#and i wanted a metallic clasp for the closing not a plastic one

[peachesofteal]

Courthouse

Part seven of the Sassy series

Simon Riley/female reader 2.1k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI (no smut) mentions of blood, brief mention of sex, little bit of angst, fluff, romance. Uncle Johnny, Soft Simon Riley. Note: I wrote this with Haley Reinhart’s version of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” in mind. You're the sun.

Wise men say Only fools rush in But I can't help falling in love with you

Theo thrashes in Johnny’s arms, making irritated mouth sounds while squirming his body in a desperate effort to pry himself loose from his uncle’s grip. The man behind the desk gives the lad a kind smile, before turning his attention back to the paperwork fanned out before him, and Johnny huffs in exasperation, his forearms banded around the giant six-month-old who continues his attempts at crashing his head into his uncle’s chin.

“Bleedin’ christ Theo, be still.”

“He wants his mum.” Simon explains, reaching over to wipe some drool from Theo’s chin with his thumb. “She’ll be here in a minute.” He tries to reason, patting Theo’s back to get his attention. He can’t understand him, but you insist on speaking to Theo like he’s an adult, telling him everything and anything about what’s going on at any given moment, so Simon does the same. He trusts your instincts.

The sound of a handle clicking draws his attention and he turns to the two oak panels that slowly part to reveal where you stand on the other side, hands clasped in front of your waist, nervous smile on your face. You’ve left your hair down, a rarity now since Theo has taken to attempting to rip it from your scalp every chance he gets, and your eyes are a little red, like you’ve already been crying.

Your dress is white. A crisp, bright white that reflects the morning sun that streams in through the tall windows. It’s a far cry from your field uniform and tac vest, or the leggings sweatshirt combo that you’ve been sporting around the house. Not that he’s complaining, because he considers every day he gets with you a gift that he’s not sure he deserves, a gift he’s still terrified will slip through his fingers when he closes his eyes. But this, this day, this dress is different. This wedding dress, that hangs delicately at your knees and has intricate lace that flows over your shoulders, is a special, sacred thing that he is still having trouble believing is really happening.

You had been so nervous about it this morning, tutting at Theo while you strapped him into the car seat, anxious to avoid having it smudged or stained. Simon had watched you, indulgently, from behind, as you bent at the waist to give the baby a sloppy kiss, whispering about how much you loved him, how cute he was, how good and perfect he was being, and how he better not torture his Uncle Johnny. You had wrestled Theo into this little dress shirt-pant combo that kind of matched Simon’s, and he had promptly spit up on it during the drive over here, Johnny frantically trying to dab it clean from where he sat in the backseat without you noticing.

When he looks at you now, wearing this dress, he feels like he’s having a heart attack. He thinks he might be dying. Not dying, he tells himself, just getting married.  

Shall I stay? Would it be a sin If I can't help falling in love with you?

“You better get yer fuckin’ hands away unless you’re the one with MD in your title.” He snaps, long strides eating up the distance between him and med tent. The medic, a nervous looking young guy, tries to keep up next to him, hands fluttering uselessly over where you’re bleeding out of your abdomen. Johnny throws the medic an apologetic grimace as a woman, the trauma surgeon on base here, meets Simon just as he’s bursting through the door, two more assists behind her with a gurney. 

“This the gunshot wound?” The surgeon points to the metal transport bed, and he places you down as gently as possible, cradling the back of your head so it doesn’t thunk against the hard plastic. Your eyes flutter open, red stained hand reaching for something. 

“Ghost.” you slur, bloody fingers dragging across his vest. The gurney slides into place in a room, and your body jostles, a ragged moan slipping from your lips at the movement. He glares at the two medics on either side of you, and their faces go white. 

“I’ve got you.” He says, gripping your hand in his, eyes trained on yours. You blink, hazily, mouth moving but no words coming out. Fear, real, shockingly cold terror, snakes through his entire body, and he squeezes your hand so tight he thinks he might be hurting you. A minute, maybe less, passes like this, with him unwilling to tear himself away, until he feels a hand on his shoulder, Johnny’s voice right above his ear. 

“You gotta let them work, LT. They’ll take care of her.”

Like a river flows Surely to the sea Darling, so it goes Some things are meant to be

It’s not an aisle in a church. He’s not flanked by family or dozens of friends. Just Theo, a judge-type official, and Johnny bear witness. He thinks you’re supposed to have a bouquet, or someone walking you towards him, but you don’t have either of those, no one to hand you off, no one to tell you how much they love you before shaking his hand like they approve of this. He briefly thinks of Price, who’s known you longer than he has, who’s served as your captain on countless units, and feels a pang of regret. He wonders, if you thought about him being here with Johnny to witness, to celebrate.

It feels loud, for a moment. Like there’s too much going on, like Theo’s soft babbles are actually screams, like he’s not even really here. He fights the blank, white space that’s burning at the edge of his mind, fractured clips skipping through his skull, mixing with his memories until he’s not sure what’s truly going on.

He’s jolted back into his body when your hands take his.

“Hey.” you whisper with a squeeze of your fingers. “You okay?”

“Shoulda got you flowers.” He mumbles, disappointment tinging the words.

“Why?” You give Theo and Johnny an obvious look before swinging your gaze back to him. “Looks like I’ve got everything I need.”

Take my hand Take my whole life, too For I can't help falling in love with you

“What the FUCK is this?” you shake the stack of papers in your hand, and he sits rigidly in the chair where you’ve cornered him. He doesn’t look at you, focusing anywhere else but where you stand in the tent as your voice changes, the tone hitting high notes of disbelief and anger.

“Can’t have ya here Sass.” He trains his eyes on the wall to your left and resists the urge to bolt or worse, grab those damned papers and tear them to pieces. 

“So, you reported an intimate relationship to Price? Just to get rid of me?” He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to explain it. Yes, no. No, yes. He needs you to leave, before it happens, before you’re lost forever. “Oh my fucking god, Simon.” Your laugh is bitter and it breaks him apart somewhere, somewhere deep and buried, somewhere you should have never touched in the first place. 

“Can’t have ya here.” He can’t do this. Can’t feel this, can’t go through with this, can’t get this over fast enough. His heart feels like it’s burning in his chest. The walls look like they’re going to cave in and crush him, kill him where he sits. 

He stands on auto-pilot, a burning panic searing under his skin. 

“Simon!” He hears you yell; he hears your scream but he’s already walking away as fast as he can, desperate to escape your pain, running like a bloody coward. “Fuck you, Simon Riley.” Your words die on the wind, but he hears them all the same.

Like a river flows Surely to the sea Darling, so it goes Some things are meant to be

“I, Simon Riley, take you-“ he stumbles over your name, voice dangerously close to cracking with emotion. “for my lawful wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part…”

“I will love and honor you all the days of my life.” The official prompts, and he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He can’t look away from you, can’t see anything else but you, the memories of your laughter, of your screams, of the way you sound when he’s inside you. Can’t think about anything except how terrifying it is, to have you, to feel the way he does, to know you in the way he does, to love you in a world like this. 

Johnny clears his throat.

He presses down on your hand that he’s holding, just a little harder, and moves his thumb to where your pulse beats. Strong and steady. He takes a deep breath.

“I will love and honor you all the days of my life.”

Take my hand Take my whole life, too

“You,” he hears you say, voice light and sweet, “are going to be so smart, and kind, and strong. You’re going to be able to be whoever you want to be, do anything your heart desires.” He holds his body incredibly still, standing around the corner just so he can see the sway of your hips moving side to side as you rock Theo. “except maybe, don’t go into the military. I don’t think me, or your dad want you to follow in our footsteps. You should do something cool instead. Build rockets or become an acrobat. Anything you want.” Theo babbles and you tap the baby on his nose, causing him to shriek with laughter, little baby giggles seeping into Simon’s bones and warming him from the inside out. 

It’s a sight he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget. It’s the sight he knows he’ll see when he closes his eyes for the last time one day. He doesn’t deserve this, that he knows. He doesn’t deserve the happy ending, doesn’t deserve to be loved by you, or Theo, or anyone really. He’s caused too much pain, taken too much, hurt too many people, hurt you. 

The glaring reality is that if he was a better man, he’d give you up. He’d save you from himself. Not push you away because you terrify him, no. He’d let you go, let you be free to find someone else, to build your life away from him and the hell that is his existence. 

But he’s a selfish man, not a good one. You, and Theo, are the brightest point in his world. You’re everything. You’re the sun. 

He can’t live without you.

For I can't help falling in love with you

“You may kiss the bride.”

He cradles your face, thumb smearing a runaway tear across your cheek. You’re crying, but trying really hard not to, and you sniffle with a laugh before his lips find yours, the kiss so sweet, so overwhelming that he loses himself in it, sneaking his tongue between your teeth, sliding a palm down your hip to the curve of your ass-

Theo shrieks. He flails in Johnny’s arms, unreasonable and uncontained, so Simon pulls him into his own, cradling the boy against his chest while you try to hold them both.

“What do you say, want to help dad put this on?” You stroke some of Theo’s wispy curls while Johnny pulls something from his pocket, a gold ring, sized for Simon’s finger. He hands it to you, and you let Theo wrap a curious paw around it.

“I have a silicone one for you too.” You say quietly, lowering the band to his ring finger. “But I thought you might want this, for when you’re at home.” You push it halfway on before pulling it off, eyes widening for a moment. “I uh, forgot. It’s inscribed.” He plucks it from your fingertips to inspect it, and the tiny, engraved writing gleams in the light.

‘I got you. -S.R.’

“S.R?” His initials? 

“Sass. Riley.” There’s a timid smile on your face, and he’s lost his breath, again, for the hundredth time today as he stares down at you, unsure if he’s dreaming or not. You pull the ring from his grasp, slipping it onto his finger the whole way this time, stroking the pad of your thumb overtop the gold.

“Do you like it?” Theo babbles in his arms, swinging a small fist into his chest.

He nods and leans forward, ghosting his lips across yours, gentle and soft as he whispers, “I love it, Mrs. Riley.”

For I can't help falling in love with you.

[spiderrrling]

Hello, it's me again.

Lovesick!Eddie loves to pop up behind you, getting his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder just to get near you while you do stuff, like washing the dishes, cooking or burshing your teeth.

You somehow pick up the same habit and he loves it because you just squish your face on his back and asks for a description of what he's doing. And he laughs.

baby i am so sorry ive left this since Friday but here it is <3 some ever so slight changes

lovesick! Eddie master list

You disappeared completely into his frame every time he did it, his big arms wrapping around your middle, his head resting on your shoulder or burying his nose in your hair to simply breathe in the smell of your day old shampoo

It didn’t matter what you were doing, cooking, cleaning, reaching for something on the top shelf or simply standing Eddie had an incredible talent for popping up behind you without notice and pulling you into his embrace

The smell of stale cigarettes and cheap cologne invading your nose, the odd metal button on his jacket pushing into your back at a weird angle, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care

Every now and again his rough and calloused hands would slide under the soft fabric of your shirt and rest against the dough of your tummy, his warm hands grounding you just for a second more

“Why do you always do that?” your words were muffled and you were convinced they were incomprehensible, Eddie’s head resting against your shoulder, his lips pressing soft kisses behind your ear as if it was the most normal thing in the world while you brushe your teeth

“Don’t know, it’s like a reflex I suppose, just wanna be close to you” the last few words were muffled against your skin as he buried his face in the soft and subtle junction where your neck met your shoulder

“I’m shocked you could even understand anything I was saying there” you dropped your toothbrush back in it’s cup with a soft echo as the cheap plastic met the white ceramic

“I just know, I’ll always know what you say, that’s just how it is”

There was something about that, about having the person you cared the most about in the whole world knowing you so well they could understand you in any situation

It didn’t take long though for you to start picking up the same habit as Eddie

You found your hands itching, longing to grab onto him and hold on for as long as he would let you which in most cases tended to be quite long

“Whose all touchy now huh?” Eddie looked down to where your hands were clasped together around his waist, your fingers laced together to lock him into your grasp

“I get it now” you’re speaking directly into his back, once again wouldn’t be shocked if he couldn’t understand a word you were saying

“What was that?”

Oh

“I thought you could understand me always” you muttered, quietly trying not to let the disappointment seep into your voice

His laughter reverberated in his chest and you could feel it through your grasp, a sound which immediately put you at ease  “I can, I just wanted to hear you say it again”

“Soooo… what are you doing?” you couldn’t see anything, your eyes squeezed shut as tight as they could as you attempted to let Eddie fill every facet of your very being, all you could feel was him, his waist in your tight gasp, his hand placed over your intertwined ones, his long hair rubbing against your face now and then

If no one stopped you, you were convinced you could stay here forever

“Nothing now, not when you’re here”

feel free to send lovesick! eddie thoughts and ideas!! comments, reblogs and feedback is very appreciated <3

[fariesoiree]

miffy's note this is just the prequel; this following series centers heavily around themes of stalking. mdni fics for gaza

you’d think when you’re finally seated inside the black honda civic that the thrumming in your chest would begin to dull into a consistent rhythm. it’s supposed to be a safe space. the plush interior is supposed to be a comfort, the tinted windows are supposed to act as a bandaid. that soothed feeling, the security you’re seeking so desperately never comes. instead, each drag of air is harsher and harsher. you’re nearly wheezing by the time sukuna is seated in the driver’s seat, hand gripping the fabric of your t-shirt.

“relax. breath, girl, breath.” he’s meticulous in the way he closes his door, preventing the metal from slamming shut while devoting his attention to your unwell state. his larger hand covers yours, planted so firmly over your chest. he can feel the ragged breaths even through your fingertips. “i’m right here, okay? you’re fine now so breath f’me.”

his words are easier said than done. they don’t have a chance to fully register in your head. they become part of the murky mixture ringing between your ears. the footsteps paces behind yours ring over and over again. the crunch of the pavement under your feet, your name falling from horrid lips, it all plays in a cycle in between gasps for air. your heartbeat pounds beneath the thin layer of skin and bone. you don’t have to tell sukuna you’ve lost control because he can see it under the watery rims of your tear-filled eyes.

“jesus christ.” sukuna pulls his hand away from yours, although reluctantly, to find anything of use. as far as he knows, you don’t have an inhaler on you, nor does he believe there has ever been a moment in time where a doctor has every prescribed one for the particular situation. he considers himself lucky when his fingers clasp around plastic, thrown and discarded into the backseat of his car and even more so when the bottle is filled halfway with water. “i know it’s shady but drink it. for your breathing.”

he’s thoughtful enough to untwist the cap for you and guides the bottle to your lips. the stream of water is hot down your throat. unpleasant as it is, it does it’s job in forcing you to hold in a breath longer than you want to, letting the carbon dioxide run through your system and quell your beating heart. “if i ever see that piece of shit, i’ll kill him.” it’s more of a statement sukuna says for himself, guiding one of your trembling hands to hold the bottle for yourself. “you hold onto this and don’t worry your pretty head about a thing. you can sleep at my place.”

behind the perimeter of the store-brand water bottle, you smile as much as you can manage, albeit it’s weak. still, you attempt to show your appreciation for his kindness with the ever growing guilt that you’ll never be able to repay him for this. you actually feel quite selfish for having to rope sukuna into this. he shouldn’t have to put himself at risk because you can’t manage to keep your own problems at bay, granted having someone who is a bit too obsessed with you following you around isn’t something you have to deal with on your own. you know better than to voice your opinion on the matter. it would just earn you reprimands and challenging glares at such an asinine ideology. so instead, you take another small swig of water. “thank you ‘kuna.”

sukuna resides in a little townhouse just outside the city. the neighborhood is nowhere near as protected as you’d like but it’s somewhat comforting to have another person beside you. he’s been darling all night, opening the car door for you and letting you walk ahead of him as you trek to the front door. sukuna even punches in the numbers to his keypad at his position stationed behind you, protectively looming over your shoulder until you’re ushered through the door. “you can stay as long as you need, yeah?”

he tosses his keys onto the the console table and casts a quick glance out the window. the blinds fall back into place when he pulls away. it’s odd to him to be this kind to you. sure, there has been plenty of moments where sukuna has displayed his softer side to you but this is unprecedented. there really is no protocol for how friends like him should act when receiving such a distressing call. he’s wracked his brain enough times with the same questions, questions only you could solve. “so what the fuck happened?”

it’s such a simple question. the wording could use some critique but you’re not thinking about it when you’re kicking off your crocs onto the doormat. if anything, you’re too frenzied running through your own thoughts and experiences. every moment leading up to this flashes behind your eyes in a blur. “i don’t — i told the police. i told them and they said if i didn’t have enough proof, a threat. texts aren’t enough. i told them, sukuna. i told —”

“okay. you told them; i get that. that wasn’t my question, though. what happened, tonight?” he does his best to mind his tone, narrowed eyes tracking your movement the farther you venture into his abode. he believes you, he really does. there isn’t any room for doubt when your voice, wavering in fear, replays in his head from your phone call. sukuna is just trying to wrap his head around the situation. 

you called him during what was supposed to be a completely ordinary thursday night. it’s a distress call at that, full of your pleas to come pick you up. in a single instance, you’ve managed to upgrade your previous very casual relationship into something unlabeled where you crash at his house to evade your . . . stalker?

you’re still reeling when you plop yourself onto his sectional. it’s a hysteria you haven’t felt before. one that builds in the base of your tummy and crawls it’s way up your throat with a taste resembling bile. you curl up in your spot, feet tucked under yourself and hugging your knees to your chest. your phone slides out of your pocket, serving a reminder to let your roommate know you won’t be returning home that night. “there’s this guy. he came to my bar once and ordered a gin and tonic.” you take an interest in your fingernails and how varied the different shapes are.

this is not the first time you’ve told this story before. you’ve told it to your friends, your coworkers, your managers. you’ve told the police. sure, some people feel doubt or even shame but you? there isn’t a moment where you don’t feel rage at the loss of normalcy. your sense of ease has been stolen from you and it’s never been anyones to take. still, every time you begin the tale again, the nausea returns. the incessant queasiness finds its way back into your system.

“he’s been back every day since. he gets gin and tonic and a water. then, he got my number; don’t know how that happened, by the way. in comes the texts and calls and flowers and gifts. i told him i don’t want to talk to him, ‘kuna. i swear i did,” you turn your attention towards him. the salty tears fill your eyes once again. it’s already embarrassing enough to be here under such circumstances. there’s no help in crying. you wipe them as quickly as they fall in an attempt to build a facade that everything is fine. “he keeps texting me anyway. i’ve blocked every number, i went to the police, i did it all. this is the first time he’s ever followed me. i was just walking home from the parking lot but i didn’t want him to know where i lived so i . . . i called you.”

sukuna sighs. it’s long and drawn out, accompanied by a hand that runs through his pink hair and down his face. he pulls at the skin on is face while strolling down the hallway in your direction. it’s a lot to handle in one night with no obvious path to decide on. he supposes as long as you feel safe, things will be okay. it’s just a matter of sorting this out with the police. until then, “no yeah, that’s fine. that’s fine, ☆. call me for things like this. like i said, stay here as long as you need and we’ll sort this out in the morning.”

it’s a sentence weighted with uncertainty. there is no defined explanation behind deal with it in the morning. there is no record behind tonight other than sukuna as a verbal witness. you didn’t even get a peak at the guy’s face. if the police didn’t take you seriously then, they won’t take you seriously now. you’re damn sure of that. it’s out of your hands though, because the effects of your panic have induced a sleepiness like no other now that you’re no longer on edge. you have no reason to argue and no leg to stand on so you nod and allow sukuna to lead you upstairs in hopes of unwinding from tonight.

[thedemoninmywalls]

10 for the nsft kink prompts!! :3

- @freakkisser

10: Humiliation Fic under the cut! <3

After a long day at work, Aro was looking forward to coming home and making dinner. She hadn't eaten a thing since lunchtime, not even a snack. On her way home she was already thinking about what food she had and what to cook.

So she was pretty surprised to find, upon entering her apartment, that her kitchen was completely empty.

The shelves were bare and the fridge was all cleaned out. The whole kitchen was as empty and clean as the day she moved in.

Aro blinked, rubbed her eyes, and then looked again. She ran her hands over the counters and the shelves in the fridge. There was simply nothing there. She turned on the sink to get a drink of water, but even that wasn't working.

Her kitchen had been quite full this morning, but now there wasn't a speck of food or water in the whole apartment.

Of course, there was only one possible explanation for this. Predictably, Rire was sitting in the living room, sipping tea.

“What the hell did you do to my kitchen?” Aro demanded, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed.

“What? Don't you like how clean it is?” he smiled, feigning innocence.

“Where is all my food?” Aro asked in an exasperated tone. She could tell he was going to be difficult.

“Somewhere safe,” Rire assured her. “You’ll get it back if you behave.”

Ah. She should have known. He was gonna hold her food hostage until she did what he asked.

“What do you want?” she demanded impatiently.

Rire smirked, confident that he had the upper hand, as usual.

“Get your collar,” he ordered.

Aro made a face. “I hate the collar.”

��Then you won't eat tonight,” he replied decisively.

Groaning in frustration, Aro dragged her feet to the bedroom. She fetched the collar and its leash from the nightstand and returned to the living room.

“Just don't make it too tight, please?”

“Kneel.”

Aro kneeled, staying obediently still while Rire clasped the collar around her neck. It wasn't tight enough to choke her, but tight enough to press against her throat. With the leash tightly wound around Rire’s hand, it would only take a little tug to restrict Aro’s breathing.

The collar had a little metal dog tag that read “pet” and jingled whenever she moved. It was humiliating to wear, which was probably why Rire liked it.

“Now what?” Aro asked, pulling at the collar to loosen it.

“Now we will try something new,” Rire’s yellow eyes brightened with mischief. “I saw it online today and thought it would be just perfect for us.”

“What is it?” Aro was wary. Rire's new ideas were usually not very pleasant for her.

“It's better to show you,” Rire dug into a plastic shopping bag and pulled out two foam balls.

“Hold these and squeeze tightly,” he instructed, placing a ball in each of her hands.

Aro obeyed, unsure what he was getting at. Rire took out a thick roll of duct tape and wound it around her closed fists. Long strips of sticky tape, all around her fingers and almost up to her wrists. When he was done, she couldn't move her fingers an inch. Her hands were nothing more than useless balls of tape.

“Um…” Aro stared at her tape mittens bewilderedly.

Rire opened Aro's laptop and navigated to the sketchy dark web video site where he watched Ren’s livestreams.

“Come here,” he ordered gently, pulling Aro onto his lap.

She sat and watched as he pressed play on a torture porn video. By now she’d been forced to watch enough of them that she was starting to get desensitized. Now she hardly flinched when the killer onscreen smashed a woman's leg with a sledgehammer.

While they were watching, Rire’s hands sneaked under her shirt and began to play with her nipples. He pinched and rubbed the soft nubs of flesh until they were erect and stimulated.

From where she sat on his lap, Aro felt Rire’s erection beneath his pants, poking against her ass. He liked to make her needy and aroused while watching torture porn, so that she associated the pleasure with pain.

“Mmm,” Aro moaned softly, leaning into his touch. Unconsciously, she went to touch her sex - and remembered the tape around her hands. Without the use of her fingers, she couldn't get her skirt off.

“Mph…Rire…” Aro grinded herself against his lap, hoping for some friction.

“What is it?”

“I-I can't…” she lifted her tape mittens, humiliated by their uselessness.

“I want you to touch me…please,” Aro mumbled, red from embarrassment.

“Of course,” Rire effortlessly slipped his fingers under her skirt and entered her.

“My poor little pet can't touch herself when her hands are all taped up, hm?” He snickered in her ear. “How pathetic. You need your master to do everything for you, isn't that right, little one?”

Aro started to respond, but then Rire’s fingers rubbed against her clit and she gasped instead.

“Nngh - fuck -” Aro moaned louder, shifting her hips against his hand. He tugged on the leash so the collar pressed hard against her throat.

“Good toy…that's my good toy,” he breathed into her neck as he fucked her with his fingers.

She came after only a few minutes, her wetness spilling all over Rire's hand.

“What a mess,” Rire tsked. “Did you ever taste yourself?”

He poked his fingers into her mouth and made her lick his whole hand clean. The taste of her own cum was strange and reminded Aro that she was thirsty. She longed for water to wash the taste away.

“You humans are just too easy,” Rire teased as he turned off the video. “Just a few touches is all it takes to make you melt. So weak and worthless. You're good for nothing except pleasing your master.”

Aro slipped off his lap and turned to face him.

“I-I did everything you asked,” she whimpered. “Please, I need water…and food…”

“Of course,” Rire snapped his fingers. “Everything has returned to the kitchen. You may help yourself…”

He grinned evilly. “But you may not take the tape off your hands. If you try to take it off, I will hurt you.”

It was at that moment, of course, that Aro’s stomach growled quite loudly. Her insides felt pinched from hunger. If she wasn't starving, she might have defied Rire and marched into the kitchen, tape mittens and all.

But now hunger had eroded her dignity. It was humiliating to depend on him, but it would be even more humiliating to try getting food and water without the use of her hands.

Her vision blurred, and Aro realized that hot tears of frustration and embarrassment were running down her cheeks.

“Please,” she begged. “I can't do it by myself. Please help me…I’m so hungry. I just need a little food and water. I'll do anything.”

“Anything?” Rire's eyebrows raised in amusement. “What can you possibly offer me that I don't have already?”

“I don't know!” Aro sobbed. She tried to wipe away her tears with her useless tape mittens. She hated crying in front of him, but now that she started, she couldn't stop.

Rire watched her cry for a while before he finally felt pity. He stood up from the couch and led her away with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Come, my pet…let's get you something to eat.”

[hiskillingjar]

Costume (Ren/MC)

day 12: costume second person

The zip of the latex catsuit slid easily up the small of your back, the thin metal cool against your burning skin, sealing inch after inch of your skin as it climbed up the gentle slope of your spine and to the middle of your neck, where your head was tilted forward obediently.

Your breath was already short, but it grew more and more shallow as the plastic was pulled tighter and tighter around your trembling body. 

The suit was probably a size too small for you, so it hugged every one of your curves as tightly as it possibly could, your body straining beneath the tight, breathless fabric.

"There," Ren said triumphantly behind you with an unseen smile, as he did up the little clasp at the middle of your neck and slid a small padlock through it (making you flinch again), locking you up tight, before smoothing a reassuring hand down your back. You barely suppressed a shudder as he touched you. "I knew it would fit you if we tried hard enough."

"Hmph," You grunted softly in acknowledgment, resting your gloved hands in your lap, where you were obediently kneeling down for him. 

"Don't pout," He said with a chuckle, idly running his fingers through your hair and pushing it over your shoulders so he could press a kiss to the sliver of skin that the latex wasn't covering. "You look beautiful. Like you walked right out of one of my fantasies."

"The less said about your fantasies, the better." You murmured softly, but that didn't stop your cheeks from flushing even darker at the compliments, genuine and sweet, like Ren often was when he was trying to get something he wanted.

He didn't take offense to your vaguely insulting words, it seemed, by the way he laughed again and crawled around your body to face you, his tail wagging as he admired you even further, his golden eyes gleaming with excitement.

"God, just look at you ," He said, his voice a low purr as he placed his hands on your thighs, taking yours gently in his and rubbing his fingers over your latex-clad palms, careful not to drag his claws over the delicate plastic material. "All wrapped up tight in plastic." His voice dipped down into an indulgent growl as he brought his face close to your neck and ran the bridge of his nose against your jaw. "Like a doll. So perfect for me."

You took in a sharp little gasp at that particular name, your face almost beet red as you jerked your chin upwards before he had the chance to see how flustered he was getting you. 

Your breath grew even more shallow and you squirmed uncomfortably in your costume, the latex shifting and creaking with every tremble.

"Your nipples are getting hard," He mused with a hot breath against your already heated skin, his tail still wagging as he took one hand from yours and brought it up to the soft heft of your compressed chest under the tight plastic. "It looks pretty slutty, actually." He laughed again, running the pad of his thumb over the little bump, smiling at the way you twitched. "Pressing right up against the latex. Like you really are a fetish doll or something. A pretty little object made just for me ."

"Mm...Ren," You whined softly, pressing your hands against his chest, your jaw trembling as he scented you, his sharp little fangs nipping at your neck and claiming what little skin he could with bruises. You knew that he was saying this for the sole purpose of teasing you even more, getting you wound up and hot, and...well, desperate for him. 

"Aw, but you're all sealed away," He giggled softly, raising his head to nip at your earlobe, nestling into your hair as he groped you a little harder, still teasing your nipples. "I can't fuck you like this, can I? And I guess I never will if I lose the key to this." 

He poked at the padlock behind your neck, making you flinch again.

"Don't tease me," You said with another little pout, biting your lip as his touch returned to your thigh and drifted up a little higher, against the plastic 'sealing' your cunt, for lack of a better word. 

"Mm, I think I will tease you, actually." He replied, pulling back and giving you a mocking smile. "It's too fun, not to. You're just so reactive~" 

It was a little unfair that he could play with you this easily.

Though you guessed that he was doing that on purpose. Just so you would begin to believe that you really were his toy.

His doll.

[steddie-thirst]

He Didn't Do It | Rockstar!Eddie x Fem!Reader |

Summary: Eddie gets out of jail for a crime he knows he didn't commit. You forgive him on the grounds their no evidence and Gareth provides some light. You figure out what kind of guy Eddie is.

You stare down at the caller I.D. before answering the call. The incident had changed you in a major way, being more careful about information you gave or even who you surrounded yourself with. "Hello?"

"Jesus, I'm so glad you answered!"

"Gareth?" It wasn't hard to recognize his voice after following Eddie's bands music. You've known Gareth just as long and come to recognize his voice, "What are you doing calling me-"

"Listen, I heard about what happened from, Eddie." You scoff and he Gareth sighs.

"He did it and I know he did it, because-"

"He loves you." The drummer spits out, "Eddie would never and I mean never hurt you." He would fight for Eddie, they've been friends for years. "That night, when he was on his way he called me and we were on the phone for an hour. The time he was in your window was 2 minutes after that. He didn't do it, Belle."

You were still to focused on the fact that he mentioned that Eddie had said 'he loved you', but it was shocking. Surely enough you and the young star had been close. Friends for the longest time and had closer since being in high school. Beauty and the Freak, shocking wasn't it? "He said that? Said he loved me? Really?"

Gareth chuckles, "Yeah, he did. Wouldn't shut up about you, actually." He was much surprised at the fact that you chose not to argue, but he was grateful you believed him. "We're performing at the hideout tonight, if you want to stop by-"

"Where is he now, Gare?" You ask with a bit to much eagerness that has the drummer's head spinning, but he gives in.

"He's at your old meeting spot. I'm assuming you know-" Gareth was cut off by the dial-tone and he nodded. "Yeah, she knows."

Eddie stares down into the old grooves of the wood. Many a day and night he spent at this table, dealing, selling, and making other usual bad decisions. Except the day when he met you..

November 1986

"It's gonna be 30 for half. No more and no less?" The jock, Barry asked nervously glancing down at the plastic baggie then up to Eddie's ringed fingers clasping the bag.

Barry sees Eddie grin from the corner of his peripheral, "Listen man, if you don't have the money then-" He cuts off Eddie with a scoff.

"Forget it, freak." He stands up from the rusty picnic table flipping him the bird and storming off away from the clearing. "Should've known he was a fucking freak.."

Eddie only sighed and stuffed his supply back into the black metal tin he was lugging around. He huffed, "So much for that sale." He reaches into his pocket to pull out his box of cigarettes, going to light one up when he heard something. He pushed the stick to the corner of his mouth and tucks the others back into his pocket. He cranes his head in the direction of the noise and smirks at the sight. From behind one of the trees the tip of a black flat peeks out from behind one of the tall trees.

"Gee, it must be crazy to be sitting out here all alone." Eddie goes to light his cigarette watching as the feet move out from behind the tall oaks. He takes a puff, exhaling the smoke out into the cool autumn air. When you come into view Eddie smirks, "Guess I am not crazy." He jokes.

You blush and approach the table, "H-How'd you know I was there?"

Eddie chuckles, "Saw those poking out from behind the tree." he points to your black flats and you sigh, plopping down on the opposite bench from him. "Didn't take the Queen Bee to be into drugs." He comments waving his hand around.

"Oh, I'm not.. I just.." You forget why you're there. He's just so casual it puts you in both a good mood and numbs you. "I came to see you. Purely you."

"Damn. Who gave me away?" He joked lightly and you smile watching him take another drag, before tossing the butt down and stomping it out.

"Gareth." You reply quickly.

"Good 'ol, Gareth." Eddie grins and you giggle finding it hard not to when he's smiling and paying all of his attention to you. "I like you, Belle, you intrigue me." You lean forward and grin, "Tell me more about yourself."

"You first." You reply.

November 1990

You approach the table the same way you did that very day. What you didn't know was that someone had followed you there. As you sit down Eddie looks up from the table. His hair is messy, eyes tired, and clothes rustled, "I'm sorry." You start.

"Belle, you were scared.. I'm not mad."

"But I am! At myself." You argue, "I let someone I love take the rap for murder, because I was scared myself! Eddie, that's cra-mm" His lips cut you off and you nearly melt. His lips are just as soft as you remember, soft and sweet, but tasting of smoke.

Steve watched from his spot behind the tree and he was burning with anger. Eddie loved you and you were returning that love. The years had changed nothing about your love for Eddie, not even murder could change those feelings and years of longing for him. When you pulled back Eddie sighed, "God, I missed you Eds."

"I missed you too." You respond almost breathlessly and Eddie chuckles.

"Well if you missed me so much, I expect to see you tonight at the Hideout." He retorted and you nodded reaching over to take his hands. Still clad with those chunky rings he liked to wear. Never changing was a major thing Eddie supported. Just be yourself.

"I promise, Eds. I'll be there."

"And so will I." Steve mumbled. Things were going to end there, Steve had ben fucked over just enough in his life. He was going to kill Eddie and put and end to it, you were his. You needed to know that.

TAGLIST:

@yaspillz @dahliamae @munsonloverblog @off-phelia @strangerthingsstories5255 @fujiihime @shyposttree @damon-loves-pie @fanficfanatic204 @seratoninsickness @k0urti @thatlonelypieceoftoast @marianita195 @phantomxoxo @wittlewowa @buchanansbaby @rollergirlworld @allithewriter @555stargirl555 @gothguitargal @eddiemunsons-missingnipple @carol-munson @ali-r3n @letmebeyoureuphoria @cherry-omi @harrys-tittie @yearwalker96 @lipglossanon @thepastdied @brittney69 @jessevans

[koskela-knights]

Again

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52250887

Short drabble about Jaakko waking up from a bad dream. Or so he thinks. Drabble beneath the cut but also feel free to read it on ao3

The repetitive alarm clock finally blasts him awake. Jaakko’s eyes shoot open, wide and bloodshot. His heart is pounding in his chest, but at least it is pounding. He is alive. He gawks at a ceiling. The old fan is still hanging there. Cobwebs are plastered onto some of its blades. He’s back home. Slowly, he moves his hand over his heart. It’s still there. He clasps onto his shirt, wrinkling the fabric between his clammy fingers. He is trembling. Jaakko’s mouth feels dry. There’s a faint taste of metal on the back of his tongue but when he spits in his hand, there’s no sign of blood. He wipes his hand off on his blanket and continues to lie on his back and stare at the ceiling while he takes in the sensations of living. His breath is even. The pulse of his heart is palpable. He had died only seconds ago, somewhere completely else. Or so he thought. It had been a terrible death, too. A monster had inhabited his body, filling it with eternal darkness. It poured out of him like the blood that had filled his throat and nose. And then his lifeless body crashed into the concrete beneath. Mere seconds in real-time had felt like a never-ending terror. In his memory, he’d been falling forever. He’d been swimming against ruthless waves of nothingness. Through the chaos he had heard a familiar voice call out to him. Audible, but always out of reach.

 “Jaakko? My brother…”

He wanted to answer the call, but he had lost his voice.

“Jaakko! Jaakko?!” Ilmo’s booming voice interrupts his thoughts. “Get your lazy ass out of bed. We have to head to work!” Frustrated, Jaakko closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s no longer dead, he’s no longer dreaming either. He takes a deep breath. And then another one, just to be sure he is indeed really alive. Then he gets up.

He is back at their home, in the trailer. There is no possessed writer, no Saga Anderson who got all tangled up in a horror story. Was it all just a dream then, a big, bad nightmare? Already exhausted, Jaakko stumbles to the kitchen where his ever-cheerful brother is awaiting him. Unlike Jaakko who is still only wearing his boxers and shirt, Ilmo is fully dressed and ready to go.

“There you are, finally! I thought you’d never wake up” Ilmo exclaims. Blissfully ignorant of the faith that had befallen his brother. When he notices Jaakko’s drained look, the smile turns into a frown. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

 “I might as well have,” Jaakko grunts and takes a seat in the plastic kitchen chair.  The bright light inside the trailer, his peppy brother… Everything suddenly feels so uncanny. Too good to be true. He had truly died.

 “I think you should have some coffee, brother. Here, freshly poured,” Ilmo shoves the hot cup under his nose.

 “W-what day is it?” Jaakko mutters before he slowly takes a sip.

“13th of September. We ought to head to Coffee World. Finish your cup, get dressed and we’ll go. I’ll buy you a sandwich on the go.”

Jaakko almost spits out his coffee at the mention of the date. He vividly remembers this day and the cursed morning that followed after. The missing writer, the FBI’s involvement, the failed killing of said writer, the FBC taking over and then being possessed and killed in less than the blink of an eye. The mere memory makes Jaakko clutch onto his shirt again. Is there any darkness still lingering inside of him?

 “Jaakko… Are you alright?”

“I-, I just got a bad feeling about today. Sure, we shouldn’t stay home?”

Ilmo snorts. “You are the stay-at-home dad, not me. But you gotta help me today at the park. Plus, we gotta be prepared for possible interrogation by the feds.” Jaakko blankly stares at his brother. He truly doesn’t seem to know what is coming for them. With difficulty, he swallows down the last drip of coffee. Maybe, he has a chance to change the direction of the story. Maybe, he can live. Just maybe.

[starlightsearches]

Hey! Just found your blog and I absolutely LOOOOVE your writing! Do you think Eddie would ever give his guitar puck necklace to someone he really really likes? Like, what's the minimum requirement for anyone to receive this precious gift from our bb? 😙

Thank you so much!! You're the sweetest. This question had me thinking alllllllllllll about Eddie's guitar pick necklace, so here are some headcanons (and also an answer to your question).

Some of these are a little spicy, so 18+ONLY please 💖 Requests are open, comments and reblogs make my day 🥰

Eddie Munson Guitar Pick Headcanons

Wayne was the first person to suggest Eddie wear his guitar pick, since he was sick of finding a bunch of plastic at the bottom of the washing machine every time he washed a load of Eddie's pants

We all know Eddie loves to accessorize, so finding a chain for Eddie and showing him how to melt a hole in one of his picks was actually a pretty genius move on Wayne's part

It becomes one of those things Eddie can't go without. He'll fidget with it when he's in class, run his fingers along the edge to quiet his mind. If he really needs to concentrate, he'll hold it between his teeth.

okay now for some slutty ones

He loves watching the pick dangle in front of your face whenever he straddling you, likes the way it swings in time with his thrusts.

Want his attention? Play with the chain.

Your fingers at his neck will have him instantly hard, especially if you tug a little at the pick, make the metal links dig into his skin.

Eddie has you kiss it before every show. He holds the chain out with one thumb before he gets on stage at the Hideout, looking at you with big, almost embarrassed eyes.

"For good luck, babe?"

Like you could say no to that 🥺

He gives you the pick necklace the first time he says I love you, maybe during a quiet moment in his trailer, or the back of his van, cuddled close together.

And it's not the first time he's thought it; he thinks it all the time.

But with the way your fingers trace gently over his collar bones, he thinks you might say it back.

The whole thing isn't as smooth as he'd like it to be—his fingers fumbling at the clasp, how hard it is to even meet your eyes as he stutters out the question "will you wear it?"

You know it's a big deal, wide-eyed as you hold the pick in your hand. Know he's saying, here's a piece of me. I want you to have it.

"Yeah, Eddie. Of course I'll wear it."

And he's too happy to contain himself, arms at your waist, lips wherever he can reach, the two of you warm and giggling and together.

Eddie tells you he loves you over and over and over.

But there's no chance you could forget, not when you're wearing his guitar pick around your neck.

[madcatdaderpydrawer-blog]

Moon noticed that Monty was having one of his rage fits again and took a detour on his rounds to check it out. For context this was still one of their first interactions, so all they really interacted was from Moon scolding Monty for being destructive and helping him clean up the room.The curtains were closed but he came in anyways and Monty hurled his vanity at him. Moon caught it with one hand, his other arm staying clasped behind his back and without missing a beat told Monty to “Behave.” in a cold blunt tone and then put the vanity down.

Monty didn’t know whether to be aroused or terrified. On one hand, that feat of strength done with such nonchallance was insanely impressive. He didn’t expect someone of Moons design and demographic appeal to be that strong, and assumed that the security role was more something they tacked on to reassure the parents of the daycares safety. And clearly he was very wrong. But on the other hand, if that isn’t the most disturbing revelation. That thing is not made of cheap material, AND it’s made to be bulky enough for Monty. It’s like over 200 pounds of metal and plastic and Moon caught it easily. He really underestimated his strength.

He probably discussed it with Roxy later, and she gave him the signature judgemental look when he admit that he finds it hot but is also intimidated by him. 

Meanwhile when Moon left the room afterwards he had to get his brother to check his arm, because good god his arm HURT. You can only imagine how that conversation went.

“Moon, your arm is almost falling off!!”

“Yeah, can you fix it for me?”

“What did you do?! I swear to god if you got yourself hurt doing something stupid again-”

“It wasn’t my fault! Monty was trashing his room and when I came in him he threw a vanity at me! I didn’t want to get hit so I had to react quickly!”

“HE THREW WHAT AT YOU?!”

[mr-m-murdock]

the pardoned soul

| wanda x natasha |

summary: Natasha gets shot and Wanda makes an attempt at saving her life.

warnings: LANGUAGE, injury, blood, USELESS gays

a/n: a tiktok gave me this idea (also i hoped it’s alright that I tagged everyone, i didn’t know if yall only wanted to be tagged for x reader or not)

The bullet buries itself in between Natasha’s fourth and third ribs and she stares at it, swaying, for as long as it takes for her eyes to start watering. “Fuck,” she says. The word dribbles from her lips like syrup. 

Her ass hits the hard concrete, and she registers the fall, puts her hands out too late. The skin on her palms slicks off and the impact rockets up her thighs. She flattens herself behind the blasted section of wall she’d been using for cover, and breathes in the dust-choked air, deeply. She draws her stiletto and grips it hard, the metal handle edge cutting into her palm. 

“Nat?” Clint asks, over the comms. “I can’t see you.”

“Man down,” Natasha says, through gritted teeth. “I’ve– fuck– shot. Fuck– I’ve been– I’ve been shot. Shit!” She puts a hand over the bullet hole and presses as hard as she can bear. Pain lances through her ribs, up her chest like a heart attack and she bites her tongue hard to hold back the sounds threatening to spill forth. Blood wells under her fingers, wetting her palms. 

She can hear urgent talk on the comms, but the words all roll into one another like the fall of rain. She claws at her focus.

“Nat,” Clint is saying. “Nat, come in.”

“We gotta Code Green,” Tony pants. “Emergency Med’s out.”

“Hawkeye,” Steve says. “Where are you?”

“Super super busy!” Clint replies. He grunts, an impact sounding.

“Maximoff, you’re up,” Steve says. “Time to shine. Romanoff’s on Welch Street, get there fast.” 

“Losing blood,” Natasha gasps. “Sitting tight.” She clutches her stiletto close to her chest and stares into the sky, the edge of the broken wall merging with blue above. Nice day for it. Sweat drips from her temple.

“I’m here,” Wanda says, half a second before her feet hit the ground next to Natasha’s hip. She sticks her landing and falls, plumes of dust and bullet casing scattering into the air. Natasha hisses a breath out through cracked lips, the oxygen draining from her lungs. Wanda kneels up and takes a scan, lip worriedly between her teeth. The med bag is dangling next to her hip.

“I’ll walk you through it,” Natasha says faintly. “Remember what you gotta do?” She doesn’t need a rookie right now. She needs Bruce and his steady hands. Hell, she’d even settle for Clint.

“C A B C,” Wanda says, nodding in earnest, scanning Natasha head to toe.

“Fuck that,” Natasha replies in a gasp. “Gunshot wound, ribs. Put pressure on it.” She nods towards where her hands are clasped over her side. Wanda slips the bag off and hesitantly puts her hands out, one on top of the other. “Pulling off in three, two, one,” Natasha says. She lets her hands slip away and the pressure is gone for half a second, the pain spiking, before Wanda’s palms press down on the wound. Natasha’s head spins. “Now–”

“Gauze, I know,” Wanda says. She blinks twice and the flap of the bag flies open. A bandage tears itself free from its packaging and floats towards the two of them like a plastic bag in the wind. It’s creepy. Black spots are blooming in Natasha’s vision.

“So pack it, and get me to the jet,” Natasha orders.

“I could just–” Wanda says. She frowns. “I can put you back together.”

“No,” Natasha says, suppressing a shudder. “There’s still a bullet in me.”

“Okay,” Wanda says. “Right, yeah.” She pulls back from the wound and the next second, she’s stuffing gauze into the bullet wound, past all that flesh and ruined nerve. Natasha makes an inadvertent, choked sound, her legs seizing up, and stuffs her bloodied hand into her mouth to stop it. Her eyes screw shut, wet at the lashes. “Natasha,” Wanda says, concern like a vein of gold in her voice.

Natasha groans around her fist. 

“I’m done. I’m going to pick you up,” Wanda says. Her voice is remarkably steady. “You want me to count down-”

“Jesus Christ, no,” Natasha says, around a half-formed giggle that leaps inadvertently from her mouth. This is not funny. It’s not funny. She snorts to herself, tasting blood.

“Natasha?” Wanda asks.

“Wanda, how is she?” Clint asks.

“She’s laughing,” Wanda says nervously.

“She’s going into shock-”

“Fuck you,” Natasha gasps-

“-get her back to the jet, ASAP.”

“Okay,” Wanda says. Natasha opens her eyes and stares up, trying to sort the edge of a cloud of the wide bright blue of the sky, trying to stay awake when everything light is white and everything dark is as black as the space between stars.

She feels the ground leave her spine and it’s terrifying, sending her reeling into a vague sort of panic for a second: is this it? Is she dying?

“Natasha,” Wanda says. No. Not dead.

“Keep talking,” Natasha says, through lips cracked and dry. Just to convince her she’s not gone yet. Wanda’s panting through her open mouth, boots hitting the floor with sharp cracks.

“Okay,” Wanda says. “Almost there. I-” The air shakes and warps and Wanda swears- “Dolboeb!”

“Language,” Natasha hisses, through her teeth. She hears Steve sigh over the comms.

“She’s awake enough to make fun of you, America,” Wanda says.

“Focus,” Natasha grunts. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re gonna pay for that,” Natasha manages, in one long breath. The floor hits her again, smooth and cool now. “Not on the fucking floor,” Natasha grunts, as the shadow of the jet ceiling slides above her.

“Sorry,” Wanda gasps. A stretcher slides under Natasha’s spine in one fluid motion and she tries to settle in to it, but her muscles are tight, tensing her body rod-straight. Wanda sinks down into a crouch by her head.

“How’s my hair?” Natasha rasps. Her throat is dry from all that dust. She probably smells like crap and looks even worse. Wanda smiles down at her and brushes a single, sweat-sticky strand away from Natasha’s forehead.

“Flawless,” she says. “You want some water?”

“Charmer,” Natasha says. Her breaths are coming too slowly, too shallow. She should probably stop talking. “Yes, please.” Wanda moves off towards the lockers. Natasha breathes and breathes and breathes and tries not to choke on the blood in her throat. Good time not to throw up.

“Here,” Wanda says, twisting the cap off a plastic water bottle with a crack. She holds the bottle to Natasha’s lips and, pride be damned, Natasha allows her to pour it down her throat. It’s good: when did water start tasting so damn good? Wanda’s watching her with a concerned eye.

“Your hair looks good in plaits,” Natasha says, when Wanda withdraws the water bottle. Wanda’s fingers go to the end of one of her long plaits, and she tries a smile.

“You’re not still in shock, are you?” she teases.

“Fuck you,” Natasha says. Wanda’s smile widens to a grin. “Fuck you. You too, Barton. Asshole.” Clint gives a mild protest, accompanied by the hum of his bowstring.

“How’s your heart rate?” Wanda asks, after a second where Natasha catches her breath. Natasha smirks at her, much as she is able to.

“C’mere and find out,” she offers. Wanda raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, and Natasha gives an almighty roll of her eyes with colossal effort. “About seventy,” she says. “That’s high for me. Don’t be worried, though-” A sudden pain lances through her ribs, sending her back arching, her jaw clenching. With effort, she manages not to scream, but it’s a close thing. Within half a second Wanda has produced a pair of scissors from nowhere. “Hope- you know…how to use those,” Natasha cracks, through gritted teeth.

“Shut up,” Wanda says, her face ashen with concern, and she slits open Natasha’s suit around the wound and begins to inspect it. “What’s wrong, what’s the matter?” The pain begins to subside.

“I’m okay,” Natasha gasps. “I’m- I’m okay.” She reaches out for a handhold to grip and she finds Wanda’s hand, cool at the palm, and she grabs at it, squeezes tight. She closes her eyes so she doesn’t have to see the stricken look on Wanda’s face. “I’ll survive.”

“I know you will,” Wanda says, and she squeezes Natasha’s hand back. Natasha can feel her own blood slick on both their skin - it makes her a little nauseous. What if she looks up and it’s black? She can barely begin to unpack that thought before she passes out.

● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●

She wakes slowly, aware only of the sheets beneath her back and the light overhead for a long while, eyes slitted against the world.

“You idiot.”

“Watch who you’re calling an idiot,” Natasha says, through a mouth like sandpaper. She licks her lips.

“Water?” Wanda asks, an indistinct shape on her right. The lights are bright yellow, stinging.

“Actually,” Natasha says quietly, “can you turn the lights out?” There’s a pause, and then a rustle of clothing, the switch of the light, and the room goes dark. “Thanks,” Natasha rasps.

“No problem.” Wanda returns to her seat, then shifts. “Do you want me to go?”

“No, stay,” Natasha says, immediately. Too fast to play it cool. She can practically hear Wanda’s relief. She shoves herself up in the bed, until she’s propped against the pillows. With her eyes adjusted to the dark, she can make out the shine of Wanda’s cheekbones, the dark glint of her eyes. “Thank you,” Natasha says.

Wanda opens her mouth, then closes it again. She’s going to draw this out, the idiot.

Natasha reaches for her, ignoring the burn of pain in the ribs, closes her fingers around Wanda’s collar. She pauses long enough to relish the shocked look on Wanda’s face, and then she pulls her in and kisses her - gentle, for Wanda. A contrast to the rough way they gripped hands on the jet. Wanda takes a sharp breath in: her hands fist in the bed sheets.

Natasha releases her.

Wanda doesn’t pull back. She breathes out slow, hot on Natasha’s lips. “You scared me,” she says faintly. “Passing out. Don’t…don’t do it again.”

“Promise,” Natasha says, with a tone that is verging almost on earnest.

“Good,” Wanda says firmly. She leans in again, and Natasha moves to meet her.

requests | masterlist

taglist: @when-wolves-howl @fayhar @maggieromanov @transbi-spidey @romanoffscottage @blackxwidowsxwife @lizlil @screechcat @maddess @mellxa @haeva @diaryoflife @natashasilverfox @vicmc624 @strangegardentaco @phantomvael @lorsstar1st @rysnwilder @ima-gi--na-tion @paryl @picnicmic  @smallestavenger @lainjupi  @simpforflorencepugh1 @the-v01d  @d1s0nym @natasha-danvers

[soulmate-game]

New fic *test*

New Bio!dad Bruce story? I’m testing out this first chapter, and if I like where it’s going I might add it to my growing pile of WIPs. If I have inspiration, I might as well use it. Because of life events stressing me the hell out, I’m throwing any writing plans out the window and I’m purely gonna write to destress right now. Whether that means updating THG or not, or continuing Maribat March, we’ll just have to see how this all pans out. Things are subject to day-to-day change.

I got inspiration from this from rereading my day 1 story for Bio!dad Bruce Wayne month from last year. I’m just gonna change a few things.

—*—*—*—*—*

For once, an unfamiliar face attracted the attention of everyone who caught even a glimpse of them. It wasn’t even because of the person themselves at first, but their dress. The skirt like the most fantastical of storybook ball gowns, fluffy layers of satin over a luxurious petticoat, with a stunning pink floral pattern whose busy appearance was tastefully offset by a shorter, sheer layer of leaf green tulle artistically weaved and somehow sculpted over the floral in order to tame it. The effect turned what should be a grandmotherly pattern into something softer, sophisticated and youthful and yet also reminiscent of fairytale princesses. Over top the short layer of green tulle was an even shorter later of white tulle, almost invisible except for the elegant embroidery of crystal-white vines that twined all over it, connecting the green below it to the bottom-most floral pattern and oddly adding a layer of childishness instead of maturity. At the waist of the dress was a dark plum pink satin ribbon, to separate the elaborate ballgown skirt from the bodice. Attached to the simple ribbon was a large brooch of fabric flowers, with a single plastic ladybug in the center.

The bodice of the dress came up into a cheongsam neckline, but was sleeveless. It was a simple design, of half green and half dark pink, with a white border separating the two. The white border had expertly done embroideries in a soft silver thread that would only be visible close up, the images the thread made being that of fairies and ladybugs dancing around one another.

It was, all in all, a stunning display that made the small eurasian woman wearing them look like absolute royalty. Perhaps a long lost fairy princess. Her black-blue hair was even done up in elaborate looping braids and a braided bun, with silver and green pins that further completed the regal ensemble. And yes, while the expertly done dress was what initially captivated her current audience, it was not what kept them from leaving her alone. That was all her personality, bubbly and bright as her blinding smile. It was a sunny disposition that very few people present had any exposure to at all, and it drew them like a sunflower to the daylight. They could not help but flock closer, or even just stand back and keep themselves turned to her presence. Already she had been at the gala for two hours, but there was no issue. She just kept proving her generosity, admitting she had donated both a dress and a suit of her own making to the charity auction that would begin soon, one of the main attractions of the gala. She skillfully charmed the more snooty of the attendants, and artfully twisted her words so that they felt compelled to donate more money that they truly had no use for. Later, they would remember their donation and wonder what compelled it, but come up with no satisfying answer.

And yet she was entirely unaware of her more silent audience, who stood back and observed. Truth be told, every one of them was glad to not be the center of that attention for a change, to have room to breathe for so long at an event where usually that commodity was so scarce that it demanded a fierce competition for. Compared to her garden of color, they were all shadows in shades of blacks and blues and whites, with a touch of red here and there that was entirely too thematic for their home city. The one who sported a royal blue suit tilted his head at the scene they were all calmly witnessing, his bright azure eyes glittering.

“She’s like magic,” he mused, clearly enchanted despite having not said a single word to the woman. “Perfect socialite. She’s kind, generous, she made that dress and the ones she donated to the auction herself so she’s obviously got an intimidating amount of skill for her age. She even tricks those old fuddy-duddies into spending money. It’s like a dream come true!”

“I don't trust it,” the one to his right said, a man just a few inches shorter in a classic black suit with a red dress shirt underneath. He absently swept his bangs away from his face as he narrowed his eyes at the woman. “It seems too perfect. She doesn’t have any identifiable character flaw, except maybe being a little clumsy and too energetic. She does babble a little… but nothing that actually suggests any depth besides her just being— good. That’s impossible, and I don’t trust it.”

“Tt. I agree with Drake for once. She seems entirely too comfortable with this setting, despite her blushes and rambles,” the one who spoke this like was taller, clearly a teen in the middle of his growth spurt. He, too, wore a plain black suit but his had subtle charcoal embroidery and he wore an emerald-green dress shirt under it that made his matching eyes gleam dangerously. “It seems almost playacted. Expertly so, but nonetheless not entirely genuine.”

“Wow, not many pick up on that. I’m gonna give your observations a solid eight out of ten. They’re all perfectly sound, but not quite complete,” a new voice made all of the silent group stiffen— somehow they had been snuck up on. The newcomer smirked at them as if having fully expected their reaction but still being pleased at being able to evoke it. This was yet another stunner; far too much color in her outfit to be a Gotham native, and far too much skill in the construction for it to signify anything less than extreme influence. She had bright golden-blond hair that was coiled into a low bun, with her bangs artfully curled and arranged to display her crystal blue eyes.

In contrast to the garden-themed dress of the Eurasian woman who had garnered their attention at first, this newcomer was wearing a pantsuit. It was all in a dark honey-gold, in a stiff fabric with construction that made it lay entirely in perfect, straight lines and hug her form in the right places. Black embroidery decorated the long, flared sleeves and pant legs and dripped around the square neckline like a faux necklace. A cape made out of the same material as the rest of the pantsuit was draped on one shoulder. It started out as the same honey-gold color, but it became a gradient as it faded to a solid black at the ends. Gold thread embroidery decorated the solid black bottom of the cape in delicate, deceptively simplistic swirls. The top half of the pantsuit was clearly inspired by military garb, simultaneously rigidly constructed yet fitted, with circular onyx buttons going down the center of the chest and a thick metal belt, all in swirling silver and black, sat perfectly clasped around her waist. It was far more solid-colored and simplistic compared to the fairytale dress in the center, but no less show stopping and luxurious. It simply showcased an entirely different attitude, almost as if the two women could never get along if their personalities matched their outfits.

“And who are you?” The man who had been the center of the group of shadow-like adults spoke up, back straightening to milk every speck of his generous six-feet-and-three-inches of height. This was none other than Bruce Wayne, the host of this annual charity gala. And normally, his current stance would either intimidate or utterly charm whoever it was directed at— but not this pantsuit-clad blond warrior. Her smirk merely widened, and her blue eyes took on a slight shade of teal as if trying to mimic the dangerous ocean depths.

“I am Chloe Bourgeois, the daughter of Andre Bourgeois, the mayor of Paris, and Audrey Bourgeois, the Style Queen. It’s nice to meet you again, Monsieur Wayne,” she introduced herself imperiously. “I also happen to be the best friend of the girl you were just staring at.”

Bruce nodded, but had trouble reconciling this clear powerhouse of a woman with the bratty and entitled preteen he had met years ago, at the last gala she had attended with her mother. “Of course, I didn’t recognize you at first Chloe. You’ve grown a lot since the last Gala I saw you at.”

Chloe wrinkled her nose, clearly not appreciating the reminder. “I was a bitch,” she admitted easily, seemingly not at all bothered by the confession. It caused not only Bruce but also the oldest three of his sons, who had all also met her in the past, to blink in silent shock. “Things have changed. Paris is apparently the perfect chaotic environment right now to promote emotional growth and smack spoiled kids over the head with reality,” she shrugged. Part of the reason her and her whole class had even been able to come to the Gala in the first place was the fact that Bruce wanted to offer the most attacked group of Parisians a respite and some support from their crazy lives. The fact that even Gotham seemed sane in comparison to Paris was a bit of a hard hit for both involved parties, but in the end everyone understood that “more sane” didn’t always equate with “less dangerous.” Considering all that, Chloe had no reason to sugarcoat the situation in her home city. “But it wasn’t easy at all, and Marinette was largely responsible for my improvement too.”

“Marinette?” The heathen who somehow got away with attending a gala in a black leather jacket over a dress shirt and suit pants asked, raising a brow. Chloe nodded.

“The girl you were just goggling at. Marinette Dupain-Cheng, the class president and resident workaholic. Does she ever sleep? Nobody knows,” Chloe shrugged.

The blue-suited man, Dick Grayson, shot a suspicious glance at Tim, who was standing to his right, as if he was worried his brother had made a female clone of himself just so he could continue to work hard and never rest. Tim ignored him and sipped from the thermos of coffee he had somehow snuck in.

Bruce cleared his throat to bring the focus back onto himself, and shot his most charming smile at Chloe. “They would have known who she was, if they had read the brief information I gave them about your class. But they never do listen to me,” he complained with good humor. “But back to the original topic, Miss Bourgeois, do you care to correct us on how our observations are lacking?”

Chloe laughed easily, smiling and nodding to indicate Marinette, still stuck in a circle of socialites and not seeming the least bit worn out.

“Of course. First; She is not completely acting. She really is like magic sometimes— disgustingly kind, generous, far too willing to help just about anyone for just about any reason. She’s one of the best people I’ve ever met, as much as it pains me to admit it. But she is exaggerating her personality a bit and hiding the parts she doesn’t want anyone to see, so there is a little acting involved. Just not as much as you seem to think,” Chloe then waved her arm in a flourish as if she were presenting Marinette to them. “In short; behold Mari Dupain-Cheng, the ridiculously likeable, disgustingly cute, extremely philanthropic mask that she shows everyone at public events like this. You don’t see any of the insomnia, or the anxiety, or the self doubt. Just the parts she wants you to see, accompanied with a smile to blind you to everything else,” her all-too-deep blue eyes settled back on Bruce then, a knowing glint shining in them. “Don’t you think that’s ridiculously similar to Brucie Wayne for you, Monsieur? Utterly, ridiculously, similar?”

Bruce grit his teeth. He hadn’t expected anyone else to know about his exceptionally well hidden secret, not even his kids had caught on or found his buried evidence yet. Yet his heiress comes up, nearly flaunting her knowledge in his face with all too many unspoken questions and criticisms.

And her cryptic words had succeeded in making all of his kids look at him with extreme suspicion. Shit.

“What are you saying, Miss Bourgeois?” he cautiously prodded. She hummed noncommittally before dropping the bomb all too casually;

“I’m saying I’ve seen her adoption papers, and you won’t be able to run from her for long Monsieur Wayne. As soon as she gets an opening, she’s going to pounce,” Chloe’s eyes glittered dangerously again. “And nowadays, Marinette doesn’t ever let people escape her. Your problem with adoption has created a rather unique problem, you know. You’re at fault for a large majority of her self confidence issues, and I want you to know that I am not going to forget or forgive that anytime soon.”

“Bruce,” Jason’s voice was dark and threatening. “What is she talking about?”

“Something we don’t want getting in the tabloids,” Yet another new voice popped up, allowing Chloe to smugly sink back into the background.

Somewhere during their discussion, Marinette had ambushed them.

“Chloe and I are very good at locating all the reporters in a room and distracting them, but we’re not infallible and this event has far too much coverage,” Her smile reeked confidence and charm, but this close all the Waynes could see the doubt hiding in her bluebell eyes. “Since I’m about to turn eighteen, I figured this would be as good a time as any to finally confront you. I want to make it clear that I seek nothing from you, except the occasional contact. I would like to keep in touch, if nothing else. But if you are adverse to that… then at least answer my questions after the gala,” her eyes developed a hint of carefully controlled desperation. “Please.”

Bruce met her eyes evenly, trying to read her. But she was difficult, simultaneously too many emotions to sort through in her demeanor and much too little. After an extremely tense moment of silence, his voice came out barely above a whisper:

“You do not want anybody to know?”

And hell, if she didn’t recognize the hidden vulnerability in his voice as the very same she heard in her own far too often. In a much tamer version of her own rambling, he went on:

“I can keep it silent if that is what you want. But I want you to know that I will not be adverse to you admitting it anywhere. I don’t expect you to change your name, but I would not be ashamed of the truth getting out. I am not ashamed of it, of you.”

Marinette’s smile grew a little watery. She had to clear her throat to keep herself from tearing up. “Maybe eventually, but not yet. I… I want to stay a little more anonymous for now. It’s one thing to be a well known designer with good connections. It’s an entirely different thing to be…”

“A Wayne?” Bruce finished, ignoring the daggers that were being stared into his back. “I understand completely.

“Father,” Damian’s voice was all sharp edges and rapidly suppressed panic. “What. Is going. On?”

Marinette shot him an apologetic smile. “Apparently, eighteen years ago, his prerogative was to put the child he actually knew about up for adoption when the mother died in childbirth,” her voice was once again only barely loud enough for them to hear, since she didn’t want any eavesdroppers. “Imagine my surprise when I find out he completely flipped sides only months later.”

--*--*--*--*--*

Hey, so please share your feedback on this. This is just to test out a possible new bio dad, multichapter fic and this is the opening scene I'm trying out. If you like it, please tell me what you like about it and please suggest titles for the story! I love you guys' feedback so much!

[stopeatingwhales]

football hysteria x damon albarn

I LOVED THIS SM LMAO !!!!!!!! football obsessed damon is so cute

Pairing: 90s damon albarn x reader

Warnings: noneeee

Word count: 2.281

Requested by anon <3

༉‧₊˚✧

"Who you supporting?" Graham asked me, handing me a beer as he sat himself beside me on the couch next to me in the middle, Damon sat on the opposing side. Damon had dragged me over to Graham's house to watch the Man City and Chelsea game tonight, and knowing just how competitive Damon came to football, I knew it was better that I simply went along with things rather than moan about how much I really didn't want to spend two hours watching two teams pass around a ball for entertainment.

"Erm, Man City." I replied, quickly flicking the can open to taste the bittersweet barley flavouring of the heineken beer as it embellished the walls of my mouth.

"You don't support Chelsea?" Damon questioned, his eyebrows furrowed.

A small chuckle left my mouth. “Of course I don't, they're shit." I sneered, aware of the havoc that my statement was going to cause. Immediately, Damon's mouth fell agape; stunned by my malevolence, as well as partial shock from the new-found information surrounding my opinions on football.

Graham's laughter rang through the room and my ears as my eyes continued to burn into Damon's piercing gaze, him just as amused as I was. Nobody was as big a football fan as Damon had become. "They're anything but shit," he continued, eyebrows now raised as he scoffed. "You're telling me that you support Man City? Gallagher-brother-Man-City?"

"Okay I'm going to sit between you both,'' Graham announced, swiftly standing up, shoving my body to the side he had just accompanied, placing his body between me and Damon, a blockade to prevent either of us going at each other's throats. "Just so we can all be alive by the end of it."

“Well I wouldn't have fucking invited her over if I knew she supported those manic twats, Graham."

"Piss right off Damon, we're in Graham's flat, not yours." I bit back, completely unphased by his childlike behaviour. It had been made quite apparent to the media that Chelsea were indeed the band dominated by the south, as well as Blur, and Man City were celebrated in the north by Oasis. However, it was quite comical noticing the immediate flush of anger that filled Damon's face after my sly comment. Leaning back into the loveseat, my back adorned the soft feel of the cushion behind me. "Graham, who do you support?" I asked, curiosity laced in my words as the football pitch came into view on the television screen - initiating the beginning of the match.

My eyes were focused on Graham as I watched him toss his glasses onto the coffee table in front of us, which had been cascading with countless bags of crisps and other treats to keep us stuffed as the ninety-minute match played through. "In all honesty, I'm not that phased with football," he began, reaching over to open a bag of crisps. "It's Damon here who's completely obsessed with it."

As the match began, tensions were already built to a high degree between the three of us. Small but meaningless comments had been thrown into the atmosphere of the apartment, merely portraying our silliness and how neither of us had seemingly outgrown the competitive side of our personalities, something that would be more apparent during teenage years. Unfortunately however, very early into the game, Damon's supporting team had decided to skillfully snatch the ball from one of the players, eventually managing to get it into the goal - portraying the first goal scored subsequent to the game's start.

Damon instantaneously rose at the goal, shouting loud enough for the neighbours to hear every single word that rumbled out of his throat. "Told you we were bett-" he said, smugness intertwined between his words so effortlessly, though shamefully his words had been cut off by the sound of the cushion, once placed behind me, now hitting his face. I couldn't help but allow a tiny smirk to illustrate itself on my facial features as I admired his face dripping in absolute bewilderment towards my actions. “What the fuck was that for?” he scoffed, falling back into his side of the sofa, as I sustained the grin on my face, watching him. The atmosphere that was once overflowing with hostility was now completely serenaded with Damon's egocentric giggles, forcing my body to hunch into a sulk at how quickly my team had been warranting for a loss so early into the match.

Mid-way through the game, Graham had decided to go to the corner shop by his apartment to get more beers for us to share, due to us having run out to share between the three of us. I dreaded being alone in the room with the game ongoing with Damon present, full-well knowing that his upbeat jolliness would attempt to torment me upon the fact that he was winning, which, to my demise, was exactly what had occured. The air fell still in the room once the sound of the door slamming etched through the flat walls, my gaze focused entirely on the match following on the screen, attempting to focus my mind on anything but the room that I was currently occupied in - though my peripheral noticed Damon's head almost instantly turned to look in my direction once it was made evident that Graham wasn’t inside the flat anymore. As if reading my mind, he decided to shift his body weight, which was once adorned to the other armrest of the burgundy couch, right next to me, where he attempted to wrap his arm around my shoulders, warming me into an embrace. In spite of this, I could feel his intense stare on my features. Using all my strength to avoid connecting eyes with him, I wasn’t going to admit defeat so easily, my stubbornness proving a point.

Once Damon realised, he carried on watching the game, however his body had continued it's embrace with mine. At one point, I was thinking that the match was going to be a lost cause from the performance shown by Chelsea, However, things began to turn around, and Man City managed to score a goal, to Damon's consternation. The sudden win resulted in me lunging from my seat, swiftly detaching myself from Damon, my whole body cheering towards the goal as it replayed on the screen. What was amusing was that, after I had finished my applause, I noticed that Damon had moved back into his seat by the side of the couch, distancing himself from me. "Aw, you don't want to sit with me anymore?" I sarcastically questioned, not waiting for an answer as a small smile crept on my lips. It was very amusing, pissing Damon off. I must say, watching his ego deflate into nothing but a simple sulk at the corner of a room was really the sight.

"What did I miss?" The sound of graham's voice sounded through the room, paired with the clank of multiple beer bottles as he reached into the plastic carrier bag to place them on the table. Each and every one had an individual water-streak pattern, indicating that they had just been chilled - when they taste best.

"Man City scored!" I exclaimed, reaching out for one of the glass bottles as I got the bottle opener to unfasten it from its metal clasp, promptly taking a swig from the beverage. The intent was, of course, to provide Graham with the extra knowledge upon the events that occurred during the match whilst he was absent, however knowing myself, I had also wanted to remind Damon of said occurrences, to surge him to the edge of his frustration. Exclaiming it at the top of my lungs held just enough power to do just that.

A chuckle immediately left Graham's mouth from my enthusiasm. "Need me to sit between you both again?" He jokingly asked, yet an element of seriousness was laced between his words.

“Depends if Damon's gonna stop sulking or not.” I replied, focusing my view on the game playing on the screen.

"You're the one who was fucking throwing the cushions!" Damon shouted, reaching over to grab himself a beer.

"Because you were pissing me off!" I answered, shifting my gaze onto Damon, who was, to my surprise, staring directly at me. There was a certain look of annoyance glazed on his features, though the agitation seemed to subside as soon as we locked stares, as if he was longing for my eyes to bear their sight toward him, as if it was an examination, an analysation to confirm whether we were still on good terms or not; of course we were, while conflicting preferences drew evident tears between us during that moment in particular. After a few seconds had passed, Damon leaned back into the cushion, carrying on watching the game unfold, satisfied with his response from my eyes. Switching my gaze over to Graham, I took notice of a look of question illustrated on his features, to which I decided to mime that it was alright, in order to move myself next to Damon once again. It would've been a lie, and a mere understatement, to say that I hadn't missed his arms around me.

Bunching up next to him, enough space was made to allow graham to sit himself down next to me, though that thought was the last passing my mind; my body was shivering from nervousness, the close proximity between us, regardless of our romantic acquaintance, never failed to bloom butterflies at the pit of my stomach. Due to my body's weight pressing down onto the cushion next to him, it was obvious that he was aware that I moved to sit next to him - but at a cause of his stubbornness, him averting all his attention onto me, admiring me as if I was the only living being in the apartment, a home that hadn't even belonged to me, would never happen - it would take much more to result in his feign of irritation to melt away. Placing my arm around his shoulder, I granted my hand to reach up to his beautiful head of hair, my fingers caressing his strands gently as I brushed any parts that were sticking out on the sides of his head. His arms were wrapped around one another, like a child encompassed in an angry stupor at their parent due to them not allowing them a packet of sweets from the grocery store, though I was playing at his heartstrings, aware of just how much he adored me playing with his dirty blonde locks.

For a short sum of time, we both sat there, my hands never halting their actions. The next few minutes of the game played out of continuous dribbling and passing to other teammates, oftentimes resulting in the other team taking hold of the ball and running around with it for a while until their attempt to score. Randomly, Damon's arm had released itself from its shared embrace with the other, engulfing my body with his as he encased his left arm around my shoulders. We were in a sense of comfort with one another, though from Damon's avoidance of my stare it was made obvious that he was still in the least carrying a small element of annoyance, nevertheless, as I allowed my eyes to linger onto his delicate, paradisiacal features, holding back a grin was seen much easier said than done, a small curvature sneaking itself on his lips.

"Look who's won." Graham mumbled, his voice detaching me out of my trance that I was enamoured in.

A laugh rang itself out of my throat as I admired the lengthy team cheering as they enveloped one another in a massive embrace. "Told you they were better!" I grinned as I diverted my gaze onto Damon, the same look of frustration painted on his demeanour, still avoiding his eyes on me. "You want a kiss?" I asked, tilting my head in order to make sure I was the main thing in his sight, knowing he wouldn't be able to keep up his facade so easily. "Kiss kiss?"

I continued until his eyes met mine. It was as if, for a short segment of time we were frozen in place, momentary seconds passing of us merely marvelling at the view illustrated forth one another, my hands snaking their way around his neck as I leaned in slightly, noticing his blue orbs fall onto my lips, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as his mind wandered through fields of appraisal. It was then where I couldn’t hold resistance for any longer, and I doubted that Damon could, bringing my head forward as I let my lips latch onto his, allowing time to flow as they lingered still before he kissed me back with gentle force, enough to notify me of his desire that encompassed him just as much as me. The kiss held innocence, portrayed adoration in its true beauty, nevertheless, also embodying eagerness, a yearning of lust.

"I'm going to be honest," I mumbled, removing my lips away from his, panting as I attempted to recollect my breath. "I don't actually support Man City."

"Of course you fucking don't." Damon laughed, our lips connecting once again as he perched his head forward, intoxicating me with the very thing that I desired most in that significant moment.

"If you're gonna shag, please go home." Graham groaned, causing our bodies to jolt at the sudden awareness that we weren’t alone together. Pulling away instantly, a wave of embarrassment covered my cheeks as we looked at one another, infatuation the single thing flowing out of our eyes.

“Sorry Graham.”

[aurumacadicus]

For your fic title thingy:

Tony/Rhodey

'Pocket Rocket'

Realistically, the term pocket rocket should make most non-engineers at MIT shit their pants when they hear it.

Pocket Rocket

“I told you that I had the spiderling tonight,” Tony said desperately.

“Stop talking about him like he’s four,” Jim sighed.

“Hot Aunt May and Happy are going on a date and they didn’t want him unsupervised ever since that time she came back and he’d melted a lamp,” Tony continued as if he didn’t hear him.

Jim raised his eyebrows in surprise and looked at Peter, who was trying to melt into the wall. “The post or the entire lamp?”

“I melted the lightbulb somehow too,” Peter mumbled.

“Nice,” Jim said, and then shook his head, startled. “No, I’m not getting distracted. The lightbulb tho--No. Jim, focus,” he told himself, clasping his hands in front of his face and then dropping them once he felt centered. He looked back at Tony. “We promised Pepper that we’d go to that gala that the Osborns are putting on.”

“Peter has a suit!” Tony said immediately, enthused.

“Mr. Stark please don’t make me go to a gala tonight,” Peter whimpered. “I’ll get nervous and throw up.”

Tony turned to him and frowned severely. “Good, then we can leave early. Should have gone with the excuse that you had homework. I would have believed that.”

“Get ready to eat your weight in shitty finger food, Parker,” Jim told him firmly. “Hot Aunt May says you can’t be trusted alone, so you’re coming. Don’t worry. We’re a very hip married couple.”

Peter sighed, dismayed.

--

Jim didn’t know why May trusted Tony with Peter’s safety. Tony was slightly less disastrous than Peter, and Peter at least had the excuse of being a stupid teenager whose brain hadn’t finished developing yet. Tony was willfully oblivious and happily chaotic.

He stared at the burning hole in the wall and sighed, putting his hands on his hips. “Well. That’s going to be expensive.” He turned to give Tony some side-eye that was more exhausted than actually angry. “What the fuck was that?”

“...Was trying to develop a pocket rocket in case I was caught without the suit,” Tony mumbled, crossing his arms. “Forgot I put it in my suit pocket though.”

“Well, we’re going to be hearing about this for years to come. Where’s Peter? We should make a quick getaway.”

“Last I saw, he was getting chummy with that Harry kid,” Tony muttered, shrugging.

Jim whipped around to glare at him. “Tony! Harry will eat Peter alive!”

“Peter wouldn’t know whether he was being threatened or flirted with, he’s fine,” Tony scoffed.

“Go get Peter,” Jim growled. “I’ll try and pick up the pieces of your rocket if there are any so no one else can swipe them.”

“But,” Tony began.

“TONY YOU BLEW A FUCKING HOLE IN THE WALL,” Jim barked, and Tony winced before he scampered away to go find Peter.

Jim found three pieces of melted metal and one piece of melted plastic and dropped them into Tony’s lap as soon as he sat down across from him. “Why do you look like you sucked on a lemon? I’m the one who singed his suit because your dumb ass forgot he had a literal explosive in his pocket.”

“I glued Harry to the ceiling,” Peter answered quickly, shame-faced.

Jim gaped at him, speechless. He looked back and forth between Tony and Peter, then took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He let the breath back out slowly and opened them again. “Please tell me you did not just fucking leave Harry Osborn glued to the ceiling.”

Peter said nothing. Tony winced.

“Fucking floor it and get us out of here before Norman Osborn realizes all of this was your fault!” Jim shouted.

“I don’t know why you’re acting like you did nothing wrong,” Tony griped even as he shoved the pedal to the floor. “You grabbed my butt when the photographer went by and you know Pepper hates when those photos get to the tabloids. And don’t say you didn’t notice! You were watching the photographer until he came by and even muttered ‘honk honk’ when you squeezed!”

“Ew!” Peter exclaimed, sticking his tongue out in disgust.

“YOU GLUED A KID TO THE CEILING, PETER!” Jim shouted in defense.

--

They were banned from being left alone together for six months, mostly because they’d left Harry glued to the ceiling, but also because Tony caused structural damage with his rocket. Jim pretended not to be impressed by the power the tiny rocket had had and failed, which got him in even more hot water with Pepper.

[thelordofdarkreunion]

The Worst Planet in the Universe

The “humans are weird/earth is space Australia” stories that are quite famous here usually have aliens reacting to how they think humanity or Earth is really strange and bizarre.  So, I got an idea: what if people could react not to Earth, but to one of the singular worst planets in all of science fiction?  Here, we have some of the characters of the Magnificent Scoundrels reacting to the planet of Krieg and its infamous Death Korps from Warhammer 40k.  

Death Korps is pronounced “death core” not “death corpse.”   Jeicher is pronounced the German way, as “yay-cur”, not “jai-cher.”  

“In life, war.  In death, peace.  In life, suffering.  In death, atonement.”  -Final litany of the Litany of Sacrifice, recited by the Guardsmen of the Death Korps of Krieg when entering battle

The shuttle slipped through the dead and polluted atmosphere, shields raised to their fullest capacity to avoid the boiling streaks of orange lightning.  The occupants of the shuttle stared warily out the window, still nervous even though their craft was in the hands of some of the best pilots in the universe.  

“I still don’t understand why we’re here,” said Commissar Cain from a strapped-in seat in the shuttle’s rear.  

“Well, we’re visiting planets from each other’s galaxies,” replied Admiral Vir from the cockpit as he and Solo desperately tried to avoid the lighting.  

“Yeah, I know that,” snapped back Cain.  “What I don’t understand is why we’re here.  Out of all the planets in the galaxy, you pick this one.”  

“You wanted to know more about populous Imperial Guard regiment homeworlds, and you said Krieg sounded like an interesting name,” muttered Solo as a particularly large blast lit up the cockpit window.  “Starting to regret that now?”

“I most certainly am!” screamed Dr. Kril from inside the heavy clear plastic compartment designed to hold him when accompanying Vir off the Omen.  “And I thought Earth was a death world!”  

“Radiation levels are approaching 3,700 roentgan,” said Vir, crisply reading off the cockpit instruments.  

“We’re all gonna die,” wailed Kril.  

The shuttle’s communication system crackled to life, and a dry, toneless voice sounded over it. 

“Shuttle B-77401, you are clear of the storm in twenty seconds.  Please proceed to landing pad RT-556 at coordinates 66579.  Radiation levels on ground are currently 1,500 roentgan.”  

“I remember reading up on your horrible human disasters, and that’s the level of radiation the Chernobyl disaster had right next to the plant as the fires were still going!” screeched Kril.  “I will not be stepping foot on this planet!  If you have a death wish, that's fine with me, but I won’t be leaving the shuttle!”  He crossed his arms and sat against the container wall.  Vir and Solo didn’t have time to respond.

“Breaking storm now.”  The lightning and horrible, swirling grey clouds cleared, only to reveal a scene of utter devastation.  The land below was an endless expanse of grey and brown.  Entire swaths of earth were covered with grey dust.  Other areas were endless seas of irradiated mud, with ancient and rusted barbed wire, empty concrete bunkers, and long abandoned and corroded gun emplacements sticking out from the infinite brown.  A few ossified trees, long dead, peeked up in places, the only signs of life, or what was once life, on the planet.  

“What happened here?” murmured Vir.  

“A tale of tragedy, and betrayal,” replied Cain softly.  “Once upon a time, some 1,500 years ago, Krieg was a massive city world.  The ruling oligarchy decided to turn their backs on the Emperor and rebel against the Imperium of Man.  The commander of the loyalist Guard forces decided that if the Imperium couldn’t have the planet, no one would.  But despite the unleashing of a stash of Dark Age nuclear weapons, the people of Krieg survived, and loyalist fought traitor in a five hundred year long war in the trenches of the wastes.”  The shuttle was silent, imagining how horrible such a war would be.  This singular civil war, on this singular planet, eclipsed even the most horrible of fights from most of their home galaxies.  “Eventually, the loyalists won, and rejoined the Imperium.  Ever since, the people of Krieg have fought in the deadliest of Imperial warzones to repent for their ancient betrayal.”  

“Wait, wait, wait.  There are people that live here?  This isn’t just a military base?” asked an incredulous Solo.

“Yes,” replied Cain.  “They live in massive underground cities, safely shielded from the worst of the radiation aboveground.” 

“My god… there aren’t really words to describe that,” said Vir.  

“Shuttle B-77401, you are cleared for landing,” came the voice of the controller.  “Please wear radiation-proof suits.  Commissar Jeicher will be present along with an honor guard to escort you.”   The brown of mud gave way to a large, circular landing pad sunk into Krieg’s dead earth.  The pad led to a set of stairs, travelling down into a set of heavy, sealed double doors, leading even further down into the ruined planet’s crust.  On the pad were two figures, clad in greatcoats and gasmasks, flanked by a double line of soldiers.  Vir and Solo set the shuttle down.  

In the back, Cain had already pulled the hood of a radiation-proof bodysuit over his head, and attached an anachronistic looking gasmask.  Over this, he donned an old and tattered Commissarial cap and greatcoat.  Vir and Solo also donned much more modern-looking gas masks over their bodysuits, and went to the shuttle’s rear as Kril screeched about the dangers of radiation.  With the quick press of a button, they activated the airlock and stepped onto the surface of the ruined planet.  

Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance as they stepped down the shuttle ramp and came face to face with what they presumed to be Commissar Jeicher.  He was wearing the same outfit as Cain, a Commissar’s cap and greatcoat covering his bodysuit and gas mask.  Behind him was a double rank of soldiers, wearing grey greatcoats and gas masks, clutching their las rifles in the ‘present arms’ position.  Next to Jeicher stood another figure, hands clasped neatly behind their back.  This one was dressed in much fancier boots, and wore a cuirassier’s breastplate.  A brown greatcoat was draped over the figure's shoulders, and Vir assumed it to be an officer.  Jeicher reached out to shake each of the trio’s hands in turn.  

“Admiral Vir.  Captain Solo.  Commissar Cain.  A pleasure to have you on Krieg.  I am Commissar Jeicher, and this is Captain Kust,” he said, pointing to the officer behind him.  Kust offered a single, curt nod.  “You wished to have a tour of the planet, and to see it’s capacity for making war.  I can assure you, gentlemen, that Krieg is one of the finest planets in the Imperium in that regard.  I trust you will not be disappointed.”  As he said this, Jeicher led them down the path leading away from the shuttle and towards the underground tunnels.  As they walked, a series of flashes lit up the horizon, followed by the booming of thunder.  Jeicher raised a gloved hand and gestured in the general direction of the noise.

“About twenty kilometers in that direction, we have the artillery and live-fire drills of the soon to be 712th Death Korps Regiment.  It is the be the newest regiment coming into Imperial service, and the thirtieth Death Korps regiment raised this month.  They will soon be shipping out to Warzone Viclius in the Segmentum Pacificus to break a massive ork siege of the Viclius sector.”  They reached the end of the twin lines of troopers.  

“Right shoulder, arms!” yelled Kust, her voice (Vir could tell it was a ‘her’ underneath the mask now) managing to carry through both her mask and Krieg’s stormy atmosphere.  “Left face!”  The Korpsmen spun to face the heavy blast doors in perfect synchronicity.  Jeicher inputted some sort of code, and, with a great creaking and grinding of metal, the doors slid open.  “Forward, march!”  

The group, followed by the honour guard, stepped into a large white room.  As the doors closed behind them, various nozzles sprayed radiation-retardant foam onto them.  The airlock process completed, the heavy set of double doors in front of them opened.  Despite the decontamination, no one took their masks off.

The halls were quite familiar to Vir, but unlike anything he’d seen as a civilization.  They were long, emotionless white and grey concrete bunker systems, lit by cheap yellow bulbs that still allowed him to see perfectly well.  Endless, emotionless bunker halls.  It saddened him.  What a terrible way to live and grow up.  

Through the long walkways, they passed seemingly thousands of Korpsmen, all wearing grey greatcoats, and staring from behind emotionless gas masks.   They all blurred into one, and Vir was grateful that at least Jeicher, Kust, and their honor guard he could pick out from the crowd.  

They reached another large double blast door, and the two Korpsmen standing guard outside snapped to attention.  The group walked through, only for the three offworlders to stop short.  The entire left half of the hallway was a massive clear window.  Far beneath them, a full division of Death Korps Guardsmen marched through an utterly massive, hangar-sized underground hallway.  It was an endless tide of grey coats and gas masks, the thud of their boots echoing up even past the glass of the observation deck.  Tanks rolled past, along with smaller, two legged armored walkers.  

“That’s the 122nd Siege Army.  Newly formed.  They’re shipping out to the southern part of Segmentum Ultima today,” said Jeicher.  He made another motion, and the group, still followed by Kust and her honor guard, left the observation room.  

They walked through more hallways, still stark and emotionless, until they got to another double door.  This area of tunnels and bunkers seemed to have more Korpsmen around.  Officers, wearing their higher, more polished boots and cuirassiers’ breastplates.  The double doors opened, revealing a much more polished and refined room, made mostly out of metal.  Computers clung to the walls, and workstations were filled with Death Korps soldiers, red-robed cybernetic tech-priests, and unmasked commissars.  

 “This is the central command room of this section of Krieg’s underground cities,” said Jeicher, continuing the tour.  “All the regiments and supplies that are raised and produced in section Alpha-Gamma-551 are tracked here.  As you can see, we have more than enough to outfit the two regiments this sector is raising.”  They went through the room, through another series of hallways, and down multiple sets of solid but plain corrugated steel stairs.  

“Here we have the underground munitions factories of Krieg,” said Jeicher, gesturing through another glass panel on an observation deck.  This time, the windows led onto an utterly massive factory floor.  Conveyor belts led to unknown machines, and churned out endless numbers of what seemed to be artillery shells.  “As you can see, everything is completely on schedule.”  Vir noticed workers, all wearing heavy grey suits and gas masks below.  Some of them seemed to be… off, and it took a moment for him to realize precisely why. 

“Wait a minute… are those children?” he wheeled around and demanded at Jeicher.  He was met with the empty lenses of a gas mask.

“Yes,” replied Jeicher.  “I do realize that many off-worlders not of the Munitorum or Mechanicus find the practice… distasteful, but-”

“Distasteful doesn’t even begin to cover it.  More like abhorrent,” snarled Vir.  

“If you cannot fight, you must serve,” intoned Kust.  “All infertile males serve in the Death Korps.  Most fertile males and infertile females serve in the Death Korps.  Most fertile females and some fertile males serve in the munitions factories.  Children cannot go to waste,” she finished, rattling off the practices of Krieg in a completely toneless voice.  Vir looked like he was about to explode.  Cain put a hand on his shoulder, and nodded towards the honor guard and their las guns.  Noticing the mood in the room, Jeicher went on.

“I think it’s best if we go on,” he said.  The group followed him through another set of hallways, and when Kust was out of earshot, Jeicher spoke to the trio of newcomers.  

“Please don’t antagonize the Kriegers,” he said.  “That’s why they have commissars, actually.  To ease the transition between them and any allied forces.” “They deserve to die,” hissed Vir, still shaking with rage.  Jeicher gave a mirthless laugh.

“Oh, they do.  Their entire purpose, their entire existence, is to die in the Emperor’s wars.  They want this.”

“Why?” asked Solo.  “Why would anyone want this?”

“They are driven by one of the most powerful motivators in the world.  Not anger, not love, not faith, but shame.  Shame of their ancient rebellion.  In the Emperor’s service, the Death Korps will pay any price.”  

The group reached another viewing balcony.  This one overlooked a much smaller room, where a group of children in grey overcoats drilled with small las carbines.  Vir clenched his fist in rage, but said nothing.  

“Present arms!” yelled an adult and fully uniformed drill sergeant from behind his gas mask.  The children held out their weapons in front of them, many with as much or even more precision than Vir had seen of new GA marine recruits.  Most of them looked to be no older than six or seven, making the workers in the factory even younger… 

No.  He did not want to think about that.  

The drill instructor moved along the line of recruits (or children, if you were fortunate enough to not be raised in a post-apocalyptic militaristic hellhole, thought Vir.)  The instructor spun and glared at one of the cadets.  

“P-44271930,” he stated.

“Yes, sir!” replied the cadet, with the enthusiasm of a fresh recruit.

“What is your duty, P-44271930?” asked the instructor.  

“To serve the Emperor’s will,” replied the cadet.

“And what is the Emperor’s will?” queried the instructor.

“That we fight and die!”  Vir clenched down so hard he crushed the balcony bar in the viewing room.

“What is death?” asked the instructor.

“It is our duty!” replied the cadet.  The instructor nodded.  

“Very good, P-44271930.”  He took a step back.  “Right shoulder, arms!”  Vir looked at Jeicher.

“They’re calling them by their serial numbers at that young of an age?” he asked, still fuming.  Jeicher inwardly cringed.  He suspected the esteemed Admiral would not like what came next.  

“They don’t have names,” said Kust, with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.  

“What?” asked Vir, in a ‘please, do try my patience’ tone.  

“None of us have names,” replied Kust.  

“You have a name,” pointed out Vir. 

“You only get a name if you survive long enough to become an officer,” replied Kust.  

“Really?”  Vir wheeled around to face the leader of the honor guard.  “What’s your name?” he asked.

“YH-5577933,” replied the man, in a completely emotionless voice.  Vir threw his hands in the air, completely done.

“Fine.”  He nodded at Jeicher.  “Continue the tour,” he snapped.  Jeicher nodded, and motioned them on.  I have to get off this place as soon as possible, thought Vir.  This is… beyond anything I thought possible.

I hope you enjoyed it.  I find Krieg and the Death Korps are one of the most interesting groups in science fiction.  Motivated by shame, they represent the worst humanity could ever become.  However, they are utter badasses in battle.  If you aren’t afraid to die, you can pull of some pretty heroic things.  If you have any questions, comments, criticisms, concerns, requests, or want me to continue this story, please tell me!  Have a great day!

It should be noted, of course, I do not own any of these characters.  Vir and Kril belong to starr-fall-knight-rise, Cain belongs to Games Workshop, and Solo belongs to Disney.

[five-rivers]

Like Kind

Prompt by @dp-marvel94: As soon as Maddie saw Phantom, she KNEW. It had happened, the thing that she dreaded and feared but in the back her mind knew would happen. Her Danny, her baby wasn’t human anymore….but then again he never had been completely human.

 In retrospect, she should have seen this coming from miles away.  Perhaps she had seen it, and her surprise now was the result of having willfully turned away.  But now, it was being rubbed in her face, thrown up in front of her in gleaming neon letters, staring her in the eye.  

The last was literal.  

Phantom floated a few meters above the ground, eyes fixed on hers.  

Phantom, who was undeniably Danny.  Her son.  Her baby boy.

He vanished from sight, flying up through the ceiling.  Maddie waited ten minutes, frozen and holding her breath, before sitting down hard on the floor.  She had thought—She had hoped—

(A memory plagued her.  Out with Vlad and Jack after Vlad was discharged, Jazz with a sitter. Red eyes where there should be blue. Panicked apologies.  Blood on the sheets and an ache radiating through her whole body.)

She had hoped.  

Had hoped that a child born to someone who had been possessed would be entirely human.  

(But even as a young child, something had been… not right about Danny.  He’d stared at empty corners, spoken to thin air, had a bizarre fixation on clocks. There had been other signs.  She’d dismissed them all.  But then.  Phantom.)

(She couldn’t ignore this.)

She went through the rest of the day, even the kidnapping of the mayor and a fight with a whole horde of ghosts in a daze.  Danny was there.  Fighting.  Doing these… these things.  And now she knew.  

Did Jack realize?  Had Jack put two and two together to realize that the boy he’d raised, the boy he’d taken as his own son, was now… this?

Was now a ghost?

.

“He’s our responsibility,” said Maddie, hands clasped under her chin.  She couldn’t meet Jack’s eyes.  “He’s our responsibility, and he’s giving in to his—to his nature.  What he did last night…”

“Maddie,” said Jack, reaching across the table.  “Just.  Stop.  Maybe… maybe there’s another way we can do this. Up until now, he’s been fighting the other ghosts, hasn’t he?  Maybe we could encourage that part.  Guide him to something less, less malevolent.”

“That’s what we thought we were doing from the beginning,” said Maddie.  “It hasn’t worked, Jack.”

“That’s when we thought he was still human,” said Jack. “We can—We could invent something. To help him control his—”

“This isn’t a movie, Jack,” snapped Maddie.  “He isn’t a vampire we can feed animal blood or a werewolf we can lock up during the full moon.  He’s a ghost.  This isn’t going to get better.  It’s going to get worse.”

“We don’t know that,” protested Jack.  “We could at least try, couldn’t we?  Don’t we owe him that?”

“Jack…”

“He’s our boy, Maddie.  We can’t just give up on him.”

“It’s already getting worse.  You’ve seen his grades.”

“It might not be because of intellectual degeneration,” said Jack, urgently.  “If you suddenly found out about—” he waved his hand vaguely “—wouldn’t you have some trouble focusing on schoolwork?  I know I had enough trouble when I was in school…”

“This isn’t the same,” said Maddie.  

“I know, that’s my point.”

Maddie covered her face and sighed.  “Alright,” she said.  She couldn’t let herself hope again.  “We’ll… we’ll try it your way, first.  What do we tell Jazz?”

.

“You already know?” asked Maddie, aghast.  

“Yes, I saw him transform, once, but I thought it would be better to let him come to me, tell me on his own terms.”  Jazz licked her lips.  “Does this mean you’ll stop shooting at him?  Maybe be more supportive of what he’s trying to do?”

“Jazz, he kidnapped the mayor.”

“I’m not sure he did.  A lot of people were possessed this past week.  The mayor could have been one of them.”

Maddie closed her eyes and swallowed, suppressing the feelings that rose in her at Jazz’s casual pronouncement.  

“I mean, a lot of people at school were talking about how little they remember…  Mom, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”  She collected herself.  “Ghosts,” she said, “aren’t human.  They don’t have a human psychology.”

“Danny’s still human.”

“Partially.  For now. We don’t want to lose him to this. Will you help us?”

Jazz looked away, frowning.  “Even if ghosts are different,” she stressed the word, “that doesn’t mean they’re evil.  The wolf ghost helped Danny, didn’t it?  And Danny’s doing good.  I don’t think you should try to ‘fix’ him.  It isn’t right.”

Jack jumped in.  “That’s not what we’re doing,” he said, reassuringly.  “We just want to make sure that he stays himself.  That this doesn’t affect him negatively.”

“But you don’t want me to tell him that’s what you’re doing.”

“Based on recent events,” said Maddie, “we’re concerned that he’ll react poorly and run.  We just don’t want that to happen.  We can’t help him if he runs from us.”

Jazz bit her lip.  “Okay,” she said, finally.  “But you can’t do anything to Danny that he doesn’t want.  No experiments.  No tearing him apart molecule by molecule.”

“That isn’t—”

“Don’t tell me it didn’t cross your mind,” said Jazz, harshly.  “You talked about it at the table at breakfast.  More than once.  I’m keeping an eye on everything you do.”

It was better than her running to the police or trying to free Danny right away because she couldn’t understand.  

“Alright,” said Maddie.  

.

It was a good thing Danny’s physiology hadn’t changed enough to give him a resistance to simple sedatives.  Watching him nod off in the middle of dinner was as cute as it was tragic.

Jazz was… unhappy.  Clearly.  But she didn’t say anything.  

.

Danny knew he was in lab as soon as he woke up.  The buzz of the overhead lights and the hum of the portal made his hair stand on end and his mouth go dry.  

This was bad.  This was a nightmare made real.  

He didn’t move.  Maybe, if they thought he was asleep, they’d hold off on the dissection.

Although… he didn’t seem to be on the examination table. That was a good sign, right?  IT had to be a good sign.  

“Danny.”

His breath caught in his throat and his fingers curled on the surface beneath him.  It wasn’t metal.  Something… not quite soft.  But not hard. Like… a thin air mattress.  

“Danny, we know you’re awake.”

He screwed his eyes shut even tighter.  

“Please don’t hurt me,” he said.  “I’m me.  I’m really me.  I promise.”

“We know,” said Jack.  

That made Danny open his eyes.  “You do?” he asked, hopeful despite the fact he was in a box with thick, plastic walls.  He pushed himself up on the bench.  “Then why—” He was almost hyperventilating.  

“Danny,” said Maddie, “Danny, calm down.  We’re just- We know you’re Phantom, and we’re here to help you.”

“We know how hard it must have been for you, fighting those ghostly urges,” said Jack.  “But we’ll find a way for you to beat ‘em back, son.”

“I don’t- I’m not—” He shook his head.  “If you’re talking about the robberies—”

“That’s exactly what we’re talking about,” said Maddie.  “But it’s okay.  We’re going to keep anything like that from ever happening again.”

Danny bit his lip and felt despair clutch at his heart again.  They weren’t going to listen to him.  But—Jazz. Jazz would notice he was missing. She didn’t even believe in ghosts, not really.  She’d save him.  Or Sam and Tucker would look for him.  

He just had to hold out.  Even if they thought he was… succumbing to his ‘ghostly instincts,’ they wouldn’t hurt him.

Right?

.

“It isn’t working,” said Maddie, head in her hands, surrounded by crumpled by pieces of paper.  “He’s getting worse.”

Jack had to admit that he was.  It was tragic to watch his son fall to what could only be described as a ghostly Obsession.  Just last night Danny had been reduced to clawing at the inside of the containment unit. Crying.  Screaming to be let out to fight ghosts and ‘protect the town.’  

He… didn’t know what to do about it.  Any of it.  

“Maybe…” said Maddie.  “You remember what he said about the portal.  What if he was right?  What if he really…”

What if he really died?

“What if he did?” asked Jack.  “What would it change?”

“He’s not really alive,” said Maddie.  “If he isn’t… maybe we should… let him go.”

“W-what? You mean give up on him?” demanded Jack.  “We can’t do that!”

“No!  Not give up.  Never give up.  But- but maybe it would be better for him if he, if he was among like kind.  If he was…  We don’t have to destroy ghosts after all.  We just have to… have to put them on the other side of the portal.  Close it.  Close it so no more ghosts can get through.”

“You can’t be saying what I think you’re saying,” said Jack.  

“Like kind,” said Maddie.  “You remember that one Grimm’s fairy tale.  The little boy who couldn’t move on.”

“That’s not Danny,” said Jack.  

“I know.  I know it isn’t.  But, still… We…  Please, Jack.  Just… Tell me, what can we do?”

.

Danny tumbled head over heels into the Ghost Zone. He stopped, turned around, sending a blast of ectoenergy from his foot to accelerate himself back towards the portal.

He was too late.  The portal doors slammed shut, then winked out of existence.  

They were gone.  Danny was stuck here.  In the Ghost Zone.  

Fine.  

You know what?  Fine.  

He was here.  He was stuck here, because he didn’t know where or how to find natural portals. He didn’t know what was happening back home in Amity, and he was half out of his mind with worry about it.  

Fine.  

They thought he was a ghost.  A terrible, evil ghost.  Something to be cast off and thrown away.  

Fine.  

He was a ghost.  And he’d be the best ghost.  Ever.

[lordabovehelpme]

Tied to You - Bucky Barnes x Reader

For my lovely best friend. Happy birthday my dear, I hope you are having a wonderful morning and this puts a smile on your face. Trust me, it’s been hard to keep this a secret from you for so long, but I hope you enjoy. I love you, and I will see you later!!! 

Summary: You’re so happy to be standing before him, but something on his wrist brings you back to the very first time you met.

Warnings: f! reader, marriage

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Excitement sends thrills up and down your spine, tingling through your toes and pooling in your stomach. You clutch the simple bouquet between your hands tighter and take a deep breath, trying to calm your frantic nerves.

Finally, after what seems like both an eternity and a millisecond, the classic “here comes the bride” starts to echo. Taking one more quick breath, you let your shoulders relax and start to turn the corner.

There you emerge from behind the doors of the little church in Brooklyn. Family and friends stand as you start your descent down the aisle. You meant to smile at the crying relatives, to give them some sort of comfort, but you can’t take your eyes off of him.

He stands before the altar, adorned in a black suit with a black tie. His hands stay clasped before him, but his striking blue eyes meet your own. They soften at the sight of you and his shoulders slightly shift towards you.

However, once you offer him a small smile, his eyes rack down your form and back up before meeting your gaze again. Usually his gaze causes you to fluster and try to hide away, but today you stand tall as you approach him.

He offers you a hand as you climb the few steps and you gladly take it. Handing the beautiful bouquet to your maid of honor, you look down at your clasped hands.

No longer does he shy away from you touching the metal, and no longer do you hesitate.

But something catches your eye as you settle before him. Right there on his metal wrist is a bracelet of thread. The one you made him all those years ago; bright yellows and blues, with tan and green. They all compliment the vibranium perfectly.

The sentiment is overwhelming and a gasp gets caught in your throat. “You wore it.” Your voice is small and he doesn’t need clarification to know what has puzzled you.

“Of course I did, doll.”

***

He can’t take his eyes off you. There you sit with some older ladies, spools of brightly colored thread by your side as you try and explain how to make a bracelet.

“Yeah, you’re starting to get it, this just crosses over here… see?” You lean over and point at one ladys horrible excuse of a friendship bracelet. They all laugh at one another and point out each other's mistakes, but become very defensive when their own flaws are pointed out.

“You should go talk to her!” An elbow is pressed into his side and Yori smirks.

“No I should not.” His eyes snap to face the older man, but not even a second passes before they beg to find your form again.

“Why not? She’s not getting any younger, and neither are you.”

Bucky sighs, but a small smile breaks onto his lips. “Haha, very funny. But I don’t even know what to say.”

Yori shrugs his shoulders. “Flatter her, girls love that. Tell her you love her eyes, her lips, her hair. Anything.”

A scoff falls from his lips as his head shakes. “I’m not going to suck up to her in hopes of a date.”

Yori places his hands over his own and he offers a smile to the soldier. His long white eyebrows twitch in the classic sign that the next few words will be uncharacteristically wise. The older man's eyes meet blue eyes and he gestures for him to lean in. Bucky follows and leans his head down.

“You will.”

Before the words even process in his head, Yori has already walked off, laughing loud as he clutches a hand to his chest. Once again, Bucky shakes his head at his antics.

“No I won’t.” He utters under his breath, before walking over to your little circle of mischievous old ladies.

You look up at him and he swears he might legitimately melt. “Hi!” You offer him a smile and he is already making funeral plans in his head.

“Oh, uh, hi.” Subconsciously, his flesh hand finds itself on the back of his neck, trying to rub away his nerves.

“Can I help you?”

He swears in his head, what does he need? He needs you. But he can’t say that. Swearing again, he tries to think of anything that would make sense to a normal human being.

“Yeah, I…” His eyes flicker around and land on one ladies bracelet. “I wanted to make a bracelet.”

Well great. Now he’s done it. He must look like the biggest dork in history. What was he thinking? Why couldn’t he just admire you from afar?

“Oh.” You genuinely look surprised. “Of course!” A wide smile breaks onto your face and you pat the empty seat next to you. “Come sit down and we’ll get you some thread.”

He can hear Yori’s laugh from the opposing corner. But, he follows your command and takes a seat next to you. Blue eyes follow your movements as you reach for a plastic container holding an entire rainbow of thread.

“So, what color are you thinking?”

He gives the rainbow one good look before sighing. “I don’t know.” You look at him as he offers a small awkward smile.

“Oh, okay. Well… do you know what type of bracelet you want?”

His fingers anxiously pick at the hem of his jacket. Shaking his head he murmurs, “Sorry, I know nothing about thread.”

Things seem to click in your mind that he has literally no idea about this stuff because you smile and slightly laugh. “Ahh, I see. That’s alright! Do you want me to choose some colors for you?”

His stomach flutters and he smiles at your soft laugh. “Yeah, doll, that would be nice.” The pet name slipped before he could even dream of stopping it. Once again, a long, loud, strand of curse words flood his mind.

Your movements stop, but quickly resume. In fact, you were so fast he’s not even sure you caught his slip. He watches with quizzical eyes as you pull brightly colored threads and measure them with your arms. Your fingertips move with ease as they tie the strands together and then hold it out to him. He reaches out and purposefully slides his fingers over your own.

“H-” your voice breaks out suddenly and he just smiles as you slightly fluster, clearing your throat you continue, “Here you go.”

He throws you a smirk and takes them from you. But then his plan of seduction hastingly halts when he realizes he has no idea what to do with the strands. So he just lets his hands rest in his lap as he stares down at the colorful strands.

“Do you need help?” You ask.

His head slowly tilts to meet your gaze and soft smile. He swears his heart stopped. Taking a gulp he prays you don't notice, he offers you a smile back. “Umm yeah.”

You scootch your chair next to his and reach over to grab the thread. Now he knows his heart stopped. You start explaining how to start a simple design but he can’t focus.

He means to focus, he wants to focus, but the smell of your shampoo wafts to his nose and makes his breaths longer. The subtle heat flowing from your skin to his where your arms slightly touch makes him want to close his eyes and lean in further to your touch.

“Are you paying attention?”

His eyes shoot open and heat rises to his cheeks. “Yes!”

One of your eyebrows twitch and amusement twinkles behind your eyes, but you continue where you stopped. He forces himself to listen and not be distracted any longer.

After about an hour of small talk and you helping him, finally the bracelet is long enough to tie off. Everytime your hand brushed his heart would skip a beat.

Now you tie the bracelet onto his wrist and cut the long ends. “There!” You smile at him and he nearly melts into a puddle beneath your feet.

“Thanks doll.” This time he doesn’t miss the way your body slightly stiffens and your eyes widen a tad.

“Umm, yeah.” You clasp your hands before you and open your mouth, but before you can say anything the older ladies call for you that they need your immediate help. You give him an apologetic smile, “Sorry, I have to go, but it was nice to meet you…” trailing off when you realize you don’t know his name.

“Bucky.”

Nodding at him, your smile widens from remorseful to joy. “Bucky, it was nice to meet you.”

He watches as you walk away, laughing and giggling with the old ladies. “You too doll, you too.” Little did you know, but you walked off right with his heart. The once stone cold piece of meat, now fluttering and happily beating beneath your gaze and care. And for the last time that day another flood of curse words plagued his mind.

***

His hands squeeze your own and he takes a deep breath, blue eyes meeting your own. The bright bracelet proudly on display for anyone to see.

“Doll, there were many times I was lost and you found me. There were days which were heavy, and you picked me up and lightened my heart. Through it all, you were always there for me.”

His voice wavers a little and you can’t deny the water pooling at the corners of your eyes.

“And I know that will never change. I promise to love you as you are and to respect our differences while still supporting and encouraging you. Whatever the future holds, know that I will stand by you and love you. Through pain and passion, sorrow and hope. Through death and through life I will love you. Everyday and with whatever we face I promise to love you because I am tied to you.”

You have to drop one of his hands to wipe away your tears as you smile up at him. Then you say your own vows. And finally after the classic I do’s, the officiant says, “You may now kiss your bride.”

The two of you lock eyes before he swoops down and captures your lips within his own. One of his hands wraps around your waist and holds you steady. The crow erupts in shouts and glee for the two of you but neither of you care. He leans back and you both just smile at one another for a while, both holding the widest grins you have ever had in your entire life.

“I love you.” He says.

“I love you too.” You say back.

Later in the night, as the two of you sway, your arms wrapped around his shoulders and head on his chest, the final words in his vow finally make sense. You play with the string bracelet on his wrist.

“Tied to you huh? You were proud of that one, weren’t you?”

He chuckles and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Was it obvious?”

“Dork.”

He smiles. “But I’m your dork.”

“Oh my god!” You sigh, “James Buchanan Barnes,” landing a poke to his chest to emphasize your point, “you are the most cheesiest, handsomest, loveable dork out there.” You stand on your tiptoes to catch a kiss from him. “And you're all mine.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yes yes, I know. “Lordy what the heck? Why are you writing for Bucky?” Well this is a birthday gift for my friend who loves Bucky, so yeah. 

Disclaimer!!! I will not write for Bucky normally!!! This was purely a gift!!!

But please, if you liked it, consider reblogging or leaving a comment, I love hearing what you all have to say! (And maybe y’all can convince me to write for him more. Idk, I’m not promising anything.) 

Love, Lordy :) 

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