#why the to be or not to be monologue? because i had to recite it for my literature class project

[rinaririr]

Hi hi! I just saw your sketches and they're awesome!

May I please request a sketch of either William Shakespeare or Silvio Ricci? Whoever you're comfortable with

hello jazz! thank you for requesting~ here’s a sketch of william (probably reciting the entirety of the “to be or not to be” monologue 😂)

i hope you like the sketch~!

[avocado-writing]

Hi dear! I would like to appreciate your works. I really enjoy everything you wrote, Wish you have a great day! 💗

Since you're taking requests, could you please write Wade with a polite, sweet and delicate partners. He's with a person who's the definition of "Too pure for this world and MUST be PROTECTED at all cost" His partner showers him with love and validation, and always love to listen to him! Thanks! 💓

possibly based on real life events.

Wade Wilson is so in love, it must be sickening to everyone around him. 

In fact he knows it is and he does not care. He’ll say “look at this meme the love of my life sent me!” and the person who he shows will roll their eyes, as if you don’t have incredible taste in cat pictures. He’ll monologue constantly about how cute you are and how much he loves that scrunchy thing you do with your nose. He’s recited committed-to-memory facts about you so many times that his friends can parrot them too. 

“Yes, I know what their favourite film is, I know you took them to a special viewing of it for their birthday. It’s cute, Wade,” says Laura, patting him on the arm condescendingly. Well, it’s not his fault you’re so wonderful! There isn’t a single thing about you that’s not perfect. He’s constantly bowled over about just how much affection he can fit in his body for you. The other night he was going on about something stupid - he can’t even remember what now, maybe it was about the new Taco Bell menu? - and then realised you hadn’t interrupted him once to shut him up like most people would.

You’d looked over the top of your magazine at him when he’d pointed this out, brow cocked.

“Why would I want you to shut up? I like listening to you talk, Wade.”

Marry you. He’s going to marry you. Every day, then divorce you every day too so he can marry you again. 

You are probably too good for him. Most of his social circle thinks so. You’re patient and kind, when you’re not at your job - where you work at a charity adopting out senior animals, as if you could be any more of a fucking angel - you like to spend your time in his shitty little kitchen, baking desserts for him to get home to. He’ll find you getting Al to taste test for you and his apartment full of laughter and joy. 

Man, he’s definitely put on like, six pounds since the two of you started dating. He needs to be stronger in the face of your cupcakes. 

They are really fucking good though. 

He walks in that night with a plushie under his arm. It’s a cow. He remembers you mentioning offhand how cute you thought cows were, so he decided to grab the biggest one the toy store one the way home had just because he knows it’ll make you smile. You don’t need any more stuffed toys; you sleep with them all in the bed and they’re pushing him off the side at this point because of their sheer number but, well, he likes seeing you happy. 

And then he hears sobbing. 

“Sweetheart?” he asks, immediately panicked. Are you injured? Has someone come to hurt you - has he painted a target on your back because of his job? Bile fills his throat as he stumbles forward…

…and there you are, sitting in front of the TV, PlayStation controller in your lap as tears run down your face while the end of the game plays out. Wade has never felt such relief in his life, laughing as the ache of it is taken from his chest. You turn to him with wide, watery eyes. 

“Don’t you laugh at me, Wade Wilson!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But babe… are you crying at the end of Kingdom Hearts?”

“No!” you lie, trying to mop your face off with your sleeve. Then the music hits its crescendo from the crappy speakers and you start wailing all over again. 

He loves you. He’d kill a million billion people for you. It would take a hell of a long time but hey, one word and he’d do it. If anyone even lifted a finger to hurt you he’d execute them so thoroughly that every generation of their family would be wiped out of existence too. 

To put it in terms you’d approve of, he’d do anything for you. But he also knows you’d never ask him to. You’re just that wonderful. 

“… would it help if I got us take-out and you started playing the second one?”

“Uh-huh,” you manage to confirm. 

“I could be in this fucking game, beat Donald Duck’s little feathery ass. Disney, make it happen.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it. Pizza or Chinese?”

Taglist: @falsewordz @malfoys-demigod @belilwen @mildly-salted @tvwebs @childeslegstrap @getmeoutofhell @s1eep-o @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @yrthr @momopad @sugarplumz100 @captainjinkx @madspads @acrosstheunivcrse @yeethaw13 @na-is-salty @florduarte @hunterispunk

[lovelybarnes]

Flirting and Football- B. Barnes

Pairings: bucky barnes x reader Warnings: past assault of reader, as slow burn as i can, au so bucky is different although i tried to not make him so ooc, sort of enemies to lovers?, genuinely can’t remember anymore, crappy writing in the beginning because i started writing this a year ago but i swear it gets better i promise About: request!! Bucky barnes and a college au where reader is the only one who isn’t interested in him basically

The end of your pen rests between your lips, unused as you scan the textbook page in front of you, your eyes thinning occasionally as you read. Your study partner’s book lays open in front of her, ten pages behind, and notebook adorned with two sole words.

She’s reciting the events of a date she went on yesterday or the day before, although admittedly, you’d only caught detached words for the past double-digit minutes. Your careful attention had dwindled down to nods as you subtly tapped at your notebook, then not-so-subtly and finally disappeared altogether as you made miscellaneous noises. 

You hum along now, eyes flickering from your notes to the material as you annotate pages with bright sticky notes.

She doesn’t seem to notice your disinterest, gushing about arms and hair, and the kiss that changed her life. The words don’t last too long in your mind, too cluttered with equations and vocabulary to make space for them.

“The girls told me he goes on a lot of dates but I can just tell I’m the one.”

You glance at your open computer, frowning at the slimming battery life, and purse your lips at the time. Sighing softly, you meet Quinn’s glazed eyes, offering her a tight smile you hope is somewhat believable.

“Is he in psychology too?” you ask, tapping on the notes the both of you were supposed to start when she began talking.

“Bucky? Oh no,” she laughs, the finger twirling her red hair pulling away to wave her hand dismissively. “He’s in sports or something. He's on the soccer team, you know.”

You nod. “Wow.”

“I know, oh my god.” She fans herself. “Did I tell you he basically won the last game?”

Probably. You duck your chin, highlighting a sentence. “Isn’t it a group effort?”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “Well, yeah, but he scored the winning goal.”

“Okay then,” you agree, deciding that you can finish your notes at your dorm. “I didn’t go to the last game, so what do I know?”

Quinn’s eyes go wide. “You didn’t go?” she exclaims, and you shush her, confirming. “Why?”

You shrug. “I had to do something.”

“You have to go to the next one tomorrow and see him in action. But don’t fall in love,” she warns with a giggle. “He’s mine.”

“Promise,” you reply hollowly, shutting your laptop. “Well, I have to go. This was helpful, though,” you lie.

“Oh, yeah, totally. I have to go too, rest up for the big game tomorrow. Gotta be there early to support Bucky,” Quinn informs. You stack your books to carry them back to your dorm.

“Right,” you respond, standing. “I hope everything goes well with him,” you say as you walk out.

She shoots you a big grin and a nod, her face bright as she agrees.

It’s cold when you step through the doors, bouncing on your feet and hugging your things closer to your chest as you begin to walk toward your dorm. You move to pull out your phone from your back pocket, quickly unlocking it to get to your contacts list. You press on Bruce’s contact and listen to the two beeps until he picks up.

“I hate you so much right now,” you greet, cutting his cheery hello off.

“What? What did I do?”

“‘I’ll be there!’ ‘How could I miss studying physics?’” you mock, imitating his voice. “You left me there, and I was stuck listening to Quinn's monologue about how the quarterback or whatever is the love of her life!”

“What quarterback?” Bruce asks.

“Does it matter? Honestly?” you rebut, taking care to watch your surroundings as you bully your friend. “Your quarterback wouldn’t cheat on you so I’m assuming it’s one that’s not Thor.”

“Okay, okay, I know. I’m sorry about ditching you. Thor and I just finished, we can come by and pick you up at the library. And Thor is a defender. Different sport entirely.”

“Whatever and ew,” you complain. “And I’m already on my way. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“What? I told you to not walk home alone. Just wait for me.”

“Don’t worry. The dorm isn’t that far and you’re not exactly the most threatening anyway,” you remind. “I’ll be fine. ”

“Fine. Keep me on the line and be careful,” Bruce tells you.

“Of course,” you quip. A pause drapes over the two of you, the silence only interrupted by the steady sound of your footsteps on the concrete. You turn, leaves crunching underneath your shoes and you can practically hear Bruce relax somewhat, knowing that you’re nearby. You put him on speaker to hear better. “How’d it go with Thor today?”

“Really good.” The golden thread of happiness threaded through Bruce’s words comes through clear and clean. You can imagine him as he talks into the phone, glancing at Thor to make sure he can’t hear as he plays with his fingers. “I’m really sorry for leaving you there.”

“You’re not,” you amend. “But it’s fine. I’m glad you’re happy.”

“I am,” Bruce confirms.

“I don’t know how you find the time to juggle everything. It’s kind of terrifying,” you laugh, expecting him to tease you back, but his answer comes back honest.

“I know you think of boyfriends and whatever as distractions, but it’s the opposite. It’s not juggling if I have help carrying everything.”

You push your tongue against your cheek, listening to the rustling of the trees. You grab your keys as you arrive at your dorm door. “I’m here.”

“Finally.” You roll your eyes, opening the door to see your roommate and her brother inside.

“Hey Wanda, Piet.”

Wanda smiles at you and Pietro winks before greeting Bruce through your phone.

“Okay, Bruce, are we studying tomorrow?” you ask him, balancing your things in your arms. When Pietro notices, he stands, taking your books from you and setting them down on your table. You thank him and pat his arm.

“Before the game? Sure,” he replies. You take him off speaker, pulling your phone to your ear, not noticing that the mention of the game has caught Pietro and Wanda's attention.

“You’re going?” you question. “I thought Thor was benched.”

“He’s off!” There’s a whoop you recognize as Thor’s that makes you smile. “Which is why it’s an important game we need to go to.”

“We?” you echo.

“We as in you and I,” Bruce verifies.

“Wait, I have to go too? Why?” you whine.

Pietro cuts in, “You have to go! How will we win without our lucky charm?”

You purse your lips and squint at him. “Didn’t you guys win last game?”

“Still! Come on, please,” he insists. Wanda joins in, offering to bake you cookies.

You search your brain for excuses. “I have things to do.”

“If it’s not ‘stay home and binge a series,’ I'll let you skip,” Bruce chimes.

You frown as the siblings grin.

“Yeah, you’re going,” Bruce declares. “They’re not that bad and you know it. Besides, Thor wants you to braid his hair. You know my fingers always get tangled.”

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically. “But I want it noted that it’s only because I really like cookies.” You focus on Wanda, who nods enthusiastically. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Bruce repeats your words before you hang up, and at the click, you let yourself fall on your couch.

Wanda kisses your head and pats your shoulder comfortingly. “It’s going to be fun.”

“Standing in the middle of students I don’t know as they yell at a ball does not sound fun to me,” you disagree, but she ignores you.

“Even Vis is going,” she argues. “And you know how excited Thor gets when you braid his hair.”

You mutter incoherently.

“We’ll leave at three,” she instructs with a smile.

-

“I could be doing so many useful things right now,” you hiss at Bruce, remembering the half-written essay you have saved on your laptop, a string of frustratedly typed letters highlighted and waiting to be replaced with something coherent typed just beneath it.

Bruce had made you leave just as you began to taste the word you were looking for, assuring you that going out to see a game would somehow give your fried mind the jolt it needed. With little argument and the promise you’d committed to with a hook of your pinkie, you’d sighed and shut your laptop, leaving your apartment early to see the team before the game.

You could recognize some faces thanks to Pietro forcing you out to a few team celebrations and the occasional game you never paid much attention to. Although he’d laid off a while ago when Bruce and Thor started dating, your best friend had dragged you to every soccer-related event he didn’t want to go to alone. Pietro never minded your absence as much as Bruce did, always satisfied as long as you celebrated or consoled him afterward.

The word you’d been wracking your brain for suddenly comes to mind when you sit next to Bruce on a bench, pulling your phone out of your pocket to note it down, not noticing when the entire soccer team begins to leave the locker room, spilling into the hall where you’re slumped with your best friend.

Thor bellows your name excitedly when he spots you both, heading over. You glance up to give him a smile, quickly continuing to type the stray thoughts you’d been trying to catch when he turns, an extravagant arm extending as if to present you to the few guys with him. “This is the lovely lady I told you all about. She is very smart.”

You laugh at his introduction, tucking your phone back into your pocket. “Thank you, Thor.”

“Of course! And you all know Bruce, of course.”

There are chimes of agreement and greetings for your friend, a few of the players coming up to you. Pietro arrives first, as always, and pecks your forehead. “I, for one, am very glad you came to cheer us on.”

“We’ve heard a lot about you,” another says, huge and blonde, but his features are softened by an open grin. “I’m Steve.” He juts a finger at the brunet next to him, his hair tied up into a neat little bun at the nape of his neck, blue eyes shining as they observe you. “That’s Bucky.”

You smile at them, nodding. “Nice to meet you. I’ve actually heard a lot.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised. “Really?”

You stare at him blankly, opening and closing your mouth like a fish. “I meant Steve.” Steve looks startled. “I saw his work when I was volunteering at the art show last month. It was great, I actually bought the piece with the lilies!”

“Oh.” Bucky blinks blankly, tongue poking into his cheek before he clears his throat and manages a lift of the left edge of his lips. “‘Makes sense someone so pretty would have good taste.”

You stare silently at him for a second, relieved when Steve’s surprise takes a second to process.

“Wait, me?” Steve points stupidly at himself. “My art?”

“It was amazing, I couldn’t let it slip by!”

“I told you,” Bucky tells him, elbowing his arm. He, unlike the other players, wears a dark sleeve over the entirety of his left arm, all the way up to his fingers. His fingertips, jagged pink, peek out. “I wish you woulda let me go. I could’ve seen the art and met her sooner.”

His friend sends him a furtive glance. “Is this your first time coming to a game?” Steve wonders as he turns back to you. 

You shake your head. “Pietro is my roommate’s brother and Thor’s my best friend’s boyfriend. They drag me here when they feel like it, but it’s my first time being back here.” You gesture to the hall. “I’m usually a little late because Bruce drives like a grandmother.”

Bruce sighs, sending you a short glance that you respond to with a gentle nudge of his shoulder.

Blue eyes nods, careful to give you his full attention. “Well, I think you should come around more often.”

You scan him for a second. “Why?” you ask genuinely.

He pauses as he begins to explain, eyes pinched in confusion before Thor’s booming voice cuts him off, reminding you that you need to braid his hair. You give them a final smile before standing. “Duty calls, I guess.”

“So you’ll come around?” He calls after you, frowning when you respond with a transparent smile and ingenuine thumbs up. “Huh,” he says.

“What?” Steve responds, a little slowly, knowingly. He knows well what is making Bucky’s features crease in that way, but he’d prefer hearing it from his friend’s mouth.

“Just… wondering why I’d never seen her before. Pretty.”

“Uh huh.” Steve nods disbelievingly. Knowing he isn’t going to be able to push it out of his friend, he begins to walk toward the field, not waiting up for Bucky, the man caught up in his thoughts. “‘Thought it was because the line didn’t work,” he finally tells him, catching Bucky’s attention.

“What’re you talkin’ about, punk? What line?”

Steve snickers. “Any of ‘em.”

-

The next time Bucky sees you is across the courtyard, arms wrapped around books, your fingers curved protectively around the edges of your laptop. You struggle as you talk to someone he recognizes, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet as you reach to brush strands of hair away from your eyes.

Why you don’t have a backpack like every other person is beyond him, but it’s the last thing on his mind when your eyes meet his and you smile and wave. Yeah, he knows how to handle this—the attention, the blushing, the flattery.

The hand he raises to wave back freezes awkwardly when he realizes your attention isn’t on him, but rather following something behind his shoulder. His hand lowers as he feels Pietro brush past him and over to you, Wanda following close by. She catches Bucky’s actions and sends him an amused look.

You accept the kiss Pietro drops on your forehead and greet Wanda excitedly, too busy chatting with her to notice the two pens that slip from your pile.

Bucky sniffs, tugging his varsity jacket tighter and deciding to embrace his mistake, walks over to you.

“Hey,” he greets, your name coming out like silk, shooting you a smile. He bends down to pick up your pens, handing them to you with a cajoling rise of his lips.

You return it a pause later. “Hey, um—thanks…” you struggle for a second before you’re cut off.

“Bucky!” the classmate that you were talking to exclaims, and Bucky realizes it’s Quinn, the girl he’d gone out on a date with a while ago. “I saw you on the field yesterday,” she tells him, twirling a strand of red hair around her finger. “You were amazing.”

“I appreciate it,” he thanks her, his eyes flickering back to you for a second, spotting you beginning to step away with a short wave and an elbow to Wanda's side. “I should go, I needed to talk to her,” he starts, acting quickly. “But it was nice to see you again. You look great, I like your necklace.”

Quinn’s fingers reach to pinch at the pendant on her chain, tilting her head at Bucky as she beams. “Thank you!”

Bucky nods, turning to find you gone. He looks around, surprised, but finally catches sight of you turning a corner with your friends. Before he can head toward you, Quinn catches his arm.

“Aren’t you going to ask me out again?” She smiles at him, eyes wide and shiny.

He winces, forcing himself to not glance back at you. “You’re a really great girl, Quinn, but I don’t think we’d work out. I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Quinn says quietly, not returning the apologetic smile he sends her. He twists his lips and apologizes again before jogging over to you, slowing to match your pace when he finally catches up.

“Hey again,” he quips, offering you a smile. You return it kindly, twirling your pens between your fingers.

“Hey, Bucky.�� Probably accidentally, you enunciate his name in a way that makes him realize you didn’t remember it when he came up to you earlier, and he bites back an embarrassed blush. “It was a good game yesterday.”

“Thank you,” he replies easily. “How was I?”

You cock your head at him. “Fine? You… were a soccer player.”

Pietro laughs, pulling you closer. “He’s asking if he lived up to the stories,” he clarifies, shooting Bucky a look. “‘Does another pretty girl think I’m great too?’” he mocks, the imitation edged in his accent.

You hum in understanding, turning back to Bucky. “Stories?” you echo. Your features bear no likeness to the pull Bucky is used to with girls, nothing implying the agreement or validation he’s usually welcomed with.

“Oh, you know,” Bucky starts with a nonchalant shrug, “of the ‘insane stamina’ and ‘could totally carry a bus’ variety. You know, the ‘Winter Soldier’ name.”

Your eyebrows raise. “‘Winter Soldier?’” you repeat, words bolded in an unconscious drama.

“’S my nickname,” Bucky explains sheepishly. You continue to stare at him for a second before cracking a smile.

“Bucky Barnes, right?” you ask him. He pushes his tongue against his cheek at the blow to his ego and nods. “Which one were you again? All the uniforms are the same, I can only recognize Thor and Piet.”

Pietro hoots. “Fifteen, baby!”

Bucky eyes you, his cheeks pulling with an amused lilt. “You wound me, doll.”

“I wound you?” you giggle, unable to help it. “This is our first conversation and I have the power to wound you. I don’t know how I feel about having this power over a stranger.”

Bucky gasps, reaching out to grab your hand with his ungloved hand and wrap it around an invisible knife to plunge it into his chest. He chokes as he mimes nursing his wound. “Just digging it in deeper, aren’t you? Vixen.”

“Oh, come on, you expect me to have learned your number after knowing you for five minutes?” you exclaim with mild indignance, a whisper of amusement betraying it. You click your tongue. “You were fine, I’m sure,” you respond finally. Wanda jabs an elbow into your arm and whispers something to you. Your eyes light up. “Oh, you’re seventeen! The ball hogger! You do realize you’re in a team, right?”

Pietro claps, nodding approvingly at you. “And me, little flower?”

You roll your eyes. “You were fast. Like always.”

“That’s code for ‘the best out there,’” Pietro tells Bucky.

“I think the code for that is Bucky Barnes,” Bucky retorts, turning back to you. “‘Got a favorite player yet?” He asks you.

You tilt a brow at him. “On the soccer team?”

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms.

“Based off of what?” You counter.

“Anything.”

“Oh.” You think. “Then no.”

Pietro clears his throat loudly.

“What if I get you the best seat possible next game?” Bucky offers.

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m good where I am.”

“She barely pays attention anyway,” Wanda informs. “All she does is complain.”

You nod. “And I can do that in any seat.”

“Alright… what if you wear my jersey at the next game?” Bucky continues.

You raise an eyebrow. “And you’re convincing me, right?”

“You should be swooning right now,” Bucky argues accusingly, but his words are tinged with a grin.

“Oh, my bad,” you deadpan, placing a hand on your chest and rocking on your heels. You flutter your lashes at him and melt your lips into a watery smile. “Oh my, golly! Benson’s sweaty jersey!”

“Bucky,” Bucky grumbles. “Bucky’s sweaty jersey.”

“Right,” you reply with an attentive nod, laughing quietly. Your attention is drawn by another building and you turn. “I gotta go, but please keep the jersey far away from me.” You point at Bucky and then wave at Wanda and Pietro. “I’ll see you guys around.”

“Me too!” Bucky shouts after you. You only reply with a thumbs up Bucky can tell is sarcastic even if he can’t see your face, slipping past a closing door. Bucky purses his lips, looking after you. “Huh.”

A hand slaps down on his shoulder, and Pietro's laughter bubbles from behind him. “Nice work,” he lies.

-

Entirely suddenly, your mind feels vignetted with inky stress. You suppose it was predictable, having ignored the weight your responsibilities had lain on your shoulders for as long as you had, but it’s exhausting nonetheless. You blink slowly at your document in a lousy attempt to soothe yourself, feeling as though you were staring at it through a tunnel.

You yawn as you splay yourself out on your bed, stretching your legs out as far as you can. Your fingertips brush your pillows as you let your eyelids fall closed for just a second, thoughts and reminders of the rest of the things you need to do lining your entrance to sleep, but the door is so inviting, the red tape of your to-do list blurring.

Your ringtone cuts in when you begin to reason with yourself, back straightening fast enough to give you whiplash when you open your eyes again. Your hand slams around your phone, blinking fast as you read Bruce’s contact name.

“The thing,” you mumble, remembering Bruce’s insistence that you went to something. You answer his call and fight to not let yourself fall back on your bed, free fingers moving to rub at your temple.

“Hey, are you ready?” Bruce asks, the sounds of conversation in the background.

“Sure,” you answer tiredly, looking down at yourself. Whoever it is you’re going out with can’t be too picky. “Ready for what again?”

“The team’s win? We’re going out to eat at an actual restaurant and everything.”

You purse your lips. “Are we going to a bar?”

There’s a moment of silence on his end, only highlighted by the muffled voices that converse. “...No.”

Nodding earnestly, you stand, stretching and shaking your limbs out in an attempt to wake yourself up, but the attempt is mocked when you yawn once again. You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror and wince, tilting your chin up to get another angle. “Then, yes, I’m ready. I guess.”

“That's great!” Bruce praises. “Because we are outside.”

You frown, grabbing a hair tie from your dresser before walking out of your room, surprised to see your apartment empty. “We?” you repeat as you look around, confused. “Are Wan and Pietro with you?”

“They’re probably already there. And ‘we’ as in I picked up Thor, Steve, and Bucky.”

You grunt in response, shutting off the lights and plucking your keys from the counter before locking up.

“You know Bucky. He’s not that bad.”

There are sounds of protest and you catch an offended ‘that bad?’ before you hang up, waving to Bruce’s car. The door to the back opens before you can touch the handle, a grinning face and shiny blue eyes welcoming you. “Hey, doll, you look great.”

“Bunny,” you greet, ducking your chin in a nod. Bucky gets out of the car, extending a hand to invite you inside.

“I don’t mind that one.” Bucky winks.

You shake your head, crawling inside and saying hi to Steve, nose wrinkling when you realize you’ll be sandwiched between the two guys, and turning when you notice Bucky getting in again. You tug on your seatbelt with a polite smile to Steve, bumping into hard muscle when you aim for the buckle.

“You tryna cop a feel? Could’ve just asked,” Bucky tells you, bumping you gently.

“Oh please,” you scoff, poking him with the metal thing. “Excuse me, seatbelt. Bruce isn’t that great of a driver. He’s in his twenties and gets night blindness.”

Bucky pats your hand gently and takes the belt from you, clicking it into place for you.

“Nice and safe, don’t worry, doll.”

You set your lips into a thin line and look straight ahead, pushing your phone into the space between your thighs so you don’t lose it. “How’d you do on your Norse mythology exam, Thor?” you ask, recalling the nerves with which he’d told you about it a couple of days ago.

“Wonderful! I really enjoy the subject. Thank you for helping me study,” Thor replies cheerily.

“You didn’t even need to,” you assure, stifling a yawn. Bucky frowns.

“Did you get some sleep?” Bruce wonders, eyeing you at a red light.

“Yeah, I drank some coffee,” you respond.

“Not the same thing. Not even close.”

You laugh. “I’ll be fine,” you promise. “Stop worrying.”

“I’m always worried,” Bruce grumbles.

“Hey, how was art today?” you ask Steve, nudging his arm gently. Bucky’s brows furrow, urging Steve to look at him and read his mind with an intense stare. Steve does not.

“You were right. I was being too judgemental,” Steve sighs. “I should’ve listened to you.”

“Listened to who?” Bucky buts in. “How did you know Stevie had art today?” he continues, trying to keep his tone light.

“We talk.” You shrug. 

“Oh,” Bucky starts, glaring at Steve. “Do you?”

“Yes.” You nod before actually yawning that time. “I’m sorry.”

“You should sleep more,” Bucky comments, watching you shake your head wearily.

“I have things to do,” you defend. “I sleep enough, it’s the stupid car ride, I always fall asleep in cars,” you defend. “But if it pleases you, I’ll sleep the entirety of tomorrow.” Your voice lacks the thick sleeve of satire you tend to use with him, more vulnerable in your exhaustion. Although your request is still sarcastic, Bucky can tell you know you need it.

“It will,” Bucky says.

For the most part, the conversation ends there, the group splitting into their own things during the car ride. After a few minutes, Bucky feels your head fall softly on his shoulder.

He stops paying attention to what Thor is saying, instead focusing on the way you edge toward him in your sleep, nudging your nose into his shoulder. He can see the way your lashes lay on your cheeks when you’re so close and the pretty bridge of your nose.

You’re more open than he’s ever seen you, eyes shut and lips parted with gentle breaths, and he can’t stop staring at you.

Then the car goes over a harsh bump, and Bucky wants to do everything he can to hold you still, but your eyes flutter open and you sit up, meeting his eyes for a second. “Sorry.”

“It's no problem,” Bucky assures, wanting to keep examining the lines of your face, but you clear your throat, looking forward, and Bucky has no choice but to do so too.

-

The surprise Bucky feels when he spots you at the celebration party is no match for the sweet excitement at the bottom of his stomach, immediately pulling his sleeve further down over his arm and brushing away loose strands of his hair. It would be embarrassing how much he cares about what you think of him if it weren’t so ridiculously important to him.

He busies himself with getting a drink for you, finding himself wondering if you’d come before, only to go unnoticed by him. There’s a startling burst of anger at himself with the thought, and Bucky blinks, eyes continuing to drift to you. Resolute, he moves toward you but pauses as he observes you.

The look on your face is one Bucky has never seen before—though he hasn’t seen many looks on your face before—but it settles so naturally on your features that it is difficult to argue that it’s unfamiliar. You look intense, but the way your eyes scan Wanda's boyfriend—who’s been dubbed Vision—is dangerous. Cocky.

You say something and your entire face relaxes resolutely, but your eyes remain expectant and arrogant, unamused with your companion’s reply.

Vision—who Bucky has heard is never wrong—sure seems wrong in whatever argument he’s just lost against you, and you know it.

“How’re my favorite geniuses?” Wanda pipes up suddenly, forcing Bucky’s daze away, appearing from an unknown place to sling an arm around you. You snap out of the look, your face softening, but the pleasure of being right dances across your features. Bucky clears his throat and takes a sip from his beer, stepping toward you.

“Oh, you know, out-geniusing the other,” you reply, glancing at Bucky as he walks up behind Vision.

“Hey Dolly,” he smiles. “I thought you had too many books to read to go out.”

“I finished them all,” you respond. “And ‘Dolly’? How old are you?”

Bucky clicks his tongue. “What would you prefer, sweetheart?”

“My name,” you state, then squint at him, cocking your head. “Do you remember it? I imagine it’s hard to keep track.”

“Of course I remember.” Bucky scoffs. “I don’t think I could forget.”

You breathe out a laugh. “Right, I’d imagine asking her out to swing dance without it would be pretty hard.”

“Are you asking me to swing dance with you?” Bucky retorts.

You snort. “Yeah, sure.”

Bucky holds out his hand expectantly, covered arm at his side.

Your eyes thin resolutely at him, scrutinizing the details of his face before you shake your head. “You’re ridiculous,” you criticise.

His hand drops and he pouts. “C’mon, pretty please.”

“Do you know what music you swing dance to?” you ask him, wagging a finger to refer to the booming music drowning most sounds inside the house. “Because this isn’t it.”

“I need to take advantage of the fact that you’re here, doll. You said so yourself you don’t go out much,” he complains. 

“Yeah, this is why!” you reply, your last words getting louder as the music impossibly gains volume.

“What?!” Bucky shouts, moving closer to hear you better, but you laugh and shake your head, telling him something he can’t make out. When you realize he can’t hear you, you give him a pout.

“And I was just about to say yes,” you say sadly.

“Wha—” Bucky’s cut off by the sharp shattering of glass. With a cringe, your eyes widen as you look behind him, eyes flickering back to him expectantly. He turns and groans. “I have to check that out. I’ll be right back!” he pledges, walking away to see a deadly amount of broken alcohol bottles on the floor, the stench of their contents burning his nose.

When he comes back, you’re gone.

The disappointment that blankets over his shoulders at the fact is just as surprising to him.

-

You’re in your bubble at the library, a little clueless to everything going on around you as you thumb the corner of a page, your pinky hovering below your book’s cover. You’re a few pages away from something exciting, teeth digging in with anticipation for it, when someone enters your field of vision, a large figure plopping down on a seat in front of you.

You spare them a glance and are surprised to find Bucky, sporting a large grin and his varsity jacket. You observe him suspiciously for a few moments, having never seen him even near the library, before returning your attention to what you’re reading.

“So, you’re actually here, huh?” he asks, and you shush him, shooting him a look to lower his voice. “Sorry.”

“Why are you here?” you question lowly instead, still not putting down your book.

“Anyone can come to the library.” Bucky points out, your name playfully scornful. You level a look at him.

“Yes. Why are you here? With me? You didn’t know my name until, like, two days ago.” You’re careful to keep your voice down.

“First of all,” Bucky starts, beginning to list off his fingers. “We met two weeks and three days ago.”

“Did we?” you drone, attempting to concentrate on the lines of your book once more.

“And, how do you know we don’t just have alternating study days?” Bucky points out.

“I am here every day,” you inform. “And if that were the case, why would you be here right now?” you rebut. “What would you be studying for? Coaching?”

“Maybe I wanted to switch things up,” Bucky defends. “And I’m not studying coaching. I’m studying biomedical engineering.”

You meet his eyes at the revelation, unable to keep the surprise off your face. You fold down the edge of the last page you read offhandedly and let your book flutter closed. “What? Quinn said you were in… sports.”

“Well,” Bucky sucks in a breath as if what he’s about to tell you is a revelation. “Soccer is a sport.”

“I know,” you affirm blandly. “But are you actually in biomedical?”

“Yeah,” Bucky nods. “What, do you not believe me?” he asks, raising a gloved hand to his chest. “I must say, I’m very disappointed in you perpetuating harmful stereotypes.”

“I’m just surprised. You’ve never talked about it before.”

“We’ve talked four times,” Bucky points out. “Although I want it clear that I have tried to make it more.”

“Yeah, what’s that about, by the wayt?” you wonder, setting your elbows on the table and dropping your face into your hands, cocking your head at him. “From what I’ve seen, you have your fair pick of girls and guys.”

“I wouldn’t say that—”

You laugh quietly. “Sure.”

“But I like you,” Bucky explains, shrugging. “You’re smart and pretty and you interest me.”

You scan his face, squinting. Astonishment tints your chuckle. “You are so much better at this than I thought you were.”

“Sorry?”

“At first, I was like ‘this guy? This is the Becky people won’t shut up about?’”

“Bucky,” he corrects swiftly.

“But I see it now. The charm. I’m not falling for it, but I see it.” You nod appreciatively and open your book once again to continue reading.

Bucky frowns in front of you, reaching over to insert an abrupt hand in between the pages. “What are you talking about?”

Sighing, you peel his fingers off the pages and meet his eyes, startled to see their intensity, crinkles at their edges, his lips pinched in a pout. You gasp. “Oh my god, you’re doing it now.”

“Sweetheart, it’s something that just happens naturally, I’m not doing anything.”

You stare at him for a moment before shaking your head, turning back to your book. “You are insufferable.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

“And you’re ridiculous.”

“Go out with me, c’mon,” Bucky urges, smiling now. It’s stupidly sweet.

You click your tongue. “Dates are a waste of time.”

“I’ll make it worth it. Promise.”

“I don’t have time to go out with guys I’ve talked to four times,” you explain.

“Alright, so if I talk to you more, you’ll go out with me?”

You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t… I’m not liking where this is going.”

“I will talk to you every single day from now on,” Bucky vows.

“Oh, I was right,” you groan. “I just mean you don’t know me. My favorite color, my favorite book, my order at my favorite restaurant, things like that.”

“I will know all of that,” he pledges.

You laugh disbelievingly. “Okay, Borky.”

A cocky little smirk plays on his lips as he winks. “Bucky,” he says archly.

-

You learn his name. Completely. Totally. Unmistakably. 

It’s hard not to, not when he becomes a constant in your life and not with a name like that.

James Buchanan Barnes. It rolls off your tongue too nicely all of a sudden.

He talks to you every day. Just like he said he would, even if it’s a two-minute conversation over text where he makes sure you get home safe and asks about your day. It would be overwhelming if it didn’t make you smile so much.

He doesn’t get upset when you answer two hours later because you were distracted with work, asking you how Linda the librarian was and if she liked the cookie he got her three days ago.

You relay her enthusiastic message, deciding to brush over the wink and coy smile she sent you at his mention. Then maybe, because you’re finished with your work for the day, you shove aside your notebook and bite back a small smile when he tells you how pretty he thought you looked in the glimpses he had of you today.

Organizing your books into a neat little pile, you message him and Bruce that you’re heading home. And you intend to, you really do, but then Bucky insists you call him the next time so he can walk you home, and you’ve suddenly been sitting at your table, uselessly leaning against your things for ten minutes.

You shoot up when you realize, lightly bewildered with yourself, gathering everything into your arms as quickly as possible, and shoving your phone into your back pocket. You hope Bruce isn’t getting too worried as you push open the library doors, hurrying down the steps and onto the path you usually take. You’re alert as always, careful to listen past the crunching of leaves beneath your feet and watch for shadows that edge past yours, digging your keys out of your pocket to hold them in the spaces between your fingers.

It’s three minutes in when you begin to feel unsettled. Your phone has vibrated three times in your back pocket in the past two minutes, but the darker section of your path is coming up, and chills rush up your neck as you imagine what the distraction could cost.

A shadow follows nearby, inching closer and closer until your hands are shaking and you’re on the verge of running.

Fingers wrap around your arm and you shriek, books slipping from your arms when they wane. Stumbling back, you tug yourself away from the intrusion, breaths coming out in big, wet gasps when you turn. Bucky’s wide blue eyes meet your glossy ones, hands up in surrender when he catches the tremble of your bottom lip.

A tear streaks down your cheek in profusing relief that it’s only him, the anger indistinguishable beneath it as you stumble into Bucky on wobbly knees, his name braided in a whimper. His arms settle around you hesitantly, guiltily.

“You scared me,” you whisper. “Don’t you know not to sneak up on people?”

“I'm sorry,” he replies sincerely. “I didn’t think—”

“I'm just relieved it’s you,” you interrupt, fingers fisting his shirt. You’re far away, stuck in a memory very far away, and yet it feels enough like you’re standing in it. Your grip is a vice, forcing him closer still until the pads of your fingers can feel the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt. 

Bucky murmurs your name, a large palm stroking up and down your back in comfort. His voice is mournful. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

You snap out of it at the nickname, pulling away from his embrace as if you’d awoken. He doesn’t startle, only stares at the furrow of your brow and the light that reflects off of your cheeks. Swallowing hard, you blink away the rest of your daze, eyes falling on your things scattered on the ground.

“My computer,” you remember, frantically dropping to your knees to search for it.

Bucky doesn’t pry, kneeling next to you to help pick up your books, taking the ones you’d stacked up sloppily into his arms. You carry your laptop with a careful grip, relatively unharmed.

“I should get going,” you tell him, motioning to take your things from him but he refuses, ushering you into his car.

It’s silent for a while after you halfheartedly agree, obviously still embarrassed. Bucky’s hesitant to probe, but the guilt at what he could’ve reminded you of gnaws at his gut.

You can feel his stare each time he glances at you curiously; cautiously, as if you’ll burst into tears spontaneously. 

“I was attacked once.” Your voice is quiet, soft for the obvious teeth the words pierce you with. “Walking home from the library,” you explain. “It’s why Bruce doesn’t like me walking home alone.”

“You… someone…” Bucky pinches his lips into a tense line, fingers tightening around the wheel. “Why?” It’s painfully incredulous.

You look down at your lap, the left edge of your lips pulling into your cheek. “I was alone. It was easy.” What’s left to say seems painful for you to push out. “He didn’t like me very much.”

“I'm sorry,” Bucky offers after a tense second, unsure of what else to say and how angry he can be for you.

“For what? You didn’t have anything to do with it,” you retort, offering him a weak smile in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“For scaring you,” Bucky insists sincerely. “For the fact that it happened in the first place.” You don’t respond, watching as trees and lights flash past the window.

“It really wasn’t as bad as you think. The label makes it seem worse,” you palliate. “He hit me once and pushed me against a wall. A bruise was the worst of it. Both physically and to my bank account.”

Bucky’s frown stays, quiet blanketing the both of you.

“So, why’d you come get me? How’d you know I was only on my way?” you chime suddenly.

“I wanted to check up on you. You weren’t answering your phone.”

You pause, meeting his eyes with an inquisitive pinch to your features. “So you drove to find me?”

“Technically, I just wanted to drop by your apartment to make sure you got home safe, but that sounds better, so let’s go with it.” Bucky shoots you a grin. An olive branch.

You accept it as you mimic the sweet curve of his lips. “Ah, yes, and that’s how Barnacle gets ‘em. Being charming and funny and sweet—”

He lets a light chuckle slip past his lips, sparing you a delicate glance. You’re already looking at him, softer in your gaze than he’s ever seen you.

He hums inquisitively. “You think I'm charming and funny and sweet?”

You laugh openly, shaking your head but not negating his words. You hug your laptop closer to your chest, constellations reflected in your shadowed eyes as you look through the window. “I think—” you inhale in relief. “We’re here.”

Bucky slows to a stop when he reaches your dorm, shutting off the car and stepping out as you pack up. You only notice his actions when your fingers slip past the handle once you move to open your own door, huffing air out of your nose when he smirks wantonly at you.

“Thank you,” you grunt, climbing out and clutching your things.

You walk ahead, listening to the door slam and the subsequent sound of shoes quick against the pavement until he walks steadily beside you. “So, you wanna do that again soon?”

You laugh, motioning to grab your keys. “Do what again?”

He steals the jingling set from your fingers, moving hurriedly to the door when you make a noise hald surprise half indignation. He jams a silver one in, cringing when it doesn’t fit. You glower as you reach him, eyeing his hands as they continue to shove the wrong key in the lock. “It's the bronze one—no, the other one. How do you not—”

The door swings open, a satisfied smile parting Bucky’s face.

“Thanks,” you sigh, taking back your keys as you step inside. He stands outside awkwardly, kicking a pebble around with his foot. You squint doubtfully at him after you’ve set your things down and he’s not following behind you like you thought he would be. “What’re you doing?”

“You have to invite me in,” he explains.

“What, like a vampire?”

He blinks. “Yeah, like a vampire.”

You grin toothily. “Vucky…” It drips in an exaggerated accent.

“It's cold out here,” he reminds.

“Maybe you should go home then,” you suggest.

His face drops for a second and you find yourself feeling a tug of something sickening at your stomach. Like a reflex, the offer leaves your throat before you can help it.

“Or. Come inside.” At his hesitant posture, you suck in a bubble of air. “Do you want to come in? You’re welcome to.” I want you to.

He stares at you long enough for you to squirm before a smile breaks through his face. “Really?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, flimsy regret already churning in your gut. “Yeah. Just come on in already. It’s cold outside, dummy.”

-

It’s startling the first time you miss Bucky's ever-constant presence.

You’d rather not admit it, but it’s hard not to—not when he finds you between classes to carry your books, teasing you about your lack of a backpack but always leaving you with only your laptop and a pen in hand. You can’t help the smiles when he “coincidentally” bumps into you at your favorite coffee shop enough times to have your order ready when you arrive on your tea day.

His goofy jokes while you study at the library get less annoying and, annoyingly, more endearing. You suddenly know a whole lot about biomedical engineering and Bucky. You know his sister’s favorite color and can spout stories about Steve before he grew five times his size like you were there yourself.

It's infuriating, you think, but you don’t mind as much when Bucky's making you laugh with lovely crinkles at the edges of his eyes.

“I like the ocean,” you say sometime at the library, books spread on the table, ignored. He looks up from his notebook in surprise, putting down the pen you’d lent him two weeks ago. “It’s the reason why my favorite color is blue.”

His own blue glitters as he nods, listening. “‘Thought it was because of my eyes.”

You reward him a laugh and a roll of your eyes. “I really wanted Atlantis to be real when I was little,” you tell him. “And mermaids. Even if they were the ugly ones that murder you,” You confess in a rare moment of transparency, meeting his eyes before you clear your throat, bringing your attention back to your laptop.

“I like space,” Bucky offers. “It's endless.”

You nod in acceptance, clearing your throat as if to rid yourself of what you’ve given him.

“You collect those squished pennies, right?” Bucky asks. 

You’re startled that he remembers, and it takes a second for your brain to catch up. “Uh—yeah. Why?” 

Bucky turns to dig around in his bag, pulling out something small and bronze and shiny with a brilliant smile. ”I went to this little souvenir shop the other day and found one of those machines.” He extends it to you and flips it slowly between his index and middle. “It has a little fuzzy monster thing on it. I don’t get it, to be honest.”

It never crossed your mind that he would do that for you. A startling line of electricity runs up your arm when your fingers meet his, quick to take the penny from him. “Thank you,” you mutter, observing the coin in the light. The large eyes of the embossed little monster stare back at you. “This is really nice of you.”

“It’s not big deal,” Bucky shrugs. “I just thought you’d like it.”

Honey fills your throat. Gulping, you glance at the clock, nearly relieved to see it’s time for you to leave. “I gotta go,” you tell him, gathering your things. The smooth edges of the penny dig into your palm. He stands in tandem, rolling his shoulders.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to,” you begin.

“I want to. Besides, it would kind of feel weird not to after so long.”

You nod along. “Right.” 

He ducks his chin in affirmation, picking up his stuff too. Furtively, he lightens your own load.

You notice but know better than point it out and argue, remembering how you ended up bedrudgingly carrying only a pen last time.

“Does Sam still have your car?” you ask as you leave the library.

“Yup. One more week, he says.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Well, he’s been saying that for two, so…”

You laugh, staring up at a big tree vignetted orange.

Bucky nudges you lightly as you begin to drift away, preventing you from walking into the street. He guides you past a fissure in the sidewalk as you gasp at something in a boutique’s window. “There’s a sale at the bookstore!”

“Wanna go tomorrow?” Bucky asks.

You nod. “Can we?”

“Sure, we’ll just leave the library a little earlier,” Bucky suggests, balancing the books in his arms.

“Someone’s sure of themselves,” you tease. “You’re walking me home tomorrow, too?”

“Of course. I have been for months,” Bucky points out with a shrug.

Your jests die on your tongue as you realize he’s right, the discovery shocking when the memories of your solitary walks are further away than you had thought; suddenly, you remember that the dog you’d pointed out two weeks ago was more for his benefit than yours.

“Weeks,” you argue weakly, throat suddenly dry.

“Weeks could definitely be months,” Bucky reasons. 

You ignore him, stopping in your tracks. “Why?”

A frown tugs at his lips as he pauses as well. “Because weeks add up to months?”

“Why have you been walking me home every day for months?”

“‘Thought it was weeks?”

“Bucky,” you say, a little urgent.

He shrugs boyishly, near flippant but your things in his arms don’t let you believe that. “I don't want you to walk alone.” Then, “I wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

Shocked pupils dart around wildly and it’s difficult to swallow before you steady yourself, clearing your throat. Your features are pinched in a sort of raw determination—open, honest. “Thank you.”

He smiles and it’s soft as he shrugs lightly, nearly nonchalant.

Before you let yourself get too caught up in the curve of his lips and realize you’ve imitated it unconsciously, you look away, clearing your throat in relief when you spot your door.

“Right. Um, thanks again.” You take your things from him before he can think twice about it, speed walking to your door.

“Wait—” he stammers out, confused and too late when you give him a wave and a quick goodbye before slamming the door shut.

You swallow hard on the other side of the door, wide eyes staring aimlessly into the darkness. In the dreaded stillness, you can feel the heat that creeps up your neck and floods stickily into your face, the prickling static that needles into your palms. Shakily and illicitly, a hand drifts up to your chest, pressing to feel the thundering beating of your heart.

You curse to the silence, letting your eyes flutter shut in candied disappointment.

-

Bucky thinks you’re acting weird.

No—he’s sure you’re acting weird.

He knows you now, can recognize the sarcastic lines of your cheeks when you wrinkle your nose and poke fun at him. He’s memorized the genuine curve of your lips when he’s said something so cheesy it circles around to sweet. He knows you at your angry and at your happy, but he doesn’t know this.

You’re being nice to him. Sticky nice. Not you-nice.

He tries teasing first, poking a pencil into the flesh of your arm and asking if you’d fallen in love or something. You’d scoffed, blinked fast, and swatted him away. But you didn’t say no.

He’s aware he’s a fool to think so large of a lack of something, but he can’t pretend like it doesn’t inspire something in him, something like hope, like nectar, sticky in his throat.

He wonders if it clogs words up in yours—if it’s the reason you’re so quiet.

You stare through your computer, steam from your tea disappearing into the air as you blink. There’s a sweet indent in between your eyebrows, similar to the one you get when you study something you don’t completely understand, usually accompanied by the nail of your thumb between your teeth. But this one is lighter, more unintentional. You’re struggling with something but he can’t figure out what.

Your eyes flicker up to his, glinting in the light when you catch them on you.

“What?” you blurt. It’s louder than you intend, and you purse your lips in that embarrassed way that you do, shrinking down into your seat. “Why are you staring at me?”

“You’re pretty,” he says honestly.

He waits for your usual flustered reaction and you give it to him, but it’s vignetted with something, different in the quick blinks of your eyes and the thumb you brush over your nose. 

“I'm hungry,” you complain, ignoring his compliment.

“I'll buy you something,” Bucky responds immediately, already pulling out his wallet.

“You don’t have to,” you remind. “I wasn’t asking, I was just—”

“I know, it’s fine,” Bucky insists.

“I can pay. It’s my food.”

“It’s just a meal.” He squints at you. “You never pass up a chance of food on me.” He presses the back of his palm against your forehead and leans in closer. “Are you feeling okay?”

You heat up beneath his touch, shaking him off with a scowl. “You make me sound awful. Fine. Buy me my food then.”

Bucky raises his hands in surrender, wallet between his index and middle finger rising with his shoulders. “I will.” He squeezes your shoulder before he walks away, dipping down to your ear to whisper, “And you’re not awful.”

You huff, pinching your lips together as you watch him get in line, nudging his fingers into his wallet to take out money.

Arbitrarily, you’re annoyed. Bucky Barnes is infuriating, with his long charcoal lashes and lilting chuckle and nonchalance in giving things you want without your asking.

Your laptop screen darkens with your lack of attention, and you’re left staring at yourself, scrutinizing the thin lines around your eyes as you squint. You’re being ridiculous; you can’t be angry over Bucky being a sweet guy.

“They musta’ known you were coming,” Bucky whistles, balancing a bowl and a small bag already darkened with grease spots in his arms. You take the bowl from him, warmth seeping into your fingertips.

You furrow your brows at him when you pop the lid off, barely realizing you’d never told him what to get. “You got me cavatappi pasta,” you realize. You look upset.

“Yeah?”

Distressed, you snatch the bag from him, shoving your fingers inside to pull out two large chocolate chip cookies. “And chocolate chip cookies.” Your voice rises and falls with a slightly unhinged twinge, features pulling as you examine what Bucky got for you. Your comfort food; the token you’d never explained to him.

“Yeah. It’s what you always get. And I know you always want two cookies but only get one because you’re afraid you won’t finish it, but we can split it or you can save it, or—what are you doing?”

You sweep everything into your arms, holding the food tightly behind your books.

“I have to go.”

“What? We just got here.”

“I have an appointment.”

“For what?”

“For—things—it’s—” you huff. “I have to go.”

“Are you sure you don’t need a ride? I have my car back, you know,” Bucky offers, already beginning to get up, but you shake your head, his actions hitting something in your chest.

“I'll be fine, thanks for the…” you exhale sharply. “I'll see you later.”

You run off, ignoring his confused call of your name as you slam the door behind you.

Hot soup dribbles down your fingers as you speed walk back home, but you barely notice, struggling to remember why you’d rejected him before.

“I hate him,” you mumble, fully dishonest as you struggle with your keys. “I hate him so much.”

“Hate who?” Bruce asks from the table, sparing you a glance from his computer. His eyebrows join as he takes you in, every panting and crazed inch of you, mouth parting and head tilting. “Uh.”

“Bucky,” you reply, setting the a la carte box down hastily. You drop the cookies next to it.

Bruce stares at you.

You make a big gesture with your hands toward it, pursing your lips. “He bought me that. Just—insisted. He's so—” you sigh frustratedly. “I didn't even—he bought me cookies.”

“Okay.” It's long and hesitant. “And that’s bad because…” he begins to shake his head. “You don’t like cookies?”

Your shoulders drop.

“You hate cookies and pasta. You think they’re awful,” Bruce tries.

“No! I love soup and cavatappi and—he’s ruining everything! He's such an idiot!” you rub your face, nuzzling your nose into the crevice between your joined hands.

Bruce examines you for another second before: “Oh.”

“What?” you snap, meeting amused brown. “What?”

“Nothing,” Bruce muses, but his lips are set in a careful smile, amusement poorly hidden. “Just that you finally learned his name.”

His thoughts are pathetically obvious in his tone, lips in a thin line and eyes crinkled.

“Don’t,” you warn. “Bruce Banner—”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Do not think what you’re thinking,” you demand. “He’s a player and a distraction and—”

“Okay.” Bruce has never been one to argue, but his one word answer makes you more frustrated than anything else he could’ve said.

You puff and gather your food, striding to your room with a glare at your best friend. 

-

For the first time since you met Bucky, you follow through on an excuse to miss the game. It’s not a majorly important one—although Bucky pouts when you tell him either way, insisting that he needs you there for good luck—but you still feel a strange ache at the bottom of your stomach when the game begins and you’re too far away to cheer for him.

The edges of your lips are downturned, brows pinched as you stare at your phone before you realize what you’re doing and snap your attention away.

Scoffing, you shake away thoughts about soccer and the memory of Bucky's sweet blue eyes when he’d teased you, a strange tone of real sadness beneath his playful jests.

You pause, lifting your hands from your computer to eye the time once again. Furtively scanning the work you’re nearly done with, you allow yourself the distraction and grab your phone, fingers dancing in anticipation when your lock screen is littered with icons of messaging apps.

You click Bucky’s name first, smiling softly as you read a quickly typed summary of the game he probably sent after the first half was over. He sounds hopeful and excited, like he always does when he talks abouts soccer, but he signs off with a mispelled reminder that he misses you and a red heart. You check Wanda and Bruce's messages next, your face falling when you learn the second half hadn’t gone as well.

Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you glance at your work again and then at the clock, taking a quick breath before you force yourself to write a quick conclusion you promise yourself you’ll revise when you get home.

The game is over by the time you arrive, easily finding a parking spot in the midst of everyone’s departure. You hear disappointed grumbling as you make your way inside the stadium and cringe, striding toward the locker room.

Your name in Bruce’s voice makes you pause, turning to meet his pulled, bushy eyebrows and pinched lips. “What’re you doing here?”

“I finished early,” you explain. “And you said the game wasn’t going great so I thought I'd come and make sure the team’s okay.”

Bruce's features morph into something like realization and then into his poor poker face, lips pursed so tightly they’re edged white. “Right. The team.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, since it’s the whole team, I should let you know most of them are in the locker room moping, but Bucky wanted to leave early.” Bruce looks pointedly to the right.

“What? Why?”

Bruce shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe he said something about seeing you, but since you’re here for the team—”

“Shut up, Bruce.” You squint meanly at him, making him swallow a laugh as you spin around and continue on your path. 

You bump into Bucky when you turn a corner, familiar hands coming to rest on your arms distractedly before his eyes brighten in recognition. He says your name in surprise, shaking you gently as if to check that you’re real. His hair is damp from the quick shower he’d just taken, dark spots from water droplets around the collar of his gray shirt. He smells like soap and Bucky and it makes you a little dizzy.

“Hey, I heard about the game,” you say. “I wanted to check up on you.”

“Oh. I was just coming to see you. I told you that you were our lucky charm.” Bucky laughs but it’s not completely honest, his disappointment about the loss shining through.

You frown, unsure of what to do. Suddenly, you shove your hands into your coat pockets, pulling out a crinkled baggie in each one. “I brought you something.”

Bucky steps back, eyebrows furrowed as he notices what you’re holding. “Are those orange slices?”

Nervous now, you let your arms drop. “Yeah. I, uh—figured they’d maybe give you a boost and—” You cut yourself off, laughing awkwardly. “It was dumb.”

“My mom used to bring me orange slices after soccer practice,” Bucky mumbles.

You perk up. “Yeah. You told me about that and I thought maybe you’d like them.” The end of your sentence lilts like a question, answered by the quick movements of Bucky's fingers when he takes a baggie from you and pulls it open, taking a slice out to grin happily at it.

He dips his fingers in again and hands another to you, bumping his own small slice against yours. “Cheers.”

As soon as he bites into it, the juice from the fruit runs down his fingers, eyelids falling closed in a delighted hum. You barely realize the sap has streaked sticky orange down your arm, too.

He breathes out your name as he opens his eyes, a dazzling blue in the fluorescent lights of the locker room hall. “I forgot how…” He shakes his head, drifting off, and takes the other bag from you, pulling you to him. He sighs big and warm, rumbling through his chest.

You rub your nose against his sweatshirt, breathing in deeply. There's the fresh scent of citrus and then the lavender body wash you’d bought for him faint beneath his own distinct smell. He thanks you blithely, a lot lighter.

You shrug it off and force yourself to pull away, shivering at the loss even if you initiated it. “Do you want to get something to eat and watch that new episode of The Great British Bake-Off we missed last week?”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, hand drifting down to pull yours along. His skin is sticky and sweet against yours, orange juice smearing on your palm, but you can’t find it in you to care.

-

You feel sick when you step outside; a sticky, prickly rush that coats your throat in sap. It’s cold enough to make goosebumps rise on your skin, dark enough for the stars to drown in ink. Any appetite you had disappears, replaced with something clammier and painful, a twisting anxiety as a result of a bad day and a completely avoidable situation.

The bags with your food bump warmly against your knee, plastic handles pulling against the skin of your wrist. If you stay as you are, there will be indents of them once you finally put the bag down. 

Something like dumb, chest-puffed stubbornness tugs incessantly at you when you contemplate calling Bruce to come pick you up, a biting voice snapping pathetic for even thinking about it convincing you to shut the door behind you, locking away the choice of warmth and safety and shame.

It’s very silent when you begin to walk, the crinkling of your bag loud and in tandem with your steps. You let it slide down and hook on your fingers, carefully aware of shadows that might peek out behind yours and off-space footsteps.

Lonely fingers curl in on themselves, missing the comforting frigidity of the keys you’d forgotten at home. Your dying phone vibrates in the tight grip of your hand, spurring your steps faster. A dark lump appears on your shadow’s shoulder, and you freeze, spinning around violently to face the street, empty behind you.

You turn back around hesitantly, breath trembling. You could’ve sworn you felt someone else behind you.

Eyes rounded and wet, you begin to walk again, feeling an uncomfortable heat in the space where your ribs meet. Your required cognizance turns frantic, making your fingers shake and oxygen difficult to get into your lungs. There’s an echo to your footsteps. When you blink, there’s the ghost of an unforgiving hand on the back of your neck, the sharp slam of your jaw against brick. You gasp when you open your eyes again, a hand flying to the aching skin of your neck as you spin.

Your eyes promise that there’s no threat lurking behind darkness, but your mind blares with an assurance that there is. Ducking behind a wall, you scramble for your phone, cheeks cold with air-slapped tears as you press the call button for the first contact your fingers find.

Bucky’s voice is confused and comforting when he answers.

“I think—I think someone is following me,” you whimper, pulling your legs to your chest. Your food warms the side of your thigh. 

“What? Where are you?”

“I don’t know,” you cry. “I’m sorry, I should, it’s just—I was walking home from the restaurant and I heard something and I can’t concentrate, I can’t breathe—”

“Okay, it’s okay. Try to breathe, okay? Can you tell me what restaurant it was?”

You can picture the glowing sign, the faded wallpaper, the flowered curtains, but you can’t think, barrelling you deeper into panic. “I can’t remember—I—”

You can hear Bucky open his door. “Hey, it’s okay. Were you eating there or picking up to go?”

“To-go,” you answer tearfully, concentrating on the box pressing into your flesh.

“Okay. For you and Bruce or just you?”

“B-both of us.”

“You’re doing great, sweetheart. Try to take deep breaths, I think I—”

There’s a hollow click before it’s silent, the calm you’d been grasping at completely gone. “Bucky?” you plead. “Bucky?”

You pull your phone away from your ear, vision going blurry when you tap desperately at the screen and it doesn’t respond. Dead.

There’s a tremendous weight on your chest, your elbow knocking against the wall behind you with your attempts to draw in a breath. You shove your head in between your knees and try to remember Bucky’s voice, forget the cold fear that another clammy hand will reach for your hair and tug you up.

You need to get home. You can’t move.

You stifle your sobs with your leg, clawing at your shins and trying to think of anything else. You shove your hand in between your stomach and your legs, letting your phone fall to your thighs as the tips of your fingers reach the round hills of your collarbone. Your palm digs into your flesh until the beating of your heart pulses against your thumb, aching when you force it to stay put.

Thump, thump. “O-one,” you force, restraining your fingers from curling. Thump, thump. “Two.” A deep, shuddering breath that makes your mouth snap closed and your eyes flutter into darkness. Thump, thump. “Three…”

It’s how Bucky finds you, your nose deep between your knees, counting watery and muffled. He’s frantic when he sees you, panic like needles against his chest prickling to a pounding ache. He should be more cautious, stand still a few feet away for a few seconds, step slowly. If he were a little less in love, maybe he would; but he’s not, and the relief that you’re solid and no longer a tenuous voice on his phone is too much a relief.

He calls out your name and rushes forward, lowering himself down to his knees before he touches your arm. You flinch, shoving a strong hand against him, a horrible mix of anger and fear contorting your voice.

“It’s me. It’s Bucky.”

You still push yourself back against the wall, but your eyes finally meet his. “Bucky,” you test. “Bucky.”

It’s a silent, cold beat before you blink clearly, irises looking back a little less hazy. You murmur his name once more and promptly burst into tears, launching yourself into his chest. His arms wrap around you in tandem, pleasing the closeness your fisted fingers crave. He takes in your tears, steadily smoothing a hand over your back, desperation in the way he hooks his chin over the crown of your head.

“Are you okay?” he asks too soon.

You make a noise of which answer he can’t be sure of, so he gathers you up in his arms to push you away, only a little, only for a second to stare at you.

You grip at his shirt, cheeks shiny. And then, “I thought I was really gonna die this time.” Hearing your admittance causes a shift on your face, still crumpled and unready to deal with this. “Just for a second and—” Your lips twist to keep words back. 

Bucky pulls you back in.

“Will you take me home?”

His compliance is wordless and patient, hooking a finger through your takeout and grasping your hand with his free one, guiding you to his car. He helps you inside, setting the bag at your feet before he buckles your seatbelt and pushes strands of hair away from your sticky face.

Your breathing steadies while he drives, concentrating on the cool puffs of air hitting your collarbone, the lingering warmth from the food you’re suddenly starving for. But the wash of panic has left a shameful residue and a subsequent otiose apology on your tongue, making the once comforting silence expectant.

Your chest weighs when you finally spot your door, fighting to pull words from your mouth at the dimmed lights, but Bucky beats you to it, clearing his throat without unlocking the door. His left hand lays clothed on his lap, face stormed with uncertainty, but there’s a resolute edge that makes him look at you.

“I’m sorry,” you start, misunderstanding.

“Why?”

You aren’t sure, only certain of how guilty you feel. “For… bothering you. For making you comfort me. I’m sorry that you had to see me like that."

“Don’t apologize.” He clenches his jaw. “I don’t want you to…”

He shoves his sleeve up, taking a deep breath as he pinches the fingertips of the glove. “I know that wasn’t something you were ready to share with me. I understand, I…”

His gaze is heavy, flickering between your face and the fingers peeling away his glove. He swallows hard when it’s pulled off completely, looking away from the sight of his skin.

You can’t help the way your eyes track down his arm. It’s scarred with angry raised lines, ending at his fingertips and disappearing into his shirt sleeve. 

“I was in a fire once,” he says. “‘Got some scars too.”

“Is that why you wear—” You trail off at his nod. “Why are you… why are you telling me?” you ask, wincing at how the question sounds, but Bucky seems to understand what you mean.

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he lies.

You blink at him, slipping a sure hand into his and squeezing. “Thank you.”

His eyes stay startled on your interlocked fingers, stubborn even beneath his gaze. He laughs hollowly then, squeezing back before he finally meets your eyes. “You, too.”

-

Your fingers are wound tightly around Wanda’s arm, the nails digging into her sweater giving away what your face is trying to hide. You’re zeroed in on Bucky's figure as he runs across green after blurry white.

The energy from the others who cheer in the stands makes you buzz, a rush of confidence urging you to jump to your feet when Bucky passes the ball to Pietro and then has it once again, close enough to the other team’s goal to make you clench a hand in anticipation.

With the flesh of your thumb between your teeth, you can’t help but lose your breath when it looks like Bucky's going to try to make it, only for it to be knocked out from your lungs when he crashes to the ground from the impact of another player.

Your mouth parts in a surprised o, tongue playing his name before you can stop it.

It's eerily silent in the stadium for a second as Bucky lies on the field, before it disappears into a fold of angry screams.

You’re not worried.

Bucky has never gotten hurt on the field before—”I’m too good,” he had promised you with an uneven grin, annoying in the way that he’s right—and the only times it’s seemed otherwise have been lies, a mere play he put on for the free kick. He had shaken his head disappointedly at you when you’d gotten worried, condemning you for not trusting him. He’s playful when he’s flustered.

So you’re not worried, because you know Bucky is fine.

Except he hasn’t moved in a little while too long and you don’t think it’s ever taken him this long to fake it. Although, maybe it feels longer because you can’t take your eyes off his figure.

You’re not worried.

Your fingers say otherwise, thumb tapping against your alternating fingers so frantically they get jumbled together, clumsily bumping into the crevices between them.

“Is he hurt?” Wanda asks.

“No,” you say automatically, stretching your fingers out like a starfish as if to rid evidence of your anxiety. “No, he’s fine.”

It's another moment that seems too long and the lines of Wanda’s worried face deepen, breaths a little faster. “He's not… he’s not getting up.”

“He’s fine,” you insist. “He has to milk it.” Glancing up at the timer, you nod definitively. “Yes, he has to milk it to get the penalty kick.”

“What?” Wanda asks, meeting your eyes in confusion.

“The hit didn’t seem that bad,” you lie unsteadily. “He has to milk it. He’s fine.”

Your panic escapes in the highs of your voice, something translucent hiding it when you clear your throat. He's still not getting up and it makes your breath comes out quickly. “He has to be,” you admit.

Wanda’s brows furrow, eyes searching your face once Bucky finally limps weakly to his feet, giving the ref a short nod. A sigh large enough to make you bend slips past your lips, caught in a relieved laugh as you gesture to him.

“I told you,” you tell her.

“He’s limping,” she points out.

“It’s fake,” you assure, fingers digging round shadows into your temples. “He’s doing his hero face, he’s completely fine.” It comes out more relieved than you thought it would.

He gets his penalty kick, makes it, of course, and it’s another few, a lot slower minutes before the game is over, but you’re making your way down thirty seconds before, too much attention on the game rather than your footing on the stairs.

You stumble over your feet, barely caring when the whistle blows to indicate the game is over, and turn in the direction of the hall to the locker room. Your anxiety nearly seems silly now, not as oppressive now that the soaked towel you’d been waterboarded with was dry. Yet, it still prickles at your fingertips, faint but enough to ache.

It's only a couple minutes before you can hear the pattering of feet, the stress that the outliers are Bucky, limping like he did on that field, nudging at your mind. The players wave at you, surprised, and your heart grows heavier and heavier with each passing team shirt that does not have “BARNES” on the back.

Then he’s there, completely fine and near the end of the line. He's grinning at the apparent win, letting Steve shove him proudly. His eyes widen in surprise when they catch sight of your own, saying something to his teammates without looking at them as he steps toward you.

“Hey, what’re you—”

Unable to help yourself, you throw your arms around his neck, the prickling disappearing the moment you touch him. He is hot and solid in your arms, but most importantly completely fine.

“Hey,” he coos, hugging you back.

You allow him a moment before you pull back abruptly and smack his arm.

“Ow!” he complains, grabbing your hand.

“You asshole! What’s up with the drama?”

“What, did I scare you?” Bucky teases, smirk dropping when your deadpan doesn’t glitter with playfulness. “Doll?”

“You took your sweet time getting back up,” you continue, ignoring his words. “You’ve never taken that long.” You’re alone in the hall now, eyes frenetic over his figure.

He softens then, chin pulling closer to his neck so his eyes can give you a reassuring smile. “Hey,” he says softly, tapping your wrist with his index, “‘m fine.”

“I know,” you contend, but it comes out a little relieved at hearing it in his voice. “I told Wanda that.”

His cheeks apple at your statement, amusement twinkling back in his eyes. “Of course. My girl knows I can't get hurt.”

You scoff at the term of endearment, nervous energy dissolving. “I'm not your girl.”

“Not yet!” he proclaims.

You wrinkle your nose, stepping away from him. “You stink. Go shower.” You pat his shoulder as a goodbye, beginning to head back out.

“Sure know how to charm a guy,” he mumbles, watching you walk away with a dopey smile.

-

You’re in your room, laying on your stomach with your computer in front of you and a drink Bucky had bought for you sitting on your bedside table.

He's sitting against your bed, scanning over a document. You should be doing something like it, but you can’t help but be distracted. He's quiet for once, features set in something not playful and not serious, a small knot between his brows indicating his concentration.

He looks pretty. You can’t be blamed.

If he notices your gaze, he’s kind enough to not point it out, although it’s unlikely. It’s undoubtedly heavy.

He’s staring down at his hand when he speaks up for what seems like the first time since hes arrived. His fingers dance nervously before he shoves them away from his view, edges of thick tissue peeking out as a bracelet on his wrist. “Do I make you uncomfortable when I flirt?”

You blink owlishly at him, unsure how to answer. He sounds so serious, guilty. “No.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable, I'll stop.”

“I know you would. But it doesn’t. Is something wrong?”

Bucky cringes. “You don’t really flirt back. I just want to make sure it’s not because I make you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t! I just… don’t really flirt. I don’t really think there’s a point if I’m not dating.”

“You don’t date?” He’s known this. To a point, which he thinks is not completely accurate now that he hears the way you say it.

“No.”

“Not even guys you like?”

“Especially guys I like, ” you clarify, cringing with the difficulty of putting so many feelings into so insignificant words. “Things get messy. It’s just… distractions and it’s never worth it.”

“You think love isn’t worth it? That it’s a distraction?”

You shoot him a look, huffing a little disappointedly, as if you’d expected him to understand something and he didn’t. “Why do people always twist my words into something so cynical?

I didn’t say that. Not love. I never said love, I just—it never ends well. It’s always something you pour so much into and get so little back.”

Bukcy shifts. “That’s not true. A relationship is fair, or at least, it’s supposed to be.”

“Ah, but see, ‘supposed to be’ and ‘is’ are two different things. I’d rather just skip the entire thing.”

Bucky frowns. “I don’t think you should.”

“You don’t think I should?”

“I don’t… I’m not telling you what to do, but I really think you should try. Love can be really great. And you deserve that.”

Your nails pinch at your fingers. “But what if it isn’t?”

“Then it isn’t.” You move to rebut, but Bucky continues. “But what if it is?”

You refuse to answer, chewing on your bottom lip.

Bucky gazes at you, waiting for a response before he realizes he won’t get one. He doesn’t push, turning back to his work.

“Why do you care so much?” you ask.

He sucks in a breath before admitting, “Mainly because I think you would really enjoy being loved. And very partially because I’m selfish.”

You hum. “You’re a really good guy, Bucky.”

“I try.”

You scowl lightly. “Incorrigible. Annoying. But really good.”

Bucky laughs. “Don’t forget—what was it you said about me? Charming? Sweet? Hand-to-heart hilarious?”

You launch a pillow at his head. “Nuisance is what I should’ve said.”

“Mm, a little contradictory but what’s life without some juxtaposition? Maybe I’m a man of many talents.”

The tip of your index finger shoves into his arm.

You fall into a peaceful silence once again when the laughter dissolves, your fingers busy away at your keyboard. There's a moment where you’re thinking, staring intently just past your computer and Bucky is staring at you, a thoughtful expression on his face, stony and all.

“Will you?”

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you. “Will I what?”

“Give it a chance.”

You want a moment to ponder it, because you know the right answer but you aren’t sure if you want to pick it. “Give what a chance?” you play dumb, but he doesn’t buy it.

You look to your side, unfocused eyes lazy on an ugly painting.

“Yeah, maybe.” You want to tell him it depends who it is, that you have very strict rules mentioning annoying brunets with blue eyes who walk you home from the library and never shut up, but you don’t, eyes travelling back to him slowly. His silence when they finally meet his own tell you he knows anyway.

Quickly looking back down, you avoid his gaze and continue to work.

-

You melt into his side, delightfully prickling when you lean in a little closer to take a sip of your drink. Eyes shimmering in the lame lights of the bar, you’ve never looked so openly bright, hardly containing your delight and everything you can spilling past anyway.

There are enough people in the place for it to feel rightfully uncomfortable, sweat-sticky skin bumping into the arm he has around your chair and making the heat rise, but Bucky can’t seem to notice.

It would feel plain ignorant to do so—to not focus completely on the stitched pride in the dips of your smile or the warmth of your palms as they splay flat on his arm.

It’s not enough to just have your fingers tug at him during conversations with strangers, he feels he should imprint the feeling of your touch like a branding.

You say his name in conversation, cruelly dragging your hand down to bracelet around his wrist and squeezing. You make a little shimmy with your shoulders that can’t help but make him laugh. He zeroes in on your lips, trying to make sense of what you’re saying.

You’re cute. You’re too sweet to be in this stuffy bar with him.

You turn to him brightly in the midst of another exclamation and he feels himself transported.

He can feel the end buzzer vibrating up to his fingertips, the breeze on the heat of his skin when he’d looked up, eyes searching for you like a habit. 

Your features are shrunken into the memory, suddenly far away but still pulled into the biggest beam you could muster, hands clapping ecstatically.

“Bucky,” memory-you says liltingly, too clearly.

When he blinks, he’s back in the present, the tip of your index dimpling his bicep, your face close enough for him to count each individual eyelash. He grins without really thinking about it. “Bucky,” you repeat, a little harsher but still teasing.

“Yeah?” he responds finally.

“We’re complimenting you and you aren’t paying attention? Are you feeling okay?” you frown, lips downturned but the edges of your eyes still crinkled with happy lines. The back of your hand meets his forehead.

“Fantastic,” he says, his left hand vining up to hook around your fingers and lay them on his lap. “Just won a game, didn’t you hear? All by myself, too.”

You shake your head at him, turning back to who Bucky realizes is one of your friends. Carol, you’d said.

“See?” You say accusatorily. 

Carol grins. “Yeah. Kind of hard not to when you describe it so thoroughly.”

That catches Bucky’s fluttering attention, an eyebrow shooting up questioningly in your direction. Your lips part in betrayal at Carol, and you begin to take your hand back from Bucky, but he hooks your wrist before you can. 

“I think Maria is calling you,” you tell her. “You should go see what that’s about.”

“Now, now,” Bucky starts. “Actually, I think I want to know how thoroughly you talk about me, sweeheart.”

“That's my cue,” Carol laughs, dipping a beer at you both. “I'll see you guys later. Congrats on the game.”

She bounces to her feet and takes off, leaving the two of you alone. Bucky nudges a finger in between your ribs, making you jump and swat at him. “Hey!”

“You talk about me to your friends?”

You stare at him, bottom lip pushing out defensively in your tipsiness. “Well, the star football player is one of my best friends, shouldn’t I be allowed to brag?”

“Best friend, huh? Bruce gonna be jealous?”

You wave him off, making a small, stubborn sound. “He ought to get over it with how much he ditches me.”

“See, I would never.” Bucky presses his free hand to his heart in oath. “Star football players are very reliable. Scoring goals, keeping plans, etcetera.”

You grin at the reminder, something sparkling beneath your skin like static, jolting your fingers when it begins to brim. You splay an excited palm on his shoulder out of pure excitement, seeming to relive the night.

“I am so proud of you,” you say. Saccharine, words stout with a smile and pride. “You did so well today.”

You’re startlingly genuine, entirely proud. Bucky can’t bring himself to tease or flirt.

“Thank you.”

You smile prettily, the light in your irises shifting at his authenticity. “I am,” you insist.

You just want to tell him, for him to hear you and understand how much you mean it. Your pupils flicker to a spot above his shoulder, distant for a second as your face brightens more. You laugh disbelievingly.

“I don't know all that much about football but from what I do, you’re certifiably extraordinary.” You sound out the word, unwilling to mess it up when you mean it so much. You try again. “You made a really great play.”

“Impossible,” Bucky corrects completely unsubtly, but it’s soft, blurred by yellow light from above and buzz from you.

You observe him for a second. “I think you’re amazing,” you say thoughtfully, not in an effort to compliment but in a sort of realization. “What… type of person…” you start but don’t continue, tongue unable to keep up with everything running through your mind. The walks home, the paid lunches, the attention, the ability. 

You inhale sharply, as if realizing you’re drifting off and trying to pull yourself back in.

Bucky knows what you expect—what he expects of himself—but he can’t bring himself to tease you, reiterate your words with an artful curve of his lips. He can’t concentrate enough to ignore the prickly warmth at the bottom of his stomach. He glances down at his watch.

“Should we go?” he says instead, casual but urgent. “It's late.”

He stands before you can process his offer, still a little drunk from stolen sips but only enough to make contrasts lighter. You blink up at him from your seat for a second before nodding, two short, stressed lines between your brows. He shouldn’t have been so abrupt.

Kinder, he helps you from your seat and guides you toward the door, keeping you away from stray elbows with benevolent redirection.

Your breath curls visibly in the air when you step outside, white and dissolving until it is replaced by another, longer exhale. You wrap your arms around your torso.

“C'mon,” he urges, guiding you to his car. “Let’s get you warm.”

“Should you be driving?” you ask as he searches his pockets for the keys, standing at the car door, watching him. “And what about the others?”

“Didn’t drink,” he answers, patting his coat pockets until he finds what he’s looking for.

You frown, slowly running through the night and realizing he’s right, recalling the sparkling water dripping moisture next to his jacket sleeve. The cold and the ennui knock a lot into focus.

He clicks open the car. “And this’ll force ‘em to call an uber. Worst comes to worst, I’ll drop by later to force them home. I just want to get you home first. No drunk footballers to puke on your feet.”

He rounds around to meet you, opening the door, and waiting patiently.

“Why didn’t you drink?” you ask. You’ve seen him drink before, tipsy in that breezy way where he’s a little flirtier with a little less filter. “You won a game. If you ever deserved it, it’s now.”

“I had to be able to drive you back.” He shrugs, cocking his head in the direction of the open car door. “Speak of the devil,” he starts pointedly, reminding you of your frigidity.

Still contemplating, you climb inside with furrowed brows, following Bucky's figure as he shuts your door, jogs back to his side, and settles into the driver’s seat. Rubbing his hands together, he turns to look at you. 

“You okay?” he asks.

“Uh huh.”

He clicks his tongue. “Look at that. I think you’re a little drunker than I thought.”

“I am not,” you argue, looking down at yourself and seeing nothing wrong until Bucky reaches over to pull your seatbelt over you. “Oh.”

Bucky breathes out a little laugh, amused.

“I'm just…” You contemplate for a second, sinking into the rumbling of the engine when Bucky turns the car on. Immediately, heat slaps your nose. The glass meets your temple bitingly, jolting your sentence back on track. You turn to see Bucky's attention already on you. “Happy.”

“You’re happy?” Bucky repeats pleasantly, shifting the gear into drive.

“Yes. It was a good day today.” 

You feel clearer now, the edges of reality crisper as you look out the window. “I know I already said it, but I'm really proud, Bucky. You win games and ace tests and don’t celebrate with a drink to drive me home. You’re kind of great.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, glancing at you.

You hum an affirmation, inhaling deeply. At some point, Your few-sip buzz dissipated into something different.

Sober, but influenced on the darkness of the sky and the roundness of the moon. It feels safe suddenly, a rush of energy jolting you straight. You stare at Bucky's profile. “Yeah,” you confirm clearly. “It's kind of disappointing, you know.”

Bucky is caught off guard, sparing you a look when he stops at a stoplight. “What?”

“I just thought you’d be different.”

“How?” His brows are furrowed.

You take a moment to ponder. “Not so… you. More of the unforgivably arrogant and ignorant jock variety.”

“So you were expecting me to be one of those cartoon stereotypes?” he teases, looking back at the road with an easier smile.

“Kind of,” you laugh. “But you’re not and that’s really great.”

The red light from outside drapes over his features, pulled as he searches the crevices of your face. In response, it slackens slowly, from thoughtful to a little dazed as you stare back. Without meaning to, you’re leaning in at the same time he is.

His skin flips green.

You fall away from him with a surprised exhale, blinking in confusion.

It takes a second for Bucky to look away after you have, and you consider yourself lucky there’s no one else on the road during the long moment it takes for his attention to switch back to driving.

He doesn’t want to just forget what happened. He doesn’t want to move on from this yet. “What does that mean?” he asks, your compliment playing on repeat in his mind.

You stay silent, trying to figure it out yourself. “I don't… I don’t know.”

He tries to remain unbothered, glancing at you once more to catch your focus unmovingly on him. He pulls into your driveway and turns off the car.

“What about going on a date with me?” he requests, a little more serious that usual but glazed in his usual tone. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he continues.  “I'll dress up in that shade of blue you think I look so good in and we’ll go out to eat at that little hole-in-the-wall restaurant I'm still impressed you found. You’ll order that same thing you always do, and we can talk about that novel you’re reading—”

He doesn’t wait for the answer you’ve given before, stepping out of the car and striding over to your side.

You gaze up at him when he opens your door, your buckle unclasped in your hand. He's kind as he always is as he helps you out, hands settling on your shoulders to steady you when you nearly trip over a ridge in the sidewalk.

“Or… or we could go take a walk around the park. Or go to the movies, or the amusement park, or do laundry or taxes or—anything as long as it’s with you.”

And maybe it’s the easy smile, with the glitter of gold pride still sewn into his lips, or the genuine kindness he’s never failed to show you under the mask of the moon. Maybe it’s the proximity. Maybe you just can’t help yourself anymore. You kiss him.

He’s frozen for a solid moment, thick enough for you to start doubting yourself, beginning to pull away when he finally reacts, practically melting into you as his hands frantically pull you closer.

He pulls away hesitantly, torturously, a second later, eyes scrutinizing. “Wait, wait, wait, are you drunk?”

You shake your head, laughing gently at the thumb that pulls gently at the skin beneath your eye to make sure, urgently tugging you back into the kiss when he’s satisfied.

“‘Had to make sure,” he mumbles against your lips. “This can’t happen when you aren’t you.”

“It’s me,” you promise, pulling back. Before you can delve into your mind too deeply, you nod suddenly. “Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah, okay what?” he repeats, chasing after you to kiss you a few more times.

“I'll go out with you.”

His smile drops, fingers tightening around your hips. “Wait, really?”

You nod. “Yeah.” You grasp his arms tightly. “I should at least try, right?”ey

[rad-batson]

Billy who can still perform the same amount of magic as Captain Marvel when he’s his kid self, but due to the limits of his mortal body, he would literally burn up from the inside if he does too much or doesn’t allow himself to cool off first.

For a long while, he didn’t even notice. To be fair, it’s not like the wizard had time to give him the whole run-down before dying, and he never mentioned anything about performing magic outside of the Champion’s form. But sometimes, weird stuff would just happen out of nowhere?

He’ll only perform magic unintentionally when he’s extremely emotional. Not for everything, like “Man, I wish I could fix the holes in my socks.” But if he’s had a super bad day, and he just needs a good cry, he sees his hole-ridden socks and thinks, “Goddamnit, why can’t I just have nicer socks?” suddenly, they’re good as new! But he also feels the urge to lie down for a nap.

Some cops are sniffing around his neighborhood, and Billy is praying that he’ll be left alone. He doesn’t want to get kicked out of another semi-safe refuge. But right when the cops are about to discover his hideout, they’re called back to their precinct. Without warning, Billy’s chest feels hot. He suffers dizziness spells for a few hours and needs to wait a day before he’s back on his feet.

The real tipping point, however, is when he walks to school and it starts pouring with rain. He’s already had a rough morning so he just curses and ducks into the next bus stop. But before he can take cover, it’s sunny again, and out of nowhere, he’s running a dangerously high fever. He almost collapses in exhaustion. His hair is literally smoking, and that’s when he realizes what’s going on.

Now, Billy needs to be extremely careful with his emotional state. If he even thinks of something he wishes could happen, he might die. That’s why he can’t use too much magic, and it’s also why he talks to himself out loud so much. It’s easier to catch himself if he’s constantly reciting his inner monologue.

Later on, he gets some help with regulating his magic. Maybe John Constantine comes in and goes, “Okay buddy, we need to get you some breathing exercises,” because he’s in genuine mortal danger if he does. Maybe Billy tests his luck a few too many times and has to go MIA for a week because if he turns into Cap one more time, he'll burst into flames the moment he turns back.

But idk I am just so fascinated by the idea that this preteen who is literally the Champion of Magic harnesses the ability to level mountains while knowing nothing about magic because he has no real mentor, but he’s holding the potential to cause an avalanche if he sneezes the wrong way at the risk of his own life and he doesn’t have a clue.

[brotherwtf]

was reading a fic for another fandom where one of the characters have selective mutism & i was thinking about what if there was an au where gale has selective mutism (maybe because of his childhood or any sort of past trauma) & bucky eventually becomes the exception but only after like a really long time of knowing gale and trying his best to make himself special to gale or something like that

hope you’re having an amazing day & sending you tons and tons of hugs & kisses xoxo

omg wait this is actually so interesting! thank you anon!! sending all of my hugs and kisses back 💕💕

Gale's father would almost always yell at him whenever he talked back, even if Gale was just asking a question, so Gale just learned to not talk at all. It made the relationship he had with his father a little easier because he sometimes wouldn't come up with an excuse to beat Gale if he hadn't talked first. That didn't mean everything was grand and dandy, but it helped a little

When he finally enlisted, he was able to muster up the strength to talk briefly during flight school, only when he found necessary. His instructors liked that he was brief and quiet, he didn't talk back and always did what he was told without a single peep. Everyone thought he was weird.

Of course when Bucky strolled into their shared dorm and found his roomie wasn't a talker, he made it his goal to make Gale talk.

Gale was very hesitant to the onslaught of attention and friendliness from John, he was so used to indifference and politeness that having someone genuinely interested in him shocked him a little bit. John would drag him to outings, try to make jokes with him, sit with him in their classes, while Gale would only smile and give him a curt nod.

But John never gave up, even on the hardest days where Gale wouldn't even say a word to anyone, not even his instructors. What Gale didn't realize was how much he also cared for John, and only realized that once John was shipping out before him.

It was a routine night, just like any at the pub celebrating, but when they got back to their small room Gale closed the door and turned back to John who was already wrestling with his uniform. He quietly walked over and helped him and tried to ignore the way that John stared at his hands.

The first proper sentence Gale ever said to John was "I'm going to miss you, Bucky," and John was absolutely over the moon, promising Gale that he would stay alive long enough to get him reciting monologues, which of course made Gale laugh.

Gale half expects him to go quiet again when he's overseas, especially thinks he's never going to speak again after his first mission, but John was always there, pulling sentences from him and having brief conversations. It wasn't hard, with John, Gale actually felt like he wanted to talk to him.

It got to the point where Gale was having full conversations with John, and only John, would lean into his ear when he wanted to contribute something to the whole group and John would repeat it no problem. Gale was able to tell John about his father, and John cleverly interjects "So that's why you don't talk, don't like sports," and Gale only smiles because it had taken him so long to figure that out himself.

Gale expected the Stalag to make him go mute again, to bring back some of the trauma he felt with his father, but in actuality he didn't. Seeing John suffering so horribly brought out something in him he couldn't quite place, he would talk to him even when John wouldn't respond, and he knew how it felt to be John all of those years. It helped both of them, in the end, even when there were some bumpy patches.

It becomes special to them, Gale would only talk to John and of course that blossoms into something far closer than friendship. John was able to rewire something in Gale's brain to allow him to speak freely, and Gale would be forever grateful for that.

They didn't kiss until after the war was over, up in that control tower where Gale had taken his first sip of alcohol. Neither of them spoke, just sat and watched the flares go up and listened to the men cheering around base. They didn't talk when Gale found John staring at him instead of the flares, and they didn't talk when John leaned in and pressed his lips to Gale's.

After the war, they lived together in some sort of peace, as much peace as two war veterans can have, and Gale spent his days talking with John about everything and nothing. Gale was eternally grateful that John helped him find his voice, and hoped he would never lose it again.

[sugar-grigri]

Hello! With the discussion of Yoshida with your recent analysis, what's your perspective on Yoshida offering Denji the choice before: of being chainsaw man or having his family and how much of that was Yoshida enforcing his own ideas of what's good for denji vs his efforts to help denji in the limited scope of his position? I feel like this could have been talked about before on the blog but with added context from csm 156 interested in how this develops too

Denji is Yoshida's reflection that he refuses to see

The answer might be easy if I aligned myself with my own position, the one I established in my analysis 156, which attempts to theorize that Yoshida is on Denji's side

But you know I know I haven't convinced everyone with my blindness around Yoshida's hidden goodness. So I'm going to answer your question, but from the opposite position: let's explain Yoshida's reactions, whether as a non-ally of Denji or as an enemy. I know this may confuse you because you'd like me to analyze chapter 133 in relation to what I analyzed about chapter 156. But even if I assumed the opposite, I would have come to the same conclusion.

I love Yoshida, and even though I seem to have left him out of my analyses, I've always reflected on every one of his interventions. And something strikes me, Yoshida often seems to be talking to himself, even deluding himself almost as if to hold on.

In chapters 120/121, Yoshida invites Asa. Now fans (like me!!!) are fantasizing about rivals, a fake love triangle and a date. But in reality, it all falls depressingly flat.

But this chapter remains interesting for two reasons: two people share their experience of solitude as the only way to avoid disappointment and be happy. However, Asa projects herself into a possible love with Yoshida.

It's like reciting something to convince yourself but secretly wishing for the opposite…

But what's interesting is that we take the position of thinking that everything Yoshida said was linear.

Let's review. Yoshida knows that Asa was leering, that she looked depressed, and since he's watching Denji, he must have known about the date, hence the warning that comes later. So why get involved? As Asa's Nayuta-altered memory made him the executioner, why make her pain worse?

Because Yoshida must have had a childish reaction. It's as if, for once, he hadn't quite accepted his role as a spectator of events. I think Yoshida must have seen himself in Asa in some way. In chapter 121, Asa is all silence and Yoshida is for once almost in monologue. It was as if everything he said would convince him a little more out loud. Whether it was his theory of happiness up to........ "stay away from Denji". That point. Part of the points that concern him as much as they concern Asa.

I think and I'm convinced that even by not interpreting Yoshida as an ally, he became more sensitive and involved with Denji's plight and didn't always know how to place an emotional wall between them. Because Denji catches him off guard, makes Yoshida's smiling mask fall off. And this is something I've never verbalized before, but it's a pillar in my interpretation:

Being with Denji pushes you to be yourself.

Because Denji refuses the social game, doesn't tend to judge as teenagers of this age usually would, and has extremely sincere reactions that are so unpredictable that they don't allow for calculated responses, responses that form the shell of other characters like Asa and Yoshida.

What Asa liked about Denji, above all, was that he was able to give her confidence and make her proud when everyone else was putting her down. You don't like fish, so what? Eat starfish. Because yes, even if it was boring, I saw you, I listened to you and you made an impact on me. Because you're not insignificant.

Denji has that effect on Yoshida. Very symbolically, during their new interaction in part 2, the protagonist doesn't remember Yoshida. Of course, it's quite funny, because it can be interpreted in all sorts of ways, like the fact that Denji is so uninterested in guys that he forgets them so easily. But it's symbolic for Yoshida's character. He's so fake and so in control that Denji doesn't perceive anything in him.

And it's when he becomes more and more desperate as a result of these reactions, and when his mask gradually breaks, that Denji finally remembers his name. Because Yoshida acts less like a public hunter and more like himself, like Yoshida.

I think in chapter 133, it's really a way of trying to wake Denji up and help him. But then again, it helps to weaken Yoshida's mask. When Yoshida repeats that Denji has only two choices, that of his family or Chainsaw Man, Denji repeats that he has two. From Yoshida's point of view, this is fundamental.

The system offers only one choice, only one possible path. But Denji opposes both. In a chapter about protest, we also talk about his position towards the system. Oppose it, protest as if in the background, claim the symbol of Chainsaw Man or oppose it, see it as a societal evil, a danger of undermining the system. For I repeat, Yoshida has decided to believe in the system when Denji distrusts it.

So Yoshida gets angry, belittling Denji as if he can't see the absurdity of this dilemma imposed on a boy who has been given a choice. Who was only told there were only two choices when there were three. Rehearsing allows Yoshida to convince himself, but we see that this controlled mask has completely disappeared, giving way to anger and a kind of panic. Because Yoshida's ideals are unravelling.

Denji is a reflection.

Reflecting the cruelty of the mafia that Katana doesn't want to admit, the dream of going to school that Reze is trying to forget, allowing the trust that Asa thought impossible and the reflection of Yoshida: a teenager, who will trace a third path to the two that will be reserved for him.

If Chainsaw Man allows you to project what you want, have or be in him, hence the pandemic of CSM wannabe. Denji, hidden behind it, is doing something far more unbearable: showing us who we are.

Aki's vengeance gives way to a desire to be surrounded by loved ones, loved ones he may not be able to protect. Thinking only of oneself shows Power, through her sacrifice for Denji, that she is capable of love even if it goes against her survival.

So chapter 156 takes on a softer version. I repeat: why did you wake Denji up just to tell him he'd lost?

That Yoshida had warned him? Once again, through a strategy of self-conviction and self-protection, what Yoshida is doing is reminding us that complete alienation from the system is better than individual affirmation (which is what Denji is punished for, having repeated that he is Chainsaw Man). This identical public hunter's costume is the symbol of this submission. Yoshida is no longer even a fake high-school student. He's just a public hunter.

But I find this chapter takes on an air of funeral and goodbye. Yoshida's costume, taking on that of someone in mourning in a symbolic way.

Because saying goodbye to Denji.

It means saying goodbye to yourself.

So I ask you, Anon, and you, the reader, does Yoshida really want to continue refusing to see his reflection ?

[allthingsfangirl101]

Running Lines – Joe Keery

I was in the middle of a paper for my class when there was a spastic knock on my door. Slightly closing my computer, I got up from the couch and went to answer it.

"Joe?" I asked when I opened the door. "What are you doing here?"

"I need your help."

I gasped when he walked past me. "Oh," I said under my breath. "Okay then. Come on in."

I closed the door and walked back inside. Joe was pacing back and forth in front of my TV with his eyes glued to a script. I walked over and laughed when he bumped into me.

"What is going on?" I laughed.

"It's this scene," he sighed. I grabbed the script out of his hand and read through the scene he was freaking out about.

"Is this. . ."

"The scene where Keys records his confession to Millie," he sighed as he collapsed onto the couch.

"Okay," I said slowly as I sat down next to him. "Joe, you've done scenes like this before."

"I know!" He said, throwing his hands up in defeat. "But for some reason, I just can't get this right. That's why I'm here. I need your help, Y/N. Please help me."

"What do you want me to do?" I stuttered.

"Just listen," he shrugged. "And tell me whether or not it's believable."

"Okay."

He jumped up and started reciting his monologue.

"Now, from the beginning, Guys' behavior is much more complex than it should be, thanks to our code. But he's still stuck in Free City. He's still stuck in this life, this loop. And then, something changes. He comes to life. Why? And then I remembered. One of the characters from Life Itself was this guy that I nicknamed Lovelorn. And he was someone who was designed to never meet the right person. It was essentially the building blocks of the character. But he never stopped hoping that he would meet the girl of his dreams. So I had to base this girl off of someone and who better than the person that I was sitting next to every day? You. But then, one day, he meets you in Free City, and once he sees you. . . He can never be the same. He was supposed to feel doomed, but instead, he feels alive. Until eventually, he is alive. You changed him, Millie. You changed his code. And I think you can do it again. You brought him to life, Millie. And he was alive because he met the one person he'd been waiting for his whole life. And I had to make it realistic, so. . . I based it off of. . . You. The woman of his dreams. . . She was the same as mine. So she liked bubble gum ice cream and swing sets and she had this very cute but oddly specific habit of always humming this classic Mariah Carey track. Like all the time. She would repeat. . ."

I waited for him to continue, but he didn't. "Is that it?" I asked, my voice coming out soft.

"Yeah," he chuckled. "She turns the video off and runs to me outside a coffee place. So, how was that?"

"It was good," I shrugged.

"But was it believable?"

"Not really," I said dropping my voice.

"I knew it," he scoffed as he sat back down next to me. He looked down at his script and I wrapped my arms around myself when I got an idea.

"What if. . ."

"What if what?" He pushed.

"What if, instead of thinking about Millie, you think about someone. . . Real? Someone you genuinely care about? That way, the emotion is more likely to be real."

"That's a great idea!" Joe cheered. Suddenly, his face changed.

"What's wrong?" I asked slowly.

"I like your idea but there is something else I could do."

"Okay. And?"

"What if. . . I was thinking that if I was able to say this to someone, I might be able to get it," he explained with his famous Keery Puppy Dog Eyes.

"So I just have to sit here while you confess your love to me. I mean, to Millie," I corrected quickly. I cleared my throat before adding, "I guess so."

"Thank you," he chuckled. Tension suddenly filled the room as he grabbed my hands and turned me more toward him.

"Now, from the beginning," his voice was quieter this time, "Guys' behavior is much more complex than it should be, thanks to our code. But he's still stuck in Free City. He's still stuck in this life, this loop. And then, something changes. He comes to life. Why? And then I remembered. One of the characters from Life Itself was this guy that I nicknamed Lovelorn. And he was someone who was designed to never meet the right person."

I held my breath when he paused. The tension that filled the room earlier thickened.

He cleared his throat and continued, "It was essentially the building blocks of the character. But he never stopped hoping that he would meet the girl of his dreams. So I had to base this girl off of someone and who better than the person that I was sitting next to every day? You. But then, one day, he meets you in Free City, and once he sees you. . . He can never be the same. He was supposed to feel doomed, but instead, he feels alive. Until eventually, he is alive. You changed him, Millie. You changed his code. And I think you can do it again. You brought him to life, Millie. And he was alive because he met the one person he'd been waiting for his whole life. And I had to make it realistic, so. . . I based it off of. . . You"

My heart jumped into my throat when he leaned in and he whispered, "The woman of his dreams. . ."

I gasped when Joe gently pressed his lips to mine. My mind went everywhere as we kissed. It wasn't a fast or intense kiss. It was hesitant and simple.

"She was the same as mine," he whispered when he broke the kiss.

"That was better," I stuttered. "So now just imagine doing that when you film. . ."

I cleared my throat and tried to lean away from him. Before I could, Joe grabbed my face with both hands and brought his lips back to mine. This time, the kiss was different. It was faster, more desperate. It was as if we were trying to tell each other something. Joe slowly broke the kiss, causing me to let out a soft moan.

"Joe," I whispered.

"I'm sorry," he said with a weak laugh. "I was just. . . Saying those lines. . . And looking at you. . . It felt real. Is that crazy?"

"No," I said, my voice softer than I would've liked. "It's not crazy because. . . It felt real for me, too."

With a smile on his face, he reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear.

"I never thought I'd fall in love," he whispered. "But then, I realized I was already in love. With you. I've been in love with you for so long, Y/N. Every romantic scene I do, I think of you. Every time I have to tell a girl I love her, I think about you. I always think about you."

I grabbed his face and pressed my lips to his. He smiled against my lips as he grabbed my waist, pulled me closer, and kissed me back. We let out matching giggles as he laid us down, him hovering over me.

We got lost in the kiss as we brought our bodies as close as we could without taking off our clothes. Joe broke the kiss and started kissing my neck.

"Oh Joe," I moaned. "I love you too."

"Say it again," he growled into my ear. He pulled away, only love in his eyes as he stared down at me. "Please, Y/N," he said, his tone different. "Say it again."

"You are my first love," I told him. "You are the only man I've ever loved. You are the only man I've ever wanted to love me back."

"I do," he said, not hiding his desperation for me to understand. "I love you back, Y/N."

"So you've said," I smirked. I grabbed his face and brought his lips back to mine. I let out a moan as Joe instantly pushed his tongue into my mouth and started exploring.

Suddenly, Joe broke the kiss and looked down at me. "Y/N," he whispered, "can I take you on our first date?"

"As long as we don't have to keep running through lines."

Joe smirked as he leaned down and kissed me again. When he broke the kiss he was still smirking.

"No promises."

[dennylachancerights]

Just rewatched the pilot episode of The Outsiders tv series for the first time since middle school and here’s my thoughts (featuring conversations with my boyfriend while we watched as someone who is a new fan) Spoilers for this 34 year old show

- They start this shit with the clip of Dally getting shot down from the movie then play an opening with all different actors 😭

- I forgot I memorized Ponyboy’s monologue at the beginning and used to write it down in a notebook at recess bc I had no friends

- I fondly recall having a welfare check eerily similar to the one in the ep and it filled me with both nostalgia and dread

- Soda’s living his best life in this ep he made out with a girl in the back of the car then just ate cake outta a bowl on the front porch

- KID LEONARDO DICAPRIO?!

- Is Scout a trans allegory???? Or did I just have a 🏳️‍⚧️ awakening with them as a kid

- David Arquette Two-Bit is weird

- They put the scene of Pony getting jumped from the beginning in the show bc the theatrical release was the only version out then

- THE FOSTER MOM FROM CHILD’S PLAY 2?!

- It was about a third through when we were talking about why Pony’s hair isn’t blonde in the show even though it’s only been like a week since Johnny and Dallas died and it sparked this gem from the boyf:

“Do you think Ponyboy would’ve kept his hair blonde theoretically forever in memory of Johnny”

to which I responded with “I don’t think that’s what Johnny meant by Stay Gold”

- HEATHER CHANDLER?!

- Soda’s so hyped to join the war when he turns 18 even when Darry tells him no like bro 😭

- Scout is only here because they wanted Johnny Cade back argue with a wall

- Soda makes BLUE MASHED POTATOES? (they are gross btw)

- Darry is so stressed and it is kinda good acting?

- PIG

- Pony is so quick to show Scout the sunset and recite Robert Frost to them

- Tim’s stick up after the rumble is actually pretty good and I enjoyed that lil monologue

- Darry, Soda, and Pony’s lil roughhousing/race at the end was nice but I wish they committed to the reconciliation

- My boyfriend’s end thoughts: “0/10 Tim didn’t shoot the cop”

[raeynbowboi]

I couldn't Finish One Episode of Netflix's Avatar Reboot

I went into this show optimistic. I really hoped it would be fun and enjoyable. Instead, what I ended up with was just tedious. I got about 37 minutes into the first episode before I'd had enough, turned it off, and decided to rewatch the animated version instead. I get that this show wanted to be a gritty dramatic version of the show, but it didn't really succeed. Okay, actually seeing the Air Nomad Mass Unaliving was certainly darker than anything the cartoon showed. But in the process, everything else about the original was scrubbed away. Every single actor was wooden and stiff. Aang and Gyatso's teasing around is said with as much emotion as Zuko uses when scolding his crew. There is no emotional weight to any character's dialogue. And the jokes are horrible. There's a moment where Aang just repeats the word 'Sky Bison' over and over again. Which seems like very juvenile humor. I thought this was supposed to be the gritty dramatic adult version, so why the juvenile humor? Pick a tone and butcher it. And Gramgram really put the nail in the coffin. She just starts reciting the show's opening monologue, Aang runs out of the room, and Gramgram keeps expositioning to the Waterbenders in the room like Aang didn't even leave. And then Aang talks about how heartbroken he is with the exact same tone of voice he used when joking with Gyatso because tone is dead, apparently. At which point, I promptly turned the show off. I expected it to be different, but I was just bored. In its attempt to be darker and more mature, the show missed the human core that made the original so charming, which was the warmth of the characters. Without it, it just feels soulless and lifeless. At the same time, the original actually feels more mature than this version because there, emotions had weight and value. Worse still, it wastes so much time expositing so many things that the original got across painlessly and seamlessly through natural dialogue. Honestly, if Netflix had just done the effortless braindead thing and just made a shot-for-shot line-for-line remake, it would have at least been entertaining. The actors would have at least shown an ounce of emotion. I'm certainly not impressed. I'd rather watch season 2 of Legend of Korra on repeat than episode 2 of the Netflix reboot.

[swallowedbyfandom]

Whites Gentlemen Club has seen many drunken fools but this may be the first time they have witnessed a drunk Lord start a bar brawl over erotic bird poetry. Well originally many thought it a bizarre erotic poem about a bird. The second to last line however made it clear, they were hearing an erotic poem about Miss Penelope Featherington.

To the curiosity of all the gentlemen in the club that evening the once refined Lord Debling was completely foxed. He had begun his night alone drinking in reflective silence. After several drinks a few of the more daring Lords asked why he was drinking so heavily.

Lord Debling half a bottle of brandy down, bemoaned his offenses against Miss Featherington. He lamented over her ending their courtship. How he has let her down. How he had made her beautiful oceanic eyes cloud with disappointment. Debling listed her attributes with a passion many had not believed he possessed for anything other than nature.

Lord Delvin questioned how the young Miss remained single if she was so very charming.

Without further prompting Lord Debling now three quarters of a bottle down began his fervent monologue.

"Her wretched mama made my beloved enter the marriage mart at 16. Can you believe it? She was still half a child at that age. Of course my Penelope opted to be a wallflower. Even now she is uncomfortable speaking with gentlemen she does not know. How could she not be? Her family has no patriarch, she must tread among the gentleman of the ton carefully. That's what the Bridgerton boy was for. He would advise what gentlemen were safe."

"She is a sweet and shy at first. So kind a lady is she. Then she is fierce,funny, clever, and mischievous. How I adore her. She would be the perfect wife. She told me she was not really for marriage until this very season, now that she is 19. "

He sighs wistfully,"She smells of honeysuckle and her wrist felt like silk. She is built like a renaissance painting of old. All lush feminine curves and flawless creamy complexion."

"Now she shuns me and will not accepting my marriage proposal. I practically had to beg her to get her to keep the engagement ring. It will look remarkable on her dainty hand."

To the delight of all present, Benedict Bridgerton was also very drunk. He slammed his glass down on the table.

"Enough! I will not listen to this again. I will not be subjected to this. I came here to drink in peace. Not to listen to another besotted fool list the wonders of Penelope Featherington. Good Lord! I just poured my baby brother into bed after she denied his marriage proposal twice."

"Also I demand you take your ring back! My almost sister will not wear some store brought abomination! She shall wear a Bridgerton family heirloom ring on her hand."

The disheveled Lord Debling stood up outraged and turned to Benedict before they began to argue.

"How dare that, that child propose to my Penelope! He has not even courted her! Does he not still live with his mother? What could he offer Miss Featherington that I could not? The gall."

"I shall go to her garden at once to recite the poetry I have written for her until she falls in love with me. Yes, that is a capital idea. Miss Featherington loves poetry."

Many a Lord debated breaking up the dispute but it was entirely too entertaining.

"You will leave my future sister alone. Penelope Featherington has practically been a Bridgerton since girlhood. We called dibs! She shall be Mrs. Colin Bridgerton before the year is out. Colin may have been slow on the uptake but my family isn't going to let just anybody steal her from us."

Lord Fife jumps in because he is a shit stirrer of the highest order.

"Perhaps you will let us hear your poem first, Debling. So we can tell you if it is good enough for Miss Featherington."

That is how every patron of Whites gets to witness the calamity that quickly devolved into fisticuffs, that night. It is a story that spreads to every household in the ton and the commons by mid morning.

Proudly Lord Debling recites.

"sweet dove, gentle dove

Were you to accept my love

to lay a kiss upon your ivory breast

Allow me to caress your downy crest

To make you coo my sweet Penelope

Until you have had your fill of me"

Benedict Bridgerton's face contorts with rage as he sputters indignantly at Debling's audacity.

"Shut your deviant mouth about my sister! I..I.. Penelope Featherington is a gently bred lady and my brother's future wife. I shall not tolerate such vulgarity about her."

Of course seeing Debling's lack of remorse Benedict loses his temper and takes a swing at Debling. That is all it takes to start the largest bar brawl society has ever seen. It is a free for all, no less than 25 gentlemen end their night with torn clothing and blacken eyes. A good ten end their night with broken knuckle bones.

All the gentlemen leave that night wondering what it is about Penelope Featherington that has made the two most eligible gentleman out in society proposed to her. What is it about her that has the Bridgerton family so possessive over her?

Even more whisper of how Miss Featherington felt neither would be a viable husband. What kind of gentleman would it take to secure her hand in marriage?

[brimleysbears]

(Featured media: Burl Ives - from The Spiral Road, 1962)

"Fan" fiction erotica - "Hollywood Confessions: My Date With Big Daddy"

Post 1 of 4

Hollywood Confessions: My Date With Big Daddy

 

Prologue:

Confessions Over Cocktails

 

My name is Sandy, at least that’s what I want to be called as I write this little story about my experience with the popular entertainer, Burl Ives. I kept this a secret throughout the 1960’s and beyond, until I was attending a cocktail party in the late 1970’s while staying in Manhattan. The ladies at the party afterwards were getting pretty tipsy and they began to share some intimate details about their lives. They started talking about the film industry when they asked me if I had been in any major films because they knew I had been a line dancer on stage as well as living in California when I was younger. They probed me viciously with questions about who I “did” in Hollywood, and I blushed and said that I have shared enough things to enough people over the years that I didn’t prefer to talk about my escapades anymore. “Can you at least tell us one of your most unusual dates? Perhaps one you’ve never told anyone before?” one of them asked, in a very cosmopolitan demeanor. I honestly couldn’t think of anything at the time and we drifted off into different subjects for nearly an hour. It was getting late, and a few of the women had gone home when we somehow started talking about Disney films.

 

“Did any of you know that I was an unaccredited extra in Disney’s Summer Magic”? I interrupted.

 

“We nearly forgot you were still here you’ve been such a wallflower tonight”, one of the ladies hissed, “I can’t imagine you did any of ‘those’ guys?”

 

Embarrassed, I replied, “well, since you really want to know… I did. Not only that, I feel obligated to share for the simple fact that one of you specifically asked me to tell an unusual story that I haven’t shared to anyone – I will tell you as long as you promise not to laugh.”

 

“Why, was it Hayley Mills?”, they mused.

 

“Well no, not that strange, however pretty strange story though, as long as you don’t get grossed out”, I sheepishly remarked. They promised to be on their best behavior if I confessed my biggest Hollywood secret, and whispered loud enough for them all to hear: “I made love to Burl Ives.” The ladies, who were at that time no more than a half dozen of them, sat in shock, and unfortunately started to trickle in bits of chuckles followed by explosive laughter, amazement, and sheer denial. I decided to walk over to the bar as they assumed I was leaving the party. Instead, to their surprise, I fixed myself a stiff drink, sat on a stool as if I was giving a monologue at a formal recital, and proudly proclaimed, “this one’s going to require a lot more alcohol – and because you proper uptown ladies refused to restrain your rude laughter, I, in turn, will not restrain myself to tell you what happened the entire three plus hours I spent with Big Daddy and I am not going to allow any of you to leave until I finish, do I make myself clear?” I barked, as I took a hard swig of my scotch on the rocks. I had a captive audience. In fact, one of the women, who was either napping or had passed out, sat up attentively at this point, bewildered and transfixed on my little private performance.

 

 

Part I:

Big Daddy’s Little Adventure

 

The year was 1963, and I was lucky enough to attend an exclusive red-carpet event soon after the world premiere of the family feature, Summer Magic. I had first met Ives in the 1950’s while I was dancing in a production that he was loosely affiliated with, but he didn’t seem to notice me, nor did he make much of an impression on me back then. I had my eyes on other men, and as you know, kept myself quite busy in those days. I never officially ‘sold’ my body, but as some of you might know about my past, occasionally would have encounters with some fairly powerful and prominent figures in the entertainment business. By the time the 60’s was underway, I was getting a little older and wasn’t as active, but still making myself available, especially for men who referred to themselves as ‘generous’ and ‘lavish’. Sometimes they would present me with jewelry, cash, or even a backstage pass; or on this occasion, being added to the guestlist for the Summer Magic opening event. My companion that evening was a fabulous gentleman who, seemed to only be interested in a woman named Marcy, who had a small part in the film. Since I didn’t have any speaking roles was treated like I was invisible at the gala, that is, until I saw, him.

 

Burl Ives, at least in public, was exactly what you would imagine Big Daddy to be in the flesh. Perfectly tailored suit to fit his rotund physique, imported cigar in one hand, and drink in the other; smiling, winking, laughing, and being quite the jokester. Besides Mills and Disney, Ives was the most magnetic figure at the event, especially after our exquisite dinner. I remember how much we enjoyed working with him on the set, unless he was cranky, although that particular night I did not expect anyone to notice me at all. I passed by him discreetly on my way to the powder room when to my amazement, I later felt a gentle hand on my shoulder.

 

“Going somewhere, young lady”, he asked, in his iconic sing-song sort of tone. Startled, I was speechless as he continued, “you must be pretty special for an ‘extra’ to be here tonight, unless you snuck in. Did you happen to hide inside a banquet cart? Maybe you got in through the kitchen? If that’s the case, I might have to take you out back and give you an old-fashioned spanking like we got growing up on the prairie.”

 

I finally gathered my wits and gave a solid answer, “let’s just say, I’m ‘pretty special’”, as I chuckled and made my way into the lady’s room. After I reemerged I noticed a small group of people, once again surrounding Mr. Ives like a magnet as he proclaimed, “and there’s my ‘special’ lady!” as he took me by the arm and whispered in my ear, “thank you for rescuing me from those people. They’re, wanting me to sign some meaningless stuff about concessions or something absurd. My damn agent is here, why don’t they just leave me alone and work directly with him? Also, will they please stop telling me to sing that infernal ‘Bug’ song? I would rather perform ‘Lavender Cowboy’ then that Sherman atrocity! Please, miss, or whatever your name is, can you take me somewhere so I can breathe?”

 

I chuckled, slapped his hand, and escorted him out to a private section of the patio where he reached in his pocket, and produced a sort of small kit. It was his pipe box, stand, and tobacco, among other items. “Excuse me dear, I happened to misplace my lighter, do you mind giving an old man a light?” I gladly handed him a matchbook I had in my purse from my hotel as he read it quietly to himself. “Apparently we are neighbors. I’m tired, why don’t we grab a cab and make our way to our hotel now?”, he whispered to me with a sheepish grin, while his eyes wandered to and fro.

 

I hesitated for a moment, because I didn’t want to neglect my date, however since that other man I was with earlier seemed to have forgotten that I even existed, I thought it was fair to slip away, after all, it was refreshing to get some attention, especially from such a notable artist like Burl. I said, quite jokingly, “since I apparently snuck in through the kitchen, perhaps that is our way out?”

 

“Certainly!” he cried, as he suddenly emptied the smoldering contents of his newly lit pipe over the balcony, and promptly followed me to a side door that I had scouted out earlier that evening. Amazingly, we skipped behind the banquet tables and servers unnoticed until we ducked into one of the double doors that led to the kitchen. From there, he followed me to a faculty room when he realized I really had no idea where I was going. Everyone in the back room recognized Mr. Ives and began clamoring for his attention until he yelled at them claiming that we had to find the nearest exit immediately because this ‘young lady’ is suffering from food poisoning. Just then, I pretended to gag while at the same time, both of us trying to hold back our mischievous grins. Just then, we were shown how to get to the alley, and soon after, crept behind a line of taxicabs that were waiting around the corner from the grand entrance. As we climbed aboard one of the cars, Burl somehow gave the driver wrong directions, and tried to silence me when I attempted to intervene. He whispered in my ear that he wanted to take the ‘long way’ to the hotel. He also discreetly took out a stainless flask from his inner breast pocket and we shared a drink together in the back seat. He put his hand on my leg as he slowly copped a feel, creeping from my knee about halfway up my thigh.

 

“Such a shame”, he moaned. I questioned as we continued, “such a shame that they didn’t give you a speaking role, you have such charm. Either that, or maybe it’s your legs. I don’t know. I know I just didn’t want to be at that blasted party, and I also don’t want to be alone in that gloomy hotel room tonight…” He continued as we shared more sloppy sips from the flask until it was nearly done. He instructed the driver to park on a particular hill for a moment as he rolled down the window and produced a cigar, asked me again for a light, and proceeded to look out the window. The driver got out and smoked a cigarette and I followed suit when Burl had a blank stare out at the city lights and confessed what a ‘naughty old man’ he really was.

 

“Just over a week ago,” he groaned as he turned back at me, then looking down, “I found myself in the back of a coat check room. The next thing I know, a waitress was on her knees unzipping my fly. California is a strange place indeed. Been away from the Mrs. for a while. Mostly back and forth recording a series of genre records in Nashville, and no time for any rumpy pumpy. Last week, it felt so good though. Such a surprise. I didn’t realize how much I needed that, as if that girl was reading my mind. Her lips were perfect. No feeling of any teeth, just warm and smooth, like a wet pussy. In fact, even at the time, I wouldn’t have cared if she was old or ugly, or even if she was some kind of female impersonator… Didn’t take me long to get excited. If the situation were a little different, I would have mounted her, but I was ready to cream in that sweet mouth of hers right there in the dark. After I got fully aroused, I thrusted her like a horny old hound dog and there must have been at least a week or two built up inside of me; in fact, so much so that she nearly gagged, then spit it on the floor. Nobody’s touched The General since then, not even myself. This damned movie has gotten me going every direction and now I’m buried in paperwork- “, his ranting was soon interrupted by the driver who had stomped on his cigarette and asked politely if they could continue on their way to the hotel. The portly old entertainer grunted and reluctantly agreed as we made our way back down the hill. He then elaborated that he wished they had snuck away again, and hid in the bushes.

 

I laughed and slapped his hand and somewhat drunk I cried out, “you crazy old coot, when are you going to ask me my name?”

 

He seemed angry for a moment, and at first I didn’t know he was acting when he replied, “I was going to ask you the same thing, woman! When were you going to ask me who I am?”, he growled as the streetlights began to shine in his big blue eyes. That’s when we both broke out into hysterical laughter when soon after I introduced myself as ‘Mrs. Ives’, the driver snarled at us to ‘get a room’.

 

Upon arriving, he gave the driver a handsome tip on top of the enormous fare we had accumulated, winking at me as I was astonished, while he told me that he’s a ‘generous man’; at the same time, taking me by the hand, and even carrying my purse for me. Without even coming to a mutual agreement, I followed him to his room out of sheer curiosity of what was behind that fly of his. I thought I’d stay for another drink, maybe release some pressure for him, and do him a little favor to help him sleep that evening; but I had no idea what was to become of that unusual night, nor was I prepared for what this public figure was like in private.

 

When we got off the lift to his floor, he unlocked his suite, turned on the light, escorted me in, and shut the door – although for some reason, not locking it behind us. That’s when I decided that we were going to keep our clothes on, and that it was going to be just a little nightcap. But he started to get undressed while whistling a tune (probably the Ugly Bug Ball, if I remember correctly). “Can you please be a dear and tuck me in?” he said with his mischievous grin. By that time, he was down to his underwear, and under the covers. He had placed his smokes on a nightstand next to where he laid my purse. I fetched a cigarette when I noticed something happening on the other side of the bed, although at that time I didn’t realize that he was removing his undershorts.

Continued in Part 2, link:

https://www.tumblr.com/brimleysbears/743962348439666688/featured-media-burl-ives-from-the-spiral-road?source=share

[makeyoumine69]

dubcon + creampie for the celebration please? thanks!

Yearning

◥ PAIRING: Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader

◥ SUMMARY: You forgot one very important rule - never be rude to Patrick Bateman.

◥ WARNINGS: 18+/ NSFW │ dub-con, fingering, wall sex, cheating, swearing, creampie, degradation, Patrick being an asshole.

◥ WORDCOUNT: 1k

◥ A/N: Finally, I'm pleased with the result. Sorry it took me so long to write this, I hope you like it! Thank you sm for the request!🥰

◥ LINKS: │Bingo Writing Challange Masterlist│ │Main Masterlist│

The sounds of jazzy music were quietly playing in the background mixing with the loud crowd noise, making it hard for you to follow up another of Bateman’s monologues about how he hated these parties and most of the guests.

“Why are you still here if you can’t stand places like this?” You questioned, slightly rolling your eyes.

“Because Evelyn would take my head, if I dared to leave her cheesy party,” pouting, Patrick took another glass of champagne from the waiter's tray. “And why are you asking like you really care?”

Sighing, you glowered at him before reciting: “You still haven’t told her about us, right?”

Bateman let out a weary breath and quickly had a sip of his drink, not breaking eye contact with you. “I’ve repeatedly noted that this topic is closed… Once and for all. I don't intend to discuss it.”

“Oh, really?” what an asshole–you bellowed to yourself, feeling an intolerable urge to punch him right into his perfect face. “You know what?”

“What?” Patrick rejoined in a challenging way.

“Screw you and your fucking fiancée!”

Before you left, you noticed his deadly stare, but you didn’t care as you were already moving across the big living room, searching for the exit.

As soon as you stepped into the narrow corridor, you heard someone’s loud footsteps behind your back. Frowning, you were about to spin around to check who it was, when the large palm tightened around your neck, causing you to wince as if from a wasp sting.

“What the-” You tried to shout, but you were immediately hushed as someone pressed you against the wall. And then, you saw Bateman’s conceited face, as he was towering over you, his hands continuously slithering over your frightened face. 

“You better keep your mouth shut, if you don’t want me to choke you right here,” pure rage was seething inside his body, you could sense it in the way he squeezed your jaw, inducing your eyes to water. “Fuck, what a whiny stupid bitch…”

Breathing rapidly, Patrick looked over the surrounding space, and the next things he did were dragging you to the door nearby, opening it and literally pushing you into the dark room.

Once he gave you the ability to speak, you almost squeaked: “W-what the hell is wrong with you?!”

Briskly, Bateman found the light switch on the wall beside you, sprawling you against it with his massive muscles. “You can't talk to me like that, (Y/N). No one can!”

Growling, he trapped you in his brawny arms, making you wail through your half-compressed lips: “Pat-Patrick… Stop-aghh,” you yelped from how his mouth latched on the sweet spot on your neck. “Don’t… Don’t t-touch me!”

“Fucking whore…Stop fronting and kiss me already!” snuggling into you more and more persistently, Bateman licked your cheek. “Use your mouth as intended, for once!”

Squirming against his broad chest, you attempted to push him back, but he was so huge and strong, you didn’t even have a chance. “A-aah, get off… Get off of me! We are at Evelyn's house, for God’s sake!”

“So what?” savagely, he slammed you against the wall, his firm hand was already between your legs, teasing your treacherously drenched pussy with light strokes. “You want me to bring her here, so she can watch us fuckin’? Tell me, slut. Is that what you want?” he smacked your ass with his free palm, squashing it after and making you nearly sob into his ear. “Or maybe you want everyone in this house to know what a pathetic whore you are?”

“Oh, Gosh…No, n-no,” you moaned as his sneaky digits eventually reached inside your panties, and now they were playing with your engorged little tip. “P-Patrick… Mmm,” you pleaded, fiercely wreathing your arms around his beefy torso, as the lascivious desire was taking over your mind too soon. “You can stop this… It's not too late-aaahhh, p-please…”

With an immodest squelch, Patrick shoved his fingers inside your sleek pussy, harshly stretching you from the inside, forcing a loud moan to fall from your lips. “No, silly...It’s too late since you decided to be a bitch!”

Pressing you harder against the wall, he went even deeper, burying his fingers almost till the knuckles, twisting and curling them at a ruthless pace. Abashed, you arched your back instinctively, feeling yourself so close to the edge from the way his experienced digits were working up your tight inner channel. 

“Mm-mmhm, I’mma cum…”

“Already? God, you’re so wretched,” instantly, Bateman pulled out his fingers to spin you around, with your ass brushing against his hard groin. “I’ll forgive you this time, but never again will you dare to test my kindness,” he enunciated while unzipping his pants, covering your mouth with his big palm, because he knew what was going next. “Be quiet, and maybe I will let you cum.”

Huffing in anticipation, he possessively bent you over for a better angle, and then Patrick slapped your butt several times with his stony cock; his blushing tip was already so leaking, you could sense the pre-cum dripping on your skin.

“Mm-mhh, Pat!” muffling through his fingers, you jolted under his weight as he was sheathing himself into your needy cunt until his heavy balls hit your ass. “A-aawww, mm-so d-deep…”

“(Y/N), I know, now shush…” Bateman muttered, putting his chin on your head and rocking into your little form with relentless exertion; your legs becoming weaker with each thrust he made. “Such a cock drunk slut, s-shit…”

Absolutely shameless sounds of flesh-meeting-flesh along with your taut nipples rubbing against the wall, impelled your inner walls to encase his dick so tightly, you both twitched from a blissful delight, while Patrick had to nuzzle against your neck to stifle his growls.

Panting, you both lost it nearly at the same time, his beefy shaft never stopped drilling your little hole, even when you reached your climax, and your whole insides were exploding from the ecstatic sensation of being flooded with his hot cum.

[666writingcafe]

Play Practice

Outside of brief interactions in between classes, today's rehearsal in RAD's auditorium has been the first time I've seen the brothers since the restaurant incident. While it's been weird not spending my nights at the House, it's definitely been more peaceful at the castle.

Simeon has taken the role of the play's director. The longer rehearsal goes on, the more snippy he gets at the others. He's scolded Beel for whining about his hunger because, in his words, "that's not in the script", and he just snapped at Asmo for wanting a break because he "doesn't have all of his Act 1 lines memorized".

While I wait for my cue, I'm sitting in one of the auditorium seats. Diavolo is on my right, and Luke on my left. Solomon is sitting in front of me.

"Why is Simeon acting so tense and irritable?" Luke wonders quietly.

"I don't think he's acting," I whisper. The last thing I want is for Simeon to lash out at us for talking too loud.

"To be fair, the brothers aren't making this easy on him," Solomon observes. "I mean, he gave each of them a copy of the script a week ago, so they should at least be somewhat familiar with their lines, but it's like today's the first time they've actually looked at it."

"Out of curiosity, Luke, has Simeon mentioned anything about how the script ended up like this?" Diavolo asks. "It seems completely different from the version he told me about."

"Well, you see, Simeon had this really bad case of writer's block for a while, but then suddenly--" Luke's interrupted by Simeon barking at Mammon and Lucifer to stand by.

"I asked him how he wrote TSL, and as he was starting to answer me, it's like a light bulb went off in his head, and he shooed us out of his room and wrote all night long," Solomon finishes answering.

"Fascinating," Diavolo murmurs. Solomon turns his attention to me.

"I heard about what happened," he states. "Are you feeling all right? Noticed anything out of the ordinary?"

"I'm still a bit sore," I tell him.

"Sore from what?" Luke asks, his eyes full of curiosity.

"MC had a rather unfortunate accident at a restaurant a few weeks ago," Diavolo responds. "They've been staying with me while they recover." Solomon arches a brow at the prince's words but doesn't say anything.

"What kind of an accident?"

"I basically overexerted myself," I explain. "The brothers were acting obnoxious, and I told them to stop."

"Using magic?" I nod my head.

"I remember the first time I put multiple demons under my control at once," Solomon chimes in. "It was rough, to say the least."

"What is it about magic that causes muscle pain?" I wonder out loud.

"Probably the fact that you're human," Diavolo replies nonchalantly. At that moment, Simeon calls for me, and I make my way up on stage.

"All right, we'll start from the top of Act 2 with your line," Simeon instructs. "Let's see what you can do." Believe it or not, Diavolo and Barbatos have helped me practice my lines. While I don't have everything memorized quite yet, I'm finding it easier to recite my lines without constantly looking at my script.

Taking a deep breath, I launch into my monologue.

"I still remember the day I first met you, almost like it was yesterday. The way you fixed your eyes on me, that noble yet sincere gaze..." I use the pause to quickly glance at the script. "The moment I beheld it, I was transfixed. And that was it. There was no going back. I fell for you completely, body and soul." Another glance. "I knew that if we were to become friends--and only friends--I'd be able to stay by your side forever, so I buried my feelings for you deep inside. Forever. At least, that's what I thought." A sigh. "Is there any way that I might take his place? That you might feel for me what you've felt for him? I beg you, open your heart to me instead, to me and me alone."

Complete silence. Scanning the room, everyone that hasn't heard me recite these lines before appears shocked. Luke looks like he's about to cry.

"Nicely done," Simeon quips. "As long as you keep practicing, you should be able to have those lines memorized in no time."

[fragiledewdrop]

TOLKIEN, MYTH AND THE EARLY 20TH CENTURY

A week ago I wrote a post about my excitement in discovering just how much Tolkien took inspiration from Anglo-Saxon poetry.

I was so lost in my little over-emotional bubble that I was genuinely a little surprised when a few people expressed their disappointment in discovering that "The Lord of The Rings" wasn't wholly original. It makes sense, though, so I thought I'd address it.

These are @fortunes-haven ' s tags:

@sataidelenn already wrote an interesting reply, but I'd like to approach the question from a different point of view. Why? Because the first thing I thought about when reading this comment was how I myself have grumbled under my breath about having to wade through someone's "personal mythology smoothie", only I wasn't reading Tolkien. I was reading T. S. Eliot.

Now, I want to preface this by making it clear that I am well aware Tolkien is by no means a modernist. He did, however, write LOTR in England in the late 30s. He was part of the same culture, the same society, and above all the same historical context that produced "The Waste Land" and "Ulysses", and I think we should take that into account when we discuss his work.

Because by the time Tolkien published LOTR, Joyce and Eliot and Yeats had already discussed and applied the mythic method. Was Tolkien aware of their debates? Did he read and appreciate their books? I have no clue. It would take some research to find out, research I currently (unfortunately) don’t have time for. But I do not think it a stretch to suggest that Tolkien might have been moved by the same need that drove other writers to look back at myth, although in very different ways.

Why did Joyce and Eliot feel compelled to return to the narrative roots of mankind? Why did Yeats devote so much time to Celtic lore? Why did Tolkien write a new epic and base it on the Saxon world?

The answer is the same: because they lived at the start of a century that posed more questions than ever, but provided no answers; a century when time and the human mind and the very structure of matter had ceased to be solid, defined, a foundation to rely on; a century torn apart by brutal, inhumane, sensless war.

When you can't find answers in the present and the future is so uncertain it's laughable, you look to the past. Because the thing is, we can talk about "personal mythology" all we want, but myths are never personal. They are universal. They are tied to a specific cultural context, certainly, but they exemplify emotions, truths and tragedies that are common (or supposed to be common) to all humankind, beyond space and time. Myths are supposed to be eternal.

They are also a very effective shorthand to communicate rather complex concepts.

I can write five pages telling my girlfriend that she makes me feel safe, that she is something I've longed for and fought to gain, something I've dreamed about but that I'm scared I'll lose. I could, and I probably wouldn’t be able to convey exactly what I mean.

Or I could say "She is my Ithaca" and you would get it, wouldn’t you?

There are whole books that try to explain the symbolism behind "The Green Knight", but Eliot can offhandedly mention a chapel and he has basically evoked the whole original poem plus the centuries of scolarship that followed.

Tolkien could have had his characters recite long monologues about how they feel like their world has been lost. Instead, he has one of them sing a song by the campfire. An 8th century song, about a warrior in exile. He achieves in a couple of lines what could have taken him a whole book to convey, and he does it in a way that goes straight to the heart, even if we don't know exactly why.

And that's the thing: not all of us spend years researching myths and old poetry. Certainly we don't do it when reading LOTR for the first time, especially if that's when we are 13 or 10 or 8 years old. But we get it anyway. We know myths, especially Western myths, one way or another, as if through cultural osmosis. We understand myths from other cultures too- we may need a bit of context, but we do- and often we find that the bones of the stories are similar, across oceans and centuries.

That means that using myths as the building blocks of your story is an amazingly effective way to cut to the quick, to get to the core of what the narrative is aiming at.

I have seen so many people talk about the feeling they get when reading LOTR, or even just thinking about it: that nostalgia? That bittersweet hurt? That longing for something bright and lost, for a star or a jewel or a land beyond the sea? That, right there. That is what Tolkien achieves by telling stories inside stories, by having his words have a meaning and weight that we would associate with a bard or a preacher, not a fantasy writer. And, as I have discovered recently, it's almost exactly the same feeling you get when reading Saxon poetry.

It's almost as if he chose it on purpose, isn’t it?

That's not all, though.

As both people tagged above(and many others, myself included) have already written, Tolkien doesn’t just use myths as building blocks. He alters them.

Yes, Frodo's hero's journey is not typical. Yes, there are a lot of similarities between the last part of LOTR and the Odissey, but they are not quite the same.

That's because Frodo is not, and can't be, Ulysses. He isn’t a warrior crowned with glory and cunning who reconquers his home and that leaves it because a god has promised him peace if he does. He is a mutilated soldier coming home from the trenches, only to find that he no longer belongs in the home he has bled for.

Frodo is a new hero, for a new age (just like Ulysses was a new hero for a new age, which I rather think is one of the reasons Joyce chose him as the model for his novel. The Odissey was already subversive in and of itself. "An odd duck", as @sataidelenn put it.)

We have to understand just how traumatic WWI was. It's a shift, a break so immense that it changed society, politics, culture, family structures, the idea of hero and even of manhood. The Western World was not the same after 1918. Of course art changed too.

Would Tolkien have written LOTR had he not fought in that war? Probably. But it would have been a very, very different book. The way it deals with war, technology, trauma, peace and friendship-all the things we love about it- are direct fruits of that conflict. I think the way myth fits into it is, too.

I can understand being disappointed that not everything in Lotr is wholly new, wholly Tolkien's invention. It didn’t even occur to be to be, though, because I am used of thinking of it in these terms.

All the myths he uses- from Kullervo to Ulysses to Beowolf to medieval fairy tales- are means to tell a new story. They come back to life, and while we perceive how timeless they are, they end up telling us something that is rooted in time. A new English epic, yes, but very clearly an epic of England between two world wars. A 20th century heroic tale which offers a desperate, brave hope for the future. How can we not love it?

And look, I might joke about personal mythology smoothies to myself all the time, but the reason I keep reading and studying Eliot and Joyce and Yeats is that they do have something new to say, something amazing. You can take them or leave them, love them or hate them, but "unoriginal" is not an adjective you can, in good conscience, apply to their work.

I think, in a weird way, Tolkien is the same.

"In manipulating a continuous parallel between contemporaneity and antiquity, Mr. Joyce is pursuing a method which others must pursue after him. They will not be imitators, any more than the scientist who uses the discoveries of an Einstein in pursuing his own, independent, further investigations. It is simply a way of controlling, of ordering, of giving shape and significance to the immense panorama of futility and anarchy which is contemporary history. It is a method already adumbrated by Mr. Yeats, and of the need for which I believe that Mr. Yeats to have been first contemporary to be conscious. Psychology (such as it is, and whether our reaction to it be comic or serious), ethnology, and The Golden Bough have concurred to make possible what was impossible even a few years ago. Instead of narrative method, we may now use the mythic method. It is, I seriously believe, a step toward making the modern world possible for art." –T.S. Eliot, from Ulysses, Order, and Myth (1923)

[pullhisteeth]

hi! i don’t know how knowledged you are in the topic, but could i request an autistic!reader x eddie? they’re in class together and the teacher keeps picking on reader for zoning out, not making eye contact, fidgeting (tapping nails on the table is something i do) and they start to get super stressed out about it, but don’t want to cause any arguments so just try to mask the behaviour. this is until eddie (who is at the back of the class) stands up for reader and argues with the teacher himself.

after class, reader questions why eddie why he did that and he says he can’t stand to see people getting bullied, especially by the teachers themselves (but as well as this, it’s because he likes them, but he doesn’t admit that). ends with him inviting them to hang out after school?

thank you so much if you do this! :)

hello my love! thank you so much for your request

a couple disclaimers: 1, I do not have diagnosed autism! 2, I did some research and took from some personal experience but I didn’t make explicit reference to autism in this. I hope that's okay and that you enjoy it anyway!

much love !!!

cw teacher's a dick, reference to autism-adjacent behaviour, fem!reader, a very cheesy magpie metaphor lol [2k]

-

The call of your name from the front of the room digs its claws into your back and pulls you mercilessly out of your head.

Something outside had caught your eye – a magpie. You'd recited the rhyme that your mother had taught you in your head: one for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy. It had been one lone magpie, flying down from the roof of the school above you onto the yard outside. Alone, pecking in vain at the hard tarmac, making you sad. Sorrow.

And then another had swooped down, joining the bizarre display of mindless instinct. Two birds. Joy.

To your surprise, two more joined a few minutes later. The first two had moved back, away from the window to the patch of grass, where their digging seemed more fruitful. Four. Four for a boy. You began to wonder what boy it could mean.

The thought doesn't get to go too far, though, because Mrs. O'Donnell's brash, raised voice calls you from across the room. You spin your head to meet her eye but avert it just as quick, wincing at the sour expression on her face. With one eyebrow raised she stares you down and you resist the urge to sink into your seat when you see five or six other heads turn to look at you.

"Is there something more important outside?" she barks, question rhetorical.

Sometimes, moments like this can take you by surprise and steal the words from your mouth. After a couple of shallow breaths, you muster: "uh, no, no. Sorry, Mrs. O'Donnell."

She seems satisfied for now, reluctantly turning back to the chalkboard and resuming her monologue. As she does you release the tension in your back and let yourself slide down, hiding as much of yourself as you can behind the cheap chipboard desk, willing yourself to listen to her.

Her class is dull, which makes you sad. You love history, and always have, and when she leaves you to work from textbooks or gives you homework you actually enjoy it. But the monotonous voice of your sullen teacher is enough to turn you off the subject altogether, so you quickly find your mind wandering again.

A boy. For some reason, you're fixated on the four magpies. They're still there, dithering around the grass, flapping their wings every so often when there's a breeze. They're pretty birds, you think, with their shiny black feathers and pretty white chests. You wonder where they live – do birds live in one place? Maybe they have nests, constructions of twigs and feathers and shiny things. Magpies love shiny things, and how many have those four picked up in their short lives?

You start when O'Donnell calls your name again. This time it's a short, sharp crack, like a firecracker, filled with anger and impatience. You sit upright at the sound, eyes trained on the ground between yourself and her desk.

"Would you please stop that tapping?" she bites with words clipped short.

You mumble a response that even you can't make out and drop the pencil you'd had sat between your index and middle finger. You didn't even realise you'd been bouncing it on the table, the metronome ticks soothing your mind too much for you to notice.

You focus all of your attention on O'Donnell, trying to ignore the multiple people looking at you again. Determined to keep your eyes on her and not let your mind wander, you try to fidget with something quiet, unnoticeable. You're not one for causing a scene, but you're anxious and unsure how to soothe yourself.

You settle on the hem of your jumper, toying with a loose thread and focusing on the repetitive motion of running it between your thumb and finger. You try to centre on the gesture but soon you zone out, eyes glossed over and posture sinking, and mindlessly you begin to wrap the thread around the end of your finger.

As usual, you're not paying close attention to the way the thread is moving. It's just a soothing thing, to keep a sequence of movements, up and round and round and round and off the finger, over and over and over again.

"Shit," you breathe when the thread gets tied in a knot and slips harshly over the skin. You look down and though there's no cut, the pain was sharp and hot, like a burn.

But you're made to look up again because O'Donnell's shouting your name, patience clearly worn thin, and you look back at the spot on the floor you seem to have become so accustomed to this period. You can see her with her hands on her hips and her brows scrunched down; you don't have to look straight at her to know that she's angry.

"Is there something you want to tell us all?"

"No, I- sorry, I just-"

"Look at me," she demands, and you try, you really do, but it's hard. Your eyes have a life of their own, only landing on hers for a brief second. "You just what? Don't think you need to pay attention?"

"No, no," you plead, hopelessly trying to get her to stop, trying to divert the attention, move the moment on. "I'm sorry."

"Leave her alone, O'Donnell."

The voice comes from behind you and cuts clean through the silence. You look up to find where it came from, even though you know who it was.

It's too familiar to you, to everyone, for you to mistake it for anyone else.

"Excuse me, Mr Munson?"

"Stop pickin' on her," he says, and this time you see the words come from him. He's slumped in his chair, legs spread and forearms resting on the desk in front of him, where there's no textbook. "'S'not like she's hurtin' anyone."

O'Donnell seems astonished, despite Eddie's reputation. Even for him, this is novel.

"This is my class, Mr. Munson, and I will have silence while I teach. Now, sit up."

"But she's not doing anything. You're just yellin' at her and it's clearly not helping."

There are tears clouding your vision, though you can't tell if they're sprung from humiliation or gratitude; perhaps a mix of the two.

"Principle's office. Now."

Eddie heaves a sigh and as he turns to push himself off the chair, one hand planted on his desk and the other on his knee, he looks at you square in the face. For once you can't divert your eyes, and you look back at him with what must be a wet and very flushed expression, because his softens and he gives you a small smile and a roll of his eyes.

You find yourself giggling, but you cough and choke it down, going back to bouncing the pencil between two fingers.

He makes a show of pulling his bag off the floor and trapsing to the door, dragging his feet as he goes. When he reaches the door he shoots you another smile, except this time it's a flashy grin, all teeth and tight-shut eyes.

The rest of the class drags, but you feel relieved when O'Donnell doesn't pick on you again, despite your tendency to zone out. Perhaps because Eddie embarrassed her a little, she actually does leave you alone, and for eighteen minutes you feel a little of the weight that forcing focus creates ease off your shoulders.

When the bell goes you pack your stuff away and make a quick exit before she can collar you for any reason. You weave through bodies to the door, and then push through more of them in the hall, making for the principal's office at the end of the building.

It's the end of the day so people are lingering, making it difficult to keep your speed, but when you arrive at the office Eddie's nowhere to be seen. For a few seconds you worry you've missed him, but then the door swings open and he stops when he sees you, halfway to getting his bag on his shoulder.

He calls your name in question softly and you turn to look at him, relief spreading through you.

"Oh, hey," you say.

"You okay?" he asks, moving again, closing the door behind himself.

"Why did you do that?" you say.

He steps towards you, a confused look on his face. "What d'you mean?"

"Why did you… get in trouble? For me?"

"'Cause O'Donnell's a prick."

"But I bet you've got, like, weeks of detentions, and some kinda note on your record, and-"

"Hey," he says, soft but firm, cutting you off. "It's nothin' I haven't had before. Besides, Higgins let me off with a warning."

"Oh," you breathe, deflating. "Good."

"She seriously was being ridiculous," he says, looking you in the eye. "You weren't botherin' anyone. She's just a bully."

"Yeah, I guess so," you say, smiling to yourself. "Well, thanks, Eddie."

"No need," he responds, smiling, hoping desperately that you can't hear the joy in his voice because the way you say his name makes him weak in the knees.

"No one's ever done anything like that for me before," you admit. "It was really nice of you."

He gives in, and says, reluctantly, "you're welcome," grinning down at you.

He begins to walk, looking back at you expectantly. You catch up with him and walk beside him down the now sparse corridor.

"Here, you need a ride home?" he asks. Eddie always comes across as very confident, you think, but right now he's all bashful and the way he reaches up to scratch the back of his head, you think he might be nervous.

"Um, actually, yeah. That'd be nice, thanks."

"No biggie. Just in the lot, this way."

He reaches to take your hand but you flinch instinctively, pulling your own back.

"Shit, sorry," he says, stopping in front of you. "That was- sorry, force of habit."

"It's okay," you say warmly, hoping he doesn't feel too awkward, or that, god forbid, he begins to think you don't like him.

After a moment of stillness, and after you think about it, you decide to reach your hand out for him. He clues into your gesture, taking a mental note that you don't like it when it's unexpected, but that you'll still offer it to him.

He takes your hand in his, turning quickly to hide the appreciative flush that has spread across his face. In doing so he misses the way you smile to yourself.

He helps you carefully into his van like a gentleman, telling you excuse the mess, sweetheart, and she's old but she's reliable, I promise, making you laugh when he runs around the front to his own door. The drive is short, too short for your liking, only the length of one Black Sabbath song. He pulls up outside your house as per your directions but as you turn to get the door and say your goodbyes, he says, "do you maybe wanna to hang out?"

"Hm?" you turn to look at him, missing half of what he asked you.

It takes him a moment, the nerves almost getting the better of him.

"Do you want to hang out?"

"Now?"

He laughs at the dumbfounded look on your face, because he swears that should be him. How on earth he's got such a pretty girl in his van looking shocked that he wants to hang out with her is beyond him.

"I mean, if you're free, but I'm around all weekend."

"My parents are expectin' me home," you admit sullenly. Before his face can drop too much, though, you add: "how's tomorrow?"

The way he perks up fires sparks of happiness up your nerves. He's got such a handsome face.

A boy, a cute boy, asking you to hang out. It's a bad day turned wonderful.

"Tomorrow's perfect," he tells you through a face-splitting grin. "I'll pick you up here at, like, two?"

"Sure thing," you say. "There's a bookstore in town I really like, if that's the kinda thing you'd be up for?"

"Sounds ideal," he says back, and you really can't believe it.

And then you think: four for a boy.

-

[heliswife]

hii!! can i req rui with a s/o that is always present at wxs shows? rui is doing his part on stage then he spots reader in the audience, maybe reader going to visit rui and the rest backstage after :3

Ah ofc! I hope it's good! I've been having some shit writers block so I'm really hoping this turns out good!

Rui was on the stage, reciting the monologue that he prepared oh so hard for. The bright lights of the stage shone on him, illuminating his lanky build. His gold eyes scanned the audience while talking, looking for one special person. You. His eyes met yours, and his smile widened, he was happy that you were there for him. You always were. Even before you two had started dating, you went to all of his shows, watching how much happier he was on the stage.

The show went smoothly, and as soon as it finished, you ran backstage and jumped into his arms. "Rui! You did so great! That monologue you had was super cool too!!" You exclaimed, burying your face in his chest.

He kissed your forehead and laughed softly, "I'm glad you think that dear, I worked hard."

"Oh, y/n!!" Emu exclaimed when you pulled away from Ruis embrace, "Was the show good??"

You laughed, "It was great, Emu," Emu grinned at you.

"Hahaha! It was because of my marvelous acting, right?" Tsukasa boomed.

"Why would that be the reason..." Nene rolled her eyes.

"You know y/n, you're always free to join Wonderlands x Showtime if you want," Rui said.

"Maybe someday."