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phantomrose96 · 6 months ago

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God's Favorite

Lucy wakes to the soft tapping of rain against her window, and she is God’s favorite. She knows this in the absent sound of her alarm, and she knows this in the yawning rumbles of thunder, and she knows this before she touches her phone alight to the notification screen.

8:43 am. Far from the 4:30 am alarm she’d needed to heed to make it to her flight. Her screen is awash with airline notifications.

She scrambles from bed. Her urgency is an apology. Lucy skips the shower and skips the hair washing and paints on deodorant before stowing it back in her carryon and calling her uber.

“Crazy weather,” her driver with the big mustache remarks. His windshield wipers swish through a river of rain.

“Yeah,” Lucy answers. She glances at her rumbling phone. She glances at the rumbling clouds. The road is clear. It shouldn’t be, not this route and not at this hour. A gas main broke somewhere up the highway that feeds this street. A freak accident. 2 injuries. It’s kept this road clear for just the locals since it happened. Lucy encounters no traffic enroute to the airport.

There are pockets of planes grounded across the runways, barely visible behind the sheets of downpour. They look like herding animals, herbivores, standing stock-still in brace against the weather. Lucy stares at them only a moment while the driver pulls her carryon out of the trunk. She grabs her jacket closed against the wind, and grabs her carryon handle, and thanks her driver. The rain does not reach her here, though the wind does.

Inside Lucy drags her bag past the help desks swarming with the orderly filings of people in disarray. Parents leaning too hard on help counters with kids pulling on bag handles. Hurried conversations and requests and arguments. The electronic boards are awash with deeply red DELAYED and CANCELED. The airport is choking. Lucy, who God loves, glides through security unimpeded.

At gate-side, Lucy finally looks to the large red board of DELAYED and CANCELED etchings to confirm what she knew without even checking her phone notifications. Gate A14. Her carryon wheels pitter and patter across tile as she walks, striding quickly, with apology.

When Gate A14 comes into view it is smothered with the weight of two or possibly three flights worth of people. There are people asleep clutching backpacks and curled on the floor. There is a four-year-old girl with her face buried in an iPad and a mother having a phone call whose clipped urgency infects Lucy. There is a man leaning over the counter to talk to the gate agent, and his hands pulse with each tensing of his fingers. “…to the hospital before she…” Lucy makes out, or thinks she makes out. She doesn’t hear the gate agent’s response, but she can read the defeated shake of her head.

Lucy’s carryon wheels clunk where the smooth tile of the terminal shifts to carpeting. She doesn’t think to grab a seat because there are no open seats. So she positions herself in a way to unmistakably say she is at the gate, threading between stagnant suitcases and kids splayed on the floor. Lucy approaches the rain-splattered windows, and like a conversation shy upon being overheard, the thunder recedes from her advance. The rain draws to a polite close. The clouds split along a seam and pull away, as if they were only ever a wave that had transiently crashed to shore. The sky is beautifully blue.

There is a stirring hopefulness in the air. Other passengers have pushed past Lucy to stand closer to the window and peer outside, as if their confirmation of the changing weather can convince the airline of what to do next.

The gate agent puts down the phone receiver of a one-sided call. She pulls the microphone close and with grainy clarity she announces, “Boarding for Flight A1874 to Detroit will begin in 10 minutes.”

On the walkway, through the gap between the throughway and plane, Lucy sees the puddles rising with steam. They throw the iridescent spectrum of a rainbow up into the sky.

In a backlog of hundreds of flights, Lucy’s is the first out across the runway. This is because God loves her. She only wishes It loved her in a way to fix her broken phone alarm.

…

In childhood Lucy had heard “God loves you” and “Jesus loves you” in the placative ways that Sunday School teaches its children. With jingles and crayon-drawings of sheep and shepherds and a decorated ornament, crafted each Christmas Eve.

Lucy had long since fallen out of it and had thought very little of her parents’ tepid god for the last 10 or 15 years.

It was last spring, 27-years-old, that Lucy had found her way out into the marsh. Mud sucking her boots and gnats plicking in swarm against her skin. Where she sat her tailbone in the muck and folded her arms over her knees and buried her face in her legs to cry. And cry. And cry. And there with the mugginess sopping her skin and the humidity coiling her hair, God decided It loved her.

It loved her with a parting of canopy for the robin-blue sky. It loved her with the chirp of cicadas. It loved her in the way a dog circles its owner and nudges a wet snout to palm, because It was here, and It would make her feel better.

Lucy’s seat is the window seat beside the man with the tensing fingers. He fiddles with a phone in his clutch until he locks it in airplane mode and stows it, to look at no more. Lucy wonders who this man knows in the hospital, and she wonders why God doesn’t love him more than It loves her.

…

In March, Marco breaks up with her over a plate of fish that is too dry. In the moment, Lucy wonders if it’s her fault, because of the fish. But that’s not it. The signs were there, in all the subtle and stuttering moments Marco had pulled away. Each little moment like a slightly missed step, on a staircase growing ricketier each month.

Marco leaves and everything is so quiet, to the point that Lucy thinks her own sounds are pretty stupid, and pretty embarrassing while she’s coiled snail-like and snottily-sobbing into her pillowcase. She thinks absently of how she has to wash the pillowcase now, and that’s fine, because she was going to wash her linens this weekend anyway. She sobs so hard she’s almost screaming. Oh, and kitchen towels. She’ll wash the kitchen towels too.

She’s alive enough the next morning to throw all her linens and her kitchen towels on the floor of the laundry room. And maybe Marco breaking up with her is fine, because his birthday is December 25th and who wants a husband whose birthday is the same day as Christmas?

Her doorbell rings. And somehow it’s Marco again. She opens it to him, and he smells like a wildfire.

“Sorry, Lucy, this is awkward,” and Lucy believes he means it. He’s clutching a jacket around himself for what looks like security more than warmth. His apartment burned down last night. A resident fell asleep with a cigarette lit and dangling from her fingertips. Unit right below him. All his stuff burned, or filled with smoke, or is now logged up with water. He’s been sitting outside on the cobblestone for the last few hours, watching the blaze, on the phone with insurance. His landlord hasn’t responded to him yet. He’s cold, and he’s smokey, and can he shower here maybe? Can he stay for just a day or two, maybe? Sorry. This is awkward. He has no family on this coast. He really has nowhere else to go.

“Sure.” Lucy lets in Marco who smells like a wildfire. She adds the towels to her laundry list because they will smell like a wildfire too once Marco has used them. When he is clean, Lucy asks him nice questions. He asks her nice questions back. She helps him figure out something strange on the insurance form. He starts cooking dinner before Lucy realizes he’d entered the kitchen, because she was busy with the linens and the towels.

Marco takes the couch and clean linens. “Thanks, again, really. I can pay you a few days rent, when I get the insurance payout.” It’s no problem. Lucy goes to her room and shuts the door. It’s warmer here with Marco again. She wonders how long he’ll stay. She wonders if it will be for as long as she thinks the sound of him breathing in the other room is a comfort.

Something twists in Lucy’s chest. She wonders why God loves her more than It loves Marco. Lucy wonders why God didn’t love the woman with the lit cigarette who did not make it out of the building.

…

In June Lucy is desperately throwing together the haphazard makings of a financial report. She meant to stay up late to finish it, and get up early to make it beautiful, but she’s had a cold for a whole week now and the new bottle of decongestant she grabbed wasn’t “non-drowsy” like she thought.

Her heart is beating, and she nearly twists her ankle with a misstep in high heels, and she almost loses her grip on the shoddy makings of a too-light financial report still warm from the printer. She can spin it, maybe, that it’s intentionally light and she’d simply wanted the esteemed and respected input from the executives in the room before she produces the truly polished report this evening. And when the eyebrows are raised and she is told the report is due now, maybe they will refrain from firing her on the spot since she is still the only one who can produce the report they need.

She pulls open the meeting room door as if she is not out of breath, as if her nose isn’t red from a thousand tissues. She takes her seat so hastily that she does not notice, until she looks up properly, and sees the CEO’s seat is empty.

No one speaks. No one acknowledges her entrance. Lucy hugs the warm binder to her chest.

The door latch clicks open, but Lucy knows it will not be the CEO. She heard the click of heels before the doorknob turned.

It’s his assistant with the lovely auburn hair that curls around her shoulders. Her suit is red and her eyes are red and she stands just behind the CEO’s chair. Everyone notices her in the way they did not notice Lucy.

She speaks. The CEO’s wife and daughter were in a head-on collision with a drunk driver 42 minutes ago. They’re in critical condition, and the CEO has gone to be with them. He asks everyone’s forgiveness and grace in this time. The meeting is rescheduled for tomorrow, same time, and he humbly requests if everyone in attendance can adjust their calendar to accommodate this. This is a big ask, he knows. The board will have questions, he knows. But these are extenuating circumstances. The assistant will help with any necessary reworking of everyone’s calendars. And Lucy, can you please deliver the report tomorrow? The assistant has a sympathy card, which she lays on the table along with a black pen, and she asks if anyone would care to sign it.

Lucy signs it. The card paper is so cold, compared to the warmth of the half-finished report squeezed tight against her chest. The half-finished report should have cooled by now, but God must know she’s cold and ashen-faced, and God loves her so much.

…

In July, Lucy is a perfectionist. Her mother swears she wasn’t always like this. Her high school best friend is surprised, when in town for a weekend and meeting up for coffee, by the way Lucy triple-confirms the time, and the place, and the way she wears two watches. Why two watches? he asks. Because the alarm on one watch might fail. What about your phone? The watches are the backup, if the phone dies.

There’s something off-putting in the way she talks, and the way she asks questions of him, and the way she exclaims in joy at every piece of good news he shares. Josiah glances behind himself, more and more, and it’s because Lucy stares back there like she knows someone else at the next table.

It’s all weird, and Josiah can’t help but pull away. But Lucy pulls away first, retroactively. She can always pull away retroactively, and declare to her four walls of her room how much she didn’t need that friend, like she doesn’t need Marco, or anyone else who God may drop at her doorstep like the dead bird bounty of a cat, happy to share with the person It loves.

Lucy finishes her reports early. She wiles away the sun at her office even in the summer finishing reports far before anyone could need them. She double-checks, every time. She triple-checks. Her boss pulls her into a meeting room and with hands folded on the desk, he asks if maybe she needs to take some time off. And instantly she declares to the four walls that no-one at the company is doing this to her. “I wasn’t implying that…” but she’s not looking at him when he answers.

In July Lucy returns to the marsh. She returns with stones she’s horded up and gathered in the trunk of her car. She walks through the boot-suckling mud and she weighs stones in her arms while she hurls them, and throws, and screams, and hopes one of them might strike God in Its snout.

“I HATE YOU!” she screams. She throws all her weight into a stone whose sharp edge nicks bark. She hurls one through the bushes and another into the leafy canopy above. She is sopping wet and the cicadas chirp at her. “I HATE YOU!! GO AWAY!! LEAVE ME ALONE!!!” She chucks a stone which lands in the sucking muck, capsizing like a ship beneath the algae.

She throws, and her gravity heaves forward, and her boots stay stuck in the mud. So she topples elbow-deep in the mud, spattered, soaking into her chin and her shirt and her jeans and her hair. She parts her lips and tastes the earthy wetness on her skin, coppery blood, split lip. The stones are all under her. She laughs. Lucy tilts her head to the sky screaming with laughter. Joyous to tears, with the wetness drawing rivulets down the mud on her cheeks. She laughs because sopping-in-mud-and-muck is NOT the state of something God loves. This wouldn’t happen to something God loves.

Lucy goes home. Lucy showers. Lucy does her laundry. And It crawls back into bed with her. Perhaps like a scolded animal, but perhaps It did not even know It was being scolded. Lucy cannot tell.

The wine stains came out of her linens today because God loves her.

#writing #original writing #2.5k words #just a story idea i had :)#God's Favorite

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 months ago

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Look, Don't Touch 1

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, stalking, breaking and entering, possible blood and violence, and femcel energy. Tags are not exhaustive and more may be added as the series progresses.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You get bored of watching and that makes you careless. (dark!reader)

Characters: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes

Note: Well, well, well, if it isn't another bad decision.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like snakes love Woody’s boots. Take care. 💖

The spectrum of city lights gleam through the window casting a soft glow over the lofty condo. Spacious and pristine, everything in exactly its place, even the shadows seem to assemble in orderly fashion along the pale wall. A fine contrast to your chaotic existence on the peripheral.

You sit, staring down the treacherous drop. A single pane between you and the end. Your phone dims as it rests against the thumb grip, wires still woven from the port into the palm sized box. You can find anything on the dark web if you go deep enough.

The alarm was easy enough to override with the device, you still feel a sliver of adrenaline. How your heart beats thunderously as you watch the screen race through columns of numbers. You expect a blaring siren, instead the door clicks and a low beep grants your entry.

It's nothing bad. Not really. You’re tired of watching, of waiting, for what? You're not sure. It’s not as if you want him to notice you, you do your best to make sure he doesn't. Maybe one day when you're ready. Whatever that means.

You shut the lights off once you get the photos, each room from every angle. So you have a reference to make sure everything's where it belongs when you go. Unlike you.

You don’t belong here. Or anywhere. So you have no issue crossing those lines, because no matter where you step, you’re out of place.

If anyone knew, they might think you've done this before. You’ve dreamed of it. Maybe, a bit too often.

It's the online boards that make you so thorough, checking things you never even considered. Of course, those neckbeards are looking to scare some skinny blonde they don't have a chance with. You don't want to scare Steve, you just want to know him, if even from a distance.

You always just watch. Is that so bad? You don't get in his way, you don't try anything, you just follow.

Well, it's about time you came inside. You don't get much of a view from the outside. The reflection of the other buildings tend to make the distance further. A whole year and you don't know why you’ve waited so long. It’s not like he’ll know.

You stand up and unplug your phone, turning on the flashlight as you point it ahead if you. You stop to admire the pictures framed and hung of him and his comrades, both old and new, dead and alive. You continue down the hall, back to the bedroom and peer around.

You spread out on the bed. You can smell him, his sweat and the soap he uses. You know from his receipts. From skulking around behind him at the grocery stores you can’t afford to shop at.

You close your eyes and imagine he's there with you. Watching you too. The two of you, peaceful, comfortable, like you've never been with anyone in your life. An indolent complicity.

It’s lies. You know that’s not how it goes. If he knew about you, he’d be just as repulsed as any other guy. And you’re not the type for the sappy shit. You don’t want love, you just want a thrill.

You put the phone down, the light glowing on the other side of your eyelids as it shines on the ceiling. You feel along your dark jeans and slide your fingers under your fly. You sigh as you feel yourself getting wet.

You flick your clit and moan. You say his name and do it again, a steady motion as you wish he was there, hand down your pants as he fucks you with his fingers, reading a book as if he isn't rock hard over it. It must be extraordinary to have someone else touching you. It’s getting boring, just you.

You cum quickly, surprised as usually you need your toys. More reliable than any man, you scoff and free your hands from the denim.

You sit up slowly and wipe your cum on his pillow. Maybe he'll smell it, will he know what it is? Would he like it?

You get up and stretch. You take your phone and check the time. You should go. He'll be home soon, you know he met his pal for drinks at seven. Funny, you were under the impression beer didn't affect enhanced beings.

You go back to the living room and pack up. You plug in the cipher once more and head for the door. You re-arm the alarm and carry on down the hall.

You stop at the elevator and wait. It opens and you suppress your surprise. Well, you’re not that shocked as his timing is always precise. Not to mention, he lives here. Steve Rogers hesitates before he gets off the elevator, blanching as he sees you.

“Sorry,” he smiles at you.

It’s not a real smile. It’s just his surprise. It’s courtesy. Steve fucking Rogers is high and above you.

“It’s fine,” you say snidely as you stare at him dully.

He only thinks to get off when his companion, Bucky Barnes, does first. You wait for them to pass you, the second man meeting your eyes as he passes. You see a spark of curiosity in his eye but it quickly dies. You’re not that interesting, especially at first glance. You rely on that.

You step onto the elevator, nearly caught in the doors as you do. You turn to watch them walk down the hallway. They have no idea, you're just another faceless New Yorker.

📷

It's weird, you think. Anyone else would be jealous to see the scene. They would crumple at the burning envy in their gut but you feel something much more intense. You're fucking horny.

Your perch on the roof of the building a block from Steve's is bitter and blustery. You have the scope set up, cell phone in the holder, to align the lens. The red dot flashes to show that it's recording.

You adjust the angle and zoom in on the screen. The set-up is simple enough once it's set up, if the app isn't a bit tedious. You take another drink from your thermos and huddle beneath your hoodie.

You wish you could hear it. The slapping of flesh, the groans in his constricted throat, even the woman's airy breaths as she grips the back of the couch, teeth bared as Steve ruts from behind. America's golden boy getting his kicks from some bimbo he met down at the bar. Again.

You want to be in her place. Or even just a bit closer. If it was you, it’d be a lot less predictable. He’ll finish, slap her ass, and send her off.

You yawn as he grabs onto her shoulders, pulling her back gruffly as he rams into her hard. The aggression is what surprises. Steve Rogers is all smiles and sweet words for the cameras he knows are there, but behind closed doors, he’s brutal. The woman’s face contorts as the pain wracks her body.

She doesn’t stop, lets him use her. Just like you would. If you even had a chance in hell, you’d lick his cum off the shield. Fuck, if he wasn’t obsessed with those barbie dolls, he might actually try something new.

You don't hate her, don't feel an ounce of anger. She's doing you a favour, putting on a show just for you. An image you’ll never forget, that you’ll cherish on lonely nights.

You shiver as heat nestles in your core. Your hand falls to your jeans, lingering just beneath your heavy parka. It’s too cold to do that now. You retract your arm and sigh. When you get home you’ll have to rewatch it with your favourite toy.

Before your mind wanders too far, there’s a metal click and the loud clang of the bar across the other side of the door. Shit. You quickly grab your phone and collapse the tripod. You take down the lens and shove it all into the duffel, twisting the lid of your thermos tight and tossing it in before scooping up the unzipped bag.

Footsteps scuff across the concrete roof as you scurry behind one of the wide chimneys and lean against the cinder block. You hold your breath as a man calls out, “hello?” he paces around, “someone out here?”

Fuck! You put your head back. You won’t be coming back here again. It took you weeks to find the place and get the right angle, a good distance to keep from alerting Steve but not too far either.

A flashlight casts a yellow light back and forth but doesn’t come close to you as you stay still. The man grunts and grumbles as his soles pad away and the door slams heavily. You wonder what gave you away. You disarmed the alarm on the door before you came up and no one passed you on the stairs.

Maybe just a regular sweep by the building. You shrug and check the bag before zipping it up. You wait ten more minutes before going to the door and picking the lock. You assure yourself as you descend, you got more than enough to tide you over at least a couple weeks.

📷

The cafe is busy enough to compound your insignificance. You’re hard to notice on a good day. A hoodie, jeans, just another body in the overcrowded city. You sit with a bottle of water and cookie you won’t eat, pretending to read as others are more obvious in their observation.

Steve Rogers sits by the window, as if he wants to be seen, chatting over a steaming mug with the stalwart Bucky Barnes. Their conversation seems to frustrate the latter as several patrons interrupt them, asking for a picture or autograph to accompany their lattes and creamy frappucinos. As Steve acquiesces, Bucky leans back and crosses his arms, scowling as he refuses to engage.

You grin. You kind of get the dude. You hate people, hate the city and the pedants looking for their fifteen minutes or living the delusion that their New York adventure is destined for greatness. You glance back at the page but your eyes don’t focus on the words.

It’s why you can’t be with Steve. Why you don’t want to be. You just want to watch. You don’t like being noticed. Hate the idea of being watched. You’re not a part of the show, you like being just another faceless figure in the audience.

Your eyes flick back up. Steve is back to leaning over his cup, an Americano, how fitting. His large hand punctuates whatever point he’s making as you admire the vein in his neck, just above his collar.

You’re startled as Bucky rests his chin in his hand and you meet his gaze. You don’t react and hide behind the book again. Maybe a bit too obvious.

You pretend to read for a few minutes then reach for your phone, checking the time. You should leave first. You close the book without marking the page and take your water and cookie and put it in your bag, the patched messenger showing its years.

It rests against your hip as you stroll out, ignoring the super soldiers until you’re outside. You peek back as you pass the window and Bucky squints at you. What the fuck is his problem? You tuck your head down and continue down the sidewalk. You’ll have to be careful about him.

📷

You close your journal and tuck it under your mattress. The bed takes up much of your bachelor apartment. You don’t mind the lack of space, it’s just you. It’s preferable to your previous roommates who assured you cohabitation is little more than a form of torture.

You climb off the twin mattress and stretch as you go to the corner which constitutes your kitchen; a microwave above a compact stove, a fridge that looks straight out of the 60s, and a foot long countertop under a single cupboard. Not much but you often forget to eat as your mind overshadows any physical needs.

You tear open a package of ramen and add water, shoving it in the nuke as you turn to lean against the counter. Your tall dresser holds most of your possessions, clothes, the pictures, your equipment, and a few toys. Nothing special, just like you.

The microwave beeps and you put the bowl on the counter. You grab your phone and return, eating at the kitchenette as you slouch to keep from dribbling. You scroll through your phone, several alerts for Steve Rogers in the news.

‘Cap’s UN Mission: Can he restore America’s repute on the international stage?’ You browse the article and a smile slowly forms as you forget your food and stand, lifting the phone as you search for more.

The media really is dangerous, you muse. There are exact dates for the conference and Cap’s appearances. That means his place will be empty. It means you’ll be living it up, at least for a few days.

📷

It’s been more than a month since your first visit to Steve’s apartment. Nothing’s changed and you feel a little less restless there. You know he won’t be back anytime soon so there’s no rush to do much more than bask in the remnants of his presence.

You can still smell him on the bed sheets and his dirty clothes are still in the hamper. You sort through them, feeling them, sniffing a few shirts. You push the basket back into the corner and search the drawers of his nightstand. Lube, some porn magazines, relics really, and some random odds and ends.

You go out to the front room and lay on the couch, flicking on the television. The Smithsonian channel. Predictable. You leave it there and watch the hour-long program on clockmaking. Riveting.

You don’t pay much attention as you stare at the ceiling and think about him. It was that couch where he fucked her. On her knees, clinging to the back as he let loose his strength, not a care for her. You haven’t seen her since. She must’ve expected something different; maybe to be doted on. Pathetic.

Your hand wanders along the edge of the cushion. Your fingertips brush fabric in the crease of the cushions and you sit up as you pull out the lacy thong. You hold it up and stand, looking down as you hang them against your jeans as if you were wearing them. For him.

You scoff and bunch them up, tossing them behind the couch. Yeah right. You’re not some leggy blonde, you’re just you. You’d look stupid in something like that.

Men always looked past you, through you. It’s why you didn’t bother. High school was a farce; shoved into lockers or chased out of school dances. And college, just an extension of the crushing social norms and ridiculous expectations.

You kissed one guy in your sophomore year but he was worse off than you. You never saw him again after he came in pants just from having your tongue on his. Why would you want some dweeb like that? You’d rather settle for being alone than some freak.

You sigh as you cross your arms and flop back on the couch. You think too much. This is supposed to be fun, so why does it make you feel so… alone?

Reality splinters as your heart lurches. Shit. You hear a key in the lock and the sharp turn of the mechanism. Shit! You stand and panic as the door opens, too stunned to react as you trip over the leg of the chair as you try to hide too late. You hit your knees and look up at the figure in the entryway.

“What the fuck?” the deep voice cuts through you. “Who the fuck are you?”

Bucky comes into the room and stops short. He tilts his head as you stand, putting your palms out defensively, “look, I was just leav–”

He’s barreling towards you and you stumble back frantically. He grabs the front of your hoodie and takes you off your feet as he shakes you, like a rat in the gutter. You grasp his thick wrists as you gape at him, speechless.

“I know you,” he says as recognition wrinkles in his forehead, “I knew you were up to something.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you say.

“Me? I’m watering the plants,” he spits, “what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Please, I swear, I wasn’t going to do anything–”

“Shut up!” he snaps and shoves you into the leather chair, looming over you as he clenches the front of your sweater.

“Let me go and I’ll never come back,” you beg and round your eyes and make your voice higher, just like you’ve seen other women do. You always looked younger than your age. “Please–”

He scoffs and shakes his head, “I said, shut up.”

His tone keeps any further plea muted. He glares at you, nostrils flaring as his thoughts swirl in his deep blue irises. He unfurls his fingers and draws his hands away rigidly as he stands straight.

“Don’t fucking move,” he warns as he combs his fingers through his hair. He watches you for a moment before he looks around and grumbles under his breath, “don’t have the fucking time for this.”

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #look don't touch #series #fic #dark!fic #dark fic #dark!reader #captain america #winter soldier #avengers #mcu #marvel

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reidsglasscs · 1 year ago

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COULD YOU MAKE IT ANY MORE OBVIOUS?

✸ pairing: rockstar!percy jackson x ballerina! reader

✸ synopsis: you and percy jackson are absolutely, totally, by no means dating … as far as the public knows

✸ warnings: none!

✸ notes: THIS WAS THE CUTEST IDEA EVER, I LOVE IT SM!!! i’m down to do more parts if anyone wants… 👀 requested! also, pls understand the reference in the title 🙏

exhausting was the only word for it, your life. and as of lately, there was so much going on that you could barely see straight.

your ballet company had always had long hours, but now that the performance that you were not only in, but the star of, was quickly approaching, it was chaos in sparkles and pointe shoes.

wake up, rehearse, workout, rehearse, meetings, rehearse, costume fittings, rehearse, sleep, repeat.

you had just finished up with your final rehearsal for the night when your manager called you into an impromptu meeting and shoved a screen in your face.

eyes blurry from lack of sleep, it had taken a moment for you to see the image clearly, but when you did, your heart dropped all the way down to your sore feet.

a screenshot from a news article in some random pop culture tabloid with your name plastered across the caption along with another you knew: percy jackson.

international rockstar and lead singer of the sensational boy band, greek symphony, percy jackson was all the talk in gossip magazines and blogs, a modern-day heartthrobs for girls to go crazy over.

he was a troublemaker at best, holding the worst record yet best reputation among his band mates. he was dangerous, mischievous, and so undeniably hot. and therefore, so totally off limits.

in the world of shoebiz, the two of you fell on opposite sides of the spectrum. you were a peaceful black swan, whereas he was the thunderous wave that disturbed your peaceful gliding across the water’s surface, sending your world into a frenzy by a mere touch.

but as off limits and unlikely of an idea as he was, he also happened to be confined to the same home city as you in new york. could they really blame you if you said things just … happened?

“what is this?” you asked, looking dead at a photo that you knew was definitely you.

apparently, you and your clandestine lover hadn’t been as careful as you usually were and a photo had been captured by a rouge paparazzi.

luckily, it was dark and showed none of your face and about half of his side profile, and therefore, easy to play off as a mistake.

“according to the article, it’s you scurrying about with the rockstar percy jackson,” your manager told you, a sour look on her face.

“percy jackson? are you kidding me?” you gasped, lips twisted in a disgusted frown. “i’ve never even met that guy, much less been scurrying around the city with him!”

two lies in one sentence, you were on a roll.

“well, according to just about every celebrity news outlet right now, you’re his latest victim,” said the head of your pr team, piper. “and this picture is their proof.”

“that’s not me!” you argued. it was you.

you could pinpoint exactly when and where that photo was taken, actually. it had been last week, when you and percy had to sneak out the back of his apartment to avoid his bandmate, leo valdez, seeing you all piled up in percy’s arms while watching pride and prejudice.

apparently, paparazzis liked lurking around the backend of apartment complexes.

“yn.” said piper, giving you a pointed look. “are you sure?”

“i think i know what i look like, pipes,” you scoffed. “he may be running around with some girl, but it’s not me. please, make sure everybody knows that.”

at your words, your team got started on damage control, while you snatched up your things and headed home to your apartment, right where the very boy you’d just convinced everyone that you had never met was waiting for you.

you dropped your dance bag to the floor the second the door to your home closed, exhaling a deep breath as the anxieties and physical abuse of the day hit you all at once.

as you leaned against the closed door and blew a tuft of hair from your eyes, the familiar face of your boyfriend rounded the corner.

“there she is!” he grinned, wielding a spatula as he threw his arms out dramatically. “dinner’s almost ready. how’s my favorite girl?”

“exhausted,” you sighed with a smile. “sorry for being so late, something came up.”

“ah, don’t worry about it,” he told you. “i put the spare key back, by the way.”

you already knew that, of course. he put it back where it belonged every time he used it, but never failed to let you know.

six months you’d been doing this— sneaking around behind the backs of your friends and the media, falling further in love with someone you weren’t even supposed to be acquainted with inside the private four walls of each of your apartments and secret meeting spots.

you followed him into your little quaint kitchen, where he went to flipping a final pancake on the stovetop.

“looks good, honey,” you smiled tiredly. “but—“

“oh no, no buts,” he whined.

“but,” you insisted. “we have an issue. someone snagged a picture of us last week and today it was published. my team’s already working on getting it down, but it’s done some damage.”

you pulled out your phone and showed him a picture of the article as he turned the heat off on the stove. he took a moment to squint and it and evaluate before saying,

“okay, that’s not as bad as i expected. jase called about an hour ago and told me all about it, but he said he denied that it was me to mr. d.”

thank the heavens above for jason grace (the bassist in percy’s band and member who had a better head on his shoulders than the other three of them combined).

“i dunno perce, it’s a pretty good shot of you,” you told him.

“i think all shots of me are pretty good ones, if i do say so myself.” he smirked, closing the already small gap between the two of you as he leaned a hand against the counter on either side of you, trapping you in.

“i bet you do, rockstar,” you replied, looking up at him through tired lids and half-smudged mascara. “I remember it being a pretty good view, personally. except for leo screaming his head off inside.”

percy chuckled, his breath fanning across your cheek. “the price we pay for privacy.”

“apparently not private enough,” you sighed, the headline of the article seared into your mind. gosh, you could already see yourself getting dragged on twitter. “oh, what’re we gonna do if people do find us out?”

percy could see the creases between your brows and the doubt swimming through your irises, a light, almost unnoticeable path of lilac underneath your eyes. you were worried and tired, and he couldn’t be having any of that.

“i don’t think it’d be so bad,” he shrugged, his hands closing in to rest on your hips. “i mean, i know both our bosses would be out for blood, but it’d be worth it for people to know i have you.”

“you want people to know you have me?” you asked, a small, trace of a smile creeping up on the corners of your lips.

“do i want people to know i have a beautiful, smart, sweetheart ballerina for a girlfriend? hell yeah, i do.” he answered. “eventually, y’know.”

your smile appeared now, reaching up to your eyes and hiding away the tiredness in them. percy loved that smile.

“how soon do you think eventually is?” you asked, draping your arms over his shoulders as his face leaned closer to yours.

“as soon as you want it to be, pretty girl,” he answered. he then leaned all the way in, capturing your lips in a sweet kiss that melted away all the tension in your muscles as he pulled you in close.

when he leaned away, you chased his lips and landed another peck to the corner of his mouth and then another to his nose, just for good measure.

“now,” he smiled. “let’s forget about the stupid public for a little while and eat, yeah?”

#୨୧ love letters #୨୧ sealed with a kiss!#percy jackson #percy jackson x reader #percy jackson oneshot #percy jackson x y/n #percy jackson x you #percy jackson imagine #percy jackson x fem!reader #pjo x you #pjo x reader #pjo #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo fandom

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green--tea-owo · 10 months ago

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retrocgads · 4 months ago

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USA 1993

#USA1993 #MEDIA VISION INC.#HARDWARE #MULTIMEDIA #IBM #MEDIA VISION FUSION CD 16 #MEDIA VISION PRO AUDIO SPECTRUM #MEDIA VISION THUNDER BOARD #MEDIA VISION PRO 16 MULTIMEDIA SYSTEM #MEDIA VISION AUDIO PORT #MEDIA VISION THUNDER & LIGHTNING

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plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 3 months ago

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colour!reader series

eight hearts. eight hues. eight stories told in colour. every version is different—firelit or moonsoaked, honey-tongued or thunder-born. they fall for her anyway. sometimes softly. sometimes ruinously.

a love story, refracted. a spectrum of desire, devotion, and duality.

welcome to the colour!reader universe.

meet the girls:

❤︎ red ❤︎

❤︎ orange ❤︎

❤︎ yellow ❤︎

❤︎ green ❤︎

❤︎ blue ❤︎

❤︎ indigo ❤︎

❤︎ violet ❤︎

❤︎ pink ❤︎

this idea came to me like a spark after i wrapped up a recent fic—sudden, sweet, and impossible to ignore. i kept thinking about colour as feeling. colour as girls. colour as people. and somewhere along the way, this little universe started to bloom.

i don’t know how original the concept is, but i haven’t seen anyone dive into a colour!reader series before—so i let myself run wild with it. now here we are: eight girls, each painted in their own palette, each stitched together with mood and magic and mess.

i’ve made very brief “meet the girls” posts for each of them—i'll link each to their colour so you can get to know them before the stories begin. if one catches your eye, follow the thread. see where it leads!!

each of these girls is paired with one of four men: dean, sam, ben (soldier boy), and butcher. two girls each. one to compliment them. one to challenge them. because love doesn’t always come easy—and it sure as hell doesn’t always come soft.

last but not least—my biggest thank you to my sweetpea @losers-clvb for being the gentle nudge, the loud cheer, and the little light that told me this idea was worth sharing. you are, as i've said countless times, actual sunshine. <3

lustre!reader series

if the colour!reader girls were flesh and flame, the lustre!readers are the afterglow. they are god-touched. born of stardust and stories. they don’t walk into rooms—they shift the axis. gold. rosegold. silver. iridescent. pearlescent. they are not human. they are not trying to be. they are what comes after belief—when devotion turns to worship.

and they do not fall in love. they choose.

meet the girls:

❤︎ gold!reader ❤︎

❤︎ rosegold!reader ❤︎

❤︎ silver!reader ❤︎

❤ iridescent!reader ❤

❤︎ pearlescent!reader ❤

and because i genuinely couldn't help myself... i have come up with five more girls. and one of them is 100% going to be paired with cas.

i'll link their little "meet the girl" sections to their colour.

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oliviatom · 3 months ago

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The 2000s were a period of expansion for Tom Cruise, as he explored a wide range of genres and broadened his acting spectrum. He solidified his status as an action star with Mission: Impossible 2 and Mission: Impossible 3 while also proving his box office power in sci-fi blockbusters like Minority Report and War of the Worlds. Additionally, he showcased his depth in drama with Vanilla Sky and The Last Samurai and took on the challenge of playing a cold-blooded villain in Collateral, demonstrating his versatility.

During this time, Cruise evolved beyond being just an action star by embracing diverse roles. He portrayed a historical figure in Valkyrie and surprised audiences with his outrageous comedic performance in Tropic Thunder. Furthermore, he expanded his influence in Hollywood by stepping into production. The 2000s were a defining decade for him, marked by bold choices and a continuous pursuit of new challenges, solidifying his place as one of the industry's most dynamic and influential actors.

#tom cruise #mission impossible #vanilla Sky #the last samurai #minority report #collateral #war of the worlds #austin powers #valkyrie #tropic thunder #knight and day #lions for lambs

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whorediaries-09 · 2 years ago

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Hey!! Could you do one where Sirius and reader were dating during hogwarts but they broke up after harry was born but they were already his godparents. After James and Lily die, Sirius doesn’t go to Azkaban so they have to reunite to take care and raise Harry.

hi love, thank you for sending in the request. it's a great idea, and could have been longer than what i have written to be honest, but i was running short on time. i still hope you like it <3

maroon;

pairing- sirius black x reader warning(s)- hurt/comfort, drinking, alludes to sexual assault. (let me know if i should add more) a/n- i wanted to write a fic using this song for so long. anon i love you cause i have the perfect opportunity to do that now 👯‍♂️

the slut club

and I wake with your memory over me that's a real fucking legacy to leave,

you're sure you can still hear his ringing distinctive laughter through the photograph. the photograph you hold has faded away its brightest hue, along with the smile of james potter and his heartbeat. you cradle his almost doppelgänger on your knee if it wasn't for his bright emerald eyes. he sucks on his thumb, while brandishing a twig in thin air. (after you had successfully convinced him it was a wand)

'honey, look, it's your papa,' you say, flashing his father's picture on his eyeline. you wonder if he recalls his features as his grubby fingers grab at the photograph. you wonder if you'd had to introduce his father to him if he weren't dead.

the doorknob clicks. the footsteps knocking on the floor are similar but it still sends a wave of coldness through your veins. your jaw tightens.

'i'm so sorry i'm late,' he says running his fingers through his hair. he picks up harry, and places a chaste kiss on his chubby cheek. you get up from the sofa.

'it's okay sirius, he's my godson too,' you say, loosening your tightened jaw. you crack your knuckles.

'buddy where'd you get this...twig?' you hear sirius ask harry. he flashes him a half toothed grin, shoving the twig in his ear.

'hey, hey no,' sirius scrunches his face in pain. you suppress a smile, throwing your coat over your shoulders.

'i convinced him it's a wand. he saw me using it to turn down the blinds and yeah, you know he's just like his father, stubborn,'

'you seen moony?' you ask. remus was the only person you could confide in at that moment. somethings seemed to be overwhelming. swallowing it up would seem like a great idea, but it wasn't. not in the long run. the run hadn't even started and you felt like your joints were rusted, lungs exhausted and heart beating too slowly. perhaps it was the after effects of a lorn tragedy. your breathing palpitated with the way sirius' gray eyes ran over your body.

'he's sulking as usual,' he replied, his mood suddenly in the halt of a shift.

'home?' you ask, your feet jittery.

'hm,'

you're not sure whether it's a tone of disapproval or jealousy. the latter seems dimensionally impossible, so you disapparate, to lupin's house.

*******

your eyes are torn of sleep, the half moon shining stark against the dark sky. the stillness of the night enveloped you, an uncomfortable warmth surrounding you. the night seemed stuffy, a prison of your thoughts. it was as if a weight of restlessness settled upon your bones, your mind and body battling to fall into a slumber. the darkness thundered a dance of troubled thoughts, which instead of providing solace was a battle against the dreams that awaited you on the other spectrum of sleep.

it's thud against your door. is it the wind? you search for your wand, and slowly whisper,

'lumos,'

the tip of your light enlightens into a beautiful solemn blue. you curl your toes, walking down the hallway. your voice is sore, dry and cracked when you speak, pressing your ear against the wood of the door.

'wh-who is it?'

'it's me, sirius.'

your hand wraps itself around the doorknob as your turn it, around, unlocking the door. it's not the first time he showed up at your house in the middle of the night. last time, when he came in he was drunk and red-eyed, searching for a bestowed comfort. while it wouldn't have mattered if it was someone else, it felt so wrong back then. he'd hugged you tight, your ribs almost breaking from the pressure. it made you reminisce of the days when he'd hug you, whispering i love you's in your ear. it made you reminisce of the days when he'd tickle you and you'd laugh till your ribs hurt. you remembered how he'd reeked of alcohol and tobacco, so unlike yet like him.

he stands there before you, his nose dripping blood, tears staining his cheeks. you stare at him hollow-eyed, your heart bleeding with an urge to hold him. but it seems like you're stuck, as if your blood is frozen, your senses too numb. he stammers, walking towards you. he smells like a flowery scent infused with the stench of beer. his words are broken when he speaks into your hair, his arms dropping on your body.

your lips are dry as your arms close around his shaking body.

'who did this to you?' you whisper. you feel his heartbeat beating against yours. his slows it's pace and yours picks up the pace as he lets the cruel words out of his mouth, offering you a broken story.

'this-this girl, she groped me when i was dancing with her. i thought it was by mistake a-at first, but-'

he breaks down, his sobs shattering every shard of your broken heart.

'it's fine, we'll get you a warm bath,' you whisper, slowly running your fingers down his spine. it's as if by instinct, or maybe old habit, you kiss his shoulder.

'i-i miss you.' he says.

'i'm right here,'

'no, i miss us.'

'sirius?'

he looks at you with an utmost expression of genuine love and it scares you. his gray eyes almost absorb your soul. it's as if your heart beats maniacally against your ribcage, while he captivates you. he feels like the perfect muse for your poems. he feels like the last bite of your cornetto. he feels like home.

he feels like he's yours.

you're scared. maybe the incarnations were roses after all.

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