#lev 🩵

[intrepidacious]

for special sss: bucky + "you look good like this" ??

like the ones i used to know | b.b.

a/n: me? obsessed with the symbolism of bucky's hair? what makes you say that

"Funny," Bucky huffed, dragging his hand through his hair, gritting his teeth as the short strands bristled against his palm; it’d been a stupid decision to cut it off himself, but he hadn’t been able to sleep.

Sam had fixed the worst of it, thankfully, but he still felt oddly exposed without something covering his ears, the too sharp cut of his jaw, the pale scars along his temples. It was the first time in decades he didn’t have to look into the mirror and see a stranger, and he found he wasn’t used to it anymore.

"No, really," you said, still staring at him like he was a different person now, and, geez, Bucky wished it were that easy, "May I?"

He lowered his head so you could brush your fingers through the hair at the crown of his head, gently, curiously, and he had to force himself not to reach out for you and pull you closer because who on earth did he think he was; the Bucky that might have deserved you once was long gone, no matter how much he wanted to pretend there was still a chance to be him again.

You hummed, an appreciative sound that made him blink at you in surprise; there was a soft smile on your face that made his heart flutter traitorously, and you gently tousled his hair once again before stepping back with a chuckle.

"I like it," you decided, turning away before you added, "but I’m buying you a hat before you catch a cold," and it was a very good thing that you did because that was exactly when Bucky realized he was in love with you.

[itistimeforusalltodecidewhoweare]

eeeee theme change‼️‼️ I love the muted shade and winter vibes ❄️🫶

aaahh thank you 🥰🥰

[intrepidacious]

And he realizes the knot in his stomach is fear.

that sentence sent a shiver down my spine. i love your writing so much

who you gonna call when it gets dark?

pairing: steve rogers x agent!reader

summary: His conviction in permanence has been scrubbed raw like wood against sandpaper—loss turned into anger turned into despair, eventually whittled down into disappointment. You’re one of the last threads holding it together. 

One more brush, one more stroke—and he’d be gone.

warnings: heavy angst, hurt/comfort, pain, mild description of injury/blood, slow build, inside the tortured mind™ of steven grant rogers

word count: 3.4k

a/n: pt. 3 of my mini series: what's it gonna take?, but this can be read as a stand-alone piece. title by FINNEAS

06:48

It’s safe to say that Steve doesn’t get a lick of sleep, playing back the images of you in the gym like a sick refrain: struggling beneath his grip, straddling his chest, stepping over him—hell, nearly stepping on him—to get across.  

So when he trudges into the communal kitchen the next morning, looking like he hasn’t slept in a century, the others take immediate notice.

“Woah, Steve, you alright man? You look like death.” Sam blurts out, never one to mince his words.

He barely registers Sam’s face, eyes glazing past where he’s sat next to Bucky on the kitchen island. 

But there’s no missing you. 

Perched on the other end of the counter, legs crossed under an oversized band tee, sipping from a glass of bright orange juice. You smirk knowingly over the rim, as if you know exactly why he’s got bags under his eyes the size of dinner plates.

“Captain Muscle’s been burning the midnight oil, gettin' his reps in.” Natasha teases by the coffee machine, arms crossed, mug in hand.

“Damn, Steve,” Sam pipes up, “you getting laid, man?”

And just like that, he’s feeling a little more alert, pivoting to shoot Sam a look. 

“Hey, I’m just sayin’,” Sam grins, arms raised defensively. “You gotta work off that energy somehow. When’s the last time you brought a girl back here?”

Amused by the very idea, he chuckles, shaking his head as he continues his weary march toward the fridge. 

“Here? Never.”      

The clink of bottles echoes as he opens the steel door, itching for something cold.

From behind, Sam persists: “Ah, but you did somewhere, huh?”

He chooses to ignore him, grabbing a bottle of water instead. Takes a long, slow swig, feeling it cool him down from the inside. He doesn’t want to think about the fact that you’re still sitting there, out of the corner of his eye, pretending to be absorbed in your phone. As if he doesn’t know you’re locked in on every word.

“I’m telling you, man.” Sam leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head. “Online dating’s where it’s at. One word that you’re an Avenger, and these girls are sending you all kinds of—”

“—careful, Wilson.” Natasha interrupts, a crimson-polished fingertip pointing in your direction. “There’s children present.”

Your head lifts from your phone at that, and as all the attention shifts over to you, you let out a small huff, flashing a sarcastic grin in Nat’s direction before slipping off the counter. Steve takes it as opportunity to look too, and silently wonders if you’re still a little bothered by the offhand comments about your age.

From beside him, Sam groans, turning to you with renewed interest.

“Oh c’mon, she’s plenty grown. Hey, Ace, lemme ask you something.”

You glance over on your way to the sink, setting your empty glass down before swiveling around, hand on your hip.

“Sam.” Steve mutters a sideways warning, trying not to appear invested. Yet, the soft crinkle of his water bottle betrays him, his grip tightening around the flimsy plastic.

When his eyes flicker back to you, you’re still watching.

“Say you’re scrolling on tinder and you come across Captain America. Would you swipe right?”

Steve’s stomach drops, breath hitching in his throat.

“Don’t answer that.” He mutters, raising an eyebrow at you. And he immediately regrets saying anything, because his voice completely misses the casual air he intended, coming out like a strained command instead. If he had any chance of playing the nonchalant card to begin with, it certainly wasn’t an option now. 

And Steve isn’t the type to hate anyone. 

But in this moment, he thinks he might just hate you—standing there with your knowing smile, as if you’d waited your whole life to answer that question.

“Hmm. I don’t know…” 

He can practically taste the satisfaction on his tongue when your eyes land back on him, observing the way he stares. Slowly sucks in your bottom lip, letting it go with a soft ‘pop’ before you flash a devilish grin.

With your gaze still locked on him, you shrug:

“…personally? I’m more of a Winter Soldier girl.”

The silence that follows is sharp. Sam bursts out laughing. Bucky gives you a sidelong glance, clearly amused but playing along.

"When did I get roped into this?”

Yet, your gaze lingers on him, stretching the moment just a fraction longer, savoring the details of his expression. He notes the soft flicker of your eyes, darting between his with a quiet intensity, as though you're searching for something he can’t quite place. 

And the stunned look on his face must have been all the answer you needed, because the next moment, you’re promptly turning on your heels and exiting the kitchen, leaving him staring after you.

“So you and Ace, huh, Bucky? How long has that been a thing?”  

“Shut up, Wilson.”  

As the noisy banter fades into static, all he can comprehend is the pounding in his ears, and the look in your eyes when you had answered Sam’s question.  

Did you find it? What you were looking for?

And when his mind eventually comes to, he realizes the water bottle in his hand’s been reduced to a shriveled-up heap of plastic. He stares down at the bottom half of his shirt—soaked through and clinging sticky-cold against his skin—and sighs. 

21:27

“Negative, Fury. We’re boxed in, asset’s KIA. We have to pull back. Now.”

In his line of work, they’ve got all kinds of slang for situations like this—Charlie Foxtrot, FUBAR, SNAFU. 

Or, to put it bluntly, a real goddamn mess.

Minimal gear, no real prep, just a routine asset extraction in a neutral zone.  

Less than ten minutes after touchdown, they’re ambushed in the middle of a crowded market, surrounded by enemy forces with no escape route. A nearby apartment building reduced to ruins by a stray grenade, hundreds of civilians on the ground caught in the crossfire.  

They’ve barely scraped by with their own lives intact, but it doesn’t matter.

It’s the kind of loss where the ride back home is deafeningly silent, the air hanging thick and heavy over the cabin.

You take it the hardest, running point on the job. 

Steve knows from experience that there’s nothing more to be done. No point in mourning any alternatives. 

But when you yank your earpiece out and haul it at the ground, a sharp crack piercing the silence before the plastic skitters across the floor, he knows a million different scenarios are running through your mind right now.

The kind of spiraling that never ends.

Even Sam, with all his years of counseling, can’t seem to reach you, his words hushed and careful as he approaches you in the back corner of the cabin. You remain motionless, slumped in your seat like a wounded animal too tired to flee.

When the Quinjet touches down, you’re the first one out, sprinting across the tarmac before the ramp can fully lower. It’s a blur—your boots pounding against the metal, the cold air rushing past him. He watches a trail of dust flare in your wake. Maybe blood. He can’t tell.

It’s not too late to catch up to you, but he remains motionless, eyes lingering on the small limp in your step as you disappear inside the building. Then, with a heavy roll of his shoulders, he turns his attention to the grim task behind him, helping the medical staff carry the most severe injuries off the jet. 

22:51

38 civilian casualties. 2 agents in critical condition. Estimated $14 million in damages. 

Steve’s pacing by the exit to the recovery room, hands gripping the edge of a tablet, eyes fixed on the damage assessment flickering across the screen. But his mind’s somewhere far off. 

“You alright?”

Bucky’s voice cuts through the noise—he’s observing from one of the treatment beds nearby, holding pressure against a shallow bullet wound. 

Steve doesn’t have to answer.

He sighs, feeling the weight of his friend’s gaze as he goes to set the tablet down, feet already pointed toward the door. 

“I’ll be back.”

23:19

The halls of the compound feel long. Empty. 

His combat boots drag like chains, scuffing the pristine linoleum with dark streaks. They halt in front of your door, and his bloodied knuckles tremble as they hover, inches from the metal. Over the ridges of his bone-white fists, the smaller cuts are already knitting themselves back together. 

He stays suspended there, breath hitching in his chest, before exhaling and landing two sharp knocks.

Radio silence.

But then again, not really. Not when his enhanced hearing picks up the faint rustling from inside. 

He calls your name, softly. Then again, a little louder.

The third time provokes a response. 

“Go away.” Your voice is muffled but sharp, the kind of tone that brooks no argument.

He’s not in the mood to argue either, but he reaches for the door and steps inside anyway.

His eyes find you immediately, the dark outline of your silhouette curled up on the edge of the couch—knees drawn tight, shoulders hunched like you’re trying to fold in on yourself. A lamp in the far corner casts a muted glow, stretching your shadow long and sinuous across the wall.

The rest of the room is barely lit, though there’s not much else to see. Identical to his own—bed, dresser, sofa, tv. If he were playing ‘spot the difference,’ he’d point to the quilted beige throw hanging off the back of your couch, though most of it’s obscured behind your frame.

You’ve got your own place outside the compound—somewhere in the city, he recalls—yet you choose to spend most of your nights here, ready to deploy at a moment’s notice.

Plus, Tony’s got free HBO and Disney. 

Your head snaps up at the intrusion, and the despair that flickers across your face is immediately chased away by the sharp edge of irritation.

Your lip quivers when you snap, rolling your eyes:

“What part of go away is so hard to understand?” 

He takes another step forward, feet dragging against the coarse carpet. His best attempt at a smile is a stiff twitch of his lips, mouth drawn in a tight line.

"Guess I’m getting hard of hearing.”

The words hang uselessly in the air, doing nothing to soften the harsh lines of your brow. You retreat further into yourself, chin tucked behind your knees, glaring at him warily like a cornered stray. 

And there’s anger there, sure, but it’s something else too—beneath all the layers of pain, frustration—a bone-deep exhaustion he knows all too well.

“I don’t need—”

“—I know.” Nylon fibers cling to his sole as he kicks, boot scuffing against the carpet. “Just wanted to see how you’re holding up.”

It’s a lousy line, he knows. But it works, if only to crack through your cold façade. 

“Holding up?” You laugh, a dry sound that sucks all the air from the room. “I’m fine. Perfectly okay. Just like those thirty-eight civilians. Like Jones and Meyers in the IC-U.”

Your voice breaks on the last syllable, arms unraveling like a broken slinky as they fall limp over your lap, your feet sliding to the floor. He sees it, then—a flash of white beneath the hem of your shorts, deep crimson staining the gauze from the inside out. 

And something in his stomach twists. Breaths quickening, fingers twitching at his sides—he’d noticed the limp earlier, but this seems worse.

Urgency flares in his chest as he steps closer. The edges of your makeshift dressing are frayed, the dimensions of the wound too large to hide. Only then does he register the emergency med kit splayed open on the coffee table, its contents scattered about haphazardly.

His eyes lock in on the heap of gauze pads nearby—soaked through with your blood, darkening the fabric in patches—and his breathing stops. 

“What happened?”

You freeze, realization flashing across your face.

“Nothing.”

Brows furrowed, he steps in closer, trying to tamp down the strange irritation bubbling in his chest. “It’s clearly not—“

A sharp, heaving breath cuts him off, halfway between a sigh and a scream, and you lurch upright.

“—Jesus christ, it’s nothing, just,” Your hands rake through your hair, fingers clawing at your scalp, “god, can you just—” 

You collapse back down, palms digging into your eyes as you let the couch swallow you whole. He holds his breath, biting his tongue at how quickly it had all happened. 

The first sob hits after a long, suffocating pause. Your body crumples like parchment, folding inward, the lines of you trembling like branches caught in the wind.

His eyes trail back to the pile of blood-soaked bandages, your muffled sobs pounding against his eardrums. And the knot in his stomach tightens another notch.

Because all he can think is—this is it.

What he’s been running from since the day he met you. 

The most terrifying, fundamental truth.

For all your indomitable spirit, you aren’t him. Not shielded by the same untouchable strength. That miraculous concoction that lets him sidestep his reckoning at every turn.

It’s a fickle thing, mortality. He’s teetered over its shadowed edges, more times than he can count. Yet, even when he chose the drop, 80 years ago in the middle of the Arctic, it had failed to claim him—some twisted stroke of man-made fate suspending his corpus and careening him into a new century. 

Your mortality doesn’t play by the same rules—a newly lit match, flickering brightly at one turn, snuffed out the next.  

And he realizes the knot in his stomach is fear.

He’s terrified. Of you. Of the way you make him yearn for a predestined loss. 

His conviction in permanence has been scrubbed raw like wood against sandpaper—loss turned into anger turned into despair, eventually whittled down into disappointment. You’re one of the last threads holding it together. 

One more brush, one more stroke—and he’d be gone.

“…I should’ve clocked it,” your muffled voice breaks the spiral. “Fuck, I should’ve known.”  

“Hey, hey.” 

He steps forward, bending one knee to the floor, his hand rising to brush the side of your arm, hovering as if to offer solace. He swallows hard, dislodging the words caught in his throat.

"It was an ambush. None of us could’ve seen that coming.”

You shake your head, rubbing the corner of your cheek so roughly it makes him wince. 

Then the words that slip from your chapped lips nearly break him.

“It should’ve been me.”

He shakes his head, swallowing back a wave of nausea, the taste of bile rising sharp and bitter on his tongue.

“It shouldn’t have been anyone.”

The rest of his words claw at the back of his throat, burning.

No, not you. 

Never you.

You snort, wiping away the wetness from your eyes as you straighten.

“Look, if you’re here for a pep talk, can this wait till tomorrow? I’m kinda tired right now.”  

But his gaze is already wandering downward, tracing the path of your injured leg.

And he murmurs:

“Let me fix it.”

A soft tap against your bare knee, and it makes your eyes grow wide. The tears clinging to your lashes turn sharper than cut glass, refracting crystalline and jagged under the dim light. 

You cock your head and blink, incredulous. 

“The dressing’s too loose. You can’t leave it like that.”

You sigh out a laugh, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Oh, so now you’re a medic too?”

He lets his gaze drop, the weight of it settling on the floor as he shuffles forward, dropping his other leg to the ground. 

“C’mon,” he murmurs, even quieter now, giving your knee another tap. 

You release a heavy breath before you oblige, brows furrowed, lifting your leg so he can peel off the bandaging looped around your thigh, wincing when the cotton clings stubbornly to the raw edges of your wound.  

As exhaustion drags your leg downward, his hand finds the hollow behind your knee, steadying you, warm and achingly soft against the calloused edges of his palm.

At the sight of your wound uncovered, he swallows—a ragged gash stretching across your thigh, too long, too deep.

His lungs feels tight, each breath snagging like the time he fractured half his ribcage.

“Did you even clean this out?”

Your silence answers for you, loud and clear. 

And even in the weight of the moment, he can’t help but glance up and give you a look. The kind of chiding, quiet disapproval that would normally have you rolling your eyes all the way back.

Now, the only energy you can muster is a subtle tilt of your head, your gaze soft and unfocused, blinking slowly as he averts his eyes back down. 

He reaches for the first aid kit, still strung out on the coffee table, and his hands quiver when he tips the bottle of iodine against a cotton pad, the copper liquid staining it with a sickly gleam. The acrid scent punctures the air, thick and harsh as he holds it up against your raw wound.

You exhale sharply, a pained breath caught between your teeth.

"Fuck." You groan, tensing immediately. ”God, son of a—"

And this must really hurt, because you’re one of the few people he knows who can match his chronically abnormal pain tolerance. 

“I know,” his voice is thick with restraint, shoulders tipped forward and crowding the space between your legs. His left hand moves to splay across your knee, tension rippling beneath his palm, your breaths growing heavy when he has to start pressing deeper. 

Once so deep that you let out an involuntary gasp, your hand shooting out to grab at his wrist, fingers curling tight. He freezes, eyes fluttering shut to avoid looking up, because he’s pretty sure that’d be the thing to undo him completely. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice rough. Waits for your grip to loosen, that trembling, frantic hold slipping just enough for him to continue.

“…almost done, promise.” Desperation seizes his chest as he tries to work quicker, and the only taste in his mouth is metal now—’cause if you’d had just let him bring you to med bay, they could’ve given you something, topical cream, lidocaine shots, whatever, to make this go away. 

He bites down harder to try and block out the sight of your hands in his periphery, the way your fingertips turn ghostly white, digging into the scratchy upholstery to resist reaching for him again. But no matter how hard he tries, there’s no reprieve from that grating sound of your nails against the fabric, the way it scrapes and claws every time he lowers his hand, your body jerking to try and brace against the agony.

23:54

Slow and mechanical, the bandage wraps around leg in measured turns, like tape over his knuckles before he steps up to a punching bag.   

He gently tugs on the bandaging, his eyes lifting for the first time since he’s been down here. He takes your tired nod as confirmation, immediately occupying himself with rustling, scrunching up empty packages and crinkly plastic into a tight fist as he closes up the kit.

“You still need to get that checked out, looks like it might need stitches.”

“Uh huh.” 

And the knot in his stomach grows, cause he’d be willing to bet everything that you won’t. 

But then, you say:

“Steve.” 

And he stares back, incredulous, at the slow curve of your smile, the swell of your cheeks catching the light. Your eyes glint up at him, and his stomach does another lurch—this time for a different reason altogether. 

“…thank you.”

He nods, clearing his throat as he rises to his feet, knees creaking like old floorboards and hell, maybe he is getting old. 

“Make sure you’re not putting weight on that leg, means no running or lifting for a while.”

“Yessir.”

A lazy smile accompanied by a salute, and he has to fight the wave of nostalgia of that day in Lagos. 

And—because old habits die hard and the habits of this job die harder—a parting remark starts to formulate in the back of his throat. Something profound about their line of work, about doing the best you can. 

Don't beat yourself up, you did everything you could.  

But instead, he settles on a silent nod, heavy ache simmering in his chest.

He casts one last look at your tired frame, draped loosely over the couch, and leaves the same way he came in. 

00:00

a/n: soo i had finished this chapter a while back, but ended up rewriting it and decided to go in a completely different direction. hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading :) feedback is always welcome!

[peachesofteal]

i’ve been dying for more fics with daddy kink and simon for the looongest time but they’re all price so raspberry girl is my dream came true THANK YOU 🩵

Ugh me too. I've been working on building a "voice" for daddy kink Simon for months now and I'm glad you like it!

I do think Price is the ultimate father figure daddy kink character but I struggle finding his voice so instead of even trying I just go to the holy trinity (lev, ceil, sy) for all my needs.

[sealestialangel]

 

     𓏲　monitoring（ deco*27 ）npts　｡　　💗 　　₊ ˚⊹

         req｡ by milly + fem╱neu╱masc ᵔᵔ　₊

 

⠀⠀❛ 👁️｡ ⠀names

mon╱moni，monitor，watch，watchie╱watchy，watcher，surv╱surve，survey，surveil，obbie╱obby，obsession，perce，percy╱percie，perception，con╱conce，concern，worry，love，lovely，amour，heart，kiss，knock，knocky╱knockie，knocker，door，peep，peephole，mik，mimi╱kiki，miki╱miku，ward，wardell，mira，theora，sianet，wake，wakeman，greg，gregor，gregory，absaar，hector，dante，arezou，désirée╱désiré，esha，desiderius，nahia，dilək╱dilek，ahava，esme，venus，aimée╱amée╱amy，lev，care，inayah，henny，nechama，sam，samantha，naima ｡

⠀⠀❛ 💋｡ ⠀pronouns

sh*╱h*r，ve╱vir，ze╱hir，clo╱close，close╱closes，close╱closed，closed╱closeds，shut╱shuts，door╱doors，peep╱peeps，peep╱hole，peephole╱peepholes，eye╱eyes，watch╱watchs，watch╱watching，ob╱observe，observe╱observes，moni╱monitor，monitor╱monitors，monitor╱monitoring，monitoring╱monitorings，surv╱surveil，surveil╱surveils，sta╱stalk，stalk╱stalks，stalk╱stalker，stalker╱stalkers，obs╱obsess，obssess╱obssessed，obssess╱obssession，obsession╱obsessions，want╱wants，need╱needs，lo╱love，love╱loves，luv╱luvs，amo╱amos，amo╱amor，amor╱amors，ad╱adore，adore╱adores，ki╱kiss，kiss╱kisses，mwah╱mwahs，mar╱marry，marry╱marrys，marry╱marriage，marriage╱marriages，heart╱hearts，mi╱miku，miku╱mikus，miku╱mikur，vocal╱vocals，vocal╱vocaloid，vocaloid╱vocaloids⦂ 👁️╱👁️s，👁️‍🗨️╱👁️‍🗨️s，👀╱👀s，🩷╱🩷s，🩵╱🩵s，💜╱💜s，💚╱💚s，❤️╱❤️s，💗╱💗s，💓╱💓s，💞╱💞s，💕╱💕s，💘╱💘s，💖╱💖s，❣️╱❣️s，❤️‍🩹╱❤️‍🩹s，❤️‍🔥╱❤️‍🔥s，💔╱💔s，💋╱💋s，😘╱😘s，🥰╱🥰s，😍╱😍s，💍╱💍s，💎╱💎s，🚪╱🚪s，🎵╱🎵s，🎶╱🎶s，🎼╱🎼s ｡

⠀⠀❛ 💦｡ ⠀titles

the watcher，(prn) who watches，the observer，(prn) who observes，the (noun) you see through the peephole，the (noun) on the other side of the door，the (noun) on the outside looking in，(prn) who wants to be let in，(prn) who wants to see inside you，the obsessed (noun)，the devotee，the admirer，(prn) who is obsessed，the bully，(prn) who only came here to bully you，(prn) who is just as sad as you，(prn) who came to share in your sadness，(prn) who is checking up on you，the worried (noun)，(prn) who is worried about you，the distorted (noun)，the (noun) you have a distorted perception of ｡

[saturniasxenos]

Aphrodite Themed NPT ID Pack

Hello my lovelies, inside this pack you'll find pronouns, titles, names and genders that have a connection / relation to Lady Aphrodite, love, roses, doves, beauty, the sea, and all alike.

Lady Aphrodite is the most beautiful goddess. 🩷

Us humans, nonhumans, therians, and alike are all beautiful as well. 🩷

Pronouns:

Am/Ambro/Ambrosia/Ambrosias/Ambrosiaself

Aq/Aqu/Aqua/Aquas/Aquaself

Aqua/Aquama/Aquamarine/Aquamarines/Aquamarineself

Ap/Appl/Apple/Apples/Appleself

Bea/Beaut/Beauty/Beautys/Beautyself

Co/Cora/Coral/Corals/Coralself

Cha/Char/Charm/Charms/Charmself

Do/Dov/Dove/Doves/Doveself

Fo/Foa/Foam/Foams/Foamself

Gra/Grac/Grace/Graces/Graceself

Gra/Grace/Graceful/Gracefuls/Gracefulself

Gar/Garde/Garden/Gardens/Gardenself

Hea/Hear/Heart/Hearts/Heartself

Ja/Jasmi/Jasmine/Jasmineself

Lo/Lov/Love/Loves/Loveself

Myr/Myrt/Myrtle/Myrtles/Myrtleself

Mi/Mirr/Mirror/Mirrors/Mirrorself

Moon/Moonsto/Moonstone/Moonstones/Moonstoneself

Pea/Pear/Pearl/Pearls/Pearlself

Po/Pop/Poppy/Poppys/Poppyself

Pi/Pin/Pink/Pinks/Pinkself

Pur/Purp/Purple/Purples/Purpleself

Qua/Quart/Quartz/Quartzs/Quartzself

Rose/Rosequa/Rosequartz/Rosequartzs/Rosequartzself

Ro/Ros/Rose/Roses/Roseself

Rho/Rhodon/Rhodonite/Rhodonites/Rhodoniteself

Re/Red/Reds/Reds/Redself

She/Shell/Shells/Shells/Shellself

Sea/Seashe/Seashell/Seashells/Seashellself

Se/Sea/Seas/Seas/Seaself

Spa/Sparr/Sparrow/Sparrows/Sparrowself

Swa/Swan/Swans/Swans/Swanself

Swa/Swall/Swallow/Swallows/Swallowself

Va/Vani/Vanilla/Vanillas/Vanillaself

Ve/Venu/Venus/Venuss/Venusself

🫀/🫀's

🩷/🩷's

🩵/🩵's

❤/❤'s

💚/💚's

💜/💜's

💗/💗's

❣️/❣️'s

💕/💕's

💞/💞's

🐬/🐬's

🦢/🦢's

🕊/🕊's

🌹/🌹's

🍎/🍎's

Titles:

(X) Who Is Beautiful

Devotee of Aphrodite

Rosebud

(X) Who Loves

Child of Aphrodite

Lover of Doves

Lover of Swans

Lover of The Sea

Collector of Shells

(X) Who Nurtures

Risen From The Sea

Dancing In The Rose Field

Call of The Sparrow

Call of The Dove

Protector of Swans

Protector of The Sea

Protector of Sparrows

(X) Who Loves Doves

Names:

Fem: Aziza, Ahava, Adrianna, Asherah, Amy, Amandine, Amanda, Adora, Adoration, Amorra, Amarissa, Amadea, Amara, Amy, Adelpha, Annabelle, Aimee, Brooks, Charity, Coral, Cara, Carys, Cher, Cerys, Cordelia, Darya, Elska, Eri, Esha, Esme, Freya, Halia, Ines, Ivy, Ife, Juliet, Kasumi, Kailani, Kerensa, Laguna, Libi, Love, Mila, Mai, Milena, Minna, Marina, Moana, Mabel, Mia, Nereida, Pippa, Rain, Rose, Rosie, Rosa, Suki, Sandy, Talia, Valentina, Venus, Yang,

Masc: Alon, Adrian, Agapito, Agapius, Amor, Amantius, Amato, Amias, Aziz, Adonis, Beck, Beau, Conor, Connor, Cordian, Caspian, Connelly, Corwin, Caleb, Dilan, Dewey, Desiderio, David, Dariel, Deniz, Darrell, Erasmus, Erazem, Erastus, Eros, Fenmore, Firth, Finn, Hudson, Hart, Jed, Kevan, Kevin, Kordian, Kiefer, Kaito, Liev, Lev, Leif, Lennon, Liam, Leofric, Manju, Milos, Obi, Pacificus, Philip, Romeo, Rasmus, Rhys, Rudo, Sajan, Triton, Taddai, Taddeo, Thaddeus, Valentino, Valentine,

Neu: Aroon, Arrow, Adair, Amadeus, Aire, Aiko, Amoris, Anbu, Cariad, Caro, Ceri, Caron, Glyndwr, Ingrid, Jorah, Kealoha, Keris, Kerensa, Kama, Kamaka, Ler, Maite, Mirren, Muir, Navy, Ocean, Paris, Sailor, Shui, Siran, Tutku, Vale, Vashti, Yaretzi,

Genders:

Lovememory - It could be related to having memories of love ; memories of love being a part of your identity ; memories of love from / in ones past life ; and etcetera.

Idolovea - a gender related to idols & love! Being an idol of love , a love idol , an idol who spreads love , an idol who loves , etc!

Puramour -a gender where your only purpose is to find love .

Amoncitte - A gender Related to Ones hand Intwirled on Anothers , Feather light Kisses , Gentle care , Love letters , Sweet Nothings , Cherishment , && Pure Love.

Redstringic - a gender related to the concept of the red string of fate. this gender is related to love, the concepts of soulmates ( of any type of love ), && feeling complete.

Agapelic - a gender that embodies agape: godly love, also known as the highest form of love, unconditional and boundless. this gender feels intense and may be connected to divinity, or a godly being that represents agape.

Loverlexic - a lexic gender related / connected to the word ''lover''. this gender may or may not be related to romance, that's up for the user to decide!

Loveincarnic - a gender connected to loving love and loving being a lover.

Rosweetphrasic - A gender related to the phrase "A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet."

[intrepidacious]

personally agreeing with frank as grilled cheese as suggested by @levanswrites

also i will offer johnny as a bec with extra hot sauce, thoughts? 👀

ce characters as sandwiches 🫡✨️🥪 bc im always hungry

steve: a good ol cheeseburger with onions and steamed buns, square patty, lovingly flipped by George Motz himself at Hamburger America. classic and filling. the smell of him lifts you up on your tippy toes. would be sold for $3 if the economy would allow it

andy: heckin i-talian sausage sandwich from Costco. top tier dad order shouted from the checkout line. meant to be eaten in the car frantically and kind of pissed off bc costco overstimulates you but you got great deals. it's like a reward *munch munch*

ari: REUBEN. big ass beef stack. tangy sauerkraut = sassy crunch. unhinge your fucking jaw and maul it, let that deep rye flavor punch you in the face. gives your tongue crumb burn but that's why you get it again and again. probably not great for you in the long run with all that salt but who cares?

cole: peanut butter and honey sandwich with sliced banana in the middle. your grandad's favorite sandwich, it was a treat back in the 50s. kind of underrated. the type of food that makes you think of the times you were a little kid and mam made you a treat after school.

ransom: a club sandwich with a fancy metal pick stabbed through the middle. a bitch to make and a bitch to eat but damn, if it isnt pretty good. you have to be in the club to have him though. very exclusive, have to get it juuuuust right or else it's disgusting

curtis: he's a thick ol philly cheesesteak period. hot, filling, cheesy, and fragrant. an instant pick me up, a siren call of carbs and fat. you know if he had a regular backstory, he'd be a philly boy. get some water ice w that sandwich and take a nap after.

jake: specifically Wendy's spicy chicken sandwich pre-2019. crispy, leaves a lil bit of a tingle on your tongue but won't burn you up. affordable, reliable, and fun to have with an ice cold sprite. golden days in your 20s. makes me want to a college sweetheart

lloyd: open face smoked salmon sandwich with red onion, goat cheese, and fresh dill. one slice short of a full sandwich and always makes you acknowledge that he's looking fine. makes u feel like u have your life together but you're going insane actually

colin: an italian hoagie from Wawa and im going to die on this hill. fight me >:3

---

hi it's been a while 🥺 im back and being silly on main hehe i look forward to sandwich discourse in the reblogs 😌🫶🏻

[archerbeans]

Happy Pride to my lovely queer TLOU fans!!

I don’t normally post my art on here but I’ve been playing this game a lot recently and I have a really strong connection to Lev and his character. Also my profound love for Abby 🩵🙏🏻 I wanted to draw something for pride month.

ilya 💜

[noctis-horrow]

Why demon Lev kinda.... 😳😳

- 🩵

He does have his charm (⁠◠⁠‿⁠◕⁠)

[liv3laughlev]

LEV’S INFO !! ☁️

hii! i’m lev :3 i’m not new to tumblr in fact my old acc is @drowsynyuu and you can find any old work of mine there.. any links you may need to find will be here including my masterlist for fandoms i plan to write for!

poe account !! ☁️ levu4

masterlist !! 🩵

post key !! 🐰

most dividers i use are made by cafekitsune :D

below are some rules i ask for you to follow if you plan on following my account :3 nothing too bad these are just so none of my boundaries are crossed !

please don't request anything with step/incest, SA, pedophilia, etc.. i genuinely will block you if you do :/

2. please credit me if you use my fics for inspiration or want to repost it on any platform in general

that's all !! thank you for taking the time to read this <3

[intrepidacious]

A Cornucopia for You!

From: @levans44

Bucky Barnes; grumpy/sunshine, enemies to lovers; modern AU neighbors; fluff

You sat on your knees in the garden, your plush grass pairing nicely with the new petunias you were planting in rows at the corner of your house near the property line.

As you looked in front of you, you could see the way your well-treated lawn contrasted with the brown patches in that of your neighbor’s. Since he moved in, you watched as a once beautiful piece of land became a little overgrown. What confused you about it most, though, was the fact that you had never really seen him leave his house. Sure, every now and then, you’d hear the roar of a motorcycle and peek through your curtains to see the Beefcake riding away, but it was few and far between.

But the bike hadn’t left the driveway in some time, and as you looked down at the plethora of greens before you, you figured you had some to spare. Brushing your knees free of dirt and removing your gardening gloves, you decided to pay your reclusive neighbor a visit.

As you knocked on the door, you were caught by surprise when it whipped open, revealing him in all of his brooding glory. He wore a white tank, too tight for your sanity, as it clung to his abs and chest. And oh man, did he have abs for days.

You swallowed at the sight, but quickly averted your gaze to his face in response to this low grunt of, “what?”

That view wasn’t much better. The light stubble on his chiseled jaw had you fighting the urge to reach out and see if it would cut your finger.

“H-hi. I’ve got some extra petunias. I was wondering if you might want them? I-I’ll plant them if you want. I also have some lawn feeder if you’re interested. Not that your lawn is bad, it’s just, I thought I could help you care for it—not that you don’t know how to care for it! Just…”

You wanted to facepalm with the word vomit that was spilling out of your mouth, except…. the stranger started to smile, laugh lightly even. He saved you from making a further fool of yourself, too.

“I think that all sounds great, neighbor. I really appreciate it.”

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked out to his front yard. “Not really used to the whole ‘having my own home’ thing yet. I grew up in the city, so thank you for your offer.”

His smile had you bashfully blushing. “I’m Bucky by the way. And I just made lunch. You wanna, uh, come inside for some and we can discuss the grass that I don’t know how to take care of?”

You laughed and hid your face behind your hands. “I’m sorry about that. I told you I wasn’t assuming, though!”

He laughed at that and it was like music to your ears, as he held the door open for you and you became enveloped in the most homey aromas.

PLEASE I ABSOLUTELY ADORED THIS 😭😭 big city boy bucky!! could let me ride on his motorcycle 👉🏼👈🏼

this was such a lovely surprise omg thank you @levans44 for requesting this for me?? 🥺 and essie you're an artist omg i'm swooning !!! thank you thank you thank you 💛

[dilucs-princess]

dunno if lev is one of your f/os but the lil perv buys you all kinds of lingerie to dress you up in for a birthday fashion show - and give him smth to jack off to later 🩵

happy birthday by the way, princess! hope it was great!

- 🦥

Ooh hehe I like that! I'll show off to him, even better when he just grabs me when I wear his favourite <3

Ooh princess! Keep calling me that and see what happens ;)/lh

[intrepidacious]

I WAS SCREAMING IN HAPPINESS AND THEN—

Because if alternate realities did exist, and a million versions of him and you were scattered across some vast expanse of space, then he’s sure there’s a reality out there where he doesn’t let you walk away. Where he calls your name, makes you turn back, runs to you, says he’s sorry—does anything but stand there and watch.

HOW DARE YOU 😭😭😭

is that what you think we are?

pairing: steve rogers x agent!reader

summary: “A-hem."

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Said you might want to blink, Rogers.”

warnings: heavy angst, first kiss, mention of alcohol, mild description of injury/blood, slow build, inside the tortured mind™ of steven grant rogers

word count: 1.8k

a/n: pt. 4 of my mini series: what's it gonna take?, but this can be read as a stand-alone piece. title by FINNEAS

He can’t lie—you look good.

Laughing in a snug white tee, the hem cut high over your waist. Bright red cherries printed smack dab across the front. There’s something shimmery at the corner of your eye, catching the light, and your hair falls differently than usual. 

Different. Happy. Good.  

The sound of your laugh strikes him again—high and lilting, floating straight across Sam’s living room and feathering against his eardrums. 

It’s only been a week since that failed asset extraction, yet he can’t find a trace of its weight in your demeanor—nodding along to Sam’s colorful anecdotes with a soft sway, glossy red lips curving around the rim of your drink as you smile. 

You nudge your elbow into Bucky’s side at something Sam says, making him lean away with a grin that mirrors yours. 

Then you raise your arm, clinking glasses with the crowd you’re with. Carefree, your shirt lifts just enough for a glimpse of your ribs, almost peeking beneath the fabric—

“A-hem."

Almost. 

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Said you might want to blink, Rogers.”

Natasha’s arched brow shifts away as she turns back to Wanda—something about men and burn holes if he stares any longer. He purses his lips, fingers drumming absently against his barely touched glass of—what was this, whiskey? 

He frowns at the amber liquid, thoughts drifting to the injury on your leg. 

Has it been healing well? Have you been changing the dressing like he told you?

Then, a sharp “oh, shit!” cuts through the room.

His head snaps up. Straight over to you.  

Everything slows, the noise of the party fading into a dull hum as he watches the glass slip from your fingers. The wine tips over in a sudden rush, splashing onto your chest in a wide, unforgiving arc. The cherries drown in rich crimson, the stain blooming down the white fabric. 

You freeze, face flushed darker than the drink, fumbling with the glass. Your hands make desperate swipes at your shirt, watching helplessly as the stain clings to the fabric and seeps in for good.

Steve catches the whisper on your lips.

Shit.

Sam’s voice booms: “Woah, Ace, you alright?”  

You flinch, movements turning sharp in the blink of an eye.

Yeah,’m fine. You shrug, but there’s no missing that tremor in your jaw. The way your eyes dart across the room to see if anyone else had noticed. 

Bathroom that way? 

Steve watches as you slip past Bucky, lips pressed tight as you weave your way around the rest of the crowd and set a frantic pace away from the party.

Like a moth to flame, his steps trail behind yours. 

He finds you hunched over the bathroom sink, scrubbing furiously at your shirt with a towel.

The wine glass teeters on the edge of the porcelain, but he doesn’t notice until it’s too late.

“Hey, you alri—”

A sharp crash, and the glass explodes in the basin like ice splintering on cold concrete.

Your free hand, stretched instinctively to catch it, jerks back a fraction too late.

Shit! Motherf—

Your voice is a muttered blur as you glance down at your palm, brow furrowing where a glass shard had struck. Your attention lingers there for only a moment before you raise your other hand, the one gripping the towel, and start sweeping carelessly at the broken pieces. 

“Hey,” He rushes forward, close enough to hover over your arm. “It’s alright, just leave it there.”     

His hand wraps gently around your forearm, guiding you back, and he’s struck by the ease of the motion—and by how you let him.

Closer, now, he can spot the slender line of red carved into your palm, beads of blood pooling between the creases.

The tension in your jaw ebbs into a shaky sigh, your nostrils flaring as you take in the shimmering wreckage scattered in the sink.

Fuck. Stupid, fucking, fuck. 

The words spill out in a choked murmur as you toss the towel onto the counter, stumbling back to lean against the door. Your hands rise to your face, knuckles pressing into the hollows of your eyes.

His gaze travels up the wine stain over to your hand—your fingers curled tightly into your palm, crimson seeping through as you dig into the fresh cut. 

“You alright?”

M' fine. 

He’s been here before. 

The déjà vu wraps around him, heavy and suffocating. It’s a feeling he’s been getting a lot lately, it seems. 

Fuck, I just…  

He steps closer, wanting to coax your fists down so he can meet your eyes. 

I’m a mess, aren’t I?

“It’s just a glass.” He shakes his head, though you can’t see him. “You’re good.”

Your hands fall slowly, trembling fingers brushing your flushed face.

The skin around your eyes is raw, flushed from the pressure of your knuckles. You blink, and a smudged haze of black pools in the corners where tears had threatened to fall.

Your cheeks catch the light, glowing soft and pearlescent, and when your tongue flicks out to swipe at your bottom lip, it shimmers too.

I-I’m gonna go.

You whisper, gaze fixed somewhere past his shoulder.

Can you let Sam know about the glass?

His teeth dig into his tongue, but the words slip free anyway, tentative and low.

“How are you getting home?”

You blink, puzzled, swaying as you try to push yourself off the door.

Subway?

A quiet sigh escapes him, exasperated but softened by something he can’t name.

“C’mon,” he says. “I’ll drive you.”

Holy shit! A Harley? I didn’t know you were - hic! - cool.

You bound forward, chest jumping in time with your hiccups as you lean down to inspect his bike, practically pressing your face against the leather seat.

He masks his amusement behind a cough, reaching for the helmet he never wears and raising it in your direction. 

No - hic! - uh uh. I wanna feel the wind!

At your pout, he raises a brow, fighting to bite back a smile. 

“It’s not a request. You’re not getting on without it.”

You glare at him, chest jumping again with another hiccup, and he sighs.

“It’s helmet or we’re walking home.”

And even in your tipsy state, your must realize this is one fight you won’t win, because you snatch the helmet from him with a muffled grumble. 

(And if his eyes linger a second too long as you climb over the seat—over that scar on your thigh where your skirt hitches up—it’s only because he’s checking on your injury. To see if it’s healing well. Nothing more.) 

“This it?”

He slows to a halt in front of an old brownstone. It’s a little worse for wear, and the street surrounding it doesn’t feel too safe—too quiet, barely lit. 

You nod against his shoulder, arms slipping reluctantly from his waist as you step onto the sidewalk.

Shit, I think this thing’s stuck.

He glances up to find you giggling under your helmet, fingers slipping against the glossy black surface as you try to wriggle free.

Your laugh, light and melodic, tightens something in his chest. And he reaches forward without thinking.

“Here, let me—”  

You giggle again, and he gently grasps the edges of the helmet.  

I swear, it won’t budge! 

Slow and deliberate, his fingers brush against your knuckles as the helmet finally breaks free.

You brush off the rumpled edges of your hair, framing your face, and smile sheepishly. 

Embarrassed. Shy. Different. 

Do you… wanna come in? I make a mean cup of coffee. 

And it’s evident from the way you cock your head, the shyness of your smile edged out by that familiar teasing glint, that you’re back to playing with him.

He smiles back. 

“Maybe next time.”

Again, the ease. 

Hm. Shame. 

He freezes. You’re holding your breath now, eyes anchored a little too low, lingering. Still standing so close.

Too close. 

Your eyes flick upward, your smile faltering as you finally meet his gaze—and it’s all the warning he gets.

High up on your toes, hands gripping his face, the extra height from the sidewalk giving you just enough leverage to yank him down.

You kiss him with a kind of urgency that sends his thoughts scattering, fingers pressing into his nape like there’s no distance close enough that would satisfy you. 

His breath stumbles—it’s too much, too fast—but his hands still find your waist, steadying you as you press into him.

The helmet clatters to the ground, forgotten.

Your lips move against his in a desperate rhythm, over and over, unraveling the knot that he’s tried desperately to bury. Frayed threads unraveling all at once—the tension, the restraint—spiraling out in a dizzying rush. 

And for a moment, just one—he lets himself have it. The merlot on your lips, the warmth of your body against his, the way you tilt your head to move in closer. 

But then—your lips part, tongue flicking softly against his mouth. 

And it’s too easy. Too natural.

His mind catches up, wrenching him back.

Hands gripped tight around your shoulders, he pulls back, eyes darting restlessly between yours. 

You smile, a slow, teasing curve of your lips that sends a shiver down his spine and stirs a thousand thoughts he knows he shouldn’t be having.

A glossy smudge of red lingers at the corner of your mouth, and he can't help but wonder how much of it has transferred to his own, how much of you is still on him.

He drags his tongue over his lips, throat tightening, pulse a frantic staccato against his ribs. His mind spins, grasping for something steady—for the right thing to do, the right thing to say.

But all that comes out is a whisper, the words catching in his throat as his hands slip away.

“We can’t…”

The words come out quieter than he intended, barely above a whisper. But they’re final. He sees the flicker of confusion in your eyes, the way you blink as if trying to understand, to process.

And then, beneath it, the spark of anger he swears he catches, quickly guarded by a veneer of nonchalance. 

A smile, forced but bright. 

Thanks for the ride.

And, for a fleeting moment, Doctor Strange’s ideas on parallel universes slip into his mind.

Because if alternate realities did exist, and a million versions of him and you were scattered across some vast expanse of space, then he’s sure there’s a reality out there where he doesn’t let you walk away. Where he calls your name, makes you turn back, runs to you, says he’s sorry—does anything but stand there and watch.

But it’s clear from the way his feet stay glued to the sidewalk, nails digging into his palm as he watches you disappear, that this wasn’t one of those realities.

[ismahanescorner]

March-June Wrap-up🩵 |2024

books:

Spearcrest Saints: 5/5

Spearcrest Devil: 2/5

Spearcrest Prince: 3/5

Found in You: 5/5

Lev: 3/5

Empire of Hate: 4,5/5

Empire of Lust: 4/5

Wayne Family Adventures (vol. 1): 4/5

Wayne Family Adventures (vol. 2): 4/5

Pirate Girls: 4/5

Spearcrest Rose: 4/5

Bitter Heat: 2/5

God of War: 4/5

movies & shows:

Awdet El-Nadla: 6/10

Bab El-Hara (S1/S2): 7/10

True Luna: 4/10

Curse of the Dragon King: 5/10

Mashle (S1): 5/10

The Apothecary Diaries: 8/10

A Sing of Affection: 7/10

Madame Web: 4/10

Anyone but You: 5/10

Migration: 5/10

The Tearsmith: 5/10

We Will Love Again: 4/10

The Marvels: 6/10

How to Date Billy Walsh: 7/10

Damsel: 7/10

The Hybrid Princess: 7/10

Firefly: 7/10

Serenity: 7/10

The Fifth Element: 7/10

We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together: 6/10

Demon Slayer (S4): 7/10

The Back of the Unwanted Bride: 5/10

Fallen for my Best Friend’s Dad: 4/10

You Belong with Me: 6/10

Taming the Lion: 4/10

Hit Man: 7/10

[intrepidacious]

6, 7, 17!

Happy new year bestie 🩵🩵

happy new year my love!!

6. Favorite title you used

oh geez i think titles are so hard!! i really liked tempest and somewhere in time, and also a shout out to bring your hunger bc i changed the title right before posting lmao

7. If you use song lyrics, which artist’s songs did you pull from the most?

always do. should surprise no one that it's mostly hozier but through my drabbles, queen also made it at least twice

17. Your favorite character to write this year?

oh, ransom by far!! i started so many different wips for him hahah. i also absolutely loved expanding my character repertoire this year, i think james norrington will be another new favourite for a while 🤭

ao3 wrapped (writers edition)

[intrepidacious]

i spent so long reading through the list but this one was just calling out to me 😩

friendship breakups / the way we were / tangents meeting

oh right, the fic i started to work through some stuff (but with a very soft bucky tagging along 🥺)

The movies always warn you about heartbreak, but they never tell you how it comes in different shapes and sizes. They never tell you that people can let you down in more than one way. The only thing that’s true is that you never see it coming.

wip game