... Somehow, Still Talking About This Captain America Shit (Now With Bonus Spider-Man and Agents of SHIELD)
So now Secret Empire has revealed its Shyamalan Twist and given the readers a Good Guy Steve Rogers as well as Hydra Cap, and the kinds of dickbags who, when this whole bullshit began were dismissing people’s complaints with “oh come on, don’t you know how comics works, it’s all going to be put back at the end, blah blah blah…” are crowing I-Told-You-So’s.
* the fast talking/rapping(?) in ya got trouble
* the last little bit of non stop where everyone sings over each other
* when adult simba swings in like a badass for the last couple line of hakuna matata
* The harmonies in letters
* The key change in waving through a window
* The key change in what you own
* key changes in general tbh
* “strike! strike! strike strIKE STRIKE STRIKE”
* the harmonies in blackout and THOSE NOTES THEY HOLD FOREVER OMG
* “he’s not here. I AM HERE”
* The final chorus of do you hear the people sing
* The entire song of purple summer tbh
* “I hope you’re happy… my… friend”
Summary: Requested by @fantastic-fantasy-fanfics:
For your fluff week, could you please write a Steve x reader fic where the reader breaks her arm or something during a mission so she has to stay in the tower to heal. After a while she gets really bored and glum so Steve takes her out to cheer her up? Maybe by taking her duck feeding or to the zoo or something.
Word Count: 3,254
A/N: One of my favorites ever. I hope you all enjoy <3
Stepping into the common room,
Steve couldn’t help the affectionate smile that bloomed on his lips. You were
sprawled on the couch, looking every part the most miserable person, groaning
at the roof, head pulled back on the armrest. Your broken arm was in a cast,
resting on your chest, the TV’s remote thrown on the floor right next to the
arm you had hanging off the sofa. The television was still on, but you weren’t
paying attention to it, and Steve suspected it was because you were bored.
He walked forward and cleared his
throat, letting you know he was there. That sound made you sit up and you spun
your head around until your eyes met. Steve grinned.
“Are you doing okay?”
You glowered. “No. I’m bored as all
hell and there’s nothing to do in this stupid place that doesn’t require both
of my hands.”
My heart may be large enough to contain multitudes, contradictions, and vaults with keys hidden behind riddles that even I have forgotten where to find the way in. But when I love, I give it my all. So if it’s you I have given my heart to; know that this large, chaotic, beautiful mess of work, is yours to keep, to hold, to mold, to unbreak and swim, sink – elix, in the red of a man raging with a storm of only this to give.
For God’s sake, Kent thinks to himself in
the “personal care” section of the grocery store. Why does Dove think I’m allergic to purple just because I’m a guy?
He picks up the lavender-scented bar soap and inhales. It smells heavenly. Next he tries the sandalwood-scented from the men’s section. It comes in a
gray box and costs fifty cents less. It smells good but it reminds him of floor
I’m a grown-ass man, Kent thinks, and buys
the lavender soap.
The next time he’s out of body wash, he spends thirty minutes
trying to decide on one of the many “manly” smells before caving to “Cocoa
Cabana” in the women’s aisle because it smells like Valentines Day in a bottle.
After that it’s his deodorant body spray, trading in “Bold” (whatever the fuck
boldness smells like) for “Fresh Cotton.”
The first time Jeff catches a whiff
of it on him, he asks, “New fabric softener? It smells awesome.”
“Nah, switched deodorants.”
“Huh.” Jeff nods in approval. “Well, you smell like fresh
blankets out of the dryer. I have a physical urge to hug you.”
Kent laughs. Jeff hugs him and he laughs more. It’s nice.
After five months, nearly every toiletry Kent owns has been
switched over from an endless variety of blacks, grays, and occasional dark
greens and blues to white, purple, soft brown, yellow, and pink. Showers have
transformed from a perfunctory necessity to something luxurious. Women’s
products are so indulgent.
They make Kent feel and smell like he’s been at a spa. He does have to learn to juggle the fragrances appropriately or
risk smelling like a perfume store vomited on him. But it’s worth it, for how
good he feels after. He feels pampered. His skin is softer, his hair shines,
and even his pits and crotch look and feel cleaner. He doesn’t know if it’s the
products or because he really cares about the maintenance, now, since he’s got
all these specialty items to try. It doesn’t matter. He feels great.
Kent now has honest-to-God bubble baths and detox-salt-soaks.
He’s got body butters and face masks and a lip balm in almost every flavor. The
ladies at the Lush at the mall know him by name.
Kent’s still single. He’s got his cat for company, though, and
the guys, who drop by or come over for movie and game nights and get drunk and
eat all his food and pretend to chirp him for the specialty lemongrass-scented
hand soap in his bathroom. Sometimes, on roadies, Swoops will plop down next to
him on a bus or a plane and say loudly, “Damn, who’s got chocolate and
isn’t sharing? Oh, it’s just Parser. Fuck you for getting my hopes up,” and
then he’ll noogie Kent or grab his fingers and gnaw on them.
(The coaches have had to break them up before and it’s very
unbecoming of two adult men.)
More than once, one of the guys has fallen asleep next to Kent
and ended up face-first in Kent’s shoulder. They’ll wake up blearily, rubbing
their eyes and saying, “Whoops, sorry man, didn’t mean to drool on you.”
Kent was confused at first but he’s realizing that it’s because they gravitate
towards the scent of him in their sleep. He smells like comforting things:
honey and chocolate and cotton and Shea. He smells like warmth and safety. It’s
why he likes all the things he buys, so it makes sense the guys would like
Nobody rags on him for it. They chirp him, but that’s different.
Chirping, light-hearted and giggly, means acceptance. Soon his teammates start
coming up to him in the locker room or nudging him on a bus and
saying, “Parser, can I borrow some of your stuff?” and leaving with
key-lime lips or cocoa-butter hands.
But it’s when he catches Sunny—big, burly, greatly-bearded d-man
Sunny—pulling a bright orange tube of passion fruit lip balm out of his bag and
slicking it on in front of everyone that he knows for sure that it’s okay.
we’ll help you, my mother tells me, but you’ve got to want to help yourself too. my father, standing by my bed, saying, play the piano again for us, for your mind. i think of what it will mean to take medication: the white pill between my fingers like a secret, a pearl pressed flat on a train track. the cold water glass. my heart unfurling.
i dig through the dusty piano bench. pressed in a yellowed 60s copy of preparatory exercises are loose leaf pages, a secret. titled sebastian in someone else’s handwriting, scanned copy of notes drawn in pen on printed staff. sebastian, meaning: basket of marigolds, summer as rich as wine, brideshead, in the time before depression when my tongue was a moon crater still learning to how to taste the word man.
here, by the keys, my bones hum. melancholy is a night with no wind pressed up against my ribs. i hold on to my body as if it were its own secret, me, my blood, and all the words i cannot say. take my time with each note. my hands wreaths of rust, the dust spilling out of me. i think again of the pills, my heart prying itself open to reveal the real heart nestled inside, the red one, the one that beats.
summer is only a word, but it’s an orange word, a kind of burning. i play softly. there’s a ghost in the room somewhere. he might be sitting on the bench. he might be evaporating.
ive been thinking about this all day so what if michael can only take so much sugar before he gets a crazy sugar high
so when he and jeremy are having a sleepover (“it’s not gay!”) and all they are eating/drinking is sugar,,, well michael is bouncing off the walls by one am (jeremy thinks it’s kinda cute but at the same time “sit the fuck down michael!”)
except he’s bound to crash from his high. and he crashes hard.
by like two thirty, three am, michael is totally useless. he can barely keep his eyes open to play any more video games. but when he crashes, he gets dopey and affectionate
so he’ll be having the time of his life, laying across jeremys lap, trying to play with his hands, trying to get him to (“spill some juicy gossip”). he eventually tries to kiss jeremys fingers, hold his hand, etc
he just keeps pushing his boundaries,,, and jeremy is letting him (with a burning red fave, but he’s letting him)
they fall asleep (aka michael passes out and jeremy turns in for the night) practically holding each other, mostly because michael would not let jeremy move once he got ahold of him
as jeremy falls asleep, he’s thinking about telling michael. ya know, telling him. about his feelings
he wakes up, confident and ready to go, except michael embarrassedly detangles from jeremy when he wakes, mumbling a quick “whoa, gay man” (sigh, boys ) and jeremys heart shatters just a little. michael remembers next to nothing from last night, let alone all of his affections
The first of my installments for this series. I struggled with this one a bit because writing sad Harry is NOT fun, but, I think it played out alright. I hope you all enjoy! x
You can find the masterlist for the Divide Series, here!
He promises himself that it’ll only be a quick look, a brisk moment to catch a fleeting glimpse of you to reassure himself that he had made the right decision. That you were indeed- happier.
He reckons that his current predicament makes him look like a proper stalker, laying low against the seat of his car with his hoodie pulled up around his head. He’s pushed the pair of sunglasses that usually serve as a makeshift headband onto his face, and his lips are in a tight pressed line. He’s parked and turned the car off long ago, and it’s starting to get chilly. His fingers drum nervously against the steering wheel, cold metal of his rings making small thumping sounds against it. His eyes pull away from across the street to glance down at his phone, ignoring the growing list of notifications to glance at the time. 5 minutes.
He’s hoping to god, for once, that there aren’t any nosy camera lenses hidden across the street or in some odd crevice because shots of this in the tabloids would not only be hard to explain, but embarrassing for you too. He’d dated you for so long that the public was well aware of who you were and where you worked. He’s kept his head low, though, and with the lack of his driver and the shield of tinted windows- he hopes it’ll be enough.
3 minutes now. He twists the ring on his index finger nervously, licking his lips and glancing at the door to the building that his car has stood in front of so many times. He thinks, reflectively, that he could’ve asked Gem how you were doing. His brows furrow together at the thought of his older sister giving him that all knowing look, the one where she makes an indignant noise at him and calls him a martyr under her breath. He can practically imagine her ignorance of his simple question and her storm of counter ones, all stemming from the same basic thought, of course. Why on earth did he you let her go in the first place?
To which he would have to give a plethora of mumbles to defend why he made the decision he did. It was something he was far too exhausted to even think about, and he shakes his head at the idea of delving into it before glancing out the window again. He jolts up straighter in his seat and squints through the window, pulling his glasses off and staring. You’ve got your bag clutched to your side and your other hand is shading your eyes. You’re leaning up onto the tips of your toes and rocking back down to balls of your feet as you glance up and down the street expectantly.
Harry swallows harshly, curious eyes taking you in. You’re wearing one of his favorite work outfits on you, but somehow you look different. He hasn’t seen you in sometime, a few months now, and he wonders if his eyes ever did you the justice you deserve. You’re beautiful, and perhaps it’s the passing of time that is throwing him off but he swears- he’s never seen anything more angelic. The sun is out in London today, peeking out to say a dutiful hello to the city and its dwellers. He watches as you tip your head back slightly, letting the sun shine onto your face with closed eyes and a appreciative smile. It sends his heart thumping into overdrive, it’s what he wanted- the purpose of this expedition fulfilled. To see just a glimpse of your radiant smile that he’s missed so much. He sighs, grabbing the key in the ignition and giving it a twist. He buckles up and glances back once more at you, but this time you’re not alone.
Prompt: “Ok but Jerome coming back to life and having to rescue his gf who is locked up in Arkham, cause when he died, she was crying over him and the cops took this chance to cuff her. He finds her tortured(like HQ in SS)and insane. He takes her back and When she recovers, maybe some smut can happen with dom!reader, which takes Jerome by surprise cause this is new. Hope this isn’t too long 😂” - Anon
Summary: The prompt says it all.
Word Count: 738 (I guess the 700s is the normal length now)
Warnings: Jerome’s death, torture, some angst, some semi-fluff.
A/N: I’m sorry but I felt going down the fluff road instead of the smut road for this imagine. I hope that was okay with you, Anon. Btw, the Arkham Asylum I was imagining here was the one in Batman: The Telltale Series.
I promised I’d give you all another Dark fic when we reached our next milestone, and I always keep my promises.
Just a quick warning- this is not fluff. It’s not romance. It’s not a sympathetic portrayal. This man is a manipulator, a good one, and he does what he does to further his own interests. He enjoys control, not company. And, to use Mark’s own words:
He is not here to help you. He is here to use you.
1. Prologue: Once Upon a December 2. A Rumor in St. Petersburg 3. In My Dreams 4. Learn to Do It 5. The Neva Flows 6. My Petersburg 7. Once Upon a December 8. Stay, I Pray You 9. We’ll Go From There 10. Still 11. Journey to the Past 12. Paris Holds the Key (To Your Heart) 13. Crossing a Bridge 14. Close the Door 15. Land of Yesterday 16. The Countess and the Common Man 17. In a Crowd of Thousands 18. Meant to Be 19. Quartet at the Ballet 20. Everything to Win 21. Once Upon a December (Reprise) 22. The Press Conference 23. Everytihng to Win (Reprise) 24. Still/The Neva Flows (Reprise) 25. Finale