#Fare loading

[callstheadventurescience]

rot week this feral week that how about soul-crushing existential ennui week in this time between christmas and new years

[reki-of-the-valley]

I will burn the world to shreds

[pastelaspirations]

WAIT, WAIT, OKAY, NO, W A I T. HOLD ON. I'M FREAKING OUT. I WAS LITERALLY OUT CELEBRATING YESTERDAY, 'CUS OF AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE DAY. AND THEN, I CHECK HERE AND I- I'M NOT OKAY, MAN

MIRAGE, YOU CAN'T- YOU CAN'T KEEP DOING THIS TO ME-

O k a y, I... I apologize in advance for the long reblog. I'll try to make it short, I promise.

FIRST, I CAN'T FREAKING- I CAN'T HANDLE IT, IT'S SO WONDERFUL, MAN. I have actually wondered how these two would interact together. AND I THINK YOU DEPICTED IT PERFECTLY, MAN, IT'S JUST HOW I IMAGINED-

Ætherverse!Error is just. So angry. So done, so fed up with everything and all the idiots of the world, all the time. And Perseverance!Error just... does not care. My man's in a perpetual state of "I've got way bigger things to worry about" and "It'll actually be way more fun for me personally to mess with you than to be genuinely angry."

Therefore, when these two meet, it's just... Ætherverse!Error like, "Ew, who is this stupid, hooligan looking homeless person? With a... crow??? And he's got a gun???? No, absolutely not, I don't trust this guy for a second, he's probably looking for my money. W a i t, what if he works for Nightmare, no, wait, w a i t, I gotta make it seem like I don't suspect him. Okay, just- Keep acting nonchalant so he'll go away and THEN, I can strike with backup and a plan, and he'll stand no chance-" Meanwhile, Perseverance!Error is just... giving him this weird look because literally the only thing running in his mind is, "Why's this shorty, pompous bastard so mad-"

A l s o. I'm not done with Ætherverse yet, I'm on chapter 74. BUT WHAT IF, WHAT IF, OKAY, HEAR ME OUT.

What if these two, somehow, through multiverse shenanigans, m e t. During this time frame.

H e h e h e, and if they met, Ætherverse!Error would eventually discover Perseverance!Error is an ex-bounty hunter and will use it to his advantage. >:)

Ætherverse!Error, thoughtful and calculating look on his face: W a i t, so you're a... bounty hunter...? Perseverance!Error, confused why he's not freaking yelling at him anymore, but answers anyway with a smug look: Ex-bounty hunter. And unfortunately for you, I'm retired. Ætherverse!Error, mind going through all the mental calculations in his head: Can you take down a really persistent mafia boss? Perseverance!Error, a bit flustered and really confused at this point: Uh- Yeah, sure, if that's who you wanted, but like I said, I'm retired, I'm not working anymor- Ætherverse!Error, clasping his hands in front of his face: Can you take down a really persistent mafia boss and rescue hostages? Perseverance!Error, just staring at him for a long time, completely dumbfounded, before muttering: Y e a h, but that would jack up the price to high heaven- Ætherverse!Error: I'll give you 35,000 G. Perseverance!Error, mouth still hanging open from being interrupted midsentence. It takes a few tries before he's able to choke out: Wait, how much- Cue the heist to save Sans and Frisk in chapter 74 by the random ass bounty hunter, his dog, murder of crows, and his very reluctant, weirdly dressed "Royal Guard" friend that Ætherverse!Error hired to deal with his problem. XD I haven't read the chapter, so I don't know if they would do well or not. But considering the sus foreshadowing of Sans being a monster beyond multiverse comprehension, I'm guessing they are going to bite off more than they can chew.

BUT I'M SORRY, THIS DRAWING JUST. GAVE ME SUCH IDEAS THAT I TYPED OUT EVEN THOUGH NO ONE ASKED.

two different Errors from the fanfictions I read :D Error on the left from the fanfic: Ætherverse, by: @mspandorasart Error on the right from fanfic: Perseverance, by: @pastelaspirations

[seumyo]

BAKUGOU KATSUKI ✰ 10:32

You tell Bakugou once that you don’t know how to take the train home, and he almost blasted your ears off with semi-yelling (or full-on yelling at some point) insults. 

“Hah?” He scoffs, eyes narrowing. This information is new to him, and a surprising one at that. 

You? The nerd that always bested him when it came to academics, which pissed him off the first few months in U.A.? The person who was not only book smart but was street and people smart as well? 

The whole goddamn package doesn’t know how to take the train?

Really?

He’s calling bull.

“What do you mean you don’t know how to take the train home? What kind of idiot doesn’t know that?”

“I just—“ you’re abashed and really don’t know what to say, “I didn’t really— I’ve never had the chance to take one until now!” For a consistent honors student, you can’t really have everything, can you?

“How’ve you been getting to school and back, then?”

“We had a driver—“

“Fuckin’ course—“

“But hey! Listen—in my defense—my schools were usually a walking distance from our house.”

“And now what? Gonna stand here and wait for a miracle to happen?”

You nudge his side with a frustrated frown (more like a pout, Bakugou thinks.) “Quit it, asshole.”

He backtracks briefly, though you could barely tell at this point. And it’s clear enough that he takes your words into consideration. It could be the fact that you actually look scared shitless right now, something foreign to your typical lax and carefree persona.

“C’mon.” Bakugou grabs you by the arm.

“Ow— hey! Where are we going?”

“You have to learn somehow, or else you’ll look fuckin’ clueless and dumb, nerd.”

You don’t argue because you really just wanted to get home, and while you could just call in your driver, you considered that this was important information that would help you in the long run. Besides, you do agree with Bakugou that not knowing how to commute like this is embarrassing, especially at your age.

“What’s this?” 

Bakugou hands you a card. It’s decorated with a minimalist logo of Musutafu’s native flower, whose color is your favorite.

“An IC card,” he simply answers.

It’s cute, you thought. You noticed how the other commuters had the standard design, so Bakugou must've gotten it personalized to your preference. How thoughtful.

“You could’ve just helped me get a ticket, though,” you murmur. You fiddle with the card in your hand, glancing at him with a puzzled expression. “I don’t think I’ll be using this card that often. It’ll be a waste.”

“Then try and use it as often as you can, nerd.”

“I’ll pay you back for this—how much was it?”

“Forget it.”

“Really, Bak—“

“Forget it,” he barks. “Keep up, you shitty extra. Or else you’d miss the last train to your station.” Bakugou starts walking, and you follow suit.

You can load your IC card at the ticket machines or the nearest ATMs. Different stations call for different ticket gates that obviously have different fares. The expiration of cards usually depends on what provider you got them from—

“What do I do now?”

You’re hesitantly in front of the ticket gate, with Bakugou on the other side. You’re like a kid who’s lost their mother in the mall.

“Just—“ Bakugou had to take a deep breath and not make a scene in the train station. He pinched the bridge of his nose, calling for all his ancestors to give him the strength to remain patient.

“Place your shitty card on the card reader. That’s it.”

You do as you’re taught, and you awed when the gates opened and let yourself walk through with a stupidly big smile on your face. “I did it!”

Bakugou thinks it’s fucking stupid of him to think that your enthusiasm for mundane things was cute. But fuck, something must be wrong with him because suddenly he feels a flurry of butterflies lodged in his throat, his heart beating ridiculously fast. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” 

He gives you directions, how to navigate through Musutafu without getting lost, and the basic stations you’ll be passing by to get to your station. He sees you type most of the things he says on your phone, and the way you were so eager to learn was a sight to see, really.

Boarding the metro, people were just as eager to get home as you two. So you two stood, not that there was much room to do anything about it.

“Hold onto the handle unless you want to fall on your ass,” Bakugou says. His tone is hushed to not disturb the other passengers. At least he followed basic commuting etiquette. 

“It’s so beautiful,” you breathe out. The passing buildings were as huge as those of U.A.’s, if not bigger. With the golden hue of the apparent descent of the sun below the horizon, Musutafu just became more beautiful in your eyes.

He scoffs.

“What’s so interestin’ about a buncha tacky buildings? Never seen one before you came here?”

“Of course I have; they’re just not like this.”

Bakugou follows your line of sight, and he thinks about it carefully. He couldn’t see what you saw, but maybe it’s because he grew up looking at this scenery. It doesn’t amaze him as much as it did when he was younger, he concludes. To you, this was a first. 

An experience that could become a core memory in this city. And he’s with you as you live through it. The thought causes a familiar feeling of pride to exude from his chest.

Maybe he’ll learn to appreciate more mundane things with you too in the future.

The train stops at another station, and the people scurry out. Once in motion, you were surprised by the speed when it took off, and the motion had you stumbling back. You stumble against Bakugou.

“What did I say about keeping a firm hold on the handles, you shitty extra? That’s what those are for.” Whether it’s by instinct or unintentional, Bakugou guides your hand to hold onto the support pole. He doesn’t let go, and you didn’t make a comment about it.

“Sorry! Still getting used to it,” you quietly laugh. “I hope the people here don’t think I’m really that inexperienced when it comes to taking the metro home,” you told him. “It’s embarrassing to think that I haven’t taken one until now.”

Bakugou thinks it’s alright because you were actually on set to learn. No matter what those other extras say or comment, no matter if they give you unimpressed glances, he’s there to grant them one of his own spine-chilling glares if they had the balls to do so. 

A passenger who appeared to be around your age stood up from his seat. “Excuse me, you can take my seat. I get off at the next stop,” he says. You’re a bit hesitant to take the offer, but he reassures you that it’s fine. It’ll be an awkward death for you if you don’t accept it, because now he’s standing. “Please, I insist.”

Unknown to you, Bakugou had an obvious scowl on his face until the stranger left.

“You look like you’re about to shit yourself.”

“Shut up, I’m not.”

“Jealous?”

“Hah? Why would I be—”

“Shh!” you kicked his shoe with yours.

“Quiet, remember?”

Bakugou rolls his eyes, still frowning. You hold his free hand, cheekily smiling when he tries to free it from your hold. And in the end, he lets you do whatever the fuck it is that you want, but he would never ever admit that he was jealous of some nameless extra. He’s too far into liking you to help you board a train, get you a personalized IC card, miss his stop two stations ago because yours was still three stations after his, but he doesn’t think he’d be vocal about it anytime soon.

He’ll leave it to you to confess.

Then again, you already knew.

Bakugou Katsuki would not go above and beyond like this for anyone else, but he unknowingly does for you.

SEUMYO © 2024, PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[icepip]

the first time yuji itadori feels you raw, it's like something in him snaps.

you're so tight and warm, so perfect around his aching cock that he can barely hold himself back. his fingers squeeze at your hips, keeping you still as he focuses on not blowing his load immediately. you always feel amazing, but this... this is something entirely different. so intimate and primal. your velvety walls draw him in until every inch is buried inside you. heavenly and sinful at once.

he never wants to feel anything else.

"c-can," he swallows to try to hide the shaking in his voice, the strain that's caused by you. "can i move?"

his thrusts start slow when you nod your head, a whispered please against his lips as he leans down to capture your own. but soon enough, both movements become sloppy and driven by pure hunger.

yuji's forearms rest by your head, bracketing you underneath him as your legs and arms wrap around his strong body. scratches litter his back, angry red lines as you pull him closer and closer, desperate for everything he has to give. his breath is hot against your neck, your sweat on his tongue when he licks his lips.

"fuck, you feel so good," he grinds his cock against your sweet spot, grunting when you squeeze him tighter. "'m not gonna last much longer."

you're not faring much better, your own orgasm growing rapidly. everything feels so much more intense, the veins on his length rubbing on your walls with every drag of his cock and the heat that radiates off yuji's body.

"gonna cum," he mumbles against your skin, "tell me you want it inside — aaah, shit! — say you want me to fill you up."

his thrusts get messier, barely even pulling out before driving himself deeper inside your pussy.

"yeah, yeah, want you to cum in me," you babble, "wanna feel it, yuji, please."

it doesn't take long for him to do exactly that and it takes even less time for yuji to start all over again, already addicted to the feeling.

[ilium-ilia]

calyptra thalictri

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | "single mom" au | masterlist

5: veil

tw: medical talk, morning sickness, light drugging, non-con

The only food your stomach allows you to keep down these days is buttered pasta—this child (this creature) allows nothing else. 

A large pot of penne boils in front of you, pasta dancing through the turbulent water, swirling as if enticing you to join for a bath. To stick your hand into the superheated liquid, to allow it to gnaw your skin off to the very bone. Instead, you stand and stare at it, arms crossed and eyes heavy as the timer on the stove slowly counts down. 

Morning sickness has been a mighty beast to overcome these last few weeks, though you’ve come to the painful realization that it does not plague you only in the morning like the name would suggest. It’s in the afternoon while you’re at the office when your co-worker walks by you, cologne thick and heavy on their skin, tainting your nose, forcing your stomach to clench and thrash. It’s in the evening when you crave a treat so fervently that your body decides the only good option is to overturn the lunch you hardly choked down in the first place. It’s in the middle of the night when you rouse yourself for a glass of water, only to choke on rancid, unforgiving bile.

You’re not gaining enough weight, your obstetrician says. Far behind the curve—she tells you to eat more. You need more protein, more fibre, more fats; more of everything. Choke it down. Keep it down. Everything you do now is for the baby. For this child. Never for yourself. Never your own health. An incubator, a carrier, a mother by proxy but not by desire. 

You want to tell her that she should live with something growing inside of her—something ripping her apart from the inside out—and see how she fares with such a monumental task. 

Once your pasta has made it to the halfway mark, you sigh and retrieve your kettle. The warped iron dully reflects your disappointed gaze as you fill it at the sink. You place it on the other burner to boil, ready to indulge in your sleepy time tea to knock yourself out after a long day of office bureaucracy and shrouded misogynistic insults. Everyone at work has put two and two together—you’re unwed, you do not speak of any man; simply, you are a sinner. A harlot. Something to scorn. Their whispers bleed through the walls louder than they know. 

A knock sounds at the door. 

Though you are not surprised to hear the blunt percussive melody, you realize you’re not used to it. The way it reverberates through the wood. How sharp it cracks through the air. Humming, you place your stirring soon on the counter before shuffling to the front door, not bothering to look to see who it is when you open it. 

Simon stands on the other side, and he’s just as tall and broad as you remember him being from yesterday. Your car park helper, who loaded your bags into your car and slipped his number into your hand before you could even comprehend the scribbling. His dark eyes flicker to your stomach as you give him a gauche smile, hand still resting on the knob like you’re considering slamming the door in his face and holing up inside your quaint burrow. 

“Hi,” you greet, spine stiffer than a board. “Erm… come on in. I’ve got your stuff here in the kitchen.” 

Head bowed low as if begging for forgiveness in anticipation, you lead Simon into your home as he wordlessly follows behind you. Simon’s items—that had peculiarly found themselves hidden among your groceries—sit in a bag on the counter. You begin to rummage through the items, listing off each thing that you found no belonging to you, but you find your tongue tripping on your words at the looming presence behind you. 

He is a strange man, you realize. Truly strange. Selfless enough to assist you—a stranger—yet so quiet. A gargantuan boulder made of scar tissue and crooked bone, he seems more animal than he does man. Roughened by the wilderness. Fond of the freedom that lies beyond human shackles. Beyond human skin. 

“This ought to be all of it,” you say, tapping the counter. “At least, it was the stuff that I didn’t recognize being mine, but if you-” 

Words catch in your throat when you turn back around to face Simon and find him bent over your stove, spoon in hand, stirring your pasta. The timer goes off, and he shuts it off like he’s done it a million times previously before he kills the burner. You swallow, and your anticipation feels thick in your throat. 

“Oh, Simon, you don’t have to do that.” Your polite tone smothers the confusion you feel you ought to spit at him—a snappy what the hell are you doing? 

“Take a seat.” It’s the first thing he’s said to you since he’s entered your home, and yet he sounds like the host instead of the guest. His edict is firm, and leaves no room for argument. 

Stiff, you waddle over to the living room before sinking down into the sofa. With your flat being too small to house a proper dining room table, you’ve always eaten here, sitting in front of the TV and trying to use it to drown out the lonely silence that’s haunted these walls since you first moved in. Now, there is company to be had here, yet your mind reels as you listen to Simon in the kitchen, flat suddenly haunted by an unknown entity—a large creature with one of the most gentle touches you’ve ever seen. 

The kettle cries, boiling water is poured, china clinks as pasta is mixed—Simon prepares everything the way you had it laid out and presents it to you in the living room when he’s finished. Your gratitude leaves your lips numb as you place your plate in your lap and stare at the meal as he plops himself next to you. 

His weight is heavy on the couch, body sinking into the cushion, threatening to lure you into the gravity of him as he leans forward and places your tea on the coffee table. Simon’s hands are empty, void of any meal for himself, and you find yourself anxiously poking at your penne with the prongs of your fork. 

“How’s your mornin’ sickness?” he asks.

It’s an odd question to hear coming from a man like him, legitimate concern lacing his tone as if he has skin in this wretched game. Avoiding eye contact, you pierce a piece of penne onto your fork before inspecting it. You try to force yourself to focus on anything but Simon. 

“It’s alright,” you murmur. “The medicine helps some but it’s still… not great.” 

You’re transported back to the car park when you first met Simon—large hand obscuring your medicine, his eerie chime about which one he prefers more, his refusal to stand by and let you do anything on your own. Even now you feel the weight of his attention on you, meticulously cutting you apart as he waits for you to eat. There is little reprieve to be found when you finally force something down your throat, but the change in discomfort manifests as a pit in your stomach; angry muscles churn, esophagus expanding, ready to expel. 

“Did you find all your items in your bag? I didn’t miss anything, did I?” you question, anxious to get the attention off of you and onto something else. 

He hums, dark like the amber shade of aged whiskey. “Yeah. All there.” 

“Good.” Sharp. Short. To the point. You swallow. “Must have gotten mixed into mine when you helped me the other day.” 

“Must’ve.” 

You give up on the small talk after his blunt responses prove to be never-ending, and instead focus on eating your meal as quickly as possible. Each time your stomach begins to twist in protest, you reach for your tea and desperately sip away at the liquid, praying that the warmth will urge your abdomen into submission. The nausea is still there, puttering around in your stomach like an unwelcome guest, but now it’s coupled with the weight of slumber that so desperately attempts to pull you into its grasp. 

The room spins. Suddenly stricken with prostration, you find your lungs expelling the last bit of air they hold as you blink away the fog obscuring your vision, only for it to return a moment later. You try to focus on something. Anything. The gossamer sheen of butter that collects in the ridges of your penne, the small bend in the prong of your fork—

—the thick fingers reaching out to grab your plate. 

“Finished?” Simon asks. 

You swallow down the briny aftertaste lingering on your tongue as you allow him to take your plate and place it on the coffee table. Nodding, you swipe at your brow—there is no perspiration, but the thudding of your heart leads you to believe there should be. 

“Yes. I-I—Simon—thank you. Sincerely. But I’m not feeling well. I think it might be best if you-” 

“You should lay down,” Simon interjects, cutting off your fuzzy thoughts from ever leaving the cavern of your mouth. 

A rebuttal bubbles up in the back of your throat the same time your dinner does. Bile and acid sear your vocal cords, fraying them, pulling them too taut to speak. Wordlessly, you watch Simon stand before you with his hand extended and reaching for yours, and though you know you should recoil, you find yourself too dazed to really care that he grabs you and pulls you to your feet. 

Each step toward your bedroom feels like a marathon. Muscles too tight yet unforgivingly malleable, knees nearly buckling, feet swelling and throbbing. Simon aids you in laying down, going as far as to pull the covers up over your melting body. Vision shrouded with your impending repose, you watch him—fingers gripping the blanket, tucking you in, knees colliding with the floor, hand now rubbing against the fat on your cheek—

—his eyes. They’re dark. Voids holding the absence of light and soul. They widen as he looks at you. Fear cuts through your chest as you think they might swallow you whole. Solicitude plagues you as your mind questions why you recognize them. 

“Why are you doing this?” Your voice hardly reaches a susurrus. It whistles between your teeth and along the tip of your tongue as his warmth bleeds into your skin. “Why are you… taking care of me?” 

“Because it’s what’s right.” 

Simon speaks it like an oath—a prophecy unfolding before his very eyes as he beholds you, calloused hands and all. He sees the confusion flicker across your face like a dying bulb, and his lips nearly quirk into a smile. One day, you’ll understand it as he does. This wretched gift of creation. 

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he swears. “Both of you.” 

You’re too far gone to hear it. Mind drowning beneath the waves of nothingness and contorted dreams. Chest rising and falling, eyes fluttering beneath their lids—he watches you. His gaze rakes over your body just like his hands have done so many times in the past, floating over the curve of your breasts until he’s met with the swelling of your stomach. 

His. Both you, and this child. 

Wandering palms traverse from your face to your stomach. He presses. Feels the way your skin stretches around your growing womb, feels the warmth of creation beneath his very fingertips, feels the fluttering in his chest. Simon Riley feels alive. More alive than a gun in his hand could ever instill in him. 

Ardor suddenly swelling in the rotten cavern of his ribcage, he presses his lips to yours. It’s the first time he’s gotten to taste you without the barrier of a mask in the way—unadulterated, and true. You’re just as soft as he imagined you’d be, and when he pulls away, he finds that he can’t wander too far before he speaks again. 

“I’m gonna take care of you, Angel. You, and my child.”

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | early access to chapters here

[caulmiflower]

How I think the Baldur’s Gate Companions would fare at the airport

Gale: In true papa fashion, he’s making sure everyone is on the way to the airport 3 hours early, he’s got an itinerary, map, and translation guide locked and loaded.

Astarion: absolutely fucking up some margaritas at the airport chili’s. Flirts with flight attendant to move to first class (this does not work). Argues with TSA agent bc what idiot would hide a bomb in a 16 oz blood bag?

Karlach: HATES flying bc she’s so tall, yet is totally unwilling to shill out first class tickets. She only packs carry on and stands up once the plane lands no matter where she’s seated. Very chatty when seated next to strangers.

Lae’zel: Has her pilot’s license, but tags along cause she doesn’t want these imbeciles in her plane. Packs minimally and doesn’t even bring any entertainment, simply raw dog’s the entire flight by peering out the window seat and reflecting.

Wyll: Practiced flyer, has his travel plans down to a T. Business class, neck pillow, fully charged kindle, the sleekest luggage you’ve ever seen. Probably the most fashionable person in the airport without even trying.

Shadowheart: Terrified of flying, hates every step of the process. Disgruntled and smelly from nerves by the time the flight lands. But she does enjoy her little in flight snacks.

Halsin: Has a moral opposition against flying, he’s rather leave 3 days early for a road trip and elect to pick up the crew at the airport. When he finally caves and takes a flight he’s moved to tears by the majesty of the land from the sky.

Jaheira: She’s in the lounge, somehow knows all the pilots. She loves an in flight ginger ale, is moved to first class just because the flight attendant owes her a favor.

[tojisun]

https://www.tumblr.com/disgustinggf/766387162976518144?source=share

I want Simon to bully me like this.

OHH MY GOD WIFE YES ABSOLUTELY YESS

simon's so big too, pressing everything on you. in you.

the way simon's bulk shrouds your own ⁠– and you're not even small. petite has never been a word used on you but simon's built like a fucking tank, heavy and wide in all the right places⁠—

just like this, with his cock hammering into you in shorts bursts. all he could do is lay there, on you, humping in your cunt in blunt strokes. he followed your toppling, caging you in the warm press of his flesh until simon is all that you're feeling. all that you're hearing; breathless in his bloating euphoria, grunting in an animalistic heat.

it's not like you're faring any better; choking on your squeals, pussy fluttering because you swear that simon's fucked it raw. fucked it to the point that pain and pleasure have begun to explode in tandem, racing in a matching pace like you're being liquified.

unmade, then remade ⁠– there, on his cock, with all of him pressing on you.

words and colours stopped meaning anything to you as you lay there, carrying the brunt of simon's affections. his love, etched into your very pore as he fills you up with his cum once more; another load to cherish.

it's catastrophic.

it's something that has never been done to you before.

like this, simon's truly ruined you for everyone else.

[secretbigboylover]

Buffet Date

CW: Weight gain, rapid weight gain, teasing.

Trevor was trying to ignore how full his belly was and how good it felt. His big belly spilled over his lap and pushed his favorite button up shirt to its limit. It was a sky-blue shirt with yellow rubber duckies dotted all around it. His boyfriend, Max, had picked it out as a gift when they first moved in together. The same Max that confided in him that he liked his men chunky, the same Max that kept buying Trevor’s favorite snacks even though Trevor was on a diet. The same Max that innocently suggested a buffet for their date night.

Trevor knew he’d over eat, but couldn’t help himself and he was sure Max did too. The food just smelled amazing. There were so many options from pizza to pasta, stakes to hotdogs, every fried savory food he could think of, and the desserts were so mouthwatering. Trevor didn’t used to be a big guy, but boy did he have a big appetite. He had played football in high school and in college. Trevor had a wide build that made him the first pick on any team. He even had the good looks to make any man swoon or at least he used to. Now, thanks in part to dating Max, Trevor felt he had lost some of that. He was still broad and tried to be athletic, but had started developing a bit of a gut. Sure, some of his gym buddies when through bulking phases and got a bit chunky before getting ripped, but Trevor didn’t do any body building stuff. He liked to keep a lean muscle look. Now staring at an orb of a gut he groaned. He was so full and the food was so good. Rubbing his taught stomach only showed just how much of a pig he made of himself, but it also felt good. He didn’t want to admit it, but a part of Trevor really liked this feeling of being over stuffed. It was a good excuse to let Max dote on him while he just digested. He knew he should be more active, but Max always looked so happy when Trevor ate too much. Maybe it was time to give in? That though vanished when he looked down at the sad state of his favorite shirt.

The day he had gotten the shirt Max had taken him on a magical date to the winter fare. They had gone ice-skating, Trevor had tried to win Max a stuffed animal, they had hot chocolate, and road the Faris wheel. They had stopped by a little boutique before going home. It was filled with all kinds of crazy and goofy shirts. When Trevor saw the rubber ducky shirt he fell in love and he was over joyed when Max bought it for him. They took it home right away. Trevor was so swept up by how cute it was that he didn’t realize it was a size too big. Max had ensured him that he still looked cute in it and the bigger size only gave him room to grow.

Now diamonds of doughy flesh poked between the buttons. Trevor leaned back and stroke his belly. He couldn’t imagen taking another bite. He had already stuffed himself with four full plates. Trevor vowed this would be the last buffet date for the year. He would get back on his fitness grind and fit back into his favorite shirt. Once Max came back, he would tell him his master plan about getting his summer beach bod ready.

Max came back with three plates, one with a few slices of pizza, one with a slice of cheesecake, and the other stacked with two slices of strawberry cheesecake and warm brownies.

          “Sorry for the wait. I heard they were bringing out a fresh batch of brownies and I know how you love them.” Max said.

Trevor completely forgot about his aching belly the second he smelled the brownies. They were so rich. He could smell the semi-sweet chocolate and could almost taste it. His summer body forgotten he chowed down on the brownies. They were even better than he imagined. So dark and rich, with the perfect smooth fudge texture. They practically melted in his mouth. Trevor inhaled the last few and the cheesecake. Without a second thought he got up and raced towards the brownie station.

They had set out two massive sheets, still steaming. Like a child possessed, he quickly loaded his plate high with brownies. As he walked back to his table he had to peak over the mountain of brownies and had missed Max’s massive grin. Max was full on laughing by the time Trevor came back to the table.

“What, did I take too many?” Trevor said.

“No baby, your shirt.” Max said as he tried, and failed, to keep in his laughter.

Trevor looked down and saw two buttons in the middle of his shirt had popped off, his soft belly exposed to the air. He turned the deepest shade of crimson and hid behind his tower of brownies.

“Aw baby, no need to be embarrassed. I think you look very sexy with that soft belly.” Max said.

“Then why were you laughing?” Treavor said.

“Because I got an email that your new shirt had arrived.” Max said.

This did not quite answer Trevor’s confusion and Max recognized that and continued.

“I know how much you love that shirt and I know it has been fitting a little snug recently. So, I found out that store had a webpage and, on a whim, bought it the next size up. I’m just laughing because right as I got the email your buttons flew off.” Max said.

Trevor was still embarrassed but touched. He looked down at the plate and a had a wicked idea.

“Well let’s see if you can pop the rest of my button’s off.” Trevor said.

Now it was Max’s turn to be flustered.

“Wait what?” Max said.

Trevor wasn’t sure what came over him. He still wanted his lean summer bod, but loved seeming Max flustered and new this would do the trick.

“Yea, just feed me till I pop.” Trevor said as he pushed the plate of brownies towards Max.

Still flustered, but now definitely horny, Max picked up a brownie and popped it in Trevor’s mouth. Instantly Trevor was in heaven. The brownie was still as good, but the extra edge of having his sexy boyfriend feed them too him was doing wonders. Trevor knew in that moment his new shirt wouldn’t last very long.

[occamstfs]

Quite The Hangover

The last one was a tad cerebral so I went a little more physical for this one! Twink to impossibly horny jock, hope y'all enjoy ! -Occam

Foggy memories slowly rise to the forefront of his mind as he pours himself a glass of water and starts a tea kettle going. He stares at the outfit on the floor in shock as it is definitely not the usual attire of the men he sleeps with. Also, why on Earth is his whole outfit here if he apparently departed before Mattie woke up?

Mattie looks down at his body as he shivers and realizes he should probably throw something on, as he continues to wake up and start to steep some green tea he notices a definite soreness start to burn within him as he finds confirmation that he definitely bottomed last night. “God that fucker better have used a condom!” He twists and turns to inspect his body before getting dressed and finds little of note besides the soreness and a sporadic bruise or two.

Mattie decides if he left his clothes here surely this man left some identifying information and despite his incredible hangover he begins to groggily sleuth through the man’s abandoned clothes. There’s a tank top and a visibly filthy jockstrap lying over the couch, Mattie grimaces and wonders what on Earth could have had him bring home someone so far outside of his standard fare. Inspecting the jockstrap further that he thoughtlessly picks up only to find it stained with pre that now similarly mars his own hands. “Eugh god what was I thinking! Clearly I wasn’t, ah-”

As he raises his voice his headache piques once more, his vision goes white and he leans against the couch for balance, hands planted on the sweaty shirt and jock. Eyes slammed shut he makes a labored return to the kitchen to grab his tea. Before anything else he needs to at least try and get back to a base level of functionality. Uncharacteristically he neglects to wash his pre-covered hands before grabbing the steaming cup. 

He begins to drink his tea holding out for any modicum of relief, psychosomatic as it may be, and as he does so he finds a pleasant warmth begin to grow within him. Not in his stomach or chest as expected though, instead it starts to spread outward from the soreness in his ass before it begins to surge in waves into his crotch. Mattie grunts as a strange powerful pleasure begins to overcome him. His hangover immediately disappears as he sets down his cup of tea to palm his crotch.

He feels as his cock pulses with the waves of pressure surging from within him. It immediately pulses into the hardest erection Mattie can recall. His cock struggles against his briefs as they feel tighter than they have ever been before, almost as if they’re fully sizes too small. He moans loudly before covering his mouth with his other hand, absentmindedly getting this mystery man’s pre all over his face, impossible to miss as its odor begins to overload his mind, this pleasure, this warmth is the only thing that matters to him.

The sound of a tear rings throughout the room as his cock grows beyond its containment. Mattie falls to the floor as he is overcome by pleasure beyond reason resounding in mind from every corner of his body as his balls swell and pull up and he shoots a load larger than should be possible onto the kitchen floor. His eyes flutter and roll back as he returns to unconsciousness once more, lying in a pool on the floor as a warmth grows deeper within him and begins to work its influence on him.

As he lies there he dreams of a man's beard scratching his face at a bar as they make out. He feels his body leaning against this larger man, sweaty muscle rubbing against his smaller body. He feels something start to soak his shorts as he looks down to find himself sitting in the man's lap as pre began to pool. Street lights pass overhead as he pulls a behemoth in the direction of his apartment, arm straining as two two stumble towards their destination.

Mattie wakes up on the cold kitchen floor groaning as the heat has decidedly been replaced by a pervasive soreness, he stretches still face down on the floor feeling his torso slide on something wet and he feels a cock much weightier than it should be bump against the floor. He promptly rolls over and looks at his crotch, finally prescient enough to see that it has indeed expanded in every regard. He blushes and looks down at it, dumbstruck that he now has pipe large enough to put any man he’s been with to shame. Not only that but he suddenly has pubes thicker and darker than they ever should be. He had just shaved before going out had he not?

He continues to inspect his crotch, though his eyes do not notice the treasure trail that grows well into his torso. Instead his mind is suddenly preoccupied as a memory emerges, he has seen a cock exactly like this one. He is exactly as hung as the man he brought home last night. As soon as it does his mind is once more struck, as if a flashbang went off, and he feels the impossible weight of a hangover once more. 

He groans and stands once more, stumbling as he finds himself standing ever so slightly taller than he was before his collapse. He feels new hair scratch between his thighs as his pubes begin to thicken and fan out even further from his crotch. On the other side his ass has clearly grown significantly plumper while he was conked out on the floor. Hidden from his eyes he does not see the forest of hair that is absolutely pouring out of his crack and rising up his back. He even scratches at his expanded butt, though notices nothing out of the ordinary beyond a pleasurable itch.

He slams his hand against the wall, struggling to find the switch as his arm swings at a distinctly different angle than he’s accustomed to. After a few attempts each with more force than the last he finally gets the lights, his eyes take time to adjust and as they do he stumbles against the wall in shock. His soreness immediately makes sense as he sees a body that has spent more time in the gym in a week than he has in his life entire. 

He sees as his chest grows weighter, tracing desperate patches of hair from where he laid in his own cum as the anxiety of his changed body begins to force heat through him once more. He inspects his face as he sees patchy stubble begin to poke out where he spread the mystery man’s pre earlier. His upper lip itches and tingles beyond reason as a mustache bursts out of his perpetually clean shaven face.

 His jaw begins to sharpen underneath and he grunts to hear a deeper voice reverberate through him. He stretches his shoulders as he feels them uncomfortably pull against the wall behind him, they spread larger as he does and he mouth tries to form a cocky smirk as he takes his body in before the shock and stress return anew. He twitches as his body forces him into a standing crunch as abdominal muscles push out of his ‘til now formless core as his pubes stray thicker towards and above his stomach. 

It has to be that guy, maybe it’s an STD or something. It’s gotta be an uh, hallucination or something for sure. He tries to find any reasonable excuse for what’s happening to him, doing so though his mind begins to grow foggy as rationality becomes an increasingly difficult target to hit. Each new thought, every attempt to find reason, to press onward, to remember who he is falls flat as his anxiety triggers an all too pleasurable to ignore feeling in his crotch. 

“No urgh, not again…” He grunts out, each word deeper than the last as he slides down to the floor, his thicker ass and thighs cushioning his fall as the scratch of his tiled wall sends pangs of intense desire into his mind. As he lies there trying not to touch his surging crotch as his balls demand attention, an image appears in his mind. He sees the face of the man- He strains to focus his attention to the image, doing so only increases his lust before he notices. Wait, is that? Is that not his face?

He feels stubble scratch his hand as he rubs his sharper jawline, one all too similar to the man in his mind's eye. He feels a pang of something deep within him besides the lust, something crying out and encouraging him not to give in. Though how can one voice win out when everything else in his body compels him to seek pleasure. What a simple act to follow as well, his cock hanging in the air in front of him, if he just hammers out a quick one he can get right back to uh, what was he doing? 

He stares hungrily at his pulsing dick, seeing pre stream down it in a fashion it has never done before. Or has it? He sees countless jockstraps soiled flash behind his eyes as if it is indeed a regular occurrence. He motions to give in, but before even laying a hand on his cock he loses control once more, shooting load after load onto himself, staining his hair as his mind goes totally numb to the pleasure. His eyes go dark once more as but a moment passes.

He remembers lying on top of this massive man on his couch. He sees a smirk on his face and Mattie reflexively matches it in the present. He sees the man’s cock surge just as his has done oh so many times this morning alone. He sees himself sitting on it as he recalls going at it for what seems like forever. Before he is simply back in his bathroom.

He towels off his mess neglecting to see his hair has pulled into something far shorter and more masc than he ever would choose and his beard has filled out outright. He feels the burning on his chest shift to something more soothing, instilling him with confidence alongside his insatiable lust. Hair grows dense and dark across his whole body and he barely catches himself before he starts drooling at his own reflection.

He remembers he had something important to do this morning, he disrobes of his torn underwear as he leaves the bathroom to see a jock lying on the couch. He isn’t sure if it’s his or uh, whose else would it be yeah? He guesses he must have laid these out for himself right? He throws them on before hearing his phone chime. Oh duh, surely if it’s something important he would have set a reminder yeah?

He struggles to remember his phone password as his mind grows sluggish, finding the pace at which he is to think at from now on. He holds it up to his face and it immediately opens, deep in his subconscious this bothers him though as he is greeted to a twink's nudes he can’t find it within him to be bothered by anything. He gets a text from some trade looking guy named Lou. “Sup Bro!!! Hows it hangin this morning lol”

Matt can’t help but smirk as he clicks to see an image of his bro’s cock, as hard and familiar as his own. He laughs as he realizes that he somehow had forgotten his #1 fuckbuddy. He feels a lust begin to grow within him and realizes that evermore his hunger can never truly leave his mind. He texts back immediately, any memories of who he once was streaming out of his mind as pre spills in his already stained jock, “kinda hard already bro, u wanna go find a twink to tagteam” 

Not too far away Lou stares at a perfect partner for them both, a twink tearing up, having just been stood up for brunch. Lou shambles his way, struggling to walk straight as he makes his way over to an easy fuck, texting, “b over in five dude, hope your ready to have another bro lol”

Not too far away Lou stares at a perfect partner for them both, tearing up having just been stood up for brunch. Lou shambles his way, struggling to walk straight as he makes his way over to an easy fuc, texting, “b over in five dude, hope youre ready to have another bro lol”

Matt struggles to keep himself together as the thought sets his passion aflame. This finale message sends one last rush of turmoil in his mind. What exactly does Lou mean by that, another bro? He sits there unaware he’s subconsciously crossing one last threshold. Before any further moment can be spent however he burps and tastes cum, which sends him spiraling, awash with lust and pleasure, laughing at the idea of Lou bringing someone home for the two of them. He alights to get the apartment ready for company before guffawing and remembering he couldn’t care less for appearances, he just sits and waits on the couch. Staring at the door eager to bring another overthinking man into his world reigned only by an insatiable lust.

[the-phantom-author]

husband hasan and his wife joking about tradwives while he’s streaming because it’s just funny to them. some might find it offensive but they think it’s funnyyyyy😭

like some douchebags in the chat making fun of hasan, saying… idk like man insults about muscles and hairlines and being alphas i guess…. hasan is like whatever dude im the biggest alpha, i got a tradwife who is barefoot and pregnant. it doesn’t get much manlier than me🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻 she’s sitting there laughing because she knowssssssss hasan is more than an equal partner in housework, cooking, when you have kids, childcare, etc.

plus now when you join him on stream, he’ll hold your left hand, just so he can fiddle with your ring, just a physical reminder you’re legally bound to each other. doesn’t matter if it’s a plain band or a huge diamond, he just LOVES to show people that you’re both taken.

plus you thought he loved you and found you perfect and gorgeous before????? baby yall signed that piece of paper and exchanged rings and it’s OVER. you’re an actual goddess, you look hot with his ring he gave you, he literally cannot get enough of you

Literally you and hasan talking on stream about how you cook his meals, and clean his home, and give him all the sex he could want. And in return he gives you all the money you could ask for. Ya'know the best setup for a trad marriage.

Hasan always just like "idk what to tell you dude. I'm 6'5, built like house, loaded and I have barefoot pregnant wife. What more could an alpha ask for?" All while the two of you are laughing because, yeah, Hasan does do more than his fare share of housework, and he does pay the bill more often than not, and he makes sure to spend more than enough time with not just your kids but also you.

Just as he knows that you are the thing that keeps not just the the two of you, but also the house in running condition. You keep track of the things the need fixing. You make sure that there is open communication between the two you. You make sure that his schedules are compatible with what everyone else has going on. You make sure that guest feel welcomed. And you make sure that the kids are happy and alive.

He love to put emphasis on your wedding rings whenever he can. It's now the only ring he wears on that hand, he's fidgeting with your ring wherever he's bored and you're around. Like logically he knows that nothing really changed since you signed the papers, but also everything has changed. All his feelings towards you has increased like 400%, even though he didn't think it was possible.

[mandoalorian]

Hi, I love the way you write Bucky. But it made me think if Bucky never fell. If Steve had sacrificed himself and Bucky had to come back to Brooklyn w/o Steve. How he would have fared. Maybe he has a girl, how about his family. How he would have kept Steve’s memory alive. Would they have met again when Steve was found.

Sorry, this is my first time requesting a fic so if something is wrong. I apologize. Thank you!!!

hi! thank you for trusting me with your first ever request! i’m sorry it took me a little time to get around to. i hope you enjoy the story. it was super interesting to explore, especially the reverse roles. i felt like i was writing an episode of 'what if...'❤️‍🔥

i am gonna grow wings [captain america!bucky barnes x reader]

synopsis: in an alternate reality where steve sacrifices himself, bucky returns to brooklyn a broken man, haunted by loss and memories. even with the love and strength of you waiting for him at home, he struggles to carry steve’s legacy and find his own path as the new captain america.

warnings: descriptions of depression, suicidal ideations, the different stages of grief/mourning, canon typical themes and violence. suitable for teens and above.

word count: 3200

masterlist

November, 1944 ༊*·˚

The snow whipped sideways through the broken hull of the Valkyrie as Bucky fought his way down the corridor, gun in hand, pulse in his throat. The sound of metal creaking under pressure was almost louder than the gunfire outside. He ducked behind a wall as a HYDRA agent crumpled at Steve’s feet ahead of him, shield returning to his hand like a promise kept.

“Buck, we’re running out of time!” Steve’s voice called back, hoarse but firm.

Bucky shoved past the last stretch of wreckage and reached his side. The control panel was blinking red erratically. The auto-navigation was set. The plane was headed straight for civilisation, loaded with enough bombs to turn the Eastern Seaboard into ash.

Bucky grabbed his arm. “We can land it. There’s gotta be another way.”

Steve looked at him — really looked. The way he always did when he was about to do something reckless and noble and stupid.

“There’s not.”

“No—no, don’t pull this crap, Steve. You don’t get to be the hero again. Not without me. We do this together. We win this fight, together.”

“This way Buck, we can both be heroes,” Steve said quietly. “And it means you get to go home.”

Bucky shook his head furiously, trying to keep the panic from cracking open his chest. “No, not without you! You jump, I jump. Remember?”

Steve gave a weak smile. “That was when we were kids.”

“You’re still that kid. You just got bigger and—dumber. Stevie, don’t do this.”

Steve stepped past him and placed the shield gently in Bucky’s arms. The weight of it was staggering. “Take this. Keep it safe. For me.”

Bucky looked down at it, then up at Steve like he’d just handed him his own heart.

“Don’t make me bury you,” Bucky said, voice catching.

But Steve was already stepping into the cockpit. Already turning the radio dial.

“Peggy…” he said. “I’m gonna need a rain check on that dance.”

The signal cut.

“No—STEVE—” Bucky ran to the window, slamming his fist against the glass.

Below, the white expanse of the Arctic stretched endlessly. The plane veered slightly, then straightened.

Then silence.

Bucky stood there with the shield clutched to his chest and nothing but wind and grief in his lungs.

He didn’t even feel the snow melting in his hair as the rescue chopper came to pull him out.

— 𖤓 —

The Brooklyn streets felt smaller than you remembered, tighter and heavier like they were holding their breath. The autumn air smelled faintly of wood smoke and rain, but you barely noticed.

You waited by the window, heart pinned to the rhythm of every passing footstep and engine hum. When the old military jeep finally rattled down the block and stopped at the curb, you barely had time to steady yourself before the door swung open.

Bucky stepped out, taller, broader, but somehow smaller too. His face was hollowed, eyes like dark glass reflecting everything he wanted to forget. The weight of the war clung to him, dragging him down in slow motion.

He didn’t say a word. Just walked through the door and dropped his pack by the threshold.

You were there before he could shut it, arms wrapping around him, pulling him close like you could stop the world from spinning without Steve.

He sagged into you, forehead resting on your shoulder. The shield, still strapped to his back, felt impossibly heavy, like carrying the whole war on his shoulders.

“Steve...” His voice cracked, barely a whisper.

You squeezed him tighter. “I know, honey. I read about it in the paper. I know it hurts. But you’re here. You came home. And I am so glad to see you again.”

His breath hitched, a strangled sound. “It should have been me.”

“No,” you said softly, brushing damp strands of hair from his face. “You were supposed to come back. That’s why you’re here.”

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours, desperate for something solid. “But I feel so empty without him. It’s been months and, God, how do I live like this? How do I carry his memory without breaking?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “You don’t have to carry it alone. Not anymore. You have me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Bucky’s gaze faltered, and he leaned into you again, resting his head on your chest this time. His hands clenched at your waist, trembling slightly.

“Can we just… go to bed?”

It was early noon, and the sun was still shining bright in the sky. The delicious scent of the roast dinner you had prepared for your boyfriend’s arrival filled the apartment, but Bucky didn’t have the appetite. He was so tired. In fact, this feeling was more than exhaustion. His whole body ached with mental torment.

You nodded, heart aching for the man that you loved so dearly. “Yes, let’s go to bed.”

Later, as the room grew quiet except for the rain tapping softly on the window, you held him close. His body was tense at first, like he was trying to hold himself together.

But eventually, he relaxed into you — breathing slowing, shoulders lowering.

You whispered against his hair, “You’re not alone, Buck. I’m right here.”

He didn’t answer, but you felt the tremble of his sigh against your skin.

And for the first time since the war, maybe since the plane crashed, Bucky let himself fall asleep — safe in your arms.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and tentative. You stirred first, still cradling Bucky’s worn frame against your side. His breath was slow, steady — but his eyes remained closed, heavy with exhaustion that no sleep could fully erase.

You brushed a gentle hand along his cheek. “Buck, it’s morning.”

He blinked slowly, disoriented, before focusing on you. A ghost of a smile flickered, but it vanished almost immediately. “Feels like I never left the war.”

You kissed his forehead. “You’re home now. And I’m here.”

He squeezed your hand, then reluctantly shifted to sit up. The weight of reality settled back onto his shoulders. “I need to see her. Agent Carter. I have to.”

You nodded. “I’ll go with you.”

The drive from Brooklyn to Peggy’s office was silent, the hum of the engine the only thing filling the space between you. You stole glances at Bucky, sitting rigid and distant beside you, his jaw clenched tight, eyes staring out the window like he was somewhere far away — maybe trapped inside memories that wouldn’t let him go.

When the car stopped, he didn’t speak. Just opened the door and stepped out, the weight of the shield slung awkwardly on his back.

You fell into step beside him as he approached the building, every footstep slow and deliberate.

Peggy was waiting by the door when you arrived. Her smile was warm but guarded, the kind that tried to hide the layers beneath.

“Bucky,” she said softly, stepping forward. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Bucky gave a stiff nod but didn’t smile back. Instead, his eyes darkened, searching hers like he was expecting something—an apology, an explanation, maybe a reason to hate her.

“I heard,” he said quietly, voice rough, “that you’re seeing someone.”

Peggy’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, then she nodded. “It’s been months. I had to move on.”

“Months.” The word hit the air like a slap. Bucky’s voice rose, sharp and bitter. “And here I am, stuck with the ghost of Steve every damn day. You just… moved on? Like it was easy? Like he was nothing but some chapter you closed?”

Peggy took a step closer, voice low but steady. “It’s not easy, Bucky. None of this is. But holding onto pain forever? That doesn’t bring him back.”

Bucky’s eyes flashed with anger, pain bleeding through the fury. “I can’t do it, Peggy. I don’t want to live in a world without him. And you… you act like it’s nothing.”

“I’m not acting like anything,” Peggy said quietly. “I’m surviving. And you have to find a way to do that too.”

His hands balled into fists, knuckles white beneath the leather of his gloves. “Maybe I don’t want to survive.”

You stepped forward, placing your hand gently on his arm. “Bucky, please. This isn’t you.”

He jerked away, the distance between you suddenly palpable. His voice broke, raw and heavy with grief. “I’m lost. I’m empty. I’m just the one who came back.”

Peggy looked at you both, the weight of the moment sinking into her eyes. “He needs time.”

You nodded, swallowing the ache in your throat. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Outside the office, the cold air hit your faces. Bucky lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around him like a shield. You didn’t say anything. Sometimes, words weren’t enough.

But you stayed.

And you would keep staying.

— 𖤓 —

The room was quiet except for the ticking of the clock on the wall. Bucky sat stiffly in the chair across from the council of SHIELD officials and military brass, the shield resting heavily on the floor beside him.

“Sergeant Barnes,” one of the officials began, voice measured but firm, “With Captain Rogers’ sacrifice, the mantle of Captain America is open. We believe you are the man to carry on his legacy.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He swallowed hard, shaking his head before the words could even form.

“I can’t,” he said, voice low but steady. “Steve was... Steve. I’m not him. I’m not the man he was.”

“You don’t have to be him,” another officer said carefully. “But you have his courage. His heart. That’s why we’re asking you.”

Bucky looked down at the shield, fingers brushing the familiar curves as if seeking reassurance.

“It’s not about courage,” Bucky whispered. “It’s about what I’ve lost. What I carry. How I failed him.”

You stepped forward, heart pounding but voice clear. “Bucky, listen to me.”

All eyes turned to you.

“You don’t have to be Steve. Nobody expects that. But you have something Steve never had—a second chance to choose who you want to be.”

You reached for his hand, squeezing gently. “I see the man behind the shield. The one who survived hell and still wants to do right. That’s who you are. That’s who you’ve always been.”

He looked up, eyes glimmering with unshed tears and a flicker of hope.

“I’m not asking you to replace Steve. I’m asking you to be you. Bucky Barnes: Captain America.”

Bucky swallowed, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. The shield seemed lighter now—not a burden, but a promise. And with you by his side, maybe he could finally start to believe that.

The evening was quiet, the city lights glowing softly outside your apartment window. Bucky sat on the edge of the couch, the shield resting against the wall beside him. You sat close, fingers intertwined, the silence between you full of unspoken pain and hope.

He looked down at the shield, then back at you. “What if I fail? What if I’m not worthy?”

You cupped his face, thumb brushing the scars that mapped his past. “You’re not alone anymore. You have me. And every step you take, I’ll be right there with you.”

Bucky’s breath hitched, a tremor in his hands as he reached out and took the shield.

“This is your fight now,” you said softly. “Not Steve’s. Yours. And he believed you to be worthy. That has to count for something.”

He lifted it, the weight familiar but different — not a burden, but a promise.

“I’ll try,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “For Steve… and for us.”

You smiled through tears, pulling him into a tight embrace. “That’s all I need.”

— 𖤓 —

Months turned into seasons, and seasons into years. The shield, once a symbol of loss and burden, became a beacon of hope—not just for the world, but for Bucky himself.

Each morning began with gruelling training sessions. You watched from the sidelines sometimes, heart swelling and aching as he pushed himself harder, fighting against the ghosts of his past. The serum courses through his veins now, slowing time’s cruel march, halting the wear of years, but it couldn’t erase the memories.

When the missions came, you were there—patching bruises, cleaning wounds, and more importantly, listening. Your apartment became a sanctuary where he could lay down his armour and just be Bucky, the man who loved fiercely and fought for what was right.

One night, after a particularly brutal day, he collapsed into your arms, exhaustion and pain heavy in his body.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, voice raw. “Scared I’ll lose myself in this role. That the war will never leave me.”

You kissed his temple gently. “You won’t lose yourself. You’ll become stronger. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Together, you learned to navigate the balance—between duty and peace, past and future. And slowly, the cracks in his soul began to heal.

Years had softened the sharp edges of pain. The apartment in Brooklyn was filled with laughter, warmth, and the quiet chaos of everyday life — a far cry from the battles and ghosts that once ruled Bucky’s world.

You stood in the kitchen, watching him play with your children in the living room. His laughter was a sound you never thought you’d hear again — pure, unburdened, alive.

He caught your eye and smiled, that old familiar spark lighting up his eyes.

“Did you ever think we’d get here?” he asked, voice thick with emotion.

You crossed the room and took his hand. “I believed in us. Even when you didn’t.”

He pulled you close, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You saved me.”

“No,” you whispered, “we saved each other.”

Though the past was never far, it no longer ruled him. The serum had slowed time, but it was your love, your home, your family that healed his heart.

Together, you built a life — one filled with hope, honour, and the quiet strength of two souls who chose each other every day.

March, 2014 ༊*·˚

The city was slick with rain, neon lights flickering off wet pavement. Bucky’s breath came steady, the chill biting through his coat, but his heart was anything but calm. Years had passed since you were gone — since he lost the person who anchored him, who taught him to believe in himself again. But time was a trickster, and now it had thrown him the cruelest of all cards.

Captain Hydra.

The name sent a shiver down his spine.

They didn’t just steal his body — they rewrote his soul.

After his sacrifice in 1944, Steve Rogers was presumed dead. But Hydra found him, broken and near death, entombed in Arctic ice. Where the world would have honoured him, Hydra saw something else: potential. A symbol of hope they could twist into a weapon of fear.

He was defrosted in a sterile underground bunker, strapped to a metal chair under buzzing lights. No familiar faces. No freedom. Only pain.

They tortured him physically at first — electric shocks, isolation, sleep deprivation. But Steve was strong. Too strong. So they shifted tactics.

They went after his mind.

They whispered lies until they sounded like truth. Played him recordings over and over again — false missions, fake betrayals, a rewritten history where Hydra saved the world. Where Bucky died by his hand. Where Peggy betrayed him. Where America never deserved Captain America in the first place.

Then came the chair — crude, cold, invasive. They carved into Steve’s memories, overwriting his morality with obedience. Replacing his ideals with loyalty to Hydra.

By the time they froze him again — their perfect soldier, preserved like a monster in ice — there was no Captain America left.

Only Captain Hydra.

Over the next seventy years, they thawed him out when they needed him. Silent. Deadly. Efficient. A myth of his own. The shield he once carried now bore Hydra’s crest — a mockery of what he once stood for.

Bucky’s hands clenched his shield at his side as he navigated the shadowed alley, the memory of your voice still whispering in his mind. I’m with you. Always.

He had to find Steve. Had to reach him before Hydra’s grip destroyed what was left.

And then, there he was.

Steve stood tall beneath the flickering streetlamp, his new Hydra insignia gleaming coldly on his chestplate. His shield—once a symbol of hope—was now twisted, bearing Hydra’s emblem.

Bucky stepped forward, voice low but urgent. “Steve.”

Steve’s eyes snapped to him, sharp and hostile. “You shouldn’t have come here, Bucky.”

The words stung, but Bucky forced himself to stay steady.

“I came because you’re not who they want you to be.”

Steve’s face twisted in anger. “I’m nothing like you anymore. I’m Hydra’s soldier.”

“No,” Bucky said, taking another step closer, “You’re Steve Rogers. The man who stood for something bigger than himself. You didn’t choose this.”

Steve raised his shield defensively, but Bucky didn’t flinch. Instead, he dropped his own shield to the ground, palms open in a gesture of peace.

“Remember the Brooklyn streets? The dreams we shared? You taught me what it meant to fight with honour—” Bucky’s voice cracked, the weight of decades pressing down. “You were my brother. My best friend. You saved me. And now, I’m here to save you.”

Steve’s eyes flickered—confusion, pain—before they hardened again. “I don’t know you.”

“You do,” Bucky said softly, stepping even closer. “I’m not going to fight you. You’re my friend.”

Steve grimaced before a wicked smile flashed across his lips, and he brought his fist to Bucky, slamming it into his ribs. “You’re my mission.”

“Then finish it,” Bucky gasped. “Because I’m with you... until the end of the line.”

A beat of silence.

Then, like a dam breaking, Steve’s expression shattered. The coldness in his eyes flickered, replaced by a flash of the man Bucky remembered—his Steve.

His guard dropped just slightly, shield lowering.

Bucky reached out, voice gentle but firm, “Come back. Fight with me. Not for Hydra, but for us.”

Steve’s breath caught, the battle inside him raging. Memories surged—your laughter, the nights you stayed up comforting Bucky, the promises made on rain-soaked rooftops.

“Bucky...” Steve whispered, voice thick with emotion, “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“You’re the man who never gave up,” Bucky said, gripping Steve’s shoulder. “And I never gave up on you.”

For the first time in decades, Steve let the walls fall.

Bucky held him tight, feeling the tremors of his old friend come back to life. The storm inside Steve began to calm, replaced by the fragile, fierce hope of redemption.

And though you were no longer there, your love had never left — it lived on in Bucky’s strength, in their bond, in the promise to stand together… until the end of the line.

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat

[moongreenlight]

What if your brain tells you that nurse!reader from the previous fic was on the field with the boys as an on call medic and gets taken as a POW and ghost is losing his fucking mind?? - like actual feral behavior

Ohhhhhhhhhmygod. Hi? I’m in your walls. So mad I didn’t see this before because I’ve been SLAVING over a Simon fic all week and this apparently is the motivation I needed to put some more batshit insane things on the internet forever.

We all know that Simon is a fucking machine. Prides himself on his ability to essentially turn off his humanity on the field. But for some reason his nurse!reader is the one thing that interrupts that ability. Even seeing you treating a few rowdy privates gets him worked up. Lingers around the medbay in his free time for no apparent reason just to side eye your patients and glare at them to make sure there’s absolutely no possibility of you getting hurt.

There was probably an occasion where you were treating a soldier who didn’t fare well with pain. Moaning and crying and thrashing while you did something simple like tuck their arm into a sling, and they somehow writhed around enough to hook you in the cheek with their elbow. Nothing serious, but it left an angry red mark on your cheek for so long that he caught it on one of your evening walks around base. Usually after dark so you could both avoid being found out.

And then the next day you see Simon dragging that same soldier to a different nurse’s bed under the armpits. Explaining gruffly that he went unconscious because he couldn’t handle training. (He made the poor bastard run the track in full tactical gear on one of the hottest days of the year for nearly an hour straight. No water. No breaks.)

You were the kindest, softest thing he’d ever come in contact with. Something he never thought he’d be able to find in this lifetime after so much hate and anger and pain. He couldn’t risk losing you, which is why he was so strict on his saying no to you joining the task force on the field. The shit they did was dangerous. Immensely so. And this brought up two main points for Simon.

One; he wouldn’t be able to focus on the task at hand knowing you were out. He slept with one eye open when you were nestled close to his chest and snoring softly in the comfort of your own home that he’d all but booby-trapped home alone style. No fucking way he’d allow you out into hostile territory with only a introductory understanding of self-defense. He’d be on pins and needles the entire mission. Probably get the entire squad killed because he’d constantly be looking over his shoulder for you.

Two; it would rip him to shreds if he lost you. You were the only person he truly saw as an equal. The first time the two of you met, he was probably being angsty and rude because he did something to land himself in the medbay, and when he refused to take off his tact vest so you could listen to his heart and lungs, you all but held him at scalpel-point and threatened him within an inch of his life until he finally submitted. After that he was fucking hooked. Obsessed with the way you could get brutes like him to roll over and show you their belly like obedient dogs. And you were kind to him. Immeasurably kind. Dealt with his mood swings and took the time to get to know him. Suffered through the impossibly long process of him letting his guard down.

So if somehow his orders were ignored, it was almost certain that you’d be given strict orders to keep your involvement under wraps. Price would have enough of an idea of the situation to keep the two of you on opposite schedules in the days leading up to deployment. Minimize the possibility of you letting slip that you’d be coming along to preserve not only the integrity of his team but also his quality of life.

It would seem like a regular day to Simon at first. Loading into the helo before dawn, sitting between Johnny and Gaz and trying to tune them out while they snarked at one another across him. And then Price would come on looking guilty as sin. You could practically smell it coming off him. Leaning both his arms on the open door and signaling the driver to start the engine for a quick take off in case Simon decided to abandon ship in his outrage.

He’d give some spiel about teamwork and the importance of focusing on the mission and whatever other bullshit he thought would keep Simon the most level headed. Spewing on and on until Gaz finally cut him off with a pointed yawn. At which point he’d give the group one last look, lingering the longest on the ghost mask, before stepping aside to reveal you.

Dressed up in a uniform that looked about a size too big. Tailored as best it could be in the short notice. Pants chopped and hemmed to make them a manageable length, belt pulled as tight as it could go around your waist. Strapped into a vest that was loaded with medical supplies instead of weapons. Two pistols holstered on your either side.

Simon was beyond livid. Spouting steam like a cartoon bull. Staggering to stand when the chopper took off and stalking over to the cockpit where Price sat and tried to look casual.

Gave him a fucking earful. Screaming over the roar of the engine into the earpiece on a private channel for the entire two hour long flight. Bitching about paperwork and dead weight and how it’s just another person he’ll need to look after and he doesn’t want to. It’s almost impressive. Price doesn’t get a word in sideways. Gets shut down immediately if he even dares to open his mouth.

And he’s a monster when he finds out you’ve been taken POW. Circled by the enemy team like ravenous wolves finding a wounded deer. Soap and Gaz both have to pin him down when Price breaks the news. Seeing fucking red.

A large part of me thinks he internalizes a lot of the torture he went through in the comics. Letting it sit and fester inside him like the worst kind of poison that it took him years to meticulously extract from his very being and carefully contain into a small vial. Laying dormant in the back of his mind for a moment like this. He had no idea what the enemy wanted with you, so he had to assume the worst.

Storms their base by himself. Sniffs you out through a maze of bunkers and underground tunnels and infinitely many heavily secured doors. And the rest of the force just watches his six. Stands back feeling a little nauseous, but letting him blaze down his war path. Any and everyone who gets in his way is guilty unless they can prove their innocence- and they don’t get the chance. Runs through all his ammo gunning down countless grunts and privates stationed outside the base of planted as decoys. Specifically demanding that Price be the one to give up his weapons and ammo so he can continue on. And it’s the one time that the captain allows him to snarl orders like that.

Price knows that Simon is, in his core, a fighting dog. Rescued by the force and given an opportunity to channel his aggression into a more productive outlet. And now it seems all his hard work and training is coming unraveled. Watching Simon once again snap his jaws and bare his teeth, killing without rhyme or reason to get you back, is jarring to say the least. So in some last-ditch effort to preserve some of the trust that they’d built, he surrenders. Shows his belly. Shrugs off his rifle with no objection other than the way his mouth drew into a tight line.

Simon kicks through heavy metal reinforced doors without the need for a battering ram. Pushes himself well past the point of exhaustion. Fueled purely off the instinctual need to recover you. He can’t speak. Can’t eat. Can’t drink. Can’t stop.

He’d mow through the first few ranks of soldiers until they finally found someone that looked like they’d have at least a sliver of useful information and beat them within an inch of their life until they gave up the information that would eventually lead him to you.

In all honesty, you were probably taken with the intent to lure them in. Not anticipating your absence would have such an impact. Kept you bound in a guarded room. Roughed up a bit just from your struggle, but they hadn’t had time to interrogate you before they got word that 141 was coming in wild and sideways.

This would send Simon even further into madness. Body aching, bleeding from his knuckles. His knees and shoulders screaming their protest when he broke down the door, sending it crashing into the room. And the first thing he sees is you huddled in a corner blindfolded and bound with handcuffs that were cutting into your wrists from your trying to escape. He’d be an entirely different person. (I am giggling and kicking my feet.)

He wouldn’t even bother wasting time with the rifle. He’d handle what few guards were left with his bare hands. Possessed by some kind of superhuman strength. Catching a second wind the moment he laid eyes on you. He’d rush over, the rest of the boys standing guard in the hallway, and break you free from your restraints.

And as much as I would want him to be sweet and coddle you and coo over you, he’d probably be riding such a high that he wouldn’t be able to. He’d immediately start in on you, but with significantly less ferocity than he had with Price.

“You got a fuckin’ death wish? Think they’d turn you into a martyr for bein’ a medic on the field? Real original fuckin’ concept, yeah?”

He’d pull you in close to him, giving you an incredibly detailed once over. Inspecting your face and neck and arms legs for any further damage, and once he determined after three checks that all your wounds were purely superficial, he’d allow his hands to shake just slightly when he smoothed your hair back off your forehead.

[constantcrying]

Adjust

cw: manipulation, impersonation, obsession, possessive behaviors, typical yandere fare

I love this post format so let’s give it a shot with Sasha the shape-shifter—

Yandere shape-shifter relaxes and drops the human act when it’s just the two of you in the room. He’ll bare teeth too sharp, too large to talk through, and he’ll speak anyway, using a voice that a human couldn’t possible have. He lets his limbs stretch and bend to whatever shape they feel like. He won’t bother with blinking. It’s all fine, in front of you. You care about him, no matter what he is or what he appears to be.

Yandere shape-shifter is always, always hungry. It burns way more calories than you can imagine, changing your size and your shape so regularly. But when he has a choice between a real dinner—a proper hunt—and a quiet evening with you, he always chooses you before he can even think. He’s never been so hungry, but when he’s with you, he doesn’t mind. Although, he is often daydreaming about what you taste like.

Yandere shape-shifter still does have to play human, sometimes. But his default human form seems subtly different since you mentioned what type of person you find attractive. He changed his hair? Well, he got bored of the same old style. Is his voice a different texture now, smoother or deeper or more gravelly like your favorite singer? You’re imagining things. Did he...get a little taller? Certainly not, he just stopped slouching. He’s simply a beautiful creature that you’re developing an appreciation for. But he’ll take your compliments, naturally. Hurry up and show some love for the aesthetic experience.

Yandere shape-shifter has a keen sense of smell and makes a point to cover you in his scent. Whether it’s snuggling you for hours or lending you his jackets, he just needs his claim to be there, even if he’s the only being that can notice it. If you’ve been out all day, you better hop in the shower and come cuddle right away so you can stop smelling wrong. Do you understand how troubling it is when one of your favorite things is just ever so slightly off?

Yandere shape-shifter is stronger than any person you know regardless of what he looks like. He makes himself useful to you, hauling in big grocery loads and moving heavy stuff for you. But his favorite use of his strength is a play fight. It’s hard for you to understand why. It takes him all of twenty seconds to get you pinned under him, squirming and gasping for breath, and you don’t get what’s so fun about a match he knows he’s going to win every time.

Yandere shape-shifter protects you. He navigates human interaction better than you ever have. He’s so good at swerving unwanted advances, and deflecting snide comments, you’ve never felt more at ease in awkward social situations than when he was there. And he’d never let anyone lay an unkind hand on you, either, though no one has gotten the chance to try. You just know that he wants the best for you, the same as you want for him.

Yandere shape-shifter thinks you’re bad at picking people. If you make a new friend, he’ll gladly point out to you how fake and suspicious they are. You can choose to put your faith in them, sure, but that hardly does anything. Suddenly your new friend starts avoiding you, telling you that you’re a huge asshole for all those awful things you said. Things you can’t remember, things so vile that they won’t repeat. They start telling other people that you’re a a horrible person even though you’ve only ever been kind to them. Don’t worry, though. Your shape-shifter is going to be there for you regardless. He knows the real you, the loving and sincere person that accepts people for who they really are. He’ll never abandon you over these trifling rumors. But you should stop worrying about these other people, these monsters in disguise.

Yandere shape-shifter comforts you when your only other friend, the one who stuck by your side no matter what people said about you, goes missing. He'll do everything that you need to feel safe and loved in this time: listening to you vent, visiting their parents with you, going with you to the police who are investigating this unusual case. He’ll make sure you keep eating, he knows how hard it is to look after yourself when you lose someone. No, he doesn’t need anything, thanks. He’s quite full already.

Yandere shape-shifter can perfectly imitate you.

Fuck.

Of course he can. He’s spent so much time obsessing over your smallest habits, the nuances of your body language and your smell. Do you even know the precise length of your lashes, or the exact degree your head turns when you look over your shoulder at someone else? No, but he does. And he knows the way you talk better than you do. Without even trying, he can conjure up your voice to say vile things to other people that you would never say. He’ll use your hands to do things that you wouldn’t dream of doing.

He didn’t mean for you to find out like this, or really, he didn’t mean for you to find out at all. It was so much nicer when you were clueless, and you clung to him with affection, unafraid of his powers. He’d never had to put any real effort into preventing your escape. He still won’t, given that you have no friends who would believe you, and you couldn’t outrun him with a two hour head-start, but damn. He’ll miss the softness, the innocence of the beginning. It’ll be best to take you somewhere that he doesn't even have to worry about anyone else anymore.

You will have to wonder. Is it your face that he wore when he got rid of your last real friend?

Well, do you really want to know the answer to that?

Yandere shape-shifter is happy with you. He doesn’t feel the need to hide it behind different faces or slippery words. He’s happy—and you should work on being happy too.

[hikarry]

So, I was rewatching season 1 and got stuck in that scene between Shadwell and Aziraphale in the bookshop.

What if Aziraphale never stepped into the circle? What if the fire never really happened?

Imagine:

Shadwell is lost in his shenanigans, ready to banish Aziraphale to whatever place witchfinders banish witches, and Aziraphale is slowly walking backward.

"Oh, but this is utterly ridiculous." He stops on his tracks, looking Shadwell in the eye. "I'm sorry, good man, but I have no time for whatever silliness is happening right now. If you don't mind, I have an Armageddon to stop." Aziraphale snaps his fingers, and Shadwell disappears, reapearing a few streets over at the other side of Soho. There surely he wouldn't get in the way.

Careful not to step on the active circle, Aziraphale leaves the bookshop and flags down the first cab he sees. The driver stops right in front of the bookshop, and he gets in, giving him Crowley's address in Mayfair.

The last time he called, the demon was home, so that's exactly where Aziraphale hoped he remained. With a bit of luck, he hadn't left for Alpha Centauri... Now that he thought about it, he mentioned having an old friend over? As far as he knew, he himself was the only friend Crowley had, so that statmebt now sounded like a load of nonsense. But whatever. He just needed to speak with Crowley, old friend present or not. Heaven clearly wanted the war to happen, and he had been naive to think they would see reason. The only chance the Earth had of surviving now was the angel and Crowley. He could only pray it wasn't too late and Crowley wasn't gone. He knew where the Anti-Christ was, after all. They could stop this!

When the cab stopped on the street of Crowley's building, Aziraphale paid his fare and threw a quick blessing in the driver's direction for his speed and efficiency before crossing the street and entering the complex.

He had been to Crowley's flat once or twice in the last 20 years. All he had to do was go through the entrance, get on the lift to the last floor, and walk down the corridor towards the last door. And that's exactly what he did, always fiddling with his fingers in a show of the nervous energy that seemed to take over him. They were running out of time. The end of the world would occur any minute now, and Crowley needed to be home. They still had to drive all the way to Tadfield's airbase, and the clock was tickling rather ominously inside his head.

Finally in front of the door to Crowley's flat, he knocked. A few seconds passed with no response, and he decided to knock again, stronger now, but he got exactly the same result.

Aziraphale looked around the hallway, taking a deep breath and smoothing his waistcoat, considering his options.

"Crowley?" He ended up knocking again. "Crowley, we need to talk!" Silence. "I know you're cross with me after our last conversation, but you were right. I talked to the Metatron. And they want the war. As I told you on the phone, I know where the antichrist is, and it would be very nice of you if you opened the door so we could get a wiggle on and stop the Apocalypse." Once again, he was met with silence.

Was it possible? Did Crowley actually leave for Alpha Centauri? He was here minutes ago! He couldn't have left already, right?

Oh, bless it all. He wasn't going to waste any more time.

With a final deep breath, Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and the door unlocked. He opened it slightly, peering inside.

"Crowley? I'm sorry If I'm intruding but this matter is rather urgent." All he got in return was silence. Not a single noise from the demon himself or the so called old friend.

He pushed the remainder of the door open and stepped inside, silently closing it behind him. He looked at the living room, but it was empty of any living soul, apart from the plants on the far wall.

"Crowley?"

Aziraphale called again, now walking towards the office to the left. The door was slightly ajar already, so he spied inside. It looked empty, but he walked in regardless, almost stepping on a pile of goo right there in front of the floor.

"What the...?" He looked down, stepping over the weird substance.

It smelled weirdly of sulfur and...was that Holy Water?

His head snapped to the desk, where he found the thermos he had given Crowley back in the 60s, the cap unscrewed by its side.

Suddenly, he felt his heart stop, and his veins turn into ice. His body gave an involuntary step back away from the smudge, his back hitting the throne as he lifted a now trembling hand to cover his mouth.

No. This couldn't be happening. He would-! Crowley certainly wouldnt-!

A sob escaped his throat as his whole body started shaking.

Oh lord. This was a nightmare. It could only be a nightmare. This wasn't real. Couldn't possibly be real.

Oh Crowley...

Aziraphale's legs failed him, and he ended up on the floor, back leaning against the side of the ridiculous throne Crowley liked so much. Not that he would like anything ever again because he was gone. Crowley was gone. And it was Aziraphale's fault. He was the one who gave him the cursed thermos against his better judgment. And now all his fears were laid bare right in front of his eyes.

Another sob escaped him and he let the heartache take charge, spilling warm tears down his cheeks.

Crowley was gone. The Apocalypse was coming and Crowley was gone. Not to Alpha Centauri but actually gone. Utterly destroyed. And all that remained of his best friend was an unidentifiable goo. Not a trace of Crowley remained.

He hugged himself, hanging his head low, letting the tears fall on his crossed arms and allowing the wretched sobs to take over. He couldn't bear to look at it a second longer. The smell of sulfur and Holy Water was starting to get nauseating.

Well, contrary to popular belief, Crowley was actually very much alive, speeding through the streets on London in the direction of the bookshop. He parked in his usual place and snapped his finger to open the doors of the building.

"Aziraphale?" He looked around, quickly spotting the active circle. Lifting an eyebrow above his sunglasses, he carefully walked towards it, still searching for any trace of the angel. "Aziraphale, are you here?"

The circle was still active with holy energy, so no one had actually stepped through it, and Aziraphale was clearly not in the bookshop, so where could he possibly be?

With a sigh, Crowley turned around and went back to the Bentley. He drove around Soho for a bit, trying to spot some blond curls in the crowd but falling short of success.

"Aziraphale, where the bloody hell are you?" He muttered to himself, carefully scanning the streets, until he gave up, changing his course back to Mayfair.

He needed to regroup. Without knowing where Aziraphale was and without the information on the antichrist he apparently had, Crowley needed to think.

He made his way back to his flat without paying much attention. When he noticed, he was already unlocking the door with his key and stepping inside. And, as soon as he did so, he heard it. Sobs coming from the office. That was...bizarre. Could it be Hastur? Had he figured out a way to leave the answering machine, and now he was crying over Ligur? Crowley almost laughed at himself with such a thought. Hastur? Crying? Now, that would be a sight he would pay to see.

Still, in the name of caution, he slowly made his way to the office, trying to be as silent as possible, when he quickly spotted the angel he had been looking for throught the wide open door, sitting on the floor besides the throne, arms around himself and face hidden while his whole body shook and heartbreaking sobs escaped his vocal chords.

Carefully and confused, he approached, stopping short of the door.

"...Angel?"

Aziraphale's head snapped up, staring at him with wide eyes, his face marked by tears.

"...Crowley?"

"Yeah." He slowly walked his way to the angel, careful not to step on Ligur, squatting in front of him. "Are you alright? What happened?"

He was still staring at him with clear confusing in his eyes, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly until he finally appeared to have found his voice again:

"You-! The-!" Aziraphale's body trembled, looking over Crowley's shoulder and then back at the demon. "You...you're gone!"

Crowley raised an eyebrow, clearly confused.

"I just went to the bookshop searching for you, but when I arrived you weren't there already." Aziraphale shook his head, some more tears escaping his eyes along with a single sob. "Hey, hey." Crowley placed his hands on his shoulders, squeezing them. "What's-?" And then that's when it suddenly clicked inside his head. He looked up at the empty thermos on his desk and back over his shoulder to what remained of Ligur. "Oh, Aziraphale. No, no, no." His hands moved up to Aziraphale's face, forcing him to look up at him, his thumb brushing away some of the new tears running down his face. It burned considerably; angel tears were holy water after all, but right now, that wasn't his focus. "That's Ligur. I used the holy water to make a trap for him and Hastur when they came to take me." He brushes his thumb through Aziraphale's trembling lips, leaning in closer. "That's not me, angel. I'm alright."

Aziraphale sniffed, trying to regain control of himself, but failing miserably.

"I-I thought you were dead. I thought you had used the Holy Water. I thought-"

"Shhh." Crowley wrapped his arms around the angel, leaning his face against his, pulling him into an embrace. They had never hugged before, so it felt a bit strange. Awkward even. "I'm right here. That's not me." The angel grabbed handfuls of his shirt and pulled him closer, burying his face on the crook of his neck, taking deep breaths. "Yeah, that's it. Breathe." He ran his hand through his curls, trying to soothe him. "Everything is alright. I'm right here."

After a while, Aziraphale finally calmed down and moved away, just enough to be able to look at Crowley's face. For a moment or two, they just stared at each other. Aziraphale's red rimmed blue eyes looking right at Crowley's yellow ones; his sunglasses had ended up on his head at some point. The angel's eyes slipped down to the demon's lips for a second and Crowley's licked them involuntarily, before his gaze went back to his eyes.

"You were right." Crowley tilted his head in confusion. "I talked to the Metraton. They want the war to happen...The Anti-Christ..." Aziraphale mumbled those last words.

"Right." Crowley stared down at Aziraphale for a couple more seconds before getting up, offering his hand to the angel to help him do the same. "You said you knew where he was?"

[guiltyidealist]

autism loading screen tips

Did you know: You can brush your teeth at any time of the day! Try brushing for 1 minute next time you're in the bathroom.

If showers are hard for you, try wiping your body down with baby wipes instead!

Dry hands every time you wash them? Apply extra lotion to your wrists and forearms. After washing, wet your wrists and rub the lotion down your hands! Pat dry.

In a pinch, a little Icy Hot can help ground you during an episode or meltdown. Apply a little to your arm and focus on the sensation

Dysmorphia, dysphoria, or self-esteem impairing your bodily hygiene? Try bathing in dim lighting (lights off might not be safe!) to impair your body issues back!

You're literally so cool (:

Struggling with oral hygiene because of spoons? Any little bit counts, even if you can't do the whole routine. Just swishing mouthwash or brushing without paste still helps!

Pro tip: everything is a stim tool. All you have to do is stim with it

Foster hydration by having a mini-fridge full of water next in your leisure area or bedroom. You can even add flavorings!

Did you know? The more similar to us we think someone is, the more we favor them-- You are psychologically predisposed to love yourself!

Biophilia refers to the natural affinity for... well... nature. Empirical data shows that humans fare better when exposed to imagery of nature. Harness these effects for yourself by opening windows or displaying rocks!

Noise-cancelling headphones are your best. friend.

the abolition of capitalism is the only way to make things right for this planet and all its inhabitants