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pellucid-constellations · 2 years ago

Text

My Everyday

Pairing: College Athlete!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes was aggressive, annoying, and—worst of all—a hockey player. Not your type. At all. But, unfortunately, your roommate.

Word count: 5.5k

Warnings: Minor injury, idiots in love <3, some angst, pining

a/n: My first fic in a century!! Thank you so much for reading if you’re still here. Depending on how this does I hope I’ll have motivation to write more! College athlete Bucky never fails to get me inspired :)

Masterlist

“What’s this punks name again?”

The breath you let out was long and excruciating. “I am not repeating myself.”

“C’mon, y/n,” Bucky whined, knocking his head back on the couch. He watched you bustle around the kitchen from his inverted vantage point. “How the hell am I supposed to swoop in and save the day if I don’t even know the kid’s name?”

“Okay, well, first of all—” the fridge door clicked shut with a swift motion of your hips “—he’s not a ‘kid’. I’m pretty sure he’s a few months older than you.”

“Semantics.”

“And second of all,” you stressed, pointing a butter knife in his direction. “There will be no ‘swooping in’. I’m going to have a nice date and you are going to go hang out with your puck rabbits or whatever they're called. There will be no thinking about me and no swooping in my vicinity.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, kicking up from the couch and rounding the kitchen counter to pick at your sandwich. You knocked his hand away several times, but you both knew it was futile. In the months you’d been living with the hockey player—who was far too big for the small, shoebox of an apartment you leased—you’d learned that food was non-negotiable for Bucky Barnes.

There were many other things you’d learned about him as well. He sang in the shower, but only when he thought you weren’t home. He had an annoying penchant for using your $30 lotion—again, when he thought you weren’t home. And he loved to throw his massive, smelly gear just about anywhere it would land right when he got home from every practice.

He didn’t really care if you were home for that last one.

Bucky was the last person you thought you would be rooming with when you posted that ad last summer. A small, quaint room previously occupied by your now engaged (and traitorous) best friend, you assumed someone like-minded to yourself would have taken you up on your offer. The price point wasn’t egregious and the building was relatively close to campus.

But weeks ticked by, and you started getting desperate. Your landlord wasn’t a nice lady, something you were positive she took pride in, and she decided that a rent increase was the perfect way to ring in the new school year. You were on the verge of destitution, and as it so happened, the only other person as desperate as you was the starting center for your college’s hockey team.

You hardly got along. It had taken weeks for your eye to stop twitching every time he tumbled through the front door at three in the morning, and even longer for you not to feel an infuriating aggravation at his random, nighttime smoothies. You supposed he probably felt the same about your cleanliness rules and your incessant reminders about trash days. Because Bucky was in charge of bringing the trash down those long, apartment steps. Not you.

But you’d be lying if you said things hadn’t gotten easier as of late. Conversation flowed more smoothly, things that made you seethe before were only mildly annoying, and Bucky was being… considerate? You weren’t quite sure what to call the random cups of coffee he brought home on occasion. Or his sudden urge to warm up your car when he had a morning class before yours.

There was also the case of that party last weekend. A frat party with far too many drunk men and not enough common sense, you had had the urge to leave the second you got there. But Wanda had dragged you along for the sole purpose of driving her home after she got hammered, so you were essentially stuck.

It was fine at first. Hot and crowded and loud, but fine. You kept a general eye on Wanda and scrolled aimlessly on your phone in the armchair you claimed. And then it wasn’t fine, because a man twice your size was encroaching on your space and unrelenting.

“What kinda girl comes to a party and doesn’t even wanna talk to anyone?”

“You want to come up to my room and watch a movie or something?”

“Hey, I’m talking to you, bitch.”

You weren’t even aware that Bucky had been at that party. It wasn’t surprising—the line between fraternities and sports was blurred at your college—but the space he took up as he intercepted the man in front of you was.

“There a problem here?” Bucky posed, crossing his arms over his chest, his presence looming above your seated position. His weight shifted to his toes.

The man didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, you. Move.”

“Wanna fucking tell me what to do again?”

“Fuck you, man.”

A harsh shove to Bucky’s chest was all it took for a right hook to echo in the living room of the frat house. There was chaos. Grunts and screams from the drunk people surrounding the unnecessary fight created a cacophony of unpleasant sounds that seemed to get the attention of someone in charge. The man—Brian, you had now learned based on screams—was pulled back from Bucky and getting chewed out by some president or manager of something.

And Bucky was seething, chest rising and falling laboriously as he wiped at the new bruise forming on his face.

Fights were not uncommon. But this one had been about you. For you.

“Bucky?” you asked when the crowd calmed and Brian was no longer in the room.

You watched his back release its tight coil. He turned. “Are you okay?”

The words were almost lost in the noise of the crowd, but he was close enough that they created a tactile vibration across your skin. His pupils were dilated and he looked so disheveled it would have been charming if there wasn’t also a cut forming on his brow.

“Y/n.”

It took you a moment to realize that you hadn’t answered him. Your response fell out of you as if you’d been shoved. “I’m—I’m fine.”

He grunted, but it was more of a puff of air. “The fuck was that guy?”

“I don’t know,” you replied, realizing by the way you swayed that you had stood up at some point. “He just—”

“We’re going home.”

“What? I can’t, I’m here with Wanda. I’m driving her, Bucky, I can’t just leave.”

He grabbed your wrist, the grip achingly soft compared to the blows he was landing minutes before. “She left with that British guy she’s been on and off with. Asked me to tell you.”

That explained his random appearance. Your brows pinched as you took in the information, eyes cast down to the angry red marks marring Bucky’s knuckles. He’d been in fights before. So many fights. On the ice.

This was different.

“I haven’t been drinking—I can drive myself home. You don’t have to leave,” you shouted over the music now bumping in the room.

He didn’t respond, not verbally. He pulled you to his front instead, leading you through the impossible crowd until cool night air began melting into your skin. His silence was strange. Bucky’s favorite activity was talking your ear off until you told him to shut up, but right now… nothing. Even his earlier words had been clipped.

You felt responsible for easing the tension in the air as Bucky continued to guide you to your car. You hadn’t told him where you parked, but he seemed to know the exact location anyways.

“You really don’t have to leave with me,” you mumbled. “It wasn’t a big deal or anything.”

“It was a big deal.”

The drive home had been silent. The walk to the door had been as well. Bucky spent a few minutes appraising you in the overhead light of the living room when you got inside, but after that there was nothing. He went to his room and you went to yours.

There was no discussion about it the morning after, either. Bucky apparently wanted to pretend nothing ever happened, so you respected that. Even now, you ignored the fading cuts on his hands as he shoveled food into his mouth.

Bucky’s next words were muffled by a mouthful of bread. “Well where’s this dude taking you at least?”

“Ice skating.”

The cough and sudden exasperation was very expected out of the man next to you, Bucky’s next words hardly containing syllables. “Huh?”

“We’re going ice skating,” you reiterated. You picked up your lunch and headed for the living room, ignoring the slightly heaviness in your chest. “It’s winter and ice skating is festive. The rink on campus has decorations.”

“Without me? Y/n, you’re gonna let some guy who probably doesn’t even know how to skate—”

“Bucky—” you attempted to interrupt.

“—drag you around the rink like a rag doll?” he continued, holding his hand up to mute your incoming speech. “I’ve asked you to come by the rink, like, a ton of times. You’ve never shown any interest.”

You rolled your eyes and shot him a cross look as he picked your feet up from where they rested on the couch and dropped them into his lap. He went on with his rant for a little while longer, knocking his head back against cushions and accusing you of being a bad roommate. You had a few rebuttals of your own, but there was a reason you had never accompanied him to the rink.

A good reason.

You didn’t date athletes.

It was true that simply going to visit Bucky at a practice, or letting him be the one to drag you around the ice like a rag doll, wouldn’t mean you were in a relationship by any means. But it would be an extra step. And if you were being honest with yourself, it would only take a few of those extra steps for the irritation you felt towards Bucky to melt into something else.

And you didn’t date athletes.

You did not.

You didn’t have the time, nor the patience, to put up with the cheating, the anger issues, or the crazy schedules. And there wasn’t a single athlete you’d met at your sport-centered university that was willing to compromise on any of those subjects. Especially the cheating. You’d learned that the hard way after dating a lacrosse player for approximately one month before receiving the dreaded DM from a girl you had never met.

The man hadn’t even given you the courtesy of pretending he didn’t know what she was talking about. He just admitted to his wrong-doing and shrugged. Shrugged.

So athletes were not exactly in your good graces when it came to dating.

“Are you even listening to me?” Bucky cut through your thoughts, patting your shin in impatience.

You blinked and reoriented yourself, focusing on the hairs that fanned across Bucky’s face. “Of course I am,” you lied. “But my answer is still the same. I’m going on my date and you are not going on my date.”

He groaned, apparently giving up as he cradled your legs closer to him to lean over and grab the remote from the coffee table. He flipped the channel to ESPN—typical—and you ate your sandwich, silently cursing him. He had a TV in his room.

“When is it?” he suddenly asked, breaking the silence that had knitted itself into a comfortable blanket over the room.

“Tonight,” you answered plainly.

The arms atop your legs tensed.

The dichotomy of the man sitting beside you was impressive. On one hand, he was so full of himself that he had missed almost all of your conversation starters due to being so transfixed by his reflection in the rink’s glass. He had yet to ask you a single question about yourself and had insisted that the four other girls skating tonight were in love with him.

On the other hand, he was, quite possibly, the most uninteresting person you had ever met. You were usually very quick to laugh, but every word out of his mouth was almost painful. He wouldn’t stop talking about his ex-girlfriend, gave you one word answers about anything other than baseball, and was honestly really terribly at ice skating. You were no pro either, but you found yourself on your back every time he tried holding your hand.

The tumble five minutes ago had you seeking out the penalty box on the side of the rink. You needed a break, you had told him, hoping he would continue on making a fool of himself and give you a moment alone. But he followed you instead, and was now sitting beside you, talking about baseball.

You supposed that was better than making you fall while talking about baseball.

“I bet we could do that,” he remarked, pointing out onto the ice and catching your attention. A couple who clearly had more experience than you was twirling each other around. “We definitely could. I pick up good speed.” You cringed. “I really don’t think we should try, Sean. My tailbone is already pretty bruised.”

“Oh, c’mon! I won’t try the throwing part, just the twisty stuff.”

“We are literally on rental skates. You will kill me,” you deadpanned. You were tired at this point and seriously questioning why you thought ice skating was a good first date idea.

Well, there actually was an answer for that. But you were not going to think about the hockey player that popped into your head when Sean asked you on a date in the dining hall last week.

Definitely not.

“I’m not going to let my date think I’m boring,” Sean groaned, yanking you up from your seat.

You gave a few tugs and words of resistance but they were ultimately useless. You figured it would be just as useless to tell the guy you already thought he was boring. He probably wouldn’t even hear you.

On unsteady skates, Sean guided you to a mostly cleared corner of the rink and gripped your forearms. He squinted as he surveyed the area, the corner of his mouth turning up in a way that made your stomach roll. This entire date had been a bad idea.

“Maybe we should just watch them do it,” you tried, words wavering.

“No!” he grinned. “No, we got this. It’s gonna look so cool.”

And then you were spinning. You’d never been spun against your will before, but it sucked. Your skates kept getting stuck in the divots in the ice and the grip on your forearms was close to bruising. You were starting to get dizzy and Sean showed no signs of caring. God, he really was dragging you around the rink like a rag doll. Bucky was going to get a kick out of this.

“Okay, ready?” Sean called, an unwarranted jubilation in his tone.

“What?” you yelled.

He didn’t answer you. Instead, he let go, and you went flying in another direction without a clear path. It only lasted a moment, but the sound of your head smacking onto the ice signified the end of that movement. You landed on your arm next, and then your back. Again.

This time felt different though. Your head was spinning and there were muted pinpricks trailing up to your wrist. The ache there was dulled compared to the biting iciness in your back, but as soon as you tried leaning on it to get up, it became sharp.

“Oh shit!” came Sean’s laughter-filled gasp. “My bad. I really didn’t mean to let go.”

You blinked a few times to clear the blurriness from your vision but it proved unhelpful. “I think… I think my arm’s broken.”

“Wait, seriously?” he asked, wobbling down to a seat beside you.

“Yeah, it’s—”

“Everything okay over here?” a voice interrupted. You tried blinking again to take in the man that towered over the two of you, but the lights overhead washed him out.

You recognized him…maybe? You felt like you were going to throw up.

Sean answered for you. “Yeah, man, we’re fine. She just fell.”

“Y/n, are you okay?” the man asked, ignoring your date completely.

“Do I know you?” you slurred.

You thought you heard a curse. “What made you think throwing her around was a good idea?”

“Dude, it wasn’t even that fast. Or my fault. She just couldn’t keep her feet under her.”

“Well, dude, maybe you should go home.”

Sean scoffed. “Right, and who’s going to take this one home?”

Your head was starting to hurt with all of the back and forth. The man that just joined, the taller one, kneeled down beside you. His blonde hair cast a harsh glare that had you squinting again.

“You want me to call Bucky?” he asked.

Bucky? How would he know Bucky? Blonde hair began morphing into a man in your memory, and you reached for the material of his shirt, looping it between your fingers.

“Steve Rogers?” you mumbled.

The man, now identified as Steve, sighed. “I’m calling him. Go home, Sean. Her roommate is coming to get her.”

There was more discussion, something about Steve having the authority to kick him out and Sean not understanding what all of the fuss was about. Steve warned him about something and Sean scoffed as if the situation was beneath him. And then he left.

Steve was then in your line of sight again, brows pinched together and a bright orange vest covering his shoulders. His hands hovered in front of you as if you’d break if he touched you and you almost found it funny. Steve was a huge guy with a lot of authority on Bucky’s team, but right now he looked like a scared animal.

“Why are you dressed like a construction worker?” you asked.

A small smile graced his face. “I’m working at the rink today. Everyone on the team has to take shifts during the holidays.”

“Hmm,” you hummed. “I think my arm is broken.”

“I know. I’m pretty sure you have a concussion too. Let’s get you off the ice, yeah?”

You tried to nod, but that hurt too much so you let Steve assist you in shakily standing up. He guided you to the seats by the rental skate counter with a soft but sure hand on your back, asking some guy named Antonio for an ice pack. Everything around you felt like a fever dream.

Gentle touches rolled the sleeve of your sweater back to reveal a swollen wrist that Steve immediately covered with an ice pack.

He cursed again. “Well he’s gonna be pissed.”

“Who?” Your head swayed with the question.

Steve looked up to meet your gaze, lips parting to answer, when he was replaced by a different face. Your brain was having trouble keeping up with everything, obviously, because Bucky was in front of you now. He was kneeling between your legs with his hands on your face and you had no idea where Steve went.

“What the fuck?” you blurted out.

“Hey, y/n.” Bucky spoke your name low and soothing, his fingers moving to your eyes where he pried them open one at a time and looked for something you couldn’t see. His next words were directed over his shoulder. “Maybe a concussion. Tell me what happened again?”

“Sean Marcus was being an ass. Flung her all over the place,” Steve replied.

“Why are you here?” you interjected, trying to focus on one thing at a time. “I told you not to come on my date.”

Bucky moved his assessment to your arm next, shifting the ice pack. “Never really agreed to those terms.”

He turned back to Steve after that, having another discussion that you barely understood. Bucky absentmindedly fiddled with the material of your jeans as he spoke, and you put all of your energy into not face planting on the ground. This past week had truly been a series of terrible events with terrible men.

After some amount of time elapsed, you were walking to the parking lot with a jacket thrown over your shoulders and Bucky continuously jutting a hand out each time you took a step. He was very well versed in concussions, apparently.

“Okay, in you go, killer,” Bucky prompted, opening the passenger door.

You eyed the front seat, scrunching your face up. “My arm hurts.”

The man in front of you seemed to soften, his shoulders dropping on a long exhale. “I know, sweetheart. But we gotta go to the hospital to fix that. I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“I should just call Wanda. Or Nat. You don’t have to be the one to take me.”

“I can take you just fine.”

“Why do you want to you? Aren’t you busy?”

Another long sigh, this one accompanied by hands on your shoulders, fingers at the base of your neck. “Get in the car.”

His eyes were boring into yours, searching for something, or maybe already finding it there. You still had your arm cradled to your chest and you titled your head to the side as you observed him. There was something else to his gaze that you couldn’t quite describe. It reminded you of his expression after he came home from a rough game. Angry. Discontent.

“You’re being weird,” you commented, breaking the silence you had created.

“You broke your arm and smacked your head on the ice,” he simply replied, as if the statement was an explanation.

“Yeah, but—”

“And then that douchebag did nothing about it,” Bucky interrupted. “So please, y/n, get in the car so I can help you before I find him and kick his ass. Because you know I’m not above fighting people.”

You blinked, and then slid into the front seat.

The drive was quiet. You’d never been in Bucky’s car before, but the spinning in your head didn’t give you much space to inspect it too closely. You caught hockey gear in the back, a keycard to the rink dangling off the rearview mirror, and a small collection of hair ties in one of the cupholders. One caught your attention.

“Hey, this one’s mine.” You picked up the purple band and rolled it between your fingers. “Thief.”

Bucky snatched it back. “Mine now.”

He made a sharp turn that had you sucking air between your teeth and repositioning your arm. Bucky sent you a quick, achingly apologetic look.

“Sorry, almost there.” A long beat of silence and then a mumbled, “I should keep your hair tie. You won’t be able to do your hair alone with a broken arm anyway.”

Your wrist was fractured, not broken. You also only had a minor concussion. This was all great news to you, especially since they told you after administering a hefty amount pain reliever. To Bucky, this was apparently terrible, life-altering news.

After practically body slamming into the front door of your apartment, he chucked his wallet and keys down on the kitchen counter and began grumbling to himself as he opened and closed kitchen cabinets. You watched from a distance, half amused, half concerned for the rusting hinges. He finally found what he was looking for—a cup—and continued to mutter to himself as he filled it with gatorade.

“Are you… okay?” you asked tentatively.

Bucky ripped the freezer open and manhandled three to four ice cubes. “I’m fine. You are not.”

“I’m okay now,” you assured. Bucky stalked over to you anyways, pressing the sports drink into your hand that was not wrapped in a cast.

You looked down at the glass and sent him a baffled look. He nodded at it and raised his brows, a silent demand for you to drink.

“Okay. And why do I need to drink gatorade?” Your words were slow.

“You were just on the ice and haven’t had any water for at least three hours.”

“Bucky,” you began. “I was ice skating recreationally for about thirty minutes. I don’t need to replenish my electrolytes.”

“Will you just… will you just drink the damn drink?” he groaned, gesturing to it with a firm hand. “Jesus, I can’t take care of you when you go and get yourself hurt by idiots. So just let me do what I know I can do, alright?”

“You don’t have to take care of me.” You were beginning to raise your voice, matching some of the frustration in the room.

Bucky threw his hands in the air, tugging at his roots on the way down. He moved further into the kitchen and leaned against the counter with stiff, rod-like arms propping him up. And then he sighed, long and profound as if this was the hardest conversation he’d had all year. His head hung heavy between stiff shoulders and you felt the environment shift.

You almost wanted to intervene on his thoughts again, to make some comment about the dishes in the dishwasher or pretend you were going to go take a nap. But he had something to say, something you needed to hear, and so you stayed. You blinked and clenched your fist in the uncomfortable silence, but you stayed.

“Y/n, I want to take care of you,” Bucky breathed out, words still directed toward the floor, almost too low to make out. “I’ve been tryna get you to see that for weeks now, but you’ve either got no clue or you want absolutely nothing to do with me.”

You stopped blinking, stopped fidgeting, stopped breathing altogether. You watched as Bucky drummed his fingers against the counter and still refused to look up. You swallowed hard because you weren’t clueless, but also because you wanted everything to do with Bucky Barnes.

And nothing at the same time.

“Bucky…” you began, with a tone of surprise you weren’t sure was believable.

“Don’t do it yet,” he stopped you. “Don’t…don’t tell me no yet. I’m still pissed as hell that you got hurt and you shouldn’t be alone with a concussion. I don’t need you avoiding me when you can’t even drive a car.”

“You’re being presumptuous.”

He snapped his head up, his eyes rushing back and forth between your own. The drumming on the counter ceased, instead replaced by balled up fists turning white under days old cuts and fading bruises. He didn’t say anything. You searched the empty air for a reply.

“I wouldn’t avoid you. I don’t know if I could avoid you—not anymore. You’re sort of a big part of my life now.” A good start, you thought. Not a real answer, but not a rejection.

Bucky bit the inside of his cheek and eyed the drink still perspiring in your hand. You set it down at his observance, moving closer to his slumped posture in the kitchen.

But Bucky stood up straight at your movement, becoming guarded, stiff. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Bad timing, just forget it. You should try and get some sleep.”

“I don’t want to forget it,” you softly spoke, shaking your head.

He clenched his jaw. “And I don’t want to hear that you don’t feel the same way about me that I feel about you. Not right now. I feel like I’m going insane, watching you go out on dates and having my best friend tell me that my girl—that’s not really my girl—is all banged up on the ice because of some asshole.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but Bucky kept going, now pacing in the kitchen. “I mean, y/n, you’re my everyday. I wake up and you’re making coffee. You text me in class to ask what I need at the grocery store and then I call you after practice to make sure you got back to the apartment. I think about you so god damn much and I can’t believe there was a time in my life that I didn’t get to end my day in a home that has you. And you’re just my roommate. You want nothing to do with athletes, I get it—” he added, catching your eye in the middle of his rant, “—but, shit, I haven’t even looked at another girl since… well it doesn’t even matter.”

“Tell me,” you whispered. There were a million other things you could’ve said, a million explanations that would have made sense. But the two soft words stopped Bucky from tracking holes in the ground. They shoved him from his shallow breaths and made him look at you.

And, god, did he look at you. You must have been worse for wear. A hospital visit mixed with one too many tumbles onto solid ice probably had your hair in disarray and your face pressed with exhaustion, but his gaze was revering. Candy-coated red with soft blues melting below brows that fluxed with the movement of his lips; Bucky was beautiful, and he was looking at you as if you matched.

His tone confirmed as much, light and saccharin as he said, “That dumb movie a few weeks ago, the one about the superheroes. Your friends wouldn’t watch it with you so you made me. You were so excited even though it was awful and you were out like a light within the first hour. You rolled over onto me and I wasn’t gonna wake you up so I sorta just held you.”

He paused, trailing his eyes up to the light fixtures. “At the risk of sounding pathetic, it felt like I had you, you know? Like we were going through all our usual motions, but after I annoyed the hell out of you and you told me off, you were mine. I can’t… I can’t really picture that with another girl.”

There were very few times you had considered yourself speechless. But with Bucky Barnes standing in front of you, red-faced and vulnerable and still wearing the stupid hospital nametag they made him put on in the waiting room, you had no words. There was none of the arrogance you usually associated with him, no short-temper or pestering taunts. It was just Bucky, and he was pouring his heart onto the kitchen floor. For you.

“You get why you can’t tell me no just yet?” he asked, trying to get something out of you. Anything. “You can break my heart, but let me just make sure you’re okay first. And I can’t beat the shit out of Sean if we aren’t on speaking terms.”

The laugh that left you was one of disbelief, but the breathiness and accompanying tears fit the heaviness of the room. Your glossy eyes met Bucky’s and something flashed on his face, but it was soon out of your line of sight because you were kissing him. You were kissing him hard and your bodies were too close for the cast between you but it didn’t matter.

He didn’t respond at first, hand hovering at your back. But then he did and the cold linoleum of the kitchen floor was gone from your bare feet. He sat you on the counter, so gently, as if you were glass, and you let your hand brush against the cracks and divots of your home. The one that Bucky came back to every night to see you.

The one that had housed so many nights of confusion and longing and denial.

The one that had Bucky kissing the life out of you on the kitchen counter.

He pulled away first, forehead pressed to yours. “Didn’t think I’d ever get to do that.”

“You can do it again.”

“Oh, I will, baby.”

Laughter met in the air between you—sweet, short, intertwined. There was so much you wanted to tell him, so many instances like the one he shared before where you were left questioning boundaries and feelings and lines. But, you figured, there would be so many opportunities to tell him. So much time together.

“I texted Wanda that night,” you shared, interrupting the kisses he was pressing to your cheek. “After I woke up and you had taken me back to my room.”

He smiled against your skin. “What’d you say?”

“I told her I was an idiot—that I was falling for the enemy.”

Bucky ran a soft hand along the back of your head, a smirk lighting up his face. He was slotted between your legs and kept his other hand firmly pressed onto the kitchen counter, caging you in, making sure your arm didn’t hit the cabinets.

“And is that true?”

“I don’t know,” you hummed, connecting your foreheads once again, wanting to stay impossibly close. “Try to cure my broken bone with gatorade again and we’ll see.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes angst #marvel fanfiction #college!bucky

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devilfic · 4 months ago

Text

❝honeymoon❞

V. sins of the mother.

parts: previously plot: alfred finds yours and bruce's old yearbook. you reminisce on how you lost him... and how he came back to you all those years later. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: arranged marriage, friends to enemies to (fake) lovers, implied history between reader and bruce, LOTS of angst, eventual fluff, TW for depictions of brief physical child abuse (specifically to the reader), sorry but your fictional mom SUCKS, sweet ending though. words: 3.5k. a/n: I apologize to any british readers for inaccuracies with the whole yearbook thing. from what I gather, the american concept of yearbooks has gotten popular in the uk in the last 14-ish years but if it doesn't make sense, I'm hiding behind the fact that it's a posh boarding school and also- *runs away before I can think of a better excuse*

The rapping at your door is too gentle to be Bruce, and you're proven right when Alfred peeks into your room, "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

Bruce's guest room had steadily become your home over the course of your engagement. You still had your own place, paying the rent in case all of this fell through in one fell swoop (and it would, you couldn't escape the nagging feeling that it would), but you found yourself feeling some semblance of ownership over the tower. You hadn't even gotten the chance to put your desk up before Bruce was offering you his study—his father's study. He insisted it was because you were CEO, like his father. You dared to think it was because he was starting to see you as family.

The tower felt even more yours when Alfred stopped by like this, checking in on you, making sure you wanted him here. You set the papers in your lap to the side with a tired smile, "What's up, Alfred?"

It turns out he was hiding something behind the door. At first, you think it's a folder, perhaps some work that Bruce needed you to do for the company or some files Alfred kept from his time managing Wayne Enterprises. But when he comes round to your bedside, you realize it's a photo album. A yearbook, to be exact.

The green leather is embellished with the sparkling emblem of Silverstone Academy. It makes your heart jump up into your throat, "Where... where'd you find that?"

"After Bruce graduated, he had me put all of his old yearbooks away in storage. Kept this one, though. Would you like to see?" He turns the book to you with a well-meaning smile, and whether he notices your discomfort and chooses to ignore it is... debatable.

Still, your hands reach for it.

The spine crackles, unopened for many years by the looks of it. You thumb through the pages, flipping past pictures of the palatial school grounds and fellow classmates in freshly-pressed regalia. You're about to turn the page on the extracurriculars when Alfred places a hand on the page to stop you, pointing to a rather large group photo, "This was Bruce's favorite, if I recall."

There are rows of you, each one standing on the bleachers of a court, all of you awkward and fourteen and just wanting the whole thing over with. And then there, amongst the rows of smiling teenagers, is Bruce and you.

"Eyes front, students! I will not say this again. We want to look good for our parents, yes? We want them to see how smart and well-behaved you are, yes? Okay, then. Eyes forward. Shoulders back. Smiles on! This is your last chance. There will be no retakes!" Is what your headmaster probably said, but you were far too distracted by Bruce's fingers tugging on the tail of your un-tucked shirt to know for sure.

You bat away his hand but can't suppress the giggle that bubbles out of you. One of your classmates turns to glare, but the heat of it doesn't reach you when Bruce is whispering, "Last one to dining hall does the loser's chores."

"I'm faster than you and you know it."

"Hey, I beat Wilbur in the race on Saturday."

"That's cause Wilbur hit puberty and can't control his body anymore."

Your headmaster's shrill call draws your attention forward, "And three, two..."

You turn and smile. You feel Bruce's eyes still on you. Just as the shutter goes off, Bruce tugs your hand instead. And, even with all your teenage obstinacy wanting to make him work for your attention, make him fight for it, you can't help it.

You turn to look at him and the flash goes off.

"I remember being quite upset with this one," Alfred disperses your memory, gently calling you back to the present, "Bruce always hated taking pictures, but pictures were all I had of him while he was away. But... can't really hate that smile he's giving you, can I?"

You feel breathless at the image of younger Bruce and the look of... adoration he wears. Everyone else is focused on the camera, some eyes closed and some smiles skewed, but Bruce is focused on you and you him. Like you are the only two people in the world. Arguing over chores and who's faster than who. Like best friends.

You don't realize you're holding your breath until your body takes in one big deep inhale for you, "He wouldn't stop bothering me."

"It's funny how we couldn't get you two to talk to each other when you first met, and then years later you were inseparable."

You remembered that. Barely in second grade and being touted around by your parents at galas. You remembered Bruce hiding behind his mother's dress, and your mother guiding you by the scruff to say hello, "British boarding school will do that to you."

Alfred snorts, "I think he just liked that someone was treating him like a person."

You glance up at Alfred's soft expression, fatherly and proud. You've never seen him look any other way with Bruce. "Will you be Bruce's best man?"

Alfred seems to startle at that question, "Oh... well, he hasn't asked, but I suppose I will. Not sure who else he'd ask."

"I don't think he'd want to," you admit, and Alfred looks confused, "ask anyone else, I mean. You're it for him."

Bruce looks just like how you remember his father, but sometimes, when the light hits Alfred's eyes just right (that same color you've come to love and mourn), you think Bruce looks just like him too. You supposed they were always meant to be family, in that inexplicable way.

Alfred watches you for a moment, struck by your statement, and then softens like the teddy bear you know him to be. "And you as well. I'm glad you both found your way back to each other."

You can tell he means it in the heartwarming way, the way you meant it, but it doesn't fill you with warmth. There are no fuzzy feelings in your stomach. There is a whirlpool.

This time, there is no doubt Alfred senses your discomfort. He seizes up. He goes to say something, something no doubt kind and thoughtful, but you beat him to the punch, "Can I keep this? I want to... show it to Bruce later, maybe. Might make him laugh."

Alfred stops in his tracks. Then, as if used to such stonewalling, stands to his full height and begins his trek back to your bedroom door, "'Course you can. I'll see you in the morning. Goodnight."

He waits for your affirmative, then shuts the door behind him.

july, seventeen years ago.

The banging on your door fills you with dread the second you recognize it for what it is.

You are tangled in sheets and limbs—warm limbs, arms and legs and hands wrapped around your body in the witching hour—while the heavy oak door of your dorm room shakes with each knock. You don't know how long they've been knocking, but you fear you have very little time left to answer before you end up in worse trouble than you seemingly already are.

You shove at Bruce and he flounders, half-asleep. He almost doesn't want to let you go until he becomes aware of the banging on the door himself and presses his back to the wall behind your bed, "He snitched."

"He wouldn't! Coulson would never," you grumble, pulling on a hoodie discarded on the floor, too tired to recognize it as Bruce's, "just... get under the bed."

He does as he's told, though he looks rather peeved to do so. You grab the back of your desk chair and twist it out from beneath the door knob, and almost immediately it is thrown open by the headmaster.

Your first feeling is shock. Your second feeling is, undoubtedly, ice cold fear. You never thought you and Bruce would get away with this forever, but to be caught by the headmaster is... way worse than you could've imagined.

Headmaster Collins was a spidery man. What he lacked in muscle, he made up for in menace. His features were all gaunt and shadowy in the dark of your room, and with only the light from the hallway to capture his silhouette.

Before you can speak, he raises a single finger to cut you off, "I will discuss you blocking doors later. You have a guest."

You frown. "I..." You stammer. Even with your hand caught in the cookie jar, you don't yet want to give yourself away. Maybe he had no idea it was Bruce that kept sneaking into your dorm. Perhaps Coulson hadn't divulged that much. You and Bruce had paid him in many ways to keep that part secret above all.

You just make out the narrowing of the headmaster's eyes, "Your mother. She flew in from Gotham. She says she's worried about you."

Your stomach drops. Perhaps Bruce being found under your bed would've been better.

To the headmaster's chagrin, you corral him back out into the hall and shut the door behind you, "What? I wasn't... she didn't..."

"She failed to let us know either. I only received the call minutes ago when she arrived outside. We don't want to keep her waiting, do we?" Now, in the light of the hallway, Headmaster Collins loses some of that menace. He almost looks... just as concerned as you.

He leads you to the library in complete silence.

When you push open one of the double doors, you see there are a few candles lit, the rest of the lights dimmed low, and your mother standing with her back to you in the center of the room.

She doesn't turn around until you hear the door click shut behind you and, just like that, the headmaster has left you to fend for yourself.

Everyone always said you looked just like her. A spitting image, and one day, "if you're lucky", you'd grow up to be just as powerful. As the eldest of your siblings, it was unavoidable. Your fate had been sealed long before you were born.

She opens her mouth to speak and whether out of fear or anger, your next words come tumbling out before she can, "I already know what you're going to say."

She clasps her lips together. Then, after a moment, smiles down at you, "Well, that saves me some breath. Tell me, darling mine: what was I going to say?"

"That you know why I told you so late. And that you're angry with me for not running it by you sooner... so you could be in control of it."

"I was angry eight hours ago. Not anymore. It was almost clever of you."

Almost. A smarter, more clever you wouldn't have run it by her at all. You would've quietly disappeared off to the Waynes' vacation house in Barcelona and, inevitably, when you got the call, you'd have told your mother you wouldn't be back for the rest of summer break.

But she had her claws in you, and try as you might to defy her, you always felt those fingers curling around your conscience, drawing out of you what little truth you aimed to keep to yourself.

"So you flew all this way to yell at me?"

"To join you."

You blanch. "You... can't." There is nothing else you can say. No argument, no temper tantrum. Nothing.

But your mother is smart. The plane ride over would have given her ample time to cancel her duties for the next six weeks, offload them onto someone else because what was more important than joining the future heir of Wayne Enterprises on a summer abroad in Spain? Most people on the board would kill for that kind of opportunity. That kind of favoritism.

She's smart too in that it's only her. You imagined your siblings had been left to the nannies, and if Bruce questioned her presence, she could argue that leaving Alfred to chaperone two teenagers all by himself would be just cruel. Her presence wouldn't tip the scales too far into dangerous territory. In fact, it would be nothing if not practical.

She takes a step toward you, then another, and then another until she is looming over you. Half her face is lit by the fireplace roaring in the corner of the room, casting a shadow on the other side. Like this, she no longer looks like you. She looks something far colder, "You didn't think I'd let you run off to another country and ruin this for our family, did you?"

"What? Wh... ruin what? Bruce is my boyfriend."

"Your boyfriend is Bruce Wayne. There is a very real difference."

You feel your eyebrow twitch at that, "What's your point?"

But your attitude is nasty. Far too nasty for a child. The residual sting of her hand colliding with your cheek nearly sends you back into a chair but you manage to catch yourself after a few steps, staring at the rug beneath you in disbelief.

"My point is," her attitude is much harsher, and as you wipe away the bit of spit that dribbled down your lip, she blocks your view once more, "he is not just another boy, a peer, a boyfriend. Bruce is the heir to the company, and unlike his father, he has no foresight. Under him, this company will crumble. His family's legacy will cease to exist. That is why I am here, darling mine. Why you exist. Legacies must be upheld."

You hiss in pain when she takes you by the chin and forces you to look her dead on. At this angle, you can see her whole face lit up by the fire. Through gritted teeth, you whisper in horror, "What are you asking me?"

"I'm telling you that I'm coming along, or you will not go at all."

Your heart breaks a little more than it already has. This is what you'd thought of all week, what kept you up at night and got you up in the morning. And now your mother was going to ruin it all. A tear slips down your cheek and over your mother's fingers, and she releases you to wipe her hand clean, "Please."

"You would only find some way to make him hate you, and all my hard work for the past twenty-five years would be all for naught."

"Mom."

"I've already let the butler know."

"Please let me have this."

"Tell me you understand." You remain silent, teeth almost chattering from the chill her voice gives you. Her eyes harden, "Tell me you understand why I let you have him at all."

"He's my friend."

"He's your future. Tell me." Another tear rolls down your cheek. Your mother grabs you by the arm and pulls you to her, shaking you as more tears fall. You're doing your damnedest not to sob but you're failing spectacularly, "Tell me!"

"He's my future." You gasp out.

"And why do I allow you to be friends with him?"

"Because..." You blubber, fiercely wiping away the tears, "...to uphold our family legacy."

"And?"

"To keep you on his good side."

"Keep us," she taps your chin with her finger, making you flinch, "us, darling mine. Wayne Enterprises will end with him, but it'll begin again with us. With you. Say it."

"With me."

"So we'll go together. And you will do anything he tells you to. And you will make him very happy because he is not your friend. He is our ticket to owning Gotham City."

You would've done anything Bruce asked of you because you loved him, because you trusted him. The way your mother talked about what he might ask of you made you feel sick to your stomach. She shakes you again, expecting you to say it back.

Your lips part to release a shaky exhale meant to be a word, but behind your mother, you stare past the cracked library door and into the eyes of your best friend. The only word you can get out is, "Bruce?"

Your mother drops you completely. She swings around but the door is shutting before she can catch a glimpse, and you're shoving her out of your way before he can get too far.

You throw the door open and find him rushing back down the hall, a flummoxed headmaster lingering by as you run after Bruce. You shout his name but he doesn't slow for you at all, even as your voice echoes off the old school halls. "Bruce! Bruce, please! Let me explain."

It takes more energy than you have in you to catch up with him, but you eventually slide to a stop in front of him, stopping him before he could ascend the stairs and return to the dorm rooms. You expect to see anger clear on his face, or sadness, betrayal even. Instead, he is cold. He looks right through you.

The emptiness of which he looks at you catches you completely off guard. Anger, you could stomach. But this?

"How much did you hear?"

Those eyes that used to look at you so sweetly hold nothing in them at all. He stares you down as if you should already know.

When he tries to side-step you for the stairs, you grasp desperately for his hand but he yanks away from you like you've burned him, sending you collapsing to your knees against the bottom step, "Bruce, please... I don't feel that way about you. I've never felt that way about you. You... you're my best friend. This is exactly why I shouldn't have told her about the trip, I should've just kept my mouth shut-"

"What trip?"

You look up at him and see a wave of something sharp cross his face before smoothing back over completely. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. He sees the question in you, the thing you fear to ask when it hits you.

Bruce turns his face away from you, "I'll see you in September."

You sit on those steps until sunrise.

The elevator stutters to a stop at cave level, letting you out into Bruce's sanctuary. He's standing at his desk and staring at you, as if he had expected Alfred instead.

"Hey," you start, timidly approaching him with yearbook in hand, "Are you busy?"

He watches you get closer and slowly shakes his head, eyes falling to the book clutched to your chest. They widen some with recognition, a cloudy look overtaking them once you're within arm's length of him. You set the book down on his desk, careful not to disrupt his work. You go to flip open the cover but his hand comes down on the Silverstone emblem, forcing you to draw back your hand in surprise, "Where'd you get this?"

"Alfred kept it." At that, Bruce groans. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

You watch as he slides the book closer to himself, nudging away the files he'd been poring over before you'd arrived, making quiet noises of recognition here and there. When he inevitably lands on the class picture Alfred had shown you, he hesitates. You wait for him to say something, anything, but after a moment of silence, he presses on.

It isn't until he gets to the individual headshots from that year that you notice something odd. On your page, where your headshot and name should be, is a hole cut into the paper. Your heart sinks.

Your mind goes for the worst thing first (that perhaps he had hated you so much that putting away the yearbooks wasn't enough, that he had to cut you out of them too), but Bruce simply traces the neatly cut edges where your face should be.

Then he flips to the page where his picture should be, and his picture is cut out in the same fashion.

You look to Bruce for answers, but his expression is... guarded. He almost looks like he doesn't want to entertain it, almost looks like he's about to tell you to leave him to his work for the rest of the night.

Instead, he pushes the book back to you, "I kept yours in my wallet. I was going to give you mine."

You don't know what to say first, but it finds you in the lull in conversation, "You were going to?"

Bruce's mouth twists in discomfort, still not looking at you. He reaches over and shuts the cover to the book, "I thought... you might tease me about it." For a brief second, he looks at you, "Dunno where they are now."

That brief second is, of course, his tell. It was a shame. Bruce had become such a good liar since he left you on those stairs. He had to have been to get where he is now. And yet, you know in an instant that he's not being honest with you. It feels good this time.

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne scenarios #bruce wayne fic #bruce wayne fluff #bruce wayne angst #batman x reader #batman scenarios #batman fic #batman fluff #batman angst #the batman #dc #mjwrites #bw; honeymoon #battinson x reader #battinson

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pastorpresent · 4 months ago

Text

Part 2 to this, as an apology, except as with everything I write, it gets worse before it gets better lmaooo

Things had been tense between them, since that night. So tense that Wade had taken to making up a makeshift bed on the floor, and that was about the only time Logan even saw the mercenary.

During the day, their paths rarely crossed.

Mary Puppins was loving it. Their lack of communication meant that Logan was fairly certain she was ending up with double the food and double the walks.

Al was sick of both their shit, and had made sure to let them both know several times. The phrase 'emotionally constipated dick for brains assholes' sprung to mind.

Logan knew it wasn't functional, but then again he was barely functional these days. If he wasn't too drunk to be conscious, he was chain smoking on the couch watching shitty reality tv, trying in vain to conjure up Wade esque commentary alongside it in his head (and wasn't that fucking crazy, to miss the idiots ramblings) and pretend that the arms he wrapped around himself belonged to somebody else.

He'd looked at other apartments, but he couldn't afford the rent, and there was still something tethering him here. Maybe he was clinging onto something long gone, but maybe it was salvageable. He needed to believe that, because he'd never had anything worth clinging too since his old team, and that had been a long time ago.

So he couldn't bring himself to leave. Because even if him and Wade only saw each other in passing for what was likely a grand total of thirty seconds a day, he needed those thirty seconds.

He was fine. It was fine.

Well, that is until one afternoon when he'd arrived home from a grocery run.

When he'd opened the door, he was surprised to see Wade's shoes on the rack. He had been at work when Logan had left, and normally he was there until at least five.

He very almost called out for the man, but decided against it. Whatever reason it was, Logan was certain it was none of his buisness.

He headed to the kitchen, noting their shut bedroom door, which also wasn't all that uncommon these days. Wade spent most his time locked away in there, likely in an effort to avoid him.

There was something niggling at him, though. An anxiety he wasn't used to feeling, because he wasn't used to caring about people enough to agonise over their wellbeing. It had been too long, and so the feeling felt unfamiliar and wrong, and it compounded onto everything else that was unfamiliar and wrong in his body.

He was about ready to buckle under the weight of it.

What if Wade had left work early because he'd been hurt? What if someone had come for him for whatever reason? What if he was sick? Could he get sick? What if he-

The carton of milk he'd picked up to put away burst under the strength of his grip, getting all over him and the floor.

Fuck it. Fuck all of it. He'd just check quickly to make sure the bastard was okay, and it would mean absolutely nothing, and then he could go back to putting the groceries away and not destroying half of them in the process. He was only checking on him because he couldn't afford to replace more food, basically, which was a completely normal thing to do. Obviously.

He goes to their room and flings the door open.

Wade is fine. He's... he's more than fine, probably, Logan thinks vaguely as he stares at the scene in front of him.

He'd not seen Vanessa's shoes at the door. Had they been there? Maybe he'd missed them. Maybe he'd been too focused on Wade's. He should go check.

"Logan-!"

He shut the door. Because it was the right thing to do when two people were fucking, and despite the general concencess - he was polite. Not because he couldn't look at them without wanting to scream and break shit and throw up.

It's a blur, leaving the apartment. He almost slips on the puddle of milk dogpool is currently lapping up, and he hopes Wade has the sense after... after he's done to mop it up so Al doesn't slip.

Wade, cleaning up his fucking mess. Again. Ironic that that's exactly how this whatever-the-fuck between them is going to end.

He shoves his shoes on, skips out on a jacket because he needs to be out of here now, because the air is too thin and he's going to fucking suffocate, regenerative powers be damned. This is what dying feels like, actual dying, and he's certain of it.

His skin is burning. So are his eyes.

He doesn't take a key. Doesn't need to be back. He's never coming back in again, he's sure of it.

What the fuck was he thinking, staying here? Bombarding into Wade's life like a piece of a puzzle that doesn't fit properly, leaving gaps around him and fucking the whole thing up.

He's wrong. He doesn't fit here, because he's from another puzzle entirely, and he should never of left his box. Maybe that's why everything was so fucked. His body knew on a level that his brain refused to acknowledge yet that he didn't belong in this world. He didn't belong with Wade, even if it's the safest he'd felt in years.

He's sobbing and probably completely incoherent by the time he stumbles into the nearest TVA post, but they don't question his state or why he makes his request. They just do it.

"Logan-!"

Wade pushes Vanessa away from him rather than making a grab for the covers, which says more than he'd care to analyse at the minute.

Logan doesn't say anything, which is the worst outcome. Wade wants to be cussed out. Have a liquor bottle thrown at his head. Anything, dealers choice!

But not the crestfallen expression as he quickly shuts the door. As if Wade's exclamation had been from aggravation at being interrupted, rather than a place of genuine oh fuck no.

It's his own fault, and he needs to fix it now.

"Wade, where are you going?" Vanessa asks, her frustrations thinly veiled as he scrambles off the bed and tries to find his clothes.

"Logan- he... I need to make sure he's okay," Wade explains in a rushed sort of garble, and where the fuck did he throw his shirt?! He wanted to punch his horny self in the face for not neatly folding his clothes atop of the nightstand.

"He's 200, and didn't he live in a mansion with a bunch of teenagers? I'm sure it's not the first time he's walked in on people having sex," Vanessa deadpanned, and Wade wanted to shout at her that she didn't get it, but that wouldn't be remotely fair.

How could he expect her to know anything about the thing him and Logan had failed to even discuss themselves? Especially... especially when he'd called her for this exact purpose.

He'd been having an awful day at work. Beyond shit. He'd been spoken to like an idiot by some asshole who only seemed to come to car dealerships to flaunt his knowledge of each vehicle for an hour straight. His manager had screamed at him for an hour over a two dollar till discrepancy, and he'd learnt they were taking away two lots of commission from him due to his name not being 'cohesive' enough on the paperwork.

That, on top of how royally he'd fucked up things with Logan by pushing him too far too quickly, and he just needed to feel like he could do something right, and experience a few minutes of sweet post orgasm bliss.

He'd called Vanessa, been pretty fucking transparent about his intentions of it as a one time hookup, clocked out early under the guise of not feeling great and met her at the apartment.

Logan was out on the grocery run, which normally meant he'd be out a couple of hours.

He wasn't meant to come back earlier. He wasn't meant to open the door.

Because Wade knew how it looked, he did. It looked like he'd given up on... whatever the hell they'd been building, because it had gotten messy and he just wanted to get his dick wet.

And he'd done some real fucked up things in his life, but if Logan thought that was remotely true, even for the five minutes it would take Wade to find him and correct it, that was going up there with the very worst.

"I need to find him, 'Ness. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I just..." he couldn't say it, because he was an emotionally stunted child, and he needed to apologise to her properly too, for dragging her into this - but his brain was going too fast for his mouth and he was left without the ability to say any of it.

"Wade," she interrupted quietly, pulling on her own shirt and coming over to him with his own dangling from a finger, "it's okay, alright? I'm not blind, I know he means a lot to you. I just wish you two assholes would figure it out," she smiled softly, and Wade frowned.

"I- I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called," he murmured, and she shrugged, kissing his cheek and pushing the shirt against his chest, "eh, one last hurrah was needed before you settle down with that one. Pretty sure you'll never be single again, Wilson. Or will it be Howlett?"

Wade let out a surprised sound, choking on air momentarily while she laughed at him.

He pulled on the shirt, giving her one last small smile before rushing out the room.

He'd been searching for days. He'd went into every bar in a ten mile radius of their apartment, had spent an entire weeks wage on cabs just driving the streets. Looking for literally any sign of him.

None.

He was fucking desperate. His calls went straight to voicemail, and he even got fucking missing person posters made (he was too depressed to even photoshop kitty ears onto the photo he used which, come on).

He wasn't sleeping. The idea of never seeing Logan ever again all because he was too much of a pussy to talk to him? It killed any sembelence of appetite he had, and any hope at settling enough to sleep.

The TVA was his very last avenue of hope. They could see everything, so they'd have to be able to find Logan.

He hadn't even bothered to put on his suit, and the agents looked thoroughly confused when he entered, not used to seeing him without it.

It was hung up in the closet right next to Logans. Taking it away from the untouched yellow felt too much like an omen for Wade to proceed with, if he was being fully honest with himself.

"I need your help," he said, feeling the eyes move with him as he strode across the room up to the lead agent. He didn't know his name, and didn't frankly care to either.

The guy frowned, "Wade Wilson, right?"

"Can you locate people? Get a general whereabouts for them? My friend is... missing," he interrupted, cutting right to the chase. He didn't have time for pleasantries, and God knows he didn't have the temperament as of right now.

"Ah," the guy hummed, "you're looking for Logan. Well I regret to inform you, Mr Wilson, but he requested that information remain quiet-"

Wade might not of packed any weapons, but he tended to thrive with improvisation, which was how he ended up with the fucker pinned against the console, a pen inches from his eye.

"My friend was feeling a smidge unstable, so you'll have to forgive him for making you make promises you can't keep however," he pushed down an arm against the guys neck, who choked beneathe it, "I'm substantially more unstable, and unless you tell me where the hell he is right now, I'm going to ram this pen so deep into your skull it pops out the other side, then I'm going to make you use it to write down his exact coordinates. Understood?"

And maybe it was overkill. Just slightly, because the guy just seemed remarkably harmless, but there was no way Wade was leaving here without knowing the exact address of whatever bar Logan had opted to drink himself to death in.

The guy nodded frantically, raising his arms in surrender.

"He- he's returned to his own timeline, I'm afraid."

Wade stumbled backwards.

No. He must've heard wrong, because Logan wouldn't of done that. Couldn't of left forever, not when... not when they hadn't fixed things.

"I am sorry, Mr Wilson. But Logan was very clear that he wanted to return to his home-"

"I'm his fucking home!" Wade screamed before he could reign in the building anger, tears burning in his eyes, "this is his goddamn home, you fuck. Our- our beds here, and our apartment, and our dog and... and me, so you're going to give me your stupid time jumping thing and let me go bring him back to his actual home," he seethed, his chest heaving as he glared at the man.

"I can't just give you my tempad. You've already proved yourself dangerous to other timelines previously-"

Wade laughed, and laughed, until the guy gave a nervous chuckle himself, forcing a smile, and then Wade grabbed him by his neck and tossed him onto the ground, grabbing his tie as he did in order to choke him before crouching down and getting uncomfortably close.

"You think you've seen me be dangerous? What I'm going to do to you if you don't give me what I want will make all of my past actions look like a kitten riding a fucking unicorn over cotton candy clouds in order to go to an ice cream parlour," Wade threatened, and he meant every word.

He pitied the stupid asshole who kept him away from his Logan. Fucking idiot. And it was so fucking stupid, because Logan probably didn't want anything to do with him anymore. I mean, could there be a clearer message that quite literally hopping timelines to get away from somebody?

But it couldn't end like this. He wouldn't let it. It couldn't end with them barely speaking, two ghosts sharing an apartment. It couldn't end with Logan believing what they'd had for so many months, and what they very almost had that night a few weeks ago, meant nothing to him.

The fact was - it was the thing that meant the fucking most.

He loved Logan Howlett, and something about that thought, hitting him with such clarity as he threatened to murder a man, made everything make so much more sense.

He needed to see Logan. Now.

Maybe the guy could see the emotion in his face and pitied him. Maybe the universe was rewarding him for conjuring up genuine emotion and acting on it. Maybe the guy just didn't want to be decapitated.

Either way, Wade ended up with tempad in hand. Logistics and reasons were no longer relevant.

"Thanks, sweetness. See ya soon!"

He pressed the button, dissapearing from the room and leaving behind a dozen horrified employees.

The first time he'd been to Logan's timeline, he hadn't exactly seen much. He spawned into the bar practically atop of him, and he'd dragged his unconscious body through the portal back to his own world in that same bar.

He wasn't exactly wanting a full tour regardless. From what Logan had divulged after too much alcohol and the safety of their bedroom walls, his world was very anti-mutant.

Logan insisted a lot of it was down to him, but Wade believed people fucking sucked, and if they wanted to hate something, they didn't waste time looking for a reason to do it.

When he stepped through the doorway, it was into a dark street.

He didn't recognise where he was, and he could only hope he was somewhere close to Logan.

He glanced around, but nothing really caught his eye, until he noticed a shrouded alleyway, with a metal door.

It didn't seem to be attached to any store front, and Wade figured it probably fit the description of shady ass bar slash potential strip club enough for Logan to be inside.

He knocked. A burly guy opened the door, and glared at him, "fuck off, your kind isn't welcome here you fuckin' freak," he spat, about to slam the door, but Wade stopped him.

He wanted to break the guys face, lecture him on acceptance while pummeling him into the concrete, but there was a sinking feeling in his stomach that was nagging at him to get inside, and to do that he'd have to play it smart.

"You think I'm one of those mutant freaks? Fuck no. Sick bastards. This? Is from a warehouse fire," he gestured to his face, and the guy looked immediately apologetic.

"My bad man, my bad. Can never be too careful, y'know? Thought we'd almost eradicated the fuckers, and then one turns up at the door a few days ago. Luckily for him, we were needing some entertainment around here since the last catch kicked the bucket," the guy smirked.

Wade had to swallow down bile.

"That's what I'm here for," he replied, unable to really formulated anything else around the suffocating fear filling his lungs. It wasn't an emotion he was used to feeling, but the idea of Logan being used as 'entertainment' in this place was enough for the blood in his veins to freeze up with it.

"Come on in then, man. Just down the stairs, to your right," he stepped aside, and Wade quickly pushed inside, following the directions.

The hallways grew dimmer as he went, lights flickering and buzzing, and then... cheering.

The fuck was this place?

Posters spewing death to mutant slogans were littering the walls, and Wade forced himself to keep moving, hoping and praying that Logan wasn't in this twisted fucking place. That he'd gotten it wrong, and the brunette was in some slightly less terrifying place drinking away his emotions.

He rounded the corner, pushing open the double doors, and the cheering grew into a roar as he entered a room full of bodies, people herded in a circle surrounding a cage.

A cage, which Logan was currently in.

Wade pushed his way to the front, getting drinks spilt down him as he shoulder checked men double his size. He stumbled forwards like a moth to a flame, eyes wide, grabbing the bars and staring at the man he loved in utter horror.

Logan was chained to the bars in thick metal cuffs, and he had a collar strapped around his neck that Wade was far too familiar with. He was on his knees, slumped forward, bleeding from wounds Wade couldn't see properly. He was stripped down to a pair of dirtied boxers, breathing heavily, muscles pulling from obvious pain.

"Twenty dollar entry, and you can do whatever the fuck you want to him, folks! A genuine, dirty fucking mutant - and not just any, either - The Wolverine himself!" The crowd erupted in yelling and boos, the stench of alcohol overwhelming as men pushed into him from behind, trying to get a better view.

Look at me, baby. Look up. I'm here, I'm going to get you out. I'm so sorry.

Wade wished that Logan could hear his thoughts. He wished so badly he could just tell him it was going to be alright.

He started trying to move his way to the door of the prison where the presenter freak was, pay his dues. If he could just get in there, he could open up a door back to their timeline and pull Logan through. Easy.

Someone beat him to it.

"Alright, get ready for the show, folks!"

The door opened, and unless you were really searching (Wade was, because he's always searching Logan's expression, always wanting to know how the other was feeling) you wouldn't notice the slight flinch Logan did when he heard the sound.

Wade watched with baited breath as the sick fuckface approached. His fingers itched for his gun, so he could empty a few dozen rounds into the bastards smug mouth.

It was cowardly and fucking pathetic. Having Logan chained up, powers suppressed, helpless to do a damn thing all while he was beat on.

The man wasted no time.

He kicked, and punched, and stomped every inch of Logan that he could, being utterly brutal with it, blood splattering on him and the ground and a few drops even landed on Wade, who was watching the scene on the other side of the bars, screaming Logan's name, begging him to at least try to fight back.

He didn't. His only movements were the jolts from the impact of the beating, and Wade was fairly certain he had to be unconscious until the man dug his fingers into his hair and pulled his head upwards, giving a better view of his face.

Wade choked on a building sob, the air being yanked from his lungs.

Logan's entire face was battered and bruised, swollen beyond recognition. There was more blood than skin visible, some fresh and some sticky looking, half dried, and some flaking off. A testament to how long he'd been trapped in this hell hole, to how many men had paid just to make him bleed.

Guilt gnawed uneasily at his stomach. If it wasn't for him and his stupid selfishness and inability to express his goddamn emotions, Logan would never of left. He wouldn't of ended up here, and he wouldn't be about to die in some disgusting back alley fight club while all Wade could do was watch helplessly. He caused this. He caused the person he loved the most in the world to be quite literally dying on his knees, at the mercy of assholes who had none to offer him.

The guy punched him hard across the jaw, earning a sickly crack, before spitting on his face. The crowd cheered him on, laughing and whooping.

Logan didn't react, blinking blearily beneath two swollen black eyes. When the grip of his hair dissapeared, he slumped back towards the ground like a rag doll.

Wade needed to get in that fucking cage right now. He shoved his way to the door, where the presenter guy was stood, looking almost bored.

Wade's desire for murder was going fucking crazy today. It should be a genuine testament to his self control that he hadn't killed half the stupid fucks he'd encountered, even if said restraint was only born from a need to save his friend.

"I've got one hundred. I want in now, but I want the cuffs off," Wade held up the crumpled bills, and the guy looked between the cash and the cage.

"Cuffs off? Don't think you get how dangerous this one is, kid. He's got a list of victims longer than the damn Bible, and I ain't getting in there to pull you out if he decides to gut ya like a fish. His powers may be suppressed but he's still fuckin' strong," the guy warned, and Wade plastered on the sleeziest smirk he could manage.

"I've got it, I want to be able to snap all his fingers in two. Doesn't seem right that they are protected away in those cuffs, they deserve the same treatment as the rest of him," his brain was screaming at him, the words physically hurting as he spoke them, like razor blades crawling up his throat and cutting his mouth to ribbons.

The man shrugged, "whatever," and a buzzer rang out.

"New contestant entering the ring!"

The door was opened. The man who had just been beating Logan strode out with a satisfied look on his stupid face, and Wade might of been refraining from actual murder, but absolutely anyone could've stuck their leg to the side and tripped the fucker. Anyone at all, really!

He followed the presenter into the cage.

Logan didn't move, or look up.

The cuffs got removed, and Wade got a pat on the shoulder as the man left, along with a sadistic "enjoy, all yours."

Logan was slumped into a heap on the floor, and now Wade was closer, he could better see the extent of the damage.

Every breath Logan took was laboured and wheezing, short pained gasps. The blood truly was everywhere, along with... other bodily fluids, which Wade sort of expected. This didn't seem the sort of job that allowed for frequent bathroom breaks.

He crouched down, reaching out to lightly rest a hand on Logan's bicep, on the area with the least damage, which was sickeningly hard to find.

Logan whimpered beneathe his hand, curling in onto himself further, a whispered "stop," barely audible under the weight of the crowds chants as they goaded him into beating the man in front of him further.

"Logan," he breathed, but the older man seemed to be buried too far in his own head to realise it was him.

Wade wasn't wasting anymore time. He needed Logan out of here, and the stupid inhibitor collar off of his neck so he could heal before he died from his injuries.

He opened the portal, and before anyone could even unlock the cage to get in, he was dragging all 300 pounds of Logan back into their apartment, and quickly shut down the gateway.

He left him bleeding on the carpet while he raced to the kitchen, rifling through drawers until he found the small metal magnetic device. A gift from Colossus a good while ago, which had the ability to open up those awful collars. Something told him brute force wasn't an option for Logan right now.

He returned, that uneasy pit in his stomach only growing when he discovered Logan was still in the same spot he'd left him in, staring up at the ceiling but seemingly not seeing anything.

"Hey Lo, I'm gonna take that collar off now, alright?"

His voice earned no reaction either, and Wade swallowed, reaching out for the device wrapped around his neck.

Logan flinched back when he did, shaking his head sluggishly, "no, no more, pl'se, no," and Logan sobbed, trying to curl up but hissing in pain when he moved.

"Peanut-"

The brunette tried to get up, but quickly came crashing back down when his legs instantly buckled.

"Logan, it's me, yeah? It's Wade," he assured, and he watched as Logan stilled, trying to focus in on his face, those big wet eyes filling up again.

He let out an awful, pained sound, and grabbed onto his arm so tightly it hurt.

"M...'m dead? I- want Wade," he cried harder, and Wade frowned.

"No baby, I'm here. You're alive, you're okay. I got you out. I'm here," he promised, squeezing Logan's hand in his own.

"Stop! S-stop! N-not real, not..." Logan choked, gagging out blood onto the carpet, and all Wade could do was whisper an apology before grabbing the collar and pulling Logan up enough to reach the back to open it, all while Logan screamed and thrashed and tried to fight him.

The collar popped off with a click, and Wade shoved it aside, shushing Logan softly with a hand stroking through his greasy hair.

To his relief, Logan started healing fairly quickly, his wounds closing themselves up and the bruises fading from where they'd once painted his skin unforgiving shades of blue and purple.

"You're alright, everything is okay. I'm here," Wade continued to assure quietly, and Logan's screaming tapered down into simmering sobs, ripping out of his chest just as brutally.

"'M, 'm sorry," he hiccuped, still clinging onto him for dear life, and Wade shook his head, still playing with his hair.

"No, nono, no baby. No 'sorry', you didn't do anything wrong," Wade said, but Logan thrashed, getting more distressed.

"Ru'n everythin' I touch. Messed up you're l-life, 'm not... shouldn't be here," Logan cried, trying to move away, but Wade stopped him, staring down at him.

"Is that really what you think?"

How could Logan even start to believe that? How could he think for a single second that he was impacting negatively whatsoever on Wade's life? He was Wade's life, could the idiot really not see that?

"Logan, look at me right the fuck now."

Logan hesitantly looked in his direction, "i- I shouldn't be here. You- you had a life, a future," he said, and Wade could tell this wasn't just something that had came to him in that moment. The way Logan spoke, the utter pain laced through the words like poison, this was something that had been eating away at him for a while.

God, Wade wanted to scream. He wanted to grab the dumbass and shake some actual sense into him, because seriously?

"There isn't anywhere else I'd let you be, peanut. You could hop fifty universes over and I'd march into the TVA and kill any fucker who tells me I'm not allowed to follow. You're stuck with me, get it? You're my present, and my future, and I'm not letting you dip out of that," Wade promised, because it was exactly that. A promise. Logan wasn't going anywhere without him following behind. Wade would make sure of it, no matter who he'd have to kill or worlds he'd have to eradicate in the process. It was all just pointless collateral to Wade, if it meant staying beside Logan.

Logan was looking at him with something akin to awe, bright eyes shining through the layers of blood and dirt smeared over his face, like he couldn't fathom that Wade would choose him to mean so much.

It was sweet, and yet made him want to rip his own heart out at the same time, to know that Logan thought so ridiculously little of himself. For him to think that, even after the months they've had together, that Wade could ever be so quick to discard him.

That was partly his fault. He knew that. He hadn't exactly showed a willingness to fight for... this when he was sleeping with Vanessa.

"Wade you... you're good. You're too good and you deserve someone who's not completely fucked up," Logan sat up a little, a bitter laugh erupting from his chest, "fuck, I couldn't even... I couldn't even get through sex without fucking breaking down, and it's not fair on you to carry that burden-"

Wade couldn't listen to Logan's self deprivation any longer, and leaned in to kiss him hard, one hand moving to cup the back of his head.

"Shut up," he said when the kiss broke momentarily, both of them panting inches away from each other, "shut the fuck up, alright? You are not a fucking burden to carry, and besides - you really think I'm good? You really think I'm a walk in the park? I kill people on the regular just for the crime of pissing me off. I never stop fucking talking. It's takes me six to twelve buisness weeks to process an emotion, and I'm a terrible friend-"

"Wade stop it," Logan begged, voice tight, hand on his thigh.

"No, you're not the only one with flaws here, baby. I could write you a whole book of mine, get you to sign it like a fucking contract," wasn't a bad idea, actually - having Logan legally binded to him just a little, "the point is," he kissed Logan's jaw, splayed his fingers over his neck, dug in his nails just a little, just enough to make the brunette whimper into his mouth, "I fucking love the shit out of you, Lo. You don't have to say it back. That's not what this is, alright? I just need you to know."

Logan broke their almost embrace to sit back, staring at him. Wade couldn't breathe for a second, waiting for the impending rejection.

Instead, he was met with three hundred pounds of adamantium skeleton atop of him, Logan's arms wrapping tight enough to hurt around his waist, his face buried away in Wade's neck which was rapidly growing wet with tears.

"I- I love you too," came a shaky whisper, and Wade just might of air punched in celebration if he was capable of moving at the present moment.

He leaned down to drop a kiss to Logan's hair, nuzzling his face into it. Logan practically purred, lifting his head up enough to kiss him, tongue slipping in without inhibition, and Wade moaned against his mouth, running his hands all over, knowing he'd probably need it after so long.

He was proven right by the way Logan's body went limp and heavy, soft noises escaping his throat as he plastered himself against Wade.

They lay like that for a while, on the blood stained rug, sharing lazy but desperate kisses, all while Wade touched Logan as much as he possibly could, reclaiming every inch of skin as his own, until he almost forgot where one part of himself ended and Logan started.

Logan mewled, bucking his hips down, and Wade kissed his cheek tenderly, "soon, big guy. Let's shower and get you something to eat first, kay? Let me take care of you, then I'll fuck you so hard you pass out. Pinky promise," Wade hummed, and Logan murmured his agreement, letting Wade help him up off the floor.

A few hours later when, true to his word, Wade had quite literally washed him, scrubbing his scalp clean with gentle fingers, made him his favourite meal despite his hatred of cooking, and then fucked him so good Logan did genuinely pass out briefly at his climax, they were laid out in bed together, tangled together loosely.

Wade was playing with his hair. Logan was leaving trails of peppered kisses over Wade's chest.

And Logan thought, for the first time with a clear brain, the voices gone, that Wade would never have to follow him across fifty universes, because Logan would rather gouge his own body apart than be more than fifty feet away from him ever again.

#again sorry for any mistakes #i swear i proof read but my brain Struggles to spot mistakes #hope this also isnt a huge letdown compared to part 1 #poolverine #deadclaws #deadpool #deadpool & wolverine #the wolverine #logan howlett #wade wilson #logan/wade #wade/logan #deadclaws fic #poolverine fic #logan angst #wade angst #mywriting

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skittles-secrets · 16 days ago

Text

his (adoptive) brother's best friend - jason todd x afab reader (he's your roommate/frenemy)

what to do when your best friend asks you to come over but you’re hungover.

when you woke up, everything was fuzzy. you didn’t even drink that much last night,did you..? probably. either way, free drinks are free drinks, so a win is a win, simple as that. except it's not as simple as that, dick grayson, your roommate’s adoptive brother and your best friend since your shared traumas on playgrounds together as little kids.

it wasn’t hard to be friends with dick. who wouldn’t want to? turns out a lot of people if he’s hanging out with you rather than any other person he could be hanging out with at any moment. you’re just chiller than them, you guessed. you knew dick had a problem with girls only wanting him for his body, but you were never friends with him because of that.

your intentions were always pure towards him. you knew he was extremely smart and not to put that past him just because he was hot, which is why you clicked so well at first. aaand with that whole roundabout and unnecessary way of getting to it, it was how you met jason todd.

spending a lot of time with the adopted wayne boys meant gaining the trust of the batman, which you did. he was like a dad to you, busy all the time or not. you’ve been in on the family secret just as long as dick had been, basically. you were invited to help out, but that kind of helping wasn’t really where you saw yourself when you did one of those ‘picture yourself in 20 years’ things they have you do in kindergarten.

you were there for dick when his adoptive brother passed away. you were there when he was replaced. you were there when he came back, too, and you even offered up a room in your apartment for him since his room had been taken by bruce wayne’s biological child. he paid one month’s rent, you paid, so on and so forth, because it was how it worked for both of you.

back to the text you received from your best friend… “y/n, you have to come over, i have tea.” you know what tea means… dick either hooked up with someone or really messed someone up the other night while you were sighing and mumbling into your phone microphone for your roommate to come and pick you up before you froze to death.

you agreed to hang out with him, to say the least. jason had rightfully parked your car back in the garage after you got in bed because you shouldn’t drive under the influence, obviously, so you were glad that when you checked, it was right where you needed it to be. speaking of jason, he was probably out… saving the world or something heroic as hero boys usually are doing, as you’ve learned over the years.

you sat across from starfire and dick at a diner. he ran into one of his friends on the way to meet you and called and asked if it was okay if she joined you guys. it obviously was, plus you were sure you had to set them up with each other at some point.

you munched on a nice breakfast, dick’s treat, as he talked, immersed in his story. “-and then this guy comes out of nowhere with a fog bomb and grapples away like he usually does, and i was thinking- ‘no, bruce, why would you do that, that was so dumb?’ and he throws down shock disks at the joker from the batwing, and then boom he was back at arkham asylum. crazy, right?” he asked.

it obviously was. you nodded, finishing up. you noticed starfire looking at him like he was the only person on the planet that she could ever even look at. it made your heart warm up, knowing that people could really adore other people like that still, especially after your failed drinks date last night with that horrible standoffish dude that talked bad about crime alley, where you and jason live.

speaking of standoffish dudes, you caught a glimpse of red hood, walking around gotham from inside the windows of the diner. he saw you and waved. waving? you thought he hated you, his name is opp in your phone. even though you were shocked, you waved back. what a weird way to start a monday morning, huh..

m.list | prev. part | next part

#jason todd x you #jason todd x reader #dc #dc comics #red hood x reader #red hood x you #dick grayson

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writing-mlm · 2 months ago

Note

maybe tim drake x male reader where tim falls back into his habit of just sort of studying people like he had batman and robin. he likes the reader but obviously tim has to analyze everything about him, his own habits paired with the suspicious nature instilled in him by batman wouldn’t let him casually take interest in somebody.

It's not stalking if we kiss

Summary: Tim can't process emotions normally and does everything wrong only... it works Pairing: Tim Drake x Male reader W.C: 4k a/n: guys I cant write Tim properly omfg I rewrote this a million times

People tend to forget that Tim is actually… kinda creepy. He is second on the stalker list, right behind Joe from You and now that he thinks about it, he might be better than Joe. For one, Joe is actually creepy. He’s a killer by choice, he’s the gross stalker. Tim is the informant stalker, considering himself more of a private investigator type of stalker. And, he’s not a stalker. He’s a detective who’s really good with technology. Everyone knows that.

Admittedly, he’s tried to grow out of those habits in his recent years. After being confronted with learning every single member of the JLA’s schedules without any of them noticing, he realized he had an issue. He went to therapy— he slept on it and watched a couple of movies and changed.

But man, old habits die hard.

He doesn’t realize he's fallen back into his stalking habits for a long while, that’s how second nature they had become over the years. Some sort of natural instinct he had since birth to learn about people that were only made worse through Bruce’s training and his paranoid nature. It was the perfect concoction for someone like Tim, leading him down a near-irreversible path.

Even now, as he’s watching the surveillance footage of you as you’re out on patrol several states away, he doesn’t realize it. His eyes flicker across the screen to find the street sign, Blecker Street, you’re seventeen blocks away from home and nearly three miles out from your patrol area. Having followed one of your old goons down to an alleyway before dipping into the restaurant they ran inside.

It was a temporary stay, your old mentor was going to be away for some time and needed someone to watch over their city in their absence. Naturally, you accepted and set up back in your old apartment, it had never been rented out considering your mentor was the landlord and sentimental in that way. But that didn’t stop Tim from worrying. He’s seen reports from that city, and while it’s not as bad as Gotham, the city had aliens and metas. It wasn’t something Gotham had to deal with often, something you had definitely stopped being used to.

Sipping his tea, Tim watches as you roll your neck and then your shoulder as you exit the restaurant with the goon in tow, it only tells him one simple fact; you’re tired. Probably another ten or so minutes before you called it a day and went back home. He grins, he prefers it when you’re home. Well, it’s not actually home, he thinks he should call it your place for the week instead. Your home is in Gotham now, it has been for several years now. He knows you've been neighbors for quite some time now.

Sure enough, after ten minutes you’ve called it a night and head back to your apartment. Once he gets a visual of you entering your apartment safely, he closes out the footage tabs on his laptop and goes to bed. It’s nearly eight in the morning in Gotham and he’s been up for nearly two days. His old— according to Jason— body isn’t used to staying up for four days straight anymore.

It sucks ass.

As he settles into bed, he just has to double-check that you’re okay. He flicks through the cameras he’s hacked into, seeing that you’ve entered the apartment and from the home security your neighbors have, he hears the door lock four times. That’s the lock, the deadbolt, and two additional locks and it settles him enough that he’s pulled into a slumber by the fact that you made it home safely.

—

It’s small things, at least that’s what everyone tells him. The small things matter and he wholeheartedly agrees, more often than not in crimes the smallest details could be the largest but he doesn’t know how that would apply to you. Why whenever he’d mention you to Dick or even Alfred, they’d tell him that. As if it was some major deciding factor in his friendship with you.

Ever the genius, he doesn’t connect it when he remembers the last time he was in your boat you’d mentioned how you hated the fact that people could look inside.

So, naturally, when he finds a one-way glass cover online, he just has to buy it for you. Never mind the fact that he installs it while you’re still out of the city and without getting any sort of permission from you. But he has a key for a reason. You clearly trust him. He doesn’t see why it would be a big deal for you. Maybe for others, but you’re different. You’re… well, you.

He installs it and has Bernard test it out from the outside and it works. Not that he doubted his work would ever fail. He checks for himself and he’s pleasantly surprised that someone would only be able to look inside if they got within an inch of the window. And he thoroughly doubts anyone could even get that close to begin with.

While he’s there, cleaning up the mess he didn’t mean to make, he notices that the fruits on your counter are going bad. It would be bad if you returned to a house of moldy food, so he throws it out and cleans the bowl before Tim decides he needs to make sure there’s nothing else wrong on the boat.

It’s only nice.

He ends up with a trash bag filled with nearly rotten fruit, an expired milk jug that only had one bowl of cereal left, some cleaning wipes, and a gross-smelling sponge. He knows you don’t live in filth, you hate dust and mold, so he figures the sponge had accidentally retained some nasty liquid that only got worse with your departure and subsequent lack of attention.

Tim, knowing you well enough, goes back out to replace the sponge but he rationalizes that if he’s buying a sponge he might as well restock your home. It feels weird going to the store to pick up just one thing. He takes a list of everything you’re running low on or out of entirely and sets out for the second time that day. Never mind the fact that he had agreed to drinks with Bernard who was now forced to tag along if he even wanted to get a taste of drinks later that night.

He returns to the boat with Bernard deciding to wait outside, something about not missing another planned event, and puts everything into their rightful place. He knows where everything goes, the meticulous spots that you never change whenever you deep clean.

Should he deep clean for you?

“Good God! Let’s go!” Bernard yells after Tim has spent a whole ten minutes debating if he should deep clean the entire boat.

“It’s not like you’re coming home with me,” He huffs, exiting the boat. Bernard raises an eyebrow and Tim raises his back. “You always go off when we get drinks— I’m just the wingman,”

“Yeah, a pretty shit one.” Bernard scoffs.

—

“Hey,” He answers his phone without looking up from his current case. It doesn’t have his attention, it hasn’t since you left, but he needs to get at least a little work done. Even if he’s still riding out the splitting headache from yesterday. “How’s city-sitting?” He glances at the phone, making sure it was on speaker.

“Calm,” You answer, crawling out onto the fire escape of your old apartment. “Better than Gotham— my place doesn’t move with the wind anymore, either.” You chuckle, now settled onto one of the old metal stairs.

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking of staying,” He frowns, taking the phone off of the speaker and pressing it to his ear. Now that he thinks about it, he wouldn’t mind moving to your city. It’s nice.

“Nah,” Your face scrunches as you say it. “It’s nice, but it’s too retirement home for me. I’m not ready to give up having a constant stock of bottled water and up-to-date gas masks.” You joke.

“That’s good,” He stops himself from sighing. “My rent would’ve gone up.” He jokes, flipping through the pages of his files.

“You’re rich,” You scoff, it’s playful. There’s no harm in it. “It’s crazy we’re paying rent to live on fucking water, though.” You add, leaning back on the stairs.

“Eh,” He shrugs, grabbing a pen and flipping it between his fingers. He’s sure somewhere in the galaxy someone is paying rent to live on air. “Capitalism will always be crazy.”

“Oh, by the way, the supermarket had a sale on those ice creams you like. I got you some,” He admits while putting the phone back on speaker.

“Bitch,” You draw out. Tim hears your smile and softly smiles, now taking apart his pen. “I love you, dude. Oh my god, I’m gonna raw dog them once I get back.” You all but moan.

“…sometimes I wish you thought before you spoke,” He cringes, staring at his phone. Never mind the way hearing you say that made him feel things.

“Sorry!” You laugh. “But, thanks. How much do I—“

“I’m rich,” He reminds you, putting the pen back together. His phone beeps midway putting the ink back into the metal casing and he glances at his phone. It’s an alert that your mentor was spotted back in the city. He smiles at the alert, a part of his nerves calming immediately.

Good, you’ll be back in two days.

“I gotta go,” He lies knowing your mentor will be back within the next two minutes.

“Ah, okay. Keep me updated about that case, I just know it’s that Elvis impersonator!” Standing up, you stretch and he nearly hears the pop of your joints.

“It’s not, but okay.”

He does very little in the window between then and your return, he’s mostly counting the hours and patrolling. It’s the usual for patrol, albeit a little boring without your chatter in his ear. He’s happy to report he didn’t get any major injuries in that time frame, though.

When you finally return to Gotham, Tim waits for you on the deck of the boat. He’s pretending to hardly care, acting caught up in some footage he’s reviewing to notice you walking up to the docks.

“Missed me?” You grin, stepping into the boat with ease. He remembers when you’d been so nervous to get on them before, fearing you’d fall into the nasty water below.

He looks up, a grin across his face and eyes taking you in. You’ve tanned in your absence, although he supposed Gotham doesn’t get nearly as much sun as Florida does.

“Hardly noticed you were gone,” He teases and closes his laptop. Rolling your eyes, you invite him inside. He takes the invitation with ease, slipping inside your boat as you scan around.

“You cleaned?” You ask, the smell of his favorite cleaning products still lingering in the air. “Don’t tell me that the Tim Drake had a party in my boat house!” You gasp, looking at him.

“Hardly,” He nudges you aside so he can sit on the couch bench. “You had some food going bad so I figured I might as well clean up.” He explains.

“Thanks, baby girl,” You draw out the girl, a southern twang coming through. Rolling his eyes, he watches as you kick your shoes off and toss your duffle bag into your bedroom before joining him on the couch. “How was the case?” Lugging your legs up to the spare room around you, you lay your head on his shoulder while he opens his laptop again and huffs. Not good, then.

“It’s the Elvis guy,” You quietly sing as he’s watching the footage again; that alone answers your question. The case isn’t even close to being finished. Yikes.

“It’s not him.” He insists, mindlessly scrolling through the stolen footage. “I’m starting to lean towards the woman I interviewed first, but I’m sure I’ll solve it before tomorrow.” As he speaks he’s biting back a yawn.

“Wanna take a nap, clear your head and shit?” You ask as you stand up. It was a long drive from Florida to Gotham and you were honestly beat. Probably another hour or so before your body took over and you knocked out.

“Of course,” He grins and you nod, taking a quick shower.

Naps with Tim aren’t anything new. He falls asleep often (you think there’s something medically wrong going on but what do you know) and you’re not going to leave the perfect opportunity to get a little sleep slip right past you. So, he’s gotten accustomed to dropping on your shoulder and sleeping; which naturally progressed into the two of you napping on couches or beds together. But only if you were seriously beat.

Joining Tim on your bed you find that he’s still awake but slowly falling asleep. Waiting up for you, his eyes peer towards the door as you enter and he lifts the sheets up for you. Joining him, you lay on your stomach, letting your body relax as he sleeps on his side, his back facing you.

Rolling onto your back, you let out a small sigh and turn your head to look at him.

“Stop staring,” He whispers, turning so now he’s facing you. With hardly open eyes, he stares at you, waiting for you to look away from him. Smiling, you make it a point to look away and turn away from him, raising the covers to your chin and trying to dig yourself deeper into the plush bed. Now he’s staring at you, almost pulled in towards you.

Tim knows he likes you. He thinks he’s laying his hints down well enough, he thinks he’s being romantic with his actions. He’s so sure you know that you’re just waiting for the right moment to ask him.

You aren’t.

Because you don’t know.

You’re not oblivious by any means, you know when someone likes you. But with Tim, that’s just how he’s always been. You’ve known him as the kid who found out Batman because he was an amazing detective, the guy you’d go to if you wanted to find something or someone. He always had those tendencies, so it didn’t make you bat an eye when you became his latest target.

It was like his acts of service and who are you to question it?

That’s not to say you don’t like him back.

No, it’s not weird that you’re sharing the same bed, chest to back. Yes, there’s plenty of space around the two of you, but what’s the harm in being close?

The harm is that Tim isn’t focusing on falling asleep.

You’re sound asleep, blissfully unaware of his qualms but Tim won’t keep his eyes off of you. His eyes trace the strands in your hair, settle on how you’ve accidentally shifted the cover down to your stomach with how much you kick. How you hardly dried off from the shower, favoring the peaceful sleep you knew was awaiting you instead of enjoying the privacy of your bathroom.

His eyes follow and trace your body again and he doesn’t do it with any intentions other than curious ones.

He doesn’t know where that shirt is from, he’s helped with your laundry before and he’s never seen that shirt but it’s faded enough that he knows it’s old. The collar is stretched out and the tag is sticking out, the words all but faded. It’s old and well-loved.

It’s probably one of the clothes you left behind in your old apartment.

Sighing, he closes his eyes and flips to his back, trying his best to fall asleep. It’s normally not an issue for him, he can fall asleep and wake up on command most days but today is different for some reason. Maybe he’s missed you so badly that his body won’t let him sleep until it’s felt he’s had enough time spent with you to make up for the absence.

“Can’t sleep?” You ask after he turns again, this time back to his original position.

“Sorry,” He mutters the apology, doing his best to seem as though he was falling asleep. He flips onto his back to look at you, a tired gaze clouding your eyes.

“It’s okay, I was hardly asleep.” You shrug and then make a face akin to a mischievous grin. “Wanna cuddle?” Looking at you, he tries to figure out if you’re joking or not. “But only if I’m a big spoon.” You add.

“That works,” He nods and turns his back to you, awkwardly shuffling back as you shuffle forward. Humming, you wrap your left arm around him and settle your head on top of his, with your right arm acting as another pillow for his head. His hair smells like your favorite scent and you’re surprised you hadn’t realized sooner. But it is a little faint.

“This good?” You mutter.

“Mhmm,” He hums and you hum back, letting your eyes close again.

—

Tim watches you as you work through the cameras; your day job is a normal, boring receptionist job at the hospital. You’re talking to a man while Tim is in the Batcave, his feet propped up on the desk and eyes strained to not blink. He’s thumbing through different angles and misusing Bruce’s tech to get information from everyone you talk to. All their records pop up to the screen on the left and he skims through them all.

No one is dangerous so far, aside from someone who was recently treated for lice. It makes his scalp itch when he thinks about it for too long.

“You should get a job,” Damian grunts from behind him. “This is creepy, even for you, Drake.” Tim waves him off, he’s not being weird. He’s just making sure you’re safe, that’s it. He also doesn’t care what the boy cleaning bloody swords has to say about his habits.

“I do have a job,” He mutters, switching the camera again. It’s time for your break and you’ll probably call soon. “I’m at Wayne Enterprises, running a team for the IT department.” The right screen switches to his work account where he’s running a code to fix his team's code. He’ll double-check it once he’s home.

He watches as you fish your phone out and he prepares for the call but his phone remains uncalled. The screen is black and you’re clearly in the middle of a call, he squints and decides to check who you’re calling. It could be debt collectors or scammers, he’s just looking out for you.

The number quickly runs through his database and he sighs, it’s fucking Bart.

“-m, he won’t say no to you.” Bart laughs and Tim watches as you shake your head, leaning against the wall of the break room.

“When you texted that it was an emergency, I assumed it was, you know, an emergency.” Oh, that makes more sense. Tim settled into his seat, you hadn’t preferred calling Bart over him.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I think my fridge breaking is an emergency!” Bart shouts. “Please— ask Tim to buy me a new one! One with a screen and a double fridge. Please!”

“No-“ Bart groans loudly into the phone. “You’re not helping your case right now.” You chide.

“Frick you, man.” Bart hangs up and you stare at your screen before moving to call Tim. He grins, exiting out of your phone, and stares at his phone. It rings and he waits three whole seconds before picking up.

“Drake is reaching new levels of creeper,” Damian tells Bruce as the older man walks into the Batcave. Tim pays no mind, walking away from the computer for privacy. “There are laws against these sorts of things.”

“Hey,” He ducks under Dick swinging around on a bar before messing with memorabilia on the shelves. “I was starting to think you forgot about me.”

“You? Never,”

—

You’re upset. Tim doesn’t know why but he knows you are. All of the lights are on in the boat and he can hear the bass in whatever music you’re playing. Had it been any louder it might’ve begun to rattle the windows.

He knocks on the door for two minutes straight before he unlocks the door himself. You don’t notice, which is an issue in itself, but to your credit, you notice when he steps further inside.

“What happened?” He carefully asks, the music lowering with several clicks from the remote. You shrug, not the worst sign of your mood, and shift over to invite him inside. “Work?” Nodding, he frowns. Of course, it would be the one day he couldn’t watch over the cameras that something would happen.

“I got written up because I didn’t let this group of teenagers spit at me.” You explain. “You’d think working at a hospital they’d understand how nasty spit is. But apparently, they’re doctors, kids so it’s whatever.” Fiddling with your laptop, he catches the Job Finders tab hidden in a mess of random tabs. Good, he’s always hated that job for you.

“Was it that manager with the yellow hair? Linny?”

“It always is!” You exclaim, tossing the empty soda can into the trash can. “One more write-up and I’ll go on probation again.”

“You could come and work at Wayne Enterprises.” He offers, eyes rising slowly from the laptop to you... “I’m pretty sure I have an opening as a receptionist. Or other jobs… of course. In case you wanted a change of jobs.” You look at him, eyebrows raise and he offers a smile.

“It is closer,” You trail off.

“Benefits are great, too.” He grins. “And I’m not just talking about seeing me every day.” Pushing his arm, he laughs and closes your laptop. “I’m serious! You’ll get paid more, no one would yell at you because we never get anyone wanting to see us, and there’s sick time.”

“Okay, I’ll apply,” You give in and he cheers, holding you with one arm before shaking you. Laughing, you cover your mouth and push away from him. “But next week, I’m busy this week. You’ll put in a good word for me, right?”

“Of course, what else would I use my position of power for?”

“Let me shower and we can… watch a movie?” You ask and he nods, watching you leave. Once the shower turns on he fumbles with his phone.

“B, can you give me a receptionist?… No, I know there’s no need but I kinda told (Y/n)—… Okay, and? Like you haven’t lied to anyone!… Please, I’m sorry. Just can you make that a job?… Oh, thank god!”

—

A week later, Tim helps you send in a resume. Of course, since the official announcement of a new position, there have been dozens of applications. All of which Tim is in charge of reviewing. Not that you would know.

You’re relieved when you get the interview— put in your two weeks when you’re told you’ve made it to the final interview stage— and sit with Tim while you’re waiting to hear if you got the job.

Your phone rings as you’re pacing around the boat, second-guessing putting in your two weeks. Not really, though, because Linny had given you another write-up for clocking back in from lunch a minute late. You have Tim answer it for you and he puts it on speaker, watching as you hear the news you’ve gotten the job.

“Okay, thank you so much!” Ending the call, you stare at Tim slack-jawed. “Tim, I could kiss you!” He stares at you for a moment before he shrugs.

“Why don’t you?” He asks and you blink before licking your lips. His eyes follow before he does the same. “Not that you have to, because you got the job. I wouldn’t expect anything just because I put in a good word for you.”

“Of course,” You nod. “But is it weird that I still want to?”

“No,” He shakes his head, stepping closer.

“Cool,” Tentatively, you cup his face and lean in. He meets you, eyes immediately closing as you kiss. His hands find yours, moving it down to his waist. He holds you there, relishing this feeling.

#tim drake x male reader #x male reader #x reader #tim drake x reader #tim drake x you #red robin x male reader #red robin x reader

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hairstevington · 7 months ago

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call me when you get this

Eddie Munson x Steve Harrington

Summary: Eddie and Steve are best friends, but even the best of friends have secrets.

WC: 3K

Warnings: Story told through voicemails, mild angst, coming out to each other, secret feelings, friends to lovers, kissing, swearing, light angst very brief, references to Robin and Gareth, drunk shenangians, idiots in love, set in 1991 but it doesn't matter too much, no mention of the Upside Down stuff

A/N: I have like three other WIP's happening and zero time but this idea was given to me by the beloved @tinytalkingtina in the discord and then I couldn't get it out of my head. Ao3 link here for those interested!

Tuesday, September 24th, 1991, 12:52am

GARETH hi yes I know it’s late but HAVE YOU LISTENED TO THE ALBUM YET? I need all of your thoughts immediately. Like, all of them. Every thought. Dude, my head is spinning. Ohhh, man. Kurt is a fuckin’ legend. Woooow. Okay, I could talk about this shit for like three hours but I don’t want to run out your tape so just call me back when you get this and then talk to me about it for three hours. Can I come over a little early tomorrow? Yeah, I’m gonna come over a little early tomorrow. Maybe a lot early. Alright, catch ya then.

Tuesday, September 24th, 1991, 3:40pm

Uhh, ha. Hey Steve. Thiiiis is Eddie, obviously. I, uh, I just realized I called you in the middle of the night last night on accident, and - uhh, sorry about that. It was just - ah, screw it. You know what I am. Byeeeeee-

Tuesday, September 24th, 1991, 7:30pm

“Hey, it’s Eddie. I proooobably won’t listen to whatever you’re about to say, but shoot your shot anyway.”

Eds, how many times do I have to tell you to change your answering machine message? What if, like, the president calls? Okay, maybe not the president. But an employer or something. Or, like, what if you give the girl of your dreams your number and she calls you and hears THAT? Food for thought. Uhh, anyway, it’s fine. I wasn’t even home when you called me. Robin was, though, and so you’ll probably hear her wrath next time you come over for movie night. Good luck with that. Oh, wait. You’re at a show tonight, right? Damn. I swear I’ll make the next one. Okay, bye, dickhead.

Wednesday, September 25th, 1991, 1:12pm

“You have reached Steve Harrington. Figured I should say that in case whoever is calling me thinks they’re calling someone else. Anyway, I’m busy right now so I’ll call you back. Bye!”

Ha, ha. You are so funny, Harrington. You ever think about being a stand-up comedian? Jesus, and you say I’M the dramatic one. Uhh, the show last night went well, by the way. Not that you were THERE. Seriously, what kind of friend even are you? I’m hurt, Steve. I’m hurt. Anyway, see you tomorrow for movie night. I get to pick. It’s only fair, right?

Thursday, September 27th, 1991, 4pm

“Hey, it’s Eddie. I proooobably won’t listen to whatever you’re about to say, but shoot your shot anyway.”

You’re not picking the goddamn movie. No way. Last time you did that we got scarred for life. Also, um. I can’t tell if you’re joking or not about me and your shows. I didn’t realize you - uhh, you’re probably joking. Forget I said anything, and see you tonight. I’m at work right now, so I’m gonna rent some backup options just in case.

Sunday, September 30th, 1991, 2pm

“Hey, it’s Eddie. I proooobably won’t listen to whatever you’re about to say, but shoot your shot anyway.”

Dustin says you were being a total dick last night. Good. That shrimp deserves to be humbled every once in a while. Your answering machine message still sucks, by the way, and yeah I’m gonna tell you every time.

Monday, October 1st, 1991, 3:21pm

“Hey, this is Steve.”

“And Robin!”

“And you’ve somehow managed to call us when neither of us are here.”

“We are probably together.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Or we just don’t want to talk to you.”

“Oh, that too.”

“Either way, leave a message and we’ll get back to you later!”

“Probably.”

“Probably!”

Steve. My guy. I can’t believe you make fun of me for my bullshit message all the time and now you’ve created and advertised THAT abomination?? I’m - wow. I forgot why I even called.

Monday, October 1st, 1991, 3:23pm

“Hey, this is Steve.”

“And Robin!”

“And you’ve somehow managed to call us when neither of us are here.”

“We are probably together.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Or we just don’t want to talk to you.”

“Oh, that too.”

“Either way, leave a message and we’ll get back to you later!”

“Probably.”

“Probably!”

Okay, I remember now. I know you said you have that date tomorrow with Heidi or Melissa or Samantha or whoever is currently obsessed with you, but I really do want you at the show if you can make it. You can bring her, if you want. Actually, it might be a good test. If she hates metal, she fails. I only want the best suitors for you, Steve Harrington. Be there or I’ll be REALLY annoying about it forever.

Tuesday, October 2nd, 1991, 11:45pm

“Hey, it’s Eddie. I proooobably won’t listen to whatever you’re about to say, but shoot your shot anyway.”

Hey, it’s Steve. So, uh - I saw your show tonight. You’re probably not home yet, but I don’t know where you are. Cuz like, I tried to find you after your set but you disappeared. I hope everything’s okay. You sounded great, by the way. I mean, you all did. Remember me when you’re playing at the Garden? Oh also, I heard like three women talk about how badly they wanted you, so…I dunno, just figured you’d like to hear that. Hey, maybe you got with one of them and that’s why you’re not answering. In that case, hope you’re having fun? Okay, now it’s weird. Bye, Eds.

Wednesday, October 3rd, 12:54am

“Hey, this is Steve.”

“And Robin!”

“And you’ve somehow managed to call us when neither of us are here.”

“We are probably together.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Or we just don’t want to talk to you.”

“Oh, that too.”

“Either way, leave a message and we’ll get back to you later!”

“Probably.”

“Probably!”

Steeeeeeeeeeeve. You absolute buffoon. You beautiful, oblivious man. Why’dya think I wanted you there’so badly t’night, Steve? T’wasn’t for the girls. Ha, girls. Yeah, okay. I may have had several alcoholic beverages, Steve-o, but you’re still the dumbass. Cuz you’d have to be an absolute idiot t’think I have any interest in those women. ‘Specially yours. Your women, I mean. Sandyyyyy. Ugh, she was perfect for you, Harrington. Juuuust perfect. So perfect I didn’t wanna stick around to see any more of it. I hope you two have beautiful children. Name one after me, will you? Uhhhh I think I might puke. So, I’m gonna go, but - but do you get what I’m saying? Do you - do you get it? Tell me you get it. Steve, I - Oh, hey Gareth. Do you wanna talk to Steve? Wait why are you - Dude, I’m FINE. I’m handling it! Stop! Gareth, don’t hang up the phone, I haven’t -!

Wednesday, October 3nd, 1991, 9:05am

“Hey, it’s Eddie. I proooobably won’t listen to whatever you’re about to say, but shoot your shot anyway.”

Dude, did you fucking break into our apartment last night? Robin and I came home this morning and found a broken lock and some shitty note we could barely read next to the answering machine, and - what the fuck, man? You wiped the damn thing clean. Just - call me back, okay? Jesus.

Wednesday, October 3nd, 1991, 11:36am

“Hey, it’s Eddie. I proooobably won’t listen to whatever you’re about to say, but shoot your shot anyway.”

Eddie, come on. We really need to talk. I’m not - I’m not mad, honest to God. Call me back, as soon as you get this. Got it?

Thursday, October 4th, 1991, 3:47pm

“Hey, it’s Eddie. I proooobably won’t listen to whatever you’re about to say, but shoot your shot anyway.”

It’s movie night, but I’m assuming you won’t be here considering you’ve pulled your magic disappearing act. Thanks for that, by the way. You know you really piss me off sometimes? All the time, actually. I’m getting real tired of you constantly poking fun at me, and then you pull this breaking and entering shit and just take off? Just like that? We’ve been friends for years, Eds. You and me. But you never want to just be serious, not once in your goddamn life, and I’m over it. So, uh, thanks for that, I guess. I dunno what I did.

Sunday, October 7th, 1991, 1:12pm

Hi! You have reached Steve Harrington and Robin Buckley’s home. Leave a message at the beep!

Huh. You know what? I kind of miss the old message you had. Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m impossible to please, yada yada yada, and now I’m doing the avoiding with humor thing again. Shit. Uhh, hi. Listen, I’m sorry I disappeared off the face of the earth for a while. Really, really fucking sorry, if you can believe it. I was just, like, mad embarrassed, and I didn’t wanna - uh, can we meet up soon? Alone? Like, without Robin even? I know that’s - like, unheard of these days, but I figure maybe you’d make an exception for me. Or maybe you won’t. Just let me know, yeah?

Sunday, October 7th, 1991, 1:30pm

Hi! You have reached Steve Harrington and Robin Buckley’s home. Leave a message at the beep!

See, I would just hop on over to your place to talk but the thing is, I’m a total chickenshit and it’s not like I did super well the last time I showed up to your place unannounced, so…Uhh, while we’re on the subject, I’m sorry about your lock. If you haven’t replaced it yet, I will. I’ll at least pay you back. In my defense, that thing was like two seconds from falling off anyway. But still. Anyway, I know you always spend Sundays at home, soooo…hellooooo? Come on. At least pick up the phone and tell me to fuck off. I know you’re listening. At least - I hope you are, anyway. Just pick up, man. I - I really gotta talk to you.

Sunday, October 7th, 1991, 1:37pm

Hi! You have reached Steve Harrington and Robin Buckley’s home. Leave a message at the beep!

So, quick update, I called Henderson. He confirmed you are at home, which means you are DEFINITELY listening, and either you’re trying to punish me or a part of you still finds my piece of shit ass charming somehow. Look, I know I fucked up, but - but I can explain. Shit. I mean, I’m not good with words or anything and I’m a total asshole but I - just, please. Pick up. Pick uuuuup. Come on. Now you’re just being a dick. Ha. Figures, I’m apologizing and calling you a dick in the same message. Dude. Seriously. Your tape is gonna run out of space and then what? You stop hearing from me? I’ll find other ways to annoy you, promise. This is a threat. Steve. Steeeeve. Pick up pick up pick up pick upppp -

“Will you just shut the hell up already?”

Eddie dropped the phone and heard it clack against the floor. He would have recognized that voice anywhere.

He turned around and there he was.

“Steve, what are you -?”

“You would just be yapping on that damn answering machine my whole drive here,” Steve said with his hands on his hips. “I don’t know why I expected any less. And, thanks to you, we had all the space in the world for you to take up, so -”

“H-how did you get in here?” Eddie stuttered.

Steve rolled his eyes. “What? You think you’re the only one who’s not afraid of breaking and entering?”

They hadn’t seen each other in five days. Hadn’t even talked, aside from a few voicemails. And those never told the whole story.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie began.

“Yeah, you should be,” Steve replied, taking a step closer to Eddie in the kitchen.

Eddie winced, his heart racing a million miles a minute. He just had to get all of the words out, while he still could. While Steve was listening.

“I left you this really stupid voicemail,” Eddie explained. “That night, after the show. I was drunk off my ass, and - and Gareth told me I’d said shit I shouldn’t have said, and then I panicked, and the two of us went to your apartment and I - well, you know the rest.” He slumped down into the chair at the dining room table, putting his head in his hands. “Which is all just so dumb. And I didn’t wanna deal with the aftermath, so…”

“So you stopped talking to me?” Steve said, taking another step closer. “Because you thought that would be the straw that broke the camel’s back in our friendship?”

Eddie shook his head. “I dunno, I -”

“You’ve done some real weird shit over the years, Munson,” Steve continued. “Sneaking into my apartment doesn’t even make the top three.”

Eddie buried his face in his hair. No amount of boyish charm would get him out of this one. Jesus H. Christ.

He sighed. “Okay, so I overreacted, what else is new?”

“I heard the voicemail, dickhead.”

Eddie’s heart went from breakneck speeds to stopping entirely.

“What?”

Steve sat down in the other seat at the table. “I heard the voicemail. It was 1am, again, so yeah I was at home.”

“I thought you would have been with Sandy,” Eddie muttered.

Steve shook his head. “Nah, Sandy was - she’s great and all, but she isn’t - she’s not -”

“So you heard the voicemail, but you weren’t home when I showed up,” Eddie noted.

“Right,” Steve said. “Because I was headed to your place.”

“What?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “I just - I didn’t understand why you never told me you were queer. Like, you know I don’t care about that. You know about Robin…”

As Steve talked, Eddie realized that Steve only heard half of what that voicemail was trying to express. So, it was time for Eddie Munson to face the music.

“I didn’t tell you I’m gay because I knew that once I did, you’d figure out the rest of it,” Eddie blurted out.

Steve furrowed his eyebrows. “The rest of it?”

Eddie groaned. “Oh, God. See, drunk me had the right idea saying this kind of shit over an answering machine. Christ, I’m so bad at this, but I’m just gonna say it, because if I don’t I think I’ll lose my shot with you and I - I can’t deal with that. So, here we go.” He squeezed his eyes shut and powered through. “Steve, I - ha, shit. I love you, dude. I’m - I’m IN love with you. I have been since, like, forever.” He opened his eyes, but kept them fixed on their feet against the linoleum kitchen floor. “Which is, uhh, a lot, I know. But it’s the truth. So if there’s any chance -”

“Oh, my God,” Steve interrupted. His voice wasn’t angry, or scared, or anything like that. It was soft and understanding.

“Yeah,” Eddie agreed. “Wait, what are you thinking?” He looked up to see Steve staring off into the distance before meeting his gaze.

“I’m thinking,” Steve replied. “That I owe Robin twenty bucks.”

Eddie cocked his head to the side and felt his heart skip back into rhythm. “You do?”

Steve nodded with a slight smile. At some point, his hand had ended up on Eddie’s knee. “Yeah, I didn’t believe her. Told her no way, not possible.”

Eddie didn’t know how to feel about this reaction. It wasn’t the worst possible response, but it certainly wasn’t Oh, Eddie! How I’ve longed for you all this time! Take me now!

A middleground, if you will.

“Oookay,” Eddie said. “Well, I don’t really know what to say now.”

“I’m queer too, ya know,” Steve continued.

"Wait, really?" Eddie balked. "Steve Harrington, ladies man?"

Steve chuckled. "Uh, yeah. Turns out, not so much," he said. "I feel like I’m pretty open about it. Guys, girls, whatever -”

“Yeah, but we all do that,” Eddie reasoned. “Me, you, and Robin all talking about how hot everyone is on our movie nights. It doesn’t prove anything.”

“Except that it totally does,” Steve countered. “Because, like, what do we all have in common?"

Eddie thought about it, and he didn’t have any other defenses.

“O-okay, so you’re queer too,” Eddie said. “And the other thing I said?”

Steve took a deep breath and looked Eddie directly in his frightened eyes.

“Eds, obviously I love you too,” Steve admitted at last. “Come on, seriously? After all I’ve put up with? I’ve been waiting around for like five days for you to call, like some lovesick puppy, and the moment I heard your voice I drove here instead of picking up the phone like a normal person. I’ve got it so bad for you that Robin is sick of it, and honestly, I’m sick of it too, because I hate having feelings. It blows, dude. I swear to God, if you try to bolt again when things get tough -”

Eddie lunged forward and cut Steve’s words off with a kiss. Their first kiss, even if it didn’t feel that way. Eddie had cupped Steve’s cheek in the past while he teased him. Steve had curled his fingers in Eddie’s hair in the past the night Robin taught him how to braid. Eddie and Steve had all kinds of physical contact in various ways over the years, and it was as if all of that was just practice for this.

Eddie broke away from Steve’s lips purely out of necessity, because he needed to catch his breath. “Okay, woah,” he said.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Woah.”

Everything changed after that. But also, nothing changed at all.

Tuesday, October 16th, 1991, 4:12pm

“Hey, this is Eddie Munson’s phone. Leave a message and I’ll call ya back.”

Hi, Eds. Okay, I was wrong. This new message you have is, like, super boring. Anyway, I’ll see you at the show tonight, Rockstar. Love you.

I did have a taglist way back when but the tagging system is super annoying on tumblr, so please reblog this if you liked it and follow me or my Ao3 for other works! Masterlist is the pinned post on my page for those interested. Thanks for reading!

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #writing #st fanfic

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months ago

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Cool for the Summer 4

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power dynamics, cheating, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After finishing your degree, you return home only to find things aren’t as you left them.

Characters: Bucky Barnes

Note: baby girls, he we go.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You rinse out the bowl you used for your oatmeal. It’s only as the back door opens that you notice the roar of the mower’s stopped. You put the porcelain in the dishwasher and shut it as you hear footsteps down the hall. It’s almost ten o’clock.

“Hey, baby girl,” Bucky greets your back as he enters. “I just put fresh water in the hot tub. Might go for a soak myself, try to loosen up these muscles.”

You face him, “hot tub?”

“Oh, yeah. Guess that’s new too.” He chuckles. “Another one of my projects.”

“Right,” you nod. A sudden buzz makes your jump.

You look around and scurry across the kitchen to grab your phone. It’s a message from your mom. But why would she text you? Can’t she just come downstairs?

‘Is Bucky still there?’

You stare at the message and frown. Huh?

“Everything okay, doll?” Bucky asks. Your eyes flick up.

“Um, yeah, erm, it’s my mom...” you shake your head.

“Right, how’s work going for her?” He plants a hand on the counter and leans.

“Work? It’s her day off,” you blink.

“Ah, yeah, she said she didn’t want to wake you up when she left. She got called in. Emergency.” He explains.

You clutch the phone as you stare at him dumbly. Why didn’t he mention that earlier? Well, it’s not on him, you could have checked. But if she’s gone, why is he still here?

“Don’t spoil the surprise,” he says, “about the lawn.”

“I won’t,” you look down and text her back.

“So how about it? You up for a soak?” He asks again.

“Um, I’ll think about it. Just gonna chat with my mom,” you waggle your phone at him and meander to the door.

‘Great. You two can get to know each other.’

Her answer is disappointing. You thought she’d be surprised, maybe confused. It’s all perfectly normal to them. You’re still adjusting. If she’d told you before you got there, it wouldn’t feel so strange.

At the same time, you don’t want to let her down. You can’t just ignore her message. You have to try but you feel like you haven’t even had time to settle in. And he’s not the only thing that’s different. Your room doesn’t even feel like yours.

You stand at the bottom of the stairs. You key in a final reply. ‘Ok’. That’s it. A tepid agreement.

“Hey,” Bucky surprises you again. “Invitation stands,” he wipes his forehead, his bicep bulging as he does, the muscles of his chest straining. “I’m just going to get in my trunks.”

“Uh, I... I’ll think about it,” you make yourself take a step up and climb steadily, refusing to look back.

You stare at the phone. You don’t want to be rude. You’re sure there’s a reasonable explanation for why your mother didn’t mention him. You might do the same in her shoes. After so long being single, she was probably just letting it pan out.

Still, she could have said something when you were on the train.

Whatever. It’s not your place to complain. You’re still living under her roof, rent-free, after years of tuition on her dime and a lifetime of dependency. You can pretend like this is all okay.

You go into your room and shut the door behind you. You wouldn’t have a swim suit in the dresser, you didn’t bother to pack it for college. Wherever your other clothes are, it should be there. You just don’t know where that is.

A tank top and shorts should do the trick. You prefer that to an actual swimsuit. It won’t feel so revealing.

You take out a hot pink spaghetti strap shirt and a pair of black shorts. You switch out your clothes, catching your foot in the shorts and tripping slightly. You stand up, shirtless, leaning on the vanity as you get your balance.

You glimpse your reflection and shy away. You tie the string of the shorts and reach for the tank top. You pull it over your head and check yourself in the mirror. It will do. You hope.

As you come out of the room, another door opens. You peer down the hall as Bucky emerges from your mother’s room. You gulp and flick your eyes away from him. He wears a pair of light blue shorts, so short you might mistake them for briefs. His thick thighs and torso flex with his movement as he approaches, a towel over his shoulder.

“You changed your mind?” He asks as he comes closer.

“Erm, well, I... I’ll give it a try. I’ve never really been in a hot tub, so...” You poke your fingertips together nervously. You don’t want to tell him your mother told you to be social.

“Great, kinda feel like a loser sitting in there by myself. It’s really too bad your mom had to go in.” He sighs.

Yeah, it is. You wonder why he didn’t mention it sooner. Or why he’s hanging around. You guess you don’t really know how things work around here anymore.

“Don’t forget a towel,” he winks as he pats the one on his shoulder. “I’ll go get the cover off and you can come hop on in.”

He brushes by you, his knuckle glancing off you as he does. You shuffle down to the linen closet and take out a towel. You don’t follow him right away.

Your stomach is a flurry of nerves. It’s just the oatmeal. It always sits like a lump. You didn’t think about that, you were just hungry.

You go downstairs and drag your feet to the back door. You come out onto the deck and peer around. The tub sits in the deck, installed where the table used to be. It steams as Bucky steps into it. He sighs and groans, muscles clenching up his back and sides. He must work out a lot.

You look down at yourself. Self-consciousness creeps over you. It’s been a while since you thought so much about it. You tried not to focus much on your body; as long as you liked what you’re wearing, you don’t worry about what’s underneath. You don’t have the most extravagant taste but you have a few cute pieces.

He lowers himself into the water and lets out another drone. He shifts around to face you but doesn’t seem to notice you as he closes his eyes and leans his head back. He takes a deep breath so his chest puffs out.

You set your towel next to his on the small table near the edge. You near and stand at the lip of the tub. Can you just sneak away?

“Hey,” his voice rolls over the bubbling water, “it’s not bad. Come on. It feels great. It’ll loosen you right up.”

You nod and bite your lip. You get down on your butt before you ease yourself down onto the seat of the tub. The water steams and spits just beneath your shoulders. It is nice though it does raise a thick sheen across your forehead.

“Mmm, trust me, when you’re mine age, you’ll need one of these,” he smirks. “So,” he stretches his arms around the frame of the tub, “what’s the plan, doll?’

“The plan?” You flap your lashes.

“For the summer? Beach days with the girls? You wanna invite some friends over? You can have the tub to yourself,” he offers.

“Mm, no, I... I’m looking for work. Uh, probably send out more applications.” You shrug.

“Looking for a job? Ah, right, no more school, huh? Exciting. You got the whole world in front of you.”

“Mhm, yeah,” you reach to rub your neck.

“I’m sure you’ll still have time to hang out with your friends,” he insists.

“Uh, I don’t... I don’t really have any,” you utter. You look away and stare at the fence.

“No? Well, all my buddies are too busy for me. I know how you feel.” He says, “you know, we could be friends.”

“Um, yeah, maybe,” you look at him again as you chew your lip. His eyes snap up from your chest. You look down and try not to show your horror. Your nipples are entirely visible as the pink fabric clings to you. You cross your arms. “You’ll be busy with my mom.”

“Not all the time,” he says “You know, ever since she got this promotion, she’s been too busy for me.”

“Ah, erm, I'm sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” He asks.

You shake your head, “I don’t know...”

“Mm, I know why,” he tilts his head.

You stare at him in confusion.

“You know a guy like me shouldn’t be kept waiting around. You’re a sweetheart, aren’t you? You can’t help but feel bad knowing I’m left all on my own. Lonely.” He traces a finger along the edge of the tub as he speaks.

“I... guess. I don’t... know? I just...” You look away again. You can hardly stand the heat of the water as it boils your blood.

He snickers and you wince as he shifts around the tub, sliding into the seat next to you. He slips his arm behind you as he does. You shrink down and stare at the deck railing. What is he doing?

“This is nice, isn’t it? Getting to know each other?” His fingers tickle your shoulder as he crowds you. “You know, seems like we have a lot in common, doesn’t it?”

“Um, erm,” you squirm in the seat. “I think... maybe... I should...”

“Relax, it won’t do you any good if you don’t relax,” he girds. “I’m just saying, baby girl, seems like we’re both pretty lonely.”

He leans back into the hot tub and lets his head fall back. You bend your arm, rubbing your other, and fidget. You want to just go but you’re scared to move. You don’t think you’re really afraid of him, he probably won’t stop you, but you’re just all locked up.

You sit there, staring through the slats at the green lawn. The water babbles and your ears pulse. He continues to caress your shoulder.

“Mm, baby girl, come on, just let yourself...” he taps your arm, “lean back, huh?”

You obey. You lean back into the tub and slide down in the seat, trying to mimic him. Your head hits his arm as you recline. It is nice as the jets shoot up your back.

“Wait, wait, you gotta get in the right...” he grabs your thigh and drags you towards him. “..place. Make sure you hit all the pressure points.”

As he moves you, you spasm and cry out in surprise. A jet blows right against your shorts, a stream of water that sends tingles through you. You try to move back but he holds you in place. He squeezes your thigh and kneads.

“Ah, yeah, baby girl, right there? Doesn’t it feel good?”

You squeak as the water hits your clit through your thin shorts. You put your hand on his and wiggle. That only makes it more intense. Does he know what’s happening?

“Please...” you gasp.

“What did I say? Relax,” he continues to rub his fingertips into your thigh. “You’re all tense, baby girl. Let it go.”

Your eyes round and you contort, trying to take the pressure off your clit. It doesn’t help. You puff out and grab onto his arm without thinking. He needs to let go. You can feel a throbbing inside of you. It hurts. Please, stop.

The sensation crests and coils through you. Your muscles clench then release all at once. You squeal in shock and shame as your body twitches. You think you just... orgasmed?

“Baby girl, what is it?” Bucky leans into you.

“I...” you heave. “I-- nothing.”

“Mmm, nothing?” His hand crawls up your leg and over your stomach. He twists and bends his arm, cradling your head and turning you to face him. You shiver as he cups your chest through the wet fabric and runs his thumb over the hard bud beneath. “Cause I think you just came in this nice clean water.” He leans in closer until you feel his breath against your lips, “baby girl, I thought you were going to be good for me?”

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #cool for the summer #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #avengers #au #marvel #mcu #captain america #winter soldier

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inkskinned · 2 years ago

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okay yes it's often bad and hard and sometimes i am so anxious my whole body feels like it's vibrating but also at the same time the gps took me a different way on my drive and i got to see more of the river than i usually do and yesterday the sun was still above the horizon after 7pm and that was amazing and the whole sky turned an orange-gold like how they try to make ice cream taste; you know, one of those evenings that just tears you open no matter how jaded you get. it's warm for the first time here and people had lined up against the water just to stand outside and watch the sunset

and yeah it's tax season no i haven't done mine yet but when i mentioned it offhand in a single side-comment three days later my friend sent me a list of helpful tips and followed up to see if i'd need help on them

there's this parking lot for a walking trail near where i live and one of the two google reviews is my actual favorite: love it here. there were so many beautiful parking spots but sadly we could only take one. and no this person isn't going to go viral and probably the only people navigating to this spot are extremely local - but there's something so precious to me about someone taking the time to write something that will make strangers in their community laugh, even though there's no way for me to tell them good one! directly

yes i am not doing well sometimes i'm doing even very-badly but recently i have been given enough breathing room to say okay, this situation is bad, but then it will be over, and you will be moving onto the next thing and it's true that i need to get groceries and pay rent and argue with my health insurance but it is also true that in the absolute stress and anarchy of my life today someone recognized my dog before they recognized me and was so excited because "they tell everyone about the greyhound in the area and didn't get a picture before so can they take a picture now please"

in class we all stand in a circle and are all grown adults and for a moment while the teacher is figuring something out, we all hold hands, just to be silly and connected. for no reason at all at 8pm on a thursday my friends and i start breaking out the dance moves to high school musical. my coworker gchats me during a meeting about the book he recommended to me and i'm enjoying reading

i help a high school set up for a star-themed dance and while putting up streamers i find graffiti that says if you're reading this, i love you, and we're both going to get out of here right next to fuck everyone, live out of spite, don't let the fuckers make you die. on the bridge where i walk my dog someone has written i love you and on the sidewalk in chalk someone has written i love you and on the side of the water tower someone has written i love you

at the bottom of a text post an internet poet says - i love you, i love you, i love you. i've never met you, i love you because you exist and we exist together. and isnt that enough for now. just for this moment, i mean. like, if you just close your eyes and breathe - somewhere, across this world, i love you, because you're here with me.

#writeblr #pos #i am actually not doing well at all but the spring is bringing hope back at least lol

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soulfulazrael · 2 months ago

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Stella being Beatrice of Helluva Boss is pure idiocy at this point in the show.

Hello there. I am posting something. That's a new. Reminded myself "Oh yeah this site exists" and decided to post some shait about HB. Why not?

Drawn by wholetthemonst1

There was something I came across some time ago in Helluva Boss community and that is the idea that Viv wants to make Stella into a character reminiscent of Beatrice Horseman from Bojack Horseman. And as someone who loves Bojack and respects Bojack and I can probably say now HB is my Becker (wink, wink, nudge nudge WATCH BOJACK IF YOU HAVEN'T) I have to say my piece about it.

But first let's start with Beatrice Horseman herself (careful, there will be spoilers for the 4th and 5th season of Bojack Horseman if you are still going through it). So... Beatrice Horseman. Who was she? What was her deal? Well she was a horse born in 193- okay, okay I am not doing that whole bit. Sorry. Let's get into it. Beatrice Horseman. She is probably one of the most despicable and yet complex characters in the whole of Bojack Horseman. A show known for complex characters and stories. It's a show that many people would say is unfair to compare to Helluva Boss, but given that apparently Viv wants to compare one of her characters to the ones from that then it's free game, wild west baby so let's get on with it already.

Again. Beatrice. Despicable, abusive, terrible, terrible person that is contributor to the kind of man Bojack is in the show. There is no beating around the bush that she was a horrid person that one could say at first glance is not too disimilar to the Stella we know and boy isn't that just the perfect test for who watched that show and who didn't. Because I did and I can say for certain if they were doing that from the start, it's already a complete failure for two reasons.

First off. The photo from The Circus. If there is something Beatrice wasn't, it was being terrible from the start. She was not, everyone who watched the show will tell you with 100% certainty that she never begun as this terrible person. She went through a lot, doesn't excuse the abuse she put her own child through, but we know for certain she did not start like that and this is a big problem with the photo shown in the Circus.

Because nothing speaks sweet and nice than a complete psycho strangling puppies. Yeah I am not going to sugar coat. This photo single handedly made me about 90% done with Helluva Boss. I could see everything that was going to happen the moment I saw and so far I was not too far off. And this is a major failure on HB's part. Making Stella a psychopath who strangles puppies from early childhood. And I get that it's supposed to be funny, but Bojack itself never sacrificed narrative coherency for some dumb unfunny comedy. Especially did not sacrifice depth of the character that Beatrice was.

And one may say "Well the first times we saw Beatrice she was a despicable one note villain as well" and to that I say... no. First time we see her is where she is clearly dissatisfied with her marriage with Butterstoch who seems to be even more terrible than she is at that point and nothing points towards her being some terrible Satan like figure. We do see pieces of abuse she put Bojack through, but she never enters the realm of being so horrid that it becomes too cartoony. Aside from some obvious things like the argument of hers with Butterstoch (I still have I'M EXITATING live rent free in my head). But those moments never made Beatrice into someone who is just evil for the sake of being so. At least there was always this lingering feeling that she is the way she is not just because this is simply how she is. There were already reasons for it given to us in the very first season.

And you know what. They actually started it okay. In first season we saw Stella being more passively dismissive if not just uncaring about Octavia's crying, but it was not something that got across her being some terrible monster, just someone very tired and someone who probably is not there of their own volition. Makes her still terrible, but you can work up from there, but HB never did. I say what they gave her in Season 1 while cartoony in many ways like her screaming so much and hiring hitman did not kill the potential for her to be complex as much as that photo of hers did in Season 2 which again, I think already sank any potential for her to be complex.

But some other people will say "Well we do not know the context of that photo". What context? You want to add context to a girl strangling and beating puppies? Really? Because let me tell you no matter what you do, it will NEVER work. Adding any sort of context to make this kind of photo feel like it makes sense for any sort of complex character will result in laughable at best results that will make it feel like this show doesn't know what the hell it's doing.

Because you do not make this kind of photo for a character you want to be perceived as complex. It just doesn't work.

And there is a second issue beyond that photo. Her motivations, big part of which we saw in Western Energy. Because as far as we see she only wants to bring torment to Stolas, she keeps saying that, she keeps being shown to be too dumb to think of any other reason or how that can screw her over and that also destroys any semblance of chance that this character could be complex. Because Beatrice while terrible had a very good reason for why she was like this. Having your lobotomized mother at such young age telling you to not love anyone will definitely screw you in the head and even then what we see in the show despite such morbid origins is nowhere near as stupidly 1 dimensional as Stella was for 2 seasons already and in Season 2 of Bojack we already saw her being more complex too. Something this show only destroyed further with Stella. Kind of going in the opposite direction of starting in more complex manner and gradually destroying those illusions of depth Stella could have had.

And honestly I do not know if I have to add anything beyond those two reasons. No matter how you look at it Stella doesn't feel remotely as a character designed to be complex. And just so you all know before you start typing essays comparable in length to this horse shait. No, complex doesn't mean redeemable, doesn't mean a character is good or worthy of redemption. It means they can feel like actual PEOPLE! Not some caricatures. Because so far Stella is just that, a caricature. A hate sink. And NO, it is NOT challenging at all to make a character like that and her being so easy to hate is not sign of good writing, it is LAZY.

And this makes me really feel like Stella was NOT planned to be this complex Beatrice like character and in fact I feel like what is going on now is a response of Viv (one of many) to the criticism (at least she listens to them this time I guess... progress?). Basically I think she saw people dunk on Stella's character for being pretty much equivalent of a wall with some mean things sprayed on it, she now starts to go in completely different direction without any semblance of idea of how to make this work. Purely reactionary action.

And to me that reflects another issue I see when compared to Bojack. Here is the clip from it that I think describes this issue I have. This one being from Free Churro. My favorite Bojack episode.

youtube

This I think is what ticks me off about the writing of HB as a whole. They think big gestures in writing like giving this one character a le sad backstory will make them sympathetic and complex and oh so well written. That this one act of non douchebaggery makes that POS already well on the path of being better despite them doing the same garbage all over again. That one moment of complexity that you repeat over and over again is enough to make the show complex. That this small piece of text or scene makes a relationship great or make sense. No. Writing doesn't work like that. Stories don't work like that. You need to be consistent, you cannot just throw one scene and immediately expect that people will eat up that this character or this story is more than it is. You need to put in the effort for more than one minute or one episode. You need to try your damn hardest to make your story complex if you want it to be so. It is not something you get participation trophy for. It is something you need to commit to. Or hire a better writer. That helps as well.

Okay. That got a bit derailed. Sorry for that. It was pretty long rant and yet somehow I feel like it wasn't long enough. Stella Goetia. Who is she? What is her deal? She is a victim of terrible writing that made her into a hate sink when she had so much more potential and now that this ship is well on it's way to Davy Jones's locker only NOW this crew of misfits and not very good writers try to salvage what I will say is already unsalvageable. Stella is not Beatrice, she will never be Beatrice. She could have been. She really could have been, but the direction they went with in Season 2 was equivalent of dropping a bomb on a baby and trying to see if it's alive... The best you will find is ashes. But I guess they will be of some reminder of what could have been.

Honestly I don't know why I wrote so much for it. I don't even want to watch this show anymore. I watch shorts, but... they are short. I write my own version of this universe as well, but it's something I do now because like Bojack once said in this clip

youtube

And I feel the same thing. This show had all the right pieces right there, but it can never put them together and it bums me out to see and leaves me only with passion for what it could have been. It really depresses me. Because I want to love this show and I already spent around 5 years watching it and pouring my heart into work about it, but now... Now I feel empty. And it feels bad.

I don't like Helluva Boss and everything is worse now.

#helluva boss #helluva boss critical #helluva boss criticism #vivziepop critical #vivziepop criticism #bojack horseman #stella #beatrice #essay #Everything is worse now #Youtube

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whore-ibly-hot · 9 days ago

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Anatoli finding out reader is a virgin? Probably make him feel some kind of way 😚

He's shocked, thrilled too, of course. From the way he sees the boys treating you, especially Evan, he was sure you must've had sex at some point. But the fact you haven't excites him deeply, even though he's unable to fully act on his desires. In his mind, it's fate. Has to be.

He'd suddenly present with a new type of stretch regimen, one that would help you strengthen that pelvic floor, but also keep those legs relaxed and free of tension. Should something happen and you should come to him asking for sex, to take your first time, He'd want you ready. He'd want you to feel as little pain as possible when he goes to rest inside you. He's muscular, he can go for a quite a bit of time and he's not necessarily small in size. He wants to be gentle, be careful and cause you as little pain as possible if you'd ever allow.

If you did, it'd be as romantic as possible. He'd set his small quarters up with warm lighting, candles and a lamp, set on some romantic music from his homeland. He doesn't have a whole lot of experience with women outside of passionate romantic trysts with other athletes in the olympic village, so he's looking to movies for guidance on how to set up a romantic evening. Unfortunately, all the films he had in mind were rented out by the time he got out of clas on Friday evening by students, so Lady and the tramp was all he could find.

He'd pay Pez under the table with some pain medication he sometimes takes, letting him sell them in exchange for having Tyler cook a nice meal for the night you come to his room.

He remembers losing his virginity, back on his small village to a girl a grade above him. She was kind, if not a little dumb, but he remembers just how nervous he was that night, about not doing well or satisfying her. He doesn't want you feeling any of that, and immediately after dinner, he lets you know there's no pressure to do anything or perform a certain way.

He'd still treat it like a lesson, telling you everything in steps, keeping you hydrated before and after. He'd undress you like it's part of a routine. Still, as methodical as his movements are, his words are sweet. Praises and affirmations of your appearance, how you take him so well, you're so obedient in class and here. He adores you.

Aftercare is big for him. Just as anyone needs to wind down from a workout, and how his athletes need to take care of themselves after a game, the same goes for your roll in the hay. He'll get you a glass of water, and oddly enough a multivitamin. He'll clean you up with some wipes, and gently make sure you're tucked in. Let him lay beside you, and he'll gently massage any muscles that may have been stretched from whatever position you were in. He wants to prevent you being sore in the morning as best he can.

"Its okay, it's okay. Just relax, I vill take care of you, da? You'll feel fine in the morning, and I'll take us somewhere, get us some food." He promises. "I'm not some silly boy, I'd never just hump you and kick you out. No, I'm here. I promise, little star."

#oc anatoli sidorov #yandere #yandere oc #tw.yandere #yandere fanfiction #tw.dark content #x reader #yandere boarding school x reader #yandere boarding school #yandere coach #yandere faculty #yandere teacher

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wroteclassicaly · 6 months ago

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A/N: Just something that came to me and wouldn’t leave me alone. I promise I’m still working on inbox requests & other things! ❤️❤️

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, insecure reader, insecure Steve, mentions virginity/ loss, best-friends to lovers, self-esteem issues on both sides, and fluff!

Pairings: Steve Harrington x Female Reader

Wordcount: 1,988

“No, no. It’s okay, Steve. I promise. I understand.” You force a smile so wide that you internally cringe.

You hope he won’t notice, but he does - of course he does. It’s you. And as Steve watches you busy yourself with organizing the countertop snacks you had just unpacked together, slowly turning your back on him - he’s wishing someone taught him better communication skills.

It was a shocking conversation to have. Well, the ending anyways. You’d start off asking about dates and if he had any, he would ask you about that one guy who keeps coming in to rent Risky Business, all because you’d mentioned liking it his first time here. Whatever, that was yours and Steve’s movie, this guy could get lost. But then, you surprised Steve.

To the point, short and sweet… or crude? Steve nearly felt his teeth go through his tongue at your shyness entangled tone, as it wrapped around such a heavily sensual request.

“Do you wanna have sex tonight?”

At first Steve just shook his head, clearing all those fogs from previous head injuries, sure he hadn’t heard you correctly. You were probably asking him if he wanted to find someone to do it with. But you continued, “I do.”

That’s when it became a little alarming for him. Were you going somewhere else with this? To someone else? Or the other option that had his heart rate kicking him the ribs, dusting his bones to ash, making everything tighten, flood his body with heated flush. He’d managed to speak, voice trying to remain impassive.

“You’re a virgin though.” He deadpanned.

You couldn’t help but to roll your eyes. “Thanks, Captain Obvious. But I can still be horny. Probably hornier than you get.”

Jesus. That glaring stare you fixed him with as your manicured nails wrapped around a box of M and M’s. His jugular constricted around a painful vice. The images, ones he can’t deny picturing when he shouldn’t. Why would you want to be with him?

Your sigh at his lack of conversational participation, got him to snap out of it, following you to the candy rack and pressing his knuckles into the countertop to rest upon. He knocked them a few times, opening his line into the topic. “So, you’re sayin’ you really wanna do it tonight with this guy?”

It was causing anxiety to fester in both of you. He wasn’t getting it. You know him like the back of your hand, of course he thinks you want to be with the video renter dude. But that guy is the last person you would ever think about. You’ve learned to be the one with confidence when it comes to Steve in the last two years.

That was different before you’d gone through things together, became best-friends. King Steve and shy girl you. Cliche, only to evolve. You had jutted your hip, forcing a bravado to shield you as you looked into those sparkling amber eyes. His highlights reflect under the cheap lighting in here, making you nearly lose yourself - but you catch it.

“I’m asking if you’d like to come over tonight, have a meal with me, share a piece of cake, and then I want to know if you’ll…” Okay, you lost your train, fumbling into the winds.

Steve was too close, smelling of laundry detergent and cigarettes, his cinnamon gum lingering on his breath, his aftershave and cologne combo. When you had faced his intense gaze, you knew that he was awaiting your words with a reserved patience. As for Steve? He could barely catch his breath, fingertips down to his toes prickling with a nervous energy.

And then you say it… you ask him.

“Will you be with me tonight, Steve?”

You were asking him to be the first person inside of your body, like you didn’t just change his entire world. It’s not that he’d never been with virgins, especially Nancy. Her, even the others entrusting him in his King era - he always felt honored, wanted to make it good for them. But she was special, and you - you’re a different kind of important to him at this stage in his life. Someone he sees, the only person he sees with full certainty in his future.

His heart caved in the moment that his negative thoughts took center stage. You had never asked him out, never made a move. Sex. That’s what you want him for. He loves you and you expected him to have actual sex with you, guide you through painful, pleasurable, unfamiliar, intense sensations, knowing he’s the first and only to do so, and then carry on normally. It’s out of his mouth before he even has a chance to think through other options.

“I can’t, honey.” And once it starts, it just keeps coming. “We’re friends, and sex… the first time should be with someone you love, trust me.”

He was so caught up that he missed your crestfallen features, the way your bottom lip wobbled, and you began to fill in invisible blanks of your own trick-filled mind. Your body was light, feet heavy. You couldn’t do anything, say another word, so you made up something to do while you collected yourself. Boxes that were already unpacked and placed.

Steve kept going, “You understand, right? I’m sorry if I —“

You had cut him off.

Humiliation washes over you, your voice is unsteady. “No, no. It’s okay, Steve. I promise. I understand.”

Sounds stupid to you. You both know you’re lying. And you’re about three seconds away from crying, so you bend down and scoop some spare boxes into your arms. “M’ gonna toss these so Keith doesn’t have a lot to bitch about tonight.”

There’s a lot of things that Steve can do. He can deal with his miscommunication regrets, or he can try to explain things to you in the best way he knows how. Because if there’s anything he’s learned living in Hawkins - every single day is a damn miracle here, considering what people don’t know the truth about. And when he thinks about those vines being wrapped around your throat, he finds his own air supply cutting itself off. He’s out the back door and catching you around the elbow, just as you finish tossing in the last of the boxes.

You won’t look at him, a tell-tale sign that you’re crying and ashamed about it. His stomach feels sucker punched, his fingers reaching out to gently brush beneath your chin, bringing your head into a tilt. Yup. Your eyes are flooded over, soaking your cheeks. You go into immediate overtime, doing exactly what Steve is constantly doing - apologizing.

“I’m sorry for putting you in that position. I was being creepy and unfair. I know we’re friends, I know you aren’t attracted to me, I know that —“

He halts your hyperactive breathing, pressing his forehead to yours as a grounding technique. “Hey, hey. You always tell me to stop apologizing, and I need you to do it too.”

You’re breathless at this action, but it helps soothe your rising panic.

You find yourself incapable of anything more, leaving Steve room to tell his truth. There’s a shaking in his voice, a vulnerability he’s not felt since he falsely thought he loved Nancy still and told her (Nostalgia, it faded fast. He's pretty sure he realized he clung to that to save him from his fears of falling in love… with you. It didn’t work). Your breathing slows and he presses a kiss to your forehead, nose bumping yours as he breaks away. Here goes nothing… but everything.

“I said I can’t because I want you to be in love with the person you’re having sex with. That’s… “ he taps his fingers against his sides, nose wrinkling, and then he finishes. “That’s the most important thing. That he is someone you won’t regret. It’s a lot to handle when it’s your first time. It’s intense when there’s feelings involved, sometimes, even when there’s not.” He’s rambling, all the while you’re watching him practically pace, folding into himself, looking frustrated to put words together. “And I, honey… I just want you to have that. I want you to love the person that gets to experience being your first, because… I think that he would want you to love him, too.”

It hits you like a fucking freight train. Your heart explodes into your chest cavity, a painful ache lashing across your entire torso and sending off alarms into your brain. He said no because he’s scared… He is terrified that you’ll hurt him. So he doesn’t know? All this time and he still can’t tell the looks you give him are your forevers? That the babies he told Nancy he wants - you dream about carrying them someday?

You smile through your tears, wiping them away with the back of your hand, and it’s you that reaches for his massive palm. He squeezes back, wet lashes darting back and forth, trying to gauge what you’re going to say. Your spare hand finds his cheek, brushing along those marks, marveling at how wonderful he is and how he doesn’t know it. He’s so perfect, so beautiful. He’s your Steve.

This next part comes as natural to you as breathing.

Your voice is damp, words gliding right off, eyes wide to receive his reaction. “Why do you think I asked you, Steve?”

You can’t help the sob that escapes you at his free flowing tears. He isn’t hiding it, he’s shocked. He looks like he thinks you’re lying, that this is a dream. His irises dart back and forth at rapid paces, his hands holding onto you as if you’ll float away. “Are you sure that you want me? Because that means that you… It means you’re saying how you… feel a certain way.” He looks as if he can barely swallow.

You’re smiling softly, lifting onto your toes to nearly meet his mouth. Your statement tickles his lips, making his tongue glide across them, grazing you. It sets you both ablaze.

“It means that I’m feeling exactly what you said I should feel, Steve. And it means that I want you. I want to give this to you, if you want it?”

Steve answers without pause given.

“I want it,” His mouth is open, his breaths choppy, words trying to accumulate. His fingers trace behind your ear, resting there, his remaining hand cradling your jaw bone. “You don’t know how much I need it, how much I need… just you.” He says with certainty.

There’s a notion that’s settled within your chest cavity, a build-up fire starting between your legs, stirring flutters in your belly. You edge in closer, lips on his Cupid’s bow. “Show me tonight. What you’re like, what you feel like.”

Never in a million years could you have predicted that your first kiss with Steve Harrington would be by the dumpsters, in the back of Family Video. But as he leans down to dip his nose into your cheek, his lips capture your top lip — it’s all over for you both. That breathless, engulfing inferno drowns you, carries you into a place you won’t go back to, can’t come back from. He pulls you into his arms with a passionate embrace, just as your lips separate with a slick smack, your mouth trailing down his chin to his throat, before you bury your face into the surface of his chest, declaration mumbled right against where his heart races for you.

“Everything that comes with me, it’s always been yours, Steve. I promise.” He’s panting with pure, raw, need. A tightness in his chest and in his damn jeans.

His voice vibrates across your ears, rumbles through his chest when he speaks. “Everything I’ve got to give, you can have it, honey. M’ yours.”

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onlyangel4 · 6 months ago

Text

desperate times call for desperate measures. toto wolff.

sugar daddy! toto wolff x reader

you are a struggling artist trying to live instead of just spending every moment worrying about money. toto wolff is the lonliest rich man in the world, when you find each other you are exactly what the other needs.

warnings- 18+, cursing, discussions of financial struggles. sugar daddy relationship. age gap relationship ( reader is around twenty five) there will be a lot of smut in the following parts of this fic. toto in love with someone he hasn’t met. male masturbation. smut. for this toto has been divorced for three years.

part two

your life wasn’t at the point that you hoped it would be by now. art was your biggest passion in the entire world, it was something that you loved and you were incredibly good at, but it was also so difficult to make a break through in the art space. you painted whenever you were inspired but those paintings crowded a storage unit that was worth half your monthly rent. your financials were in the bin, and you were furiously budgeting just to make sure you could afford everything that you needed. this was not living. your friends were constantly going on nights out but you had to say no time and time again just because you knew you would not be able to afford it. you were missing out on so much fun and it was driving you fucking insane.

you were embarrassed by your financial situation, the only person who knew about how much you were struggling was your best friend, anna. anna was the least judgemental person on planet earth, you knew that you were safe to rant to her about everything going on in your life, she didn’t have much more money than you but she did get to go on the trips that you missed out on.

“you know what you need?”, anna mused sat on the bed of your tiny apartment her frame threatening fall off at any moment, “you need a sugar daddy, lou has one and he buys her all sort of shit”, anna spoke and you just rolled your eyes at such an out there suggestion.

“come on anna, those things are just scams”, you spoke and anna was quick to shake her head.

“no, they are legit, lou showed me the app she uses. seeking arrangements, it is all legit. i swear if I wasn’t with tom i would have downloaded it already”, she was actually being serious.

you were going to come back with some snarky comeback for your best friend but you quickly noticed that the phone in her hands was yours and not hers.

“what are you doing with my phone?”

“i am doing you a favour y/n, this could really help you out”

you pondered her words for a moment, the last time you had seen lou she was decked out in all knew jewellery and she was wearing one of the nicest dresses you had ever laid eyes on. maybe this whole thing had worked out well for her. It could be worth a try.

“okay, but make sure you pick my best pictures”

the rest of that night was spent drinking wine and setting up your seeking arrangements profile together. there were was a good mix of photos on the profile starting with one of you on the beach from two years ago, the last time you could afford a holiday, you were dressed in a striking red one piece and anna swore that you looked like someone out of baywatch. one of you and your beloved black cat, liquorice. one with you next to the last painting you had sold, three months ago, the last time you had been truly proud of yourself. then there were a couple of filler pictures of you and your friends because anna decided that any sugar daddies needed to know that you had people that loved you, just in case they were planning on harming you, a comment that made your eyes roll. once the profile was set up you and anna both fell asleep, anna in your bed and you on the floor in a sleeping bag, because your couch was from a charity shop and probably the most uncomfortable thing to sleep on.

the following week your profile had gotten a little bit of attention from different people but never anyone that properly took your interest. all the first messages were either mentioning how good your tits looked in that one piece or they were guys proper showing off how much money they had something that did not interest you at all. however, eight days into your profile being up you had gotten one message much more interesting than all the others, “that painting in your third picture looks familiar is that ares del maestrat?” now that message had taken you by surprise. one, because so far in all of the messages you had received no one had actually mentioned your art. and two, he was right, it was ares del maestrat, a place in spain that you happened to stumble upon on your last visit to the country, an area that you had found so stunning you knew you needed to paint it as soon as you got home.

“you are right! It is a gorgeous area, i found it by accident a couple years back, i wish i could visit it again”, you text him back.

“it is beautiful, i visit spain every year, i try to make time in my schedule to go every single year”, oh so this man was RICH rich.

you continued to text the man behind the kind messages about your work for the entire following week. you were quick to learn that his name was toto, his profile was under peter but that was only because he wanted to keep it somewhat private that he had a profile on the app because his career was in the public eye. Once he felt comfortable with you he began telling you what his job entailed, he was a team principle for an f1 team. you told him that you did not really know what that meant because you had never even seen a race. he explained to you his role and you couldn’t help but find the fact that he was so high up in such a career incredibly attractive, you were enjoying talking to him.

toto had downloaded the app due to a mix of loneliness and pure curiosity. He had been single for a few years now and he was getting fed up of both falling asleep and then waking up alone. he had heard about seeking arrangements and after doing a little bit of research on the app he had decided that maybe he did want to be a sugar daddy. he just wanted someone to spoil, someone that he could spend time with. and the idea of helping someone that was struggling with money was also something that interested him, it seemed like a pretty good exchange to him.

one issue though, toto found out that he was incredibly picky when it came to finding someone on the app. he was forever picking holes in all the profiles that he saw, some people had “don’t message me unless you will drop a hundred grand on me”, in their profiles which he just found tacky and others just did not seem like they had much substance behind them. but then he found you. each one of your photos was embellished by a genuine smile on your lips. and he couldn’t help but be taken aback by a picture of you with a painting of his favourite place in spain, now that had to be a sign. that is how you ended up being the first person that toto messaged on the entire app.

he had not been expecting to get on with you as much as he did. he educated you on all things to do with f1 while you sent him multiple voice messages about painting and your creative process. he was so interested you and listening to you go on about how passionate you were about art was something that toto could do forever. you were special and he was going to treat you as such.

after the first week of talking you sent him your number, citing that it was much easier to use that rather than text on the app. And after a couple days of having your number toto called you out of the blue. he spoke to you like you were long lost friends, there was no awkwardness at all. just the two of you talking about your days. you called every day always at the same time and after a week those calls turned into facetimes and toto was sure that he would never get bored of seeing your face flash up on his screen. you became the favourite part of his day. he actually began secretly purchasing your paintings, going through art dealers. making sure that his identity was hidden. every time you sold a painting you sent him a picture of you with the painting and he was so happy to see your smiling face, knowing that he was the reason for it made his heart swell with pride.

you were actually the first one to bring up meeting but you were too much of a pussy to do it over the phone, “so mister f1, when would you be free to meet in person, i like talking to you :)”, you had text him and as soon as toto saw that message his heart started hammering in his chest.

“well we have summer break starting next week, i can fly to London and we can meet there”, he had text back, making you smile brightly.

“i’ll see you then”

“darling, send me your address, i will send a car to pick you up”, you did as you were told, this man way only want you to provide company for him but you felt a need to oblige him. from your messages and times spent calling him you had learnt that he had a very dominant presence, one that never failed to make you go weak at the knees.

your message could not have come at a better time, you were driving toto mad with all your cute pictures and messages but toto had realised that he really needed to see you the moment he found himself with his fist around his cock, one hand looking through the pictures that were on your profile coupled with a few pictures that you had sent him privately when he asked to see more pictures that you had. he was rubbing his cock thinking about a girl that he had never met, a girl that just wanted a sugar daddy but he could not help it, something about you just made him moan your name as his chest heaved up and down, head tilting back slightly. And as he came onto his bed sheets he made a promise to himself. he was going to treat you so good you would not be able to find a reason to leave. and that was the night that you text him about meeting, it was like you could read his mind.

#f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 fandom #f1 smut #toto wolff #toto wolff x reader #mercedes f1 #toto wolff smut

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