#i feel like i just got smacked in the face with the world's nicest brick wtf | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

vaguely-concerned · 3 years

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TF x Graves, 2500 words, complete and utter fluff

Stifling another yawn against the back of my hand I glance over at the window, which shows only the flat dark of a moonless night outside, before turning my eyes back to the line of T.F.’s naked back.

I’m already undressed and perched on the side of the bed, watching as T.F. is still in the middle of his nightly ritual of hanging or folding his fine clothes up all properly and neatly, lest they, I don’t know, unduly crease somewhere they ain’t meant to or somethin’. Listen, I keep my clothes in a pile on the floor by the side of the bed, right next to the shotgun, both within easy reach in the case of a middle-of-the-night emergency skipping of town. Our priorities in these matters don’t really intersect much, but to each his own and so on.

I don’t know why I’m waiting for him to come to bed to lie down myself, exactly — my eyes are already making a spirited attempt at staying shut on me whenever I blink, I’m pretty sure I’d be out and snoring in about three seconds once I got settled — but my skin has that thin restless thrum all through it that I know from experience won’t be satisfied until he’s settled into place against me and besides, the view is nothin’ to sneeze at in the meantime. He stands there shirtless, belt unbuckled and hanging loose around his narrow hips, though the fastenings of his trousers are still done up. In the light of the oil lamp across the room he’s in a rare state of relaxed unselfconscious disarray, his hair grown out long enough again that it spills over his shoulders and down his back while he fastidiously fastens the cufflinks back into place on the empty shirt so they’ll be easy to find in the morning. As he finishes up with the cufflinks he sings to himself under his breath, a good-natured jaunty little tune I vaguely remember the Brick would sometimes break out once you got a couple of drinks in him.

The hum under my skin grows higher and keener.

Stretching an arm out I hook my fingers into one of his belt loops and gently pull him in by it towards the side of the bed, until he’s standing between my legs. It prompts a half-bemused noise from him, but he goes along easily — when I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my forehead against his belly he seems to catch on, though, a sound of amusement vibrating through his chest.

He slides his hand to the back of my neck, twining his fingers into the short hair there, thumb trailing back and forth along the hairline.

T.F.’s too damned scrawny to have much in the way of padding anywhere, but there’s the warm body softness to him here nevertheless, the sweet yield and shift of a living thing whose pliancy belies the supple strength beneath. I rest my cheek against the flat of his stomach and sigh, moving my hand at the small of his back in slow caressing circles.

“Come to bed already,” I murmur, too sleep-softened along the edges to worry overmuch about makin’ sense.

He chuckles, fingers stroking through my hair. “Well, I was on my way, but then I was waylaid by some deplorable fellow in the process. Hell of a thing.”

I grin and turn my face up to him, so that my chin is resting against his belly and my lips brush his skin when I talk. “Huh. Sounds like a real shady character. You want a trustworthy sorta guy to escort you safely the rest of the way?”

“With such dangerous reprobates skulking around in the area, that’s probably for the best,” T.F. nods somberly, fond amusement deepening his voice. He runs his thumb down the bridge of my nose. “Could I afford to hire the services of a strapping upstanding gentleman like yourself, though?”

I make a nonchalant sound in my nose, squeezing him closer against me for a moment. “Eh, don’t worry ‘bout it, this one’s on the house.”

His thumb drifts down to rest at the upturned corner of my mouth as he grins back at me. “Hey, looks like it’s my lucky day.”

I kiss his stomach and lean back enough so I can start in on the fastenings of his trousers — not with any sort of heat behind it, there’s no hint of sex in the air, but in a weird way this is equally satisfying, the everyday-textured contentment of being close without any particular purpose, being the one to slowly render him naked in front of me for no other reason than that he lets me, his hands still smoothing patiently through my hair while I work.

Once I’ve got all the buttons sorted I run my thumb along the sharp edge of his hip bone until I can tuck it into the waist of his trousers and use it to tug them down. We get them about half-way down his thighs like that before we have to pause for him to shimmy out of them the rest of the way on his own, his hand resting on my shoulder for balance as he does the traditional one-legged hop to extricate his foot. Serves him right for only ever wearing pants that might as well have been painted onto him. I mean, not that I’m complainin’, mind.

“Whoa!” he says, laughing as he almost overbalances at the last hurdle, but my hand shoots out to steady him by the hip before too much disaster can be wrought. “Well, not the smoothest strip tease I’ve ever pulled off, sorry about the inconvenience.”

I nose at the newly revealed crease of his hip over the edge of his underwear. “Eh, that’s okay, if I actually wanted a proper show I’d just suggest a round of strip poker again and sit back and watch while you lose.”

“Oh, that’s a strange yet beautiful dream world you’ve made up for yourself there, Malcolm. It’s touching, really, the things the mind will do to protect itself from the truth. Positively — aah!”

T.F. jumps as I draw some of the skin of his hip between my lips and use them to nip sharply at it. His startled yelp turns into a snigger as I let go, possibly ruining the castigating effects somewhat when I brush my lips soothingly over that spot right after.

“Let that be a lesson to ya,” I say sternly.

“A lesson on what, that your mom was apparently half turtle?”

I grunt, still trailing soft kisses over his skin. “That judge in Piltover was right back then, you are an incorrigible menace to all decent and right-thinking people everywhere.”

“First of all, that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Malcolm, thank you. Two, including yourself among the ‘decent and right-thinking’ feels like the invention of some fresh new form of fraud by way of imposture unfolding before my eyes, and it’s an honour. And third, that seems to me to be some very selective memory you have there, considering His Honour Judge Highton had some even more colourful words for you after you blew up the entire north wall of the court building breakin’ me out.”

“He might’ve been given to wearing a damn silly mop on his head, but you couldn’t fault him on his vocabulary,” I concede. Before that whole incident I’d honestly thought the wigs were some sort of practical joke the Pilties would play on gullible outsiders, but as it turns out no, if you get sent to jail in the twin cities they add the indignity of makin’ someone wearing a dead badger on their head break the bad news to you. It’s a strange ol’ world out there, alright. In Bilgewater, where people are much more sensible, the justice system basically boils down to the bounty board, or — if you’ve really managed to make a nuisance of yourself — a bunch of captains may call a temporary ceasefire with each other and go get your ass together. I’ve found that the risk of getting on the bad end of an unfair trial is about the same in both places, though of course the Bilgewater one tends to be harder to come back from if carried out to its fullest. I consider myself a bit of an expert in these things.

T.F. makes a thoughtful sound. “To be fair I don’t think anyone had ever given him cause or inspiration for profanity like you did.”

“Aw. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He leans down and kisses the top of my head before he straightens for long enough to work his second foot free as well, standing there in just the sleek silky underpants he somehow seems to have an endless fresh supply of wherever we go. (My money’s on some sinister underground ring of lingerie-oriented tailors across south-eastern Valoran, for the record; when it comes to secret societies the Noxians just can’t help themselves.)

“I do my best. Hang on just one moment, I’ll be right back,” he says and ruffles my hair before he turns around, which I would complain about except that the view is, as previously mentioned, impeccable, and I’m sleepy enough to be magnanimous.

After meticulously folding his trousers and leaving them with the rest of his clothes, T.F. moves over to the table across the room and extinguishes the oil lamp, then whistles under his breath as he produces a card from somewhere — he does this, seemingly from thin air and no matter how little he’s wearing; I prefer not to speculate too much about how, exactly — and lets a little magic into it so it gives off a low glow, only enough to light his way the short walk back across the room, ‘cause in T.F.’s world the stubbing of toes and smacking of shins against unexpected furniture in the dark is somethin’ that happens to other people. That probably says some things about him I’m not ready to go puzzlin’ out at this time of night, and that he wouldn’t want to have anyone go puzzlin’ about too hard in the first place anyway.

When I hold out my hand for him in the dark he smiles and takes it, twining our fingers together, and I use the hold to tug him in and deposit him, in a neat controlled wrestler’s roll held close against me as I lay down, to his side of the bed. He laughs again at that, a surprised delighted sound that edges dangerously close to a giggle but hey, I ain’t no snitch, so who’s gonna testify against him, huh?

The card ends up on the far side of his pillow after the tumble, still giving off a glow, enough to illuminate the bed and lend the shadows around it some warmth. It makes the bed seem a small cozy island, the rest of the world rendered a not-unfriendly ocean of darkness around it.

T.F. looks at me like the world’s most contented castaway, bourgeoning crow’s feet punctuating his smile on either side and fingers still linked with mine. His hair is mussed from the meandering fall onto the bed. If I were only fractionally less about five seconds away from fallin’ asleep, my body might start to get ideas about it. Well, tomorrow is always another day.

With the back of my free hand I brush some of his hair away from his brow, and he cranes into it like a well-pleased cat. Even with the blankets tangled around our feet and the not-quite-right positions we’ve ended up in, having tumbled into place rather than settled ourselves with purpose, everything feels warm and loose and comfortable, like I could fall asleep like this even with the decidedly odd angle my arm is at.

As if sensing that the drowsiness is about to claim me for real, T.F. brings our linked hands up to his face so he can press his lips to my scarred knuckles before he lets go, then reaches to pull the covers over us, taking a moment to tuck the blanket around my shoulder properly before snuggling under it himself, hooking his leg over my thigh as he settles into place. I shift until we fit together, the familiarity of how to rest against each other just right comfortable like an old and well-loved piece of clothing. On a sigh he rests our foreheads together, craning forward the tiny amount needed to brush our mouths together and humming contentedly when I meet him there. It’s a slow kiss, but it lingers, a dry sweet press of lips like one last spark sending the day off down into the gently drifting murk of sleep that’s about to claim me for a few hours.

When it ends — I don’t think either of us was really the first to pull back, at some point the kiss simply, in the way of snowflakes on tongues, melted into something different and less defined with the warmth — there’s a moment when my eyes can still fight against slipping shut. It’s weird, the way you can look at someone every day for years and still not feel like you’ve had your fill. T.F.’s sharp narrow face, his high pointy little cheekbones and mouth still curved with a smile as he watches me back — there’s something to knowing I’m gonna see all that again tomorrow morning that all the damn money on Runeterra couldn’t get you. And take it from me, from what I’ve seen of the world there ain’t a lot of things in this life enough money won’t buy. Stumbling across one of them long before we even knew what we had, by a stroke of little more’n dumb fucking luck… sometimes it feels like the biggest heist we ever pulled.

“Hey, Tobias?” I say, brushing the tip of my nose against his as my eyelids finally give up both the battle and the war and slide closed.

“Hmmm?” he says, cheerfully drowsy as well.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I murmur, because I can’t think of any damn happier thing in the world to say to him.

He wraps his arms around me, his hand stroking meanderingly up and down the scar-crossed span of my back, fingers trailing over my skin with the perfect amount of firmness because he’s taken the time to learn exactly how much pressure it takes to make it comforting. As sleep starts pulling me under to calmer depths I tuck my head under his chin, so my face is pressed to the line of his throat and to his chest. He smells so nice, all warmly real and well-known like my own breathing.

“Tomorrow,” he agrees on a yawn, nuzzling at the top of my head and tightening his arms around me, just for a moment.

I've been trying to write stuff -- literally just anything, no matter how meandering and nonsensical -- to try to break out of a writer's block; it's not really working so far but at least I've got SOMETHING tangible to show for it at the end of the day, so, you know, uh... partial success I guess?? haha

The idea of T.F. having a judge somewhere out there who considers him the One True Nemesis of his career, J. Jonah Jameson style, even though T.F. barely even remembers his name, came from a wonderful conversation with @inversway, and the idea makes me laugh so hard every time I think about it.

ETA: Also put this on AO3, so I have somewhere to put these ficlets that isn't just tumblr! I'm grimly clinging on to this blue hellsite like a obstinate barnacle to the hull of the Titanic, but I do realize it's not the best place to archive uh anything lol

#tf x graves #twistedgraves #league of legends #my writing #been trying to live the philosophy 'it doesn't have to be good; it just has to be SOMETHING'#and from that I have at least learned that I don't necessarily think perfectionism was the main problem anyway lol #every little insight helps I suppose

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thebestpersonherelovesbucky · 4 years

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Send this to the 12 nicest people you know or who seem to have a good heart. 💕💖😘

Right back at you!!

You always know just how to make me smile <3

Here, you want a snippet of the possessed!bucky fic that i was working on for whumptober but have bailed on for now since it too has reached 10k and October is over??

Bucky had been cleaning houses ever since graduating from New York University for the Magical Arts nearly ten years ago. His talent for seeing and speaking to the dead landed him a medium-psychic position for one of the most prestigious cleaners on the East Coast.

While Steve had never been as talented in such matters as Bucky, he was not without his own gifts. Steve created shields. Barriers that protected people from negative energy. He wasn’t bad at it either. In fact, Steve loved his job. It made him feel good that he could help people. It made him feel even better that he had a hand in keeping Bucky safe whenever he went somewhere to do a cleansing. Hell, even just a walk-through.

The job, of course, was not without its risks. Going into any place with restless spirits of the undead and opening himself up to contact with them held danger. But Bucky was good at what he did. He always invoked energy of protection to keep himself grounded and safe. Whenever he came home from a job, he’d cleanse himself.

Regardless of these precautions, Bucky always risked accidentally bringing something, something even, home with him. Hitchhikers were always a possibility.

They’d always been drawn to Bucky. Ever since he was a little kid and had no idea what was happening. For most people, the monster under the bed or in the closet, the things that went bump in the night, they were just a figment of the imagination. Not for Bucky.

“I was twelve when my parents realized what was really happening,” he told Steve not long after they met. “That’s when they brought me to Dr. Strange. He helped me deal with it. Taught me how to make sure they don’t invade my space.”

Dr. Strange, Bucky told Steve, had said that Bucky was one of the brightest lights he’d ever seen and that it wasn’t any wonder so many spirits were drawn to him.

“He told me it was like I was driving through a dark forest with the high beams on,” Bucky said. “That I couldn’t help but attract attention to everything I passed.”

They still found him, of course. The light in their darkness. A series of wards and protective spells created by Steve’s shields helped keep them out of their home, though.

Between their combined talents, they’ve been able to keep their home relatively safe from any hitchhikers.

In fact, Bucky’s current state has absolutely nothing to do with a hitchhiker. It’s because of something else entirely. Something not of this world.

The case Bucky’d been working on was a tough one and it’d been taking a toll on him. He was tired all the time. Having trouble concentrating. Didn’t have much of an appetite. Steve tried to convince him to take a few days off. To let himself unwind. But. Well.

“There are kids, Steve,” Bucky said. “And they’re scared out of their minds. I need to help this family. You wouldn’t back off either and you know it.”

That was absolutely true, too, and Steve couldn’t argue against it. Steve definitely wouldn’t back down, so he couldn’t tell Bucky to without being a hypocrite. So every morning, Steve would put a shield around Bucky for extra protection and they’d go on their separate ways to their respective jobs and on most days, when they got home, they left work behind them as they walked through the door.

They discussed their days, of course. Sometimes they’d need to vent or just had a really good story to share, but for the most part, they were able to keep their home and work lives separate.

Which was why, about two weeks later, when Bucky came home and said that they’d finally finished the cleansing, Steve could see that something wasn’t quite right. He couldn’t put his finger one what, exactly, but Bucky looked incredibly pale. Almost like he might be getting sick.

“Are you okay?” he asked when Bucky continued to just stand in the doorway. “Bucky?”

Bucky’s gaze, which had been dazed and unfocused, lifted and landed on Steve. He blinked a few times. Smacked his lips like he had a bad taste in his mouth. Shrugged.

“M’fine.”

“Okay…” Steve got up from the couch and tried to touch Bucky’s forehead only to have him recoil before he could. “I…what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he mumbled. “I’m just tired.”

“Um…well, why don’t you take a nap,” Steve suggested, ignoring the fact that Bucky hadn’t let him touch him. “I’ll make us dinner.”

Not answering him, Bucky just walked away and went into their bedroom, closing the door behind him.

When Steve called him for dinner a little while later, Bucky came out, sat down, and barely touched his food. He mostly just pushed it around on his plate. Steve had even made his favorite. Spaghetti and meatballs.

"Are you sure you're all right, Bucky?" Steve asked. "Do you feel okay?"

The face Bucky made, the way he rolled his eyes and huffed through pursed lips, made Steve think he was annoying him or something.

"I told you," Bucky grumbled. "I'm fine."

“Well, you’ve barely touched your food.”

As though Steve had just said something completely horrible and outrageous, Bucky slammed his fork down onto his plate and shoved away from the table.

“Do you ever let go of this goodie-two-shoes persona?” he snapped. “Doesn’t it get a little tiresome being perfect all the fucking time?”

For a moment, all Steve could do was start at him. That outburst, the viciousness of Bucky’s voice, Steve had never heard him talk like that before. They’d had their share of fights, of course. Knowing each other since high school and being a couple for fifteen years and married for seven of those years, they were bound to have a few spats every now and then. Even full-blown screaming matches, but nothing ever like the way Bucky sounded now.

“Bucky, what the fuck?”

This time, Bucky snickered as though he found Steve’s bewildered expression simply hilarious. He shook his head with this cruel smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth and sneered at Steve.

“God you’re so pathetic,” he said. “You know there’s nothing special about you, Rogers, I know that. You can just drop the act.”

That right there had been right below the belt. A punch thrown intentionally to hurt Steve in all the ways Bucky knew he could. He’d used Steve’s biggest insecurity and tossed it right at his face. And all Steve could do was stare at him.

“Like I said,” Bucky remarked, rising from his chair, “pathetic.”

Steve didn’t move. He couldn’t. With those words and comments hitting him like a ton of bricks, Steve’s body sort of forgot how to move at all. Even when he heard Bucky toss his food into the garbage and then fling his plate into the sink, Steve just sat there.

All night long, he tried to rationalize what happened. Blamed it on stress. On the cleansing that Bucky had worked on for weeks. He told himself that when Bucky came to his senses, he’d apologize and they’d just put this behind them.

After Steve had readied for bed, he waited for Bucky in the bedroom. But when Bucky came in, he stared at Steve for a moment or two before scoffing and muttering something about not wanting to be near him. He left the bedroom to go sleep in the spare room.

Hurt and confused, worried and nervous, Steve did what he could to excuse this. There just had to be a reason for Bucky’s behavior. Whatever it was, they’d work on it and come out stronger because of it. They always did.

It was well into the night, and probably just moments after Steve had finally fallen asleep, that he felt something at his shoulder and heard a whisper in his ear.

“Steve.”

“Mmm.”

“Steve, wake up.”

Eyes opening, Steve needed a moment for things to clear up. He turned over onto his back and stared at the ceiling, confused as to why he was awake before he realized that he wasn’t alone like he had been when he’d fallen asleep. Bucky was there with him, kneeling on his side of the bed, still fully dressed, and looked at Steve with confusion and worry in his eyes.

“Are you gonna talk to me like a normal person now?” Steve asked as he sat up and clicked on the lamp next to the bed. “Or are you still acting like an asshole?”

“What?” Bucky shook his head. “Are we…are we in a fight?”

“I guess?” Steve shrugged. “You tell me.”

“Wh-why was I in the spare room?”

“I don’t know, Bucky.” Steve pinned his arms across his chest. “You’re the one who called me pathetic,” he replied, finding the anger that had eluded him earlier. “You said there was nothing special about me and--”

“No, I didn’t.” Bucky’s voice cracked. Unshed tears glistened in his eyes. “I…I wouldn’t say that.”

“Yeah, I never thought you would either. But you did.”

Rather than answer that, Bucky glanced around the room, expression growing more confused the longer he sat there. When he looked back at Steve, his eyebrows shot up as though he only noticed him there now.

“Oh, Steve…” He exhaled sharply. “Are you in my dream, too?”

Fear shot through Steve the second he said that. Something was definitely not right and he sat bolt upright, hand at Bucky’s cheek. This time, Bucky didn’t move away from his touch.

“What?”

“I think…” He shivered. “I think I wanna wake up now. Please, wake me up, Steve.”

“Bucky, baby, you are awake.” He even tapped Bucky’s cheek. “See? Stay with me, baby.”

“I’m awake?”

“Yes. Baby, why don’t you come to bed? And I think you should take a few days off to rest.”

That confusion still hadn’t fully cleared but Bucky nodded and the weight abruptly left his shoulder and limbs, and he leaned into Steve’s touch like it was the grandest thing in the world.

“I think I need to rest,” he whispered, laying his head down on Steve’s lap. “I’ll wake up in a few minutes.”

Unsure what to do or even how to feel, Steve stayed up the rest of the night and just let Bucky sleep soundly in his lap. He petted a hand over his hair and tucked the blankets around him, and hoped that a good night’s rest and a few days off would do the trick.

But Steve was wrong.

And things grew increasingly strange after that.

#luninosity #kellsreplies #stucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes #kellsficlet #fandom friends

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