#Trash remover responsibilities | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

luvmailing · 23 days ago

Text

us against the world, just me 'n you !

「 tws + notes: unedited, probably ooc, cw: toxic relationship with lex (because... it's lex), yes that's a lana ref in the title im sorry y'all, is this giving 2012 mcu fandom? 」

「 gn!reader, can be platonic or romantic <3 」

↳ ft. my sweethearts + one stinky poopy head

aka: clark kent, guy gardner, lex luthor (stinky poopy head in question), lois lane, michael holt

author's note: superman (2025) movie was fire. here's some hcs that i brewed up,, jus u being close with these characters, friendship or otherwise. had to get a little evil abt lex. becuz. >:] some are shorter than the others! this is because. um mmm ummhh uhhh..... :'> i tried and i failed. specifically kendra which SUCKZZ but MY BRAIN JUICE!! HELP!!!!! anyways this post is split for your convenience becuz otherwise it's too GatDamnb long </3 see part two for more characters!!

CLARK KENT

▸ please tolerate his awful music taste. he wants to make playlists for you :[ !! and really, it's not that bad but like. dude c'mon stop trying to sneak the mighty crabjoys in.

he always makes the title of the playlist a random inside joke the two of you have and makes sure to add you as a collaborator. plays it on shuffle whenever you're hanging out

▸ his parents love you. you aren't leaving that place until the kents make sure you are well fed and taken care of.

you absolutely WILL have the best apple crumble you've ever had after being invited to dinner, and yes, ma kent will insist you have second plate.

clark will always be there to politely decline for you (or eat it) if you don't want.

they adore you! always asking clark when his "polite little friend" can come over again.

▸ gently harassing clark is good for enrichment. yours or his? who cares! there's something about you that makes him wanna be playful too. his form of being silly includes taking sips of your drinks when you aren't looking though. guard your snacks too.

of course, you have your own ways to messing with him. hiding his stuff, flooding his camera roll with selfies of you (and less than flattering photos of him with the 0.5 zoom), etc...

he does seem to panic extra when you try to remove his glasses. so maybe not that. huh. odd.

GUY GARDNER

▸ going yap4yap with this man. explain whatever is going on in your head, your latest obsession, your new interest or hobby, a rabbit hole you fell down while sleep deprived, and he'l listen.

depending on what you're talking about, he may or may not get why you like it, but at least he tries.

expect lots of lore dumps about general glory comics though.

"an' they retconned this backstory for ernie the battling boy. for this shit! trash, i'm telling you, the modern interpretation is trash—"

he's got big feelings about comics okay.

hey is this metacommentary? in MY headcanons about guy gardner specifically? idk what ur talking abt lol...

▸ using his oath as an excuse to do things he doesn't wanna do is funny.

using his oath as an excuse to force you to accept his help? even funnier. he likes being a hero. and being your hero specifically? that's the best feeling in the world for him.

"guy!" you yelp, as he unceremoniously hoists you up by your thighs. you had been trying to reach something just out of grasp, but the minute guy saw you struggling, he knew he had to do something. and that something was obviously lifting you without warning. "forget grabbin' the stepstool, sweetstuff. you got a big, strong hero at your service."

▸ massive sweet tooth. always down for getting a sweet treat with you. he'll suggest it and make it seem like your idea, just so he can say,

"...you're paying right?"

LEX LUTHOR

▸ will leave you on read for literal weeks and months. somehow doesn't see it as hypocritical when he gets catty about your response times, even if it was only a few hours.

he's always saying shit like:

"i'm a busy man. i thought you'd understand that."

but when it's you replying late?

"i expect you to at least answer when i message. it's the least you could do to show me you value this relationship."

DIVA STFUUUU

▸ this man does NOT apologize. it's not his style.

lex belittles or buys his way out of things. he either makes you think you were in the wrong or just buys you something nice and expensive to quell your anger.

has 100% e-transferred you 2k just so you would stop being mad at him.

▸ that being said though, this man does have taste. lex insists that since you're seen with him so often, you gotta look nice. he takes care of your wardrobe. and it gets you crazy amounts compliments.

he's very good at picking things you'd look good in which suit your personal style. he might be neglectful, manipulative, and downright cruel to you sometimes... but damn, lex is attentive.

he stands at your side, a hand on your hip. someone has complimented you again, as the both of you have become accustomed to at this point. lex clears his throat, smiling at you as if telling you, "that's your cue." "...thanks," you reply to the person, "lex got it for me."

LOIS LANE

▸ inside joke: asking her "is this off the record?" when you're gossiping.

to which she'll reply, "only if you say it beforehand. which you didn't. this exposé is going to be scathing."

▸ always sending you random voice messages. it'll be three am in the morning and she'll go,

"how many p's in therapist again?"

could she just search it up? yeah. but she wants an excuse to talk to you.

but dyslexic lois hc my beloved. i struggle with numbers so i'd totally end up screenshotting stuff with big numbers like "say this out loud for me please? :("

▸ imagine sharing old photos with her ohh mygoshhh,,,,

lois has shown you pictures of herself she thought she would take to her GRAVE. mostly from middle school and high school. in the spirit of being fair, you've also shown her yourself at your most awkward stages.

"...actually, you know what?" she holds up the pictures of your younger selves beside each other. lois' squints at them thoughtfully. "what?" "i think we would've gotten along."

MICHAEL HOLT

▸ the better playlist maker (sorry clark)

he enjoys the technical aspect of the stuff that he listens to and favours pieces that are the most complex musically.

given that he has an ear for these things, he's good at identifying the patterns in the music that you tend to gravitate to.

burns the playlist on a CD. it contains some are your favourites that you never tire of, some reccomendations from him, and it's ALWAYS absolute bangers.

▸ is it a headcanon if it's technically canon?

the best person to have around during sick days. always there to assure you that, no, you're not dying from the minor cold.

take the medicine, rest, and don't fight him on this. michael has 14 phds for a reason.

he will cave if you're asking for him to cuddle. of course, he's aware of the transmission risks, but something about you being all sniffly does something to him.

lets you rest your head against his chest while you nap :]

▸ locked in 24/7. superhero stuff, being THE mr. terrific... it makes for some really odd hangout times.

that being said, he will always try to make time for you. ass crack of dawn or middle of the night, i fear. very apologetic about ruining your sleep schedule, but always happy to spend time with you.

he's more relaxed in these moments, you notice. open to being soft with you. rests his head on your shoulder. rubs the back of your hand with his thumb when your fingers are intertwined. plants kisses to your temple ocassionally. it's his favourite place to kiss :(

— reblogs always appreciated!

441 notes · View notes

lcfthaunted · 4 months ago

Text

Mazie takes a deep breath and sinks into the memory.

The terror chokes her immediately. Oh, she’s not afraid of the death they’re threatening. To be quite honest, she very sincerely hopes the ones who just want her dead win this— whatever they’re arguing about. It’s the getting answers option that scares her. She knows more than the City realizes, certainly, but not what these killjoys want to know. She tries to back away, to run—

She wrenches herself back to the beginning of the memory. Focus. She needs to pay attention to what was said, to the argument taking place. It’s where she’ll find her answers.

Once she’s wrung out all the answers she can get and a few questions that might actually be answered, she tries to pull herself out of the memory. It doesn’t release her. There’s nothing outside her head to anchor her, nothing she can hold onto to get back out, and even if she could get her body to cooperate, she doesn’t believe reaching for Phantom would lead to the anchor she needs. She’s stuck until the memory plays out and releases her.

Her inhale is louder and shakier than she likes, but at least she’s out of her head again. The arm folded over her chest presses closer, while the arm around her torso reaches to brace against the door. She’s not going to cry here, not in front of Phantom, of all people. She has questions—that he might even answer—but she can’t ask them now. She carefully tucks them away so she can retrieve them easily, then focuses on calming down again. She’s not going to break the silence between them, too much of her energy going towards keeping her present and out of her head to bother attempting any further conversation.

Help her learn? His face contorts and Phantom's attention breaks from the path this time. Just long enough to launch the most disbelieving, disgusted look imaginable her way. The fact that she's asking at all –instead of arguing with him or slamming up some false facade that no doubt worked wonders in the city– is the first sign he's had that she's even capable of learning. Still, he doubts how far that ability extends, and even if it held what responsibility of her is his? being neither his charge nor his crew. She dismisses him with a wave before he speaks to it.

As he gestures frustratedly back -you're the one in my car uninvited- he thinks she'd only end up chasing things he will not tell, if they spoke at length. It wouldn't be the first time someone outside of the Deaths asked. It won't be the last. Most zone folk do him the decency of realizing they don't and likely never will find themselves in a position to get the answers. Never in a position to be on his crew. He doesn't imagine she'd ever concede. And if the day ever came that she was the last survivor of the Haven, he'd do them both a better favor than answering her probing questions.

The engine climbs.

Phantom spends the tense silence scowling to himself at the thought of what to do with her when he reaches his destination. Realistically the best option is for her to stay in the car. The idea of leaving her alone in his car makes him visibly wince. This is going to suck. But options are what they are.

#havenofseven #havenofseven • phantom #& the lights refract sequined stars off her silhouette • center city #grabbed a pen and an old napkin • responses #( competition who can out-worst the other ig. )#( slam dunks her in the trash for being so unhelpful )#( danny says hi. i had to remove his contributions - a string of y's in the middle of a word plus some numbers at the end of a paragraph )

11 notes · View notes

torturedpoetism · 9 months ago

Text

⋆₊˚⊹♡ 18+ MDNI

A sleek mirror with warm, adjustable lights frames your reflection, casting a flattering glow. As you’re humming along to the pop song flowing from your speaker and dabbing liquid blush onto your cheeks, Rafe unexpectedly appears in your doorway. A gasp leaving your freshly glossed lips as he catches you off guard. His presence is surprising since he had made it clear earlier that he would be with Topper that night.

"You have plans tonight," he states, his tone already suggesting annoyance. His eyes hold a mix of curiosity and anger as he awaits your response — typical Rafe, always so controlling.

"Oh, yeah," you begin, trying your best to avoid his gaze, "Kie invited me to go to the bonfire with her."

He clicks his tongue disapprovingly while shaking his head, a grimace forming on his face.

"So you'll be hanging out with the pogues… again," he remarks, rolling his eyes at you.

"Okay, attitude,” you retort, “Sara will be there, and I haven't spent time with Kie in forever. I won't stay long, Rafe, I promise," you assure him.

His eyes scan over your body as he shakes his head again, his tongue poking the inner wall of his cheek.

“Right, because my sister is such a good influence? Spending half her days with John B's cock shoved down her throa-"

"Rafe, that's enough,” you cut him off firmly, “don’t talk about your sister like that," causing him to roll his eyes yet another time.

"I thought you had plans tonight anyway. Isn't Topper having a party or something?"

"Well, I wanted to see you first," he begins, placing his large palms on your shoulders, beginning to massage the tense tissue.

"I thought … if you don’t want to come with me, you might wanna fool around before I left," he suggested, removing his hands from your shoulders and wrapping his hands gently around your neck.

"Hmm? How does that sound?"

You instantly melt under his touch, you are never able to resist him. "Yeah, that sounds good, but we need to be quick, Rafe."

You rise up from your vanity to stretch as Rafe’s hand crashes down hard onto your ass, “better hurry up and get on the bed then, baby," he says.

You smile up at him and nod, swiftly removing your clothing. You climb onto your bed and lay down with your head on the pillow. Rafe positions himself between your legs and kisses you ardently, his hands exploring your body.

After a series of passionate kisses, he moves down to your chest. The sensation alone is electrifying as his tongue and lips explore every inch of you, sending a shiver down your spine and wetness straight to your core, causing you to moan loudly as your perfectly manicured nails claw his back.

Returning to your lips for another kiss, he abruptly pulls away, a thin strand of saliva connecting you. Sitting up, he reaches for something in the drawer of your nightstand — a pair of handcuffs. Before your mind is able to compute what is going on, he swiftly restrains both of your wrists to the headboard.

"What the fuck, Rafe?! This was supposed to be quick! Kiara is expecting me soon!" you protest as you writhe on the bed.

He smirks at you, a hint of a frown in his expression.

“Ohhh, my sweet, dumb, little baby. Did you really think I would allow you to continue to hang out at the cut? With that white trash scum? You're not going anywhere, baby. Not until I'm finished with you, and by then, you'll have forgotten all about Kie and those pathetic pogues."

676 notes · View notes

lovegalor333 · 10 months ago

Text

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊✧˚ · .

i want to look after you

summary: paige gets injured and you want to look after her

content warnings: suggestive, slightly sexual language

"What the hell happened to your eye?" You question Paige, in slight concern as she walks into your apartment, left eye swollen and red.

"Oh, I got smacked in practice." She says, nonchalant as ever, allowing her bag to fall off her shoulder and onto the floor.

You loved the way she looked post-training. Her hair still damp from the shower, muscles pumped after being used to the extreme and she always wore some variation of a tank top and shorts showing off her long, slender legs and toned arms. Bonus points if she had the sleeves of her tank top tucked in, exposing her biceps like she did today.

She walks over to you, where your curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped around your body while Netflix plays on the TV. The show you were watching becomes background noise as all of your attention is on the blonde girl in front of you. She sinks down beside you and you unwrap yourself so you can get a closer look at her eye. It's bloodshot and you can see a faint bruise already starting to form and her gaze is glassy as if her eye had previously been streaming.

"Gnarly right?" Paige asks taking advantage of you being leaned into her, faces inches away and she presses a kiss to your lips. You kiss her back, of course but that doesn't override your feelings of concern.

"It looks bad." You say, bringing your hand up to her face and gently inching towards the hurt area. Her eye socket is puffy and warm against your skin and Paige winces at your touch.

"Does it hurt?" You inquire, a light frown forming on your face.

"I'll survive." Paige responds, removing your hand from her face and linking it in her own. Physical touch was your girlfriends love language, you believed if Paige could hold your hand at all times, she would. Not that you would complain.

"Not what I asked." You persist, cocking a brow.

"Maybe a little." Paige gives in slumping back into the couch.

You slip your hand out of hers and get up, walking to the kitchen.

"Where are you going? I came over to cuddle." Paige calls out after you and you smile to yourself at her neediness. The same girl that thought it was gnarly having a busted eye loved spending her evenings bundled up with you, in each other's arms watching trash TV.

You quickly filled a zip lock bag with ice before returning to your girlfriend.

"Here, put this on it. It'll help the swelling." You advise and Paige quickly shakes her head, "No. No way, I'm done with ice. It stings." She grumbled, refusing to take the bag from you.

"What if I do it?" You suggest and you swing your leg over her, so your straddling her lap. You wait for her response to your question but she's just smirking now, eyes focused on your legs and where they meet hers, your exposed skin touching hers.

"Paige?"

"If it means you'll stay right here, yes. Ice me all night, baby." She mused, hands riding up your thighs and settling, holding you in place. Her palms were warm against your bare legs and it reminded you how touch starved you were after not seeing her all day.

You roll your eyes at her shameless need for you to be touching at all times, even though you love it and brought the bag of ice up to her eye earning a sharp intake of breath.

"Sorry baby, but it'll help." You say holding the makeshift ice pack over the quickly forming bruise.

You stay sat in Paiges lap nursing the injury for a few minutes before your body begins to struggle to stay still and you fidget in place trying to reposition yourself into a more comfortable stance.

"Y/N, you gotta stop moving like that baby." Paige groaned from beneath you, her grip tightening on your thighs.

"I can't help it." You say fidgeting again, your legs rubbing against hers as you moved.

"OK, fuck this." Paige declared, taking the ice bag from your hand and placing it down before very smoothly flipping you onto your back on the couch.

"But your eye..." You argue as Paige positions herself over you, propped up by her hands at either side of your head.

"My eyes fine, trust me." She insists, leaning down so her face is just centimetres away and you can see every perfect feature so clearly it makes your stomach flip. Her soft, rosy skin glistened in the low light of the room and her eyes, despite one being knocked a little out of shape, shone the most intense shade of blue.

"I want to look after you." You say but it comes out in a pleading tone as your hand finds her jaw and caresses the skin there.

"I can think of many way you can do that, don't worry." Paige quipped, voice quiet and raspy before she finally closed the space between you both, pressing her lips to yours hungrily, a low groan escaping her mouth and vibrating against your lips.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊✧˚ · .

a/n: hi, first post on here, hope you enjoy! open to requests btw :)

#paige bueckers #wcbb #wlw #lgbtq #basketball #uconn wbb #uconn women’s basketball #paige x reader #blurb #oneshot

719 notes · View notes

whereiweep · 1 month ago

Text

𝑹𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒆 𝑪𝒚𝒄𝒍𝒆 | 𝑩.𝑩

𝒑: 𝑏𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑦 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑥 𝑓!𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

𝒔: ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑚 𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑒𝑑.

𝒂/𝒏: 𝑅𝑒𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑓𝑒𝑤 𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑚𝑦 𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔. 𝑖 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑖 𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑎 𝑓𝑒𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖 𝑒𝑛𝑗𝑜𝑦𝑒𝑑. 𝑖'𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑎 𝑓𝑒𝑤 𝑎𝑠𝑘 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑒. 𝑖 𝑤𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑖𝑡, 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑖 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝐵𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑦 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔. | 𝒘𝒄: 5.7𝑘

It was chore day. You hated chore day.

It all felt suffocating, an endless cycle of tedious tasks that seemed to pile up endlessly, though it was your fault you let it get so backed up. Dishes stacked in the sink, laundry overflowing from the hamper, kitchen counters cluttered, and trash nearly spilling over - it all felt like a mountain of responsibilities when all you wanted to do was relax.

But you had procrastinated it long enough.

You tried not to be too hard on yourself about the state of things. Both you and Bucky struggled with mental health and that often made simple tasks feel overwhelmingly difficult. You both understood the struggle and did your best to help one another out. You developed a system and worked together, splitting household chores as a team when possible. But you both had your days where you couldn’t contribute as much, so it was up to the other to carry it.

A heavy sigh left your lips as you began the dreaded process by gathering the scattered laundry. Your steps were deliberately quiet as you crept into the bedroom where Bucky was currently taking a heavy nap. His face appeared peaceful for once, those worry lines absent from him as he let slumber overtake him. You couldn't help but pause for a moment, taking him in, his features and how beautiful he was to you. It was a stark contrast to the terrorized nights you'd both endured, filled with his restless tossing and turning.

Thankfully, the nightmares he suffered from had become less frequent since you'd started sharing the bed. It had been a slow process, watching him migrate from the cold floor to the slightly more comfortable couch, then finally to the warmth and safety of your shared bed several months later.

You often slept with him before his migration, napping on the floor during the night or on the couch while he remained on the floor. He always felt terrible, watching you try to adjust to the hardness of the floor and knowing your back was sore the next day. You both laid together on the couch more after that, but you also slept separately during the process. Now, you were just glad he had finally moved into bed with you.

His messy hair framed his face, giving him an endearing, boyish look. His mouth was slightly open, soft breaths escaping in a gentle rhythm, and his metal arm was absent from his body. It wasn't an uncommon thing, as he occasionally removed it when he slept, he said sometimes it feels better without the weight of it straining his back muscles when he laid down.

Bucky really only did this when he felt truly safe and secure in his surroundings, he didn’t like taking it off otherwise. Sometimes he’d panic if he forgot he removed it the night before. Your eyes glanced over, the missing prosthetic wasn't on the bedside table where he usually placed it, so he must be cleaning it.

You gathered the scattered laundry from around the room so you could leave him to his nap, creating a neat pile in your arms. Making your way to the laundry area, you passed the kitchen and saw the rinse cycle on the dishwasher, figuring his arm was in there since you had done the dishes before his nap.

You threw the dirty clothes into the washing machine when you reached it, setting it to run. There was a load of dry clothes waiting to be dealt with, so you folded these items and set them aside for later. Your next task took you to the bathroom, where you began the process of cleaning and tidying. You finished scrubbing just in time to come out and see Bucky standing at the dishwasher.

Bucky looked absolutely precious when he woke up, despite his usual brooding when you fawned over him so sweetly, his tousled hair framing his face in a messy halo, and his eyes still heavy with sleep. His expression was one of endearing drowsiness that only comes from a deep slumber.

When his gaze finally focused on you, a flicker of realization crossed his features. In an adorable attempt to appear more presentable, he quickly turned to the sink, fumbling slightly with the faucet before running his hand under the cool stream of water.

"Hey doll..." he mumbled, his voice still rough with sleep. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sleep for longer than an hour." His hand continued to run through his disheveled hair, attempting to tame the unruly strands. The water caused his dark locks to stick up at odd angles, somehow making him look even more sweet. "Guess I needed it more than I thought..." he added sheepishly, a small, apologetic smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You've been pushing yourself so hard lately. Your body was probably crying out for a break," your voice was soft and affectionate as you addressed him. You made your way around the sleek granite counter, each step bringing you closer to him. A warm smile spread across your face, mirroring his, your eyes twinkling with amusement at his disheveled state and hurried attempt to tame his hair. He decided to grow it out a while ago, he liked having you play with it, and his shorter hair didn’t feel as satisfying when your fingers carded through it.

"So..." you began, your tone taking on a playful lilt. "I see you put it in the dishwasher again, huh?" A soft chuckle escaped your lips as you gestured towards the kitchen appliance, your eyes dancing with mirth. The soft ding of the washer let you both know the cycle was complete, and you saw his eyes flick to the blinking green light.

He opened the dishwasher and pulled out the bottom rack, immediately drawn to the sight of his metallic arm nestled beside two off-white ceramic plates. "Do not tell me you ran a whole cycle and there were only two plates in there..." You groaned softly, “I swear I washed everything earlier.” Your reaction elicited a low, rumbling chuckle from him, the sound warm and slightly mischievous.

"Maybe." Bucky's response was accompanied by a playful smirk that tugged at the corners of his mouth. He reached into the dishwasher and carefully retrieved his steaming vibranium arm, the metal still radiating intense heat from the cleaning cycle. The heather black surface was a striking contrast against his skin, with intricate gold accents peeking through the articulated plates, creating an interplay of light and shadow.

As he deftly maneuvered the prosthetic towards his shoulder, the air seemed to hum with anticipation. The arm's sensors flickered to life, bathing the immediate area in a soft violet glow, readying for attachment. Bucky aligned the arm with his shoulder socket, and in one fluid motion, it locked into place with a satisfying click. The plates of the arm began to shift and recalibrate, like a living organism adapting to its environment.

You remembered once you had made the comparison to a caterpillar squiggling across a leaf. He found it endearing how you associated his arm to something as delicate as a caterpillar.

He threw his arm in a quick, circular motion, causing a surge of heat to radiate through your core. The soft grunt that escaped his lips as his arm swung through the air didn't go unnoticed. You found yourself moving closer to him without any sort of cause, your body responding instinctively to the simple action.

The arm still retained the warmth from the cycle it ran through, you could feel the radiating heat even from a short distance away. Vibranium was notorious for holding and distributing kinetic energy, this also applied to heat and cold. Unable to resist, your fingertips grazed over the smooth, metallic surface. A shiver ran down your spine as you felt the temperature of the arm in comparison to your cooler skin.

Bucky's gaze followed your hand, his eyes immediately drawn to the telltale flush that had begun to spread across your cheeks. A knowing smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he observed your reaction.

"What's wrong, sweetheart..." he murmured, his voice low and husky, carrying that unmistakable teasing tone that you had come to recognize all too well. It never failed to set your heart racing, a prelude to the passionate encounters that often followed. The air between you crackled with tension, you shuffled in place and felt your legs squeeze together for some kind of friction.

"Nothing..." you huffed out, your voice much quieter than anticipated, barely above a whisper. "Your arm is just...so warm. It feels nice, like a heated blanket."

"Does it?" He inquired, the gentle lilt in his voice made your heart flutter ever so slightly.

Your mind began to wander, racing with vivid thoughts of how his arm would feel against your body. You imagined his strong hand tenderly caressing your back, his fingers tracing light patterns as they ran down your spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

The mental image continued, his touch ghosting over the curve of your ass, his hands gently massaging your thighs, kneading away any tension and replacing it with a tingling sensation that spread throughout your body.

Or simply Bucky holding you close, his warmth enveloping you completely when you felt a little chilly, providing not just the physical comfort you craved from him but also a sense of safety and belonging, something you had always struggled with before you met.

He had done all of it countless times before, yet for some reason, with the arm radiating a warmth significantly more intense than its usual temperature, that tingling sensation continued to stir deep within your core. You swallowed hard, trying to maintain some semblance of control over your body’s reaction.

But, you failed.

You guided his hand towards your neck, Bucky's eyebrow raised ever so slightly at your action. Even so, he wasn’t stupid. He unfurled his palm, allowing his fingertips to caress your skin. The feather-light contact caused you to shiver, once he felt your body give him that little shake, he encircled your throat with his fingers - a loose yet present grip. He leaned down a bit until his lips grazed the shell of your ear. "What do you want, babydoll?"

God his voice was so husky, still thick with sleep and it took everything in you not to react right then and there.

"I...want...to feel your hand." You rasped as a wave of heat transferred from his hand to your body, that heat pooled between your legs as his voice worked its magic. Your body responded to him instantly, every nerve ending tingling with anticipation. Unable to resist, you shuffled closer to him, your hands splaying across his broad chest. The fabric of his white tank top beneath your hands, feeling the muscles taut below the cotton. You grew more desperate with each passing second, craving the feeling of him close to you.

Bucky chuckled, the low rumble in his chest vibrating against your palms. His scruff tickled your cheekbone as he leaned in, laying a hasty but tender kiss to your temple. The brief contact left you yearning for more, like a drug being given and suddenly taken away. His metal hand moved down your body, so slow it was agonizing - the fucker did it on purpose. He gently teased the sensitive skin just above your shorts, his fingers dancing along the waistband before sliding beneath your top.

Your skin was feverish, the touch of the very hot vibranium felt electrifying against you. Normally, the touches from his hand would tickle, goosebumps rising in their wake from the cold metal. But now it felt incredibly comforting and arousing all at once. The warmth spreading through your body was addictive, a delicious heat that you couldn't get enough of. He continued caressing you with a gentle and possessive touch, you arched into his hand in response, silently begging for more.

You couldn't suppress the soft whimper that escaped your lips as his hand continued its tantalizing journey across your abdomen. His fingers danced deliberately as they brushed against your sensitive sides, making you quiver. His trail remained steady, but his touch ascended, finally reaching the soft area just beneath your breasts. Your breath was caught in your throat, and he stopped moving his hand completely. It rested still instead of continuing, a trail of blushed skin followed its teasing trail.

"You want more?" His voice cut through the tension-filled air. His icy blue eyes locked onto yours, piercing through to you. There was amusement dancing in those glacial depths as he observed your flushed face and quickened breathing. He was clearly enjoying the effect he had on you, reveling in the way your body responded to such a simple touch.

Bucky was always super cheeky when it came to making you like this, he took great pride in turning your legs into jello.

You weren’t able to form coherent words, your mind too clouded to really think. His mere presence was intoxicating, and the light caresses he had bestowed upon you were enough to reduce you to that quivering mess he was so eager to see. You were putty in his hands, desperate for more and he had barely begun.

Already, you were teetering on the edge of losing all self-control.

"Bucky, please, I can't handle this teasing anymore," you whimpered softly, whispering up at him. Your breath had become increasingly rapid and shallow as waves of adrenaline coursed through your body, setting every nerve ending alight. The mere thought of his hand, that powerful, yet gentle hand, exploring your most sensitive and intimate areas made you feel increasingly wet.

Bucky's fingers moved back down and found the hem of your top, pausing for a moment to silently ask for permission. You nodded eagerly and he began to lift the fabric, revealing inch by inch of the hidden skin beneath. The cool air of the room kissed your newly exposed flesh, adding to the sensory overload you were already experiencing. He pulled the garment completely over your head and carelessly tossed it aside, where it landed in a forgotten spot on the floor.

Now bare from the waist up, you felt a moment of vulnerability as Bucky roved over your exposed chest. His stormy blue eyes darkened, drinking in every curve and contour of your body as if committing it to memory, as if it were the first time ever seeing you this way.

His hands began to roam upwards, his fingertips tracing patterns on your skin before finally reaching your breasts. He gently cups them in his large hands, massaging and caressing them with a tender yet passionate touch. He treated them like the most sensitive and precious things he ever had the pleasure of touching, his massage felt good, able to test the waters of how you wanted things before he continued. You were urged on, your legs flexing together to create some kind of pressure in order to relieve the throbbing.

The vibranium hand was still hot, it distributed waves of heat through your body in a much gentler fashion than how you’ve seen in other circumstances. You’ve seen his arm break through concrete, crush otherwise impossible to damage objects, choke the life out of aliens. And here he was, treating your body like tender treasure with the same limb.

You can feel your skin tingling …the dichotomy between his two hands - one cool flesh, one hot metal - adds an extra layer of sensory stimulation. A feather or an ice cube couldn't compare to how he made you feel.

The pure captivation in Bucky's eyes made the butterflies in your belly swarm even more, how he eyes your breasts makes you want to pull him in and push them against his face. He becomes more focused when he senses your desires, kneading and massaging with a rhythm reminiscent of a contented feline. The gentle yet insistent pressure of his fingers elicits an involuntary moan from your lips.

"Mmm... you learned from Alpine?" You teased breathlessly, the reference to his beloved white ragdoll brings a flicker of amusement to Bucky's intense gaze. He responds with a dramatic eye roll, clearly torn between exasperation at the interruption and appreciation for your attempt at humor.

"Shut up..." he growls softly, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. The playful admonishment is accompanied by a gentle squeeze of his hands, your eyes widened as you let out a gentle mewl.

He lets his lips ghost over yours, but he doesn't kiss you fully, no.

Bucky Barnes is the master of teasing.

He maintains his playful demeanor, reveling in the way you squirm and moan for him. That signature cocky smirk of his spreads across his lips as he watches you shuffle and attempt to press closer, seeking more contact. "Ah, ah...patience, sweetheart. Stay still for me," he commands, his voice low with desire.

"Bucky..." You drawl out his name, elongating the syllables into a desperate whine, begging for more of his touch. You're acutely aware of his penchant for teasing, knowing all too well that he's unlikely to give in to your pleas so easily.

If anything, your desperation only seems to fuel his determination. Knowing Bucky as you do, he'll draw this out, savoring every moment of your mounting desire until your legs buckle beneath you.

His fingers begin to tease your sensitive buds, once puffy nipples were now perky as his index and thumb gently applied pressure and rolled them between the pads of his fingertips. You moaned again, your head fell back against his shoulder and your back arched naturally to meet his touch. His skilled fingers pinch lightly, gently tugging as they rolled, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

Your right breast is noticeably warmer and more flushed from the recent contact with the hot metal, though it didn't cause any discomfort or burning. The sight of your reddened, sensitive skin makes him groan softly under his breath, his desire for you growing rapidly.

"Ugh...look at you. You're drivin’ me crazy," Bucky whispered, his voice husky with desire. He nudged his knee between your legs, leaving you delightfully trapped between the unyielding surface and Bucky's warm, solid body.

"Please, don't tease me anymore..." You begged softly, growing more desperate by the second that passed. You didn't truly expect him to relent, but a small part of you hoped that he might show mercy. Your plea, however, only served to amuse him and a throaty chuckle growled its way out of his chest.

His fingers continued their torturous dance, rubbing slow circles over the very peaks of your sensitive buds. Each touch sent jolts of pleasure coursing through your body, making you gasp and squirm. Your back arched involuntarily, pressing your chest further into his skilled hands, silently begging for more despite your earlier words.

Every time you tried to press harder against his hands, he pulled back, preventing more friction than he was giving.

You were already teetering on the edge, your composure crumbling with each passing second. You always liked to think you were more hardy against him but…damnit could he get you to break. It was almost embarrassing how quickly he had reduced you to this quivering mess. His touch had been confined to your breasts alone, yet you felt as though your entire body was on fire.

"I've got you...m'gonna make you feel so good, sweetheart..." His voice was low with promise. Slowly, he pushed your underwear down, as the fabric inched its way to your mid-thighs and remained bunched there. He paused, his eyes drinking in the sight before him. Sticky strands of your excitement formed gossamer bridges between your core and the sweet cotton and lace. He shimmied them further down your legs until they came to rest just above your knees.

"God, look at you," he let out a low rumble as he drank you in. "Just from me handlin' you a little, you got this wet for me?" Bucky whispered directly into your ear, his hot breath fanned across your skin, his scruff tickled your sensitive flesh as he spoke. The slight abrasion only encouraged the ever-growing need you felt in your core.

He tilted his head closer to you, lips barely grazed your temple as he placed teasing kisses there. He loved kissing your face, tender, gentle - always when his hands were doing something filthy. Suddenly his knee moved, gently but firmly knocking against your legs. The silent command was clear, and you automatically widened your stance, your body responding before your brain could comprehend what was happening.

The tension that had been building within you reached a crescendo. You let out a whine - a needy, desperate sound without much shame at all. Your meek voice managed to break through the desperate noises, "Bucky..." you pleaded, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. "Please," you repeated, your body trembling with the effort of restraining yourself. "I can't take it anymore..."

The scorching metal continued its relentless journey across your skin, your body quivered involuntarily as it inched closer to your most sensitive area. The heat radiating from your cunt rivaled that of his arm, but nothing could have prepared you for the jolt that surged through you the moment his fingers made contact with your folds. The sensation was so intense that you barely managed to stifle a scream.

"Bucky!" His name escaped your lips in a breathless gasp as his skilled fingers found their target with unerring precision. They danced teasingly over your bundle of nerves, the poor thing beat with its own pulse of blood, easily locating the center of your pleasure and lavishing it with gentle, circular motions.

Each swirl of his fingertips sent waves of loud ecstasy coursing through your body, releasing through your parted lips and filling his ears with the delightful sounds. Your clit responded eagerly to every caress, the flood of need that washed over you was so potent that you could feel it trickling down your inner thighs.

Bucky’s fingers ventured lower, drawn to the source of your wetness and he probed your entrance with a hot finger. He held you still as he slid two fingers deep inside you. The sudden intrusion into your velvety depths caused your eyes to roll back in your head, overwhelmed by the sensation of his still very hot fingers inside you.

You let your head fall heavily onto his shoulder once more -a loud, unrestrained moan escaped your lips as his fingers began a gentle yet insistent rhythm, pumping in and out of you with a practiced ease.

"That's it, sweetheart..." Bucky let out a deep, guttural grunt of pleasure as he listened to your soft whimpers and moans. His voice was thick with his own desire as he continued, "How's that feel, hm? My fingers exploring every inch of this needy little hole of yours. You were dripping before I even laid a hand on you, weren't you?" His skilled fingers deftly navigated your cunt, searching for that one spot that would drive you wild.

Suddenly, his fingers found that elusive, sweet and spongy spot deep inside and curled up against it, gentle curls with heated metal felt so overwhelming you began rutting down into his hand as a keening mewl ripped through your throat, seeking more of that friction. But your eager movements only resulted in Bucky withdrawing his fingers slightly, denying you the stimulation you craved.

"No, no...stay still for me," he whispered calmly into your ear, too fucking calm for what he was doing to you. "I know you can do that. Be good…"

He was being too lax, as if this were just something he had to do during a job, the same tone he used for boring phone meetings. Even and unaffected.

His fingers resumed their steady movements after seconds of stillness, but now they purposefully avoided that sweet spot that had you seeing stars just moments ago. The deliberate teasing had you trembling with need, but you weren’t shocked by it. Bucky loved watching you like this, he wasn’t satisfied unless you were shaking and begging through your pretty tears. He had you caught between the desire to obey and the overwhelming urge to chase your pleasure.

The Wakandan metal continued to envelop you in an intense, penetrating heat that spread through your core, like having smoldering coals nestled within your body. It didn't burn, of course - he wouldn’t do this if it would cause you harm - the sensation was far more nuanced than that. Besides, if his steaming arm burned you, he wouldn’t ever put it on your skin.

It instead felt like an overwhelming surge of warmth, like a steaming bowl of soup filling your stomach on a cold day. The heat consumed you, leaving you feeling inexplicably full and satiated. But maybe that was from his thick fingers, too.

You tried, your fervent attempts to remain still were failing, the mounting pleasure proved increasingly difficult to resist. He was acutely aware of your struggle, reveling in the power he held over you all because you gave it to him.

Your body cruelly betrayed you as your hips instinctively jerked, responding to the touch of his fingers as they grazed over your sweet spot yet again. You mentally cursed yourself for allowing your body to react in such a way when your brain was demanding you don’t give in. Bucky, surprisingly, permitted this small transgression…but he was far from ready to grant you the release you so desperately craved.

He continued to curl his fingers relentlessly, expertly manipulating your body until he could feel the tightening of your inner walls around him. Your needy voice barely escaped your throat above a whisper, you somehow managed to find the words, "I-I'm close, Bucky I...-"

Just as your body tensed, poised on the very edge of finishing, Bucky abruptly withdrew his fingers, denying you the climax you had been building towards. The sudden loss of stimulation made you release a pained, desperate cry from your lips, a sound that reverberated with raw frustration and unfulfilled desire. You attempted to crane your neck, seeking to make eye contact with him, silently pleading for mercy.

He was so unfair.

"Not until I say, baby...you know that," he whispered against your ear, his fingers thoroughly coated in your slick arousal. You caught sight of the glistening strands dripping from his hand. The sight made you blush deeply, shame and excitement twisting through you as you whined softly, your body instinctively squirming against his other arm that held you firmly in place.

"Please...I need to..." you started, your voice trembling with need, a shiver running through your body as you felt the sudden loss of his warm, skilled fingers against your sensitive flesh. The absence of his touch left you aching, yearning for more, trying to get closer to that hand just inches away from you.

Bucky let his hand return to your folds, spreading you open and letting the cool air tease you and expose that pretty button that was clearly swollen with need. He began to tease your precious clit once more, his expert touch reigniting the fire within you.

His fingers warmed the pink flesh to a deep, blushing red, each caress kept you teetering on the brink of release. He did just enough for you to feel those shocks, but not enough to push you over.

You couldn't contain yourself, your passionate cries echoing through the room with such intensity that you were convinced your neighbors would surely lodge a complaint later. You didn’t really care, and neither did he. Your hips moved of their own accord, grinding desperately against him as he expertly pleasured you.

His organic hand slowly traced its way down to your entrance, plunging deep inside you, curling over and over, petting that spongy spot. His metal fingers continued their relentless assault on the sensitive bundle of nerves nestled between your slick folds, your clit at the mercy of his ministrations.

Bucky’s words cut through the haze of your pleasure as he spoke to you, further egging you on as you squirmed. "You gonna finish for me, doll?" He growled, his own hips now moving in tandem with yours, adding another layer of pleasure as you felt his hard cock grinding against your ass. "Hm? You gonna make a mess on my hands?"

The raw need combined with the skillful ministrations of his hands pushed you closer and closer, you could feel your climax rapidly approaching, a tidal wave threatening to crash over you at any moment. Every muscle in your body tensed, your inner walls clenching tightly around his skilled fingers. Your vocalizations grew louder and more desperate when he pinched your clit, his gentle tugging made the blood rush straight to it, the sensitivity increasing.

The climax you had been begging for finally washed over you, your passionate cries for him echoing through the empty kitchen. His name tumbled from your lips in a frantic mantra, your voice raw with need. Tears of pleasure pricked at the corners of your eyes before falling down your cheeks and your legs gave way beneath you, unable to support your weight any longer.

But he was there, strong and steady, holding you up as you shattered in his arms.

"That's it, baby," he murmured encouragingly, that low, seductive rumble his voice took made you feel dizzy. "Let go for me. Don't hold back. I want to see you make a mess, make a fuckin’ mess for me..." His words were a siren song, coaxing, commanding you deeper into the throes of ecstasy.

Bucky's touches never ceased, fingers working tirelessly to prolong your pleasure, pushing you higher and higher until you thought you might lose your mind. What felt like mere seconds stretched into an eternity of blissful agony, your body alight with sensation, trembling and arching against him as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through you.

Your vision blurred as tears elegantly cascaded down your cheeks while you soaked his fingers. It was so overwhelming, you began to tremble without control. As waves of pleasure coursed through you, your mind went blank, consumed by the moment of pure bliss.

As your cries died down, your orgasm began to subside, having run its course through you. Your once rigid body slowly relaxed, muscles unwinding one by one, mirroring the gentling of his touches. He held you securely by your hips, his strong arm providing much-needed support to prevent you from collapsing. Even with the counter in front of you, you weren’t sure if you could even stand right now, or let alone have your arms support you.

The aftermath left you in a state of blissful delirium. It felt like you were floating on a cloud, your senses still reeling. You remained dazed, barely able to process anything as Bucky slowly withdrew his fingers from the safety of your cunt.

His touch became so tender and affectionate, tracing a path along your skin as he placed reverent kisses on the back of your shoulder and the nape of your neck. The warmth of his breath was comforting as he murmured words of praise against your skin. "So good for me...so perfect, babydoll. You did so good for me," he whispered, adoration and satisfaction in his voice.

"I... I can't... feel my legs," you managed to say, your voice coming out in a raspy whisper as you struggled to catch your breath. Your chest heaved with each labored inhale, the exertion of your intense orgasm still evident in your flushed cheeks and trembling limbs.

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your neck where his lips were pressed. Despite your exhaustion, that alone almost made you want to go again. He continued to support your weight, helping you regain your balance until you were able to stand somewhat on your own, though your legs still felt like jelly beneath you.

"My bad, sweetheart," he replied with a cheeky grin, that familiar smug smile spreading across his face as his eyes roamed over your disheveled form.

He wasn’t sorry at all.

The glint of satisfaction in his gaze proved it, clearly pleased with the effect he had on you. His eyes lingered on the places where his metal hand had touched, tracing the patterns of blotches and handprints that now adorned your skin in various shades of red from the heat.

"S'pretty, you know that?" His eyes raked over your body with an intensity that made you feel both exposed and cherished. His gaze held vibrant, burning embers of lust that were still very much alive, but also a deep well of affection and love that made your heart skip a beat.

Bucky leaned closer to you, bringing his hand up to caress your cheek so he could give you a tender, lingering kiss. His lips were soft and warm, and you felt your heart flutter in your chest. Your hands were still trembling from your release, but they found their way to his cheeks. He leaned his head down just a bit more to meet your hands too. Your thumbs traced delicate circles on his cheekbones, savoring the feel of his skin and scruff beneath your palms.

The kiss deepened and you melted into his embrace. The world faded away until there was nothing but the two of you, just the two of you, both enjoying a sweet moment together. No worries, no stress, no fear. When Bucky finally pulled away, that familiar cheeky grin spread across his face, lighting up his eyes with boyish mischief you recognized in old photographs Steve gave you before his decision to go back to live out his life. Worn, aged photos where the edges were faded, but Bucky’s face was clear as day in every single one of them.

Your eyes narrowed in response, growing suspicious thinking about the many possibilities he could be up to. "I gotta wash my arm again," he murmured, the plates of vibranium still coated thickly with your orgasm.

Damnit, again. Teasing.

Your cheeks flushed and you groaned softly, rolling your eyes. You managed to stand by yourself, looking back at him as you made your way towards the bathroom, intending to shower off your mess.

"Put the pan on the stove in with it this time," you called over your shoulder, your voice equally soft but playful with exasperation. "I am not hand washing that thing."

𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader smut #bucky barnes x you smut #bucky barnes imagine #the winter soldier #the winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier x you #winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x you #winter soldier imagine #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts #bucky barnes thunderbolts #thunderbolts fic #✮ my writing

259 notes · View notes

chromieclipse · 14 days ago

Text

I've been thinking a lot about Kris as a character and yknow what, fuck it. Have a Kris analysis post as I also consider making a Kris theory in the future.

Something I've seen some stuff about recently is how Kris tearing out their soul is the same as tearing out their emotions, their will, their hope, etc... and while I do think this is true in part, I don't think it's entirely accurate to say Kris has no capability to feel or care while soulless.

We know this partly due to dialogue in the Snowgrave route, where Noelle talks about how Kris comes to her, how Kris removes the thorn from her finger and apologizes, reassures her. We also see Kris, after The Player forces the ring back onto Noelle, beat the SOUL in a fit of rage. They take the opportunity to beat the soul in the trash can, kicking it and doing half their own health in damage. At least, to me, that doesn't seem like something someone would do if they felt nothing, if they didn't care. And, not to mention - if you ABORT it in chapter 4, one of the circumstances has Kris RUNNING out of the room, looking almost AFRAID while dragging Noelle behind them.

Let's also look at the normal route at Noelle's house, how Kris tears us out and goes into the kitchen. There's a disconnect there certainly, they're trying to get away from us and away from the others to talk to whoever's on the phone, but... they also get themself a drink. Once they're certain we're not in their way, they go over and they choose to play the piano, something we KNOW is something they love due to their responses to other circumstances.

We can also look at what Kris did the first time they tore the SOUL out - they went and... ate all the pie. Sure, they likely did OTHER things as well, but that was Kris's choice. They ate an ENTIRE pie, all by themself. Like, I don't think they'd do that if they didn't like pie when in that state?? It just feels inaccurate to say Kris being soulless is equivalent to them being emotionless.

I want to say that tearing the SOUL out doesn't make them incapable of feeling, but it's closer to a state of disassociation, where everything is kind of numb and distant. They can still respond, still feel, still acknowledge things happening around them - but it's less prominent, more in the background than anything. And while that may seem like it isn't as interesting, as someone who disassociates, I'd like to argue it's equally, if not more painful.

You know you're feeling something, you know you FEEL about these things, but that feeling is dampened and distant. It doesn't fully belong to you, it's an echo of what you're supposed to experience, a drop in the pool of emotions you know are truly flooding your very being, but you can't access that tap. It's clogged, or is it even there? It's all blurry, the line uncertain, and when you try to reach for the feelings it's almost like they reel away from you. There's nothing to find until you stop paying attention and it all comes back in a moment of clarity, only for it to drift away from your senses again.

I just thought I'd ramble about this, since it's been on my mind for a hot minute.

#chromies stuff #text post #kris dreemurr #kris deltarune #deltarune chapter 4 #deltarune analysis #character analysis #rambling #deltarune #snowgrave

205 notes · View notes

mercurial-chuckles · 9 months ago

Text

Tantalizing Tuesday Thought!

♡ Weeklong Thingamajig ♡

Indulge Away!

****

"Just give in, doll," Bucky snickered.

"Ughh...fuck off, Bucky," you grumbled, putting all your strength in kneading the dough. He moved behind you, his tall form dwarfing yours. His metal arm rested on the counter beside you, while his right arm slid to your front, fingers sneaking underneath your t-shirt, caressing the skin there.

"You can't distract me. That's against the rules," you shouted, elbowing him.

"What rules?" he teased, pressing a loud kiss to your ear.

"Ow.... stop annoying me," you yelled, wiggling away from his grip.

While you were covered in flour and wearing an apron, Bucky's black t-shirt and joggers were somehow spotless despite his kneading dough without any apron.

"Show off," you muttered. Bucky was really getting good at this whole baking hobby he picked up, and the super strength did help when working on that dough. You were proud of him, but you'd never admit when you were in the middle of a competition, of course.

He leaned against the counter beside you, watching with a smirk that promised nothing but trouble. Arms crossed, muscles flexing casually, he observed you with that familiar, mischievous glint in his eyes. You narrowed your gaze at him, not about to let him distract you.

"Just so you both know, I'm not going to judge your little baking contest," Steve quipped.

"Oh, didn't see you there, Captain," you teased. He was sprawled on the couch a few feet away, sketchbook in hand, too absorbed to pay much mind to you and Bucky's bread-baking showdown.

Finally putting away his book, Steve strolled over to you.

"Lemme help," he said, kissing you gently. You eagerly nodded in response.

A little help would be good. You couldn't obviously take help from Bucky, but Steve was fair game.

"That's against the rules," Bucky pointed out.

"What rules?" you asked innocently, a smirk tugging at your lips.

"Such a brat," Bucky grumbled, smacking your ass before walking to the living room and dramatically flopping down on the couch.

Both Bucky's and your bread turned out great, but Steve refused to declare a winner. Instead, he presented you both with a gift; sketches he had been working on earlier, capturing you and Bucky in the kitchen, bickering as you baked. Damn, it was the best prize you could ask for, besides spending time together on this relaxing Tuesday, of course. You'd get it framed tomorrow and hang it alongside his other sketches on the wall.

****

Oh, well... I've been binging on GBBO. AGAIN!

♡ Weeklong Thingamajig ♡

If you wanna be tagged in my works, add yourself here. <3 Please send me a message if you wanna be removed from the Tag list. :)

I'm having trouble retrieving the tag list form, where you entered preferences. Forgive me if you haven't chosen to be tagged in this. Until I get things fixed, kindly bear with me 😂

Tag list: @nekoannie-chan @salvatoreitmeanssaviour @bitchy-bi-trash @theallknown213 @tripletstephaniescp @rogerscut @greatenthusiasttidalwave @zaraomarrogers @shadowrose13-blog1 @king814318 @yiiiikesmish @steviebbboi @bernelflo @saiyanprincessswanie @blushingrn @looking1016 @jvanilly @mimisweetz @navyhua23 @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @shadyloveobjects @alexxavicry @feynightlight @astheskycries @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @patzammit @soelstress @8crazy-freak8 @stellar-solar-flare @stuckysgal @bval-1 @slowlyshycomputer @rogersbarber @avengersfan25 @disneyprincessbuffyannesummers @thiquefunlover63 @blackhawkfanatic @notsostrangerthing @awkwardgiraffe726

550 notes · View notes

so-writing · 6 months ago

Text

don't forget to water the plants (2) -- Quinn Hughes

Read part one here! It is missing Quinn hours, enjoyyyyy!

It should be easy to pull the tattered sticky note off the window and toss it into the trash, along with the dead and dying plants you left for Quinn to dispose of.

Not cool, he thinks to himself as he places a new piece of tape over the dried edges of the post it note, not fucking cool.

It’s all he can think of at the moment, because he’s too busy putting pots into the sink for water and cleaning up dead leaves that had fallen to the ground. If he’s being honest, he’s never really given a fuck about your plants.

Until you stopped giving a fuck about them, because, what the fuck? Why would you leave them behind? You took everything, every ounce of you, erased from the home you once shared and you left your plants behind?

It didn’t make sense to Quinn.

Until it did.

The only plant missing, as much as he didn’t want to admit to realizing it, was your snake plant. Your favorite one. The only one you bought together.

“I think I want this to be the one?”

“You don’t sound so sure,” Quinn comes up and hugs you from behind, “it doesn’t have to be this one.”

“No,” you shrug him off with a laugh while he pretends to pout, “this is the one.”

“Fine,” Quinn rolls his eyes and pretends to be irritated, “but we’ve got to make sure that this one grows and thrives the best. It’s the most important one.”

“It will, we’ll make sure.”

Quinn doesn’t realize how deeply he feels until he’s hunched over the bathroom sink trying not to throw up. Salty tears slid down his cheeks and into his hoodie and no amount of heavy breathing and water settle his stomach. He wants to empty his body of everything that has anything to do with you because he knows he fucked up.

If he’s able to get every piece of you out of him, maybe he can move on in peace.

Several weeks pass. Quinn is dealing with an upper body injury that keeps him off the ice and he has more than enough time to sit with his thoughts because of it.

He can’t move on, because he doesn’t fucking want to.

Quinn has decided that he isn’t ready to give you up, even though he already did, because he made a mistake.

The air in Vancouver is cold in early March and Quinn hurries into the greenhouse as fast as his feet can carry him. He talks to the people working about nearly every plant in the place before he settles on one he thinks is the best.

“Thank you,” he smiles at the cashier, “have a great day.”

He’s quick to leave and gentle with placing the new plant in the passenger’s seat of his car and buckling the seatbelt around it because why not?

The drive back to Quinn’s apartment, the one you used to share, is short and he treats his new purchase like it’s worth a million dollars as he removes it from the car and takes it inside.

She isn’t pricey, but she’s worth more than anything Quinn has ever touched. He isn’t sure why you don’t have one already.

Quinn carefully removes her from the back of his car and walks gently up to his apartment with her in his hands. He sets the pot on the top shelf, the one with the most sunlight, and snaps a picture of her.

It’s a risky move, the two of you haven’t had any contact in several months and Quinn knows you don’t want to talk to him. He can’t help himself though, he has to try one more time.

'Hope you’re well.’

He snaps a photo of the plant, a philodendron—pink princess—and sends the message before tossing his phone on the couch and starting to spiral.

“Hope you’re well? How fucking stupid? Obviously? Does it even make sense?”

Quinn is too busy talking himself off and then back on and over a ledge to hear his phone vibrate against his plush couch cushions. He doesn’t expect any response at all, but you read it immediately and, despite your hesitancy to be in his life again, you respond.

Well, you roll your eyes and pretend to be unbothered by Quinn’s text, shit.

You can barely believe you’re even hearing from him, let alone seeing a photo of a plant he purchased on his own. He has never given a damn about your green thumb, so there’s something deeply annoying this.

It’s so nice that he’s purchased a plant, one you love, and is trying to give it the best life he can. Really, it’s wonderful, and he probably thinks he’s doing a good thing and working his way into your good graces.

And, he would be there, if it wasn't months after the two of you ended your relationship. Quinn could buy a million fucking plants and treat them like goddamn royalty and he still wouldn’t get it.

Because it’s too late.

It feels like a final nail in the coffin. It feels like the end credits of a movie you spent entirely too long paying attention to and wasn’t even that good of a watch. It feels like it’s actually, truly over.

Because,

Quinn didn’t give a damn about your plants when you were together. He didn’t care at all about the love and care you put into them when you were in his life. He was never interested in learning about them or caring for them. They were just things, your things, that lived in your home and needed attention.

Now,

He is suddenly interested in and buying one of your favorite plants and seemingly treating it like gold. Which is great, that is absolutely great, but it’s too late, for you anyway.

For the first time in a long time, because you’ve spent so much time missing Quinn so fucking much, you truly feel done.

'It’s lovely. Don’t forget to water it.'

#nhl imagine #hockey imagine #quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader

278 notes · View notes

deadlynavigation · 10 months ago

Text

Season’s Greetings

Warnings: swearing. reader has straight hair in this one.

Author’s note: yall when i tell you school has been kicking my ass. like i expected a challenge but this is just straight evil. anyways, so so sorry for literally no writing these past three months. i’m going to work on stuff i swear.

(Addams Family Masterlist)

(Full Masterlist)

“Cara mia, it’s barely November.”

No response.

“Amore mio?”

Still nothing.

“Y/n.”

A muffled “here!” comes from the pile of christmas decorations scattered on the floor. Wednesday slowly walks over to where the little voice emerged, taking in the garlands and ornaments that spring from half-opened, dusty boxes. He carefully sidesteps the multiple throw blankets and pillows strewn about, admiring your eye for such things whilst also trying to recall where he hid the matches and gas. Vinyls, unlike the decorations, are placed neatly on the sofa, one already removed from its case and sitting on the record player waiting to be played. Finally, Wednesday reaches the small bump in the mountain of holiday cheer.

Your head pops out. “Need anything, baby?”

Wednesday has to place a hand over his mouth to contain his smile. You do this every year, and it somehow becomes even more endearing to him. “Halloween was yesterday, cara mia.”

“...Ok?” You fail to grasp his point, blinking up at him as innocently as possible.

“We have months to do all of this, Y/n.”

“Time is ticking, baby. We gotta get a head start on this.”

He sighs, dropping onto his knees and accepting his fate. “Then you must need help, if we’re running on such a tight schedule.”

Your eyes dart from the dried flowers you’d been fiddling with to his face, which, although rare, held no signs of deception or teasing. “You’d really help? You’re not just fucking with me?”

Wednesday chuckles, reaching up to brush back a piece of your hair that had fallen loose in the chaos. “Of course, cara mia. It’s important to you, is it not?”

You nod enthusiastically.

“Then I shall help.”

Hours later, Wednesday isn’t regretting that promise in the slightest. Or at least, that’s what he’s telling himself. He’s sorted through pounds of decorations, had dozens of arguments over what to trash or keep, and gone back down to the basement at least a dozen times to grab even more boxes. It’s now past midnight, and he can clearly see your eyes drooping.

“Amore mio, perhaps it’s time to put this away for the night,” He murmurs, reaching for the ornament you hold and gently pulling it away. It’s placed right back in its box, set on top of the pile for tomorrow.

You try to conceal a yawn, reaching for the ornament. “But we’re so close, baby. Just a couple more minutes, we could finish.”

“See, normally, I would agree with you,” Wednesday smirks, memories of last night running through his head, “but you’re exhausted, cara mia. What type of partner would I be if I didn’t chase you up to bed right now?”

“Shut up,” you grumble, pushing at his arm with no real intent. He snatches the opportunity, grasping your arm and bringing it up to his lips. Kiss upon kiss is imprinted on your skin as Wednesday moves from your wrist to your shoulder and back down again. He takes his time, holding eye contact with you as he kisses every individual vein of your arm, appreciating each little indent and bump, even burying himself into the warmth of your shoulder once he draws close enough.

“M’still not tired. Your tricks don’t work on me, baby.”

He snorts, face still tucked safely into your shoulder. “Of course not, my love.”

You almost let your eyes flutter shut at his voice, but remembering all the work that must be done, you shoot awake almost instantly. “No, baby, I mean it–we gotta finish this.”

“And we will–tomorrow. Let me take care of you, Y/n. Let yourself rest.”

You stare at the back of his head for a moment, narrowing your eyes as you run through your options. One: stay here, fall asleep on the floor, wake up with a broken back. Two: let Wednesday take you to bed, where you’ll then end up sleeping for at least fourteen hours. Three: refuse through yawning fits and insist that you’re perfectly fine to handle breakable decorations at one in the morning.

Only one of those options will end up working. You’re still in denial about which one it may be.

Wednesday can practically feel the gears turning in your mind and eventually tires of it, rising from your neck and standing. “Come on, amore mio. Time for bed. I will hear no more of it.”

“Okay,” you grumble, because as much as you’d like to stand your ground, you can feel the exhaustion creeping through your body. It becomes much more apparent as you step forward, legs half-asleep and shaking from the hours spent crouching in uncomfortable positions. “Carry me?”

Wednesday looks down at you, shaking his head. “As if I would allow anything else, Y/n.” With that, he scoops you up, adjusting for a second before maneuvering around the scattered decor and into the foyer. You bury your face in his neck, all too eager to be surrounded by warmth after the sunset brought frigid temperatures into your home. Wednesday plants a short kiss on your hairline before climbing the stairs, steadily guiding you both into the master bedroom.

He stops, and you realize it’s an indication that you’ve reached the bed and have to get down. You cling to him, refusing to jump down.

“Cara mia,” Wednesday cooes, pressing another peck onto your head. “How are we supposed to get ready for bed if I’m carrying you the whole time?”

“You’ll figure it out. I have confidence in you.” Your words are barely there, fading with your sleepiness. Your grip on his clothes slackens, and that’s the final straw for your partner. He gently lowers you onto the pillows, quickly spreading a blanket over your form.

“As much as I appreciate your reliance on my strength, I cannot live up to those expectations,” Wednesday laughs, strolling into the adjoined bathroom to quickly brush his teeth and rinse his face. The splashes of water reach your ears, spurring you to blearily rise and join him over the sink.

“M’tired,” you mumble, grabbing your toothbrush. You run it over your teeth for a time most dentists would consider unacceptable, rinsing and flossing afterwards to make up for your rush. Wednesday smiles softly, handing you your cleanser after you’re done.

“You coat your face in chemicals, I’ll worry about your hair.” He leans down, laying a cold kiss on your collarbone before getting to work. The brush glides through your hair as you rinse your cleanser off, reaching for a serum as Wednesday reaches for the soft little elastics you seem to prefer for nighttime. He combs his fingers through your hair, watching in fascination as the color catches the soft copper lights of the lamps in the bedroom. Over and over again, he watches it fall from his fingers and envisions a future where he combs through your graying hair with weathered hands. Yes, he’ll sleep well tonight with that in his mind.

He’s knocked from his train of thought as you plop your moisturizer back onto the counter, finished with your routine and now just waiting on the braids you were promised. Wednesday smiles sheepishly, kissing the back of your head as an apology before getting started. He manipulates the strands with expert fingers, years of practice on his sisters and mother proving useful.

“M’sorry I yelled at you about the mistletoe. You wouldn’t have known where exactly I wanted it, that was my fault.” You lean back into his chest as he works diligently, the motions lulling you to sleep.

“Amore, I would hang the moon and stars for you if you asked. The mistletoe will go exactly where you need it tomorrow.” He holds back a laugh as he recalls the argument, a five-minute long discussion involving door frames, rulers, and a silly little piece of the plant.

“I’m also sorry for the wreaths. I didn’t even know we had that many.”

“It’s ok, Y/n,” Wednesday whispers as he ties off on a braid, moving to the next one without jostling you from where you practically lie on him. “We all have passions. You support mine. These next two months, I will support yours.”

It’s quiet for a minute, both of you too content to break the silence. He finishes the second braid quickly, trying to get you both into bed before you end up in a heap on the bathroom floor.

“There we go, amore. All done, you did so well for me.” Wednesday rubs your arms up and down, trying to rouse you from your almost meditative state.

“Bed?” You whisper, rubbing an eye while trying to stay attached to him.

“Yes, come on.”

“What time is it?”

“Late,” Wednesday whispers back, checking the clock on your nightstand. He’s right–it’s almost 1:30 in the morning, an hour that he isn’t sure qualifies as late or just incredibly, wickedly early.

You fall into bed, rearranging the pillows until you can comfortably lie on them. Once Wednesday climbs in next to you, you forsake them, instead nuzzling right against his chest as he pulls you into him. It’s so warm and familiar that you fall asleep almost immediately, all the caffeine, disagreements, and upcoming holidays forgotten.

Wednesday almost laughs at how quickly you managed to fall asleep, proving him right that the decorations were a matter for another day. He’ll have to rub it in your face tomorrow, but for now, he envelops you with his arms pressed tightly against your back and dreams of many more holiday seasons to come.

#wednesday addams #male!wednesday addams #male wednesday addams #wednesday x y/n #wednesday addams x you #male!wednesday addams x reader #male wednesday x y/n #male wednesday addams x reader #x reader #the addams family #the addams family x you #the addams family x reader #fluff #christmas #holiday season

343 notes · View notes

awoogayanderes · 1 year ago

Text

men who try to delete you out of their lives when you guys break up. the same day you guys break up, he immediately unshared his location with you. he's determined to delete the hundreds of pictures he's collected of you.

he resets his face id where you were his phone’s alternate recognition. he removes your contact photo and removes the red heart next to your name. but for some reason, he can’t delete your number or even block you at that.

so when you randomly text him a few days later, he feels his heart beating faster. “you have some of my hoodies, can i go and get them ?” he rereads the message over and over. he feels his hands shake as he thinks of a response.

“who is this ?” almost immediately, he regrets sending those three words to you but he wanted you to hurt, more than him at least. you read his message almost immediately and he sees the three little bubbles pop as you type.

“nevermind, just forget about it, thanks, ” this wasn’t the response he wanted ( but one he did deserve ), well he didn’t know what he was expecting but he throws his phone on his bed in frustration, his heart throbbing with pain.

maybe he should have actually deleted your number because this would have hurt way less for him as he throws your hoodies away. he burns your letters and shoves gifted plushies into his trash bin. fuck, this hurts.

other notes : i had such a hard time trying to name characters for this specific fic, I DIDNT EVEN NAME ANY BSD CHARACTERS, drop some people to add pls :(

#written by terra #sincerely terra #engraved with bitterness #kei tsukishima x reader #tsukishima x reader #oikawa x reader #toru oikawa x reader #atsumu miya x reader #miya x reader #atsumu x reader #kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsuro x reader #sanemi shinaguzawa x reader #sanemi x reader #childe x reader #tartaglia x reader #angst

1K notes · View notes

shotmrmiller · 2 years ago

Text

PAUSE! OH MY GOD. writing a soap smut got me thinking.

As a medic in base, you see the 141 guys all the time. Whether in passing or because they get injured, you’re always interacting with them. Your particular lack of response at Ghost’s irritated glare after reprimanding him for being unable to keep his stitches intact during training is what solidified your friendship with Johnny— what Soap tells you to call him.

Every time Johnny goes out, he likes to drag you along and this is where you notice peculiar interactions between him and Ghost.

The way Ghost gives Soap Johnny his full attention when he’s speaking, turning his entire body to face him, even if it’s something completely trivial. Or how Johnny stresses over Ghost who’s injured on your med table and Ghost will comfort him. When going on a mission, if one goes, so does the other.

You wonder if there's something else going on.

—

You get your answer.

One day you’re knocking on Johnny’s door because it wouldn’t be the first time he’s tried to weasel out of a physical. You’d think getting shot would hurt more than a vaccine but here you are— about to twist his scottish ear off. The door finally opens, and you barge in because you aren’t about to cause a scene in the middle of the hallway when you freeze.

Ghost is in Johnny's room, lying on the bed. If looks could kill, Ghost’s would’ve leveled the base. And he’s naked under the sheets— if that tree trunk-sized bulge is what you think it is. It doesn't even look hard. Bloody hell.

You shift your gaze towards Soap, and your eyes drop— he's clad in nothing but a towel that hangs dangerously low on his hips.

Massive. These men just walkin’ round with weapons in their pants.

Shaking off those thoughts, you shift your attention to his face.

“Meet me at the clinic in 10 or so help me god, Johnny.” and walk out the door.

You hear a muffled "Yes ma'am" , and a hiss escapes your lips.

That cocky smile Johnny had means he definitely saw you ogling them.

—

A week passes and it’s a friday. You can’t wait to lock yourself in your barracks room and watch movies the entire weekend— you plan to start as soon as you're off the clock.

And then other medics twist your arm into going out for drinks.

Now you find yourself seated at a table in a lively bar, indulging in shots of tequila. As you glance around, your eyes catch sight of Soap and Ghost standing near the bartender. It appeared that some woman is talking to Johnny and he has a polite, detached smile on his face. Always too kind to strangers.

Then she starts caressing his thigh.

Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline. Right in front of Ghost’s salad? You lock eyes with Ghost and he looks murderous. Jesus.

You usually don't stick your nose in others' business, but if you don’t intervene, Ghost might actually kill her in her sleep. Besides, tequila has always made you bold.

With a confident stride, you make your way towards Johnny and remove that woman’s hand before settling yourself snugly on his lap— and you wrap his arms around your waist.

“And who is this?” you ask Soap, but the girl questions back.

“No. Who are you?”

Bitch.

Curling your upper lip, you answer, “I’m the one he comes in every night hoping it takes. Now leave before I make you,” completely ignoring the massive bulge pressing up into your arse.

She looks at you with a bewildered expression, but doesn't move so you finish off with, "Try it. Just a warning though, it'll be hard to fight when the fight ain't fair."

You cock your head to the side with a taunting expression and the woman scoffs before walking away. Noticing she left her almost full drink behind, you give it to the bartender to toss in the trash. She's just gonna have to get another one.

Your act comes to an end, so you shift to stand up— and realize that the arms encircling your waist tighten, keeping you on his lap. His clothed cock.

“Ye didnae think we’d let ye go after yer little show, did ye?”

Unless Johnny’s speaking french, he just said we. You'd be nervous but you aren't about to decline what could be the best sex of your life. The want you feel in Soap's pants has you riding a certain high— it makes you feel confident.

Grabbing onto the edge of the bartop, you swivel the stool you're on to face Ghost.

“And this okay with you? I wouldn’t be stepping on any toes, or nothin’?”

Ghost swiftly lifts you from Johnny's lap and places you onto his own.

“Does this answer your question?” and draws you closer before grinding his erection against you.

And it sure as hell does. Slapping the counter, you ask for some water. If this night is going to end with you sandwiched between these two, you want to remember all of it.

reader's a boss ass bitch. GET IT CHILE.

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #cod #cod mwii #cod mw2 #simon riley #john soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #ghoap #ghoap x reader #johnny soap mctavish x reader #ghost simon riley

1K notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

Text

Roads Untraveled 1

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 dubcon/noncon, pregnancy, and other possible triggers. 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: Single and pregnant, you discover a super soldier in the dumpster but he might not be hero you think he is.

[This is a rewrite of a series of the same name which I removed a couple years ago]

Characters: Silverfox!Steve Rogers

Note: I finally did this.

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 <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

‘When he went away The blues walked in and met me Oh, yeah if he stays away Old rocking chair’s gonna get me All I do is pray...’

You sway to the melody as you wipe dry the last plate. You set it in the rack as Etta James’ soulful crooning wafts around the kitchen. Just the simple task of washing the dishes has you out of breath. You can no longer hum along as you’re suddenly light headed with sweat speckled across your brow. Even the breeze drifting in through the open window can’t cool the constant heat brewing within you.

You brace your lower back as you reach for the dish towel and pop open the cupboard. The music drones to silence as the next some in queue loads. Your rounded stomach presses to the counter as you take a mug and dry it inside and out. Strange, you don’t remember the song starting like that; the strange warbling noise much unlike Marvin Gaye’s rich tones.

You set the mug on the shelf and back up. Another noise peaks your attention, too tinny to be a snare. You rub your stomach mindlessly as you sling the cloth over your shoulder. You waddle across the tile to the folding table beneath the window. You tap pause on your phone and the bluetooth speaker goes silent.

Your fingers pick the damp fabric away from your bump. These days you can’t avoid getting soaked. Even as you can’t forget about the burden of your condition, you’re still oblivious to how it gets in the way until it does. You sigh as you listen for another clue.

A pained deep grunt floats up from below. Distant but decisive, another rustle beneath the unexpected noise. You lean over the table, a hand on the ledge as you push the pane higher. You bend, stomach pressed to the speaker, and peer down. You expect another dumpster diver searching for empties to trade in; rather you meet a most unexpected sight.

There is a man in the dumpster, alright, but he isn’t moving. From there, you can’t see very clearly. You squint at the figure strewn among the trash but the zigzag of the fire escape obscures your eye line.

You shouldn’t go and see. Not only is it a lot of effort, but it’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be wandering into alleys to check on strangers in dumpsters. You don’t know any good reason someone might be swimming in garbage. Nor do you think they would want to be bothered.

Still, the prickling in your neck urges you to do something. There’s just something so peculiar about the angle of the arm you can see clearer than the rest of the body. At least they’re moving, even if they sound agonized.

You take your phone and untether it from the bluetooth speaker. You unlock it and keep your thumb ready to dial out. You move as quickly as you can, not very, and waddles along the back of the couch into the entry way. You take your keys from the hook near your door and step into your cushy slides.

You turn back the latch and leave the door unlocked behind you. The slides shift on your swollen feet as you rush down to the elevator. God, your back hurts. You try not to lean too far back as it only adds to the pain. You need a belly belt but they’re so darn expensive.

You’re out of breath as you step on and turn to watch the numbers count down. You’re still panting as you reach the lobby and push through the front doors, leaning into the heavy grated iron until it creaks loudly. You clamour down the steps to even ground and your hips pang.

You put your hand under your stomach, trying to lift it and ease the pressure in your hips. You blow out between your lips as you have to slow down. You shuffle across the grass and into the paved lobby. The stink of the trash brings you back to those early days of morning sickness. And afternoon sickness. And night sickness.

You try not to inhale too deeply as you step between the brick buildings. You bring your phone up, ready to hit those three digits in a heartbeat. You should’ve done so already. Even if you do, it’ll take hours for anyone to come out here.

You stop and listen a few steps from the dumpster. You don’t hear anything now. You look up at the sky, dimming towards evening in a mixture of pink and blue, the moon peeking palely through the hue. You grip your phone tight, keys jangling with your movement as you continue forward.

“Hello?” You call out, “is someone in there?” You linger near the corner of the dumpster, the trash reeking in your nostrils, “do you need help?”

No answer. You stare up, wondering how you might see inside. If you weren’t built like a keg, you might be able to see from the lower level of the fire escape but you can’t even make it one rung. You blink and call out again.

“Hello? Are you okay?”

You wait for a response. Silence again. Maybe they found their way out on their own. You huff. So much for all that. All you’ve done is added to the pain in your arches. You turn on your heel and a groan gurgles and plastic crinkles noisily.

You stop again, wavering, and peer back over your shoulder. A hand appears over the tops of the dumpsters edge and grips it. You face the large metal bin as the knuckles strain within the stained brown leather, fingertips poking out nakedly, blood and dirty tinged across the flesh. A long grunt follows as the figure drags himself to look over the top.

“Sir, are you--” you begin, voice catching at the sight of the cowl and the man’s square jaw. The white star on his chest stuns you. It’s him. Everyone knows that uniform, that face, even under his helmet. New York’s own Captain America.

You gape as the super soldier strains and swings himself out of the dumpster with one arm. His other is hanging limply as his feet hit the pavement. His knees crack and buckle. He drops down onto them and hisses.

“Captain America?” You utter dumbly.

He puts his fist to the ground and leans on his arm. He hangs his head and heaves. He drags a leg forward, planting his foot, and makes himself stand. He pushes his shoulders back and winces, reaching to cradle his dangling arm.

“Steve,” he rasps, “goddamn.”

You don’t expect the obscenity. Not from him. He leans against the dumpster and turns his chin up. He gnashes his teeth as he grips his arm and jerks, moving the heavy bin with his effort. The pop of his shoulder is sickening as he growls tightly. He stomps his foot and as he shakes out the arm he just put back into place.

He reaches up and peels off his cowl as he puts his head straight. He looks at you as he wipes the streak of blood from lip to chin. His blond locks are streaked silver and his face is lined. He looks much older than the magazine covers and the TV screens. The magic of editing, right?

He swipes the sweaty hair from his forehead and huffs.

“Steve,” you rest your phone on your stomach, “are you okay?”

He pushes himself away from the dumpster and puffs, “I’m fine. Just... a hiccup.”

You stare at him. He looks tired and worn. You believe him when he says he’s okay. He's a super soldier and the world has seen his many feats. Yet he looks completely hollow.

“Are you sure? I could call someone or...” you step forward and point to the slash that borders chest and shoulder, “you should clean that out, shouldn’t you?”

He looks down and grimaces, “had worse. I got comms. HQ doesn’t care about a few scratches.”

He goes to step forward and stumbles slightly. He snarls and kicks his foot into the gravel. He wiggles his knee and bends to rub the joint.

“I...” your mouth opens and closes. This isn’t the man you’ve seen in the media. He's not smiling and golden and shining. Still, he’s the Captain. “I live above,” you gesture upward, “I could help... or maybe you can just... sit for a little bit. Get yourself straight?”

He looks at you. As if for the first time. His forehead smooths as the tension eases from his jaw. His gaze slowly crawls down to his stomach and you see the dimple in his cheek.

“Your husband okay with that? I’m a bit of a mess,�� his tone is lighter as he fixes his grip on his cowl.

“Oh no, I don’t have--” you chew your lip and look at the brick wall, “it’s just me. But I have first aid kit and learned to stitch in summer camp. I think I can still remember how.”

He glances around and nods, “got a back door?”

“Yeah, it’s... past you,” you nod in his direction.

He pivots stiffly and cranes to see around the dumpster. You near him and your keys jingle again. You follow him to the metal door with the glass window and you shove the key in and twist. You pull it open a few inches. It’s heavier than the front door. He grabs it and wrenches it all the way back.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “There’s an elevator.”

“Hm, fewer people see me, the better,” he sniffs as the door clanks behind him.

“It might take me a while,” you warn, “I’m slow.”

“What floor. I’ll meet you,” he offers.

“Sure, it’s three.”

“Number?”

“310.”

“I’ll find it,” he states and marches towards the stair sign.

You go to catch the elevator, stewing in disbelief on your ascent. You step off and continue on to your apartment. He’s already there. He stands with his hand on the frame, looking over his shoulder as you waddle down the hall towards him.

“It’s unlocked,” you say.

He opens it and waits for you. You thank him as you enter and he follows. He locks it and lingers behind you. You put your hand to the wall as you slip off your slides. He gently lays his cowl on the corner table and bends to unlace his boots. You hang the keys on the hook and place your phone on the small table.

He leaves his dirtied boots on the mat and limps forward. You stand in the open doorway of the living room and peek back at him. He looks around reluctantly.

“Please, sit down,” you insist and wave through the doorway before you pass through.

“I...” he begins and you hear his uneven gait down the hallway. “I don’t want to dirty your couch.”

“I have a steam cleaner,” you assure. “Sit, I’ll get the kit.”

He stares, his eyes once more scanning the space. Does he think this is a trip? That you’re some covert agent who all too conveniently found him? That’s absurd. Look at you.

You shrug off that ridiculous idea and cross to the kitchen. You open several drawers before you remember it’s in the bathroom. Of course. Your brain likes to play games these days. You grab the metal tin from under the sink and return to Steve.

He pulls off his gloves and balls them on the side table next to the couch. You come around the other side of the couch and sit, leaving lots of space between you. You squeeze the kits as you’re once more out of breath.

“You okay?” He turns the question on you.

“I’m not the one bleeding. Just pregnant,” you smile.

You balance the kit on your stomach as you lean back. You sanitize a needle and weave it with surgical thread. You put that aside and fish out an alcoholic swap. You shift the kit aside and push on the back of the couch as you try to sit forward. You shake and he helps you, a humbling assistance.

“First,” you turn to him, “we’ll see how deep it is,” you tear open the swap, “can I...”

“One sec,” he dips his fingers into the fabric and tears the sleeve, renting the fabric like tissue. His arm is thick and well-toned despite the years. A centurion like him can’t complain for the shape he’s in, even battered. “I can do it myself.”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t be easy.”

You reach as he angles towards you. You gingerly dab around the gash and he tenses. He takes a sharp breath, “you don’t have to be so gentle. I can handle pain.”

“Right,” you work more diligently.

He’s quiet as you tend to him, picking out gravel and some metal slivers. You worry that you might miss some. You lean in closer and he steels himself at your proximity.

“So,” he clears his throat, “just you and...” the kid?”

“We all make mistakes,” you chuckle. You can only laugh about it, as scared as you are.

“Mmm,” he flinches as you sweep down the length of the cut. It’s not that deep, mostly superficial.

“Let me put some steri-strips on, shouldn’t need the stitches, ” you say as you sift through the kit with one hand, “if you’re hungry, I have leftovers. You like chicken?”

You don’t know why you’re offering. Maybe it’s because you owe him. Like everyone in the city. It’s your chance to give back to the hero who gave so much. Or maybe it’s because you’re so damn lonely talking to your own stomach.

“I should go,” he insists as you place a strip across the cut.

“Up to you,” you say, “I don’t mind either way, but I’m not going to chase Captain America out of ym apartment.”

He doesn’t say anything. You finish dressing his wound and gather up the wrappers and all. You crumple it in one hand and rock yourself to stand. You’re overly aware of him watching you. You touch your stomach and rub it, soothing your nerves. You find him watching the movement of your hand.

“You must be pretty far along,” he says.

“Six months. Chicken tortellini, if you want. I was gonna reheat some. I haven’t eaten since work.”

“Work?” He frowns and stands, moving better than before. “Should you be?”

“I’m at a desk. It’s nothing. HR got me some ergonomic stuff. Nothing compared to what you do.”

You put away the kit and toss the garbage. You wash your hands before you search out the container of pasta in the fridges. You sense him behind you, just in the wide archway that peers into the kitchen. You reach into the cupboard you left open and take the single plate that isn’t in the rack.

“So, you want some?” You ask.

He’s silent with contemplation, the shift of his weight creaks in the floor, “I appreciate it, yes, please.”

“I might have something you can change into,” you say. You wonder why you’re doing all this. Maybe it’s that maternal instinct kicking in. “The father, before he took off, left a few things.” You peek over your shoulder, “he was a bit smaller than you.”

He shrugs then winces at the careless gesture. “Do you mind if I wash up before I eat? I smell like garbage. I don’t wanna overstep--”

“Go ahead, it’ll take a while to warm this up,” you say.

Another long lull. He taps his fingers on the wall and inhales deep enough for you to hear, “promise, I’ll get out of your hair after dinner.”

“Please, take your time,” you say as you put the tortellini in a glass pan to rebake. He backs away and you sense his hesitation, “oh, down the hall, to the left of the bedroom at the end.”

“Thanks,” he intones, “oh, uh, just realised, you know who I am...”

Your brows pop up and you stop before you can put the pan in the stove. You look back at him and give your name. He nods.

“Pretty,” he comments, “also, it’s just Steve, not Captain.”

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #series #roads untraveled #silverfox au #au #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #mcu #marvel #captain america #avengers

578 notes · View notes

v3ng34nc3-w4yn3 · 9 months ago

Text

"Promise."

Remy LeBeau x fem!reader

A/n: This is my first proper fanfic! it's over 2000 words lolol and it's just Angst/Comfort with everyone's favorite Cajun! I'm really proud of this and I'm happy Remy gets to be my very first proper fic..i hope you enjoy!! also tag for because they asked so nicely :3 @kaidan-z

Summary: When wade wilson dragged you into the mess you were miserable, mourning and utterly heartbroken but now, after following Wilson and Howlett around for hours, watching them fight you finally get your end of the deal. Seeing a man you thought you'd never see again.

────────────────⋆༺𓆩🂱𓆪༻⋆─────────────────

Maybe it’s the fact this was all so..confusing.

I mean how are you supposed to feel when you come face to face with a ghost?

Well, not really. A ghost would still remember, clutching time in its weary hands, allowing freedom and the soft embrace of closure. A ghost would know. Instead you’re both faced with the haunting idea of a lost memory. Something to yearn and claw for, barely scratching the surface of remembrance. A flame of longing and desperation that’s snuffed out by the force of time.

- - - - - - -

You were forced into this mess, against your own will really. One minute you’re sitting in your own misery, clutching a pen and paper, biting back inevitable tears. You mourned the loss of a man who had been long gone, Remy Lebeau. Your Remy. God he was the brightest star, the sweetest man with a sharp tongue. You loved him. You loved him more than anything. The best part? He loved you. Of all the wonderful people in the world, he wanted you, always you. Only you. So that's why it hurt so much when he met his end.

That's why it tore a hole in your heart. He was tied to you, so deeply rooted in your soul that nothing could pull him away, no gentle persuasion could remove him. Only brute force, A harsh tug that tore him away and left you burning. Painful rage that was so blinding that people cowered away. So in this moment..you just needed solace.

But the universe didn’t give you that, instead You're hauled over some guy's shoulder who's blabbering about how “relieved” he is to see you.

So..what the fuck?

You later learn that you're stranded in a trio, a pathetic one at most. A merc with a mouth, Anger issues in a little yellow bundle (he comes with claws too.) and of course...you.

To most, you weren’t anything special. A mutant? Yes. Despite that being heavy enough itself, your mutation wasn’t anything flashy, just simple enough to cope with.

So why the hell did this bloodstained bastard take you of all people?

- - - - - - -

So here you are now, stalking behind the pair you now know as Logan Howlett and..Wade Wilborn?..no, Wilson. That's it. Wade Wilson. He was the reason you were here. The void. That’s what this place was..a void. An endless layout of trash and gunk. The TVA, who you later learned “preserved the Sacred Timeline and prevented the creation of alternate timelines.”

Turns out Wade’s universe was fucked because it lost its “anchor being.” Which was his universe's version of the grouchy companion he’d brought with him..or well, forced with him. Paradox, the one responsible (sorta) for Wade's wonderful kidnapping plan did not seem too pleased..especially since wade had to be that tiny bit extra and break his nose. So he sent you all here..the void.

Wade seemed to be a bit too friendly in all the wrong aspects..seriously how many sex jokes are too many? He’s sweet, you’ll give him that. You found that out only after he attempted to use you as a human shield against some bald headed bitch that only existed to grind on your nerves..But hey, that Johnny guy definitely got it worse.

- - - - - - -

The two overgrown children further proved their hatred to each other by fighting all their tension out in a shitty honda odyssey..all night. They fought till the sun went down. You just sorta sat there, lazily trying to wipe the nose bleed you had received after Wade shoved you to the ground in order to reach a “precious angel.”

..A dog. She was cute but you didn’t take too kindly to him picking a slobbering dog over your mental stability. Still, now all you really had to do was sit and wait for the two to finish their very loud and sharp disagreements.

- - - - - - -

So..now you’re all caught up? Good. Then let me jump back to our present time.

He could have been a ghost, hell he might as well have been considering how much he paled when he saw you. The way the cards in his hands fluttered to a gentle stop. Even when wielding his weapons he was a gentleman. His lips parted..He wanted to say something, anything..but words could not find him. He just starred.

To say you felt sick was an understatement. You felt like your body was about to give up any second. Overcome with the heaviest wave of nausea you’ve ever experienced. Here he was..a dead man. Standing in front of your very eyes..and he was beautiful. A little different..but beautiful. From the hair to the tip of his boots, he was the most gorgeously sculpted man you have ever seen.

“Chère?..”

“Remy?”

Oh fuck. You’re kidding right? So this..version of him had a version of you too? He knew you? He knew you and without even knowing what had happened to his version of you, just looking at his face you knew that something so unforgettable had happened that he was just as broken as you.

“Ooh shit!! Are you seeing this!? I gotta say..i expected all the flashy entrances but look at these two lost loves? Ugh it's like I'm drowning in their self deprecating..”

Remy gave a half glance at the merc, scowling immediadently. His eyes set on him for just a split second before the glare was gone and he was back to looking at you. A softness creeping into his gaze that you didn’t think you’d see ever again. His brows furrowed as he took a step closer.

He knew it wasn’t his lost love but still. From the tips of your hair to the flush in your cheeks, the tentative grasp of your fingers against the fabric of your suit, the way your eyes brimmed with uncertain tears..it didn’t matter. He could rebuild. As selfish as that sounded he could rebuild it all if you’d let him.

“it..it ain’t you but-”

He tried to speak, he really did but the way you flinched at the sound of his voice made him want to cower like a small child. Your eyes fell onto the set of cards in his hand that he soon tucked away into the pocket of his coat. The gentle rustle of the fabric brought you snapping back to the present, a sharp gasp slipping from your lips as you carefully backed away, allowing Wade to take the lead again.

- - - - - - -

He watched you the whole time. He didn’t pay attention at all to whatever the hell the nuisance in the centre babbled on about. He watched you like a hawk. Eyes tracing over every piece of you. The way you bit down on the plush of your lip or how your lashes seemed to dampen everytime you blinked. He took note of the unsteady rhythm of your chest. He knew all the signs. When his eyes flicked back up to your face, he saw a tiny tear, barely visible but he could see it. It slipped down your cheek, resting on the curve of your jaw before it dropped onto the floor, seeping into the wood.

Remy had known you all his time in the void. He had no grasp on anything other than this wasteland and well..you. For a brief moment, he let himself daydream, just resting in the past, in the familiar sight of the sweetest smile he had ever seen. Yours.

- - - - - - -

“Don’t you think this is an awful idea?”

“Nonsense Chère, you think Remy doesn’t know a fine place when he sees one?”

His lips curled into a smile as he watched you glance at the rundown diner. It wasn’t exactly heaven, he knew that..but that didn’t matter, as cheesy as it sounds everywhere was heaven when he was with you. You laughed at the way he struggled to open a cabinet, the way he tugged at the wooden handle.

“Careful remy..it looks unsteady..maybe you should-”

“No need to worry about me Mon amour, what? You think Remy can’t handle a little push and pull? Dis is nothing, you just sit there and look- merde!!-”

It swung open, nearly taking him out in the process. You burst into fits of laughter, your knees buckling under how hard your laughter had hit you.

- - - - - - -

And that..bittersweet memory was the very thing that kept him pushing. Your laughter was the sweetest thing to him, he adored it more than anything and he’d longed to hear it once more.

He glanced over at you again, seriously he couldn’t stop. How could he? It was like looking into the past, the love of his life was a few steps away from him and he was doing nothing? What was wrong with him?

He couldn’t stand the silence anymore, the tension. He watched as you looked at his hands that were now nervously playing with his card deck. He carefully placed them all in one hand before pointing at you. He saw the way you jumped a little at being addressed. He then pointed to himself before pointing to the exit.

He wanted you alone, He wanted to talk.

Despite the ache in your chest, the tremble in your body, you followed him. You followed him out the arch and into the cool near evening. The sun was beginning to set, it casted the warmest glow over the wasteland. It was the prettiest thing about the whole dump.

The two of you walked in silence for a bit. The only sound filling the air were the gentle crunches of twigs beneath Remy’s shoes. It suddenly hit you. You were here, with an exact copy of your former lover. This was so fucked up.

He led you to a smaller campfire, letting you take a seat on the log before lighting the fire, sitting down with a soft grunt.

“Remy know’s dis is a bit..confusing and he’s damn sorry about it but..I've gotta know, chère..”

His soft honesty brought warm butterflies to your stomach. The words rolled off his tongue, combed by his heavy accent. His knee bounced nervously as he watched your face, biting his lip slightly.

“It's..complicated, it would take a long time to even-”

“Remy’s got all the time in the world Chère, just talk t’me..”

You glanced at him one last time. He looked like a kicked puppy when you denied him. How the hell could you say no to such hopeful eyes?

And so you told him, you told him everything. The love, the loss, the pain. The way his absence had left a gaping wound on your being, leaving the ugliest scar and a hideous rage, a burning hatred. You spilled it all and it felt good. It felt good to finally just talk. You were so into explaining it all that you didn’t even notice the fact you were in floods of tears, droplets streaking down your cheeks. Your breathing shortened as you forced more words out of your throat. You were too engrossed in the pain.

“Chère.”

His firm tone cut you off, he reached up, carefully swiping a tear away with the pad of his finger. It sent a range of sparks up your spine and you quivered under his gaze.

He watched you for just a moment before making up his mind. He knew he was overstepping the imaginary boundaries but he knew his Chère well enough to know what she needed. One arm wrapped around your waist and the other slid up to your shoulder, bringing you into a warm embrace. He was so different yet the exact same. He smelt like whiskey and leather. He smelt like home and it made you feel sick.

“Ma pauvre fille..”

He was so comfortable that he didn’t even realise the words that left his mouth, the soft claim he made..but you did. You heard it and it stung, it healed a tiny part of your wounded soul, to be addressed as his once more. You squeezed his shoulder, letting the last few tears fall. He pulled back, hesitantly cupping your cheek, relaxing a little as you leaned into his touch. This felt right, despite the gnaw of pain it felt right. To be here with him, to feel him.

Remy lifted his hand, capturing your smaller ones with a gentle touch. He pressed his lips to the back of it. A kiss, full of tender love and sweet affection. A rush of blood reached both of your cheeks. The cool air gently brushed against the heated skin. He leaned forward pressing another kiss to your forehead this time, letting his own rest against yours as he brought one of your hand to his chestplate, placing it above his heart.

“It’s yours Chère, mon coeur est à toi.”

You knew what he meant, he had promised you that despite all odds, if ever something went wrong, he would find you. He’d find you in every universe.

And he did.

Remy Lebeau was many things. He’d been branded as a scoundrel all his life..but if there was one thing he couldn’t do, it was lie to you. He was an honest man who kept his promises to you.

He fulfilled each one. Including this one.

───────────⋆༺𓆩🂱𓆪༻⋆─────────────

#void gambit #xmen gambit #gambit #gambit x reader #remy lebeau xmen #remy lebeau x reader #remy lebeau #xmen #x men #x men 97 #x men comics #x men movies #✧~may the cards be in our favor.

197 notes · View notes