#she is truly iconic

[dumbnpoetic]

the “espresso EP” cover 🎀

[beegs-of-the-baronies]

[whitesunlars]

rip all the parents who didn’t check the rating of barbie and took their slightly too young children to a pg-13 movie and now need to explain what a gynecologist is to their kids

[hgstuff]

rhaenyra targaryen icons

like or reblog if u save and don't repost without credits ✨

[lostinthewoodsomewhere]

You know, I think one of the problems some people have with understanding Jesse as a character, is that their caught up on the idea of her being the trope of a normal person, an outsider, confronted with a whole new world that she should constantly be confused and shocked about, when that's just not the case.

She's actually a very weird person who has finally found a place and group of people who match her freak, and it's such an important distinction that some people seem to overlook!!!

(It also can't be overstated just how much she trusts Polaris, but that's a whole other post...)

[hellonoblesky]

Freddie Lounds you will always be famous

[ID: A digital drawing of Freddie Lounds holding a news mic labeled tattle crime and gesturing to Will and Hannibal, who are covered in blood and making out in a chair. End ID]

[according2thelore]

You are married to Sam Winchester. You don’t have a name.

You met him in a bar. Or a park. Or a diner where you worked. Or a library you were studying in. Or on the bus route back to your apartment. Or in the frozen aisle of a grocery store. The location doesn’t matter, but you know that you know him. That’s all you need to know. He smiles at you, and you smile back. He’s nice to look at, in the way that shards of stained glass are nice to look at. In the way that car crashes are captivating, in the way that a tree can be both dead and alive at once, in the way that homes disappear one room at a time. It doesn’t matter. You open your mouth to introduce yourself but the waitress-librarian-cop-bus driver-clerk talks over you. He never asks again. I’m Sam, he says. It’s a nice name. He’s got a nice face.

Dating him is easy. He never asks any questions about you. You ask questions about him, but he doesn’t like it, so you learn to stop. I had a brother, he offers once, in the way that someone says, I tried to kill myself. You nod. His name is Dean. It’s odd, maybe, that he refers to Dean in both past and the present tense. He doesn’t like it when you question things like that, though, so you keep quiet. Sam says strange things sometimes, when you’re sitting entwined on your couch watching reality TV. I killed monsters. They killed me, sometimes, too. He says. Your eyes go wide. He reassures you, It doesn’t matter. You melt back against him.

Oh, okay. As long as it doesn’t matter, that’s alright with you.

You get married. You get married in a courthouse, because Sam doesn’t like churches. I’ve made too many promises in churches, he said. I can’t break any more.

Okay, you say. You never liked churches much anyway. Or maybe you do. Maybe you believe in God. Sam doesn’t. He says he killed God. You believe him, because he’s got a knife carved from bone hidden under your boxspring. He keeps herbs and finger bones in jars and a golden bowl in your china cabinet, and won’t let you touch them. When the clerk hands you your wedding certificate, you smile as Sam kisses you. You’re excited when you take the paper from him, hoping to see your name. But in the space where it’s supposed to be is blank. Sam rubs a finger over Marriage Certificate, then over his name scribbled in pen. It’s perfect, he says, looking up at you with distant stars in his eyes. Oh. Okay, it’s perfect. That’s good. 

He cries out for Dean in his sleep. Night terrors so severe that they upend you from his bed shake him awake once a week. He screams in a language you’ve never heard before. After those nights, Sam doesn’t look you in the eye. He doesn’t talk after nightmares, and you don’t know how to shake him back to consciousness.

You catch him in the reflex of doing things. Odd things set him off. A rerun of that medical drama you binged in undergrad shuts Sam down, and he doesn’t come home until after dinner. An Asia song plays in a grocery store and Sam drops the milk in the middle of the aisle. You find him having a panic attack behind your car in the parking lot. 

He has an old car in the apartment’s parking garage that you’re not allowed to touch. It’s vintage—a beautiful thing, because you know a lot about cars or maybe you don’t—and it’s got an arsenal in the trunk. He buries salt lines in your yard. If you sneak up behind him, he’s got a knife to your throat before you can explain yourself.

Sam laughs at something on his phone, and goes to show someone, but it’s always only you there. It seems to disappoint him. When he’s upset, he gets more upset when you say the wrong things. It’s a dance that you don’t know the steps to, and Sam’s too tired to teach you.

It’s okay, you’ll learn yourself. You buy him almonds at the grocery store. You always keep the thermostat above seventy two degrees Fahrenheit. You always grab him a second of whatever you get: a beer, a sandwich, a blanket. You sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door. It’s not perfect. When you do the laundry, he gets frustrated with you because you fold things “too big.”  He always orders two sides of fries. He buys ground beef that he doesn’t eat.

He has a dog. The dog doesn’t like you, but it doesn’t not like you either. Sam hates you for it. Dean loves this dog. He loves Dean, too. Sam told you. You wilt. Another test failed. Dean’s really good at this game, but you’re not. Dean’s good at most games, at least the games that Sam likes to play. You try to love the dog more after that, giving him treats and actually cooking the ground beef Sam throws away every week to feed him. When Sam sprints into the kitchen as the smell wafts through the house, he collapses when he sees it’s just you. He doesn’t talk the rest of the weekend.

Sam gets a job at the factory. Or the construction site. Or the law firm. Or the local community college. You work as a nurse. Or a doctor. Or a cop. Or a secretary. Or a chef. It doesn’t matter. The details are blurry. Sam invites you to a Christmas party with his coworkers. This is my wife, Sam says, proud. His coworkers smile, but they never ask your name. You don’t have one. That’s alright with you, as long as it’s alright with Sam. You’d hate to embarrass him at a work party.

You have sex. You get pregnant. You have a kid. Those things happen in some kind of order, but it gets mixed up sometimes. 

You’ve always wanted a girl probably, but when you look into the face of your son, you realize that you’ve never wanted anything as much as you want this child. Or maybe you never wanted kids. But you have one now, and he’s your priority. You’re a good mom.

Sam didn’t have a good mom, didn’t have a mom until he was in his thirties, but she didn’t last long. So it’s important to him that you’re a good mom for his son. You’re going to take the job seriously.

We should name him Dean, you suggest, and Sam sobs into your hair. Your chest warms pleasantly. You like it when Sam holds you like this. When Sam shows you the birth certificate, your eyes catch on the name. Dean Winchester Junior? You ask. That’s for naming a child after a parent. Sam looks at the baby in your arms—wait, now it’s in his arms—and says, Dean is as much of a part of this as either of us.

The space for Mother of Child is blank. You’ve never seen a picture of Dean Winchester. Or Dean Winchester, Sr. now. 

You fall asleep in an apartment and wake up in a house with a porch and a white-picket fence. That’s nice. It’ll give the dog space to run around. In your child’s sixth month alive, Sam sleeps in the child’s crib with a knife. Just to make sure, he says. Nothing’s going to happen to Dean. It takes him a long time to say the name without flinching when he’s talking about his son. When your son turns a year old, you finally remember to ask what Sam’s tattoo means. He looks surprised that you’ve mentioned it. It’s a tattoo that I got with Dean. He says. Of course it is. You’re angry, but it’s gone again, because these are things you’re supposed to accept about Sam. It keeps demons from possessing me. Demons? You ask, startled. Sam’s mouth thins into a line. Yes. You need to get one, he says. And the second that Dean turns sixteen, I’m signing that form and we’re taking him in to get one, too. You’re alarmed, until Sam tells you that it’s okay. That’s a relief. You get the tattoo, right over your left breast, and Sam fucks you so hard that you can’t walk the next day. You introduce your family to your boss one day, This is Sam and Dean!, and Sam shoves the baby into your arms and has to leave the room. We’re calling him Dean Junior from now on, Sam says later, after the hunted look in his eyes melts into exhaustion. Alright. 

You clean the house. You wear sundresses. You like your job, but not enough to let it get in the way of being a mother. Sam teaches Dean Junior how to throw a ball. He helps him with math homework. You make meatloaf and take Dean Junior to soccer games.

You realize late—too late, maybe—that all the pictures of you on the mantle are a little blurry. You can’t remember the last time you saw your own reflection. You pull out your driver’s license. It’s blank, just your address. No picture of you. Your hair colour is just “dark.” No height. “Thin” is your weight. You speed on the way home from work so you can get pulled over. You hand over your empty license and your blank registration, and the cop barely gives either a glance. You’re free to go. He says. Everything’s in order.

You walk in the front door, and Sam kisses you on the cheek. He’s had to get glasses recently, and they make his face look even more handsome. Welcome home, honey, he says, smiling. Do you remember when you told me you killed God? You ask, because that sounds vaguely familiar. Sam blinks at you in confusion for a couple of seconds. The house shudders around you for a second.

Yes, Sam says, voice distant. Yes, I think I did. There’s a new God now though. I helped raise him. He’s a good kid. The house stills. There is no room for nasty things here. Only good. You nod, relieved. I’m glad he’s a nice boy, you say, picking up your son. If anyone could raise God, you could.

Sam looks haunted by this. He retreats.

Sam doesn’t tell you everything. Sam won’t ever tell you everything. 

You look into the face of your son as he swings his legs lightly against your hip. He’s got green eyes, and he’s sucking on his thumb, a nasty habit you’ve tried to break. Sam shows Dean Junior pictures of his brother. He tells him stories, when Dean Junior’s asleep, about the open road, about cicadas and fireworks and greasy diner food and sunscreen and used textbooks and ash.

You sit on the opposite side of the door and cry because this man is a catastrophe and he hunted monsters and he loves everything more than you thought anyone could love anything. He’s half a soul, crammed into one body, edges ragged. He’s over two hundred years old. And he likes cherry slushies and he’s killed angels and he dreams of his brothers hands and he’s seen the face of God. 

I love your uncle, you had heard his voice, a low murmur in Junior’s nursery one night. Sometimes I don’t know how to exist and be so unknown. Even when we didn’t speak, he knew me. No one has known me in years. I don’t think anyone will ever know me again.

You kiss him and try to make it like his brother would do it. He’s grateful. Sam’s grateful for a lot of things. He calls your lives together an “apple pie life.” But you don’t like apple pie. Or maybe you do. It doesn’t matter.

It’s okay. You’re just Sam Winchester’s wife. You’ve got a son named Dean.

You’ve spent your whole life sharing them both with a dead man. 

crossposted on ao3 here

[nataliescatorccioapologist]

Sophie Thatcher is going to be in not one, not two, but THREE A24 horror movies coming out in the next 2 years (MaXXXine, Heretic, and Companion) along with YJ Season 3, we’re about to be FED.

[laurapetrie]

JENNIFER JONES in MADAME BOVARY (1949)

Emma feeds on mediocre books, and therefore her dissatisfactions are never truly tragic, just grotesque. She is not to be pitied but derided. She is worthy of condemantion for her vulgar nature, for her cold and self-centered pursuit of a kind of pleasure that not even she understands, for her stupid attachment to the most inane of literary myths, for her dime-store sentimentalism. Few readers take time to look more closely at Emma and at how her author judges her, how many indignities he heaps upon her — so many that she is left without a single good quality, not one. - Dacia Maraini, Searching for Emma

[dog-beast]

Hey so, Agatha Ledge made the only camera in the Cosmos. It also happens to be explosive, making it incredibly deadly.

The camera is used at the Loxlee Gala every year, for a few years at least. Everyone knows they could die just to get their image taken, after all they used to lose half the crowd, but its a risk they willingly take.

Agatha Ledge has just been killing the rich Valorous. For "science". And they thank her for it.

She looked at the Trust, looked at her camera and decided, "this Breach nonsense is taking too long, I'll handle it my damn self."

[satans-knitwear]

BEHOLD: A style icon. and two lil gifs of me.

Treat me ~ Tip Me ~ More of me

[katlandry]

Imagine Ronance was actually endgame tho… literally the biggest plot twist, like four seasons of Jancy vs Stancy only for Nancy to choose Robin 😭 truly iconic

Not to mention the fact Nancy has been a huge part of the plot from the beginning and Robin since s3, neither was brought in just to be a love interest

[guinevereslancelot]

"what's the song of the summer?" umm it's before he cheats by carrie underwood for the eighteenth year in a row lol

[wexhappyxfew]

How about “you can kiss me, you know” for Kennedy and Bucky if you think it fits them? 💜 I can’t wait to see what you cook up from these!

HI SWEET ANON!!!! i must say, upon receiving this prompt - my entire world shifted on its axis a bit so THANK YOU!!!!! the way this prompt fit them was SO INSANELY WELL. it just seemed to scream KENNEDY X BUCKY to me. and i just. ate it up. truly. this was a JOY and a TREAT to write and just. safe to say - bucky's POV of kennedy farley is one of my favorite things ever and just - THEY DESERVE THE WORLD !!!!!! they deserve all that is good and well!!! <3333 THANK YOU AGAIN ANON - positively *obsessed*! kennedy x bucky girlies this is for YOU! :D

you found me

(a/n): POV: we're in Bucky's POV, opening scene is when everyone is getting letters from home and he hasn't gotten a single one. that one post about the way the show seemed to portray bucky not getting letters left me reeling and just. do with that what you will. and also. yeah. kennedy makes bucky's mind got scatter-brained at every given opportunity lmao. COME AND GET IT !!!!!!!! THESE TWO JUST. INSANE. INSANE INSANE INSANE. (this prompt was everything) cue: you found mehhh, you found mehhhh, lying on the floorrrr...... (don't mind my horrible puns, it's in the title lmfao, i couldn't help it, but it's a kennedy quote so haha!)

The place was changing him.

He knew that much.

He could tell when he woke in the morning and went to bed at night, and his mind was an even deeper and darker place than it had been 12 hours earlier. Seeing the women the way they were, the men, the food situation, the general health of each and every person crammed in that bunk room, seeing the new guys coming in day in and day out, walking in circles convincing himself he wasn't crazy.

It was changing him and he couldn't wrangle in that change in any way that would be manageable.

And seeing those letters.

Goddamn, it made him a little crazy inside - those words, the smells, the feelings, the evident love and care that were in each and every one.

Something deep in his chest hurt a little more than he wanted when mail call would come and peoples' names would be read out and they'd get their letters and be reading it with such gratitude and genuineness in their gazes.

It usually made Bucky snippy, a little more irritated in a way he didn't want. And without fail, Buck could usually get a whiff of that the second that he grew quiet and withdrawn.

Curse his customary loud mouth!

"I think you were right," Buck said as they walked side by side, kicking up dust, grimacing at the slightly bitter chill of early-morning air racing across the open patch of brown dirt and sand their barracks were on, "we should've made a run for it while they were out chasing those Brits." Should've, could've, would've. Bucky bit back his lip and glanced sideways at Buck a bit before looking forward a bit with a shake of the head.

"Maybe, but I can't help thinking you were right. Better to play it safe." Bucky answered quietly back, a worn tone to his voice, sudden agitation lingering in his throat, "The hell am I rushing back home for?" It grew quiet for a moment.

What the hell was he so hellbent on getting out of here for anyway? A life? A home? A girlfriend? He shook his head.

"Other guys get letters. You get letters. Bessie gets letters. Hambone gets letters." Bucky said, "To get a letter, you need someone to get it from." Bucky watched as he kicked a stone forward, hands shoved deep into his pockets, the cool wind back again, blowing up his neck and across his face, "Guess I never set that part up right." Buck looked over at him slightly.

"That's just this place talking. You're tired."

"I am tired."

"You'll have plenty of time for that when you get out." Buck said, his ever-present tender tone, his voice a pleasant escape from the world around them, so hopeful and yearning for a future outside of this.

"You'll set it up right next time." Bucky wished he was a little more like that.

"They're only gonna know this me. Not the old me." Bucky said quietly, with a sigh. "Me before I got here. That's if we even get out."

"We'll get out. And this you will be the one worth knowing." Buck said - this you will be the one worth knowing? Would this Bucky be worth it? Knowing him? His tendencies, his way about looking at life like it were some sort of rock to throw in the water on the side of a river? Like hazardously tip-toeing around something without taking that extra care to see it through? The Bucky who lost all composure when Buck had gone down, when men went down every day, when Kennedy had come in looking more ghost than waist gunner.

"You sure about that?" he asked Bucky, glancing over at the man with a stern look in his gaze, "I wouldn't be convinced."

"Farley seems convinced." Buck said and it took all of two seconds for Bucky to freeze.

Farley?

Listen, Bucky was a fan of Kennedy Farley, always had been, always would be - even if she was a Red Sox fan - but he had lost the point where Farley was connected to the conversation.

"What's Farley gotta do with this?" Bucky asked, turning to look at Buck with a slightly standoffish look in his eye, "I don't think she needs any sort of convincing. She just….thinks what she thinks and does what she needs to do from there, you know? Don't get me wrong, Farley's a good someone to have in your back pocket - hell, we're in each other's by this point but-" Buck stopped and looked to him, placing his hands on his hips, giving Bucky a look, stopping Bucky in his rather rambling attempt to cover his ass - for whatever reason, he wasn't sure.

"You know what I'm talking about, Bucky," Buck said, his voice quiet, "don't tell me you're confused." Bucky looked at him.

"Cut the crap, Buck." Bucky said quietly, watching as Buck smiled the slightest bit.

"You can't keep your eyes off her, Bucky," Buck said quietly, "and here you are saying you got no one." Buck stepped forward and gently patted his shoulder. "She's been there the whole time."

Bucky followed Buck into the bunk room and immediately let his eyes become drawn to her there at the table in the center of the room, her ginger hair falling over her shoulders, her eyes looking more tired than they had been in days, and her nose bright red - still fighting off that damn cold everyone had seemed to catch.

Bucky had paused a bit in the threshold, his body locked up in a way that he was sure even a fire couldn't melt and briefly caught Buck's gaze back at him as he went to lift himself onto a bunk.

It was pretty quiet in the room for one and going directly over to Kennedy, and asking her just to talk real quick would probably make things more obvious than needed.

And a sudden bit of jitters hit him as he stood there, eyes locked on Kennedy, hands shoved in his pockets, heart pounding. With the way the sun seemed to be hitting her from the windowpane that they had stood by those few weeks in the middle of the night, he couldn't help but seem to swallow all his thoughts and words into a pit in the middle of his stomach.

"Sir?" Bucky blinked quickly to find the group at the table looking up at him, the familiarity of Margie's voice hitting his ears as he glanced at her, sat at the table, flipping through a book - a mixture of mild confusion and concern contorting her face.

"Uh," Bucky started, clearing his throat awkwardly and then looking to Kennedy, "can we talk?" His voice came out slightly hoarse, muffled and choked as he asked her and he knew he needed to get it together quick or he'd look more like a clown than anything.

Kennedy gave him a weird look - she was always giving him weird looks, admittedly, if she wasn't, he'd probably be more concerned. But then she nodded, placing down her own book in her hands and got to her feet, a slight smile on her face.

That smile was enough to send him into a new dimension, he was sure of that - and he wasn't sure of a lot of things - the war, the future, even right now. He was sure of that smile though.

And Kennedy.

"What's up?" she asked him, coming around the table and looking up at him.

Words, words, words.

"Not here." Bucky said quickly, not missing the slow smile rising on Buck's face from somewhere in his goddamn peripheral that was enough to make him squirm, "The library?" Kennedy eyed him.

"Sure." she said, vaguely suspicious sounding. She slid past him and it seemed it got his own legs moving as he caught Buck's eye again - who winked enthusiastically. Bucky gave him a look, briefly catching Margie's second of growing suspicion before following after Kennedy to the library at the corner of the building.

Stepping inside, it was empty and if anything - quiet. Bucky could get a wrangle on his thoughts and hopefully not sound like a fool in front of Kennedy.

Kennedy turned to him as he slowly shut the door behind him, her eyes running over him worriedly, stood with her arms folded across her chest, a quiet look on her face that was beyond enough to make his insides warm.

He'd seen Kennedy Farley as a more stripped back person of herself out here and to say it made him yearn for that time back in Thorpe Abbotts everyday, made him go a little crazy. If he hadn't been so….just chasing after anything, so blinded by the alcohol and the women and the music. If he'd just taken a moment to focus and see Kennedy Farley had been there all along. With that laugh, that smile, her comforting words, her willingness to put herself all out there just for the hell of it.

"You okay?" Kennedy asked him, her eyes searching his face, a small smile darting out with a chuckle, "You look a little pale."

"For Chrissake, the sun don't ever come out, Kenny," he said, his nervous chatter slipping out as a small smile graced his presence and it seemed to echo in Kennedy's smile back to him, "no, no, I'm fine, serious, just. Needed to talk. To you."

"Yeah." Kennedy said, watching him, slightly confused, "We….sorta established that back in the bunk room."

"Right." Bucky said, his brain malfunctioning in every improper way that a brain could in a moment like this, "Need to talk. Yes." Kennedy laughed slightly, before simply smiling that gorgeous grin.

"So, what's up?"

Two feet between them felt like the farthest they'd been.

"Not much, just…..with Buck getting that letter and all. From Marge…." Bucky started, his voice steady for once. Confident.

"Marge." Kennedy echoed, "Seems like a sweetheart. The two of them."

"Yeah," Bucky choked out and nodded, placing his hands on his hips, "yeah, just….thought a lot and. Talked to Buck about things and just. This. Where we are. It's…." Kennedy watched him, the previous bit of light-hearted joking in her eyes dwindling away as she watched him.

"What's going on, Bucky?" Kennedy asked, her voice serious in a way that made his words pull themselves together - because that's what Kennedy deserved. None of his stumbling, mumbling, jumbling self.

"I just…." Bucky started and then couldn't help but slowly reach out and placed his hands on her shoulders, slowly moving in small circles near her clavicle and towards her shoulders, squeezing gently as they stared at each other, her face so close to his, he could see green specks in her brown eyes, "Getting downed. In that plane. And having you show up. All those talks we've had. All those nights. I just. You've helped me to realize a lot of things about life that wouldn't have fucking come to my attention if I hadn't talked to you." Kennedy stared at him, slightly taken aback.

"And…..Kennedy, I just," Bucky started, holding her gaze, his eyes on her lips and her bright-red nose and her eyes and back to her lips again - God, if he could just get a taste right here, right now, "even when the war ends, I don't…. I don't want to stop knowing you." A moment of silence stilled around them as Kennedy let out a small breath and slowly nodded at him.

"Me either, Bucky," she said, and then tilted her head, "what's going on, Bucky, seriously. Are you running a fever? Did someone say something to you? You're gonna live through this, ya know?"

"I know!" Bucky exclaimed, his voice louder than wanted as he looked back to her and shook his head and sighed, "I know, it's not….it's not that. It's….it's more. Us. You and me."

"What about you and me?" Kennedy asked him, a small smile growing on her face before gently bumping his shoulder with a first, "We're good, you know that. You and me." Bucky watched her, the corners of his lips growing upwards into a grin.

"I know that." he said with a slow nod and smile that got her grinning wider.

"Then what's got your mind racing?" she asked him, stepping closer to him. Bucky swallowed.

"You." he said, confident as can be - he was always confident looking at her, at them. Her back hit the wall next to the door, their faces intermingling in front of one another as they continued staring into each other's eyes, her slightly lower than him but all just the same.

"Me?" she asked, as if to spur him and his pounding heart on, "Highest honors, Bucky Egan. What did I ever do to deserve lingering in your mind so much, huh?"

"A lot," admonished Bucky, verbalizing his thoughts for once, "everything you do. Even just standing there like this. You make me crazy, you know." Kennedy's eyes flitted to his lips and she sucked in a breath as she met his gaze again.

"Well," Kennedy whispered, slowly reaching up to wrap her fists in balls of his brown A2 near the collar, smiling slightly, "if you must satisfy such a need and displeasure, you can just kiss me, you know."

Everything around Bucky practically dissipated in his peripheral vision, his hands freezing on her shoulders, acutely aware of the death grip she had on the front of his A2, along with that look in her eye.

Watching her, knowing she was watching him back, suddenly made him realize what words had just slipped from her mouth. Kennedy Farley's mouth. He must've pulled quite the 'slap-in-the-face' sort of look because Kennedy smirked, rather confidently, and pulled him slightly closer, her warm breath fanning his face, that look in her eyes making him feel like ice next to fire.

"When were you gonna tell me you wanted to kiss me, huh?" he whispered, voice low, briefly noticing her cheeks bloom to a light crimson, enough to make him chuckle as he found himself now, stepping closer, caging her practically against the wall with his broad-shouldered form.

Months ago, if you told him, he'd be standing there, inches from Kennedy Farley, he would've laughed. He really would've. For it seemed that what it was worth, Kennedy Farley wanted nothing more out of him than simply a friend and a leader. And suddenly, she was standing right there, her eyes on his lips, his hands slowly creeping towards her neck, brushing the skin beneath her jawline and he felt the collar of his neck grow hot.

"When were you gonna tell me?" she whispered back, looking up at him; enough to make his mind feel quickly scattered and Bucky couldn't seem to help it.

Bucky heard those words from her lips and didn't think twice, as he leaned down and engulfed her lips with his own, a groan leaving his mouth as she pulled him towards her even more so, kissing back with just as much urgency as he had to her.

His hands were pressed into her rosy cheeks, her fingers were into his hair and he could feel every inch of her lips on his - kissing back in a way that did make him crazy. He didn't know how fast things were moving when a whimper left her lips and he slid his tongue into her mouth, this slow, sanguine pull inside him making him yearn for all of her right then and there.

It was desperate, maybe a little bit messy, but Bucky had never wanted someone so bad that made him so nervous like a schoolboy.

He had never wanted like this.

He couldn't help it when his hands moved to her waist and a moan left her mouth as his lips trailed to her jawline and then to her neck, nibbling at each and every soft part of her skin that was flush with the feel of her underneath his lips. She was groaning quietly in his ear, enough to make all of his senses suddenly….something he hadn't felt in quite some time, as he pulled back briefly only to capture her lips in his again.

And for a moment, they had to pull back, he had to pull back or he wouldn't be able to control himself, gently pressing his forehead against hers, the two of them panting like some sort of other worldly creature.

Being so close to her, intoxicated by her touch and her being, her felt crazed by what the feel of her lips on his had been. Her hand slowly trailed up to the side of his slightly stubbled face, her fingertips making him shiver and an almost desperate, groaning noise leaving his lips just at her touch. It was like fire - good fire - and how fire was good he would never know because though it could keep you warm, it always brought some form of destruction with it all. But her touch, her flame, the fire, it made him completely undone.

"I feel insane around you," Bucky whispered softly against her lips before deeply pressing a kiss against her evidently swollen lips and pulling back, "you know that?" He couldn't open his eyes, he felt drugged under her touch and simply her, but he heard her let out a quiet laugh, her hands gently tapping along the sides of his face again as she did so.

"Didn't know I had that sort of effect on you, Major Egan." she whispered quietly, her voice slightly hoarse. Bucky let out a quick laugh, before squeezing his hands against her hips again that were so deeply pressed against his own and he sighed, a pathetic sigh.

"Longer than I thought actually, Kenny," he whispered quietly back, "way longer than I thought."

Kennedy giggled - she giggled.

Bucky's brain actually stuttered a bit at the thought of Kennedy giggling - like that - because it seemed the last thing she'd do. But it sounded so adorable and he was the only one that had heard it and for a second, he felt like the luckiest person to be standing there right now.

Slowly, he opened his eyes and found Kennedy and her big, deep brown eyes already staring back at him - catching that brilliant gaze that watched him back - slightly giddy, soft and enthralled all at once. A sight he'd probably remember until his death bed.

And he couldn't help but grin and bring up a hand to cup the side of her face, touching her skin, her hair, her. He felt like had was under a spell and she was the culprit in every right way that she could be one.

"I can honestly say much of the same," Kennedy whispered quietly, her eyes growing squinty for a minute as she smiled and laughed, "you always looked at me different, Bucky, I knew that." Bucky watched her, his smile seemingly plastered on his face and he couldn't fight it down.

"What are you talking about?" he whispered back, leaning closer, their noses brushing, his other hand escaping up under her shirt to her bare skin, caressing her softness, "Different, huh? You noticed?"

"And you're admitting to it?" she whispered back with another chuckle, "Bucky Egan, you are really surprise after surprise, aren't you." She chuckled and he couldn't help but watch her eyes again so close to her.

"Nah," Bucky whispered, "just….." He watched her smile. "I always thought about you, ya know. And I wasn't lying. Back when I heard Silver Bullets took a hit and it was Margie. I thought of you." Bucky grinned wider.

"I'd think of you at night, too. Sometimes I wondered if I could try and find you at night, just to talk to you," Bucky whispered, "but I'd shove it out of my mind. Didn't think you thought like that. About me. About us." Kennedy watched him, a small smile lingering on her lips.

"You could've come and found me," Kennedy whispered back to him, her thumb brushing his cheek, a grin poking out, "would've been better than….I don't know, wrestling with some fucking nightmares, ya know?"

"I'll be honest, Farley, I probably would've kissed you way sooner then if I had done that," Bucky said with a winning grin, "a helluva lot sooner. Coming and finding you." Kennedy watched him, her eyes shining as she let out a laugh.

"You found me." she whispered back and Bucky couldn't seem to help the grin on his face as he came to cup her cheeks.

"I'd see you at the flying club," Bucky whispered, softly pressing his lips to her nose, "dancing and drinking and twirling and singing….." Kennedy watched him from right there across from him, inches from his face. "I've always liked you, Kenny."

"Always?"

"Always." Bucky said, "Back when you were my waist gunner - you always had that confident look in your eye, I knew you could probably shoot better than the rest of the guys, and you sure as hell were one tough nut to crack and I…you're just always in the back of my mind, ya know?"

"John Egan." Kennedy whispered, reaching up to loop her fingers into his hair and trace down the sides of his face, "I don't deserve you."

"You're telling me," Bucky whispered, "I don't deserve an ounce of you, but here we are and I feel like the luckiest man in the world. Fuck." Kennedy watched him and continued this gentle touch along his head, with the most genuine, soft look in her eyes.

"Telling my parents that the man I'm in love with is a Yankees fan-" Bucky's heart pounded. She continued talking, but he missed whatever else she had just said. His thoughts honed in on her first sentence.

That word.

"What?" Bucky said quietly, looking at her fully, his smile gone, his eyes bright, "What'd you say?"

"I'm gonna have to tell my parents that you're a Yankees fan - and my brothers! They're gonna-"

"No, no," Bucky whispered quietly, a smile growing on his cheeks as he softly pressed a kiss to her lips before pulling back, "the other thing. The other part of that." Kennedy stared at him and then let out a soft chuckle.

"I'm in love with a Yankees fan."

"Who is me?"

"Who is you."

"And who you love?"

"For quite some time." Kennedy whispered, her eyes glossy, "I don't tell people about much more than what you can see of me, much less what's inside of me. You know more than what my mother might know." Bucky chuckled against her lips and pressed another kiss there, holding her there so deeply and strongly, he didn't want to let go.

"What I'm trying to say without it sounding all over the place," Kennedy whispered as he pulled back, "is that I'm in love with you and that I love you." Bucky watched her, smirking, so widely, so genuinely, so proudly, that if they weren't here, he didn't know what he'd do with words like that. He had a few ideas, but he was so focused on her right now that he couldn't think straight.

"I'm really fucking in love with you, too, Kenny," he whispered, his free hand on her bare skin on her back pressing against her and making a small whimper escape her lips as he sighed pleasantly, "and I really want to kiss you again. For a while." Kennedy stared at him - her face was glowing, he swore to God, and she smiled. His heart pounded.

"Then kiss me, Major," she whispered against his lips, "kiss me hard."

And he did just that.

[onlyifyoubadd]

I will never get over her grabbing the glock and going "yeah bitch now I got the gun and you aint bout to do shit! now run me my money" 🫡😍

[shesmore-shoebill]

I AM SO SORRY BUT I MUST INTERRUPT YOUR DAY TO MAKE SURE YOU WATCH THE TIKTOK COURT POSTED ON THEIR INSTA STORY. COURTMANDA LIVES 😭😭

do Not apologize. while i had seen it briefly yesterday (and celebrated accordingly) this ask reminded me to go screen record it and ALSO ACTUALLY LISTEN TO THE MUSIC WITH THE EDIT. AND. wow. Courtney posting this on her insta story... incredible. hashtag courtmanda.................