#panicked joseph

[balladofthe101st]

i know joe went up to the bar just to flirt with george with the classic, "you come here often?" but george, seeing joe walk towards him, looking so handsome and lean in his class a's, panicked, and before joe could use his line, george blurts out, "corporal toye, there will be no leaning in my company. are those dusty jump wings? how do you expect to slay the huns with dust on your jump wings?" joe, bewildered and flustered, plays along, straightening up and dusting off his jump wings, just to see that sweet smile on george's face. that night didn't go as joe planned but between a couple glass of beers, sharing a smoke, and spending the rest of the evening until the next early morning with george and that goddamn sweet smile of his, joe wouldn't have spent the night any different. next time, he thinks wistfully, next time maybe he'll get a kiss

[little-bumblebeeee]

Eddie in middle school or early highschool taking art class and forgetting his art teacher is Christian, therefore turning in a drawing of Spongebob, Shrek, and Sonic sacrificing Mike Wazowski on a pentagram

Is this oddly specific because I did this? Yes

[electricsoul-rpg]

Siju Wilson (Wilson Joseph) - Indian

as Arattupuzha Velayudha Panicker in Pathonpatham Noottandu

[its-deputy-caleb]

Hi! I would like to request a John Seed x Deputy/Reader fic please! I was thinking that the Reader is staying the night at John’s house and in the middle of the night she has a bad nightmare. When John wakes up and notices her, he helps to comfort her. He pulls her into his arms, whispering calming words, and caressing her hair until they fall asleep again. Thank you! :)

okayyy so i'm combining these two ideas cause i thought they worked nicely together. i kinda hate how this turned out cause i haven't written proper far cry 5 content since 2019 so it's rusty, basic and doesn't flow the best. bc of this i kinda reverted to gender neutral reader since i'm more comfy with that but you can def read it as fem so pls enjoy ya'll.

John Seed x Reader — Nightmares

The sound of the radio clicking off lingers in the car, leaving a ringing in yours ears that’s come to be familiar whenever silence settles over you. For a moment, everything is still as you sit in some borrowed car, contemplating your entire choice to drive to the Seed Ranch at the sight of lights flickering in the main wing of the house.

What the fuck are you doing here?

John’s not supposed to be a friend. Your whole job description these days is ‘take out every seed sibling’ and yet here you are, wandering up to the front door to unlock it and gently let yourself inside. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve arrived at john’s house late at night.

You’re aware of the ache in your body, the pain shooting up your side from the litter of bruises that now feel like apart of your body— not to mention the numerous bandages that are long overdue for a change.

The ache eases a little as your bags are dropped at the door, allowing you to roll your shoulders as you wander into the living room. The change is immediate, from the warmth of the fire to the soft carpet under your shoes. It’s a stark contrast from the harsh outside of Hope County and some part of you is starting to think of this place at home.

Taking in your surroundings like its the first time you’ve seen the place, you notice the gentle flicker and glow of the warm fireplace, the scattering of eden’s gate books amongst the law encyclopaedias and the music which floats up into the vaulted ceilings. A gentle laugh bubbles out of you before being replaced with curiosity as you notice the vintage record player which surprisingly doesn’t play any Peggie music but gentle and soothing jazz. 

You don’t get to think on it as John arrives beside you, holding two glasses of whiskey and a genuine smile you’ve become so accustomed to when it’s just the two of you. His tattoos along his forearm and hand seem to dance as the fire flickers, and his hand extends to drop the glass into your hand.

He doesn’t say much, just looks at you lovingly and the gentle silence is something you’ve both come to enjoy. John’s far less talkative without his crowd of loyalist and of course the other siblings. There’s no need to uphold that confident, nonchalant and sadistic persona that so many have come to associate the youngest seed with.

“You’re stressed.”

John sips his whiskey, a little tsk sound leaving him as he pops the glass down onto the dining table. He takes your hand in his and leads you over to the couch to be closer to the fire, both of your cheeks now rosy as warmth washes over you.

His hands gently settle on your lower back, trailing up to your shoulders with nothing but fleeting brush of fingertips to start before he begins rolling and kneading at the knots in your shoulders.

A groan leaves you as you physically relax under his hands, your head lolling to the side so he can brush his thumb over your neck as he attends to your tight shoulders.

Warmth elopes you as John plasters himself to your back, his head coming to rest on your shoulder as he holds his hands and squeezes. He methodically rubs circles over your knuckles, starting from your hands and squeezing every drop of stress, strain and exhaustion from you as he works his way up to your forearms. 

You hum softly, encouraging him to continue the way up to your arms until he’s made it back to your shoulders. You soak up every bit of attention he gives you, visibly relaxing under his touch as you savour such a peaceful moment which is so rare in Hope County.

John leans back, making room to begin rubbing the same confident and soothing circles down your shoulder blades and along the ridges of your spine. The tightness is almost drawn out of you, leaving you a puddle of mush underneath his hands.

Eventually, he comes to wrap his arms around you in a tight hug, kissing up your neck and behind your ear. You can’t help but chuckle softly when John’s hair flops forward in front of his face, simultaneously tickling your neck as his polished look is unravelled.

The sound of your soft laugh seems to shift the air as John stands, once again taking your hand. 

“Come with me.”

John’s hand never leaves yours as he takes you up to his bedroom, leading the way despite having been there enough you could probably find it with your eyes closed. He reluctantly lets go so you can both remove your layers of weapons and clothes but not before he gently squeezes your hand.

John’s room is just as lush and exuberant as the rest of the house yet it’s more cozy and lived in despite the grand windows and king size bed. His clothes are littered on an ottoman, his hair products are scattered between the on-site bathroom and the cabinet nestled into the corner of the room. 

The bedroom large enough for John to have an informal desk to work at on his lazier days. It’s scattered with his written notes to Joseph and old legal cases combined, the wood is littered with coffee stains and chips from where John no doubt threw pens and highlighters in frustration.

John removed his waistcoat and drapes it over the desk chair before the two of you climb into his bed and melt into the soft, silken sheets.

Sleeping in John’s bed is lush, a luxury you’re unaccustomed to even before eden’s gate decided to ruin everyones lives with their doomsday cultist act. No deputy’s wage could ever get you something as lavish as this— hell it barely covered the mortgage on your tiny one bedroom in the Henbane.

The blankets are drawn up over the two of you as John snuggles into your side, wrapping his arm around your torso to keep you flushed together. His soft, even breathing lulls you into sleep as your body relaxes into his warm and comforting embrace.

—

A butterfly wanders into your line of sight, a trail of bliss behind it as it wanders over to the Marshall and Virgil who are lying lifeless at the table in front of you.

Your heart drops at the sight. You’ve been here, seen this before— you saw what burke had done to Virgil and then to himself. 

You know this isn’t real, it’s not a quite a full dream and it’s not just the reminiscence of the bliss but each time you witness their lifeless bodies amongst the garden, you’re always too late— too weak to change the outcome.

The sound of Faith’s laughter all around you leaves bile in your throat and a heavy feeling in your chest. Her voice comes from all over, leaving you on the verge of hyperventilating as you start running away from the scene before you, or at least trying to you. Your legs don’t move as fast as you want, the grass swallowing up your shoes and leaving you in a swamp of bliss.

The air is heavy, thick with the toxic green bliss which has taken so many lives of those you’ve come to care about. 

In front of you, Faith stands in front of the gates, twirling on her heels before blowing a puff of bliss dust into your face and disappearing as fast as she appeared.

Your hands settle on the metal work of the gate, supporting yourself as you cough and heave from the chemicals blown in your face. Your chest aching and stinging with both heartache and poison.

Everything feels fuzzy, as if you’re losing the ability to control your own body as you begin to rattle the gates— needing to get out.

Nothing happens.

The gates are locked even as you shake them with all the energy you have left, the metal remains unmoved. Each time you pull on the chains holding everything together, the gates lock tighter— the grass looping around the metal work to lock it into the ground.

Panic starts to set in as the gates don’t budge— you’re stuck, there’s no way out as you’re swallowed up by the bliss. You’re screaming, crying out for anyone to come and save you. A last ditch attempt to bang on the gate and call out before you’re swallowed up by the bliss to become one of Faith’s angels.

— 

Jolting awake, you’re vaguely aware of that fact you’re still yelling and screaming but its muffled, distant and disoriented as if you’d truly been in the bliss just moments ago and not curled up in silk sheets.

The silk sheets. John.

You’re in his bed, in Holland Valley— his hands are cupping your face, soft blue eyes staring at you as the two of you rock together slowly.

Despite how sore your throat is, how wrecked it sounds, it tightens as a sob bubbles out of you and you collapse into his embrace. John settles onto the sheets, gently tugging you with him so your face is tucked into his shirt.

It occurs to you that his infamous blue shirt is being ruined by your tears but you don’t have it in you to care. Not when his clean and expensive cologne grounds you against the bliss which threatens to drag you under. His heart rate is rhythmic and steady and not to mention he emits warmth which only ushers you to snuggle in closer to him, with your nose pressed against his collarbone.

Arms are securely wrapped around your shoulders, tugging you just that much closer. John’s own nose is buried into your hair as he plants kisses into your hairline. His fingers brush away some of your hair which has gotten stuck to your temple with the layer of sweat that’s built up before he tucks it all neatly behind your ear.

John whispers gentle praises too you— sweet nothings which bring you back into your body. It’s nice, his voice is soothing and eases that fear from your chest, allowing you to focus on his on just the two of you together.

It feels like hours, but John never once complains. He stays awake with you, letting you cry and let it out. Every so often there’s another round of squeezes, of more kisses and more hushed whispers of how much he cares for you.

His smile into the mess of hair on top of your head is the last thing you register before your body finally slows down, exhaustion kicking in and you allow yourself to fall asleep in his arms for the second time that night.

[eddiemunsn]

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?????

[skyhawkstragedy]

TURNER!!!!!

[sunshine-munson]

I get to meet Joseph Quinn at the fan expo in Toronto and I’m feeling completely chill about it, only panicking slightly

[idv-lockheart]

" Ah, please be careful and don't move for a moment. It would be a shame if you were to step on my darling Eve. " A smile was on his lips, gloved finger pointing to her feet at the white snake innocently laying there.

“Pardon me but, what-?”

Heeding DM’s warning, the woman instantly froze up, looking down where the snake laid. She hadn’t even realized the snake was there until pointed out. Letting out a nervous laugh, she went stiff, awkwardly fidgeting with her hands near her chest. After a moment, she cleared her throat, hoping her voice didn’t betray her as she spoke,

“Ah, well, erm, with all due respect do you think you could pick your snake up?” She once again nervously glanced down at the snake, and then back at DM, not once actually making eye contact.

“Of course it’s your snake so you have the final decision in the matter, it’s just a suggestion after all! …I mean I’m just not sure if it’s the best of ideas to have a snake wandering around…” Lockheart trailed off, stopping herself from going into a nervous ramble. Instead, she started hoping to whatever god that would listen, that today would not be the day she would get bitten by a snake

( @ask-mr-melodis )

[scholarofgolb]

okay i just thought of something to draw and i have never wished my tablet worked better than now

[icallhimjoey]

Reinvent Love

♥ ♥          Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader 

Summary: You and Joe are treading new waters. You’re no longer flatmates, but still close. More than friends, but nothing defined. Nothing labeled. Determined to not lose what you have, though. But, can you?

CW / disclaimer: rpf, fem!reader, language, adult themes, fluff, season 3 of my flatmate!joe

Author’s note: uh-oh here we GO! the girls voted and the girls won, so here we are! the no-longer-flatmates-flatmate fic - you don’t need to have read define close or explain us, but it’ll obviously give you backstory, which might help!

Wordcount: 3.2K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five There was something living inside Joe’s chest.

It was only small, but definitely there. Ugly. Green. Growing. With potential to do real harm. It crawled around and scoped him out, exploring his heart from all different angles, carefully tasting it.

It hadn’t bitten him yet, but Joe knew if he lost sight of it – if he stopped trying to control it – that eventually, it would. And it would hurt. It didn’t exactly feel great now, but once it’d sink its teeth in, Joe knew he’d be done for.

He remembered when it still good. Still nice. Warm. And soft. And joyous, all full of love.

It used to be kind and sweet and would make him smile until his cheeks were quite literally cramping.

But it’d changed. It’d turned bad.

He wished he could’ve seen it coming.

It was a good thing that he found he was able to easily control it with rational thought. Problem was that rational thought had the habit of abandoning him once it got dark outside and he was alone in his flat.

His new flat.

Where everything was his.

Where everything got put in places that he chose. All his things were where he wanted them, all catering towards his routine. Which was why a basket of underwear made it into a bathroom cupboard, and why a shelf got put up near the balcony door, so he had a place to keep his cigarettes and a lighter. Gone were the days of rummaging through coat pockets ‘til he found what he was looking for.

It was sort of great, Joe wasn’t going to lie, living on his own.

It didn’t look quite as nice, not quite as homey, but Joe was sure he’d soon learn what the place was missing. He didn’t worry about it. There were more important things to worry about. Like, how quick dust built up into bunnies underneath the sofa and how every time he’d open his front door, it’d waft out from underneath, only to settle in the middle of the room for everyone to see. Or how somehow he panicked so much about keeping his plants alive that he was systematically overwatering all of them.

Idiot.

It was fine.

Rational thinking.

It was all fine.

Things were different now.

Good different.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” Joe joked as he let you in, pointing out the large bouquet of flowers in your hands.

His place already smellt amazing. Joe made a good roast, and had one going now, things in the oven, bubbling and simmering away.

“If I never did things I shouldn’t do, life would be very boring,” you said, laying the colourful bunch down on his island.

“Did... wait, did you actually get those for me?”

“Have you got a vase?” you were already opening cabinet doors. “You don’t, do you?”

When you didn’t get a reply, you turned to see Joe stare at the flowers. He looked a little dumbfounded.

“Joe?”

“Hmm?” he looked up at you and blinked a few times. “Oh, um...” he squeezed his eyes shut a second, trying to gather his thoughts.

Took too long, you thought.

“A vase?” you repeated, trying very hard to keep a straight face, to not let the smallest inkling of a smile slip through.

“Sorry, I don’t... I don’t think I’ve got a vase.”

Why the fuck would he own a vase, Joe thought.

“I’ll get you one as a housewarming gift,” you found a pitcher. “This’ll do for now.”

There was evidence on the counter of what Joe had been in the middle of, cutting veggies, preparing the gravy. But as you filled the pitcher with water, Joe still kind of hovered in the same spot in silence. Looked at the flowers that you’d brought in and felt silly for how those made him feel.

When you placed the pitcher in the middle of the island and reached for the bouquet, you broke his trance, and Joe softly laughed at himself.

“This is... my God, this is so sweet? I don’t think I’ve ever gotten flowers before.”

“Well,” you smiled back, about to throw stones into your own windows. “I didn’t get them for you.”

“Oh?” Joe immediately felt embarrassed. Mortified. Felt the skin of his neck flush with heat.

“I got them for your flat.”

Got him.

Joe let out the breath he was holding in defeat, dropping his head and smiling. Scoffed softly at himself because you were joking, and he was an idiot.

“You know, give it some colour. Give me something nice to look at when I’m here.” you plopped the flowers into the pitcher and didn’t get the chance to make it look nice, to arrange it a little, because before you could, you got picked up by the waist and shaken about. You shriek-laughed a loud, “No!”

“Something nice to look at?” Joe pressed his face into your cheek as you squealed through your giggles.

“Am I not nice to look at, huh?” Joe squeezed extra tight before he put you down, turning you in his arms and keeping you real close.

“You’re nice to look at,” you said sweetly, still grinning widely, nose nudging up at his. “If I could put you in a vase and arrange you all nice, I would.”

Joe snorted, and you felt it on your face.

“Hmm. You’re funny.”

You got kissed by soft lips that almost felt shy to kiss you.

“Don’t get me a vase.”

And then you got kissed a little harder. Bit more firm.

“I’ll get my own.”

“No,” you objected, speaking right into his mouth. “You’ll get a stupid one with like, frosted writing on, or something. Live, love, laugh.”

You felt Joe’s smile as he kissed you harder, both arms squeezing as they wrapped around your waist tighter. You sighed into Joe’s affection and took great comfort in the fact that you were alone. You were outside of your flat, which was still wild in your opinion, but at least you were alone.

Alone was good.

Joe’d gotten into the habit of showing affection when you were around others, around strangers, and you didn’t think you were ever going to get used to it.

The first time Joe reached to hold your hand, you’d nearly had a panic attack.

It wasn’t very cold, but the wind was cutting. Hurt your forehead as you walked and made you hunch as you pulled up your shoulders to shield yourself as best you could. Joe’s hand finding yours was a welcome warmth for your cold fingers, but it still made you fall silent as you tensed up.

Joe just held on for a few steps, and looked at you. You could see him stare from your peripheral, could feel the burn of it high up in your cheeks, and tried your best to ignore it.

“You can relax.” Joe humorously said, speaking softly and leaning in a little to make sure you could hear him.

“I am relaxed.” You immediately argued, because holding hands with Joe shouldn’t be weird. It should actually be normal. You tangled up with your full bodies more days than you didn’t when you shared a flat. If anything, Joe’s touches were exactly what turned you lax, all floppy and boneless.

“S’just cold.”

“Hmm,” Joe sounded unsure, very obviously not believing you, and squeezed your fingers a couple of times. When you didn’t smile, Joe let his own drop too, and asked if you were okay.

“Fine.” You reassured, growing a little defensive. If Joe could just stop talking about it, that’d be great.

“Should I– do you want me to let go?”

“No, it’s okay.” You said, sounding a little squeaky, but you doubled down with a squeeze of your own.

Joe took it, accepted it, albeit a little unsure if maybe he’d made the wrong move here. But you’d walked along, and you held hands, and when you fell into random conversation again, holding your hand became something Joe stopped thinking about. He absentmindedly rubbed his thumb along yours, and at one point used his grasp to pull you in front of him when you had to share a narrow bit of pavement with oncomers.

You weren’t like Joe.

Not for a single second had you been able to be as casual about it as Joe had been.

You focussed on your hand the whole while you walked, and couldn’t help but check to see if others were looking at it. If strangers that passed you looked down at your hands. To check if they could see. If they somehow knew that you’d never done this before.

You had.

But not like this. Not outside. Not in public.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to hold Joe’s hand, but there was something about this new phase you were in, where Joe walked over to yours to pick you up to go out for dinner together. Where he had to ring the doorbell and ask if he could quickly come up to use the toilet before you left. Where he pretended he didn’t know where the bathroom was and made you show him the way. Where he faked being anxious when you left your flat, saying that he hoped you liked the restaurant he booked a table at. Where he nervously asked if you liked Italian food, as if you hadn’t shared a million pizzas together.

Things were different now, and although you were close, would often do everything you could to dissolve into his skin, walking hand in hand through the streets of London felt insane. Like you were moving too fast, even though you understood how silly that sounded.

You’d spent that entire walk thinking of a natural reason to let go of his hand, and Joe had felt your fingers twitch. Felt how you seemed to change you mind about it every three seconds. But, you’d said he could hold onto you, so, he simply did.

It wasn’t until you reached the restaurant and used the heavy door as an excuse to wiggle your fingers from Joe’s hand, using both of yours to pull it open.

Baby steps, Joe thought as he smirked to himself, astonished that he’d gotten to hold your hand out in public for over ten minutes.

He was sure you’d slap him away the second he even attempted to intertwine your fingers together.

Which, coincidentally, was exactly what you did the first time Joe tried to lean in for a quick peck on the lips as you said goodbye to each other outside of his flat.

You’d been out, and were both in a bit of a rush to get home. You thought that the way you’d hugged his arm for a second was plenty goodbye. You’d pressed the side of your face to his bicep and said you’d see him later.

You’d reached the point where you wanted to go cross the street as Joe would walk the other way to get to his front door, and when you tried to step away, he yanked you right back by the elbow.

The way you recoiled away from him was so extreme, it startled Joe. You almost made it look like he was about to hit you.

“Jesus,” he mumbled under his breath, and you immediately apologised. You stepped back closer to him, were about to accept a quick kiss as an apology, but let your eyes nervously dart around to see if there were other people. If there were witnesses.

Joe just looked at you, blinked a few times and then, instead of leaning in for a quick kiss, squeezed you in your side.

“Calm down. Call me when you get home.”

And you’d blushed at how Joe’d smiled at you before he turned to head inside. Your face had remained hot until you got home where you then had to take a moment to shake all the nervous jitters from your body.

It was such a weird spot to be in, Joe thought.

How he couldn’t get too close if there was the slightest chance of someone seeing, but to have you literally whine at him inbetween his sheets if he didn’t touch you in the right spot with the right pressure at the right speed.

But steps were being made in the right direction.

You each had you own place now, and Joe made a point to sometimes not see you for a few days. He kind of enjoyed getting to miss you. He liked how his stomach did flips when you’d ring his doorbell after not having been over for a few days. He liked how absence made his heart grow fonder, and how that felt healthy.

Joe assumed you felt the same way; maybe you didn’t like it as much as he did, but surely you also understood how this was at least more normal.

He never thought that what the two of you were before was toxic.

It was just... weird.

Good weird.

But this was better.

Still a little weird, he wasn’t going to lie. But better.

He got to tell you to call him when you got home now. He got to invite you over to his flat for Sunday roast now. And you would then come and bring him flowers now.

Joe had never received flowers before. Well, maybe he had. But not like this. Not from a girl who brought them just for him. Just because. He kind of loved it. Kind of loved you.

“God, you were right.” Joe said, eyes unblinking, comfortably staring.

Both satisfied and full after an early dinner, the two of you laid out on Joe’s sofa - the one that took six weeks and then two more to arrive - and both looked at the bouquet up on the kitchen island. You were tucked into his side, with one of his arms slung around your frame. You held one of his hands with both of yours and absentmindedly played with his fingers.

 “I don’t know how this works but they kind of make the whole room look better.”

“They do.” You agreed, smiling, because you did that. You turned your head, tilting up to look at Joe’s face. “Please let me pick out a vase for you, though.”

Joe’s grin slowly grew as he said, “Absolutely not. Might just keep the pitcher for flowers only, I kind of like it.”

“Ugh,” you grimaced. “This is such a boy’s flat.”

“Well,” Joe started, raising his eyebrows, finally breaking eye-contact with the fresh bloom, tucking in his chin to look down at you. “I am a boy, so, that checks out.”

For a moment you just looked at each other, smiling, cuddled up into the corner like you always were cuddled up into the corner together. When you saw Joe flick his eyes down to your lips, you pulled the hand you were still holding closer to bite right into the skin between his index finger and thumb.

Joe pretended to flinch, but you were barely leaving marks as you smiled through the bite, big eyes looking up at him. Joe took a moment to just take you in. The way you looked at him had him biting his own lip before he tried to grab hold of one of your hands to pull into his mouth.

You were already scream-laughing and trying your best to pull your hand away before he even got close. It left you in a wrestling pile of limbs, Joe with his mouth open, growling and ready to bite at whatever got close enough. He ended up getting at bit of your sleeve in between his teeth, pinning you down into the soft seat-cushions and he felt drunk with joy.

He was so fucking happy.

Pretty girl in his flat, giggling away on his sofa, and she’d brought him flowers. It was kind of disgusting how he’d turned to goop on the inside.

Joe didn’t wait for your giggles to die out to get his lips on yours and kiss you silly.

There was something living inside Joe’s chest.

It was sticky and sugary sweet and Joe loved the taste it.

Loved how it bubbled over and leaked into his stomach.

Loved how it swirled into his limbs and made him reach for your hand to hold when you were walking outside.

Loved how it made him put his arm around your shoulders to pull you tightly into his side as you waited to get your coffees whilst the barista prepared them.

Loved how it grew as he took the lead on this new way of being together the way you had done before when you still lived together.

It made Joe want to introduce you to someone as his girlfriend, knowing full well that you hadn’t had that conversation yet, and that you’d likely have a melt down, but God.

It was just what he wanted to do, he couldn’t help it.

He wouldn’t.

There was a high probability that you’d actually murder him if he pulled a stunt like that.

The fact that you were kissing like this outside of your flat right now was already sort of stretching it, Joe knew.

You let Joe kiss you on his sofa for a minute. Let him slide his nose around yours with an open mouth that hovered over yours inbetween kisses. He made you work for it, having to lift up your head for more when he teased you for too long.

When you felt how Joe started readjusting his position on top of you, you knew you had to break it off.

“Hmm– Joe, no, I gotta–”

“Hm?”

“I gotta go, there’s– stop, there’s a potential flatmate coming over in a bit, I gotta– Joe!”

Joe finally broke away with an annoyed grumble leaving his throat as he did.

“Fine.”

“I can... I could always come back after?”

Joe shifted enough to let you escape the sofa.

“Hmm, you could, but I do have an early morning, so it’s probably not worth the trouble.” Joe sighed, lying back with an arm curled behind his head, watching you twist your clothes so it all sat right again.

“No?”

“I’ll probably be asleep by the time you make it back here.”

“Well,” you started, slinging your arms into your coat. “All depends on how long this is going to take. If it’s another 19-year-old trying to negotiate for a 30-70 rent split first thing, I’ll only be a second.”

“God, for your sake, I hope it’s not another student. But for my sake...” Joe made big eyes, giving you a suggestive look that broke into a smile when you laughed.

You gave Joe a last quick kiss as you bent over the sofa and told him you’d see him later, all casual.

Joe’s smile lingered as he watched you walk out.

“Call me when you get home!”

Yea... there was something living inside Joe’s chest.

And it was cuddly and fuzzy and comfortable and good...

For now.

---

The Taglisted

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taglist currently full, sorry

[the-californicationist]

Four Winds

AO3 was down and I panicked.

NSFW MDNI

"Fuck, Johnny. Your tight hole feels so bloody good. Takin' me so well. Good boy," Price groaned, slipping his rod into his sergeant's hole in quick, pounding thrusts, encouraging him as he straddled the captain's hips, his nose buried in his lieutenant's dense pubic hair, "Suck Riley's cock like that. Just like that."

Gaz was fucking Simon, and every time he thrust forward, Ghost's cock would slip deeper into the Scot's throat.

"You like watchin' Si getting fucked by Gaz's huge rod, don't you, Johnny? Yeah? You want me to fuck you like that, boy?" Price grunted as he pulled Johnny's hips down onto his shaft, spearing him over and over from below.

Johnny whimpered, his cries quieted by Ghost's fat dick, choking him with every throbbing pulse.

As Johnny rode Price's cock, the captain pressed him forward, bending him away, forcing him to show how his stretched hole was taking him. Then, just to make him whine again, Price fit his thumbs in on either side of his cock, pushing Soap past the point of his girth, making him feel so damn full.

Suddenly, as if spurred on by Johnny's muffled high-pitched screams of pleasure, Simon gripped him by his mohawk and held his mouth down on him, burying himself deeper, making his lover writhe for air. Price could feel his asshole clenching against him as he choked, struggling for a breath, whining and pleading for mercy.

Then, Price knew the lieutenant must have been filling the Scot's belly with warm come because Johnny stopped fighting, and his eyes gleamed with shining tears as he looked up at his tall, blond lover, swallowing his orgasm with each and every writhing squeeze.

Price didn't know how much more he could take. Gaz's thrusting rhythm was making Ghost rock forward, forcing Johnny to suck him down his throat, pressing him down onto Price's length deeper and deeper. It was heaven. He wanted to pump his pretty little Scottish sergeant so full it would be dripping out of him all night. He wanted to taste his gaping hole.

"Oh, fuck, Ghost! I'm gonna fuckin' blow," Gaz confessed, grabbing Simon by the neck and forcing his head to bend forward, hunching him over, giving his lengthy cock more access to his warm hole.

"Do it. Come in me, Garrick. Right fuckin' now," his lieutenant commanded, his eyes rolling white from the forcefulness of his sex.

Johnny fell back away from Simon's cock, drool shining on his lips, laying his back on Price's chest languidly, rubbing his own nipples and pinching them cruelly.

After coming all over his spread hole, Gaz knelt down beside Ghost, and they both began to lick Johnny's bouncing shaft, making him cry out in bright, loud shouts.

"Fuck! Oh, fuckin' hell. Dinnae stop, lads. Please! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph… Yer… yer gonna make me come. Oh, my God. Oh --"

Price watched as Johnny's cock bobbed up and down, flagging wildly from how the captain was fucking him, spraying his creamy, thick load all over his belly. Gaz and Ghost started licking it off of him. Price called down,

"Oi, Gaz. Give us a taste, yeah?"

Garrick did as he was told, swiping his hand up and down Soap's softening dick, collecting his liquid joy and brought it to his captain's mouth, letting him lap up the Scot's come from his wide palm.

"Cap'n… please," Johnny whispered, turning his head towards Price, "I wanna feel it… I wanna feel yer come in me, sir. Please…"

"Alright, mate," Price gripped Johnny around his throat and jaw, his big hand covering his mouth, "I'd say you've bloody well earned it."

Filling Soap with his dripping seed was so sweet. The sergeant took it so well, like he was made for it. And the noises that came from Price's throat were otherworldly. He was blinded by his pleasure, and he had never come so hard in his whole life. Everything was wet, and he wanted to drown in it.

After he was finished pulsing, Price shuddered as he slid out of Johnny's limp body, and his men joined him in a twisted, panting, cuddled pile of limbs and torsos, kissing and licking whatever skin they could find.

They could deal with the mess in the morning.

[erswrites]

notice you

summary: you’ve always loved xavier thorpe from a distance and jump in front of an arrow to save him. gender neutral pronouns <3

word count: 1.6k

warnings: mentions of blood and being wounded, some swearing

The wind and heat from the fire swirling around in the air pull you from the siren song's hold on your mind. The noise from the fight unfolding around you must have been louder than the siren’s message.

You blink a few times before realizing you’re in the quad, following a few of the people on your hall away from the courtyard.

You freeze when you see what you can only assume to be Joseph Crackstone resurrected from the dead among the flames with Wednesday. Your friends are calling to you from the door to your left, but you ignore them when you notice Xavier arrive in the doorway just a few strides away.

He releases the arrow from his bow and you follow it with your eyes to see Crackstone stop it before it reaches him and slowly rotate it back around towards Xavier.

There was no time to think. You can remember hearing your friends screams behind you as you took a step towards Xavier. Then another and another until you were running as fast as you could.

With your telekinesis, you push Wednesday out of the arrow’s path to safety. The last thing you remember thinking was if this kills me, at least I’m dying for the boy I love. You planted your feet square in front of Xavier, immediately feeling a sharp pain in your shoulder that knocks the wind from your lungs and warm blood spilling down your body.

Then your mind went black. When you came to, your back was pressed into Xavier’s chest and you were laying between his legs on the concrete. You must have fallen into him. His breathing was frantic against you and you felt his hands come to the arrow in your left shoulder. You winced in pain and heard a thousand panicked “oh my gods” and “sorrys” fall from his lips.

“Break it,” you whispered through gritted teeth, in pain. It was too deep to pull out, plus you were afraid of making the wound worse.

“Okay, okay,” he breathed in your ear before snapping the thin wood to shorten the arrow.

“Wednesday?” you manage to ask him. He knows what you mean. “She’s okay,” he whispers.

Xavier shifts behind you, using his hands on your back to lay you down gently. He leaves a large hand cradling under your head that silently says I’m not leaving as he calls out to your friend while he kneels next to you.

“Wednesday!” he yells.

“Get them out of here!” you hear Wednesday return.

And before you can protest, Xavier is lifting you off the group with one arm under your knees and the other around your back holding you to his chest. You probably could have walked but he didn’t stop to ask.

In the safety of his arms, your adrenaline wears off and your eyes become heavy as your vision blurs. You try mumbling something to him but you can’t get it out because you’re passing out.

——————

A consistent beep pulls you out of your sleep. You become aware that you’re alive before noticing the sound of a pencil being dragged across paper and a hand grazing over it.

Then you remember and you shift in the sheets of the hospital bed.

When you open your eyes, you see Xavier Thorpe leaned over you with an expression you’ve never seen in his green eyes.

“Welcome back,” he says quietly. You smile the best you can.

“The doctors said you’ll be fine after your stitches heal. They had to remove the arrow in surgery.”

You exhale the breath you’d been holding in. This might be the most words he’s ever said to you directly. And even in your current circumstance where you should obviously be more worried about the gaping wound in your shoulder, you can’t help the butterflies that erupt in your stomach at his proximity to you.

“I’m supposed to call the nurse the second you wake up,” he says, breaking you out of your thoughts.

“Will you wait?” you ask, “just a few minutes?”

“Yeah of course,” he says as he sits back down in the seat he’d pulled up inches from your bed.

You follow him with your eyes and notice dozens of drawings littering the table by your bed. He must have been here for hours. Long enough to steal a little notepad and pencil from the nurse’s station and bring every corner of the hospital room to life. You hope he’ll let you keep the one of the bouquet of flowers.

Your breath hitches when you notice there’s one of you with your face tucked into a book, reading intently. This is probably the only way he’s seen you. You realize you’re wrong when your eyes find another of you sitting with your gaze on to a desk, eyebrows dipped together in concentration. You’re scribbling notes with one hand while your chin is tucked into your other palm. One that looked like you standing in line at the Weathervane and another of you walking with Enid and Yoko. He had been trying to draw every memory he had of you.

A comfortable silence falls between you as you pray he won’t ask the obvious question you’ve been dreading since you took the first step in his direction back in the courtyard.

He whispers your name gently, bringing you back to the room and you know it’s coming.

“Why the hell did you do that?” he asks. Not accusatory or upset, but genuine and dumbfounded.

You close your eyes, too shy to meet his gaze when you answered.

“Come on Xavier, you know why,” you say as you sit up in the bed, wincing a little at the lingering pain.

It’s true, he’s noticed your glances and the way your cheeks flushed at the littlest thing he did or said. He lost track of the times he’d looked in your direction and caught you gazing at him from behind your book. You always complimented his mural in the quad or his drawings in class even though he feels like he’s never reciprocated the attention you give him. He actually can’t even think of a time he’s spoken to you individually and not in a group.

He blinks, a surprised expression painting his features, letting your words settle in his mind, confirming his suspicion. He exhales a long breath.

“Yeah, but jumping in front of me like that…” he trails off, still in shock that you would do something like that for him. “Why didn’t you just move the arrow instead of Wednesday?”

“It’s harder to focus on a moving object. I’m still learning that,” you explain, although that had actually not even occurred to you in the moment. Your brain went straight to protect. He must have been thinking about it a lot.

He nods in understanding. Another silence falls between you, this time a little more uncomfortable. You can feel a weird energy coming from him as it looks like he’s grappling with some thoughts.

“It’s okay Xavier,” you start, reaching a hand out to where his rested on the table by your bed trying to assure him, “you don’t have to feel the same.”

“Are you kidding?” he asks, eyebrows raised in astonishment. “You think I could watch you do something like that and then not immediately regret not noticing you sooner?”

You blush.

“I feel like an idiot,” Xavier says, dropping his head and lowering his gaze to his lap.

“No Xavier please don’t feel bad,” you plead. “I could have tried just talking you like a normal person you know.”

He laughs, bringing his head back up to meet yours.

“That was quite an unconventional way of getting my attention,” he jokes.

“It worked though,” you kid back at him, smiling to yourself.

Another silence lingers between you as you look at each other for what feels like the first time.

“Can I keep that?” you ask him, eyes gesturing to the drawing of the vase of flowers.

“You can have whatever you want,” he says confidently, handing you the scrap of paper. “I’ll get you some real ones one day.”

“I like these,” you smile at him.

“I’m sorry this is our first date,” he blurts out. Your shocked eyes dart to meet his green ones staring at you.

“And what makes you think I would have said yes to a date?” you joke with him, a feeble attempt to deflect. You’re finding it way easier to talk to him than you ever imagined previously.

“Hmm, maybe the jumping between me and an arrow thing,” he quips, bringing his finger to point at your bandaged up shoulder.

You smile and nod, admitting defeat.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you on our second date,” Xavier begins and you believe him. “But since we have a lot of time here before they let you go, I could go get us some coffees and you’ll let me ask you all the typical first date getting-to-know-you questions while we wait?”

“I’d love that,” you say breathlessly.

Xavier nods and gives you his toothy side smile that you’ve always adored.

“Okay, I’ll be right back then,” he says quickly, standing from his chair.

But when you expected him to turn and go, he stops and looks at you for a few moments. You can’t believe it when he leans in to your space and presses his lips gently against your cheek. Your eyes close with his kiss and you inhale a deep breath.

“Thank you,” he whispers into your ear before pulling away.

You can’t find words when he glances at you before leaving, but your adoring eyes are filled with you’re welcome and I would do it again and I love you and Xavier finally sees that.

—————

thank you for reading 🖤

[ghcstao3]

au where soap teaches swim lessons at a local recreation centre that joseph attends.

normally it’s tommy or beth dropping him off, of course—but there comes a time when they’re both busy, and simon happened to be home from leave, so they ask if he’s alright to be put up to the task. he’d do absolutely anything for joseph, so of course he says yes.

usually, parents of joseph’s age group will just drop off their child and leave for the duration of the lesson. ghost, on the contrary, sticks around because he has nothing better to do, and he can see the excitement in joseph’s face when they get to the centre and his nephew runs off to get ready, so he thinks it worthwhile to stay.

that opinion is only solidified when he sees soap.

when ghost finds a place on the bleachers and glances around to look for joseph, he sees the kid standing in a group surrounding their instructor, and lord. the blinding smile the instructor offers, the red mesh jersey that clings to strong, swimmer’s arms and shoulders—ghost can’t tear his eyes away.

safe to say he isn’t really watching the lesson itself. and with an irritated sort of realization, notices he’s not the only one among relatives to have an eye on the instructor. figures.

the lesson comes to an end and joseph rushes up to ghost just as ghost provides him with his towel, finally glad to have a distraction from the lifeguard. joseph chats animatedly about what he learned and ghost nods along, happy to listen.

until he’s sending his nephew off to go get changed and there’s a sudden tap on his shoulder that has his instincts flare up, and does his best to keep calm as he whirls around—to see, lo and behold, soap.

“you must be joseph’s uncle?”

ghost blinks, wide-eyed and internally panicking. the kid must’ve told soap about him, then.

“i am. why?”

soap just shrugs, that warm smile resting easy on his face. “just wanted to say hi, make sure joseph wasn’t going home with some stranger. he talked quite a bit about you.”

ghost tries to keep an air of calm, but fails miserably. “i don’t see him a lot, with work. that’s all.”

soap hums. “right.” there’s something almost… mischievous about his expression that ghost can’t quite place. “well, i do hope you’ll be back again next week. never seen him so talkative.”

ghost desperately wills the heartbeat in his chest to quit climbing to his throat. he does still have a few more weeks of his leave—it could very well still be a possibility.

he offers a stilted nod, feeling unnaturally nervous so close within soap’s presence. he’s thankful for the medical mask in place to hide most of his furious blush.

“i’ll try,” he manages.

and try and succeed he would—but not without incessant teasing from his brother and sister-in-law when he asks about dropping joseph off again.

(and even more teasing when he does land a date with soap before that same leave ends.)

[rogueddie]

Why does it feel like, as soon as they decided on Joseph Quinn, the Duffers immediately started panicking, like they knew? Like;

"oh shit, oh no, get rid of the nail bat quick, fuck, add more rivalry, come on quick, write stancy or something. he'll improvise another bathroom coming out scene or something just look at- oh god get him away from joe keery. what the hell are they doing? why are they giving each other heart eyes? oh shit, oh fuck"

[heli0s-writes]

Sweet

A/n: You know how sometimes when you’re having a breakdown and nothing is helping but then something completely unrelated and stupid just does it for no reason. This is that. With pot brownies and kissing. Bucky is recovering and reader is an moron with a heart of gold. Angst, hurt/comfort, humor. Reader/Bucky. 3k words Warnings: Marijuana use; conversations about trauma, particularly food-related; language.

-

The path leading away from the cabin is littered with wet patches of morning. Rime colors of miserable winter in sludge grey are starting to be overtaken by sprouts of green, yellow, and brisk dew, springtime optimism come to life.

Pepper’s got the front of her house looking like a farmer’s market flower stand. Pots of tulips and daffodils explode up the steps and tri-color ribbons connecting porch-light to porch-light. The magnolia tree is soon to bud, and she’s hung hummingbird feeders and birdhouses all around.

When the cars start rolling in for the quarter-yearly potluck, you hang out near the garden, rocking back and forth on your feet. You'd shown up early but didn’t know what to do around a toddler, so outside it was.

The familiar Range Rover halts to a stop, Sam’s door opening as he makes his way out, holding ceramic handles of an enormous crockpot.

You call, “Bring your famous chili?”

“Damn right, I did,” he beams, “you bring your appetite?”

You waggle your eyebrows before looking to the SUV he hopped out of, Steve lingering by the back door with a brown paper box tucked beneath his arm, knocking on the heavily tinted windows with a long-suffering sigh. “C’mon, Buck. Up and at ‘em.”

A loud, decisive knock thumps back at him and Steve rolls his big, pitiful, puppy dog eyes in your direction. Beneath the blue of his left orbital is what looks suspiciously like the fading ochre stain of either an almost healed bruise or a newly forming one, which only makes Steve’s silent call for aid more pathetic and urgent.

Damn, okay. Since you’re kind of on thin ice already, this could go one of two ways.

Sliding up, you crack your knuckles.

“Barnes,” you call, “I got something illegal for you. Wanna see?”

“Dead body.” He responds from behind the still shut door, and you’re not sure if that’s a question. Steve glares at you accusatory, as if you’d actually bring a dead body to a potluck, good grief.

“Uh, no.”

“Knife.”

Steve shoots you another look—which is just ridiculous at this point, the both of them.

“Knives aren’t illegal.”

“Depends.”

Steve shifts the box of what looks to be cherry turnovers and mouths phrase day, which means that Barnes decided to stop talking in complete sentences sometime between when he woke up and probably when Steve over-crowded him and is now reducing all communication to two or three words as both a method of punishment for Steve and self-preservation for Barnes.

“It’ll make you feel better,” you urge, “Loads better.”

“Sex.” He rolls down the window just enough for you to get a glimpse of his eyes, narrowed and steely. “Drugs?”

You mouth bingo, outrightly ignoring the fact that it feels like Bucky Barnes nearly solicited you for sex, and Steve puts his hand over his own face, about to quip until he realizes that he’s probably said too much already—which is what got him in this predicament to begin with—and simply drags himself toward the house.

Barnes watches him go wordlessly before he opens the door and steps out, looking down at you, lightly shivering in the cold, and says, still one-worded, “Okay.”

-

He pops three brownies into his mouth and chews, opening just enough to get out a muffled, “too sweet” before returning to grinding down like he’s cracking pecan shells in there.

“I know you have like,” you make panicked motions with your fingers, snapping the red Tupperware lid back down frantically, “hella metabolism, but pump the brakes or you’re going to flip.”

“Flip,” he concludes, determined. He squirrels about two more in before you can do anything about it.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I was going to let you take those home later—oh my god, I’m going to get into so much trouble.”

The two of you are stopped at one of those cutesy stone birdbaths around the perimeter, leaning on the lip as Barnes licks remaining chocolate off his fingers, looking as pleased as punch. As much as he can look, anyway, you think, since you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him smile at anything other than the time Steve stubbed his toe bad enough on Tony’s kitchen island that he doubled over. 

“Did you say sex earlier?” You suddenly remember the flash of silver from the darkness of the SUV. “Wait, actually, I wanna go back even before that—did you really think I’d have a dead body?”

He shrugs.

“Cool,” you reply, “cool, cool, cool, cool. I think I should be more concerned, but you know what, I like it. Feels like a vote of confidence.”

A wide grin stretches across your face and you temporarily forget that Bucky fucking Barnes has eaten about half a pan of brownies with 25 grams of pot baked into them, that in about 15 minutes you’re both expected to sit down like normal people and have a nice dinner without anyone doing… whatever it is that he might do when he’s blazed to high heaven.

You shake the thought of Steve’s disappointment out of your head. Maybe it’d be best to keep acting natural, get him into some kind of headspace.

“So,” you whistle, “what’d you bring to the potluck?”

He gives you a sidelong stare and if there were Olympics for how someone can convey eat shit and die without moving anything but their eyes, he’d win every 8 years for the rest of his unnaturally long life.

“Well, I brought myself,” you curtsy, starting back down the trail again, figuring that you’ve got five minutes walking forward before it’d be time to turn back to the house, “and your present,” to which he gives you a short nod, “and an empty stomach. You excited for Sam’s chili?”

“Spicy.”

“Spicy?” you recoil, suddenly finding the prospect of a man who gave Captain America a black eye last week or possibly this morning—the monster who ate half of your most lethal bake—panting and sweating over a bowl of chili astoundingly inconceivable.

“Oh wait, you live with Rogers. What’s he feeding you at home? Steamed chicken?”

“Baked.”

You sigh, “God, you’re fucked. Nat brought something with Carolina Reaper infused honey glaze. Barnes... we’ll have to do a prayer circle for your ass.”

His face twists into a look of disgust before he starts to notice his lips, pressing them together, pulling them apart. After a few more motions like he’s discovering his body, bit by bit, he turns to you, and announces, “Feeling it.”

You laugh, jealous, because although you had a bite about 30 minutes before he even arrived, the brownie hasn’t hit you yet. “Good,” you say anyway, “that’s good, right?”

He only apathetically regards a sparrow flying past. You suppress a chortle when Barnes repeatedly licks his lips and rubs at the sleeves of his sweater.

“Have you ever been high before?” You correct, “In the fun, recreational, consensual way?”

Another listless shrug before he turns his head. You push yourself off a nearby log and make a show of stomping through haphazard piles of sticks and dead leaves, curling your fingers in a come along motion.

He follows, boots crunching, steps short and patternless, making a racket behind your back. He looks like a kid, fingers tucked up into his long sleeves, bouncy knees as he attempts to splash into every puddle as he possibly can before catching up. He’s almost got a grin when he looks at you, remembering where he is again, and there’s a light brush of color along the tops of his cheeks from the chill.

Around a small bend in the path, you duck under a branch, hop over a stone, and when you land back on both feet, the ground wobbles just enough to notice.

The air smells nice. Your eyelids feel heavy in a good way.

“Steve really piss you off this morning, didn’t he?”

Barnes lands a couple of feet away, his face dropping into an exhausted expression at the question, which you can’t fault him for because Steve’s a lot of things. Simple things, on the surface, but Barnes has known him longer than most anyone else and you imagine all of his noble qualities—his longstanding patience and willpower and belief in the goodness in everything and everyone—you imagine that shit gets old.

Hell, it gets at you on occasion, and you’re not even the brainwashed best friend who’s probably hearing a hundred voices in his head and is too tired to hear one more no matter how well-intentioned it might be.

Sometimes, being inundated by language just breaks it all back into foreign, incomprehensible script. And sometimes, being exceedingly plied with something you can’t make any sense of makes you turn inward, makes you bare your teeth in self-defense.

Which makes you realize you probably should ease up, too, talk less, but then he takes a long step with his ridiculous legs and is by your side, walking as if you two do this all the time.

“He’s a fixer.” Bucky’s brows are scrunched together, hands buried in his pockets. You nod quickly, not wanting him to go into any more detail than that because it’s not news that the entire population is still wary of Bucky Barnes’ re-emergence as a United States citizen when he was, up until very recently, a—uh, Russian one.

This, obviously, puts many things at odds with each other, including Steve, who is Mr. United States himself. The Avengers, too, who are mostly Team United States, considering the location and overwhelming population. But most of all, Bucky, who is still cobbling together bits and pieces of his life each day, is faced with the knowledge that everyone in the world knows more about him than he does.

You rub the back of your neck sympathetically because that shit would kill your heart so fast.

“You know what.” You shake the Tupperware at him, “Have the rest of these. You deserve it. And like, a million hugs.”

He barks a laugh, gladly gulps down the rest, and there’s a dapple of fudge on his chin looking so silly and sweet as he chews.

Ah, shoot. You avert your gaze, feeling very bad ideas break out up your arms and neck, and the shudder that is about to overtake you seems less about Barnes’ sweet face and more about Steve’s disappointed one. Like, he’s going to read your mind and know you’re having ideas about his best friend. And he’s going to do that thing where his eyebrows drop and his lips press together as he attempts to hold back a few choice words. Until later, probably, when he corners you somewhere and unleashes them anyway.

What were you thinking?, he’ll hiss. Are you capable of thinking rationally?

“What?” Barnes prods. “What is it?”

“Nothin’” you take a leap forward, herding the both of you back. The closer you are to the cabin the more you’ll remember that you’re at a family event, with friends, who should all stay in the friend territory.

But you blurt anyway, “You said sex earlier!” Because you’re a whole ass idiot.

He makes a small noise, says, “Yeah,” like that’s any help.

“Are you…” what the fuck, your head is spinning, “like, in… need of some?” Your face feels hot.

“Maybe. My body is…” he frowns, so weirdly open right now, and then he looks at you with half is face in a weary grin, the other half lost and confused. “Responding to stimuli in ways I haven’t— responded to in... Trying to fix it. Steve wants me to be fixed.”

He tilts his face to the sky, glaring at it. “Can’t get it out.”

You’re trying to force your rabbiting heart down to a manageable pace. You’ve never had any in-depth discussions with him about anything, much less his sex drive. The most interaction the two of you get is the occasional mission or get-together where you crack jokes and get shitfaced when the job’s done. You’ve been told you’re sort of a pain and haven’t given a fuck too much to change that.

You’re sort of in trouble right now, having been “irrational” during the last mission, running across the iced lake instead of taking the planned route and falling in. It ended up working out, since you got to the enemy helicopter before the enemies, but then there was the stabbing because you were sort of outnumbered and the pneumonia afterwards because you fell into the fucking lake…

There was a massive chewing out. Steve and his many, disappointed words.

Something about motor-mouths and low-object permanence but sure, good on the inside when it counts.

You hope this is one of those times where it counts.

“Listen,” you start. “Take as long as you need, there’s no rush on recovery and pushing yourself too hard is detrimental to your health. It’s not a straight line.”

“I hit him.”

Your wheeling brain is making a sharp left, trying to figure out where Barnes is driving toward. Oh. The black eye.

“Aw, Steve?” You wave your hand, swatting nothing. “He’s a big boy.”

“I’m hungry. Then I’m not.”

“I mean, that sounds normal—“

“No, a lot. Fast. Cyclical. Endless.”

It must be his metabolism adjusting. The realization of his relationship with food comes fast, almost visceral. Scarce when he was young, then rationed during the war before it was taken from him altogether. He was given the bare minimum with Hydra—protein slurry, tube-fed—then purged—stomach pumped—before being put on ice.

For decades.

Starvation must have truly felt endless.

And now with food being a surplus, with his body readjusting to it, yet his mind still struggling with habits—it must be so confusing. Another seemingly natural function to be confused about.

“Ah,” you manage, a lump in your throat like a blockade.

“I get nightmares.” He’s glaring at his hands, one flesh, one metal, opening and closing his fist like trying to get a grip on himself, and his voice is so small and pained. “These thoughts. All sorts. Can’t sleep.”

You extend your hands, shake off the dry sob that wants to erupt from your chest, and declare with flourish, “On the fourth day, God made Purple Kush, and it was good. So, we can—we can fix that.”

He takes another one of those long looks, through his lashes, lips quirked in quiet humor.

“You’re not really a fixer.”

He shakes the container of crumbs in your face.

You gasp, snatching it back in offense. “I can fix… some things! I replaced the utility light in the kitchen yesterday!“

Your cheeks are hot, face twitching like a broken screen because all you can think about is how handsome he is, out here like this, nose blushing, eyes lazy and crescent shaped, the heavy creases beneath them less pained and more relaxed.

And how he’s teasing you—- and he’s kind of a little shit.

“You fucker,” you say.

He grins—all big and silent, and for a second you count your blessings that he’s not going to say anything else shitty until he quips, “Not unless you’re offering.”

He’s staring at you intently, a curious expression winding its way up his face. His eyes are huge and blue and the most alert, glazed-over, pair of bloodshot, redder-than-the-devil’s-dick eyes you’ve ever seen on anyone stoned halfway to the moon.

His tongue darts out, sweeps a slow, careful line over the width of his bottom lip, practically asking, and you’re just the simple idiot who openly gawks at him.

“Ah,” you nod. “Yeah you’re definitely right. I’m—“ you gulp, “more of a fuck-up.”

Because what’s another fuck up to add onto the long-running list of fuck ups you’ve had recently, anyway? Kissing Barnes might count as a really serious one, sure, but at least it’s not pneumonia.

It’d make him feel better, probably, it’d make him feel something, at least. Steve would appreciate that, if Barnes came to the dinner table verbal, maybe even laughing. No one has to tell Steve that his best pal kissed your face off in the woods.

The idea of your face being kissed off is doing a number on you. The idea of Bucky Barnes, this gorgeous, miserable, godly, tragic contradiction, your at-arm’s-length teammate, your quickly-becoming friend, kissing your face off because he needs to feel something soft in the midst of the rest of the horrible, jagged things he already feels every second of his life—and he can get it from you.

You’re stupid and simple and how could anyone say no to that? So you take one last second to steel your heart, push forward, and lean in.

It’s, frankly, bizarre.

He kisses you gently, fantastically, inconsistently, wavering from assured one second to apprehensive the next, like he remembers how but can’t quite execute.

You meet him where you can, respond to the parting of his lips with your own, adjust to his tension with grace, and when he starts feeling like he’s getting the hang of it, like muscle memory has  finally settled into his body, you let him lead.

One hand finds the base of your skull, the other placing itself on your waist. His kisses grow greedy, like he remembers desire is a thing that occurs to him. He tilts his head down, kisses up like he wants to swallow every sigh between your lips, like he’s hungry for the sounds you make—and you’re making, embarrassingly, a lot of them. He’s good—dominant but kind, mouth wide, lips full, tongue cocoa-sweet and clever as it strokes yours again and again.

When he backs you up into a tree, you barely register it. His hand has moved to cushion your head, and he’s urging his entire body forward into yours, grip tight at your hipbone, moving his mouth to your jaw, then your neck, and you stutter a string of letters that refuse to make words.

Barnes is expertly sucking marks beneath your collar, right beneath the neckline, his breath hot and coming out in a near snarl and when he scrapes his teeth down, sinking them into the soft skin of your chest, you yelp loud enough to send a few birds scattering from the trees.

He jumps off like he’s burned you, eyes frantic, afraid.

“No—” you clear your throat, hands out, “Hold on.”

He’s blinking, head clearing, head trying to assess what he’s done, the situation, the pulled loose neckline, the wet shine of his spit up your throat.

“S-sorry—”

“No, don’t be sorry.” You give him his distance but take a small step forward. “That was hot. But,”

He blinks, confused, and this whole thing could easily go pear-shaped, your well-intentioned explanation might turn into unintelligible speech at any moment, but you have to try or else he’ll tailspin into catastrophe, and you suddenly feel so sorry for Steve, the poor fuck who’s doing this every day, clinging onto the hope that what he’s saying doesn’t set Bucky off, doesn’t push his boulder back downhill.

He's still stuttering sorry, starting to pace.

“Listen,” you say firmly, clipping your own panic, “that was wow, let me tell you. But if you don’t stop, I’m going to like— hotwire a car.”

Somehow this stops him in his tracks, “What?”

“Well, I didn’t drive here. Because you know, I was going to like, get really shitfaced.”

“What?”

“Yeah, and like, take you to a hotel or something.”

He frowns, obviously completely lost. “Why?”

It’s your turn to be lost. Both of you open-mouthed and panting at each other like two dumb dogs chasing each others’ tail in an ouroboros of idiocy.

“Huh? What do you mean why? You just tongue-fucked me, do you think I’m immune to getting on my knees for that?”

Now you can see it happening—the incomprehensible speech like a marquee as it runs across Barnes’ brain. Tongue-fuck, immune to getting on my knees. He doesn’t understand any of that, and god bless any soul who can. What language are you even speaking right now other than hot-brained, hot-skinned, hot-hearted to him, who’s still struggling to defrost?

“Never mind,” you redact, “ignore that.” You put your hands on his shoulders to ground yourself, vaguely thinking that maybe you shouldn’t touch him but the firm slap of your palms seems to break him out of his new trance. “Can we kiss again, later?”

He blinks, staring at you, at your hands on him, at your lips all swollen up.

“Yes.”

You sigh, relieved and thankful that other than you, no one’s freaking out, that your plan to get Bucky Barnes high worked out after all, and that he has agreed to make out later because he’s really, really good at it.

“Wonderful. Let’s go back now? Are you ready?”

He mulls it over and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “Sure, but I’m not eating chili.”

“Well, you’re in luck, there’s plenty of chicken.”

He grimaces, cuts a sharp look up to you before a twinkle settles in his blue, blue eyes. “Okay,” he agrees, “guess we should do a prayer circle for my ass.”

You clap your hands together and recite Our Father.

-

“It was sex, wasn’t it?”

Sam’s got one hand over his belly, snickering. Everyone else looks your way, gullible, scandalized, and you can’t blame them since the two of you were gone an awfully long time and came back extremely disheveled.

Bucky had walked in dutifully behind you, wiped off his boots, sat down at the dinner table, and asked for seconds saying please and thank you and he even threw in a that was delicious just to watch Steve’s head explode.

And Bucky, who you’ve come to realize is genuinely a shit— still one-worded and knowing full well the repercussions of his one word— only shrugs and responds, “Yes.”

The room erupts into shouting as you throw a buttered roll at his head. He catches it easily and brings it up to his grinning mouth, shimmer of spit glossy and fantastic on his lips.

[shares-a-vest]

all the recent pictures of joseph quinn have me thinking about eddie cutting his hair and steve having FEELINGS about the cute little curls.

Steve is jiggling his keys in the sticky front door when it opens from the inside where Nancy is standing. The move unknowingly yanks him forward, sending him stumbling inside.

Why is Nancy in the apartment mid-afternoon on a Friday?

"Nance!" he chokes and promptly frowns, "What happened?"

"Umm," she hums and closes her mouth in a half smile, half grimace.

He shucks his bag off and dumps it at his feet, completely panicked, mind racing as he insists, "What happened!"

"Well…"

And that's when he catches the scissors in her left hand, light bouncing off them from the bright lighting in the building's hallway.

"What did you do!" he screeches.

"Eddie might have called me yesterday telling me he had officially decided he wanted me to cut his hair," the words tumble out of her mouth, almost entirely as a single word that she punctuates with a toothy grin and worried brows.

Steve charges inside, eyes darting around the apartment as his heart pounds.

Robin is sitting on the lounge reading a magazine and barely looking up as she gives a nonchalant, "Hey, Dingus."

He places his hands on his hips, "Hey! Hey? Rob, how could you have let this happen!"

Robin flaps a page of the magazine and stands, "Wow, sounds totally normal for you to be controlling your boyfriend's body, Steve."

She tosses the magazine (a fucking men's hair magazine) on the coffee table and walks to him, giving a condescending pat on the shoulder as she smirks.

"But his hair!" he argues, as if his hair hysteria makes total sense.

"He looks good," Nancy chimes and Robin nods in agreement.

"Hey, Steve."

He spins around to find Eddie standing in the kitchen, hair short and impossibly curled up. He taps his fingers on the counter where off-cuts sit in a fluffy pile that could easily be mistaken for their cat.

"H-Hey," Steve splutters, giving a wiggly-fingered wave.

He stares as Eddie runs his fingers through his new haircut.

"Your mousse made it curlier than we were expecting," Nancy explains, sounding almost apologetic. But she doesn't have to be, like, at all.

Eddie raises his hands above his head, balling them into fists in frustration, "He doesn't like it!"

He looks between the girls, eyes wide as saucers and beginning to glisten.

Oh shit - Steve is still staring. Gawking. All slack-jawed even.

"No, no, no! Eds, I-I do!" he promptly rushes to Eddie and cups his reddening cheeks, "It's just… different s'all."

Robin gives a hearty scoff and Steve ignores her, refusing to listen to whatever quip she mutters to a giggling Nancy. He doesn't care that the pair find him and Eddie to be sickly lovebirds who never left the honeymoon stage of their relationship. He looks Eddie over, trying to read his mind to get a sense of anything else that might have influenced his decision.

"You sure nothing else is worrying you?" he continues, chewing at his bottom lip, for once wishing he had El's powers, "Remember when you were going to tell Wayne we wanted to move out and instead of telling him you dyed your hair blue? Or at least, tried to," he chuckles, "And Henderson and Claudia had to come over with their toxic concoction of cleaning supplies to get the stains off every surface in the kitchen?"

Eddie buries his face in the crook of his neck, snickering, "Nothing else. Promise, Stevie. I just wanted a change."

Steve soothes his hands over his back, his fingers gathering up loose strands of hair. He reaches up to his neck, massaging there too and feeling the hair at the nape of Eddie's now-exposed neck, the fresh ends slipping easily through his fingers.

Eddie detaches himself, keeping him at arm's length as he adds, "I was starting to feel like a bit of a has-been, anyway."

"Well, I don't like that part of it at all," Steve frowns, petting the curls at the front that were once Eddie's brow-hitting bangs.

He grimaces as that nagging part of his brain he has never been able to shirk (some combination of his mother's vanity and a built-in bitchiness) zeroes in on Eddie's possibly receding hairline. Steve shakes his head, willing away such a shallow thought as he cups his hands over Eddie's exposed ears, shifting to worrying about the upcoming winter and how his ears will most certainly get cold.

But Nancy did a good job. Great, in fact. She even applied the mousse properly so it isn't making Eddie's hair all tacky and clumped together. It is cut evenly too. Although Steve might need to use the electric razor to clean up around Eddie's sideburns a little.

Eddie looks impossibly cute like this, perhaps more than he ever did when he tied his hair up (the very first time sending Steve into cardiac arrest). His cheeks look rounder, more cherubic. And when those dimples inevitably come out, it will be an unholy combination...

God help Steve.

"Should we get going?" Robin wonders aloud.

It makes Steve jump - he had forgotten they weren't alone. Eddie barks a laugh and manhandles him into turning around to face the girls. Nancy points to herself, her other hand defiantly propped on her hip.

"I need to get paid."

Eddie hushes up demands of payment as quickly as possible, grumbling away as he gives Nancy some cash he had apparently retrieved from the bank and hidden in their sock drawer two weeks ago. He had promised to buy her a dress at a swanky boutique she had been eyeing, even though Nancy complained that he wasn't going with her to buy it. Even years later, the pair were inseparable shopping partners, a duo that could easily give Steve and Robin a run for their (in this case literal) money.

Steve can't help it, as soon as Eddie shuts the front door, he pounces, knocking them both into the coat stand as he peppers kisses onto the back of his neck.

"So you do like it?" Eddie laughs, stumbling around to steady them while Steve wraps his arms around his middle.

"Absolutely!"

Eddie manages to turn around despite the tight hold on him, smiling in that lethal way that showcases his dimples.

And yeah, Steve is most definitely a goner.