#i think this is the first time i've used her tag :')

[emilys-bangs]

you come back with gravity | e.p

Tags: unit chief!emily, assistant!reader, brief mentions of blood, small injury, emily resisting reader (but not for long), reader's a rambler and just trying to let emily let them do their goddamn job, one bribery attempt in the form of coffee (it doesn't work)

Summary: Your boss isn’t your biggest fan. You spend precious company time trying to get into her good graces.

Word count: 4.2k

A/N: I've been so excited to write this dynamic and I know I advertised this as flirty reader but that will happen!! They just needed to get into emily's good graces first heh :p anyway, I'm pretty sure half the wc is just reader yapping, I've grown quite fond of them and they do remind me of myself....so if you hate them don't let me knowww. Anyway! More of this reader coming hopefully soon <3 (gosh we know where they got the yapping from)

Your boss thinks you’re entirely useless. Dark haired, sharp eyed, and beautiful, she keeps you ten feet away and flashes you tight-lipped, diplomatic smiles each time you try to get close to doing your job. From your first day you’ve been met with cool surprise at your arrival, then polite but ruthless dismissals of any and all attempts to help. Can you get her a coffee? No, she can get it herself. Can you help her organize her files? You sure as fuck can’t. Can she break down her schedule for you so you can take over the ropes? Yeah, keep dreaming.

You’re hardly what they call a profiler, but it’s clear as day to anyone: she doesn’t want you here. 

It’s only been a week and the rejection is grating down on your bones. You hadn’t been aware that she didn’t know of—or approve—your recruitment, but two minutes into your first visit to her office and it had been made all too clear. It didn’t take long before the fog lifted, her jaw setting in a hard angle, lips pressed thin into a carefully neutral line. She had looked you dead in the eye, ignoring the five boxes of neglected case files sitting neatly on a forklift in the corner of her office, and very cooly dismissed any notion of wanting you.

It stung—it still does—to be so easily dismissed, swatted away like a bothersome fly. And it’s not like you’ve been dying your whole life for the opportunity to be some higher up’s assistant, but damn it, it’s in your hand now and you’re not going to let go.

You aren’t here by her approval, but by god are you going to stay.

“She hates me.” You moan to Penelope through a bite of flaky pastry, crumbs floating down to your sensible, neatly pressed slacks. “She hates me, and she’s gonna keep pushing me away until I’m useless enough that she has enough reason to fire me.”

“Sweets, she’s not gonna do that.” Penelope laughs as she types on her keyboard. Too late, you realize that maybe you shouldn’t be huffing and puffing about your boss to possibly one of her closest friends, but Garcia loosens your tongue like that. “Em just needs time to get used to you. She’s totally convinced she can do this on her own—and not that she can’t, obviously, she’s a super boss if I’ve ever seen one, but,” she spins her chair to face you, “it gets too much, even for the super bosses. You’re exactly what she needs, she just doesn’t know it yet.” 

You sullenly wipe the crumbs from your thighs. “How do I make her know it?”

Penelope’s eyes gleam. Apart from your stingy, avoidant boss, everyone else in the BAU has welcomed you with open arms, apparently also glad that you’re there to lighten their unit chief’s load. JJ helped you situate yourself in what she told you was her old office and Reid welcomed you to his stash of sugar in the kitchenette, having heard your ramble to Tara about the painfully bitter kitchenette coffee you’d sworn off after a few mouthfuls. They’ve all been lovely, considering you’ve only known them for a few days; you’ve warmed up to Garcia the most, having known her for a few weeks longer while everyone else was on leave.

“Now we’re talking.” She nods approvingly. “To start with—”

The phone rings. She clicks on speaker as you chew through another mouthful of your croissant.

“Garcia, any hits on our unsub’s accomplice?”

You pause at the sound of Emily’s voice, sharp even as it buzzes with static.

“Facial recognition is still running, my sweet, I haven’t gotten anything yet.”

A low sigh blows through the phone. “Alright, well, try searching through the unsub’s friends and family in the meantime. Past school friends, colleagues—everyone.”

“Already on it.” Garcia says promptly. “I’ll hit you back.” She ends the call and turns to you again. Her brown eyes shimmer behind her glasses. You subconsciously lean in close, anticipating some wild secret to earning the way to your boss’ heart.

“You’re gonna need a vanilla latte.” She announces.

____

It takes four days before you come face to face with her again. Four days you’ve spent mostly in idleness, picking up the odd job here and there and helping Garcia behind the scenes, not quite brave enough to encroach onto your boss’ business while her claws are still out. The jet lands from Florida late at night, rather conveniently setting up your fresh attempt at sweetening her up.

You’re in early the next morning, a brimming cup of vanilla latte heating your palm as you head up the stairs. The bullpen is still fairly empty, its usual buzz tuned down low and sluggish. You absently tug your collar above your sweater vest, smoothing it down flat against your throat before knocking on your unit chief’s door. 

She answers quickly. You shove one deep breath into your lungs before swinging the door open and walking in.

“Good morning.” You say cheerfully, smiling as you cross the floor to her desk. It doesn’t escape your notice how unfairly good she looks, dark hair blending into her navy blazer, bangs soft and shiny above eyes that track your approach.

“Morning.” She intones. You hand her the coffee and her expression softens, the corner of her mouth pulling just slightly. “Aw, thank you. What do I owe you?”

Four twenty five.

“Oh, nothing.” You wave your hand dismissively. She frowns, brows furrowing. “Uh, well, how about your calendar? Or a planner, if I can have a look at that?” You channel your brightest smile.

Emily tilts her head, idly tracing her finger over the plastic lid. “Calendar? Why do you need that?”

“Well, I’m a little…” out of my depth, “...lost concerning your schedule. There’s a few things I’ve written down that need to get done, but I can’t fit them into a time slot without knowing—”

“It’s fine.” There’s that tight smile again. It’s miles away from the easy grin she gives to her colleagues. “My schedule doesn’t need arranging. I’ve got it handled.”

Stupid, stubborn FBI agents.

“I’m not trying to imply that you don’t!” You blurt out. “Really, Chief Prentiss, I’m just here to make your life easier.” You force out a nervous laugh, swallowing the sour taste in your mouth. “Scout’s honor.”

Her hum is thick with something you can’t place as she looks away, her hand dipping into her bag. She hands you a crisp ten dollar bill and a look that says get out. “Thank you, Y/N. You didn’t have to, but I appreciate it. Really.”

You want to argue that she doesn’t seem too appreciative, but the sharp tilt of her eyes makes you tuck your tongue under your teeth. 

She’s your boss. Totally capable of firing you, with or without reasonable justification.

You bite down on a huff, take the money, and try not to shrink beneath her eyes as you see yourself out.

____

Admittedly, this does feel a touch illicit. But it’s her work calendar—or so you’ve been informed—so it’s not like you’re snooping through her underwear drawer.

You’re just doing your job. 

You look down at your notepad, pursing your lips at the list of meetings and tasks your boss needs to get done by the end of—yep, this month. No biggie, except that less than half of them are actually written on the calendar. It’s blank, for the most part, excepting a few days with all-caps tasks filling up their boxes.

“This won’t work here,” you mutter to yourself, glancing at the full slot for Tuesday. You’ve already got three bullet points written down for it. 

As you’re shifting it, a new icon comes to life on the screen, a glaring bold EP blinking next to your initials on the top corner of the page. The bubble crawls down until it’s in the Tuesday box, side by side with yours where you’re halfway through deleting the task Emily had already written down.

Shit.

You pause, twisting one of your rings around your finger as you wait for her to do something. Blue light burns itself into your retinas. 

The bubble stays still for a few seconds. You watch as it moves, springing back the words you’d erased. 

Well, fine. You’ll have to make do with Wednesday. 

You start typing down the other assignments, one eye on your notepad and the other on the EP bubble. It stays still, so you continue.

“What are you doing?”

You startle, shoulders jumping at the sound of Emily’s voice. She doesn’t wait at the door, walking in and rounding your desk like she owns it. 

You flash her a smile like your heart isn’t pounding. “Trying to organize your schedule.”

Disapproval carves itself in the space between her brows. “How did you even access it?”

“Penelope got me in.” You say brightly. “Don’t—I mean, I don’t know your password or anything, it’s just that I was kind of flying blind like I told you, so she helped me out a little.”

Way to throw her under the bus. 

But she’s her best friend. You’re decidedly not.

“And,” you continue hastily, grabbing your notepad before she flicks you away like you’re a bothersome crumb on her suit, “this is what I’ve got so far. Cruz’s report is due by the end of the week, and you’ve also got a budget justification meeting—plus Penelope mentioned two PD’s that need your help with consults while you were away in Florida.” 

You’ve had time to work things through while she was away. But unfortunately not much to do without her sign off.

Emily’s tongue drags over her lip. One of her brows arches—an irritated tick, you’ve realized.

“Fine. This has to stay on Tuesday. I’ll get someone on the consults tomorrow, if we don’t get a case, and the meeting…” her lips purse just slightly as she presses two fingers between her brows, massaging the wrinkle. In the low, dim lights of your office, she seems much less stiff. A lot more exhausted. “Do with that what you will, just don’t make it Friday.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“And don’t call me Ma’am.”

A grin tickles your lips. She’s already walking away, unaware of your teeth biting down on your triumph.

“You got it, g—Chief.”

____

There’s an undeniable pep in your step when you walk through the dim BAU halls the next day. Part of your brain realizes that you’re being entirely ridiculous, but the larger, louder part can’t really care. Cracking through the hard shell of Emily Prentiss’ exterior is possibly harder than cracking ancient hieroglyphics. Maybe it wasn’t a clean crack, sure—and okay, you weren’t able to reach in too deep—but now you can feel faint warmth rather than rough-hewn stone under your fingertips.

You’re lightly chatting with Luke and Tara over a box of pastries you’d gotten when she calls you into her office, her voice low yet still carrying throughout the bullpen. 

“Trouble?” Luke raises his eyebrows, his smile partially hidden behind a Danish.

Your stomach turns at the thought. You dust powdered sugar off of your fingertips, failing to muster a smile when Tara scolds him for it, a thud sounding beneath the desks which could mean her boot connected with his ankle. 

All of your surety suddenly dissolves, your good mood churning in your gut as you climb up the stairs and hesitantly approach Emily’s office, as if she rigged the floor with land mines.

God, you hadn’t done anything, had you? All you did was fix up her schedule. Could you have fucked it up that horrendously? Made her miss a hugely important meeting with the director of the goddamn—

“Are these yours?”

She points to a pair of earbuds on her desk.

You blink. “What?” You say stupidly.

Emily picks up the earbuds. They’re marked with a swipe of nail polish at the base, glossy red and definitely yours. You needlessly pat your pockets, silently wondering when you’d misplaced them.

“Oh. Yeah, they are.” You can feel your face flame hot as you take them from her and stuff them in your pocket. 

You wait. She doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. Well, not for a few beats. 

“Is that…is that all?” 

Emily nods. “That’s all.”

Your eyes drop to the multitude of files on her desk. “You don’t need me to do anything?”

“Not as of right now.” 

You can feel the walls rising up, blocking you out. Your desperation rises similarly, bubbling up and spilling out when your eyes drop from hers and fall to the orchid pot on her windowsill. The droopy leaves catch your attention, wilting on top of each other and curving downward.

“These orchids are overwatered.” You blurt out, walking over to them and touching one of the yellowing leaves. You also note the way its white petals are turning golden, wrinkled at the edges. They catch the full force of the sunlight streaming in through the window. 

“You shouldn’t keep them in direct sunlight, they get sunburned. Orchids are quite delicate. How often are you watering them?” You turn to your boss in time to see her brows tick up, bemused.

“Uh, every day.” She taps her pen against the desk, chewing on her lip. “The leaves have been turning yellow.”

“That’s because of overwatering. It can often look like underwatering. Orchids are difficult to care for, but they don’t need that much water—you were drowning them.”

The corner of her mouth twitches.

You clear your throat, neck ablaze, “I can fix them up for you. If you’d like. Uh, I do know a bit about plants.”

Emily tilts her head in a nod. “Okay.” She agrees.

“Yep. Great, I’ll just—” You point to the door and quickly follow your finger, an orchid pot tucked to your side like you’re smuggling contraband. “I’ll take care of them!” You throw over your shoulder, internally cringing as you go down the stairs, hugging your boss’ rotting plant.

____

“Nothing’s been deleted, the folders have just shifted. You can find them here.” You run the mouse down the bottom edge of the screen, prompting the taskbar to slide up. “See, just there.” You click on a partially hidden icon, and Reid’s files bloom on the screen. 

He nods slowly, a little pinch between his brows. “I see. I just don’t get why they’re so elusive.” He mutters, “Or why they don’t attach user guides on how to operate the updates.” 

You shrug, lips twisting against the smile trying to break free. It’s truly endearing how so thoroughly a certified genius gets stumped by technology. But it’s not like you can blame him in this case; the update really is ridiculous—and wildly unnecessary.

“Do you have any idea why they keep doing these?” He runs his fingers through unruly, golden brown curls.

“Well, tech’s gotta have something to do, right? I think they try to hide them more with each update so they can confuse the hell out of anyone trying to break in.” You laugh. It prompts a smile from him, a little bashful, soft as his cardigan. Idly, you think maybe he should meet one of your girlfriends.

He takes a sip from his coffee. “You should help Emily out with that too, she’s been complaining about it.”

You tilt your head. “Has she?”

“Have I been complaining about what?” Emily’s voice curls around the back of your chair, spiking your heart rate as you spin to see her. 

“The new update.” Reid pipes up. “Y/N just helped me figure out where my files and emails went.”

Her eyes slide to you. It’s a slow drag that leaves heat in its wake, your blood simmering with the full force of her attention. 

You fidget with your ring, offering her a smile. “I can show you how it works.”

Her fingers flex around her coffee mug. “It’s your lunch break.” She hedges.

“I don’t mind.” You’re strangely breathless. “It won’t take long. Unless you’re busy.”

She considers you for a beat, then shakes her head. You jump up from Reid’s chair, trying not to look like an overeager puppy following at her heels. 

“Thanks, Y/N!” Reid calls out.

You do something with your hand, half dazed. “Sure thing, doc.”

The rush of air that Emily leaves behind smells like coffee and sugar and something like caramel. The scent tickles your nose as you follow her across the bullpen. You’re not quite sure if you should lengthen your stride, walk next to her, but she outpaces you anyway, nimbly climbing the stairs and offering you her chair as you walk through the door.

“Have a seat.”

You decide not to protest. Spinning to her desktop, you wiggle the mouse and bring the screen to life, then walk her through the steps you’d shown Reid. She hovers over your shoulder as you ramble, the smooth scent you’ve now discovered is her perfume clouding your lungs. It’s that caramel; something warm, silky and sweet, almost entirely cutting off the airflow to your brain.

The distinct weight of her hand presses down on the back of your—her—chair as she grips it, giving the occasional hum in response to your instructions. You jiggle the mouse, double clicking more than necessary in an attempt to hide the gravel in your voice. You almost lose your train of thought more than once, but you manage to hold it together.

“That’s it.” You end lamely, letting go of the mouse. The rich brown of her eyes is only a few inches from yours when you look up. 

Jesus. 

“You could’ve told me, you know. I’m”—just here to help—“pretty good with computers. I took a few coding classes back in college—and Garcia’s been showing me the ropes, too! So I think I’m proficient enough. If you, um, ever need anything. Computer related or otherwise.” 

You realize that you should stand. You do, hands automatically smoothing over your blazer. “Anything else I can help with?” You ask hopefully.

Emily shakes her head. “That’s all, thank you. Enjoy your lunch break.” She softens the words with a smile, a hint of a dimple rendering you unable to push back. 

You walk out as dazed as you were when you walked in.

____

You’re wincing as you shoulder your way through the bathroom door, one hand cupped under the other to catch the drip of blood from your palm. It’s not a deep cut, you don’t think, but it stings like hell. At least you can’t see any shard of ceramic lodged beneath the blood.

Well, not yet.

The door swings shut behind you, but you’re not alone. 

Drying her hands at the sinks is none other than your boss. She immediately notices your hand, her brows drawing together in sharp lines.

“What happened?”

“Chief Prentiss!” Your voice echoes loudly against the tiles. You bite down on another wince and shove your hands under the tap. “It’s nothing. Just a small cut, it hardly hurts—”

“That’s not what I asked.” Her heels click against the floor. Suddenly she’s there, right at your elbow, her fingers closing around your wet wrist. The blood washes clean under the water, but it still forms up against the flow, rushing to escape your veins. You barely notice the sting as Emily tilts your hand, observing the thin line running from your middle finger to the base of your thumb.

Her eyes flick up to yours, obsidian dark. Her brows raise expectantly.

“Uh. Reid dropped his mug. I was just helping him clean up, but,” your shoulder touches your ear, “I was a little clumsy with it. It’s fine, really, doesn’t even hurt!”

A displeased hum cuts through your ramble. “Cleaning up after Spencer isn’t part of your job description.”

“What is?” You ask, tired from her hot and cold, your tongue loose from the press of her fingers on your wrist. You snap your mouth shut too late, internally cursing.

Emily is quiet as she tilts your hand under the water. “Rounding up last week’s reports.” She says eventually. Your head snaps up. “Spencer hasn’t turned his in yet and Luke’s backlog is at least three cases behind.” She glances at your hand. “If you can, that is.”

“Yeah!” Jesus, dial it down. You clear your throat, nodding, “Yes, definitely can do, Chief.” You would salute, if your hand wasn’t held in hers beneath the water (why is she still holding it?).

A sharp dip of her chin is all the reply you get back. “A bandaid won’t hold.” She murmurs, dropping your hand and grabbing the first aid kit hanging on the wall. “You’ll need to bandage it.”

“That seems excessive.” Directly disagreeing. “Ma’am.” She told you not to call her Ma’am. “It’s already stopped bleeding—”

“No one will appreciate it if your blood’s all over the paperwork.” She says wryly, placing the kit on the counter.

“Right.” You snap your mouth shut. “Of course not.”

“And don’t call me Ma’am again.”

“Does gorgeous work?”

She blinks.

“Oh, Jesus. I’m so sorry, I don’t know what—” you clamp your hand over your mouth. “I’ll just leave now.” You mumble, mortification weakening your knees.

Emily shakes her head, the corner of her mouth tilting as she walks past you and out of the bathroom. Her perfume washes over you, lingering with your stinging hand and the boiling heat of shame crawling all over your body.

____

You’re heading to the elevators, coat slung over your arm, when you glimpse the light on in Emily’s office. It’s not terribly late, but there’s no one else on the floor, either. You make a detour to the glass doors of the bullpen, swinging them open and walking in.

Even before you reach her office your breath is catching, a dampness in your palms that you hastily wipe away on your clothes. She’s past the point of tossing you to someone else, you try to tell yourself, but the voice in your head is weak. You’ve been getting her to bend more, widening the crack and worming yourself through the gap, but she still makes your insides flutter nervously. 

Maybe Emily Prentiss has resigned herself to your help. You don’t think she’s reached the point of liking you yet.

Still, you knock on her open door and poke your head in. The orchids sit pretty on her desk, warmed to a faint yellow beneath the lamplight.

You’re usually a confident person. But the second her eyes lock with yours, your knees just about turn to jelly.

“Hi.” Your voice is soft. “It’s, uh—it’s late.”

She sets her pen down. “Didn’t know you set a curfew for me.”

“Oh! No, of course not, that’s not what I—”

Her low laugh makes you freeze in place. It doesn’t last long, but it washes over you like a faint glow, warmth kissing the surface of your skin. Too late, you realize the teasing in her voice—silk soft and pliant, the way it is when she’s talking to Reid or Garcia.

“I’m sorry,” you say, though you don’t know what you’re apologizing for. You venture deeper into her office, feeling her eyes track your steps. “What I mean to say is you shouldn’t have to be here longer than anyone else.” 

Emily’s lips press together into a pitiful smile. 

You fiddle with your coat, shrugging a little. “Sure, you’re the boss, but…I can help.” 

If you’d gotten a dollar for every time you’ve spoken that phrase over the past two weeks, you’d be swimming in money. Still, you clear your throat.

“I can go through the paperwork with you, and I can help organize your schedule to make room for it when you’re not on cases, and I can help you prioritize everything so you don’t fall behind. It’s not much, and I know you can do it all on your own,” your hand flaps at your side, “but you don’t have to. That’s what I’m here for.”

The remnants of your voice echo around her office as Emily laces her fingers together and sets her chin on top of her fists. Your heart skips as she looks you over, the sharpness of her gaze softened by the warm light of the lamp at her elbow.

“You’d be in for a late night.” She says eventually.

Your eyes widen. “That’s fine! I mean—not too late, obviously, but”—you shrug, fiddling with a loose string on your coat and forcing nonchalance in your voice—“it is my job.”

It’s an electric zap up your spine when you glimpse both her dimples. “Tomorrow.” Emily says. It holds a shade of promise, not as airy as her other dismissals. “Go home for now.”

“I will if you will.”

She softly clucks her tongue. “Don’t push it.”

Your body flushes with heat.

“Y-Yes, Ma—yes, Chief. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @storiesofsvu @ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @professorsapphic @decadentcatcrusade @piiinco @jareavsheavn @mourningthewicked @heartoreadallthequeerthingz @rustnroll @slutforabbyanderson @maximoffcarter @cns-mari @daddy-heather-dunbar @lcvessapphic

[paracosmic-murdock]

if i could save time in a bottle

pairing: bucky barnes x goddess!reader

summary: thor and steve set up a little encounter between you and bucky, one that didn't even feel like a date but that paved the way to an impromptu, later one, after he wakes up from a nightmare and his first instinct is to reach out to you. the date, full of honesty and vulnerability, made sure for the both of you to know that, above all, you loved each other, and nothing either of you did or went through could change that. the date, also, went way better than expected.

warnings/tags: takes place after endgame (2019), steve does stay 'till the end of the line, hurt/comfort, suggestive jokes, bucky healing era, reader is thor's sister, no physical description tho, fluff, mystic arts, use of portals, dates, insecurities, bucky's nightmares, implied sa (bucky during his winter soldier years), references to other mcu characters (thor, steve, loki, odin, frigga, and dr strange), reader details her powers, bucky opens up about the winter soldier, mentions of deaths (loki, odin, howard stark, and maria stark), cutesy intimate moments, reminiscing, i can't stop thinking about them i need to write more bucky x goddess!reader, even if it flops, some smut (unprotected sex, fingering♡, p in v, teasing, body worship (bucky's), many "i love you's" while fucking—words of affirmation for the fancy ones), minors dni!!

word count: 4K

✰ part one | part two

✰ related os: when you know, you know

✰ mila's anthology (main masterlist)

no taglist but there could be one, so lmk in the comments if you'd like to be in it ;))

You looked at Bucky from afar, not knowing how you had managed to keep yourself from running to him the moment your eyes spotted him.

It had been only a few days, but Thor and Steve didn't waste any time.

There you were, at the same place you had met him more than eighty years ago. Now, it was some coffee shop named Starbucks and they had drinks ‘inspired’ by your brother and his friends. It was almost a profanity after everything.

Bucky raised his arm to get your attention, leather gloves on as if it were cold inside. His hair, shorter, as if he knew how the familiarity of it eased your mind—how the old times eased you.

“Hi,” You sat across from him. “How are you?”

He smiled softly. “Hi, doll. I'm fine, you?”

Doll. “Me as well.”

“I ordered for you,” Bucky motioned at the table. “What you always used to order.”

You noticed how it wasn't a teacup but a paper one, and how it was the same drink you used to order. The same pastry. The same everything, just… different.

“I love the hair,”

“I knew you'd like it.” He chuckled.

“Oh, did you?” you teased him.

“That's why I cut it if there was any doubt.”

You smiled slightly, face flushed like a lovestruck young girl. “The long hair looked good, too, but this look has no comparison. The beard suits you quite well.”

“Even bolder than I recalled,” Bucky blushed.

“Will you call me out now, Barnes?” you questioned with a smirk. “I thought you liked me like that.”

Bucky laughed. “I've missed you.”

“Buck,” you called him, your hand approaching his carefully. His breath hitched; he didn't move or speak, he only looked at you. “Can we…” You cleared your throat and looked down for a second. “I know we have both gone through things that have changed us and we may not be the same people we were when we first fell in love, but I… I never stopped loving you. Even when I thought there was no you to love anymore, the one thing that time didn't change, the only thing that life never took from me is the love I have for you, Bucky. Can we… start over? Can we do this?”

His fingers, still shielded under those gloves —which, for some reason you were unaware of, made you restless—, grazed yours slightly.

“Are you sure about this? Because… you said it yourself, we're not the same people, and I'm pretty sure I am not a person who deserves you; to be honest, I never was-”

“I do not care about who deserves who, I only care about what I need,” you interrupted him. “And that's you. You are all I need.”

He exhaled, tired from the fight between giving up and giving in. “You know I love you, too, but what if that's the only thing we have in common now?”

“Well, it is up to us to figure that out,” you said. “If I survived all these years, all the tragedies that I went through, if I went to that funeral, if we're here in front of each other, Bucky, it is for a reason. We are meant to be.”

“We are?” His face softened, the walls around him crumbling ever so slightly that, if you were sneaky enough, if you tried hard enough, you could slip in.

You intertwined your hands. “We are. And I don't know whatever happened to you, but if there's something I know, it is that nothing you tell me will scare me away. If you truly don't love me anymore, if you want me away from you because you do not love me, I will leave you alone. Otherwise, trust that I am here to stay, and that I have all the time in the world to prove to you that I am not going anywhere and that I will love you through everything.”

He nodded, smiling faintly.

It breaks you to know that he suffered in a way that took that smile you so much adore from him. Where are the jokes? The teasing? The laughter?

“Can I try my luck?”

You grinned as he repeated the words he said the first time you met. “By all means, sir.”

“My name's James Barnes, but everyone calls me Bucky.”

You introduced yourself, offering him your hand.

He took it. “Odindottir?”

“My father's name was Odin, the Allfather, King of Asgard. May He find peace in Valhalla, home to the souls of the honorable.”

“So you're a princess?”

“And a goddess,” you completed. “Who are you, Bucky Barnes?”

“That, I'm trying to figure out,”

“That, we can do together.”

He chuckled. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

“For you?” You raised your eyebrow, and Bucky nodded, almost fearing a negative. “Every hour of every day of every week.”

He exhaled, relieved, and smirked. “Would you like to have dinner with me at seven? As a date?”

You nodded. “Pick me up at 177A Bleecker Street. Pay no mind to my brother if you see him around, for he tends to overstep.”

“I can fight him.” Bucky shrugged.

You snorted. “Do yourself a favor and do not. Have some sense of self-preservation, pretty boy.”

“You have so little faith in me? That's a rough start.”

“He won against the Hulk. He was not lying like everyone thinks, I saw it in his mind.”

“You read minds?” Bucky asked, telling himself that it didn't scare him, though knowing it did.

“Thor and Loki used to get in trouble all the time, so I used magic to read their minds and see who was telling the truth,” you replied. “I taught Loki and he ended up using it for evil, so that is pretty much on me.”

“I will need you to promise not to read my mind,” he muttered. He tried to sound like he was joking, but you knew better.

“Okay, but can I still use my magic to, let's say, make you dream of me?”

Bucky hummed. “You don't really need magic for that.”

“You'll dream of me,” you declared. “No magic at all, and that is a promise.”

That night, he didn't at first. He had a nightmare first, one of those that made him wake up sweaty and scared to open his eyes to that HYDRA facility, tied to that chair; or with a gun in his hand, pointing at a target.

He woke up on the floor of his new apartment, bed sheets wet and back pain.

Bucky took his phone and considered texting Steve to see if he was awake by chance. Instead, your name shone on the screen and he typed an ‘Are you awake?’ before he could dare to regret it.

You called him less than a second later.

“Hey,”

“Hey.”

“You could not sleep?”

“No,” he confessed. “You?”

“No, me neither.”

“Why couldn't you sleep?”

“I'm feeling a little restless,” you said. “You?”

“Had a nightmare.”

“Do you have many of those?”

“I don't think you could guess how many.”

You let out a soft chuckle. “Tell me.”

“Every night,” Bucky stood up and went to the kitchen. “How often do you feel restless?”

“Every night.”

“What do you do to feel better?”

“I try to think about a good memory,” you replied. “You should try that.”

“I don't have many good memories left.”

You hummed. “How about… March 10th, 1939. Your birthday. There was this big party at the bar we met, and I took you home with me that night.”

The memory started building in his mind, making him blush.

“Remember the red dress?”

“Yeah.”

“You ripped it off of me,” you reminded him. “Then you touched me everywhere, kissed me where the sun hadn't been, and we made love that night for the first time.”

The memory flashed before his eyes right then and there, and Bucky's breath hitched when a phantom of your taste appeared underneath his tongue and a hint of the angriest of reds, the one from your lips, where the sun hadn't been, appeared behind his eyelids.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Bucky questioned you, feeling himself go hard. He let out a shaky breath.

“Me?” You feigned innocence. “I'm just reminding you of a good time.”

Bucky clicked his tongue. “Too good to go to sleep.”

“Then don't,” you smirked. “Would you like to go somewhere?”

“Like where?”

“Come here,” You bit your lip at the uncertainty of his reaction. “And I'll take you somewhere nice.”

He hummed. “Now?”

“We are both awake with nothing to do, aren't we?”

“Yeah,” He nodded as if you could see him. “Okay, I'll see you there.”

“Let me know me when you arrive.”

“Hi, Buck,”

Bucky smiled. “Hi.”

“Ready?”

“Not really until I know where you're taking me,” He smiled, mesmerized by the red on your lips that took him back to the days you were his and he, yours.

“The first time I came to Earth, we went to Norway,” you began. “I saw these for the very first time, they were… majestic. And just then, you know this world was made by a god because there is no way something as such exists as a mere phenomenon.”

“A god as in your father?”

You clicked your tongue. “I do not dare to question a thing.”

“Are you taking me to Norway?”

“No, it's day-time there,” you answered. “I am taking you north.”

You used your index and middle finger to create a portal, showing Bucky a small shack under a sky full of colors and stars, the winter air giving it all a mystical touch.

“How do you do that, again?” Bucky frowned, looking at you instead of the other side.

“It's, uh…, the Mystic Arts,” you replied, holding onto his arm, feeling it harder than a normal one, but said nothing. He realized you had noticed it and went stiff, though thankful that you didn't speak about it. “You know Strange makes them, but he uses a ring. I do not need one, I can make them myself. Just like other spells, and… I'm not going to bore you with this-”

He chuckled. “No, God, I need you to tell me everything you can do. It's fascinating.”

“Come,” you pulled him through the portal and closed it behind you. Bucky pretended like he wasn't absolutely astounded. Confused. Kind of scared. “Watch them.”

Bucky shuddered when you used your fingers to lift his face so he could look at the sky. Your touch on his skin was comforting, like blinking and appearing on a day where he was happy.

“They are beautiful,” He admired them: pink, green, blue, purple aurora borealis, thousands of stars above them; and, still, they weren't the most appealing thing in that place. “I'd never seen them before.”

“You said to me once that you've always wanted to see the beautiful things in the world,” you reminded him. “That you wanted to see all the stars, all the places from the books, and… that you had only ever seen war.”

“You remember all that?”

“I remember it all,” you answered. “Are you cold?”

He shook his head and looked to the other side. “No, I'm alright.”

You smirked and used magic to give him a thicker jacket, one with soft fur on the inside to keep him warm.

“It's an illusion,” you explained. “Is it better?”

“Yeah, thank you,” Bucky smiled. “Wait, this means that every time you were cold and I gave you my jacket, you could've done this?”

You laughed, motioning him to follow you to the shack. “Yeah.”

“That's evil,” he noted, following you closely. “What else can you do?”

“I can turn back time,” you began, still looking at the lights in the sky, now through the window. “Like… I can turn back time in general and I can do so with specific objects, like your hair to make it long again. I can undo things, go back to moments, stop time, I could see the past and the future, every future, but I don't do it often since it's against the rules. I can make portals and go anywhere in the universe and beyond, I can cast spells, read and manipulate minds. I used to fight as well, but I don't anymore. I, uhm, it's the power of the time stone in me, Mother created me from it. The Mystic Arts, as I said, and Asgardian magic.”

“That's impressive.”

You huffed and took a seat. So did he. “And what can you do?”

“Well, I am a super soldier.”

“Like Steve?”

“When he told you I was dead, I wasn't,” Bucky sighed. “I fell from the train and I lost my arm. The people who found me, HYDRA, they… gave me the serum and…”

“We don't have to talk about it if you do not want to tell me.”

“It's not that, it's just… They made me do things, unspeakable things. I did them, and it haunts me. I don't want you to think of me as what they turned me into.”

“No matter what you did, I will always think of you with nothing but love, fondness, and respect, Bucky.”

“Even if I did things you would hate me for?”

You hummed. “My brother tried to colonize the Earth, and Asgard, too. He faked his death and mistreated me like no other when he found out he was adopted. He sent Father here, usurped the throne, and pretty much drove him mad. There were casualties, I am sure. I am not saying I am proud of Loki, but I do not love him any less than the day I first held him in my arms, not even now that he is dead. Try me, Buck.”

Bucky thought it through. You could just ask your brother, or Steve, or anybody, and you will know exactly what he did. You had to hear it from him, or it could be even worse.

“The Winter Soldier,” he murmured. “I'm… not him anymore, but sometimes I can't just isolate myself from what I did when I was him. It was me, I remember all of it. Every person I hurt, every life I took, I remember it all too well.”

Your expression softened, and you tilted your head. “The Winter Soldier?”

“Yeah. HYDRA, they wiped my memory and… they did all these things to me, they… programmed me like a robot so I did just about anything they told me to with no control at all. They tortured me, they…”

A shaky exhale left your lips at the thought of someone hurting him. It pained you to see how he deviated his gaze from you, how he feared your rejection.

“I killed Howard and his wife, Maria.”

You just stared at him in silence, thinking about the heavy burden of the guilt he must carry on himself. The pain it must be causing. The nightmares.

“I almost killed Steve one time.”

“Bucky?”

He looked at you finally. “You don't have to accept me or any of it. I understand I am not the man you loved, that… you may not feel safe with me.”

“Don't ever say that,” You pressed your forehead against his and cupped his face. “I know you will never hurt me. There's nowhere safer than beside you for me to be.”

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Bucky asked, his words so heavy it felt like a beg for a yes instead of a multiple choice question.

“Yes,” you confirmed, focusing on the way his breath blended with yours, on how you haven't been this close to anybody in almost seventy-eight years, on how you felt like you belonged to him more than anywhere else in the cosmos. “I love you.”

He brushed his nose with yours, closing his eyes slowly. “I love you.”

“I love you.” you repeated, eyes closed, too, words colliding against Bucky's lips with how close you were now. Your lips, grazing against each other's, yearned for the slightest contact.

It wasn't slight at all.

The first thing he felt was you biting his lower lip. In response, Bucky held your chin and made you open your mouth wider, instantly slipping his tongue into your mouth and giving you one intoxicating, messy, breathtaking kiss.

His left hand took the glove from his right hand off, his soft fingers buried in your hair, grasping it to break the kiss and pull your head back so he could start leaving sweet kisses and shy bites on your neck. “I love you.”

Bucky kissed all the way back to your lips and left there another one, one quick. Then, he parted from you, taking off the glove from his left hand and the jacket you gave him right after. You could see a glint of golden in his arm, and the rest was jet black.

You hesitated to touch him, fearing his reaction, so you just stood up and took off your coat, your shoes, your jeans, your t-shirt, and your bra. He gasped; he found you even more beautiful than the day he last saw you.

“Wow,” Bucky interjected, the blue in his eyes turning darker in yearning. “God-”

A heavy exhale left your lips, and you returned to him—but closer. You straddled him and locked your eyes with his, making sure for him to know how much you needed this. Bucky didn't expect it, for you to take his hands in yours and place them on each of your breasts. “Touch me.”

The cold of his vibranium arm made you shudder, the way he squeezed your breasts, almost hesitant, elicited a loud moan from your lips, a sudden jerk of your hips, which crashed against him. Bucky analyzed the expressions of your face with each touch.

He didn't know what he loved more to see: the way your mouth opened and brows furrowed, or the red lipstick stains on your face. Or, maybe, how the northern lights illuminated you from behind, making it look as though you were the one shining just as bright.

“I love you,” you whimpered. Bucky pulled you forward and started sucking on your skin slowly until he trapped one of your nipples in his mouth. With one hand finding support on his shoulder, the vibranium one, and the other pulling his hair and holding his head in place, you moaned his name like a love song. “Buck- Bucky, I love you.”

“I love you, doll,” Bucky spoke in a soft groan. You attempted to take off his t-shirt, but he stopped you before you could. “Wait.”

“We don't have to continue,” you rushed to say. Bucky sighed.

“You think I wanna stop?”

You pursed your lips. “Would you like to keep your t-shirt on, then?”

He shook his head. “Yeah. No, wait, no. I just… I look different now.”

“What?” You frowned.

Bucky nodded. “I have scars. Too many. And they're not very nice to look at.”

“That's a relief, I thought you were green or something. I would have been a tad disappointed, I cannot lie to you, but I like you too much, I could have managed.”

“Yeah?”

You hummed. “Let me take that off, will you?”

“Okay.”

Your hands shyly took the hem of the navy blue t-shirt, slowly revealing scars from fights or even more. Finally, you lifted it completely and saw the place where skin and metal met.

There were indeed many scars; striking, painful. It broke you to think how much it hurt him, the difficulty it must signify for him to look at himself and remember all the torture he went through.

“Bucky,” You met his gaze again, one that begged for your approval. “You are perfect.”

The fear in his eyes, gone out in an instant. The vulnerability, turned to love as you kissed his lips and all the way down his neck, collarbone, his scars.

“You are perfect, and I am in love with you and all that you are.”

“I love you.”

You looked at him as you left a red kiss on the cold, vibranium shoulder, and played with the buttons of his jeans. “I love you.”

Bucky smiled and helped you take the rest of his clothes off. He kissed you urgently, as if nothing else mattered in his life. He touched you like a sensory experience, held onto you as if you could disappear any second now.

It had been a couple hours since you started, all teasing and touching, not getting to the point yet. Bucky enjoyed seeing you beg for him. He was also losing himself in the moment, focusing on you. It was you, no one else. He wanted this. He wanted this.

“What can I do?” you asked him, panting desperately, a tear running down your face. “For you to fuck me?”

Bucky grunted, the almost angry grip of his flesh arm on your thigh traveling to the inner part of it. Despite not being remotely close to you, he felt the wet mess he had made of you.

He hushed you. “Wait.”

“You do realize there is a goddess in your arms, begging you to fuck her?”

“Aren't I a lucky one?” Bucky smirked, cocky.

“Oh, go to hell,” You cried out, and, when you were just about to pull away from him, Bucky held you harder. “Bucky… oh-”

His heart and middle fingers softly caressed you and, without warning, went inside you. “That's what you wanted?”

You looked him in the eyes and shook your head eagerly. Bucky raised his eyebrows, acting like he was oblivious to your needs.

He hummed, lifting you slowly and flipping you until you were under him.

You didn't know when it happened, how it happened, you just knew he was filling you now, giving you all that you wanted.

Bucky moaned your name, looking at you. He pulled out and then went back in. “And this?”

“Yes, this,” you answered and kissed him again, rejoicing in the way he moved inside of you and the softness of his lips. “This… you.”

“Me?” he asked, the word falling in a whisper.

“You. Faster.”

He did as you told him, a glint in his eyes so devoted that you thought of his love as something above you. “Like this?”

With hands intertwined, breaths becoming one, and eyes locked, you felt in heaven. You were with Bucky. The moment you had longed for for so very long… there.

There, right there. “I'm close,” you faltered.

“Fuck, doll,” Bucky sped up his thrusts, now careless, mouth hungrily capturing yours in a kiss.

“Pretty boy,” you called him, surprised to be able to speak. “Look at me.”

Bucky did so, his blue eyes you have always been enraptured by were there, right there, looking at you as if you were everything.

In a way, you were. In his way. You were everything to him.

“I love you.”

He smiled, close, so close. “I love you.”

“I will always love you, Bucky,” You felt your body shake at the proximity of your release, one that wouldn't come properly unless you guided him to peace. “And I will always take care of you. You are safe, your heart is safe with me, I promise you until the end of time.”

Bucky let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes shut as he came inside of you. He didn't stop, he wouldn't dare until you did as well.

“I will love you until the end of time, too,” he breathed out and drove his vibranium hand south to draw even circles on you, to bring you closer. “Even when I'm dead and you're not… I'll still love you. For always.”

“Bucky,” you whimpered, legs shaking as you came. Waves, violent waves of pleasure took over you as he seeked for your lips to kiss you, to swallow his name from your mouth.

As soon as you steadied yourself, you pulled away from Bucky and lied beside him.

“We didn't use protection,”

You groaned as you realized. “There are no known cases of Half Asgardian-Half Midgardian children.”

Well, well.

“I'll talk about this tomorrow in therapy. It's my first mandatory session.”

“We have dated for eighty-six years since we never broke up. Children aren't precisely out of order,”

Bucky snorted. “I'm pretty sure we'll have to get married first. I'm an old fashioned guy and you're a princess. Your father would hate me from Valhala.”

“Thor is not above killing you,”

“Yeah,” he exhaled, tension he didn't know he had in himself about a thing he used to pray for. “I would be a mess of a father, though.”

“You would be great.”

Bucky smiled slightly. If you believed that, he could work on it.

“Why are we talking about this?”

“We didn't use protection so there is a slight possibility we make a... demigod child? Oh, with a supersoldier father and a made-from-an-infinity-stone-goddess mother.”

“I hope the baby doesn't inherit your brother's hyperactivity.”

“Your staring problem would be a worse thing to inherit, pretty boy,” You shook your head. “Perhaps we should stop speaking on the subject, lest we attract it.”

“I hope they have your smile,”

You hummed. “And your eyes.”

“Can we name her after my mother if it's a girl?”

“Why don't we make her first and then worry about the names?”

“We have to get married first.”

“Yes, it is true,” You agreed, kissing his lips softly. “When you first mentioned having children, I believed we would not be able to. Now, I think we could when the time comes.”

“We have time,”

“We have time.” you repeated.

[skyrim-forever]

WIP Wednesday

It's Wednesday my dudes :) Thank you @chiqita @silly-little-diary @labskeever for tagging me! Great to see your cool stuff :)

Tagging: @theoneandonlysemla @pocket-vvardvark @changelingsandothernonsense @scholarlyhermit @sulphuricgrin

@hircines-hunter @ladytanithia @firefly-factory @heavy-metal-dick @sanzas-reverie @dirty-bosmer (I know your super busy bestie so no pressure)

@saltymaplesyrup @captain-of-silvenar @lucien-lachance @friend-of-giants @thequeenofthewinter @umbracirrus @pyre-of-pages

I've gotten a bit more hair done, progress has been slow on him, decided he'll get done when he gets done. But I have gotten a lot of writing done! This is a snippet from Chapter 4 of Changing Tides (which I'm hoping to post this weekend). Both 4 and 5 are done and Chapter 6 is underway!

Under the cut is Visdros being a dickhead to Odile's neighbour and this neighbours drops an important piece of information for her:

The other mer gazes lingers longer on Visdros than her so she introduces them. 

“Ah Baelyn,” she uses his first name. “This is Visdros, I found him wounded and now am trying to help him find his way.” She chuckles nervously, distinctly leaving the revenge-seeking out. When the Bosmer says nothing, the two just exchanging looks that puzzle Odile, she decides to get on with why she’s here. “I was wondering if we could trouble you for a ride to Leyawiin, if you are still going today.” 

“A ride in what?” The injured mer mutters. “A walking tree?”

“My boat,  twelve feet, single sail. Modest but perfect for going up river.” Baelyn almost sounds defensive, even more so when he adds, “Not for attacking others like some brute.” Visdros’s eyes narrow as the sneer which looks all too familiar by this point, dawns his face once more. 

“I will never set foot on a vessel controlled by one like you.” 

“Do you got a problem with mer like me? I thought you’d like it, maybe you could even steal from me, I’m sure you’ve done a lot of that.” What in Oblivion?

“You’re not worth my time nor the effort,” he does a stabbing motion with his hand. Visdros spits on the ground, offers one more glare and then turns to walk away. “We will walk.” An even more familiar feeling occurs in her chest, where it always did. Anxiety grips her lungs as she cycles through fear and confusion. 

“It’s a two day trek! It would be so much…” She stops mid-sentence. I can’t ask Baelyn to help us now, not when he has been so rude. The Bosmer had choice words of his own but Visdros did insult him first and most importantly, unprompted. Yet, he was already eyeing him, too frequent to be just curious… She turns to address her neighbor, muster up some apology for his behaviour as though she is responsible for him. I am. “Oh Mr.- Baelyn, I am so sorry for him. I mean absolutely no offense, I don't know what…” Her eyes drop to the ground as she grows even more confused. In a way she shouldn’t be surprised given how brash he’d already been but, that did not cease to make it jarring. Thankfully the other does not blame her.

“I’m not offended, Odile. Don’t worry about me.” That does ease her fears, but the confusion only grows when he speaks next. “I suggest you be careful traveling with one of those fish.” Fish? Is he alright? Has he been injured too?

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean...” He sighs, pointing to the mer who is now leaning against a tree, almost making a show of avoiding looking at them. “We don’t see them in these parts but they are notorious along Valenwood and Summerset.” Baelyn looks back at her for what he says next. “He’s a Sea Elf, a Maormer if you want to use the Elvish. They come from an archipelago far south. Their lot are either pirates or soldiers, both equally ruthless." A Maormer? So he’s not a Dunmer but, but something else? “I suggest before you go anywhere with him, you think on if he’s worth the hassle.” I am worth the hassle. Her principles of good will were worth the effort, wherever he is from does not change that.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Thought you might appreciate this thought:

Steven and f!reader: She is participating in the trend of wearing bows in her hair. She comes home from work and catches Steven getting off and he immediately blushes and stammers and freaks out when she catches him. But she thinks it’s hot and cute and she uses her bows to tie his wrists to the chair and ride him which completely fries his brain 🙂‍↕️🤭

Btw I love your writingggg especially when you write OI Characters as submissive pathetic meow meows

Heeheeheeheee! (Also thank you! You're too kind!)

Take My Sin

Steven Grant x f!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals • Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • buy me a coffee? •

Summary: Steven gets tied up.

Warnings: Kissing, pet names, swearing, a bit of bondage, p in v sex, cream pie, not beta read, please let me know if I've missed a warning.

Word Count: 834

“Did you think you could get away with it?” You tease, unable to keep the grin out of your voice as you whisper in his ear. 

Steven groans, eyes closed. His eyebrows pinched together as you ride him, your thighs slamming into his again and again. He nods, swallowing and not completely trusting his own voice. “I… I did.” He shivers, his back arching off of his desk chair. 

His jeans and boxers are around his ankles, his short sleeved shirt on the floor and t-shirt pushed up to his neck. It only stays there from the pressure of your left forearm against his chest as you hold his jaw and his own arms.

His wrists are bound together in front of him, angled up so that they press against his shoulder. They are held together by one of the bows from your hair. You twisted the ribbon around him tightly, pinning him in place before you took hold of the material, wrapping it around your own fingers to stop it from loosening. 

He’d waited until he knew you were about to come home, teasing himself with the thrill of it before finally sitting at his desk and opening his laptop. 

Usually he just watched porn, if he was watching it alone, on his phone. A quick rush job to get off. But he took his time with this. Set up the screen so there was no way you couldn’t see it when you came through the door. Turned up the volume so there was absolutely nothing you could confuse it for. 

He then positioned a box of tissues on the desk, it was almost comedic how perfectly placed it was. Before he undid his jeans, pushed them and his boxers down his legs and got comfy on his chair. 

Steven had taken a while to peruse through a few videos, ending up going back to some well loved favourites before he even squirted a few globules of lube on his palm and took himself in his hand. 

He was slow with it. Taking his time, just riling himself up. Savouring the long, slow glide of his hand as he cock came to life. 

The sound of your keys in the door, however, made his dick jump fully to attention. He’d been looking forward to this all day. Practically shivering with anticipation. When you’d first told him about this little fantasy of yours, he’d become so excited that he’d fucked your brains out on the sofa. Now it was your turn to fuck his brains out. 

“So, so naughty Steven.” You purr as you fuck him harder, bouncing on his cock and grinding against the thick patch of curls between his legs so that it rubs deliciously against your clit. Sending sparks of pleasure along your skin. 

You’d stripped quickly when you’d come in, throwing your clothing to the floor and spinning his chair around. Taking a perverse joy in the pretend look of shock that bloomed across Steven’s face. 

“I, I, I am.” He groans, so sweetly. Breathing hard. “Just can’t help myself.” He blinks hard, his eyelids fluttering. 

“Couldn’t even wait until I got home.” You sink your teeth lightly into the lobe of his ear. His hips buck up instantly, jolting at the touch and moaning loudly. 

His fingers tense, the urge to wriggle free so he can hold you close building dizzyingly quickly. “I… couldn’t…” He pants. “You’re gonna have to keep me tied up all the time, always, because otherwise I’m gonna… keep… fuck!” His hips buck up rapidly, his muscles tensing. “Please love, please, need you to come, need to feel you squeeze me.” 

You bite your lip, pressing your forehead to his. “How badly?” Your voice comes out in a broken whine. You’re so close, just teetering on the edge of bliss. 

“So badly!” He kisses you roughly, all tongue and teeth as his thighs shake. “You’re gonna make me come!” 

You whimper, pressing as close to him as you can, needing to feel his body against yours. You let go of the ribbon so you can quickly move your hand down and rub your clit rapidly as you lick into his mouth. You barely circle it twice before your orgasm hits you. It’s hard and sharp, making your muscles squeeze and pulse as you ride wave after wave of pleasure.

Steven moans, swearing under his breath as your walls flutter over his cock, sucking him deeper and milking him for all his worth. 

Your release coats his skin, soaking him as he tenses. Stars explode behind his eyes as he comes, spurting inside with a long, drawn out whine. 

You shake against him, moving weakly as you breathe hard and recover. You smile, kissing his cheek slowly. He nuzzles back into your neck, shuddering softly. 

“Was that alright, love?” 

“So good.” You mutter, weak and dreamy. 

He smiles and then giggles as you lean back and litter his face with quick kisses before undoing his hands. 

Thank you for reading!

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[purplesaline]

Lance had to be euthanized tonight. Within a very short amount of time he displayed a high amount of distress. Hunched posture like he needed to poop or puke and panting which is something he almost never does (much like a cat). Halfway to the emergency vet his gums were quite pale and he'd started whining in pain.

The clinic staff took him back immediately and in a very short time came back and explained his stomach had twisted. I knew it had been caught very quickly so I didn't think necrosis would be an issue but at his age a major surgery would be a risk and recovery would be long. At 13 years old even in great health I wouldn't assume much more than a other couple of years of life left and for a quarter of that to be recovering from surgery would be a significant reduction in his quality of life. When I asked the vet's opinion she said she'd choose euthanasia if he was her dog.

I agreed and I will admit I thought she was being overly cautious in her prognosis of how the surgery would go but when they brought him to me to day goodbye his stomach was already seriously distended in just the 30-45 minutes we'd been there. When we arrived his stomach looked like he'd just had a big meal was all. At that point I realized she wasn't being overly cautious and that euthanasia was the right decision. If he'd been even just two years younger I'd have made a different decision (and the vet agreed with that too), but at 13 with a $10,000 price tag (and the additional stress of needing to travel to a different emergency clinic for the surgery because the one we were at was too busy to be able to do the surgery in time) it was too much of a risk and wouldn't have been fair to him, me, and anyone else helping us.

I'm thankful it was something quick, that he only had a couple of hours of pain. I'm so glad that he got to enjoy his last days basking in the sun in a big backyard, using the trampoline as his own personal dog bed, and enjoying the love and attention from a whole family of people on a daily basis.

He changed my life completely. The day I was matched with him as my service dog was a crossroads and my life would have been unrecognizable if I'd taken the other path. Until I met him I hadn't discovered anything I was passionate about, and because of him I've been able to help so many people. Because of him I was able to help save lives.

I know he's going to be missed by so many people, and I know he will be greeted on the other side of the rainbow bridge by so many friends.

He has been buried under the apple tree with his grandma Vimy.

I'm gonna miss you buddy. Thank you so much for everything you've given me. You were the best first dog ever.

[picklesplitz]

This is the third time I've had to repost this pls pls workk

Pls leave a like they worked really hard on their drawing 😢😢😢

little creature versions of my favs.... Lesbian quartet ™️. Ig LMAO... They're just comfort versions I can draw on a whim cuz they're simple... I'm not scared to post them on the tags anymore.. they'll all get poorly sewn plushies too eventually grahhh

I got. Three hours to work on this in class instead of my norm two. So I took extra time into just. Having fun with it! And no rushing...

Process under the. Read more!

I LOVE MY PROCESS ITS SO FUN G4AHHH

First of all. Ms paint doodle I made before I even decided I was gonna make something . I ended up using this as a reference for how I'd draw all of them ...

Then I just hop into lineart! My sketch is my line art. It's more fun this way lmao. I don't worry about my art being wonky or perfect

I didn't like how Tisha was looking, decided it was better to have her cuddle like the rest of them, so I changed that

Then I just. I start rendering!! I didnt do too much of that on this piece but the process is still the same. I do this without color first because I just find it easier to understand and work with! I make adjustments as my brain seems fit at this stage as well.

And last I use blending modes to add all that lovely color!! I don't use one layer I use like. FOUR so that I can get a nice variety of shades n such... I don't color pic either I just slap colors I think fit... I usually merge everything at the end and draw on top on a normal layer to add finishing touches!

And that's pretty much it!!!

[leejenowrld]

All the mark videos of him performing got me all up in my feels. He’s just so boyfriend coded

Whenever you have time (no pressure) - the filthiest, dirtiest time that he and Aerum have had?

hi, do check out this tag as i've written loads on this, and idk how many new sex scenarios and ideas i can come up with lol, but i tried my best lol

when she dared him in the backseat.

it starts with the sound of her voice, low, sultry, dripping with mischief as she leans into the passenger seat and tells him “you’re either gonna fuck me right here, or i’m gonna ride that gearstick instead.” she’s already half-naked from the waist down, one leg pulled up onto the dashboard, fingers wet where they’ve been teasing herself while he drove. there’s a smirk pulling at her lips like she knows she’s playing with fire, and mark snaps. he doesn’t even kill the engine. the car is parked in a darkened alley behind the club, windows fogged from how long they’ve been trading filthy looks all night, and he’s already lunging across the console, unbuckling her and dragging her into the backseat with a groan that sounds feral. he’s breathless as he pulls her over his lap, her bare cunt grinding against the denim of his jeans while he whispers, “you’re so fucking wet for me already, baby, been sitting in it all night just for this?” she laughs into his neck as she sinks down onto him, no prep, no foreplay, just soaked and stretched, her nails scraping lines into his chest as he starts bouncing her on his cock so violently the whole car rocks with it.

⟡ when she made him come untouched.

they were fighting, kind of. something about him being too busy, her being too needy, words thrown like sparks, until she shoves him down on the edge of the bed, climbs into his lap, and straddles him fully clothed. “fine,” she hisses, grinding her bare pussy against the bulge in his sweats, “if i’m too much, then sit there and shut up and don’t fucking touch me.” he tries to reach for her, instinctively, but she slaps his hand away, palms braced on his shoulders as she starts rolling her hips harder, rougher, wetter with every pass. the fabric is soaked within minutes, her slick painting a dark stain through the grey cotton, and mark can’t breathe — can’t think — all he can do is moan through gritted teeth, chest heaving, head thrown back as she rides him until he’s cumming in his pants without even getting inside her. she kisses him then, soft and slow, whispering, “next time, you’ll listen when i say i need you.”

when he used his voice and made her beg.

there’s something about the hotel room, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the way the city glows behind her naked silhouette, the mirror reflecting every move he makes. he’s got her bent over the back of the velvet chair, ass up, thighs spread, and his voice low in her ear like sin itself. “say it,” he murmurs as two fingers curl inside her, knuckles deep, “say you’d let me fuck you in front of every camera in this place if i told you to.” she whines, trying to push back against his hand, but he’s holding her still, other hand pressed between her shoulder blades. “say you’re mine to use however i want, that this cunt was made to be filled by me, ruined by me.” and she does. she sobs it into the upholstery, body trembling as he slides in behind her and fucks her slow, deep, cruel, letting her hear every breath he takes, every grunt, every growl of “good girl… just like that… take it all for me.”

when she woke him up by sitting on his face.

he’s barely awake, hair messy, eyes half-lidded, but she’s already above him, thighs shaking as she lowers herself onto his mouth. mark just grins, sleep-drunk, voice hoarse as he wraps his arms around her hips and pulls her down with no hesitation. his tongue licks broad and lazy at first, savouring the taste, teasing her clit with the flat of it until she’s whining and grinding down harder. he groans at the weight of her, lets it smother him, nose buried in her folds while he sucks at her like it’s the only way he knows how to breathe. “fuck, baby, you’re so good—so fucking messy for me.” he moans it into her pussy, the vibrations making her tremble, one hand in his hair, the other braced against the headboard as she rides him to orgasm with his jaw clenched and his cock hard beneath her. she doesn’t even let him cum, not yet. that comes later, when he’s buried inside her from behind and whispering, “you want to finish me off? then do it dripping all over me again.”

when he edged her until she sobbed.

it was a power trip, and he didn’t hide it, the way he knelt between her thighs on the hotel room floor, face lit by the flickering tv glow, fingers slick and precise inside her. he didn’t let her cum. not once, not twice, five times, he pulled her to the edge and yanked her right back, smirking when she cried his name like a prayer and dug her nails into his scalp. “nah, sweetheart,” he murmured, kissing the inside of her thigh as his fingers slowed again, teasing her clit with just enough pressure to make her writhe, “not until you’re ruined for anyone else. not until i say you can.” her mascara was streaked down her cheeks, mouth open, chest heaving like she’d run a marathon, and when he finally let her break, his voice dropped, dirty and low, “cum for me, baby. now. fuckin’ flood my fingers.” — she shattered so hard she nearly kicked him in the chest, sobbing from the overstimulation while he kissed her through it, praising every tremor.

⟡ when they fucked during golden hour.

they’d just come back from a lazy, late brunch, sunlight pouring in through the curtains, catching the gold flecks in his eyes when he pulled her onto his lap with soft, greedy hands. it wasn’t supposed to happen. she was still wearing his oversized shirt, her panties a soft cotton blush, and he hadn’t even taken off his rings yet. but the moment she pressed against him and whispered “wanna feel you, slow,” it was over. he kissed her bare shoulder, murmuring “you’re so fuckin’ pretty like this, baby. all mine,” and sank into her like the sunlight itself. it wasn’t rough. it was raw, skin sticking, sweat trailing between her breasts, his hands firm on her hips guiding her up and down in lazy rolls. every time her moans caught in her throat, he kissed her again, fucked her slower, deeper, made her feel every inch like it was something sacred. outside the sky turned rose, then amber, then a molten orange, and he came with his face in her neck, groaning her name like a vow.

when he spit in her mouth while fucking her from behind.

it was animal, the way he had her, one hand in her hair, the other wrapped around her throat as he drove into her from behind, pelvis slapping against her ass in quick, filthy bursts. her voice was barely working, just gasps and curses strung between helpless little whimpers, and when she turned to look over her shoulder, lips parted, he leaned forward and spit into her mouth. it was instinctual, dirty, desperate, and she swallowed it without blinking. “yeah?” he growled, pushing her face back into the sheets, “you fuckin’ like that, baby? like being treated like a slut when i know how sweet you are?” and she moaned so loud he had to clamp a hand over her mouth, keeping her quiet as he lost it inside her, every thrust harder, every groan lower, until he was emptying inside her and whispering, “gonna make you clean this up with your tongue after, baby. every drop.”

when she gave him head under the table.

he shouldn’t have let it happen. they were at a dinner with his team, seated near the end, wine glasses full, conversation flowing and her hand slipped onto his thigh. at first it was innocent, soft strokes just above the knee, but then she was crawling under the table, and he was too stunned to stop her. his hands trembled around his fork as her fingers pulled his zipper down, her mouth warm and wet and sinful as she sucked him off right there under the linen. he gripped the table edge hard enough to whiten his knuckles, nodding along to some coach’s comment while her tongue lapped at his tip like she lived for the taste. her lips slid down slow, her nose brushing his pelvis, and his breath shuddered. “fuck—” he bit his lip so hard it bled, body tense, thighs shaking. when he came, he buried it behind a sip of red wine, his hand slipping down to thread through her hair, whispering, “you’re fuckin’ unreal, baby. get up here and kiss me.”

[strangerthingsfanworkrecs]

I would like to nominate the wonderful @bettyfrommars

Betty is an amazing story-teller and world-builder who creates unique and immersive universes to get lost in.

Please ask her about her influences and inspirations and how she creates her reader characters and OC's.

<3

Introducing @bettyfrommars

We're highlighting Betty for her written fics! All recs tagged #bettyfrommars will be for her works. Betty answered a few questions about her process below.

What's a fandom interaction that made you really happy?

There have been so many. I feel lucky with all of the wonderful interactions and readers I have met through this fandom. The first one that comes to mind is meeting @somnabulic_thing who became one of my closest friends. They created art for a couple of my fics, including a clown!Eddie for my Nightmare Factory series that I cherish. I can't tell you how much meeting a fandom veteran like Somna meant to a newbie like me. They inspire me and are also the only reason I stayed active in the fandom after last spring when I started to feel like I didn't belong. Also, the amazing @dandelionfluff was a loyal reader of my biker!Eddie x reader series I'm on Fire (I kept screenshots of their comments that I look at to cheer myself up), and she handmade an incredible bind of the fic. The work they put into it blows my mind, and I'm just grateful for their continued friendship in general.

What's your favorite character or aspect of Stranger Things to create for?

Eddie Munson is my reason for joining the fandom, but I've also come to love my various versions of Steve that I like to plop into random au's. Lately I've been enjoying adding others into the mix like Wayne and Joyce and Robin. I also love throwing OC's into the ST world. Since I was a child, that's all I've known, so learning to create reader inserts was an interesting process.

What's your artistic process like? Any tools you favor?

My artistic process is a mess. I don't ever use outlines or have much of a plan at all when I sit down to write or paint, and I've learned that is the only way the muses will come and hang out. There is a wall of fear that blocks me occasionally, but as soon as I push through and start creating instead of just staring at the screen and feeling sorry for myself, it's fairly easy to get things flowing. There is a lot of trust in the unknown involved. It eventually feels like I am merely along for the ride while being used as a vessel for whatever tale I am telling. I'm one of those funny people who can't have any music or sound in the background when I write. It has to be dead silent. Sometimes I even wear earplugs. But the playlists I make for my fics are a very crucial part of daydreaming up scenarios for the story when I am cleaning and driving around. Oh, and reading. Reading the work of others is an important part of my creative process and growth.

What was it like to work on Death Becomes Us?

This was one I did not think I would finish, but I'm glad I drop kicked the doubt because that final chapter is one of my favorites ever. I rewatched a LOT of the series True Blood during. I never cared for Vampire Bill in the show and wanted to replace him with a version of Eddie everyone could sink their teeth into. I wrote most of it in the summer, so I'd retreat to a cool, dark space and disappear to visit Bob Newby in his vampire/human crossover bar. Also, I wanted a reader who was very distinct and really not a reader insert at all. Dove becomes more and more OC as the story progresses, and if I did it all over, I'd make her deeply OC from the beginning.

What was it like to work on I'm on Fire?

What a ride this series was! When it started out, I was stumbling with reader inserts for the first time (fandom writing in general) and had a very simple idea in mind for a tow truck driver who falls in love, but it became so much more than that. I rewatched Sons of Anarchy and really just let the characters do what they wanted to do, sometimes to the detriment of canon characterization. Many OC's were born from this fic, including Steve's son Oliver, who Robin helps raise, Robin's partner Katie, the evil villain Charlene, and the beloved Astrid Bautista that @texasblues helped me develop. She's been writing the Steve x Astrid backstory and it's perfect. I was pumping out a chapter a week back then, which is crazy now to think about it. I was absolutely living and breathing that story. A lot of my steam came from the fandom interaction; I made so many special connections with readers back in those days. Also, it was just a great world to disappear into. I make some reference in the fic to biker Eddie having dreams of being attacked by demobats, to link it to ST in a parallel world way. I'm in the process of a total OC rewrite of the story and plan to play more with those type of connections that each character would have to the original world.

See the art @texasblues commissioned for this fic from dr-aculaa here

[atiny-for-life]

Promo Posters - Masterpost

Storyline Masterlist

A collection of all the poster info I've posted thus far - simply for easy access (ft. other Atinys who popped into the replies and tags to add their personal knowledge!)

"To the Fairest"

The story:

Welcome to Greek Mythology! Today, we're looking at The Apple of Discord And The Judgment of Paris.

So the parents of Achilles are getting married in this story and everyone's invited, well - all but one: Eris, the Goddess of Discord.

Angry at being left out, Eris decides to take revenge and prepares a golden apple which she labels "to the Fairest" before tossing it into the crowd of guests.

Arrogant as per usual, Aphrodite, Hera, and Athena all three start fighting over who the apple is addressed to since they all think they're the prettiest of the bunch. But when that doesn't go anywhere, they - like a horde of squabbling kids - take their fight to Zeus and ask him to pick a winner.

He's like "nah, I'm not getting involved in this" and tells them to ask Paris instead - he's the prince of Troja - so off they go.

They get naked in front of Paris and ask him "who's the prettiest?" but - wise man, he also says he can't pick. But these goddesses have no shame so they immediately resort to bribery.

After turning down fame and political power from Hera and Athena, Paris chooses Aphrodite's offer, for she has offered him the most beautiful mortal bride, aka Helen, who is currently the wife of King Menelaus of Sparta.

Weird dipshit that he is, Paris breaks into Menelaus house to fetch Helen who supposedly falls in love with him on sight and follows him back to Troja willingly. And this is what then led to the 10 year long war between the Greeks and Trojans, respectively commanded by Menelaus and Paris.

Here, the apple is the initial inciter of a war, much like in the Wilhelm Tell story.

The art:

Aphrodite, Hera, and Athena in modern casual wear oooh. The colors here are absolutely gorgeous - I adore the art style~

Because of the white dove over her shoulder, I think the one in the middle is Aphrodite.

The one on the right is Hera because of the peacock tie.

The one on the left must be Athena then, but I don't see any owls, crafting, olive trees, or anything. The rising sun on her bag may be a reference to the time the sun god Helios was so captivated by her being born that he stopped his chariot in the sky and extended the day though!

Either way, Athena is also the one often used as a symbol for democracy and freedom, so heck yeah, Athena!

Another notable thing - I think the decorative leaves around the outside are palm leaves, which "were the symbol of Nike, the winged goddess of victory." [x]

"Snow White"

All the love to the artist whom you can find on Instagram here:

The story:

Very straightforward - everyone knows this fairytale. The queen of the land wants to be the fairest but her magic mirror tells her Snow White is the fairest so the queen realizes there is only one solution to this problem: MURDER.

She sends a hunter to not just kill Snow White, but also cut out her heart and bring it to the queen as proof of his success.

However, Snow White manages to escape into the woods while the hunter brings the queen a pig's heart to make her believe he succeeded. Meanwhile, Snow White hides out with seven dwarves.

Eventually, the queen finds out the truth and takes matters into her own hands. She poisons an apple, disguises as an elderly woman and gifts the apple to Snow White who bites into it and essentially dies until the prince comes to revive her with a kiss. The End.

In this story, the apple is a symbol of malice and envy since the evil queen tries to use it to kill Snow White for having the audacity to be prettier than her.

The art:

Oh my gosh I'm in love with the mix of an old school limited color palette plus the more modern art style. The framing makes it feel like a Victorian era tarot card.

I think the artist may have been inspired by some of the first ever artworks for the Snow White story. Some examples here include:

Franz Jüttner (1865–1925): Illustration from Sneewittchen, Scholz' Künstler-Bilderbücher, Mainz 1905

“Sneewittchen“, Illustration aus "Deutsche Märchen" (Text Paul Alverdes, mit 100 Illustrationen von Paul Hey)

"Wilhelm Tell"

The story:

The story referenced here is a Swiss tale about a guy called Wilhelm Tell who shot an apple off his son's head. The story was later adapted into a stage play by Friedrich Schiller (which I had to read for German class in school so I'm familiar).

Basically, there was this bailiff who forced his subordinates to greet a hat on a stick (because he was a dick) but Wilhelm was like "I'm not gonna do that", so the bailiff punished him by forcing him to shoot an apple off his son's head.

Since he was an excellent marksman, Wilhelm succeeded and then told the bailiff "If I'd missed this shot and hit my son, I would've used this second arrow to kill you."

In response to this, the bailiff ordered his people to have Wilhelm imprisoned for life. However, on their way to the prison, a storm nearly crashed the boat taking them there, but Wilhelm managed to steer it to safety and escaped.

He then immediately set off to track down the bailiff whom he then killed from behind with a crossbow. This murder of a tyrant then started an armed revolution.

The art:

I love that the son was highlighted in the Wilhelm Tell poster, because he was very much neglected in the original tale. It was all about the dad but what about the kid who had to watch his father load up a bow and aim it at his head? And the way they made him look like the sunrise? Beautiful, seriously.

Addition:

Since @loving-that-officey-feel mentioned war posters, I dug around a little bit and discovered that the original tale of Wilhelm Tell is dated to 1307 which marked the first year of "a successful national war of liberation [which] was fought against the Austrian Habsburg dynasty throughout the cantons of Switzerland". [x]

During my search, I also found this propaganda poster from WWI in which Switzerland was promoted as a beacon of hope for refugees, prisoners of war, and orphans - it shares the same sunrise colors:

"The first observation of Gravity"

Instagram Link:

The story:

First of all - nice Jongho reference. But second of all: we all know the story of Isaac Newton sitting under a tree, apple falls on his head, blah blah, but the true story can actually be found in his memoirs, as written by William Stukeley:

“After dinner, the weather being warm, we went into the garden and drank thea, under the shade of some apple trees…he told me, he was just in the same situation, as when formerly, the notion of gravitation came into his mind. It was occasion’d by the fall of an apple, as he sat in contemplative mood. Why should that apple always descend perpendicularly to the ground, thought he to himself…”

Here, the apple is a symbol of revelation, of discovery, of science.

The art:

I love the addition of additional rips to show there were more apples around and Saturn in the background might be a reference to Isaac Newton's take on planetary motion.

At the time, planetary motion was only understood as far as Johannes Kepler's three laws could explain it (which might be what Newton's reading about here), but Newton was the one who realized gravity might actually be what keeps the planets from shooting off in a straight line like any other object that doesn't have another force applying itself onto it. Or so Newtonian physics suggests.

(Let's not bring Einstein into this.)

"Even if the world is going to end tomorrow, I'll plant one apple tree today"

The story:

Versions of this saying can be found throughout Jewish and Islamic scripture, with some being interpreted to mean "plant a tree because it's a good deed" and others more so meaning "plant a tree for future generations".

Alternatively, it can also be read as "plants are the basis for other lifeforms to exist because something must be at the bottom of the food chain". Which would mean planting this tree will ensure that, even after the apocalypse is over and all life has been wiped out, this one tree may restart life for another future civilization.

It's basically a symbol of perseverance during the darkest of times. It's an act of resilience, of saying "I refuse to give up. There is always hope."

Adding @jess-the-mess2513 's tags because it's good information~

I can say the Jewish interpretation is usually 'plant a tree for future generations'. There’s a story about an old man planting a tree and someone laughs at him, saying: "You’ll never get to eat the fruit of this tree, why bother?" And he goes: "My grandfather planted trees that I can eat from and one day my grandchildren may eat from this one." The rude man then falls asleep for forty years or so and wakes to find a full grown tree and a kid picking fruit. The kid then tells the guy that his grandfather planted the tree many years ago. Planting a tree is good to serve future generations and plays into stewardship of the earth. I’d read that as both trying to prepare and support people/nature after an apocalypse, but also as hope that there would be better times. In context of their lore- survival through the revolution and a peace afterwards

Also adding @jorjigirl 's tags because it's also good information~

As a Muslim Atiny I immediately clocked the hadith reference and was like 'is this is a coincidence or what?' So I feel validated by this post. As for it also being a Jewish reference lol ok - someone pls tell the only Jewish state in existence that genocide is bad for the environment. My own interpretation is that planting a sapling is an act of resistance, a hopeful good deed even if the future is uncertain.

Personal addition: For more information on how Israeli people were indoctrinated into supporting a genocide, you may look at the sources in my post here on how education is used to brainwash a population.

The art:

The cool toned colors to contrast with the other poster? The white doves in the sky? Making the rocks resemble water while the crashed boat is in the back? Ah, it's so pretty!

To add on, @loving-that-officey-feel pointed out the poster art seems to fall into a very specific category:

Basically, it is a bunch of musical artists who are really inspired by the synth-heavy soundtracks of action/horror/sci-fi movies of the 1980s, as well as 1980's/90's anime, but are generally millennial age and younger, so the nostalgia is for an era that we were not really conscious for.

its a nostalgia for that really cool synth-heavy 'futuristic' (at the time) sound, combined with the aesthetics of like retro anime, dystopian movies (blade runner and ghost in the shell being HUGE influences in the genre,) epic car chases on neon-lit Tokyo roads, robots and cyborgs, and also the specific kind of Japanese pop music that was really popular in Japan right before the Japanese economic bubble burst.

[tacticalhimbo]

transfem!slayer headcanons 💕

inspired by this post by personification-of-darkness (+ follow up tags bc these are so good too)

placed under a cut bc i rambled a lot! i'm sorry— (and before any jackasses comment "wait this is serious?"... yea. it is. your fave "men" are actually women. hope this helps <3)

starting off with a non-trans headcanon to explain the rest of this post. (again: everything here is my headcanon. you can disagree but i'm not going to tolerate any nastiness about that disagreement)

but going off the timeline/assumption/fanon that the slayer is a descendant of william joseph "b.j" blazkowicz, i like to think that the men of the family did follow in similar naming conventions (generally) as a way to honor the lineage. a lot of military-oriented families do that. patriotism/nationalism is a bitch—

like... b.j's son would have been william joseph blazkowicz jr, then so on. HOWEVERRR.... i don't see the slayer as having been a william (nor a flynn... i'm sorry i find that name so ugly even if it may be the most "lore accurate"). also, because in families that do take liberties with the naming and carrying tradition (speaking from experience wrt my dad's side of the family; my brother is the third in line with the same name but each person goes by a completely different name verbally), not every child is going to have the exact same name! there will be variants, some parents may focus on the initials, etc etc.

so, i personally take some liberties and consider b.j to still be a nickname for the slayer. my headcanon name for the slayer is bruno józef blazkowicz.

soo...

when the slayer's egg finally cracks, i'd imagine likely during the events of eternal or during the ancient gods dlcs (though there were definitely some questions prior, especially during the dark ages/when first broken out of the maykr's control)...

i see the slayer wanting to maintain the tradition, maintain the little bit of connection she has to her past life (the one she's lost all physical ties to, beyond the torn photograph of her wife and son under her desk).

so, for a new name, i like the idea of bronisława (fem. of bronisław; derived from borna "protection" and slava "glory").

or, for something more american-centric (considering the fact that in line with b.j's lineage, she'd be polish-american): brygida (polish vers. of bridget)

if you ask me, i like both equally! for the rest of the post, though, i'll be using brygida for convenience!

so! with that here's some more thoughts i've been rotating around:

brygida is 100% a butch lesbian. she has no/minimal discomfort with her actual mode of dress or presentation; the crew cut stays 💪

i just... don't see her being feminine! it's not who she is, and that's okay! there is so much pressure for trans women and fems to match binary femininity to be taken seriously... and it sucks. i think, given the rest of her characterization (and what little we see of it beyond the glory kills and demon slaying), she just would not chase that conformity. she's very comfortable doing her own thing.

more specifically (re: her sexual/romantic orientation), i headcanon her to be an alloaro lesbian! she's not romance repulsed, but her attraction to others isn't romantic. she does, however, get very strong queerplatonic, emotional and sensual (and sexual; though the two are different) attraction.

the only person who'd likely end up knowing is vega/samuel/the seraphim. and not even because she told him, but because like.... he's omniscient. like that.

would be the type to diy her hrt. like. that's just a given, to me. she doesn't have time, or desire, to get super friendly with the armored response coalition (arc). they're a military group focused first and foremost on the combating of hell's invasion. even if they did have the medication available, looking at how it's modeled after the us military, i'd doubt they'd actually provide it with that context (re: how hrt is demonized for usage by trans folk but willingly given to cis folk). also because diy is badass and she would be able to pull that off, given the fact she medically takes care of herself as is (and based on the fact she makes her praetor suit herself, has an innate understanding of her biochemistry)

[minhmynchi]

!!!! sure! :D i don't have much more drawings but i'll be sure to tag and share what i've thought of so far and for future posts :D (i'll use "#maeka's isat adventures" ! i also have another au where i put them into rain world so i'll share what doodles i have on that too on a separate post using a similar tag ^^ but anyways!)

this is maeka and their appearance in isat! (a wip, but mostly current) (if you wanna see more of her and not just this au, check out her toyhouse page :3)

more rambling under the read more :3 some things are subject to change as i keep thinking more and more about this au and it's really all a mess of thoughts but feel free to read!

so this isn't her normal outfit; she wears it partly as a cover-up. the jester hat hides her ears, but she doesn't like wearing it very often and they hate that they have to hide as much as they do, because of how they look in a world where it's unheard of.

speaking of! she knows where she is. she knows that this is the world of a video game, and it's one of their favorites, ever. somehow whisked away to dormont, vaugarde, just to help siffrin! and she's the one that's looping, and remembering. it's still tied to siffrin, but they don't remember it (at first). they have to find a way to get back home, but they need to make sure siffrin gets to the end, and doesn't believe it's the end.

they have to make sure they don't freak anyone out, they have to make sure they can remember how things go (because like siffrin, remembering things is not her strong suit. it's not tied to the loss of her home, she just has an awful memory unless things go the same for a very, very long time.) and sometimes. they mess up!

because she shares the job of "siffrin's guide" with loop, they're the one she interacts with the most. but even though they're her favorite character, she finds that loop isn't her favorite person to interact with. loop is untrustworthy of her, especially when she slips up and mentions that she knows how things are supposed to go, they know how the story ends and how to get there and who loop really is. loop doesn't believe it at first, but they don't have much time to talk because maeka hides themselves when siffrin comes along (some loops, she shows herself. sometimes, she doesn't. the first instance of them all meeting was maeka walking up to them at the favor tree, and they were both suspicious of her. she doesn't have any weapon, nor does she have any Craft. so they had to placate them by immediately telling them what they were here to do.) (and also, that first loop, loop had called siffrin over to the favor tree without realizing that he doesn't remember dying, he doesn't know he's looping, so they're stuck there awkwardly trying to go about their conversation until maeka showed up, and loop accuses them and says "so you're the reason why stardust doesn't remember the loops!" yadda yadda yadda.)

again, this might be all subject to change bc i'm just yapping and yapping at this point, but the thing is now that siffrin doesn't remember the loops, loop has to launch into a script of their own each time, loop still has to help siffrin while this weird cat person is there, knowing about them, knowing more than them, when that was their job and their job alone. so rightfully, they're a little pissed about that. they don't treat maeka respectfully as they should, and they end up clashing a lot more than expected. loop self-projects onto them, maeka shoots back while also still reassuring them that she doesn't hate them, and it's a constant back and forth until loop actually gets it in their head and they calm down about it and they can actually focus on the task at hand (aka keeping siffrin alive. having to remind them of what they need to do each loop does take a toll, but again, it's not forever. i'm thinking the loop that he starts remembering is the loop after they beat the king for the first time. maybe he even remembers all the loops before that, after.)

because maeka is powerless, she doesn't enter the House. she can't directly speak with or see siffrin either, so before they reconcile, she tells loop what to tell siffrin and only sometimes does loop actually listen. but again, that pisses loop off that they have to follow her instead, like why didn't the Universe give her their powers instead? why did they have to suffer here when it's not even their main job anymore? what's the reason they're still here? what even is the point?

maeka comes up with the idea to hold hands, and for her to match their breathing together so she can participate properly, too. you can guess how loop feels about that, but maeka just wants to help.

so really, it takes a long time for them to get to the king, because maeka keeps trying to skip ahead and loop doesn't want to listen, so siffrin keeps getting stuck. and having to tell siffrin the only way to restart is to die (touch the weird water floating around, they remember after the first time to Not do that) (and Again because of loop's pettiness, they outright distress siffrin with telling them they need to die, so let themselves get beat up by a sadness with no healing, good luck explaining that to your party and all that. aaaand maeka Hates that. because it's not something loop is thinking of clearly, or they are, but they just don't care because they want to get back at maeka for taking their place, and siffrin really doesn't need to suffer more than needed, especially when he can't remember in the first place, so they don't know! just because loop hates them both doesn't mean they can do that and be okay with it.) (and loop isn't okay with it. they regret it. they know siffrin deserves better but they themselves can't keep their own emotions in check with this know-it-all cat in the way. the one knows everything, but can't get in there and do it herself. it's a long journey ahead of them, and only once act 3 begins, does everything start to simmer down with siffrin remembering and getting that entire conversation over with, while maeka begins to freak out because y'know, kingquest. she doesn't want to let bonnie die. and she wants to do this without letting either of them know what happens, so it's kind of a mess.

i um. rambled on for way longer than i meant to lol like oooooops but i couldn't help it maeka is my baby and isat is one of my favorite games of all time and i Can't stop thinking about the implications of her just existing in that world and interacting with my two favorite characters ever augh

i might ramble more later in a separate post when i draw stuff idk but 🙇 enough for now lol thanks for reading all this way if you do!

hi guys. have this with no explanation except these drawings are about my fursona isekai'd into isat. thank u

and drawings i did the other day too

[licorishh]

no way she's alive ?? yea those mental health breaks because social media makes people suck are wild huh

[triglycercule]

horror is so BLESSED he's the only one out of the murder time trio that has actual good people trying to influence his story 💔💔 dust and killer were both driven to INSANITY because of the choices of their respective humans but horror??? every time without FAIL the polls for horrortale's plotline have always ended in a good place for aliza (either by bettering her relationships/reputation or for her to just. not DIE)

horrortale's potential alternate timelines my beLOVEd🙏🙏 they're SO lucky that we're being kind and benevolent hehe (≧ω≦) now where are the aus based off the possible different outcomes that could've happened in horrortale HUH???? (like how aliza couldve killed toriel or chosen horror's puzzle or gone with undyne to the core........)

[ispridestillasin]

So I decided to watch a bit of Bridgerton with my mother, which I'm not really interested in (I don't really like period pieces unless it's a fanfic for a ship I like) but it's a show she enjoys so I sometimes catch her watching it and join her, and literally the only takeaway from the stuff I've seen with her is that Colin, Lord Debling, and Penelope should have all been poly

[transmascutena]

these lines hit different when you read utena as transmasc

[longagoitwastuesday]

So so indebted to u for posting those lovely illustrations from Cyrano <333 & even more so for yr tags!! I'm completely in love w yr analysis, please feel free to ramble as long as u wish! Browsing through yr Cyrano de Bergerac tag has given me glimpses of so many adaptations & translations I'd never heard of before! I'll be watching the Solès version next, which I have only discovered today through u ^_^ As for translations, have u read many/all of them? I've only encountered the Renauld & Burgess translations in the wild, & I was curious to hear yr translation thoughts that they might guide my decision on which one I buy first (not necessarily Renauld or Burgess ofc). Have a splendid day & sorry for the likespam! 💙

Sorry for the delay. Don't mind the likespam, I'm glad you enjoyed my tags about Cyrano, and that they could contribute a bit to a further appreciation of the play. I loved it a lot, I got obsessed with it for months. It's always nice to know other people deeply love too that which is loved haha I hope you enjoy the Solès version, it may well be my favourite one!

About translations, I'm touched you're asking me, but I don't really know whether mine is the best opinion to ask. I have read... four or five English translations iirc, the ones I could find online, and I do (and especially did, back when I was reading them) have a lot of opinions about them. However, nor English nor French are my first languages (they are third and fourth respectively, so not even close). I just read and compare translations because that's one of my favourite things to do.

The fact is that no translation is perfect, of course. I barely remember Renauld's, but I think it was quite literal; that's good for understanding the basics of the text, concepts and characters, but form is subject, and there's always something that escapes too literal translations. Thomas and Guillemard's if I recall correctly is similar to Hooker's in cadence. It had some beautiful fragments, some I preferred over Hooker's, but overall I think to recall I liked Hooker's more. If memory serves, Hooker's was the most traditionally poetic and beautiful in my opinion. Burgess' is a whole different thing, with its perks and drawbacks.

Something noticeable in the other translations is that they are too... "epic". They do well the poetic, sorrowful, grief stricken, crushed by regrets aspects of Cyrano and the play in general, but they fall quite short in the funny and even pathetic aspects, and that too is key in Cyrano, both character and play. Given the characteristics of both languages, following the cadence of the French too literally, with those long verses, makes an English version sound far too solemn at times when the French text isn't. Thus Burgess changes the very cadence of the text, adapting it more to the English language. This translation is the one that best sets the different moods in the play, and as I said before form is subject, and that too is key: after all, the poetic aspect of Cyrano is as much true as his angry facet and his goofy one. If Cyrano isn't funny he isn't Cyrano, just as he wouldn't be Cyrano without his devotion to Roxane or his insecurities; Cyrano is who he is precisely because he has all these facets, because one side covers the other, because one trait is born from another, because one facet is used as weapon to protect the others, like a game of mirrors and smoke. We see them at different points through the play, often converging. Burgess' enhances that. He plays with the language itself in form and musicality, with words and absences, with truths masking other truths, with things stated but untold, much like Cyrano does. And the stage directions, poetic and with literary value in their own right in a way that reminded me of Valle Inclán and Oscar Wilde, interact with the text at times in an almost metatextual dimension that enhances that bond Cyrano has with words, giving them a sort of liminal air and strengthening that constant in the play: that words both conceal and unveil Cyrano, that in words he hides and words give him away.

But not all is good, at all. Unlike Hooker, Burgess reads to me as not entirely understanding every facet of the characters, and as if he didn't even like the play all that much, as if he had a bit of a disdainful attitude towards it, and found it too mushy. Which I can understand, but then why do you translate it? In my opinion the Burgess' translation does well bending English to transmit the different moods the French text does, and does pretty well understanding the more solemn, cool, funny, angry, poetic aspects of Cyrano, but less so his devotion, vulnerability, insecurities and his pathetism. It doesn't seem to get Roxane at all, how similar she is to Cyrano, nor why she has so many admirers. It does a very poor job at understanding Christian and his value, and writes him off as stupid imo. While I enjoyed the language aspect of the Burgess translation, I remember being quite angry at certain points reading it because of what it did to the characters and some changes he introduces. I think he did something very questionable with Le Bret and Castel-Jaloux, and I remember being incensed because of Roxane at times (for instance, she doesn't go to Arras in his version, which is a key scene to show just how much fire Roxane has, and that establishes several parallels with Cyrano, in attitude and words, but even in act since she does a bit what Cyrano later does with the nuns in the last act), and being very angry at several choices about Christian too. While not explicitly stated, I think the McAvoy production and the musical both follow this translation, because they too introduce these changes, and they make Christian as a character, and to an extent the entire play, not make sense.

For instance, once such change is that Christian is afraid that Roxane will be cultured (McAvoy's version has that infamous "shit"/"fuck" that I detest), when in the original French it's literally the opposite. He is not afraid she will be cultured, he is afraid she won't, because he does love and appreciate and admires those aspects of her, as he appreciates and admires them in Cyrano. That's key! Just as Cyrano longs to have what Christian has, Christian wants the same! That words escape him doesn't mean he doesn't understand or appreciate them. The dynamics make no sense without this aspect, and Burgess (and the productions that directly or indirectly follow him) constantly erases this core trait of Christian.

Another key moment of Christian Burgess butchers is the scene in Arras in which Christian discovers the truth. Burgess writes their discussion masterfully in form, it's both funny and poignant, but it falls short in concept: when Cyrano tells him the whole discussion about who does Roxane love and what will happen, what they'll do, is academic because they're both going to die, Christian states that dying is his role now. This destroys entirely the thing with Christian wanting Roxane to have the right to know, and the freedom to choose, or to refuse them both. As much as Cyrano proclaims his love for truth and not mincing words even in the face of authority, Cyrano is constantly drunk on lies and mirages, masks and metaphors. It's Christian who wants it all to end, the one who wants real things, the one who wants to risk his own happiness for the chance of his friend's, as well as for the woman he loves to stop living in a lie. That is a very interesting aspect of Christian, and another aspect in which he is written as both paralleling and contrasting Cyrano. It's interesting from a moral perspective and how that works with the characters, but it's also interesting from a conceptual point of view, both in text and metatextually: what they hold most dear, what they most want, what most fulfills them, what they most fear, their different approaches to life, but also metatextually another instance of that tears/blood motif and its ramifications constant through the whole text. Erasing that climatic decision and making him just simply suicidal erases those aspects of Christian and his place in the Christian/Cyrano/Roxane dynamic, all for plain superficial angst, that perhaps hits more in the moment, but holds less meaning.

Being more literal, and more solemn, Hooker's translation (or any of the others, but Hooker's seems to love the characters and understand them) doesn't make these conceptual mistakes. Now, would I not recommend reading Burgess' translation? I can't also say that. I had a lot of fun reading it, despite the occasional anger and indignation haha Would I recommend buying it? I recommend you give an eye to it first, if you're tempted and can initially only buy one.

You can read Burgess' translation entirely in archive.com. You can also find online the complete translations of Renauld, Hooker and Thomas and Guillemard. I also found a fifth one, iirc, but I can't recall it right now (I could give a look). You could read them before choosing, or read your favourite scenes and fragments in the different translations, and choose the one in which you like them better. That's often what I do.

Edit: I've checked to make sure and Roxane does appear in Arras in the translation. It's in the introduction in which it is stated that she doesn't appear in the production for which the translation was made. The conceptualisation of Roxane I criticise and that in my opinion is constant through the text does stay, though.