(19:42) Yeah he just screamed and chucked his phone across the room. He definitely sent it.

(19:45) What did it say?

(19:50) No idea, he wouldn’t let me read it???

(19:50) Fingers crossed it’ll work?

(19:51) Yeah, yeah.

(19:55) kEITH IS AT MY DOOR???


(19:55) I can’t believe this.

Some art for Call Me Beep Me! Go read it!! It is amazing!!!!

anonymous asked:

we broke up after i left and moved away and months later i find out you rushed to the airport to stop me but you were too late

“Can you turn that down?” Bucky asks.

“No,” Kate says.

“Can you turn it off?”

Kate, making direct eye contact with Bucky, turns the volume on her podcast up.

Bucky rolls his eyes and looks back down at his drafting table.

“Hi everyone, this is Ira Glass and you’re listening to This American Life. This week, we’ve been talking about botched movie moments — where you tried, and failed, to reenact scenes from your favorite films. Next up, we have This American Life contributor and visual artist Steve Rogers, talking about how he tried to run to the airport after his boyfriend, and ended up getting detained by the FBI instead.”

Bucky straightens up. It’s… a coincidence, right?

It’s gotta be.

A little unobtrusive music starts to play, then a deep voice starts talking. “I met him when we were four. Some kid pushed me over on the preschool playground and he came over and gave the kid a lecture. He was always kind of naggy, but I was always getting into trouble, so I think I deserved it.”

There are probably many other men in the world who met each other on the preschool playground, right?

“For the purposes of protecting the innocent, I’ll call him Chucky.”

Rhyming can also be a coincidence.

“I loved Chucky before I knew what love was. And he loved me, too. We were each other’s first everything — kiss, boyfriend, sloppy and confused hand job.” Kate snorts. “When I was with him, things made sense. Things weren’t perfect — he was a cat person, for starters — but we made each other happy, to the point where I thought things would never change. I was prepared to be with him, and only him, for the rest of my life. We already had twenty years together, and I didn’t realize things could change.”

“Then, he got a job offer in L.A.”

“I hate gooey stuff like this,” Kate says. “Even pissing you off isn’t worth having this on—“

“NO!” Bucky yells, standing up.

Kate looks at him, unimpressed. “Excuse me?”

“This podcast is about me,” Bucky says. “That’s Steve. He’s my ex. I need to hear this.”

Kate shuts her laptop. “You need to calm down. Go take a nap or something.”

Bucky doesn’t think, just runs to the break room yelling “You suck!” at Kate as he goes.

He knows she’s flipping him off behind him. He doesn’t care.


By the time Bucky boots up NPR on his laptop, a few minutes have passed, but Steve is still talking.

“ — took me until I watched his flight status to realize that I made a mistake. It felt like I was running on pure adrenaline — I didn’t even think about buying a ticket online, or anything. All I knew was that Chucky was getting on a plane, and we could never see each other again, and that wasn’t okay.

“I hopped on my motorcycle and sped my way to the airport. I’m usually a careful driver, but I weaved through traffic with a manic intensity and the thrumming reminder in the back of my head that if I didn’t hurry, Chucky would be gone. Once I got to the airport, I parked in the expensive lot. That’s how worried I was that I wouldn’t make it.”

Bucky smiles. Steve was broke when he left New York, a struggling artist.

“I can only imagine how I looked, running through the airport, arguing with the TSA about why I should be let in without a ticket. “It’s true love!” I shouted, struggling to get by. It was…” He pauses, chuckles. “It was a little out of control.”

Bucky’s heart hurts.

“I was escorted away, kicking and screaming. It’s a miracle that I’m still allowed to fly at all, given the way I acted. And while the FBI quickly realized that I wasn’t a threat to anyone besides, maybe, my own self-interest, they let me go. But Chucky’s flight was already in the air by the time I was out. I had lost my window of opportunity.”

A little more music plays, this time more somber.

“Chucky called a few times, texted a little more, but I couldn’t bring myself to respond. I felt like it was a sign — I couldn’t make my grand gesture, I couldn’t convince him to stay. Never even got the chance to.

“I’ve dated a few people since then, even had a couple real relationships. But I’ve never felt that… click. That sign that things make sense. I’ve only ever felt that with Chucky, and I’m scared that I’ll never feel it again. But maybe that relationship was too big for me. Maybe I need to settle my expectations. If a relationship requires some kind of grand gesture, maybe it’s not the relationship you need.

“But then, I also find myself wondering why I’m doing this. Am I trying the same thing? Running out into a crowded airport and trying to find him again? What would I even say if I could see him again? It’s been four years without contact. He could be with someone else; he could be married and I just don’t know. But I’m still here. Trying to make that gesture, wondering if, after this, he’ll find me.”

The music swells again, and then it’s Ira Glass’s voice. “And that was Steve Rogers. Today, the day this episode airs, Avengers Gallery in Brooklyn is hosting a show of his newest work. Check it out if you’re in town! Next on…”

Bucky tunes out.

It only takes six minutes to buy a ticket to New York City.


“Sorry, we’re just finishing…” Steve looks up from the trash bag he’s dropping little appetizer plates into.

His eyes go wide as he drops the trash bag.

“Bucky?” he asks.

Bucky smiles. He’s tired, and he kind of smells from the long flight. “Hi,” he says.

“What are you doing here?”

“Appreciatin’ good art, obviously.” He takes a tentative step closer. “I heard your show.”

“I didn’t think you liked public radio.”

“I don’t. My coworker wouldn’t turn it down.”

Steve nods, biting down on his lip. “I’m sorry,” he says, “if it made you uncomfortable or… or anything. I wanted…” He trails off.

“Wanted what, Steve?” Bucky asks.

He shrugs, with a little embarrassed smile. “To see if it would work, if I tried something again.”

“It did.”

Steve’s face screws up, starts to go red. “I missed you. Every day. I think about you every day.” A few tears drip down his cheeks.

Bucky doesn’t think, just goes to him, wraps him in his arms, and holds him tight. “Me too,” he says as Steve buries his face in his shoulder.


“I missed my flight,” Bucky says, later that night as they lay in bed together.

“What?” Steve asks.

“The flight you wanted to keep me from getting on. I missed it because I went to your apartment. I waited there for most of the night… I assumed you were out, probably on a date or some stupid shit, and when I got discouraged I hopped on the next flight I could get on. But… I wanted you to tell me to stay.”

“Stay,” Steve says, before kissing Bucky gently on the lips.

“I will,” Bucky says, running a hand down Steve’s chest. “I will.”


“I mean, I’ll have to go back to L.A. to get my shit, and I should probably stay there until I get a job or somethin’, but like, after that. Probably. Hopefully.”

Steve collapses on top of him, laughing. Bucky wraps his arms around Steve and lets himself laugh along with him.

And everything just… clicks.

A Lesson in Love (The Little Things Part Two)

Summary: (College!AU) In which you’re assigned to write a story about romance, a subject you know nothing about, and Bucky, a hopeless romantic, offers you his assistance.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 3,317

A/N: The thing that Bucky performs is actually an excerpt from an original piece that I wrote a year ago. I hope you enjoy that along with this super long chapter to make up for not updating in a few weeks :) 

“A Lesson in Love” Masterlist

@avengerstories - I hope you know I depend on your editing like Hamilton depended on writing.

Originally posted by chrisevansz

There’s a knock at your door, but you ignore it, too immersed in your book to address whoever it is. It also doesn’t help that you’re entirely too comfortable in bed, tucked under your favorite fleece blanket and nowhere near motivated enough to get up any time soon.

With midterms fast approaching, there are a plethora of more productive things you should be doing, and yet, here you are. It’s as if the words on the page have taken you hostage and have no intention of letting you go.

Just as you begin to lose yourself in the book again, whoever’s at your door knocks even louder. Apparently they didn’t catch the hint that you aren’t in the mood for visitors. “Come in,” you yell distractedly, eyes glued to the page you’re on.

“I’m glad to see that my money didn’t go to waste.”

A Walk to Remember slips out of your hands, landing on your chest with a soft thud. “Bucky?”

Keep reading

accidentalavenger  asked:

For a fic request: high school football player Jack getting really blushy around his coaches son who bakes and figure skates and is just super lovely and attractive in general. Jack making up excuses to spend time with him, mainly excuses to do with football which are pretty weak, and Bitty is beginning to catch on.

!!! This is such cool prompt but I know NOTHING about football and my football loving friend has midterms as well so lets just see what I got let’s do this;

(also blah blah blah all these are super unedited and at some point i’ll rewrite them okay lets do this 4 REAL)


Eric Richard Bittle did not have a crush on the quarterback.

Nope. That’d be way to cliche. Plus, he isn’t out, and the quarterback isn’t gay, he’s just… nice.

He’s so nice and Eric kicks himself for it all the time. Jack is so kind to him, compared to the rest of Coach’s team. He talks to him every time he sees him, and that’s it. He’s convinced it’s no basis for a crush and yet here he is, baking a pie in his family kitchen, while Jack is talking to Coach about NCAA football teams at the kitchen table. Eric is purposely not paying attention, not looking up from his work, because he doesn’t want to get involved in the discussion. He knows if he looks up just once, Jack will ask, “Eric, what do you think?” and he doesn’t want to talk about the idea of Jack graduating in 7 months. So, Eric keeps his head down, and focuses on the cherry pie in front of him.

He’s so focused he doesn’t hear the conversation ending and Coach leaving to give Jack contact info of other coaches. Nor does he notice Jack leaning on the kitchen counter until he hears a, “What’s up?” two feet away from him.

Eric jumps a little, turns to Jack, and responds with, “Oh, baking a pie.”

“What kind a pie?”

“Cherry, but it’s a bit different from what I usually do.”

“How so?”

“I’m uh, trying something with the crust, since the cherries are a bit tart. Adding a bit more sugar in it, as opposed to the filling, and seeing what that’ll do. It’s nothing too interesting, it’s just pie.”

“I find that hard to believe. If it’s your pie, it’s got to be a great one.” Eric looks up to see Jack smiling at him and if both their cheeks were a little red, he’d blame it on the September heat.

“Thank you, Jack.” But before Eric could say anything else, his father came down with a list.

“There you go,” Coach handed it to Jack, “Coaches from Georgia, Texas, North Carolina, Virginia, and Alabama. Let them know I gave you the info.”

Eric refocused on his pie, rolling out the dough, and most definitely ignoring the idea of Jack graduating.

“Thank you, so much, Coach Bittle.”

“Anytime, kid. You’re a great player.”

“Hey, Eric” Jack placed his hand on Eric’s arm, “I’ll see you at school, yeah?”

“Mhm!” Eric flashed him a smile that Jack had returned in ernest, “I’ll see you then.”

“Heh, yep.” They stared at each other for, what Eric though was, minutes. “I should-“

“Oh, yes, of course!” he grabbed a tin full of cookies he had made a couple hours ago, “Please feel free to take some! If you can’t finish them I’m sure your parents would like them. Or you could share it with them, though I assume that’s what you’d do first because these are an awful amount of cookies but I had so much maple syrup in my fridge, i blame the sale. It was $20 for 5 bottles and it was all real syrup! That’s such a steal and I also remembered you saying you liked maple syrup that one time I totally wasn’t stereotyping you and if you thought that I one-hundred percent apologize I meant that-“

“Thank you, Bittle,” Jack placed his hands over Eric’s as he took the pie tin from him. “I’ll be sure to share them with my parents.”


“Maybe you could teach me how to make them someday.”

“I’d- I mean- yeah. Someday.”

Jack left the kitchen, leaving Eric alone. He wanted to cry or bang his head against the counter several times. He opted to bury his head in his hands.

Good Lord, he’d fallen for a straight boy who would never show interest in him… clearly… right?

The Light In The Dark (Part 1)

Summary: When America joins the war in December 1941, you give up the dream to ever live the life you had imagined. But then you meet a handsome stranger: James Buchanan Barnes.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 1,576

Warnings: description of ww2, disgusting men, insulting

A/N: This was supposed to be a one shot, a stand alone. Now I am excited to write a few more parts :P I hope you all like it.


A war, it’s terrifying and scary. It feels unreal and also far away, too far away so that it would probably never affect you. War was something you never thought you would experience. Not when the last one had only ended the year you were born.

But now it was back. In its terrifying way. Brutal. Cruel. Horrifying. And you couldn’t do a single thing against it.

It was the December of 1941. A cold month with terrible cold days. You were cleaning the tables in the little bar you were working in. It was already late and the poor lighting of the streetlights turned the bar into a dim orange. The light bulbs in the bar weren’t working anymore and so you had pulled out a few candles and handed them out to the last few remaining guests.

Keep reading

tbh I’m still waiting on a coda that hypes up jealous!dean big time

Like all of them getting back to the bunker and Cas is taking the trench off and Dean sees a piece of paper fall out of the pocket. He goes to pick it up and freezes when he reads the print on the front. Mick Davies. British Men of Letters. 

“You kept it?” he snarls at Cas.

And Cas looks confused at Dean’s tone but just answers, “Yes. I thought it would be wise in case we ever need to contact them.”

“We don’t need help from those assholes, Cas!” Dean yells and stalks away, crumbling the card in his hand. Later when he’s in his room, he tosses it in the trashcan and burns it.

And Dean thinks that’s the end of it until the next day when he finds Cas in the library researching the British Men of Letters.

“Cas, we are not working with those assholes! Did you see what the did to Sam?”

“I’m not recommending it, Dean,” Cas replies evenly. “I just thought it best to be prepared should it ever become necessary. And Mick said-”

The name rolls off Cas’s tongue and Dean sees red. “Oh. Mick, huh? We’re on first name basis now, are we? Well that’s just great.”

Confusion tilts Cas’s head and squints his eyes and it is not cute right now. “Dean is everything all right?”

“Of course!” Dean shouts, jumping to his feet. “Why wouldn’t I be thrilled about you getting all buddy-buddy with middle-aged Harry Potter?!” Dean turns on his heel and marches out of the room.

Of course, Cas is still struggling to understand sarcasm, Dean’s brand in particular, so he continues researching and is more and more fascinated about the history of the Men of Letters, which he happily relates to Mary, Sam, and a very bitter Dean.

A very bitter Dean, who answers all of Cas’s questions for the next two weeks with “I don’t know, why don’t you go call your boyfriend, Mick?”

So Cas… does… and then reports his findings to the Winchesters and Dean is ready to fucking explode every time Cas says “Mick said…” or “Mick thinks…”

Mick this. Mick that. Mick, Mick, Mick.

Dean spends a lot of extra time in the garage throwing tools and glaring at engines.

I reckon you could finish me off without breaking a sweat…


And did Cas really not sweat? He had to. Dean tried to think back to some hunts when Cas got a bit roughed up, tried to focus his memory on Cas’s forehead, the column of his throat, which was so long and smooth up until where his stubble-

Not the point, Winchester!

And one day they’re in the middle of a hunt and they’re stumped, exhausting all of their resources and Cas begins, “I could call M-”

And that’s it!

“WE’RE NOT CALLING MICK!” Dean screams and Mary and Sam’s eyes go wide.

“Why not?” Cas pouts.

“Because I don’t want his fucking help, Cas!”

“But his library is far more-”

“I don’t fucking care!” Dean yells. “You are not calling him, Cas, and that’s final!”

Cas’s eyes narrow and, yeah, definitely not cute this time. He gets to his feet. “Are you giving me an order, Dean Winchester?”

“Yes, Castiel, I am!”

Cas turns level eyes to Sam who just nods and takes his mother’s hand. “We need to go.”

They’re gone in seconds, leaving Dean to single-handedly face the fury of an angel of the lord. 

“You are being irrational and I want to know why,” Cas says.

“I’m irrational?” Dean scoffs. “You want to get in bed with the enemy! Literally!”

And there’s that damn head tilt. “I have no intention of sharing a bed with the British Men of Letters. I don’t sleep, Dean.”

Dean slaps his hands to his face, groaning and somewhere in the back of his mind, just begging Cas to smite him and end this all. 

“Dammit, Cas, that’s not… that’s not what I meant.”

“You are referring to sexual intercourse then? Because I also have no interest in engaging with the organization in such activities.”

“Cas, you’re killing me here,” Dean says weakly, exhausted at the sheer amount of oblivion coming from this ancient creature. “Why do you want to work with them?”

“You told me to.”

“When the hell did I-”

“You’ve been telling me to call Mick for the last two weeks.”

Dean blinks, trying to remember when he had lost his damn mind in the last two weeks- “Cas, I was being sarcastic!”

“Oh.” Cas looks calmer now. “So you didn’t want me to actually call Mick?”

“No, Cas! I don’t want you to even think about that fucker!”

“Why not?”

“Oh for the love of- HE WAS FLIRTING WITH YOU!”

Back to confused. “When?”

“When we rescued Sam! Oh, Jesus Christ, Cas. Sweat! The way he looked at you after you said you didn’t sweat.”

“Humans find the inability to perspire sexually appealing?”

“No, you idiot, you are sexually appealing!”

Dean is so frustrated he can’t even process what he just said until something lights in Cas’s eyes. It’s a bit dazed and disbelieving and… hungry? 

“You find me sexually appealing?”

“I-I-I w-what?” Dean stammers.

Cas takes a step toward Dean. “You said I was sexually appealing.” 

“What? No! I-I- I meant him - Mick - he-he finds you, ugh, se-sex, um, appealing. He finds you appealing.”

The light dies and Cas frowns. “Oh. So you don’t?”

Dean has to make a big decision then. To lie or tell the truth. To play it safe or take a chance.

And, well, when has Dean Winchester ever played it safe?


Blue swarms on Dean until he can’t see anything because Cas’s face is too close and something soft brushes Dean’s lips. They kiss and Dean wraps his arms around Cas’s waist, diving into this moment and locking the angel in place with him. 

When they separate Cas is grinning and Dean is too dizzy to see the teasing angel. “You were jealous,” Cas breathes.

“Took you long enough to figure it out,” Dean slurs and wonders if it’s possible to get drunk off of kissing because he’s showing all the signs off a good buzz.

“Actually, Mick told me last week.”

And there it goes. “Cas! What the hell!”

“You were confusing me,” Cas argues. “You were angry all the time but you wouldn’t talk to me.”

“So you’ve just been fucking with me this entire week?”

Cas’s fingers card calmingly through Dean’s hair and Dean gets the suspicion he’s being treated like an angry cat. “My apologies, Dean. Can we go back to kissing?”

Dean has half a mind to deny Cas but Cas’s other hand is hovering just over his ass and who the hell is he trying to kid?

“Fine. But we’re gonna have a long talk about your pen pal later.”

But that talk comes several, several hours later.

Oh look I accidentally wrote a shitty drabble again oops my bad

anonymous asked:

'I asked for your help getting a book off the top shelf and and you laughed at my taste and called me a nerd so I shoved you into a table of nonfiction best-sellers and that’s how we both got banned from the quirky community bookstore' okay the ideal pairing for this one should be pretty obvious (it's nurseydex btw)

The first of the milestone prompts! This prompt didn’t really have milestone per se, but I liked it a lot, so I sorta snuck one in near the end ;D. Enjoy!


“Aaaaand… ugh. Of course. Hey Dex?”

“What is it, Nurse?”

“I could, y’know, use a hand?”

Dex looked down the row at Nursey. Nursey looked back at him, trying to wiggle his fingers from under the stack of books he had piled against his chest, from hips to chin.

“Dude, stop that, you’re gonna drop them.”

“You know, normally I would disagree, tell you how chill it all is, but since letting you believe that actually helps my case, I’m gonna let it stand.”

Dex sighed. “Remind me, what is your case?” As he spoke he moved down the aisle towards Nursey.

“I need to get a copy of Jane Eyre for my Victorian Novel class, and for some reason, they’re all piled up there,” a dramatic jerk of his chin nearly sending the top three books tumbling before Nursey leaned back to right them, “cause it isn’t like it’s a classic or anything!”

“Fine. Which copy do you want? The fancy hardcover, the unfancy hardcover, or one of about a thousand unique paperbacks? Why are we even here, by the way? Don’t they have all these books at the campus bookstore?”

“Yeah, they do, every copy there is boring and identical, while these all have different stories. I wanna be able to wonder about who owned a book before, who wrote in it, how it ended up with me.”

“Won’t that be distracting from actually, you know, reading them?”

Nursey shrugged, which caused the stack of books to jerk up, hitting him in the chin and causing him to blink in surprise. Dex turned, trying to hide the smile that would be altogether fonder that what Nursey would have expected, and repeated the question about what copy he wanted.

“Oh, uh, Can you grab both the hardcovers? I wanna take a look, see if either of them has any writing in it, cause that’s always fun.”

“Fun? Wow, Nurse, I knew you were a nerd, but that’s a lot even for you!”

It was in that moment that everything went wrong. Nursey, a chirp about computer science on his lips, threw out his elbow, trying to jab it into Dex’s side for emphasis. The motion twisted him just far enough to the side to send the stack of books in his hands tumbling after his elbow, towards Dex, who had, at just that moment, stretched up on his toes to grab the books on the top shelf. His hand had just closed around them when he fell, sweeping the rest of the copies of Jane Eyre down around the two of them as they collapsed into a single heap on the floor. Their destruction was not yet complete, however, because as Dex tried (and failed) to keep himself upright, the arm not holding the books had hit the narrow bookshelf facing out from the end of the row, which was just crooked enough, and just top-heavy enough, to tip forward and fall onto the table at the front of the store.

In the moment after the chaos, everything was quiet except the rough shiver of the books settling into a disorganized heap on the floor.



“I can’t fucking believe this! You’d think no one had ever tripped–”

“Bro. Seriously.”

“And then this fucker took our names?! What the fuck is that even about?!”

“Dex. Please, it’s chi–”

“Nursey, I swear to god, If you say it’s chill I will lose my goddamn mind. It isn’t chill, you just got banned from your favorite bookstore!”

“Dex. Really, it is chill. ‘Specially since I got to see you yell at someone for me.”

Dex spluttered, the flush on his face deepening on his cheeks.

“What– Dude, what the fuck? I yell at people all the time for you, remember when that asshole tried to trip you two days ago?!”

“Yeah, bro, and I appreciate it, but it’s different, on the ice. Right now, you’re indignant for me. It’s cute.”

“Oh my god, Nurse, cute?! What are you even talking about?”

“Yeah, it’s cute. You know what else is cute? That you’re gonna walk me to the campus bookstore now, and help me carry all my books.”

For a moment, it seemed like Dex was gonna yell even more, his hands raising and rigid, before they suddenly relaxed, flipping up in a position of surrender.

“You know what? Fine. I’ll come with, but only if you promise never to call me cute again.”

“I don’t know, bro, I’ve seen you helping Bitty in the kitchen, and if he can get you wearing an apron, all bets are off…”


#57- Inventing a secret sex language for public use (Wincest)

Requested by @angelus320 for my kink list.

Warning: smut, some dirty talk, semi-public sex

Word Count: 1500ish

A/N: Hope you enjoy! Feedback is appreciated.

It’s only natural that Dean and Sam have a secret language. They are brothers, after all, and have been living in small motel rooms and cabins and rental houses, inches away from each other, their whole lives. Talking in complete, obvious sentences just became a little unnecessary along the way. And when it comes to hunting, it’s helpful to have certain codes and buzzwords they can use to communicate without being understood by anyone or anything around them.

And since it’s only natural that they have a secret language, it’s only natural that when they start having sex, they develop a secret language for that, too. But maybe this one is developed a little more intentionally.

Keep reading


I’ve been listening to Glass Animals a lot lately and I was ~inspired~ so I spat this out… idk how I feel about it but here you go.

Pairing: Solangelo

Summary: Nico di Angelo has a voice like charred cinnamon and Will Solace is addicted

Word Count: 2,099

Warnings: Vague nudity… kind of smut… but not really…… at all………..

Will remembers the night like a dream or a backward hallucination.

It starts in a bar made of low lights and swaying bodies. Lazy disco lights that filter through fingers like something sticky.

The music makes the atmosphere what it is. The band that’s performing is just starting out, and Will doubts that anyone in the room is sure of what their name even is, but they fill up the room with their noise. It’s a hazy timbre of electronic sound, it breathes and pulses, controls the fibers of everything it touches.

Their lead singer has a voice that’s so soothing it turns Will’s limbs to waste. He exists only front and center on the stage, crooning, hangs from the microphone like he wouldn’t be standing otherwise. He’s less dancing to the music and more singing to the dance. His movements control the way the words are breathed from his lips.

Will hasn’t been so mesmerized by someone before in his life.

After they finish performing, he finds the melodist at the bar, throwing back a drink and settling it back down onto the counter with a gentle exhale. His lips part slightly, face tilted toward the ceiling and catching a glowing serenade of lights. He’s made of everything soft and lovely in that moment.

Will’s first words to him can barely be heard over the second band of the night.

“I’d like to know your name.”

When this stranger sets his gaze on him, Will feels his fingers go numb. His eyes are just as dizzying as everything else about him. The smile that he offers is enough to jolt into action an earthquake across Will’s ribs.

“Nico,” He breathes it like a secret. Will leans forward like he wants to hear more, like he has to, and so Nico leans forward too, “di Angelo. Nico di Angelo.”

Later, when Nico pulls him into his hotel room, Will whispers it against his thighs, feels fingers twisting into his hair and hears Nico curse and whimper. It’s vertiginous, like standing at the edge of a drop-off, watching tiny pieces of earth crumble away and drop into the abyss.

Will kisses every inch of him, shivers and curls his toes at the feeling of Nico’s hands moving over him, his breath against his ear, his words the only important thing that exist in that moment. They’re all that is.

And afterward, Nico lays in his arms and sings into his hair and then against his neck, and Will tells him that he’s beautiful, because he is.

He’s not there in the morning.

Will would suspect he dreamt it, but the marks scattered across him prove otherwise.

Two years later, Will hears news of Nico’s band coming back through town and after arguing with himself for days on end, he gives in to the part that insists he needs this. So, he gets himself a spot front and center in the audience, the place he knows Nico di Angelo comes to life.

He slips onto stage like a shadow, the way he makes his way forward tricks Will’s mind into believing that he belongs there, that he’s just an extension of the rickety ceiling fans and loose floorboards.

His band is still small enough that a part of Will thinks of him as a secret to be kept from everyone else.

Will watches Nico’s fingers curl around the mic stand with such exact fascination that the breathy, “Hey,” uttered from above him makes him startle slightly before flicking his gaze upward; Nico stares straight back at him, all eyelashes and tight jeans.

The smirk that works its way onto Nico’s face as his band starts in on the first song of the night is dangerous and he practically makes love to the microphone, pulling his hands down it and letting his knees go weak. Will wants to stand in its place, let Nico utter the lyrics onto his lips.

As soon as the performance ends, Nico slips off the stage and lands right in front of Will, drags him into a kiss that’s all slow fire and Will’s brain blinking out.

That night, they dance against each other for hours and Will tries to memorize the paths his hands take. It’s not surprising that he wakes up to find Nico tangled in the sheets next to him. It’s also not surprising that he closes his eyes once more and when he opens them again, the other side of the bed is vacant.

It becomes habit. Every time Nico’s band goes on tour, they find their way back to a certain town huddled off to the side of a city that screams loud enough for the entire world.

There’s a point that Nico recalls vaguely, a restless night where it’s four a.m. and he’s thinking about a boy. A boy that lives all the way across the country. He’s wondering how he walks because they’ve never really been together long enough for Nico memorize something like that, to even pay attention.

Will Solace’s hips are the only consistency that Nico knows outside of the band. He knows the shape of him as well as he knows the shape of his guitar and it aches low inside of him, the way nothing else makes him feel quite as whole. So, even when his band is hitting top 40s lists, he gets them into the venue nearest to the boy with the freckles and he utters a cryptic greeting into his microphone when he finally spots him in the crowd, as close to the front as he can get.

Will knows where to find him after every concert. And he does, despite telling himself that he won’t, that this is the year he won’t find himself trapped in the singer’s web.

Nico stands out back next to the trash cans where no one else wants to venture, lazily pulls at a cigarette while he waits. Just like every other time before.

When Will catches sight of him, he frowns. “That’s going to kill you one way or another, di Angelo.”

Nico just tilts his head back and blows smoke into the night, “I only smoke once a year, Sunshine.”

The meaning is clear, but Will is not flattered. “I don’t believe that. You could just stand out here.”

“That’s not nearly as fun.” He drops the cigarette and smashes it beneath his boot, creeps up to Will with a look on his face like vengeance flipped upside down, catches his belt loops and drags him closer.

Will sighs, lets their lips find each other in the dark. It’s too familiar, Nico’s hands slipping beneath his t-shirt.

Nico’s kisses tell a story.

His lips are soft and quietly desperate, they caress and move with such care that it feels almost irrelevant to breathe and disrupt their dance.

His tongue is pleading, it nudges against Will’s lips and slides against the edge of his teeth, he’s not afraid of being wounded.

His hands are tragic and tumbling, they don’t know where to rest and the shivers across Will’s nerves chase them.

Nico di Angelo is a drifter, nothing about him is quite certain, but when he kisses him, Will thinks of rainfall. He remembers sun breaking through clouds. He feels petals across his fingertips, breathes the sweet smell of honey and kicks up clouds of sand.

Nico is a summer breeze, he’s always welcome and never there for long.

Will always, always wants him.

So he drags himself away, holds Nico at arms-length, “No.”

Nico’s expression is more viable then than ever before, “What?”

“Tonight, we’re going somewhere. I’m… I can’t just have you for one night anymore, Nico, I just can’t.” He face crumbles as he says it and he pulls Nico slowly closer again, but more tender this time, just his hands against Nico’s biceps and their foreheads touching.

Nico closes his eyes, they’re so close that it would be difficult to just look away. “You know I can’t stay.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m just…” Will sighs defeatedly, kisses his cheek softly because it’s the only way they’ve communicated for so long, in touches and feeling. He wants to convey: I want so much more of you than what I have.

Nico’s breath catches. People are not tender with him, they do not want more, it’s always been one-night stands and coiling smirks and emptiness. He’s just a thing to be discarded.

But Will has always been different, softer.

He proves it now, nudging his nose against Nico’s, pushing hair from his face and muttering a quiet, “Hey,” into the wind.

Nico smiles a bit, “Hi.”

That makes Will laugh, but then they’re quiet again and it’s just their breaths and hands against skin and over clothing; tentative.

“We’ve known each other for years, Nico. And I don’t even know your favorite color. I don’t think I’ve even asked… I want to talk to you. I want… I want to know you. Really know you.”

Nico is already nodding, without even thinking it over really, because it’s always been what he wants too.

Will lets out a breath, “Where do you want to go?”

Shaking his head, “I can’t… We can’t go somewhere where I’ll be seen. I don’t want to deal with that tonight, Will.”

Will makes a face like he’s berating himself for forgetting such a simple thing. Oh. Yeah, of course. We can… Just…” He opens his eyes, brushes his fingers over Nico’s cheek to get him to do the same, “Come to my place?”

Nico’s breath catches. Being invited into Will’s home feels symbolic.


Will pulls his jacket off and drapes it over Nico’s shoulders instead, pulls the hood up so it shades his face, and then guides him into the parking lot by the hand. Nico keeps his head down and holds his breath when they walk past large groups of people, but Will does his best to guard him from view and no one bats an eyelash.

Will Solace’s car is such an obvious reflection of him that Nico laughs. It’s an old, red pickup truck. The kind that belongs in the country, trundling over long and serene views of endless hills. Will just shoves him playfully, saying that he can walk if he’s going to disrespect his truck, and Nico shakes his head. “No, I just… I should have known that you’d own something like this.”

The look Will gives him makes Nico’s face flush enough to match the car. (It’s wondering and awed and lovely.)

Will turns the radio on as soon as he starts driving, and Nico watches as he taps out beats on the steering wheel and sings along off-key, flashing him sideways grins in between verses. It’s endearing because he’s not quiet about it. This a windows down, all or nothing afair, and Will Solace is giving it his all.

Soon enough, Nico joins in, and Will’s voice falters in the second afterward, because it seems almost disrespectful to sing over something that beautiful.

They keep up their chorus all the way to the door, though, even without the radio backing them up. It’s all laughter and Nico knocking their shoulders together, trying to shush Will, who’s not discouraged in the slightest. He only shuts up when he gets shoved against the door and Nico yanks their mouths together fierce enough to make his heart give out.

“Goddamn,” he chokes, and Nico laughs and laughs, pulls the keys out of his weakened fingers and opens the door for them.

Everything between them is as natural as breathing. A small part of Will recognizes that it probably shouldn’t be, but he doesn’t really care.

They sit on the floor in front of the couch with a vast assortment of junk food and just talk. They find things out about each other that are so mundane it’s hardly believable they didn’t know before. Suddenly, they’re more than just bodies, they have souls.

Nico reaches out and curls his pinky finger around Will’s.

“Just come with me. Come on tour with me. I’ll stow you away in the bus and we can just be together, you know?” He says it sadly, looking down at their hands. He knows it’s not really possible.

Will sighs, “I wish. I wish.”

Nico just bites his lip, lets out a shaky breath. “At least promise me that you’ll be here. You’ll be here.”

Will nods. He knows that Nico means, Tell me you won’t find someone better.

He lifts his hand a little, pulling Nico’s with it, “I pinky promise.”

Their laughter fills up the apartment, gives life to the walls, and when Will wakes up the next morning, Nico is curled up with his head in his lap. He closes his eyes once more and when he opens them again, it’s because of the soft press of lips against his own.


STEREK WEEK 2016: Day 1 - Scene Stealer

Sterek AU: Derek never cried. He did not cry when hunters killed his family. He didn’t cry when his crazed uncle killed his older sister. He didn’t cry when he later had to kill his uncle, the man who he had loved and admired as a child. 

Derek did not shed a single tear since Paige, and that was decades ago. Up until now.

Crouched down in front of this cage with a song so utterly beautiful but also infinitely sad resonating in his mind. 

“Please. Please take it away. I can’t- I-” Derek wasn’t able to say more, but he didn’t have to. The Doctor touched his temples, and the voices fell silent as if they never existed in the first place. Except they did and Derek felt the knowledge branded on his soul. “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure to whom he’s saying it. To the Ood, to the Doctor, or all the people he failed in his life. 

“It’s alright,” the Doctor said, looking at the captured Ood instead of Derek, but Derek could still see the devastation in the amber colored eyes. 

“You can still hear it,” Derek voiced in awe as much disbelief. How? How the Doctor could even function with this symphony of suffering sounding in his head. 

“All the time,” The Doctor agreed. 

Derek could hear the ruckus the security made as they were closing in on them. “They are breaking in,” he warned the Doctor, but he already knew it’s pointless because the Doctor was opening the cage and entering it. Derek didn’t hesitate to follow him inside. He made peace with himself some time ago that he would follow the Doctor anywhere, it wasn’t a question anymore. 

Arrow Fic: Haven’t I Locked Up My Failure, Wouldn’t I Be Last to See

post-5x03. Because they’re both in the bunker and they’re both going through it.

Title from “8 (circle)” by Bon Iver, because this album is still ruling my life.

Haven’t I Locked Up My Failure, Wouldn’t I Be Last to See (AO3)

He stands in the garage, stock still like a statue, for what might be hours. Lyla must sneak herself out at some point. She can’t kick the old ARGUS habits, tending to appear from thin air more often than she knocks. It’s OK. It works for them. He doesn’t see her as much as he should, though, and it seems it’s always for something like this.

Oliver’s mind is racing, turning this latest impossible objective over and over in his brain, looking for an entry point. Breaking into a military prison is high risk, even for him, and he doesn’t really have much of idea on where to start. The only thing he knows for certain is that there’s no choice but to try. John would do the same for him. He has, in fact, several times over.

He’s weighing whether or not to call Felicity right away, to get her brain working as his fumbles through a fog of emotions – the most dominant being some kind of furious, loyal vengeance – but then he walks out to the central hub of the bunker, and there she is. She’s standing in front of her computers, staring up at one of the screens, looking as shell-shocked as he feels.

Keep reading

Wade was sitting on the sofa, watching Bridget Jones when Peter came in through the window. Peter himself made no noise at all, but the window screeched a little as he opened it. The first few times that sound had always alarmed Wade, but by now he was used to it and knew it was only his boyfriend entering his flat.

Only a few seconds later, a black figure appeared in his field of vision and gracefully sank onto the sofa right next to him. Wade smiled as Peter snuggled up against his side and placed his massive arm over his lover’s shoulders.

“Hey, babe,” he greeted him softly. “Didn’t expect you already.”

“I hurried,” Peter purred and rubbed his face against Wade’s shoulder like a cat. “I wanted to be with you.”

Wade’s smile widened and he pulled Peter closer against himself. He felt a smooth substance wrapping around his arm to keep it in place and had to grin at the coincidence of himself wearing his ‘I <3 Tentacles’ shirt right now.

“How many was it tonight?” he asked while he caressed Peter’s arm.

“Four,” he young man replied.

Wade breathed out a chuckle. “Holy shit, Baby Boy. You’re going to outdo my kill count if you keep going like that.”

Peter shrugged. “They’re bad, so I kill them,” he stated, the self-righteous conviction cold in his voice.

Wade hummed lowly and nodded. “I know,” he replied. And he did. He knew why Peter killed the bad guys instead of just hunting them down. And he knew why Peter wouldn’t let go of the darkness that had settled in his mind and soul. By now it was a choice, not just a circumstance.

The merc bent down and nuzzled his nose in Peter’s wild mob of hair. “You’re a great superhero,” he muttered. “I’m proud of you.”

Peter grunted comfortably and wrapped his arms around Deadpool’s waist. Wade smiled again and leaned his head against Peter’s that was resting on Wade’s shoulder. The smell of his shampoo settled in Wade’s nose and left a feeling of adoration and belonging.

“What are we watching?” Peter asked. “Is that Bridget Jones?”

“Yeah,” Wade sighed. “I lost my virginity to that movie. It opened my eyes to the gorgeousness that are hot, well-mannered, British men in suits.”

“Mmh, you should watch Kingsmen then,” Peter advised. “Because in that movie, a hot, well-mannered British man in a suit slaughters a whole church full of racist, homophobic fanatics.”

“Ooooo, I heard about that,” Wade nodded. “It’s on my watchlist. You know what else is on my watchlist?”

“My ass?” Peter guessed.

Wade laughed and squeezed him. “You know me too well, Petey pie,” he chuckled.

“You’re easy to read,” Spider-Man claimed.

Wade hummed and softly grabbed Peters’ chin to guide his head back to be able to kiss him. His lips tasted cool and sweet and were so smooth against his own.

Peter kept his head laid back after the kiss and looked up at his boyfriend. His eyes were brown, which meant he was completely himself right now. Sometimes, when the darkness in him took over too much, they turned black and cold. The worst version of him Wade had seen yet had been when even the white of Peter’s eyes had turned dark and his teeth had grown sharp, his fingers ending in pointy claws. When Peter looked like that, even Wade was afraid of him. But usually, whenever the merc was around, Peter was calm and easy. And if not, Wade always managed to soothe him somehow.

The doorbell interrupted their intimacy.

“That’s the pizza!” Wade exclaimed. “I ordered it for me but we can share. I’ll just tell the guy to bring in another one.”

“I hope you put nothing gross on there,” Peter commented and sat up so Wade could go answer the door.

“I never do!” Wade claimed as he got some money and pulled his mask over his head. He gave the pizza boy a big tip to make sure he would come back with another pizza as fast as possible and then went to the kitchen to get Peter and himself something to drink.

“Catch,” he ordered and threw two cans of coke over at the sofa. Peter’s reflexes reacted lightning fast and he snatched the cans right out of the air. He opened them while Wade sat down next to him again and put the pizza box down on the living room table. His mask landed somewhere on the floor.

“Mmmh,” the merc hummed as he opened the box. “Melted cheese is an actual kink.”

He grabbed a piece of pizza and flopped down onto his back, swinging his legs behind Peter to stretch fully over the entire sofa. Spidey took a slice himself and then draped his lean body over Wade’s, half on his side, half on his stomach.  He was still covered in the symbiote’s black substance that built his Spider-Man suit. Only his head was free, the material forming an irregular collar around his neck.

“This is perfect,” Wade announced as he took a huge bite of his pizza and began to caress Peter’s hair with his free hand. “You, Colin Firth and pizza. That makes for one happy Deady Pooly, let me tell you.”

“I’m glad you put it in that order,” Peter replied. “Otherwise I would have gotten very jealous.”

“I would never dare!” Wade exclaimed. “You’re always my numero uno, Baby Boy!”

“Yeah, better,” Peter stated.

Wade smirked and entwined their legs. Peter handed him the crust of his pizza slice when he was done and Wade devoured it in two bites. It was kind of funny that a fierce killer like Peter didn’t eat the crust on his food. But whatever Peter liked or disliked, Wade loved him beyond words. Whatever quirk his boyfriend had, for Wade he was just perfect.

“You gonna have a shower with me when we’re done?” he asked and licked some cheese off his lower lip.

“After I’ve made sure you will get covered in come and sweat so it will be worth it,” Peter agreed. The promise sent a soft shiver through Wade’s entire body.

“That sounds fair,” he said. “We have a deal.”

“Good,” Peter nodded and handed Wade another piece of crust. “Though I’ve got to warn you: I’m not gonna treat you like a well-mannered, British gentleman.”

Wade laughed. “Oh, that’s what I’m hoping for, Sir Tentacles,” he assured. “Whatever you have to offer, I’m up for it, 100%.”

“Mh, I think tonight I’m gonna make you tear the bedsheets,” Peter mused. “I always love the sound of that mixing in with your desperate moans.”

The merc shivered once more and wrapped one arm around his lover to press him closer against his body.

“Damn, you know how to make a girl happy, Petey,” he rumbled, voice husky. “Who needs a British gentleman when they have you.”

“No one,” Peter stated. “But you’re the only one to have me, so they’ll have to make do.”

Wade smiled warmly and pressed a tender kiss onto Peter’s fluffy hair.

“I love you, my un-British little Sex God,” he announced lowly.

“Mmh, I love you too, my un-British hunky Sex Slave,” Peter replied. He turned and pressed a kiss to Wade’s lips, greasy from the pizza. Wade smiled even wider and stroked his boyfriend’s cheek with the back of his hand.

“Hey, are you gonna use the tongue on me?” he asked in sudden excitement. “I’ve been a naaaaughty boy today, I deserve the lashing!”

“Careful what you wish for,” Peter warned him. “I might actually grant it to you.”

“Just one full body lick!” Wade begged. “Please, please, please! Pleeeeeaaaase, Baby Boy!”

Peter sighed affectedly and turned back into his prior position. “Ah, very well,” he agreed. “But I demand pancakes in the morning and a glass of fresh orange juice.”

“Deal!” Wade cheered and wrapped both arms and legs around Peter to give him a tight, firm squeeze. “Love you so much, thank you!”

“You’re welcome,” Peter chuckled. “And now let me go, Mr. Licky-Kink, I want to eat more pizza.”