#<br> top management

[negequwupuho]

Management de transition pdf

[lizzieisright]

Tranquility

dom!reader x sub!Abby

Summary: You want to help Abby relax and show her she doesn't have to control everything, sometimes she just can let go.

Tags: dom!reader, fingering, praise, consent checks, Abby doesn't really notice she is subbing, very light and vanilla, Sylvia Plath's quotes.

wc: 3.7k

MINORS DON'T INTERACT I'll hunt you for sport 

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

You don't jump into power dynamics right away when you get together: Abby doesn't even think about it too much - she just assumes since between the two of you she is the killing machine, big strong scary Abby Anderson, she'll be in charge like she is everywhere else. And you don't seem to mind, even though you had the sex talk way prior to having actual sex (I can't bottom every time if it's something you want, you said to her, and Abby agreed: she liked topping but she could bottom just fine). 

So the thought of power dynamics doesn't come to Abby at all, until one day. 

You are too good at reading Abby's mood - for some reason you can notice even the small shift in her. It's a superpower that creeps Abby out sometimes, how you can recognise her feelings and act accordingly. You don't make a scene out of it, you don't take care of her like she is a child who can't regulate her emotions, but you're there through it all. You're not scared of her anger or her tears, always calm, and for the first time in years Abby feels like she can rely on someone. Can trust someone fully. 

And today Abby is on edge. She is tired, angry and frustrated - the plan for the next supply run isn't safe in her opinion. Abby likes her plans to be foolproof, "if you think they're smart enough think again and dumb it down" type of fool-proof. Everyone said Abby was being ridiculous about it, and maybe she was, but it doesn't make her feel any better. 

And you obviously notice it. You watch her from the couch as Abby walks around packing, huffing every two seconds in anger. 

"I saw that plan, Abby, it's good. Everything will be fine. Manageable if something goes wrong."

"Jamie is on the team, and this idiot will get us in trouble." Abby growls. "And then someone will have to clean up his mess and someone will get hurt and it will slow us down-"

"Okay. Okay, Abs, stop." You put your book away. "Come here, you need to relax." You pat your lap and Abby stares at you before laughing.

"What, you want me to sit in your lap?" Abby asks sceptically. 

"Yeah." You pat your lap again. Abby is unsure and she feels ridiculous: she is not a lap dog, she is a fucking German shepherd.

"I'm too big to sit in your lap, baby." 

"Do I look like I give a fuck?" You deadpan. "Big girls need to sit on their lover's lap too. Come here."

Abby blinks. She likes that she is big and tall - it makes her feel powerful, but it comes with a cost. She doesn't get to feel small. And you asking her to sit on your lap opens something so desperate in her she gets scared. Abby knows she won't feel small, but she wants to try anyway. Abby tentatively makes her way to you, still unsure how it will work, but you tug her lightly and she straddles you. Abby feels like she is a giant on top of you, and she doesn't really remember where to put her hands. She settles on your shoulders.

"This is awkward." Abby assesses, frowning. 

"It's not. Sit, Abby, I can feel that you're hovering. I'm not going to break, I'm not made of dust." You push at her thighs so she can spread them and finally sit. You seem pretty happy with this, hugging her by her waist and pressing her closer to you. Abby is getting used to this, but it still seems ridiculous to her. She is used to tugging you to sit on her lap, not the other way around. 

"Am I too heavy?"

"I like feeling your weight on me. Makes it feel real." You grin and stroke her back. "Really, relax. I can read to you if you want."

Abby doesn't really know what to do. She has no arguments against you, and your lap is very comfortable. As well as being this close to you, feeling your body, your breathing, your warmth. 

"Yeah, okay. We can do that."

Abby does what you usually do when she reads: she puts her head on your shoulder and lets you snake your arms around her. 

"Good." You comment and hold the book with one hand while you stroke Abby's back with the other one. 

You are warm and your smell is comforting, so Abby puts her nose into the crook of your neck and breathes in.

"Yeah. Breathe. Deep big breaths." You say offhandedly as you look through the pages. It's weird. Abby feels safe and taken care of and it feels good, but it is too unfamiliar to be comfortable with it. 

"Would it be too childish of me to say: I want? But I do want: theater, light, color, paintings, wine and wonder. Yet not all these can do more than try to lure the soul from its den where it sulks in busy heaps of filth and obstinate clods of bloody pulp. I must find a core of fruitful seeds in me. I must stop identifying with the seasons, because this English winter will be the death of me-" You've read out loud and Abby suddenly resonates with the first line. Would it be too childish of her to say: she wants your care? 

"What is this?"

"Sylvia Plath's diaries."

"She sounds dramatic." Abby murmurs into your neck while you are caressing her back. Fuck it feels so good. She is so safe. 

"Bitch is all over the place sometimes. But she is a poet."

You kiss Abby's head and she leans into your touch, surprising herself. She isn't usually… needy, but right now something is different. The sudden safety of your arms around her, your calm voice and familiar smell makes Abby feel dangerously vulnerable. 

"You feel pretty relaxed." You notice as you now stroking her head, putting all annoying baby hairs behind her ear. 

"Yeah. It's so weird though."

You chuckle.

"In what way?"

"Usually it's you who sits in my lap. But this is good. Just weird."

"I think the word you're looking for is unfamiliar."

"Are you a thesaurus?" 

You laugh and kiss her forehead. Abby nuzzles her nose into your neck and your breath hitches. 

You know Abby doesn't mean to get you horny with her breathing, but you are getting horny. 

"Come here." You tell her and Abby lifts her head just enough for you to kiss her. She is warm and welcoming, doesn't rush anywhere and you are not rushing either, just enjoying the kiss. Abby relaxes into you and it surprises both of you - she isn't a person who gives up control easily. Hell, the whole thing started because Abby couldn't deal with people not doing everything like she told them to. But you feel how she puts more weight on you and you buck your hips into her. 

"Okay yeah. Still weird, but good." Abby pants into your mouth. You dig your fingers into her ass and press her into your crotch. "Oh fuck."

"Wanna make you cum." You say, panting yourself as arousal takes the hold of you. "What do you think?"

Abby looks at you with a lifted brow. 

"You think I'm going to say no?"

"Well." You kiss her jaw. "I don't plan on letting you do anything at all, so, maybe take a moment to think about it."

Abby stares at you as your words settle in. She will what, just lie there and do nothing? It sounds wrong, it sounds like she is going to be out of control, but also…

Also it sounds like the sweetest sin she could commit. 

"If you're not sure, we can stop. Like, fully. Or at any point you want to." You stroke her cheeks with your thumbs as you watch Abby. You know she is apprehensive about this idea, but you want her to relax fully and forget about everything. And you know you can give it to her if she just says yes. 

"Yeah. Yeah, okay. We can do that." Abby smiles bashfully and you kiss her, so fucking grateful for how brave she is. 

It's one thing to stare death in her face and win, and the other thing to stare in your lover's face and decide to trust them completely. And any other day Abby would have chosen death, but with you the danger can't get safer than this. 

So Abby lets herself relax into you again and just enjoy your touch. 

"Thanks." 

Abby chuckles, but it turns into a gasp as you move your lips down her neck while your hands are tugging on her shirt. Abby helps you take the shirt and the bra off, and you just caress her sides, looking over her. 

Abby knows you like how she looks, but having your attention like this makes her nervous. Your eyes are so dark with hunger Abby wants to look away but she doesn't, as sudden greed for your love washes over her. You look at her like you want to devour her. 

"Pretty." You sigh as you smile. "You're so pretty, Abs."

"I don't think pretty is the right word."

"Beautiful?"

Abby huffs but can't help her smile.

"Gorgeous?"

"Stop it." Abby says, playfully stern. "You're so sappy, god."

You grin and kiss her again, shutting her up - if you say she is pretty, she is, and whatever Abby thinks of herself is totally irrelevant. Your lips make a trail from her neck to her shoulder and you gently kiss her freckles, listening to Abby's breathing closely: it gets heavier as you move your kisses down, and these small sighs are the greatest encouragement you can get. 

You slowly move one of your hands up and cup Abby's tit, kneading her doughy flesh as she gasps. 

"Feels nice?"

"Yeah." Abby murmurs and runs her hand over your hair. It's still hard to let go so she tries to occupy herself in some way. She gently massages your neck and you kiss her just above her nipple. "Yeah, this is nice."

"Good. Let's take your pants off, I need them out of the way."

Your intonation makes Abby throb in her pants - it sounds so commanding and for once in her life she doesn't want to fight it, no, she wants to obey - it's easy with you. Safe. 

Abby stands from your lap and you help her take her pants and underwear off, making a small pile on the floor. Abby reaches to tug your shirt off, but you gently push her hands away. 

"Relax, baby. Don't worry about anything, okay?" You tug her back into your lap and sigh so happily when you touch her bare skin. "Your job right now is just to be pretty. Can you do that?"

Abby is conflicted: you don't sound patronising, but it should sound patronising, shouldn't it? She stops for a second to understand her reaction and you just watch her. You know Abby needs some time to process what is happening, so you continue caressing her back and her pretty ass that makes you drool while Abby figures out how she feels about your new behaviour. 

"Well I can try." Abby shrugs and you smile. 

"Thanks. I wanna call you princess, you know?" You kiss her neck and leave a hickey on her collarbone. 

"Call me what?" Abby laughs in the middle of her gasp at how ridiculous it sounds, but it's not a bad laugh. It's just embarrassing. "I'm no princess, (y/n)."

"Would you actually mind if I called you that?" You kiss her breastbone and Abby watches you. 

"Don't think so." Abby pants and looks at you impatiently as you finally move your lips to her tits. 

"Princess." You murmur and look into her eyes while her cheeks become bright red. "My pretty princess." You suck on her nipple gently and Abby gasps, squeezing your shoulders. The pet name turns her on - a lot of things turn her on right now even though they're weird and embarrassing.

You play with her other nipple and Abby presses closer to you, so you let your restraints go and use all your strength to move her closer to the point where her back is arched. Abby sighs, surprised - obviously Abby knows you are strong (not as strong as her, but strong nonetheless), but she never actually experienced it. Maybe you can make her feel small. Maybe you can make her feel like no one else could before. 

You slowly move your hands up Abby’s muscular thighs, caressing every line with your fingertips - Abby is too hot for her own good, and the hungry monster that lives inside you claws at your chest, desperate to have its way with Abby and make her forget her fucking name, but you’re patient. You would never push Abby into something she isn’t ready for, especially in sex, but you want to show her an alternative. Show that she can let herself forget her fucking name and it will be safe. Because god knows Abby needs it.

Abby watches your hands in anticipation and you smirk at her when you place your hands on conjunctions of her hips, caressing her hip bones with your thumbs. Abby is soft here, but her V-line makes her look sharp and hard, and it gets to your head. 

“I fucking love how strong you are, you have no idea.”

“I think I have a pretty good idea.” Abby chuckles, but she is impatient, so she grabs your hand and moves it down to her pussy. 

“Hey, don’t spoil the fun.” You scold her playfully and bring your hand back. “I’m not going to keep you waiting, princess. Relax.”

Abby feels how her face burns when you call her princess again, but it gets her wet, so impossibly wet there's probably a dark spot on your pants under her. Abby grinds her hips down, searching for some friction, and you push your hips up to let her have it. Abby shudders as her clit grinds down on your pelvis and her hands clutch your shoulders almost painfully as she tries to set a pace of her hips. 

"This is so hot, Abs. Fuck." You tell her as you watch her get off just grinding on you. You grab her ass and help her grind harder and Abby whimpers quietly, and your brain barely holds back your filthy mouth. You want to tell Abby how good she is, how she is doing such a good job getting herself off, but you hold it back for now. 

The friction is not enough and you know it, so you lock her in place with one arm around her waist, praying she'd listen to you, and snake your other hand between your bodies. 

Abby is so fucking wet your eyes roll back into your scull from how hard it turns you on. 

"You're so wet, princess." You murmur into her ear and Abby whimpers again. "You okay?"

Abby just nods and it clicks. Abby is getting overwhelmed, but she clings to you so you figure out it's a good overwhelmed. 

"Do you like it when I call you princess?" You ask mostly to make sure, but it sounds so seductive to Abby, a little mean maybe but in a good way. 

"It's embarrassing." Abby admits and squirms around when you cup her pussy. Finally. 

"Do you want me to stop?" You ask gently and look in her eyes, serious. Abby looks back, but her eyes are glazed over, she is too horny to care about being embarrassed by this point. 

"No. Don't stop." Abby grinds against your hand and you press her closer to make her stop. 

"You wanna cum already?"

"You keep fucking teasing me." Abby says, annoyed.

"I'm taking my time." You kiss her cheek and part her folds carefully, circling her clit with two fingers and Abby buries her head into your neck, moaning. You stroke her back to soothe her, but your fingers only get faster, the pressure is featherlight and it drives Abby crazy because it will get her to cum way too fast, and you know it. 

"Yeah, that's right, princess. Relax and enjoy, yeah?" You can't stop talking now, desperate to praise Abby and make her feel safe in your arms. "Does it feel good?"

"I- I can't fucking-" Abby moans between her words, clinging to you harder as your fingers get her closer to her release. "Icantfuckingthink" Abby says in one breath and you barely make sense of it.

"Oh princess, don't. Don't think, okay? Be good for me." You pay closer attention to her reaction, not sure if Abby would like it, but she is too out of it now. She whines - fucking hell Abby whines - and presses closer to you.

"Yeah, I'll take care of you, I'll make you feel good." You promise her and slide your fingers down, gently pressing at her hole. Abby arches into your fingers, trying to get them inside, and your heart melts. "You're so cute, fuck. You want my fingers?" 

Abby growls at you, refusing to talk, and you chuckle. 

"Just nod for me, okay? Or shake your head."

Abby takes a second to process your words and then she nods. 

"Good girl." 

That makes Abby open her eyes in shock and her walls clench around nothing to push her slick into your hand, and you can tell she liked it. 

"Can I call you that, princess?" You slowly push your fingers inside and just move them to feel how soft and hot Abby is. She suddenly grinds down on your hand and you kiss her shoulder. "Nod or shake." You remind her. 

Abby nods, her embarrassment totally forgotten by this point: she feels small, safe and taken care of, and the way you talk to her only makes it better. Your stupid spidey senses let you know when to check in with her and Abby never knew it could be this way - that giving consent can turn her on so much because you ask for it like you're dirty talking to her. 

And you are so close and you hold her so tightly Abby feels grounded even though she is so overwhelmed she can't think anymore. She just feels, her world only exists in the tactile plane now, and your voice carries her away. 

"Yeah, don't think, princess, I want your head empty and your pretty cunt stuffed with my fingers." You murmur into Abby's ear and she buries her face in your neck deeper as you curl your fingers inside her. Abby moans quietly and you feel how you lose any self-control you had before. 

You pick up the pace, catching the balance between overwhelmingly fast and not fast enough just so you won't disturb Abby's delicate headspace, and you just listen to her. Abby is not loud, never been, but that what makes it so magical - every sigh turns into a quiet whimper the longer you fuck her, and then you feel it, how Abby clenches around your fingers, her orgasm coming closer. 

"You're close, princess, I can fucking feel it. Do you feel it? Does it feel nice when you're so tight around me?"

"Yeah." Abby says in a hoarse low voice and your teeth fucking ache because you want to sink them into her so much. 

"Fuck Abby." You kiss her temple and suddenly you're fucking her so hard Abby gets tense in your arms, overwhelmed. "You have no idea what you do to me."

But Abby is not listening to you because you turn your hand just enough so you could thumb her clit and-

"Fuck!" Abby shrieks and closes her thighs on you as she cums. You stop moving your fingers inside her to enjoy how she pulsates around them, but you continue thumbing her clit."Fuck-fuck, stop-" Abby asks when it becomes too much and you obey her. 

Abby is panting hard and you just kiss her neck and shoulders, waiting for her to calm down, but you can't help yourself so you start slowly moving your fingers in and out. 

"You feel amazing around my fingers, princess."

"Fuck, don't stop, please, don't fucking stop-" Abby whispers and hugs you around your neck. You’re more than happy to oblige, and you can’t help your mean smile as you move your fingers slowly but thoroughly, getting a feel of every centimetre of Abby’s walls. 

It doesn’t take more than a few minutes for Abby to whimper and shudder in your arms again, drenching your hand up to your wrist, and you gently kiss her to help her calm down. Abby is limp on your lap, her head comfortably tucked in your neck as she pants. Abby feels exhausted but ridiculously happy, giddy even - you opened something in her, something that freed her vulnerability fully. God, Abby always knew she could trust you, let you watch her back, but the thought she could be so vulnerable and small with you never crossed her mind.

“Do you want to nap, baby?” You murmur in her hair and Abby hums in agreement. “Okay, let me put your shirt back on, yeah?”

Abby reluctantly lets you put the shirt on her and wrap a blanket around both of you as you adjust your position so you’d be lying down while Abby would be on top of you, so it would be comfortable for her to rest. You open your book again while Abby’s breathing evens out.

“I am watching a pale blue sky be torn across by wind fresh from the russian steppes. Why is it that I find it so difficult to accept the present moment, whole as an apple, without cutting and hacking at it to find a purpose, or setting it up on a shelf with other apples to measure its worth or trying to pickle it in brine to preserve it, and crying to find it turns all brown and is no longer simply the lovely apple I was given in the morning?”

The present moment, whole as an apple - Abby doesn’t have to worry about not accepting it, lulled by your voice and your warmth and your smell - after all, the present is all she has.

[adventuringblind]

Viva Las Vegas

Landoscar x Reader

Genre: Fluff? Crack? Idek...

Summary: Two boys can't get a hint, and the female in the middle is just waiting for them to make a move. Preferably with her ending up between them.

Warnings: spicy, kind of panic attack? Allusions to sex, alcohol consumption, mentions of Lando's crash, and him being on pain meds.

Notes: Reminder that my requests are open for the 1000 follower celebration! Also, a certain someone put this idea in my head so now you all have to suffer.

Masterlist

Being the baby of the paddock really hadn't been that bad. A year younger than Arthur and having to put off with Charles was never on her top list of things she wanted to do, but she managed. Followed him around races like a lost puppy.

She was a perfect angel. Kind of. Not really, but she put on a good face when in public. Charles' perfect baby sister.

Lando Norris got to see a whole other side of her. The side that the cameras and public don't see.

The side that takes risks and tests the limits. The one nobody else has managed to pull out of her. The one Lando seems to make being so incredibly easy.

Charles adores the two of them. Lando would never hurt her. He may be impulsive, but he's loyal to a fault.

A couple of years later Is when Oscar comes along. Lando's new teammate. It's awkward for exactly two months into their work together.

Lando didn't like what happened to Daniel. He was still upset about it when word got out that Oscar had signed. It didn't feel real at the end of the year.

Then something shifted. Maybe it was the shared frustration of such a horrible start to the season? She may never know. But one thing is certain and it's that they like each other.

Oscar likes Lando. Lando likes Oscar. They both like her, and she loves them right back.

Yet she could not, for the life of her, forgire out why neither of them is saying anything about it. One can really only handle so much sexual tension before they explode. The sweet moments between the three of them. The fact she has attempted to get the both riled up with nothing to show for it except what Lando does to her later and Oscar's stupid smug face just playing alone with sarcastic jokes.

They are going to be the death of her. The two of them are attached at the hip, and she's excitedly making popcorn thinking it's going to turn into a romantic comedy. It doesn't, and she would like whoever is directing the movie to hurry the story along.

Both her and Lando are getting under his skin, and it's evident in every interaction they have. She takes it upon herself to invite Oscar everywhere with them.

They are happy all together. If they would just stop being so oblivious it would be perfect.

Then Vegas happens. The place where memories are made and forgotten. Lost in the music, lights, and alcohol.

The car isn't the best here. Both boys are frustrated. Lando crashes, and Oscar manages, but it's written on his face that he's disappointed with himself.

She goes to Lando at the hospital. Then, when he's released and thoroughly medicated, they head back to the paddock.

He's hilarious. Lando and his already unfiltered mouth are just saying everything. Including every feeling he has ever had for both her and Oscar. It started fine and then escalated Shortley after to the point where Jon had to promise he wouldn't ever mention it.

Oscar runs through media duties with an unholy speed. He looks relieved when he finds the two waiting around by his door because Lando didn't want to go to his own.

"I'm sorry it's been a lame birthday weekend." Sighs the Aussie who has collapsed onto the sofa.

"Well- it doesn't have to be."

Should the two not on any kind of medication used their clear judgment? Probably, but who are they to deny Lando?

They did decide on keeping it chill and just to go out for an hour or two after Lando at least napped off some of the meds. Neither of the sober minds had any intention of mixing alcohol with whatever Lando was on.

The Brit looked so excited to be out with them. He openly expressed he didn't need anybody else because his two favorite people were already with him. Oscar replied with a smile. She's going to have to force them to kiss at this rate.

Somewhere between three drinks in and Lando sipping on something not strong came blurred confessions. Whatever Lando had told Oscar he was drinking definitely was stronger than he'd made it out to be.

Her boyfriend keeps throwing her mischievous looks and suggestive eyebrow raises. What kind of game is he playing at? She would love if he let her in on it.

But alas, Lando does not, and she is left to her drink and her mind as she watches the two refuse to do anything about the tension they are creating. It's getting far too much for her. She either needs Lando to make a move on Oscar or to come help her because her imagination is going to places.

Somebody does kiss her, but it's not Lando. She would be concerned if Oscar hadn't just moved closer to her.

Everything goes fuzzy after that.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning is met with ridiculous hangovers and a cramped position on the couch.

The couch? How on earth did she end up here? More importantly, why is Oscar using her like a blanket and Lando a starfish on the floor?

Her breath quickens. Something must have happened for them to end up here. She pulls herself up and almost passes out in the process. She would like to - no - needs to remember what happened. She finds her phone laying on the counter and opens it.

Her hand hits the counter and there it the sound of metal hitting granite. She shakily moves her hands into view.

Of all the stupid and impulsive things, she could've done, it had to be getting married in Vegas and being too drunk to remember it. Looks like George, Alex, and Lily were there, the three people who really should've stopped her.

But it's not that realization that makes her finally curl up on the ground, It's the name on the certificate.

Oscar Piastri.

She can hear both boys starting to stir and wake themselves up. The light hitting their faces drawing them back to the land of the living. Into what has become her nightmare.

She ducks behind the counter.

"What happened last night? My head is killing me and- why are you on the floor?"

"Well, we all started on the couch and then I needed water, couldn't find my spot again so I just stayed on the floor."

There is a pause. "What do you mean 'we all'?"

"The three of us? You know, it's bad not to sleep together on the night of your wedding."

There is a string of mumbled words from Oscar that she can't make out. "Seeing as I married your girlfriend, you seem way too happy about this."

"Mate, you were literally trying to fuck both of us last night and then went on this rant about-"

"Okay! I get it! No need to embarrass me more."

Lando is laughing hysterically. "I was wondering if you were ever going to do it. I was getting worried about your wife having a stroke if we didn't do something about this. She talks in her sleep you know."

She squeaks and then covers her mouth. She curls further into her hiding place, but it's no use. They boys find her and join her on the floor.

"You been awake long, love?" How can Lando be so gentle at a time like this? Like she hadn't just betrayed him! She stares in disbelief and then shakes her head no.

It looks like Lando is about to say something else when there is a knock on the door. He gets up and opens it to Charles and Max. The former of which is yelling in French.

"Looks like you guys also had a rough night." Lando is keeling over laughing which inevitably puts him back on the floor.

"What do you mean?" Max is standing there looking completely sober.

Lando is in tears at this point, and nobody understands what he's laughing at. "The matching rings, mate? Do you not remember getting hitched right after your sister?"

There is a set of identical screams followed by more frantic French.

"Speaking of that..." Max turns his attention to the little Leclerc and Oscar. "... You going to explain this one Lando? I remember this still."

Lando then blushes, and it looks like he considers running. "So listen - I may have talked you two into getting married." There is this innocent smile on his face that makes her jaw drop.

"This was you?! I'm panicking for nothing?!" She trails with French mumbling, and Charles joins in with her.

They look through pictures for a while and get water into their systems before Max and Charles go to leave.

"So, are you two going to get a divorce?" Oscar looks at Charles and Max who shrug.

"Maybe, but who knows? Maybe it'll come in handy some day."

"I knew you guys were fucking! Lando you own me now."

"How did you know?!"

"Little sisters know all, dear brother."

When it's just the three, a tense silence false between them. "So, what now?" She finally breaks. No longer able to handle the staring.

"We get a lawyer?"

"Or, hear me out, we keep it. We can always do that later!"

It's true, really. This a backward way of confessing, but it's not like they don't want to be together.

"Then Lando needs a ring also!" They laugh.

The Brit gets a hold of the certificate and finds a marker to write his name on it. "I fixed it."

Then he looks at the other two. Bright smiles on all of there faces.

"Shall we consummate the marage?"

[verysium]

some hcs abt the bllk boys doing modeling shoots as pro-players? (like what they’d model for and the ways they captivate their audiences and stuff)? ty and love ur works btw 💞💞🫡

idk why but this ask made my brain freeze up and refuse to write anything for 3 days, so apologies if this is late anon:

sae would be so done. i mean....he walked out on a literal interview, so what makes you think he won't walk out on a photoshoot? he probably hates the very idea of plastering his face all over billboards and magazines. but his manager said that he was in desperate need of good publicity, especially after that stunt he pulled with the last commercial endorsement. if sae was forced to model though, he'd definitely be as stiff as a board. no facial expressions whatsoever and always sticks to one pose. oftentimes, this involves him facing the wall and only showing half his face. if the photographer wants a full frontal, he's going to have to deal with sae's "i don't want to be here and i'm being held hostage" face. even if sae does try smiling, it looks more like a grimace. the only redeeming quality here is that he is good-looking. if you look at the official art, he doesn't even have to try to get all of you drooling over him. that face card does not decline. like ever. so the shoots usually wrap up pretty quickly because out of the 100 images taken, at least half are going to be usable. he's photogenic from any angle.

kaiser would strike a pose for everything, even his own mugshot. i picture him as that one johnny depp advertisement for dior sauvage. blue lighting. a silk blouse with the top button open to show off a sliver of his sculpted chest. his hair is slicked back with gel, and his knuckles are decorated with silver rings. the tattoo just pulls everything together. if not a perfume commercial, then i think he'd model for adidas or some other german brand (maybe even a beer company if he's old enough). i don't think he has any trouble with the actual modeling part of process. he knows how to flaunt himself. the only issue is that kaiser is a lazy perfectionist. he would show up late to the shoots and then stays even later just looking through the shots and choosing which ones to include. puts a lot of time and effort into things like this. after all, his image and his brand are important to him.

shidou would be sponsored by an energy drink brand. like red bull or monster. if not that, then axe body spray lol. as for modeling, i feel like he wouldn't be able to sit still. probably pulls out crazy poses that piss the photographers off on purpose. it always cracks me up how one of his first appearances in the manga is him being muzzled and restrained in a straitjacket inside blue lock's time-out zone. he's so chaotic. you would have to hold him down and shove the camera into his face to actually get a good shot. i also picture him wearing lots of black leather, maybe even silver jewelry (eg. studs, piercings). and of course, you can't forget the hot pink accents.

isagi would model for family-friendly brands. if not that, then just japanese brands in general. i imagine him doing skincare commercials for shiseido or maybe even participating in a campaign for UNIQLO. as for modeling, he would be awkward at first but then gradually get the hang of it. always thanks the team afterwards and is very mindful of the photographer's suggestions. everyone says he is a pleasure to work with.

rin would model for luxury watch brands like TAG heuer or IWC. maybe when he grows older and further develops his career, he might even become an ambassador for louis vuitton or bulgari. overall, his advertisements are very elegant and professional. only endorses high quality products. never looks at the shots afterwards because he hates looking at his own face. gets somewhat embarrassed when his mama points out his billboards and makes clippings of his magazine covers. he absolutely flipped when a brand suggested that he do a collaboration with his brother. so when this collaboration actually did take place, it was like a repeat of the whole messi-ronaldo photoshoot. they didn't actually meet on set. they were just photoshopped together into the same frame.

barou models for calvin klein. lots of denim and shirtless photos. all of the staff got nosebleeds, and his fanbase went wild when the issue was finally released. there's this one image his fans worship religiously where he's posing in his boxers and there's a clear shot of his abs and happy trail. (he's so hot wtf) there's also another shot that wasn't used cus a million people would've been deceased. he's standing there with his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans and wearing nothing underneath his denim jacket. his hair is also down, and his skin is all sun-kissed and golden.

reo models streetwear, and this is canon because he has the drip. honestly, his duality needs to be studied because he can go from high class gentleman to bad boy who wears chains and knuckle rings. he'd try all different sorts of styles, and he'd look good doing it. out of all the bllk boys, i feel like reo gets the most sponsorship deals because of his versatility. he does the styling, hair, makeup, posing, editing, etc. honestly, they need to hire him as a creative director already. nagi would tag along behind the scenes, but he'd end up scrolling on his phone the entire day.

[transboysokka]

Avatarverse Hottest Man Tournament!

Grand Final!

alright lets get this over with...

Propaganda Below

Hakoda is seeded first in the tournament, having earned nearly 75% of all votes in his round 1 pool, defeating Fire Lord Ozai, Adult Aang, and Lieutenant Jee, and eliminating Master Yu, Admiral Zhao, Shady Shin, and Chit Sang from the competition.

In round 2, he defeated Amon’s Lieutenant with more than 88% of the votes.

In round 3 he crushed Uncle Iroh with more than 75% of the votes.

In the quarterfinals, he kept his momentum going to crush fellow DILF Tonraq with STILL more than 65% of the votes.

In the semifinals he STILL beat Firebending Heartthrob Mako with nearly 60% of the votes.

We have... ONE propaganda for Hakoda!

But tbh he doesn't need much more. We know what he looks like and what he’s working with. We know he’s an amazing warrior and a sweet dad. We’ve seen his leadership skills and have already crowned him one of the fandom’s top DILFs so… his competitors may have a lot to live up to…

#hakoda sweep

#daddy sweep

#hakoda squad is winning w this one

#DILF SWEEP

#hakoda sweep as god intended

#wanna lick his face#and that's just the beginning

#no fucking contest#none at all

#HAKODA KILL HIM

#hakoda doesn't NEED my vote but he always has it regardless#sokka's dad has got me down bad

#when i saw him in br pt 2 my mind went 😍

#chief dilf#the dilfiest dilf to ever dilf

#hakoda all the way

#hakoda 1000%

#go hakoda

#Hakoda to me

#okay now it’s tits out for hakoda

#DILF don't fail us now

#hakoda. easy. hes a dilf

#KILL THAT TWINK HAKODA

#no. i will not let some weird eyebrow boy kick the lasy dilf on this tournament#hakodasweep

#HAKODA TRUTHERS RISE UP

#HAKODA#KILL THE LITTLE BOY#DILF NATION RISE

#old man sweep.........#jk hes not really thay old

Zuko came in second place in his round one pool, up against some very stiff competition, earning the 10th overall seed in the tournament. He beat out Uncle Iroh, both Bataars, Zaheer, The Boulder, and the Pirate Captain.

He defeated Monk Gyatso in the second round, earning over 83% of the votes!

In the third round he beat Bumi II with over 85% of the votes.

In the quarterfinals he managed to beat DILF King Piandao himself!

Finally, in the semifinals, for some GODDAMN reason he beat Iroh II by a sizeable margin.

There are only three pieces of official art of Adult Zuko, unless you want to count Old Man LoK Zuko which you are more than welcome to.

#my sweet boi zuko!

#zuko every day of the week

#look at his hair#and the way he carries himself 😍

#GETTIM ZUKO!!!@

#zuko and im not sorry

[blughxreader]

What if batsis managed to get out of the house but not to leave just to feel the sunlight or look at the stars? Maybe she falls asleep on accident and the Batfam panics because she’s not in the house and won’t respond to any of them calling for her

Platonic Yan!Bruce Wayne, drabble

Bruce stood on the roof of the Wayne manor in a wide stance, his breath jagged and hot against the cool Gotham air. The breeze lifted his cape in waves, making his moon-lit shadow streak across the ceramic tiles like an unrestful ghost.

There.

Between two chimneys and a rise in the roofing nestled your small body. The darkness coccooned you, but despite it Bruce could see the steady rise and fall of your chest. You were uninjured.

Relief made him physically sag, chest compressing as he heaved an uneven sigh. Thank God, thank God.

How had you even escaped? What was the reason for this frantic commotion? Anger wanted to rear its head, but Bruce was too weary to find the strength.

He muttered into his headset, “I found them,” before shutting it off.

Bruce silently approached you, squatting beside your sleeping form. He peeled off a glove and brushed his fingertips along your temple, checking your body temperature. You didn’t stir when he placed his cape over you.

Bruce thought about how he should handle this. Had you intended to escape, or worse, kill yourself but backed out? Or was this a harmless venture?

Bruce could hear himself saying, “I won’t get mad, I just want to know why.” But it would be a feeble lie.

Oh, he was furious. But more than that, he was scared.

The panic he felt upon finding you missing rivaled losing Jason in the warehouse. Hopeless, desperate, all-consuming.

He slipped his hands beneath you and lifted you into his arms. You woke at once with a gasp.

“Br-Dad?”

The mistake needled him. He kept silent and watched you grow more anxious.

“I'm sorry, I just wanted to see the stars.” You clung to yourself, trembling. “I… I’m so sorry.”

The stars? So this whole ordeal was his fault, then.

“Hush,” he said softly.

You looked like you wanted to say more but kept your mouth clamped shut. With tense movements, you rested your head against his chest plate. Tears dripped down your cheeks.

What a failure he was. What an absolute failure.

He needed to punish you for breaking the rules, to not let this set a precedent, but the thought felt corrupt.

He neglected your needs, and you had to take the fall? Bruce felt sick to his stomach. Your crime felt so small compared to the colossal oversight on his part, yet your behavior needed correcting.

Carefully navigating around the edge of the roof, Bruce slipped into the open window he came from. Warm air washed over the two of you, yet your trembling only increased.

"I'm sorry," you whimpered.

"I'm sorry as well." Bruce kissed the top of your head, heart heavy at the misery in your voice.

Maybe the two of you should go away for a little while, to take time to reconnect and find a common ground. Bruce needed to know exactly what was going through your head, to anticipate your needs before you even have them.

He'll become a better man, a better father, once you tell him everything.

[curiositydooropened]

Ranged • 01: Firetower

You and Steve have been sent on a missing person's case, a park ranger in the Cascades went missing from his post after reporting a large area of downed trees. Could be something up your alley.

Pairing: special agent!Steve Harrington x special agent!Reader

Wordcount: 5742

Warnings: very slowburn, this fic is episodic, coworkers to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, canon-typical gore, weapons, fighting, murder, viruses, decay, monsters *This chapter contains mentions of animal harm, blood, vomit/nausea, potential character death, and whump/bad injuries - also hey, I'm not a doctor and this fic is free, so my inaccuracies might bug you. xo

This blog is 18+ only. I do not give permission for any of my fics to be duplicated, reposted, or put into AI. Thank you!

Navigation • Fic Masterlist

---

Moodboard • 00: Prologue • 02: Home [Coming Soon]

Fire Lookout Tower 647 - Cascades

Fog blanketed the forest floor and just beyond, it coated the tops of trees, covering pine needles in vast, rolling smoke. Everything lacked saturation up here, everything but verdant moss and fern and branch, a sea of grey and green, damp and deep. The sunlight filtered in way far off, to the West, but everything out of its reach had begun to groan under the steady pelt of plummeting rain.

Rain pittered and pat against the tin roof and into the quickly filling bucket in the corner. Its splash zone had been haphazardly mopped with a shaggy old towel. 

You watched the landscape shift beyond the clouds, wrapped in wool socks and a flannel blanket while your partner took his turn retrieving fire wood from its drying spot beneath the tower.

His presence was announced by the groaning of stairs and the creaking of a rusted spring on the door. 

Steve had only smiled a handful of times since you met him, a painful stretch of soft features, the wrinkle never leaving his brow. To be fair, your job rarely warranted more than a polite grimace to townsfolk whose crops you’d left ablaze, whose family members you’d left on a slab.

Today was no different.

“This place is a shit hole,” he grumbled, rolling cut wood from his arms onto the ground in front of the stove. 

You hummed, knowing better than to argue something so trivial before he had his dinner.

He hunched to stoke the fire, now mere ashes and embers that glowed red in the little iron stove. He was soaked to the bone, dark hair clinging to his forehead and around his ears. He’d have to cut it again before your next return to Base. 

His hands were bright red, nipped cold and hard-worked, and you rolled your eyes at the pair of gloves he’d left on the rickety card table near the door. 

“Fucking rain,” he muttered, shoving kindling in hopes for it to catch.

With a sigh, you pushed yourself upright and reached for your own rain slicker on its hook. A puddle had formed and seeped through the floorboards, creating a patch of darkened wood that ringed with all puddles that had come before. “I’m going to get water to boil.” 

“Be careful.” 

The spring creaked. Rain gushed from dips in the roof and splashed loudly against rocks on the hillside. 

You glanced back at Steve. He was hunched in front of a started fire, worry etched between his brows. 

He shrugged. “I slipped at the bottom of the stairs.” He gestured to the mud that streaked his left pant-leg. “Be careful.”

You nodded and stepped out into the deluge.

The window coverings provided a good roof for the porch, save a few leaks here and there, and you clung to the side of the building as your guard rail to round it. You’d put empty buckets on the south end. All five of them had all overflowed. 

You picked the lightest one. You’d managed to haul it back across slippery planks, dozens of feet in the air, to the door before your right foot slipped out from under you. With a yelp, and the sting of bitter cold against your ass cheeks, you fell. The building teetered under your shifted weight, and you clung to the railing with pinched breath.

The spring creaked. Steve stood at the door with lumbered shoulders and that same frown, looking down a freckled nose at you. He picked up the bucket with one hand and held his other for you to take. “I said, ‘be careful’.” 

While the water boiled and Steve grumbled about canned meatballs, you stripped out of wet jeans and remained in damp Long Johns, removing your socks and hat and gloves to hang near the fire. 

The sun had already dipped far to the west, catching on split clouds in purples and oranges before it was swallowed up again by the grey. 

“You get the radio working?” Steve sighed, adverse to the quiet. 

You shook your head and stirred tomato paste around in the pot. After many meals with Steve, you were sure he grew up in the kind of household that only ate their meals on trays in front of the television. He could never really sit and appreciate the stillness. “Go ahead and tinker with it. Is there a game tonight?” 

“There was,” he deployed a long antenna and fidgeted with a few dials. Static buzzed from the plastic between his hands. “Might be too late. What time zone are we in?” 

“Pacific,” you explained. “Two hours behind.” 

You felt lighter after food. Warmth settled over your chest and shoulders, and you huddled further into your blanket. 

Steve’s hair dried a little, and you managed to coax him into taking one of your spare hats. The stitches stretched over the circumference. With a sigh, you slowly ripped out the project you’d been knitting and cast more stitches onto your needle. 

The radio hadn’t worked, too far out of reach to hear the score, and it had been discarded. Instead, Steve hummed, and the fire crackled, and your needles clacked against one another. The rain had died down, too.

“Think we’ll find him?” He asked, picking at the frayed stitching on the baseball he’d been tossing around.

Your target was the missing tower keeper, a man named Les Joplin who hadn’t reported in a few days after he’d gone in search of what he had described to dispatch as a rotten cropping of trees in the east acreage. 

You glanced back up at Steve, never knowing if he wanted you to answer honestly or not. Your fingers kept pace. Knit, purl, knit, purl. “Hope so.”

“My grandmother used to knit.” He nodded to the project slowly making way in your hands. 

You hummed. You’d heard this story before. A few months back, you began to notice a pattern to the information Steve had given you about his former life, only snapshots, hand-picked. You wondered if he had been trained this way, or if he still didn’t trust you.

The repeated stories didn’t stop you from prying for more.

“What’d you call you grandmother?” You asked.

“What do you mean?” He frowned back at you.

“You know, ‘grandma’, ‘granny’, ‘nana’?”

He snorted, rolled his eyes, tossed the ball a few times. “Grandmother.” 

You cocked a brow. “Grandmother? What, like the Queen?” 

There it was, the softest uptick of the corner of his lips, a flash of amusement in his eyes as he rolled them. “Exactly like the Queen. I was lucky if I got to address her as anything other than ‘ma’am’.” 

Another peak behind the curtain. You snickered and pressed on. “Mom or Dad’s mom?” 

“Uh…” He frowned again, mulling something over. “Mom’s. My dad’s parents were old as shit, died before I was born.” Another insight. 

“How’d they meet, your parents?” 

“Huh?” He blinked back at you, brow in a proper frown now. “I don’t know.” 

You’d lost him. You’d pressed too hard. With a sigh, you turned back to your knitting. Knit, purl. Knit, purl. 

He shook his head, and his sleeping bag shuffled as he stood and stretched. He set the baseball back on the little table, and it rolled until it met the pot of leftover spaghetti sauce. “Listen, I’m gonna take a leak, and we should probably think about getting some sleep. Early morning tomorrow.” 

You nodded, tucked your knitting back into your bag. “I’ll wash the dishes.” 

“Thank you.” He said, and he exited the little hut. The stairs creaked his whole way down. 

“Robin? No. No, Robin, no.” 

You awoke to Steve’s muffled cries. His sleeping bag shifted around a twitching body.

This wasn’t the first nightmare, and you knew it wouldn’t be the last. You didn’t know who Robin was, and the fear in his voice dimmed your hope that she’d lived.

You swallowed to clear the sleep from your vocal cords before speaking his name into the darkness. It took several tries, a full shout, to snap him out of whatever version of Hell his subconscious had pulled him in, and when he did rouse, it was with force.

He shot from his pillow, gripping the hilt of a knife stashed under it, and glanced around the room. “What is it? What’s wrong?” 

You sighed, tucked your face into your pillow, and murmured. “I’m cold.” 

“What?” He peered at you. 

It wasn’t a lie. The fire had gone out, and your toes had numbed slightly, and you’d argued with him when he agreed to the floor, so you were sure he was cold too. Maybe that had caused the nightmare. “I’m cold. Will you just get over here, please?”

You heard his groan, and a shuffle of sleeping bag as he pulled himself upright. His back and shoulders were silhouetted, broad and hunched. He wound his sleeping bag up between his fists, joints cracking as he made his way over to your cot. 

“Is there room?”

You shifted impossibly closer to the wall and hugged your sleeping bag to you to expose just how much room was left on the little cot. Not much, if you were being honest, but you were cold, and you had hoped your presence beside him might calm the terrors that plagued him.

He spread his blanket out beside you before asking if you needed a sip of water. 

You shook your head, but watched as he ambled across the room to the rickety card table for a swig from the canteen. 

The rain had stopped, but fog blanketed the windows on all sides. The sloshing of the water in his bottle sent a shiver through you.

“Alright, I’m coming,” he grumbled, and returned to slide himself into bed beside you. 

His arm came up first, once he’d settled, and you stiffened under his hold.

“What’re you doing?” You rubbed at tired eyes, trying to catch any glimpse of the curve of his nose.

“Warming you up, don’t make it weird.” He looped you in, scooping your sleeping bag up between the two of you. His other arm reached around your middle and pulled you close.

You weren’t surprised at his strength. He’d offered you a helping hand with more than one injury in the field. You’d seen him pull women and children from burning buildings. That one time he hauled a sheepdog from the river, both man and beast soaking wet and panting, dog tossed around his broad shoulders. 

“Better?” His gruff voice fanned your forehead, deliciously warm. 

You hummed, reaching aching cold hands out to warm against his chest. 

He hissed under your touch and wrapped your fingers up in his own. “Didn’t I tell you to sleep next to the fire?” He scolded.

“No,” you hummed, letting your eyes grow heavy again. “You told me to take the cot.” 

He grumbled something incoherent and adjusted on the tiny pad beside you. You knew he’d complain about a crick in his neck in the morning. 

“Night, Steve,” you mumbled. 

His nose tipped itself against your temple, and he sighed. “Get some sleep.” 

He slept after that. 

—

The rain made rivulets of mud and Earth. Where trails once climbed the mountainside, rocks and boulders now fell, surging into teeming river beds. 

Your boots squelched beneath you, each step a slip away from disaster. 

Steve stood a few yards ahead, more surefooted. He whipped at overgrowth with the business end of a machete. “Joplin!” He cried out, startling a few birds from their perches.

You glanced around, hand around the gun strapped to your thigh, just in case. If Joplin was eaten by a bear out here, or worse, you had to have confidence in protecting yourselves. “Les!”

Steve called your name. He stood with his machete extended, scrubbing at his tired eyes with the palm of his other hand. 

Just beyond him, the forest had been blighted. Root to crown, these massive conifers were decimated. A widow maker forest, limbs fell at odd angles, having melted from the trunk. Green grass and fern and vine turned to black ash. 

You cursed under your breath and took careful steps to meet your partner to ensure the ground didn’t swallow you whole. When you reached him, the rancid stench stung in your nostrils, watered your eyes. “Well, guess he wasn’t kidding.” 

You glanced back up to the fire tower, now a mere speck on the horizon. 

Steve’s jaw clenched. He nodded. “I’m gonna look for holes. Call it in, will you?” 

With a sigh, you stripped the heavy pack from your back. Your shoulders ached in relief. “Be careful.” You warned, and watched as he took off at a slower pace into the patch of rot. 

You kept an eye on him as you dialed, service spotty, but you were quickly patched through to dispatch. “Yeah, hi.” You offered up your badge number, called in reinforcements for a controlled burn. 

“How big is the affected area?” The woman on the other lined cracked her gum between her molars. 

You glanced around at the rot. This was small, relatively fresh. A chill rolled down your spine. You looked from Steve to the blanket of mist rolling downhill from the clouds. “About ten acres.”

“Alright, hon, we’ll get someone out there in the next day or so. Are you in need of emergency evac?” 

“No, we’re good to hang out until the crew gets here. Thank you.” She hung up first, and you pushed the antenna back into the device. Before you could shove it back into your bag, however, you heard a cry, a moan, really, in the distance, carried on the wind, prickling the hairs at the base of your neck.

“Steve?” You called out, standing up straight to survey the area. 

You heard it again, to your left.

You swung around. Steve was gone. You were alone.

You took off on a run to where you’d last seen him, careful not to trip over any loose roots, trying not to bump any more precariously hung branches from their roosts hundreds of feet in the air. You called for your partner, still clutching the piece at your side in one hand, the satellite phone in the other. 

The noise was louder now, a grunt and a groan, two noises, two distinct voices. 

You stopped, surveyed your surroundings, posted up on the good side of a half-rotted stump. 

“Can you walk?” Steve’s voice hissed from nearby. 

Your heart thumped wildly in your chest. You swung around, gun out, pointed toward the sound. 

“I broke it,” another voice, unfamiliar, croaked. They were beneath you. 

Rounding the stump, you found a hollowed out bit of ground wherein your partner was hacking away at the vines curled around the leg of an emaciated older man. This man was coated in mud and slime, curled hair sticking to his head. You sighed in relief and holstered your weapon. 

“Les Joplin?” You asked, taking a few steps to the edge of the hole. 

Both men jumped. Steve frowned back up at you before hacking away at another root. 

Les gulped, nodded. Shit, you’d left your pack at the edge of the rot. 

“Think you can limp it back to more solid ground? I’m going to call for an airlift.” You uncurled your knuckles from around the phone to dispatch the antenna and dial the number again. 

Les winced, teeth grit, sweat streaking the mud on his forehead.

You pulled your partner’s gaze. His jaw ticked. He pushed hair from his eyes with the back of his hand. He nodded, threw the man’s arm over broad shoulders. “Alright, count of three?” 

—

The rain came back as the air lift set down. Propellers pummeled large drops at you, sideways rain that stuck your clothes to your skin and cut off your breath.

You squeezed Les’s wrist as they strapped him to the gurney. His teeth chattered, face gray beneath a shiny mylar blanket. The ventilator obscured everything but his eyes, tired, frantic. 

Steve spoke to the team. He was shouting, but you couldn’t hear his voice over the wind and the slap of rain. 

Your hair stuck to the corners of your mouth.

Steve backed up to your front, shielding you behind his slim frame. He lifted a hand to wave as the helicopter ascended, clouds bending and melting beneath it. 

When it was a high enough altitude, Steve linked a large hand around your wrist and tugged you upwards, through wind-whipped grass and mud, toward the lonesome fire tower. 

The stairs were just as slick as the grass, and Steve kept a firm grip at your waist. To hold you upright or himself, you weren’t sure, but you felt anchored nonetheless.

When you finally summited, the world around you coated in a thick, grey cloud, you began to strip the soaked clothes from your body. Steve began to lodge firewood from the corner of the room into the little stove. 

“We have to go back out there,” he grunted, lighting a match to kindling before tossing it in. 

You groaned, unsticking your long-sleeve shirt from your back to wheel it over your head. “After lunch.” You pled.

You tried to stand your ground and not cower as Steve’s gaze swept your frame. He licked at pink lips, hair stuck to his face, his own clothes three shades darker than they were when you’d left the tower that morning. 

“After lunch.” He conceded, unbuttoning his shirt. You watched his back muscles shift beneath the outline of a white tank top, the moles placed hither and thither. 

You slipped a dry t-shirt over your head and began boiling water in a pot.

Steve’s knees were pulled to his chest, toes wiggling in dry socks. 

You finished first, famished from your earlier excursion, and continued your knitting. The rhythmic clack of needles a metronome to the rain against the tin roof and pouring from spouts, the crackle of the fire, the steady in-take-out-take of your breath. 

Steve eyed you warily, cheeks puffed around a meatball. He chewed, swallowed, and gestured with a fork toward the project in your lap. “What’re you making?” 

“A hat,” you pinched your smile.

He reached between you to wrap thick fingers around the ball of yarn like a baseball. He pressed the fiber for a moment before nodding, licking something from between his molars. “I really like that color.” 

You agreed. The burgundy would bring out the warmth of his eyes, the flush of his cheeks when he bickered with you.

“It felt good right? Helping Joplin.” 

His words startled you, stitch slipping off the needle before you could catch it. 

You blinked back at him, watched the worry etched between his brows, wondered what he could possibly be thinking, and you forced a bright smile. “Yeah, Steve, it felt great. That’s what this is all about, right? Saving people.” 

He nodded, shrugged, tongued at his molars. 

You can’t save everyone.

You picked your stitch back up and carried on. A few phrases turned in your mind, questions you’d posed to yourself before you dared ask him. ‘Doesn’t every save feel good?’ ‘Do you think Les’s leg’ll be okay?’ ‘Who couldn’t you save?’

You glanced to the spot on the floor where he had been tossing and turning the night before. ‘Who’s Robin?’ You couldn’t. You knew he’d throw himself into one of those broody nightmares, and you had a job to do. 

“So,” you bundled your knitting and stuffed it back into the bag you brought it in, “what’re we thinking? Demodog? Demogorgon? Grizzly?”

“Yeah, you wish it’s a Grizzly.” Steve snorted, making to wash the dishes. 

You did wish it was a Grizzly. At least you could shoot a Grizzly, watch it fall with a groan and lie peaceful against hard ground. Demodogs meant tunnel dwellers, a pack. Demogorgon meant portals. 

“Hey, before we head out there, can I ask you something?” He stood with his hands full of items to be washed, hair finally drying into wisps of curls near his ears. 

“Shoot,” you pulled yourself to a stand, rolled your stiff shoulders, got a little closer to the stove to warm your hands.

“Do I talk in my sleep?” 

You had half a second to make your decision, and “No” came out faster than that. You weren’t sure why you lied, maybe it was the same reason you hadn’t asked him about the name he’d been crying out for. You had a job to do, and you couldn’t afford a sulking partner ten steps ahead. 

His scowl proved he was weighing you up, trying to call your bluff. Apparently he convinced, he shrugged, and said, “Oh, well, you do.” Then he opened the creaky door and let himself outside to do the washing up.

—

The rain continued as you hunted. You slipped twice, twisting an ankle on a bunch of rocks hidden behind tall grass, but you’d had worse, so you persisted until the internal ache wore off and the external ache from the cold had you gritting your teeth. 

“I fucking hate this place.” Steve dropped another meatball into the grass beside you. “It reminds me of that…” He glanced around, in the air, searching for phantom airborne monsters.

You hadn’t gone into the other dimension, not for long enough to really get a feel for it, not like Steve. You knew it was cold and damp and miserable though, and these mountains were starting to feel just as desolate, just as grey. 

You came to the rot again, stench heavier under the blanket of ozone. 

Steve pressed his lips into a whistle, low and slow, coaxing whatever may be lurking. 

Your finger found the trigger at your hip. Bullets didn’t kill an inter dimensional creature, but it’d sure as Hell slow it down.  

Without a response to his call, you carried on, following him and his endless trail of meatballs past the stump in which you’d found Les Joplin. Steve poked his head inside, but vines had already begun to seam it up, devouring the flesh of the tree that rot there. 

“Do you remember what direction he said he saw it?” You asked, back to Steve as you surveyed the area. It could be anywhere, whatever it is. It was probably watching you now, smelling you, sensing you. 

“Let’s head East,” Steve signaled.

You doubled back and headed toward a particularly treacherous outcropping along the hillside. Boulders carved rivulets in the landscape, water gushing over rock and stone in glorious splendor.

Your big toes were beginning to ache from the cold, and the sound of rain and wind and now waterfalls was hurting your ears. With a huff, you seated yourself on a soaked rock and pulled your pack from your back to salvage a chocolate bar. 

“What’re you doing?” Steve snapped. He’d already trudged a good distance from you, and must have stopped when he didn’t hear the patter of your feet behind him. 

“Maybe it was a deer,” you offered, ripping back the mylar packaging and indulging in one semi-sweet bite. It didn’t melt instantly, your teeth and jaw too cold to warm it.

“It wasn’t a deer.” That permanent crease in Steve’s forehead stuck out under a curl of wet hair. 

“Come have a bite.” Your teeth chattered, hand extended. The chocolate was instantly pelted with rain.

Steve sighed and took a step toward you, and then promptly disappeared.

—

The cavern was deep, about ten feet high and thirty feet wide, a whole expanse of the forest that had just sunk in on itself. It looked like the vines hadn’t quite worked their way here, but the blight and the rain had washed away bits of the mountainside. The outcropping fell into the land and Steve had fallen into the rocks.

“Don’t come any closer!” He shouted, teeth grit in pain. He adjusted his leg, and you saw the blood spill from his knee cap to discolor his pant legs. 

“I’m going to radio for help. How bad is it? Do you need to tourniquet it?”

“No , it’s just a scrape.” He lied through his teeth. “I can’t see how far this goes, so go slow, and be careful.” 

With a nod, you made for your pack, muttering under your breath about your bossy partner, always getting himself into trouble. Then the breath was swept out of you as you free-fell into the cavern, too. 

Your ankles rolled, the one from earlier crying out from added injury, and you jaw slammed closed on a portion of your tongue when you hit the cavern floor. It was softer than you expected, wet mud and dirt breaking most of your fall. 

Your name echoed with the pounding of your heart as you regulated and pull yourself to a stand, brushing mud from your hands to your thighs. Water rushed into the cavern from above. Not enough to cause concern, but you stared up at the hole in the sky with a grimace. 

Steve called your name again, and you turned to face him. 

“Are you alright?” He asked, eyes wide with worry. 

You shrugged, nodded. “My ankle hurts.” 

“Is it broken?” 

You assessed the injury, tried to roll it back into place. A sharp, shooting pain spilled up your spinal column. You nodded. “Probably.” 

“I told you to be careful.” Steve scoffed from his lean against the far wall. He’d made no effort to rescue you.

“Is your leg broken?” You mapped your way to him, a slow and steady course through rocky terrain. Each step limped, you gripped the roots tied into the walls beside you. 

“No,” Steve shook his head. “Just a bad cut.” His large hand shook, pressed to a gash that was dying the rainwater red. 

“Well,” you sighed, “if the meatballs weren’t good enough…”

“Shut up,” he shifted in place, hand outstretched to help you over the last huge boulder. “Careful, sharp bit there.” He nodded to a likely culprit, a jagged bit of rock that stuck up at an odd angle. An odd substance pooled near the bottom, and you tried not to wretch when you realized it was likely the fat from Steve’s thigh. 

“We need to get you off your feet.” You instructed, carrying his weight to help him find a good bit of stone that was flat enough, but not too slippery for him to rest. It proved to be quite the undertaking. 

“It stopped raining,” he mused when he’d settled, the two of you wedged into a pit of mud that looked out of the gaping mouth onto grey skies. 

He was right. You hadn’t noticed it beneath the swell of water surging downhill, and the patter that continued on the other edge of the cave, but the rain had stopped, or at least slowed.

“Did you play baseball in high school?” You asked, picking through the rubble for a hefty enough sized rock. 

“Why?” Steve asked, perturbed by your questioning, but you noticed, for once, he didn’t have the energy to argue. 

You could imagine him playing baseball, chewing sunflower seeds in the dug out, hiking around the bases in those tight little white pants. You smiled and tossed him the rock. 

He caught it one-handed, clearly annoyed you’d thrown it in the first place. 

You pointed to the spot you fell. “Throw it really hard. My pack’s up there. Might knock it into the hole.” 

“Your pack-!?” Steve closed his eyes, took a few calming breaths. Then he shot you a look before hocking the rock as far as he could throw. It was very impressive. 

You both waited with bated breath, but the impact created no further damaged, and you slumped into one another, asses wet and legs throbbing. “I have my flare,” you explained, patting the inside pocket of your jacket. You always kept one, and a lighter, filled, just in case.

Steve sighed. “Me too.” He was just loopy enough to flash you a tired smile. 

“Alright, big boy,” you shook at his bicep to keep him alert and shrugged out of your jacket to remove your sweater. The air was warmer down her, and damp. Your breath fogged. “You’re going to have to stay awake until morning. So it’s time to tell me a story.”

Steve winced with each adjustment as you wrapped your sweater around his leg to aid with pressure. His hands still trembled, flesh of his palms bloodied, and you elevated his leg a little higher, pushing him into the mud at his back. 

“What kind of story?” He asked, teeth chattering. 

You hunched beside him and took both of his bloody hands into your own. The whole place smelled of Earth and iron. “Tell me about Indiana.”

He groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Come on. What position were you on the baseball team?” 

He grit his teeth and shook his head. “I didn’t play baseball. Track and field.”

You smiled and unzipped his coat to let yourself in, arms wrapped around his trembling frame. You pressed your face to his throat, nestled under the crook of his jaw where stubble had begun to poke and scratch. “Alright, tell me about that then. Did your high school sweetheart cheer you on from the stands? Steve, Steve, he’s our man, if he can’t do it, no one can!” You actually managed to rah a chuckle out of him.

He winced again, his chin bouncing into your head. “She wasn’t a cheerleader. She was on the school paper.” 

You changed your tone, put on a Trans-Atlantic accent. “Aaaaand they’re off. Steve Harrington takes the lead. Have you ever seen anything quicker on its feet? A horse, maybe.”

He snorted, swung his arm around you. “Has anyone ever told you how obnoxious you are?”

“You have,” you nodded. “A number of times. Kind of rude, actually. I’m always saving your ass.” 

He chuckled and mumbled an apology into your hair. 

“What else can you tell me about Indiana?” Your own exhaustion had begun to creep around the corners of your mind, hearing the dull thud of Steve’s heartbeat match the ache in your ankle and shin and thigh. 

When he didn’t respond, you prodded at his chest. “Steve.”

He shushed you, gripping your arm a little tighter. 

You were suddenly very alert. You could hear birdsong just over the ripple and rush of water over the rocks. You heard it too, the distinct clicking growl of a flower-faced beast. 

“Can you move?” Steve muttered into your hair, barely a whisper.

You nodded, swallowed, reached for the flare at your side.

“My knife,” he said. “Can you see it?” He nodded to where you’d found him.

You shifted in his arms, hoping the beast couldn’t hear the grunt he emitted between clenched molars. There, where rubble met a river of mud, you saw the glint of his knife. 

With a deep breath and a strain of every muscle in your body, you hoisted yourself onto your good leg and began your precarious hobble to your weapon. The rocks twisted under your feet, and the pain churned your stomach. 

“Easy,” Steve guided, his breath shallow. “You’ve got this.” 

You managed to dip yourself low enough, balanced on one leg, to wrap your fingers around the hilt and lift it from the rubble. You caught yourself on the wall and released a breath you’d been holding. 

The knife was a bit muddy, but mostly fine. It glinted in the diminishing sunlight, flashing the walls a pale pink red before your heard the call again. A rattled click preceded the visage that peered over the cavern mouth. 

The dog’s face opened, all teeth and fleshy flower petals, and before Steve had a chance to instruct you, the thing was on you, and you were elbow-deep in Demodog. It’s teeth scraped and tore at the nylon of your parka and one final dying breath rattled from its small frame before it squelched off of your blade and to the ground.

“It’s not alone.” Steve warned from his spot on the floor.

You nodded, grit your teeth, and readied your stance for another. 

—

Three demodogs died at your hands and burned. The acrid sting of burning flesh kept you awake, your body rejoicing at the warmth.

You managed to keep Steve awake, although his skin had paled and his eyelids drooped. 

The smoke alerted the helicopter before your flare did. 

Oxygen mask over your face, you linked your fingertips into Steve’s and offered him a smile. He was already asleep by the time you rose, higher and higher above cloud coverage and rain. You slipped up and away from the fire tower. Up and away from verdant hills and from rot and decay. 

Steve’s grasp was loose in your hand, and you wondered what he dreamt about now. You hoped it was peaceful. 

You finished his hat beside his hospital bed while you watched the latest game. Someone ran a home run. Steve cheered. You looped the last few stitches together and weaved in your ends. 

“This is for you,” you tossed it onto his lap. The burgundy was stark against white sheets. 

Steve frowned back at you, fingers toying with the fabric. “For me?” 

You nodded. “You needed a wool hat. Just put it on and be grateful.” 

He did as instructed, smile refusing to play on handsome features. He cocked an eyebrow to get your input. It was exactly as you’d hoped, a sweet contrast that a brought out the honeyed brown of his eyes, the flush of his cheeks. 

You bit back a smile, rolled your eyes. “Maybe you’re right. Your ego doesn’t need this boost. Give it back.” 

He smiled at that, a ruefully shy thing that had your heart pitter-pattering like rain on a tin roof. “No. It’s mine.” 

“Steve,” you let your question linger on your tongue for a moment, wondering if you ought to ask it, if you ought to push. 

He hummed, attention drawn back to the television. 

You swallowed, let the question die. Maybe another day, you’d find out who Robin was, what happened to them. 

“Yeah?” He glanced back at you, brown eyes wide with concern. 

You smiled. “What did I say in my sleep?” 

Once again, the corners of pink lips turned up, and he shook his head. “I’ll never tell.” 

---

Moodboard • 00: Prologue • 02: Home [Coming Soon]

[hawkeyetrained]

Hold on Kid

Dean Winchester x sister!reader

Warnings: angst, death, slight blood mention, heartbreak, let me know if I missed anything

Summary: I suck at these and if I tried, I’d probably wreck it. Hunt gone wrong is the best description I got.

Word Count: 3,999

AN: This is my first post here so be gentle. Enjoy

Life as a hunter was complicated. Naturally, you make enemies with the monsters who knew those you killed. Some wanted revenge, others hated that their kind was killed. Then, there was being a hunter and a Winchester at the same time. Not only do you make normal enemies like all the other hunters, but you make enemies simply because of your last name.

I was the baby of the Winchester family, being nearly six years younger than Sam and almost a decade younger than Dean. After the fire at their home, John took his boys on a journey across the country to hunt down the monster that killed his wife and left him and his boys without a home. He met my mom five years later and after nine months, I joined the family, only for my mother to vanish one night. John had taken me on the road with them after she disappeared, often leaving me with Bobby while he took my older brothers to hunt the simpler cases.

Despite the age difference and the fact that we were “half” siblings, my brothers were the best people in the entire world. Sam and Dean treated me no differently than how they treated each other. I was let in on jokes and taken to diners and bars with them once I was old enough to drive, often driving a drunk Dean and a tipsy Sam back to our motel for the night.

They taught me to hunt the right way. Started me off on simple cases with plenty of back up, making sure I did all the research necessary and never went anywhere alone until they were sure I was capable of taking care of nearly every monster in the book. I was comfortable fighting off nearly any monster, all but djinns.

Those creatures scared the hell out of me. I knew that Sam and Dean had faced enough of them in the past, but I was still fairly new around them and the cases involving them. The fact that they strung up their victims and essentially trapped them in their own minds was horrifying to me, and I’ve taken heads clean off vamp’s bodies.

So, when a case came up that practically screamed djinn, the boys double checked with me every hour, asking if I was ok and still good to attack once the sun went down.

“Guys, I’ll be fine. They just creep me out.” I tried calming my worried brothers. “I can manage it.”

“We never doubted you on handling it.” Sam defended gently, cleaning his gun at the table of our motel room. “We just want to make sure you’re comfortable. We don’t want anything happening to you.”

“I mean, come on kid, we just want you to be safe. I know how much these things freak you out.” Dean added to the conversation from his laid-back spot on his bed.

I sent both brothers a soft glare. “And I appreciate that. But I’ll be fine.”

_____

Flash forward to a few hours later, I was sprawled out on the top floor of the large, abandoned barn, metal rebar sticking out of my stomach and my brothers firing shots down on the floor below me. We had been wrong on our intel, it was more than just one djinn, a whole family of six popping out of the shadows when we burst in. One of the younger women had caught me by surprise, nearing stringing me up but ended with a magazine of rounds to the head.

“Dean.” I tried calling out for my oldest brother, attempting to drag myself closer to the stairs so he’d be able to hear me over the fight. “Sammy.”

Neither of my brothers were answering, my head leaning back to rest against the floor as I took in a few deep breaths. My hands shook as I placed them around the metal, making sure to not move it but add enough pressure to the surrounding skin to help stop the flow of blood. I had been taught that keeping the object in could potentially save your life, especially if it were holding an artery closed.

With neither of my big brothers answering my desperate pleas for help, I resulted in closing my eyes and praying to the angel who kept tabs on us. “Castiel.” I spoke his full name. “Dean and Sammy can’t hear me. I need help. I think I’m dying Cas.” Tears gathered in my eyes as I spoke to the angel who had become a best friend over the years. “Please, I’m so scared Cas.” No answer came from the angel, but he was busy with heavenly issues that us hunters would never know of.

After a few more strangled calls to my brothers, heavy boots finally began climbing the stairs. “Hey kid, did you manage to take them…” Dean’s voice cut off abruptly when my eyes met his. “Kid. Sammy!” Dean practically growled down the stairs, rushing the last few steps and coming to a stop beside me. “Hey, kid, you ok? What happened?”

“She didn’t like my jokes.” I tried lightening the mood as Dean pushed my hands away to take in the damage. “Everyone likes my jokes.” Dean set his blade down on the floor beside me, yanking both his jacket and his flannel off, quickly balling the shirt material and pressing it down around the metal.

A pained scream ripped through my throat at the pressure, white hot pain exploding in my stomach. “I know, kid, but we gotta keep the pressure. You’re doing great.” He turned over his shoulder. “Sammy!” His green eyes met mine then, the fear and anger flooding the bright colors that always brought me comfort. “You keep those eyes on me kid, you hear me? Keep lookin’ at me.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off him even if I wanted to. Sure, Sam and Dean were my brothers, but they practically raised me when John was out hunting. Sam was the overprotective big brother in every sense of the term. He walked me to and from classes, dropped me off for any projects that needed to be done and practically ran background checks on all of my friends at school.

Dean, he was protective but in a whole other way. While Sam took on that big brother role, Dean was basically the father I wanted. He made sure I got to do kid stuff, pulled me from school to play hooky, sat with me after bad dreams, played with me as a kid, and sat with me for my first heart break. He was the one that taught me to drive, to hunt, and to live however I wanted. I could get away with absolutely anything with Dean since all he ever wanted for me was to grow up happy and loved.

So, staring up into Dean’s eyes as blood soaked into my shirt and coated his hands, I knew I was going to be safe, no matter the outcome of this injury. Dean would take care of me until the day I stopped breathing, he had just hoped that it would be a long time after he had gone.

“Hold on kid, Sam’s coming. He’s got what we need. You just hold on.” His eyes were fogged over with tears, and he aggressively rubbed them into his shoulders to clear his vision. “Kid, talk to me. I gotta hear you talk.”

“I love you.” I managed to get out, though I wasn’t sure he heard much of it. My hands had stopped shaking and a coldness was seeping into my skin as I watched Dean’s eyes widen ever so slightly.

“No, kid you gotta say something else. OK? That can’t be all you got for me.” His left hand moved from the wound and gently brushed some hair back out of my face. “You gotta tell me this joke that the bitch on the floor didn’t laugh at. I’m sure it was your best.”

The world was becoming foggy the longer I stared into the green eyes that always brought me comfort. They mixed into the slight green tint the ceiling had from years of neglect and abuse from the weather. Dean, my big brother, who was always there for me when I needed, who would drive all day and all night just to get to me after a fight with John or Bobby about hunting. The brother who literally went through hell to save Sammy and negotiated with a witch for my life. The father I always needed and wanted in my life.

The pain in my stomach had gone numb and my hands had pretty much stopped moving all together as I watched Dean scream for Sam yet again. “Come on kid, just a little longer. You hold on a little longer kid, I got you. Dean’s got you kid.” That nickname was something he only ever used for me. It was his term of endearment to the little girl he raised. “Talk to me, please.” The last word was a heart shattering plead that helped focus my eyes for one final moment.

“I love you dad.” The line slipped from my lips half a second before my eyes got too heavy to keep open any longer and the world faded into back.

_____

Dean’s sure he never cried so hard in his life. He had lost so many people throughout his life that he was pretty used to hearing news of someones passing. But watching the color leave his baby sister’s skin, watch the light drain from her eyes, and listen to those Earth-shattering words fall from her lips as she bled out into his hands sealed it for him. He had just lost his world, his little sister that he had raised practically since she was born; he just lost his little girl.

Sam came clomping up the stairs as quick as his long legs could carry him, just not quick enough. He swore his heart stopped in his chest when he found his older brother crouched over his younger sister, blood coating the floors, and sobs racking Dean’s chest. Sam’s chest felt like someone sent a fist straight through his ribs, ripping his lungs out in the process. His knees hit the floor a few feet from where Dean was crouched over, eyes locked on his older brother’s back.

Dead’s head came to rest against his sisters, near silent pleas to wake up falling from his lips as tears dripped from his eyes. Prayers to Castiel or any angel listening following. The oldest Winchester had told himself that he would never beg for anything, never allow someone to have that kind of control over himself, but here he was, begging to the body of his little girl and to any angel listening to let her wake up, to let her live and take him instead.

The soft, unmistakable sound of fluttering wings caught both Winchester boy’s attention enough for them to turn. There stood Castiel, with his big brother Gabriel at his side, watching the young girl on the ground continue to bleed, though much slower now, through the shirt of her oldest brother.

“Cas.” Dean had locked eyes on his favorite angel. “Please, there’s gotta be something you can do.” Castiel swears he’s never heard Dean Winchester sound this broken before, never heard him plead this softly. “I can’t lose her. I can’t lose my kid.” Another wave of tears fought its way up through Dean’s chest, nearly choking him on the sobs coming from his body.

Gabriel was at a loss for words. Never had he been around the Winchester boys and not get a snappy comment or crude joke thrown his way, but here he was, looking down at two very broken Winchesters. Gabriel could sense the pain and worry coming from his brother, knowing that the younger angel couldn’t do anything for the Winchester girl. Cas had only barely begun to learn how to pull someone back when they were in the veil and looking down on themselves, not quite taken by the reapers yet. So, with the flutter of his wings, Gabriel went off to do the one thing he knew could help the two brothers.

_____

The pain in my chest was unbearable as I watched Dean cry, his hands not leaving my wound, his voice faintly pleading for me to come back to him.

“I tried to stay with you Dean. I’m so sorry I couldn’t.” My voice was barely even a whisper as I tried to hold in my tears. Sam was knelt down a few feet back from Dean, tears staining his cheeks and making his hair stick to his face. “I’m so sorry Sammy.”

Everything around me seemed to move in slow motion. Sounds muddled together and lights seemed to blur the picture before me, but that all too familiar sound of flapping wings would grab my attention any day. I turned away from my sobbing brothers to face the Archangel Gabriel himself.

“Gabe?” A crack snuck its way into my words. “Is that really you?”

“Hey there sweetness.” He winked, arms crossing over his chest. “I thought I told you to stay breathing last I left.”

I nodded, instantly running over to him. His arms opened enough for me to slot myself against his chest, tears leaking onto his shirt. His hands came to rest on me, one against my back and one in my hair, pulling me closer to his body. “What happens now?” I questioned the angel as I held tighter to his waist.

“Well, we can hang here and wait for the reaper to come take you up to heaven, or…” I cut him off before he could continue.

“Or you can take me?” I questioned; my eyes now turned to get what I thought would be the last glimpses of my brothers.

Gabriel pulled back, hands on my shoulders to get me to look at him. “Haven’t I told you to let me finish before you jump to conclusions?” I nodded against his chest and waited for him to continue. “Or I could take you back to your brothers. Let you live a little longer.”

Everything in me froze, not believing what he said to be true. “You can do that? Bring me back?” His honey-colored eyes were already looking down at me when I turned to face him. “I can go back to them?”

He simply nodded to me. “As long as you promise to keep breathing for me.” I was nodding almost instantly to his request.

“Please. Please take me back.”

_____

The whole building grew silent after Gabriel had been gone for well over an hour. Sam sat staring at the back of his brother, waiting for Dean to do something. Dean had gone still moments after the archangel vanished, hoping with all his will that a miracle would happen.

The oldest Winchester had resorted to cleaning up his little sister as best he could, pulling the metal from her body and throwing it far, far away. The bloodied shirt had been tossed out of the way as well, her shirt and jacket now covering the fatal wound on her stomach in a way to make it seem like she was just sleeping. Dean’s fingers trailed softly over her head, pushing hair from her face, and trying to memorize everything he could about the young girl before they gave her a proper hunters funeral.

Castiel had yet to move since his older brother vanished, staying still as if he were carved from stone as he watched over the two Winchester men. He listened to every sound coming near the building for a ten-mile radius, making sure nothing tried sneaking up on the two while their world crumbled around them. He had wished he heard your prayer earlier, gotten back down to Earth faster, maybe then you would still be alive and sitting with your brothers, rather than coated in blood and ghostly pale.

The flap of wings pulled Castiel and Sam from their states of grief, watching a small smile flicker across the archangel’s face. Sam had half a mind to scream at the angel before movement caught his eye.

The blood soaking the floor around the body of the youngest Winchester slowly started to vanish, seemingly seeping back into the wound on her stomach. Then color began to return to her skin, slowly transforming it from a deathly grey back to her natural pigments.

It took a moment longer for Dean to notice the changes, having been so absorbed in caring for the body of his little girl. Once his eyes noticed the changes, his hands backed up from her, almost like she caught on fire. Both Winchester brothers scrambled to their feet, backing away from the girl who was laying so still seconds before.

With one last beat of silence, the wound on her stomach closed fully and her chest heaved with a huge breath of air.

_____

The world came back dramatically. All of a sudden, I could hear the soft drops of water from the ceiling again, feel the coldness of the hard floor below me and smell the horrible damp concrete of the walls to my right. Then my eyes fluttered open, and I could see the ugly ceiling that was decaying from years of abandonment again.

My brain raced as I tried to remember what happened. The hunt, a djinn, the metal rebar, Gabriel pulled me back. I died and Gabriel brought me back. Sam and Dean, they watched me bleed out on the floor of a hunt, watched me die on a hunt they knew I was already nervous for. Dean, he had been with me, he held my hand as the pain vanished and the world fell into silence. He had been with me as I died.

My lungs pulled in one of the deepest breaths I’ve ever taken, causing me to turn and cough loudly as I took the chance to breath more air in. My brain raced as it figured out how to work again, after moments of rest and complete silence it was working to catch back up on what was going on, and the only thing it seemed to think of was…

“Dad.” The word fell from my mouth before I could even process what was going on. Then suddenly I was being hauled up to my knees and crushed into the tightest hug ever given. Everything about the person was familiar, the way the arms wrapped themselves protectively around my shoulders, hand placed to the back of my head. The soft fabric of the green jacket wrapped around shoulders, and the scent of the hunt along with something so specifically Dean. I was wrapped in the arms of my oldest brother, wrapped up and secured in his embrace, protected from anything the world could throw at us.

His chest heaved with sobs, mumbles of my name and ‘kid’ falling from his lips. “I got you; I got you kid. I’m here. You’re ok.” The words fell from his lips in a jumbled mess, falling together in a mess of letters.

“Dean.” My words came out quietly as I hugged him back with everything I had in me. I clutched onto him as my own tears fell, coating my cheeks and making stains on his shirt as I pressed my face to his chest.  Feet scrambled on the floor beside us and before I knew it, Sam was crushing me and Dean in the tightest hug he could manage. “Sammy.” I adjusted one arm to be able to hold onto both my brothers, all three of us a crying mess.

It took the three of us nearly a half hour to calm down enough to stand and face the angels. Sam had stepped a few inches away, wiping his cheeks with the backs of his hands as he turned to speak to Gabriel. “I don’t even know what to say.” His words were barely strung together as he glanced back at me.

While Sam had stepped a few inches back, Dean had yet to let me go. His arm had yet to fall from my shoulders and I was pretty sure he wouldn’t let me go for the next few hours, though I wasn’t going to complain. I had turned into Dean’s side, keeping my arms around his waist and my head leaned into his shoulder, tears still damp on my cheeks.

“Thank you, Gabriel.” I looked at the angel who pulled me back. “I can’t even begin to tell you how thankful I am.” Dean’s arm tightened around my shoulders, pulling me just a bit closer to his side.

“She’s right.” Dean’s voice was deeper than usual after all the crying over the last hours. “Thank you.” Sam agreed with his brother, going over to hug Gabriel tightly.

Cas stepped a bit closer, his hand coming to rest on my cheek. “I’m glad you’re alright. The area around is clear, you’ll be safe heading back to the bunker. We will keep watch over your drive.” And suddenly, the two angels were gone with a soft flap of wings.

“Sammy, can you get the car started and give us a sec?” Dean asked his little brother, holding tighter to me if possible. Sam gave a soft nod, pressed a kiss to my head and went down to wait in the car.

Once he was gone, Dean turned sharply to me. “I’m so glad you’re ok, kid. You can’t ever do that to me again.”

Dean’s hands rested gently on my cheeks, thumbs wiping away the drying tears from my skin. “I never wanted to leave you. I tried so hard to stay with you Dean. I really did.” New tears dripped from my eyes as I looked up at my oldest brother.

“I know you did, kid. I know.” I was pulled back into his chest, his hands rubbing into my back as I cried into his shirt again. “I got you now. I’ll never let that happen again, ok? I won’t ever let anyone put their hands on my little girl again.” My fingers twisted into the back of his shirt as he soothed me, helping me calm down and relax again. “So, can I ask about the dad comment?”

A soft laugh blew through my nose. “Yeah, you can.” I pulled back to look up into the green eyes that always brought me comfort. “John was never really there for me. You know?” He nodded softly at me. “I mean, you took me to my first day of school, you taught me to drive, you were the one who was always there for me.” My voice trailed off towards the end as I watched his face slowly stiffen into an emotion I couldn’t read. “Sorry, I’ve just always seen you that way, I guess it just slipped out today.”

“Kid, I’m not mad, or anything like that.” He gently brushed a few fingers through my hair. “I’ve always seen you as my little girl. I know I was there more than dad was. I know he barely had anything to do with you. There’s nothing I want more than to be your dad, even if you just call me Dean, that doesn’t matter.” He took a deep breath. “I want to be the one you call when you need help or come to when you’re scared. I know you’re not exactly a kid anymore, but just know that I’ll always be there for you. You’re my kid.”

I didn’t even answer, just lunging forward and wrapping him back in a tight hug. “I love you, dad.”

His hands held my head to his chest tightly, a kiss being pressed down into my hair as we held onto each other. “I love you too, kid. Don’t you ever forget that.”

@thetallassgirl

[wri0thesley]

The push and pull between Alhaitham and Kaveh would be absolutely maddening, IMO. I love how the dynamic you've crafted. Like, Kaveh would hate to see Alhaitham punishing you with a belting, buuut it does push you into Kaveh's arms so nicely. Sure, it's hard to hear your cries after Alhaitham puts you over his knee and belts you thoroughly--but the way you run to Kaveh at the first opportunity after, letting him wipe away your tears, get you an ice pack for your ass... there is a bright side.

cw: captive reader, physical punishment, manipulation, belting, yandere, dub-con, non-con.

He knows he should do something. In the grand scheme of things, the infraction against Alhaitham's rules that had gotten you this punishment was not all that heinous. You had done worse things - and, in fact, had sometimes even managed to talk your way out of worse things, Alhaitham wanting to reward your rationality and sensible things you said, instead of letting your emotions guide you.

But . . .

Ah. He hates seeing you like this, your face all tear-stained and your lips swollen, the robes that Alhaitham lets you wear around the house - nothing more substantial, because you would surely be less inclined to escape if you were too embarassed to step foot outside the door even if you could - discarded to one side, your body bare. Alhaitham, for all he professes to be a feeble scholar, is more than capable of wresting you down and having you bent over his knee, the tender flesh of your rump on display for both men to see.

You shoot Kaveh an agonised look, your lovely mouth trembling, your entire body a tightly wound line of tension. This will not be the first time that Alhaitham has belted you, but that does not mean Kaveh wants to see it. That he enjoys seeing it.

No. Kaveh does not enjoy the physical punishment that Alhaitham inflicts, insistent that it's a perfectly valid way to teach you lessons and that you learning pain comes hand in hand with disobedience is the greatest training he can employ and the most sensible course of action. He has to be there for it, because despite it all Alhaitham is the landlord and in charge of such matters as this. He wants Kaveh to see just how his effective methods net positive results, in the hope Kaveh will take a leaf out of his book - but Kaveh does not have to enjoy the sight of you bent over the scribe's lap, the thwack of fine leather against your soft vulnerable parts, the hiccup of pain that echoes around the room as Alhaitham waits patiently for you to count the strikes aloud.

Physical violence does not arouse the architect. He feels bad for you; knows that he will toss and turn tonight remembering the desperation you'd looked at him with when all Kaveh could do was give you a sympathetic smile, a twitch of his brows.

But for all of that, when Alhaitham is done with you and is buckling his belt again with a curt; "I hope you'll remember this lesson next time," Kaveh feels the briefest thrill of excitement. Alhaitham takes himself off - presumably to do something about the tent in his trousers, because the scribe does at least understand that having you in that way right now wouldn't be good with you associating intimacy with anything positive - and you stay on your hands and knees for a moment, trembling, before you sniffle and look up at Kaveh with the prettiest gaze he's ever seen. Diamonds glittering on your lashes, your bottom lip a wobbling pout that he longs to kiss.

Kaveh takes the opportunity to swoop.

A hand carding over your hair, wiping your tears, soft hushings falling from his mouth as his thumb catches another tear before it can fall.

"I know, darling," Kaveh murmurs to you, pulling you into him. It's no time at all until you're curled in his lap, your head pressed beneath his chin. You do not even reach for your robe as you would if he were Alhaitham, a hundred times more comfortable with Kaveh than with anyone else. He presses a soft, chaste kiss to the top of your head and breathes in the scent of your hair, remembering how it smelt on his pillows. "I'm sorry he's such a brute to you."

"H-he's awful to you, too," you whimper out, as if the situations are in any way comparable. But Kaveh just gives you a sympathetic smile, another stroke, his arm tightening around you as if he can draw you in from the horrors of the world. You trust him implicitly, a situation he has carefully manipulated by sighing and occasional drops about his life, by listening to you when you sob and hesitantly admit things to him. By bringing you sweet treats that go against Alhaitham's wishes (he has a nutritious meal plan in place for you; treats are supposed to be earned, and you are not at all obedient enough for him to want to give you Padisarah Pudding just yet). By being there, by being an artist with a tender heart and saying to you how much he wishes he could help, but he too is under Alhaitham's thumb or he'd have no home at all-- "Kaveh--"

"I know," he soothes, letting one of his hands gently trace your spine, a touch that is intimate and affectionate and everything that Alhaitham is not. Your body presses against him in desperate search of his comfort.

"H-he's going to make me sleep in the cage again," you whisper to him, you eyes downcast. "H-he'll say he can't trust me whilst he's sleeping."

A twist in his heart that he hates to admit is triumph. You're always desperate after a night spent in the large cage Alhaitham had procured when he'd first brought you here. You suffer from night terrors already, but locked in those iron bars with nobody to press your body against - you're so needy for affection you'll practically initiate carnality yourself. Kaveh is always careful never to push you on that, and so when you do need it, if only to remind yourself you're still human . . . you always come to him, and not Alhaitham.

The scribe has tossed him a bone without even meaning to.

"You poor thing," Kaveh murmurs instead, sighing. You wince as you shift, the bruises and welts that are forming on your bottom clearly already causing you pain. "I'll get you an ice pack, yes? And I'll sneak you something sweet?"

Your fists clench into his shirt as if he's the only thing in the whole world you can hold onto.

And though he knows he should hate it, should resent himself for manipulating you like this, he cannot bring himself to do so.

[fatuismooches]

Yesss please, let's have some fluff for fragile reader and dottore <3 My new medication has been helping with my pain, so so so I'm just imagining like something Dottore is doing to help fragile reader is *helping* somewhat, their pain is lessened even if not completely gone but! It's progress! This makes the two of them feel hope for the first time in what could possibly be years, the sheer joy of something working, even just slightly, has the reader crying in joy because they've been able to walk a bit without collapsing. They still need their mobility aids but for the first time in decades they're not in agonizing pain and feel their limbs settle even slightly. It's not an overnight thing of course, Dottore has been monitoring them, and they've done their best to upkeep their progress. It isn't until one morning when they think about how the last few months have been before they realize as they're standing up to move around, moving to the lab, that it's... not as agonizing as it normally is? The bad flare ups are there obviously, but they don't feel like they're withering away. They feel.... stable, both metaphorically and literally. They haven't had any new marks from their body unable to hold itself up and bumping/scratching against the walls. They make their way to Dottore in the lab that morning, hobbling along more excited than normal, the smile on their face wide and joyful. It almost feels silly to tell him the progress, the fact they can hold a pen for longer now without the pain in their wrist being unbearable, the marks on their hands have begun to heal without new ones appearing, their steps more steady. Their illness isn't curable. It probably never will be, no matter how much Dottore tries. But... the sign of progress, of being able to *manage* it.... that is enough. It is enough. ❤️ -❤️‍🩹🌹

Oh,, this is so sweet fluffy and soft I love it so much! And I'm glad you've been feeling better anon, that makes me happy ❤️ I like to think so too... that although things don't get better quickly enough, they do over a long period of time.... after all, Dottore is your genius husband, you've always believed in him even when he hit so many roadblocks and failures along the way. It's an extremely important moment for both of you, you feeling better after so many years of illness and Dottore relieved that finally something worked. Perhaps not a cure, but to see you so elated and free after centuries makes him regret absolutely nothing. The segments too of course, they're finding amusement in your new-found energy and attempts to squeeze them to death with your hugs. In fact, there's a different energy in the lab now. Of course, it'll always have that looming air of despair and death to others... but when you're happy, the segments are too, and that means they spend less threatening the regular agents and leaving them alone!! Granted they have more work to do now since the segments are busy slacking off and showing you all the cool things they couldn't show you before due to your illness but at least they have a higher chance of surviving now!!

I imagine your progress just hits you one day, how you've been feeling a lot better both mentally and physically, of course, you're not in tip-top shape but the fact just makes you have a rush of excitement and exhilaration. You almost wonder if you've been dreaming for a while, but nope, this is all real. When you barge into Dottore's office, practically slamming the door open, he's initially worried that something bad happened. But you plopped yourself on his lap and placed both your hands on his shoulder, beckoning his attention with not just your body language but that sweet smile he hadn't seen in so long, then going off into a tangent with all the things you can do now. Your voice raising in pitch and volume as you waved your hands in glee, just completely contented and joyful. Dottore didn't interrupt once as he merely listened to you talk for so long without getting out of breath, and then at the end, he pulled you closer and gently bit your neck. Perhaps he can't express his happiness for you outwardly as well, but that's okay.

[luxxtuxx]

When They are sick

This Is a Stupid one-off drabble to feed yall because pt 1 for the next multi-part hobie story is killing me

CW: Talk about throwing up, Some characters might be a little ooc

(please send requests of more people! I LOVE HOBIE JUST LIKE YALL BUT LIKE CHANGE IT UP FOR ME)

Miguel:

When He Is Sick:

He refuses and refuses until he ends up passing. You happily sit beside him, washing off his forehead with a cloth as he rests. At first, he thought he had died because the lights above him were all the way up and someone was aiding him. It took him a while but he finally groaned out "Lyla dim the lights, they are killing my eyes" She was quick to dim the lights. It took a week to heal him from his stubbornness. He had refused to take medication until day 5 of being sick

When You Are Sick:

Like him, you were stubborn and pushed through, every day you felt worse and wanted to stay home, but the missions were nonstop. You walked to Miguel's office-like space to ask for a break... You got 2 steps into his office before your body nearly hit the floor, he used his webs to catch you. once he had you in his arms, he whispered to you "Mi querida, What happened?" he felt your face and burning-up forehead. Under Miguel's care, you got better in about two days

Hobie:

When He is Sick:

He becomes a baby, whining and begging for help. He doesn't handle being sick very well. He tries to thank you for taking care of him but ends up throwing up in the trash. He laid in bed, with his top off and in pj shorts, whining about how hot the bed is. You try your best to keep him comfortable. But in his whines, he begs for cuddles and kisses. You obey and don't think much of it as you nurse him back to health

When You Are Sick:

Well, Shit, That little kiss knocked you out the next week. (UNLIKE YOUR PUNK BOYFRIEND YOU WEREN'T A LITTLE BIT-) You pushed and went on mission after mission. By the time you made it home, you had a pounding on your head unable to think in peace. You get your suit off and rush to the bathroom, heaving and puking into the toilet. Hobie heard a noise and came rushing to you, quickly pulling back your hair so you didn't puke on it. He took care of you, he helped you clean up, he feed you soup and put you in your pjs.

Pavitr:

When He is Sick:

He tried to push through it but he struggled, He made it to hq before puking, Everyone was worried and tried to help him out. He said he was fine and tried to go on a mission. He managed about one mission before the sick makes him find you and asks him if you have any sickness medication, you quickly make him some tea, then give him medication. He pretty much was fine, he just needed help getting access to such materials to help him get better

When You Are Sick:

This man does not panic when he sees you sick, He lays you down with ice packs and makes you some tea. He does anything and everything to make you better

Gwen:

When She is Sick:

She cant lie for shit, she knows it. she came to you clutching her stomach whining about being nauseous. You do your best, but keeping her sitting longer than two minutes was so hard. You ended up telling her that is she didn't sit still, you would take her watch and hide it away from her

When You Are Sick:

She does everything to make you comfortable, she lets you wear any of her clothes. she was making sure you were staying in bed. She was so stressed something would go wrong. You went to get up and get a drink, she said no and pushed you on to the bed then go the drink for you. She was trying her best to keep you resting

Miles:

When He is Sick:

This man stayed in his dorm and drew you in his sketchbook over and over again. He took decent care of himself, but when his mom called he became a little mama's boy just for some pasta fazool. He called you afterward and let you know he wasn't feeling well and that he was in his dorm relaxing. You showed up and cuddled up to him because you claim that cuddles make people feel better

When You Are Sick:

He brings you over and he takes care of it for you. He plays music to help you rest, he will tell you spider man stories till you fall asleep, and he will just let you lay in his bed and sleep. He is so gentle and sweet.

[hellojusthereforabit-blog]

Jason Todd Drabble: Birthday

You had gotten up early.

5:29 am, to be exact. You had a plan, and you were going to execute it perfectly.

Absolutely nothing could go wrong today.

Skipping breakfast, you brought out the ingredients you carefully hid on the lower shelves, the ones Jason usually ignored unless he was taking the trash out.

Jason and you were...complicated. Not together, that's for sure. The official term for it was "close friend", but there were moments in your friendship when you felt a need to be incredibly closer.

It made you feel guilty, like you were using his friendship for your own nefarious reasons- but you could also never tell if he felt something too. But he let you crash at his place for a few weeks after a break in at your old building, and you were trying to stay as normal as possible.

Today was his birthday.

Grandpa, you snort.

3 hours later, you had made breakfast, a cake, balloons, and your own personal present, carefully wrapped and topped with a red ribbon.

I'm fuckin' adorable

You had even called Alfred, to let him know that the two of you would be dropping by the manor later on. Alfred had thanked you- and he sounded sincere- something about bringing him back out here.

You knew Jason had a rough patrol. You knew you had to let him sleep a bit more, but the sight of the gifts you'd prepared for Jason and your optimism for the day had you shaking with excitement.

Before tiptoeing to Jason's room, you locked yourself in the bathroom and made yourself look presentable. It was in these moments that you could most objectively see your obvious attraction to Jason. Best friends didn't spend an hour in the bathroom perfecting every hair on their head.

You told yourself that it was out of respect. You wouldn't want to seem like a mess on Jason's birthday.

Choosing not to over-do it, you left the Pj set on, and carefully made your way to Jason's half-closed door.

There was a halo of sunlight around Jason's peaceful face, highlighting the pure white streak of hair at the front of his head.

He looked as relaxed as you'd ever seen him. He looked as young as any 24-year-old deserves.

You couldn't help a small smile as you approached him.

"Jason" you whispered, "It's me." You warned softly, no sudden movements, having learned from your mistakes from the past.

Jason didn't react, so you gently laid your palm on his face and ran your thumb over the jagged "J" scar on his cheek.

You shuddered at the thought of what this man has been through.

You knew in your heart that you would have never made it as far as he did. You would have ended it yourself.

Jason stirred, interrupting your train of thought before it got too out of hand.

Always saving me, you thought.

Jason let out a loud groan, shutting his eyes against the sunlit room.

You watched in amusement as he peeked one eye open, taking you in.

"What?" he croaked, clearly not a morning person. Jason propped himself on one elbow and observed your face- ever the detective's son.

You ignored his negative attitude and leaned in to kiss his cheek.

"Happy Birthday, Jay Jay" you said softly, not wishing to disturb the serenity of the morning.

Jason floped down on the bed with a groan.

"Don't do that", you laughed. You grabbed a pillow and smacked it down on his face. "I said HAPPY BIRTHDAY JAY JAY" you yelled, albeit more aggressively this time. Jason reached over and grabbed your arms, trying to get the pillow away from you. Some fearsome vigilante he is.

Somehow you end up straddling him on top of the blanket, and Jason finally wrenched the pillow away from you.

"I'm up, I'm up" he said, running a hand down the side of his face.

You felt yourself warm at the sound of his deep, husky morning voice.

Jason noticed your sudden silence and looked up.

Messy bed hair, white hair streak peeking out haphazardly, face still relaxed from the sleep he finally managed to catch, lips stretched wide in a killer grin.

God, he's perfect.

"C'mon, I made breakfast" you urged him, knowing Jason hates birthdays.

You hoped to change that soon.

[walkawaytall]

Oh no, I’m participating in Star Wars discourse.

Uh, so there’s a post floating around that I’m not reblogging mainly because it’s just this person’s headcanon and, whatever, people can have headcanons, but the main points they make in the midst of talking about their headcanon that I’ll be addressing are:

Leia and Han getting married and having kids is the most boring thing you can do with Leia

Leia should be a Jedi like every other dang Skywalker because somehow continuing an assumed dynasty isn’t the most boring choice you can make for her

Leia is more cut out to handle lack of attachment than Luke which we know because of her lack of response to Alderaan being destroyed

Leia and Han shouldn’t get married or even be around each other much because Han is a wandering soul and needs to travel and go places

Leia never expresses a desire for marriage or children in the OT, so removing these things won’t contradict George Lucas’ canon

And, look, these are just…missing the point of the character growth that occurs in these two during the OT.

(there's just a whole-ass essay below the cut if anyone cares to read about the many thoughts I have on Leia Organa and Han Solo.)

So, I'm not saying existing or past canon/EU has done it right, but I disagree with the statement that having them marry and live kind of basic lives is the most boring choice. If that's all there was to it, sure, but those two choices by themselves show a monumental amount of character growth for both Leia and Han. (I mean, frankly, I think "Skywalker = Jedi every time no matter what" is a pretty boring choice storytelling wise, but I also think the Jedi on the whole are incredibly boring characters, so, uh...I'm biased.)

Leia was never going to live a quiet life even if Alderaan hadn't been destroyed. Like, she did not have that option, period. She would have either remained in politics or taken over as queen, may or may not have had to marry for political reasons, and may or may not have been involved with the Rebellion. Her life was chaos starting as a teen and she had no reason to believe she wouldn't die living a hectic and chaotic life.

And then she loses everything. This isn't emphasized in the movies obviously because they are fun family romps and not gritty dramas, but, good night, in a single second, she loses every family member, nearly every person she knows, every place she finds most familiar and comfortable, everything and to top it all off, the guilt that it's happened because of her unwillingness to give up the Alliance will probably always be there. She was tortured, they lost lives in battle, and, yeah, they destroy the Death Star, but at the end of that day, literally all she has left is the Alliance and those three pilots who managed to unlock her cell door without too much trouble.

I don't know about you, but I'd be straight-up shut down emotionally at that point. Like, I don't think PTSD even covers what Leia probably has going on in her head. And I think that's kind of what we see in ESB (I know the filmmakers weren’t thinking in terms of PTSD, but there are still hints of it there regardless). She's angry, she's afraid of losing people (she's obviously pissed Han is leaving after he said he'd stay, but also, there's a scene that was cut -- a good move in my opinion because the dialogue is beyond dramatic and Carrie seems out of it, but it stands that this was the intended source of Leia’s frustration -- where Luke is telling Leia he's leaving the Alliance for Dagobah and she is extremely upset that both he and Han are leaving, goes on a whole rant about how she should know better than to trust anyone but herself, etc.), and when she finally lets Han in, she promptly loses him and nearly loses Luke.

And then the events of ROTJ happen and she finds out that the man who tortured her, who stood idly by while her entire planet was destroyed, who tortured the man she loves and handed him off to the space mob to be murdered, who cut off her brother's hand and nearly allowed him to die, who has terrorized the Galaxy in general, that guy is her bio dad. And that guy is the entire reason she's Force-sensitive.

Leia stopping her Jedi training in the new canon was for a dumb reason, I agree there. Leia not wanting anything to do with the thing that, from her point of view, nearly ruined her life and the lives of those she loves about a thousand times over...I dunno, I think that's way more interesting than her just going, "Ope, I'm a Skywalker! You know what that means! Gotta be a Jedi!" And as far as her being more of a natural at it...do we know that Leia is better at healthy non-attachment than Luke? Like, any response to a planet being destroyed could easily just be a trauma response. Is shutting down like that good, actually? Or is it just going to cause problems down the road, Anakin-style?

I don't know, I just think that after living through all of that as well as a freaking war, girly might want a quiet life -- that she gets to choose -- with a husband -- who she gets to choose -- and kids -- who she gets to raise without the threat of the Empire or her nightmare of a biological father looming over their lives. And the very fact that she's able to open herself up to that sort of love and affection when the fear that it might all be ripped away from her is likely ever-present is a big deal. Her having kids knowing they'll likely be Force-sensitive even though that aspect of her biology terrifies her is a big deal. And as far as her not expressing a desire for marriage and kids in the OT...I mean, Leia isn't given the opportunity to express her desire for much in the OT, let's be real (she also never expresses a desire to become a Jedi in the OT either. We can't use what Leia didn't express in the OT to dictate whether she wants or doesn't want something is what I'm saying). They're at war. She's a military leader. She probably can't even hazard wishing for anything beyond waking up the next day. But that's not to say she didn't want such things or grow to want such things once she felt it was safe to do so. We literally don't know, but I don't think the absence of that expressed desire is indicative of anything.

As far as Han goes, I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure in every iteration of his story, his itchy feet weren't like...a part of his personality. He had a highly traumatic childhood that left him with few options and ended up living a transient lifestyle out of necessity. He actually seems remarkably easy to keep around if you don't treat him like garbage. I mean, he's given exactly one day of friendship, and he sticks around with the Rebellion for three years before some run-in with a bounty hunter makes him realize he needs to take care of his debt with Jabba. He's not leaving just for funsies or because he's bored or just really needs to be a smuggler again...and he seems legitimately sad have to leave when he's not busy getting pissed at Leia for not having the emotional response he wants her to have (first half of ESB Han is being a big ol' baby and I'm perfectly fine admitting that). And what character growth to see Han "I'm in it for the money" Solo learn to care for his friends, learn to support a cause, learn to love Leia when he's spent so much of his life unattached. Han making boring life choices is indicative of character growth and learning to care about others more than himself. What a lovely thing for this man to learn.

The call for Leia and Han to remain living separate lives but still committed to one another kind of demands that they move backward in character growth in my opinion. We have two people who are in rough places due, by and large, to trauma, who eventually open up to one another and seem better for it and then they...just go back to what they were doing before except they occasionally see each other? Why would they want that? They've grown as people, they've won a dang war, and they're finally able to live somewhat securely. Why wouldn't they want to live basic lives when they were denied the privilege of such choices for so long? And how is them making choices based on their love for another person — love that they had a heck of a time coming to terms with — boring?

[booksandabeer]

Hi,

First of all thank you for all the recs you do, it couldn’t be easy doing all that. I just wanted to ask you about your favourite fics where Steve and Bucky were already together during first avenger and get back together in the future? Once again, thank you so much. Even if you don’t answer this I would still be grateful because I got so many of my favorite fics from your blog. You’re amazing and take care.

Hi!

Thank you very much for your kind words. It's lovely to hear that I could help you find some of your favorite fics. 🥰

I've sat on this ask for a few days now because it's actually a really difficult one for me to answer/find recs for without getting into things that can be quite, uh, awkward to discuss "on main." But I will try. As always, I'm going to ramble, so I'll put this under a cut.

(There will be fic recs in here, I promise. Just scroll down if you want to skip the waffling.)

So. When it comes to fics set in canonverse, I mostly stick to either stories that end before the war or stories where Steve and Bucky only get together once they meet again in the future. I hardly read fics with the premise you've described in your ask because—and this is where it gets dicey—they are rarely ever done in a way that I personally find satisfying.

Here’s the thing: If you read a story set in canonverse, inevitably, at some point the war will arrive and with it: Peggy. Now there’s a much larger, much more complex discussion to be had here about Steve’s perceived sexuality, societal expectations of what constitutes "successful masculinity" in the 1930s/40s, and self-repeating and -reinforcing cycles of fanonization that I don’t want to get into right now, so I’ll just say this: Unless the author goes the polyamory route (which I personally don’t care for and therefore don’t read; at least not in that particular combination), usually none of the characters involved come out of such a scenario looking their best or like they haven’t received a personality transplant from one chapter to the next. I know that some people love that kind of conflict and are really into the angsty drama that comes with it—and they may find my stance on this boring and square—but to be honest with you, there’s already plenty of angsty drama in any story involving Steve and Bucky to begin with; I don’t need this on top of it.

And also—look, to be very blunt about it: If I click on a Steve/Bucky story I want to read a Steve/Bucky story, and decidedly not a story about Steve falling in love with Peggy halfway through—especially not when he’s already been practically married to Bucky for years. I'm okay with scenarios where Steve falls in love with her (or the idea of her, really) because he cannot or thinks he cannot be with Bucky for reasons ranging from very reasonable to entirely idiotic, but in a world where they are already together? Honestly, no thanks. I don't want it.

(Also, let's not even pretend that I don't have a huge Bucky-bias.)

But! you asked for recs and not 500 words of waffling, so I went through my lists and bookmarks to find stories that either try to grapple with this *problem* in a sensitive and thoughtful manner, find elegant ways around it, or simply skip over it entirely.

Here we go:

(Note: The exact meaning of 'Being Together' can vary greatly from story to story)

A Tree Grows In Brooklyn by newsbypostcard | 6 parts, 146K, T-E

Author's summary: "You keep asking me what I want," Bucky manages, eventually. "But on any given day, my number one priority is to get through the day alive and myself, and to do it without killing anyone. Everything else is extra." Each work is a standalone.

-> A Post-CW AU that also tells Steve and Bucky's history with each other through flashbacks. Apart from this series, you can really read any story by this author because they do this neat thing where they use roughly the same pre-war/wartime backstory and then depending on when they wrote it and where MCU canon was at the time, the fics branch off from there. Plus, all of their stories are simply wonderful and I will alway recommend them any chance I get.

The Good Morrow by Hark_bananas | 75K, E

Author's summary: Every night, Steve falls asleep and finds himself dreaming about a diner, and every night he finds Bucky waiting for him there. But in the waking world, Bucky has disappeared, gone on the run after the fall of the Triskelion and Project Insight, and the strange dream that they share may be the only way that Steve has to bring him home.

après nous le déluge by tomorrowsrain | 9K, T

Author's summary: After us, the deluge. Steve and Bucky break, mend, and try to find their place in the world without the mantles of Captain America or the Winter Soldier. AU, post Civil War.

-> Part 1 of gale song series, the second part of which which I recced in my Road Trip Rec List. In fact, there are quite a few fics on that list that fit the premise of 'together before/during the war and getting back together in the 21st Century,' so if you haven't already, you might want to take a look at it!

Roll On by jaxington | 3 parts, 306K, T-M

Author's summary: In 1938, there's a bar in Brooklyn called Sully’s where people are safe to be themselves. Behind the bar, a girl pours drinks. She's always got a big smile for Steve and she says queer like it's a good thing. On a regular basis, she takes his shoulders in her hands and tries to shake sense into him, saying, "When will you do something about that best friend of yours?" In 2012, Bucky’s gone, but Steve’s not, and the girl’s hands are too old to shake him. She does her best to make him see sense anyway. Steve had people who loved him before the war, and it turns out a few of them are still around when he finally comes home.

Practice Makes Perfect by nekare | 10K, M

Author's summary: And it’s just. It’s too much. Weeks of pain and months of missing Steve and his mouth and the stupid shit that comes out of it; years of molding himself to his back at night and pretending there’s nothing else to it apart from sharing warmth; a decade of his stomach twisting with the foolish desire to make Steve laugh.   It's August and sweltering when Steve asks, out of nowhere, if Bucky wants to try kissing. Just to see what it's like. Bucky then spends far, far too many years pretending it didn't mean anything at all.

a hat, a horse (a Hyundai), and the will to ride by synonym4life | 67K, E

Author's summary: After Steve and Bucky rescue their pals from the Raft prison, they decide to dig deeper into Zemo’s involvement in the UN headquarters’ bombing which sends them on a backpacking trip across select European countries. Steve and Bucky believe this is a story about their mission. Scott Lang and Sam Wilson, who join them halfway through, believe it’s a story about their Eurotrip (and they’re probably right). This writer, however, has been waiting to tell you that the fic’s true mission is Steve and Bucky missioning towards missionary. Follow them on their journey across Europe in tiny cars, packed subway trains and even on skis as they tumble down the Swiss Alps (in a fun way this time!), all the while reigniting untold feelings of the past through inappropriate sexual encounters and terrible communication skills.

Five times Steve kissed Bucky by paragon | 16K, T

Author's Summary: (+ once, finally, it was the other way around)

-> I'm very amused by how short this summary is, but the fic really is exactly what it says on the tin: Steve and Bucky kissing, pre-war to post-CA:TWS.

I Wanna Live in the Hidden Parts of Your Skin by Voylitscope_speed | 10K, E

Author's Summary: Sometimes, Steve looks at Bucky across the floor of their apartment or in the middle of the sidewalk, and it's not goddamn fair how good Bucky looks. It's not fair how Steve, who's spent his whole life fighting with his lungs for air and his heart for a steady beat, sometimes looks at Bucky and his breath and pulse are wrong for reasons that aren't his lousy health at all. And ever since the day with the purple ink, Steve can't stop thinking about people being canvases, like the models at that exhibit. Steve keeps thinking that Bucky'd be the most stunning canvas a guy could ever ask for. (Or: Steve and Bucky discover a kink in 1940. They find a reason to come back to it 80 years later. )

All The Angels and The Saints by Speranza | 48K, E

Author's summary: In which Steve Rogers loses God and finds God and loses God, and also: Bucky.

-> Look, this fic does some of the exact things I said above I usually try to avoid, but (1) it doesn't really do it (kind of, it's hard to explain), and (2) it would be *absolutely ridiculous* to not include it when putting together a list of fics with a pre-war to post-WS arc. This fic is legendary for a reason. It rewired my brain. It was one of the first Stucky fics I read that made me realize and appreciate the full potential and beauty of this ship, and to this day, it remains one of my absolute favorites.

▶ I'm really sorry that I didn't write something for every individual fic like I usually do, but I'm moving back to my home country in less than three weeks, so time is very limited right now. I hope this is still ok, and that you'll find something on this list that you like!

▶ There is a series that would've been perfect for this list but unfortunately it was deleted without warning a few months ago. If anybody has a saved copy of apricotcake's long is the road that leads me home that they'd be willing to share with me, I would be forever grateful! I'm still so sad that it's gone and angry with myself that I didn't download it when I had the chance. :(

[sparkarrestor]

Tied Up!

Written By: SparkArrester

With thanks to @lswro2-222 and @kujakisser for some good ol' inspiration.

Toad the Brake-van is a well known sight along the Little Western. He's probably the best at keeping the trucks in line. Despite this, he’s seen by most non-railway folk as “Just another wagon”, though he doesn’t mind one bit. 

 One day, however, Donald clanked into the Top Station of the Little Western, where he saw the most peculiar sight!

“Lor Sakes Laddie!” He exclaimed.

Toad was sitting in a siding, wearing, under his chin, a sleek black bowtie!

“Hello Mista Donald! How do you like my new look?”

“It looks great on ye! But where on earth did ye find it? In that size nonetheless?”

Just then, Oliver pulled up with some empty wagons.

“The Fat Controller sourced some!” He answered, “Great Western originals too! We ‘ave a whole box of these things in the shed!”

“Great Western Originals?”

“Yes Mister Donald! We used to have these back on the Great Western. Coal Trucks and Goods Vans were expected to be dirty, but everything else, including us Brake-Vans, had to look as put together and high class as possible! This was management's way of making us look the part!”

“Then why didn’t ye have one when ye first came ‘ere?”

Toad sighed, “When BR took over, they got rid of them. They said it was an unneeded expense…”

“Aye, that’s just like yon snakes, draining the soul oot the railways. Well, I’m glad tah see ye got yours back. Really fits ye!”

Douglas wasn’t the only one who thought so! The summer season brought many tourists and holidaymakers to the railway, and they all took notice! Even passengers who usually took no notice of Toad raised their heads as he passed by. Toad had many different bow-ties in many different colors, and each day he wore a different one. The tourists certainly ate it up, and fellow engines complimented Toad on them. Well, all but one…

“Gawd he looks adorable!” Exclaimed a tourist in a thick accent as Toad passed by the Big Station, trailing after Douglas and his ballast hoppers.

“I say!” grunted Gordon, “Little Toad is making quite the impression!”

“I can see that…” growled James, trying and failing to sound calm.

“You aren’t jealous, are you, James?”

“Me, jealous of a filthy brake-van? Pah!”

And without another word, he snorted off.

But he was jealous, and, failing to hide it, he made his grievances known at the sheds that night.

“I take great pains in keeping my resplendent paintwork spotless!” He proclaimed, ignoring the dirty looks he got from the cleaners, “But no, they all take to some filthy brake-van with second rate accessories! Honestly, the nerve!”

“The nerve indeed…” Yawned Emily, “Now quiet you, I’ve got an early train tomorrow…”

And that was that.

James was still making a fuss the next morning.

“They want accessories?”, he ranted, “I’ll show them accessories! I’ll accessorize so much they can’t take their eyes off me!”

But by doing that, he took his eyes off of one very important thing: watching where he was going.

“Horrors!” He cried, as he slammed into a goods van. It’s contents flew out and landed all over James. As he opened his eyes, he gaped. He had crashed into a van full of clothing. Blazers, Jackets, Dress pants, and cufflinks covered him from chimney to wheels. But that wasn’t all! Tied around his lamp irons were bow-ties of every shape and color. James was about to lose it when laughter erupted on his left. He had crashed next to the station, and the passengers (and engines too!) all took proper notice of him now!

“Well!”, said Toad, who heard on the grapevine about James’ behavior, “Now that’s what you call accessorizing!”

[pitlanearchive]

(pt 2) Nico Rosberg and Lewis Hamilton are interviewed by Tom Clarkson for the BBC in 2013 at the Japanese GP

Who takes the longest to get ready in the morning?

Lewis: Such a liar man, he's got a lot of hair man.

Nico: Until you've got.. until you've got your hair done in the morning it takes ages.

Lewis: Goldilocks here, Br-br-britney here is always doing his hair man it takes forever.

Who eats the most?

Nico: What?

Lewis: You eat a lot

Nico: I think it was a close thing back in the day. We would go for pizza competitions. One funny story actually is though, we had the - I"ll just throw in there. We had the first test for the first test as teammates - new team, new company, new everything. We go out and I go out first and Lewis comes out behind. And it was a bit rainy overnight and the track was dry except for one patch which was just before the pit entry. I get to that patch and I go flying into the tyre barriers flat out.

Lewis: Destroyed the car! (laughs)

Nico: Already that was so embarrassing for me, really first lap out destroyed the kart in the barriers. And then I get out of the kart and I see this dude arriving you know and I'm like "oh no! oh no!" and he hits the same patch as me and goes flying out and hits my kart which is in the barriers.

Lewis: The karts were parked together

Nico: Both karts were parked together.

Lewis: Mine's in front and it was like -

Nico: on top of each other kind of thing. completely destroyed and I must say there was a little tiny smile that actually arrived also on my face. Not only the disappointment that he managed to do the same stupid thing as me.

Lewis: Yeah it was funny. We got in a lot of trouble.

Who's the cleverest?

Lewis: I'd give him that one because he speaks five languages and that's-that's taking the mick. So, our whole life when we got together when we were younger he used to go in and out of these languages when we were around some French people some Italians some Germans. He'd always tell me the wrong thing.

Tom: Is that true?

Nico: Most definitely.

Who's the bigger party animal?

Nico: What are you talking about?

Lewis: Man, you are hardcore.

Nico: We're not going into any details right now right?

Lewis: (laughs) Definitely not.