#but never write

[vishushamshu]

pickup lines

usually the red eared slider’s flirts and compliments were flowery, over the top with heaps of silly, and you would roll your eyes at each and every one. grand sweeping gestures, an arm slung around your neck, or running his thumb over your knuckles with a wiggle of brows that didn’t actually exist. it was entertaining, something you would never actually admit outloud, so you never really shut down his teasing. you only let it happen for the hell of it. yeah.

a wink that looked as if his eye momentarily had an uncontrollable spasm, “i would never play hide and seek with you, because someone like you is impossible to find.”

you grimaced as he walked over to sit beside you on the rooftop, “i honestly wish i could hide from this.”

finger guns, “are you from tennessee?? because you’re the only ten-i-see!”

a huff, looking over the city once more before you stopped patrolling for the night, “new york, buddy.”

“you never humor me…”

“you have no idea.”

an irritatingly wide smile, leo splayed out on your bed, “this might sound cheesy, but i think you’re really grate.”

you turn from your homework to cock a brow at him, “…puns? really? you’re stooping to puns now?”

“hey, a turtle’s gouda do what he’s gouda do.”

“i hate you.”

“awww, i love you too!!!”

you were drawing with mikey when your self-proclaimed bestie barreled in, “i seem to have!! lost my phone number!!!! can i have yours?”

the orange clad turtle seemed to be holding in the fattest cackle, so you ignored him to look at leo with a fairly neutral expression, “i thought you already had my number?”

“yeah, but i kinda… deleted it just to make this work..”

“…you’re stupid. i’m friends with an idiot.”

he pouted, until his phone lit up at an unknown number’s message, “and i’m friends with a meanie pants… oh! thanks!”

you shoved your phone back in your pocket while mikey eyed the two of you, his red striped brother already tapping the number into your contact once more, “sure, mhm.”

nabbing a piece of popcorn from your bowl, eyes scrunched from his simper as he glances at you, then lets his eyes land back on raph and april’s mario kart game once more, “it’s a good thing i have a library card, because i am totally checking you out.”

“…aren’t you illiterate or something? do you even know what a library is?”

“shut the fuck up….”

he looked up from his comic as you flopped onto his bed, just having listened attentively to another one of donnie’s infodumps, “did you just come out an oven?”

you huffed, draping an arm over your eyes, “no, leo.”

said turtle leaned over to poke your cheek with a snicker, “‘cause you’re hot.”

“goddammit, leo.”

“is this hogwarts express, because it feels like you and i are going somewhere magical.“

you stared at him as he gestured to a newly opened portal, “man, i swear, are you getting these from buzzfeed articles?? ain’t no way you pulled a harry potter line out your ass like that.”

“…is your name google? ‘cause you got the answers for everything i’m searching for.”

you swore you saw the face of a slider caught, and your eyes twinkled in amusement, “so, you are.”

“LEAVE ME ALONE.”

“your hand looks lonely. want me to hold it for you?”

you readjust your grip on your weapon, eyeing him in a sort of flabbergasted way, “lee, we are literally in the middle of a FIGHT.”

“right, whatever.”

you both were on your phones, the turtle laying on you scrolling through god-knows what, while you watched a video essay on something you were to inevitably forget about. you snickered at an elaborate joke about something or other, and the slider grinned a little, “roses are red, violets are blue. with a smile like that, looks like i’m doomed.”

“…”

you were tempted to kick him off, something inside you churning, but you just refocused on your video once more. his face seemed a little surprised in your peripheral vision, but at what, you couldn’t be sure.

leo sat beside you in blankets, barely conscious in his goofy pajamas during the latter end of a movie night, everyone else already asleep (except for donnie, who could care less about anyone else as his eyes stayed glued to the screen projected on the wall, hyperfixated on a jupiter jim movie he’s no doubt seen a thousand times over), “are you- did you fell from heaven- cause- fuck. i forgot how that one goes.”

you hid a grin behind a facepalm, equally fatigued as his head dipped to rest lightly on your shoulder, neck giving up on keeping it upright, “of course you did.”

sometimes though, those bits of flattery are uttered so quiet, barely above a whisper, the turtle holding such reverence in his tone. like now, just before he drifts off to sleep to no doubt drool all over you, the slider makes himself comfortable buried in your side. you still when his cheek rubs against your shoulder, a content sigh escaping leo while he wraps his arms around you in your shared blanket nest, “hm mwarm… i wish this would last f’rever..”

you can’t doubt that it’s sincere when it’s said like that. you look away from the movie to stare at him with tired eyes, face warm while you fiddled slightly with your fingers, buried under the blankets wrapped around your own body. leo started snoring in record time, light chirps coming from him every time he shifted in his sleep, and you rest your head on his. maybe you wished that too, maybe your mouth twisted into the smallest of frowns, but you decided not to dwell on it.

letting your eyes drift close, and pulling the red eared slider closer, you knew you were going to wake up to dumb pickup lines that held a bit too much sincerity in them. maybe you were glad.

[scorpiusmalfoylovesoscarwilde]

me when I don't write for weeks then go back to it and remember I actually really like it, as if it's not my only hobby and I'm literally taking a degree in it:

[artemisdesari-blog]

A writer friend told me something that broke my heart a little bit today; they're going to quit publishing their fanfic.

My instant thought was that they had been trolled or attacked or that something terrible had happened in their life because this person is so passionate about their writing. It wasn't any of that. Engagement with their works has been going down, as it has for many of us. Comments are like gold dust a lot of the time, and just looking through the historical comment counts on old fics on ao3 demonstrates this trend very clearly. It was not simply the comments dropping off which caused them to decide to stop posting, however.

My friend came across a discord server for their fandom (I should point out here that their fandom interest and mine diverged a couple of years ago, we stay in touch but don't currently read each other's posts because I'm not into their fandom and they would rather gouge their eyes out with a wooden spoon than read anything Star Wars) and specifically to share fic in that fandom. They joined, because we all love a good fic rec, only to discover that their latest multichapter fic, which has almost no comments and very few kudos, is being hotly discussed in this server as one of the best stories ever. Not one of these people has bothered to say this to them on the fic. When they asked, none of participants could see the point in telling the author of the fic they apparently loved so much that they love it.

This discovery has absolutely destroyed my friend's love of sharing fic. They share because they love seeing other people's enjoyment, and fic writers do that through comments and kudos/reblogs/likes because we don't get paid. There is no literary critic writing a blog post/article about how amazing the story is for us to copy and keep/frame. There is no money from royalties. All we have are the words of the people reading our works.

Those people on that server could have taken five minutes of the time they spent gushing about how amazing my friend's story was to other people and used it to tell the one person guaranteed to want to hear that praise how much they loved it. They could have taken a moment to express their opinion to the person who spent hours upon hours plotting, writing, editing, and posting those chapters. Instead, they deprived my friend of thing that keeps them sharing their writing, and in the process have killed their love of it. My friend now feels used and unmotivated.

I won't be sharing a link to their fic, they said I could share their experience but not their identity. I know they plan to post one final chapter. I know they intend to express their hurt at being excluded from the praise for the thing they created, and I know they intend to announce that as a consequence they will not be posting for a long while, if at all.

So please, I beg you, don't hide your love of a story from the writer. It's just about the only thing we have.

[honestlydarkprincess]

in a polyamorous relationship with the oxford comma and the em dash

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[barefeet-only]

Danny and Damian are related, with a twist.

Danny is the son of Talia Al Ghul, however he is NOT the son of Bruce Wayne. Ra’s has had his eyes on various people across the world that have either impressed him or show a unique skill set that he’d like to have. One such person was under the both categories and he got Talia to collect a DNA sample and as a result Danny was born.

This was before Bruce’s time with the League by a few years, but very quickly Danny was not meeting expectations. And by the time Bruce did show up Ra’s had lost all interest in Danny, moving on to better things.

Talia always hated Danny because she was forced to have him with a man who she never liked in the first place. Furthermore, because his skillset was lacking she found that even more reason for her distain. In her eyes, he wasn’t worth even considering her blood.

Danny, knowing that he was doomed if he didn’t make an escape, left the league sometime around when Bruce was moving up the ranks and was making waves within the organization. Perfect timing honestly, any attention he might have had was quickly gone when this prodigy showed up.

Danny escaped the League and went into hiding quickly after, settling on a rural area of the United States after bouncing around countries for a few months. This was mainly because Jasmine Fenton saw a young boy pick pocketing strangers while her family was visiting Chicago and scolded him. Her mother and father saw the boy and also lectured him to which Danny responded it was his only option (he was trying to get this loud family off his back so he could sneak away). Eventually the Fentons decide that if he has nowhere to go he might as well go with us, and Danny decides blending in with a Nuclear Family is the best way to ensure that his peaceful life away from the League stays that way. Oh how little did he know.

Flash forward a few years, Talia, who was visiting Gotham to check on Damian, sees a glimpse of a boy (now man) she thought she had forgotten. Her blood runs cold, if this abomination is in Gotham then her son is likely in danger and she would never let anything happen to Damian.

[kcrabb88]

I feel like we really lost something when we started looking at writing as a reader-centric product meant to appeal to the desires of a specific audience rather than a writer-centric approach of someone writes whatever particular thing particular compels them/whatever weird thing the demons in their head want to talk about, and people out there who are also compelled, and/or relate, find that writing. A lot of discussions of writing really center around what readers want rather than a writer's exploration. Sometimes as a reader I don't know what I want. I click on a fic or pick up a book I'm not sure about but that looks interesting, and I love it. Reading what I expect to get is it's own joy, but we always need to expand our horizons and not get mad at creators for not always writing what we want/expect.

[lilliesand-valleys]

[tanjir0se]

Disclaimer these are just a small sampling of some possible writer traits I’ve noticed either in myself or in fics I read. Also consider a rb for sample size !

[philtstone]

feel like psych deserves more credit for manifesting guest stars from almost every single property it referenced. i know plenty of shows have pop culture relevant guest stars but none of them make references that are so very specific and none of them get 99% of their references to actually show up. like psych will throw out a name exclusively for the bit and then an unpredictable number of episodes/seasons later that person will literally show up as murderer/victim/random extended family member of the week with no comment. george takei. william shatner. cybill shepherd from moonlighting. almost every single actor from the breakfast club (one of them recurring!). biff and doc brown from back to the future. dr frankenfurter himself. literally carey elwes. john cena??? john rhys davies. half the cast of twin peaks. the original "come on son" guy. alan ruck. michael rooker. both leads from she's all that. winston from ghostbusters. bud's mom from the cosby show. curt smith from tears for fears (who also sang live with them at an event, like, twice). they mentioned billy zane and val kilmer so many times per season that through sheer willpower they got billy zane and val kilmer to both show up in their series finale. those guys committed to their bits so hard that they ended their show with one of the most diversified and stacked cameo rosters in tv & thats honestly so funny and iconic of them

[suntails]

love will truly live

[clarasghosts]

it's been said before, but leverage season two really is a masterclass of writing around a lead actress' pregnancy. they knew they'd have to give her time off for maternity leave, so they set up a character development plot line near the start of the season which was a natural direction for the character to go based on how she'd already been written. then for the first several episodes leading up to her leave, film her from the chest up or show her back, with only some reliance on loose shirts and large jackets. have her character's development/crisis require her to take time off for herself, but write small scenes that can easily be pre-recorded, so she's never actually gone from the show. then let her return.

it's a great combination of understanding the character, being able to plan good plots ahead of the time, and not being so misogynistic that you resent actors for getting pregnant.

[thebibliosphere]

I think I just aged about a bajillion years. I just had to explain a) why a landline phone needed to be plugged into the wall and b) what a switch hook is (the thing under the phone cradle that depresses when you put the handset back on its base, ending the call) and the person I was explaining it to was so enamored like golly gee, you sure do know a lot about 20th century technology.

*shakes fist playfully but gently lest my dusty arm fall off* whipper snappers

[birdy-babe]

Blitzøs entire life spent being unwanted. So he adapted, and learned how to be something needed, something to be used.

Which is why I think he firmly believes he is being used by Stolas. He simply cannot fathom a different reality, one in which he is wanted for once in his life.

[mooncleaver]

Love's Quiet Surrender

To love without judgement, without the need to change him. Not just whenever he makes you laugh or smile, but all of his darkness. His past, his anger, his sadness. You do not desire for him to become someone else because you understand that he is enough as he is. "You can be anything you want and I'd still be here to love you." It was your promise, sealed with a gentle kiss on his lips.

ღ  pairing: bucky barnes x wife!reader

ღ  warnings: maaybe steamy and also sad, small thunderbolts spoilers, writing errors soooorry

"Buck?"

Your voice echoes in the warmly lit apartment. It's just some minutes past midnight, and in the air a gentle thrum permeates. A kind of stillness filled with exhaustion and comfort at the same time.

"Yes, baby?" Bucky answers almost immediately.

Even though he calls out from your bedroom, you can hear the fatigue beneath his tone. It's almost unnoticeable—he always tries to be put together whenever he talks to you and you hate it—but years of being by his side made you a whisperer or his tell tale signs. From the low lilt of his voice to the slight slur at the end of his sentence, you're no stranger to when Bucky needs to sleep.

Your husband had arrived home late today, presumably working on the whirlwind that was impeaching Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. He comes home disheveled these days, hair tousled with an aching frown on his lips—one you always try to kiss away. You can tell that this is all weighing down on him. The pressure, the bureaucracy, the slinking around your words to be sharp and polite at the same time. And the damn paperwork. It was endless. You don't think you've ever seen this much paper lying around your home and it was the 21st century.

Amongst all the papers and packets that your husband has very much not read yet, you he's been making talks to Valentina's assistant, Mel. He told you about what happened at the gala, how he attempted to convince her to switch sides. Did it go the way he expected? Mm, sort of?

It was endearing, in a way. Bucky always tried to be earnest, though sometimes it's difficult for him to spell out the right words—the right cues. You felt bad for the pout he sent your way as you giggled at his retelling. It took a few words and some kisses to convince him that he was not that awkward, and that you were sure Mel would give him something at least. The way Valentina was moving right now, there was bound to be a reason.

The man had since retired to your bedroom after some heavy coaxing. Bucky was adamant on staying out to help you clean up (he felt guilty for dropping chili sauce on your precious counters), but you didn't let him continue his sentence, knowing just how tired he was. You ushered him back, promising to join the man with an extra minute of head scratches if he followed your words. That seemed to do it, as he finally made his way to the bedroom with a small chuckle echoing.

While you were wiping down the counters, your eyes glanced towards Congressman Gary's dossier on de Fontaine. Less than the actual words on the paper, you focused on the mush of red staining the pristine white. You shook your head at the sight. Unfortunately, you don't think you've ever seen your husband finish a packet from top to bottom.

Not knowing what to do with it, you decide to just ask him. Though you think he’ll most likely tell you to throw it and every other coming packet down the trash, seeing how things are going now.

While trekking your way to him, you can hear him shuffling around in your bed, no doubt leaning onto it for a semblance of support.

When you finally arrive at your destination, the sight that greets you is nothing less than breathtaking—you say this to just about anything that Bucky does.

He's now dressed only in his white tank, evidence of the previous chili-dog accident thrown away into the laundry basket (to which he later promises to scrub it out, of course). He's got his legs spread and was, just as you had thought, leaning back on his arms against the bed. This angle lets you stare at the up and down motion of his breathing, the muscles flexing with tension. And God if this were any other night, you'd take him right then and there.

Once you're finally satisfied with your ogling—which you purposely timed in a way that lets your husband know it was much more than a simple glance—you finally speak.

"You left your packet on the counter. Didn't know if you wanted me to put it away 'cuz of the stain on it or…"

You trail off, giving him a sheepish smile as you leaned against the door with your arms crossed. Bucky's whole body just falls at the mention of the packet, his metal arm running a hand through his hair in quiet frustration. He looks done with it. It's like he's fighting the sleep right out of his eyes, and the dim bedside lamps don't help as it only accentuates a certain gauntness in his skin. Goddamn, he was trying to real hard here, but there was always an itch at the thought of only relying on the legal system. Valentina was a cunning and powerful woman. Bucky just couldn't see how a packet would overturn her entirely.

Without opening his eyes, his hand pats the top of his thigh, and you are compelled to follow that rhythm. You take quick but quiet steps to close the distance, finding yourself standing in between his legs while your hands fall on his broad shoulders. You're careful when you place your right hand down where his skin meets metal. Though he says it doesn't hurt as much as it used to, you always believe in treating his scars with the utmost kindness and care. He moves instantly, leaning forward to drag his hands down the curve of your waist before gripping the back of your thighs like he never wanted to let you go.

When he looks up at you, you see the smidge of defeat in his eyes, and the tired smile he sends your way just makes you want to cradle the man in your arms for eternity.

"Don't think this old man is cut out for this type'f thing, sweetheart." Bucky mutters almost inaudibly.

He tips his head back as he quietens, as if the weight above his head is too heavy to carry.

Despite the joke on his age, there's a small drop on your heart. It's different when Bucky says he's tired. It's because he's been doing life for a very long 110 years. You've always encouraged him to pursue everything he wanted, from the smallest thing like learning how to cook his favorite dishes to bigger ones like campaigning to be a congress member. So when he says that he doesn't feel fit to continue, a piece of your heart breaks because you understand how hard he tries. To move on, to become a better man.

You lift your hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck, pushing forward lightly to let him rest on your stomach so it doesn't ache.

You shake your head while combing through his hair, pushing the loose strands behind his ear while gently replying, "Silly, everybody starts somewhere."

Bucky shakes his head against your waist, and you have to hold back a giggle at the sensation and the gesture. Sometimes your husband does things that are very childlike, and not only is it absolutely adorable, but it reminds you that he is just a human like everybody else.

"Feels like I haven't even stepped foot while everybody else is on the goddamn finishing line." He mumbles. Its nearly inaudible, but you can hear loud and clear the weight behind those words.

"That's not true." Your protest is as much convicted as it is true, and you make them known as you pull away from his grip, grabbing his shoulders to straddle him. Both your knees are bent beside his thighs, setting comfortably on the edge of the bed. It's an extremely familiar position—in many contexts. But it's the most intimate to you. Vulnerable. To be mere breathes away from his face, all of you and all of him meeting in the middle.

You know what he says isn't true because Bucky doesn't do things half-assed. He worked his way up on a very, very difficult campaign, rising above in a world that doesn't always make space for him. He has made it so far, from the Winter Soldier to Congressman Barnes. It hurts you that despite everything, he still has doubts about himself.

Even when he's hurting he holds you in his arms so gently, one arm propping behind your back while the metal one is stationed right on your neck, trailing down to your waist to join the other. Bucky pushes his face into your neck, molding it perfectly into the crook that was made for him. You run your fingers through his hair in response, wishing to relieve all the built up tension.

He breathes in your scent, nosing the skin like that mere contact could calm him down. And you feel the way he deflates beneath you, breath tensing—anticipating—as if he were scared of what he wanted to say next. The words he uttered then were so soft, yet so convicted at the same time. It sounded like he already knew it would happen. "If I went back out in the field.. would you be angry?"

Your fingers came to a pause, lips dropping into a small pout. The man slowly lifts his head up again to see why you've gone quiet and he can't help but give you a small kiss to soothe the upset.

Despite the slightly uncomfortable shift in your chest, you couldn't say you were surprised about his confession. Bucky had always been a man of action more than he was with words. He carries his promises in the way he moves. To repent, to love, to forgive. His silence spoke more than any word ever could. So it's not new to you that his sense of justice is rooted in physically fighting for it. Though you hated seeing him hurt, you loved it even more when he had that gratified smile and a look in his eyes that showed you he was proud of the man he became. You could never stop him from doing what he thought was right.

Toying with the chain of his dog tags you sighed, shaking your head in acceptance, "Worried maybe.. but never angry."

Bucky took your right hand off his chain and placed it on his cheek, softly urging you to look him in the eyes. He wanted to hear you say that right to his face. To look at the truth, the hurt and the apprehension. He wanted to understand you beyond the words that came out of your mouth.

"You mean that, sweetheart?" He kissed your palm like it was glass, savoring every line and crease as if it was heaven beneath his lips. He stopped particularly longer when he met your ring finger, where a golden band had sat comfortably for years.

Bucky was ready to see the light dim in you—he knew you didn't enjoy seeing him go back out there after everything he went through. He was ready to use everything in him to spark it again, to save whatever trust you had left in you.

But he was utterly surprised to see the pure acceptance in your eyes. That kind of willingness to stay beside him along the ride, no matter the bumps and distance in between. You looked at him like you were ready to weather the storms and carry the weight of the world with him—if not for him.

Because this is what love is. Love gives and lets go without seeking recognition, without seeking for something in return. You love because you have the capability to—to make space and celebrate another flourishing in your presence.

Being with Bucky was never about what you could get, but what you could offer him.

And so in love's quiet surrender you learn to accept without condition. To love without judgement, without the need to change him. Not just whenever he makes you laugh or smile, but all of his darkness. His past, his anger, his sadness. You do not desire for him to become someone else because you understand that he is enough as he is.

"You can be anything you want and I'd still be here to love you." It was your promise, sealed with a gentle kiss on his lips.

And suddenly it wasn't just him against the world. Wasn't just the darkness creeping into his life, never with mercy, never with kindness. There was you at the end of the tunnel, holding out your hand for him. A chance at salvation.

You could be that for him. A saving grace, a friend, a lover. You'd be anything for him if it meant you could see that rare sight of his smile again.

There is no future without him in it.

He tightens his grip around your waist, arms snaking their way beneath your pajamas to touch the skin. Not the bruising, desperate kind, but a touch that grounds him in the moment. That allows him to feel every single emotion following your confession. You arch against him lightly, laying your palm against his clothed chest when the cool metal of both his arm and the ring on the right meet your skin. But it only makes you smile into his lips, remembering that small yet incredibly meaningful detail.

He wears his wedding ring on the right instead of the left.

Bucky told you that it was because he wanted to always feel the weight on his skin. Not the phantom one on his left, but that real, wrapping sensation, so that he'd never forget one of the happiest moments of his life. So he’d never forget that there was someone waiting for him.

Bucky continues to kiss you with leisure, humming in satisfaction when your hands run up and down from the base of his neck to the top of his head. He pushed your body impossibly close, wanting to feel each and every part of you.

When he is finally satisfied with your loving, he pulls away to face you and you see that mischievous look return to his eyes. He leans in yet again, trailing little pecks that trace your jawline before asking,

"Even if I was a paperboy?"

Now this brings an unexpected laugh out of you.

You know for a fact that Bucky actually used to be paperboy back in the 30s. It's a story that you hold safe in your heart, a glimpse of a reality lost to time. You remember the first time he told you about it back before the two of you got married and the pure elation you felt. Although you knew paperboys did exist, it never settled in your head that they were real real. More than that, you never pictured that your very own husband was one back in his days.

With your head thrown back in glee, Bucky couldn't take his eyes off of you. He loved your smile, even more when he was the reason for it. His clear blue eyes took in the very image of you, everything from the hearty breathes you were releasing, the crease of your lips to the way your throat bobbed. He would trade the world for the sound of your laughter and the stars for that glimmer in your eyes.

"Oh I can just imagine little Bucky riding around the neighborhood in his overalls and newsboy cap. I bet you made eeeveryone fall for how cute you were."

It was meant to be a tease on your husband's charming nature, but deep down you genuinely believed that to be true. And you were proven right when he shrugged in response, that annoyingly handsome smug smile settling deeply on his face.

"How'd you think I sold out everytime, doll?"

It's times like these where you see the light come back into his eyes. The nonchalance, the proud puff in his chest. He has such a beautiful smile. The most beautiful.

The surge of love you felt propelled you to wrap your arms around his head, pushing his face to rest on your plush chest. "You were a charmer weren't you?"

"Born and raised, ma'am." He mumbled against the soft fabric of your top. His hand drifted down to the bottom of your ass, caressing in a silent promise for the coming night.

You chased after it, placing your hand on top of his and then dragging your fingers up lazily, tracing the vein on his bicep. It teetered on his shoulder now, where you could feel him shudder and then flex beneath. With this gesture you felt the utter pride and masculinity showing. "You're not even denying it!" You exclaim as his lips move away from that comfortable spot on your chest to press a thousand pecks on your neck and then cheek. His beard—the one that you begged for him not to shave off—ticked you pleasantly. Once he realizes this fact though, he cheekily shakes his head, and you squirmed to get away only for him to snake a hand behind your head to softly guide you back to his lips.

You sighed against him, closing your eyes to savor the feeling. "The man of my dreams."

"You dreaming of me?" It took him a while to answer you, too occupied with tasting your sweetness. He whispered the tease right beside your ears, his lips mapping the shell as he softly nipped your earlobe.

"Every night Bucky."

WOWWWW thunderbolts Bucky changed my life you guys (hello prince hair). I initially wanted to write a playful little moment with him but got a tiiiny bit emotional 😅

ALSO ITS CANON TO MEEE that Bucky used to be a paperboy. I literally couldn't stop laughing at the thought

masterlist

dividers by @enchanthings-a

[prlssprfctn]

Cryptid!Alfred, who is actually immortal. Like, he cannot die for forever - he did once, during the war, and after that... for some reason, he kept coming back, completely without any additional magical help. He sometimes dies again, and then mysteriously comes back on the next morning, as if nothing happened. Bruce used to it at some point, so instead of asking questions (Alfred has no answers, anyway) he just pretends that it is normal. He gaslights kids to think the same. Like, what do you mean he died, Damian? No, he is alrightish. Look in the kitchen, he is making us breakfast. It probably was just a bad dream.

So, when Jason dies and gets back? Oh, Alfred knows his grandson has the same curse/blessing. Because it wasn't the Lazarus Pit that brought Jason back after all, but some strange, unexplainable force. Perhaps, both of them are just bound to end up as guardians, as warriors and protectors - that's why they keep coming back.

...Nevertheless, it doesn't make their family less... anxious about the whole thing. These two from the other side? Oh, they absolutely enjoy their immortal hang-out hours.

Jason: What was your funniest death?

Alfred: I am going to say... that one time, when I was teaching young master Bruce using a hunting rifle, and he accidentally shot me. I came back in fifteen minutes, and, of course, a poor thing was sobbing, but afterwards he was doing all chores for a month. Wonderful days.

Jason: Damn, poor Brucie... My funniest gotta be that one time, when Roy and I got drunk, and I legit jumped off the building because I thought I can fly. Roy had never got sober that quick.

(The first time Jason dies on the family's watch)

Dick, sobbing: Alfred... Alfred... He died! His neck was snapped! How can I live-

Alfred, casually leaning to snap Jason's neck again: Wake up, my boy.

Jason, dramatically gasping for air: Damn, who made me a massage, while I was sleeping?

Tim: What. The. Fuck.