unresistibly

It’s so interesting that none of these songs are about falling in love. They’re all about being in love and struggling to hold onto it – or stories about things personified as interesting women that seem to have an unresistable lure. All of the women in these songs are literal sirens, whether they’re meant to be sirens for Harry or whoever the character in the story is, while everything that’s personal to him is about struggle and holding it together. (The objects of the song are sirens; I don’t think they’re literal women). Sorry, this is a bit of a mess, but there seems to be one theme here, to me, despite the diversity of songs: the struggle to remain true and hold onto a relationship while you cope with the siren call of fame and its trappings.

bashfyl  asked:

*incoherent screaming* You opened prompts! Sterek: Not yet together sterek. The idea is a bath and Stiles how did you get that there?!? Thank you.

Taking Sterek Prompts | Filling Prompts Live

———

“Are you going to get in?” Stiles asked, peeling out of his last shirt, his words a little slurry around the edges. “In a- a- a-” He paused, trying rather unsuccessfully to shake his hand free of his sleeve. He started laughing uncontrollably and collapsed to the floor to work on his shoes. “The water, are you?”

“No,” Derek groused, pointedly not looking when Stiles flopped onto his back and began to shimmy out of his soaked pants. Black slime coated almost every square inch of the floor. “This is your bath, not mine.”

“Mine,” Stiles echoed, now just lying on the floor in a puddle of black, his pale skin coated head to foot in the gunk. “This is not my house.”

“Yes,” Derek agreed, as patiently as he could, checking the water’s temperature before turning off the tap. It had to be extra hot to affect the stuff. “This is the clinic.”

Deaton had explained that even minimal contact with the ichorous substance gave a contact high. Stiles had been practically drenched in the stuff when they had killed it. Luckily it was not deadly or even toxic- which was the problem. Someone had been keeping the creature as a pet, drawing out the fluid and selling it, and it had escaped three days ago to wreak havoc.

Very, very unfortunately, Derek had drawn the short straw for ensuring Stiles got cleaned up and came down from the high safely. Isaac, Boyd, and Erica were taking care of disposal of the body while Scott and Allison swung by Allison’s house to return weapons and report to her father. Deaton had been kind enough - or perhaps had enough self preservation - to give Derek the key to the clinic so he could get Stiles washed up away from his father’s questions.

“Come on,” Derek said gently, slipping from the edge of the tub to crouch at Stiles’ side. It was, he reflected, a very good thing that werewolves were not susceptible to the substance’s effects. “You gotta get cleaned up.” The effects wouldn’t wear off until every drop of the ichor was gone.

Stiles lifted his head, looking all the way down his lean form. “Oh, no, no that’s too far,” he told Derek, head falling back with an audible clunk he was probably going to feel in a few hours. “Wow, this is the best floor ever. Do you think I could take it home with me?”

“No,” Derek said with a sigh. Looked like this was going to have to be the hard way. He shifted, kneeling beside Stiles, and grabbed at his wrists to haul him up.

Despite that they slipped and slid a bit, Derek managed to get a very naked Stiles upright and across the three feet to the tub. For a second Stiles stood very still, holding tightly onto the edge of it like he was going to resist going in. Then he tipped forward and faceplanted directly into the basin so quickly Derek had to scramble to keep him from drowning.

“Hoooooo!!!!” Stiles shouted the second his mouth was above the surface, water sluicing away the ichor clinging to his skin. “It’s hot, Derek! This is really hot, why is it so hot? Oh my god, I’m melting!” He started grabbing at the black liquid coming off his skin.

Closing his eyes, Derek counted to three. Then five. Then ten, for good measure, and when he opened them again, Stiles had fallen very, very still and was staring wide eyed into the middle distance. It was not exactly an improvement, but at least he’d stopped thrashing, slopping water and ichor all over the floor and flinging it onto the walls and- and was that- on the ceiling?

“Stiles, how did you- you know what, nevermind,” Derek grumbled, reaching for the spray nozzle.

This setup was supposed to be for cleaning dogs, but it would work just as well for ornery, tripping humans. He began to run the spray over Stiles’ hair, watching the black give way to brown. When the tub had filled completely, Derek pulled the plug and let it drain. Diluted like this with water, it wouldn’t hurt the general populace; at worst, they’d all have a really good day soon.

Stiles’ eyes slid closed, and he relaxed into the gentle touches Derek used to turn him this way and that, to get at the last of the ichor still clinging to strange places like inside of his ears and between his fingers and- well, at least Stiles was unlikely to remember any of this very well tomorrow.

By the time he had gotten the last of it, Stiles had turned to putty in his hands, making a soft, pleasant humming noise that might have been purring on a cat. Derek swallowed hard, trying to keep it together. He still needed to get Stiles someplace to wait out the high, and get this place cleaned up so no one else would be affected.

Difficult to think of anything beyond the way Stiles pressed himself into Derek’s touches. “Feels good,” Stiles murmured, unwilling or unable to keep his eyes open. “You should touch me more.”

“Tomorrow,” Derek mumbled back, prodding Stiles to his feet. The floor was still covered in ichor, so Derek just leaned over and scooped a completely unresisting Stiles into his arms. Immediately, Stiles looped his own arms around Derek’s neck and burrowed his nose against Derek’s shoulder. “If you still want me to touch you tomorrow, I will.”

“Okay,” Stiles agreed muzzily.

He wouldn’t remember. No one else had. Still…

He allowed himself a small smile, and a measure of hope. Stiles had never been one for following the rules, after all.

Hot Potato

This is for everyone in the awesome Sterek writing group 4. And especially to @seanconneraille  whose initial prompt: Potato, led to this ridiculousness. Seriously. There were tons of awesome prompts, but the heart wants what it wants.  Also a special shout out to @artemis69 who said they should plant the potato. I wrote this in about half an hour and it’s completely unbetaed. So all mistakes are mine. A cleaned up version is now on AO3

They’ve been together about three years now, living together for one, and Stiles thinks they’re  okay. He has a job as a freelance programmer, which involves a little bit of travelling, and a lot of working from home in his underpants, only putting a shirt on for skype calls. Derek is a history teacher at Beacon Hills High School, which should not be as hot as it is. Fortunately it turns out that Stiles finds 28yr old teacher!Derek with sweater vests and  blazers with elbow patches even more attractive than the leather wearing Alpha!werewolf badass that first caught his eye in the preserve all those years ago.

The thing is, Derek doesn’t need to be a badass anymore, at least, not in the way he used to. The Nemeton has been dealt with, and the pack is flourishing, Beacon Hills is no longer a hell hole and so now he’s a badass in other, more subtle ways. He’s a badass gardner, who has lovingly nurtured a little plot of fruits and vegetables in their backyard. Then there are his badass knitting skills, (he made Stiles a kickass pair of mittens last winter) and don’t get Stiles started on the cooking, okay? No. Really. Don’t get him started. The cooking isn’t actually that great, Stiles does all the cooking, but Derek can mix a mean cocktail, which means their powers combined result in some truly awesome, if slightly blurry, mealtime memories.

Anyway, it isn’t often that Stiles is forced to work the weekend, but today the shit has hit the fan, and he doesn’t have any other choice. When Derek gets home on Friday evening, wearing the blue sweater vest that brings out his eyes and the charcoal blazer with the elbow patches, Stiles can only stare up at him from his desk tragically and mourn the loss of what could have been.

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anonymous asked:

Could we appreciate how bitter Peter Parker would be when he saw how Team Cap treats Tony? He'd be furious! At first he would just observe, but when he saw how it really hurts Tony and how Tony seems to make himself smaller everytime they say something mean, how Tony, Mr. Stark, Iron Man, Pete's biggest hero, looks like he's about to break, Peter just can't. He says something that shuts team Cap up and then makes sure to tell Tony how much he appreciates and cares about him, every single day.

There are two things most people don’t know about Peter: 1) He’s Spiderman (though the circle of those in the know seems to grow at an alarming rate lately). 2) When you hurt someone he cares for, he is vicious. (The circle of those who realise this through personal experience is currently also growing at an alarming rate.)

It doesn’t start slow either. There’s no building up to it, because there’s nothing like offending everyone who’s worked their asses off to get you back home for the last six months in under an hour after your arrival. Seriously?

So, Peter who, as childish as it is, already isn’t very happy with those no-longer-exiled dickheads–because he’s seen just a bit of the injuries Mr. Stark had after those fights and it was already too much, and also because he’s been here, he’s seen how hard Mr. Stark worked, how much time and energy it cost him, how exhausted he always is–and he’s just not ready to put up with this shit, damn the consequences.

So he doesn’t.

The second the first passive-aggressive comment is thrown into Mr. Stark’s direction–Peter sees the way the man’s shoulder’s slump, as though the hurtful words are physically dragging him down, sees the way his face closes off–he sees red.

“Yes, well, nobody asked for your opinion, so take that clue and keep your mouth shut!” he hisses, followed by some much less pleasant words. He hits way beneath the belt and he knows it, he just doesn’t care. It’s not even about the accords or the fight in Germany that could’ve gotten him killed, it’s the entitled attitude that really gets to him. Especially since it’s directed at/against Mr. Stark.

“Spider-” Mr. Stark starts, and Peter knows that tone, knows the man wants to calm him down–and he’s still protecting his identity even with just the team around, and Peter is just so done.

“No,” he interrupts. “I don’t- We don’t have to put up with this. They’re back, yay and yippee, justice has been served, whatever. A pardon doesn’t excuse their behaviour right now. If nothing else they should at least appreciate the effort you put into getting them into this room. But since they clearly don’t, I prefer to spend my time with people I actually value, so let’s just go!”

With that he takes Mr. Stark’s hand and pulls the unresisting man out of the conference room, slams the door shut behind him because if he’s going to act his age he’s gonna own it, and into the elevator. It’s only there that he slowly pulls off the mask and spends a very long, awkward minute staring at Mr. Stark, where it seems neither of them quite know what to say.

“You probably should get home, your aunt will be worried,” is what Mr. Stark ends up saying eventually, looking as uncomfortable in his skin as Peter feels–and that’s not right at all.

“She won’t expect me home until dinner,” Peter says without thinking, “Besides I like spending time with you–in the lab. I mean, if you don’t have anything else to do. Which, it’s cool if you do, I get it. I just-”

“You like the lab?” Mr. Stark interrupts, sounding surprised.

“Of course!” Peter grins, relieved to have his panicked babbling interrupted. “It’s great, the equipment’s great and I’m learning a lot more from you than all my teacher’s together! It’s brilliant!”

And the way Mr. Stark straightens at those words is better, is great, because like this he looks as though he could take over the whole world with just his mind and a smile, already sharing an idea on how to improve the mobility of Peter’s newest suit, and this is how it’s supposed to be.

Why TFP?

Okay, so I understand why people think S4 sucks, and why TFP sucks in particular. I understand how people perceive John and Sherlock and Mary, and the issues people have with their characterization, ‘cause there’s plenty of posts about that. I suppose these are more analytical subjects. I understand why people are disappointed with the plot twists, or with Mary’s narration. I get there are many things that Sherlock fans wish would have happened differently, or just… not happened (say, the beating or Mary’s being rehabilitated by the narrative, etc).

What I’m not clear on, even all this time later, is what’s so *emotionally* painful specifically about TFP in particular (for TJLCers). It seems to go beyond a lack of explicitly canon Johnlock, though maybe I’m wrong. It seems people think TFP is somehow uniquely destructive of the queer reading in general (as well as plot continuity? I guess) in a way I’m not grasping intuitively, and that trumps the extensive levels of angst we’ve had in TST and TLD (not to mention Series 3). That’s what I’d like to have someone help me understand.

Like… TST was painful for me 'cause Mary was there with them all the time and Sherlock seemed so oblivious to John’s discomfort, and Sherlock joked about how she’s a better partner than John, and then at the end, John told Sherlock to get lost. That’s not to mention Mary’s death scene and John’s growls and wails, which were painful to watch on several levels. John’s sudden rejection of Sherlock afterwards was naturally super painful, not to mention bewildering. Then TLD has John beat up a vulnerable and unresisting Sherlock, only to reject him yet *again* and return the cane as a symbol of how much he means it. TLD also had Sherlock POV angst big-time, with that awful scene where he remembers ASiP!John; then at the Thames with Eurus, he screams when she says 'anyone’ and he remembers John’s rejection, and later where he says he doesn’t want to die. Then there’s that awful moment John tells Sherlock he only rescued him because of his inner Mary, and he pushes him at Irene with all sincerity, after bemoaning his own lost chances with Mary. Like… I’m traumatized even thinking of these things. The only happy or even private John and Sherlock moment in these two eps was the hug.

In terms of contrast, John and Sherlock get along for all of TFP, Sherlock calls John family and he smiles, they make plans together and basically act like a well-oiled machine. Yes, Sherlock still acts a bit 'not good’, but again: this is normal for Sherlock, as opposed to walking on eggshells and *still* being brutally rejected, like in TLD. The worst thing I’ve seen people accuse Sherlock of is perhaps ignoring John’s 'Vatican Cameos’ and/or prioritizing the case in a dangerous situation with Eurus, but that’s Sherlock being efficient and focused on the big picture or the plan, and he’s *always* been like that. Then we have an open ending where they solve cases and raise Rosie together, forever and ever. As opposed to the weirdness and unending emotional torture ever since TEH, it’s TFP that’s traumatized people the most? Why? Any insight appreciated.

Krasivaya-Chapter 14

Summary: You and Bucky Barnes have been friends for years. You are deeply, completely, in love with the super soldier, but he sees you as nothing more than a little sister. What happens when Bucky starts to date in earnest?

Pairings: Bucky x Reader, Bucky x OFC

Warnings: Smut, Angst, Self-Esteem issues, Depression, Anxiety. Violence.

 Under  18s Avert your eyes, this is pure sin. 

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the sad thing about the 12th i guess is the impending isolation or the feeling of loneliness or disconnection that is actually the whole elusion bc in truth the person is so connected to the whole experience, they are unresistant to boundaries so they are the least alone of all, they are one with everything, god envelopes them one on one, cause that’s all that is. the loneliness can feel so overwhelmingly full that it empties out just to make physical space

EVERY CURTIS FIC EVER:

“OW!” I yelled at Carbonated Beverage. We have the same looks, I guess. I have his beautiful, majestic shiny sun-kissed natural-highlighted sandy — not like Sandy, I hate her because she’s so horrible — blonde brown-ish long hair. “Did you really have to splash water on me? I was gettin’ up, anyways!”

“I’m sorry,” Carbonated Beverage sang in response. “I love you so much you’re such a good sister you should come to the dx today I miss you hahaha you’re so cool and the gang loves to be aaround you1!1”

“hahaha totally!” I pulled on my cowboy boots. They matched my skinny jeans and tank top perfectly. And my leather jacket — duh, I’m a greaser — looked oh-so prefect with it1!

I don’t put on much for makeup because I don’t need any I’m so pretty. I’m not like the other greaser girls who wear all that makeup. But somehow everyone in my brother’s gang loves me!

“Ivory Diamond Ponygirl Sparkle Curtis!” Darry, my older brother called. “Come on and laugh and enjoy this breakfast I made or else I’ll hit you too because I’m so mean but when I’m not working 2,3493 hour shifts I find it in my heart to care about you!”

In the kitchen, I find Two-Bit, Johnny, and iwefisfsbbsuhf DALLAS. He’s this sexual magnet of a teenager that attracts me because he;s so aofdangerous and I’m soosdfj not! “H-Hi Dally.”

“Hey sweetheart dollface,” he said and I proceeded to blush so much. I’m really ugly in my opinion but everyone calls me pretty I hope Dally likes me.

Johnny is like my brother. He’s so little and fragile and I totally love friend-zoning him as my best friend!

But none of this matters, because my boyfriend is going to pick me up soon. And no — I didn’t change the tense of this story eight times!

“Bye friends and family! Two-Bit, you’re so funny! Steve, wash your face the cake I bake especially for you is all over youu!”

~O~o~“` time skip ” o~O~~

“What’s that, Ivory Diamond Ponygirl Sparkle Dakota Elaine Pearl Sierra Lavendar Curtis?!” I knew it was bad because he used my middle names and my last name.

“What is it, Darry?” I said innocently and tried to cover my makeup-covered bruise. I knew it didn’t cover well!1!! He removed my hand and gasped so loud that Coca-Cola woke up!!.

“It was your horrible hood boyfriend I’ve never, ever met, right?” Darry was so angry I tried to calm him down but it wouldn’t work ! “THat little loser —”

“I’m motherfucking dfucking dicksucking-ass here!! I am ready to fucck shit up because I am DaLLAs Winston, the *ugly in books yikes but then again pony was unreliable narrator thank you fandom* unresistable bad boi that’s always  motherfucking there for your fucking motherfucking ass, dollface babycheeks!”;al

SUDDENLY DALLAS APPEARED. Where did he come from? I thought he was banging Sylvia that cheating slut who sleeps with everyone! Woah! They must be broken up again.

“OH DALLAS!” I, skinny beautiful long haired Ivory Diamond Ponygirl Sparkle Dakota Elaine Pearl Sierra Lavendar — shit, I forgot Ros(i)e – Curtis, cried and leaped into his arms.

“Hey, baby –” he suddenly changed his personality for me — “I’m gonna beat the shit out of that guy! I knew he didn’t deserve you! nOT Like I do! let’s clean you up and possibly makeout, okay??”

Suddenly I so loved. More than I’ve ever felt in my lifetime!11!

A/N: hey guys so sorry I didn’t update for six and a half months but here it is! I hope you guys like it! Guess what happens next chapter? I’m gonna give a super big hint, okay? And if I don’t get 5464 reads or follows I won’t write anymore!! How do you feel about Ivory Diamond Ponygirl Sparkle Dakota Pear Sierra Rosie Lavendar being assaulted — physically and/or sexually — and/or getting pregnant at sixteen?? dally would make a good father!! socs love jumping girls!! they’re so mean like Cherry!

Better as Three Part 3 (M)

**GIF NOT MINE

Mini-series.­

Part 1  Part 2

Characters:  Mark Tuan (GOT7) x You (OC/Reader) x Im Jaebum (JB, GOT7)

Genre:  Smut, Fluff, Slight Angst, AU

Length:     4,887 words

Plot:  After Jaebum comes back from a sudden out of the country business trip, the two of you finally reconcile and his desire to make it up to you reached a whole new level.

Warning/s:  Poly!Markbum, Polyamorous relationship, Slight car sex, Blowjob, Deep throating, Mild spanking, Slightly dom!JB, Slight begging, etc.

A/N:  Third part; another het smut with the reader’s other boyfriend hahaha how lucky is this girl lmao.  And again this is very detailed and graphic so please read at your own risk!  I tried making this to full-on dom!jb… but I failed hahaha!  I hope you enjoy!!!


6PM.

You will finally be out of work and you are more than excited to go home tonight.

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Nyx-Chapter 2

Summary: Nyx was an ancient deity usually envisaged as the very substance of the night–a veil of dark mists drawn across the sky to obscure the light of Aither, the shining blue of the heavens. Her opposite number was Hemera (Day) who scattered the mists of night at dawn. she was doomed to walk the earth in search of her consort Erebus.

Warnings: My usual. Angst, Violence And Smut

Pairings: Bucky X Reader, Avengers x Reader

The years had passed quickly, blurring into a whirl of golden halls and feasts.

Frigga had been most accommodating, giving you a place in the royal household and title as Princess.

The announcement had Loki giggling for days. “You are a Primordial Goddess, the personification of night and darkness, yet you preen at the notion of being a princess?” He laughs uproariously as you tsked at him, gathering the shimmery silver dress in your hands, ready to launch yourself at him. “Erebus and those pesky children of yours must not have known how to treat a Queen,” he quips. The smile falls from his face as he realizes what he’s  said. True to Loki’s nature he does not apologize, he merely grimaces at you, the apology written in his eyes.

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Everyone Gets Some Love

Finally put together the lace piece of my continuation of the Everyone Needs Some Love series by @justwritingscibbles.

Alternate Endings from here

And now the Alternate Ending, Everyone Gets Some Love.

Originally posted by lum1natrix

You hung up instantly.
“Did you find it?” Mark called.
“No,” you replied, “I’m going to go look in the car, just in case.” You walked outside to your car, locking yourself in for privacy before you called Mark’s phone again. It rang only once before being answered, but only silence waited on the other side.
“Dark, are you there?” you whispered. He chuckled.
“So you did miss me.” You hesitated, not entirely certain why you’d called.
“Listen,” you said at last, “there’s a park three blocks from here, we’ve been there before. I’m going to be there in twenty minutes.” You took a deep breath. “Will you?” He chuckled again.
“We’ll see.”

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@dresupi needed a pick-me-up, so here’s what came off the keyboard. Some sick!Darcy, with a little pining, and Tony being a bro.


“What’s this?”

Darcy’s shoulders hunched up against her will, and she fought to have her body relax back into the sofa. The minute gesture caused a small avalanche of kleenex to cascade off her lap.

Why did it have to be Tony? He was only going to make fun of her. He could charm a boardroom full of angry stockholders, but he could never manage not to sound like an older brother picking at his siblings when he was in the Tower.

“Hey, short stack, what’s with all the Captain America merch? Have I not hooked you up with enough Iron Man kitsch?”

“I’m sick,” she coughed, hoping he’d be too disgusted to stick around and pry. She blew her nose for good measure, and wished she hadn’t already run out of the moisturized tissues.

“I can see that,” Tony said, plopping down next to her. He was within arm’s reach, despite her being germy and gross.

“I’m germy and gross.”

“So you are,” he said, doing that annoying head-tilt-with-eyebrow that Darcy didn’t have turned on her very often. “Jarvis, order some soup for Lewis. Broth or something. That’s what sick people like, right?”

“Certainly, sir,” Jarvis’ mild voice replied. “Would you prefer chicken noodle or tom yum, Miss Lewis?”

Darcy opened her mouth, but Tony beat her to it, “Just get both. And have some aloe tissues sent up. Your nose looks like Rudolf’s.”

“Thanks,” Darcy grumbled, pulling the thick fleece blanket up to her chin. Why had she thought leaving her bedroom was a good idea?

Tony reached out and tugged the rucked-up blanket over her toes. She watched, with growing apprehension, as his shrewd gaze took note of every single item around her.

“Even your socks have Cap on them,” he said. “Your pajamas have stars and shields, and this blanket is the vintage comic book design we gave out for his 95th birthday extravaganza in the park, when you laughed about sitting on his face and seeing fireworks.” A familiar expression of discovery clicked on Stark’s face. “Lewis, do you-”

“Makes me feel better,” she interrupted in a small voice. The roughness of her throat almost didn’t let her get it out, but she was too tired and achy to stop herself. She didn’t want to be teased, but she wanted to hold back even less.

Tony handed her the mug of tea Jane had left her with; it was cold, but that was ok. She untucked the blanket so she could stick her arm out and take it from him. It was weird enough that Tony was handing her anything that she blurted, “Not gonna get the real thing, so.”

Tony’s head rose and he cast a considering look over the top of the sofa, behind her. The back of Darcy’s neck prickled. What was he looking at?

He plucked the Iron Patriot mug from Darcy’s unresisting fingers and let it thunk onto the table, sloshing a little.

“Well- that’s enough bedside manner for me,” he quipped, jumping up from the plush sofa like he wasn’t practically old enough to need his knee joints replaced. He patted his hands on his overpriced jeans, flicked his eyes at Darcy, and said over his shoulder as he left, “You are totally germy and gross, Lewis.”

Darcy tried tossing a wadded-up tissue at him, but he was already out of range. The floor around her, she noted vaguely, was littered with balled tissues.

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Jeffrey Dahmer took a shower while there were two dead bodies in the bathtub, and he was sane. He drilled holes in the heads of living people to make them his unresisting companions, and he was sane. He ate a bicep which he had fried in a skillet, tenderised and sprinkled with sauce, and he was sane. For hours he lay with corpses, hugging them, cherishing them, and he was sane. He kept eleven assorted heads and skulls, and two complete skeletons, for eventual use in a home-made temple, and he was sane.
—  The Shrine of Jeffrey Dahmer by Brian Masters
Comatose-Chapter 10

Summary: You are the sister of Charles Xavier. You are part of the Avengers and dating Bucky Barnes. Unbeknownst to you Bucky is having an affair with Natasha. When you catch them in the act, things go downhill from there. You are a Mutant with similar powers to Jean, only with Immortality thrown in.

Pairings: Bucky x Reader, Bucky X Natasha, Logan Howlett X Reader

Warnings: Angst, Violence, Cheating, Feelings of worthlessness, Depression.Minors Avert your eyes. NSFW 18 and over only. 

You wake slowly, a quickly fading dream clinging to your subconscious mind. Shifting slightly, you pry open your eyes and come face-to-face with a distraught Logan. A frown graces your features as you take in his appearance. “What happened?” you croak, voice hoarse.

“You changed,” comes his simple reply.

You swallow tightly, aware of the anger simmering below the surface. “Oh my god,” you breath out. “What did I do?” Panic is rising inside you and you scramble upright. “Who did I hurt?” you ask tightly.  

Logan pauses briefly, contemplating his choice of words, before continuing calmly, “No one.” You look at him in disbelief, causing him to sigh. “There ain’t nothin but bumps and bruises, but you scared the shit outta us. Especially them. They ain’t seen that before like I have.”

A flash of memory makes itself known and you gasp. “Did you..did you kill me?” You look at him wide eyed. The guilt passing across his face and the red rimmed eyes giving him away. “Oh, Logan.” Reaching toward him, you attempt to pull him into an embrace but he dodges you. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened.. I was just so angry..”

He whirls around, anger apparent in his demeanour. “You were angry? You were angry! Don’t you get it, (Y/N)? I killed ya! I don’t care that it wasn’t permanent! I had to kill ya!” he grits out. “I had to hold ya in my arms, feel the blood pouring out of ya and know that I did that to ya!”

Standing on shaky legs, you move toward him. “You could never truly hurt me, Logan,” you remind him gently. “It’s going to take a lot more than your claws to do me in.” Running your hand up his chest, you look him in the eye. “I’m here. I’m fine.”

He pulls you closer, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. His hands slip underneath your shirt, tracing patterns into your skin. He kisses a trail up your neck, nipping gently at your ear. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers, hot breath fanning across your skin.

You attempt to, but all that leaves you is a gasp when he nips harder at the flesh of your neck. Your hands instinctively go to his hair, tug lightly, bringing his lips to yours in a frenzied kiss. It’s all clashing teeth and tangling tongues, a wild mating between two desperate people. A lance of desire surges straight through you, setting you moaning into Logan’s mouth.

You hear him unsheathe his claws, feel the smooth slide of them as they cut through the flimsy top you are wearing, exposing your braless form to the cool air. He nips at your collarbone. Kisses his way into the valley between your breasts. Moving toward a nipple, he circles the hardening nub with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth. A content growl vibrates out of him as he runs a callused hand to your covered core.

He gently hooks a finger into the lace material, running it slowly beneath the elastic, earning a garbled moan of his name. He smirks, and you can feel it against your skin before he lets go of your nipple with a wet pop. The lace skims down your legs, following the trailing path of his fingers as he pushes them down until they fall without resistance to puddle around your ankles. His eyes are heavy lidded, guarded but you can still see the want, the lust he’s barely keeping under control.

When he inhales deeply, it makes him moan. “So wet.” His voice is low, velvety, the deep bass of it resonating through you. “I can smell you, you’re so wet for me.” His hands stroke upward, hot and hard over your thighs, coming at last to the apex between them. He runs a teasing finger up your slit, circling your clit slowly.

You arch into his touch, your breasts brushing against his clothed chest, the roughness dragging over your sensitive nipples. Impatiently, you let out a surge of power, pushing him away from you a step. He looks mildly startled, his dark eyes searching your face questioningly, wondering if you’re rejecting this, rejecting him. Understanding dawns when you fumble with his pants, pulling them and his underwear down around his knees.Reaching for his bobbing cock, pre-cum beading at the tip, you stroke him languidly in a firm, corkscrew motion, eliciting a grunt of pleasure from him.

“Fuck,” he moans as you run a thumb over his slit, spreading the wetness along his tip.

Biting your bottom lip, you make to sink down onto your knees, but he stops you mid bend, causing you to look at him in the manner he had you earlier. He smiles a wicked grin and jerks his shirt up over his head, tossing it away. His hands return to run up your arms, eliciting a soft moan. Your hands find their way to his sculpted core, sliding up to trace the defined lines of muscle, out over his pecs and finally link behind his neck.

He pulls you to him, his hot length rests tantalizingly against your stomach. A deceptively soft growl ripples in his chest, vibrating through yours, and you sigh with the pleasure you feel. He bends his knees and grips you by the back of the thighs, lifting and spreading you open in one swift motion. Settling your legs around his waist, he lays you back on the bed and runs his cock through your wet lips teasingly, thrusting his hips slightly at every pass over your clit.

You need him inside you. The desire to forget is threatening to overwhelm you. You know that the repercussions of this will be devastating, but you need this. He needs this. He needs to know that you are whole. Safe. Alive. Stalling his movements with your legs you whimper, “Please!”  stuffing as much emotion as you can into that one word.

He seems to understand because he guides himself to your entrance. The thick head glides through your tight walls, pressing deep, stretching and burning deliciously thanks to your forced abstinence.  He halts briefly to let you adjust, his breath hot against your shoulder. He turns his face into your throat and bites you gently beneath your ear. It leaves you breathless, scratching frantically at his back, leaving long angry marks in your wake that heal as quickly as they are made, and he chuckles darkly in a tone that has a rush of wetness bathing his cock.

“Move,” you beg, only to have him bite you again before he obliges, setting a slow, precise pace that has you seeing stars at every thrust. “Logan,” you moan, the wet slap of skin filling the near silent room. Logan’s growls pierce through the haze of desire coursing through you. Your entire being has focused down to the pleasure rippling from your core, the way his body presses you into the mattress, the hot, heavy weight of him inside you, and the teeth that keep returning over and over to your throat. You’re coming undone at the seams, back arching off the bed. The last few months of worry and regret and hate flow out of you with every upward thrust. “Oh,” you moan, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist.

He shifts slightly, the new angle driving directly into the secret bundle of nerves and tugs at your earlobe. “You gonna come for me, darlin’?”

It sets you screaming, panting, whimpering, clenching around him. He must feel how close you are because he reaches for your clit, rubbing frantically. His hips stutter the harder your walls contract. The euphoria is building inside you, and with a few short, sharp thrusts you come screaming around him, chanting his name like it’s the only word you remember how to say.

“Fuck!” he snarls, pulling out of you. Stroking himself in harsh pulls, he works himself through to the finish and with a long drawn out growl, his release sprays over your breasts.

You don’t care. You’re exhausted. The events of the last 24 hours have finally caught up with you.

Logan retreats to the bathroom, returning a few minutes later with a warm, wet washcloth to rid you of the evidence of your time together. He cleans you up tenderly as you drift in and out of consciousness. The last thing you remember is Logan pulling your unresisting body into his, and placing a loving kiss on your temple as you succumb to the oblivion of sleep.

Tags: …….Everyone still with me….

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Screwball Ninja’s Mini-Review: 6x16 Mother’s Little Helper

Oh, what a tangled web we weave/ When characterization takes its leave. Let’s dig in!

Originally posted by nothingholic-s

You can tell she’s evil because she farts glitter– that stuff gets everywhere!

  1. Things That Had More Screentime Than Belle This Episode: Blackbeard’s wig. Her Handsome Hero. Rumple’s dagger. Jaime Murray’s cleavage. CGI spider butt. Perhaps we could scare up some more scenes for Belle in an episode about her son where the theme is MOTHERHOOD? Look, she’s already wearing pants in a plea for attention– somebody give her a scene with Gideon before she’s parading around in leggings and a ‘Welcome to Storybrooke’ sweatshirt.
  2. I’m here for Small Business Owner S&M Jaime Murray in a sparkly black tutu. What is this show? And it’s interesting that fairy dust can be used for evil (e.g., creating the Dark Curse) and needs to be a Category 1 Controlled Substance. No wonder the Blue Fairy smacked down Nova for loaning it willy-nilly in S1. I guess the price for fairy dust is slave labor (children, dwarves)? That’s dark, show. “Excuse me, Mr. Gold? Is this fairy dust conflict-free? Because I only use– *is snailed*
  3. Dark Swan is back, folks. Emma force-choked and beat an unarmed, unresisting man who was talking to her about his history of abuse because she was angry about losing her boyfriend for a day. “YOU TOOK HOOK FROM ME,” says Emma in her exact Dark Swan throaty tone. Force-choking is *never* shown as something good or justifiable– and it’s always shown as the sole provenance of villains. (They call it ‘Vader-ing’ in the script.) She’s law enforcement– you can’t beat up suspects because you’re upset! You can’t threaten to “force” people to do things! S1!Emma would have asked Gideon WHY he wanted to kill her before any fisticuffs, and she certainly wouldn’t have made him bleed while he was talking to her. This scene also makes it sound like Emma is more pissed off that Gideon cockblocked her than about his murder attempt. Priorities, woman! (Note: This was done on purpose to put our sympathies with Gideon– hence his line that Emma was “so far wrong” and that he wasn’t “the bad guy.” Gideon’s not all bad, Emma’s not all good: message received. But it’s fascinating to see Dark Swan pop up again without the excuse of The Darkness ™ .)
  4. Gideon says that the Black Fairy tortured him and he’s trying to protect “hundreds” of abused children in another realm. Emma’s response? Going to Rumple and … threatening to kill Gideon. “Your son has a death wish, one that I’m happy to provide.” What the everliving fuck? Rumple has to spell out that the Black Fairy is Bad News and may be a direct threat to Emma before she thinks to help Gideon. “Not my family? Not my problem!” is a legitimate philosophy … but not if you’re The Savior, and not if you’re the Sheriff. Emma even makes a deal (more Dark Swan-age) with Gideon to get Hook back BEFORE she helps with the Black Fairy business. I realize it makes sense to lift any magical barriers before embarking on a dangerous enterprise but it makes it look like she cares more about Hook than an entire realm full of abused kids. If this is “walls down” Emma someone *poof* her some bricks, mortar, and an enchanted trowel because I’m not here for this.
  5. Speaking of Hook, does OUAT have a writers room? You know, a room for the writers to talk to one another about what’s happening from episode to episode? Because this episode takes place one minute after last week’s episode, where Emma shed two tiny tears because that’s what she “needed to move on.” And now she’s beating up a child she helped deliver a week ago because she can’t be without Hook for literally a day? Which is it, show? 
  6. Hook is an adult who’s survived for hundreds of years and is in a realm he used to call home. He’s not hurt, he’s not cursed, he’s not threatened– he’s just on a bit of a vacation. You know, a break– what Emma wanted him to have until he got his head right about the whole lying business. So where’s the fire? Also, Blackbeard assumed Hook stole the jewels from a “wench”– is this something Hook did before? (Have fun with the inevitable JewelThief!Hook and FBI!Emma fic, CS fans!) P.S. BLACKBEARD SHOUTS TOO. MAYBE IT’S JUST A PIRATE THING? I AM HERE FOR THEIR HARD OF HEARING FRIENDSHIP!
  7. And normal Emma returns when the giant spider shows up! Yay! (Any scene that has Emma quipping about Charlotte’s Web while pretending to be in a life-and-death struggle with dollar store Haunted House webbing is a good one in my book.) Gideon apologizes for screwing with her instead of just asking for help. Yay! And then he double-crosses her because he thinks the ends justifies the means. Boo! But he’s heart-controlled! Gasp! Note that Gideon’s contractually obligated to do his premature gloating away from the scene of the crime, giving Emma time to escape with Rumple’s help. Villain rules, folks– if you disobey they take away your black cloak and make you wear pastels for a week. Also, props to the Black Fairy for not spilling her Secret Evil Plan to anyone yet. Next-level evil, for sure.
  8. “I’m sorry, but your son cannot be saved. He’s evil,” says Emma. Excuse me? One fairy coma, giant spider, and piratical banishment and he’s irredeemable? This is a show where mass-murderer and child abuser Cora went to heaven after telling her daughters to play nicely for five minutes after she was DEAD. Split!EQ killed three peasants, cursed Snowing, threatened to poison the town’s water supply, and sped up Belle’s pregnancy leading to Belle’s son being kidnapped– and got a “fresh start” in another realm. Hook killed Merlin and tried to kill Emma’s whole family last month but that’s “in the past.” But Gideon tries to kill one person to save hundreds of abused children and he’s beyond the pale? Ahahaha, no. Also, he’s *spoiler alert* heart-controlled. Boy, won’t Emma feel silly when she learns that. "He needs help!” says Rumple. “LOL nope,” says Emma. And then Rumbelle gave them epic side-eye and held hands (and gave the fandom heart attacks; it’s been a rough year).
  9. Neverland “must have transformed when Pan left!” To … Vancouver. Truly, Dark Magic. In S3 it sounded like without magic the entire realm was going to literally explode but you know what? Gangly teens carrying torches running around Neverland-cum-Vancouver beaches are not the most ridiculous thing in this episode, never mind the show. Carry on, fellas. 
  10. I’m oddly with Isaac the Author when he complained about his imprisonment. He created the AU but he didn’t actually kill anyone– and considering Regina, Snowing, Zelena, Hook, and Emma have cast Dark Curses and are running around free he’s right that being terminally annoying isn’t really grounds for perpetual incarceration. He should join King George and Sidney in their class action lawsuit against the Storybrooke Police. Calling it now: S7 is Law and Order: Storybrooke.
  11. Being The Author causes you to write gibberish and it gets worse the longer it goes on? That explains the show! “What happens at the end of the book?” asks Henry. The Author replies: “The Savior fights the Final Battle– and trust me, no-one wants to be around to see that!” Well, with these ratings no-one will be. #BaDumChh
Sledgehammer

Chapter Ten

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader  |  Word Count:2567
Warnings: Swearing, Angst

Song: Broken Crown by Mumford and Sons


Faye stood with her arms crossed, staring at all the screens, boards, files, documents, and information they had compiled in the past eleven days, her concentration complete until a flicker of movement at the corner of her eye broke it for the fifth time. Along with the break in her focus, came the break in her temper. “Captain!” she barked, turning on Steve.

“You got it?” he asked, hope shining in his eyes.

It was the hope, barely masking the fraying control and thread of despair which had her reining in her annoyance. “Captain, I need you to leave the room.”

“What?” he stiffened, face hardening.

“You’re continued need to pace, to move, is breaking my focus. I can’t do this with you in here. You want this done right? You want us to get in and get (Y/N) back? Then get the hell out of my workspace.” She pointed at the door.

He looked ready to argue for a moment before a sharp nod was given and he stalked away, door banging shut with his exit.

Keep reading

Jeffrey Dahmer took a shower while there were two dead bodies in the bathtub, and he was sane. He drilled holes in the heads of living people to make them his unresisting companions, and he was sane. He ate a bicep which he had fried in skillet, tenderised and sprinkled with stars, and he was sane. For hours he lay with corpses, hugging them, cheerishing them, and he was sane. He kept eleven assorted heads and skulls and two complete skeletons for eventual use in home-made temple, and he was sane.
The trouble was, in addition to all this, he was polite, diffident, deferential, obliging, just the sort of young man one could imagine weeding his grandmother’s garden.
—  The Shrine Of Jeffrey Dahmer

He knows before he’s officially gotten home- before he’s even turned the corner onto his street, really, his every sense attuned to his apartment.  Still, it isn’t until his key is in the door that he finally places the heartbeat he’s hearing- steady, strong, slightly too fast, either young enough to still be growing or upset.  Probably both.

There’s a heavy-looking backpack sitting on the floor, a dripping wet school blazer hooked onto the coat rack they have in lieu of a closet.  He finds room on the floor for his own bag, moves the blazer to a lower hook so his coat won’t get dripped on.  Then he sighs and turns to face the living room at large, and the boy on the sofa.

“Lois went out to grab some food,” the boy says.  His damp hair, so black it shines almost blue, is hanging in his eyes, and only his fingertips peek out of the sleeves of the sweatshirt he has on.  The boy is small enough that Lois could have easily lent him one of her sweaters, but instead he’s swimming in Clark’s old U of M hoodie.  He’s already small for his age, but between the sweatshirt and the tight little ball he’s tucked himself up into, he looks absolutely tiny, and so fragile Clark’s heart aches.  “She didn’t really know what to do with me,” he adds, almost abstract.  Less of a complaint, more of an observation.

“Does she know who you are?” Clark asks, coming into the room a little.  It’s a fair question- Clark himself barely knows who this boy is, for all they’ve met a half-dozen times.

“I told her my name, and she got all,” the boy twists his face, a near-perfect imitation of the face Lois makes when she hears something interesting and is trying not to let her excitement show.  “So. Probably.”

“Ah,” Clark says, because he doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Also, I gave her two hundred bucks,” the boy adds wryly.  “So you probably want to call her.  Dinner’s on me.”

“Robin,” Clark begins.

“Dick,” the boy corrects instantly.  “I’m not Robin right now.”

Clark takes a deep breath to respond to that, holds it a moment, lets it back out again in another sigh.  He moves over to the sofa and sits down carefully on the far end from Dick, for whatever good that will do.  The kid would have to leave the state to be out of Clark’s immediate reach.

“Bruce?” he asks, sparing the boy a sideways glance.  Dick turns himself so he’s facing Clark, leaning back against the arm of the sofa, still tucked up painfully tight.

“Hunting wabbits,” the kid says, and Clark looks sharply over at him, surprised at the faint humor in his tone.  He instinctively scans the boy- he knows Bruce, he knows Batman, he knows the sort of training this boy is getting- but sees no dead spots that indicate any sort of container with a lead lining.  There is, however, a scattering of warm spots up the boy’s side and on his stomach that will resolve into light bruising within a day or two, most of them the size and shape of small fists.  It’s too new to be from anything Batman-related, and Clark spends a moment or two judging the likelihood of this kid getting bullied in school.  “He’s in Edinburg,” Dick continues, oblivious.

“Edinburg,” Clark echoes.  “Business?”

“Yeah,” Dick says with a shrug.  “And Batman stuff, but he doesn’t want me knowing that.  Alfred’s gonna be busy running the comms, so this morning he told me I could hang out at a friend’s house after school.”

“And by a friend, you mean me,” Clark says in patient disbelief, and gets another shrug.  “Would there even be a point to asking how you know where I live?”

There’s a chipped mug sitting on the end table behind Dick, filled with something that smells like some flowery sort of tea.  Dick twists around and picks the mug up, cradles it carefully in both hands as he sips from it.  “You should be flattered,” he says to the mug.  “You’re his number one Batman-related emergency contact.  Not counting me and Alfred, of course.”

Clark shifts a little, braces his elbow against the back of the couch and rests his head on his fist, staring in contemplation at his young guest.  Batman is fiercely protective of Robin and won’t tolerate even the slightest whisper about the little bird, about his skills or his training or the appropriateness of his presence in the field.  It had taken three encounters for Superman to be able to so much as introduce himself to Robin, and even that was with Batman looming close over his young partner’s shoulder.  But Clark Kent has never met Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne’s ward, and he is rapidly realizing that the dynamic is different under these circumstances.

Still, Clark has no desire to start stepping on Bruce’s toes, especially in this area.  “Why don’t you let Alfred know where you are,” he says mildly, and it sounds like a request but it really isn’t.

Dick gives him a brief, considering look.  Then he holds his tea out in clear expectation, and when Clark automatically takes it for him, he dips one hand into the pouch pocket of the hoodie and produces a cell phone.  It has a little S-shield charm tied to its case, and Clark smirks despite himself.  The sweatshirt sleeves get pushed up enough to free the boy’s hands- his knuckles are red and raw, one or two bandaged- and he taps out a fast message.  He waits a moment, then turns the phone around and holds it out, showing the received-and-read message to Clark.  Then he tucks the phone away again and daintily plucks his tea out of Clark’s unresisting grip.  “There.  Now can I stay for dinner?”

“Might as well, since you’re paying,” Clark agrees, and glances askance at the kid.  “Two hundred dollars?”

“Yeah,” Dick agrees without meeting his gaze.  “Turns out, Bruce has like zero understanding of what money is worth.”  He drinks his tea and plucks at the sleeve of Clark’s hoodie with his free hand, rubbing the well-worn fabric between two fingers, and Clark wonders at Dick’s life before the tragedy that had deposited him on Bruce’s doorstep.  He seems almost embarrassed by the wealth Bruce throws around so casually.

The mug is almost empty, drained by Dick’s attempt to avoid further conversation.  Clark holds out his hand in offering, and when Dick passes it over, he rises and heads into the kitchen.  There is no kettle, so Clark merely rinses out the tea dredges and refills the mug with water, adds a teabag from the box on the counter, then puts it in the microwave.  Alfred would be horrified.

“So did you miss out on Edinburg because of the fight?” he asks, still in the kitchen, safety and comfort in the distance.

Dick is silent, not even breathing for a long moment- and Clark is panicking, thinking he screwed up, remembering all the uncomfortable conversations Batman has simply walked away from- but then there’s a noise, the slide of fabric on skin as Dick pulls the sleeves back down over his hands.

“He doesn’t know about this,” he says.  “It’s.”   And he stops, and swallows hard, and Clark turns to look at him.  He looks unsure of himself for the first time since Clark walked in to see him perched on the couch.  “It’s a bad one, the case.  I didn’t want to distract him.”

Ah, Clark thinks.  And there it is- he’s worried.  Worried, and useless, and trying to find something to do with himself.

The microwave dings and Clark turns back to it.  He uses the distraction to pull out his own phone and text Lois- she won’t be happy, but she’ll understand.  This doesn’t really involve her.  Then he gets the tea out of the microwave and heads back into the living room.

“Well, I don’t have a Netflix account,” he says as he offers the tea to Dick.  “But I do get the Game Show Network, and it is-” he glances at his watch, realizes he has no idea, and takes a guess, “- Jeopardy time.”

“Wheel of Fortune,” Dick corrects, but he doesn’t protest when Clark turns the TV on.  And when Clark sits down, in the center of the couch this time, it’s only a matter of seconds before the boy shifts closer.

By the time Jeopardy actually does come on Dick is tucked in against Clark’s side, not asleep yet but working on it.  And when Alfred calls much later to report mission success, Clark elects to tell Dick in the morning, and lets sleeping birds lie.