#reader inserrt

[husbandograveyard]

Helloooo Hazel!

Thank you so much for writing my last request, I've been swooning so much over it and all the other things you're feeding us with (´⌣`ʃƪ)

Could I humbly ask for another one, unless you're completely flooded by them? If you feel like writing him, could I get K (Kisses) with Obito from the smutty alphabet, please?

Thank you so much! ♡

Providing some Uchiha love while I wait for an Uchiha to be permanently inked into my skin seems like such a fitting way to spend the time. Thank you Lale for your kind words, I hope you enjoy this! <3

2nd person. GN reader. Minors DNI.

K - Kisses - What do their kisses taste like, how passionate are they? Do they build up? How do they kiss you to set the mood? 

Obito’s kisses are warm, and taste comforting, like homemade food that reminds you of your childhood. They are surprisingly tender, especially at first, and make you weak in the knees, no matter how often you have kissed before. The buildup is pretty fast whenever he is in the mood. Passionate open-mouthed kisses with a certain tenderness, that increase in pressure as he places his hands on your back and pulls your body into his. He gets needy, almost clingy, needing as much of his body as possible to press into yours. It’s pretty clear early on what his intentions are.

If you respond in kind, he’ll move to your cheek, briefly, slowing down for a second to place some softer kisses there, before moving onto your jawline and neck, continuing the same kisses from your lips all over your sensitive spots. He knows your body very well and knows exactly where to kiss to get you going. By the time he reaches your collarbones, and his teeth have been grazing your skin on multiple spots, you’re already well on your way to the bedroom.

This is part of my AB(C)-Day event! Click here to join!

[justkending]

Mr. & Mrs. Hunt (Chapter 1)

Mini-Series Summary: Two of the most stubborn people in the group partnered together for an undercover mission are also the two people with the most hatred for each other, so what could go wrong? Or is it, what COULDN’T go wrong?…

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger Reader

Word Count: 2700+

A/N Note: OK! Here we go! I'm excited to share this mini-series and what's to come in it. It's a lot more in-depth than I thought it would be, but I love it. I hope you do as well :) Anyway! As always, please let me know what you think, and all comments are welcome!

_____________

“And you chose those two to go on a task together?” Steve exasperated, running a hand over his face as he looked over the video footage in front of them.

“Everyone else was on a mission,” Tony exclaimed. 

“That and it doesn’t matter what their petty vendettas against each other are. They’re professionals at the end of the day that better get their God damn acts together before I personally make them regret it,” Fury countered. 

“Undercover newlyweds seems like a risky assignment for them,” Nat added. “Steve and I have done it before. We can-”

“No, you can not,” Fury cut them off and clicked a button on his desk that swapped the video footage of druglords to a file slowly scrolling. “You both have an assignment I’m sending you in the next hour in correlation to this case. So without your work, theirs is pointless. Got it?”

Nat and Steve shared a quick look before the blonde gave him a curt nod for him to continue. 

Fury went on to explain how an insider of the criminal group had confirmed shipments, including hostages working as drug mules and other illegal substances that hadn’t been tested yet across US borders. A whole operation in itself, but Bucky and Y/N’s job would give them information the current insiders they had on the job weren’t able to attain. 

Y/N and Bucky’s undercover assignment was to act as newlyweds, infiltrate the front runners of the group, and try to become a proven alliance in hopes of joining the group in their ‘business’.

“So we’re on standby with information until they have leads to help our end?” Steve concluded. 

“Yes. And vice versa. You’re running tactical, and they’re running intelligence, although a mix in between,” Fury nodded, handing them a paper copy of the mission.

“And it can’t go the other way?” Nat asked. 

“Your faces have become much too well known in the last few years for it to be passable,” Tony added, arms crossed and reclined in the rolling office chair he couldn’t see to keep stationary. “Bucky doesn’t care for the public eye and has changed appearances since his run from the government, and no one can forget America’s sweetheart over here,” he motioned to Steve.  

“I’ve changed identities enough to get by,” Nat shrugged, watching the brunette carefully. 

“Yes, but Y/N’s face hasn’t graced the nationwide flatscreens nearly as much as yours,” he smiled spryly and fluttered his eyelashes. “Plus, it’s already been decided, so we’re moving on from the argument.”

“How long of an operation are we talking about here if the two have to create a relationship with the front runners of this?” Steve asked.

“Depends on how well the couple can sell it,” Fury crossed his arms. “Speaking of the couple.”

“Shove me again, and you’ll lose another limb that you’ll miss far more than that arm,” Y/N growled as she pushed past the massive body blocking her way into the meeting room. 

“There’s a thing called manners, and it’s free to use them,” Bucky grunted as she shoved him with surprising strength that made him slightly teeter. 

 The group outside of the new additions gave each other a hopeless look. 

“I give it two days,” Steve sighed, resting his head on his fist and watching them as they struggled to find the last open chair. Y/N came on top of the scrabble and shoved him again for extra measures. 

“Jackass,” Bucky mumbled as he leaned against the wall behind her, kicking her chair in extra annoyance. 

“Bitchass,” Y/N retorted, throwing a middle finger behind her. 

“I think you give them too much credit,” Nat let out a dry chuckle before turning to Fury. “Please, break the news to the two idiots so I can have a highlight of this night.” 

“What news?” Y/N furrowed her eyebrows to Fury. She was one of the few people who didn’t show fear towards the walking intimidation of a man. 

“Your next mission,” Tony answered in a long breath. “Where you and Barnes will be known as Mr. and Mrs. Hunt.”

“Excuse me?” Bucky gawked and stood straighter in his spot.

“What’s the date today?” Y/N asked at the same time. 

Bucky came around from her back and gave her a worried yet disgusted look. “I’m sorry. For what reason are you worried about the date?”

She never took her eyes off Fury. “I’m just trying to clarify if it’s April 1st or not because this is a poorly done April Fools joke,” she held an equally intimidating stare at the master in front of her. 

“It’s June. You’re off by a few months,” he replied, unphased and unbreaking. 

“Then I’d like some clarification on who needs a fucking lobotomy, considering that’s the dumbest fucking idea I’ve heard today. And I’ve been around this dumbass for the last 12 hours already,” she jabbed a finger back at Bucky, whose nostrils were flaring. 

“Real classy, Princess,” he said lowly. 

“Thanks, I like to keep it that way, Cyborg,” she replied without turning to him. “But seriously, is it you, Fury, that needs a Psych eval because there is no way in hell you thought this idea would actually work out in your favor.”

The room was silent as the two most intense people in the room had a stare-down. Eventually, Fury spoke up with a smirk on his lips. 

“You better figure the fuck out how to make it work in my favor because any other way isn’t really an option for you, Sergeant Y/L/N.” 

Before Y/N could fire another remark that would likely have put anyone else six feet in the ground, Bucky cut her off. “What’s the mission?”

Y/N finally gave Bucky her attention with a stern face freckled with annoyance. “Teacher’s pet.” Bucky made a face at her before she turned around. 

Fury went on to explain the mission on both their end and Nat and Steve’s. From the sounds of it, it was going to take months of convincing some dicks in the drug trafficking business (covering as presidents of the homeowner association club) that they wanted in on their scheme in order to get the information no one else seems to be able to steal.

“How many sundresses do you own, Y/N? Because I don’t think your rock band, ripped jeans, and Doc Martens are going to convince anyone you’re the baked-you-a-fresh-pie-as-a-hello-to-the-neighborhood-kind of wife,” he added, emphasizing the label he had already created for her undercover character.

“How are they going to take to a half-robotic husband?” she shoved his vibranium hand off the back of her chair.  

“I have technology for that,” Tony jumped in. 

“And I have your credit card for a new wardrobe, so I guess that solves both those problems,” she flashed a fake smile at Tony before crossing her arms snuggly across her chest. 

“You’re gonna have to leave that attitude at home, too,” Bucky got down to whisper in her ear, and he moved fast enough before she could sucker punch him in the face.

“Why not just arrest these two? Why go through the whole process of undercover work if we know they’re running the operation?” Y/N questioned, pivoting side to side in her chair as she thought aloud.

“Because there isn’t solid evidence, thanks to their associates being connected enough to cover shit up,” Fury answered. “And we believe there are multiple parties of their stature in the game. Meaning, we arrest them, the others scatter, and we risk losing a lot of information and take 20 steps back from where we’re at.” 

“Hmm,” she nodded as she stared off into a void space in the room, calculating her approach to this. 

“You’re actually considering this?” Nat asked. “I expected more of a fight.”

“I’m telling myself that it’s the drugs and possible human trafficking I’m doing this for, and tormenting Bucky along the way will be a bonus instead of a nuisance,” she replied with a weak smile like she was still convincing herself that.

“Smart,” Nat shrugged and gave an agreeable face.

“Your flights are leaving in four and a half hours, so I suggest packing your bag of necessities before we ship you off,” Tony sat up from his chair, stretching. “Any other things you need will be provided at the house already set up for you two to play the part of newlyweds. And get used to that word because it's about to become extremely annoying hearing it on repeat. Barnes comes with me to get that looking more human-like,” he pointed at his arm before walking out. 

Bucky scanned over the file in hand and let out a sigh. “We couldn’t get stationed beach somewhere in Hawaii?” 

“You’ll find the mountains rather eye-catching this time of the year,” Fury typed a few things on his desk and clasps his hands behind his back. “And that you don’t have a choice either way. Dismissed.” 

___________________

Y/N’s POV

The amount of junk they had pawned off to us as “newlywed cargo” seemed excessive. Brand new appliances were still in boxes unopened, letters on them saying who had gifted them to us as our “wedding gift” littered the kitchen and entryway. 

I was currently in the guest room unpacking a box of linens and bedding in the spare closet. My mind was a hundred miles away from my physical body, but somehow, I had managed to organize the closet in a surprisingly efficient manner while on autopilot. 

“Honey,” Bucky’s voice came from the hallway, and I took advantage of the times I wasn’t being watched to roll my eyes at the pet name. Before I could respond with a snarky comment, he followed up with, “The next-door neighbors are here to introduce themselves. Wanna come say hi?” 

Showtime. 

“Be right out!” I shouted back, standing from my spot, crouched to the ground, and brushing off one of the many new sundresses now taking up space in my closet.

For clarity, it’s not that I was against them; it just wasn’t my usual taste. Though the freeness of no pants was starting to rub off on me…

Coming around the corner of the hallway to our homey new abode, I plastered an award-winning smile on my face and scanned the two individuals in front of Bucky. I gave Bucky a silent look that read, “Hey sweetheart,” to outsiders and, “The assholes in question?” to a trained eye. 

“Doll,” Bucky started, nodding his head once at my true question and matching my step to wrap an arm around my waist, pulling me close for extra show. “This is Reginold and Bethanne Bauer. They’re our neighbors right across the street from us,” he introduced, adding a squeeze to my hip that I countered with a pinch to his side that he chuckled off. 

The physical touch was for show, but I knew he used it as a way to irritate me further, too. Lucky for me, it’s a two-player game. 

“Please, call me Reggie,” the middle-aged man offered his hand.

The man looked like he played the role of a typical white male living in a cookie-cutter home, but his build showed he wasn’t on the unfit side of things. From the files, he was 42 years old, and he obviously had kept his health a priority because he could have been in his mid 30s, from what I gathered. 

“You must be Charlotte,” Bethanne said, jumping in when her husband didn’t release my hand in a timely manner. “My my, you’re far more beautiful up close,” she said with a sweet smile, though any woman could recognize the hint of judgment in them. 

Bethanne Bauer was a 5’6”, 38-year-old lady with darker blonde hair and a figure that showed she likely was a pilates guru who didn’t take many days off. Her Lululemon leggings and slicked-back bun confirmed this assessment. 

“Well, aren’t you sweet,” I replied with a nose crinkle and a firm squeeze of my hand before drawing it back to rest on Bucky’s chest. “We appreciate you coming by and introducing yourself,” I smiled up to Bucky, who was already looking down at me (what a showman). I leaned my head in the nook of his shoulder as I turned back to them. “We were so nervous about starting over in a new state and weren’t sure what the community would be like. But everyone’s been so kind here in Montana, and you guys are just proving that point.” 

“Oh, this neighborhood is like a family,” Reggie replied, keeping his eyes on me. I'd feel uneasy if I didn’t know how to disarm a man in five hundred ways, but I knew more than 500 ways to get a man like the one in front of me to grovel. “So much so, you may be under careful watch for a while,” he winked, and I forced a laugh out, Bucky pulling me closer to his side at the harmless threat. “I’m just joking with ya,” he waved off with a boisterous laugh of his own, and Bethanne rolled her eyes. 

“He thinks he’s a comedian,” she playfully patted his shoulder. “But really, if you guys need anything at all, we are just a shout away. Or, our welcome to the neighborhood gift basket has our phone numbers in it, too, if you prefer to call.” 

Off to the side, I noticed a cellophane wicker basket with baked goods, a wine bottle, and some gift cards in it. Bucky must have accepted it before I got in here.

“You all are too kind,” I gushed, putting a hand on my chest in appreciation. “See honey,” I swatted Bucky’s chest, getting a tiny grunt from him. “I told you we would find a home here. I have a good feeling about this community,” I winked back at them with a wide grin. 

I could see the studying eyes on the woman and decided to act oblivious to her assessing. 

“Can I ask y’all a quick question?” I asked, a twinge of a southern accent I hadn’t pulled in ages coming out casually. “Where is the best grocery store around here? I’ve heard mixed things about the two stores y’all have, and you guys seem to have great taste, so,” I motioned to the gift basket. 

Bethanne listed a few of the stores they go to, ones I had researched on our flight here to get a better grounding of our new home. Of course, they were the more high-end stops. Eventually, the Bauers excused themselves for a neighborhood meeting they had planned, and Bucky and I were left alone. As soon as the door shut, I moved to the kitchen to grab a notepad. 

“Have we unpacked the pens, Beau?” I asked loudly, using Bucky’s fake name, which he seemed to know why right off the bat.

“Second drawer by the fridge,” he motioned, opening the basket and going through it, our charades still continuing. 

“I had a few things we need to grab from the store and thanks to our helpful neighbors, we know the best spot now,” I mindlessly talked as I wrote on the note; Check for bugs.

A welcome basket was fine and dandy, but considering who it was from and how quick they were to be at our doorstep—not even two hours into the moving vans' pull-up—I knew the drill, and so did Bucky as he listed out aloud what was in the gift. 

“Wow, they got us Doordash gift cards,” he smiled, placing them on the marble counter. “Wanna eat in tonight? Maybe a local spot?” 

“Sounds good to me,” I hummed, coming around the island corner and placing the notebook beside it. “Oh, did you find their number? We can ask if they have any suggestions.”

Placing the pen on top of the notepad for Bucky to respond, I moved to look in the basket myself and grabbed the note they had attached to it. 

“Eat in, drink some wine, and,” he circled the word ‘bugs,’ confirming the suspicion before leaning on the counter and looking at me with communicative eyes that didn’t match his words. “Watch a movie if I can get the TV set up by then.”

“Sounds like a date,” I smiled, but the annoyance that we had to be playing our characters until we could dispose of the bug was playing in my eyes.

Marvel Tags:

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My Lovelies forever:

@natura1phenomenon​ @lauravicente​ @kakakatey​ @traceyaudette​ @notyourtypicalrose​ @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce​ @sandlee44​ @thorne93​ @thefaithfulwriter1​ @essie1876​ @greyeyedsmile14​ @capsiclehan​  @xostephanie​ @averyrogers83​ @awesomenursingstudent​ @gh0stgurl​ @cs-please​ @jjlevin​ @rainbowkisses31​ @deannotmoose​ @their-bibliophile​ @kitkatd7​ @willowbleedsonpaper​ @mariaenchanted​ @snffbeebee​ @couldabeenamermaid​ @rebekahdawkins​​ @alyispunk​​ @billyseye @hallecarey1​​

Bucky Barnes Tags:

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[valaruakars]

Horny for Revenge (Part 2)

Viktor x f!Reader || 5.1k || NSFW

You’re fucking Heimerdinger’s assistant. He can’t resist fucking with you sometimes, when you’re least expecting it. But for once, he picked the wrong morning to underestimate you.

shoutout to @studyincontrasts for revealing my ultimate kink: being called pretty 🥺 credit where credit is due for THAT bit, you’ll know it when you see it. 

warnings: little more thigh fuckery, biting, unsafe PIV, semi-public sex, it’s just all p0rn okay

[Part 1]

To your credit, you tried to let it go. Made a commendable effort; terribly valiant of you, for once. You really put your back into it—only to end up on it instead, but that’s a story for later. We’ll get there.

Left struck and sodden in his mind-numbing wake, you had options. Direct action. Immediate gratification. More of that bitter taste of his tongue. There were many paths at that crossroads that could’ve led to those things—very few wise or reasonable. You could see down one that might have led you to follow after him; to become the devil at his shoulder whispering of filth and spiteful promises, perhaps punishment to be redeemed later. Another that might’ve seen you laid low and simply begging for him to finish what was started—at his earliest convenience, please, please. And the worst: one that had you dragging him by the fistful into the nearest single-occupant bathroom; to have him quick and literally dirty. Gross.

And yet…?

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

You flushed that idea down the proverbial toilet. Smoothed yourself out, clothes then hair, with a good few stinging slaps to your cheeks for clarity's sake. Fumbled for something, anything else to feel and settled on the ease of anger. Almost as easy as want. Indignation, that righteous, driving feeling, was the only illuminating thing that guided you back to the path you’d started on this morning. The shrewd path; the studious path. You waddled down it dutifully, wishing desperately for a change of underwear.

It led you first in your flush-faced fury to the hold counter. Saw you snatching up your books in a rush, quite sure by the crinkle of his nose that the ancient clerk could scent the reek of depravity clinging to your skin. Breaker of silence, defiler of books—he knew it was you. Knew what you’d done. Probably—no, definitely—shushed you himself. Oh no, you thought, looking down at the scribbled reserve ticket on top. He knew your name too. You clutched your books as if they could keep you afloat in an ocean of shame, and ever polite, fumbled out a thank you.

Wholly embarrassed, you fled deep into the bowels of the library to find sanctuary at a study carrel, one you liked to haunt in the engineering stacks. To focus, focus, focus on the work you came here to do. Threw yourself into it with enough clumsy violence to smash your knee against the desk, rushing to settle in. Books? Open. Notebook? Out. Thighs? Clenched. You were determined in your budding wrath; it flourished beneath your skin, marrow deep. Would it not be so deliciously spiteful to just forget about him? To be utterly unaffected? You thought so. In the beginning, you really did.

You, haughty and hotly optimistic to start, waded through six pages. A meager six before you stumbled bodily, shoved off course by none other than his hands. Long and lithe, that phantom touch; you leaned into it reflexively. You felt it ghost through your hair, pulling sweetly; on your knee, sliding up and under. Closed your eyes and felt it viscerally at the sodden cleft of you, palming that sickly heat between your thighs, through your panties. Oh, fuck. And that was certainly what you’d say, the moment he would slip them aside and touch you properly.

The squeaky wheel of a book cart brought you back as it passed your desk—from behind, blessedly, so that you were spared the ordeal of being caught practically drooling into your hand. Probably just looked like you were sleeping. Having a raunchy dream, at worst. Happens to everyone, right?

Sure.

Shit—focus!

And you did, somehow. Reason unclear, but you managed for two agonizing hours hunched over that desk, grinding a poor pen between your molars. You coaxed your rotten, useless brain through sixty eight dry and clinical pages until it broke you. Or, well, he broke you.

Because in the end, you couldn’t let it go.

Not when your mind finally, fatally wandered. Not when you started hearing the soft lilt of his accent in the words on aptly numbered page sixty nine. It gave way quickly, spiraled uncontrollably into the recollection of his filthy whispers: ‘Good girl, very nice, louder for me, lyubov.’ You thought of him, his voice cracking, panting, moaning into your ear. Into your mouth, sometimes, when he would cum and breathe that pleasure into you, messy and broken. You were doomed, when you thought of him sloppy. Absolutely finished.

You clapped that godsforsaken book shut. Well and truly thought: fuck it. And put your conniving little brain to work properly this time, wrathful and needy.

You were blessed with a scheming mind, an aptitude for getting what you want. Forceful, focused, really fucking horny; you wanted Viktor. And you read the solution easily on the dial of your pocket watch as you fished it out and checked the time. Natural as breathing, you thought of something truly terrible. And worse, you thought to execute it.

Revenge in thirty minutes or less.

You were packing up in a blind rush before you could sabotage your own brilliance; before you thought too long and hard into all the ways it could go wrong and the consequences therein. Too many variables—ignore, ignore—shove book into bag, harder and it will fit. Or not. You huffed rather dramatically; abandoned it and bolted, more pressing matters to attend. One less thing to weigh you down. A price you could pay.

9:29AM

You took off out of the library, down the marbled hallways. A sprint where nobody could see you, a fairly suspect power-walk where they might. Turning familiar corners, passing familiar doors, you tried not to choke on that breathless rush tightening your lungs. Giddiness. Anticipation. Light cardio—yikes. Your heart beat hard and fast against your sternum; your mouth was going dry from the frenzy of it all.  

You saw fit to duck into a bathroom—just a little detour. Rinsed your mouth. Fluffed your hair. Gave yourself a long, hard look in that mirror and hissed to the deranged creature staring back at you: ‘don’t fuck it up.’ It would be a toss up, naturally. Seduction was the knife you fumbled for blindly and held with a limp wrist. But, oh, did he seem eager to press himself to your blade. Dick first, the psycho. You really liked him.

Liked him enough that in a final stroke of obscene genius, you decided to make it so blissfully easy. He should thank you, really. But if he didn’t, you quite liked the sensation anyway; it felt like such a delightful, dirty secret. That you weren’t wearing panties anymore, having slid them off over your ankles and shoved them deep into your bag. Along with your bra, which was pointedly no secret at all.

Your watch bade you hurry along, and for once, you listened. Checked it, dropped it in your pocket and fled what could be considered your second? third? crime scene of the day. Crimes of passion, thank you.

9:35AM

You stormed up to the threshold like a wild-eyed tempest; took a deep, grounding breath as if it could temper the thrill. You felt a little insane, and for this, maybe you were. Needy thing, you pushed through that great, looming door before you could even think to worry that it might be locked. But why would it have been?

Professor Heimerdinger never locked it when Viktor was inside.

Yes, you really were that stupid. Stupidly, helplessly infatuated, you thought indignantly, since you refused to be faulted entirely for falling prey to him. In fact, this was all his fault for choosing to fuck and fuck with someone so lacking in restraint. Yes. Perfect logic.

You slipped quietly inside to find him right there. Stationed at your left, shelving books in the grand, vaulted space of the Dean’s office. It suited him to stand beneath that starry, painted sky. No cane. Neat and tidy. Alone, but you had to be sure.

You loved your field, but his expressions made more of an intriguing study. He hid them poorly; lacked control and you could learn of them easily.

That initial spark of surprise in shades of wide-eyed amber when he first caught sight of you, the suggestion of a smile on his fine mouth, it faded to something sharper. You could see the gears turning as he shelved the book in hand and did not reach for another. Calm, cool, and professional in the hard set of his jaw, a man diligently at work, but his eyes swam with something more. Always the eyes. Heady, dark and wanting; you read your fortune in their churning depths and divined that he would not refuse you. Could not refuse you, perhaps, because it was almost like you could smell him. And he reeked of desperation too.

Holy shit, you thought with such delight. You were going to make him behave so unprofessionally.

You bit back a wicked smile, saved it for later, and asked with such deceitful innocence: “Is the Professor in?”

Cruel, that he turned back to his work so easily. Snatched his eyes from your breathless figure too quickly—all futile resistance. “He doesn’t have appointments during lecture, and won’t accept unscheduled walk-ins afterward.” Viktor recited his dry lines like you were any other visitor, playing the role of Professor’s Assistant almost perfectly. Almost. He slipped when he added: “As you know, Miss (Y/L/N).” Couldn’t conceal that pitch of mirth in his voice, not when he said your name. Acknowledged the game and joined, a willing participant.

“That’s a no then?”

“It is.”

“That’s fine” you hummed, nearly rocked back on your heels in such dainty, impish delight. Dropped your bag near the door and looked around coyly, curiously. “Since I came to see you, actually.”

“Oh?” You saw that terrible smirk and knew it meant danger; signaled a misstep. “For what purpose?” he asked, blunt and bit cavalier, bringing attention to a terrible flaw in this half-baked plan. That being: you. Not brave, not direct, and not keen on confessions. He liked those, unfortunately, the curious prick; derived too much satisfaction from drawing shameful little truths out of you.

Inching closer, dragged by his gravity, you hoped he would see and accept the answer unspoken. Your dress was unforgiving through the chest and your body was a traitor, always on his side.

“Are you not happy to see me?” you asked, trying for low tones. Sultry tones. But your voice never did quite what you asked. Not when the thrill of being bold had a hand at your throat and squeezed tight, pitched it too breathy, too unsteady.

He canted his head, rocked it consideringly. Definitely noticed your traitorous nipples up close; you saw him wet his lips.  “Eh…” That long sound, drawn out between his teeth, let you hope he took the redirect. Falsely. “I believe I asked my question first.”

Fucking fine.

“Give me your hand,” you sighed, and he thought to hold it like you needed an anchor in this vast, scholarly confessional.

You did. But not like that.

You flipped it palm up, drew it to your chest, and bid him squeeze in the span of a stuttering heartbeat. His breath did the same, ghosting over your temple as you crowded closer and refused to look up into his face. His throat worked over the prim knot of his tie, and with a hard stare, nurturing that hollow resentment from earlier, you tucked your face there and whispered, “Did you really think I would just… let it go?”

He laughed into the shell of your ear, soft and taunting, and for it, you licked a warning stripe up his jugular—nipped at the apex and you weren’t sorry for it. He deserved it. He liked it. You knew, when a salacious something stiffened, half hard against you. You knew, when his voice grew breathy and his tongue thickened on the vowels.

“I wondered what, if anything at all, I might have set into motion. I wasn’t sure,” he confessed quietly and cupped your breast more generously; dragged his thumb over your nipple in long, sweet strokes. Too slow. Not enough. “You are so erratic. An unknown variable, if you will—”

And to prove his point, you pushed your impatient mouth hard against his—teeth on teeth, but he didn’t oblige you the rush. Took hold of your hair at the nape, and gently drew you back. Thickly, you remembered that he had use of two hands at the moment. Foolishly, you looked into his face and drowned a little bit.

He flushed so nicely, and sincerity suited him when he said: “My intention was to keep your interest, and my hope was to find you at my door tonight.”

A curious statement, if a little somber, you filed it away for dissection later. You know, when you weren’t trying to get throughly, efficiently fucked on tight schedule.

“That’s a long time to wait,” you chided, growing more and more anxious at the minutes ticking away. Time, slipping through your fingers. Time, forcing your forward, ever faster, lest you be caught. How close you were cutting it, how thrilling. “I’d rather you fix your mistake now.”

“Mistake?”

You were pleased that he didn’t focus on ‘now.’ Pleased that his hands had taken to gathering up your skirt in grasping handfuls, hiking it higher. Infinitely pleased that when his hands found your ass completely bare and waiting, he groaned and swore and pulled you tighter to him.

That wicked smile you’d saved for later caught your lips, but they had a better use still. Your hands worked at his tie, his collar, to make space for them as you said, “I would consider leaving me high and dry a mistake, yes.”

“Dry?” He practically snicked the word, and you went for the throat—literally. Latched on to that private space beneath his collar and set to bruising it with your mouth; lips and tongue and teeth in a hot hurry. You were kind to cradle his head, though the press of the shelves into his spine was likely uncomfortable. Now he knew how it felt. Understood then that you wanted to punish him, if only a little bit.

“Restraint was necessary, I promise you,” he said, repentant; keening when you bit softly at the juncture of his shoulder and neck. Pliant and unwinding, until he grew bold, suddenly. Put that leg back between your thigh and had you gasping at the friction, at the scandal, because the wet patch left on his pants would never dry fast enough. “Risking our standing aside, you are far too loud for the library,” he whispered thickly, and you whined right on cue when he kneaded your ass, ground you down harder. “I could not keep you quiet enough if I tried.”

“You’re not very quiet yourself,” you scoffed. Pulled his hair and heard nothing for it but shit-eating silence, the smirk to match. Just to be contrarian—for now, until you’d exhaust him of that capacity. The twitch of his cock betrayed him, though; told you in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t entirely unaffected.  

“Then I would consider this an improvement from earlier. To be alone, behind closed doors.”

“Not like it’s your office, though. Not entirely private.”

“No,” he said thoughtfully, looking down between your bodies. You were far past being embarrassed at what he must’ve seen to say: “No, but I think you like that, don’t you?”

“Mmhm,” you nodded in quick, thoughtless agreement. Moved to fuss with the fastens of his pants imploringly between the cage of his arms. “But it also means you really need to hurry up. Don’t you know what time it is?”

Poor Viktor; he came abruptly back to himself and stilled. Inhaled, sharp and nasal, and breathed back out a nervous, “…No.”

You knew what he’d done—lost track of time, again, as he tended to. In all fairness, you only had a rough idea now. And it wasn’t optimistic.

So you fumbled for it in your pocket, the little golden watch. Pressed it into his hand as you brought him down by the tie and lavished those wet, open-mouthed kisses to his collarbone and up. Kinder, sweeter, softer. Begged him with each one not to leave you wanting again. You heard in quick succession: the spring of the case opening and the soft swear that followed. Not from your mouth’s minstrations, sadly.

He finally, finally understood your impatience. How for once, in this moment alone, it was well placed. He caught your jaw in his hand urgently, looking so dark and desperate and reckless; the swipe of his thumb over your cheek a gentle contrast. Showed you first that he didn’t want to stop, and you would ruin him for it.

“I will give you anything, but we have no time for—for everything I could possibly do to you,” he said forcefully, reverently, and you had to kiss him for it, ever briefly, on the bow of his lip. Once. Twice. Until he said, a murmur against your mouth: “Sixteen minutes, lyubov. Tell me your choice.”

Ah.

9:44AM

You knew in your heart of hearts—see also: the throb of your cunt—that you wouldn’t last five minutes. And you knew, too, that though you’d love to kneel for him, bruise your knees on the marble floor, he wouldn’t manage two rounds. You couldn’t have his cock and suck it too. Not in this amount of time. The choice was clear, but as to where? Well.

“Let me think…” you hummed. Backed off him and wandered away from the lovely, hot flush of his body; shrewdly appraised the options such a lavish office had on offer.

It was obvious though, wasn’t it? Part of you already knew from the moment you fled the library with your dire plan. You wanted it quick and carnal on that solid, stately beast of a table that filled the center of the space. Cluttered as it was, books and loose papers and—oh look—his cane leaning there against it, that was your choice. Even if it meant getting stabbed by a wayward protractor. Despite all the things littering its surface, you would add your body to it.

But first, you added your dress.

He made a strangled sound when you did it—pulled it swiftly over your head and discarded it across the open pages of Techmaturgy: A Century of Progress. You hadn’t planned to, but in the moment it felt right in a very, very wrong way. Bold. Sinful. Exhilarating, to show him your body where it was so forbidden.

You drummed your thoughtful fingers on the worn wooden edge, his uneven footfalls in symphony. Made a tempting show of your ass, perfect in his eyes, leaning over it ever slightly. Looked sidelong over your shoulder and asked: “Over the desk—can you manage?”

He pressed into your back, warm and lithe, first reaching around to place your little doomsday clock face up.

You didn’t care to look—not yet.

His hands found you then, quick to roam the naked expanse of your body—nothing short of worshipful, like you were a fantasy fulfilled. “Manage what, exactly, hm?” he asked into the crook of your neck, returning the favor of such feverish, open-mouthed kisses to the skin there.

Your head tipped back against his shoulder; gently, not leaning any of your weight onto him. Let him knead your pliant flesh however, wherever he liked, and clearly he liked all of you. Could have closed your eyes in such rapture, but you stared up, and found an answer there in painted shades of blue and white. Constellations, reflected on his skin.

“I want—” But you broke so quickly, giggled, because the joke you saw was very good. Told him through the grips of a snickering smile, knowing the curious arch of his brow without ever seeing it: “I want you to fuck me until I see stars.”

You felt the contagious grin, the quietly huffed shake of laughter against your skin. “Then don’t look up again until you want to finish.”

That required a start.

You looked, then, not up but down, as you slipped his grasp and bowed forward. Prostrated your body across that table; hitched your knee up on the edge and thoroughly exposed the crux of your need, slick and swollen. “Fourteen minutes,” you urged and choked on a sigh, shuddering as your forehead dropped to hard leather binding. The slow drag of his long, blunt fingers down your spine should not have caught you so off guard.

9:46AM

“I, eh… appreciate your eagerness,” he said, growing distracted, evidently. By the slide of his palm, that languid, thoughtful caress over the curve of your ass, you knew what he was looking at. Died a little bit as he squeezed and gripped and spread you apart, no doubt watching. And that sound, wet, sticky and shameful—oh yes, part of you absolutely died on that table.

His voice was far preferable to hear, heavy as he asked so sweetly: “But if you could turn over, please?”

“Why?” you snapped like a reflex, but your body moved without question. Turned and settled you sitting on the edge. You wished it hadn’t acted to fast.

Because it was hard to look at him, like starting into the sun if it could rise between your legs. Your heart seized as he shrugged, as he said all too casually: “Because you are so pretty. More so when I fuck you, you understand.”

And you did, if only because you felt the same way about him.

It wasn’t a question, but you nodded, a little spellbound by his voice, and widened your thighs. Inviting him in as he pulled his cock out and crowded closer, falling into your trap, quite sprung. If he wanted you shaking and desperate and entirely bent to his will, he could have had that. But his mistake; he gave you too long to realize that while you may bend, ever slightly, all you wanted was to see him break.

And this was how you’d do it.

This was how you’d end up on your back.  

You took matters into your own hands—took him in hand, heavy and warm and twitching. Found his hip on the better side with the other and tricked him, made him think you needed to brace yourself with it. Like he needed to brace himself on either side of you, leaning hard on his hands, heavier to the left. You angled his cock up, gripped his hip hard and pulled him flush, flattened the underside against your cunt. He must have realized that you meant to set the pace and obliged; a sigh was his first concession.

Pushing and pulling, rocking him against you to slick his long length enough that it was easier to take, you decided that, no, it wasn’t a sigh at all. You heard wrong. It was the first breathy pant of many that began to fall from his lips, not nearly swollen enough, but you would fix that.

He looked over, stricken, and reminded you: “Ten—Ah, nine minutes, (Y/N).”

9:51AM

“You’d rather stop?” you taunted, thumbing over the soft skin of his tip on the upstroke. Slick, and it was anyone’s guess as to who it came from.

“What? No—” he said too quickly, too ardent; noted it, relented, and made his second concession as you started to take your hand away. “Please, no.”

He begged. And for it, you were merciful. That is, after you stopped the steady roll of his hips and laughed softly at his pinched, worried expression.

You were merciful for the way you gripped him at the base and lined up the head to your entrance. More so for the way you stroked his slick shaft, knowing that it had gone untouched up until this point. Where you were twice given the opportunity to grind against his thigh, he’d been left so neglected. That much was clear as he struggled for restraint and failed; hips twitching ever slightly, tidy snaps, into your hand and cunt alike. Just the tip and fuck it felt good.

You worked him and he worked you open; you both watched with sick, heady fascination, foreheads nearly  touching. Panting breaths intermingled in a humid fugue. Your wrist ached where you leaned back on it, but it didn’t matter. Not while together you watched your hand slowly lose ground on his length as it disappeared; watched where he sunk into the delirious resistance of your body. More and more until you took your hand away and he breathed truth onto you, low and thankful and deliciously vulnerable.

“I would not have made it through the day without… ah, touching myself to the thought of you…”

And that was it. It was over. You cared for nothing anymore but to cum and have him cum wherever he pleased.  It didn’t matter who broke who, though it would certainly be you if he kept talking like that.

You dragged him in hard and fast by the tie, set to brutalizing his lips with each terribly sloppy kiss you imparted. It forced him to bottom out between your thighs, sunk to the hilt. The stretched burned until you rocked your hips through it, saw it turned to something sweet that had you keening high pitched into his mouth. Pleasantly full. Pressure building.

And then he thrusted. One, twice, and though you so desperately wanted to swallow the sounds he made for you, you couldn’t keep upright. You collapsed backward on that academic leaf-litter and writhed in it, letting each ragged snap of his hips punch such vulgar sounds from your lungs that you covered your own mouth. Watched down your body as he lost himself entirely, a mess of a man, and thought to make it worse.

“Harder,” you demanded, “Fuck. Me. Harder.”

“Yes,” he nodded, breathing hard around that single word. Pressed a hand to your thigh, pushing you wider if ever you could spread more for him, “If… If that is what you want—yes.”

He was devolving rapidly, becoming your favorite version of himself: erratic and sloppy. Clothes disheveled, neck mottled, and his neat, pretty hair sullied by your hands. His eyes were a half-lidded, amber haze, but he watched you too. You were too far gone to wonder what he saw, what made him shudder and groan, lean harder, thrust deeper into your cunt with a foreign swear on his lips. The arch of your back, the bounce of your breasts, the hand on your mouth hardly stifling those sweet, pathetic sounds—it could have been anything.

But it was another thing that didn’t matter. You came around his cock all the same.

He struck a spot in you so saccharine and overwhelming, brushed up against your clit over and over until it was just enough, and you were well and truly finished. Threw your head back like the most excellent of whores and begged him not to stop, near sobbing, with nothing but his wrist to hold onto. Heedless of how loud you were.

“I won’t, I—I promise,” he hissed, and by the grit of his teeth and his faltering rhythm you knew what came next, “But I—Tell me where—?”

“I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care,” you chanted, and meant it, as long as he kept touching you somehow.

You weren’t surprised when he immediately collapsed on top of you. Gave a few weak thrusts with what felt like his entire body, and made a deep, breathy, broken sound into the solace of your throat. It was perfect—let you grind your hips beneath his weight, rubbing greedily against his pelvis. Riding out the shuddering wake of your impatient orgasm, you drew his out longer and sweeter, his heavy, keening pants hot on your neck.

For a moment, you felt peace, full with the twitching feeling of his spent cock. Looking at him lazily as he looked back just the same, smoothing back your hair.

And then you felt panic.

“Time?”

Viktor inhaled sharply and dragged himself off you, so fast and soon that it stung, but you felt that privately. He found it quickly, read to you in a rasp, “Three minutes,” and tucked it into his pocket, clamoring to right his clothes.

9:57AM

“Yes, but consider that he still has to walk up here on those short little legs,” you snickered, closing yours to stand shakily and hopefully delay the mess, “Might take an extra five minutes.”

But you could feel it, leaking thick down your sweaty thigh as you pulled on your dress again. The shower called and you were sure as shit going to answer.

“Let’s… not cut it closer, hm?” he said, exasperated by how close you could fly to your deadlines. He repaired the knot of his tie and you attempted to brush his stubborn hair back into place with your fingers. Efficient, if a touch domestic, it saw him crack a thin smile. “I would feel better if you were not seen leaving. Otherwise my lies won’t be so convincing.”

“Planning them ahead for once?”

“I’m trying to,” he shrugged, a soft thank you to follow as you offered him his cane and made for the door. Quickly, to spare him any trouble. Quickly, to get the hardest part over with. Silly, sentimental creature—you hadn’t anticipated that leaving would be so difficult. Perhaps you had made a mistake this time, the want of him transformed into something tenderhearted. You wanted now for his weight, his warmth and the smell of his skin.

“Are you forgetting something?” he asked, and the guilt of your unkindness hit. Escape at what cost? He deserved more from you.

“Well, um—I suppose, yes,” you said, backtracking easily, so drawn to him as it was. It was easy, too, to lay your hand on his arm; to reach up and kiss him, a chaste and lingering press to the thin curve of his bottom lip.

A kiss he returned, because of course he did, even if your cottony, lust-addled brain had gotten it all wrong. You read it in his expression—like he was trying not to laugh, a pinch of surprise—before he told you true. At least you hadn’t apologized yet.

“Your bag?” You followed his line of sight and flushed. “I thought that was obvious.”

“Oh, right,” you said, clearly fucked stupid, but you weren’t about to admit it. Still salvageable, you scooped it up, slung it over your shoulder, and tried to be cool about it. Tried, because it was hard when you were a braless mess with cum running down your leg. Really hurt the cool factor, wasn’t great for morale. “Well there goes a great excuse to see me later,” was the flippant, shameful word vomit that came from your mouth and you were so quick to regret it.  

“We are past that, don’t you think?” he said quietly, his pretty face cut by a sliver of hurt for a split second before he could recover. Almost sheepish, in the way he fidgeted with the handle of his cane. “You know, the invitation for tonight still stands… if you, eh, don’t get me fired.”

A clock struck then, its long, sonorous peals perfectly timed, and you didn’t need to count them.

10:00AM

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” you sighed, poised to flee out the door. The last thing you saw, the sweetest thing you could ask for, was slender curve of his lips in a private smile as you whispered in parting, “I’ll see you tonight,” and slipped away, knowing yourself a liar.

[themusicplayedherlife]

Take a Chance (16)

pairing: steve rogers x reader characters: steve rogers, reader, word count: 3k+ warnings: fluff, description of child birth, a bit of angst, some 18+ allusions in the beginning a/n: we’ve come to the end (almost--epilogue coming soooooon)!! i want to thank everyone who has read and kept up with this series <3 i had many moments when i wanted to give up especially after the notes started dwindling and when i realized the masterlist has more notes than the actual story lmfao, but i pushed that aside and instead started writing for myself and it somehow worked out. this story doesn’t end like the movie; the movie has a beautiful twist and ending that i didn’t want to copy or translate to writing. this was a different story inspired by the movie and reader had her own issues and those issues are what she was supposed to work out, steve helped, and shrimp did too in their own way.

once again, thank you to everyone that has stuck around, commented, liked and reblogged! i appreciate all of you <3

prev || all || epilogue

Steve’s arm is under your head and bent so long fingers can lazily smooth out your hair from your sweat slick skin. The cool air of the night brushes against your warm skin from the the open veranda of your small hut over the clear waters of Bora Bora.

He stretches your left hand out with his, staring up at the beautiful sparkling ring that now belongs to you for as long as he’ll have you—no, for as long as you live.

“What about ring?”

“Anillo,” you tell him.

He brings down your hand to kiss the back of it. “Hand?”

You adjust your head to look up at him. “You should know this.”

His eyebrows pinch together, lips pursing for a moment before his face brightens. “Manos!”

You hum in contentment, hiding your smile from him by gazing back at the ring that somehow still shimmers in the dead of night. “Fingers?”

The fingers in your hair pause and his chest rumbles. “Uh.”

“I’ll give you a hint. It starts with de,” you say, folding down your fingers except for two.

“De…dos!”

You laugh softly. “You’ve got it!”

“I’ve got a good teacher.” He turns his head slightly to press a kiss to your hair, slowly lowering your hand back down. “Quiz me more.”

You turn on your side and look up at him to find him staring down at you with a soft smile. “I won’t go easy on you.”

“I was counting on it.”

You bite your lip and sit up, not caring that the thin, white sheet covering your body pools to your waist, leaving you exposed to his eyes and the beautiful glittering waters. You scoot forward and slip your hand under the sheet to pat his leg just under his knee. “Leg?”

“Uh, pierna?” he asks a little unsure and you smile at the confusion crossing his pretty features.

“You sure?”

“Yes?”

“Well, you’re right.” He grin stupidly and you can’t help but snort. “Be more confident, Steve.” You slowly bring your hand up to his knees. “Knee?”

He quirks an eyebrow at you, suspicion beginning to pool in his eyes. “Rodella?”

“Close. Remember, double l’a are pronounced as if it were a y and it’s di not de. Rodilla.” He repeats it successfully and you nod as you trace the strong muscles of his thighs flexing under your soft touch. “Thighs?”

“Muslos,” he says breathlessly, blue eyes darkening.

You trace higher, just barely brushing against the hair on the base of his pelvis and ignore the hitch of his breath to hike up to his stomach. You tap it teasingly at the small playful growl that escapes his lips.

“Baby,” he whines and you can’t help the excitement that builds up at that low, rough voice of his.

“You’re being quizzed.”

He grunts, head slumping back into the pillow as you caress the slowly tensing muscles of his stomach. “It starts with an E.”

“Uh-huh?” You continue to run your finger up and down his chiseled stomach, loving the way his muscles react to your touch. “And what follows after that?”

“I don’t know,” he groans—whether from not remembering the word or from your touch, you don’t know. But it’s still a win for you.

You gently lift yourself and box his thighs between yours as you lean down to just barely trail your lips up his stomach. He sighs contently. “Estómago.”

“Fuck,” he says through a breathy sigh. “Wouldn’t have remembered that.”

“Then maybe you need a recap.” You knead his chest followed by wet kisses, slowly scooting up. “Pecho?”

He places his hands on your waist, one hand trailing down to your thigh as he slowly sits up. “Chest.”

“Cuello?”

“Neck.” He brings you closer to him, hard length pressing against your wet, warm core, a small gasp escaping your lips when he grinds up.

His blue eyes are hazy, dark, staring down at you with so much love and desire, but he doesn’t do more than grind, doesn’t do more than flex his fingers into your skin. He’s waiting for you, just as you’ve been waiting for him.

It’s scary how easy it is to get lost in him, but it’s even scarier how much you want to delve deep into him, into this. There’s a fleeting thought—did you feel the same way that night? Maybe. Maybe not. But that night doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is the future you’re building together—a future you had desperately tried to deny.

You love him.

Lips hover, fingers graxe against warm skin, hot breath fanning. “Labios.” It’s barely said, more of a breathy whisper.

He loves you.

He answers in kind. “Lips.”

And there’s no distance between you.

“Can you see?”

You sigh exasperatedly. “No, Steve. I can’t see.”

This is the third time he’s asked you since he blindfolded you, wanting to surprise you with what he’s been working on for the last couple of months.

His hands are on your bulging stomach and his chest is pressed against your back and it’s ridiculous how you’re both waddling. Now that your stomach is practically the size of a basketball, his hands are always on your stomach, not that they weren’t always on you before. But Steve loves the feeling of Shrimp kicking and moving. You don’t blame him, you love it, too.

It’s really crazy how there’s a life growing inside of you.

“Okay. Okay. You ready?”

“Yes.”

His hands leave your stomach and Shrimp moves, almost as if following after daddy’s hands. You laugh and Steve rustles around.

“Why are you laughing?”

“I think Shrimp misses you already.”

Steve’s hands find your stomach again and he coos gently—“Do you, honey? But I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”

There’s a smile on your face and you wish you could see the tenderness in his gaze. Shrimp kicks in response and he can’t help but chuckle, the sound affectionate and so full of love for your little one.

Steve’s warmth leaves your tummy and instead his fingers brush against your cheeks. “Keep your eyes closed.”

“Steve—“

“No whining, come on.”

You roll your eyes but nod, doing as he says and the blindfold comes off with a quick pull of his fingers. He maneuvers around you, standing behind you once more and wrapping his arms just above your breasts, pressing your back against his chest once more.

“Open them.”

Eyes flutter, chest constricts, and Shrimp kicks—and there’s a moment where you don’t know what to say. You still don’t know what to say.

“It’s…”

For the past few months, this room has been off limits to you. At first, you had been the one to exile yourself from the room, thinking maybe Steve could use it as his bedroom or an office of sorts to get away from you, but there wasn’t any need for that when you both found a balance at home. Then, it was Steve barring you from entering, wanting to keep the room a surprise for you.

He had enlisted the help of Bucky and Sam (and Ben, too), who would come over often to help, sometimes Clint and Tony, too. They’d spend hours in this room and you’d hear their groaning and complaining (from Tony mostly—“why didn’t you just buy it assembled? I’m getting splinters!”) from building the crib and a few other pieces of furniture you and Steve selected for the nursery.

And while seeing everything up and ready for your little one is an already overwhelming feeling, it’s what is on the walls that causes your heart to slam into your ribcage and the reason behind the prickling in your eyes and nose. “Steve… you… you did this?”

You maneuver around the crib in the middle of the room as a delighted gasping sob escapes your lips and there’s shuffling behind you, nervous shuffling. With a gentle hand you trace the beautiful painted branches of the thick tree with green leaves and yellow flowers on a light blue backdrop; your fingers find the Polaroid pictures, the ones of you and Steve and your friends and family pressed messily, and somehow so carefully and beautifully on the branches. You linger on a recent picture you took at another family barbecue, you sitting on Steve’s lap, your mouth open in a genuine laugh and Steve’s hand on your stomach and wrapped around your waist, face hidden in your shoulder, but his eyes peek over your shoulder, crescent eyes smiling at the camera. Bucky took this picture, didn’t he?

Glancing at him over your shoulder, you find him rubbing the back of his neck.

“I did, yeah,” he answers timidly and your heart swells. “Took a lot longer than I expected, but…”

“It’s amazing.”

His eyes meets yours and as soon as he sees your tears he rushes forward and cups your cheeks, wiping the tears away. “Baby—why—what’s wrong—“

You laugh and it’s messy and Steve’s expression softens. “It’s hormones! Shrimp makes me a mess, I swear.”

He chuckles, his forehead thumping against your gently. “Is it really just Shrimp?”

Your hands perch on his shoulders. “No,” you admit. “It’s also because I’m so happy.”

He hums gently and his lips graze your forehead. “Good.” He brings you close to him as much as he can with your tummy in the way. “Do you think Shrimp will like it?”

“Like it? They’ll love it!” you assure him, hands gliding up to cup the back of his neck and tugging on the short hairs playfully. “All the memories we’ll make together, all the people that are eager to meet Shrimp, they’ll be on this wall for them to always look at and remember: they’re loved.” You nuzzle into him. “You’re the most amazing dad, Steve. Our Shrimp is lucky to have you.”

He breathes deeply, it’s shaky and stuttery. “I love you.”

It’s a weird feeling knowing that you could be moments away from bringing life into this world--the pain is there, it’s burning and searing, getting stronger and harder to ignore, coming quicker than before. Steve is here too, cradling your hand to his chest as you hold on for dear life, needing some kind of grounding. You can faintly see him and it hurts--it hurts so much. You’ve been pushing for hours and hours--when will it stop?

Your vision blurs, head falls back against the pillow--push! You have to push! You’re so close! So damn close!

Steve hovers over you, trying to catch your eyes, keep you looking at him. How can a man be so beautiful? Will Shrimp look like their dad or you? You wouldn’t mind it if they looked like Steve, they’d be so beautiful, like a little puppy, chasing you around with an adorable giggle. Steve would hold their hands and help them run after you. He wouldn't ever let you run. Not from him. And not from Shrimp.

With a final push, your legs feel like lead, your body falling back and that’s when you hear it--the loud wailing--their cries, their beautiful cries.

“Congratulations Mr and Mrs. Rogers, you have a healthy, beautiful boy.”

“We have a boy,” Steve whispers, his voice rough and raw--eyes red and so beautiful.

You’re tired, arms weak, but you still hold your arms out--you wanna hold him, you wanna feel him close to you. He’s covered in goo and blood, but you don’t care, not when he’s pressed up against your chest, his wails telling you he’s alive and here, with you--with Steve. “We have a boy,” you repeat, voice hoarse and Steve presses a kiss to your head, so tender and gentle.

You have a beautiful baby boy.

He cries in your arms, tiny hands balled up into fists, thin blonde hairs on his little bald head sticking up awkwardly and you can’t help but laugh—your mom had claimed your heartburn was caused by Shrimp having a lot of hair. You didn’t believe her at first, but now you do.

“Angel,” Steve says softly. “He’s our little angel.”

Your lips twitch and you stare down at your crying baby waving his little fists. “Angel,” you repeat, spanish laced into your voice. “Angel Steven Rogers.”

Amora and Sam’s Wedding

The night air is brisk and welcoming to your heated skin.

Most of the guests are gone, including the bride, who sneaked off at some point during the reception, but Sam doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seems to be taking advantage of the fact she’s gone by flirting a mile a minute with Wanda and Natasha, even you, and slamming down drinks that Bonky?—Buck?—Duck?—Bucky?—keeps pouring. Or maybe you’re the one pouring them? Honestly, you don’t know. You just know your head is light and sometimes your legs wobble under you when you try to walk.

You sigh deeply, lifting the bottle of expensive champagne you’ve been carrying around to your lips before passing it on to Steve, who accepts it and immediately takes a swig before twisting the bottle into the sand between you.

Wanda squeals when Bucky wraps his arms under her knees before running out into the water, Sam and Natasha right on their heels, spurring the brunette on and taking pictures and videos.

You throw yourself back onto the ground, not caring about the sand that clings to your exposed shoulders or your hair. “So, she left you, huh?” Your words are lazy, barely any emphasis on vowels and consonants, but Steve seems to understand.

“Yeah.”

“Just like that?” you ask into the night air, the stars barely pushing through the inky black sky full of pollution. The moon is somewhere around here, too, but you can’t find it.

“Just like that.” He’s devastated, heart aching, voice cracking, and you feel for him, you do.

“Love is hard,” you tell him, hardly sparing him a glance. You probably should. If you saw his wrecked expression, you’d probably have shut up and joined your friends in their fun. “But she knew what she wanted, Stevie, you can’t fault her for that.”

Laughter from the crashing waves reaches your ears, Natasha calls out your name and you only raise a hand in response and wave her away. She continues whining, but something or someone steals her attention and your name is no longer being called.

“I know,” he says after a moment as he lays down next to you.

“I think she saved you from a much worse fate.”

“And that is?” He’s skeptical. You don’t blame him. Steve seems like the romantic type from how tenderly he spoke about Shannon—wait, that’s not it… Cher? Sharon? Ah, who cares!

“Being in a loveless marriage,” you tell him softly, your mind clearing as you think about your childhood, about your failed relationships, about every single love story that has fallen like a broken bridge crashing into a river. “Imagine giving her your all, but then realizing that maybe you weren’t meant to be and you end up stuck and miserable?” You turn to him. “And your kids are stuck and miserable with you? That’s worse. Because it’s no longer just about you and her, now there’s these tiny little people who are relying on you, but instead of helping them, you’re hurting them.”

“You don’t know that.”

You blink slowly, taking in the harsh glare he’s sending your way. You smile. “Before you asked Sharon to marry you, did you ever talk about marriage? Kids?”

His glare melts and something else takes its place—hesitance. “...no.”

You raise an eyebrow as if to say—see. He turns away. “She loved you, probably still does, but the things you wanted weren't in the cards for her. Probably never will be.” You return your stare to the sky. “She’s chasing something else, something she wants more. Most people are.”

He sits up and takes out the bottle from the sand to drink from it. “What about you?” You hum in question. “Are you chasing something, too?”

“No,” you answer truthfully, moving your gaze to him only to find him staring back down at you with those blue eyes glittering brighter than any clear ocean, hotter than any fire. “I’m running away.”

His eyebrows furrow and you have the urge to reach out and smooth out the tension, but you don’t. “Why?”

“Because love isn’t just hard. It’s scary and I’ve seen and been through enough disappointment in my life to know that it's capable of breaking me into tiny little pieces.” Your hand rests on your stomach. “I don’t want to hurt an innocent because their dad and I couldn’t play nice. I don’t want to hurt them like I’ve been—“ you swallow and the breeze enters your lungs, filling you with a coldness that you try to push out with an exhale. “Like I’ve been hurt.”

He frowns and you sit up, taking the bottle from his hands to chug down the bubbly liquid that burns your throat, but you don’t care. “How do you know that if you don’t take a chance?” You pause in your drinking, his stern voice causing a shiver to run down your spine. “You’re telling me that it’s great that Sharon spared me the pain in the long run and maybe you’re right. But the pain that I’m feeling? The pain you’re running from? It’s a reminder that we’re human, that we can grow from it. That we love strongly.

“I took a chance with Sharon, and I don’t regret it.” Your hand trembles at the defiance in his voice and you place the bottle back in the sand. “It hurts, sure. And it’ll probably hurt for a long while, and that’s okay. But one day. One day I know I’ll find someone who’ll accept my love and they’ll return it, and it might not be perfect, we’ll fight and maybe we’ll hurt each other, but at the end of the day, we’ll work through it together. We’ll meet halfway.”

Wanda screams your name and Bucky calls for Steve, but your gaze is trapped by the intensity in his eyes.

“Love is hard and painful,” he concedes. “But it’s also beautiful and magical. And I hope one day, you’ll take the chance to discover the beauty of love.”

Your mouth hangs open and you both stare at each other, the calls of your name drowned out by the waves of the ocean, by the heat of his eyes, and the alcohol strumming in your veins.

Hands wrap around your wrist and they’re tugging you to your feet—“let's go! Come on! Sam got more booze!”

Steve stays sitting on the sand as Natasha pulls you along with her, a bottle of something stronger thrusted into your hands, but your eyes never leave Steve’s form. Not one your friends are chanting for you to chug down the tequila, not when your mind is hazy, not when you’re in the water, laughing as you and Wanda struggle to stay upright, not when you take his hand and you fall back into the water.

Not when you ask him to kiss you. Not when you tell him to take you to bed. And not when he’s touching you so softly, so tenderly and so—so lovingly that all you can do is cry out his name as you mold to his body and become one.

Love is difficult; love is hard.

But he was right.

Love can be so much more; and you don’t regret taking your chance on Steve. You never will.

epilogue

[sauntered-vaguely-downward]

The Innocent Saviour. Dean Winchester x Reader (Part One)

Warning: little blood, decapitated head. 

So this idea came to me during my Latin class so for the last hour and a half I’ve been writing this and subsequent chapters rather than paying attention. Enjoy x

Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the moment Sam and Dean would actually die for real. Shackled to chairs in some barn in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by five vampires, Castiel not answering, neither Winchester saw much hope for their survival. The best either of them could hope for was a quick painless death at this point. 

They had tried to escape, but even the great Winchester boys couldn’t get out of solid metal chains instead all they had managed was Dean being stabbed in the shoulder by one of the vamps. The vampires were waiting for their leader to come back, enjoying watching the pair struggle against the chains, looking around to see if they could find any way out. “Only a little longer now boys,” a small female vampire smirked. “The Winchester boys, brought down by vampires, what a great story. All you’ve been through and this is how you go, kinda tragic isn’t?” Each of the vampires let out a dark chuckle. One of the males came forward grabbing Sam’s hair, yanking his hair back. “Why wait? The boss is late why don’t we just start now? At least a bit-“ A sudden crash of the main barn door shutting. “That will be him.” Gentle footsteps made their way towards the door they were behind. The brothers shared a sad knowing look. No way out, no way for them to make a miraculous escape. The smaller barn door creaked open, revealing a sight nobody had imagined. Rather than some evil vamp looking ready to eat the Winchesters standing behind the open door, there was a smallish woman, who looked a little out of place in the room. In her hand, she held a machete and what both the boys assumed was the head of the leader they had been waiting for. This was not what made her look out of place, much rather it was the only thing the either of the boys found normal. It was her, the way she dressed that made her stand out. While everyone else was clad in dark clothes, the most prominent colour being black, the usual clothes for hunters or even to some extent vampires, she wore floaty floral trousers, along with a plain grey t-shirt now stained with blood. In her curled hair there was a ribbon keeping her messy hair in its ponytail. If she was a hunter she certainly didn’t look like one. “Sorry I’m late, turns out I’m not very good at reading maps,” she smiled softly at the room, head and weapon still in her hands. Her voice wasn’t as harsh as was expected of hunters, rather it was a soft sort of melody just with a sarcastic undertone, one that pleased Deans ears a lot. Dean had no clue who she was, but something about her made him feel warm and oddly safe.

“Who the fuck are you?” The vampires' attention was no longer on the Winchesters, instead being on a girl who held their leaders head in her hand as if it were nothing. “You killed Marcus!”

“Oh, this guy? Yeah well to be fair he did try to bite me so its fair game I guess.” Chucking the head into the group of vampires, she took up a defensive stance machete ready in her hands. Dean and Sam both looked on, unable to do anything knowing full well this wouldn’t end well. She was one, rather small woman, against five super strengthened living dead. She stood no chance, or so they thought.  

To everyone’s surprise, she took out all the vampires with ease. After one charged at her it all kicked off, blood flying everywhere, grunts coming from everyone, the sound of the machete ripping through the necks of each of the vamps dancing in the ears of the still helpless Winchester’s who could only look on in shock.

[slowly-writing]

I Don’t Feel So Good Part 3

Part 1   Part 2

Natasha Romanoff x Daughter!Reader / Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Word Count: 1063

Requested by: Multiple anons

A few weeks of recovery and one very awkward conversation with Wanda later you’re back on your feet. You never did go down to talk to the man who drugged you. Your mom raised you to be strong, but that was not something that you needed to do. He was formally arressted and charged with attempted murder, you’d leave it at that. You had moved on as best you could, you don’t have much to worry about with how overprotective your family is being now. Nothing is getting close enough to touch you with a ten foot pole.

“How are you feeling today, kiddo?” Steve asks as you walk into the kitchen for breakfast.

“I’m doing good, how about you?” you ask with a smile, grabbing some food and sitting at the table across from him.

“Are you sure? Not feeling sick?” Tony asks and you sigh.

“Guys, it’s been weeks. I know the whole thing freaked you all out but I’m doing fine, I promise I’ll be careful tonight,” you say and your mom shakes her head.

“No way. You are not going to that gala,” she says firmly and your jaw drops.

“Wha- Mom! I’m fine!” You argue but she doesn’t budge.

“What’s going on?” Wanda asks as she wanders into the kitchen.

“Wanda, help me! Tell them I can go tonight,” you plead but she shakes her head as well.

“Y/n, maybe you should hang out here tonight, just to be safe,” she suggests tentatively as she sits next to you, “I could stay with you.”

“No way!” two voices call in unison and you look to the source of the outburst while discreetly taking Wanda’s hand under the table.

“Why not? You were all very adamant about me not going like thirty seconds ago,” you look between your mom and Tony.

“It’s an Avengers gala. She’s an Avenger, she has to be there,” Tony says and you roll your eyes.

“Y/n’s an Avenger too. She just doesn’t do public missions,” Wanda argues before you can. The world has known of you for most of your life and most people still think of you as a weak little kid. The team uses that to their advantage on missions, so they let the public think you’re just Nat’s daughter, nothing more.

“Yeah but our donors don’t know that so she doesn’t need to be there,” Tony says and you ignore the comment.

“Okay, whatever. Mom, why don’t you want Wanda to miss the gala?” you ask your mom, who stares at you silently for a second.

“Do you really need to ask why I don’t want you staying home alone with your girlfriend?” she asks with a raised eyebrow and you balk at her.

“How- who said- what?” you stutter out.

“How do I know she’s your girlfriend? I’m a spy, y/n. It’s my job to notice these things,” she says and you avoid eye contact.

“Plus you announced in front of the entire team that you had a crush on her,” Cint says and you glare, crossing your arms.

“Shut up. I literally died. Like three times! I was allowed to say stupid things,” you grumble and Wanda laughs, gently pulling apart your crossed arms and taking your hand back.

“It worked out pretty well for us though,” she tells you, pulling a smile from your face, before she turns to your mom. “I promise nothing is gonna happen, Nat. We’ll just watch movies and hang out, you can have Jarvis keep an eye on us if it makes you feel better.”

“Please mom? If you’re gonna make me stay home please don’t make me do it alone,” you beg and she sighs.

“Alright, but I’m trusting you two.”

xxxxx

“What do you wanna watch?” Wanda asks as she sits next to you.

“I don’t really care,” you say, scooting closer to Wanda and leaning into her side. “You can choose.”

“Alright,” she says with a laugh. She puts on a random movie and pulls you closer to her.

“How are you enjoying your gala skip day?” you ask Wanda as the first movie ends and she smiles down at you.

“I’d say it's one of the best nights I’ve ever had. I’m definitely having more fun here than I would’ve had at the gala,” she tells you and you grin back up at her. You lean up and tentatively press your lips to hers.  You pull back after a second and look at Wanda, a bit nervous. She just smiles and gently pulls you back towards her. After a few minutes she nudges your shoulder gently. You take the hint and lay back, pulling her with you. The next thing you know, you hear someone clearing your throat and the two of you jump apart.

“Hi kids,” Tony says with a smirk and you wince at your mom’s unreadable expression.

“Am I in trouble?” you ask your mom.

“Take a guess,” she says with her hand on her hips.

“No?” you hear Steve trying to stifle a laugh as your mom raises an eyebrow.

“Guess again.”

“Mom, it’s not that big of a deal!” you argue.

“You were hooking up on the couch. Kind of seems like a big deal,” Clint says and you groan.

“I’m 17! What do you expect? And we were both fully clothed, that is not hooking up!” you glance over to Wanda for help but she looks terrified so you turn to Steve who sighs.

“She’s got a point Nat. She’s not a little kid anymore,” Steve says and your mom’s glare turns to him. They lock into a staring match and the room falls silent.

“Fine,” your mom says before turning back to you and Wanda. “But if I walk in on your girlfriend on top of you again-”

“You won’t,” Wanda squeaks and you nod vigorously. Your mom's glare drops and she chuckles a bit.

“Good,” she says before walking out. All the boys immediately burst out laughing as soon as she leaves the room.

“Good going kids,” Tony says through his laughter, patting you on the shoulder as they walk out.

“That was terrifying,” Wanda mumbles and you nod.

“Note to self, only make out with your girlfriend behind closed doors,” you say, looking over to her. The two of you hold eye contact for a second before you both burst out laughing.

tag list: @rvgrsbrns @rororo06 @freerebel @prizmix-and-friends @m19friend @worlds-in-words @5aftermidnight @riotmaximoff

[goshwrites]

business (yandere x reader) 1

warnings: swearing, ageplaying, obsession, unhealthy relationships

word count: 2.9 

A/N: still not completely my best writing oof but here we go

taglist: (none as of yet since i’m keeping the taglist for the ben solo blurb separate from this one)

  You know how like in some novels things happen right away one after another? Like the very next day or something?  Well that didn't happen with you.  The day after the whole fiasco with Romeo and Juliette... things were pretty chill. Boss of course seemed just a little agitated, but that was normal in your opinion since well... she always had a resting bitch face. Always. And then it was two days after it.  Still nothing. You somehow got hit in the head with a paper ball that was thrown so badly it flew over the small wall that separated the cubicles instead of the trashcan. Yeah. That person's aim was horrible, but eh. They offered you chocolate once so you were cool.  Three days after everything still was kind of cool. Someone's phone kept buzzing the Backstreet Boy's song I Want It That Way and of course any reasonable person would sing along with it which of course was you.  Then four- well that was Saturday. And that was your glorious dayoff of going to the store and getting facial masks.  And fifth was Sunday and with that you mostly chilled while working on editing your paper.  Six was... Monday to say the least.  No comment.  And then what do you know? A whole week went by the incident and it seemed that no one even remembered or cared or just... were even awake to see it.    Tuesday started out kind of nice. You didn't do that annoying thing of where you wake up like ten minutes before your alarm and then you try to go back to sleep because hey it's way too early but then you can't because anxiety and you spent like seven minutes inwardly arguing with your anxiety and before you know it- it's time to get up.  But that didn't happen. That happened on Monday, yes, but Tuesday? Nah you woke up to the beautiful bliss of birds using their vocal cords and like some violins playing in the background. Over all it was nice.  And you got a cheese bagel at your nearby bagel shop because they're everywhere.    You greeted the security man that stood by the door with a 'good morning' on your way into the large building that also housed other companies like some kind of shoe company and like maybe one of Jojo's bowties? You really didn't know and didn't really wanna know. You walked out of the elevator of the floor you were on and proceeded to make your way to your cubicle. You sat down with the rolling chair moving backwards a tad before you reached out and got out your laptop from the beach bag. You were just typing in the password and going to your documents when you heard a soft, "Good morning," from your left and you look over to the opening to see Ben standing there. A small grin came onto your face at seeing the dark skinned male.  "It is this time." You mused while thinking back on your grumpy mood yesterday. He chuckled while flashing that pearly white grin of his.  "And am I not glad for that?"  "Oh shut up." You said playfully towards the male as you brought up your latest project on your computer.  He just chuckled and shook his head as if he just knew that you wouldn't pull through on your threat. And well he was right.  "Uh huh. Anyways since you're in a better mood, I was thinking we could like go out for lunch?" He suggested with a shrug as you looked back up at him. He always liked to wear bright colors since he could always pull them off so well, so today he was wearing a neon yellow t-shirt and washed-out jeans. You weren't really wearing anything special. Just blue jeans, (f/c) shirt, and some converse so eh. Nothing special or extraordinary. Just the way you liked it.  But somehow Ben always looked nice in everything he wore.  You decided to just shove your writing abilities to the back of your mind as you pretended to think about it.  "Hmmmm. I don't know. I don't really know if I like you or not." You said while stroking your chin as if there was a beard there. He chuckled and shook his head.  "Awww. Come on, (N/n). I know you do and you know you love me." He practically whined to you with a childish pout making you giggle.  "Of course I love you. You're one of the few people that are tolerable here." You told him with a grin and a shake of my head.  'You know you love me' was that one inside joke between the two of you. Whenever one just wasn't budging on something for whatever reason the other would always play that card. And usually it worked.  He was probably about to say something about being offended by that statement, but your little bicker was irrupted.  "(L/n)! My office!" You heard your last name being called out causing you to sit up right in your chair. And there standing at her office was Boss. Now Boss... was an interesting woman. One, she was born and raised in Liberia until her family moved here causing her to have a very strong accent. Two, she was very... well... blunt. She was like the Simon Cowell or Gordon Ramsey of writing. And three, even though her natural hair was black, she had dyed it a sort of burgundy red that stuck out like on a traffic light.  But you've never been called to her office before. Not unless it was for another project. But... you were working on a project. So why did she call you?    You forced yourself to rise from the rolling chair before you took in a deep breath. Just... don't jump around conclusions. You and Ben shared a look of mutual look of worry and confusion before you forced yourself to walk out and into the hallway. Others had already stopped typing to give you the look of 'uh oh' as you walked. Honestly you felt like you were going to your own funeral at these somber looks. But alas you reached the glass down of Boss's office. It was that type of office from Superman of where the walls were glass. You had to admit, you liked it.  But at the moment you kinda wished the walls were concrete so no one could see you get fired. Wait.  Fired? Now that started the anxiety ball rolling.  But before you could turn away and maybe act like you were too sick to come to her office, she saw you and simply waved you in. Those glass walls. Traitors.   You took in a deep breath and entered into the carpeted office room. Besides being all fancy with her name on the door in a sort of Instagram font, Boss had a reddish, dark brown wooden desk with four small drawers on each side at the top, and two large drawers at the bottom. The desk was definitely an expensive one since the handles for the drawers had designs on them. Overall Boss just causally flexed with the desk.  And the carpet was like really comfy too as you shifted on it sort of nervously. Boss just looked at you before she picked up a Rubik Cube and just twirled it in her hand. She looked down at the multiple colors as she mixed the cube up.  And finally easing the growing of your anxiety- she spoke.  "Sit down, (L/n)." Obediently you sat down in the brown, leather chair that actually fit very well with the desk. She waited a few moments as if she was waiting to see if you were comfortable before she spoke again. "Do you remember what happened last week?" What? What happened? What week? Last week?  What happened last week?  You had no fucking idea.  But were you gonna admit that? Hell no.  "Yes, I do." You told her with a nod to make it seem like you weren't an idiot.  "Well, today... I got the phone call from Stevie saying that she and Issac have gone back to his home town to get married."  Wait... who? Then... ohhh yeeaaaah.  Last week... those two. Right.  "Wow. They didn't waste any time, huh?" You said while acting like you had an excellent memory of all things at all time. Yup.  No dummy here.  But that kinda brought up a question... why was she telling you this?  "No, they did not." She said with a shake of her head before she leaned forward in her seat. "But.. I'm sure you're wondering why I am telling you this." You nodded at her words and she took this as a cue to continue. "Well... I assigned Stevie to an assignment that I thought that she was ready for, but now that she's getting married... well... I will need someone else for it."  Huh. Why was she telling you this?  Then... wait... oh. Oh.  "You... want me for the assignment?" You asked as you couldn't hide the surprise that leaked into your voice.  Huh. So obviously you weren't the first choice, but at least you were the second. Better than none, right?  "If you will take it." Boss responded with a shrug as she looked down at the Rubik Cube while simultaneously solving it and speaking. Woah.  "Well I mean uh- I would love too, Boss. But..." You briefly trailed off as you shifted in the leather seat.  "Just what is the assignment?"  "It's actually an interview." An interview? Now... that is something you did not have that much experience on. Who would you be interviewing? Harry Styles?  Oh now that would be great. (But sadly this isn't a 1D fanfic) "Well uh... I don't really have that much experience with like journalism and like interviews." You awkwardly confessed as you scratched your head. "But... who is it?"  Boss paused as she stopped almost... completing the Rubik Cube. What. How did she that so fast? But your confessed and amazed eyes moved back up to Boss whenever she answered your question with, "Edward Gimmens." Then... wait.  Edward Gimmens… as in... that really rich guy?  That Edward Gimmens? You just stared at your Boss in amazement as she finished the Rubik Cube. But you weren't amazed by her skill- okay yes you were actually- but more with the fact as... "How... did you get an interview slot with him?"  As far as you knew the philanthropist, billionaire, and whatever he had on his resume didn't do interviews for magazines that centered around Millenniums and Gen-Zs. He did it for those really big and out there magazines, you know?  "Well, believe it or not, he came to us. But that is not important. You'll have to come up with your questions and such, but you can use Stevie's notes." She said as she set the cube down and pulled out a folder out from her desk.  You blinked a few times at her rapid explanation as just.. woah. "But of course that's if you are taking the job."  That... was the million dollar question, wasn't it? Or the billion in this case. Ha, ha, ha.  "I... well... I... what makes you think I can do this?" You found the words coming out of your mouth before you could stop them. Uh- uh- uh- "Of course I am grateful you offered it to me, but umm... why?" You quickly added as to not seem rude.  "Well... Stevie was my first choice since she's done work like this before." Boss began with a shrug as she leaned back against the chair. "But when she had to go... well... you just popped into my head as the next capable person to do this."  You? Capable? You still got anxiety with ordering your own meal. "You... think I can do this?" You asked hesitantly and in an unsure way as your (e/c) eyes met Boss's. She smiled just a tad before she leaned forward.  "(L/n)… I see potential in you. You're a good writer and you know how to set a pace right in whatever you write. You're just... how do I put this? Not confident in your abilities. So... I'm giving you the old... shove-you-out-of-the-airplane thing."  That... did not sound ideal. Not at all. But still you slowly nodded your head.  "All right. Thanks, Boss, I'm honored you think so highly of me, but umm... can I have some time to think about it?"  "Ah yes. Of course, of course. Take as much time as you need." She said while waving her hand in the air and with her accent sort of slurring her words together making the 'course' sound like 'close.'  "But just not too much time. This does need to be written, you know."  You nodded before you stood up from the comfy chair.  "I'll... let you know by Friday." You decided on that day while your anxiety told you in one ear that you won't be able to decide by then and your self worth was whispering how she would find someone else in that time period. Fun times.  "That is good, (L/n). I'll be awaiting for your answer." She said with a nod as she stood up as well. You couldn't help, but slightly smile at the way she worded things. "And ah! Just in case you do decide to take the job, here is the notes Stevie had." She said while picking up the folder she had brought onto her desk previously. She handed it to you and you took it from her dark and freckled hands.  "Just read it over and see what you think."  "I will Boss. Thanks." 

  With one final goodbye and wave to Boss, you exited out of the office and back down the hall to your cubicle.

So... you weren't getting fired? You actually kind of got promoted in a way? I mean, if you did this interview right... others would be put on your desk. 

But this was Edward Gimmens, the CEO of Gimmens Incorporated. This was a man who's spent nearly three decades in making his name known in whatever way.

He was a well known and looked up to man in whatever he did. Whether it be taking mankind steps closer to having flying cars or what he was most known for, and you found it a little humorous, cosmetics. 

Yes that's right.

The philanthropist, inventor, and very rich guy was famous for his makeup. Somehow he had figured out a way to have any foundation or concealer or blush fit exactly to your skin tone. Instead of having to make a formula for each different skin tone, he was somehow able to make one for all. Needless to say, the product instantly became a favorite around the world. Even you had tried it once, and contrary to what you expected, it somehow blended perfectly. 

He was like the Willy Wonka of makeup. And you were suppose to interview him. 

  You sat back down on your rolling chair with a huff. But should you take it? It was a great- like really great- opportunity for you and the magazine. Of course Boss can always get somebody else, but still. 

It was great and big and perfect, but... also stressing. You were going to have to come up with questions... but Stevie did leave behind notes for you. And thinking of the notes- you had the folder. 

You set it on your desk before you opened it up to see the Instagram font that was Stevie's handwriting. 

Man. You'd probably kill someone for being able to write that elegantly.

You read over what she had so far in her notes and you had to admit that she had some pretty good ideas of what she wants to ask. You bit your lip and decided to close the folder for now. 

Hmm. Maybe... just maybe, this won't be so bad.

But of course- you needed another person's opinion on this. 

"Hey, Ben?" You decided to speak up over the clicking keyboards to your cubicle mate. 

"Yeah?" Came his one worded reply.

"I would love to go to lunch with you."

And even though you couldn't see it, you knew he was smiling.

[junniepop]

Can I please get you to do N, W, R, and S for Peter Parker?, If you're busy it is fine though.

Of course, I don’t know which Peter you want so I’m gonna guess Tom Holland.

Also if you’d like a request, please check my master list for what I write for before requesting, thank you. 

I also want the reader to have powersssss soooo. Cellular control is your power. 

N- Nights, Are they a night owl? Are they a midnight snack kind of person? are they the first person to fall asleep?

Often Peter spends most night out on patrol and even though he tells you to sleep, you are always waiting for him when he returns, you’re worried one day he won’t return. Every time he gets home, you’re waiting to heal any injuries he might get. When he does stay in, He is a definite night owl, but he also get up early- honestly you don’t understand how the boy does it. Midnight snacks are his jam, he is usually eating all hours of the day since he needs the energy to be Spider man. Peter as I mentioned before is a night owl and he 90% of time falls asleep after you, usually 20 minutes later. 

R- Remember, What is their favorite memory about their s/o or their relationship?

Peter’s favorite memory by far was Prom with you. Boy was a stuttering mess when you came down the stairs, he told you at least 900 times how stunning you looked, he was not the best when it came to flirting, but it was really cute. Peter would never tell you, but the week before, he practiced dancing with Aunt May so he wouldn’t embarrass himself in front of you. When the time came, you were surprised how effortlessly he danced, it was like he was gliding through the room. After prom you guys went to eat, it was not much since most places were close, but you two enjoyed it. When he got you home, you guys talked on the roof of the building for 2 hours. 

S- Security, Are they a protective person? how protective are they of their s/o?

If you were to say, Peter was not that protective, but little did you know Peter was quite the overprotective puppy. Peter would check in on you at least 10 times during his patrol around the city, and if you were out somewhere, Peter was lurking somewhere close by. The poor boy goes through a lot of trouble to make sure no harm comes your way, he would ask Ned to watch you when he was in a bigger fight, not that you would know though. He even has Karen know your current location at all times, just to make sure.

W- Whole, Do they feel complete with their s/o or do they feel empty without them?

Peter is definitely the latter, he would be empty without you, it is not that he does not feel complete with you- it’s is more like you are his safe space, somewhere he can go and be completely accepted and safe. Without you, Peter would be a dead star, devoid of light or heat. A shell of the radiating warmth and youth he once was if you were to disappear. All in all don’t break spiderboy’s heart.

I hope you enjoy how I interpret Peter. 

[sheepyworkshop]

He’s a Thief | Akira Kurusu

new story up for my favorite thief!!~ http://archiveofourown.org/works/13591275

[junniepop]

Master list and rules

so I have not used Tumblr in a very long time, and I think it is about time I start. 

I’m going to start doing Male reader and Gender-neutral reader with a Male character cuz that stuff barely exists.  Also, I will do head cannons.

So here is a list of anime and stuff I’ll do it for. (also recommend me anime please.)

Boku no Hero Academia 

Jujutsu Kaisen

Fate/series (Though I have not watched all of them.) 

Hellsing (because it is absolutely funny.)

Kuroko no baskue

Devil May Cry 

Avengers (less anime stuff, if you’re not into that.)

The Bat family

Haikyuu

Um that’s all I can think of right now, but I plan on updating this list

Now onto rules.

first things first, I do not do minor stuff- so all characters are aged up to fit that standard, unless the work is platonic.

This should be obvious, but do not repost my work without permission.

sometimes people will request similar or even exact request you want to see- so make sure I have not written it yet.

Types of requests.

Hi, I would like to request (Character) with (M! or Gn! reader) on how they show their love for them.

Hi, can I request (Character) with (M! or Gn! reader) with (a type of AU ex. Soulmate or Modern.)

Hi, may I please get some (type of headcannon) for (Character.)