glistening bronze

Fortune Favors the Bold

When the gladiators revolt, James spares but one life.


author: buckysbackpackbuckle
pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
word count: 2473
warnings: gladiator au, violence, smut
author’s note: Let me know if you like this. If you do, I may write some more to go along with it. A prequel, perhaps? – And also, a lot of this plot is taken from the TV series Spartacus. Awesome show. You should watch it!

x amazing picture by @264jana x

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Shance Prompt: Unforgettable

Step up.

Step back.

Roll of the hips.

All eyes were on them.

Lance ass pressed languidly against his crotch, rolling it against him every time the beat hit. With each press Shiro could only grip the slim hips in his hands tighter and dip himself in tune with Lance.

Maybe it was the alcohol in his system, or maybe it was the sweet lithe body pressed against his, but Shiro couldn’t care less who saw.

He felt smoky, hazy, as Lance wrapped fingers around his neck and swished his hips, ass sliding back and forth so, so slow. Fuck.

He buried his face in Lance’s neck. It was warm and wet with sweat from the club but he didn’t care. He smelt like tangerines and vanilla. A interesting combination that smelt like heaven to him. He allowed himself to lick a stripe up the slender neck and shivered when he felt Lance tremble against him.

Shit.

He was horny but not the kind of horny that made you want to tear off each others clothes. Naw, it was the kind of horny that made him want to take his time exploring the pretty little body on his. Seeing what noises Lance could make if he did a little bit of this and that to him.

He bit his bottom lip when Lance slid down against him slow. Hands trailing down his chest until he let go and touched himself. Fingers roaming his own chest and twisting his shirt up to show glistening wet bronze skin.

He tasted blood in his mouth.

He wanted to taste Lance in his mouth instead.

He slid and dipped low until he was in a squat that showed the lean muscle underneath his soft skin, hands on his knees as he arched his back. Shiro wanted to turn him around. Wanted to gaze in those pretty blue eyes as he left mark up in mark on that sinfully soft skin.

He didn’t have to though. Lance tilted his head until their eyes met. Lidded ocean blues meeting blown out smoky grays.

Shiro groaned and beckoned Lance to come back up. He did, however he made a show of it. Perky little ass popping out as he did. He was gonna have that ass in his hands by the time the night was over he bet it. Lance’s cocoa brown locks were plastered to his forehead, emphasizing on how hot it fucking was in the club and Shiro swiped the hair away before grabbing Lance’s hips once more to bring them flushed together.

Lance’s eyes never left his as he placed his own hands on Shiro’s hips.

Crotch to crotch they rolled together. Bodies fitting and molding into each others like they were made for each other. Shiro let his hands wander.

Let then grip Lance’s pert little ass and squeeze hard. Lance’s breath hitched before he gave a sexy little smile. Lips quirking up to reveal just the barest hint of pearly white teeth.

Shiro leaned down and nipped a collar bone.

“ But you are unforgettable” the lyrics crooned, beat catching as Lance rolled his hips against his.

Shiro wanted to kiss him. Taste him. Fuck him. He wanted everything that this boy had to offer.

The music was trailing off. Beat fading and Shiro felt like he was running out of time.

“Come home with me” he murmured, voice lost in the crowd of the club as he nipped Lance’s ear lobe. Lance gave another cheeky grin. Swaying out of Shiro’s hold as he trailed his hands up his chest, to his neck, then above his head. Eyes fiery and hips never stopping.

“I have a man to go home to” he purred before sauntering off into the mass of people and lights. Shiro was frozen in his spot, eyes stuck on Lance’s disappearing form.

Fuck.

-

Shiro plopped in his seat, slumping down as he snatched Keith’s beer out his hand and downed it in one go.

“Damn, what the fucks your problem?”

“Nothing" he snarled, signaling a waitress. He wanted to get black out fucking drunk.

“Doesn’t seem like nothing. What happened to the pretty little twink you were dancing with?”

At the mention of Lance, blues eyes flashed in his mind and the feeling of slim hips pressed against his made him groan and slump down on the table top. He wanted him so so fucking bad. Fuck the man he had back home. Shiro could be the man he had to go home to if Lance let him be.

“One of ‘those’ guys, huh? Don’t worry. This won’t be the last time you meet a pretty little thing that’ll leave you with blue balls” He grumbled stretching out in his seat. “ Remember Matt? I couldn’t get over him for like- a month. Just forget about him-”

“That’s the fucking thing” Shiro growled, slamming his empty beer bottle on the table.

“He’s unforgettable”

Fic -- Lemon and Strawberry -- Nine/Rose

Summary: Lemon and strawberry, yellow and pink, they go together just like gelato and a hot summer’s day

A/N: shameless Nine/Rose fluff for my lovely friend the-untempered-prism who is as sweet as strawberries =) And please check out the absolutely lovely art that she drew to accompany this here!!

Betababes: the equally sweet as strawberries fadewithfury and whoinwhoville =)

The piazza is crowded.

And bloody hot.

Even the stucco buildings bake under the unrelenting scorch of the August sun, their façades parched from the arid Sicilian air and starting to flake off, more reminiscent of overcooked croissants than heavy paint. He and Rose are among the myriad souls out and about despite the oppressive heat—and he gets more than a few stares from shoppers out on their errands. He doesn’t pay them any mind, of course, instead rolling his eyes inwardly at the ape tendency to stare at things they don’t understand. He knows what they’re likely wondering—how on earth can he stand to be wearing a black leather jacket on a day like today?

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[M] Take a Picture [Jimin]

@kareverie said: HI! Could I request neighbors & smut with Jimin plssss THANKS! lubb yoo~ I hope you like it!

“Why don’t you take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Jimin took a pause from washing his car to address you. You sat across the street from him on your porch, just watching him wash his car. How could you not, when he was shirtless and watching him with water glistening on his bronze skin.

“I don’t want anything to obstruct my view, not even a camera,” you answered, making his laugh before going back to washing his car.

Jimin had been your neighbor since you moved into your new house two years ago. He was a very nice guy, with a cute smile and cuter laugh. You two had grown rather close in those two years.

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Stand Master: 「King Knight」
Stand Name: 「Glitter and Gold」
Stand Origin: Song of the same name by Barns Courtney

Appearance Classification: Artificial Nonhumanoid

Stand Type: Short Range

Stand Appearance: A majestic deer with antlers covered in a golden powder that falls off as it moves. Its fur is glistening bronze, its hooves are silver, and its eyes a dark onyx. It has a hole in its chest shaped like a heart, lined with diamonds. It heavily resembles a gem encrusted metal statue.

Stand Parameters:

Destructive Potential: D
Speed: B
Range: C
Durability: B
Precision: E
Developmental: B

Stand Ability:

Gilding Dust - It shakes its antlers to spread the dust covering them into the air but it can also jab to move the dust. When the dust comes in contact with something, it starts turning it to gold, with the dust spreading in small spots until those spots connect, fully turning it into gold, like the touch of King Midas. Defeating King Knight reverts the gilding.

anonymous asked:

Okay but Her cooch aside, Tobias' highlight in that portrait is POPPIN 👏🏼💯👑🔥 He's just..... really pretty..... 👌🏼👀

RIGHT?!?!?! He’s a glistening bronzed babe. 

Changed Series: Part Four

Part 4: “Reunion”

Summary: A/U in which the Reader is married to and has a child with Soldier!Steve.

Characters: Reader, Steve, Bucky, Tony

Warnings:  Angst. Funerals. Death. Language. General Sadness. Depression. Mentions of Suicide. PTSD. READER BEWARE.

Author’s Note: Shorter Chapter so I posted earlier. If you’d like to be tagged send me an ask! Thank you for all the support. Couldn’t find a sad, bearded Chris/Steve gif so just pretend.

Catch up here!

Originally posted by your-kylie-me

Tony reaches out a hand for a shake and when Steve takes it, pulls him in for a hug. “Never imagined we’d be here, bud.” He releases Steve and steps back holding onto both of Steve’s shoulders. “Are you ready to go get your girl?”

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Crave You

for unholyseraphs bc she’s been tagging me in fic like crazy lately and also bc i’m hella excited to be on the au panel with her at destielcon. unedited so apologies for typos and the like.

Dean paced across the floor of his apartment, a fucking tiny ass studio he hadn’t even wanted to begin with. It was supposed to be him and Cas, like it always had been. The two bedroom apartment were still on sale for a hundred bucks off the rent to students. When Dean showed Cas the ad and suggested they live together Cas had lit up like a Christmas tree, he was excited to get off campus, to decorate, to torture Dean’s allergies with a goddamn rescue cat. 

Dean would’ve shelled out the money for generic clairitin to see Cas smile like that every damn day. Then a week before their appointment Cas backed out on everything. He made some lame excuse about wanting to stay on campus, that it wasn’t a good idea to move on a student’s budget, every excuse possible except for the truth: he just didn’t want to live with Dean.

Benny had offered to get the apartment with him, hold Cas’ room til the guy came to his senses, but Dean just frowned, took another shot, and buried his face in Benny’s shoulder. The next week Benny went with him while he looked at the studio. 

Since he signed his lease he’d been trying to figure out what the hell he could have done to make Cas backpedal that damn fast. There was really only one possible explanation: Cas knew Dean was in love with him. They’d been friends since Dean accidentally knocked out one of Cas’ teeth in second grade. The tooth had been loose but Cas had been having trouble pulling it, so he was grateful to Dean. It was the weirdness that did it. Dean knew he had to be friends with a kid happy to get a tooth knocked out.

They had done almost everything together since then. If anyone ever wanted to find Cas, all they had to do was find Dean.

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Family at the Beach (Olivier Giroud Imagine)

Funnily enough, I’ve been wanting to write an Oli eversince I saw the pics of him in the beach with Jade (these pics). So…thanks @footballerindreams​ For the push to write this :)

Disclaimer: Story below is fictional; i have no connection to the athlete mentioned in the story.


Family at the Beach (Olivier Giroud Imagine)

I lowered my book a little and checked out what the loves of my lives were doing. My husband and our daughter were frolicking in the water. I swear I could hear her giggles as her father splashed water on her, despite that we were in a crowded beach surrounded by many other families.

I loved summer, I got to have my family together for 24/7, something difficult with my husband’s working schedule. We got to go to the beach, my husband was half-naked for most of the day.

“Is that the French Football player?” I heard a passer-by ask her friend.

I turned my head to see two pretty girls probably in their early twenties checking someone out. I smiled and pretended to read my book as I eavesdropped.

“Yeah! Olivier Giroud. Holy jesus! That body!” Her friend observed and I nodded. My husband, Olivier Giroud, was wearing short black trunks and his abs and chest above that exposed for the world - what glory.

“And he’s playing with his daughter. How cute. Get me a man who can do both.” Said the first girl.

I couldn’t agree more - A father with his daughter, a daddy to me.

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winterfray  asked:

Steve and Bucky for the five things

Five Things That the Smithsonian Exhibit Did Not Say

I. Steve almost dies in the winter of 1929. He’s 11 years old, with bones too light for birds, all sharp angles and not enough meat in between. A flu catches him in early December and his body is too weak, his stomach echoing hollow like a drum as the Depression comes into its stride. 

Doctors come. Doctors leave. They all tell Mrs. Rogers to make arrangements. They all say Steve will be gone by Christmas and, that if he sees New Years, it will be a miracle.

Bucky doesn’t know about miracles, but he does know Steve can’t die—not ever, a world without Steve would not make any sense at all—and the next day he stands before Mrs. Rogers, a bottle of medicine in one hand and a bag of groceries in the other. He brings food ever day for a week, to make Steve strong, to make him healthy, and he waves away Sarah Rogers’ questions with all the charm his own mama says is going to get him in trouble one day. 

On Christmas day, Steve is sitting up in bed. There is life in his blue eyes again and color to the hollows of his cheeks. On New Year’s Eve, Steve and Bucky watch the fireworks from the bedroom window, and Steve only coughs twice.

Bucky counts that as a miracle. 

(Three days later, the grocer finally catches him in the act. In the alley, he backhands Bucky across the face so hard a tooth goes skittering across the cobblestones. His two sons—both older and bigger, muscles corded and compact along their frames—break every bone in Bucky’s left hand. 

Bucky never tells Steve the truth of what happened. He also never regains feeling in his pinkie again. 

He thinks it’s a small price to pay.) 

II. Steve is 14 the first time Bucky saves enough money to take them to Coney Island. It’s the middle of a sweltering summer, the sun blazing and the air stagnant. Before they’ve even made it on a ride, Bucky buys two ice creams, the white swirls already beginning to melt as Steve wraps his hand around the cone. Their fingers are sticky with sugar for the rest of the day, but the heat is a little more bearable and Steve a little more pliable. Bucky doesn’t have to charm or cajole—wide blue eyes and pleading smiles—for long before Steve agrees to ride the Cyclone.

Whenever Steve retells the story, it’s always about the world spinning, the ground tilting, and vomit ending up on Bucky’s shoes. Steve’s tone is always three parts exasperated annoyance and one part self deprecating amusement, but it’s a fun story to tell. 

The part that Steve always leaves out of the story is this: that same night, Bucky coaxed Steve on one last ride. Much the same thing happened. There was the world spinning, the ground tilting, and Steve’s stomach somersaulting frantically.  

Steve always wishes he could blame the ride, but the Ferris Wheel was steady beneath him as the sun set over Coney Island, glinting orange off the ocean in the distance, gleaming gold in Bucky’s smiling eyes, glistening a deep bronze along the line of Bucky’s arm, curled around the thin span of Steve’s shoulders. 

When Bucky grinned at him, happy like Steve hadn’t seen since they were little kids, Steve felt his stomach fall out from under him, his heart stutter in his chest, and his palms break out in a cold sweat. 

There were only two thoughts in his head: 

He’s beautiful 

and 

Oh no. Oh God, please. No.

Those thoughts never went away, but some stories aren’t meant to be told. 

III. When they are both 16, Bucky dates a string of girls with blonde hair and blue eyes, petite, delicate things with soft mouths and soft skin.

He thinks he’s being obvious, but Steve never says a word. 

Steve kisses his first girl—Becca, a girl from his art class—when he is 18 years old. He cradles her jaw, his nails still black with dirt from his mother’s grave, and presses his mouth shakily to hers. 

Becca is brunette and tall, with blue eyes and full lips. For a moment, Steve lets himself believe he she loves him. 

It doesn’t work, but then again it never does.

IV. News of Pearl Harbor reaches Bucky on the docks. He retches into the ocean, bile and terror dribbling over his lips, and he already knows what awaits him at home. 

So…he goes out and gets so drunk he can’t see straight, stumbling home with the road undulating beneath him, like the earth is coming apart at at seams, like the world is ending. Bucky sure feels like it is, because when he falls into his apartment, Steve is sitting at their rickety kitchen table, the line of his clenched jaw cut from marble, the fire in his eyes made up of every star burning out in the night sky as the city echoed with radio waves and calling paper boys, all the world singing of war. 

“I’m going to enlist,” Steve says because of course he is; Steven Grant Rogers—the little punk who picked alley fights with fellas twice his size, who stood tall despite the crook his spine, the hitch in his lungs, the blood in his teeth—could do nothing else, and Bucky knew it. 

“They won’t take you,” Bucky replies and he refuses to feel guilty about the relief he feels at this one truth. 

Steve pushes to his feet with a glare, and Bucky might be drunk but he feels the exact moment the world changes. 

“We’ll see." 

(They do see.

Bucky, of course, is right. They don’t take Steve.

But every time Steve comes home with a 4F clenched between bloodied knuckles, Bucky drowns a little bit more in the disappointment filling up Steve’s ice blue eyes. 

In the end, Bucky could only take so much. 

He becomes Sergeant James Barnes and curses himself as pathetic when the pride in Steve’s eyes actually makes him forget he’s throwing away his life.)

V. The night before Bucky gets his orders—the night before the World Expo and Erskine and the endbeginning of their lives—Steve wakes up from a nap with tears rolling down his cheeks. 

He had dreamed that Bucky had died, somewhere far away, surrounded by ice and snow and blood. Steve knows that it was a dream, but his chest feels so damn heavy, ribs cracking beneath the pressure of his hammering, breaking, hummingbird heart. He can’t stop crying for the life of him, and that’s how Bucky comes home and finds him: red eyed and shaking, sick with the knowledge, the inexplicable truth, that somehow, in someway, he is going to lose Bucky. 

Steve kisses with the desperation of a man dying, clawing at Bucky, nails still black with the charcoal he had spent all day using, sketching Bucky from memory over and over again—eyes and hands, mouth and the line of his shoulders, holding up Steve’s whole world. There had been a feeling roiling in his gut every time he had shaded the curl of Bucky’s smile that he now recognizes as some bastard son of urgency, anticipation, and loss. 

Bucky is shocked and stunned and tries to quell Steve’s grasping hands, his gasping mouth, but the smaller man just begs, “Please, Bucky, please,” and Bucky is lost. He’s only human, and he’s loved Steve for as long as he could remember, and the world is ending, crumbling along the fault lines, pulling them into a war destined to destroy all things. 

Weak and hollow and deciding it doesn’t matter anymore, Bucky kisses back and falls into bed like he had fallen in love: recklessly, blindly, and without hesitation. Steve ends up hitting his head against the wall, but won’t let Bucky stop, pulling him down by the nape of the neck chanting, “Come on, come on, come on.” 

(It’s not until Steve’s fast asleep and Bucky can think again that he realizes Steve’s slurs were not lustful urges but, instead, ardent pleas. 

Come home, come home, come home.”

Bucky is not surprised when they hand him his orders the next morning.)

Reunion: Episode 4

Summary: A/U in which the Reader is married to and has a child with Soldier!Sam. 

Characters: Reader, Sam, Dean, John, Ellen, Jo, Jimmy Novak, OC’s

Warnings:  Angst. Funerals. Death. Language. General Sadness. Depression. Mentions of Suicide. PTSD. READER BEWARE.

Author’s Note: Thank you to @oriona75, @ohfora67impala,@roseringleader13, and@abaddonwithyall for helping me out this. This project is VERY personal to me and I really appreciate the input. As always, let me know what you think!

Tagging: @aprofoundbondwithdean, @desiringspnimagines, @leviathanslovedick, @mrswhozeewhatsis

Catch up here!

John reaches out a hand for a shake and when Sam takes it, pulls him in for a hug. “Never imagined we’d be here, bud.” He releases Sam and steps back holding onto both of Sam’s shoulders. “Are you ready to go get your girl?”

“Never wanted anything more.”

The two men walk in silence to a black sedan. John gets behind the wheel, as he’d  been to your house before. It was a 30 minute drive from the hotel to your house and John wasn’t prepared to sit quietly. “You can’t hold it against her. You’d been gone for almost two years, Sam.”

Sam doesn’t turn to look at John. His eyes stay lifeless and dull, staring ahead unfocused, watching cars roll by. His head were filled with images of his old life: his daughter… his house… you.  "My daughter isn’t going to know who I am. She’s almost 3, John. And Y/N is… “

"I know, bud.”

“And now I’m going to go mess up her new life.”  Sam takes a deep breath and rubs his balmy palms down his thighs.

“We can turn around. You can just call her.”, Suggests John.

Sam shakes his head. “I can’t just call her. She’ll never believe it’s me, first off. And, I don’t know, no matter what comes of it, I want to see her. I want to see Emma.”

“I don’t know how you’ve done it this long, man. You’ve been State-side, what, 3 weeks? How have you not contacted her at all?”

“Well, the government keeping me for debriefing made it pretty easy. And it didn’t hurt to find out she’s already happy with some other guy. I’m just glad you were there for her, man.”

John nervously says “Yeah, it was… Nothing.” His eyes fix on the road and his hand grip the wheel a little tighter, the thought of lying to his best friend was going to be more difficult than he thought. The timing wasn’t right. He immediately changes the subject, “So, have you thought about what you’re gonna say to her when she opens the door? Something like ‘Surprise?! I’m alive!’ ?” He chuckles at himself.

Sam cracks a smile grin, “I’m going to tell her I love her and that I’m sorry.” The smile fades quickly from his face, his eyes dropping to his lap.

“What do you have to be sorry about?”

“That I left them.”

Silence overtakes the car. John still nervously gripping at the wheel breaks the tension, “She’s probably not gonna recognize you with that Fabio hair.” Darting his eyes to Sam who actually laughs. “I can’t believe they let you keep it that long.”

“I guess being held captive overseas for over a year gives you a little leverage. Y/N used to love my hair long before I enlisted.”


Setting down the girl the man speaks “Go play, sweetheart.” He steps outside and shuts the door behind him. “You can’t be him.”

“I must have the wrong house. I’m Sam Wesson and I’m looking for…”

“Y/N. You’re looking for Y/N.” He scoffs. His hand falling behind his head, he looks around in disbelief.

“You must be Dean. I’m Sam.” He offers out a large hand.

Dean, still stunned, accepts the handshake. “Dude, no offense, but how the fuck are you here?”

“Ha. That’s a really long story..” Sam trails off as he sees Emma peaking around the door at him. “May I?” He gestures inside. He turns to signal for John to join them.

“Yeah, sorry, come in. I’m not sure I’m prepared to handle this situation alone anyway.” He turns to head into the living room where you still lay passed out in a disheveled pile of wedding photography, now using your balled up wedding dress as a pillow. “She’s a little… Indisposed … Right now.”

The garbled murmurs of deep voices awakens you. Your eyes are foggy and squinted from the sun lighting the room. The figures standing before you are nothing but silhouettes. You lift your head off the dress just slightly to let your eyes adjust when you hear his voice. “Y/N. Wake up. Your never going to fucking believe this.”

The two figures come into focus: Dean… And Sam, both staring down at you. “Dean? Sa-sam?” You head starts to spin and darkness overcomes you. You head falls back down on the dress pillow just as John walks around the corner to join Sam and Dean.

“Aw, Y/N,” John kneels down beside you, “I thought we had the drinking thing under control.” He brushes the hair off your face and tries to wake you. You grumble in protest.

Dean shoots John a confused look. “What drinking thing?” He growls.


“Dean, stop it.” You giggle playfully. Dean stood behind you, his arms around your waist,      kisses sporadically into your crooked neck.

“Come on, Y/N. The baby is asleep, finally, and it’s Christmas. I think I deserve my gift a little early.” He grabs the hem of your shirt and pulls it over your head. His hands caress down your stomach to the button on your jeans, practically ripping them off.

He shakes out of his unbuttoned flannel shirt and kicks off his jeans, leaving you both standing in underwear alone. You bite your lip as you look him up and down, the light from Christmas tree glistening off his bronzed skin.

“You like what see, sweetheart?” He flexes comically. He dances a little jig as we walks toward you.

Dean always loved to make you smile. His wiggling finally meet yours and he uses your ass to pull you in closer as he kisses you.

You jump and wraps your legs around his waist. You press your nose to his and look into his smiling eyes. “Best Christmas gift yet.” You say, pressing your lips to his again.

His hands find their way into your hair and intensifies the kiss, wildly running a hand over your ass and back while tightly grasping at a handful of your hair. You kiss his teeth as he smiles at you. “God damn it.” He rasps.

“What?” Worried you hurt him, you question.

“I don’t know how to tell you this” he pauses, “But I love you.”

“You…you’ve never said that to me. We’ve never said that. Wow…” You peck his lips.

“You don’t have to say it back, I just had to tell you. I’ve loved you since you walked through the door of the shop. I’ve never been happier than right now.”

“I am so happy with you. I never thought I’d feel this way again. I…”

“It’s Sam isn’t it? He was the last person to tell you that. You don’t have to say it.” His eyes break away from yours.

Pulling his chin back towards yours you meet his stare once again and announce “I love you so much, Dean Smith.”


Your eyes open to reveal that you’ve been moved onto the couch and sitting across from you is Sam, holding onto one of the pictures you were laying on.

“Sam?” You voice is raspy from dehydration. “Am I dreaming?”

“No, y/n, you’re not. I’m here.” Sam’s puppy dog eyes meet yours.

“This… is… really… Fucked up. DEAN?!” You yell for your boyfriend, trying to confirm whether or not you had actually lost it.

A figure appears around the corner, holding your daughter on his hip but it’s not Dean, it’s John.

“Dean’s gone, Y/N.”