#I might still write the occasional prompt even when the challenge is over

[guiltyasdave]

glitch

pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

word count: ~1k

summary: Prequel to nights are so starry, blood moonlit. How you and Javi became neighbors with benefits.

warnings/tags: explicit smut (-> 18+ only!), smoking, alcohol consumption, able-bodied reader, a hint of dom!Javi, unprotected p in v, kinda rough sex, ass slaps, dirty talk, oral (f receiving), Javi is a menace, a hint of angst and feelings because of who i am as a person

a/n: written for @iamasaddie’s writing challenge 2.0 with the prompt "never knew you were such a freak", and since my first story about these two was also part of one of aly's writing challenges, it just made sense to revisit them :)

dividers as always by @saradika-graphics <3

find my full masterlist here and follow @guiltyasdavenotifs for fic updates!

It had started out with fleeting glances in the hallway, quick greetings when your apartment doors opened at the same time, then short conversations on your adjoining balconies, late night talks with your feet propped up on the railing and his back leaning against it, sometimes exchanging a cigarette or a light, or occasionally a bottle of beer when one of you had run out. 

Of course you noticed the ridiculously tight jeans that really shouldn't look that good on him, the way his broad shoulders strained against his clothes, and the way his shirts always revealed a little too much of his golden-skinned chest. You couldn't deny the fact that your neighbor was incredibly attractive, and that he knew it. 

You probably should have said no when late one evening, after Javi had found you on your balcony, smoking and watching the glistening city lights, he invited you to share a glass of bourbon. Together. At his place. 

He had been flirting with you, which you suspected he did with every woman he met, and you had tried not to pay it any mind, but you were well aware of how this evening would end if you accepted. 

You should have said no, and a stronger, less lonely version of you might have, but you craved human contact, craved to be touched by someone else than yourself, and if the sounds that traveled through the thin walls from his bedroom to yours frequently enough were any indication, Javi knew what he was doing. 

You should have said no, because it became clear to you very quickly that Javier Peña would ruin you for all other men.

He was more gentle, more caring than you had expected him to be and he prioritized your pleasure in a way that you had never experienced from any man before. He took you to heights that you hadn’t thought possible before, and it was addicting.

You should have said no, but you hadn’t, and now you keep coming back for more. 

You keep coming back for the way his skin tastes under your tongue, for the way his lips press against yours, swallowing moans and whimpers, for the way his fingers and his cock reach so deep inside of you that you still feel him hours later, when you have said your good nights and crawled under the covers of your own bed. Never his, never crossing the line to a different kind of intimacy.

It’s another one of those nights, a soft knock on a door, a mutual understanding passing between you, gentle touches that burned under your skin until they got more demanding, until you both gave in to that pull that kept you coming back. 

He’s already made you come on his tongue twice, until you were dripping onto his sheets, his name the only word in your mind and on your lips. You’re on your hands and knees, limbs shaking, trying to accommodate his length and the harsh rhythm that he’s setting. 

“Taking me so fucking well,” he pants, running his hands down your back and over your ass. You chase his touch, goosebumps forming in its wake, your moans filling the air as he keeps hitting impossibly deep inside of you. 

His palm connects with your skin, nothing more than a playful swat, but the sensation sears through you, lighting your nerve endings on fire as you all but scream your pleasure into the softly lit bedroom.

“Oh?” His voice is low, rough in his throat. You don’t need to turn your head and look behind you to know that he’s smirking down at you right now. “You liked that, huh?” 

You nod eagerly, too far gone to be ashamed of the way your hips are bucking back against him, working desperately to feel him deeper inside of you. 

He slaps you again, harder this time, and you feel yourself clenching around him, feel the way a new wave of slick is coating his cock. His fingers dig into your shoulder and he pulls you up, until your torso is pressed against his, his mouth moving against the delicate skin of your neck. 

“Never knew you were such a freak, baby,” he whispers, his lips curling into a grin, teeth nipping at you.

“Shut up.” You try to hold your voice steady, ignore the throbbing need between your thighs, but he just chuckles and presses another kiss against the side of your throat before he loosens his hold and pushes you back towards the mattress. 

His hands grab your hips instead, pulling you into his thrusts, filling you so deeply that you see stars behind your eyelids.

“You want me to do it again?” You hate how smug he sounds, would love to deny him the satisfaction, but god, you do want him to. 

“Fuck– please, Javi.” You’re breathless, reduced to a mess of trembling thighs and desperate whimpers, and you wish that you could stay like this forever. 

He slaps your ass twice in quick succession and deepens his thrusts at the same time, punching all air from your lungs. His hand snakes down to graze your clit and you’re overwhelmed with sensations, pure pleasure coursing through your veins so suddenly that it’s almost disorienting. You collapse onto the sheets, your pussy pulsing around him as your body shakes through its third orgasm of the night and you’re whimpering his name as he buries himself deep inside of you and comes with a groan, painting your insides with his release. 

After more kisses, more touches, and a shared cigarette, you get dressed and eventually, his apartment door clicks shut behind you. You lean your back against the wall, closing your eyes and breathing deeply for a moment before you enter your own place.

Again, you know that you’ll be coming back for more. And that no matter how many times you come back, it will never be enough.

thank you for reading 🤍 if you liked this, please consider reblogging, leaving a comment or sending an ask, it truly makes my day every single time!

[katyawriteswhump]

(i'm still) watching you—harringrove microfic

my first attempt at harringrove and probably totally weird like my usual shit, so… yeah, nervous. but I love prompts/challenges too much to resist… Pls be kind 🙂 

WC: 914. For @harringrovemicrofic prompt, green (I also got a passing mention of Jason Carver in for the additional prompt.)

CW: None. Tags: angst, pining, chronic illness (Fibro/Chronic fatigue), enemies to lovers, h/c, no Upside Down AU, slightly soft Billy? Rating: M.

…

Steve hated sitting in the stands watching the Tigers win without him.

Hargrove rained all over the hoop, right until the full-time whistle ripped through Steve’s skull. Simultaneously, Billy ripped his vest off—shouting, thudding his chest, scanning the crowd.

His crazily soft-blue eyes rested on Steve. That smug grin faltered, and Steve’s heart gave a crazy little squeeze.

Billy’s attention snapped away. His teammates carried him on a lap of victory, and Steve shaded his eyes. Too fucking much. Since he’d got sick, the doctors had droned on about Steve having to pace himself. Today, that’d been a bust—all for the torture of watching Hargrove play.

Even though Steve hated him.

And he’d chew on that image of shirtless Billy for goddamn weeks.

“Stop bawling, Harrington.” Steve startled, squinted into the suddenly too-bright light. Tommy H waggled a stuffed tiger in front of his nose: “You can be team mascot. This one’s got even less backbone than you.”

“Jesus, I’m gonna punch your stupid face in!”

Steve pushed himself up. Despite his dumb threat, it took all his strength to stumble away. Halfway to the exit, he collapsed onto a seat, slumping forward with his head in his hands. The crowd stomped by, sending shockwaves through his aching bones. Nobody offered to help. Probably figured he’d bite their heads off…

A hand landed on his shoulder. “You okay?” asked Billy.

WTF? Steve flinched away. Up close, he couldn’t handle those stupidly long lashes and gorgeous eyes. “M’fine.”

“Want a ride?”

“You leaving already?” Steve gawked at Billy’s pecs. “Guess there’s only so much showboating even your fat ego can take.”

Billy arched his brow. “I’m sick of this shit. Your ex-teammates are fucking losers, you know that?”

Uh… Yeah?

“Whatever, dude. I’m leaving with Nance.” Steve had just spotted her with freshman golden-boy, Jason Carver, scribbling madly in her notebook.

“She’s writing an essay on that asshole. Couldn’t bag me. Seriously, I need space. Figured you might too.”

Space with me? “Jesus, you still never stop talking! You hate me. What’s your game?”

Billy shrugged. “I don’t hate you, man. It genuinely sucks you had to be benched. Don’t have to believe me, but I actually miss you.”

Miss humiliating me? Miss me rubbing my ass against you while you shoved me around!?! Guess I enjoyed touching you as much as I hated you. I mean, uh, I STILL hate you…

“I don’t need your fucking sympathy, Hargrove.”

“Not offering fucking sympathy.”

Steve’s heart repeated that crazy squeeze. He’d grabbed the hem of Billy’s green shorts before he knew it.

Don’t leave. I honestly can’t get up without help right now. Won’t ask for help, either.

Billy harrumphed vaguely, casually offered a hand. Steve clasped it—since when did he dig slippery palms?—let Billy draw him up and sling an arm around him. Even with Billy’s help, the effort of walking consumed Steve completely till he sank into the Camaro.

Billy winked at him from the driver’s seat. “Don’t worry, I’ll go gentle.”

“Jesus, I’m not gonna break.”

“You wanna go home?”

Yeah, I totally should. “No fucking way. Anywhere but this dump.”  

With minimal wheelspin, Billy tore from the school grounds. He didn’t play loud music. They didn’t talk much either. Seemed Billy did occasionally shut up. Only Steve fizzing nerves—WTF AM I DOING?—kept him awake until Billy slammed to a halt.

Steve blinked. “Where are we?”

“One of the few places in this shithole that’s not a shithole.” Billy hurried around and helped Steve from the car.

“I’m not a fucking princess,” Steve bitched.

“Whatever you say, pretty boy.”

“Screw you.” Steve’s glare melted into a laugh that he almost felt.

They’d arrived somewhere in the hills, which smelled of spring grasses. Steve slipped from Billy’s warm grasp—not without a dumbass pang—lay flat on the soft turf. Beyond the trickle of a stream, it was so quiet, he dozed almost instantly.

Then, through the blur of his lashes, he spotted Billy stripping his shorts. Christ, that ass!

Billy headed for the stream. His smirk was as mind-blowing as his body. “I skipped showers.”

“Fucking show-boater.” Steve snickered.

He watched Billy wade thigh deep, splash sparkling droplets over that lick-able, lithely muscled torso. He wished he could watch this a billion times over, ached to join Billy, then his eyelids grew too heavy, his fatigue winning, and… Shit!

Deep inside, something snapped. He slung an arm across his face and cried, drifted, then cried again, shamelessly sniffling. A brush against his arm stirred him. Billy lay stretched beside him, towel around his waist, chin rested on a fist.

“Tears are cathartic, huh?”

Steve rolled to full-on sneer at Billy. Ended up fixed on Billy’s lush mouth, fretting his own lower lip. “Quit mocking me.”

“I’m not. Tears help. Apart from when they’re too damn painful. You don’t have to say which those are.”

Billy reached out, as if to push hair from Steve’s damp eyes, then hesitated. Steve grabbed Billy’s fingers, like he’d grabbed for his shorts. He barely breathed. He clasped Billy’s stream-chilled knuckles to his own burning face, like his life depended on it.

“Meant what I said about missing you,” murmured Billy, as Steve drowned in those adoring eyes. “None of those dicks are half-decent rivals. It sucks we never got a chance to work through that tension and…"

This is a dream, right?

Billy’s fingers slid up through Steve’s hair, gently drawing him closer, and they tumbled into a kiss.

[wowbright]

Fic: Blessing (Spring/Summer 2012)

Fandom/pairing: Glee, pre-Kurt/Blaine

Event: December Klaine Fanworks Challenge 2023, day 19: assist

Words: ~ 1250 words                                

Rating: Teen and up

Summary: During his junior year of high school, Kurt receives a glimpse of his future through his patriarchal blessing.

Notes: This is part of my Mormon!Klaine universe and a new chapter in Small Things, which I thought I had completed in 2015. Back then, I wrote some notes around Kurt's patriarchal blessing, but it was too fragmented to include—I had a deadline for a fandom event, so I didn't have time to polish it up. On a chapter of Out of Eden I recently posted, @georgiegems asked about patriarchal blessings and why Blaine’s was so significant to him, so I figured now is the time to write that part of Kurt's story out. (This is NOT a spoiler for Out of Eden.)

You can read here or on AO3. The AO3 version includes what's here plus the complete text of Kurt’s patriarchal blessing.

-------------

“I’ve been praying about you,” Bishop Longquist says to Kurt one Sunday a few weeks after Kurt comes out. “I think it’s time you had your patriarchal blessing.”

A patriarchal blessing only comes once in a person’s lifetime. It’s a piece of personal scripture—a message from Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ to a faithful member of the church, delivered through an ordained member of the priesthood called a patriarch.

Kurt is caught off guard. He only came out to the bishop two months ago. The bishop was so loving and so understanding that Kurt felt prompted, a few weeks later, to confess what happened with Karofsky. That went well, too—maybe even better than Kurt wanted it to go. Kurt felt dirty and like he needed to repent, but Bishop Longquist said it wasn't Kurt’s fault, so he had nothing to repent of. Kurt knows what the bishop said made sense, but he still feels like there should be some kind of time requirement between getting kissed by a boy and receiving something so important as a patriarchal blessing. “Shouldn’t I wait a little longer?”

“The time to hear the Lord’s guidance for your life is now, don’t you think?”

“But I’m …” They’re in the hallway. A group of women stand outside the Relief Society room. Boys are filing past them in twos and threes to priesthood quorum. He lowers his voice. “My problem.”

Bishop Longquist smiles. It’s a sad, knowing smile, full of love and carrying the weight of the world with it because of that love. “You’re worthy, Kurt.”

A few weeks later, Kurt and Burt and Carole drive up to Toledo to where the patriarch lives. Kurt’s never met him before. His house is large, practically a mansion, and overlooking Maumee Bay. The patriarch’s wife is in a pink rayon dress with box pleats in the skirt. She wears pearls around her neck. She guides them to the home office and sets glasses of ice water on coasters that line the edge of the patriarch’s desk.

The patriarch himself has white hair, white skin, and a dark suit with an understated gray silk tie. He’s exactly what Kurt expected.

They sit on opposite sides of the desk, talking for a few minutes about school and Kurt’s longing to go on a mission. He can’t bring himself to let go of Carole’s hand, even though his own is raining sweat. Kurt skirts over glee club and doesn't mention his interest in fashion or the fact that he finds so much beauty in other boys. He’s not ashamed of being gay, exactly, but he doesn't want to arouse this stranger’s suspicions. It's not like God is likely to mention it anywhere during the patriarchal blessing—his gayness might be part of who he is on earth, but it's probably not part of his eternal character—so there's no need to bring it up at all.

The patriarch explains that the blessing comes from Heavenly Father, not from him. He is merely the vessel. He listens for God’s voice, which he occasionally hears in the form of words, but more often in the form of spiritual impressions. When he receives the impressions, he translates them into his own words, much like Joseph Smith translated the Book of Mormon from Reformed Egyptian, a language he did not speak, through the power of God. His wife will record and transcribe the blessing, and copies will be sent both to Kurt and to church headquarters. The church will make three digital copies of the blessing and store them in three different places, and a microfilm copy will also be preserved in a secure vault. That means that if Kurt ever loses his personal copy, or if his progeny in the future should like a copy, they can always get one from the church. Kurt can also make as many copies as he wants of the blessing he receives, so that he always has it on hand to study and to bring comfort to him. “But keep it out of the way of wandering eyes,” the patriarch advises. “This is personal scripture, and you should not let others read it outside your family. You may sometimes be prompted to share a general message from your blessing with another person, but when you do this, do not repeat the exact words or go into specific details lest they take it on as the word of God for themselves. No one can assist in interpreting another person's patriarchal blessing for them. If you have questions about what anything in your blessing means, pray to Heavenly Father for guidance.”

The patriarch says a short prayer, inviting the Holy Ghost to be with them. He asks Kurt to pray, too. Kurt’s so nervous, he has no idea what he says.

Then it’s time. Burt and Carole scoot their chairs back a little to give the patriarch room. The patriarch’s wife sets a digital recorder on top of the desk and makes sure it’s on. Kurt takes deep breath after deep breath, preparing himself for the moment the patriarch is going to lay his hands on him. Even after all these years in the church, he’s not quite used to people touching him at these intimate, spiritual moments. His body wasn’t wired that way—not unless it’s someone who knows him inside and out, like his mom and Dad and Carole, and sometimes Mercedes.

Kurt closes his eyes and bows his head, feels the warmth of the patriarch’s hands radiating near him before they actually make contact. They’re so warm, Kurt thinks of fire, and then The Spirit of God like a fire is burning! It’s the first line of a hymn Kurt’s been singing before he even knew how to read, and when the next lines follow—The latter-day glory begins to come forth; The visions and blessings of old are returning—he knows the Holy Ghost is already there with them in the room, in Kurt’s heart, witnessing that this blessing is from God.

Kurt feels the words more than hears them. The blessing gives him flashes of his past and his future: the safety of the preexistence, living beside his Heavenly Parents without fear or desire; the wise face of Ephraim, from whom he and his parents and the greatest tribe of Israel are descended, preserved until the last days to gather all the tribes of Israel together; the comfort of sitting in his mother’s lap when she was still alive, him so small and her so large and all-encompassing; a solid hug from his father; the sound of his shoes hitting the pavement as he walks alongside his missionary companion, an indescribable warmth in his heart; pink sunlight bathing the interior walls of temple rooms he’s only imagined but never seen; the squirming solidity of children in his arms, his children, when they come home for the first time; an unfamiliar yet comforting hand holding his, firm and loving, its pads fitting perfectly into the grooves of his own palm; a man’s voice—not his father’s, not the patriarch’s—a voice Kurt can’t place and yet feels like home to him, saying, “God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him.”

[abovethesmokestacks]

once lost, twice found

Title: once lost, twice found

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Rating: general audiences

Word count: 3.7k

Warnings: a modicum of angst because look at who is writing, excessive use of  –, the occasional swear

This is my contribution to the Escape Birthday Challenge hosted by @real-jane​. My chosen prompt was “I think I’m in love with you and I don’t know what to do.” and... well... it turned out just as you might expect when I have control of the keyboard. Strap in, enjoy and let me know what you thought!

"Where were you, I thought I had lost you, Bucky!"

His chest is solid under your clenched fists as you give him a one-two punch. Goddamn idiot, he'd really scared you this time. Seeing him suddenly coming down the street, you'd broken into a sprint, almost bowling over a grandma and displayed more courage than even you knew you possessed by running headfirst into traffic without looking for insane bike riders. Bucky stands firm, takes your frustrated attempts at fisticuffs with a crooked smile.

"I'm sorry, I didn't– It was sudden. I didn't have time to tell you," he tries, places his hands over your curled up hands.

Fuck him. Fuck him and his earnest eyes and gentle voice. You look at him, mouth pursed in a pout as you pull your hands back, crossing them over your chest.

"That's the biggest load of fucking bullshit I've ever heard, and I've volunteered for a politician's office."

It does nothing to chastise him. Bucky gives a belly laugh, wraps an arm around your shoulder and starts walking the two of you down the street.

"I promise, next time I realize I need to scram, I'll make sure to give written notice," he says, his other hand covering his heart. "Now, how about I treat you to somethin’ sweet, huh? There's a place around the corner…"

There's always a place around the corner. Every instance with Bucky is an adventure, a time for stories and laughter, there is an ease to the space between you. Whenever he does this, whenever his sentences are left hanging in a challenging invitation, you follow without hesitation. 

Now, you are the one to stand firm, planting your feet steady on pavement warm from a blistering summer sun. 

No, wait. Wait. That's not–

"Bucky, please, just…"

Just. 

Bucky smiles.

It's easy. It's knowing. He holds out his arms.

"Fine," you sigh, rolling your eyes and thinking the sun is too much, too bright.

He does a fine job keeping you preoccupied. The place around the corner is never exactly around the corner, but Bucky leads you with confidence, holds out your chair for you, lets you ooh and aah and hem and haw over a menu. Why is there always so much chocolate? Bucky orders what he always orders, coffee. Black as my soul, if you please, with a wink at the cashier behind the counter.

“Bucky…”

He’s mid-story, some shenanigan or other while you wait for your orders, and he’s windmilling his arms around wildly, face wide with a smile, “No, I’m serious, I went barrelling down the–”

“Bucky.”

Things have always been so easy between you two, all things considered, and your voice settles like a stone even in your chest. Bucky’s smile wavers, as if he’s considering whether he can keep it there, if he can spin another yarn to make you get lost in his tales again. Finally he just sighs, folds his hands in his lap, the picture of a scolded schoolboy. If all of your questions weren’t nagging at you so much, you’d tell him how endearing and completely wrong it looks.

“Are you leaving me?”

You curse yourself, because it’s not the right words, and the way Bucky’s lips press together tells you that somehow, some-fucking-how, he still knows what you’re trying to say. Deep breath, flex your fingers. You are in control. This is– You can do this.

“Is it… Is it time– You can’t stay, can you?”

It’s still not the right words, but they’re better, closer. For weeks he was only a voice, disembodied, incorporeal, and then… Then there was this. Lean muscle, bright eyes, lips that have no business pursing into a pout the way they do. So much like something real and tangible it was easy to forget he was something completely different. 

Your fingers entwine, and you twist them forwards and backwards. If you looked, they’d fan and go on forever and ever and ever and–

You cannot look.

Not when there’s a divot forming right between Bucky’s eyebrows. Not when looking would break everything.

“Because…” You swallow around a slow-forming lump in your throat. “Because it feels like… like it might happen. You– You leave again and again, and I hear nothing from you and then you come back and I never know when and I– I want to know where I have seen you because I don’t remember much from Psych 101, but I know you cannot make up a face, so every face you ever see in a dream is one you have seen before, and I need to know, I– Why is a demon wearing a face that makes it so hard for me every time he leaves?”

Here is a thing that happens: you wake up one morning, and you are not alone. Physically yes, but there is something in your chest, a presence lurking in the back of your mind. You write it off as a hangover at first. Tequila is your worst enemy and vodka is the devil. But then it continues. It persists and twists and then there is a voice when you close your eyes.

“Sorry, I know you said this was fine, but…are you okay?”

He scares you half to death and scenarios of quickly spinning out of control flash before your eyes, each theory as to why you’re suddenly hearing a voice in your head worse than the other. 

“No, no, please, I’m– It’s okay, please, sit down, I’ll– I’m just a demon!”

It doesn’t exactly help. You’ll tease him about it relentlessly later. A demon. Speaking in your head. That’s… You had numerous choice adjectives to describe it, but none of them seemed to entirely fit your situation. A demon. A demon. 

“Please, I… We met, in a way, last night. I asked if you were okay with this.”

“I don’t even remember it!” you’d all but shrieked in your head, wondering if ramming your head through a wall would fix whatever aneurysm you surely must be suffering from.

“Oh. Oh… I thought things were fuzzy. I’m usually better than this. Consent and all. I was just… in a hurry.”

Demon meets girl, and it’s not conventional, and you don’t know much, but you’re pretty sure demonic possession doesn’t come with self-autonomy intact. He never says outright that he’s on the run, not at first.

“I just… I like it here. I don’t– You won’t even notice me. I won’t control you, just… can I stay for a while? I don’t… I don’t want to go back to hell.”

Demon meets girl and girl says, stay a while. It’s got to be your worst idea, you think on the third day, because again, demonic possession doesn't typically include the demon being honest about their intentions. But the demon, who after the first week had turned downright chatty and says you can call him Bucky, keeps his promise. No lost time, no strange occurrences, neither horns nor a tail in sight. Just a pleasant voice to keep you company, to make you smile and keep the loneliness you otherwise battled against at bay.

It’s a month when you realize his presence is missing the first time. Where at first his being had sat like an uncomfortable, angular thing in your chest, right up against your soul, the lack of it had felt like a great big emptiness. For a whole day, you sit with your hands clutching at your chest, mourning the loss of him, thinking it would at least have been nice to say goodbye.

He returns a week later, apologetic but evasive about his absence. You don’t ask any questions.

Bucky disappears again, another week that feels lost to the point that you wonder if this is what true possession feels like. He is so taken when you cry at feeling the familiarity of him that his sharp tongue and rapier wit fizzle out and he insists he is fine and you won’t get rid of him until you ask him to leave.

And so, when he disappears and reappears for the third time, you consider it. The words sit on the tip of your tongue, damning and harsh.

I think it’s best if you leave, Bucky.

This isn’t working.

I don’t want you here.

And maybe he sees them, feels the anguish of having to say them, but that night, you first see Bucky in your dreams, and he smiles and holds you and tries to explain. He wants to stay, but he technically isn’t allowed to. If the ones hunting him finds him there is no telling what they might do to you.

“You didn’t do anything, and it’s not fair that anything should happen to you. So whenever I find out they’re near, I’ll leave for a while,” he’d explained, sat you down somewhere with a cup of coffee and something that was more chocolate than anything else. “It’s not fair, and I get it if you want me to leave. I’ll do it, I’ll leave, no fighting.”

“Please, don’t.”

It’s the face, the earnestness, the feeling of having a person attached to a voice. It’s ridiculous. It’s not his face. Bucky the demon does not really look like a six foot god with storm blue eyes and touseled hair that’s just shy of getting too long. He does not really have a half smile that always quirks up just so, and he does not hug like it’s the first and last time you’ll see each other.

But still.

All those harsh words of dismissal melt away, and you ask him, beg him, to stay.

So he does. He stays until he can’t, and he comes back when it’s safe. You never really ask if he’s okay, he never really tells you about who exactly he’s running from.

Until now.

Bucky slumps in his seat, runs his hands over his face, into his hair, jaw clenching.

(when did you sit down?)

(were there chairs and tables outside when you got here?)

“I should never have stayed as long as I have,” he finally says, eyes avoiding gaze. “I keep thinking every time I reach out for you that this will be the time you turn me away. I put you in danger and you never turn me away. I never understand why you keep letting me come back.”

It hits you at an odd angle. Why wouldn't you? Is it a little… unconventional? Sure. But still. Why would you not welcome him back; this entity, this presence that has become as much a part of you as any limb, any abstract concept, any measurable phenomenon? 

"Why do you come back?" You turn the question, dare to watch him as he wets his lips, seemingly picking his way through an uncomfortable truth.

“I think…” he starts, twirling the untouched spoon that came with his pitch black cup of coffee– wait, why would he get a spoon with a simple black coffee? “I think I’m in love with you and… I don’t know what to do. Because you–”

Bucky sees your astonishment, sees the questions, the whirlwind he has kicked up. The spoon lands with a skittering clink as he reaches over the table, cradles your hands between his.

"Listen, sweetheart, I'm… I could never– Shit, I'm gonna sound like every movie schmuck you hate, but I swear. It's not y-"

Your nails press into your palms, and through clenched teeth and a forced smile, you make your voice work.

"Bucky, if you even think about finishing that sentence, I will find some way to kick you where the sun doesn't shine. I don’t care," you press on, fixing him with a glare so withering it feels like the reality of your shared, fragile dreamspace crackles a little. “I couldn’t care less what you are, but I’m worried that one day you’ll be taken from me. Whoever – whatever – is hunting you might catch up and I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you like that.”

Bucky’s eyes are blue, so, so blue, but it’s as if all the vivacity in them have faded, bled out and drained him into a pale shadow. You reach for him, for the hand that he always rests on the table, for the cool skin that never quite warms under the blazing sun.

“But if I stay…” The pad of his thumb runs over one of your knuckles, a gesture so tender you feel yourself fall apart from it. “If I stay, you will always be in danger. And one day I will disappear. I’ll leave because I have to again, and I’ll never come back and you’ll always wonder. Or they find me and they drag me back, and fuck knows what might happen to you in the process. I can’t let any of that happen. Not if there is a kinder option.”

“You’d leave. That’s what this is about, right? You’d still leave. What if I don’t want you to? What is kind about that?”

The smile Bucky gives you is brittle, a fine sheet of ice holding back the dam, but it’s there. It’s there when he brings up your hand to his face, gingerly kissing your knuckles.

“I get to go on my own terms. I get to say goodbye. I get to have this moment with you, I get to see you like I’m not… Like I’m this guy. Like I’m Bucky.”

You look at him again, cataloguing his features. The exact shade of blue of his eyes, the hint of slate grey in them. The stubble adorning his face, almost but not quite hiding the cleft in his chin, the exact quirk of his mouth that manages to hold all of his grief and all of his sweetness. He is… It’s another mystery, one he’s been skirting around since you started meeting up in your dreams.

“Why… do you look like that?” you ask, cocking your head. 

A strangely deserted street, but it doesn’t feel unnatural. In the moment between his confession and your question an eternity spans, lives and breathes and inhabits swaths of time compressed into a blink. It is a dream, but as dreams go, this one, whether by Bucky’s grace or the very nature of dreams, gives you the time you can no longer have.

He keeps his gaze forward, but the question amuses him. Your lips purse, and you give him a teasing hip check.

“Or do you really look like that? Are demons this handsome?”

Bucky gives a little huffing sound, a laugh that isn’t quite one as he shakes his head no.

“Ah. So, Psychology 101 holds up. Cannot make up a face. Can you– Can I see what you really look like?”

He pulls a face, mouth pressing into a thin line before he replies, “Shape is… complicated. This is… I found him. In your memories. I thought… I figured he would not… scare you.”

“I–” Eyes like a storm, a winter’s day. Bucky. Bucky. Bucky. Your brow furrows, your memory shrinking in on itself, refusing its vastness. “I’d remember you. Him. I’ve never seen him before. Where have I seen him before?”

Bucky, infuriatingly mock-coy turns on his heel to walk backwards, folds his hands in front of himself. Standard demonese for I can’t tell you that. You roll your eyes. You hate that look. You love that look. You miss it already.

“A hint then?”

He makes a show of pondering, of swinging back into step next to you, hands clasping behind his back. Infuriating asshole.

“I won’t be able to change your mind, will I?”

A corner turned. A little ways ahead; worn canvas awnings in what was once rich maroon, now sun bleached. Big potted plants by the entrance. Blink. Little tables and rickety chairs that fold. Blink. Nothing.

“You won’t,” Bucky confirms, his gaze lingering on the doors, the plate glass– the windowed– the– 

No. No, no, no. It’s ending. It’s ending, you’re waking up, and Bucky… Bucky stands there, steadfast, fading.

“I’m not leaving because I want to. I need you to remember that. But you… you deserve so much more than what I could ever give you. It’s not even a life, I could never–” He swallows thickly, managing a wobbly smile as he brings you into an embrace. “This is me giving notice, sugar. I have to go now, okay? I have to go, and it’s– It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. You’ll live.”

There is no scent, there is no warmth, but if you could stay wrapped up in him forever, in his presence that has lived right up against your soul for months, you would.

“Will I ever see you again?” you sniffle, already feeling reality’s harsh, unforgiving pull.

It’s as it should be. No direct answer. You look up right as he fades, as everything fades, and there it is. That infernal, infuriating smile. You know I can’t tell you.

Gone.

You feel it the moment you wake up, the fraction of a second inbetween sleep and wakefulness, that liminal space where everything is just a little wrong.

Gone.

The first day is spent in silence. You don’t cry so much as ache for a part of you that feels like it has been ripped from you, the wound raw and throbbing. You can’t feel him.

Gone.

It’s easy to isolate, to blame the phD that won’t write itself, to blame work that takes its toll, to blame sleep for evading you. It’s not all lies, they are all truths in their own right, if overly convenient hiding places. They are excuses for nights out, weekends of revelry, holidays and birthdays, breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Days become weeks. Weeks turn into months. You wake up from empty dreams clutching at your heart, and it always breaks you a little. Hope is a cruel, incurable illness.

You’re a ghost, you think, and ghosts need to haunt something. There is no seeming anchor, and yet somehow you remain. When you venture out, whether for food or social necessity, it doesn’t feel right. It tugs at you, the sense of wrongness, of being in a place that is both right and wrong. Somewhere out there is a place where you existed, where there was you and Bucky.

Brooklyn, Tuesday. A New York spring that can’t quite decide whether to give into sun and pleasantry. There’s a museum down in Manhattan Beach, not quite what you need for your dissertation, but it’s a way to waste a couple of hours, and this corner of Brooklyn is not a bad spot. Further west, Coney Island has awakened from its slumber. It feels… okay. It’s as close to a regular day as you have experienced since–

Well.

There is no rush, nothing to pull you back to your solitude. Aimless walking, out of Manhattan Beach, past Luna Park, on and on, up and down street after street. Left here, right, another right. Left. Turn a corner, find a new little world. Turn a corner and–

Down the street. Maroon awnings, sunbleached. Potted plants by the– by the black panelled door inset with window panes. A girl unfolding rickety chairs by tables, another sign of spring. It's a double déjà vu. You have been here before. Coffee, black as my soul, if you please. You have been here before.

It's there, right on the tip of your tongue. It's there, and you can already taste the rich, bittersweet chocolate. It's there. It's there. It's there.

Inside feels like home, you know it like a dear friend. You fumble trying to find your wallet in the wormhole that is your purse.

"What can I get for you, miss?"

"Slice of chocolate cake. And coffee," you say, tongue peeking out. Stupid freaking– aha! "Bl–"

Blue and slate grey. Stubble that only just manages to hide the cleft in his chin. A friendly smile and an inquisitive gaze.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that?" the man says, fingers hovering over the register's screen. "One choc– Oh. Wait, it's– Sorry, but… did you come in here last year? I swear, I– I'm terrible with names but I never forget a face."

"I…"

There is no recognition, none that you had hoped for. No sass, no crooked smile.

"Halloween! You– you came in here on Halloween, you and… two friends? Three friends? You had a costume with the–"

He waves and flaps his arm about and fuck.

Halloween. Your last night out drunk. Bar hopping through Brooklyn and you had insisted on mercy, a coffee, my fucking sanity for a coffee and a chair to hang my–

"Wings. Purple," you finish, dazed and disbelieving.

“Purple wings!” the guy all but exclaims, mouth drawing into an elated smile. “You said you’d wanted to dress up as a sprite but–”

“But my friend misunderstood the assignment.”

“I meant Sprite, like the drink. That would have been hilarious, this is derivative. Or I’m not drunk enough!”

They took it as a challenge, and when you woke up…

“Sorry, I know you said this was fine, but…are you okay?”

He was there. He found– 

“I’m sorry, what was your name again?” you ask, looking at his shirt for any sign of a name tag and finding none.

“Oh! I– You caught me right before my break, I’d already pulled off my apron.” He rifles under the counter, pulling up a hastily folded up apron, shaking it loose and holding it up, pointing to the name tag pinned on the left side.

“I’m Bucky. And… you?”

Bastard. Those infuriating smiles at your final parting.

“You’ll be okay.”

You worry you lip, letting the seconds tick by. Bucky’s smile falters a little.

“Oh. Right. Sorry, that’s– Unprofessional. Forget I said anything, I’ll go in the backroom now and–”

Smiling feels foreign, but it’s like welcoming back a dear friend, small and timid as it might be. In one decisive move, you push back the cup of coffee.

“Why don’t you make this to go, and I’ll tell you?”

Brooklyn in spring, and maybe the warmth is a little artificial when Bucky’s panic melts into the sweetest smile, the corners quirked just so. Your soul trembles in response, and in your ears, words carried from a dream echo:

You’ll be okay.

[gwacha]

"I know your weakness."

—Unnamed SKTS drabble for my skts discord server challenge —rated E, ~600 words. fwb, biting, bickering, omi's kind of a dick here and so is atsumu lmao.

—completely unedited sorry in advance ———

One useful strength of Kiyoomi's is that he's ambidextrous.

Kiyoomi has always made the most of this strength in every aspect of his life. It doesn't sound like a big deal, but it's helped him in more ways than even he'd originally imagined—both of his hands are always active, always ready to move or write or hold without the clunkiness one typically would expect from their non-dominant hand. It's a learned strength, not an innate one, so he appreciates it all the more.

One occasionally useful peculiarity of Kiyoomi's is that he's ambidextrous.

It doesn't sound like a big deal, and it's not for the most part—but it's helped him in more ways than he'd ever originally imagined. Both of his hands are always active, always ready to move or write or spike without the clunkiness one typically would expect. It's a learned strength, not an innate one, built up carefully over time with training and conscious practice, so Kiyoomi appreciates it all the more.

It's especially useful in situations like this one, he's learned.

"You're more desperate than usual," Kiyoomi points out matter-of-factly, studying the body writhing under him one might a mind-numbing textbook. He starts his left hand's thumb at Atsumu's collarbones, smearing a droplet of sweat that beads at the bone there in mild fascination—something he'd normally find unbecoming.

On Atsumu, it is stunning.

Atsumu thrashes, his hips pressed into the sheets only with the power of spite and trembles with the threat to bow off the bed every time Kiyoomi tightens his other hand's grip on his dick or runs a thumb over the slit—which is often, because Kiyoomi is a fucking devil in every respect.

"Fuckin' touch me properly already, then," Atsumu gasps out, chunks of gelled blonde matting as his head rolls to the side, eyes squeezed shut. "Stop psychoanalyzin' me like ya know me."

This garners the reaction Atsumu was likely rooting for—a twitch of his fingers, a furrow of the brow. Kiyoomi doesn't like being underestimated, nor does he like being lied to.

"I do know you," Kiyoomi reminds him almost plainly, the hand that started at his collarbones now trailing over his bicep, over his forearm, then along Atsumu's own hand. They splay to follow the grooves of Atsumu's joints, where Kiyoomi lets his gloved fingertips rub along the calloused skin there, littered with odd bumps and scratches from years of high-level volleyball. His more occupied hand gives a particularly rough stroke. "I know your strengths."

Atsumu whines, desperately trying to push more into Kiyoomi's hand. "Fuck, fuckfuckfuck, Omi." Clicking his tongue, Kiyoomi prompts him to stay still with another bite, ravishing the indents only when he's satisfied.

"Your weaknesses, too." Kiyoomi says, still mouthing at his neck. "I know them better than you do, Miya. And you know mine."

"What did I say about callin' me that in bed?" snaps Atsumu, his voice extinguishing halfway through. Kiyoomi feels his vocal chords vibrate, and relishes the thrum.

"Exhibit one," Kiyoomi jokes flatly, and promptly dips to nip at the flesh under Atsumu's ear, which leaves him keening. "And that was exhibit two."

It's not an observation that needs to be verbalized. Atsumu knows it too, somewhere deep inside of him—Kiyoomi just verbalizes it because he knows it bothers Atsumu as much as it arouses him, that Kiyoomi knows his way around his every part of his body, every nerve, every dip and jut that makes Atsumu Atsumu. It's the natural culmination of all of the times they've fucked around, from spontaneous, meaningless blowjobs all the way to slow, intimate scenes that linger in the air hours after its end, threatening to crumble their carefully crafted facade of just friends that have sex. Relishing this thought, Kiyoomi leans back to admire his work while he continues to stroke. He's surprised Atsumu's held on for so long, really.

Like clockwork, Atsumu moans again, and Kiyoomi recognizes its pitch immediately as one at the precipice of an incoming climax. "No more talking, I—I'm right there, Omi, I—"

"Say it." Kiyoomi tightens his grip, but slows down.

Atsumu chokes, trying to get away, trying to get closer, he doesn't know— "What the fuck are ya—Omi, I'm going to come, just—"

"Say I know you. Tell me you didn't mean it."

"You fuckin' possessive, control-freak bastard—"

"Say it." Kiyoomi stills completely, watching Atsumu with rapt attention. "Say it, Atsumu."

Atsumu whines, fishing his hand out under Kiyoomi's to cover his face, debating between two impossible evils, but Kiyoomi knows Atsumu well. Inside and out, from head to toe, can differentiate the minutiae of how Atsumu likes his pain, how he likes his pleasure.

He has all the evidence to believe he knows Atsumu.

By tonight, he will hear what he wants to hear.

[hebuiltfive]

The Depths - for # FABFIVEFEB

I thought I'd try my hand at @gumnut-logic's Fab-Five-Feb challenge this week. I chose the prompt 'lost'. It wasn't supposed to be sad, but apparently that's all I'm good at writing at the moment. Maybe I might try to write up a cheerier fic with another prompt for Gordon before the week is out. Anywho, I hope you enjoy! <3

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Each of the boys had their own coping strategies for when a mission went south. 

For Gordon, he often found himself down on one of the secret beaches of Tracy Island, swimming trunks on. Occasionally, he’d take Thunderbird 4 out for a dive, but that wasn’t going to suffice. Today, he planned on just getting into the water, to feel the waves lap around his body, to just let go of the world for a while. Besides, taking his rescue vehicle out would only further remind him of the very mission he was trying so hard to forget.

Gordon wasn’t usually one to feel so lost within his thoughts, at least not outwardly so. Normally, he’d be able to find someway to lighten the mood. This time was different, though. This was one of those rare occurrences where, no matter what they did, disaster was going to claim the lives of the people International Rescue were trying to save, and for Gordon, that also meant having to helplessly watch.

He shook off the mental images of the scorch marks that were seared onto his mind, of the burning embers of the building that still filled his nostrils, of the pleas of the people he was unable to reach in time that still crescendoed in his ears. Unable to reach because they’d got there too late. Unable to reach because he knew he wouldn’t get to them in time and, instead of trying anyway, he’d just stopped. If he went in further, he’d have been lost to the fire too.

Events became a self-fulfilling prophecy. Gordon was usually the first person to tell others that being calm was the most important thing to be in a crisis, and yet he allowed the fear to take over him in that moment. He never usually let that happen. He usually remained level headed in the field, he always remained calm, but there, in that smoky warehouse where he knew all efforts would be pointless, he had just frozen. Virgil reminded him constantly on the ride home that there was no outcome where they could have saved those people, and that by going further in to that building would have been a risk to their own lives, but that wasn’t an excuse to Gordon. 

What made his life more valuable than those trapped workers? 

What made his life more valuable than any of those people they had failed to save in the past?

What made his live so valuable that he got to live?

Those questions, so profound and deep, kept eating away at him. They would continue to eat away at him. Even when he might have thought that he’d successfully shelved them away (at least until the next disaster happened) they’d still remain, in the back of his mind, because that’s what survivor’s guilt did. It would keep niggling, keep asking, keep attacking him with the same query: why did he get to live if the others couldn’t?

That wasn’t to say that Gordon wasn’t glad to be alive, or that he took his life for granted. Oh, no, he made sure that he made the most of everyday. Some of his antics usually resulted in causing Scott to grow a few more grey hairs by the end of it, but Gordon was aware of his luck. Especially when it came to his line of work, and especially after so many near misses and close calls. He was still there— all of his brothers were — after everything they'd been through, and those people were not. 

Gordon didn’t usually allow himself to get lost in those thoughts, not only because it wasn’t helpful in the slightest, but also because it was always painful to dwell on. He knew the thoughts were normal. He was aware that those questions were the fundamentals to anyone suffering with survivor’s guilt. He also had suspicions that his brothers often had the same process of thinking after disastrous missions.  But ‘normal’ didn’t have to equate to ‘getting used to’, or ‘should be expected’. ‘Normal' wasn’t always reassuring, and it shouldn’t always be related as such because it sure as hell wasn’t reassuring him currently. 

There was only thing one thing that Gordon knew would reassure him; the water. The water would help. The water would refresh him. The water would help him lose himself in a far better way than theses thoughts ever could.

The sandals he wore to get down to the beach were carelessly thrown to the sand. Two steps forward and the gentle tides of the water washed over his feet. A few more steps and he was submerged in the water up to his waist. Kicking off the sandy bank, Gordon finally dove under the surface. Air bubbles rose before him, the sound of the depths of the ocean filling his ears and subsequently calming him. 

Peace. 

It was a peace unlike anything one could find on the shore. So far removed from everyone and everything, it was a peace that was as unique as the silence John found and appreciated up on Thunderbird Five. The waves of the sea that took him further and deeper, the shoals of fish that swam under, over and all around him, the vibrant coral reefs that grew near the banks and the rocks of the island— this was Gordon’s terrain. 

He allowed his body to float back up to the surface. The sun was soon to start setting over the horizon. Gordon had told himself that he’d stay there, treading the blue depths, until night settled. That way he would also be avoiding any mollycoddling from his family. He didn’t want that right now. He didn’t need it. All he needed was a chance to get those memories out of his mind, to meditate them away the only way he knew how. 

He dove back under the waves. With a powerful butterfly stroke, Gordon swam deeper and deeper. Away from the world above. Away from the questions that haunted his mind. Away from the memories, and the sounds, and the smells. 

Away from everything, until it was just him and the sea.

[ladala99]

Detective Pikachu Returns - Final Thoughts and Review

I just finished Detective Pikachu Returns. So here's a review! Non-spoiler things up top, then spoilery things under the cut! (assuming the site doesn't cut it early)

Gameplay

First up, don't buy this game if you're expecting to get a game. Unless you're just learning how to read and reason (in which case, get off Tumblr please), this game will give you zero challenge.

Much like the first game, you're poking around locations, finding clues until Pikachu tells you that you have enough information to solve something. Those solve prompts are multiple-choice and if you select the wrong one, you're just told to try again.

Of note, the game does give you somewhat plausible alternate answers in your multiple-choice prompts, so a child might find some challenge in trying to pick the right answer every time.

...Unless you turn on the "highlight correct answers" option in the Options menu. Just in case you wanted to eliminate any semblance of gameplay.

There are also very occasional quick-time events. They mostly involve mashing the A button. I actually failed one of the few that actually involve timing and nothing bad happened, there was just a slightly-altered cutscene.

New in this game, though, is that you can play as some additional Pokemon. They each have a gimmick that changes gameplay a slight amount.

There are also (pretty easy, but patience-testing) stealth sections. These feel unfinished due to the animations being really rough, but the actual gameplay of them is fine.

Worldbuilding

This is where the game excels. Pokemon are all around, doing their thing, and actually feeling like they live in the world unlike the main series games. New Snap does it better, but...

You can talk to the Pokemon here and learn what they're thinking about, building more of an idea of how they live.

There are quite a few minor but recurring characters that, as you interact with them, you feel like you get to know.

Story

Is pretty good. It's incredibly predictable, but it's fun uncovering the whys even after you've figured out the whos.

Can't really say more without getting into spoilers, so I'll come back to this.

Graphics/Animations

One of the appeals of this sub-series is the vastly improved animations over other titles in the series. As before, New Snap does it better, but this game is still fairly solid in the animation department.

However, it does feel like the developers cut some corners they didn't in the first game. There are a lot of reused animations here, sometimes in uncharacteristic ways. Characters use their default expressions entirely too often, hampering the emotional impact of some scenes.

Also in the first game, the lip flaps are synced to English in the English-language edition. Here, they certainly aren't. I'm assuming they're synced to the Japanese dialogue, but I played in English so I can't be sure.

But there are scenes they put a lot more effort into, and those really shine through. Unfortunately, it's not the whole game like the first time.

Graphics-wise, the humans (especially Tim) are far superior to the first game, but the textures on everything are very flat in comparison to other Pokemon games on the Switch. It's certainly not distractingly bad.

Conclusion

If you like the Pokemon world's worldbuilding and treat this game as a very long movie (it took me 15 hours to finish it), then it's worth it.

If you're looking for a video game to play, it's not.

You can also watch videos of other people playing the game, but honestly, seeing clips of other people's gameplay, it feels slower and more boring than when you're actually in control. (You can also speed up the walking speed in the Options menu amongst other things)

But yeah, it's hit or miss.

The Part with Spoilers

(This is back to disjointed thoughts like the others. Just felt like making this one post since I writing it in one day)

The last chapter. Ooh, the last chapter was so fun.

Using all of the Pokemon again was so great, bringing everything together.

I did wish the Pangoro puzzle was a little more difficult, but I'm definitely not the target audience.

I absolutely called... everything in the final sequence. The Mayor being manipulated, the real culprit being that greasy-haired scientist, Deoxys.

I didn't call that the scientist wanted to become a Pokemon, though. That does feel a little unoriginal, but honestly even without the movie, since Harry was Pikachu that could always have been the story.

The ending did feel a bit rushed, though. Like: guess and check literally being what you had to do?

Also this building is very much not OSHA compliant with how difficult it is to get to any of the stairs.

Deoxys vs. Mewtwo was really cool. As was Harrychu Volt Tackling.

And of course Harry was able to figure out how to make sure everyone survived offscreen.

So I guess, now that they're split, there's no more chance for a third game. Which is fine - there doesn't seem to be much else to explore as far as these characters go.

Divorce subplot really went nowhere, though. There was no explanation as to why he had decided to do that.

Post-credits scene - I guess Sophia could be in another sequel if they stretch it? They'd have to really stretch it, though. Because again: no talking Pikachu, no game.

But yeah, overall really enjoyed this sequence and very satisfied with the game. It was a nice break - but onto Octopath next!

[coffeedrgn87]

Blurbs On Writing (2022 Edition)

I had this idea for a little thought compilation about my writing a while back, but I held back, unsure whether I wanted to write it all down. If I am honest, the thought of sharing something personal scared me, and still does. Today, I decided that I do want to look back on my writing exploits over the past year and add my observations. These will be at random, and I'll note them down as they come into my head. You can find the list after the break.

I enjoy writing for someone (I like the challenge), and teasing the recipient with excerpts or talking about their idea with them makes me so happy. There's something special about sharing a piece of my writing with someone or dedicating it to a particular person. Unfortunately, I don't get to do this nearly enough, and my anxiety makes it difficult to reach out to people. Occasionally, I'll jump over my shadow and ask, but it takes a lot of effort, and most of the time, I do not have the energy.

I guess not many people like reading unfinished or WIP multi-chapter things, and I understand why it doesn't work for some folx, but I've discovered that I love writing this way. It's hard for me to withdraw into a corner, quietly work on something long, and only share it once it's completely done. I don't know how other writers feel about creating their work and/or sharing it as they go, but my personal perception is that even if an author posts a chapter a week or every other day, the work is usually already finished. I may be entirely mistaken, so don't consider this opinion etched in stone. For me, writing a chapter and sharing it is thrilling. The anticipation of being able to share an update, the readers' excitement, and potential interaction via comments/messages. I thrive on that. It often lets me incorporate ideas, tweak future chapters slightly, or sometimes change course entirely.

I absolutely adore one-word prompts. There's something magical about building a short story around a prompt. Sometimes the story is centred around the prompt; other times, it's just a support, an aid. Whichever it is, it's always exciting. I particularly enjoy noun prompts, though I don't limit myself in that regard. The way these tiny prompts spark an idea is magical, but it's also frustrating when you stare at a prompt and draw a complete blank. Especially when that uninspiring prompt is part of a challenge.

Describing scenes, particularly outdoor scenes such as a forest, a meadow, a cave, or a beach (to name but a few), is such fun. I like painting a pretty picture, going into detail about what's happening, what can be seen, how things smell, what they look like... It's not been a big focus for me before, but in 2022 I really made it my priority, and I feel it's elevated my writing. I've had a few lovely comments from readers who enjoyed it, so I guess I'm on the right track.

Smells and tastes are a delight to describe, and I first dipped my toes into making that a priority when I took part in a fest in 2020, but it took time for me to turn it into a habit. My Google search has since learnt that I like to research these things. Thrilling. Thank you, Google, my trusted research partner.

If I can make it happen, I like it when my characters spent time in the kitchen. Growing up, a lot of life happened in our kitchen (mainly because my dad was a kitchen person, but it's also my inner cat, associating the kitchen with warmth, chatter, and coffee, which awakens the dragon in me), and that shows in my writing. I think I did it unconsciously until I, at one point, added the tag "life happens in the kitchen" to one of my fics on AO3, and now writing scenes in the kitchen has become a staple of mine.

I never thought I might enjoy writing sprints with other people, but for a brief period, I got to try this and found it delightful. It tickled my competitive side. Perhaps I'll dip my toes into that again at some point...we'll see.

I've gotten much better at showing rather than telling how a character feels, and it's become such a joy to add in all those little descriptors that my readers can hopefully identify with when they read my works.

Eyes seem to be something I focus a lot on when describing a person. Eyes are stunning, and I truly enjoy describing them, especially the colour and how it makes the other person feel. Knowing that one of my characters is smiling or laughing or just genuinely happy makes me happy, and I always quietly hope that the same applies to my readers.

I'm no longer all that fussed about writing super-detailed sex scenes. I go there, but in recent months I've found that stripping away some of the details of the actual "this goes there in this way" and replacing it with feelings or a character's reaction gives me much more joy. Perhaps it's loosely related to a recent discovery I made about myself, or perhaps it's just my writing evolving, but I find this interesting. We'll see where this goes. One thing that I'm very sure about, though, is that my love for smut will always burn brightly.

Pets or animals in general. I love including a pet or an animal as a character, especially when I can give them an attitude, a quirk, or something that makes the pet or animal a delight to read. I've invented a few furry/feathery/scaly companions over the past year, and it's something I want to focus on even more. I'd be happy to have 50K of one character + a menagerie of animals, and while I don't know how my readers would feel about that, a writer can dream, can they not?

I don't especially feel like I'm part of my favourite fandoms. This might be a sad revelation, but it's true. While I thrive on making new connections and responding to messages/comments (after all, I am a chatterbug), I sadly am not the kind of person to reach out to people. It takes me forever to decide to take the plunge, and my anxiety always wreaks havoc on every attempt. I no longer feel confident enough to make the first move. I overthink, worry, and convince myself that there isn't a space for me. On a few occasions, it's made me want to stop writing, but I have since learnt not to give in to that impulse. My writing is all mine. It's something I would never give up, not for anyone. Still, not having that sense of belonging makes it hard to connect. I tried for a while, but I just don't have that much strength (for personal reasons, I won't elaborate any further).

Lastly, (and to end this on a positive note) I have learnt not to compare myself to other writers, whether they've been published or whether they're fanfic writers whose works I gobble up like coffee. Occasionally, the feeling still creeps in, but for the most part, I manage to ignore it. To continue to grow as a writer, I need to be able to appreciate without feeling like reading a gorgeous piece of writing makes me want to give up on my own writing. Instead, I allow other works to push me towards doing better.

[stinastar]

MI6 Cafe Creators Tag Game

What work of yours challenged you when you were creating it? Well, I’m new to the fandom & only have one thing I’ve finished and posted in the fandom so far, lol. The first was pretty easy. So, I guess the 5+1 that I’m currently working on. The first four sections of the first draft came pretty easily, but I’ve been stumbling a bit on the fifth.

What is a fanwork you’ve seen which gave you a new headcanon about a character? Hmm... OH. I read a fic where Q loses a bet to Eve and has his nails painted gold, and was a bit obsessed with that visual. I don’t know if it’s exactly a hc, but I think he deserves gold painted fingernails and it would be utterly distracting and tantalizing. I encourage everyone to give him painted nails, as a treat :p

Is there a fanwork that you really want to make, but you haven’t started yet? So the 5+1 is something like 5 times Q unintentionally hurt James by reminding him of Vesper, and one time it was a comfort, but it ended up being from Q’s POV. So, because I’m a little angst gremlin, even though I haven’t finished writing it, I’m already thinking about writing a companion piece that’s from Bond’s POV for 300% more angst lol.

What fanwork of yours surprised you, and how? The first 4 parts of the 5+1 did in how easily they flowed onto the page, and I’m really happy with Q’s voice in it.

What themes/styles/subjects are common across many of your fanworks? Alternatively, what themes/styles/subjects are you most interested in creating? I think if you go all the way back through my fanworks the results are a bit skewed, because I did a lot of prompt writing. But I guess I tend to write pining, getting together, fluff, h/c & angst. I always have happy endings and I do not accept MCD lol. I throw MCD in the trashbin. The things that are born from my brain rather than prompts tend to always centre around angst / h/c. I am generally starving for angst, I really love a good angsty fic with a heap of comfort. I thought you were dying and confessed my love kinda flavour. I thought I lost you/almost lost you and will now never let you go 👌🏻👌🏻

What other fandoms do you create for, if any? I started in Good Omens and still write for it occasionally, I was most prolific in The Witcher and still have a ton of WIP for it that I may or may not ever finish, and I wrote one for Our Flag Means Death, which I have notes for a follow up for, again, if I ever actually write it... I have notes for a LOTR fic that will probably never see the light of day 😅 I also have some original projects, current WIP is MLM with a vampire. I also write poetry.

Is there an artist that you like to listen to while you create? Or one whose work always inspires you? No, I need music without lyrics when I write, or I get too distracted. ADHD, baby! I usually listen to lo-fi music while writing, occasionally something like “peaceful piano.”

Share a fanwork that you’ve found yourself thinking about weeks after reading/seeing it. Ok, again, I’m suuuuper new to the fandom. I read my first 00Q fic maybe a couple weeks ago. Mlle_Heloise’s general universe lives rent-free in my head. I adore their OC Stella. I read most of their fics in a bit of a fugue state, and literally read them back to back over the course of a couple days, so they’re a bit mushed together in my head. So I’ll just go ahead and say all of their works, lol. Then living on the faultline by @thestalwartheart was one of the tastiest angsty fics I’ve read in quite a while!

Finally, share where you post your works! I post all of my fics to both @stinawrites here and on AO3 under stinastar.

Tagging @aprettyspy @boffin1710 @slimysuckers I realize y’all might have done this ages back, but I’m new here, so... apologies, haha.

@spiritofcamelot @mi6-cafe

[worthyenergylife]

The amazing spider man 2 games

Jonah Jameson-inspired "menace meter." Dull, dull, dull. Success prompts a quick news report that recycles a few lines of audio over a still photo of the hero in action, plus a lowering of the J. Spidey can stealthily infiltrate a Russian gangster hideout to find a new suit, beat up some thugs trying to break-and-enter, rescue citizens from a burning building and more. There are plenty of banal side missions to be found around New York, and they feel like they were rushed to pad out the already short seven-hour-or-so campaign. It's obviously an artistic challenge to make a masked man look interesting while talking, which is partially why super-heroes often doff their masks in the movies, but in this case the animators clearly overdid it. In cut scenes, Spider-Man often looks drunk when talking – he flails his arms and sways side-to-side, like he's in a bad Rob Ford video. It's hard to enjoy a game when the fundamentals are so wonky, but it's even more difficult when all the little accouterments are sub-par too. Yet, without any obvious way to lock onto enemies, I often found myself attacking lesser thugs while vainly trying to focus on the machine-gun-toting baddies that were busy blasting away at me.

He can also use his web shooters to gum up opponents, disarm their weapons or rush at them. Spidey uses the same timing-based system as that found in the Batman Arkham games, where his spider-sense tells him when to dodge. The fights also suffer from camera issues, which is too bad because they're almost enjoyable. It's annoying in innocuous situations, such as while trying to gather the hundreds of collectible comic book pages hidden around the city, but frequently deadly when battling a super-villain on a rooftop. Trying to navigate between different modes of locomotion – swinging, wall-crawling and running, and using Spider-Man's slow-motion fast-dash "web rush" – is a frustrating mess because the camera either can't keep up, or it reorients too quickly, making it extraordinarily easy to overshoot your intended targets. But if he gets up close to them or tries to navigate between some tight nooks and crannies… oh boy – that's when the camera problems start. This all works well if he swings in a straight line between New York's cavernous skyscrapers. He also swings higher and further the longer the respective trigger is held, and he often gets caught without anything to latch onto if he's up too high above the buildings. The actual act of web-swinging is indeed more realistic in The Amazing Spider-Man 2, with Spidey shooting webs from his left and right wrists depending on which controller trigger is pressed. The important thing is that he was able to move along swiftly and smoothly, with the occasional "yahoo!" or "whoo!" expressing the same rush the player might have been feeling. Spidey simply shot webs and, as in the cartoons, no one ever really cared what they were attaching to.

In some of those earlier games, zipping along was a simple and elating affair. And the worst part is, Beenox has broken the cardinal if-it-ain't-broke-don't-fix-it rule by messing with the one thing that made its previous games enjoyable: web-swinging. Terrible writing, outdated menus, frequent load times, repetitive missions and bugs galore – we're not talking spiders – conspire to make this latest release a chore to play through. Those efforts, from Shattered Dimensions (2010) and Edge of Time (2011) to the eponymous game tied the 2012 movie, at least served up enough Spidey-ness to please die-hard fans. The Amazing Spider-Man 2 is an inauspicious fail for Beenox, the Quebec City-based developer responsible for the previous trio of console games starring everyone's favourite wall-crawler. "Terrible" might actually be a more accurate description. "Amazing" is hardly the word to describe the latest Spider-Man game.

[vessel-of-gold]

Prompt #05: Reflection

He awoke from deep slumber. The air was dry in the forsaken mountain cave that he called home, and smelled of metal. The sound of glistening coins, scraping on one another, echoed a beautiful symphony with every movement of his heavy body. Many a sword and mastercraft pottery was amassed here, but nothing pleased him as much as the aurean shimmer of gold. It was his bed as much as it was his altar. He was absolutely, to the brink of his being, content. 

There was no memory of a time before the cave, his vault, his fortress, but he did not care about anything that happened before. Sometimes, however, he had dreams of another life. A mortal life. In those dreams he was so frail, so powerless, that he had to seek help from another. He did not like those fabrications of his sleep, but now he was awake.

Instinctively, he dug one of his great talons into the mound of riches. There was something he was looking for, he did not know what it was, but he would remember once he found it. Gemstones and jewelry were tossed aside. None of them revealed itself to be what he sook.

Suddenly, there was a voice inside of his most sacred chamber.

“Greetings to you, Ruusa Anh.”

As quick as a spooked cat he whirled his long body around to where the voice was coming from, tail raised for a strike, his mighty body erected in a threatening pose.

There was a man in dark robes and with dark, long hair sitting at the foot of an old statue. He had pointed ears and there were symbols written on to his forehead that the dragon did not recognize. The rattling of coin must have covered his approach, there was no other way he could have evaded his attention otherwise.

“Who art thou who dares enter my vault?” he roared in return. His deep voice was full of mastery, he noted complacently, as he did not remember to ever have used it. It was echoed by the dry stone and resonated so full that the cave seemed to quake - The only object that did not shake was the intruder in front of him. 

“Ilmarin is the name mortals have chosen for me. But I am no stranger to you. We have met in the tranquility of your slumber.“ If the little man was intimidated by his display, he did not show it. Even that his voice sounded puny in contrast did not seem to trouble him in the slightest. What a curious thing.

“You called for me, so I came. It is I who is here to take you with me. Look.”

From under his black gown he produced a beautiful mirror. A big crack split the reflective glass in two. The wyrm recognized it at once. And then he recognized the man, too. He had indeed seen him in his sleep. In his slumber he did befriend him, but now he was awake.

“This doth not belong in thine hands.” He growled slowly. His monstrous body leaned in, closer - until he was but a few yalms away from the black haired man, who, to his further surprise, did not flinch.

“You are right,” the intruder simply said and lifted the mirror so that it faced the wyrm who sought to assail him, “it belongs to you.These splinters of your own being shall be returned to their rightful owner. Take what is yours. I, Ilmarin, set you free from your curse.”

Ruusa Anh felt the aether woven into these words, from teeth to talon, down to his very core. Now, the syllables echoed as mightily as his own voice did just moments before. His eyes were drawn onto the broken mirror. As if it was an organic thing with a mind on it’s own, the large tear began to mend, slowly, from the bottom to the top of the precious jade frame. But what it revealed was not the mighty serpent that he was, but the face of a horned man. The man he was in his dreams.

He cried out in surprise but soon his moaning was filled with sorrow instead. Memories flooded back into his mind. Of an ancient time when he had been a revered spirit, of times of arrogance, of the curse that had imprisoned his spirit in this cave without him even noticing his own rebirth as man. Then of present times, times of comradery, of the simple joys of life, of marvel and affection for the man who still stood before him, his liberator.

Those memories were true and more real than all that he had previously accepted as his happy lot. He was bodies entwined, he was souls conjoined. He was free. 

The man clad in black smiled softly, as the vault, that had been a prison in disguise, crumbled around them and turned into a silvery mist that hung amidst a space of strange nothingness. 

__________

featuring @a-grave-for-moths ‘s lovely character

[commander-vas-normandy]

getting stupid drunk with matt and its just dumb fluffy nonsense like getting excited over take out and trying to kiss but you just like knock teeth together and laugh

This was so much fun to write actually so bless you for this prompt. Short and sweet! Enjoy!!

***

Rain pattered across the large windows of Matt’s apartment, mixing with the quiet background music you had put on while cooking dinner. It made for a nice white noise behind your laughter as Matt told you stories from his days at college with Foggy. The plans for the night had initially been to go out for dinner, have a proper date since it had been a while with your hectic work schedules, but between the sudden pouring rain and end of week exhaustion you had both opted to stay in. You loved those nights most of all though. There were no expectations, no too tight clothes, no reigning yourself in to be polite to others - it was just you and Matt.

You laid with your head in Matt’s lap, talking animatedly after one too many glasses of wine. He didn’t mind the way you gestured wildly mostly for yourself. It was endearing the way your whole body could get involved in a story when you were really into it. He had zoned out of your own college stories a while ago, mostly listening to your heartbeat as it picked up with your excitement and paired with the occasional laugh. The wine in his own system had mellowed him out in contrast to your ever growing excitement. Even with your chatter he had slowly started to doze, lulled into a relaxed security by your presence until suddenly you shot up from his lap with a gasp. He jolted in response, listening for signs of trouble before you reached for his hand.

“Matty! This is my favorite song, please you have to dance with me!” He eased at the sound of your childlike excitement as you tried to tug him to stand up and laughed. He let you pull him to a more open area of the living room, catching you as you nearly tripped over yourself in excitement.

“You’re sure you’re up for a dance, sweetheart?” He questioned and you simply beamed up at him, reaching to put his hand on your hip. You tried to set a rhythm, but it only turned into Matt laughing as you went into a giggle fit at yourself.

“Listen! I know what I’m doing, Murdock! I am as graceful as they come, thank you very much.” You took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself and take the moment seriously, but the second Matt raised a questioning brow at you it was over. You doubled over in laughter, falling into Matt who kept you on your feet in his tight grasp. “Okay, okay, okay, maybe I don’t know what I’m doing, but when has that ever stopped me before?”

“It hasn’t and I think that might be the problem,” he teased and you gasped in mock offense, standing up straighter in his arms.

“Here I am trying to be romantic and have a sweet moment with my dearest husband whomst I have hardly seen all week and you are just going to insult me like this? Wow. You think you know a guy.” You poked your lip out in a dramatic pout, bringing his hand up to your face to make sure he was fully aware of said pout. “I think this requires drastic measures. No kisses for the rest of the night.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” He played along and you grinned.

“Oh I think I would,” you challenged, attempting to step away from him to prove your point but he wasn’t having it. You yelped as he only pulled you in tighter and grinned triumphantly. You knew for a fact that there was no breaking free from his grip if he didn’t want you to, especially when you were a giggly mess in the first place, but it didn’t stop you from at least attempting to. Trying your best to wriggle away as he tried to steal a kiss only resulted in accidentally headbutting each other.

“I think we might need to call it a night…” you whispered, suddenly very solemn at the pain even though he could still pick out the faintest of playfulness still tucked away in your tone. He kissed your forehead with a quiet chuckle.

“I think you might be right.”

“Take me away, Murdock,” you sighed dramatically and he swiftly plucked you from your feet to carry you to the bedroom where you passed out immediately, leaving him to clean up after your night in. He didn’t mind though. He would clean up a thousand messes as long as it meant getting to keep making these little memories with you.

[freddie-weaselbee]

Someone Blue//F.W.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader 

Warnings: Slight language, angst, a lot of confusion, fluffy ending

Summary: Fred spots a familiar face at his brother’s wedding, and has a sinking suspicion about why she’s acting so upset during this time of celebration. 

Prompts: Enemies to Lovers (kind of) and Weddings with the dialogue prompts “you look like you need a hug” and “did you need something?”

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Day 1 of @theweasleyslut‘s 2k writing challenge 

Angelina looked absolutely ethereal, skin glowing in the shimmering lights as she glided across the grass as if it was a ballroom floor. Her white dress was slightly stained, mostly from when her now husband tackled her to the ground after their first kiss as a married couple, and yet it only made her seem all the more angelic. 

George’s feet seemed to never touch the ground. He was moving at record speeds, prancing and hopping and skipping around the dance floor, dragging his wife along with him. It was the most joyful Fred had ever seen him. 

Not when they left Hogwarts, not when they opened their shop, not even when Angelina said yes to the proposal could have compared to the happiness on George’s face. Nor Angelina’s. They were in a pure state of bliss. 

The rest of the wedding-goers seemed to match their energy. Fred couldn’t go anywhere without being bombarded with drunken laughs and horrid dancing, and the occasional congratulations or two from some tipsy guests who didn’t know that the man they were talking to wasn’t the groom. 

All in all, it was an amazing night. The field behind the burrow had become a traditional wedding venue for the growing Weasley children, so far hosting Bill, Percy, Ron, and now George’s days to remember. The tents and lights were all set up as they were with Bill and Fleur’s wedding, except this time there was no risk of Death Eaters ruining the event. Hopefully. 

However, while making his way around to talk to (and flirt with) the guests, Fred happened to notice one person who did not fit the overzealous tone. Well, he didn’t really happen to notice. Rather he’d been staring at her throughout the entire night, watching her somber mood break through her happy façade. Not that he’d ever admit that to anyone. 

You were standing by yourself, but you weren’t secluded from the action. Rather, you were right in the middle of things, on the very edge of the dance floor, staring out at the masses of bodies swinging their partners around. Your arms were crossed over your chest, a defensive position that Fred had seen so many times in you before. 

He turned away and tried to ignore it. It wasn’t any of his business if you were upset. The two of you were barely even friends anymore. You had cut him out of your life so many years ago and never looked back. To this day, Fred still didn’t know why, and it killed him. 

He wanted to walk away. To go the other direction toward a beautiful guest wearing a flowing red dress, hair done up perfectly. The stranger would be the smart choice. A fun way to spend the evening, dancing around and snogging under moonlit trees. But, against his better judgement, Fred’s heart wouldn't let him leave. 

Sighing, Fred lifted his feet and made his way in the other direction, to the girl who couldn’t care less about him. 

You stood unmoving, except for a subtle sway to the music. People brushed by you, but you paid them no mind. You were too focused on something else. As Fred drew nearer, he was able to follow your line of sight to the people in question. The newlyweds. 

Fred bristled before softening slightly. Of course. This must be about George. Back at Hogwarts, Fred was positive you had the biggest crush on his brother. You were always tagging along with their jokes, even when they got you into huge trouble. You definitely spent more time alone with George than Fred, sharing whispers and stares at the expense of the older twin. He could never get George to break and tell him what you two talked about. George even took you to the Yule Ball in your 6th year. You had never looked as radiant as you did that night, except for maybe this moment. Fred wished he had asked you to dance at the ball, but he never worked up the courage to. He didn’t want you to internally grimace at the thought of dancing with the “lesser” Weasley twin when George was right there. 

In his recollection of memories, Fred hadn’t noticed how close he had gotten to you, and how you were no longer gazing at the couple dancing. You were now staring at him. 

“Did you need something?”

Fred was shaken out of his imagination, met with an annoyed glare but soft smile coming from you. His surprise was immediately replaced with his signature cocky grin, leaning his hand onto one of the wedding tables while keeping his gaze on you. Unfortunately, his hand accidentally dipped into a wine glass, but he quickly pulled it out and hoped you didn’t notice. You did. 

“Well, that’s not a very nice way to greet one of your oldest friends, now is it?” Fred wiped his wine-covered hand on his suit pants and slipped it into his pocket, pretending to be unbothered by his previous mistake. 

You turned your eyes away from him, once again gluing them to the dance floor. “I think it’s fitting, seeing as how you were creepily staring at me for about 5 minutes before I said something.”

Fred’s ears grew pink at the accusation. “I, umm, I didn’t realize it was that long. Or that you noticed. Sorry.” He bashfully rubbed the back of his neck, pretending to glance around at other guests who might interest him more. 

“You still haven’t answered me.”

Fred cocked his head to the side in question. 

“Why’d you come over here? Was there something you needed?”

“Ah, yes well,” Fred began smoothly, “I saw this darling beauty from across the tent and I just could not take my eyes off of her--”

“Fred,” you interrupted. You were looking at him again, your gaze piercing through him, forcing him to tell you the truth, to tell you everything about him. His fears, his hopes and dreams, what he had for breakfast this morning. He wanted to tell you it all. 

“The truth, please.”

Clearing his throat, and his mind of whatever thoughts just plagued him, Fred decided to be honest. You deserved that much. 

“You look like you need a hug,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly. 

Evidently, those were not the words you were expecting to hear. You were prepared with about a dozen quips to say in response to whatever cocky joke Fred was about to make. But he didn’t, and nothing could have prepared you for what he did say. 

“I--I need a what?”

“Sorry, have you lost your hearing or was I not loud enough? It’s definitely not the second; you’ve told me on numerous occasions that I have the biggest mouth of anyone you know.”

There it was. But it still made you giggle, relaxing and gravitating closer to your companion. 

“I heard you,” you said, “just wasn’t expecting that from you, I guess.”

Fred took a half step closer, visibly glad when you didn’t move away. “Wasn’t expecting me to have noticed your behavior, or wasn’t expecting me to care if I did?”

It took you a few seconds to respond. “Both.”

He let out a sound of understanding before you both averted your eyes, looking straight ahead. Occasionally, Fred would try to look at you using his peripheral vision, and you would do the same. It became a kind of game--just an awkward back and forth between two people who used to be so close, and were now so far apart.

You game ended when one of the wedding guests decided to clink their glass, beginning a chorus of high pitched chimes to echo throughout the room. You watched as George turned to find Angelina, running to her to give her a kiss so full of love and passion that it took everything Fred had not to shout out a joke and ruin the moment. He could do that next time. 

He noticed you stiffen at the kiss, presumably because it was just another reminder of what you couldn’t have. George. 

“You know, I always wanted to be a Weasley.”

Fred was surprised that you had spoken to him, and even more surprised about the turn the conversation had taken. 

“I grew up with you guys,” you continued, not waiting for Fred to respond. “Molly was like my second mother, even though she always liked Hermione and Harry a bit more than me.”

“Join the club,” said Fred, causing you to laugh loudly, a sound he hadn’t heard from you in ages. Godric, how he had missed it.

“It’s just…” you trailed off, not knowing if you wanted to be open with Fred, someone you hadn’t spoken to in years. Chances were, you wouldn’t keep in touch much after the wedding, so you might as well. What was there to lose? “It’s just...seeing Angelina, one of my best friends, dance around, wearing that ring, getting to be an actual Weasley. It’s...it’s making me a wee bit jealous.”

Fred watched you fidget with a bracelet on your wrist and decided to push his luck just a bit more. “And you’re wishing that it could be you wearing the ring, married to a certain Weasley gentleman?”

The shock was evident in your expression. “No, no, it’s not--I mean I never…” Sighing, you decided to come clean. “Yeah, I’ve maybe been harboring feelings for a certain twin for, oh I don’t know, my entire life. No biggie though, it’s totally fine that he never asked me out.”

The ginger beside you threw an arm around your shoulder, handing you a glass of wine in the process. “Drink. It makes everything better.”

You glared at him, but took the glass anyways, chugging it down in a few large gulps. “Another, please,” you demanded, and Fred obliged. 

You started to ease into Fred’s side, as soft and comforting as you remembered it to be, before realizing exactly what it was you were doing. “Fred, can I ask you something?”

“‘Course. You can ask me anything.” The absolute last thing Fred wanted to be doing at the moment was talking about your undying love for his twin brother, at his wedding no less, but he didn’t want to leave you alone. Not seeing you for so long had had a harsher effect on him than he thought, and he didn’t want to leave your side. 

Taking a deep breath and gathering your courage, you asked him the question that had been plaguing your mind for years. The one that ate you from the inside out and kept you tossing and turning at night. The reason you had to separate yourself from your love in the first place. “Why am I not good enough?”

Your voice broke a tiny bit, but a lot less than you had been expecting. A tear did happen to slip out, and Fred quickly wiped it away, his fingertip resting on your cheek for a moment too long. 

“Y/N, love, come here.” Fred pulled you into that hug he had talked about earlier, holding you closely to his chest. If he thought you were going to appreciate the gesture, he was wrong. You pushed him away softly, refusing to let any more tears fall. 

“I’m serious, Fred. W-Why am I not good enough? I’ve made it clear for years and yet...nothing. And not even a simple rejection. I could’ve handled that, y’know. If I got a simple no, I could’ve handled it and moved on. But I never did, and it’s killing me. Why am I not good enough?”

It killed Fred to see you this upset, and it hurt him even more to see that the anger was directed at him and not at George. It was his brother that broke your heart after all, not him. “You are good enough!” Fred said, with enough truth and force that a little part of you believed it. “You’re, you’re too good! You’ve been by our side from the beginning and haven’t left it since. Well, we haven’t seen you in years, but that’s probably because of--”

You nodded, confirming what he thought. Your heartbreak had driven you away. 

“But other than that,” he continued, “you’ve been like my third arm. Any guy would be crazy to give you up, you know that?”

 A tiny smile grew on your face, but was gone as soon as it had arrived. “The timing...the timing was just all wrong, wasn’t it?” you asked. 

Fred nodded, watching his brother and his wife greet guests and take pictures that were sure to be on the mantle in the burrow as soon as the wedding was over. “Yeah, I guess so. The prick should’ve asked you out sooner.”

“Oh I agree wholeheartedly, he is a prick,” you said, poking his arm, a gesture that slightly confused him. “So, I’m guessing there’s no chance of anything happening now? No sliver of hope that maybe this could work out?”

He hated that he would be the one to crush your dreams, but he couldn’t let you keep living in false hope. “Well,” he said, “the wedding bands are on and they both said ‘I do.’ Kind of hard to come back from that. I’m sorry.”

You froze, now more befuddled than you had been all night. “I...what?”

Before Fred could say anything you reached to grab his left hand, checking his ring finger for something you knew wasn’t there, but you had to be sure. 

“Wedding bands? What in the world do you--” Realization hit you like a brick, and you wanted to slap yourself. Or Fred. Either one. But preferably the latter. 

“Frederick, my dear love, who do you think we have been talking about this whole time?” you asked, voice genuine but also teasing. 

Fred didn’t know what you all of a sudden found so amusing, but he was already doubting himself and he didn’t want you to make fun of him for whatever he had done wrong. 

“Umm, well you said a Weasley, and then you said a Weasley twin. So I thought the answer was obvious.”

“Say it,” you demanded. “Who have we been talking about? Who am I in love with after years of unrequited feelings?”

He felt like he was walking into a trap, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. He hesitated for a few seconds before your searing gaze forced him to answer. “George. We’re talking about my brother George.”

No sooner had his words left his mouth than your hand came up to slap his head. “You idiot! Are you serious right now?”

Fred stood flabbergasted, racking his brain for who else you could have been talking about. George was a Weasley twin. You said you were in love with a Weasley twin. Who else was there?

“It’s you, you big oaf!”

Oh. OH! There were two Weasley twins, and he was one of them. Which meant…

“You’re in love with me?!”

By this point, heads were turned to watch the scene and people were not-so-subtly whispering to their partners. 

You dragged a still surprised Fred through the crowd and out of the tents, finding a secluded enough area where you could talk. 

Fred’s brain had still not been caught up. “It’s me? You’re in love with me? But, but what about George?”

You furrowed your brow, wondering how Fred could have so easily mistaken your feelings for him as those for another. “What about George?”

“You’re in love with him!”

“I most definitely am not!”

“The Yule Ball!” he spat out. “You went to the Yule Ball with him when we were 16!”

“Yes,” you said calmly, “and you went with Angelina, but I don’t see you two getting married. We went as friends and I talked to him about you the entire night. In fact, most of the time when we hung out I was talking about you. Made him swear not to tell though. I was never good about expressing my feelings.”

Fred put a hand to his head, a growing throb threatening to overtake his senses. “But why were you so sad tonight? You wanted to marry George!”

“No,” you said patiently. “I was sad because Angelina and George’s relationship worked out the way I was wishing one between you and I had. They fell in love during school, dated a few years later, and now she’s a part of your family. I wasn’t wishing it was just me out there with your brother. I was wishing that it was our wedding.”

You blushed heavily and buried your face in your hands, embarrassed by your bluntness about your feelings. “Oh, Godric, I shouldn’t have said that, now it’s more awkward. I, umm, I should probably get going.”

Fred grabbed your wrist before you could leave, pulling you into his chest. His eyes were wide, mouth hanging slightly ajar as he gazed down at your muddled expression. 

“It’s me. I’m the one you love.”

He said it as more of a declaration rather than a question, but you could tell that he needed confirmation. 

“Of course, Freddie,” you said. “It’s always been you.”

His hand wasted no time in going to the back of your head, pulling your face into his and melding your lips together in your first kiss with Fred Weasley. After the shock wore off, you were hastily kissing him back, hoping against all hope that he wouldn’t pull back and proclaim what a stupid mistake this all was. But he never did. You kissed and kissed and kissed until you were the one who had to pull back in order to catch your breath. 

It took you both a few seconds to realize what had just happened, and for the first time you both were at a loss for words. “That was, umm…” you mumbled, trying to think of what to say. 

“I love you too.”

Fred’s words were rushed out of his mouth, voice deep ragged. “I mean, when you said it was me, not George, that you loved. I, well, I love you too. Always have. Guess I just thought that you had a thing for George and I had no chance. Pretty silly of me, huh?”

“Downright stupid of you,” you replied, giggling as he pushed you away with a bashful smile gracing his lips. 

“So,” he said quietly, inching closer to you once again, “is there a chance of anything happening now?” Fred repeated the words you had said earlier, making you smile wider than you had all night. 

“Depends,” you said. “Are you gonna get the courage to ask me out?”

Fred waited for a moment before answering. “How about,” he said, offering his arm out for you to link with yours, “we have that dance we never got at the Yule Ball. And then that date we never got after, and then that relationship we never got as well. Oh! And then that wedding, and then a dog, maybe a few kids, a big house in the country--”

“Woahhh, slow down buddy, you haven’t ever properly asked me!”

You took his arm and made your way back to where the music continued to blare and festivities raged on. 

“Y/N, love, may I have this dance?”

You pushed a strand of hair from his face, ruffling it up a little to give it that signature Fred Weasley style. 

“Of course, Freddie. And every dance after that.”

Tag List:

@famdomhideout @amourtentiaa

[egcdeath]

act natural

pairing: steve rogers x reader

summary: sometimes, you just have to share the bed. 

word count: 2.4k

warnings: fluff, sharing a bed, idiots in love, cheesy

a/n: this is really just an excuse for me to write a lot of self indulgent bants, but it’s also a part of @stargazingfangirl18’s soft!dark challenge, and i decided to write something soft and use the prompt of only having one bed! (p.s. i like did not edit this at all so if a few words are used a lot pls forgive me) 

Dinner at the safehouse was finally wrapping up after a long day of getting your ass beat by an angry android and a few enhanced teenagers. You and everyone else around you seemed to be more than exhausted from the extensive day of revisiting deeply repressed traumas, and petty arguments between teammates over who was truly at fault for every predicament you found yourselves in.

You took a long and final swig from a beer bottle, glancing up to Bruce and Nat as they stood up and pushed in their chairs, retiring for the night. 

“Thanks for hosting us, Laura,” Natasha offered, grabbing her plate from the dinner table, and dropping it off in the dishwasher.

“Of course, guys. Any time,” she gave a half smile to her friend, then looked back at the table, where everyone else had taken the memo, and found themselves somewhere in the process of leaving the table, or grabbing their dishes, “but before you all go, I wanted to warn you that someone else is gonna have to share a room tonight.”

You glanced over at Steve, who was on your left, and Tony, who was sat at the head of the table. You and Steve shared an awkward chuckle at the thought of being in the same bed, not even considering the similarly uncomfortable situation of sharing a bed with Tony. 

“I think I’ll be rooming alone. These two lovebirds can share,” Tony chided before either of you even had a chance to think of a response. You looked back over at Steve, whose cheeks were currently dusted with a light shade of pink, and the bigger man quickly looked away from you.

“Tony, you know we are not- you know what, nevermind,” you huffed, deciding the argument was not worth it. 

Tony shook his head as he dropped his dishes off in the dishwasher. “So no objections?” he asked teasingly, eyeing you both with a smirk on his way back from the kitchen. “Why am I not surprised?” You could’ve sworn you heard Clint and Fury laughing to themselves before excusing themselves from the table, and dispursting though the house.

Besides the slight humiliation of being teased for your situation, you weren’t too concerned about the act of spending the night, or next few nights with Steve. You and Steve were friends, or something like that. Just a few pals with crushes that you refused to admit to each other (or yourselves).

Pushing this thought aside, you grabbed the neck of your empty beer bottle, along with a few pieces of silverware and marched off to the mechanical cleaner yourself. You dropped off the things that needed to be cleaned, tossed your bottle in the recycling bin, then went to turn away when Steve grabbed your arm, automatically catching your attention. 

“Is this okay with you?” He asked, letting his vice grip on your arm go.

“It’s fine. I’ll see you upstairs,” you muttered before speeding off, and heading upstairs where you strolled into the only vacant room, with the door wide open, and both your own and Steve’s duffle bags on the floor. 

You made a mental note to thank whoever brought them in (probably Laura), and dug through your bag to find something even slightly comfortable to sleep in, eventually settling on an oversized shirt and your favorite cotton shorts. 

You had just barely finished changing in the tiny closet when you heard the soft click of the room door, notifying you of Steve’s arrival. You slid open the closet door, and made a beeline for the bed, flopping onto the left side, and reaching for your phone as a distraction. 

“Do you want me to sleep on the floor?” Steve asked, searching through his own bag until he found the only clean comfortable pair of pants he had in there, that just happened to be a jokey Christmas gift donned with a red white and blue color scheme, and graphics of mini shields on it.  

“What the hell, Steve. Of course not,” you set your phone down so that you could get a better look at him. “We probably have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.” You could live with that excuse, especially considering that it would not be very becoming of you to tell your crush that missing an opportunity to sleep in the same bed as him feels like a federal crime. 

He stood up from his squatting position, squeezing into the tight space of the closet so that he could change into the corny pants, and finally get out of his clothes from the day, “I just didn’t want to make things weird.”

“Well, they won’t be as long as you stay on your side, okay?” You said petulantly, setting two pillows across the middle of the queen sized bed and attempting to ignore the excited butterflies in your stomach. 

“I will,” Steve responded, exiting the closet slipping into the right side of the bed cautiously, and looking at the wall that was facing him.

You glanced over at Steve, and when you caught wind of his shirtless torso, you couldn’t help but to look away with a warm face,“this is so awkward now,” you said after a beat. “Why couldn’t you have roomed with Tony?”

“Tony is the worst bed mate ever. Total blanket and pillow hog,” Steve chuckled, attempting to ease up some of the tension.

“You’re no saint either. I’ve heard you’re a cuddler,” you bantered back, allowing yourself one more glance at the man. Steve seemed to be having the same thought as you at the same time as you, as your eyes briefly met. 

It was uncomfortably silent in the room once more, and you reached over to your nightstand to turn off the bedside lamp, “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Night, Steve,” you turned your back to the border of pillows, fell into a fetal position, and squeezed your eyes shut, hoping that you’d be able to find some sort of peace after such a bizarre day. You tried not to dwell so much on the horrors you’d been forced to face earlier, and instead relied on the rhythmic breathing coming from the man next to you to ground you.

----

You weren’t sure when exactly you fell asleep, but a jolting of your bed, and a bit of a commotion coming from somewhere in your room pulled you away from your unsettling dreams.

Blinking yourself awake, you uncurled your body, and rolled over to look at Steve, whose legs were thrown over the edge of the bed while he panted heavily.

“Steve?” you slurred sleepily, “you ‘kay?”

“’m fine,” he yawned.

“Well you woke me up,” you mumbled, throwing your head back against a pillow.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I was having a shitty dream anyway.”

“Really? I was too,” Steve refused to look at you, staring blankly at the wall.

“So tell me about it,” you hummed.

“It’s just… I keep thinking about how I missed out on so many things from the past. I could’ve been happy, living out my days in a semi-peaceful and familiar world. Not anything like this.”

You sat up as you listened, pushing aside a pillow from the border you’d constructed to move closer to Steve and set a reassuring hand on his back.

“I guess I just wish that I was there. With everyone and everything I used to know.”

“But it’s not all bad, right?” you offered, and Steve shrugged before looking down. 

 “I’m sorry. I really am. I know that I’ll never truly understand that, but there’s nothing any of us can do about it now. You’re here now, and you have no other choice but to make the best of it. I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but if you spend all of your time in the present lamenting about what things could’ve been in the past, you’re just gonna be miserable forever,” you rambled sleepily, words slurring occasionally. 

“Your experience is so unique, so I could be getting this all wrong, but there are plenty of good things here in the now. I mean, a world without the internet? I don’t know if that’s a world worth living in,” you chuckled softly, and were joined in your quiet laughter by the man on the other side of your bed.

“Seriously, though. I know you can’t control your dreams, but maybe your subconscious is letting you know that it’s okay to let go. Of like, the past. It might just be time for you to move on and be happy. I’m sure that Peggy and everyone else from your past would’ve wanted that for you too.” In the dark, you saw the silhouette of Steve’s head nodding. 

“You always know what to say, huh?” he asked, kicking his legs back over onto the bed while you scooted back over into your previous space. 

“I’m like half asleep right now, Steve. If you asked me to repeat half of what I just said, I would not know what to say,” you giggled. 

“You wanna talk about your dream?” Steve asked in a concerned tone. 

“Mmm, I actually just wanna go to sleep. As crazy as that may sound,” 

“Is there anything that I can do to help you not have another bad one?”

“Hmmm,” you pondered, becoming a bit more lethargic by the moment. “Spoon me?”

“As you wish,” Steve happily obliged, grabbing one of the pillows from the middle of the bed and adding it to his stash of pillows. 

You threw a pillow from the border between your knees, and received a strange look from Steve. “What? I heard it’s good for your back.” He still didn’t seem convinced. “Stop being so judgy and cuddle me already,” you murmured, turning your body so that you could lay on your side.

Steve scooted closer to you, and you pressed your back to the front of his chest. He tossed an arm over you and somehow managed to pull you even closer to him. You swore you hadn’t been this comfortable since you left the womb, and you nearly purred in response. 

“Can I make a request?” he asked.

You simply nodded.

“Can we just… talk until we fall back asleep?” 

“That’s really cute,” you mumbled into your pillow. 

“You just have a relaxing voice!” he defended playfully.

“You are such a dork,” you giggled. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Just tell me about… I dunno, anything.”

“That was so helpful, Steven.”

“My bad. Tell me about your favorite… mission?”

“Mm, probably that one time you and I had to go undercover for like a month to bust that arms dealer.”

“Which one?”

“Some dude in the Midwest. Can’t remember his name.”

“Oh yeah, yeah I know who you’re talking about.”

“It was fun being your life partner for a month. We were really good at being domestic.”

“Hmm, now that I think about it, we really were. Do you remember that cookout?”

“Of course I do,” you laughed at the memory. “Everyone else was getting so drunk, but you just… couldn’t. They were like Joseph, you’re such a beast, and shit. And who would’ve guessed that you, the old timer would be such a beast on the grill.”

“Well, who would’ve guessed that you were so good at cornhole?”

“Was I really that good? Or were you just really bad? Like really bad, especially for someone whose skill set revolves around having good aim,” you teased.

Steve scoffed and laughed, shaking his head at you. 

“How didn’t those people recognize us? I just don’t get it.”

“You’d be surprised how much a beard and dyed hair can change your look.”

“I guess,” you sighed softly, and set a hand on top of Steve’s. “Does this feel counterproductive to you? We’re just sitting here giggling. We’re probably getting less tired.”

“I guess I am less tired. But I’m also not thinking about the impending robot apocalypse.”

“Well now that you brought it up, I’m thinking about the impending robot apocalypse. You better fix this, Rogers.” Emboldened by what must’ve been the butterflies in your stomach falling asleep, you began to roll a bit in his arms so you were facing each other, kicking away the pillow between your legs in the process. 

“How can I make it up to you?” Steve asked, raising a brow.

“You’re the man with a plan, right? Think of something,” your lip quirked slightly in a smirk.

Steve leaned in just the smallest amount, before a lightbulb seemed to go off in his head. “I got it. We can do one of those one word stories until we fall asleep.”

Well, that’s not exactly how you thought this moment was going to go. 

“Okay, I’ll start then,” you nodded, pressing your head down against a soft pillow, and looking up at Steve, “once.”

“There,” Steve added.

“Was.”

“A.”

“Death-bot,” you giggled. 

“Okay, Y/N. No. No more stories. We can just listen to each other breathe now until we fall asleep like before since you wanna ruin the mood.”

“What mood? And you listened to me breathe?”

“What else was I gonna listen to?” he furrowed his brows, “it’s too late for this anyway. We can talk in the morning.”

“All you had to do was tell me that it’s way past your bedtime, and I would be understanding. But goodnight anyway, Stevie,” you cracked him one last smile, not budging from your position as you closed your eyes. 

It was silent for a few minutes before Steve whispered up out of the blue, “you still awake?”

You slurred something into the pillow, much more asleep than awake. 

“Well, I really like you a lot. Maybe one day I’ll get the guts to tell you that when you’re not completely out of it.”

You grunted as a response, and Steve couldn’t seem to wipe the grin off his face, not while he was falling asleep, and certainly not during his rather pleasant dreams.

——

You just couldn’t seem to catch a break with your wake up calls. While you and Steve seemed to sleep through the rapping against the door, and the door itself opening, you both seemed to become aware after the artificial shutter of an iPhone camera flooded through your ears.

“You guys just looked so cute, I wanted to archive this moment for the rest of time. And I’m sure the team will be glad to see that you got along well last night,” Nat teased as your eyes widened and you shot up. “Breakfast is ready downstairs, by the way.”

Well, you two were going to have a great time explaining this one. 

[dizzydancingdreamer]

Be Here | The Mikaelson Boys

Hey lovelies! You ever just take a year to write a part two? Well, thanks to @hellotvshowtrash 's writing challenge I have finally written the second part to Come Back. I straight up just sat down and wrote this in less then two hours. The muses have blessed me and said Elijah Mikaelson reunion fic or nothing. I am not stupid-- I will not deny them. Shoutout to Lottie (@imdreamingwiththestars) for making me miss these boys <3

Description: Elijah was dead and now he's not, stand-alone sequel to Come Back

Pairing: The Mikaelson Boys x Fem!Reader, Mainly Elijah

Prompt: "What was it like to die?"

Warnings: rushed writing, mentions of depression

Word count: 2k

Tags: Soft Angst and then Fluff

It’s been two years— well, almost two years. One year, eight months, and seventeen days. But who’s counting, right? Certainly not you. Certainly you wouldn’t be stupid enough to honestly believe that he’s coming back. Even after the promises. His promises and their promises— it doesn’t matter. Both mean nothing. You don’t blame them but you would be naive to believe them.

Still, you keep count— just in case. There’s no harm in that, right? Two years— one year, eight months, and seventeen days— without Elijah Mikaelson. Your heart sinks to the pit of your stomach, your throat closing like it’s been only a few hours. Maybe there’s a little bit of harm.

You press your face harder into the sweater curled under your head. It doesn’t smell like him anymore— there’s no cinnamon left, none of his at least. None of the sugary vanilla that used to encase her like a NOLA bakery. Only traces of Kol’s nutty cinnamon blend— he must’ve snuck in here last night at some point. Both him and Klaus occasionally do. You don’t blame them for that either— you don’t have a monopoly on missing Elijah Mikaelson.

Slipping out of his sheets is harder than you would admit if either of the brothers were to ask you. It’s not like they’re warm or anything— they’re just as ice cold as the rest of the room— but they’re his and the thought of going the rest of the day without them just doesn’t appeal to you the way it should. Voices flit up the stairs but you don’t strain hard enough to make out the words. You could if you wanted to but there’s no point— you don’t care anymore. Not about trivial things— not about talking. You only do it when you have to these days.

The trek across the room to the door takes what feels like an hour. In reality you’re sure it’s only seconds but, well, this time you aren’t counting so who knows— maybe it did take you an hour. Sun is filtering past the curtains now, painting a stripe through the dim room and across the oak floor. An hour. You pause beside his dresser, debating going in to dig out a new hoodie. You haven’t taken a new one in about three months but your stash is running sparse. It’s not a hard decision, pushing past the dresser and leaving it untouched— you’ll need it more later.

In the hallway things feel different. You can’t put your finger on what it is exactly. There’s a slight shift in the atmosphere and a little more of a kick to the energy in the compound. It feels alive— like everything is humming. The hair on the back of your neck raises instinctively, the answer on your tongue but not quite forming. It’s probably nothing— you haven’t slept in two weeks. It’s probably exhaustion. You’re a vampire but you’re not impervious to sleep deprivation. Time marches on whether or not you acknowledge it— whether or not you reject it. You’ve learned that the hard way.

It’s why you keep padding towards your room, feet soft on the hardwood, trying desperately not to draw the attention of whoever’s in the kitchen. The electric charge in the air follows you to your bedroom, increasing ten-fold when you cross the threshold and halting your advance. You haven’t been in here in weeks but for some reason it feels like everything’s been disturbed. Not in a noticeable way— there’s still a thin layer of dust over everything— but something’s off. Your stomach rolls as you glance around at your things, the pressure building as your neck tingles. You could honestly just fucking scream.

Still, you push further, braving the sudden unknown of your room with a burst of stamina you haven’t felt in months. Breaching the doorway feels like being sucked into a new planet, one unrecognizable and dangerous. Thankfully you don’t need oxygen because you’re pretty sure there’s none in your room. Your chest is tight— heavy— and you make quick work of changing into a new pair of shorts and a Rolling Stones t-shirt that’s been hanging untouched in your closet for at least a year. You haven’t been afraid of it, per say, but you certainly weren’t ready to wear it. Today feels like the day though.

It isn’t until you go to sit on the bed, not bothering to even try to balance as you put your socks on, that you’re finally rewarded with a clue that you may not be as crazy as you feel. It’s warm— the bed is warm. Not the whole bed— because yes, you do reach out to check— only the part you happen to sit on. It’s warm like someone was just sitting here minutes ago and you spring up as quickly as you went down, closing your eyes and pulling in as much air from the room as possible. You’re getting to the bottom of this now. When the air reaches your nose some of the pieces begin to click together—

Cinnamon.

Only a faint trace of it but still your chest jumps— is it— no don’t be stupid it couldn’t be. You thump a hand against your chest to clear the feeling as you force your legs to carry you out the door. You realize too late that you only have one sock, your bare foot pressing against the cold wood of the staircase, but you’re too far and too determined to go back now. You’ve got to find Kol and you have a pretty good idea you know where he is.

Sugar wafts to your nose as you press towards the kitchen, mixed with a touch of citrus— Klaus must’ve picked up your favourite pastries. As you reach the door voices flit stronger to your ears. You can make out Klaus’ hushed tone but not his words, followed by a comment from Kol that you can’t decipher. Good, they’re both here.

The kitchen is by far the brightest room you’ve ventured into in months, the countertops gleaming so bright you have to squint, throwing a hand over your brows. When you blink, clearing the glare however, you notice something peculiar— no pastries. You could have sworn you just smelled them—

“Love, you’re awake.” There’s a whoosh of air followed by two hands on your face and the lingering scent of honey shampoo.

You smile weakly up at Klaus, shrugging. “Was never really asleep.”

Another pair of hands wrap around your stomach, pulling you into a nutmeg chest, lips finding your head. “That’s not healthy, darling. How long’s it been now?”

Shrugging again— this time at Kol— you let your eyes wander the kitchen, nose wrinkling at the heady sugar scent. “Two weeks, give or take.”

You can’t locate the source— but, then again, you can’t see past Klaus’s worried eyes. You watch as he tosses a look behind your head, presumably at Kol. When you roll your head back though you find that his brother’s brown eyes aren’t meeting his stare but are also tilted behind him. You chest jumps again, the air thickening, energy coursing through you— what the hell is going on?

You push away from the boys, arms crossing over your chest as you turn to the source of whatever’s got the compound disrupted this morning. Opening your mouth, you go to make a snarky remark— or to scream, you aren’t sure— but when you finally see it all that comes out is a soundless gush of air. All words are lost as your eyes drag over the back of a familiar brunette head, passing down a muscled back and over sweatpants you haven’t seen worn in years. One year, eight months, and seventeen days. It’s all you can do to poke your tongue out of your mouth, sweeping it over your dry mouth and tasting sugar.

There’s just no way.

You take a step backwards, back slamming into one of the brothers but unable to tear your eyes away from the figure long enough to see who. “What— what’s happening?”

Always the noble one, Elijah Mikaelson doesn’t keep you waiting, whirling on his feet, a box of pancake mix in his hands. “Couldn’t have waited ten more minutes, baby?”

You’re not alive but for a moment it feels like your heart stops as you drink in the man in front of you. Brown hair, brown eyes, stubble on his jaw the same as the day he died. Your vision clouds over, tears tugging at the corners of your eyes but you refuse to blink them away. You’re not risking clearing a vision this clear.

You take a tentative step forward, afraid that if you move too quickly the mirage might evaporate. “Elijah?”

“Hey baby.”

If your dead heart stopped upon seeing his silhouette then it restarts when he passes you the familiar, crooked smile that you fell in love with all those decades ago— the same one you’ve been longing for since the day he left you.

Fuck tiptoeing.

You’re across the room in record time, your hair flying behind you as you launch yourself into his arms, praying to whoever will listen that your body hits something solid. There’s a muted thud followed by his arms wrapping around you— his physical, cinnamon sugar scented arms. At his reciprocated touch you finally let yourself sob. You can’t remember the last time you actually let yourself cry but you are now and it’s finally out of relief.

Your hands attack his face, palms deranged and fingers haphazardly dragging across his neck and jaw and scalp. Your shoulders are shaking, tears hot against your face and pooling over your lips but you refuse to look away from his gaze. He looks just as wild as you feel, brown eyes ticking rapidly over your features. It’s all you can do to smash your mouth against his, crying through the kiss before laughing because he still tastes like your Elijah. Like cinnamon buns and sweetness.

“This can’t be real— you’re dead. I saw you die!” You sob against his lips.

He presses his mouth back just as hard, hands digging against your skin and clawing at his band t-shirt. You reciprocate by squeezing your thighs harder around his hips, pressing your body as close to his as you can get. It’s not enough but you feel like you can finally breathe again when you crush your arms around his shoulders.

“I know—” he finally murmurs into your mouth— “but I’m here. Right here.”

You pull away, hands still carding through his soft hair, pulling at the damp strands. “‘Lijah you were dead— I— I thought you weren’t coming—”

Your chest feels heavy again but he’s quick to move, cutting your destructive train of thought with his cinnamon and honey lips. You don’t mind— he could do anything right now and you would still cling to him like your life depends on it. Kissing him has been at the top of your list for two years now— you’re not going to refuse. One of his hands lowers, hooking around your thigh and tugging you higher up his body. You’re not the only one whose life depends on staying as connected as possible.

“It’s real— I’m real. I promised you, baby. I’m back— I promise I’m back.”

Just like that you’re back to giggling against his mouth, arms anchored behind his neck. Soon your head is falling back, the euphoria rolling through your body like nothing you’ve ever felt before. You would never wish for him— for any of them— to leave you again but this feeling makes every gruelling day worth it. He’s back. As if to prove it his lips find your neck, kissing over your skin feverishly.

After a few moments of soaking in the attention of the resurrected man you finally pull yourself together enough to attempt a true conversation like a respectable woman.

“What was it like to die?”

He chuckles against your skin, shaking his head, his lips never leaving you. “I’ll tell you later— there are a few matters we need to sort out first baby, starting with getting you out of that fucking t-shirt. It’s been too long.”

Who are you kidding— he’s right and you hum your agreement, lips searching for his, desperate once more—

“One year, eight months, and seventeen days too long.”

[vibraniumwing]

only girl in the world.

a sam wilson x fem!reader wherein the reader cleans the apartment due to jealousy.

WARNING: NSFW (18+, minors DNI. ), praise kink, oral stimulation (f receiving), fingering, vaginal penetration (wrap it before you tap it lovelies), light choking, swearing, the setting is set somewhere in between AoU and CACW so like around the time in Ant-Man ?? also slight au ( i think )

A/N: so this is for @anchoeritic's 3k writing challenge! seeing that she’s a fellow sam wilson simp, i chose him for this fic (and we are seriously lacking in sam wilson content i hate this) and because it’s sam’s birthday we’re gonna celebrate >:)))) icb he’s an aries though. uGh

prompt/scenario: character A catching character B singing

word count: 3.7k

---

Dating a superhero meant there was a lot of restrictions; cuddles and movie dates with them are fleeting moments since you never know when they would get a call about a grape-headed alien terrorizing the planet and you couldn’t flaunt them as much as you wanted to because your safety would be greatly affected if their arch nemesis finds out about your existence.

But regardless of it all, you were thankful because Sam never made you feel less of what you really are to him. A lot of your friends who know about your relationship with The Falcon were envious about how mature the both of you are, managing to balance both of your work lives and your personal ones at home; none of them really knowing how immature the both of you are behind closed doors.

Making this another reason why you loved the privacy being hidden from the public eye; you felt like you were in your own coming-of-age, rom-com movie with Sam with all the hidden rendezvous at The Washington Mall at midnight and drive around the empty streets of the city just until the crack of dawn or just stay at home and cook countless of meals, teaching each other recipes from both sides of your families

It was the relationship anyone could have ever dreamed of.

---

“You’re not making this any easier for me, baby girl.” Sam said, sighing inwardly as he stuffed his duffel. He was going over to New York for a few days, probably on another mission with the Avengers (or training with them) and you weren’t having any of it; wanting nothing more than to have him home and with you for a few more days一 possibly forever if that was even possible.

You groaned softly at his response, sitting on the bed with your knees hugged to your chest as you watch him ready his things for yet another mission. “Then don’t go” You simply told him, face holding the same sad expression as your lower lip was jutted out in a small pout as you looked away, not waiting to tear up once again; him leaving for missions was always the hardest.

A chuckle left his lips, setting the suitcase down on the carpeted floor of your shared room before claiming his spot next to you; the dip of the bed from his weight caused you to look at him. “You know I wouldn’t dare to leave if I had the chance to, right?” He asked, his scooting closer to you and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “But I always come back, right? Because you’re my home.”

You relaxed under his touch, stretching your legs unto the bed and wrapped your arms around his muscular frame, hugging him close to you in fear that he might disappear all of a sudden. “I know, but do you really have to go?” You murmur, hiding your face against his neck, the way your breath falls on his skin causes goosebumps to rise on his own.

“I have to, they need me, sweets.” He explains, wrapping his arms around your own frame and squeezes gently, enough to convey that he’ll be fine; that he’ll be safe and unharmed after all of the fighting he has due.

“I’ll be back in no time.” His reassurance made you sigh inwardly, knowing that you can’t convince him otherwise. Sam was always just like that, once something is set on his mind on something, he won’t stop until he gets it done. He rarely second guesses what he wants and he does, you’re the person he talks to.

You didn’t speak anymore, opting to let the warmth from his body consume you and lull you into sleep, his hand tracing small shapes into your back as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Go to sleep, baby. I love you.”

---

The sunlight that peeked in through the sheer fabric of the curtains was enough to wake you up, reaching over to Sam’s side, expecting to feel him there but instead you were greeted with the sound of paper crumpling from the side of your hand. Stirring awake, you sat up and grabbed the note that was folded neatly.

“I’ll be back soon, baby girl. Don’t miss me too much, I love you.” You read outloud, adoring how neat his handwriting was, hugging the paper to your chest before whispering, “I love you too” before placing the note by your bedside table, rolling out of bed to get on with your day when your phone dinged. Looking at the lit up screen, you smiled at the message from Sam.

[ from: birdman lover ]

- It hasn’t even been a day and I already miss you.

- This’ll be a long week.

- Have a great day though.

- I love you.

---

- Steve’s still clueless on how phones work but he’s getting there. He “greets you a hello”.

The rest of the week was your normal routine, aside from the occasional texts and calls you would get from Sam whenever he had the chance to check his phone; telling you how much he missed you and sharing stories of what’s going on inside the compound. It was like he never left, the only difference being he wasn’t physically there to give you the affection.

Saturday morning soon rolled around and you were bouncing off the walls excited that you had to wait just one more day before Sam could come back home; come back to you. You practically bounced off the walls as you did all your errands一 mainly you getting your car cleaned and your weekly Target run一 and your day was all rainbows and sunshines.

Until it wasn’t. You were scrolling through your Instagram when you saw a picture that made your blood boil immensely. It was a photo of an actress (who was extremely good looking) in the arms of The Falcon. You had to take a few moments in to fully register the fact that the woman had managed to snag a photo with him, “He’s even hotter in person.” You read the caption out loud, eyes rolling in irritation, even replying to some comments from her fanbase, making it seem like they were dating.

You rarely get jealous about anything with Sam, being so secure with your relationship with him but seeing someone who has a platform freely post him made you writhe in your seat about how you should be the one flexing him like that, not her or anyone else.

You opted to call your lover to tell him how you feel but there was this side of you that didn’t want to go through a whole discourse with him through the phone so you went with the better option, cleaning the fuck out of your apartment until your agression washes away.

Plugging your phone to the sound system, you started off with Rihanna’s Only Girl in the World before grabbing the broom from the small closet in your apartment's kitchen, starting to sweep the floor. “You’re a bad bitch, Y/N. Now go clean,” You hyped yourself up in the mirror before strutting back to the living room to sweep your emotions away.

Unbeknownst to you however was the fact that Sam was well on his way home. He got to go back home earlier than expected and he didn’t tell you, wanting to give you a surprise. Jogging up the stairs of your apartment complex, he was practically rushing to make it your door so he can finally kiss you.

Finally finding the keys to your shared apartment, he opened the door and slowly creeped in, expecting to see you seated on the couch but what he saw was something else. He was stunned beyond words to see you clad nothing but his shirt and a messy bun while holding a broom, singing your heart out.

“Want you to make me feel like I’m the only girl in the world” you sang out loud, holding onto the broom as if it was a mic while you danced, awkwardly body rolling to the beat. “Like I’m the only one that you’ll ever love, like I’m the only one who knows your heart” You continued, starting to “sweep” the floor again while grooving to the beat of the song, not noticing Sam who was silently watching you.

“Like I’m the only one who’s in command” Your voice blending into the music as you rocked around the room, singing your heart out to the chorus. “Cause I’m the only one who understands how to make you feel like a ma一 Sam!”

You dropped the broom, jumping up in the air as you turned around to see your boyfriend leaning by the wall, watching you with an amused expression while holding his arms out to you. “Are you just gonna stand there or come here and give me a hug?” He questioned, raising up an eyebrow at you.

Wasting no time, you paused the song before making your way over to him and jumped into his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist as you hugged him. “How long have you been here? Why are you here already? Shouldn’t you be coming home tomorrow?” Your bombardment with questions made him chuckle, his arms going under your thighs to support your weight, walking towards the couch and settling the both of you on there.

“I wanted to surprise you, baby. We finished a little bit earlier than expected so the moment we got back to the compound I was well on my way home.” He answered, one of his hands retreating from your backside to sneak up and cup your jaw, thumb tracing it gently. His eyes were locked with yours, filled with adoration and love as he continued, “turns out you have a surprise of your own for me. What’s got you cleaning so aggressively?”

You laughed, the anger you had just moments ago melting away as you lean into his touch, “It’s nothing, Sammy. Just me being a little jealous, is all.” You explained, finding it easy to admit your feelings. Your relationship with him was just like that; centered on honesty, understanding, and love. The reason why you’re so assured with him.

“Jealous? What’s got my baby jealous?” His brows were furrowed at the answer, mind trying to remember his actions prior to this conversation to see if he had done anything wrong but came up with nothing. “Did I do something?” He questioned, sitting up a bit as the conversation got more serious.

“I just saw this picture of this you and this actress posted on her instagram and一” you paused, finding it silly now that you’ve even been this jealous about this in the first place. “一I just got jealous that she could post you on their social media so freely. Kind of made me realize that I’m still not existent in the eyes of others; I should be the one posting you like that. Kind of made me realize that I’m not the only girl in the world that wants you.” you finished, not wanting to look into his eyes anymore at the sudden sadness from being hidden.

Normally, you wouldn’t even bat an eye on it but seeing how broken you were, Sam was shattered that you had to go through that thought. “There’s no need to feel ashamed that you got jealous, Y/N.” He said, the hand that was on your jaw now going under your chin to make you look at him again. “I know I insisted that I hide you from the public eye so you can be safe from harm and I’m sorry that because of it makes you feel like this.”

He sighed softly, leaning in to press a chaste kiss against your lips. “But if you’re ready to be introduced to everyone, even to the team, then I’ll be more than glad to show you to the world.” Sam said, his lips just millimeters away from yours, “The only girl I’ll ever love.” He finished, locking his lips with yours.

You swore on the fact that Sam’s lips were made for your own, the pace slow and sensual, enough to relay that he was sticking to his words and that you didn’t need to worry about anything. His plush tiers felt soft against yours, his teeth sinking into your bottom one, nibbling against it softly before swiping his tongue against it.

“Does my angel want me to show her how much she really means to me?” He whispers, pressing one more kiss to your lips before pulling back, locking his gaze with yours, pupils blown with love and adoration clouded with a hint of lust over the thought of seeing you squirm under him.

Given the fact that you were sitting on his lap, you could feel how hard he was under you. “You feel that, darling? You do that to me.” He groans as you shift, the friction causing his dick to twitch inside his tight jeans. “Be a good girl and use your words, baby.”

“Want you, Sam.” You say, mind too aroused and clouded with perverse thoughts due to the lack of touch you had from him this week to make a concise sentence. “Want you to make me feel good, please.” You beg, brows furrowing lightly in need as you watch him study your expression, a small smile forming on his lips as he easily hoists you up, arms gripping your thighs.

“How can I resist such a good girl begging for me to make her feel good?” He questions, gracing your lips with another chaste kiss as he carries you into your shared bedroom, placing you on the bed as he hovers above you. “I’ll make you feel so good tonight, sweets.”

His lips are then on yours again, his lower half grinding on yours a few times to rile you up, making you elicit a few moans that caused him to go overdrive. He grunts, taking in the scandalous sounds you make before sitting back up, taking the shirt off from your body, throwing his head back at the sight of you clad in only your underwear. “You do know how to make me go wild, baby doll.”

You smiled at him, happy that you were able to make him go haywire at just the sight of you not even fully naked. “My clothes never seem to stay on with you around anyways.” You answer, making him chuckle lightly as he started to attack your neck with kisses, nipping at the skin quite harshly making you hiss in pleasurable pain.

“You look better naked” was all he said before taking in one of your breasts, tongue swirling around the hard nub as his hand teased the other, fingers pinching on it lightly making you take a sharp gasp. He did this for a few moments before kissing his way from the valley of your breasts all the way down to the top of your panties.

Sam looked up at you with a devilish grin upon the realization of what lingerie you were wearing, “My angel looks so good.” he praises, taking a moment to admire your already fucked out appearance with lips swollen and hickey littered skin. He was quick to take off your underwear, eyes filled with hunger at the sight of your soaking cunt.

This feeded his ego to no ends, seeing you so needy for him. “I haven’t even touched you yet you’re already so wet for me, baby girl.” he commented, hands caressing your inner thighs teasingly as he took a moment to drink in the sight of you.

The way his rough and slightly calloused hands were in juxtaposition to the smoothness of your skin granted goosebumps to run along your skin, the cold air of the room adding on to your arousal. “Sam, please. Need you.” You begged once more, attempting to close your legs for some needed friction but his sudden grip on it making you think otherwise.

“Almost there, baby. Patience.” He said, bringing two digits to very lightly graze upon your slit before bringing it up to your lips, his thumb tapping your bottom lip, “Open up, sweets. Wanna see you taste yourself first.” He ordered, wanting to see you suck on his fingers.

Wanting nothing more than his touch, you easily obliged and took his fingers in without him prying them open. Your eyes were locked with his as you sucked on it, setting a blaze inside his eyes that you haven’t seen before, that lone making your stomach twist in knots.

As soon as Sam was satisfied at how wet you made his fingers, he finally gave your throbbing pussy the attention it yearned for. Inserting the two digits inside of you with ease as he slowly started to pump it in and out of your heat while his thumb rubbed circles on your sensitive bundle of nerves.

You were a moaning mess under his touch, back arching at the slightest touch he would do to your clit. You were overwhelmed with the pleasure he was providing you. “F-fuck!” You breathlessly moan, hips bucking up as you wanted more of his touch.

Sam then leaned, tongue lapping up your sweet juices as he sucked on your aching clit, the gentle suckling was sinful to your ears. He moaned at the taste of you, its vibrations against you making you whine at the contact. He curled his fingers inside you, easily finding your sweet spot upon seeing how you writhed under his touch.

With Sam’s tongue abusing your clit to no end and his digits mercilessly pumping in and out of you, the tension was all too much to handle that the knot that was in your stomach finally broke. “Go on, baby. Come for me, why don’t you.” He said, feeling how your walls were clamping up around him. The euphoria that followed made your legs tremble as you reached your high, shamelessly moaning Sam’s name mixed with profanities as he continued to finger you through your orgasm.

“Such a good girl for me” Was his words, rising up from his position. You watched as he licked up every last drop of your cum off his fingers, rolling off the bed to rid himself off from his own clothes, your mouth practically watering at the sight of his rock hard length that sprung out from the tight confinements of his boxers.

You were gonna reach out to feel him when he stopped you, “No, baby. Tonight, it’s all about you, remember?” he said, stroking his length a few times, thumb circling around his tip that was glistening with pre-cum as he got back on the bed, positioning himself on top of you. “You ready?”

“Y-yes, Sam.” and upon hearing your answer, he eased into you. Both moaning at the longing of feeling each other intimately. No matter how many times the two of you would fuck, you still couldn’t get used to his size. He filled you up quite easily, his hips meeting yours as he filled you in deep.

Ever the gentleman, he waited for you to give the signal that you were ready and upon your nod, he started to move slowly, wanting to ease you into the pace.. Sam’s groans were music to your ear, “So fucking tight, angel.” He said, one of his hands reaching up to wrap around your neck, pressing against its sides lightly.

“F-faster, Sam. Please” You said and he complied, like your words were pressed a switch in him, he started to relentlessly slam into you, fucking you into the bed and into oblivion. His other hand was on the headboard, palm spread out to gain some support, the bed shaking violently as he continued.

“Let me hear those moans, angel. Let everyone know who you belong to.” Sam said, the hold around your neck tightening slightly, wanting to see you slowly gasp out for air as you let out those heavenly yet sinful sounds, “Who do you belong to, baby?”

“Y-You, Sam!” You answer, feeling your body writhe as another orgasm was already brewing at the pit of your stomach. “F-fuck, I-i’m yours!” You continued, eyes practically rolling to the back at the immense amount of pleasure you got from him drilling you into the mattress.

With those words that left your lips, he started to pound to you even rougher, not caring if the neighbouring apartments heard your cries of pleasure or the squeaking of the bed. You were his and it was his very intention to let everyone know that. “That’s right, doll. You belong to me.” he said, his eyes on your fucked out face. “Mine to fuck and mine to love.”

Feeling the knot in your stomach about to burst, your hands were gripping the bed sheets as you cried out in pleasure, “I’m gonna cum!” body unable to handle the amount of pleasure being handed to you as Sam continued to fuck you out, riding out your high until his own climax hit with one final slam, moaning as he filled you up with his own cum.

Pulling out slowly, Sam took the time to admire his own cum mixed with your drip down from your cunt, a feeling of satisfaction spread through his chest at the sight of you. He leaned in to kiss you once again, this time it was soft and just filled with love, hand running along your sides gently, “Such a good girl for me.” he whispered, pressing one last kiss before he stood up and walked over to the bathroom.

You attempted to follow him, but ultimately failed as your legs were shaking too much from your recent orgasm. You could hear Sam chuckle as he re-emerged from the other room, a wet washcloth in his hand as he approached you. “Let me take care of it, alright princess?” He said softly.

He then started to clean you up, making sure to whisper soft praises about how you took him so well and of how you were so good for him. The moment he was done, he mindlessly threw the cloth into the hamper, collapsing on the bed and took you in his arms, eager to cuddle you. Sam pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, “I love you, Y/N. You’re the only girl I’ll ever love.”

You hummed softly, making yourself comfortable in his arms, reaching up to steal a kiss from him, “I love you too, Sammy. I’ll always love you.”

---

TAGLIST: @harrysweasleys @selenasprompts @weasleytwins-41 @anchoeritic @darthwheezely (hello fellow the falcon simp)

if your name is in bold, it means that i can't tag you for some weird reason. join my taglist! find the link in my main masterlist!