#(and for people with Courage)

[remxedmoon]

save me bonnie isat… bonnie isat… save me…

woah what!!! isat fanart with color??? preposterous. greyscaled versions under the cut!! (and also the last doodle without the crusty old drawing next to it!! incase you want to use it for anything)

anyways. uh. scampers away like a little rat

[francesderwent]

Taylor Swift really wrote an album with the thesis “a man who tells you he loves you and lives together with you in a committed relationship for six years but never ever proposes is essentially the same as a man who tells you he loves you to get you into bed and then ghosts you a couple weeks later”

[catboy-morro]

ive always found it crazy how they call what kai does courage

[elodieunderglass]

Eggs for Killie is over!

I award myself the 150th egg for all of the little bits of art. Thank you so much for inspiring me to make them! It’s been really amazing to see all the hard work and to truly appreciate the wide range of crafts and activities everyone can do. Bobbin lace? Shoemaking? Knife forging? Translating Irish? It’s genuinely incredible.

I also really appreciated the people who were taking a rest, too. Thank you for that as well.

And I SUPER, SUPER appreciate everyone who was going through saying encouraging words, leaving replies/reblogging with comments, or liking all these posts. That was also a huge outpouring of kindness and time. I saw you doing it (and tried to make sure OPs did too) and any credit for people feeling empowered? That’s for YOU.

I know for a fact that people were following each other simply because they spotted one of their people through doing this. Thank you for being here - and being brave enough to find each other! 

If you have a project you were working on specifically for this, and missed the inbox, drop me a message - I don’t want to miss you.

150 eggs x 60g (weight of medium-large chicken egg) is 9000g of eggs.

That’s 16.8% of Killie’s body weight in eggs.

I am planning to write a book about Killie and I think it will be very VERY funny to acknowledge every single username who contributed in the acknowledgements…

…. Because I am planning to throw them back at you.

Now rest up, everyone. April Fools tomorrow, we gotta make the REST of the website unusable.

[carebeardean]

Charles has always left Edwin little notes slipped between the pages of his favorite books, in his science equipment, places he knows Edwin loves. Just silly things—post its that say “hi Edwin :)”. doodles of Edwin with his nose stuck in a book. reminders to stock up on wolfsbane. but.

Then, post canon, Edwin tentatively starts dating people. And it’s ridiculous, because Edwin’s right there, all the time, but Charles..misses him a bit. And his heads a mess, and he can’t sort out what the hell he’s feeling most of the time, and whenever he tries to say any of it out loud it comes out rubbish.

So. He writes down some of the shit he can’t say right, and because he’s a coward, hides them so he doesn’t have to see Edwin’s face when he reads them.

then Edwin starts writing back.

Neat lilac blue little envelopes appear in Charles coat pockets. In his bag. Once, in his shoe? Some nights, Edwin will clear his throat and mention something from a letter, offhand, like they’re just picking up conversation, and Charles can pretend they are. That they always have talked about the basement, the belt, the nameless fear that chokes him every time Edwin walks out the door with someone else on his arm.

Sometimes he can’t. The words get stuck in his throat. Edwin’s not mad, he’s maddeningly, stubbornly kind about it, which is worse.

Some nights they trade. A secret for a secret. Charles learns about the novels Edwin used to hide under his mattress, about all the lonely years before Charles got there. About Simon.

Meanwhile, Edwin is losing his mind, because Charles has accidentally stumbled onto what was a fucking courting ritual in his time. Love letters were something engaged couples treasured for years, kept and reread over and over. (Edwin does. keep them in a special box, will take one out and trace the words, tuck it in his breast pocket for courage).

Edwin would rather have to reattach a limb again than lose Charles trust, all the dark and beautiful things he shares with Edwin only. He knows—knows Charles doesn’t mean to make him fall more in love with him.

[draidachiart]

idk if i'm allowed to draw her but... she's a cutie!!!! @kianamaiart i love baddass magical girl frsjnyhgdthjngtyfdxjnhgyftd

[superbat-lmao]

The Bats protect Gotham, but who protects the Bats?

The first time it happened, it was a mother at the end of her rope and there was nothing Batman could do to stop it.

Even if he broke every bone in his arm to escape, he would still have to wait for backup before being able to clear the kids. He could throw every protocol to the wind and it still wouldn’t have been enough. He told her how much time it would take for reinforcements, how long they had to hold out for. That was his mistake.

Because when their captors came back early he made himself their target. He fought, spit, said anything that would rile them. And it wasn’t enough. Because she put her hand on his arm and said, “protect my children,” before telling the men she would come willingly if they left The Bat alone.

They both knew that she was buying him time with her own life.

From there it happened rarely, but it never stopped happening. Random civilians would realize that it was either letting Batman die for them, or to die in his stead.

And the worst thing about Gotham was that the people knew how much they needed the vigilantes. How for every one person that died there were another 20, 50, 200 people who managed to be saved. Live long lives, or as long as any life ever got to be.

So for as willing as Batman is to die protecting people, those same people are willing to die for him if it will mean protecting their loved ones.

It wasn’t a burden Bruce had ever prepared to bear. And the first time a civilian stepped in front of one of his children, took a bullet in the neck that would have been a headshot, the relief almost ate him alive. The guilt certainly threatened to.

It was never a weight he wanted his children to carry.

[ljubitelj-sonca]

My job here is done

(Thanks @hey--look-a-squirrel for filming!!! And thanks @lovvecherrymotion for posting all the photos on tumblr when we found them!)

[echoes-of-courage]

Has Commander made any links (no pun intended) between the people he knew in the War of Eras, like Midna or Marin, and the heroes he knows now?

He has his suspicions. He’d be shocked if Mask and Pirate haven’t come to the same conclusions, too.

Archive

[pirate-hats-are-gay]

Why has no one in Stobotnik nation considered Love, Me Normally by Will Wood :(

[aurorangen]

"Honestly, fuck them. I'm better off without that company." Robbie's voice was merciless announcing his resignation news to Charlie. Growing up, Robbie always called him to vent and he listened without judgment. Robbie worked gruelling hours in the lab but felt a lack of recognition for his efforts: co-workers constantly belittled him until he had enough. "You let it all out, Robbie!" Pam exclaimed after the conversation full of cursing.

Forgetting about the pharmaceutical company, Robbie wanted to reconnect with his family since work consumed his life. He found catching up with Charlie and Pam easier than with Renee, asking about the pregnancy and talking about their childhood. But above all, he wanted to know more about Vincent. Still, Robbie was intimidated by him and felt awkward whenever they had small talk. After all, knowing more would make it easier to communicate honestly, without any negative sentiments getting involved.

[zylphiacrowley]

Love.

<previous - next>

[snakeredbirdbatkatana]

It was another competion the entire family all shoving and pushing each other into the car to see more of Damian's art.

Tim is excited for Damian.

He knows what it's like, to stand there and have no one show up. To be there all by yourself for hours the only one to visit your booth being the art teacher.

Ms. Carrington who would ask questions and ignore the tears that pooled in his eyes before helping him pack everything up, sometimes even driving him home because of course neither his parents or Bruce could be bothered to pick him up.

He can't really help the envy that he can feel building in his chest mixing with a good chunk of repressed anger.

A elbow being jabbed into his ribs distracts him.

"Hey what's with the face? Perk up Boy-Loser it's Damian's night."

He turns to Steph the smile that he had been attempting to plaster on falling. It's such a stupid thing it's a nickname so what if it's demeaning, he gets called pretender or replacement by Jason what does it matter.

"Do you ever think it's kinda fucked up that not a single person in this family calls me anything that isn't an insult?" He snaps.

She looks shocked. How fucking dare he have an ounce of self esteem. Someone alert the Media Tim Drake isn't a dormat.

He turns away sliding into the crowd.

There's less then half an hour left before he can leave. Pratically throwing himself down in the empty hallway as far as he can get from this entire night.

"Baby bird and Timmy aren't insults? Or are they I can't seem to keep up with the kids these days."

He turns, of course. You might be able to run from Batman or lie to him, but you can never escape the grasp of Big Brother Nightwing.

"So your admitting that your old?" he joins the banter.

His muscles start to unclench another superpower only Dick Grayson seems to have.

"Never, something you want to talk about?"

Does he? No. Should he? Yah.

"Maybe I just don't want be insulted every day of my life. So weird who doesn't want to be reminded they suck?"

He can hear the whine, he can also hear that everything he just said isn't gonna matter. You don't take whiny little boys seriously. And that's what he is.

"Hmm you know I get called Dickhead or really a lot of just penis related jokes. Always hated them not that it really stops anyone."

He looks finally making eye contact with his big brother. Because he's right. How many times has he heard anyone in the family other than him and Damian call Dick anything nice. Never not once. Maybe Bruce but he can't really picture it.

"Also don't think I didn't notice how annoyed you are with Bruce about this entire night, which I don't blame you for. You know I love Damian kiddo, but yah Bruce is not winning a mug from me or you."

He doesn't really want to acknowledge any of that already exhausted and he will have to apologize to Steph and if he opens the box it will be a car ride from hell home.

"Luckily for you I have a car parked a block up we can escape get ice cream and have a nice sleepover in bludhaven."

He wants to so bad, he wants to throw himself at Dick who knows him so well, who followed him out here, who isn't blinking, the only adult who has ever not somehow fucked him over.

"What about Damian? He will be pissed at me for stealing you or something. He doesn't need another reason to stab me."

He turns to look back at the floor.

"Foolish Drake I will be coming with you Father is being insesently annoying and I much rather talk about art with someone who has a brain cell."

Both him and Dick whip around to see Damian standing there a slight blush on his face hesitation making the corner of mouth twitch. He sees Dick looking on unsure. He doesn't hesitate.

"Thank god I know a great place with that Vegan Cookie Dough you like. What you waiting for Big Bird? Let's go. "

Climbling to his feet he grabs Dick and Damian dragging them to the exit he hears Dick's confused muttering sharing a secret smile with Damian before ignoring it.

The night is finally looking up.

[theabigailthorn]

finally watched all of Hazbin, definitely cried a bit at Episode 7 and sent Morgana a tearful message

[adrinktostopyourthirst]

Bucky Barnes | Series | Bare

Part three of the Rebellion Series

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Plot: The attack you suffered wasn't at all what either of you expected. Sharing a bed with Bucky is the least of your problems.

Warning: 18+. Angst, violence (!alluding to non-con!) and smut.

Words: 3,70O

It’s frustrating – to be so tired and not to be able to fall asleep. You’re forced to watch the orange lights travel over the ceiling with every vehicle that passes. Forced to feel the presence of Bucky behind you. And forced to be unable to look at him, read his mind, or even know if sleep has found him at least. You’d guess hours have passed, but the sun would be up. When Bucky was treating the wound on your thigh – only an enjoyable, throbbing ache left of the pain – it had been 3am.

Summer is making you feel sticky. It’s making the noises from outside overly loud and the albeit passable hotel feel stuffy. You’ve already kicked off the sheets and moved your hair as much from your skin as possible.

Then, you realise the gift of getting to complain about such luxurious things. There was a time not too long ago where you were locked up and never imagined getting to feel a change in temperature, or watch vehicles pass by that other people drove. People with lives, with purpose. There was time where you were so preoccupied with getting to the next day, making sure your people made it to the next day, making a bigger statement than the last – there was no time to be nervous about a super soldier sleeping in the bed with you.

Because you are – nervous. It’s ridiculous, to feel like a teenage girl next to a handsome man. A handsome man who doesn’t seem ruffled by you at all. There is… flirtation. And it’s surprisingly easy with him. The last time you had flirtation like that with anyone, you hardly remember. Besides, it’s terribly fun to rile him up all the time, and to know that at any time he will come back with something just as sharp.

You dare a glance in his direction, almost certain he’s asleep, and then you pause. He does seem asleep, but deeply uncomfortable. Light from outside reflects on the sheen of sweat on his face and chest, there seem to be tremors going through his body.

Lifting a hand to his shoulder carefully, you hope not to startle him. He groans lowly at the touch, relief on his face at what you assume is the coolness of your skin. Because he’s burning.

“Bucky,” you whisper, a slight plea in your tone as you sit up a little.

He moans your name softly as he writhes and find out he’s awake after all.

“Hey,” you coo softly, peeling the sheets off of him to get him some reprieve. “What’s going on? Did you get hit?”

He seems slightly dazed and finally he crawls to sit up against the headboard. His chest is heaving with shallow breaths and it takes him a while to drag his eyes to yours. You haven’t seen him so… pliant before. It’s so unlike him.

Clearly, it takes him too much effort to think of tonight’s events and come up with an answer to your question, so you drag your eyes over every inch of his body to see if there are any wounds you might have missed.

But nothing.

Bucky seems to have caught on to your quest and shakes his head, running a metal hand through his sweaty hair. “No, nothing got me.”

“But you’re burning up,” you counter and climb off the bed, flicking on a light. His face pinches together at the overstimulation and a shudder rolls through his body. “Are you in pain?”

He thinks for a second and that is answer enough for you. Bucky is the type of man to say ‘no’ first and then check if he actually has pain, only to proceed to ignore it until it dissipates. You grab your phone to start searching for something, anything, that might help you figure this out. If it manages to affect Bucky this much, it can’t be good.

However, you get sidetracked by the dozen missed calls and an urgent text from Sam to call him back as soon as possible. You frown, feeling Bucky’s curious eyes on you, and call Sam.

“Sam,” you start, pressing the screen to put the phone on speaker, “you said to call you back. What’s wrong?”

“We wanted to know if you saw anything suspicious tonight at the party,” he answers.

“Why?” Bucky manages to get out.

“There have been more casualties,” he says and you lock eyes with Bucky, his turning empathetic at the realisation. “There is a number of people who have started acting strangely, almost manic. Most of them have passed away mere hours later. At first, we couldn’t figure out what it was, but along their expected injuries from the bombing, they each had a tiny pinprick on their bodies.”

“A pinprick?” you ask, brows furrowed. That would insinuate an injection, which is an odd thing to incur. Unless there was a bigger scheme at play at the gala tonight.

Bucky speaks up now, all of a sudden sounding more alert, “Did you find out what people got injected with?” His mind must go the same place yours has and you run your assessing gaze over his heated skin again. Dread settles in your stomach. Any trace of a pin prick would have vanished on a fast-healing body…

“We have the last subjects under investigation now and Natasha is trying to hack into systems to find something. You have to get back here as soon as possible.” Sam sounds worried.

“Sam,” you start and Bucky’s eyes go to you in question, turning icy when he hears your next words, “Bucky has a fever.”

…

The ride back to the nearest bunker is painfully long. Bucky’s skin is throbbing and he’s certain he can feel every pump of blood pressing through his veins. Dull thumps echo through his ears with every fast pound of his heart, the organ seemingly working overtime. He’s sweating, but so cold. It feels like there’s ice running over his skin and lava in his core. Trying to keep himself upright has been a challenge. He wants to sink, and sink, and sink until his head is on your chest and you will stroke his hair.

Your voice is sharp as it penetrates Bucky’s heavy daze, announcing that you have finally arrived at the bunker assigned for you. Going to the compound would take too long, Sam insisted, so you dragged Bucky to the car and drove off to your assigned location. You hoist him out of the car, trying to hold his weight and muttering some words of comfort. Bucky tries his best to walk, dragging his feet over the ground, the gravel loud in the silence of your current spot. You must be really isolated.

The bunker is fairly modern and well-stocked. After another injection you found in one of the medical cabinets and a comfortable bed to lie in, things had started to clear up for Bucky.

Finally awake and seemingly level-headed, Bucky turns his heavy head to you, lounging on the chair beside him, just as a massive yawn rips over your face. He opens his mouth to speak, but halts when you sit up with your eyes on your phone. He follows your gaze and watches you unlock your phone to a FaceTime call with Natasha, Sam and a doctor whose name Bucky has forgotten.

They look tormented.

“I’ll cut to the chase,” Natasha explains and bites her lip. Bucky braces himself. “I managed to break into the file system of the government branch that is responsible for the attack. There were a few objectives to their mission at the gala: to scare, to warn and to research.” All of a sudden you’re holding a set of files and Bucky assumes it is a copy of whatever Natasha has found and faxed over to the middle of nowhere. “Apparently, they have been sitting on a serum that they want to use in the future. There was pressure on getting it developed faster, but they couldn’t get it tested ethically. They came up with a plan to test the effects of the serum during an attack where they would scare any resistance to their movement, hoping they could study the effects – no matter how severe they would be – and everyone else would assume that complications must be from the attack, and no one would ever look their way.”

Bucky looks at you as your eyes scan the files and the look on your face is anything but reassuring. You look at Natasha like he isn’t even there and Bucky’s composure is failing him.

“I’m feeling better,” he tries.

Natasha sighs and you turn to him in the chair, leaving the phone on a stand. You flip through the files and start reading a certain paragraph, “All subjects run a fever high enough to kill them. Only 15 percent of the subjects survive against all odds, confirming that the serum does awaken a primal survival instinct. Group one, the subjects that were isolated from others, show extreme discomfort and start pleasuring themselves to get rid of it. Group two, the subjects that were put together, either killed each other or started having intercourse to relieve the pain and discomfort. None of them hesitated in following their carnal desires. Group three, subjects exposed to non-subjects, went to highly unethical lengths to stop their discomfort, similar to group two…” Your voice drifts off to a soft murmur and you are set on not making eye-contact with Bucky, much to his dismay.

“What else?” he grits out.

“It continues to say that the serum’s goal is to reduce people to their carnal desires and primal instincts in the hopes of making them more pliant and susceptible to directions,” you explain slowly and Bucky can tell it pains you to read it out. “The problem seems to be that the subjects don’t become pliant – they become unhinged… Eventually forcing scientists to eliminate the remaining subjects.” You pause and frown. Then share a worried look with Natasha, who nods. “Their next step would be to find out how the serum would affect ‘super humans’.” The room falls silent and you look up at him. Bucky has gone hard as stone, not an emotion left in him. “You were targeted.”

…

He hasn’t said anything in hours and you keep scanning your eyes over him. Up and down, up and down – hoping to find any clue as to how he’s doing. The call ended with the clear instructions to leave Bucky in the room alone and lock yourself away. You stuck around, reading through the entire report over and over, in case you might find something to help him. He’s been pacing since the call ended.

Normally, you’d choose the approach of giving Bucky time and space until he feels ready to talk about how he’s feeling or what his observations are. However, patience and time for that matter, are not on your side today. Dr. Wen made it perfectly clear that there is a window of time before chaos breaks loose and you need to calculate just how bad the repercussions will be of Bucky’s exposure.

You know Bucky enough – know how much he has been through – which makes it that much more difficult to estimate how well he will be able to fight the substance. He can fight a lot, manage through manipulations that most people would easily fall for or succumb to. But this, possibly made for super soldiers like him, this is different. This substance promises to fight each of his bodily functions that keep that primal instinct at bay – to keep him contained. Part of you wonders how much his primal self is attached to the Winter Soldier. Because if Hydra’s Asset comes out, you are officially done for.

You can’t really leave – won’t leave. Not with a new trickle of sweat rolling down Bucky’s temple, his fists clenching and his teeth grinding together in discomfort. No, you won’t leave him alone. You’re not sure how the substance will affect him, but you’ll stick with him. People have abandoned him too many times and this is too similar to what he’s already been through to leave him fending for himself. Besides, you know what it’s like to be left alone when you need people the most.

“Bucky?” you rasp and his eyes settle on yours.

Your breath hitches in your throat at that look in his eyes, the deep shadow his brow casts over his eyes and the taut look of his bone structure. Bucky visibly swallows and takes a breath of restraint. You think maybe your call didn’t register in his brain at the conflicted look on his face, but his mouth opens before you can try again.

“Run.”

Blood running cold and spine going rigid, you gape at the man before you.

“What.” It comes out as a whisper.

Bucky grits his teeth and you don’t know how you missed the obvious signals of his body that showcase a supernatural amount of restraint. This man is fighting demons you cannot even imagine. You take a step forward to console him, but his hand grabs the nearest aluminium table and his fingers curl so tightly that the material bends. You freeze.

“I need you to run,” he chokes.

You shake your head. “Bucky, the report said it heightens instinct and primal need. Your instinct isn’t to kill me. I don’t think you’ll hurt me.”

Bucky’s nostrils flare and his head drops. He heaves a deep sigh, as if tired to have to explain it to you. He gathers something, maybe courage, to tell you, but decides against it in the end. “I said: run.”

A ripple of agony goes through him, visible by the tight clench of his bare abdomen. His muscles are tense, his pupils blown to dark pits and his veins are protruding from his skin. You don’t know where the arrogance comes from to stick around when the Winter Soldier might be the one standing in front of you in a few seconds, but somehow abandoning Bucky seems worse than death.

You glance at the opened med kit, wondering if another injection might keep the serum at bay. You’re not sure how it works, but it seemed to clear Bucky up before… He buckles over again with a primal growl, body rippling with pain and discomfort.

“What do you need, Bucky?” you try.

“Run,” he snaps. “I need you to fucking run. I can’t hold this off much longer. It’s been hours.”

The report had said most subjects only hold out four hours at the most. Bucky is going into hour eight right about now. You hesitate then, feet shuffling without moving away from him. You give him a pained look and you feel like you’re getting one in return, but before the agony reaches Bucky’s face, he buckles over completely and crashes to the floor, his hands curling against the ground.

On instinct, you dive down and put your hand on his back. “Bucky! Are you–”

A sinful moan rips from his throat and within an instant his metal hand grabs the hand that is resting on his back, and rips it off of him. “Don’t– touch me.”

You pause, trying not to cringe at the tight grip he has on your hand. The next thing you do is to pry your hand away from him and follow his request, but his hand is holding onto yours too tightly. You open your mouth to say something, but his flesh hand starts tracing over de lines and curves of your hand, over your wrist and up your arm.

That’s when you realise the contents of the rest of the report, not even having considered the alternative to Bucky wanting to kill you. Your body heats at the thought and you start trembling. Your eyes trickle over every feature of his – his bare, heaving chest and his bulging arms and thick thighs and his mouth… Oh, his mouth.

You do something stupid – perhaps because the thing that is currently on your mind might be the best thing to do right before you die anyway – and you raise your other hand, sliding it over his shoulder and up into his neck. Bucky shudders and you curl your nails to scrape over his skin, making him hiss and let out a low moan from the back of his throat.

“Do you want to kill me?” you ask and Bucky’s head lifts slowly, eyes wide and two lines between his brow in utter confusion. You can’t imagine the physical pain he must be in right now, if the reports are anything to go by.

“No,” he breathes, like you’re insane for even asking.

“Do you want to fuck me?”

Bucky swallows hard at that question, jaw working, like the question is enough to make him combust. But he shakes his head and you have a hard time admitting what that does to your self esteem.

“The reports–” he grunts and heaves in a deep breath, his current train of thought seemingly creating an exponentially growing amount of pain. “The reports are wrong. They ruined each other and only wanted to fuck. Get their dicks wet, gets their holes filled.”

Heat rushes up your neck and cheeks at his words and you stroke your hand up and down his neck, perhaps to soothe yourself. In the reports, the subjects had been vividly described as out-of-control animals, as rough and violent and selfish. Does the serum have a different effect on Bucky because he’s more resistant to the drug? He does seem to want to be touched. And if he keeps moaning like that – moans of pleasure, not pain – you’re afraid you’ll do anything to touch him. So much so, you wonder if the serum causes a contagious reaction.

“How are the reports wrong?” you try carefully.

“I don’t just want to fuck you,” he groans and his eyes soften, though they never lose their hard edge. Their determination. “I’m selfish.” He pauses, like he expects you to know what it is he wants. You look at him with pleading eyes – for information or temptation – he’s not sure.

You nod, unsurely, but determined as well. “That’s okay. You can be selfish. I can take it.”

He drawls your name in warning, eyes darkening. Clearly you have no idea what he wants from you and the willingness in your tone sends another miserable ache through his limbs, sending his body to curl up again and his eyes to scrunch shut, which you quickly soothe by shuffling closer to him and stroking your palm down his spine. Bucky’s tactical pants are becoming unbearably tight and it takes everything for him to not look at your lips. He knows if he catches one glimpse of your mouth, he’s gone.

“I trust you,” you whisper, breath fanning over his cheek.

His eyes snap back to yours, searching frantically, but he seems to find only truth on your face. Yet his eyes search and search, for any sign that you don’t want this – don’t want him – and he makes the detrimental mistake to let his gaze fall to your mouth. Your lips.

Something inside of him rips free and it’s so scaringly close to a furious Winter Soldier, that Bucky almost hesitates. But his eyes are on your lips and the trained soldier in him has a mission – centred solely around those fucking lips of yours. So he dives forward and crashes his mouth to yours, bringing both of you to the ground.

His hand covers the back of your head and his knees split your thighs apart, instantly grinding his hips between them. When your back arches up against him at the contact, his arm slides under your back to press you up against him, keeping your core attached to his unbearably hard cock, still straining against his clothes.

You sigh against his lips and glide your arms around his neck, pushing closer to him. Bucky’s hands slide down to your ass and he effortlessly lifts you with him, sitting in your vacated chair and keeping you in his lap. The kiss is so desperate and intimate and longing. Your hands in his hair, his hands stroking up and down your back – down and down. You, grinding down onto him and him hissing against your mouth.

One of his hands locks into your hair, tugging your head down to him for better access as your tongues connect and both of you moan at the same time, locking something in that neither of you can ever come back from.

And Bucky is almost convinced you have the serum running through your veins as well – it’s impossible for someone to feel that good. He has to stop kissing you to stop from going insane, and his mouth drags down your jaw and neck, unable to keep himself from sinking his teeth into the skin below your ear. He feels your heartbeat between your legs and forces your hips to grind down on him again.

“Be selfish,” you gasp. “Please be selfish.”

He knows for a fact that you have no idea what you’re asking for. He knows you think he’ll flip you over and take you until he’s spent. But no. He wants to play with you and not give you what you’re begging for. He wants you on his hands, his thigh, his tongue and his cock. He wants you past the serum – past the upcoming few hours.

You see, the second Bucky figured out what this serum was going to do to him, he knew the last person he should be around, is you. Had known there was somehow only one person that would crumble his resolve quicker than anything or anyone else. And now that you want him…

This is the first time in over a hundred years that Bucky and the Winter Soldier are in perfect harmony together. The first time he hears the Soldat tell him from deep in the back of his head,

“Ready to comply.”

[zelda-of-hyrule-tloz]

Some thoughts on Link's mother in Ocarina of Time:

In Ocarina of Time, we're told very little about Link's mother. All we know in-game is that, to escape the civil war, she escaped with an infant Link to the Kokiri Forest, gave her baby to the Deku Tree, and presumably died soon after.

If anyone could ride in and take shelter in the Kokiri Forest, how come she was the only one? How come the woods, specifically all the way to the Deku Tree, was her first thought? I don't believe many NPCs in Ocarina of Time refer to spirits (besides poes) much. Maybe everyone who would've known died, either in the war or during the coup?

Well, I think I have a slight idea.

We know the Kokiri do not leave the forest because, if they do, they "die." This either refers to becoming Stalfos or Skull Kid if one is lost in Lost Woods, or the fact they start to age if they go anywhere else. The Deku Tree's magic is what keeps them children forever, isn't it?

So, what if Link's mother was one of the Kokiri who left? She left the woods, grew up, and married a Hylian knight. Perhaps she even became one herself. When the war was at its peak, the only safe place she knew of left was one where death was null... And she wanted a safe childhood for Link.

(Not to mention, I'm pretty sure Link's mother becomes a tree in one of the Nintendo Power comics...? The German one?)

She definitely wasn't the first Kokiri to leave the woods, but she may just have been the last. Link doesn't seem to have any recent memory of something like that actually happening. Really, I imagine none of the Kokiri really understood what the warning of death meant until Link's mother returned. They finally saw her again after all that time, and she was different. Not only was she different, but her time ran out at the Deku Tree's roots. Though her growing up proved she truly lived, it was still cut short in only a matter of moments. Was it worth it? Did she think it was worth it? Maybe that's why Saria seems to be the most bittersweet about Link leaving. She probably allowed herself to understand what it meant.

All of this considered— Maybe the reason the Deku Sprout says Link isn't a Kokiri, but Hylian, is because he doesn't possess all of the same connection to magic and the forest? Because his mother gave up that life in the woods to become Hylian?

Still, it's quite funny to think of how this affects Link. Hyrule Historia isn't a reliable source for the lore whatsoever, but if OoT Link really is the Hero's Shade (I like to imagine he is), the reason he didn't stop growing until he died could be a Kokiri thing. Perhaps the only part of him that is "Kokiri" by then. Aging Kokiri still once were children of the Deku Tree, so maybe they always grow like one too. (I'm loving the idea that his mom was super tall now).

SORRY FOR THE RAMBLE I JUST COULD NOT GET THIS OUT OF MY HEAD!!! I'm probably missing some details somewhere, I'm sure, but I think this is the headcanon I'll lean towards for now. :)