Create-your-night

Balcony Scene (ALiL Deleted Scene)

Summary: (College!AU): In which an impromptu performance of Shakespeare occurs at the foot of your stairs.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 1,558

A/N: @snugglebuck requested: Omg so I just say this prompt list and one of them was “i was on my balcony and you started loudly quoting romeo and juliet at me” and all I could think about was ALIL and Bucky doing this or like even when the reader is at the top of a staircase and like even better when he’s drunk or something. This takes place between “The Honeymoon Phase” and “Jealousy”

“A Lesson in Love” Masterlist + Soundtrack

@avengerstories - I can’t thank you enough for always editing my stuff for me. 

Originally posted by sixsunflowersbloom

After what felt like an endless day of classes, you decide to treat yourself to a night off. In order to fully enjoy yourself, you change into the coziest pajamas you can find and take all of your best snacks out of hiding. Once you’ve gotten everything you need in order, you close the door to your room and turn off the lights. The darkness adds to the overall movie theater atmosphere that you want to create for your night of Netflix and relaxation.

You’re halfway through your second movie when your door flies open. The bright light from the hallway is a shock to your system and you cover your eyes automatically, blindly searching for the space bar on your laptop to pause what you’re watching. “What?”

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7

Some simple ways to bring colour to a boring white room.

Collect wine corks from family and friends! Or go to a flea market and dip old spoons/forks/whatever seems interesting in paint.

Use tacks to create your own night sky, or pin/stick some wrapping paper to the back of bookshelves or wardrobes.

Originally posted by pinefinemine

Prompt:  Can I have a Kirk imagine where you’re bones best friend and he takes Kirk to meet you and then y'all become really close friends? No smut or anything… just fluff?
Word Count: 899
NaNoWriMo Word Count: 5228/50,000
Warnings:
Author’s Note:

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Lover, Hunter, Doctor

Dean imagine requested by anon. As this imagine has been edited for reposting (just to amp up the details. I wrote this a long time ago), I no longer have the original request, but I can supply a basic outline: “The reader takes ill, which brings out the nurse in her boyfriend, Dean.” Hope you like it!

You woke, dizzy even before opening your eyes, to chilling fingers probing along your forehead and temples. You were instantly aware of the buckets upon buckets of sweat rolling off your skin like dewdrops off a car windshield in a hurricane, as well as the sickening churning in your stomach. You heard a sort of electronic ringing behind the voice speaking from beside your ear, every sound muffled by the hum within your skull.

“Hey, Y/n, you’re alright. You’re burning up. I just need you to try to go back to sleep, okay?” Came the breathy whisper of your doting boyfriend Dean, his icy hands caressing your clammy cheek. You squirmed beneath the too-hot, sticky bed sheets, desperate to liberate yourself from the inferno trapped underneath the starched cotton cavern, your stomach roiling as your body shifted every which way. The pain was more discomfort than agony, you noted, your stomach tensing and twisting with your every swallow. Hazy splotches erupting against the pitch expanse of your closed eyelids, violent hues somehow burning their way through the darkness to disrupt the peace you found in the inky interior. You opened your mouth to speak, but the sandpaper texture of your throat and tongue prohibited any vocals from being summoned, let alone heard. You were trapped within your own body, your skin too tight all over, your back swamped with salted sweat, your head spinning wildly, temples aching from an invisible, internal riot. You crushed the heel of your palm over your right eye, attempting to squash the migraine from your head. Your plan was ineffective. The marching band clashed on.

You felt your head being lifted by a sturdy hand on the back of your skull, tipping you forward with ease as though you were nothing more than a rain-dampened, forgotten doll. More shushing came from between Dean’s unseen lips, his breath chilling as it blew over your cheeks, his steady exhale blustering over the forest fire-turned-tundra that was your skin as he brought the cup of water to your parched lips, instructing you to drink with a soft, protective whisper. You could barely manage to lift your head without feeling woozy, but you managed to swallow the icy liquid as it slithered between your teeth, hydrating you only for the dryness to return in your mouth seconds later. The ringing intensified, a groan rumbling from your chest, the sound more scratch than wordless speech. Dean’s hand relocated the cup, his palm smoothing over your cheek, his hands like frozen marble.

“Okay, you’re alright. Just lie back… what hurts?” Dean asked, easing you back into your previous position, lifting the blankets out of your way before tucking them around your chin, your sweltering head nestling back down onto your sweat-soaked pillow, the fabric crunching like snow in your ears. You opened your eyes enough to catch a glimpse of your living conditions as well as your nurse, the limited light burning against the tissue of your brain, the dank motel bedroom kept grey and gloomy by the closed curtains, reflecting your mood as if a wire were running from your mind to the interior decorator’s. Dean was slumped beside your bed in a splintering wooden dining chair he seemed to have pulled from the kitchen, his fingers fiddling with a Solo cup on your nightstand, his unoccupied hand rubbing up and down your concealed arm. He smiled sadly, seeing your eyes open, his face withered by fatigue. How long had he been tending to you? The skin beneath his eyes had been painted with a dark, careless hand, a deep purple grey you’d only ever seen on Hollywood zombies marring his features. He wasn’t his regular tired, overworked or stressed self… this was an entirely different genre of sleep deprivation. Hell, Dean was the poster child for insomnia.

“My… just… everything,” You rasped, your voice matching a senile chain-smoker’s more easily than it did the youthful, healthy hunter it belonged to. Dean clicked his tongue with quiet, unspoken sympathy, moving to tuck a runaway wisp of your dampened hair behind your ear, removing it from the place it had adhered itself to on your temple, his fingertips trailing along your hairline. You caught his hand, lacing your fingers through his, relaxing as much as was humanely possible for a plague victim as his fingers tightened gently around yours.

“Looks like you caught a cold. And the flu. And a stomach… thing.” Dean whispered, conscious of the searing migraine growing on the inside of your temple. You grunted in dismay.

“Probably strep throat too,” You managed to choke out, flames licking at your vocal chords. “I can’t even swallow without-” Dean silenced you with a finger to your cracking lips, the oils of his skin stinging like a wasp. You contained your wince, ignoring the pain as opposed to letting him know how fragile you were, how even his so simple touch caused you pain.

“Then you’re on verbal lockdown,” He whispered, his voice rough with authority. You opened your mouth to protest, but Dean’s raised eyebrows caught the words in your throat before you could think to say them. “Not a word,” He reiterated, his finger pointed at your face, a smile dancing across those perfect lips of his. Damn him and his power play. You sighed, sinking into the divot in the mattress your restless body had created sometime during your night, the heat swarming your body. Dean kissed your dewy forehead before leaving to retrieve a bowl of canned soup from the motel’s microwave, his footsteps fading the further he traveled from your bedside. Unfortunately, you were unable to receive his surprisingly domestic achievement, the bile rising in your throat redirecting the course of the afternoon, the pressure in your abdomen increasing. Sirens were wailing in your head, your eyes bugging out of your skull, your body wired to react as efficiently as possible to avoid spewing the contents of your stomach onto the bed sheets… not that they’d smell any different. You untangled yourself from your smoldering prison, flying with Godspeed to the bathroom, slamming the door and turning the lock mere seconds before Hoover Dam let loose the floods. It took an impressive handful of seconds for Dean’s hands to slam against the thin wood, his voice urgent, worried. “Y/n? You alright?” He called, his voice muffled by the obstruction between you. You couldn’t answer.

You retched, heaving up last night’s burger, fries… everything, all the way down to the chocolate jimmies that had topped your strawberry ice cream, which showed up during your next bout of nausea. You struggled to keep your hair away from your mouth as you heaved, your abdomen clenching painfully as you expelled yet another round of salted fries. Dean pounded his fist against the door, the frantic sound echoing off the curving wall of the toilet you were currently hanging your head in, the porcelain shattering the sound from all sides, Dean’s voice ricocheting around. Your hands wiped at the sweat on your brow, collecting stray hairs to keep out of the line of fire while you caught your breath, your eyes swimming. Dean gave no warning when he kicked the door in, your body jolting at the crunching of wood, his heavy footsteps rushing to your side, his hand brushing yours aside, taking the role of human hair elastic. His free hand wiped at the streams of tears as they cascaded down your blazing cheeks. Both of your hands, now free, flew to straddle the toilet bowl. His body was pressed into yours, the foundation at your back easing the tremors while you vomited, red-faced from illogical embarrassment. It was hardly glamourous to blow chunks in front of your boyfriend… but he never complained. He just whispered his apologies and brushed the hair from your forehead, his hands ghosting over your cheeks and the back of your neck, hard muscles flush against your spine.

When you had finished, you heaved nothing but air, body convulsing despite the lack of content within your stomach. This was what it must feel like to pump air into a punctured tire, only reversed in a most horrible fashion. The action of your muscles clenching was present, but you were getting nowhere. After a good ten minutes of dry-heaving, it was finally over. The ringing in your ears returned, to your dismay, but the roiling of your stomach dissipated until it was no more than a dull ache from exertion. You pulled the frigid metal plunger to flush the remnants one last time down into the sewer system, a trembling hand reaching back to lay atop Dean’s denim-clad thigh. He shifted, positioning his hands beneath your underarms, lifting you easily to your feet.

“Come on, that’s alright. You’re okay,” He murmured, guiding you back to your borrowed bed. Once your body hit the duvet, your eyes began to droop again, blocking out the faded light sifting in through the curtains, your body exhausted from the Hell it had recently endured. You held on to consciousness as you did to Dean’s hand; weakly, you determination overpowering your physical ability. He gestured to the bowl of soup, his emerald eyes crinkling around the corners, mischief sparkling within. “S’pose this is pointless now,” He whispered, a chuckle escaping through his words. You tried your best to give a faint smile, but you were positive it was morphed along the way into a pained, fatigued grimace. Dean cradled your face in his free hand, pulling your hand to his chest with his other. His fingertips trailed along your cheekbone, providing the much needed ice to your flaming skin. His heart beat strongly through his shirt, thumping dully against the backside of your hand, his eyes shining with love. You felt yourself slipping from conscious thought, your efforts having exhausted you. He grinned, a hand smoothing over your hair. “I’ll be here when you wake up,” He whispered, his promise a barely audible echo on the horizon. You obliged, giving in to restless slumber, your dreams haunted by Dean’s soft, hummed rendition of “Hey Jude” and the soothing touch of his hand on yours, his fingers rubbing circles into your hand until your slipped away to dream.