and the fact that you’ve been informed that you’re to take one last test. One more session. You’re prepared for any test. You’re prepared for the chair.

“Do you like being called dragon?” he asks carefully behind his muzzle, and you smile strangely, a remarkable little thing stretched across your lips. The heat of stars runs beneath your hands as you look out through the windows of the cockpit. You can just begin to see the mountain ranges.

“It reminds me of something,” you tell him. “But I can’t quite remember what.”

“It will come,” he says and you find his eyes on you, pure blue and soft, like a child. He stops cleaning his gun, his eyes searching your face. For a moment, you wonder if he’s reckless enough to do what you know he wants to do here. But then he turns back to cleaning his gun, disassembling and reassembling over and over again. “But do you like being called dragon?”

You smile again and tell him you do, but only by him.

The test is for you to kill the Winter Soldier.

When you tell them you can’t, make up some excuse that he is your partner, you work better with him, you can’t just kill him, they tell you two that they’re disappointed. The words strung together form your worst nightmare. They sit you down on the table, and clamp the electrical device to your head.

As it burns through your brain, they take your right arm and slice it off.

Partners, they spit down at you as you bleed over metal and black leather. Weakness. You nearly bite through your tongue if it weren’t for the mouth guard and your vocal cords bleed as you scream. Tears trail down your face, burning lava across obsidian rock, as they tell you that you’re well and truly two halves of a whole now. Is this not what you wanted, soldat? they ask. You merely scream until blood floods your mouth in response. Have you learnt your lesson?

When you thrash, things catch on fire. They begin to burn your memories away and you reach to grab the torture machine as your blood smokes in your veins. The electro-chip activates, sending blue beneath your skin and you let out a harrowing scream, the cords of your neck throbbing underneath the current as they begin to burn red and purple. You bend fingers that are no longer there, and the cold air of this prison kisses your flesh as you lose control of what is real and what is not. Black flames lick at your vision as you weep.

Your eyes widen, blow out, and you search the room because you know they must’ve made him watch. Made him suffer, in a way you cannot describe. It is simply their way. You spot in the corner of the room the Winter Soldier breathing heavily, the whirring of his arm coming to life as you sob into the mouthguard, blood spilling out of your mouth and shoulder.

It takes six men to sedate him. When you see him fall, the dragon awakens.

It takes eight to put out the white hell you leave in the room, and even then, most of the equipment is melted away.

When you come to, it is decades later, and the arm they’ve made, synthetic, metal, fake but near real, channels the energy stored in your heart. In fact, it amplifies it, and when you’re sent on your first mission since you’ve been frozen, you burn the whole city to the ground.

The Winter Soldier watches from the jet. You turn to him, see him holding his sniper rifle, and you smile emptily. He does not respond even though you know he can see you.

Sentiment. Weakness. Punishment.

Such is the way of your life.

Yet you can’t help but steal your moments. After all, they cannot kill the Fist of H.Y.D.R.A. and mortal men cannot even begin to comprehend slaying a dragon.

You love the Winter Soldier. You love him far more than anyone in your entire life. You’re sure of it.

So when Washington goes to shit, and you see him plummet into the Potomac, you meet him at the bank.

“I know him,” he whispers raggedly, your hands in his. He’s freezing from the lake, sitting on the bank of the Potomac as you crouch beside him, staring at the unconscious man the Winter Soldier pulled out of the lake. Your hands travel to his face, wiping away the river from his skin as he tries to catch his breath. “He knows me.” A hard swallow. “He’s Steve. Steve, and… and I’m Bucky. Barnes. Bucky Barnes. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Bucky?” you repeat, dumbfounded, gaze hardening at the blond soldier whose face is swollen and bleeding. You kiss the Winter Soldier gently, because no one is here to see when the Triskelion is in ruins, and he leans against you, still panting, and bleeding and you touch every cut, every bruise. Who dares hurt him? Your blood roars murder but he merely gapes against you, clutching at parts of you, any part of you he can. You hold him tight, hold him close, as his eyes shut. His cheek soaks through your shirt and he reaches for your chin, making you look at his open eyes once more.

“We have to run. They’ll come for us, we have to leave,” he whispers hoarsely against your chest, flesh arm tugging at your black jacket. The dried leaves around your feet begin to smoke as he speaks. They won’t take you away from me again, you promise.

“You’re hurt,” you whisper raggedly but he shakes his head. Your eyes drift to the unconscious blond. “So is he.”

“It doesn’t matter. Come on.” He pulls away and tries to get up, tries to tug you along with him. “We have to go!”

“Bucky,” you repeat again, reaching forward for the drowned man.

“Stop saying that. We need to leave, now!” His metal arm grab yours, but you fling him off as the blond soldier mumbles something under his breath. The Winter Soldier falls to the smoking leaves, still struggling to regain his balance but you don’t see him. You only have eyes for the man. Your eyebrows knit together and the blond’s lips move, forming indiscernible words.

“Steve?” you try, the name tasting foreign but familiar in your mouth. You touch his swollen face gently with your flesh hand, feel the curve of his cheek, the porcelain of his skin.

“Firebug,” he whispers, the first thing you can hear fully, and the sounds slam into your chest. Like a scythe, it cuts you in pieces, steals your stomach, macerates your heart, and you swallow something that tastes like blood down your throat as his eye opens. The other, swollen shut, still struggles to see and he lets out something like a laugh as his bloody hand reaches for your face. “You’re here…”

“Steve?” you try again and his eye opens wider. His hand falls, too weak to continue. “Who are you?” Your words come out bitter, torn out and shredded.

“We have to go, now,” the Winter Soldier murmurs in your ear, and you turn to him, eyes wide, desperate, searching for answers you don’t know exist. Steve’s fingers reach for your metal hand and you jerk back, into the Winter Soldier who wraps an arm around you.

As you disappear into the forest, you turn back to see a figure swoop down and take hold of Steve.

Your heart feels shattered, and you know not why.

You enjoy domestic life with Bucky. The name is still something you have to get used to, but you enjoy it. You’ve cut out the electro-chip in your neck — well, Bucky did. It was mere surgery and he’s always careful around you. Even if you are hiding, you like that there aren’t eyes on you anymore.

You stay in the museum with him, your knuckles brushing his and you glance around. No one recognizes you with your new hair color, new clothes. After all, who’d think the Ghost and his Dragon would stand in some museum, waiting to be caught? But you’re still afraid. Still afraid to touch him in public. Those sorts of things are reserved for their own little moments, in the privacy of your little hideout beneath a bridge. But you don’t mind when Bucky’s fingers play with yours, so maybe you can get used to that too.

You read about Steve Rogers, and you hear Bucky’s name being called from some other audio farther down the hall. Drifting off, you spot footage of a man who looks like Bucky and a man who looks like the drowned one in the Potomac. They laugh with each other, ride the trucks together, run side-by-side.

“Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard, and battlefield. Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in the service of his country.”

Your eyes rake over Steve’s face, blinking as you read over the little displays, the tiny little tidbits that reveal who Steve Rogers was to the public.

But not to you.

Bucky takes his hand, tells you we have to go.

Your eyes linger on Steve Rogers. The fear that swells up inside makes you sick, and you blame it on the sea as you and Bucky stow away on a freight ship to Romania.

Steve finds you two years later, and you hold up a gun to his face before he pulls you into a crushing hug. You do not hug him back — you barely know the man, but you know he meant something to you before. He promises to fix you, the both of you, and brings you to Wakanda where Tony Stark, Bruce Banner, and Princess Shuri all await you. They dismantle H.Y.D.R.A.’s network within you, but nothing can take away memories, no matter how hard H.Y.D.R.A. tried, so it’s all well and good that the three smartest minds in the world cannot give them back either.

No one can burn off the feel of Bucky’s body against yours, but you can tell anyone who listens the shade of Jackie Kennedy’s suit the day her husband died.

You don’t tell Steve what has happened in the years you’ve been in H.Y.D.R.A.’s claws. He assumes and you nod to what is correct, ignore what is not. He still loves you. You can see it in the way he speaks to you, and you so desperately want to love a good, gentle man, who promises soft beds and warm food, but over the years, you’ve grown used to rough love and concrete against bare backs.

You stole those moments with the Winter Soldier, and you don’t want to give them back.

And that is the simple poetry of your shattered heart.

“Maybe we can try again,” you whisper as Bucky is frozen away. His body needs the rest, and you think it’s your turn to take care of Steve. Your memories aren’t in-tact, having withered away in the cold of Siberia, but you can try your best. That’s all any of them can do now.

Steve looks at you, hopeful and bright and lively, and it pains your heart to see him love you this much still, after all these years. He takes gentle hold of your fingers, your flesh fingers, and smiles in such a way that it nearly eases the ache in your soul. You think you say this because you’re trying. You’re trying to find something, and it’s either a way to relieve the guilt you harbor in your heart, or the comfort you think you once took in Steve’s smile.

His smile tells you everything will be okay, and you convince yourself into thinking, yes, perhaps it will be.

Steve holds your hand, leads you away from where you’d awoken, fixed in the ways that mattered, but you cannot help the second look back at Bucky as you exit Princess Shuri’s lab.

You tell yourself it’s easier when Bucky’s not around. It isn’t.

You want to fall in love with Steve again, like you did once.

He calls you firebug where the Winter Soldier had called you dragon, and loves you gently, warmly, fully. His kisses are what wake you up in the morning, and his hands match the warmth of a hearth as he makes you laugh, makes you smile.

He introduces you to the other Avengers, to his family, and you try not to act like you didn’t nearly kill some of them once. Steve doesn’t care, though. You didn’t know what you were doing, firebug, he tells you when you wake up from a nightmare in his arms.

How can you not love this man?

In your heart of hearts, you know why.

You don’t yearn for ocean blue eyes and golden hair. You don’t want the heat of summer, the blasting rays on a dry day. You don’t want the beach, the sand, the hot, humid air. Maybe you did, once, but not anymore.

You twist and turn in your sleep. The fire inside you is aching to be quenched, and you wish Siberian mountains stared back at you. You wish long, dark hair curtained you away from the world. You wish the Winter Soldier would come and save you from the fire inside you, instead of feed you tinder.

You wish you didn’t feel so guilty over loving Bucky so that you could love Steve instead.

It’s months later before they say Bucky can be unfrozen now. His body has healed, and his brain has bounced back far better than yours has. Something about how the experimentation with the Tesseract, the tests that’d given you your powers, has warped your chemical makeup and reacted to the treatment in unexpected ways. Your memories are lost to you permanently, but they can learn.

Bucky is better, memories in-tact, with all his personality and spunk again.

Meanwhile, you’ve gained nothing at all; fragments, pieces, mist that you cannot hold onto. All you have is every kill you’ve ever completed, every burnt corpse you left lying on pavement or dirt or grass, every time they set you down in that chair.

Bucky has the pain, but he has the pleasure too, and you hate him for it. All you’re left with is your guilt and your sins. The bitterness is so unexpected that it makes you throw up when Natasha asks if you want to see him.

You hate him so much. You hate him more than you thought was possible for a being. You hate him because you love him, and he deserves this, but don’t you deserve it too?

Wicked, a beast, dragon.

Jealousy is a green-eyed monster.

You don’t even speak except to ask T’Challa if he has something you can burn, because anything else you have to say is not something you should say in front of a king.

The King of Wakanda tells you there is an empty vibranium cave far below the surface, and takes you down there before leaving you alone.

You scream that it isn’t fair, to love, and to lose everything. It isn’t fair that Bucky can come back and you can’t. It isn’t fair.

It isn’t fair.

“Life isn’t fair,” Bucky says and you spin around to see him standing next to the door from whence you came. You hadn’t realized you’d said those words out loud. Or perhaps he’s read your mind, as he has before. “T’Challa told me where I could find you.”

“What do you want?” you ask warily, unsure of yourself around him. You aren’t keen to find out if the fire he can stir within you is willing to be ignited again. You’d long since told yourself it couldn’t be. That is a fire long gone.

But to see him here, now, before you in the shape of all the pieces you’re missing in yourself, makes you ache in ways you’ve never ached for anyone before.

If Steve is the sun; warm, reliable, bright and golden, then Bucky — the Winter Soldier — is a volcano; dark, unpredictable, full of molten fire and bursting with blazing heat.

And dragons love their fire more than they love the sun on their scales.

He reaches for you, but you back up just as quick, one quick word passing breathily between your lips. “Don’t.”

“Is it ‘cause you love Steve?” he asks softly, approaching you slower. Your eyes flicker from his attire to his face. You’re both startled deer, too scared to move but wanting to with every inch of your being. And you’re not sure if the direction is towards or away. “Because if you do, I… I don’t hold it against you.”

Here is the one person that made all of that bearable, and you swallow through the knots tied into your ashy throat. He can’t possibly think it’s fine for you to move on.

“Why do you care? You have your memories back so you can get on with your life.” The words come out stone cold, flat, hard hitting and Bucky blinks. You just hope they’ve hit your mark, because if he thinks you love Steve, he’s got another thing coming.

“My life has been you,” Bucky whispers and you turn away. You hate him so much. Hate him so much that it aches to even be apart from him. But you’re so happy for him, so grateful. You love him enough to be happy for him, but not enough not to be bitter about it. Love and hate are separated by a fine line, and you stand upon it in your broken mind. “It’s been you for decades.”

“I can’t even look at you,” you hiss, words unexpectedly poisonous. “You got everything back. I was just some lab rat. Like always. It’s not fair.”

The Tesseract. Threads of pure cosmic energy flowing in your veins. They can’t control you, but they can control your handler.

They send the Winter Soldier into your cell.

“It’s not fair. They cut off my arm. They burned me alive. They made me a monster. It’s not fair.”

He backs off, stung, and the space left by his body is filled with the cool, stale air of the vibranium mine. He lets his hands drop from where he had them raised — he was working up the nerve to touch you — like he’d expected this reaction, and when your eyes drag over to his wretchedly, you want to burn that soft, sad smile off his face.

“You deserved what I got,” he says. You watch the tiny twitches on his face, the little tics that let you know what he’s thinking. It used to be the only way you two communicated, and now, with so many words between you two, it’s one of the only things you understand. Tells you; helps you understand that the words he wants to say are not the ones he does. “You deserve to remember Steve, because he’s good to you. So when you walk up there, you choose him, you hear me? When you see the two of us, standing there, you tell him that you choose him.”

He looks lost, more an animal behind a cage than when he was the man muzzled by his handler. Everything numbs in you, and you can’t feel your fingers anymore as he regards you in a way that reminds you of an injured wolf.

“‘Cause you know I’m no fucking good for you.”

Each word is a punch to your gut, a bullet that tears through you, and you’re so empty inside that you take these words and try to make them fill up the space he’s left in you. You don’t even recognize he’s leaving, until you remember that he can walk away. There’s no one stopping him now, and there’s no one stopping you.

“Bucky—” A strangled noise leaves your throat in the shape of his name. He pauses from where he’s walking back to the door and you rush towards him. Your hands shake, fingers burning as you turn him around and touch his face. Your metal hand rests on his metal arm, and you’re reminded on why it was cut off in the first place. Two halves of a whole.

The Ghost and his Rage.

The Dragon and her Shadow.

Fire and Ice.

Two halves of a whole.

“Bucky, I don’t love him,” you whisper in a breath. The wind knocked out of you, you inhale sharply to try and calm your frantic heart.

“You should. He waited for you. You should.”

“But, I can’t. I want to, so badly, so fucking badly, but I can’t.” You cup his face, making him look at you, and you’re not sure where this bravery comes from, but you hope it stays. Although you have no memories left of who you are, you know your name, and you know the man who stands before you. You know the Winter Soldier, and the man beneath it. You’ve seen it in glimpses, seen it through the lightning haze.

“I love you,” he murmurs and his words brush against your mouth, leave you aching as he tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “Love you more than anything. But Steve loved you first, so I can’t.”

“It doesn’t fucking matter if he loved me first if I can’t remember it.” His lips barely brush yours and you feel the twist of your stomach release. Sighing softly, you let your eyes roam his face freely, taking him in. This beautiful tragedy. This broken spirit that fits perfectly with yours. “It doesn’t fucking matter because I love you.”

“No—”

“Yes. You think you’re the only one who was tortured? It was me, too. And you were the only good thing out of it. You were there every step of the way, and you understand.” Your voice rises in volume as you dig a finger into his chest. “Fuck your code of honor. It’s stupid. I’m right here and I’m choosing you.” He ducks his chin to look at you, a spitfire in his arms, a volcano close to erupting. You’re burning hot to the touch, but Bucky’s never cared about that. He likes the pain.

“You are the only reason I’m alive right now, Bucky Barnes. You saved me, in so many ways. Even if you are the Winter Soldier, you saved me. So, don’t you dare tell me that because Steve loved me first, I can’t choose you, okay? I couldn’t choose anything back there. Who I killed, what I did, where I was, who I loved. Who I love.”

You sigh, out of breath and near tears, and Bucky feels a pang of guilt slam into him for making you shed tears. He has never wanted to hurt you, but he also remembers who you were, even if you don’t. That girl from the 40′s. His best friend. The girl who’d stitched him back up when he got too rough with the boys harassing Steve. The girl who’d chosen Steve. The nurse from Italy. His best nightmare in that H.Y.D.R.A. base.

“You don’t even know who you are,” he rasps and your finger on his chest slides until your whole hand presses against his chest. It trails up to his shoulder, to his neck where you feel his beating pulse, trace the shadows left on his skin.

“But, I know what I want,” you whisper, lips brushing his with every word, “and I just want you. Is that too much to ask?”

His hands have found your hips on their own, and trail downwards, feeling the shape of you. Your fingers curl against his face, brushing hair back behind his ear as his gaze searches yours. You pull down the neck of his shirt and his head falls forward, gasping for air as your lips find the cord of his neck, find the spot that makes him kneel.

“‘M no fuckin’ good for you,” he mumbles, eyes smokey and you feel him suck in a gasp as your hips press flush against his. The grip he has on your hips tightens and you pull his head back up to press a kiss against his mouth. He continues to speak against your lips, try to protest why this is wrong and you don’t want me, and it becomes messy as you lose yourself in the feel of him. He’s grabby and tender in a way he’s never been allowed to be before but all you want is familiar and familiar means rough, and quick, and you want it to hurt.

“Fuck, I can’t,” he breathes against your mouth. He draws back, panting heavily as his gaze tries to find an ounce of sense in yours. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Y’know I’m toxic. ‘M not a good man.” His voice is thick and cloudy, and rasps in a way that you imagine it sounds in the morning. You want to find out.

“Who the fuck ever said I wanted a good man?” you ask, and he stares at you for a moment before ensnaring your lips between his teeth. He takes hold of you, his tongue marking the inside of your mouth and your hand digs through his hair, tugging hard. His head jerks back, mouth opening wide beneath yours as he moans through your kisses. His hands work frantically at your clothes and you rip off his jacket, fingers undoing his belt with ease.

You know how to do this quick. You’ve had to steal these moments together for decades. There was always a time limit, always someone waiting on you, always something. But now, you have all the time in the world. Tugging his pants below his waist, you let out a quivering sigh as he presses wet, open mouthed kisses down your neck, onto your collarbones, everywhere. Your head tipped back, you allow him to hoist you up and his mouth works back up to your jaw.

Your whole body burns as he sinks to his knees, laying you down on the floor. He drapes over you, kissing your swollen lips, biting, teeth clinking, employing all the right moves, and all the right places ache for the Winter Soldier.

“Come here, Sergeant,” you croon, and your words get lost in a soft, fulfilling sigh.

Everything about him feels right and rough and hot in a way that ice burns you. In winter’s embrace, you indulge yourself with all the time in the world.

When the two of you leave the vibranium mine, there is an impression on the ground the shape of your back, cracks webbing from where something had slammed into a pillar, scorch marks and deep gashes along the dusty floor.

Natasha tells you that you have to pack. She doesn’t say anything about the dust on your cheek or the fact that Bucky’s neck is bleeding from the bite marks along his collarbone. It peeks out beneath his zipped jacket, and he tugs at it a lot. She also doesn’t say anything about the remarkably dirty state of your arms. Bucky hides his metal one behind his back. You pretend to dust yours off, and pick a rock off a crevasse between two metal plates.

Bucky shakes his head, and you adjust the collar of your jacket as you follow after Natasha to hide the fact you’re wearing Bucky’s shirt backwards.

He doesn’t say goodbye. You know he’s made a choice.

Life isn’t fair, his words echo in your head as you pack your bags. Coming back from the war was supposed to be easy.

Turns out, it’s the hardest part.

Bucky stays in Wakanda. You, and every other Avenger, head back to New York. Steve holds your hand, as you board the quinjet. Natasha sends you a dirty look, silently telling you to break it off.

“It doesn’t fucking matter if he loved me first if I can’t remember it. It doesn’t fucking matter because I love you.”

You tell Steve it’s over a few weeks before Thanksgiving. He nods, as if knowing, accepting. You aren’t that girl in the 1940s, and he isn’t that boy anymore.

Times have changed, he says with a shrug, trying to hide his hurt, just wish it didn’t have to.

You smile sadly, and agree. You give him time, so you spend Thanksgiving alone besides the dinner the Avengers hold, and tell yourself the space is good.

There are so many times you almost text him, Skype him, ask him if he still remembers you.

The only time you give in is the day after Thanksgiving, where you tell Bucky that Steve knows.

“Steve knows the truth. He knows I’m not that girl anymore and there’s no hope for her to come back,” you say in more elegant words. “I know you think there’s still some sort of code between you two, but I hate that I’m the reason you’re away from your best friend. I’ve been telling myself space is good, but I think the two of you have had enough space. I’m not part of the picture anymore, Buck. Happy Thanksgiving. I’m always gonna be grateful for you.”

He doesn’t respond. You delete the message from your phone.

On Christmas Eve, you hear his voice for the first time in months from the audio clip he sends you at 6:01 PM. It’s Christmas in Wakanda, and he wishes you a Merry Christmas. It’s seven seconds long, but you play it over and over again until you fall asleep.

You dream of fire and ice, and wake up screaming.

Steve asks if you’re okay through your door. He still loves you, the devil on your shoulder sneers. Why? Who could love a monster?

“I’m fine,” you croak. “Go back to sleep, Steve, or you’ll catch Santa.” You hear him chuckle a bit as you slide back under the covers.

You wake up to the smell of sweat and burnt cotton. Your pillowcases have holes punched right through them, smoking on the edges. You ask Wanda if she can patch the holes up, make some new pillowcases for you for Christmas.

She smiles sadly at you, pushes the pillows down from your tear-stained face, and says that there are some things she can’t fix.

“You’re getting worse, huh,” Natasha says, joining you for your latest insomnia drink. “Have you called Barnes?”

“It’s not like he’ll call me back.”

“That bad?”

“I don’t blame him. We’re no good for each other,” you rasp. Your vocal cords are torn and shot, and you hope the honey tea is your remedy. “It’s fucked up. What we have, Nat, it can’t be fixed. We won’t ever be what we want to be.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, pulling out tea leaves for her own mug. “Doesn’t need to be hard, though. All you gotta do is shift your expectations.” Her eyes meet yours as she leans on the counter. She smiles, and you wonder how you’ve ever gotten so close to the woman Bucky put a bullet through. “Call him.”

“Why?”

“Because every time I see you, you look like you’re two seconds away from stealing a quinjet and flying to Wakanda yourself.” She pours hot water into her mug. The smell of chamomile and lemon linger in the kitchen. “And he misses you more than he needs to breathe.”

On your first New Year’s Day in New York, you send Bucky a text wishing him a happy new year. Nat tells you to take a leap. It is, after all, a new year.

I’m still afraid, Buck, that someone’s gonna come tear you away from me, even though I know you’d never let that happen. We’re all sorts of fucked up and unhinged and broken, but someone told me that the only thing that’s stopping us is our expectations.

We’ll never be some fucking perfect couple who gets everything right and I’m just coming to terms that that’s okay. It’s okay if you’re not a good man, because who said I was a saint?

We both hid under that bridge. We both hid in Romania. We know we can make it work and I know all we gotta do is try.

I miss you, Buck, and I love you. I hope you’re having a good day, and maybe it’s selfish, but I hope you’re thinking of me, too.

The firecrackers popping outside your window, you hear the cheers of New York City celebrating the ball dropping as you hit send. You wait, fingernails tapping your phone as you wonder if he’ll respond this time.

He sends a text telling you to go to bed.

Then another, telling you he loves you, too.

And lastly, one final text, the morning after, on January 2nd.

Romania was the best years of my life. Somehow, we lived in domestic bliss for a solid twenty-six months before Steve found us, and I gotta tell you, waking up next to you, brushing your hair, going to the library, the simple little things are what burn the brightest. We made it work, and I know we can, again, but you shouldn’t be willing to try.

You deserve better, even if you insist that you don’t.

You’ll tell me I have to come to terms with that fact, and I know that, because for some god awful reason, you’ve chosen me.

It’s hard to even read out. We’re split by oceans, and you’re still out there, choosing me over some guy who doesn’t remind you of your past.

Shit. It’s hard to move on without you, and I don’t want to try anymore. Space has only made everything go from awful to more awful, and I think we need people in our lives who can actually think rationally.

Thank god for that someone on your end, huh. Lowering your expectations is a solid strategy.

Happy New Year, dragon. I’m boarding a jet as I send this to you, but I’m hoping the next time I tell you these words, it’s in person.

I love you.

-Bucky xx

TAGS: bucky: @beyond-the-ashes @aryaes @buckybarneshairpullingkink permanent mcu: @teawithbucky @jcc04220 @shenala @schwankyblock permanent: @dulharpa

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vee-angel · 5 years ago

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Talynn’s Edge (part 1, repost)

The following story is an erotic fanfic based on “Sonnie’s Edge,” the 17 minute short film featured as an episode in the Netflix show Love, Death + Robots. It’s not *completely* necessary to have watched it to enjoy this story, but it’d definitely enhance your understanding. A lot of things about this story are a departure from how I normally write, but all in all, I think it turned out well.

Content warnings: Beastly violence, beast on human sex, beast on beast necrophilia, foot fetishism, references to rape and mental illness, vanilla sex (which was literally the hardest part to write, not even kidding), and an American desperately trying to write with British syntax and idioms (If you’re a British person, feel welcome to let me know if I got anything just incredibly wrong).

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

(Part 1)

The new beastie-baiting arenas weren’t the scooped out, jury-rigged shitholes they’d been a year ago. Right around when Khanivore and I cleared our second dozen consecutive win was about when people were saying the sport was set to go legitimate any day now. Still hadn’t happened, but by the size of the audiences, it seemed like things were going that direction quick.

This place had been set up like the old boxing rings, except the ring was actually ring shaped, and dropped to a pit instead of platforming up. Big displays on the walls cycled through beastie-baiting champions; pilot in the foreground with the newest beastie behind them. The losses were greyed out in the way-back, didn’t want to bring too much attention to dead beasties.

I went tense when I saw my picture pixelate in under the “Sonnie’s Predators” logo. Fucking photochoppers had done a bang up job of making me look the way they supposed I ought to. Scars were smoothed out, but not completely, thank god. My tits weren’t that round, and the screen showed some stupid flirty smirk in place of my resting ‘fuck off’ face. I pulled my hood further up. Last thing I need is some Baiter-groupie figuring out I was here.

Nothing technically wrong with a Baiter checking the competition, but I’m not the type for making a spectacle of it. It’s why I had the rest of my team sit this one out.

There was a new Beastie-baiter giving the people their fill of spectacle and blood-sport. Talynn, her name was. A woman, first one since me. Figured it wouldn’t be long until popular demand put the two of us in a ring together, so might as well get a look at her first. I’d heard she was an American, and acted like the wankbait that promoters had always wanted me to be. Also heard she’d spent a few years as a medical examiner, chopping up corpses to see how they’d died. Bitch liked the cameras, always talking about she had expertise on how bodies break down, come apart. Said other baiters only knows how they get put together. After half a dozen consecutive wins and no losses, people were starting to take her serious.

The main lights started to come down and the pit-lights came on. Bright enough in the center to see the spectacle, with the special lights that luminesed the UV reactive ink everybody got on their skins nowadays.

Announcer appeared in the middle making a big show of how we’d all be witness to a show of hedonistic bloodlust the likes of which nobody’d ever seen. Did a decent job of getting the crowd all riled up and cheering. He introduced the Yank, first. Lascivious twat had named her team “Talynn’s Gash.”

She walked out alone, confident with this psychotic babydoll grin that men seem to find alluring for some fucking reason. She wore this skin-tight red bodysuit that looked like slicked-up rubber. She walked right up the the very edge of the pit and squatted down like she was some kind of bird perched there. Her hair was dyed purple and formed into a row of short spikes on top. The sides were buzzed to less than a centimeter with swirly lines shaved down to skin.

Her beastie was introduced a moment later. Talynn’s Gash ran a creature called “Hellcat.” People said she and her beastie had an unnatural connection that goes beyond the affinity link. That she treated Hellcat like some kind of pet. Some even suggested that she did… indecent things with her beastie. Fucking idiots make up rumors about things when they don’t know shit. I’ve never put much stock in gossip.

Hellcat waddled out awkwardly on two thick, stubby legs, looking like something that wasn’t meant to walk upright. Beastie’s were required to be able to walk on two legs, but nothing required them to stay upright once the fight started. It dropped down into a quadrupedal position that looked more natural for it. All in all, it was shaped something like a prehistoric hyena, short coal-black fur with a few crimson stripes going up her legs. Massive jaw-muscles rippling into a stout, colossal neck. Thick limbs terminating in raptorial talons, like an eagle with a few extra fingers and thumbs. But the real eye-catch were the spines. From brow to hips, the back and sides of the beastie was adorned with thousands of long, barbed porcupine needles.

Hellcat went statue still for a moment while Talynn perched at the precipice of the pit looking pleased with herself, then suddenly the creature burst into a cheetah-sprint across the pit. It took a leap out over the edge and sped up the walkway while the spectators jumped back screeching. Creature looked like it was running out of space when stout legs launched it up the wall, it began ascending quickly, scratching deep gouges in the fresh-painted wood. The speed demon barely slowed down ‘til it hit the ceiling. Hellcat jumped with scary explosive velocity spinning and flipping to land with a dense thud back in the center of the pit. God-damn it was fast. Fastest thing on legs I’d ever seen.

By the sound of cheers, the audience got a thrill out of it. Still… reckless to put her beastie so close to the ground. And god-damned disrespectful to fuck up the nice new arena walls.

Other team got introduced with typical fanfare. I wasn’t much worried about them. Gone up against them a few months back; second-rate, nothing special. They were fighting something looked mostly like a minotaur with bone-armor rhinoceros skin. Few thick spikes jutted from the knuckle plates. Minogore, they named it. Beastie looked like it might have cleared three and a half meters, as opposed to Hellcat who was only a bit past two.

With introductions done, it was finally time for bloodsport. Fight lights had barely lit when Hellcat rocketed across the pit and snatched a big, bloody crescent out of Minogore’s shin with its beartrap jaws. Fight went on like that a bit, Hellcat dodging lumbering attacks while taking some chomps out whenever it could. It stayed crouched low to the ground, no way to hit without going through the jagged porcupine needles on her back. Minogore got some glancing blows, but his arms were getting hairy with jagged quills.

Minogore was slowing down on account of the chunks of muscle and bone gnawed off his legs. Hellcat was getting more bold. It dodged another fist smash and bounded up his tree-trunk torso like a squirrel. Latched onto his back and started eating through his shoulder. He ran clumsy toward the edge of the pit to try to smash her against the walls, but she hopped off half a second before he hit. Damage had been done, wet bits of blood and splintered bone dripped from Hellcat’s diamond-hard teeth. Minogore’s right arm hung ragdoll.

Their pilot didn’t give up easy, I’ll give ‘em that. He stumbled back in as Hellcat just stalked around him, lupine-like. His one good arm all pulled up and ready. It feinted like it was going in for the kill, but Minogore didn’t take the bait. Did it a second time, getting closer now; that’s when the beastie’s great big fist crashed down on its back. For a split second I thought the fight was turning until I saw those shiny black spines bending towards the fist, barbs hooking in and sticking against it like they were magnetic. Before he could pull back, Hellcat sprinted, yanking him off his feet like he’d been tied to a racecar. Hellcat spun around with the beatie’s hand still velcro spiked onto it and pounced on his back.

With his one good limb all twisted around behind him pinning him down, he just thrashed as Hellcat had a feeding frenzy on the back of his neck. There was a wet crunch as she finally bit through his spine and the body went limp. The crowd shot to their feet with screaming applause.

I looked over at Talynn to see how she was taking her win. She breathed hard with bedroom eyes. Touching herself sensual through her rubber catsuit. She was getting her jollies from this. I heard the crowd starting in with these shocked gasps and looked back into the pit. Hellcat had gotten the late Minogore’s head ripped right off and was holding it up in triumph. It was back up on two legs, but there was this thing between its legs.

Down at the very bottom of its belly was something looked like a big, red dogcock sprouting stiff from a skin-sheath. Hellcat dropped the head and grabbed the beastie’s neckstump as it crouched down and started humping her beastly prick into the wound. Unbefuckinglievable.

Minogore’s pilot started on with a stream of frantic threats and obscenities across the pit at Talynn. She didn’t seem to notice on account of being distracted by the sensations of necro-rapin’ the poor beatie’s corpse that were coming to her brain through Affinity. She was down on all fours touching herself through the bodysuit while she was piloting her beastie to defile her enemy’s remains. The other pilot stormed out, not wanting to watch any more.

Twisted bitch finally finished her show of live-action bestial snuff porn, leaving Minogore’s headless body dripping with spunk. Couldn’t believe she’d actually built a beastie with functioning parts like that. Most Baiters don’t put in anything that isn’t absolutely essential. At best they give just enough vocals so as it can growl and snarl. Talynn and Hellcat left the stage to the sound of an applauding crowd that was looking about to see if everyone else witnessed the same surreal fuck-show they’d just watched.

I kept my hood up and my head down as I shuffled out of the arena with the rest of the spectators. Afterwards, made my way to an out of the way chippy restaurant a few blocks down to process and strategize. Sat down and ordered the specialty. Talynn and I were going to get paired off sooner rather than later, and that beastie of hers was a damn frightful thing to contend with. It took out limbs before going in for the kill; that’s where Khanivore would have an advantage. Two arms, two legs, four bone-spear tentacles, and the bladed head. That gives nine appendages for Hellcat to neutralize before she can kill me. Khanivore’s a good bit faster than the great, burly brutes she usually fights, but nothing compared to Hellcat. Thing moves like it’s got a rocket up its arse. We could maybe get a quick little drone so Khanivore could get in some practice. Or do things analogue-like and pick up a pack of rabbits, maybe. Make for good stew after, anyway.

Just then I noticed a pair of eyes boring into me from a table off to the side. I glanced back. Fuck. It was Talynn. Her and her team must have waltzed in while I was playing out fight scenarios in my head.

She stood up and glided smooth right on over to me, eyes staying locked on my scar-striped face. She sat down across from me looking like she was ready to pounce, except not at all hostile. She moved with this weird felinity made her seem not quite human. I figured I’d been found out and there was no point in pretending I hadn’t been doing what I was doing. Felt awkward, though.

“Hey... congratulations on the win tonight. Figured what with us being the only two female pilots in the sport, promoters would have us face off eventually. Wanted to see what we’d be up against.” I sounded a bit more nervous than I wanted, but she didn’t seem to notice. Just kept staring.

“I idolize you, Sonnie.” she said in this awestruck little voice, “I don’t care if you were watching me. God knows I’ve watched you and Khanivore. You’re a warrior; bestial rage and savagery. I honestly get a little wet when I watch you.” She said the last bit looking straight into my eyes without a whisper of shame. Randy bitch got me blushing.

She was real pretty up close, too. Shit, I’d always been a bit soft for the pretty ones. Waitress brought my food a moment later and I offered to share with Talynn. Her team was getting a bit rowdy over in their corner, but her venerating eyes never left me for a moment. We ate and talked flirtatiously until she invited me back to her room.

I told her we’d better go to mine instead. I got caught up with a pretty thing a while back that had ended up with me having a couple more face-scars and a skull that’d been rebuilt twice now. I’m extra careful since.

As we headed the few blocks back to the room I’d got for the night, Talynn kept looking down at where I was walking, like she was fixated or something. When I asked her about it, she got this nervous look like I’d caught her staring at my tits, and then she changed the subject.

Back in my room I had her strip the moment she got through the door. The red bodysuit didn’t leave much room for hidden tricks, but I couldn’t be too careful. She had a cute body, a bit of rich-girl softness, but not too much, and that bit of a tan that American girls have. I noticed a mess of little white lines down her left arm and across her belly; looked self-inflicted with a razor. She’d used to be a cutter, but I’m in no place to be judgemental. She stood confident with arms akimbo, except her eyes were still downcast to the floor I was standing on.

“You got a thing for feet or something?” I asked teasingly. She responded by shifting with this coy little grin. “Oh fuckin’ hell! You do, don’t you??” She nodded.

I hopped up on the dresser bit of the hotel room and crossed one leg over the other. I pointed one of my street-blackened feet at her, “All right, well get on with it then.” She got this look on her face like I’d just told her she’d won a million quid.

She drifted down onto all fours real graceful and started coming towards me. The girl moved like she was born quadrupedal; made sense she’d practice getting the feel of it to drive Hellcat the way she did. Writhing muscles in her back made me think she might be stronger than she looked, but there wasn’t much she could do to my feet that’d remove me as a rival so I wasn’t worried. Not yet, at least.

She came up and pressed her face against the sole, all reverent-like. I’d heard about people who get off worshipping feet, even got fan-letters from a few, but I didn’t peg Talynn as the submissive type. Then again, she seemed up-for-anything when it came to displays of carnality. Her tongue dripped out of her mouth and slid it slowly from heel up to my toes before she began fellating the digits. It felt… weird. There was an unfamiliar kind of pleasure in it I hadn’t expected, like a finger in the ass.

She flossed her tongue between each of my toes in turn, then pinched the skin at the side real gentle between her teeth. She worked her way back, biting a bit harder as the skin thickened up. It hurt just barely enough to make it interesting. Eventually, she was literally nipping at my heels. I wondered if she’d be appreciative of the poetry of that, but decided to keep my mouth shut about it.

The little footbath she gave me with her gob lasted a good ten minutes. “You’re done” I told her in this dominating tone I guessed she’d like. She looked up at me with this little puppy-dog pout. “It’s my turn, get on the bed. Face up.”

She hopped over, staying on all fours like a good little pet. I pull a set of police style handcuffs out of the drawer and use them to fasten her wrists around the bars in the headboard. She smiled like she thought it was kinky. Truth is I just don’t like surprises from my one-nighters, especially not the ones who’re stark mad like Talynn.

I start kissing at her neck and work my way down, fingertips trailing behind. Cute little Baiter had nice soft tits, so I took my time on those. I figured she liked things a bit rough, on account of the happy little gasp she let out when I grabbed hard and dug my fingernails in. She had these puffy pink little nipples I grabbed and twisted hard. She squealed but still had this toothy grin on her face. At that point I sucked as much of her titmeat into my mouth as I could and bit down. Not too hard, just enough to leave a momento that’d last a couple days. Gave her a matching bite mark on the other side before returning to my pilgrimage down to her smooth little quim.

Between her legs tasted like a rich girl. You could tell the ones that ate all fresh organic grown shit. I put my hands on the inside of each leg and pried her wide open. Bendy little cunt, nearly got her into a full split. I gave a few slow kisses on the lower lips before I got to work. Buried my tongue inside her before I started using it to write out the alphabet. It was a trick I’d heard way back before I’d had my first fuck. Not too effective on it’s own, I’d learned, but pay attention and you can figure out the right spots to hit. Talynn liked the side to side and when I did little circles around her clit. T’s and Z’s and O’s hit the spots for her. Also liked when I raked my nails up and down the inside of her thighs. Got into a nice rhythm for a while, licking and sucking and scratching a bit harder each time I switched it up. The girl was breathing harder and shorter, and started in with this happy little mewling.

I stopped suddenly and pulled away just as she was edging right close to the point of no return. Looked up at her to see her staring daggers at me, but her mad little smirk said she was still having fun. “Bitch!” she said at me in this I-can’t-believe-you-did-that tone.

“Can’t have you falling in love with a rival Baiter, can we? You might get soft when you’re in the pit. Don’t want any doubt when I take down that beastie of yours that I did it fair.”

Talynn barked out this arrogant laugh, then suddenly she… changed. The little babydoll act turned sinister, and she got this air of menace dripping off of her. The cute little fan-girl was speaking in this deep dark voice all of a sudden. “You think Khanivore is going to take me down?” Her tone seemed real arrogant for a bitch that was naked and handcuffed on my bed. “We’re unbeatable. You may have seen Hellcat in action, but you don’t know what we’re capable of.”

She had my interest piqued with that one. “You and your beastie got a secret edge, do you?”

Her grin turned sinister, “If you’re lucky, you might figure it out right before I fuck your beastie’s corpse. Then, I’ll fuck you until you scream. And this time, I won’t let you escape until I’m satisfied.”

This time I actually laughed a bit as the mad cunt thought she could menace me in her predicament. “And what are you going to do if I win, then? That mean I get to fuck you ‘til I’ve had my satisfaction fulfilled?”

She shrugged, “I guess so.”

“That a promise?”

She stared into my eyes real intense while she considered. “Winner fucks the loser any way they choose. I promise if you do.”

I nodded and then opened a drawer to toss her the handcuff key. It landed by her head and she seemed to have no problems with holding it in her mouth and twisting round to get her wrists undone. She started slipping back into the red, rubber skinsuit when she got inquisitive. “They say you got raped by a gang that carved you up afterwards.” She said the words way more casual than any sane person ought to, “That’s where you got all those pretty scars. They also say it made you angry, and hard. And that’s why you always win. Is that true?”

“It’s true that’s what they fucking say, yeah.”

Talynn asked, “Does it turn you on?” I shot back with this face that said what the fuck? But she just kept on with this dreamy-dark look on her face. “Knowing that they wanted to hurt you, to violate you. Does it make you wet when you look in the mirror and see the love letters they wrote to you in your flesh? It’s kind of beautiful when you think about it. They wanted to give you a gift they knew you’d keep forever.”

“Are you fucking mental?!”

This gash of a shit-eating grin opened up across her face as she looked back at me, “Can’t have you falling in love with a rival Baiter, can we? You might get soft.”

I shook my head, she was just fucking with me to get a bit of payback. That was fair enough. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a goddamn psychopath?”

“I’m told it’s one of my better qualities.”

“Look, I’ll be honest with you. The estate gang bit’s a fabrication. Got into a mishap and flipped my van a while back... I ain’t never been raped.”

Talynn had her clothes back on at this point, what little of them there was. She walked up to me real close and said, “Well if you want to keep it that way, you’d better start training.” Then she walked out of my room with this conceited expression that made me want to bash her skull into pudding.

Yankee bitch was a spoiled twat, and fucking certifiable, but she’ll be a hell of a rival.

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

“Sonnie is amazing.” I spoke the words into the mostly empty warehouse to my precious Hellcat. In truth, I was talking to the other part of myself through the Affinity Link, perceiving the world through two bodies at once. She was the real Talynn; the warrior, the sadist… the beast. She appeared as my savior when I was a child. A monster strong enough to overcome the ones that surrounded me. Doctors called her a ‘dissociative identity” and told me I needed treatment to get rid of her. Bullshit. Talynn was my avenging angel, she didn’t need treatment. She needed a body of her own, and a regular supply of monsters to keep her bloodlust sated.

The beast and I mirrored one another, stalking in excited circles. “We’ll need to train if we want to beat her. And I know you want to beat her, don’t you, Talynn? It will be so beautiful. Khanivore will make such a beautiful corpse-lover for you, don’t you think? I’ll keep us linked for afterwards, so you can watch me violate Sonnie in the back room. She’s such a beautiful thing, isn’t she, my love?” My naked body writhed at the thought as I laid down upon a large metal crate. My throbbing cunt overflowed with lubrication. Sonnie refused to give me an orgasm, and I wouldn’t be able to rest until I was satisfied.

“Sonnie is mine, Tara-Lynn.” The words snarled through my own vocal chords, but the voice wasn’t my own. Speaking was the only thing Talynn used my body for, everything else she did with Hellcat.

“What? No, she didn’t know she was talking to you when she agreed. She doesn’t-”

“I want them both!! I will violate Khanivore’s corpse and then I will drag Sonnie into the pit and fuck her in the blood of her beastie.” Talynn animated Hellcat’s face into a menacing scowl as she spoke.

“Oh.” was all I said at first. “The audience will enjoy that.” I finally added.

“As will you, Tara-Lynn. You always enjoy feeling through my body. I know you do. She’ll be so small, so tight as we rape her to death.”

I had to admit it was true, I always loved feeling sex through Hellcat. At that, Talynn directed Hellcat’s massive body to climb atop my own, I had to be careful to avoid the talons and spines. My legs spread eagerly as my beloved’s red cock tumesced beyond her sheath. She slowly pressed it between my legs and found no resistance as our bodies joined as closely as our minds.

Hellcat rocked my body as she began slowly, but powerfully, thrusting her beastial phallus inside of me. I squealed in rapturous pleasure as I felt her knot slowly expanding inside me, binding me to her. Talynn directed her thrusts to quicken in pace. I lay passively, knowing that any errant movement could cause my accidental mutilation and possible death upon the deadly anatomy of our murderous beast.

I perceived our lovemaking alongside Talynn through Hellcat’s body as well. The sensory nerves she insisted be grafted to her cock allowed me to feel the tightness of my cunt gripping. I felt her thick muscles above me, saw through eyes looking down at me. How easy it would be for her to end my life if Talynn directed her to do it. She could easily fuck me to death if she’d willed it. The thought raised goosebumps on my skin.

Talynn slowed the pace of the frantic thrusting inside of my cunt. Hellcat could reach orgasm more quickly than I could, and I wanted to climax with her simultaneously. We closed our eyes and let our minds play an image . We pictured Sonnie beneath us, her beautiful scarred body laid bare. The thought of butchering her beast in front of a cheering audience, and then dragging her into the pit for us to fuck bloody put us over the edge. It wasn’t the first time we’d fantasized about such a thing, but it was the first time since she’d agreed to it, the first time since we’d felt her touch in real life. Winner fucks the loser to satisfaction. She promised.

Hellcat began to cum, filling my spasming cunt, pumping near scalding hot jets of artificial semen inside of me. God how I want Sonnie to feel this. I want to feel this with her. I will feel this with her. Hellcat is unstoppable. Sonnie is going to be mine.

#talynnsedge

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destiel-love-forever · 6 years ago

Note

Hi! you’re absolutely incredible I saw your recent work in the age play verse and I loved it! it made me think of a possible little Sam and Daddy Gabriel scenario revolving around his hair lol. Little Sam and little dean are playing and dean makes fun of his hair and when Sam and Gabe get home he cries and asks Gabe to cut his hair so dean would love him again. Daddy Gabe and Uncle Cas talk on the phone dean gets punished, sam’s hair is safe and the boys hug it out and dean apologizes.

Thank you SO SO SO much for this. I had a crazy week last week, and it was made worse by being cut off my internet, so I loved having this prompt as one of my things to write <3

Read below or on AO3: Playdates & Arguments

Playdate & Arguments

“Pow pow!” Sammy yells, pretending to be the bad guy while superhero Dean takes him down. He always gets stuck being the bad guy, because Dean thinks Sammy would ruin his pretty red cape. Sammy promises he won’t, but Dean’s older, so he gets to choose.

“Psh psshhhh!” Dean makes little noises as he moves his hands, pretending to use his superhero laser powers. “You dead bad guy!”

Sammy falls to the ground, because when Dean says he’s dead, Sammy doesn’t ever argue. Sammy never argues with Dean. Dean always knows best. Well, no… Sammy’s daddy Gabriel knows best, but when on their own, Dean is the boss. He’s older, getting to wear pull-ups, drink from sippy cups instead of bottles, and watch Scooby Doo even though Sam isn’t allowed to.

“I bored,” Dean declares. “We play new game.”

“Yes! Yes!” Sammy jumps in the air, clapping his little hands in excitement. “We pway bwocks? Dee, pwease, oh, Dee pweeeeeeeasse we pway bwocks?”

“Blocks is borin’. We play new game. Daddy lemme watch princess movie. We play rescue da princess.”

“But - but,” Sammy sucks in a shaky breath, lips wobbling. He doesn’t want to play rescue the princess. That doesn’t sound fun at all.

“Come on, Sammy. No be a baby! I no play wiff babies!”

Sammy pulls himself together immediately, sniffling as he wipes at his tears. “Sowwy, Dee. I be big boy. We cans pway save da pwincess.”

“You go over dere! Preten’ yous in a biiiiiig tower, ‘n a dragon is gonna eats you!” Dean pushes Sammy toward the couch, then sets down Sammy’s stuffed pink elephant named Ellie on the floor, indicating that she’s the dragon in this scenario. Sammy doesn’t like that Ellie has to be the mean dragon. Ellie is not bad! She’s good. She makes Sammy happy. Sammy isn’t sure he can pretend, but he will try really really hard. “Oskay, Sammy. You stay dere, ‘n I be da prince comin’ save you!”

Sammy sticks out his bottom lip. “I no wanna be da pwincess… I a pwince!”

“No, you da princess.”

“I a pwince. My daddy say so. He caww me his wittwe pwince!”

“Your daddy wrong! You a princess cuz you looks like a girl!”

Sammy’s eyes well up with tears as he balls up his fists in frustration. “No I don’!”

“Yes you do! Your hair is like da princess in da movie. It too long for a boy. So you da princess. Princess Sammy.” Dean says that last part in a sing-songy voice that is clearly teasing Sammy.

“I no wike dat! Stop stop stop! I no wook wike a pwincess! I wook wike a pwince!” Sam feels his little chest quake as he begins to openly cry.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Stop bein’ a baby! It your fault you look like girls. If you no have stupid ugly hair, you could be da prince, but you a princess.”

“I not!” Sam yells, stomping his feet as he cries harder.

“You is! Or I no play wid you ever ever again!”

“Boys!” Castiel yells from the other room, making them both freeze. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but say sorry and come eat!”

Dean hurries away from the crybaby, not apologizing. Sammy stays back a minute, frantically wiping at his cheeks and nose, hating himself. He already looks like a girl because of his hair. Dean will just make fun of him more if he’s crying like a girl baby .

At least Sammy’s daddy shows up before he’s finished his snack, saving Sammy from actually having to be the princess. Next time they play, Sammy will be the prince. He just has to figure out how.

-----

Sammy thinks long and hard during his ride home, sucking fiercely on his pacifier and clinging to Ellie as he sits strapped down in his carseat. One of the three things in the whole entire big world Sammy could never ever lose is Dean, and Dean hates him now! He thinks Sammy’s hair is ugly, and makes him look like a princess. He knew being a princess was a bad thing, too, because of the way Dean said it. Sammy has played princess dress up before, with Dean in fact, but today was different. Sammy doesn’t know why. It doesn’t matter.

Sammy knows what he has to do.

The second his daddy has him in the house, setting him on the bench in the foyer to take his shoes off for him, Sammy asks, “Daddy…. Wiww you cuts my haiw?”

Working on the velcro strips of Sammy’s shoe, Gabriel shakes his head and laughs softly, “Buddy, you would be so sad. You love your hair.”

“But - but,” Sammy sucks in a breath that shudders and shakes before giving into a watery sob. “I hates my haiw!”

Gabriel stops immediately, only one shoe off of his boy. He cups Sammy’s face, confused when he finds big tears rolling down it. “Baby boy, calm down. What’s going on?”

“I no baby boy!” Sammy cries, balling his fists and kicking his feet. “I big boy! I hates my haiw! You gotta cuts it now! Wanna wook exac - ac- exac- tiwwy wike Dean!”

“Sammy, buddy, you love your hair. Why would you want to suddenly get rid of it?”

“No wuv! No no no! Hates!”

Gabriel scoops his little boy up, not caring that one foot is covered in a sock and the other has a shoe dangling on it still. When they get to Sammy’s nursery, Gabriel heads to the rocking chair. There’s a blanket there that he pulls over Sammy, his arms tightening around the boy to make him lay down and relax. Since Sammy spat out his paci earlier during his meltdown, Gabriel reaches over for another one and pops it in his mouth. Sammy looks up at him with the biggest, roundest eyes in that way that makes Gabriel feel like he’s Sammy’s whole world.

It’s by far the greatest feeling in existence.

And Gabriel would know. He’s spent his entire life indulging in great feelings.

“Alright now, little prince. Just calm d-”

“No!” Sammy grabs his paci and yanks it out. “I no wittwe pwince! I stupid pwincess! ‘N my haiw ugwy! ‘N - ‘n - ‘n,” Sammy sucks in a gulp of air, then continues to sob barely intelligible words, “Dee Dee gonna hatesmewiffugwy haiw. Needs to cuts it owbepwincessinstpwince! Pwease, daddy. Pwease!”

Gabriel looks at his little one in shock, understanding enough to know what’s going on now. “Sammy, honey, did Dean tease you about your hair today?”

Rubbing a tight fist against his eye, Sammy nods and sniffles.

“Oh, baby. That was very mean, and he is naughty for doing that. Especially since my little prince’s hair is so so beautiful. Daddy loves to play with your long, pretty, soft strands. Don’t you like when daddy does that, baby? You always smile and get sleepy when daddy does that.”

More sniffles. Then a timid, “Yeah… Sammy wike haiw pwayed wiff. Feew good.”

“See? And sometimes you like to put bows in your hair to match your pretty outfits. If we cut it, you can’t do that either.”

“No… dat twue.”

“Don’t let Dean teasing you make you do something that will just make you more sad, baby boy.”

Sammy starts crying again, though this time it’s subdued. “But - but I jus’ wants Dee to wuv me again! Cuz I wuv him wots wots wots, ‘n me supew sad he no wike me no mowe.”

“What were you two doing when he said this to you?”

“Pwayin’ save da pwincess. I da pwincess cuz my ugwy haiw. I say no, but he say he no pway wiff me!”

Gabriel nods, starting to understand the situation fully. “Dean just said those things because he wanted to get his way. He wanted to play the prince, so he lied.”

“No, Dee no wie! Wyin’ bad!”

“Everyone makes mistakes and does bad things, little prince. Even Dean. Even daddy.” Sam gasps, making Gabriel chuckle. “I bet Dean doesn’t hate you or your hair at all. I bet he was just being stubborn and wanted to get his way.”

Sammy cautiously grabs his paci again, his fingers wrapping around it nice and tight. He lays on his daddy’s chest, resting his cheek on daddy’s shoulder. He nuzzles his nose into the soft skin of his daddy’s neck and wiggles closer to him. Sighing happily at the familiar scent, Sammy lets himself relax. Dean might be bigger than him, but daddy always know best, even more than Dean. Daddy must be right. Dean is pretty stubborn. He’s heard Uncle Cas say that lots, and it’s usually while Dean is getting in trouble.”

“Oskay daddy,” Sammy whispers, coming to a decision. “We no cuts my haiw.”

“Good. Daddy is proud of you for staying true to what you want, and not letting Dean change your mind.”

That was a lot of words, and the concept is too big for Sammy’s little brain. All he heard is his daddy is proud, and Sammy knows that daddy being proud is really really good. He smacks a loud kiss on his daddy’s cheek before cuddling in closer to him.

“I takes nap now. T’s been quite da day,” Sammy informs him before sticking the paci in his mouth and closing his eyes.

Gabriel has to fight not to laugh at how fucking adorable his little baby is in his arms. Especially when he says things exactly like Gabriel does. Gabriel is always saying ‘it’s been quite the day’, usually to convince him to eat, or nap, or take a bath, or relax.

Once Sammy is asleep, Gabriel gently places him in his crib and kisses his forehead. Then he dials his brother. Castiel answers on the third ring.

“Hey, Gabe. You forget something here?”

“No. It’s about Dean.” Gabriel frowns. He loves his nephew, and hates the idea of getting him in trouble, but Sammy will always come first, and Dean broke Sammy’s little heart today. That’s not okay. “We need to talk.”

----

Dean stands in front of his daddy, hands anxiously pulling at the shirt covering his belly. His little lips are wobbling, and his cheeks are flushed and covered in tears. Castiel looks down at him with a stern frown, trying hard not to let his emotions get in the way right now. His little one needs to be punished, no matter how sad or how cute he looks.

“So, is what Sammy saying true? Did you say all those mean things?”

“I - I,” Dean stops, trying to breathe to calm himself down like his daddy taught him. It just adds fuel to his sob though, making it loud and watery as it escapes his little pink lips. “I sowwy! I sowwy!”

Castiel frowns. “Yes, well, you will be.”

When Castiel picks his boy up and puts him on his hip, heading to his bedroom, Dean starts to wail. He kicks and punches, begging Castiel in hysterics. When they are sitting on Castiel’s bed, bedroom door locked so Dean can’t run, Castiel puts Dean on his feet. “Now, you are going to get five spanks for how mean you were to Sammy. Five more for the tantrum you just threw, because you know kicking and hitting is very naughty.”

Dean doesn’t try to argue. Castiel’s not sure if he could. The boy is crying far too hard.

“Now, come here baby boy.” Dean looks up at Castiel through tear soaked eyelashes, carefully shuffling forward. When Castiel picks him up and lays him over his lap, belly down and little bum up, Dean’s self-preservation kicks in.

“P-pwease! Pw-pwe-pease pease pease daddy! No! NO spanks!”

“Hush, or you’ll get even more,” Castiel warns, using his daddy voice as he tugs Dean’s elastic waist jeans and mickey mouse pull up down to his knees. His pull up is wet, as it usually is when his little one gets upset like this, but Castiel will just clean it up later.

Dean is quiet now, his tiny body trembling as he sucks on his thumb.

That doesn’t last long. After Castiel brings his hand down with the first harsh smack, the sobbing begins.

Dean hates spankings. Hates hates hates them. He likes his daddy giving him kisses and smiling at him. He likes cuddles and hugs. Not spankings. Not daddy’s angry face. Dean hates making his daddy upset. He hates disappointing him.

He hates how his little bum burns and aches as his daddy keeps spanking him.

He hates that he hurt Sammy’s feelings so badly.

He hates spankings, but he hates the rest so much more, and that’s why he cries so hard he can barely breathe.

“Shhh, little one. Just two more,” Castiel whispers, rubbing a palm over the boy’s bright pink bum. He can see his handprint on Dean’s left cheek, and he hates that, but even as a little boy Dean Winhcester has an obnoxiously high pain tolerance. Castiel learned early he can’t just give the boy a few tiny swats. They aren’t effective. Dean cries, sure, but then within an hour he forgets.

Dean never forgets now.

The boy squirms and sobs for the last two, little fists clenched around the bunched up fabric of Castiel’s pants.

Relief floods Dean when it’s all over. His daddy picks him up and lays him on the big bed. He slips a thumb into his mouth, sucking furiously. Every movement makes his little bum’s owies hurt worse, so he stays extra extra still. He doesn’t even complain when his daddy starts to change him like he’s a baby. He just winces around his thumb, sucking it harder when the baby wipe brushes over his sore bum. Dean usually gets so embarrassed during this. He’s a big boy now. Daddy potty trained him. Accidents are so scary, and they make him super duper anxious and sad. But right now he has too much to be upset about. The accident is the least of his worries.

Once powdered, a new pull-up in place, Castiel hands Dean a paci and his huge stuffed bumble bee. He leaves the boy on the bed while he goes to change his pants that got some pee on them. Castiel throws both his pants as well as Dean’s into the wash, then returns to his bedroom.

Dean sniffles and makes grabby hands at his daddy, clearly not liking that his daddy left. Castiel scoops him up and carries him out of the room. As he walks down the hall, Castiel peppers dozens of kisses on his damp cheeks. His little one doesn’t giggle or smile, but he does finally stop crying.

“Daddy is going to make you a little snack, and get you some juice. When I’m in the kitchen, you will stand in the corner. When daddy comes back, you’re all done being punished.”

“But - but I gots my spanks!” Dean whines.

“Yes, but you were very upset and distracted during that. Now I want you to think about why you got in trouble, and what you’re going to say to Sammy to make him feel better.”

Dean looks down at the floor, bowed legs turning in even further as he touches his toes to each other. He fiddles with his stuffed bumble bee, sucking his paci hard and fast. His daddy picks him up and carries him to a corner of the living room where Dean can take peeks and see his daddy in the kitchen. That helps Dean relax a little. He has a very hard time trusting that his daddy won't leave him. Especially when he’s been naughty.

Going to the kitchen, Castiel collects Dean’s favorite pink sippy cup and pours apple juice into it. He rummages in the cabinets before giving up and heading to the fridge. He always wants Dean to eat something healthy and little after punishments. Just enough to help settle him. Once Castiel grabs a strawberry go-gurt, he heads back to the living room.

His little one behaves well. Even though Castiel knows Dean is aware his daddy is back in the room, Dean continues to stand in the corner, Dean’s pull-up covered bum facing him. Dean still has his paci in, cheeks bright red and covered in tears, nose all stuffy. He has his bumble bee tight in his arms, up against his chest high so his face is against Dean’s neck.

“Alright, baby. All done,” Castiel announces, walking over and picking the boy up. He carries him to the couch, then settles with him in his lap. Dean takes the juice when it’s offered, shaky hand removing his paci so he can drink. He chugs half of it before putting it in his lap and making little grabby hands for the go-gurt.

Once Dean’s little belly is all full, and his crying has stopped, his daddy cleans his face. Daddy pops his paci back in and helps him get comfortable with his bumble bee. This time when daddy kisses him, Dean squirms and smiles. Then he buries his face in his daddy’s neck and nuzzles him, not caring when his paci keeps bumping and getting in the way. When he settles in his daddy’s arms, feeling very sleepy but very loved, his daddy brushes his hair from his forehead and whispers, “I love you so much, Dean. So so much. No matter how much trouble you get in, always remember that daddy is here. Daddy will never ever leave you. He loves you big lots, okay?”

Dean nods and mumbles through his paci, “Me wuv daddy big wots too.”

With a smile, Castiel kisses the top of Dean’s head. That’s all the little one needs before drifting off to sleep. Castiel puts his head back against the couch and closes his own eyes, exhausted. It’s been quite the day.

-----

Dean and Sammy’s playdate is four days later. When Dean comes over with his daddy, he sheepishly peeks up at Sammy and mumbles, “‘M sorry for hurtin’ you feelin’s ‘n sayin’ all dose mean tings. I no mean dem. I wuv your hair!”

Already over this argument, Sammy just smiles wide and throws his arms around Dean, squeezing him extra hard. “It’s ‘kay. I still wuvs you!”

Hand in hand, the two go running off to the playroom. Dean lets Sam be the superhero AND the prince. They’re going to be best friends forever.

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likenothingnameable · 6 years ago

Text

When Last Did You Take Your Tortoise for a Walk?

The art of walking in the 21st century, a lifelong learning

By: Justin Mah

“Balancing yourself with your arms set flawlessly straight like a marching foot soldier in the Canadian Forces, you were walking before any of your cousins,” my mom recalls with a touch of amusement. For reasons remaining muddled by my subconscious, I skipped the intermediate motor-development phase of crawling altogether and, at just eight months, reached out into the world in front of me and discovered an abiding love for walking—one that, many a worn-out and pockmarked soles later, has reverberated to the present.

In his walking reverie, The Walk, Robert Wasler writes, “A pleasant walk most often veritably teems with imageries, living poems, attractive objects, natural beauties, be they ever so small…. without walking, I would be dead.” Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap—the faint thump of my own steps, the sweet sound of my second heartbeat.

With little fuss, at the age of three, with scuffed Velcro sneakers and my fluorescent-blue security blanket in tow, I’d stroll around the 4.9 km circuit trail at Burnaby’s Central Park with my mom, a preternaturally brisk walker. I’ve imagined her often, in some parallel universe, eking out a living in the urban bustle of Singapore, home to the fastest pedestrians on the planet according to studies.

Today, with thirty-five years of walking now behind me, that we have felt inclined to study walking speeds at all, says to me every bit about our attempts to outpace those around us. Evading the immediacy of the present in search of fugitive alleviation from the reality of our own flesh-and-bones mortality, we readily employ our lower limbs exclusively for the purpose of getting from A to B.

Pushing against the trapping of an A-to-B mentality emptied of vitality is easier said than done in a culture that lionizes “efficiency” and “productivity.” The earth and its natural ecosystems has beared its most injurious consequences, but for how much longer will it be able to withstand our recklessness? In The Rings of Saturn, a novel borne out of a walking tour of the eastern coast of England, German writer and indefatigable walker W. G. Sebald offers an alternative that calls for the cultivation of a more present, naked form of attention. “It was as if I had been walking for hours before the tiled roofs of houses and the crest of a wooded hill gradually became defined,” he writes of his sojourn to the town of Dunwich. Here, between A and B, is an in-between full of sensorial possibility that Sebald experiences and brings to life with exquisite detail, roof tiles and all.

In my adulthood, I’ve cultivated my own practice of trying to be more purposeful in my walking—slowing down enough to see a familiar spot anew; relishing in the quiet offered by an early Sunday morning walk, wherein I fall into awareness of my in-breath and the pitter-patter of my own footsteps—tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap; weaving with the faint voices of the CBC wafting out into the balmy air through a window ajar, the rhythmic swooshing of branches of fir cast penumbral across the sidewalk, painterly. And—out-breath.

As a kid, well before I heard of Paris’ French flaneurs—the eminent saunterers, strollers, idlers—of the 19th century who would amble purposelessly through the city’s famous shopping arcades, my father ushered in what he coined a “city walkabout.” My little brother and I fell so in love with the concept that it would win out over such other favourite activities as scouring the ‘Action’ and ‘Comedy’ shelves at Blockbuster, combing through the collection trove at the neighbourhood comic shop, or visiting our much beloved arcade, Circuit Circus. Relegating these alluring options aside, we’d plead, as children so do best, for our dad to take us out on a walkabout, an adventure that, above all, held the possibility of the unexpected. We’d walk and walk in winding, circuitous fashion through Vancouver’s cityscape, stopping for a bite when our stomachs could no longer be ignored, strolling till our feet throbbed, pulsed. Afterward, our feet still buzzing, drunk on kinetic motion, we’d proudly tumble horizontal, toss our feet up to rest. And, if we were really truly lucky, we’d have either a root beer-flavoured Popsicle, or creamy vanilla Dixie Cup, in hand to savour.

It is little remembered, but in the days of the French flaneurs, for a brief moment in 1839, it was considered elegant to take a tortoise out for a walk. The gesture was not completely out of left field, though, merely an eccentric embellishment or a desperate call for attention. Rather, it was, in part, a tongue-in-cheek political display, a sort of poetic middle finger to a rampantly industrializing Paris. Bring the tortoise-walk back into the 21st century I say, and be free from the smart phone, even if just for a smidge! But not before searching “People trying to walk their cat” on YouTube, for a humourous, ‘who-walks-who’ preview of what’s to come of this human-tortoise pairing. Yet what a beautiful thing to surrender, to give up brief control, loosen our proclivity toward A-to-B trajectories. All thanks to a turtle holding reign, relish in your surroundings, all 360 degrees of it, and have the world transformed into a place of meditation! Let us follow by example sixty-five-year-old Japanese funeral parlour owner, Hisao Mitani, who goes out on daily walks with his African spurred tortoise through the streets of Tokyo. He became an Internet sensation in 2015 for doing so.

The popular notion of “walking as discovery” has been braided into our collective psyche, and while it speaks to our curiosity-driven nature and, at our worst, to histories of colonialism, over the years I’ve drifted to the view of “walking as recovery.” I discovered walking’s restorative potential as a Simon Fraser University undergrad when, amid the evening calm, I’d take a post-dinner walk to Burnaby Height’s oval track at Confederation Park. Approaching the russet-coloured track set in stark relief by the manicured grass filling its centre, I’d come upon an altogether heart-warming convening, a neighbourly microcosm of walkers looping the track, with the humbling outline of the North Shore Mountains to the north. From the vantage of a wooden bench, absorbing this mellifluous, arcing swirl of motion was enough to lull me into a state of clairvoyance. Sometimes, deciding to join the walking procession, time would seem to slacken, anxieties would unclasp, cascading from the self, outward, dissolving into the unending infinity of the circular track; overhead, a fluttering of crows, dotting the clear blue sky iridescent black, the sun making its beguiling decent over poplar trees, to the west.

Younger still, during the 1990s, in East Vancouver where I grew up, I have memories spent after school at my Italian grandparents’ home, who would care for my siblings and I on many a weekdays while my parents were at work. After dinner, I’d join my Nono for a walk with my brother and, after the house slipped out of sight, he’d pull out and light a cigarette, and in that moment made us complicit in his little secret, with the cemented story back at the house being that he had dispensed of the habit long ago. Walking along with him—the world at our fingertips—we’d dance in circles around my grandfather like electrons around a nucleus, racing ahead, hopping over the sidewalk creases imagining them as perilous pits, sometimes trailing behind, mesmerized by some insect or betwixt by a scattering of shed, dried out Maple whirlybird seeds. We’d split them down their brittle centre, toss them to the sky and, transfixed, watch them pirouette back down to the sidewalk. My grandfather would be continuing along, all the while, at his steady, measured pace, lost in rumination, the kind not yet of our knowing. The trip would end at the corner store, to address our sugary cravings with, ironically, Pop-Eye candy cigarettes. Puffing away on our candied sticks, oblivious to the adult world that lay ahead of us, we’d make our way back to the house, often in time for Wheel of Fortune, Vanna White and her infectious glow of a smile.

Years later, my Nono’s secret would get the better of him when cancer took hold, and after his passing, with my Nona now alone in her house, I’d pay frequent visits, getting her, this time, out of the confines of her home for walks. Delighting in conversation with neighbours along the way, debating the merits of various grades of gardening manure, sharing tricks of the trade for growing flavourful tomatoes, as well as getting caught up on the latest neighbourhood gossip, I could sense her spirit lift and her racing mind being put at ease. Hippocrates grasped this over 2,000 years ago when he declared, “walking is man’s best medicine.” Modern studies today now suggest that walking for even twenty minutes a day can cut one’s risk of premature death by almost a third. During my many memorable walks with my Nona, we’d usually find ourselves at a nearby Chinese restaurant for dim sum, where we’d enjoy an array of steamy goodness from sticky rice, spicy fried squid, to crispy wasabi shrimp spring rolls. “Mmm, my favourite,” she’d exalt, a smile breaking across her face, as a container of steamed chicken feet was placed onto our table. Her diving hands would disperse the tantalizing steam rising out from the wooden container; warmed by her enthusiasm, I’d top up her half-empty glass of green tea.

That we have even been endowed with an upright gait has much, of course, to do with a lengthy evolutionary battle between big brains and narrow pelvises. But it is also simply a wonderful gift and a constant teacher, if we let it. Pulled by the primacy of bipedalism, with valorous if haphazard spirit, most newborns attempt their first steps around nine to twelve months. It’s easy to forget, less remember, the novelty of walking for the first time. Though, I’d like to think we are always learning how to walk through this life in the play of the open air.

While I do not own a tortoise, I have occasionally imagined myself tethered to an invisible one, noble and seemingly with all the time in the world, when out on a leisure jaunt. Time after time, she has guided me to marvelous, wonderful places I never would have expected.

#walking

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queenofthursday6599-blog · 3 years ago

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I’ve decided to post about illogical fears at 5 in the morning

Not illogical fears I specifically have at 5 in the morning or about 5 in the morning. It’s just 5 in the morning when I’m writing this post.

[1] Being perceived by people I don’t know, while out in public. Getting told to be wary of strangers approaching me my whole life, has done nothing for me except make me exceedingly socially anxious as an adult. An issue I didn’t have as a child. I developed a fear of strangers after more than a decade of having it hammered into my head that anyone I don’t know is a potential threat to my safety. I struggle to interact even with people like waitresses and store clerks. [The only exception to this is me being complemented on my taste in clothes. Not on that I look good/cute or whatever. Never that. I love to hear things like, “I love your dress/pants/shoes/etc.” or “Where’d you get your bag/jacket/shirt/etc.” I don’t know if it’s because I’m ace or what, but being complemented on my ability to coordinate an outfit, or to pick cute clothing items, is far preferable to being complemented on my looks. Beauty of the body fades, but my good taste is forever.]

[2] Being left stranded somewhere, because I don’t drive. I don’t drive due to personal preference, mixed in with some personal trauma involving cars. I would bike places, but my city doesn’t have safe bike infrastructure, same with public transport. And walking isn’t always feasible due to my city also lacking sufficient sidewalks. So I carpool everywhere. Which also means that if someone forgets my ass somewhere I’m stranded. [This is an illogical fear, because I haven’t actually managed to be left stranded in public somewhere since I was in elementary school. I tend to stick to whatever group I came with like velcro whenever I do go somewhere. So this is something that’ll probably only ever happen if like the car breaks down and none of us have service.]

[3] Being feared by small children or animals. I know some animals are skittish/have had bad experiences with humans, and that children in general have Stranger Danger drilled into their brains from birth in this day and age. It just makes me feel extremely self conscious and guilty when it happens. Even if I’m not doing anything but existing in the same space as them for some reason (people have skittish dogs and nervous children. Sometimes I have to interact with them).

[4] People who have power, over me, but also just in general. Except what my brain perceives as power is often not actual power. Like doctors of all types (as in both MD an PhD). They make me incredibly nervous because the saying “Knowledge is Power” has been a saying that’s been tossed around since forever, and my brain has declared that to be rather literal in some cases. Such as with Doctors. My brain insists that because they have knowledge I don’t have (because I’m not any type of doctor) they’re inherently dangerous. No idea why exactly, just how I am at this point in my life.

#illogical fears #please do not perceive me #unless you're complementing my fashion sense #otherwise no thank you #is that an asexual thing?#wanting to by stylish rather than pretty

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kaeawa · 8 years ago

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my favorite color is periwinkle. i’m burning a candle right now but my room doesn’t even smell good! i forgot how important streams of consciences are. I used to do them a lot in high school. its like .. vomit. word vomit. and vomit is good. it means your body is expelling whatever bullshit you subjected it to. like when you vomit after having too much alcohol. I have only ever thrown up once from alcohol, thank you very much i know my limit i know me!!!!!

i feel like younger me wouldn’t necessarily be disappointed in me. she’d just stand with her arms crossed and shake her head like “.. bitch ///:” but like in a caring way you know. i dont feel like im letting anyone down. sometimes i do. but yall never should have projected all of the things you thought i was onto me in the first place, so!

wait i just read my first paragraph and i lied. i’ve thrown up twice from drinking. once in a frat house where i told every dude i passed “i love my boyfriend”. second time was after 7 shots of jameson, thats really good for me!

i like whiskey. people are trying to put me on to whiskey and ive been drinking everyday to try to raise my tolerance bc industry or whatever but like god is saying no. its a hard pass from him. i was born to be a beacon of light or something my body isnt made for this. shrugs. ive been doing well. really well. best in a long as time. maybe in 2 years. i hate being broke. i love working hard and seeing all the motherfucking cash in my hands. money makes me smile so much. i hate saying that shit. but. like i love working hard and reaping the reward for it and physically holding it in my hands, then treating my parents out to dimsum!!! so sue me. i always wanna ghost. but a majority of my job is sitting in a closet, waiting for someone to harass me and that takes hours at a time and it doesnt hurt to have all the shit to keep me company. like i dont wanna bring a book to work and seem like a pretentious dique reading nietzsche in the fucking staff room. or whatever. idk. when i was in delaware i went to a cool record/book store that sold things. for! so! cheap! i picked out so many records, they were all in such good condition! is john denver for white people? whatever.

i always ask myself “are you the person you’ve always wanted to be” and sometimes i say yes and sometimes i say no. but mostly i think yes. she’s a good person and she still smiles a lot, she can’t stop smiling, she couldn’t if she tried. that’s why she’s such a bad liar. but that’s probably the best thing about me. i would never lie to you. i hate liars. i love candles. i used to love reading. now its like nothing sticks to my brain, its like velcro from the dollar general the adhesive is low grade. i used to fucking love reading i literally had a rocking chair in my old room and i would make tea and read shit like fucking eragon when i was 10 i loved reading. do you know how long it took me to type pretentious correctly? ive always been proud of how well i could spell. like i could always look at a word and determine if it were right or wrong, like if you put food in your mouth to decide whether or not its gone bad. you know immediately. if you’ve read this far you love me you’re bored you’re nosy or you’re waiting for me to mention you. im not going to, vain son of a bitch not everything is about you.

i had a good day today.i need to write more. i put another song out on soundcloud. i remember being so embarrassed at what ive written. i never wanted anyone to hear my songs because it makes you vulnerable and blah blah blah you know how it is. but like community is the most important to me. and when people commune with me over mutual experiences bc of my art? what i pour my heart and soul into? whats better community than that? i love music. i will always be here for the music

i have a lot of mosquito bites. i havent seen diem all day i miss her

stream over

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zodiacmac · 7 years ago

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For the love of God what happens at the end of trailer trash!???!?? If you won't come bank to it will you just tell me where you saw the characters going next like a breif summary of what would happen next. PLEASE I need to know

okay, so turns out i actually had 2,800 words before i abandoned this LMFAOO. i do not remember writing this at all, but just for you, here’s what it was going to be.

harry thinks he and louis have a sort of unspoken agreement about their relationship. he’s not sure if louis is aware of this though - because it’s, well, unspoken and all.

ever since louis had that little breakdown (louis squeezing his eyes shut so harry couldn’t see him crying even though it was obvious he had been), harry’s been walking on eggshells around him. it’s a little nerve-wracking because he thinks louis might need him to be a better friend, but he isn’t sure how to be.

harry’s sitting in class, twiddling his thumbs and staring at the clock on the wall, waiting for the day to end. he used to like going to private school before he knew louis - he’s friends with everybody here, has to be since he’s known them all since he was six.

it’s so bad that every year when they start a new class, everybody knows where to sit without being told, because the teachers always go by last names. so harry is always on the opposite side of the room from nick.

not that it matters, because they always text during class. harry met nick because nick dated his sister gemma before he realized he was gay. gemma graduated a few years before and still chatted with nick on facebook when she wasn’t working.

nick’s wearing a light wash denim jacket over his uniform sweater and has a few pins in it, one pink peace sign given to him by gemma.

he hears something buzzing.

harry’s arm shoots down his pocket as he tries to silence his vibrating phone, but it’s too late. he glances down at it with a furrowed brow.

louis picking u up 2day?

“harry,” mr. loomis sighs, walking over to him and holding out his hand. harry groans. “no- please-“

“you can pick this back up after detention today.” mr. loomis looks at the screen of harry’s phone and harry grins, already knowing what’s coming. “nicholas?"

mr. loomis asks, "i take it you’ll be joining harry in detention? wonderful choice. phone, please."

nick moans aloud, slumping over in his desk, and causing several of their classmates to giggle. harry sticks his tongue out at nick and nick waits til their teacher turns around to put their phones in his desk before he flips harry off. harry hears perrie laughing loudly from two rows in front of him.

"shit,” he mutters. he was supposed to be meeting louis after school and now he had no way to tell louis he was going to be late.

he rips out a piece of notebook paper and scrawls a note to perrie messily on it, asking her to tell zayn to tell louis what’s happened. he passes it to the kid next to him (who’s had bad acne since they were literally nine) with the name pez written on it and underlined so nobody else reads it.

by the time it gets to perrie, harry can tell someone’s drawn a dick or two on it and there’s also a piece of chewed gum stuck inside. although harry would have once found this hilarious, he know finds it aggravating.

perrie gives harry a thumbs up and then folds the note into a paper airplane and chucks it at the girl next to her (probably the gum instigator). she shouts like she’s been shot and mr. loomis whips around and, lo and behold, gives her detention.

“fuck,” she mouths to harry, wincing, “i’m sorry.”

harry buries his head in his jacket as soon as they sit down in the cafeteria. because the school is so tiny, only needing to encompass about eighty students, there’s no place for detention other than the same place they eat in.

well, technically, they could use the basement, which is what the school used to used before formaldehyde was discovered. harry prefered the cafeteria anyway - there were no melting, waxy pictures of the virgin mary glaring at him on the walls there.

harry lifts his head to see nick sitting across from him, rolling his eyes at harry. “don’t give me that look,” nick says, “this is for your own good, anyway."

"what is that supposed to mean?” harry says sharply.

nick shrugs. “i knew your phone was on vibrate."

perrie comes up and drops two heavy books loudly on the table and sits next to harry just as harry leans over and punches nick hard in the shoulder. "what the fuck?” he asks.

nick glares. “i’m just saying, maybe you shouldn’t be hanging out with him so much."

harry gapes. "are you-” he pauses, stunned, “sabotaging me?"

perrie watches on cheerfully, biting into an apple. "you guys, the cafeteria is still open. there’s no line."

nick ignores her, leaning over the table and lowering his voice. "you’ve got no fucking respect for yourself! he’s never going to-"

"who are we talking about?” perrie asks, frowning.

“nobody!” harry practically shouts.

“louis,” nick says softly.

“oh, i didn’t know you knew him,” perrie says to nick, smiling innocently.

“he doesn’t!” harry cries. “and i don’t want yor fucking advice!"

nick folds his arms across his chest. "you know i’m not sabotaging you. god, don’t be such a drama queen. i’m trying to keep you from making a mistake-"

"is there anything i can do?” perrie asks, looking very uncomfortable. she’s already started to stand and leave the table before either of them answer.

“look,” harry says, rubbing his forehead, “you don’t know him. there’s - things he does -”

nick interrupts him. “are you sure that’s not just you looking for something that’s not there?"

harry groans and runs one hand through his hair. "he lets me rub his feet."

nick’s eyebrows cinch. he pulls back, laughs, and says, "what?"

"yeah. actually yesterday he asked me to."

nick stares. "the guy you showed me pictures of on your phone with the rat tail and- fucking leather jacket- asked you to rub his feet?"

harry flushes. "yeah."

nick blows air out of his mouth noisily. "wow. maybe you do have a shot."

"so what?” gemma asks. she sounds like she’s not really paying attention.

“are you filing your nails or something?” harry asks, holding his phone to his ear while he’s in the bathroom. there’s only five minutes more of detention, but he managed to get his phone back early by saying his sister was going into labor. which- wasn’t really true.

“he hasn’t even made a move. what are you doing with him today?” she asks slyly, “going to see his ant farm?"

harry groans in frustration. "would you let a girl rub your feet?"

"i don’t know, sure,” gemma shrugs, “why not?"

"it’s, like, in pulp fiction,” harry whines, “you know, like when they say a foot massage is, like, a sex act?"

"well, they said it’s like cunillingus, harry,” gemma snorts. “you planning on giving louis cunillingus?"

"don’t say ‘cunillingus’,” harry moans. “and i’m trying to come to you for your insight."

"i have girl insight, haz.” gemma must be blow-drying her hair because there’s some sort of noise coming from her end. “if louis’ dick shrivels up and falls off his body, let me know. until then, i have a shoot to go to."

harry rolls his eyes. gemma is living out in california temporarily trying to find roles in movies and modelling on the side to make money.

"fine. you suck. goodbye.” harry hangs up.

“where have you been?” louis asks when harry jerks open the door to the truck. he’s sitting in there with one hand resting on the bottom of the steering wheel, the other hand laying on the inside of his own thigh. harry stares.

“detention.” he easily gets up into the truck without having to step up on the foot guard first, which louis always has to. he throws his sports bag between louis and himself.

“liar,” louis laughs. “you were probably tutoring some blind six year old girl who’s first language was spanish."

harry rolls his eyes. "technically it’s your fault i got detention in the first place."

"what?” louis smiles, shaking his head. he twists the key and starts the truck up.

“nick texted me asking if you were picking me up and my phone went off in class."

louis turns back to harry in disbelief. "so it’s my fault you can’t remember to shut your phone off?"

"yeah,” harry sighs dramatically, “selective memory. your brain can only hold so many pieces of information at once, and you’ve been teaching me way too much about viruses and infections, so something had to go."

"so i’m guessing you didn’t remember that my mom’s having her friends over tonight to sell those god awful purses?” louis is back to looking straight out at the road, and harry feels neglected. he wonders if it would be too much to ask louis to give him a foot rub right now.

“uh, yeah,” harry says slowly, “that does sound familiar…."

"well, where are we going, then?” louis asks. “zayn’s?"

harry thinks. louis’ never seen his home before. he’s thought a lot about it - mostly because he doesn’t want louis to see it and think harry is bragging.

because, truthfully, it’s very big. his mom’s been through two profitable divorces, the kind of settlements that come with houses and cars and child support.

but louis has been complaining about his back a lot and it might be nice for him to sleep on a nice mattress, something nicer than the paper thin mattress in his trailer.

"we can go to mine?” harry asks hopefully.

louis squints. “why? is your mom going to be out?"

"does she need to be?” harry laughs loudly. “what exactly were you planning?"

louis scoffs and punches harry’s arm with one hand still resting softly on the wheel. "fag."

harry ignores him. "so we can rent a movie and order in chinese, or something."

"we can watch whatever you want if i can take a shower at your place,” louis promises. “my hair is nasty right now."

"oh, is it?” harry asks, grinning. he rumages through his sports bag and pulls out his white velcro visor and sticks it on top of louis’ head. apparently harry has a large head, because the visor droops in louis’ face.

“i’m trying to drive here, dickhead.” louis laughs and pulls it off, throws it at harry’s chest. he’s got stubble and, if harry looks close enough, chapped lips. his hair does look greasy, in that sexy, axe murderer type way.

“what are you looking at?” louis asks roughly, fiddling with the radio to calm himself. harry can tell he’s on the precipice of another meltdown, so he thinks on his toes.

shrugging, he plops the visor back on his own head. “the next serena willaims, obviously."

louis laughs and his eyes crinkle, but his hand goes tight around the steering wheel suddenly. harry wants to grab it and hold it, but he looks out the window and pretends he doesn’t see.

harry’s mom is still at work, so they sit on harry’s enormous plush couch to watch a movie. harry can feel louis’ terror from literally four feet away from him. louis is sitting as far from harry as he can without looking like he thinks harry might have a catchy airborne disease.

he keeps glancing over at harry and then quickly looking away, licking his lips. harry is beyond confused, but decided to let louis move at his own pace at whatever he’s working out in his head.

it isn’t until he looks down and sees that louis looks a little stiff in his loose sweatpants that he even considers it.

"hey,” harry says softly, patting his lap.

louis manages a blank expression before scooting closer to harry and throwing one foot in harry’s lap, then looking back to the tv screen.

louis’ foot is so hot compared to how cold harry’s hands have gone. he wraps one hand around louis’ foot, swallowing hard. his hand fits all the way around louis’ whole foot way too easily - louis’ feet are tiny.

he’s so hard and so afraid louis will notice and pull away, but he tries not to move, though his dick strains straight up against his stomach in his pajama pants.

louis jerks his foot out of harry’s hand, and harry thinks he’s done something wrong until louis runs his toes up harry’s crotch.

“pull yourself out,” louis says, looking at him oddly. “harry?” he asks, and harry realizes louis actually wants him to respond.

he quickly yanks his pajama pants down enough to get his dick out before louis changes his mind. “yes?” harry chokes out when louis licks his lips and stares blankly at harry’s dick.

“you’ve got a nice dick,” louis says wistfully. “i cant tell if - if i wish mine looked like that, or i just like it on you. its confusing."

harry doesn’t really know what to say. he opens his mouth to crack a joke, but louis smears harry’s pre-cum onto harry’s stomach with his toes and he gets cut off.

harry looks down, panting, so his chin is pressed against his chest, looking at his own dick and louis’ foot rubbing up and down against it. his dick aches, stiff against his skin.

"you shave?” louis says nonchalantly, like hes asking if it’s going to rain. “that’s bizarre.”

harry gasps when louis’ foot catches the slit. he nods frantically, not sure if he’s answering louis’ question or just nodding to egg louis on. he clenches his legs so he can rock his hips up towards louis’ foot as he tries to fuck against it without much progress.

“can you get off like this?” louis asks, amazed.

harry finally unclenches his legs and groans, hair falling in his face as he grabs louis’ foot and holds the ball of it against his shaft, slowly moving it until he’s shaking and gasping, still trying to hold on a bit longer, still leaking onto his own stomach and making a mess.

he forgets to look back up at louis, so immersed in louis’ foot, that when louis finally speaks again, he’s caught off guard.

“are you gonna shoot all over yourself?” louis snorts, sounding disappointed, not even trying to turn him on. when harry looks back up at him, louis is giving him a judgemental look and that’s what does it for him. his eyes roll back as he pumps out, with louis moving his foot again to help him.

louis wipes his wet foot off on harry’s clothed thigh and brings his foot back to the carpet.

“do you want-” harry starts to ask eagerly, raising his hand to signal a handjob. louis shakes his head violently. “nah."

"why did your bed cave in? did i break it?” louis asks, frowning. his palm is pressing into harry’s mattress and when he lifts his hand, the mattress shows the indent still.

harry laughs. “it’s memory foam."

"is this the kind of bed kim kardashian sleeps on?” louis asks, now punching the mattress earnestly to see it leave the shape of his hand.

“remind me not to piss you off,” harry jokes, looking at louis’ brutal attack on his bed. louis takes out his phone and scrolls through it, frowning again. "what is it?“ harry asks.

"nothing,” louis sighs, “my sister is saying her ex is dating some new girl already and that she sounds pretty."

"you think an actual human would go out with him? i bet he reinflates her when he gets home from work."

louis chuckles, looking fondly at harry. "try telling her that, though.”

“i will.” harry pulls out his own phone and begins typing a message to lottie.

“what the hell?” louis asks, “you have her number?"

"mmm,” harry says passively. he tries not to grin at how angry louis sounded at this news, feeling pleased with himself.

harry leans up against his headboard, starting to nod off with his head propped up by his huge mass of pillows his mom had bought for him. he’s so close to falling asleep when louis turns the volume up on his tv, waving the remote around in his hand.

“how many fucking channels do you get?” louis sneers in mock anger, but the way he excitedly goes to the guide once again tells harry that he’s not really jealous.

harry shrugs sleepily, head drooping. “put whatever you want on. sorry if i fall asleep."

he actually does fall asleep almost immediately after warning louis, exhausted from his horrible day at school and from louis’ amazing foot job. he startles awake later not knowing how much time has passed. his room is now almost pitch black except for the light radiating from the tv.

his vision is blurry from sleep, so he rolls over facing away from louis, intending to go back to bed. then he starts hearing the noises. soft moans coming from the tv on the other side of his room.

it sounds like a girl and a guy, but harry doesn’t even know if louis is awake or not to hear it. maybe he rolled over on the remote in his sleep and changed the channel to porn by mistake?

——————-

okay, so after the last part cut off, i’m pretty sure they were going to either jerk off in the same bed, or harry was just going to watch louis jerk off, i can’t remember. i should have just finished the fic, i hadn’t realized i had already written half of it LMFAOO.

#anonymous #asks #tw: foot job #i doubt thats anyones trigger but hey

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ulrichfoester · 4 years ago

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Find the Good News

For those who feel swamped with bad news. Rick Hanson, PhD discusses the brain’s negativity bias and the importance of being able to recognize the positive things too.

Why find the good news?

“Tell the truth.” It’s the foundation of science – and the foundation of healthy relationships, communities, and countries.

But the truth of things is complicated. To simplify, there is the good of things that are enjoyable and helpful, the bad of things that are painful and harmful, and the neutral of things that are neither.

We need to recognize genuinely bad news for our own sake and to take care of others. But we also need to recognize good news: things that are useful, reassuring, inspiring, opportunities, solutions, etc.

The Brain’s Negativity Bias

Unfortunately, we have a brain that generally fixates on bad news and brushes past good news. Over the 600 hundred million year evolution of the nervous system, our ancestors:

Had to avoid two kinds of mistakes: (1) thinking that there’s a tiger in the bushes but actually all is well, or (2) thinking that all is well while actually there is a tiger about to pounce. What’s the cost of the first mistake? Just needless worry. But what’s the potential cost of the second mistake? Ulp, no more mistakes . . . forever. So we have a brain that tends to make the first mistake again and again to avoid ever making the second one.

Had to get “carrots” such as food and avoid “sticks” such as predators. Imagine living back in the Stone Age – or even Jurassic Park. If you didn’t get a carrot today, you’d have another chance tomorrow. But if you didn’t avoid every single stick today, game over. Consequently, negative experiences are fast-tracked into memory – “once burned, twice shy” – while most positive experiences slip through the brain like water through a sieve. In effect, the brain is like Velcro for negative experiences but Teflon for positive ones.

As a result, we routinely overestimate threats while underestimating opportunities and resources. Some people have an “optimism bias” in what they say. But in their actions, studies show that most people work harder to avoid pain than to get pleasure and remember failures and rejections more than successes and kindness from others. One result is that the media focuses on bad news, because that’s what people pay attention to; thus, the saying in journalism, “if it bleeds, it leads.”

Living in a Bad Dream

It’s as if we live in a subtle nightmare in which the shadows and threats are close and intense while our resources and opportunities seem distant and weak. We think the dream is real so there’s no point in trying to wake up from it. Our beliefs in the dream trap us like the bars of an invisible cage.

As many have taught, I believe that the root cause of suffering and harm is ignorance, illusion, not seeing things as they actually are. So when we wake up and see the facts and live in the light, we feel much freer, more at ease, clearer about genuine threats, and more confident about dealing with them.

Waking up and Seeing Clearly

Remember a time in your past when you realized that things were not as bad as you thought. How did it feel to wake up in this way?

For instance, I recognized in my twenties that as a kid up I’d been a real nerd – but definitely not a wimp. This was a huge relief for me.

In other examples, I’ve known people who came to see that:

they could be strong and others would still like them

have fun without being buzzed with drugs or alcohol

most other people did not care about their appearance

there’s often less standing in the way of our dreams than we think

Yes, sometimes when we wake up, it’s to bad news that we had not recognized. Perhaps you realize that you’ve hit a ceiling in your job, or you’ve been too cranky with your kids, or a friend is not trustworthy in an important way.

Living in the truth means seeing both good and bad clearly.

But because of the brain’s evolved negativity bias, most of the time when we wake up, it’s to truly good news.

How?

Recognize Bad News

To repeat, nothing I’m saying here is about positive thinking, looking on the bright side, or seeing through rose-colored glasses. We need to see real threats, real problems, at all levels. For example, as an individual, I’ve needed to see that I have to slow down some as I get older. A couple may need to see that it has to stop getting so caught up in circular arguments. Humanity altogether needs to recognize that dumping 100 million tons a day of carbon dioxide into the air is already having devastating effects that will only get worse for our children, and theirs.

And – to deal with actually bad news, it really helps to recognize the good news that is also true. This puts challenges in perspective, highlights resources, and evokes the positive experiences that are the main basis for growing inner strengths such as grit, gratitude, and compassion.

Recognize When There’s No Tiger in the Bushes – Or That You Can Deal with It

Consider your fears. Especially the everyday ones, such as:

If I say how I really feel, people will hurt me or leave me.

If I ask for a raise, I’ll lose my job.

If I look for a partner, no one will want me.

How many of these fears are actually true? Here are three really important questions: What are the odds of them happening? If they indeed happened, how bad would it really feel? And if the unlikely event did happen and if it felt really bad, how would you cope?

Think about the many things that protect and support you, from locks to laws, friends to health insurance. (Again, this is about seeing clearly, not about overestimating the resources in your life.) In particular, think about the inner strengths that you’ve used for tough times in the past, and which you could draw upon to deal with challenges today.

Recognize Opportunities

What have you always wanted to do – but told yourself is out of reach?

Ask yourself what would happen if you invested just 20 minutes a day in meditation, or in exercise, or in supportive conversation with a friend or partner – or what would happen if you invested just an hour a day in all three.

What would happen if you spent half an hour a day on some project, such as writing a book, laying the groundwork for changing careers, learning a musical instrument, or making art – and could these hours add up over a single year?

Recognize Good News About Yourself

Consider some of the many ways you have been seen, included, appreciated, liked, or loved.

Think about the people who have seen the real you – and still cared about you. Can you see yourself as another person might . . . and recognize the good heart in you, the sincere efforts, the longing for a just world, the talents and skills, the intuitions and imagination, and the innate natural goodness and wisdom inside you – and everyone else?

When we look around, things can seem overwhelming, especially at the level of society and its politics. It’s easy to to get lost in helpless outrage. Few of us have the power to make sweeping changes in a country – but all of us have the power to do something each day that makes life a little better for those around us. And gradually these efforts ripple out in widening circles, in ways seen and unseen, to touch the whole world.

Looking back over the sweep of human history, the good that has gradually developed is mainly the result of the slowly accumulating efforts of countless unnamed people. We are not helpless in our own lives! The words we speak, the attention we offer, the votes we cast, the hands we hold, the dreams we honor . . . these all matter. They matter to others, and they matter to oneself: knowing that you have done what you could in the one life you have. The effort itself is good and knowing you have made it is deeply good news.

I love these last lines in Dylan Thomas’s poem, Fern Hill:

Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

See Rick’s podcast Being Well.

Find the Good News published first on https://familycookwareshop.tumblr.com/

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emmaemmag33-blog · 6 years ago

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A Sunday in the middle of June, 2018 Heney Lake was where I was headed before the stroke struck. I was going there for peace and for quiet. For help. I never made it that February. I went to the hospital instead. Now, four and a half years later, I’m here. In the middle of the lake, surrounded by deep green Canadian trees and cold blue water. And I feel peace and I feel quiet. I can see where I’ve been and where I am. A moment of clarity. Though they don’t tend to last long and I’m still seeking help, always with the help. I’m just back from four weeks of desperate help-seeking in San Diego, with Waleed, his Neuro IFRAH hands. It’s Father’s Day. Before I came out here to the middle of the lake, Dad was helping me load stuff into the boat––lifejacket, purse with notebooks, pens, watercolours, bag full of snacks, towels. I’m in my white cotton dress with the big pink roses on it that’s more like a shirt with a frilled skirt falling at the tops of my thighs. My worn out coral hanky-panky underwear have slipped down from my hips because I failed to lift them all the way up when I stood from the toilet–– I tend to pull my stuff up quickly and only on one side often leaving shirts, skirts tucked into underwear, toilet paper in in the waistband. I pause before stepping onto the dock feeling the thong slide down my thighs unable to pull them up since my right hand is full. I stand frozen and crack up, my thong now drooping from my knees to my ankles. Dad’s piling my things into the boat. “Sorry dad,” I say, “my underwear is falling I’ll fix them in a sec.” He turns around shaking his head, smiling the way he’s smiled at me forever, half ignoring my situation while lifting my bags and water bottle from my arm. I bend down to adjust my underwear. In the middle of the lake now. Moving slow, the motor puttering behind. I love how it looks, my bare legs under this white cotton jumper with pink roses and green stems, feet in my white Velcro extra-large-on-the-left-side New Balance shoes and my scratched-up leg brace adorned with faded stickers propped up on the wooden ledge straddling the wide metal steering wheel. I feel pretty and like me in this outfit. Pretty olden day floral print old lady stuff. And my legs and pretty socks. There’s a green and scuzzy film on the water’s surface––pollen; springtime. I don’t mind. Dad does; he’s bothered, aware of every detail. I look around and take stock of this place: to my left the cottage up a steep hill where the Van Wycke’s rented one summer. Turtle Island to my right where we beaded endless bracelets perched on those rocks and dove into the water, made fires for roasting hotdogs on sticks. I always had one hand deep in the marshmallow bag. Marshmallow gum: mash the marshmallow by squeezing its insides with both sets of thumb and index fingers until you’ve mashed so good the marshmallow is now a shiny glob of goo, delicious marshmallow gum, and I was never without. Once pretended it was cottage cheese so no one would ask me for any. My fingers white and flecks of dirt on my face smeared with goo. I took Chris there to that spot at Turtle Island last summer just over a year ago from right now. We jumped naked off those rocks. I loved him blind. Even with all the signs. Signs like when he downed red wine at Gagné Road cottage and I nearly sent him home, away from my family, from me, but instead we took a boat ride to the bay, a quiet talk, another try, touch and tears and love, lying awake at night trying to soothe his shakes, I walk across the field in midnight black to get him an Ativan from my parent’s bathroom. His sick white face, my isolated panic, in the midst of this brand new trauma. Another fail. I still do love Chris, by the way, a year later. That man is a love. Is my friend. Loves and sees me all the way through. Full and full and it’s a beautiful, alive feeling when we get together. I become hyper and giggly running like a deranged person down the street at Sunset Cliffs where he took me for an evening nature moment in Ocean Beach a few weeks ago. I posed by a garden wall filled to bursting with Bougainvillea deep shades of fuchsia purple pink and red. I breathed. That was my first week of San Diego out of this previous four. Waleed mentioned not writing about my rehab perceptions from that time mainly the second week when Gina was there and I was sad and stressed and Waleed talked to me on the Friday but I want to share where I went, where I go in my mind and heart during those difficult rehab weeks, tunnels they are, I try so hard, to stay positive and light and grateful for what’s here. I should share those times, how it interferes and twines with my therapy. My healing. For rehab is a state of mind. So many frustrations about Waleed that I must write about whether to include or not will come later but for now I must get all my stories out, all bits and pieces this theme of wanting help, so desperate for help. Like I was before too… like when I was in London pre-stroke and found an acupuncturist online and he told me about empty spaces where people just dance dance and dance and I think about how now I would like to do that. Chris is my friend. Eloise is my friend, Noah my buddy, Lua my baby. Mommy my Mommy. Lee, Lee and Dad on the wooden boat with me last night after six hours dealing with scammers on the phone. Tequila and a hug from my brother. Dad puffing on his cigar. Our favorite spot on the lake “there they are” we turn our heads to the jumping rocks, the cliffs we’ve all jumped from over the years, memory stored in each shaded rock and crack of that hunk of nature. Lee says to dad “You certainly know what you like: views, light, privacy.” Lee and I list all of dad’s property priorities. I love these men. All the irritations and nuances involved. But how often it ends up being us three, out on a boat, far off in the lake. And now, a solid week after my return from four weeks of a hard-marathon-but-did-it-with-a-smile-San Diego time I am here in dad’s funky red boat, feet up, cruising through Heney lake. This place that is a home, a safety, a paradise. A love infested green treed happy place. Gratitude: for being in nature and looking. Quiet stars at night and loons infusing us with sense memory as they sing and water laps like baby’s breath flowers against the rocks. Early in the season like this mid-June we see a duck family, a train of fluffy yellow babies following their mom/dad, and as summer goes on we throw chunks of stale bread into the lake for them and watch as they change with every visit, the babies lose their fluff, growing older and by the end they’re grown. Just like us humans do. Like Eloise, the same age as my stroke. Born four months before. Enough time for us to bond sans- stroke like when I changed her diaper in the white master bedroom office with the view of blue ocean by the window, cleaning her bum while she looked up at me quiet and happy and we bounced on an exercise ball until she fell asleep in my arms, her precious face warm against my chest. Next I’d see her is the garland of photos in my hospital room then six months later while I convalesced and Jess and family came and it hurt me bad that I couldn’t lift her. I made my first goal at TMS study to be able to lift and carry my niece with two arms. But then her first birthday came and another summer together at Heney Lake when she called me in her high-pitched angel baby voice: Em? EM! And we followed Lua and she fell for my cat calling after him Ca! ca! Now she’s 4 1/2 and we talk and take drives to the bagelshop and visit the river to look for driftwood under the melted snow, we take scooter rides and bike rides where she sits in the basket of my tricycle and we ride to the Green Park where she runs and I watch, we cuddle we play. I think of that quote I heard once about how The last time you pick up your child you don’t know it’s the last time but there’s always a last time. I thought of that the other day watching Lee struggle to scoop and lift her into a hug. She mocks me for liking flowers I point them out all the colors in neighbors gardens while we ride through our streets on my red scooter. We sit in my closet upstairs and she asks about dying why Abby died if Ian died why I am not married did my brain break because it is delicate? She points to a picture and says that’s not you but it is me, it’s me in a life jacket with Ian a decade ago from now I’m holding a paddle and Lulu says it doesn’t look like me and why don’t I have my stroke anymore. She asks questions about how it happened her questions evolve as she grows. “I want to go inside your head and see what’s wrong” she jokes but wow what a concept. And when I correct her to say I had a stroke not have a stroke she insists I’m wrong. No, Aunty Emma, you have a stroke. See because look at your arm and your leg and you still can’t run fast. And so, I suppose she’s right, I suppose I have a stroke still. And at night curled together in my parent’s big bed for a sleepover she asks how long until my stroke is gone and I confess I feel/fear/believe it will be with me for life. We haven’t hid under the covers to be close and snuggly like we used to constantly, pretending to be baby dogs or cats, in a while. I wonder if the last time for that has already passed. I’m now looking at the bay I wrote about recently for the summer of 2015 chapter — Nymph Bay and how I swam off the white boat and then got stuck like a naked loonytoon trying to climb back onto the wooden plank —what did that all mean to be in the bay that day in the summer, where was I? And where am I now? Just be. Be here. Are the two different? Four weeks in San Diego inside my head I repeated: at least I have a hand. A hand I can try to heal and recover movement. At least I have a hand, it wasn’t amputated. I stare at my left arm and hand then. All the young girls in therapy and how their presence shook me. All girls with strokes, all younger than me. I’m nearing thirty. Libby a teenager; staph infection gone wrong. Alison, 22; surgery fail. Three from Hasidic New York. Their own world. I feel less alone in my story with these girls near me. But I stay separate, and something off putts me about them. Something ugly I imagine… like the feeling I get when I see another article or memoir written about girls who had strokes and holes in their hearts. Every movement, progress, release is a victory, a mini miracle: Just do it, keep working, dissociate: no memory no desire, just movement, come on, release my mind, drop down into my heart, just be, let go and move. Ahggg… fingers and brain, brain and fingers, signals we’re trying so hard. Abby’s hand holds mine. She holds my right hand and I turn my head to the window and feel her light while Waleed’s got my left hand. Abby, Abby, Abby, I feel, and try hard not to cry, but hold her strength and move just move. Open fingers, now close gentle, gentle, now open. That Yin and healing yoga class, and driving through Encinitas along California Highway One, a new experience for me, music playing, ocean at my left, Del Mar ferris wheel lit up at my right, and Chris my love my friend our struggle and our resolution. He hadn’t realized how officially out I was. Even though I love him and I do I do, like a dear friend, a love buddy, but my gut, my mind over the line, no consideration for fresh starts and I told him this and he’s sad. And I was too, am too, but different. Because of what we had there for a moment, a tacit knowing, a connecting of soulmates. I always felt You found me when I looked at him. The tiny cottage on the rock at the north end, where I’m passing now, where I took Chris to show where we would live, how I imagined asking owners about buying it. This tiny hut I wanted for us, more his speed. I’m staring into the bay, I feel okay…for now. Exhale, release jaw. There are many layers piled high in me, inside the deep well that’s been around since stroke struck. Just before this past tunnel-month in San Diego, I had Mara’s wedding, Mara from childhood, from summer camp and highschool. I bawled when she walked down the aisle, painful tears that lasted all night, memories of the last night of camp and afraid of goodbyes, on stage with her friends lip-syncing to Spice Girls I hid in the back like my 11 year old insecure self, now insecure with my big white Velcro shoes and black boot-like hand brace. My heart thudded hard all evening and I hated that tomorrow all these people would leave. Sophie to her life in Toronto, Lindsay to LA, Carly and Mara and all the rest Toronto. I drove to the river the next day and looked into the branches still bare from winter, and realized it was Abby’s four year anniversary. That she’d have turned 24, but she will always be twenty. Just twenty. And I howled for Abby. For her life that has gone and for mine here without. I stared empty into the river water current moving fast, bare branches and cool sunset breathing slow and quiet. Went home and slept in my fluffy pink bed like a cloud, my black and white Lua baby curled at my feet. Probably I watched a few episodes of Gilmore Girls, to escape and not be with just me. One week later I’m back up at the cottage, the whole family is here. I’m picking dad’s purple flowers and squinting into the lake at the silver boat in the distance. My contacts aren’t in, I can barely see. But closer they come in it’s Britt and Jim and their two little ones. Jess and Dad with Noah and Lu stop to say a quick hello (Dad later unable to let go of the fact that Mila and Nolan weren’t wearing life jackets. I mean… did anyone else notice?! Shock eyes). I kneel next to their boat and hug Britt, my friend since forever, from down the cottage road. She and Jim have two kids already but are getting married this summer. By the way, I tell her, I actually don’t have a plus one. I selected so on the website but I don’t! Just FYI. And my stomach is flipping even though I really don’t care that I don’t have a plus one! Or do I? No friends in town… Lulu my best friend I joke, but…And while Britt explains it’s no big deal I can bring anyone they gave everyone a plus one it’s a casual party they want everyone to have fun, my well is overflowing and I feel that sad that pain that cringing self loathing and I want to cry and go home and I’m not feeling good inside. We wave goodbye and I sink into the Adirondack chair under the tree and curl into a ball and cry and hurt. But just for a moment, then breathe and lift my head and let’s get out of here for a moment. I’m upstairs trying to pack a bag with things to take out on the red boat. I’ll get out on the water again like I did last weekend, find quiet and clarity, smoke a joint. Breathe. But Mom is writing me a cheque for Spain, because she’s Mom and truly the greatest even when I’m pissy, even when I’m annoyed. I’m pacing across the downstairs gathering puzzle pieces and books, a snack a---What’s wrong Em? Are you ok? I look this way and that, pacing back and forth, the pains from last few life events boiling at the base of me, but I don’t look at her, my mom sitting on the big soft couch. Em? Come here, sweetheart. I’m beside her on the couch aware of my dad at the kitchen sink, uncomfortable. It’s just these triggers, I say, and whispering: I don’t want to cry in front of dad, my mouth curling into crying mouth. “It’s not actually about the plus one,” and at that first tear mom wraps her arms around me and I collapse into her arms my face against her chest the place I always long to be, collapse into her warm body like a pillow the most familiar cozy mommy pillow and I cry loud and hard like a baby, my mom holding me tight, somehow both of us configured into the perfect position. She holds me tighter and I holler cry that unstoppable weeping kind that amazes me every time it comes, so loud and strong, a life of its own, no stopping it, especially with your mom rocking you, her own body heaving and crying above mine, Aware of my Dad in there with us too, standing somewhere close, and I see Abby without Sandy to be held by and Sandy without Abby to hold and I’m so aware of how precious this moment is to be held by my mother. After it quiets down Dad walks over and kisses the top of my head. Woah, I say. And to mom: “We’re all just babes who want our mommies to hold us, rock us, no words, make it all better.” I lift myself up from Mom’s lap and she starts laughing, taking me in. Look at you she says, pointing at my ridiculous white cotton pantaloon set outfit. The one I bought while a bit stoned from the garden sale lady in La Jolla, these much too large white pantaloons, those pink roses green stems, frills below my knees and the matching jumper on top frills at the waist. Like a clown I am, yet this is typical me. And we laugh. Were you on drugs when you bought this stuff, Em?? And I said that yes indeed I’d been stoned but don’t you just love the fabric, the roses, and individually the pieces work! Not long until I’m back in the red boat, lake so still, raindrops pitter patter perfect on its glass surface. Dark green blue, this magic place. This place in life.

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