#the brain in your skull not working...do shit???? just think and do instead of whining whining whining

[roseband]

...

[luxuourr]

EASE YOURSELF TO GET THE EASY

tw ; harsh language + motivation as well

sorry to break it to you, but if you keep crying and whining about your life you're not gonna get anywhere, you're not mentally eased , you're affirming , using subliminals and scripting day and night but your brain and mind is not at ease, you think like " ahaha I'm doing the work I'll get the outcome" 2 minutes past " WHERE'S MY FUCKING OUTCOME??!!!" and your actual manifestations haven't even sinked or been accepted by you too, because you think it's impossible. i can't do anything. too good to be true.

that's honestly up my ass " too good to be true"

your mind needs to be at ease instead of always checking the 3D , why don't you accept 3D only changes when you know 4D is just like that, GET THIS THING THROUGH YOUR THICK SKULL!!! loa bloggers ain't doing shit for y'all, just do it YOURSELF IT'S EASY AS FUCK. None of you guys take it easy then blame it on the LOA teachers / bloggers..

how to manifest ?

+ i want a laptop

+ I use subs to get laptop

+ one day or even a week passes by and I start whining without even believing in the subliminal that it doesn't work

maybe I'd say if you actually believed in the subliminal you would not be clicking off it , or changing ways and stuff and living up in the first place

CHANGE SELF CONCEPT THAT SHIT IS POWERFUL.

[silentglassbreak]

I know. I know. I have other projects I need to work on. I have about 1000 things I need to do. I need to edit my novel. Write CYFMH2. Edit my podcast. Work on my last 2 fic requests, and write the one that’s been swirling around in my brain. I know. And I will…

And my best friend (I know you’re reading this, Big Daddy) will roll her eyes when she sees I’m posting on here instead of getting my shit together.

But…

NSFW under the cut

I keep having this thought in my head about Noah. I’ve let my mind drift off of him for a couple weeks. It’s so hard to live in the real - cruel - world when he floats around my brain like TV static making me frothy. But I just can’t fucking help it, you know?

Once in a while…I can’t help but imagine…

What if you can’t sleep?

What if you and Noah were already together? An item. Life is good. The man of all of our dreams - and he’s all yours. Laying in bed next to you. You’re happy. You’re successful in whichever venture you choose to pursue. Your life couldn’t be any better.

So why the fuck do you have such bad insomnia?!

His bed is the perfect texture. His blankets are so cool, but keep you wrapped in a cozy cocoon next to his large frame. His soft snores aren’t bothersome, but so soothing. You’ve learned that without the sound of his breathing, your sleeping habits are even worse. His body radiates heat, but he keeps his room so cold, it makes it easy to draw into his side, his arm draped loosely over the front of your body while his mind is off dancing in whatever dreams he’s having that night.

You’re jealous. You’d kill to be dreaming. Or even just dozing. Because you have to get up early in the morning, and you just remembered there’s no coffee creamer in the fridge downstairs, so having caffeine when you first wake up is out of the question. You’ll have to drive to Starbucks, or order it in. That just sounds like medieval torture to you. First world problems, amirite?

And it’s not without you trying. The room is pitch black save from one shred of moonlight casting in from the window. The white noise of Noah’s sleep behind you. Your brain feels fuzzy enough, but you’re still squirming and frustrated.

You just don’t get it.

After about your third readjustment, the arm around your waist tightens, pulling you tighter against his chest.

His voice is right at your ear, thick with sleep. “Struggling tonight, baby?”

All you can do is whine in response, defeated, wriggling under his tight grip, and pressing your face into the pillow.

“I don’t know why I can’t sleep. I’m so fucking tired.” Your voice was cracking. You were so desperate.

A soft kiss pressed to the fabric of the shirt over your shoulder.

“No good, love. You comfortable? Need me to adjust the AC?”

Noah never touched the AC. Noah never adjusted the room temperature - unless it was for you.

But that wouldn’t help.

“I’m comfortable. I’m relaxed. I’m exhausted. So what the fuck?! Why can’t I sleep?”

His arm snaked all the way around your waist, pressing your back hard into his chest, his legs intertwining with yours.

His lips spoke into the hair next to your temple. “I don’t know, beautiful.”

You let out a frustrated sigh, melting into him.

“Need me to put you to sleep?”

And you froze, suddenly cemented in your exact spot.

And yeah, it was real hot in the room, out of nowhere.

“What?”

His palm flattened over your abdomen, sliding up beneath your t-shirt, calloused fingers tracing over your skin.

“You heard me.”

Did you really need to answer him? No. He would’ve done whatever you needed with a silent plea, but - as was mentioned before - you were desperate.

“If you think you can…”

And you knew what you were doing, didn’t you?

To challenge him like that…

Which is why you found yourself face down in the pillow, hips up in the air, eyes rolling back in your skull while Noah pounded into you, his fingers bruising the skin of your ass with each hard slap that landed. His deep, vicious groans mixed with the skin on skin of his cock sliding in and out of you over and over.

His hand reached down to tangle in your hair, pulling you up so he could wrap his long fingers over your throat, crushing your windpipe in the process.

The tears leaked from your eyes, his voice venomous in your ear.

“Don’t think I can wear you out, baby?” Your hands gripped his arm that pressed on your throat, begging for more pressure. “Just for that, I’m fucking you into a coma tonight.”

His fingers loosened enough so you could crane your neck, his lips crashing into yours, tongue licking sloppily into your mouth.

When he pushed you back down, his length slipped all the way out before railing back into you, pressing hard against your cervix, making you bite down on your bottom lip.

“Tired yet, love? Want me to stop?”

You cried out hard, begging him not to. This elicited a dark, humorless laugh out of him.

“Didn’t think so.”

This went on forever, until you crested up to the edge, his fingers slipping under you to press against your clit while you writhed against him.

“Finally going to come for me, sweetheart?”

You could only nod helplessly, begging him to give you the release you needed.

“C’mon baby. Wake the house up. Let’em hear you.”

And you did. The screams that left your lungs when your orgasm slapped you shook the walls of the bedroom, the pillows having no prayer of muffling the shrieks.

“There you go, love.” His hands released you, hips falling back into a smooth rhythm while he chased his own release. You could only let your body naturally respond, pressing back into him instinctively. Your brain was buzzing, each added thrust just comfortably settling you into your own euphoria.

He finished with a hard, loud sigh, his chest pressed to your back and fingers lacing with yours.

You collapsed down onto the sheets while he peppered kisses over your shoulders, soothing you into a soft lull.

After a moment, he retreated into the bathroom to clean up, grabbing a soft, damp towel. You felt him clean you, purring at his gentle touch.

“I’m going to grab some water. Need anything from downstairs?”

You grunted in response, and you heard him chuckle softly. “Be right back, baby.”

Once the door closed, shutting the rest of the light out, your mind fell away, tossing you into the abyss.

He was only gone a moment, sinking back onto the mattress next to you, arms encircling you.

You had no idea, though. You were gone. Finally letting your own comfortable dreams take over.

You barely even heard him speak, his voice like a background noise of your thoughts.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Sorry I just couldn’t stop thinking about it.

[solaneceae]

imprint

a team bolas oneshot. q!baghera centric (read on ao3) hurt/comfort, found family

Day Five is technically one of the good ones, because their minds are not drowning in bloodlust and fog-mist, Foolish is making great progress on the castle off in the desert, and the other teams have been leaving them alone for the most part.

Doesn’t mean it’s a good day for Baghera, though. “My body’s so far away,” she whines, rummaging through the chests in search of iron armor and food. “You need help getting back to it?” Phil asks. The duck shakes her head, because she refuses to make him waste twenty minutes just chaperoning her as she stumbles around the map looking for her corpse. “I’ll be fine,” she sighs, picking up a diamond sword and fastening her mask onto her face. It requires some adjustments, with her having a beak and all, but she makes it work. “I’ll be okay.”

(Ten minutes later, her eyes open to dark cave ceilings and glittering gemstones, body tingling from respawn. She wants to scream.)

Phil is back with more resources, and Baghera feels strange. Not bad, just… strange.

It’s a feeling that’s been lingering even since they all fell into Purgatory, growing stronger or weaker in no discernable pattern, always somewhere at the back of her skull. Like a voice almost, not also not that, because there are no words being whispered, only vague drives. And right now, as their fearless leader busies himself at the crafting table, she gets the uncontrollable urge to get his attention. Hello, she chirps, walking up to him. He hums, but doesn’t acknowledge her further, too focused on his task. Her hindbrain gives unhappy. Hi, hi, she tries again, getting into his personal space and jumping around him and what is she doing? “Phil, Phil,” she quacks, look at me, pay attention to me! She forgot what she needed, what did she need? Hi, flock, dad, dad! 

“You’re— Jesus Christ,” Philza bursts into laughter, evading her smaller form as he moves to a nearby chest. “You’re getting in the way, Baghera.”

“Do you have a boat?” she asks, and right, that’s what she needed. He cocks his head, an amused smile on his face. “Do I have a boat.”

“Yee.”

“I don’t— I mean, sure, I can make you one.” She makes a happy sound, bounces off her heels as he gets to work. Flock, dad. Hello. “I’m not, you know I’m not gatekeeping crafting shit,” he laughs as he hands her the boat and she magicks it into her inventory. “You could make your own.” And yes, that’s true, she could. But she likes it when Philza hands her things, like earlier when he dropped food onto her when she was stuck in that hole. It makes her brain happy, somehow.

It only hits her later, when Phil has gone off somewhere, that she had started to truly associate him with that hindbrain-thrum of dad, not as a bit, but something way too real for her taste. She resists the urge to crawl into a hole and shrivel away, and decides to make one last attempt to recover her old body.

(It fails, as things tend to do today. But at least she got distracted.)

***

The silence is deafening. She can hear the occasional grumble in Portuguese coming from her earpiece as Cellbit works on the maze inside the castle, and she wishes she was there making traps instead of getting dirt all over her wings. “I want to kill some people,” she huffs as she digs through rich soil to plant yet another tea sapling. At least farming she could do without messing things up. “I wanna just— run at them and scream.” Can she have that? Can she have this one thing, can she have a little bit of fun today before her timer runs out?

Cellbit hums into her earpiece. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he says, and she can feel another part of her wilt at his final tone. “Death counts too much today, you know?” (You will die, his words twist in her tired mind. You’re weak. You can’t be left alone. You’ll drag us down.) “And Phil did so much for us this morning, I don’t wanna disappoint him.”

Well I already did! she wants to scream. I’m just a dead weight, and I waste everyone’s time and don’t accomplish anything on my own! “...Okay,” she replies instead, whisper-soft, and just keeps planting.

(She misses the rest of the family-flock. She misses Jaiden, and Charlie, and Carré, all asleep inside the nest with no sign of waking up anytime soon. She wishes she could join them, put an end to this cursed day already — but she clings onto her fear of letting Cellbit down even more than she already did, and presses on.)

Cellbit renames Iris after a commercial mascot, and that’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back. And she knows she shouldn’t be mad, because he doesn’t know she’s just spent twenty minutes having a breakdown over them and imprinting like crazy, but she just feels so dismissed by that. So she buries herself somewhere in the desert and screeches out her frustration where he can’t hear her, comms off.

***

“Baghera?”

Her ear feathers twitch. She looks up from the little cozy spots she had made for Iris (they’re gone now. Probably with Cellbit, helping him withe the maze. the maze she wanted to help with. She wishes Charlie had woken up earlier, so they could commiserate over their shared feelings of inadequacy.) “Phil…?” she sniffles, quickly rubbing at her cheeks to erase the evidence of her breakdown. Didn’t the crow run out of time earlier today? She hears a ch-ch-chrrrrp, and she mimics it without thinking, hindbrain buzzing with something soothing. Philza Minecraft appears from behind a corner, and his eyes are soft  or maybe he’s just tired. “Come here,” he beckons, and she finds himself getting to her feet and stepping up to him. “Something wrong?” she cocks her head at him, and he chuckles lightly. “Nah, mate. Just come over here.”

He leads her out of the alcove and into their… sleeping quarters, which was just another part of the cave with their nest in the middle. “Kay, sit down,” the crow says, patting the side of the nest, and part of her panic with the childish fear of oh shit, am I in trouble? “You’ve got sand in your feathers. Lemme help you get that out before you bring it with you in the family pile, yes?”

Oh. She glances at her comm, realises she only has about twenty minutes before it knocks her out for the day. She clacks her beak in frustration — she had accomplished a whole out of nothing today. Fais chier. “...Okay,” she sighs, because at least a little preening sesh would be a decent way to end this shitty day.

“I noticed you were having a rough time,” the crow hums, carding his claws through the down on her arms to dislodge a few pebbles. “Thought you could use some TLC.”

She blinks owlishly (duckishly?). “I don’t know what that means.”

“Ah, like, just taking care of you a little. You felt sad and frustrated all day.”

She deflates, ear feathers drooping. “Didn’t think it was that obvious.”

“It’s not. I just notice this shit better than most,” Phil hums, dislodging more sand that drop outside the nest and digging his claws further in. Baghera closes her eyes — it feels nice. Her wings had been so itchy all day. “Especially when it comes to other avians.”

Right. Philza had retained more memories of his time outside the island than most of them, that made sense. “I’m sorry for calling you dad,” she blurts out, before she loses the nerve to. “I know everyone… I know everyone did it, for the joke, but I think I forgot it was a joke.” (“Dad, are you proud of me? I killed a silverfish!”) 

She remembers Charlie belting out a ‘papa!’ when Phil came back with apples and berries two days ago. She remembers Jaiden calling him dad when he bandaged her left wing after a bad fall, Cellbit’s whiny ‘daaad, when are you gonna come pick me up?’, Carré jokingly moaning out a ‘gracias papi!'. Foolish is the only one that didn’t follow the pattern at this point, probably because he, too, is an immortal being… and the only one free of daddy issues and trauma, apparently. “I don’t mean to,” she breathes out. “My brain’s been all weird since we came here, and I don’t… I don’t mean when we get all starved and murder-y.”

Phil hums, plucks out a loose feather. “Yeah, same. Something about this place is fucking with our code I think. Mob code, specifically. That’s why they’re buffed to hell, It’s not your fault.”

“But it’s,” she groans, struggling to find the right words, both because of the language barrier and her own messy feelings. “You already have kids. I’m an adult. I can’t force that role on you, but my stupid bird brain keeps screaming at me. It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s natural, Baghera. I don’t mind. And… forgive me for pointing it out, but if what you said yesterday was true, then you’ve never had an older avian to imprint on as a child. So it’s no wonder your instincts are going crazy now.”

She freezes. “...Oh,” a quiet realization, shame, regret. “You, um. You understood that.” You took it seriously. You remembered. Somehow, that makes her feel… a bit better. Seen. Despite the fact that she just blurted out her deepest darkest secret as a bit, and lo and behold, consequences. Phil shrugs. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t think anyone else did,” he hums, smoothing out her left wing with a satisfied croon. “Gimme the other one? Good, nice.”

“You’re not mad?” she asks, so quiet and hesitant Philza stops and looks up at her. “That I’m a clone. That I’m… Federation property.”

“Don’t say that shit,” he bares his teeth, puts his hands on her shoulders to squeeze them tightly. “They don’t owe you. It doesn’t matter if they made you or whatever, you’re not them. If anything, you’ve got even more of a reason to hate them as the rest of us.”

“I don’t know…. I don’t know what they did, to me. I don’t even think I’m a real avian.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I’m not like you. Or like Jaiden.” she gestures to her left wing. “I have a bill, you have… human face. Mostly human.” She makes a strangled sound. “Your wings are on your back, mine are just my arms, they’re just this. And even if— even if they weren't clipped, I couldn’t fly with those, only glide, maybe. I know that. They made me wrong.” Her eyes well up with angry tears. “They all… my siblings, they’re all dead, Phil. They all died, and I’m the only one left, and I’m not even good. I’m defective. Maybe that’s why I mess up everything. Maybe that’s why I’m such a burden for you guys.”

“Dude, stop.”

Philza closes his mouth before he can protest, both pairs of eyes turning to a sluggish Charlie, sans glasses, pushing himself up from his blankety prison without rousing Jaiden or Carré. “That’s… that’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard you say. And we debated about human milk cheese and the ethics of eating your own eggs, so that’s saying something,” he mutters, more serious than the duck has ever seen him. The effect is a little diminishes by his squinty, smaller-than-usual eyes (she was so used to seeing him with her glasses permanently stuck to his face) and the yawn that drowns out the end of his tirade, but it still makes Baghera’s breath hitch and her throat close up with emotions. “Charlie…”

“Okay look— I barely feel real right now, yeah? I just woke up, and I haven’t got a modicum of context here, but I’m not letting you talk shit about yourself.” The slime hybrid hauls himself up with a wince, the corruption on his arms and face buzzing and writing angrily for a second. “G-ah. T-Thisssss is gon-gonna b-be a bad, ba-aad day, hu-uuh.”

“Slime— wow, mate, maybe you should lay back down and wait it out.”

“S-Sorry d-aaaad, I’m going th-through mmmmy rebell-bellious phase.” Charlie staggers up to them and sits across Baghera movements stilted and visibly uncomfortable. The duck hybrid opens her bill to tell him off — no no stop it, you’re hurting yourself — but he wraps both arms around her and rests his forehead against her shoulder, the tingle-freeze of his codified parts stunning her into silence. It doesn’t hurt, and she’s not about to refuse a hug from a constantly touch-starved Slime, but it does sting a little. Like static shock, but not quite. “You’re so fucking great dude,” the man says, corruption leaving his voice as the glitches diminish in intensity. “I never told— never told you this, but the first day we met. The wedding? That was the first time in a while that someone was willing to go along with my bullshit.” He squeezes her a bit tighter. His face feels a bit wet agaisnt the feathers of her shoulder, and Baghera lets out a string of hurt? hurt? no, flock, clean. “It felt good. And— hey, not only that, but you were also the only one where who didn’t have pity, or scorn, or, or distrust written all over your face. But maybe I just didn’t know how to read duck body language at the time, haha.”

“I wasn’t pitying you,” Baghera murmurs, trembling arm coming to rest against her friend’s back. Words feel like jagged rocks going up her tight throat. “I didn’t know anything about you. I just found you funny, and you listened to me when we talked about the elections. You kept making sure I was being heard, and… and you were nice to Pomme on her birthday, too. That was enough for me. You know?”

Slime chuckles wetly. “Yeah. She’s a great kid. We’ll fucking get her back, okay?”

“I hope so…”

“Hey. Listen.” He draws away to cup Baghera’s face, squishing it slightly between his hands. Her feathers puff up as a result, it’s funny. “Listen well, Baghera Jones. My—” a sharp intake of breath. “M-My Flippa’s fine, yeah? She’s just waiting for me back at the island, she’s not in danger. But your kid is. And if… haha, if I can be sappy for a sec. With Jaiden, you’ve been the closest thing to a real friend I’ve had for a long time. So I’ll help you get Pomme back, alright?”

The duck’s green eyes well up with tears, some of which start painting dark streaks down her face. “Of… of course I’m your friend,” she sniffles, and she keeps making low chirp-trills Charlie doesn’t understand. “And you’re mine too. I care about you, Charlie.”

“I know. I… I know. And I won’t have you saying bad things about yourself either. You’re litterally so fucking cool, and you put up with my bullshit like nobody else, and I feel safe blurting out the most unhinged crap on God’s cubic Earth because I know you’ll just double down and make me question my sanity, in the best possible way.” He giggles, an unsteady, wild little thing slightly cut up by a stray glitch. “Or whatever’s left of it.”

Baghera’s comm beeps, startling the three of them. Philza approaches (had he moved away to give them space? Aw.), scoffs, glares at the bright red numbers on her wrist. “Fuckin— stupid-ass time limit,” he curses. “We don’t have much time, but we can end your day on a good note, okay?”

The duck hybrid glances at Philza, then at Charlie, pupils so wide the green can barely be made out. She takes a deep breath, thinks of the team. Of her children, waiting for her somewhere. Of everyone else that they lowkey hated right now. And she nods.

***

“Do it Baghera, do it!”

“That’s right, fuck ‘em up!”

“I’m doing it!” the duck woops, pouring the final bucket over the structure and watching it roll across the soil and crops who quickly start to catch on fire. “It’s working, it’s working!”

“Baby’s first lavacast,” Phil coos fondly from his roosting spot, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “I’m so proud.”

He and Charlie watch as Baghera cackles madly, her eyes alight with the fires of war, staring down at her handiwork. “They are so gonna know it was us,” Slime hums, a huge smile on his face as he marvels over Blue’s farm being covered in ash and cobblestone. Phil shrugs. “Yeah, there’s no way. Worth it though.”

“So worth it,” the slime hybrid nods approvingly — Baghera was finally having fun, and seeing her smiling was definitely a highlight of today. “Oh we’re gonna get fucked in the ass tomorrow. No lube, all diamond sword just like God intended.”

Philza bursts into mad, crow-like cackles at that, hitting the slime hybrid’s shoulder to push him off the perch. Charlie falls with an indignant, high-pitched scream that makes Baghera laugh even harder. “How much time left?” the Crowfather calls out at her, and she turns to him with a mad ducky grin. “Eleven seconds!” she quacks back, and Philza’s eyes widen. “What?!”

“Yepp! Gonna pass out now see you tomorrow catch me or let me die I don’t care I have nothing on me!” she sing-songs rabbit-quick, pulling a little jig on top of her dirt tower before her body seizes with a gasp, her comm shocking the literal daylights out of her. Slime lets out a loud oh shit and takes off in a mad sprint as Philza jumps down as well, managing to cushion the duck’s fall with his own goopy, goopy body. “Ow,” he whines, voice muffled by the loose dirt he’s faceplanted into. “My sometimes-existing bones.”

“You good mate?” Philza reached them both, kneeling to check on Baghera — not a single heart of damage on her, her face neutral and peaceful in electronically-induced sleep. “Good catch.”

“Thanks.” Charlie lets his friend roll off his body with a grunt, pulling himself back together quickly before, hauling his friend on his back. “Mission accomplished, Crowfather Phil! Now let’s skedaddle the fuck outta here before Tubbo or BitchBoyHalo shows up.”

“Yeah, time to dip. Back to base, Bolas!”

“WOOOOOOH YEAAAAH! LET’S FUCKING ROLL!”

[anika-ann]

Walk Me Home Tonight (S.R.)

Type: one-shot, songfic

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader     Word count: 4700

Summary: Sometimes it’s hard to be in a celebratory mood when all you can think of is that life sucks and that being left on your own to drown your sorrows is for the best.

Sometimes people who care about you know better than yourself and come crashing your party of one.

Sometimes, despite the popular belief, you do realize how lucky you are having been introduced to Steve Rogers.

Warnings: mention of blood and violence and death, mention of alcohol, angst, fluff and language

A/N: P!nk’s Walk Me Home just does something to me, alright? Music video included - it’s soooo beautiful.

*✧･*✧･*✧･*✧･*✧･*✧･*✧･

You stared at the amber liquid, lazily making it roll in the glass with idle motions of your wrist. It reflected the rather soft lights of the bar, an exquisite game of colour you found fascinating enough to dull your mind and muffle the noise of the party.

It wasn’t that you were a party pooper, not usually anyway; just… the timing wasn’t ideal.

Of course, Sharon could hardly move her birthday to make it more convenient for you, less so a party her colleagues had decided to throw for her. You knew Agent Carter for quite some time now; she had joined SHIELD about the same time as you, going through the same tough training. Except unlike you – and initially without your knowledge – she had an image to live up to.

You might even call her a friend, your chest bursting in pride for her when her hard work had finally borne some fruit and she had been promoted to an assistant director of the intelligence agency. Among other things, it earned her a lot of new potential friends.

You were hardly acting like one tonight, much to your own annoyance. But for some reason, you found it difficult to leave your momentary emotional baggage at the doorstep, slipping it off as easily as your coat. You had wished her all the best, conversed for a tiny bit and then happily made space for others, for the forming line of guests waiting to celebrate with her as well.

Then you retreated to your spot at the bar, possibly annoying the bartender, who would have been more delighted seeing some heavier drinker occupying your seat, tipping generously, instead of having you nursing each glass of alcohol for about two hours.

You weren’t even sure why you were still here; you had given up on the attempt on small talk with anyone, apparently unwittingly chasing away any potential company. And here you thought misery did love company – perhaps you were wrong, at least when it came to birthday parties of gorgeous women loved by everyone. You might as well pack up your bottom and sulk at home.

You were stubbornly shushing the voice in the back of your skull, whispering about knowing precisely why you remained in your seat; about feeling less alone here, despite being a literal loner in a crowd.

You downed the rest of the bitter scotch, basking in the burn which it left on its way down your throat, your eyelids slipping shut in content, the noise in your brain falling silent completely for few blissful moments.

“Party of one?” a male voice gently asked, the tinniest note of teasing in it and while your heart skipped a startled beat at being addressed, you felt the burn in your throat slip lower, warming your chest and causing the corners of your mouth turn up just a fraction.

 There's something in the way you roll your eyes Takes me back to a better time When I saw everything is good But now you're the only thing that's good

 “Felt like crashing it?” you hummed in response, side-eyeing the intruder and found a pair of cerulean eyes staring back. He blindly waved off the eager bartender who was about to offer him a drink.

Ah, poor guy. No tips for him tonight.

“Well, I didn’t get an invitation. Looks like crashing was my only option.”

You sighed tiredly despite Steve’s kind teasing. Tonight was just… so exhausting. Tonight. Today. This week. Gah, this whole month. This fucking year--- okay, maybe you were exaggerating, because you were simply crossing the line, moving from relaxed buzzed drunk to a miserable one.

Battling with yourself, arguing whether you should send him to hell – nicely, because Steve was nothing but kind, he was always so kind, goddammit, gentle humour spiced with the ability to become an utter troll, still benign though, that was why you usually enjoyed his company so much after all-… – or call it a night.

Or should you order another drink? Was there a point? You might cross the line to a clingy drunk eventually and you weren’t certain that was a good idea.

It was probably about as good of an idea as coming to a party despite feeling like shit on an emotional roller-coaster, dangerously inclining towards a very bad mood to put it mildly.

You tilted your head to side as you looked at Steve properly, tight blue shirt flattering his supersoldier frame, black pants with desperately needed leather belt considering his thin waist, his blonde hair a mess, gaze fixed on you, observing. Always observing to read people, to anticipate behaviour, evaluate the threat; sometimes simply to be considerate, to… to be compassionate.

Dammit, Steve.

“Must have got lost in the mail then,” you said eventually, offering a weak smile. “Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s alright,” he shrugged it off, the curve of his lips more distinct than yours. As if he was offering to cheer you up. Sweet, but possibly vain effort tonight. Sometimes, things simply piled up and there was no escape. Such was the fate of a government agent. And human, for that matter. “Doesn’t look like much fun and I think it’s about to end anyway.”

“I guess…”

 Tryna stand up on my own two feet This conversation ain't comin' easily And darling, I know it's getting late So what do you say we leave this place?

 This time, Steve actually made an eye contact with the bartender, who eagerly rushed to him at instant. His excited expression fell when he noticed you were pulling out your wallet to close your tab. You didn’t have the strength to shoot him an apologetic smile.

Steve’s eyes were on you the whole time, you could feel them, and you wondered why. Until he spoke again, as soon as the other man left.

“Come on. I’ll walk you home,” he offered gentlemanly, coaxing you into saying yes, possibly unaware of the effect which such tone had on people.

Or perhaps he knew, using exactly that when he was trying to talk someone down, to calm them, gain their trust. The joke was on him, because it was a vain effort; you trusted him fully already. Surely, he knew that.

Right?

Trust was the solid base the team of Avengers needed and since you somehow found yourself with them, it involved you too. The team stood and fell on trust and mutual respect. But it meant so much more – they were friends. They cared about each other, about their well-being.

Right now, Steve was being a good friend and a good teammate.

And you were being exactly that too when you turned his kind proposition down.

“No, it’s fine. There are still some people who are actually able to speak coherently with you. Go enjoy yourself. I’ll be okay.”

“It’s three in the morning,” he pointed out, as if admonishing you for not noticing. Your eyebrow rose deliberately.

“…and?”

“And I’d feel better if you weren’t walking the streets alone,” he replied easily, ignoring the hint of snark in your comeback as you made your way to the coat-stand.

Still walking on the line of miserable and pleasantly buzzed, you couldn’t find it in yourself to be mean to him for such patronizing approach. He had been raised this way and despite his open mind and admirable respect to women, he slipped sometimes.

“Steve, I’m a SHIELD agent basically turned Avenger. I can take care of my-“

“But you don’t have to. And-” He gestured subtly back towards the bar and a metaphorical lightbulb flickered above your head.

Not patronizing then, god forbid chauvinist; Peggy Carter would rise from the death to beat him with his own shield, with Natasha’s enthusiastic help, if he was showing any sign of aforementioned qualities and he was well-aware of that.

Just mother-henning then, the way Steve excelled at.

It brought the first honest smile of the night to your lips. You made sure to face him so he could see how wholesome his company was for you.

“I’m not too drunk, Steve. I had like two glasses of scotch,” you assured him, gently brushing his forearm before reaching for your coat and scarf. “And two beers.”

“I know,” he stated, stealing your coat only to hold it out for you to slip into it.

God, the woman who would once win his heart was about to be one lucky bitch.

Jim has never done this for me, flashed through your mind and you instantly shushed the whining voice in your head. Instead, you went over what he just said, blinking in surprise.

Huh? He… knew?

“I… might have kept an eye on you,” he admitted tentatively, the tips of his fingers brushing your shoulder before retreating and letting you to cocoon in the fabric.

“Why?”

Why would he keep an eye on you? Sure, teammates and friends and all that, but for some reason, you doubted he kept an eye on Tony, the only other Avenger (beside Steve, not Steve and you, you don’t count, a voice hissed in your mind and you winced) who attended the party, not being on any mission at the moment.

Why did Steve feel like you needed a chaperone?

No, that was too harsh of a word for him, you were certain his intentions were everything but malicious, but… why?

 Walk me home in the dead of night I can't be alone with all that's on my mind, mhm So say you'll stay with me tonight 'Cause there is so much wrong going on outside

 The genuine wonder must have been audible in your voice, much like your shock must have been clear in your expression, because Steve seemed sheepish all of sudden, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Well, I mean, I know that you probably wouldn’t-“ he started, only to grimace. “It’s not that I think you’re an alcoholic! It’s just that... you--- and it’s only been-…“

-four days since you got dumped, you finished the unspoken sentence and tried your best to ignore the cold seeping into your bones at the reminder.

One of the reasons why you had been in a sour mood and deciding to drink alone. Your amazing asshole of a boyfriend had dumped you, metaphorically kicking you while you had already been down. Lovely.

“-I was worried. But you didn’t look like you were interested in having company, I didn’t want to be a bother and-“

You pulled Steve out of his misery by placing a hand over his forearm, which stopped the words spilling uncontrollably from his mouth.

He was actually being very sweet and thoughtful. It kinda made you feel bad, because… you weren’t looking for dragging someone down with you. As it was, he had his own reasons to not be happy about partying tonight, but feeling like he had to keep an eye on you probably didn’t help to lift his spirits.

“-and you had to spend some time with the woman of the hour,” you finished instead of him slowly, hoping you sounded at least half as thoughtful as he did and that you didn’t appear to be the greatest bitch, stealing attention from Sharon. “That’s understandable, Steve. It is her birthday party and I’m the one being antisocial.”

You bit down your lip, lowering your gaze, because the infamous worried wrinkle appeared on Steve’s forehead and you just knew he was about to protest and you… honestly felt bad about your behaviour and the welcoming colour of his eyes was not helping to make you feel any better, because of course he probably thought it was perfectly normal to look out for you instead of allowing himself to enjoy the night and- ugh.

“You… you shouldn’t have to look out for me. Your attention could have been fully on the birthday girl.”

Naturally, Steve Rogers basically shrugged it off. Covering your hand on him with his large palm, he slouched to look into your eyes once more. Insistent bastard, no doubt aware of your inability to say no to his amiable face.

“That’s what friends are for. Now, can I walk you home?”

You shook your head with a sad smile, rising your gaze towards the ceiling, hoping it came out as an exasperation at his stubbornness and not as it truly was – you in fact attempting to keep your tears at bay, because, miserable drunk, dumped four days ago apart from other things and there he was, asshole perfect, Steve fucking Rogers, gentleman and friend extraordinaire, caring for your well-being more than Jim ever had.

A twinkle appeared in his eye when he recognized he won and you chuckled, sealing his victory out loud.

“Yes, Steve. You can walk me home. It’s conveniently located on the way to yours.”

He smirked when he shrugged on his own coat. “Happy coincidences…”

 There's something in the way I wanna cry That makes me think we'll make it out alive So come on and show me how we're good I think that we could do some good, mhm

 Once you left the bar, silence fell on you, feeling heavy as did the cold November air.

Heavy and awkward. While you could tell with certainty you were barely affected by the alcohol you had drunk, your steps were wobbly, knees shaky as if you were a baby horse trying to stand up for the first time.

Steve walked by your side, majestic in his thigh-length coat, hands snugged in its pockets only halfway as if he was waiting for you needing his support. It irritated you as much as it warmed your heart.

On top of everything, you would swear every lone person you met stared at you, staring you up and down until they seemed to register Steve’s imposing frame and quickly went back to their business. It annoyed you to no end; it was just proving Steve’s point that you shouldn’t walk the streets alone at such hour, government agent or not.

“I would have been fine, you know,” you hummed, cautiously breaking the relative quiet.

It was never truly quiet in New York City, only rush hours alternating with calmer ones. You didn’t mind it; you enjoyed the city. Sometimes quiet meant that thoughts won the opportunity to become too loud; tonight, for some reason, despite the silence, Steve prevented that ever since he joined you.

It dawned to you then, how ungrateful you sounded and you quickly added “But thanks.” –  a whisper full of honesty.

“Uh-huh.”

Perhaps the silence weighted so much because your mood wasn’t the only cause of it.

Steve was showing you that he worried; surely, you could as well? Because you did, worry about him that was.

“…are you? Okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked distractedly, but you could hear the frown on his face, the image of his nose scrunched in confusion painted in front of your eyes even without looking at him.

“Just… today-” you nudged him once more and vaguely eyed your watch only to be reminded that ‘today’ was a confusing term. “Or, more like, yesterday…”

A sharp inhale was drawn at your side and you could sense as he started closing off, putting up his walls so no one would catch a scent of his weakness. You hated when he tried to do that. You would have thought you were past that. You liked to consider you two friends at least.

Tonight was simply not your night. Of either of you, apparently.

“What about it-?“

You sighed, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. Were you truly such a crappy company, an insensitive friend or was there something sorrowful and cranky in the air, preventing your communication channels from tuning to the same frequency?

You were aware what the day meant for him – another painful reminder of what he had lost with crashing the plane in the forties only to wake up in a new millennium.

Though this particular loss – of his mother – haunted him even back in what some people called his days. It was an utter non-sense. Steve belonged there as much as he belonged here. He was brave enough to try and stubborn enough to succeed in fitting in.

“Nothing, I guess,” you sighed once more, this time rolling your eyes. “…Mr. Nothing Can Touch Me.”

The wry nickname hung in the air for a while, the faint noise of the night city washing over your pair. When Steve broke it again, there was a barely audible crack in his voice.

“I… I’m okay. I think. I… should be. It’s been so long. Decades,” he mused, turning his gaze to the sky. His eyes glistened and if you didn’t know him, hadn’t witnessed his walls lowering before, you would have thought it was just the streetlights reflecting.

You knew better. Tentatively, your fingers brushed his, not remembering when his hands had left his pockets. You were grateful for it now, especially when he didn’t retrieve from your touch instantly.

“Not for you,” you pointed out quietly, rewarded by the softest squeeze of his warm hand.

The heaviness and tension you had felt before resolved with the gesture. Something finally fell into place and you were almost you again and he was almost him.

Two figures, carrying their griefcases, but functioning and… harmonizing once more.

“How did you know?”

“That’s what friends are for, Steve,” you echoed his earlier words, sending a tiny smile his way, meeting his glassy gaze. “They remember important dates, good or bad.”

“No one else did. Not that I can actually hold it against Buck, of course... but no one… you…” his voice trailed off as he lost his train of thought – or perhaps he had never truly directed it to the station in the first place.

Your shoulders moved a fraction, a hint of a shrug-off. His hand wrapped around yours tighter in silent appreciation, not showing any sign of intending to let go.

And you were alright with that. More than alright.

Walk me home in the dead of night I can't be alone with all that's on my mind, mhm So say you'll stay with me tonight 'Cause there is so much wrong going on outside

Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh

His presence was always immense, overwhelming even; yet so comfortable you didn’t have the slightest problem with opening your heart to him, offering it to him even when it was bleeding. And now, finally tuned together, it was no different.

You bared your heart to him, even if it hurt.

“She didn’t make it,” you whispered, voice pained in the dead of the night and he didn’t react, letting you to gather strength to elaborate. You cleared your throat as the lump grew in it.  “Kayla, one of the kids… from last week’s mission. I found out yesterday… she-she didn’t make it, she had too many injuries. Word is that perhaps it was even a blessing. A relief.”

“I’m so sorry,” Steve repented, his grip growing stronger just a fraction, enough to make your chest and eyes burn.

“Yeah, so am I.”

Whatever he heard in your voice, it caused his fingers twitch in your hand, his footsteps slowing down. “You know that wasn’t your fault, right?”

“Wasn’t it? If I was faster, if I-“

Steve stopped in his tracks completely, pulling at your hand to make you do the same and face him.

You closed your eyes when his blue ones met them, unable to stand the urgency in them. His free hand curled around your shoulder, caressing in attempt at comfort.

“Hey, hey, don’t do that to yourself.” Hypocrite, you threw back at him in your mind, stubbornly keeping your eyelids shut, simply knowing that if you saw the sincerity in his gaze in addition to the fervour he spoke with, you might actually believe him. “You did your best. I know that, Nat and Buck know, everyone does. A monster you helped to put behind bars hurt the kids. Not you. You saved so many lives.”

You shook your head with a sigh, staring straight ahead as you turned on your heels and continued your path. Steve, never letting go of your hand, followed reluctantly.

“Sometimes I think he might have been right, you know?”

Peripherally, you saw him frown again and you cursed yourself for drinking – it untangled your tongue and his stupid face made your spill your guts to him, vomit emotion. You weren’t too secretive about your feelings most of the time, but damn, you hated how alcohol pushed your boundaries of sharing them.

“… Jim. He said that maybe I should give it up. That I’m just running alongside you, heroes, pretending to be one of you, but in the end, I’m not even close to being as good-“

Steve’s feet took roots in the ground, his steely grip forcing you to stop – as long as you wanted to keep your hand attached, which yeah, you kinda did.

“I feel like taking a detour now,” he muttered darkly and for a short moment, confusion was everything you felt, blissfully overtaking the anger, the sorrow, the helplessness and the feeling of utter uselessness.

“Huh?”

“Where does Jim live?” Steve spitted out the name venomously and you couldn’t help the wave of affection washing over you. Affection towards this treasure of a man who apparently wanted to punch another human being because it offended his friend. “He has no business saying something like that. Especially if his bullshit actually affects you-”

“Steve, he wasn’t wrong, I’m just-“ you sputtered, caught off guard when you registered the fire in his glare.

“We all make mistakes. But that’s beside the point, because you didn’t even make any that day. I read the report, and I know you, you put everything you got and more into the rescue mission. How can he-“ he hissed, literally taking a calming breath as both of his hands balled into fist.

Well, one of them only nearly, since it was still holding yours. It actually stung a bit, the bones in your hand close to grinding against each other.

“-I haven’t met him many times, but if he said that instead of comforting you after an incredibly draining mission, then I’m glad that that asshole is gone from your life. … though I would still appreciate his address.”

Blinking away the few stray tears that welled up, you forced a smile as Steve’s strict glare found yours. It felt good, seeing his indignation; having someone else exasperated on how Jim had reacted. He should have given you a hug and hold you tight; that was what you would wish for. Instead, he told you to stop complaining and when you accused him of not supporting you, he called you a whiny bitch who should make up her damn mind and broke things off.

You deeply appreciated Steve’s display of chivalry, hell, you half-considered giving away the address just so Jim would hear someone else agreeing with you, but you were honestly just tired. And you had a feeling Steve wouldn’t stay only at words and seeing any more blood, any more aggression would have been too much for you tonight.

Tonight, you… you needed serenity and comfort.

“…thank you. That… that means a lot. But… maybe just walk me home? Please? Could you walk me home, Steve?” you pleaded softly, barely audible, not caring it sounded like weeping of a needy child.

Unbeknownst to you, that was the last thing you resembled in Steve’s eyes. Your imploring gaze, vulnerable and open, it moved something inside him, his anger silenced for the moment, leaving him defenceless, unable to say no. Not that he had an intention to do so. He always had trouble saying no to you.

So he forced his fists to relax, running his thumb over the back of your hand and whispered the only word that made sense.

“Always.”

You settled back to the comfortable silence after that.

 Walk me home in the dead of night 'Cause I can't be alone with all that's on my mind Say you'll stay with me tonight 'Cause there is so much wrong going on

 You reached the Tower hand in hand.

Neither of you released the other. Not during the elevator ride, not when you walked the halls lined with doors leading to each’s private quarters.

You were still holding onto each other when you came to a stop in front of your door; rest assured, Steve Rogers would lead you right to your door even if his was only at the end of the very same corridor.

Standing nearly chest to chest, his eyes bored into yours with seriousness that surprised you.

“For the record, you do a great deal of good,” he reassured you, saying it as if he truly meant it. It tugged at your heart, sweet and bitter. “You’re amazing and you’re the most authentic of all of us. I admire you.”

That claim caused you to chuckle. Now he was laying it on a bit thick, downright exaggerating.

“You admire me? Steve, that’s really nice of you to say, but don’t be ridi-“

Your words died in your throat when his large palm splayed over your cheek, cradling it gently. When the paddle of his thumb swiped over your other cheek, soft smile playing on his lips, his irises bright with a promise, time seemingly stopped along with your heart.

“And you’re a great friend to the whole team, a wonderful person. Do me a favour and finally learn to accept a compliment,” he asked of you in hushed voice, the electric blue and green of his eyes locking you in. “If he didn’t praise you enough for you to get used to it, he was doing something wrong.”

You gulped, a silly association with the word ‘praise’ allowing you to break from the cage of his gaze that had previously had your mind gone blank.

“I’m not a dog to be praised, Steve…”

One corner of his lips – and when did they got so close anyway? – twitched. And then a tender kiss landed on your forehead, just the softest brush of lips against your skin. The gesture, utterly incomprehensible for you, had your eyelids flutter shut.

“I’m very much aware. Believe me, doll, I know. Thank you for letting me walk you home.”

You only nodded at the ridiculous statement – why was he thanking you? – too perplexed at the fact his lips had made contact with your skin. When did you cross the line towards the delusional drunk?

His fingertips caressed your face as he let go, wishing you to have a good night. Too baffled, you were unable to respond until he had already made his way to his door and you suddenly missed the warmth of his presence.

Breaking free from your haze, you acted on impulse, apparently startling him when you called his name out of blue so urgently.

“Steve!”

Whipping his head around to look at you, you felt your heart jump into your throat.

“Uh… are you ready to go to bed or… or maybe… would you like to watch a movie or something?” With me?

I don’t think I’m ready to be alone. Ready to be without you.

Even from the distance, you would swear you saw his lips spread in a slow honey-sweet smile.

“I think I’d like that,” he called out lowly. “Ten minutes? I’ll get the blankets. You pick the movie.”

“See you in ten then.”

You pretended that your heart didn’t flutter, sending a wave of familiar tingle through your chest and to your fingers, as you slipped inside your room with your mouth curled up in a content smile.

 Walk me home in the dead of night I can't be alone with all that's on my mind So say you'll stay with me tonight 'Cause there is so much wrong There is so much wrong There is so much wrong going on outside

*✧･ Bonus *✧･

If Tony found them two and half hour later, closing credits rolling, the pair curled up and cuddling on the couch, you fast asleep in Steve’s arms, and he noticed that the supersoldier was in fact only faking to avoid an interrogation from the Ironman himself, he didn’t mention it. He just whispered to FRIDAY to turn off the TV and turn off the dimmed lights completely.

He hoped Rogers would treat you the way you deserved, unlike the man who now had farts announcing a received e-mail or texts, unable to change it, and a laptop turning on randomly, dead-pale children staring at him from the screen with hollow eyes and in clothes dripping water. Tony would hate to have to hack more tech again just to avenge your broken heart without your knowledge any time soon.

He’d rather suffer watching the two of his friends being disgustingly sweet on each other.

Probably.

*✧･*✧･*✧･*✧･*✧･*✧･*✧･

S.R. masterlist

*✧･*✧･*✧･*✧･*✧･*✧･*✧･

Silent thanks to the person who came up with the word ‘griefcase’ as an alternative to emotional baggage.

Also, I’m pretty sure songfics aren’t supposed to be so long... oops?

Thank you for reading!

[inb4belphienaps]

pump it (derogatory) - continued

<pt. 1>

warnings: herein lies the smut :) word count: 2238

you slowly lower yourself onto your knees, feeling your cheeks flush and your jaw clench. he doesn't take his eyes off of you, the amusement dancing on his features makes your stomach twist and turn.

"go on", he repeats, putting out his cigarette onto the ashtray beside him. it's as if his attention is solely focused on you now.

your hands, resting on your thighs, ball into fists as you maintain his gaze. this man was sick! if only you hadn't stopped and hesitated out there on the road. if only you hadn't followed him inside and taken the bait. he snickers, standing at full height as he strides over to you.

"need some help?"

 he hadn't been particularly tall when you'd first met him. was it the new angle?

"if this is some sick prank you're pulling, i'd like you to stop", you spit, looking up at him with what you hoped was complete indignation in your eyes.

belphie tilts his head, the corner of his lips forever quirked upwards as he places a hand atop your head.

"what makes you think i'm not being serious?"

that hand runs through your hair, settling comfortably at the base of your skull and he tugs. there's no pain. it's merely a demonstration. you're more than looking up at him, quite literally in his grip and he bares his teeth at you, grinning and exposing incisors sharp as knives.

"besides", he mutters (though it's hard to miss his words with his blunt nails digging into your scalp), "you seem like the type of person to pay their dues properly."

he emphasizes that last part and you drink in the sight of his collar. the top two buttons have been left undone and the material creases as it stretches over his chest. he seems to appreciate your close assessment and with that, he's shoving your face down towards the familiar, pale tiles.

you try to dig your nails into the smooth surface to no avail, protesting as he brings you down closer and closer-

"wait- i can- can't we- can't we work something out?!"

his breath tickles your ear and you think he's probably also knelt down to do so.

"what? would you rather use your tongue elsewhere?"

you blink rapidly, trying not to shiver at his proximity or his low drawl. you can see your shadow reflected in the tiles inches away from your nose and you take a deep breath as the next question leaves you.

"what did you have in mind...?"

he clicks his tongue and tugs you by your hair to have you look at him once more. he'd been squatting down.

"like i said, clever."

as he stands up, his grip on you remains. you inwardly release a sigh of relief. bullet successfully dodged.

and then your eyes zero in on the bulge in his pants and you swallow thickly. of course, of course it was going to be that in the end. only, this didn't seem so bad...? you'd be lying if you said it hadn't turned you on in the slightest to be made to lick the floor. especially when that'd come in the form of an aegean-blue-haired man with veins on his forearms that could make you cry.

perhaps you stare a moment too long.

"listen, if this makes you uncomfortable, we can stop."

"oh", you reply.

his suggestion comes out as more of an afterthought and you're taken aback by his unanticipated generosity (a common theme of tonight). the reasonable and logical part of your brain says yes, yes let's do just that. let's stop and leave this place. but the more irrational, impulsive side of you wonders how he'd taste...

belphie must've mistaken your tone because he removes his hand and you're left feeling distinctly unsatisfied.

you grab it, placing a chaste kiss inside his calloused palm and he twitches. it's your turn to smile at him.

"that's funny", you say, mind already made up.

he doesn't pull away from you. instead, he squeezes your hand and you pull him closer by his belt. a maneuver that rewards you with another twitch and a soft gasp.

"you don't seem like the type to second-guess yourself."

slowly, you undo the leather and he watches with intent. if he'd felt shocked, he doesn't show it.

"somehow, i don't want you to hate me. is that weird?"

his confession makes you pause, only briefly, and then you're palming him through the cotton. he shuts his eyes. you note how long his eyelashes appear, their shadows dotting his cheeks.

"i don't really want you to hate me either."

the two of you share a look. one that precedes an exchange of understanding. you realize that he isn't capable of frightening you as you pull the waistband of his boxers down, freeing his erection.

"so how about i make up for my clumsiness like this? is that okay?", you ask, mouth mere centimeters away from the head of his dick.

"definitely okay", he murmurs.

and you take him into your mouth like someone starved. it's hot and hard and the veins on its underside have you moaning around his length. you guide his hand back to your hair and he fists it.

"fuck", he whispers.

fuck, you think.

the change in your attitude spurs him on to bury himself to the hilt inside your mouth and you try to regulate your breathing, attempting to relax your throat.

"god, you feel good..."

you hum appreciatively at his praise and he bucks his hips up, causing you to grip his thighs as a means of holding him in place. and jesus was he built. you stroke the hard muscles trembling underneath your hands and he groans - a delicious sound.

"hah, mm, can i fuck your face like this?"

he's doing his best not to move, and you carefully slide him back out of your mouth, much to his disappointment. you swirl your tongue around him and lick a strip down the side, only to suckle on a spot near the base of his dick and he shivers.

"what's the magic word?"

the blush on his cheeks matches the blush on the ends of his ears and you grin up at him. he shrinks slightly under your gaze, becoming increasingly aware of the power dynamic at work.

"p-please..?"

"good boy", you coo nonchalantly, petting his thigh.

his dick twitches this time and you giggle, batting your eyelids at him.

"ah...into that sort of thing, are you?"

he scoffs, his façade ruined as you move your hand along his cock and squeeze. a whimper leaves him and you act on the urge to stroke him, eyeing the expression of pleasure on his face. his hips start to move on their own accord.

"please just- just keep going."

"hm? like this?"

"no- with your mouth", he says hurriedly, adding a "please" that only serves to boost your ego. this was more to your liking.

"alright belphie, i'll give you what you want since you asked so nicely."

he's about to snap back but you glide your tongue against his slit, leaving whatever insult he was about to spew to die in his throat as you graze your teeth against the sensitive skin of his dick while taking him back in.

"oh, jesus...fuck."

like a distant memory, you realize that he tastes distinctly sweet. an ode to his bodywash you suppose.

"mmmh", you moan around him and he jerks his hips.

you caress his thigh as your other hand snakes its way up to his ass, and you squeeze. he grunts, glancing down at you with a type of dizzy look in his eyes that sets your own lust ablaze. you swallow around him once and he tries to keep still.

only, you encourage him, pushing him further into your throat by the hand on his ass and he clutches at your hair with desperation.

"wait, are you- are you sure?"

you nod, ignoring the drool dribbling down your chin and he hisses as you swallow around him again.

"alright, okay", he pants, "i'm not gonna hold back."

and that's as much warning as you get before he's rocking into your mouth, head thrown back in ecstasy as he chases his own high.

it's surreal, how good it feels. how each time the tip of his cock brushes against the roof of your mouth and the back of your throat, you descend further into a state of rapture. so maybe you had an oral fixation, so what?

you close your eyes and focus all your attention on relaxing your throat, on accommodating his girth and not choking on your own saliva.

he must like the sounds he hears coming from you because belphie's groans get louder with each thrust. there's a familiar haziness to the way you feel and a warmth in your gut that encourages you to slacken your jaw that little bit more.

"fuck, fuck, i'm gonna cum too qu-quickly, your mouth feels too fucking good."

you moan, getting off on how dazed he looks and the airy lilt to his voice. you knead his ass cheek, feeling it flex with each thrust and he starts to get sloppy, not bothering to stifle the small moans that leave him or the curses he manages to stutter out.

"i'm gonna cum, i'm gonna cum", he whines.

in that split-second you'd decided to blow him, you'd also decided that you'd let him cum in your mouth. and so, you make no move to let him retreat, using both your hands and cupping both his ass cheeks to keep him in your throat as he unravels.

"ah- mm!"

the hot liquid comes in heavy spurts that otherwise would've made you choke had you not been prepared for it.

you continue to swallow, even as he stops cumming and backs away from the over-stimulation. eventually, you give in, coming off his dick with an obscene noise.

at least you aren't the only breathless one. you lick your lips and he groans at the sight of them all pink and puffy and wet.

"fucking hell."

"well", you say, wincing at your own raspy tone, "we don't need more of a mess to clean up, do we?"

he laughs, and you chuckle with him.

belphie's about to help you to your feet when he looks up and sees the color painting the horizon outside. it's almost dawn. shit. he'd forgotten himself. the time, the place, everything.

"hey, listen", he says, looking at you with distress knitted in his brows. "you're going to wake up in fifteen minutes and you'll barely remember anything that's happened."

the sudden shift in his manner gives you whiplash, and you're left utterly frazzled. what? wake up? fifteen minutes?

"you'll think this is an abandoned gas station and leave. but..."

and he contemplates, ponders even, the possibility of tying himself to you.

"but if you call this number, in precisely thirteen days, you might be able to reach me."

was his voice fading? or were you simply drifting farther away?

"thirteen days, remember. remember that for me, will you?"

he looks...sad, and that bothers you. you try to lift your hand except it feels too heavy, too sluggish and your eyes start to shut of their own accord.

"remember for me."

.

.

.

your phone buzzes and you jerk awake, smacking your head on the wheel as you try to locate it. had you fallen asleep? as you track it down, you realize it's your friend calling.

"hello?"

"hey! where are you? we agreed that you were going to meet us here last night. is everything okay? were you asleep?"

you frown, yawning and stretching out the kink in your neck as you rub your eye.

"yeah, um, i got a bit lost and i must've fallen asleep. don't worry though, i'm uhh...", you trail off, glancing around for a sign.

an abandoned shopfront is all you see. the letters of an empty and unserviceable kum-n-go blink back at you, bouncing off the rays of the early morning sun.

"i'm not entirely sure where i am", you begin, catching something out of the corner of your eye. there's a map on the passenger seat beside you. a map that shows you're not far off from the designated stop off. "oh, actually, i'll be there before lunch."

"great, oh my god, please come quick and save me from this madness. the lads have started drinking already."

you laugh, turning the ignition on and driving out of the parking lot.

"i'll be there as soon as i can."

as you hang up and toss your phone to the side, fragments of your dream come back to you in startling definition. coffee, huh? yeah…yeah, that sounds like a good idea.

the highway is pretty much deserted given the hour and you put the pedal to the metal. rolling down the windows, you breathe in the crisp air and rub your neck. it’s still sore and your throat, your throat feels almost…raw.

you open the glove compartment to take out some lozenges and you haphazardly pop one into your mouth. the sweet taste threatens to trigger a memory. as you suck the candy, ignorant of its medicinal tang in lieu of the artificial honey flavoring, you wrack your brain for an explanation. a number comes to mind. thirteen. what on earth could that mean...?

[yes-i-am-happyaspie]

So. I decided to make my second @identity-reveal-bingo submission a mini-fic. That means that this one is less than 1000 words!

Also, since I don't really write major character d-eath... I may have stretched the 'deathbed confession' prompt just a bit. 😅 so rather than any actual d-eath, you get 991 words of Peter being throughly concussed and extremely dramatic.

Happy Reading!

___

Peter woke up in a hospital with an oxygen tube below his nose and several wires attached to his body. He could hear the rhythmic beeping of the monitors and smell the sickly combination of blood and disinfectant. Then, suddenly aware of the pain radiating from his neck to the front of his skull, he gasped. He reached up to touch the place where the throbbing was the worst but was prevented from doing so. When he looked up, Tony was hovering above him, holding tightly to his wrist.

“Easy, Kiddo. You’re not supposed to be awake. Your head got pretty banged up tonight,” Tony said, moving his grasp to the kid’s hand and then giving it a gentle squeeze. “How do you feel?”

After some thought, Peter withdrew his hand and rubbed his eyes. “Am I dying?” he asked, because his mind was fuzzy and he’d never had a headache quite like the one he was currently experiencing. The pressure was excruciating.

“No, Buddy. Not dying,” Tony replied with a tight smile. The memory of placing the kid’s limp body onto a gurney was still fresh, causing anxiety to creep up his spine. “Dr. Banner worked entirely too hard to stabilize you, for you to die now.”

“Am I dying later?” Peter asked. But then his attention was stolen by the various sounds that were floating around the room. They sounded vaguely ominous, making him shiver. “The beeping is- is beeping. Like in sad movies.”

“That’s your heart-monitor. It’s beeping because you’re not dying,” Tony returned, with a roll of his eyes.

Peter took a few breaths and swallowed hard. “Feels bad, Mr. Stark. Like my head is going to-” he began, but the word he required seemed to be lost somewhere in the mush his brain had become. So he mimicked the sound of an explosion while flailing his hands for emphasis instead. “That kills people. I’m definitely going to die.”

With a deep sigh, Tony ran a hand down his face. “Would you please stop talking about dying? You’re going to give me a panic attack,” he said, dropping tiredly into the chair beside the bed.

“It hurts,” Peter whined while turning his head to the side. As he did so, he had to squint his eyes against the blinding light that was beside him. “And there’s a light. Should I go into the light?”

“Pete. It’s a lamp,” Tony started, cracking a smile as he reached over to turn it off. “See? No heavenly light. You’re fine. You just have one hell of a concussion.”

The room grew quiet as Peter tried to sluggishly process what he’d been told. But by the time he’d sorted through the first part, the rest was fairly muddled. “A confession?” he asked out of confusion that was followed by a wide-eyed realization. “I have a confession!”

“No, not a-” Tony chuckled before curiosity took over. “Wait. You have a confession? As in, you want to confess something?” he asked, arching a brow in interest. And when Peter nodded his head, he encouraged him to continue.

“You’re gonna be mad, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, his lip sticking out in a small pout.

“I won’t be mad, Kid,” Tony promised, despite the fact that he had no idea what the kid was about to admit to.

“Not mad. Disappointed. So disappointed,” Peter tearily mumbled. “But- but since I’m on my deathbed, I think you should know. I want you to know.”

Then, all at once, Tony’s interest morphed into dread. If the kid genuinely believed he was dying, then whatever he was about to confess was going to be a doozy. “Know what, Buddy?” he questioned, preparing himself for the worst.

After biting frettingly at his lip, Peter blinked up at his mentor. “I’m Spider-man,” he whispered.

Tony released a breath but before he could say anything, Peter had already broken into tears.

“-You’re always telling me to stay safe and then I go out and fight bad guys behind your back,” Peter sobbed. “And now I’m dying and- I’m so sorry,”

“Pete. Kiddo. Underoos, I need you to understand. You’re not dying,” Tony firmly asserted and then smiled. “Also. I know you’re Spider-man.”

“You do?” Peter asked. Because he thought he’d done a pretty good job of keeping his identity obscured. “How?”

Abruptly realizing exactly how hard the kid had hit his head, Tony sighed and tapped a finger against his temple. “Genius. Remember?”

“Did you tell Aunt May!” Peter asked with such upset that Tony had to place a hand on his chest to prevent him from bolting upright.

“Tell Aunt May what?” May asked, having walked into the room just in time to hear the outburst.

“That he’s Spider-man” Tony smirked.

Peter looked from his mentor to his aunt and whimpered painfully. “I wanted to tell her. Don’t want to die with secrets,” he mumbled just clearly enough for both adults to hear.

“Sweetie, I already know you’re Spider-man,” May replied, kissing the only part of Peter’s forehead that wasn’t bruised. “But you’re not dying. I promise,”

“Are you sure? I feel very-” Peter said, pausing in an attempt to find his words. “Death-y. Death-like?”

“I’m positive, Sweetie,” May giggled.

“I’ve been trying to tell the dramatic little shit the same thing for the last fifteen minutes,” Tony exclaimed with a frustrated flourish of his hand. “But Bruce is on his way with more drugs. Hopefully stronger ones,” he added, his voice softening as he spoke.

“Yeah. Someone needs a nap,” May whispered, watching as her nephew’s eyes flutter closed only to snap back open again.

“A death-nap,” Peter grumbled, wishing desperately that the throbbing would stop.

Both Tony and May roll their eyes at the theatrics. Then, as if on cue, Bruce walked into the room ready to administer a new round of medication. And from there it didn’t take long for Peter to drift off. Sleeping like the dead.

___

Feel free to send mini-fic prompts! I can't promise that I'll get to it right away but I love having the inspiration! ❤

[willowbird]

hi! im a sucker for mutual pining so can i ask for roommates!au+ childhood friends + “you know i’ll do anything for you.” for pynch? 💛

You sure can lovely, you know I'll do anything for you 😉 (see what I did there?)

I also decided to make this a sick fic because I can. Hope you enjoy!

--

Ronan Lynch woke up feeling like death warmed over. Now this wasn't an altogether unfamiliar sensation, but it usually followed a night of heavy drinking and too many tacos sourced from questionable food trucks. Last night Ronan had been fucking responsible, thank you. He could have gone out and gotten trashed with some not-quite-friends he knew from around town. Instead, he had specifically stayed home and not gotten shit-faced because he had important shit to do today.

See, responsible. He could do it. Fuck you, Declan.

With an enthusiastic groan of anguish, Ronan rolled over and made to push himself up into a sitting position. His hand slipped off the edge of the bed in the attempt, however, and two seconds later he was in a heap on the floor with absolutely no energy nor motivation to try again.

At least, not until he heard a light knock on the door followed by a familiar voice calling, "Ronan? You alright in there?"

"Fuck," he grumbled to himself - except his face was trapped between his arm and the floor, so it came out more like 'frushk'.

The door creaked open and Ronan managed to summon the energy to lift his arm just enough to see Adam's bare feet peak into the room. How had he never noticed how elegant Adam's ankles were? The man could be a dancer if he wanted to, Ronan was sure of it - not that he knew anything about dancing or what dancers bodies should look like. Adam was wearing his pajama pants still, which was odd because Adam was always up way before Ronan and was usually fully dressed by the time Ronan dragged his ass out of bed - which he only ever did when the time was still in single-digits if he had absolutely no other choice (or if Adam was making breakfast... so... almost every day, but then he went back to bed). It was a shame, though, because Adam's calves were elegant, too. One wouldn't think men's calves could be pretty, but Adam's were. They fit the line of his legs like calligraphy, gently curving while holding all of this strength. That was to say nothing for his thighs. Ronan would happily be crushed by Adam's thighs.

"Um..." said Adam, and Ronan realized that he'd grabbed the hem of Adam's pant leg and was lifting it up, his body attempting to listen to his (likely fever-induced) inner ramblings and desire to see more of Adam's (perfect) legs.

With no energy to explain or defend himself, Ronan grunted and just let his hand drop back to the floor. A moment later he felt the air shift around him and when he realized he'd closed his eyes he forcibly peeled them open again to see that Adam had crouched down beside him.

Ah fuck, look at that bedhead. This was unfair. Ronan should get to see Adam's cute bedhead every day. But no, Adam had to be one of those people who got up at the asscrack of fucking dawn. He had to be one of those jerks who owned a comb. Despicable.

Adam caught his hand, the wayward limb having lifted to reach for aforementioned cute bedhead against Ronan's will.

"Alright, come on now Lynch, let's get you back in bed." Adam's voice was soft and very close now, which was funny because Adam was supposed to be far away. Adam was always too far away. Except this next time when Ronan opened his eyes he realized that Adam wasn't far away at all, he was right there, with his arm around Ronan, helping him sit up.

"When'd you get buff, Parrish?" Ronan grumbled as Adam all but deadlifted him from the floor to get him back on the bed.

Adam's quiet chuckle brushed against the side of Ronan's neck like a kiss. "What, did you think me going to the gym four days a week was for show? Gotta be able to lug your ass around."

"You calling me fat?"

"Yes."

"Bitch."

This time, Adam's laugh was a bit more full but it stayed quiet, like Adam knew about the angry cotton that had taken over the inside of Ronan's skull and didn't want to antagonize it.

Ronan was horizontal the next time he opened his eyes and Adam was woefully far away. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, adjusting the covers, which really wasn't all that far, but look -- it was too far. His hands were eager to obey his inner ramblings apparently, because without Ronan's say-so they had lifted again, reaching for Adam.

Adam caught them easily in his own and squeezed. "I hope you didn't have any big plans today, Lynch. You've definitely got a fever."

"No I don't," Ronan protested, half-distracted by how nicely his and Adam's hands fit together. He'd almost forgotten that, how good it felt to hold Adam's hand. They used to hold hands all the time when they were kids -- because that's what kids did. He remembered always reaching for Adam's hand. Sometimes to pull him up when he fell down, sometimes to grab him to go play, sometimes just because it felt... good to do it. They've been best friends since the summer before kindergarten, them and Gansey and Noah. But it was always Adam's hand Ronan wanted to hold.

But boys don't hold other boys' hands once you reach a certain age. Which, actually, was utter and complete bullshit and Ronan was going to do something about that as soon as he was able to get vertical again. He didn't know what, but he would come up with something, dammit.

"--nan? Ronan? Hey, you still with me?"

Ronan blinked away some cobwebs and focused back up at Adam's face, which was drawn together in concern. "The fuck you talking about Parrish," he rasped out. "I didn't go anywhere."

One of those strong, elegant hands dropped his - but before Ronan could mourn the loss it reached forward to press gently to his forehead, then to his cheek. "Maybe I should take you to the doctor," Adam said through a frown.

"'m fine," Ronan growled out with attempted authority. Adam only stared at him and Ronan rolled his eyes. "It's just... just a stupid cold or something."

Adam was already shaking his head. It took all of Ronan's willpower not to whine when he pulled his hand away, but he managed.

"What're you doing?" he grumbled suspiciously as Adam produced his phone from the pocket of his sweatshirt.

"Texting my boss."

The shock of confusion that lanced through him at that was sharp enough to kickstart his brain and wake him up a little bit. "What? Why?"

Adam gave him another look, and damnit if the man didn't look like a sexy, disapproving librarian - even without the glasses. "Ronan, you're sick. If that fever gets any higher you really will have to go to the doctor."

"So?" Something was not computing. Why should Ronan's stupid body being stupid sick have anything to do with Adam texting his boss? Did Adam's boss know something about fevers?

"So I'm not leaving you by yourself all day."

"You're asking your boss to hire a fucking babysitter?"

"No you ass, I'm calling off for the day."

Ronan blinked. He closed his eyes, counted to three, then opened them again - but Adam was still there. He was looking down at his phone, swiping across it as a message came in. Then he gave a nod and looked back at Ronan. "And it's done."

"Wait. What?"

Adam's expression clouded with worry again, lips pursing and brow drawing in. "Ronan, I just told you..."

"Shit. Fuck. Yeah, I got that. Wait. You're calling in?" Adam Parrish had never called off of work a day in his life. Ronan would know - since he'd been a part of it for about twenty years now. Three weeks after they'd moved in together, Adam had come down with strep throat and had still tried to go into work. His boss had ended up calling Ronan to come haul his ass out of there since Ronan was listed as his emergency contact.

"I'm going to call the doctor..."

Ronan cut him off with a wave of his hand. "I'm not a fucking amnesiac, Parrish. Why the fuck would you call off work for my sorry ass?"

Adam gave him a look, then, and it was a look that had the rest of Ronan's confused protest dying before it even reached the tip of his tongue. When Adam spoke, his voice was softer and his hands - his hands - had abandoned the phone and had returned to take both of Ronan's.

"C'mon, Ro," he said in that quiet, steady voice, "you know I'll do anything for you. Don't you?"

Ronan's throat constricted and his hands curled into fists, except Adam's hands were already tangled in them so he only ended up gripping those hands tighter. It took a moment for him to process that, his brain addled by fever and distracted by confusion.

When the words and the tone and the look in those blue of blue of blue eyes finally clicked, Ronan swallowed hard. Then he opened his mouth, maybe to say 'no I don't' or 'do you mean that the same way I do?' or 'if you fucking no-homo me on this shit Parrish I will kick your ass'. Instead, he rasped out a dazed, "What the fuck time is it?"

Adam blinked, then gave a tired grin and shook his head. "A little after five."

"...AM? Five in the fucking morning? Jesus Christ."

"Don't blame me on this one, Lynch. You're the one who threw yourself out of bed before I even had a chance to shower."

Ronan snorted, then looked up at the other man through bleary eyes, considering his options here. After a long moment of deliberation (that honestly might not have been that long, considering how wobbly his interpretation of time was this morning), Ronan laboriously shifted his body over on the bed so that he was tucked more against the wall. He then patted the newly empty space beside him. "C'mon."

Adam looked at him, then the bed, then at him. "What?"

"Should I call the doctor?" Ronan mocked, then rolled his eyes. "Come on. You don't have to work, and you're up to early. This way you can make sure I don't die in my sleep."

"Not funny, Lynch," Adam warned - but he also set his phone on the bedside table and crawled onto the bed, letting Ronan hold the covers up for him so he could sink into the warmth. Their apartment was too drafty for Adam's bird blood to put up with that sleeping on top of the covers shit. Besides, they'd had how many sleepovers growing up? Sharing a bed was nothing new to them.

The flutter in Ronan's chest when Adam met his eyes, that wasn't all that new either.

"Go back to sleep, Ro. I'm right here."

Ronan sighed, but being given that permission to say 'fuck it' to the rest of the day and just sleep off the haze of sickness clinging to the backs of his eyelids and slinking down his spine was enough to sap the rest of his energy. He closed his eyes, sleep already tugging at him. Later, he wouldn't remember whether or not the soft press of chapped lips to his forehead was real or a dream.

Fun little prompt thingies

[datawyrms]

Ectober Day 3: Mutant

heads up for some mild body horror today. And AO3 crosspostin!

Phantom was a constant, frustrating presence. Sam could feel the demon when it chose to lurk closer to her instead of keeping after Tucker, a low whining sound that settled at the back of her jaw and refused to leave. It made it hard to focus on schoolwork, let alone figuring out how to deal with the monster that literally stole half of her soul. She might have enjoyed strange tomes and tales of demons, but she never really thought they actually existed. Half remembered facts and possibilities could make things worse, and the awful hum had her doubting a large portion of what she remembered.

It might be less annoying if Tucker had to suffer this toothache in her brain too, but apparently he didn’t hear the creature that had wrapped itself around them- to them, really. Not unless it spoke. Well, it was more her fault than his. Maybe it was just punishing her for trying a silly prank on her friend that ended up being more real than it should have.

“Hey. You really don’t like that blonde guy in the jacket, huh.”

Great. Think of the devil and it pipes up. “I thought I told you not to talk to me��

“You might have. You don’t like em though, right? How he shoves the smaller kids around and no one cares. Or is it the girl you don’t like, since he’s showing off for her? While she doesn’t even tell him off for picking on weaklings?” The demon’s words invaded her skull, effectively drowning out anything her teacher was saying, barely able to keep a grip on her own train of thought.

Just ignore the thing talking right in your head. Was the class over yet? Tucker being around felt like it helped, a little. Distracted the presence that she couldn’t completely ignore. Her notebook remains completely blank, unable to even distractedly doodle in the margins with the combined forces of the headache and demonic chattering.

“I could give him that telling off, you know. Just a little thing. They’ll never know it was you. It wouldn’t even hurt him.”

The only upside was no matter how quietly she muttered, she had a feeling Phantom could hear just fine. “I’m not setting a demon on Dash. Just give up already.”

“So letting him keep hurting others is better? It could just be an illusion, a temporary little chastising! It’s what I’m good at.”

Sam did not appreciate the fact Phantom apparently was getting better at the whole goading thing, even if it had not even been a full day. She had seen how her and Tucker’s shadow would sometimes linger, but she hadn’t really considered why the demon had been doing that. To watch people? To learn about targets it wanted to attack? She might not be a huge fan of Paulina and her clique, but she didn’t want some monster devouring them. Or whatever Phantom wanted to do to them, it was frustratingly vague about what it even did. All she knew is it could look like a shadow, make things cold, and mimic a human before pulling out too long claws. She just needed time to actually look at the book they used, learn what a demon actually was, seeing as Phantom would keep existing no matter how much she used to believe they didn’t. Was messing with her head something it could do to other people too? Or was that just a special ‘gift’ for herself and Tucker?

“Or maybe you do like watching the others suffer, at least you aren’t the target anymore, right?”

Clutching at her hair did nothing but wrinkle her brow at the slight pain, the voice as loud and insidious as ever. “I don’t care, just be quiet.”

“I can do quiet.” It was snickering again as the pain in her jaw eased, her shadow looking less ominous when caught out of the corner of her eye.

Shit. A demon would be all over word semantics, wouldn’t it. Was that close enough to a ‘yes’ for it to go after Dash? Lousy cheating demon-cat-thing. She didn’t care that it looked strange to sprint out of class the moment the bell rang, she had to find Tucker and track down the demon before it did something.

Phantom moved quickly. Too quickly. Intentionally getting clear before she could call him off. Stupid of her to say anything, she warned Tucker and then just did it herself.

“Sam? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Tucker stopped looking at his PDA as his friend ran up, adjusting his glasses to look over her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Opposite problem, I don’t know where it’s gotten off to.”

“Isn’t that a good thing? He’s decided to just go back where he came from for a bit?”

“Not if I might have accidentally set it on Dash.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Still not seeing the problem here.”

“Tucker!”

“What? He’s a jerk! Phantom was entertained by erasers, I don’t think he’s gonna do much to Dash.”

“Or it’s just been playing you and might kill him? It’s a demon Tucker!”

“Still kinda think he’s a cat.”

The goth groaned, grabbing her friend by the wrist as she set off down the fall. “Well then we’re herding cats.”

“Okay, okay um. If he’s after Dash I think they have practice today” he struggled to navigate his PDA with only his thumb, eyes darting to the clock and back. “They’re probably on the field by now?”

Sam picked up speed, ignoring Tucker’s cry to slow down. He could have time to collapse after there wasn’t a demon problem.

The football team was scattered on the grassy field, loud discussions just a reminder of how much the sports teams could get away with thanks to earning awards for the school. She wouldn’t dream of going near such a cringe worthy testosterone zone, certainly not without gagging, but gleaming green eyes lurking under bleachers forced her to ignore her preferences.

“See. A cat.” Tucker commented with a wheeze, pointing out the same eyes Sam had noticed. “Just get him a box or something. Probably...behave…”

Maybe they’d been fast enough? Dash didn’t look too bothered, running down the pitch. The buzzing wasn’t back, and much as she hated it, the fact it wasn’t gave her the unpleasant suspicion the demon was still busy imposing on someone else. “Try calling it back or something if you think that’ll work.”

“Don’t have to bite my head off.” Tucker rolled his eyes, trying to edge closer without attracting too much attention, apparently more wary of jocks than actual hellspawn.

Then Dash failed a catch, earning jeers and other comments. Normal, everyday macho bull. The stumbling after a heavy shoulder check was not.

“Woah! I get you too hard there Dash?” Kwan had his head half down in apology, reaching out to steady their star quarterback.

“Just tripped over a stupid rock or something, forget it.” Dash seemed to shrug it off, unaware of how his shadow twisted, ankles at a horrid misshapen angle. He went down hard after taking a step, yelping from apparently nothing but his own careless step.

“He didn’t actually break his ankles, did he?” Tucker said with a dry swallow, caution thrown to the wind.

“He looks okay?” Not that it meant much. “Phantom’s just a shadow right now, isn’t he?”

“W-What’s going on?” Dash sounded wrong, sputtering and afraid instead of the cocky confidence he normally had.

Kwan was already bending down to help him out, but jerked back. “Dash, what happened to your hand?”

“I don’t know!”

He took another step back, half covering his face. “It looks contagious man- hey coach!”

Sam couldn’t blame him- Dash’s hand looked twisted and grey even from this distance, and it only seemed to get worse, more withered and ashen every time he moved, a foul pallor crawling up his skin in a grotesque creeping advance. He was just wasting away while his friends watched, as he teared up in panic but seemed unable to get back to his feet- not that he would be able to get away from his own body weakening and fading.

“Phantom, get over here and stop that, now.” The words felt heavy in her mouth, admitting that any of this was her fault triggered an awful pain in her heart. “Stop tormenting him.”

“Holy shit.” Tucker moved closer to Sam, looking away from the mess of terror unfolding. Not that it could keep the terrified cries from reaching his ears.

“He’s not even bone yet, such a baby.” His voice came from behind them, the teenager-looking monster taking half a step back as Sam tried to slug him. “Hey, I just did what you wanted!” His green eyes were almost as mocking as the hint of fangs showing in his grin. “Thanks for letting me have my own body though.”

“Nuh uh, Sam wouldn’t want you to kill someone! Not even Dash.” Tucker tried to come to her defense. “You did that on your own.”

“I didn’t kill him. It’s illusion. A fake. Just an hour feeling like his helpless victims.” Phantom snorted, pushing some of his white hair clear of his face. “It’s like that ‘karma’ stuff you guys like so much, but actually effective. Mutate his worldview a little.”

It took a moment to realize the demon was speaking out loud, and not in her head now that he was masquerading as an incredibly weird looking human again. “I don’t care, stop it now.”

“Okay, okay. You’re such a killjoy Sam.” He cracked his knuckles. “One boring big guy back to seeing reality. Happy?”

The panicked chatter had fewer screams, but still plenty of confusion. She only lingered a moment to make sure Dash wasn’t a mockery of a slowly decaying corpse before dragging Tucker and the monster away before there could be any new trouble.

[vminity21]

Recompense | myg

Pairing: student!yoongi x student!reader, college!au f2l

Word Count: 2,925

Genre: angst, fluff

Warning(s): language, mention of death of a relative; Rated: pg 13

Summary: Underneath the tough exterior is truly grief, yet Yoongi is unable to execute it well until he discovers that you relate to him more than he realized. Sometimes learning that you are not alone is the best form of healing.

Credits to: @suhdays​ for making such a beautiful cover!! And thank you @cyberkryptonitecupcake​ for making the request! I really hope you like it!

Rain clouds encompass campus as easily as entering the end of a thread into a needle. At least, that’s the analogy you groggily come up with and you are sticking with it. Compiling your textbooks into your backpack, you trace your steps in finding your dorm key and with a brief look in the mirror, you inhale and exhale slowly. You can do this today. You are smart. You have great hair. You will not annoy Yoongi for the millionth time in two days.  It has taken a lot over the years to give yourself positive affirmations to start your day as your mother always taught you to do so, but when she had passed, you went a very long time without encouraging yourself at all.

But that’s the secret you keep. With no social media for anyone to discreetly look at of you, you bury the heartbreak as best as you can because overall you know that your mother is proud of you. She would want you to stay positive; she would want you to smile not only for you but for the sake of others. Stepping onto the sidewalk, you put in your airpods with an upbeat tune as you saunter to class. You were partnered for a project with Min Yoongi, and one thing you have learned is that he is not your biggest fan for reasons you are uncertain. Maybe it has to do with how much you antagonize him with your charms? Maybe it has to do with the irresistible way you cut letters out of construction paper. Who even knows? But…. He does have a cute bu-

The brief collide of a large shoulder astonishes you as you jolt to remove an airpod, “Hobi, are you insane?” You stifle a large smile as he scrunches his nose at you.

“Saw the perfect opportunity and I took it.”

“Well, good for you. How are you and Monnie holding up? This project is intense.”

“Firstly, I better confess before she calls me out. She’s done all the work. Secondly, is it the project? Or the partner?”

Flashing your best friend with a warning look, you keep the subject away from Yoongi. “Of course, your girlfriend has done all the work! What is the point of a boyfriend if he is completely useless!”

“Excuse me, Heathen. I’ve come up with some of the facts that we have to present so I have put in a smidge of my time.” He shakes his head, ruffling his strands from his laughing eyes.

“You better be glad she loves you. I’d washi tape your eyes closed. And then superglue wiggle eyes in your hair.”

“I’d also give him a mullet and replace his eyebrows with pipe cleaners. Hello guys,” Monnie joins from the library as all of you continue to class.

“And what makes you think I wouldn’t fight back?” Hoseok muses while laying a steady hand upon his beloved tendrils in preparation to protect.

“I have my ways, peasant.”

Feigning to be nervous, Hoseok’s gaze flickers between you and Monnie. “I don’t know what kind of vile thoughts are festering within your skulls, but I do not want any part of it. But, to return your question because I have human decency unlike you stale croutons, how is the project going with Yoongry?”

“Hobi, how many times do I have to tell you that he’s not angry, he’s just… I don’t know difficult.”

“Seems angry to me, ow!” Hoseok rubs his side from where Monnie jabbed him with her elbow upon entering the classroom.

“Sh! He’s right over there,” Monnie whispers in warning. Yoongi is leaned in his chair with arms crossed, his intimidating gaze observes the room while his tousled, black hair reveals his forehead. As much as you hate to admit this, you are very attracted to him- especially when his eyes move to find you. Shit! Smiling in his direction as happily as you can muster, he briefly rolls his eyes in response before returning his gaze to the front where you happen to make a quick trip to the professor.

“Um, Professor Namjoon, how are you doing?”

“Ah! My straight A student, I am wonderful, how are you?”

“I am doing great, Professor, just wanted to let you know that I read over the articles you suggested for the project! Super helpful!” You gleam.

Yoongi eyes you as you continue your conversation with Professor Namjoon. One thing he has picked up on is how much you like to people please which is something he has never fully understood about the human population in general. Nobody should have to go out of their way just to make someone happy if they do not want to, but then again, it’s hard for him to express his emotions especially after his mother passed away before the semester even started.

“Good morning!” Your chirpy voice resonates with the intention of making Yoongi smile, but instead he murmurs his greetings in response.

“You studied over Furosemide last night, haven’t you? That’s one of the major heart medications used in the veterinary field.”

“I sure did. You studied up on pimobendan as well, correct?” The project is based on medications for congestive heart failure and the importance of why they are needed along with the explanation of what happens within the heart when it is functioning abnormally. ‘Lucky, I got stuck doing a project on the prostate,’ Hoseok’s whine echoes in the forefront of your brain.

After a few seconds, you can’t seem to refrain from taking Yoongi’s presence in. He really grew up to be so handsome. The thin curve of his chin, his button nose, his soft, umber eyes and the way he gels his hair in place, even the scent of him is alluring.

“Staring at me isn’t going to get the job done,” he mumbles, slipping the rolled poster behind him to unravel upon the desk.

“Looking at you?” You jump, frantically moving to gather the materials needed to decorate the project. “I’d rather look at a pin cushion.”

“It probably would appreciate it if you didn’t stare at it either.”

Squinting your eyes at him, your mouth open and shuts multiple times without a subtle comeback. “What is with you? You know I’m not going to cower until you smile, right?”

Shoulders tensing, Yoongi peers at you, “Can you take anything seriously for at least one second?”

“If taking this project would help boost my immune system, sure, why not.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you need a dose of sunshine. Hoseok has a contagious smile, why don’t I introduce?”

You are unaware of the grip you have on the chair beside you, trying everything you can to maintain your happy façade no matter how much you are tempted to let it crumble. How was your mom so good at handling people like this? There has to be something deeper tormenting him to resonate so much hatred to whatever it is he is clinging to.

“I would prefer to be introduced to a tree. Now if you’ll so kindly hand me the stencil sheet, I will begin formulating words to define the jobs of the atriums versus the ventricles before tracing the letters.”

“I’ll leave you to it then. In the meantime, I’m going to grab a coffee, I’ll be right back.” Shuffling to retrieve your wallet, you are sure Professor Namjoon wouldn’t notice the few minutes that you would be gone and for what it’s worth, you need a moment to relax. What happened to make him so cold? Unbeknownst to you, a picture of your mother swoops to the ground to land at the tip of Yoongi’s shoe. Eyebrows scrunching, he bends to pick up the picture to see a woman whose smile matches yours, but not only that, there is a familiarity about her as if he has seen her before.

“Miss Jeon?” Memories swarm his mind of his childhood where an exuberant joy was in the air mingled with the smell of chocolate chip cookies. A little girl chased him around the backyard while giggles reverberated throughout the atmosphere. Miss Jeon would call out for you guys when the treats were ready and would always make sure Yoongi had everything he needed when he would come to visit. But that little girl who was his best friend as a child happened to be none other than you. How had he not recognized you? Another memory resurfaces, one of his own mother sharing laughter with yours. They had been friends, too.

From what is written on the back of the portrait, it is revealed that your mother is no longer on earth right beside you the same as his mother left this world so soon. Tears gather in his eyes as the shame overwhelms his chest in all entirety. Who was he to judge you based on your happiness? If you could lose someone who obviously meant the world to you and can still maintain your kindness, then why can’t he?

Bustling of the other students is loud enough to not focus in on the man whose world has seemed to halt. Swallowing roughly, he tries steadying the picture with his quivering hands as a tear drips off his cheek. His mother would be disappointed in how he coped with his anger and today was the day he would need to make a change. And he will. When you return, the Styrofoam cup warm in your palm, you set it onto the table, “Alright, now that I’ve retreated for a few minutes, I would hope your top tier attitude has-”

Quieting immediately, you take in a trail of tears resting on Yoongi’s face. Eyebrows furrowing, you are so surprised that words do not exist in this very moment. Why is he crying? Did you say something wrong?

“I’m sorry,” he whispers through the trembling of his chin, “I’m so sorry.”

“Yoongi, what’s?” Eyes trailing to his hands, you gasp at the realization that he is holding the picture of your mother that you carry with you everywhere you go. Before you can even verbalize anything, Yoongi hands you the picture without a word and exits the classroom while you stand there in silence.

-

Days pass and you haven’t seen nor have heard from Yoongi. Running your hands over your face, you’re leaned over your desk with nothing but the days events cycling heavily on your brain. Any form of homework has not been touched, and Professor Namjoon seemed to fully understand the circumstances of why you needed to leave class early. Collecting the materials as well as the posterboard, Hoseok and Monnie had helped you carry everything back to your dorm and offered to stay with you for the evening, but you declined. LenLen, your roommate happens to be with her boyfriend, Jimin which saves time for you to cry.

You miss your mother more than anything in this world, and she is the first person you would have called if she had been alive. How did you miss the picture falling out of your backpack when you grabbed your wallet? Deep down you always knew who Min Yoongi was, he was your ‘soulmate’ when the pair of you were children. Your mothers would always joke about a future of grandchildren with the absolute assurance that you and Yoongi were destined to be husband and wife. Unfortunately, you and your mother had to relocate for her job opportunity and you never saw Yoongi again until you recognized him the beginning of this semester.

It is funny how life works sometimes, as if an invisible string tied him to you in all aspects of life. Alas, he did not remember you, hence why you had been so lenient with his annoyance directed at you. You wanted to believe that he would wake up, and because he was so stand offish, you couldn’t find the bravery to confront him nor confess that he was your friend at one point in life. Instead, you bottled it up. When you called your brother to give an update a few days ago, he relayed the news regarding Yoongi’s mother which all made sense as to why Yoongi was so distant; your heart shattered for him as tears pooled. How could you possibly ever bring up a subject as devastating as that? But you wanted Yoongi to know that he is not alone. You are mourning as he is. If only he would realize who you are-

A soft knock on the door jolts you from your palms while sparks dance along your vision before clearing up. Confused due to not expecting anyone, you carefully step to the door, cracking it open to realize that Yoongi of all humans is standing with a bouquet of roses in his grip. “Yoongi?” You take in a sharp breath, “How did you find my dorm? I don’t remember-”

“I met Hoseok,” he says softly, “You were right, his smile is… definitely contagious but rather mischievous for lack of a better term. He told me where to go.”

Giggling, not only at his accurate description of Jung Hoseok, but also out of uncertainty because you have no idea how to truly react. Is it odd that you are very happy that Yoongi is here? Gaze flitting to the roses, you are in awe of how beautiful they are against the dark shade of his trench coat. “They’re beautiful.” You say, “How did you know I loved roses?”

A gentle smirk graces his lips, the closest to a smile you have ever seen, and you have never felt your heart pitter patter the way it just did. “I remember always seeing them in a vase when my mother and I would visit.” His fingers stir along the plastic cover around the stems, “Really, I am so sorry. You did not deserve to be treated that way. I was wrong to take my frustrations out on you. Not that this is an excuse but, my mother-”

Reaching your fingers to lightly press to the back of his hand, he stops as his eyes widen. “Why don’t you come in?” You whisper, and straight way he enters, following you to a sofa set off to the side. “My brother told me about your mother. Yoongi, I am so sorry about that. She was the sweetest woman. My mom always missed her after we moved.”

“And mine always missed your mother,” you take the roses and swiftly prepare a vase of water to settle them in, decorating the kitchen counter with the beauty of the red petals. “I think… I think I just blocked out that time in my life because I hated that you weren’t there with me anymore.”

Your heart skips a beat. Did Yoongi eventually remember everything after all? “I was heartbroken, too.” Turning to lean your back against the counter, you cross your arms to try to bring some comfort to the anxious feeling beneath your chest. The pain of the losses will never go away, but the man across the room will end up being the bloom of happiness that you will need, and you will be his solace- the one person who will remind him that he is not alone. He has you. “I don’t want to hear another apology, okay?”

His mouth falls open, “But-”

“Nay, you shan’t.”

“Really though, how will I ever repay you for my actions? I should have never forgotten about you.”

Arms still crossed, you gradually near him as he stands to his feet, your eyes connect with his, “All I want you to know is that you are not alone. Sure, you may not have known who I was majority of the semester, but at least you know now.” When his gaze, filled with guilt, strays, you move your head to regain his focus. “Yoongi, really, you remember me now. So, lets try to live life the way our mothers would want us to.” Your voice breaks, knowing how proud they must be of the pair of you reconciling and reuniting after years of being apart. “Besides, we have a lot to learn, and a project to finish, so whaddya say?”

For the first time in years, you get to see it, the gummy smile glowing from his face as he shakes his head at you. “Must I be reminded of that wretched thing? I’d prefer to shave my eyebrows.”

“You have a sense of humor?” You tease lightheartedly as you nudge his shoulder with your knuckles. “I knew you had it in you!” Chuckling, he reaches for your frame to pull into a tight embrace, you immediately relax into his mold while you breathe in the crisp scent of his cologne. “Goodness, you smell like a dream. If our moms were correct about our future, I am not going to be disappointed!” For once, the pair of you feel complete even if sorrow will awake from time to time- as Yoongi squeezes you tighter, you bury into the crook of his neck, pressing a small kiss to his warm skin. “We better make an A+.”

Pulling away slightly, to rest his forehead upon yours, he is still smiling, “Following up with some extra credit.”

“Agreed,” you beam, letting his warmth encompass you to its full extent, when you almost lose balance due to him shifting his feet, he catches you.

“I’m so-”

“Gah!” Your fingers brush his lips, “What did I tell you?”

“No more apologies.”

“No more apologies.”

[hello-nichya-here]

Ok, so what in your opinion is the WORST mistake that the showrunners for Game of Thrones made in terms of content, either it's addition or redaction?

WARNING: Looooooong post ahead

Themes are for eighth-grade book reports

This absurd quote by one of the showrunners explains why exactly the show fell appart. They wanted to make a story... without themes. Anyone with a minimally functioning brain will tell that this is impossible because every story, even the simplest and least complicated story there ever, has a theme. Even a nihilistic story has a theme "Nothing matters". Every. Story. Has. A. Theme.

But Game Of Thrones didn't, at least not after the writers ran out of books to adapt and did their own thing. Everything every character did was no longer to build a narrative, but to essentially act as click-bait. The focus was to make people keep watching, not on making any content that was worth watching.

The first four seasons had it's problems, just like the books had it's problems, but Martin's writting was so brilliant that it managed to stay good even while being handled by absolute clowns. The moment season four ended was the moment the show stopped being an adaptation and became it's own thing - and like I explained before, said thing wasn't a story.

Shock

Both the show and the books had MANY shocking, heart-breaking and downright horrifying scenes: Daenerys being raped by Drogo; Bran being pushed out the window after accidentally seeing the queen fucking her brother; the whole deal with Craster and his daughters; the Dotrakhi destroying Mirri's village and her revenge against them and Daenerys; Ned's death; Melisandre giving birth to a shadow baby that killed Renly; The Red Wedding; Jeoffrey's death; Tyrion killing his father; Theon being tortured by Ramsay...

The difference is there were REASONS behind the shocking scenes Martin created. Even when you look at things like rape and torture scenes and threats of rape/torture - Martin used those scenes to remind us that the world he created is an EXTREMELY dangerous and downright vile place, and that the characters are never truly safe, and that there are WAY worse things than just being killed.

Dumb & Dumber on the other hand, gaves us scenes like an evil, former man of the night's watch evily making an evil speech to his fellow evil men, evily drinking whine from a human skull while nameless women were being raped in the background - but little does he know that Jon Snow, the hero, is about to wreck his shit. It takes something that could realistically happen (and that did happen in the books) and takes it up to eleven because the writers think shock is the same as quality and that the audience is SO STUPID that they need to practically make the actor jump out of the TV, grab us by the shoulders and scream "I'M EVIL! I'M THE BIG BAD! ROOT FOR THE HERO TO KILL ME!"

Pretty much every bad guy became a parody of Jeoffrey, ironically enough because the writers took Jeoffrey too seriously. He was a cruel, sadistic character, who had WAY too much power - but he was also a spoiled baby whose reply to Tyrion bitch-slapping him wasn't a threat, but "I'M TELLING MOM!" Jeoffrey worked because he was only allowed to do his thing whenever smarter, more competent characters like Tyrion and Tywin where not around, meaning his actions, while inhumane, never reached the point of no longer being believable.

The horrible things that happened to the characters no longer felt "right". For instance, Sansa had just been taken to the Eerie by Little Finger, who has a weird complex in which he sees her both as the daughter he never had with Catelyn AND as a replacement for Catelyn, and she was starting to truly be a player instead of a pawn... and then the writers realized "Oh shit, we should have not cut the Jeyne Pool/Fake Arya' plot, that was important" and forced it on Sansa, making Little Finger hand her on a silver plater to Ramsay and turning her into a victim AGAIN, this time to a man that dramatically fights his enemies without a shirt own, practically saying "come at me bro"

Compare this to Ned's beheading, or Catelyn and Rob being betrayed and killed by the Freys. These moments were shocking and downright depressing - but they were earned. The writting was on the wall for anyone to see: Ned was at the mercy of Jeoffrey, and the Starks had given the Freys, who are notoriously disloyal, a reason to resent them. These twists felt completely natural, were the only logical way for the situation the characters were in to play out, AND they had consequences to plot instead of just making the audience gasp and then being forgotten about.

Plot armor

It's kind of ironic and almost tragic that the show that became famous for killing characters later became the worst type of high-stakes series, putting the characters in situations they could NOT survive, not even if a goddamn miracle happened, and having them live anyway. What's even worse is that it happened repeatedly. If I had to see Jon Snow almost die and then survive anyway one more fucking time I was going to lose my mind.

There's no bigger proof that there were just no consequences for the "main" characters anymore than watching the second, third, and fourth episodes of season either. The first sets up that this battle against the night king and his army of undead is likely going to kill the majority of them, if they're lucky... and then in the third we see the plot armor in all of it's "glory", and then in the forth we find out that the Dotrakhi, who had ALL been killed, actually still have half the numbers they had the night before, somehow. Even red-shirts weren't dying anymore.

DORNE

This disaster needed it's own session because HOLY SHIT, it's a miracle/tragedy that everyone didn't go "Fuck it, I'm never watching another episode of this stupid show."

The Dorne plot in the books isn't perfect, but what the show did to it was so fucking bad that I'm pretty sure the writers didn't even read the Dorne chapters in the books, they just looked at a wiki, wrote down the names of a few characters and then did their own shitty thing.

In the books, Doran Martel is a clever, dangerous man, who pretends to be harmless so people will understimate him and step right into his trap. In the show, Doran Martel... died. That's it. I can't remember anything else that happened to him. Add him to the list of "Brilliant characters that became stupid due to shitty writing", I'm sure Tyrion, Varys and Little Finger will love making him company.

The sand-snakes, one of the main driving force of that plot, were all distinct characters in the books, with their personalities, goals, methods and motivations - basically they were created by a writer who knew what he is was doing. In the show they were all the same "character" who could be perfectly described by that horrible, cringy, PAINFUL line one of them (I can't even remember which) said to Bron "You want a good girl, but you need the bad pussy" (Seriously, if that actress ever kills the show-runners as revenge for having to say that, she'll be 100% justifyed in doing so)

And we cannot forget the driving force behind that unwatchable shit show: Ellaria Sand. In the books, the death of Oberyn made her believe that revenge only leads to more blood-shed. In the show, his death enraged to the point of wanting to avenge him and his family, and she did this... by killing his family. If that doesn't explain how insane and stupid this plot-line was, I don't know what will.

Hype = Character assassination

Many shows are based around the conflict between the bad guys and the good guys. Game Of Thrones is not one of these shows. Or at least it wasn't. As they ran out of ideas, the writers started mutilating every single character until they could be label as "Good" or "Bad", regardless of what felt right to the story and to the point that there was nothing left of said characters. Stannis's actor, Stephen Dillane, straight up said that the only thing he got from being on the show was money and that his character's motivations and decisions were nonsense - ironically enough, that kind of brutal honesty means that the writers had THE perfect actor play Stannis, and wasted his fucking time.

Here's a list of the characters that fell victims to this horrible fate: Catelyn Stark, Tyrion Lannister, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, Jon Snow, Melisandre, Stannis, Jorah, Daenerys (bonus points for being mutilated into being both a generic, shitty "hero" and a generic, shitty "villain") Greyworm, Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark...

Pretty much the only character who became more complex in the show than she was in the books was Cersei. While her book self was never just a "Generic Evil Queen", the show version of her was far more sympathetic, which made the stories she was part of interesting. Too bad the writers ran out of ideas of what to do with her after season six and just left her by the window drinking whine until Dany showed up to kill her. Which brings us to...

Why is this happening?

Cersei was seen as a threat in the last two seasons based on nothing but the things she HAD done. Her story just ended the very second season six did, but since she was still alive despite being one of the bad guys she had to die... I guess. She (and by extention Jaime) joined the list of characters that had nothing to do, but were still around: Davos, Theon, Yara, Melisandre, Bron, Sam, Gendry, Bran (the last one being SO unnecessary that he was cut from season five and no one noticed)

To combat that issue, the writers gave characters "motivations" that made no sense. For exemple: Sandor Clegane. His only reason to be in the show was so he could kill his brother. The problem was that Gregor was already dead. He was a walking corpse. There was nothing left of the abusive brother Sandor once knew, meaning he had no reason to fight him, and that, to keep Sandor around, the writers should have come up something new (like the redemption that book fans have been waiting for, and that has a lot of backing evidence). You might as well have had HIM be the one to randomly fly out of nowhere and kill the night king despite having no connection to him.

And since we're talking about the night king... Arya was the one to kill him. Why? Because the writers ruined Jaime's redemption arc, meaning that the only fitting ending for him was to die with Cersei, and so Arya could not kill Cersei despite wanting to, having the ability to do, AND having heard a prophecy that said she'd "Shutting brown eyes, blue eyes, and green eyes forever", the last one being the only one she had not done AND applying to Cersei. But Dumb & Dumber admitted they had no plan for this, so now that they were at the last season, they needed to do something with it, and they retconned it to mean Arya would kill the night king...

But Arya killing him meant Jon had nothing to do, so Dany had to go mad so he could kill her. To "hint" at that, they ignored all the not at all subtle foreshadowing the previous season had of Dany and Jon having a kid, and they even showed her getting jealous that he was technically the true heir... even though that made no sense since they were going to rule together anyway, and even after Dany went full "Mad Queen" she ASKED HIM TO RULE WITH HER. But anyways, he kills her and becomes king...

Except he doesn't actually become king and him being a secret Targaryen has no effect in the plot, because Bran needed to become king so there'd be a reason for him to be alive, because his magical powers turned into a plot-device. A plot-device that wasn't used at any goddamn point. Seriously, the only thing as bad as Bran becoming king was Euron's existence - dude was THE most useless villain ever AND the worst Jeoffrey parody.

A darker story (literally)

I could not end this rant without bitching about this. What is the point of spending an ungodly amount of money on sets, costumes, make-up, special effects... and then using such poor lighting that no one can see what the fucking is going on?

Anyway, this disaster of a series was so absurd it should be used as an exemple of what NOT to do.

[mrslilyrogers]

Betrayal Part 7

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: (AU) Set in New York. You and Bucky have been married for 5 years. He’s the love of your life and you are his. At least, you thought you were until he started slipping away from you, coming home late and smelling of another woman’s perfume? You are in denial. Are you just losing your mind or are you really losing him?

Author’s notes: I’m so so sorry this took so long! I redid the whole thing. We’re going to back up a bit in this chapter and visit the past. Please check the warnings before reading. Also, my requests are open. Send ideas if you’re feeling particularly angsty! Or even fluff, I’d like to try my hand at it. As always, let me know what you think of this chapter! For tags, please send in ask! 

Warnings: Cheating, Angst, Abuse, Swearing

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4  Part 5 Part 6

2 years ago.

Bucky tapped his fingers on the table as he checked his watch again. 8:15. Forty-five minutes late. Again. He let out a huge sigh, barely able to hold himself from scratching his eyes out. The curly-haired waitress went back to him with an apologetic look on her face, “I’m sorry, sir. My manager told me I really need to take your order now. There’s already a line waiting outside…” she let her sentence trail sheepishly. Bucky tried to ignore the heat creeping up his cheeks and gave her an unconvincing smile instead, reciting his order. When she left with visible relief on her face, he picked up his phone and called his wife again. He had tried to call and text her earlier but she hadn’t picked up.

“Hello?” Y/N answered, sounding frazzled and irritated as she cleaned up after her rude customer. He just had the audacity to leave a mess after complaining and whining about the wifi three times. She could barely keep her eyes from rolling. 

“Hey, babe. Where are you? I’ve been waiting for you at the restaurant,” Bucky’s defeated voice on the other line replied. 

“Oh shit!” She shrieked, attracting the heads of the other customers as she glanced at the clock on the wall. She had lost track of time. Bucky had been waiting for her for almost an hour. On their anniversary. Oh crap, crap, crap. 

“Oh my god, baby. I’m so sorry! I’m understaffed and I lost track of time! Could you please wait for me? I’m so sorry!” She quickly took off her apron and changed into the dress she had brought with her that morning for their date. Bucky had been planning this. He arranged for Lizzie’s babysitter and everything, practically bouncing off with excitement for this night. He wanted to try out this new restaurant and between raising Lizzie and making sure Winter Bakery was still making a profit, they haven’t seen much of each other lately. She just couldn’t find the time whereas Bucky’s stable position in Shield gave him more authority to delegate. And he literally had been trained for this for years. All those late-nighters at the university and all the grunt work he and Steve went through have finally paid up. They were at the top of their game, one of the youngest to acquire their positions. They were heroes in the investment banking world. Life was easy for him now, cherry on top of the cake. He only wished Y/N could be there with him. But she was still on shaky ground with her business and he fully understood that. 

“Of course! I already picked our appetizers though. They were trying their best to kick me out gently if I didn’t order anything,” 

“Oh, my poor Bucky. You should’ve flashed them your smile, charmed your way. They would’ve made you stay,” she replied, fixing her ponytail, not having the time to retouch her makeup anymore. This’ll just have to do. 

“Really, now. It was a waitress, you know.” He teased back. 

A beat before Y/N replied in mock seriousness. “In that case, don’t you dare. I’ll be there in 15!” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it. See you, babe. I love you--,” 

But before he could even finish his sentence, the line had dropped on the other end.  

_______________________________________________________________________

1 year ago.

“Daddy, look, apples!” Lizzie pointed from her seat in the grocery cart. Her legs swinging as she giggled at the heap of apples on their side. “Yeah, baby, you’re right.” Bucky replied absentmindedly, not even bothering to look as he stared confusedly at the bunch of green vegetables in front of him. The list Y/N gave him said scallions, but how the hell was he supposed to know which was which? Scallions, spring onions, green onions, they were all the same right? He suddenly regretted volunteering to do their grocery shopping alone, having no clue what half of the list Y/N prepared even meant. It was the weekend, they were all supposed to go together and then have a quick visit to the toy store after, for one more of Lizzie’s birthday gifts. She had just turned 3 a week ago and he couldn’t help but promise to let her pick out another doll. When Y/N had given him a pointed look while Lizzie clung on and gushed to him, he couldn’t help but to just give her a tiny shrug. He grew up with nothing, he was gonna give his little girl everything. But that morning when he thought the three of them finally had time to spend together, Y/N couldn’t make it again. She was having problems with her manager and had to go into work unexpectedly. Now, she wasn’t even answering his calls when he had to ask her about the most complicated grocery list he’s ever seen in his whole life. 

“Daddy, when are we getting my doll?” Lizzie asked again, looking up at him as she clutched her favorite white wolf stuffed toy. 

“After this, sweetheart.” He answered, preoccupied and calling Y/N again. This time when she didn’t answer, he gave up, grabbed the one nearest to him and hoped for the best. 

When he’s gotten halfway through the list and let Lizzie point at the snacks she wanted for school, he let his mind wander, when the hell had they become like this? He barely saw his wife anymore. Her problems with her bakery cafe, always dragging her away from them. He wished she could find competent people who would stay but if it weren’t her manager, it was her baker and so on. And if she was finally free, he’d be the one who was busy. It was hard and annoying but coupled that with taking care of an over-enthusiastic three-year-old, it was also exhausting.

He missed Y/N and he wished he could spend time with her. He completely understood that she was always needed at work. He had been through that in their early 20s, but they didn’t have a kid then to compete for their time and understanding it was different from actually living it. Their marriage had become stagnant. The banality of their everyday life, a stark contrast to how they used to be when they were just a couple of kids off college who rented a too-small apartment with his little sister, Becca. Time has flown and he’s finally achieved the life he’s always wanted; a big duplex apartment, a steady high-income job and a family he had always yearned for but never really knew he needed. All of the things he promised himself when he was younger and had nothing, he had now and more, yet there was still something missing. He missed the thrill of his life, chasing his dreams had always kept him motivated, distracted. Now that he had it all, he was at his wits’ end. Maybe it was because they were also growing apart, he could feel it. Y/N had always been able to make him happy and whole; he had always been able to rely on her emotionally. She was the better part of him and now that she was becoming distant, he hung onto her like a lifeline but his insistence on going on vacations as a family wherever his wife and daughter wanted went unheard, all his attempts at romancing cancelled. 

Even as he lined up now for the cashier, he whipped out his phone to text her. His hands had been busy typing when a brooding, dark-haired man stood behind him dressed in all black. His arms were muscled despite his age and the sagging skin on his right arm holding a tattoo of an odd skull with tentacles extending out of it was barely covered by his shirtsleeve. 

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t little Bucky,” a familiar husky voice mocked from behind him. 

Bucky immediately felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, the voice sending a deep chill down his spine, making him go rigid as he slowly turned around, the blood draining from him when he went face to face with the man who had made his life a living hell, the man who not only broken him physically but in spirit as well. Repeatedly. 

“You some errand boy now? I didn’t raise you to be like that, you know,” He continued to mock, tipping his chin to the cart with Lizzie still on it. 

“Do you know him, daddy?” She asked, holding her little wolf tighter as she watched the stranger warily. 

“Hey there, sweetie. Your daddy didn’t tell you about me? That’s weird. I raised him and your aunt Rebecca a long time ago. My name is Rumlow,” he flashed her a chilling smile, stepping closer to offer his hand. That’s when the fog in Bucky’s brain cleared. He moved with a lightning fast reflex, stepping in between them as he got in Rumlow’s face, fisting his collar harshly in one hand, 

“Don’t you dare go near her,” his dark and low voice had threatened, dripping venom. His eyes had dilated, almost turning black as he shoved him hard. Rumlow’s grating laugh echoed around them, bringing back all those awful memories he had buried deep inside his head. 

“I’ve taught you well, boy. Can’t say I’m not proud,” He clapped and actually smiled at him smugly. At this point, Lizzie had started crying making Bucky even more furious. 

“I don’t ever want to see your face again. And if you go near my daughter again, I’ll make you fucking regret it. Do you understand?” His threats went on deaf ears as Rumlow broke out into a full-fledged grin. 

“I’d love to see you try, James. You’ve grown soft,” He accused, eyeing Lizzie and the grocery he had still lined up, several heads already looking at them. 

“Lucky for you. I have a new son here,” He continued, tilting his head to the boy standing by his mostly empty cart-- save for the beer and the liquor. Bucky flicked his attention to the boy and he felt his world spin as he saw himself in him with his eyes haunted, wary and afraid. He couldn’t have been older than eight. Rumlow smirked at the look on Bucky’s face, already detecting the turmoil brewing inside him. He had succeeded. He always knew Bucky was weak, his emotions his downfall. The fear and guilt clearly written in Bucky’s eyes made Rumlow gloat as he talked to the boy, 

“What did I say, Bert, huh? You’ll only have food if you go get it yourself. Why are you still standing there?” 

The boy looked around the big grocery store, mentally taking note of the stalls and where they were currently at, memorizing it in case he got lost but still, he didn’t move. Bucky looked at Rumlow and he saw the same look he’d always had directed at him before, his taunting eyes daring the boy to go or face the consequences. 

“But I’m scared,” the boy replied, his voice small and frightened. Rumlow moved to him, bending his knees to get to his eye level. “Well then, you just won’t have to eat,” he told him in a hushed voice, pouting and mocking. 

Bucky didn’t have to hear it to know the exact words, buried memories rushing back to the surface. He heard it countless times directed at him. The boy ran to the nearest stall, his heart pounding and hoping Rumlow would still be at that same spot when he came running back. Bucky knew the feeling, it was like he was living it all over again. As much as he wanted to help, he was rooted to the spot, even Lizzie’s crying couldn’t move him. Rumlow stood back up and faced him. “You were always my favorite,” he told him proudly as he pushed his own cart away from them, no doubt to give Bert an even harder chance of finding him. 

Just before he got too far, he swiftly turned around, feigning innocence as he said, “Oh and by the way, say hi to Rebecca for me,”  His lips twisted up into a sneering smirk as he left, whistling without a care in the world. And just like that Bucky was moving, grabbing Lizzie and getting out of that store as fast as he could, hoping Rumlow would stay out of his life forever. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’m never letting you do the groceries again!” Y/N screeched, a horrified look on her face as she stared at their fridge. After the incident with Rumlow, Bucky had brought Lizzie to the toy store, allowing her to buy all the stuffed toys and dolls she wanted instead of just the previously promised one doll. They had gone to lunch after, he kept Lizzie distracted as much as possible to forget the man she had just met. When she brought him up again, he told her it was just a friend he didn’t like very much and that she shouldn’t bring it up to her mom because it was nothing, he promised he never had to see that man again. Lizzie seemed satisfied with his answer and went back to her usual chirpy self. On their way home, they passed by another grocery store. He had mindlessly strolled the aisles and grabbed whatever he thought they needed, his head at a different place, much as it still is now.

“Bucky, we don’t need four cartons of milk, why would you even get this?” Y/N asked incredulously, shaking her head as she chuckled. 

Bucky had been staring off into space, not hearing what his wife had been saying. “Uhm, hello Bucky, you still with me?” she teased, waving a hand in front of his face. 

“Oh sorry, what was that?” He asked, glancing up at her from his perch by the kitchen counter. The coffee he had brewed, now cold in his hands. 

“Hey, you okay?” she asked, looking at him with concern in her eyes. 

“Yeah, just didn’t sleep well,” he waved dismissively. Y/N felt a pang of guilt. He’d been bugging her to spend more time together, planning outings and dates that she never seemed to find time for. 

“Well, I finally have the day free. Why don’t we go out, watch a movie or have a picnic? It’ll be fun,” she suggested, draping a hand over his shoulder while her chin rested on the other, her elbow propped up on the countertop to keep an eye level with him. 

“I can’t, I’m sorry, babe. I promised to meet up with Thor,” he moved away from her touch, standing up. Y/N looked at him confusedly, “Okay, how about after?”

“Gotta go over some accounts with Sam, sorry love. I’ll be back before dinner,” He gave her a quick kiss to the cheek before heading out. Y/N stared after him, brows knitted, before shrugging. She’ll just get her errands around the house done then. 

After pounding the punching bag in Thor’s gym incessantly, Bucky found himself aimlessly walking around the streets, he just needed to clear his head. The little boy’s face was still etched in his mind as he opened the door to a bar. A little too early, he knew but he couldn’t shake off the nagging thought plaguing his mind. 

How could he have let that monster roam free while he had lived his life without even a glance back? 

_______________________________________________________________________

Years ago.

Bucky held Becca’s hand as they ascended the rickety steps of their new home. They had just lost their parents and were now moving into an unfamiliar house. The case worker had told them they were lucky not to be separated and that they shouldn’t worry; they were getting a good foster father who would take care of them from now on. 

“I had interviewed him myself, you see,” She told the children, beaming with pride. 

“I couldn’t have found a better one for you guys, why, this area is still very close to where you grew up in. You could still visit your old haunts,” She ruffled Becca’s hair, trying to lighten the mood while the little girl just moved farther away, hiding behind her big brother. The worn-out door which at once might have been painted pristine white but now had chippings hanging off of it suddenly opened with a creak, a man with a charming and easy nature stepped out with a warm smile on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“You guys are here! Welcome, welcome, please come in!” He gestured humbly to his house. Becca squeezed Bucky’s hand tighter which he squeezed back in return, reassuring her. There was something about this man that wasn’t quite right. He seemed relaxed and easy-going, a smile continuously plastered on his face but there was a lethality to him that the children couldn’t seem to shake off, almost as if it was buried deep inside waiting to be unleashed. The case worker hung on his every word, giggling as they talked. She slapped his arm with the horrible looking tattoo that gave Becca a fright. The children barely moved from the sofa they were seated at after the introductions. 

“It’s usually like this. Don’t worry. They start to open up after a while,” the case worker sympathized with Brock, the man who introduced himself as their new foster father; he would treat them as his own, he had promised. 

“It’s alright. I understand. After my wife, I’ve been all alone and this, this is a blessing to me,” He told her as he turned to the children. Her hand strayed to his arm again and lingered there. 

“Oh, Brock, you are a good man. They’re great children, they won’t give you trouble.” She replied, patting his arm for reassurance. It didn’t miss Bucky how she hung off his every word. 

“But I should get going, I will check up on you in a week. Children, be good. You have my number if you need anything,” She stood up, smoothing the wrinkles on her blazer.

“Wait, you’re leaving us already?” Bucky couldn’t help the whine that escaped his voice. He didn’t miss the darkness that spilled over Brock’s face for a split second before he carefully put his smile back on again. 

“I’ll be back in a week, Bucky. Don’t you worry,” the case worker smiled before she walked out the door leaving him and Becca to a stranger. 

When she was out of sight, Brock had suddenly changed his demeanor. The smile on his face had turned into a scowl when he faced them. “Alright, listen up both of you,”  he boomed, his voice cruel. “Grab your things and get on to your rooms. I don’t want to hear any noise. No running around, and if I see you making a mess. You bet your little asses, you’ll pay for it,” He stood up and left them to their bags. 

“But Mr. Brock, I’m thirsty,” Becca piped up, looking up at him timidly. The man’s grating laugh rumbled as he threw his head back, shaking it.  

“That’s Rumlow to both of you, you hear me?  Don’t make that mistake again. Now, come here,” He said, beckoning both the children to come over. Once they reached the kitchen, he pointed to the high cupboard. “You see that?” He asked Becca, dropping low to get to her eye level. When she just nodded her head, he continued, “That’s where the glasses and the plates are. If you want something in this house, you go get it yourself. I’m not your nanny,” He held Becca’s face in his hand roughly. His fingers wrapped around her cheeks tight as he held her by the chin. Bucky felt his fists clench at his sides, pushing Rumlow as far as he could with his eleven year old might.  

“Stop that!” He screamed. Their parents never hurt them. How dare this man think he could do this to his little sister? 

“Oh you wanna be the man of the house?” Rumlow jeered, shoving Bucky back making him fall to the floor. Becca’s sniffles grew louder as she tried to stop her crying, her shoulders shaking from her effort. As Bucky lay sprawled, Rumlow scooted down menacingly to him, 

“You dare push me when you were just whining like a little bitch a while ago, you wanna man up? Alright, I’ll allow it,” he taunted, pondering it for a moment before his sinister smile came back on. “Let’s see how long you’ll last protecting your little sister.” He gripped his face by the chin, fingers squeezing exceedingly tight on his cheeks before he pushed him off and he hit the floor. 

“I won’t be some parent to you that you could twist around your little fingers, no. I’ll make you into the best man you could be. I will teach you about order. And order only comes through pain,” He drilled into him like a soldier as he stretched his legs back up, his measured steps going to the fridge to fish out a beer. He took a long gulp before he continued, 

“And the sooner you learned that, the better,” 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky sat alone at one of the benches by the field at his school, choosing solitude over the roar of the cafeteria after a particularly bad morning at home. Their foster father had woken up drunk and had haphazardly thrown things at them when Bucky accidentally burnt the eggs he had been cooking for his and Becca’s packed lunch for school. He picked on the peanut butter sandwich he prepared, not having the appetite to eat when he heard jeering voices from a group of boys and sounds of flesh being hit again and again with accompanying grunts of pain. He felt his feet move on instinct when he found them by the bleachers, a scrawny boy at the center of a group huddling over him, they were laughing as he tried to fight them off, not once being able to land a punch. The blood pumped in Bucky’s veins, a constant beating in his ears, as he grabbed the biggest of the bullies by the collar and harshly yanked him off the tiny, blonde boy now sprawled on the floor with his skinny arms covering his face. When one of the other kids tried to punch him, he deftly moved out of the way and delivered a swift blow to his stomach, making sure to spare his face so as not to get in trouble. That was how Rumlow did it, might as well use the same trick right? 

“What? Who wants to go next?” He threatened, loving the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the power he had with defending someone so helpless. The lanky blonde boy stood up beside him, blood dripping from his mouth as he held both his fists up, “I can do this all day,” he said, catching his breath but his stance clearly indicated he could barely stand up straight. Bucky just looked at him weirdly, not knowing whether to find him stupid or brave. The bullies stood against them, unsure. Bucky was the same age as them, only slightly bigger. Him and the blonde boy were still clearly outnumbered but Bucky’s eyes held a lethal strength in them, his body coiled with unleashed brutality, ready to fight. The bullies scrambled out of there as fast as they could, their feet tripping over them. 

“Yeah next time, pick on someone your own size!” he hollered before looking back at the blonde boy who looked younger than them but held himself with such maturity that it didn’t seem possible. He decided right then and there he was going to make him his new friend. Rumlow had always taught him about his belief of the natural order of the world, that strength and might always won the day and that order could only be achieved through pain. If you could inflict it on others, you were stronger, better. Weaker men were useless, had to be beaten up and put in their place. “That’s just the way of the world,” he had said. But Bucky was old and smart enough to see right through his facade. He was a bully, feeding off of people who couldn’t fight back. Bucky was going to be different, he wouldn’t bow down to his will. He just needed to protect his sister, spare her from the taint of Rumlow’s anger and prove that he wouldn't become the man Rumlow has been conditioning him to be. 

“You alright?” Bucky asked the boy standing beside him who was touching the bruise forming on his forehead.

“Yeah, thanks for helping me,” he replied sheepishly, ashamed he couldn’t fight for himself.

“Next time, just don’t provoke them, they aren’t worth it.” 

“But they were wrong. Bullies, I’d always stand up to them,” the blonde brushed his hair back from his forehead, determination steeling his voice. Bucky smiled, maybe he could learn a thing or two from this boy too. 

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Steve, what’s yours?”

“Bucky. Steve, you’re a little punk. You know that?” he said teasingly, laughing. 

Steve grinned back, “Jerk,” 

_______________________________________________________________________

Present

The light filtered into the room as the curtains were drawn back harshly causing Bucky to groan on his bed, flitting a pillow to cover his eyes. 

“Buck, come on. Get up,” Steve’s firm voice spoke through the fog in his mind. 

“Get out, Steve, I’m sleeping.” he replied, turning his back to the hand shaking his shoulder.

“How long are you going to do this? It’s been two weeks. Have you even talked to your family yet?” Steve’s judgmental voice rang out, hard and unforgiving. 

“She doesn’t even wanna see me,” he huffed, anger at himself boiling in his veins. He hasn’t seen his daughter in two weeks. Y/N’s short, cold replies to his messages were just updates on how Lizzie was doing, anything regarding Y/N, he had no idea about. He didn’t even know what sort of excuses she made up for Lizzie, how his “work trip” kept getting extended. When the hell could they keep that charade up? He was lucky enough she was letting him talk to his daughter on the phone for a few minutes every once in a while. He sat up on the bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he reached for the bottle of whiskey at the bedside table. These days he could only fall asleep when he’s had one too many to drink and even then, he’d still wake up with a headache that could only be dulled by alcohol. He barely even made it to work everyday. Sam had been good enough to cover for him, staying on neutral ground with everything that’s happening to his marriage although his eyes said otherwise, disappointment etched in them. All the while Steve had ignored him the entire time since the hospital. No amount of apologies moved him from his stance except today, when he suddenly barged into the hotel room Bucky has been renting like he owned the place. 

“Jesus, Bucky, stop that!” He swiped the bottle Bucky held between his lips, splashing amber liquid on his shirt and bed. 

“Damn it, Steve! Look what you did!  Give that back,” Bucky held his arm out, his reflexes slow as he tried to grab it from his friend. 

“Jesus Christ. You smell terrible. How much have you had to drink last night?” Steve fanned the air around him trying to rid the stench of alcohol and sweat.

“How the hell did you even get in here?” Bucky’s pissed off voice grumbled but one look at Steve’s intense stare with his brows furrowed and his jaw clenched, standing straight as a drill sergeant, arms crossed at his chest with his muscles bulging out of his fitted gray Under Armour shirt; he knew. The punk had intimidated his way in. No doubt leaving a poor breathless, flustered receptionist in his wake. 

“You could get that receptionist fired, you know?” He tried appealing to his best friend’s better nature.

“You wouldn’t tell. Plus, it isn’t as if she didn’t get a hefty tip. Go take a shower, Buck, you stink.” Steve didn’t budge, staring him down with a disgusted look on his face. Bucky just scoffed, 

“And then what? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Y/N kicked me out, man. Just go home, you’re wasting your time.” 

Steve’s hardened face softened as he looked at his friend. His eyes were puffy, his skin pale as he scratched his wildly unkempt beard, his greasy hair sticking out on one side. What the hell had happened to Bucky? How had it gone so bad for his friend in a matter of days? He suddenly moved out of instinct, collecting clothes strewn everywhere and packed them into the suitcase at the corner of the room. 

“Steve, what the hell are you doing?” Bucky exhaled loudly. It was too early for this. Where the hell was his drink? 

“Get your ass moving, Bucky. You’re staying at my place,”

[cloudytamaki]

so, this is how the summer ends • k.denki

⤷ genre: fluff, angst - quirkless au, everyone’s 21, set in LA

⤷ warnings: mentions of sex/implied sex, mildly suggestive, alcohol

⤷ summary: a casual drunk hookup between two young strangers became something ... more than sex.

a warm breeze blows a curl of hair from your forehead and you exhale, corners of your lips lifting into a small smile. it’s almost the end of august; the leaves on the trees are becoming orange and the warm summer winds are cooling down.

the end of an era, and the start of another.

you subconsciously turn your head and look beside you, almost wishing for someone to be there. he isn’t – the cushion of the porch swing is empty. the small smile slips off your lips and your brows furrow; you close your eyes as if the sight’s painful, turning back to watch the trees and sun.

you can’t help the tingling heat that begins to spread through your nose; the promise of tears yet to come.

your mind drifts back to the start of your summer – june 14.

the neighborhood nightclub music is loud, likely booming throughout the area and annoying the neighbors.

but the old neighbors don’t seem to matter as much as the glass of alcohol in your hands and the prickling heat in the back of your skull. there’s a lazy smile sitting upon your lips as you survey the club, taking sips of your drink every few seconds.

ah — there’s your friend, out twerking on the dance floor, getting cheered on by men who are whooping and waving their fists in the air. you cross your legs, the thought of shaking your ass in front of many men seeming unappealing to you.

“hey! can i get another, please?” a golden blonde stranger is suddenly beside you, left arm on the bar counter, a wide grin on his face as sweat runs down his temples.

the bartender sighs, slides him a filled cup, then goes back to cleaning the other glasses with a towel. the energetic looking guy plops down onto a stool beside you, nice white teeth catching the light.

“hey, why aren’t you out dancing?”

your lips flatten into a thin line as you turn to him, “don’t feel like it. it’s nice sitting over here and watching, though.”

“i guess.” he furrows his eyebrows in thought, lips scrunching a bit, “you come here alone?”

“nope.” you sigh, taking a bigger sip this time. “i had a friend come with me, we’d had a few drinks before she’d gone off to the dance floor.” you tiredly gesture towards the crowd, “so yeah. what about you, where’s your friends? you look like you should be over there partying rather than talking to me.”

“they’re all over the club.” he scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, “some of them didn’t come, others’re just.. around.”

“that makes sense.” another sip and you turn away from the blinding lights, “parties are fun for me, just not when i’m the center of attention.”

“i get that,” he chuckles, takes a sip of his own drink, “i know a guy exactly like that. 8:30 pm bedtime, 6:30 wake up.”

“are you serious? 8:30? i go to bed around 12.”

“yeah, i know right? he’s super strict on it too, we all make fun of him.”

“damn, that sounds fun.” you exhale before taking a bigger sip, the burn of the alcohol stinging a trail down your throat. “you have a name?”

he laughs at that, running a hand through his golden tufts, “denki kaminari, pleased to meet you, madam.” he jokingly places a kiss against your fingers and you let out a squeal of surprise, laughing as you pull your hands away from him.

“(y/n) (l/n), pleased to meet you too, denki kaminari.” you nod at him, drinking the last of your empty glass.

you both ask the bartender for more, and when you both stumble on your words in fear of interrupting each other, you decide to go against each other in a drinking challenge – five shot glasses filled with the second strongest liquor on the shelf.

you manage to down four glasses, determination the only thing keeping you going at this point; your cheeks are hot from the alcohol, brain fuzzy, surroundings beginning to blur every few seconds.

“y-you good?” denki doesn’t look all that good either. shit, he looks terrible – happy, but terrible nonetheless. five empty glasses are at his side and his golden eyes are focused on you.

“yeah, i’m fine.. round two?” you give him a challenging smile and he pouts, pushing out his lower lip as he asks the clearly tired bartender for more, once again.

you crack your knuckles and take a deep breath, picking up the first shot glass as you look at denki, nodding at the same time. you bring it to your lips and suck all the liquid down, almost feeling its burn in your spine when it goes down your throat.

another shot glass, then another – before you know it, you’re swaying on your feet like an idiot, brain spinning, muscles loose. you glance towards denki and you wonder why you’d let yourselves get so inebriated.

“damn, that was fun!” he’s slurring on his words and you bring a hand to your head, sighing.

“jesus christ, i need to sit down.” you both stagger towards a staircase, not caring about how idiotic you look while doing so.

you’re about to pop the dreaded question—how’re we getting home?—when he speaks instead, tilting his head back with a yawn-sigh.

“i’m horny.”

and that’s when you really notice something about him; his jawline is sharp and young, his lips pink and parted, his skin flushed from the drinks, his golden eyes piercing.

you find yourself saying something you’d never imagined would leave your lips, “i can help with that.”

“really? you?” he turns his head towards you and points to you almost accusingly.

you shrug, “i think it was the drinks, but yeah, me. don’t wanna pass up a good offer.”

he seems to think about it while you take a quick look at your phone. “11:48 pm – you stay horny or not, your choice.”

“okay.” denki does some jazz hands and you roll your eyes, “sure. i think there’s some upstairs rooms over here.” you both stand and turn, ascending up the stairs, deciding to walk into a decent looking room.

“so ...” you stand there awkwardly, surroundings spinning but you manage to look over to denki, who’s equally confused. “you said you were horny.”

“and you said you could fix that.” the both of you are standing there, looking at each other, not fully knowing what to do, so you decide to get the ball rolling.

walking over to him, you begin to plant kisses along his jaw and down his neck. he lets out a small whine when you pull away, but you’re feeling more confident when you look at him again.

“kiss me.”

you almost laugh at your confidence that night; you started off sitting alone with a cup of alcohol, not even planning to get drunk – where the fuck did that even come from?

a cooler breeze hits your skin this time, carrying the scent of nearby cooking. smells like some sort of pie, you guess, rubbing your hands over your thighs in remembrance of that drunken hookup. deciding to go inside, you slide off the porch swing, walking over to the back door, twisting the knob and heading inside.

the elevator comes surprisingly fast when you push the button; stepping in, you punch in the number five and wait as you’re lifted above all the other floors.

you take out your keys and step out of the elevator when it dings, walking down the hall to your door, inserting the keys and walking inside.

it’s cold, as expected.

sighing, you toss your keys onto the counter and open the cabinets, rooting around for some food. you come out with a packaged ramen cup; you open it and fill it up with water, then pop it into the microwave.

you lean against the stove as you wait; two minutes and the microwave beeps, you take out your hot food and grab a spoon, walking over to the kitchen table, switching on a light.

you eat alone, in silence.

“oh shit!” you practically throw yourself out of the twin-sized bed; your bare ass is on the cold floor and you’re frantically gathering as much of the sheet as possible, pulling it against your naked chest.

from the other side of the mattress, there’s a girlish scream and a head of golden blonde hair pops up, amber eyes wide with surprise and panic.

“who are you?” your hand comes up to your forehead to ease the pounding in the back of your head. “wait.” something clicks and some tension leaves your shoulders as you point at him, “aren’t you that kid from last night?”

“i’m 21, thank you very much.” he scoffs in disbelief, “how do you not remember me? you were literally moaning my—”

“okay!” you cut him off quickly, cheeks warming up in embarrassment as your brows furrow, “i ... drank too much.”

“same here.” he stands up, unintentionally putting himself on display, “where are we? i can’t remember going—”

“denki!” you practically scream, shielding your eyes, “please put some damn pants on!”

“sorry.” you hear some movement and rustling before the sound of a zipper, “there. what about you? you’re naked too.”

“i know, give me a minute...” you look around and locate your underwear and jeans. you slip them on, clasping your bra and throwing on your shirt.

you stand up, face to face with denki; his neck is spotted with love bites, his hair tousled, cheeks a light pink. “we.. should probably get going.” you grab your dying phone and check the time, “oh my god, it’s 10:15, i’m late for work.”

“you work on saturdays?” your relax at the question, exhaling in relief.

“no, not on saturdays. i thought it was friday or something.” you laugh but a stab of pain shoots from your head all the way through your body.

“how much did we drink last night?” you turn to the golden blonde, who sighs as he opens the door.

“i have no idea, i was gonna ask you. but we drank something strong.”

“i’m surprised we didn’t puke.” you both walk down the staircase, surprised to find that the club’s empty; pretty sunrays peek through the windows and dust floats in the air around you.

“well, i didn’t, but you did.” denki’s hand is at the back of his neck and he turns away from you in embarrassment, shuddering.

you cringe at what he’s insinuating, closing your eyes for a brief second. “um.. i’m sorry.”

“it’s fine,” he feels kind of weird asking, “where are you going?”

“well, i was planning on heading to my apartment, which you don’t typically do with a one-night stand, but i guess i can make an exception for you.”

“i’m getting special treatment? i’m flattered.”

you roll your eyes as you open the door, squinting when the sun hits your face, “it’s the least i can do in exchange for the fun last night.”

denki bursts out into laughter, wiping faux tears from his eyes while you stand there, watching him. when his laughs finally slow down and he’s standing upright again, you elbow him in the ribs.

“looks like we’re gonna be walking a few blocks. we’d better hurry before it gets hot.”

“you don’t have a car?”

a glare from you is enough of an answer for him.

you throw the empty cup into the garbage, the spoon into the sink. you walk into your bedroom and water your plants on the windowsill, wishing that night would come fast.

it’s only 6:52 pm, and the sun sets at 7:30. before, time never felt so slow – probably because you had someone to spend it with. 

your lips pull into a frown and you place the green watering can back on the windowsill, huffing out a sigh. when had you gotten so damn lonely?

the second week of knowing denki and you’re holding onto his hand tightly as you walk through the dark field, ignoring his protests of ‘it’s dark!’ and ‘what if there’s wolves out here?!’

“calm down already! look, we’re almost there!” you point ahead and he shrieks.

“but there’s no light! seriously, we’re gonna get eaten by wolves or maybe even hawks!”

“jesus christ, denki. there’s no wolves out here, and hawks can’t grab us.” you aren’t fully sure about the wolves, but it’s just a white lie.. that he doesn’t need to know.

“are you sure?”

you stop, turning to him, looking him directly in the eyes. “come on, have some faith in me.”

denki slowly nods, visibly relaxing. you keep walking; it’s silent for the next few minutes, and eventually you finally come to a stop in an area where you can perfectly see the moon.

“why’d we stop?”

he stands before you, watching curiously as you grab a branch and wink at him.

“just watch.”

slowly, you sweep the branch over the grass, and fireflies rise in the air around you. a faint buzz fills the air as they float around you both; you sit down beside him.

denki’s eyes are half-wide in appreciation, lips parted. he turns his head to you, voice much calmer than it was earlier. “it looks.. magical.”

he was right, it did look quite magical that night. you check the time on your phone, 7:05 pm – just a little longer, you can make it.

placing the phone on your chest, you sigh as you close your eyes, letting your mind wander again.

“uhh, i don’t know about this...” this time you’re the one who’s hesitant to do something with him, worry consuming your mind as you sit on the side wall of the apartment.

“come on, you can do it! just glide.” denki excitedly holds a hand out to you and you pull your bottom lip between your teeth in worry, but you reluctantly nod and grab it.

his hand’s warm and soft when he pulls you up onto your feet, flashing you his all too familiar grin. “you’ll be fine, i’ve got you.”

your skin warms at his words and you decide that rollerskating with him is worth the effort. “okay.. so you just go forwards and gently push off each time?”

“pretty much, look.” he demonstrates proudly, you give him some applause before copying his exact movements, and surprisingly, you don’t fall.

“there you go! okay, come on, i wanna show you somewhere cool i found earlier!” he grabs your hand and skates forward so quickly you panic, unable to do anything else but glide with him.

“oh my god, don’t go so fast! you’re gonna run into a streetpole!”

“no, i won’t, i’ll be fine! come on, i think you’ll like the boba place i found!”

you open your eyes, checking your phone again – 7:32, just in time for the sunset. you get off your bed and start to walk out of your room, but a red gleam catches your eye – you turn to see the red rollerskates you wore with denki.

ignoring the pang in your heart, you grab a jacket and head out of your apartment, locking the door behind you before heading into the elevator.

you’re heading to the highest floor; up there, you’ll be able to get to the roof.

after punching in number eight, you lean against the wall, looking at your hands. a ding alerts you that you’ve arrived; you step out of the elevator and open the door at the end of the hall, walking up the small metal staircase – finally, you’re here.

you don’t make any moves to sit; that’s something new. instead, you stand on the roof, hands in your pockets as you watch the swirling plethora of colors dissolve into darkness in front of you.

“how long have you been living here?” denki shakes his head, droplets of water hitting your skin and you release a small laugh, stepping away from him.

“about four years or so.. it’s nice, isn’t it?”

“yeah, it is. it’s.. always awake, you know?”

“oh yeah,” you chuckle, understanding what he means about the city, “always. there’re cars going at 3 in the morning all the time. so many places are open to eat, it’s nice they cater to people’s late night cravings.”

“true.” he looks up at the leafy branches in thought, “i like citylife. it’s kinda boring if everything’s slow paced and sleepy.”

the rippling lake water catches the sunlight, glittering in the late afternoon sun. the field’s light green and grassy, all flat except for the few lone apple trees that dot its surface.

“sometimes you have to step away from the city to really enjoy nature.” you stand up and grab a red apple off a lower branch, taking a bite and offering it to him.

“they’re sweet, y’know.”

denki gives a huff, “i know what apples taste like.” he bites into the fruit, humming at its taste. he hands it back to you and you take another bite, savoring the fresh, crisp taste.

you sit down beside him, tilting your head back to look up at the different branches above you. your hair’s still damp from the swimming, your skin dewy with droplets of water.

“should we go back in?” you question, looking out towards the lake.

“only if we’re skinny dipping.”

“it’s.. light out. you’re supposed to go in the dark.”

“so?” denki grabs your hand and brings you up, “come on, it’ll be fun!”

you lay back with a sigh, arms crossed behind your head as you stare up at the cloudy night sky, unable to see any constellations due to the clouds and city light.

the moon peeks out from behind the clouds, almost shy to reveal its full light.

a rush of sadness fills your chest and you move your feet, not wanting to remember the particularly painful memory made right here.

“you’ve been silent all night, denki. what’s up with you?” his hand finds yours and gives it a squeeze.

“i’m sorry.”

“for what?”

“for not telling you something i should’ve told you sooner.. i’m heading back to japan tomorrow.”

you don’t respond but your heartbeat quickens as you look up at the sky. “why are you going to japan, denki?”

“because.. i live there. i come here every summer from the beginning of june to the end of july with some friends.”

“so you won’t be able to...” your voice fades in realization.

“we can call and text! we both have phones, right?” he’s trying to be cheery.

“it’s not the same,” you say, voice suddenly strained, “you’re.. what, sixteen hours ahead of me? it wouldn’t work, it’d be inconvenient for both of us.”

“here, i have an idea. give me your phone.” he hands you his, which is open to the ‘create a new contact’ page; you do the same, now sitting up.

you type in your phone number and a small note, then hand it back to him.

denki seems quite invested in his typing; it takes him a few good minutes before he’s finished. “don’t open the note ‘til i’m gone, okay?”

it seems you’d never opened it. why not? you take out your phone to open it, reliving your last memory.

“call me, okay?” denki’s grinning again, giving you a tight hug before getting on the plane. you’re wondering why he’s so happy – it’s a facade, of course. smiling always fends off the tears, right?

when he’s about to pull away, he realizes how you’re not letting go, head buried in his neck. “denki, be safe. don’t forget anything on the plane, okay?” your voice is light and you’re trying to joke with him, but he can sense that unsteadiness.

he hugs you tighter, tears forming in his eyes. “i love you.”

a weak sob escapes your lips and the tears start rushing out of your eyes. “i love you too, please be careful.”

you hadn’t spoken to him since that morning – three weeks ago. why hadn’t you stayed in touch?

the note opens and you immediately read it, tears welling up in your eyes.

‘to y/n, the most amazing girl i’ve ever met.. i’ve enjoyed it all, from the most awkward morning of my life to the first time i’ve ever gone up on a roof with someone. it’s been really fun, i’m going to miss this. i get it if you don’t wanna stay in touch; it’s too painful sometimes, you know? but aside from our adventures, i’ve really enjoyed bonding with you as a person. you’re funny, sarcastic, and all around amazing. i love you - see you next summer.’

he was right in his message; it is too painful to stay in touch sometimes. you exit the contacts list, wiping at your eyes and smearing your makeup as you open the messaging app, beginning to type out a message,

hey, i miss you.

taglist // @sobaluvr​ @bbytamaki​ 

[whumpmatsus]

hush. [ Wakabamatsu ]

In which Jyushimatsu wakes up with a migraine, but his big brother is going to take good care of him, so... it’s okay.

Jyushimatsu doesn’t usually wake up easily, unless he hears Ichimatsu’s voice or all the rest of his brothers are arguing.

He’s so full of energy for most of the day, it’s like he recharges at night by sleeping so deeply. Even going to bed with the lights on doesn’t bother him like it might for, say, Ichimatsu. He’s also typically asleep before everyone else… though that doesn’t necessarily translate into being awake earlier.

Tonight, or maybe it’s really early in the morning, he’s woken up by the most excruciating physical pain he’s ever felt.

It feels like someone’s jabbing an ice pick into the left side of his head, right above his eye. The pain isn’t repetitive; rather, it doesn’t seem to actually stop at all. It’s just constant and there and awful.

Worse yet is the fact that it feels like the world is spinning. The sensation makes him panicky, his heart pounding against his ribs, because he knows he isn’t moving. He’s still as can be and it’s everything else that’s moving. Isn’t it?

He exerts what he thinks is an enormous amount of willpower into closing his eyes and clenching his fists. Maybe he’s dreaming? That’s it. He’s just dreaming about being on a boat or something.

It only takes a few seconds for him to decide that is not what’s going on. The rocking sensation is getting worse, and he’s not waking up, so this can’t be a dream.

He takes a breath and throws his hand to the side, frantically searching for his older brother beside him. “Ch… Choromatsu-nii-san…!” He tries to keep his eyes shut. If he opens them again, the pain in his head is going to intensify.

There’s a tired groan from beside him, and the sounds of Choromatsu trying to get his bearings. “Huhm… mmh… Jyushimatsu? Aaah…” He yawns. “Is everything okay?”

“No… no, I don’t feel good…” He wishes he could feel prideful about complaining or guilty for waking his big brother up. Normally, he would at least try to suffer on his own for a bit before going to one of his brothers. Instead, the pain overtakes everything else.

“Aaaah… it’s okay, it’s okay. Don’t worry, I’m right here to take care of you, alright?” Choromatsu is careful as always when he knows one of the others is feeling poorly, and he scoots closer. “Come here. Will it make you feel better if I hold you for a little bit?”

Jyushimatsu isn’t sure. However, as with most other situations, a hug certainly can’t hurt when he isn’t feeling well. “Ahahah… y-yeah, maybe… my head really hurts.” He turns over into his brother’s embrace, expecting to have an easier time calming down once he’s nestled against Choromatsu’s chest.

Choromatsu’s arms reach out to pull Jyushimatsu closer. “Ah, no… I’m sorry, Jyushi. It’s okay… I’ll rub it and maybe you can get back to sleep.”

That sounds nice, but it doesn’t get a chance to happen. Any possibility of peace evaporates as soon as Jyushimatsu rolls onto his side. He opens his eyes briefly only for his vision to wobble and darken. The spinning he’s been feeling takes half a second to blossom into full-on nausea, then he practically chokes on a gag.

It’s all the warning either of them get before suddenly he’s vomited into the space between them ― and, more embarrassingly, he’s pretty sure it splashed Choromatsu in the process.

“Ah! J-Jyushimatsu!” Despite what just happened, Choromatsu moves to pull Jyushimatsu closer to him in an attempt to comfort him, particularly when it becomes clear that his poor little brother has started to wail. “Oh, my God… Jyushi… h-hey, hey, it’s okay! D-don’t cry, please!”

The sound of someone, or maybe the entire rest of their brood, moaning awake on the other side of Choromatsu serves to do nothing except make the pounding in Jyushimatsu’s head louder. His own sobbing makes pressure against his skull and it’s sharp and why can’t he stop?

“Hey, what gives? Are you two assclowns trying to wake the whole fucking neighborhood?” Osomatsu’s voice is groggy and irritated, and it’s just one more thing driving that ice pick deeper into Jyushimatsu’s head.

Jyushimatsu can feel the vibration from the growl Choromatsu gives toward their eldest. “God, would you calm your tits? Jyushimatsu threw up.”

“In the futon?!”

“Are you kidding me right now? He couldn’t help it!”

Osomatsu whines for a second, which is exactly no help to Jyushimatsu’s headache, but then he just yawns. “Geez… what happened??”

“I don’t know…” Choromatsu’s hand combs lightly through his brother’s hair, though it’s not any significant relief. Mostly it makes Jyushimatsu feel less self-conscious; if Choromatsu isn’t freaking out and moving away, he’s probably more worried about Jyushimatsu’s wellbeing than with the fact that he and the futon just got puked on. “He woke me up and said he didn’t feel good, that his head hurt. Then he rolled over so I could hold him, and… threw up.”

Jyushimatsu whimpers pitifully, trying to wipe at his mouth. “I f-feel seasick… my eyes are all blurry… my head hurts really bad…”

Choromatsu lets out a quiet, “Oh…” like he’s had some big moment of realization about what’s going on. “Jyushi… did you feel sick to your stomach before you moved?”

“Mnh-mnh. It just felt like… the world was spinning… still feels like that. I thought I was d-dreaming about being on a boat… then when I moved… my stomach went all flip-floppy… feels a little better now.”

“Okay, okay… that’s good, at least. What about your head? Is the pain mostly on one side?”

“Uh-huh. Like someone’s… trying to drill into my brain right above my left eye…”

“Aw. Gosh. Well, in that case…” He leans down to press a kiss to Jyushimatsu’s head, and pats his back in reassurance. “Sounds like a migraine to me. Like a headache times a thousand, complete with a side of vertigo and aura. I’m sorry Osomatsu is such a dick that he yelled at us.”

“WHAT?! I’m not a dick! I’m just tired!”

Choromatsu hisses as the noise makes Jyushimatsu flinch. “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive, you jackass. And would you show some Goddamn concern for your baby brother over here? You’re talking loud and making him more miserable.”

“You just―” Osomatsu stops dead as he seems to realize that he’s literally just proving Choromatsu’s point. “― Ah, shit, sorry, Jyushi. Uhhh. What are we supposed to do for this? Besides get out of the futon and go set up camp in the living room for the night?”

“Yeah,” comes a low, sleep-husky voice Jyushimatsu recognizes as Ichimatsu’s. “Is there anything we can do? The last time I had a headache that made me blow chunks, I was out of it for the rest of the day and still felt all hazy once it was gone.”

Jyushimatsu almost starts crying again at the thought of feeling so bad for an entire day. He settles for sniffling and tucking his painful head under Choromatsu’s chin.

The action gets the third eldest’s attention, as he’s immediately pulled in closer and gets another kiss on the head. “Aah, well… most of the time, a migraine kind of has to go away on its own. We can try giving him painkillers and making it as dark as possible in here and keeping things quiet…”

Totty snorts. “So keep Osomatsu-nii-san away from him, then.”

“Oh, you two-faced little―”

“Osomatsu-nii-san! Where are your manners? Jyushimatsu-nii-san’s head!”

“I don’t have manners at 5 in the morning on a Monday!”

“Dear brothers, why are we all sniping at each other? Should we not instead be trying to help our little Jyushimatsu?”

“Like you could be any help. Just being around you has to be causing him more pain, Shittymatsu.”

“Cut it the fuck out, all of you!” Choromatsu’s voice comes out in a vicious whisper as he continues to cradle Jyushimatsu. “None of you are helping right now. You guys just… get your pillows, get some extra blankets, and head into the living room. I’ll get Jyushimatsu and I changed, we’ll move over to a clean part of the futon, and I’ll spend the rest of the night in here with him.”

There’s a distinct pause, which almost sounds louder than if anyone had said anything. Finally Ichimatsu speaks up again. “Are you sure? I can stay.”

“No, no, it’s okay, Ichimatsu. I’ve got it. You know I’ll take good care of him.”

Ichimatsu lets out a soft sigh. “… Yeah, I know. Let us know if we can help.”

“I will. You guys go try to get some sleep, okay?”

The other four murmur some well wishes, probably trying not to make things worse, and the sound of the door sliding open is sort of like a knife cutting through Jyushimatsu’s mind. He curls up tighter against Choromatsu, looking for protection.

Though, unfortunately, based on what his big brother said a minute ago, there’s nothing that can really be done to take away the pain. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, sniffling again. “I didn’t m-mean to throw up on you…”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. Jyushimatsu, it’s okay. You don’t feel well. It’s not like you wanted to do it.” Choromatsu rubs Jyushimatsu’s back a few times, giving a cautious squeeze to his whole body. “You don’t need to be sorry. Now, listen. I’m gonna close the curtains and blinds and go change my clothes real fast, then I’m gonna try to see if I can get you cleaned up and change your shirt, too. You’re a little dirty… I don’t want you getting nauseous again from the smell. After that I’m gonna carry you to the other side of the futon, and… we’ll make sure the other side gets cleaned up later when you feel better.”

Okay. Okay, that sounds like not too bad of a plan. He can do that, right? It sounds like Choromatsu is going to be the one doing most of the work, so Jyushimatsu shouldn’t have to move too much. That would be ideal; he feels like if he moves to roll onto his back or anything, he might be sick again. “Okay.”

“Okay? Okay. Good, uh… hm… if we can get some painkillers in you, it might help take the edge off the migraine. Do you think maybe you could get some medicine down with a few sips of water?”

“I… I dunno… maybe.” The thought of swallowing anything isn’t pleasant. But if it could potentially take a little bit of the pain away, he can try. What’s the worst thing that could happen? He might hurl again? At least he’ll have given it a shot.

He feels Choromatsu pull away from him. “Alright, we’ll try it, then. I’ll bring a trashcan in here just in case you throw up again. And, ah, let’s see… sometimes an ice pack against your head helps. Want me to bring one?”

He barely resists the urge to nod, because he knows that would be a terrible idea right now. “Mhm.”

“Alright. You just… lie still and don’t move, okay? I’ll be back in a few minutes. Let me see if I can get it a little darker in here…”

There’s a brief rattling sound that comes along with Choromatsu trying to shut the blinds, then a fabric-shifting noise from the curtains.

Instantly the soft sunlight which was trying to filter in is blocked. Despite the fact that it’s not totally pitch black, it feels like shadows have descended on the room. Cool, greyish shadows that are protecting him from the agony of anything bright.

A few minutes seems kind of like an eternity to Jyushimatsu at the moment. He’s still a little dizzy even with his eyes clamped shut, although the nausea has faded into almost nothing, thank goodness. The sharp pain in his head continues, and he’s partially convinced that it’s going to split him in half.

Everything is awful. He’s used to being the one who can tolerate the most extreme things and often is fully involved in those things. Yet, right now, everything is too much. Even his own thoughts are too loud.

The only movement he makes is to reach up a trembling hand and touch his head in some childish hope that holding it will make the hurt stop. Unlike Choromatsu’s gentle kisses, however, just touching the epicenter of the migraine sends a horrible shockwave of pain through his whole body.

When Choromatsu returns, he returns to his little brother curled up in a ball, breathing deeply and still mewling in intense discomfort.

“Hey, Jyushi… I’m back.” He keeps his voice low as he kneels down, giving another couple of rubs to Jyushimatsu’s back. “You doing okay?”

Ugh, why would he ask that?? Jyushimatsu wants to be angry, he is a little annoyed… but Choromatsu is trying to take care of him. He can’t be too pissed when all his big brother wants is to make him as comfortable as possible. “No… it hurts.”

“Aah, I know, I know… I’m sorry. Is it okay if I try to change your shirt now? I can probably do it without making you sit up, if I’m careful… you’ll have to raise your arms, though.”

“Uh-huh… okay.”

“I will have to sit you up to take the medicine in a minute.” His hand pulls at the bottom of Jyushimatsu’s shirt, starting to roll it up. “I’ve got a trashcan here if you think you’re gonna be sick again. Just give a big squeeze to any part of me you can reach if you need to throw up, okay?”

“Mmh, okay…”

It’s a slow process as Choromatsu gradually manages to get Jyushimatsu’s shirt up off him. Jyushimatsu raises his arms when prompted, and that little motion makes him feel like he’s swaying even more than he already felt like. He’s able to keep them up until his brother gets his arms and head through the new shirt, thank goodness.

How he doesn’t accidentally roll into the mess he made in the futon is beyond him. He mostly credits that to Choromatsu, though. It feels like his big brother is holding him pretty steady, from what he can tell.

“There we go,” Choromatsu sighs, with a sound like he’s dusting his hands off. “Do you think you’ll be okay to sit up and take the medicine?”

Before he can stop himself, a small whine comes out. “I… I changed my mind, Choromatsu-nii-san. I think I’ll puke if I sit up and try to swallow anything…”

Choromatsu’s hand kneads gingerly at the base of Jyushimatsu’s neck. Even among everything else, it’s a comforting gesture. “Hey, hey, that’s fine. The water and medicine will still be here when you feel like you’re okay to take it. I’m just gonna carry you over to the other side of the futon now, okay? I’m gonna pick you up, and I’ll go really slow. You gonna be alright?”

“Mmm… y-yeah, I think so. Not too fast… right?”

“Right. And just tell me if you need me to stop for a second. Here we go, okay?”

Jyushimatsu braces himself for the movement, and true to Choromatsu’s word, he’s lifted up very gingerly, in a series of tiny moves rather than one swift one. He keeps his eyes shut as his brother makes a little adjustment, with one arm under Jyushimatsu’s legs and one supporting his back, and his head cradled against Choromatsu’s chest.

Despite his pain, Jyushimatsu finds the energy to give a weak laugh. “Haha… upsy-daisy…”

Choromatsu chuckles along, a barely-there breath of amusement. “Yeah, upsy-daisy. You remember… that one day when we were all kids, and Mom took us to the beach ― that day it was sunny in the morning but started raining when we’d only been in the water for like half an hour?”

“Oh, yeah… hehe… and then we made a beach in the living room when we got home… because I put a bucketful of sand in our tote bag before we started swimming, hehe.”

“Yeah, that’s right! I remember Osomatsu, Karamatsu, and I each grabbed one of you younger guys… Osomatsu grabbed Totty, and Karamatsu grabbed Ichimatsu, and I grabbed you. We carried you out of the water and into the car, haha… running to get out of the rain as fast as we could.”

After a second, Jyushimatsu is laid down in that same careful way Choromatsu picked him up, and having a clean part of the futon under him feels a lot better. Soon enough his older brother is lying next to him, gingerly guiding him into a hug to comfort him. “I remember holding you in my arms way back then just like I did a minute ago. I held you really close and tried to keep you from getting wet, haha.”

“Mmm.” Jyushimatsu snuggles in closer and buries his face in Choromatsu’s chest to try and shut out whatever light might be left. “I think I remember that, too. Hahah… you’re a good big brother. Trying to keep me safe.”

Choromatsu’s hand strokes through Jyushimatsu’s hair; long, syrupy strokes that feel much better than when he tried to hold his head himself. The ice pack must have been set down close, because something cold and soothing is held against the left side of his head. “W-well, you know… you’re a good little brother… worthy of being kept safe.”

“Haha. All the rest of your little brothers… they can suck it, right?”

He snorts, and thank God, it doesn’t disrupt the peace they’ve both been trying to cultivate. “Aah, no… all my brothers are worthy of being kept safe. Even the jackass eldest and the hollow monster baby. But, I mean… don’t tell them I said that.”

Jyushimatsu breathes in and out a few times as he settles in to hopefully get some sleep. “No, no, no… it’d go to their heads.”

“Heh, good. Speaking of dreaming… let’s try to get some rest, okay? Fingers crossed you’ll be feeling better after a little more sleep. If not, at least you won’t be totally conscious for some of the pain. I’ll take the ice pack off in a few minutes here, and all you have to do is let me know if you need anything. Sound like a plan?”

“Mhm. Nighty night, Choromatsu-nii-san.”

A warm breath of a sigh hits the top of his head. In a way, just having his big brother close like this is more comforting than any other remedy he could have suggested. “Night, Jyushi. Feel better soon or else I’m just gonna have to keep taking care of you.”

[sentanixiv]

Tomorrow’s Problem

Something sweet to offset the feels that I attacked y’all with yesterday. John Marston suffering through the poor life choice of drinking more whiskey than his liver and body can tolerate.

-

Birds chirping have no right to sound the way they do this morning, piercing calls penetrating the deep fog of sleep and waking not only John, but also the heavy, aching pain of having indulged too much in liquor and too little in sleep after celebrating the success of their take late into the night. He groans, a sound which in itself is too loud, and drags the thin pillow of the hotel room bed over his face like it’ll smother noise. Or maybe him, because each second spent being dragged into the state of waking has him feeling nothing but regret.

Think you oughta slow up there, Marston. Keep at it and you ain’t gonna be fit for living come morning.

Even the recollection of Arthur teasing him about the pace with which he kept downing shot after shot sounds too loud and he buries his face in the mattress as though peace and quiet’ll be found somewhere between the feathers and springs that separate him from the bedframe and the floor beneath it.

That’s something for tomorrow John to deal with.

The cocky remark’d sounded witty, damn near hilarious when he snapped it out and tossed back the next shot in a line of too many that blurred the hours together, made hazy the hands of poker he’d played, then inspired his running into the alley, leaning a hand on the wall as he emptied his stomach of too much whiskey and too little food out onto the muddy ground. Vaguely, he remembers Arthur coming out to find him, holding back his hair and offering a rare find: Cloth-wrapped ice, a premium in these parts, that he was able to rest on the back of his neck, then against his forehead as the drinks wound down and his stomach knotted up, bringing with it a misery that’s three times worse this morning.

Let’s get you back to the room, Marston. You ain’t in any shape to stick ‘round here.

That explains how he got back here, their small safe haven of a hotel room in a town looking out for two degenerates that robbed a payroll stage late yesterday morning. Hazy memories fling themselves out of the dark void that follows the actions in the alley, then of John stumbling under Arthur’s guided patience up each stair and down the hall, of fumbling off the layers down to his union suit and then getting the brilliant idea of stripping Arthur down to have some fun, of being told to hold off for some time he ain’t drunk, so’s there’s no regrets about it, and then it fogs up into the murky sleep that he’s slowly pulling free of. John knows that any regret he feels would not have been from getting rowdy; every ounce of it relates to the sheer amount of alcohol he packed into his gut before his body stirred a riot against it. Still, he figures Arthur had it right, because he ain’t sure he’d’ve remembered the fun of it with the way he feels right now, ready to roll over and play dead if that’d make the hangover stop.

Only, he can’t. They need to ride out, connect with Dutch and the others a couple towns south, and that means John has to roll off the mattress and piece himself together no matter that he feels worse than shit dragged twice through the pigsty. He is ready to try sitting up when the creaking hinges of the door split open his head anew and he curls up into a ball in the middle of the bed, palms pressing against his temples to force his skull back together and a whimper slipping from him.

Gentler the door is when it closes, but the screech is the same to his sensitive hearing; the low rumble of a chuckle, however, is the first sound since waking that doesn’t make him want to wither and die under the cotton-and-nails chaos inside his head. John moves the heel of one hand to his forehead, pressing against the ache there, and the other peels back the pillow until he catches the blurry sight of Arthur walking soft and quiet across the room, setting a plate of something on the bedside and then nudging a cool tin hug moist with the condensation of cold water against the hand that’s holding back the poor barricade the pillow provides against the world.

“You’s gonna be fine, John,” Arthur tells him, voice pitched low and quiet where it doesn’t drive deeper the spikes of the hangover in his head.

John groans at the sentiment regardless, turning his face back into the mattress. “Don’t feel fine,” he whines, knowing it sure is a whine by the pathetic lilt of it. “Shootin’ me’d be doing me a kindness right now.”

The cold touch of the mug lifts as Arthur sits down on the bed next to him, a sigh let out to vent whatever chiding frustration he wants to bring up about warning him off drinking that much. “C’mon,” is what he says instead and he’s carefully brushing John’s hair back from his face, carding his fingers through it and coaxing him to turn his head towards him. “Got you some water, need you to drink it.”

Broken bones or gunshot wounds and John’d resist the treatment, but he’s feeling miserable and lets Arthur slowly get him up, braces an elbow under himself to hold himself there, half lying down, as Arthur puts the mug to his lips and lets him sip at it slowly. Cool water floods his mouth, dives deep into him and it’s the second soothing thing he’s felt this morning. The first is Arthur being here at all, being gentle over abrasive, and he figures it’s because ain’t no one else around to call him out for being soft on John. They’ve been riding a string of paired off jobs, the two of them, and some of Arthur’s harsh edges start wearing down the longer and further they are from the gang, from the expectations of it, from the work he seems to think falls squarely on his shoulders to bear, the rules he figures his to enforce. Some days it makes John think about not going back, letting Arthur be himself more than this rough jackass he’s been sculpted into, but the thoughts always fade too fast. It’s family, the gang, found and kept; it ain’t something Arthur can leave and even John ain’t fond of the idea to separate from it when he knows the hell that’s life in this country.

“Got you some eggs and beans, bit of bread.” Arthur unknowingly breaks that line of thought before it draws him in with the temptation it, pulling the cup away to set it down.

The smell of food, and the idea of beans after the night he’s had, leaves John wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Ain’t hungry,” he says and it’s true, but the look he gets? The borderline aggravation muscled quick under the hold of patience? Tells him he’ll be trying to eat and hunger ain’t got a thing to do with it. There’ve been times when that look ends up with Arthur forcing food into him with a spoon and his fingers prying his mouth open, but that ain’t been a thing since his early teens, back when John knew nothing about trusting anyone but himself. “Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll try, just… gimme a few minutes here. Then I’ll eat’n we can ride out.”

The thought of riding with the way his stomach churns ain’t a fond one, but Hosea taught him oft enough that you dig the grave, you gotta fill it; sometimes, that means your pride’s what gets buried and sometimes it’s a body, but something needs to go there and he figures his pride will be the victim today. Reluctantly, John goes to push himself to a full sitting position, but Arthur puts a hand on his chest and pushes him back down to the mattress. Bewildered, he blinks and looks at him blankly.

“We ain’t goin’ nowhere yet,” Arthur says, wiping the moisture of the mug off his hand against the thin blanket of the bed, looking away at the windows that stand vigil over the main street.

Suspicion flares up and John frowns, almost makes the mistake of shaking his head and just barely holds off jarring his hungover brain by it. “We ain’t sticking idle because I drank too much,” he manages, though he’s not yet trying to push the hand away and right himself with any real effort. He’s tired and the water felt good, good enough that he’s starting to think that eating’s got potential too.

“We ain’t,” Arthur tells him flatly, leaving off the gentle press of his hand, a half-hearted pin he’d let keep him there, to stand up. “Heard a couple fellas last night talkin’ about the bank bringing in more money in a couple days, how they’s looking to pull law and security out of town to guard the stage when it comes in.”

Here he’s been thinking his drinking was stupid enough to land him in this state, now Arthur’s talking foolish plans about hitting the stage again? “No way we could pull off the same job twice,” John tells him, feeling odd being the one to point this out. All that added security means bodies and risks that they don’t have the manpower for.

Arthur grins and it ain’t bitter, it ain’t grim; it’s to the challenge, the idea of it being fun to him and that’s rarer the older they both get. “Ain’t never said we’d hit the stage again,” he says, hooking his thumb under his gunbelt. His eyes are bright, something that John ain’t seen since before Mary ended things and tore out what little heart Arthur had left. “All them folk pulled away to protect the stagecoach? Seems to me like we got a good chance of clearing out the bank while they’s all looking the other way.”

Two of them taking on a bank? The idea sits beyond the scope John can currently manage, his head threatening to split anew when he tries to sort the details, and he drops it down back onto the pillow with a grumbled, confused muttering. “How’s that supposed to go?”

There’s a shrug, a pat on his shoulder before Arthur starts towards the door. “I ain’t sure yet. You rest up, John. I’ll case the bank, see if we don’t got an opportunity too damn good to pass up.”

[constantlyunlightening]

Quiet

Day 10: Public Places w/ Shoto Todoroki

Warnings/Other Kinks: Bratty Dom, cum play (i guess that’s what I’m gonna tag it as), panties in mouth

If you haven’t read my Shoto Todoroki NSFW headcannons, you should. Cuz this is in line with my bratty dom theories. Is he dumb or being a smartass? Who knows?

Anyway, Shoto is super fun to write. I really liked doing this one and I hope you guys like it too!

Disclaimers: 18+ years old to read, all characters are aged 20+

He told you the next time you wore that dress in public, he wouldn’t be able to hold himself back. You had taken it as a compliment at the time, not a threat.

But on the day where the two of you were supposed to be heading to some fancy hero event, you found that specific dress laid out on your bed waiting for you. Honestly, you thought the gesture was adorable! Was Shoto picking out an outfit he wanted you in? You had simply forgotten all about what he had said last time.

So you put the dress on. 

It wasn’t until after the two of you mingled around the event a while before he pulled you to a corner and you heard his deep voice dance against your ear. “So you wore it? Remember what I said last time?” His voice bounced in your skull and the hand that heated up at your waist quickly jogged your memory. “I warned you.”

And with that, he dragged you away at the nearest opportunity and shoved you into a supply closet. That’s how you ended up with your dress hiked over your hips and Shoto fucking you into the walls of the tiny closet. 

You’re pretty sure the two of you had knocked something off the closet shelf in your flurry, but the cock pounding you into the wall made it really damn hard to think. Shoto had his head dipped down, lips and teeth and tongue attacking the flash that stretched your collar bone as he tightened his grip on your thighs. You were clawing at his back, trying to bite the inside of your cheek but the way he was tearing into you made it so hard to keep your noises down.

“Sho-shoto,” an urgent, whine of a whisper was all you could manage to hiss out without screaming. “I- if I make too much noise, we’re going to get caught.” A tangle of words, ushered out as quickly as possible to keep you from yelping as he speared deep into you.

He didn’t pause his hips, but he did pause the ministrations he had been trailing over you, only so he could look up at you with hues of smoke and frost. It was almost vexing how calm he looked. You were falling apart and other than the beads of sweat rolling down his face and a few labored pants. “Then stay quiet?” He offered, as if the solution were obvious. As if you could keep quiet with the hero pounding you senseless. 

With a raspy groan, you covered your mouth with a hand you detangled from his shirt and shook your head as his length rocked against your insides, slipping in and out much too snugly. “I-I cant-”

You couldn’t tell if the way he stared at you silently was him trying to actually access the situation or was him just hiding his smirk. Was he being a smartass with a poker face right now? Or was he genuinely racking his brain for a solution. You’ve been dating this man for how long now? And you still had no idea as to if he was the smartest person you knew or the dumbest. 

You weren’t ever going to find out you were pretty sure. Especially not right now with your whole body vibrating in need. 

He pulled out of you, and the seemingly randomness of it had you trying to suppress a yelp as your body strained with the sudden emptiness, trying to clamp over nothing. “Sho- what are you doing?” Your voice sounded pathetic even to your own ears as Shoto released your thighs, gently settling you back onto the ground. Had he decided to stop? Had the solution to her not making noise was to just be done? He sure didn’t seem frustrated at all but it wouldn’t be unlike him to leave you hanging and pretend like he was doing it to actually help. Or maybe he did think he was actually helping? Either way. He can’t just fuck the air out of you and stop! He couldn’t!

In your panic you failed to realize he had been working on tugging off your panties from underneath your dress  balling them up in his hands. You opened your mouth to question his actions again but in the next moment, the balled up lace was in your mouth. A muffled noise strangled out around it as Shoto was once again grabbing your thighs, and dragging you right back up against the wall and in the air. “I didn’t have a gag,” he stated simply as a small smile came to his lips. It looked so tender. But you couldn’t help but think it felt rather conniving. “It had a wet spot on it, so I know it tastes good too. But you can take it out if you think you can keep quiet on your own.”

The break without him inside you had been just long enough that the pleasure had mellowed out and left you with an ache-y opening from his earlier attack. And so when his head pushed back in, the sensitivity had you absolutely choking on your makeshift gag. You knew for a fact you wouldn’t be able to keep the noise down on your own. Shoto seemed well aware of this too as he slowly began to resheath himself in your heat, letting you adjust to the painful sensitivity and let your need build back up with each and every inch of him plugging into you. Again, that sweet smile had reached his lips as he got himself buried balls deep. “See? It worked.”

He seemed self satisfied. And it was hard to argue with saliva starting to pool at the back of your throat, dampening the lacey gag. Your hands were free. You could have reached out and removed it, but Shoto decided it was time to return to that pace from earlier without any warning. His hips were snapping up and you felt like you could feel him all the way to your stomach as he rocked you against the wall. You could no longer think about the way you could taste yourself on your panties, couldn’t think about how anyone could catch you two locked away in the closet, couldn’t think at all actually. You couldn’t even fucking see as your eyes rolled back into your skull.

He wasn’t kissing your neck anymore, but instead, focusing on watching your face contort into pleasure and you knew for a fact he was messing with you when he spoke up again with that same steady cadence. “Your eyes are looking weird. What’s wrong?” He questioned, concern etching his voice but he knew. He had made you make this face all the time and maybe he had been concerned the first couple but now he knew. Now he was just doing his very best to get under your skin as you helplessly wriggled your hips down onto him. “Should I stop?”

This little shit.

Don’t you dare! You tried to snap out at him but all that you could get out of your mouth garbled around the fabric and you felt a burst of drool dribble down your chin as you whined and huffed. And Shoto, your loving, caring, sweet, sweet partner found it within himself to fucking laugh. This man who had the poker face of a statue managed to find his sense of humor at your expense while he was balls deep inside of you. It wasn’t a boisterous laugh, hardly more than a chuckle but it was more than he usual produced. And the real kicker was, you were too senseless to even fully enjoy it right now. In contrast to the urgency in which he speared into you, he managed to let a hand move up to help clear the dribble off your face with his thumb before he regained his grasp on your thigh and continued wildly knocking your thoughts out of your head.

“I won’t stop unless you ask me to,” he murmured in reassurance as he dipped his head back down, and you missed the growl he let out against your skin as you trembled and writhed around him. He would have loved to take more time with you, but the event put you at a limit and he wasn’t about to leave his precious lover empty handed. 

He was about to leave you utterly full in fact. 

With the force from his speed keeping you suspended in place, his hand found a spot above your folds and the pad of his thumb found that sweet spot of yours fairly quickly. He groaned deeply in response to the muffled keening you gave off as he rolled your clit under his finger and as he teased and toyed and rammed his cock into your cervix, you gave in to an orgasm that rocked your whole body and he lost himself in tandem. You were filling up with sticky heat as Shoto left one last love bite against the expanse of your shoulder and your body milked him for every drop of his worth. He had to collect himself before he could slowly pull out of you, watching a drop of his essence plop on the ground beneath you.

You were shuddering as he carefully lowered you to the ground, trying to inhale deeper but choking on the concoction of saliva and lace. Shoto was kind enough to help fish out the soiled undergarments and let you flounder for air. 

“Are you alright?” Real concern this time as he brushed the hair out of your face and you were met with that combo of smog and snow as his gaze met yours. 

You slowly managed to nod your head but as you caught your breath and came to your senses, a few realizations hit you at once.

You were still in public.

And you were now filled with wet cum that was starting to leak down your inner thighs.

You moved to clench and you gave a loud whine. “Shoto! Why did you do that? I can’t clean up here.”

He blinked and his head tilted to the side and stared down at you. “Do what?”

Was he for real?

“You- its all up inside me now! How am I supposed to walk around right now? Why couldn’t you have picked somewhere we could wipe down?” You scolded quietly, embarrassment flooding through you at the thought of walking through the party like this. Then you spotted the damp pair of panties Shoto was holding in his hands and another flare of emotions ran through you. You groaned.

“I figured we didn’t want to make a mess in here. Was I wrong?” His brows furrowed and now you were left to believe that he seriously just didn’t think about the implications of his girlfriend having to walk around the rest of the evening filled with his load, and a pair of soaked underwear.

Or maybe his poker face was really just that good.