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philtstone · 5 months

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22 (kisses on head) Sam Wilson & dealer's choice

its been 84 years & i finally finished writing this .... inspired by life events bc apparently thats how most of my fatws stories seem to work these days. also shoutout to @foolgobi65, my bestie and co-middle aged fictional man. miss u so much, praying that in 1 month i will be a 60 dollar flight away from u, etc etc

It takes Sam a few tries to make the call.

Okay, so maybe that's hypocritical of him. It's okay to reach out to people when you need 'em, Buck. I'm here if you need to talk about anything, B. You know avoiding the world won't make anything easier, man.

Yeah, yeah -- so Sam's sometimes a textbook example of do as I say, not as I do. His sister would be the first to remind him of this, loudly and annoyingly. Recently, Bucky's taken to agreeing with her -- loudly and annoyingly, after he's given Sam a mildly amused eyebrow at the liberal shortening of his already short nickname -- but it's hard to remember that, and the general cross bleeding of their lives over and across like veins, when he hasn't seen Bucky in a month and their texts have been few and far between.

Not for any nefarious reason or anything. Sam's just been busy. Sitting in interminable meetings with assholes. Getting asked inane leading questions about his stance on global politics. Trying to push through the legal work of actually getting clean water to multiple places in literal first world nations. Bull-fuckin’-shit, Sam thinks. There is perpetual grit behind his eyes. The urge to dangle senators by their ankles from the top of multi-story buildings is real. He and Bucky did that a couple times, in the early days, but then Rhodey got in trouble because of it, so they agreed to ease off for a bit. So now Sam hasn’t even got that as an outlet, and it’s on him to figure out this messed up world for everyone else 'cause for every person who seems to care to try it, there are hundreds more who couldn't give a shit. He needs a vacation. Or a reset. Something to remind him what being Captain America is really about.

And Bucky's -- well, he's definitely not retired, but Sam thinks he deserves some peace and quiet, after everything.

The phone rings a fifth time. It's two in the morning. Sam sits in the dark quiet of his hotel room and is about to swipe end call and just content himself with a short text hey man, how's it going? when suddenly the call connects.

Sam squints.

"Why am I looking at a weird corner of your ceiling?" he asks, before his tired brain can catch up to the possibility that maybe something is deeply, horribly wrong, and there are bad guys there, and their mutual worlds are about to end for the twentieth time.

Then Bucky's forehead pops up from behind the kitchen counter.

“Sam, hey,” he says, before Sam can question further. The phone camera shakes like it’s being propped up against something by a hasty hand, “Gimme a sec, I’m in the middle of something.”

The forehead disappears. Not in a normal way, like Bucky walking out of frame, but in a weird way, like Bucky dropping below the counter to the floor.

“C’mon, ya little twerp, slow down a second …”

“Uh …” Sam wets his lips. “Is now a bad time?”

“‘S fine!” calls his friend’s disembodied voice. “Talk, I’m listenin’.” There is a thump, and a small yowl, and a distinctively Bucky-flavoured grunt.

Sam can see the edge of Bucky's stove behind him and slowly registers the warm kitchen lighting and mess of kitchen implements strewn ... everywhere.

"What ... exactly are you doing?"

"Wrangling," says Bucky. "How've you been?"

Could be better should be Sam's honest response. Instead he blinks at the obvious noises of scuffle, the muffled thud of metal limb against laminate kitchen island, some plaintive meows, and ...

Squeaking?

Peep peep peep peep peep.

“Fuckin’ – Alpine!”

“I told you that cat’s possessed,” Sam says, for lack of anything else to contribute to the mystifying noises coming from his phone.

“Aha!” yells Bucky. There is a particularly despondent screech, and the peeping ramps up in intensity.

Three months ago they’d got caught trying to bust some superpowered underground fight club and spent two days stuck in some underground bunker under threat of fighting in said club. Could make big bucks, taking bets on Captain America and the Winter Soldier. Sam wishes those violence-mongering assholes could see the two of them now.

Bucky’s head reappears.

“She’s not possessed,” he says. Sam can’t exactly agree, when directly to Bucky’s left, the little white housecat he found in the dumpsters behind his apartment last February is doing her best to wage feral holy war against the impervious plates of his left hand, which has got her hovering four feet above the ground by the scruff of her neck. Bucky himself seems unbothered by the crazy feline trying to maul his hand, and in fact unbothered in general, despite his wild case of bedhead, hole-ridden pajama shirt and slightly faded underwear all captured in frame. His other hand, stretched all the way out in the other direction, is held tightly in a fist.

And it’s squeaking.

“Bucky,” Sam says slowly, “I get that you got this whole nonviolence thing goin’ on right now –” It’s been a new thing Bucky keeps bringing up in sardonic therapy speak, always raising his eyebrows to show that he’s the only one allowed in on the joke, as if Sam knows he hasn’t touched a gun in three years – “but is two am really the right time to stop your honest to God housecat from takin’ out a mouse in your kitchen?”

“Mouse?” Bucky says with a frown. Then he grins. “Aw, no, I found him in the elevator today. Dunno how he got there.” Then, with impossible gentleness, he brings his fist up to the blurry camera, so Sam can see the fuzzy yellow crown of a tiny, very squeaky duckling.

Sam stares.

“That’s a duck,” he says.

“Duck-ling,” Bucky corrects. “He’s kind of helpless. Kept falling over on its own ass ‘til I brought him up. I think he was in shock.”

Peep, says the little duckling, as if agreeing. Or maybe as if to say, And then you exposed me to your psycho cat, asshole, you don’t think that was traumatizing?

Maybe Bucky speaks duck better than Sam does, because he only grins, widely, and then proceeds to press a small kiss to the top of the duckling’s head.

Sam feels like he must be dreaming.

“You adopted a duckling?” he manages.

“Not officially,” Bucky protests.

“You can’t just adopt a duckling in Brooklyn.”

“I got a bathtub!”

“You got a shower cubicle, man.”

“Okay, fine, I got a sink.”

“Dude, you can’t rehome a duck in your tiny ass sink.”

“He hasn’t got anywhere else to go, Sam, he’s just a baby.”

Sam gestures in mild distress to the cat, who is still trying desperately to escape her vibranium bonds. “Is this not considered a barrier to duck adoption?!” he says.

Bucky sighs, the kind that slumps your shoulders up and down. He holds Alpine up to his face, sternly. She is midway through attempting to chew his wrist with her pointy little cat teeth.

“You got wax in your ears? Knock it off, Sweets. Whaddaya want, more attention? You want a kiss on the forehead, too?”

“I do not get paid enough for this,” Sam says, putting his head in his hands and staring across the room.

Peep peep peep agrees the duckling.

“Look,” Bucky says, gesturing with his duckling hand. “I’ll think of something.”

“Something stupid,” says Sam.

Bucky doesn’t seem bothered, though. “So what’d you wanna talk to me about?” he asks.

Sam pauses. He’s got to think about it now. In fact – the edge of need that had been present just four minutes ago has mostly disappeared. He takes in Bucky’s disheveled appearance again.

“You still goin’ down next weekend?”

It is a long weekend. Thanksgiving, to be precise. Sam has spent many a Thanksgiving dreaming of his sister’s cooking; he’s not sure he has the mental fortitude to skip out on it this year, when nothing world-ending is happening.

Bucky gives him a weird look. “Sure. Are you?”

“Delacroix’s still doin’ its food drive, right?”

“Sure,” says Bucky again. He scratches an itch behind his ear with the watch strap around his right wrist. The duckling squeaks. “Maybe you should go.”

“Maybe I should,” Sam says. He doesn’t feel relief, exactly, but there is a cousin feeling, somewhere in his chest, that he does not have words for at two a.m., “to make sure you won’t be pullin’ lame moves on my little sister.”

“You wouldn’t know a move if it danced naked in front of you, Sam,” Bucky says, without missing a beat. Alpine, who has been quiet since threatened, makes a sudden, aborted move towards Bucky’s right hand. Smoothly, behind the counter, Bucky takes a couple steps back and opens the empty garbage can with his bare foot before dropping Alpine into it. “Behave,” he tells her muffled protests.

“I know so many moves. I am super smooth with the ladies. And your pasty ass better not be doing any naked dancing, or we’ll have words.”

Bucky lets out a very long-suffering sigh. “Just because Ms. Gloria next door likes me best …”

“She makes a mean sweet potato pie every Thanksgiving,” Sam agrees sadly. “I used to get that extra piece, you know?”

“I can’t say no when Sarah invites me, Sam, come on.”

“So she inviting you now, is that how this works? She doesn’t invite me.”

“That’s ‘cause you invite yourself. Or she bullies you into coming home.”

Both of these things being true, they are both laughing before Sam knows it. He is decidedly less exhausted than before. Tired, sleepy, sure, but not exhausted. Bucky has now moved on to cleaning up his kitchen one-handedly, which he’s gotten pretty good at recently. Bucky himself counts it as progress, and so does everyone else.

Sam catches his breath. “Yeah, alright,” he says. “I should get some rest, then.”

He gets subjected to a long look through the camera. “See you next weekend?” Bucky says finally.

And maybe that was the exact question Sam had been itching to ask. It’s been a long while since he’s had a friend that’s basically family. It hits different. Sam’s happy to get used to it again, bit by bit.

“Yeah, I’ll be there. I don’t think I can tell you all the shit I’ve been dealing with unless we’re out in the middle of nowhere.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “For security reasons or Sam-telling-a-story reasons?”

“Man, I can tell a story over the phone.”

“Yeah, but you like having the ambiance. Brings the best out in you.”

“Fishing and stories just mix right.”

“Whatever you say, Sam.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, maybe you can bring that little fluff ball with you. Can you imagine takin’ that thing through airport security?”

Except, oh no. Bucky’s eyes are widening with the sharp glimmer of a new, stupid idea.

“Huh,” he says, aloud. Peep peep, says the duckling.

“You are not foisting that duckling on me,” Sam says.

“You do have a bird-themed costume. And Sarah’s house has a bathtub.”

But before Sam can open his mouth to argue, there is the loud crash of the garbage can tipping over, and the blurry white figure of Alpine pouncing onto Bucky’s head.

“Shit! Alpine!”

Sam divines that he’s dropped the duckling.

“You know how long it took me to catch him?!”

Mroooow, howls Alpine, who is now on the counter, blocking most of the frame.

To the renewed sounds of frantic peeping from the kitchen floor, Sam laughs. “Dude,” he says, “you know your neighbors hate your ass right now.”

And it’s maybe fitting, that the last thing he sees before he ends the call is Bucky’s disembodied metal fist, flipping him the bird.

#my writing #its not much but its honest work #the falcon and the winter soldier #sam wilson #bucky barnes #sam x bucky #sarah x bucky #marvel #touch prompt meme

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scealaiscoite · 1 year

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touch-starved prompts ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🐚 ꒱

— “can… can i have a hug? please?”

— “oh, sweetheart- come here.”

— “how long has it been since someone hugged you?”

— “just hold me.”

— “is this okay?”

— “we don’t have to talk, if you don’t want to. we can just sit here together until you feel up to anything else.”

— “can i hug you? you look like you could do with it.”

— “are you blushing?! that’s adorable.”

— “it’s okay, baby, just let it all out. i’ve got you, i promise.”

— “you fell asleep in my arms. it was kind of adorable.”

— “please, never apologise for wanting to be loved.”

— “you don’t need to earn my affection, not now and not ever.”

— “i’m never more at peace than i am in your arms.”

— “not that i think cuddling will fix everything, but i’m pretty sure it can’t make things worse.”

— “i never knew i could feel this loved.”

#prompts #touch starved #touch starved prompts #hurt/comfort #hurt/comfort prompts #whump prompts #fluff prompts #soft prompts #dialogue prompts #rp meme #writing prompts #prompt list #writing exercise

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puppetmaster13u · 6 days

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Prompt in Memes 8

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yaoicoreren · 7 months

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discord mod ed

(insta request)

#edward nashton #fanart #doodles #b&w #i had fun doing this one #i have no idea what discord mods are like #im a touch too old to be fully into discord server cultures #also im horribly socially anxious even online so on group chats i mostly lurk historically #so i did this is fully from the prompt and what ive seen on memes about discord mods #i wish i had cat ear headphones like that.....

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curiositymemes · 5 days

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ENCHANTED APRIL SENTENCE STARTERS.

taken from the 1991 film, an adaptation of the 1922 novel by elizabeth von arnim. feel free to change wording and pronouns and provide context as necessary. do not add to this list.

“it seems so wonderful and it's such a miserable day.”

“it’s not worth wasting one’s time thinking about.”

“i don’t suppose that means much to you. sometimes it doesn’t mean much to me, either.”

“you look as though you wanted it as much as i do.”

“you look so beautiful and so sad.”

“if you wish for something hard enough, it happens.”

“but no one will know I’m there even if i am.”

“have you ever seen things in a kind of flash before they happen?”

“i’m sure it must be wrong to be good for so long you become miserable.”

“i can see you’ve been good for years, and you aren’t happy.”

“i’ve been doing things for other people since i was a little girl, and i don’t believe i’m loved any better.”

“you must believe I’ve never spoken to anyone like this in my life.”

“i don’t know what’s come over me.”

“you should have been there, my dear. i missed you.”

“that’s rather a depressing thought.”

“god must know an awful lot. why doesn’t he do something?”

“there’s something immoral about all this.”

“all i wish to do is sit in the shade and remember better times and better men.”

“i hope you’re not in the habit of seeing dead people, however distinguished. it’s not in the best of taste.”

“i mean, we’re not businessmen, are we? they have to distrust each other.”

“i want to just sit and not talk and not think.”

“well, it’s very wearing. everyone makes demands… especially men.”

“you look lovely.” / “i know. thank you, name.”

“we could both do with a change.”

“it really is the most extraordinary coincidence.”

“I’m afraid it’s all settled, name. i can’t go back on my word.”

“do you suppose it’s all real?”

“were you ever in your whole life so happy?”

“i promised myself the first thing to happen in this place would be a kiss.”

“we were going to choose the nicest room for you.”

“we were going to make it pretty for you with lots of flowers.”

“you shouldn’t be so independent that people have no chance to be generous.”

“you know, i hadn’t realized you were so pretty.”

“you’re really quite lovely.”

“i was just thinking about cuckoos for some reason.”

“i suppose you realize we’ve got to heaven.”

“i intend to spend most of my time reading by myself.”

“you have the most interesting habit of answering a question with the same question.”

“if i can be left quiet for one month, forget things… i might be able to get myself straight.”

“i’ve wasted so much time being beautiful.”

“what she really wants is to be left alone.”

“soon she won’t have to try… she’ll just be herself without trying.”

“don’t worry about me. I’m just lying here thinking.”

“then i have had all the trouble of coming out here for nothing.”

“we’ve just discovered it.”

“why don’t you like us being here?”

“we just didn’t know about it, that’s all.”

“i’ve written and told him everything.”

“it would be mean not to share all this.”

“the important thing is to have lots of love about.”

“i had this obsession with justice, you see.”

“i’d like to stay here and think.”

“that’s very imprudent and very improper.”

“have you noticed how difficult it is to be improper with no men about?”

“it’s a good feeling, getting rid of things.”

“i want to love name, but not necessarily spend every night with him.”

“i haven’t felt this restless since i was a child.”

“it’s too absurd for someone my age.”

“i feel something is going to happen. but i won’t let it.”

“it’s odd how one’s mind slips sideways in a place like this.”

“if you knew me, you’d know how strange it was.”

“there’s no way back.”

“isn’t it beautiful here, name? the air is golden.”

“you’re here. that’s the important thing.”

“you’ve every right to be angry with me.”

“where else would you meet such interesting people?”

“i don’t want name worried in any way.”

“i like him. I didn’t think i would, but i do.”

“all the advantages i was born with, and i’ve misused them.”

“i have it all. why can’t i hold onto it?”

“you have a gift for happiness.”

“well, it’s like coming home.”

“i mean, well… i don’t know what i mean.”

“i’d believe any place you lived in would be exactly like you.”

“isn’t it better to feel young somewhere than old everywhere?”

“oh, good gracious, child.”

“so you see, dear boy, you must stay here.”

“it’s such a pretty story.”

“i thought you might be bored.”

“sweetheart… i’m so glad you came.”

“you’re right, name. it’s this place.”

“and i’m late on your very first evening. do forgive me.”

“it’s a great thing to get on with one’s loving and not waste time.”

“she sees what we can’t see because she loves him.”

“oh, dear name, we must be friends forever and forever.”

“i couldn’t help noticing how miserable you seemed.”

“oh, what the devil. it’s too beautiful a night to be miserable.”

“all my dead friends don’t seem worth reading tonight. they always say the same things, good things, but always the same.”

“i’m tired of the dead. i want the living.”

“thank you, my dear. i was feeling a little melancholy.”

“it does seem that people can only be happy in pairs, all sorts of pairs.” / “then you and i will be a pair, name. we’re going to be very good friends.”

“the roses are in love in the rose garden.”

“but that’s another story.”

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crownmemes · 8 days

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A Touch of Frost Sentences, Vol. 1

(Sentences from A Touch of Frost (1992-2010). Adjust phrasing where needed)

"Could you please pull yourself together and act like a mature human being!"

"Just so you know, I don't like to eat anything green."

"Everyone was right; you're not very nice to know."

"Swear to me that you had nothing to do with this!"

"I am concerned that the wrong officer may be in charge of this investigation."

"I'm trying to preserve the reputation of this force!"

"I find you incredibly offensive!"

"Who knows what goes through your mind when you blow someone's head off."

"What are we talking about now? Politics?"

"I'm sorry if I got a bit maudlin this morning. I sometimes get overwhelmed by self-knowledge and the sudden realisation that I'm useless. It's my only vice."

"I hope you'll accept my apology. Manners never were my strong point."

"I'm a little concerned about the way you dress."

"From the state of her face, there must have been blood everywhere - but as you can see, the place is immaculate. No blood, no mess. Everything in its place. He must have tidied up after himself."

"You're lonely, and sometimes loneliness turns to bitterness."

"You know how I hate computers. There's only one way to catch criminals, and that's good, old-fashioned police work!"

"You used to be with the Serious Crime Squad, didn't you?"

"Did you know that more people die at four o'clock in the morning than any other time?"

"I don't think I like your attitude."

"You know, it'd have been a lot easier if you'd come clean when we first spoke to you."

"I don't care about you. Not anymore."

"What are you doing here, apart from trying to avoid me?"

"Insensitive is my middle name."

"You can't put a tick in the 'no publicity' box, you know."

"Bravery's good news. It's got to be maximised."

"We all come out of this a lot less human than we went in."

"You have a very individual approach to detection, but we're all part of a team, and teamwork's what gets us results!"

"Eccentrics are only tolerated so long as they come up with the goods."

"What makes you think you're such a catch? A scruffy copper who only comes home when he feels like it?"

"The way to deal with dogs and horses is to show you're not afraid of them. Is it the same with policemen?"

"Out of order is no good to anyone. Out of step is much better. That way, you tread on the bits the other people miss."

"You live, and you die, and the difference doesn't affect a single person in the whole world. It's as if you hadn't been here in the first place."

"Just because we're loyal to each other doesn't mean we have to be faithful."

"I cannot for one moment believe that any breach of confidence on your part was deliberate, but your haphazard way of working was always bound to lead to this kind of cock-up!"

"You're selfishly coming between two people who care for each other!"

"You're a hard, callous bitch! You're just using me!"

"When have you ever had a lasting relationship?"

"We are in the middle of a murder enquiry! I think private lives can wait!"

#rp meme #rp memes #roleplay meme #roleplay memes #rp prompts #roleplay prompts #sentence starters #specific;#crime drama;#filmtv;#a touch of frost;

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beevean · 8 months

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Hevor + Letter

Life may have drifted Trevor and Hector apart - the former was quite busy with his new, ever expanding family - but the two still kept in touch.

Trevor was surprised when one day a crow tapped at his window, and even more when he took the bird and noticed the piece of paper wrapped around its leg. But of course, Trevor realized as he read the contents, using a critter of the night for something so mundane could only be Hector's style. He was touched that his old, unlikely friend still thought of him.

The two kept sending each others letters for years to come, sharing parts of their lives. Trevor, effectively retired, was enjoying his life as a father, training his children to become the next vampire hunters and treasuring them with the knowledge of his forefather. Hector, much to his relief, had finally found the peace he sought for, thanks also to the woman who saved Trevor's own life.

They never saw each other again after that fateful day, when Trevor gave Hector his blessing to stop the cursed Devil Forgemaster. But, by collecting each and every one of Hector's caring letters, it was as if they never left each other's side.

#castlevania #prompt meme #hevor #trevor belmont #hector castlevania #FRIENDS THEY ARE FRIENDS #okay i don't know if the two would meet again after the events of cod #depends on where they live and all #but you know me i like that touch of bittersweetness :p

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philtstone · 2 years

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Sam & Bucky, “grabbing onto their arm”

soooo ... i watched "why didnt they ask evans?" remembered that i loved agatha christie novels and immediately landed here. obviously wave the historical accuracy away bc i did just enough research for Flavour but not much for anything else. premise: everything remains the same as canon except bucky didnt fall off the train & a whole lot of characters were born much earlier in the 1900s. this isn't technically finished yet but it's enough to justify answering the prompt; i want to try to get the latter half of this "part" done & perhaps if the fates align even write a part 2 to actually complete the story but for now have this!! if you'd like to see more pls let me know <3 thanks for the prompt zainab love u

Sam figures this is just typical. So he’d decided to go to New York – get that loan. Hell, they need that loan. Boy, don’t do it, Sarah had said, but Sam figured it was his right just as anyone else’s, and Stark talked all that talk about his new GI grant. They won’t have you, Sarah said, and like an idiot Sam went anyway. He went, and he sat himself down in that nice fancy apartment building lobby across the room from the saddest lookin’ white fella he’d seen in a while, which was saying a hell of a lot. He got up, walked over, he spoke to the nice receptionist, he wrote his name down.

Of course, he was right – they would’ve taken him. Had the paperwork done up and everything. Stark may have been a bit crazy, hell if Sam knew, but he had money to throw at things.

Only then, the very next day, Howard Stark died.

HEADLINE EXCLUSIVE: HOWARD STARK FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY BEHIND MANHATTAN APARTMENT

The New York Times, Monday, October 12th, 1947

Nation mourns death of eccentric millionaire inventor and war hero Howard Stark, found dead of a gunshot wound this morning in the alleyway behind his Manhattan home. With him, also dead, was socialite fiance Maria Caruso. Police have yet to identify the nature of the death but have not ruled out suicide. However, sources confirm that the firearm found at the scene was not Stark’s, but rather belonged to Stark’s comrade and fellow veteran Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes.

The thing about Peggy is that she understands him, which is just a bitch and a half sometimes.

“You threw the weapon out.”

She’s repeating this, flatly, but with enough inflection that Bucky comprehends the are you perhaps a massive idiot implied therein. Peg would say it like that too — use perhaps and massive and arch her eyebrows.

Bucky presses his hands harder where they’re clutched at his temples and grimaces. “Look, I wasn’t thinking clearly, alright?”

“James.”

James, full name, not Jim like when she’s being chummy and of course Agent Margaret Carter of His Majesty’s Royal Service never quite got around to following Steve’s lead on the Bucky front. Bucky grimaces harder. Peggy will stare and be sardonic and, God help him suspicious until he explains.

“I dunno what you want me to say, Peg – it was there in the drawer and I couldn’t bear lookin’ at it anymore.”

Her resultant expression is just a touch too understanding for his taste.

“How the hell would I know that tossing a Colt into the Hudson in the middle of the night would get Howard killed?” Bucky adds, to move past it.

Minutely as possible Peggy flinches. Balls of steel, he’s always said. The other guys thought the same, but none of them had the guts to say it aloud. Speaking of other guys –

“Dugan’s coming over.”

“Like hell he is,” Bucky says.

Peggy takes an elegant drag of her cigarette. She’s sitting at the dull brown edge of his made-up bed and being careful enough that the ashes don’t spill. What difference that’ll make Bucky’s not sure. His apartment’s the definition of sad. Becca nearly cried last week when she visited, but then instead of crying yelled at him ‘til he relented and got a pillow.

“Evidently,” says Peggy, still on the topic of Dum-Dum, “he has not considered the double agent angle. His wife made you casserole.”

“Mm,” says Bucky, grim. He walks over to his meager kitchen, pulls a dusty bottle out from the cabinet and unscrews it. “Gonna get him killed one of these days.”

“Given my ongoing conviction that you are not in fact a spy –”

“Jury’s out on you though,” Bucky says, raising the bottle at her.

“-- you do realize that you are a prime suspect in the murder of our close personal friend.” She blows out. “If we can’t rely on our comrades, we’re rather fucked.”

“I am, you mean.”

Her mouth turns mulish and she looks away to the window then back. Maybe she did mean we, lumping the two of them under the tarp of some morbid umbrella. Steve’s dead and gone and sacrificed nobly, isn’t he.

“You didn’t kill Howard and he didn’t damn well kill himself,” says Peggy, steely. “I’d like to know which bastard did.”

Bucky puts his drink down. Sighs. Crosses his arms.

“So?”

“I’ll poke around at SSR –”

“You really do think it’s a spy –”

“Stay here. Word is they don’t want this in the press just yet, which, well. Neither of us were born yesterday.”

“You callin’ me old, Agent Carter?” he asks, just on the right edge of bratty.

Peggy steamrolls forward, “Don’t do anything untoward, please.”

“You’re the one sitting on the bed of an unmarried man,” Bucky says. He walks over to the window and tugs it open, letting cigarette smoke out and giving him an eye to the dank alley below. It’s spring and the sunlight’s pale and his room’s not too high up; were anyone to jump, they’d barely sprain an ankle. And Howard’s fucking dead. Bucky turns back and flicks a thumb under his chin. “C’mon,” he says, “gimme the rest of your cigarette. I’m the one wanted for murder.”

“Christ,” Peggy mutters, getting to her feet.

She hands the cigarette over anyway, and Bucky spends the minute it takes her to leave wiping off the lipstick stains. It’s a lost cause, more or less.

He has to put it out, against the peeling windowsill.

Sam’s rung the service bell a third time when the receptionist finally appears.

“Concierge’s assistant,” she corrects in a trill voice. Her curls are pinned tightly and her skirt waist more so. The red of her lipstick clashes garishly with her hair. Her nametag reads Dolores. “Can I help you?”

“Um, yeah,” says Sam, “Ma’am.” He grips his bag. “I'm here to inquire about my loan.”

The lobby he’s in is just as fancy as it was the first time around, with tall ceilings and crystal chandeliers and fine imported rugs on the floors. It was pretty empty last time too, quiet and genteel the way rich white people pretend to be. Only last time Sam was kept company not just by Miss Dollie’s red lipstick but the scowling, oblivious man she kept batting her lashes at; this time the place is empty. Police have roped off the elevator and even the white folks’ plush seating area is out of bounds. Dollie looks pastier than usual.

“Oh,” says Dolores, “oh. From –”

“Yesterday,” Sam says, slow and expectant.

“You’d better go home,” says Dolores.

“They took my name down,” says Sam, a second time. “I wrote it on paper and everything.”

Dolores has busied herself with some stationary thing under the desk and distractedly says, “I just don’t think dead people can give loans. It’s a shame, don’t you think? He was a real dreamboat.”

“Ma’am – Ms. Dolores –” She stops looking wistful about Stark’s erstwhile good looks and refocuses, “Now c’mon. I paid train money for this. My sister’s got two kids – our family’s business is on the line. I’d like to talk to someone.”

“I’d guess you oughta get a lawyer,” Dolores says mournfully.

“Dollie,” Sam starts, “can I call you Dollie?” She perks up, which is inconvenient, as Sam remembers that he knows better than to flirt with a white woman. “Don’t they have some kind of insurance in place?” he asks. “His family – estate, somethin’? I mean, Howard Stark, a guy like that wouldn’t leave millions lyin’ around.”

Not that Sam knows much about men like Howard Stark. But if the police won’t bother listening to him, he’s just gotta run with his own theories.

“Jeez,” says Dollie, sniffing. “I couldn’t tell you. The whole back door’s swarming with cops. No one’s even gone through the rooms yet.” And then she says, “Oh – oh!” And bursts into tears.

Sam hovers awkwardly on the other side of the reception desk and offers her his ratty handkerchief until she has collected herself enough to wave him off with one hand and stumble away to the bathroom. Her low heels thump unevenly on the carpeted floor as she goes. He straightens the tie of his dress uniform and looks around again. He can hear voices, but far past the desk, closer to the alley door and the mail room. Hell, he’d bet even the cleaning staff have been either sent home or brought in for questioning.

“Ain’t this just our luck,” Sam mutters.

There’s no one around. The elevator is right there. Sam takes a deep breath and heads upstairs.

Upstairs is fancier than downstairs in the sense that Sam’s been in lobbies before but has never been in the type of suite that takes up a whole floor. The tall gilded windows look out on nearly all of Manhattan. Someone – he guesses the same police who told him to stop wasting their time, they had better things to be dealing with – has taped off the entrance to each room, but other than that, Dollie was right: it’s more or less untouched.

Which makes sense, ‘cause there’s a whole lot to touch. Sam can barely see the bedroom (with its big four-poster bed) or the bathroom (with its marble counter) because there is stuff everywhere. There’s a painter’s easel with a feminine aura to it in the corner and paints laid out, slowly drying, and yesterday morning’s newspaper. A large cylindrical contraption moves back and forth beside the desk, over the carpet in one corner, like someone forgot it there; it emits a loud suctioning noise (Sam can see the carpet hole forming) while steaming a smoking jacket to misshapenness at the same time. The coffee machine has three levels, one each for cream, milk, and sugar; the coffee smells burned. These are not the weird things. The weird things are the three stacks of metal drawers emitting a strange humming noise, and the industrial sized ice box, and the half-deconstructed bicycle sitting on top of the desk with what looks like a freakier version of a machine gun strapped to the handlebars. It has wires and hydraulics and everything comin’ out of its ends.

“Just check the desk and leave, Sam,” Sam mutters to himself, pushing down his nerves. You’re the fool who got yourself into this, says Sarah’s voice in his head.

She ain’t wrong.

The glossy desk is smaller than Sam expected. He checks it; two drawers with locks on them, and the third opens to a couple loose lead pencils rolling around. He supposes an important man like Howard Stark wouldn’t keep his papers sitting just anywhere. Under the desk, maybe?

Nothing. Not even a damn cardboard box.

He straightens, hums at the locked doors. In front of him a lopsided chalkboard reads CADILLAC IN OUTER SPACE???? ASK JARVIS in giant block letters.

“Going around wastin’ my time …” Sam mutters, picking his bag up and rubbing behind his neck. “Maybe we do need a lawyer.”

Then he narrows his eyes.

There.

Right there.

Someone has picked the lock.

The first drawer sits just off its latch and the second has scuff marks under where the key goes in. “Well, shit,” he mutters. He gets back down on his knees. There is definitely a splinter, right down the middle of the second lock, like someone wrenched at it when a gentle picking didn’t do the job. “Now why the hell would he have to do that if he’s got a key?”

Sam’s habit of asking himself rhetorical questions is very suddenly put on the spot when, instead of the silence he usually anticipates, he is answered by a faint creak from the foyer beyond the study door. Sam freezes. He doesn’t think his dress uniform is enough to stop him getting arrested if anyone were to find him here now. Then again, with these locks and the general strangeness of the situation, arrest could be the safer option. Scooping up his bag, Sam slowly rises to his feet and pads softly around the desk, just barely missing the steam-cylinder and its jacket (it lets out a sad whistle), and slips a small pocket knife out from the inside of his left sock. He stalls at the doorframe, trying to breathe as quietly as he can. There’s definitely someone on the other side.

Inhaling sharply, he pounces.

“Oomph!”

“Shit!”

On instinct Sam grabs the arm that swings at him. He brings his knee up and his elbow down and there is a moment where they grapple, with strong emphasis on the moment part – very suddenly Sam finds his arm knocked out of the way and himself grabbed by beneath his chin, and slammed into the foyer wall like his cousin Deedee’s flour sack doll, so hard that all the breathe leaves his lungs in one fell swoop. His hat gets knocked off of his head with the force of it and falls to the floor.

Sam blinks. There is a scruffy, pale face in front of him, which features two big blue eyes that are blinking right back, looking equally startled.

They stay frozen like that for the space of two heartbeats. Sam’s fingers tighten where they’re fisted at the guy’s collar, refusing to yield. He’s pretty sure his knife has skidded under the shoe rack.

He really liked that knife, dammit.

“Who the hell are you?” asks the man suddenly, both loud and Brooklyn about it.

“Funny,” wheezes Sam, “I could ask you the same thing.”

He releases Sam, which is nice of him. Stumbling, he moves a few steps back, and looks quite suddenly more bewildered than before. He’s not much taller than Sam is, with dark floppy hair that hangs over one eyebrow and a frame like a heavyweight boxer. Despite his startling strength – Sam aint exactly the smallest of men – there’s an exhaustion that sits fragile under his eyes and a tense, well-concealed tremble in one arm. There’s something very familiar about his face. His slacks have scuffs at the knees and he’s wearing a lumpy-looking knit sweater that does little to mask what Sam’s dress greens are plainly revealing to him – that whoever he’s just run headlong into, trespassing in a dead guy’s bedroom, is a fellow soldier.

Or was, anyway. No more war to fight and die in. Sam tugs at the hem of his jacket. It’ll be a pain in the ass to steam again, and Sarah will raise hell about it ‘cause he’ll beg to borrow her steamer. They don’t get all that nice starching stuff at the dive motels Sam can afford.

“No one’s supposed to be up here,” insists the man, still looking baffled.

Sam straightens and rubs at his jaw, which feels like it just got caught in an industrial press.

“Sorry to disappoint,” says Sam, “but I am. Why are you here?”

“I asked first,” says the man, so unselfconsciously mulish that Sam can only stare.

“I didn’t just slam me into a wall.”

“You came at me with a knife!” protests the guy, which Sam thinks is a little unfair; that knife was kind of useless. He narrows his eyes. He oughta pick his hat up from the floor, but he figures it’d be kind of stupid to let his guard down. They stand there, eye to eye, at impasse. After the weird-looking carpet cleaner has whistled three times the man says,

“You don’t look like a German spy,” muttered, like he’s really thinkin’ about it.

“Seriously?” splutters Sam. He says this so forcefully that the other guy has the nerve to look a little offended. But now, come on – come on, Sam thinks. It’s a fair question. Only Sam’s been having a really difficult forty-eight hours, so he doesn’t appreciate it.

He decides to consider the situation a bit more fairly; how does he know this crumb hasn’t been having a tough time, too?

It’s here that something big and important feeling clicks in Sam’s head. He’s seen that scowl before – just yesterday, ignoring poor Miss Dollie.

And just this morning, in the papers plastered all over his motel lobby.

“Oh,” says Sam, “you gotta be kidding me.”

But alas, there’s no kidding to be had.

“From the paper – they think you killed him, man!”

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes pales three shades under what little tan he has, but otherwise doesn’t react.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says instead, a divot deepening between his thick eyebrows. “It isn’t safe.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” says Sam. “Some guy just grabbed me by the throat.”

Barnes does not seem to find this amusing. Instead, he looks a funny cross between ornery and miserable, and sets his jaw to considerable mulish effect. Sam hums to himself. Fact of the matter is, Barnes has had plenty of opportunity to kill Sam so far and hasn’t taken advantage of it. If he really was guilty – Sam thinks, briefly considering the warped mind of a cold-blooded killer, a few inches removed from the necessities of soldierhood – wouldn’t he want to get rid of any witnesses or evidence?

And yet here Sam is, very much not dead.

“Well … you don’t look like a murderer,” he says aloud, slowly, but keeps his arms crossed. Somehow despite his sardonic tone and clear mockery (at least, that’s what Sam hopes is coming across), there is something profoundly relieved about the expression that flickers across Barnes’s face.

Then it is back to its customary scowl.

“You gotta leave,” he repeats firmly, pacing once, back and then forth. Sam watches him carefully; there’s that tremble again, along with a steady, even tone and deliberate eye to the skyline behind them. More than just Barnes’s face is familiar.

But Sam is still annoyed.

“Through the window?”

“There’s – a stairwell.”

“Through the stairwell definitely crawling with cops?”

“For the love of God –”

“I am just listing my options, here.”

“Just leave, go away, pretend you never saw me,” Barnes says, waving two hands in front of Sam’s face like he’s batting the whole morning away, and looking harassed. “Okay? Jesus, it ain’t that hard.”

“Pretend I never saw you, creepin’ around the apartment of the fella you’re supposed to have killed,” Sam says. “Yeah, no, I’m gonna tell somebody.”

“Seriously?!” It’s Barnes’s turn to sound offensively incredulous.

“Or,” Sam says, “you could tell me what’s goin’ on.”

There’s a long pause. Sam hardly thinks his voice is friendly – if anything, he’s annoyed as hell – but Barnes opens his mouth, two beats, a sudden vulnerability stuck to his chin. Too vulnerable for whatever Sam’s asking. In that split second it sucks the breath outta the room.

Sam doesn’t have any idea what it is that’s just made Barnes’s head whip around until a bullet explodes into the lobby mirror above their heads.

“Fuck!”

Two rough hands shove him back into the study and Sam nearly knocks over the artillery bicycle; he looks up in time to see Barnes throwing his lanky frame against the opposing wall and holding his arms up over his head, yelling loudly in annoyance when another three bullets spray into the beautiful engraved wood above their heads and nearly bring down the chandelier. The coffee maker starts whistling out of control. Sam groans.

“Gimme your gun!” demands Barnes, which is beyond unhelpful.

“I don’t have a gun,” says Sam, waving one hand in the air to demonstrate this. “Where’s your gun?”

“I threw it in the fucking Hudson!” says Barnes. He looks like a guy who’s had a very long forty-eight hours; Sam can relate. “I’ve been framed for murder, remember?”

“We actually never established that that’s the truth,” Sam feels the need to point out, a second before another bullet tears through the poor over-steamed suit jacket.

Bang.

“Common sense!” exclaims Barnes.

Bang.

“Somethin’ you don’t seem to have much of!” yells Sam.

Bang.

“THERE IS A MAN SHOOTING AT US.”

Bang.

“HOW IS THAT MY FAULT?!”

Jiminy Christmas, says Sarah’s voice in Sam’s head. His sister is not gonna be happy about this.

They scramble for the front door as another two bullets sound off. Sam just barely has the time to reach down and grab his hat, and can just make out a slight, shadowed figure ducking back behind the wardrobe in the bedroom before they burst into the elevator lobby – right in time for the elevator door to ding open, and the tomato-red of the huffing police commissioner’s face to peek through.

Barnes has grabbed him by the arm again and pushed him into the stairwell going back downstairs before Sam has any time to react.

And, maybe importantly, before any of the many police officers squeezing themselves out into the hallway can see him.

Huh, he thinks, a second before the other man’s bulky shoulders burst through the door in turn, knock haphazardly into Sam, and half tumble them down the staircase with a garbled, “Come on, move!” tacked right onto the end.

“Can’t run anywhere with you fallin’ on top of me!” Sam says.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

And for all that Sam was raised Southern Baptist, he has to agree.

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depressedoompaloompa · 1 year

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A little Tumblr fairy told me that you're dehydrated as fuck ✨🫥✨

Drink water bestie<3

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lvebug · 1 month

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an andie eliot reading guide (tags drop pt 1)

#VOL 1: LOVE IS HERE TO STAY — main verse #PLAY EPISODE: HOLDING ONTO HOPE — 911 verse #START GAME: LOVE BITE DLC — insomniac verse #PLAY EPISODE: AND I WILL MAKE OF YOU ANOTHER BELIEVER — ted lasso verse #SERIES: THE CITY OF SILK — fantasy verse #PLAY EPISODE: TO TOUCH THE STARS AND HAVE THEM TOUCH BACK — star trek verse #AIN'T NOBODY IN THIS ROOM ALONE — threads #LET THERE BE PEACE AND LET IT BEGIN WITH ME — personhood & visuals #IT CANNOT BE A MISTAKE TO HAVE CARED — headcanons #SNAIL MAIL LOVE LETTERS — asks #THERE'S A LOT OF BEAUTY IN ORDINARY THINGS — ooc #CHARMS ON A FRIENDSHIP BRACELET — memes & prompts #THERE IS LOVE IN THIS STORY — promos #LOVE IS AT THE CENTER OF IT ALL — dash games #WHAT'S THE BEST THAT COULD HAPPEN? — psa & updates #CUTOUT PAPER STARS AND GLITTER GLUE — edits #BARBIE DREAM SPIDER — visage #HEART SIGNAL IN THE SKY — self promo #VOL 6: SING IT FROM THE HEART — musician verse #VOL 8: IN THE SPIDER'S WEB — mcu verse #VOL 9: AGAINST ALL ODDS WE HOPE — earth-20 verse #VOL 10: ALL A GHOST CAN DO IS HAUNT — back in black verse #VOL 11: GREATER TOGETHER — tasm verse #VOL 12: HOLD MY HAND I'LL GUIDE YOU HOME — the martian verse #VOL 13: LIKE A SHADOW LIKE A DREAM — percy jackson verse #VOL 15: ALL THE SWEET THINGS; APPLES AND HONEY AND PEACE — the hunger games verse #VOL 16: EVERY STEP I TAKE I TAKE TOWARDS YOU — the hunger games verse #VOL 18: SOFTLY & WITH WONDER — astronaut verse

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bropunzeling · 5 hours

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normally i am looking at a scene like is this horny enough? do the gestures convey enough intimacy? and let me tell you it's bizarre to revise a paragraph like no this is too horny and intimate for where they are supposed to be at. we gotta scale back and slow down.

#sexy wrist touches are for the 60% of the plot mark!#also unrelated but i promose i have not forgotten the ask meme prompts i was busy this weekend admiring farm animals #there was a cat so sweet and beautiful jack was like ten seconds from taking it home #he was white but had orange ears and an orange stripey tail #like a creamsicle

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devilry-revelry · 9 days

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After Nora | Hancock x Female!Sole Survivor

(Ancient) Prompt fill for the (ancient) Fallout Kink Meme —

The Prompt: Despite his charisma and laid back nature about his ghouliness, Hancock actually hasn't had too much physical contact with others since he went ghoul. Maybe he's reluctant to get close to someone, maybe he's too busy being mayor, etc. Then the SS comes along, and it isn't long before he's craving their touch and to be near them. He's itching for physical contact but he's worried that the SS might not want to get that close to him for various reasons. How Hancock proceeds and how the SS reacts is up to you! Of course, I'd want it to end with Hancock getting the affection he desires.

Hunger. That was the best way to describe it. Hancock felt it as he walked, as he moved, and as he breathed. It was particularly noticeable in the dead of night as he lay back in bed and gazed up at the ceiling. No amount of drugs did anything to mute the persistent yearning, confirming that the hunger would be a perpetual part of his life. The sleepless nights had become nearly painful, but it was a pain he was familiar with. It could not be ignored, but it could be dealt with. The listlessness he felt was chalked up to a mild to severe case of depression, just like the lethargy, and his empty headedness. There were days where he simply existed, and existing was good enough.

Or, at least, it had been.

When the Vault Dweller came to town merely existing was no longer an option. The day Nora rolled into Goodneighbor was the day that the persistent yearning hunger turned into something so much more apparent in his day-to-day life. The hunger felt tangible. There were days where he thought that if someone looked at him long enough they would be able to see a great yawning void within him. Hancock had planned to ignore the Vaultie until the knowledge of her existence was purged from his memory. It didn’t work. When he wasn’t seeing her, he was hearing about her; whether it was from the citizens of Goodneighbor, or on the radio. Then, somehow, the woman had wiggled her way into his life and keeping her at arms length became that much more difficult. She was around Goodneighbor often. When she was in town he wished that she would leave. Her being so close yet out of reach left him feeling needy and bereft. When she was gone he desperately wanted her to return. He worried about her damn near constantly. Her presence, or lack thereof, became another painful constant in his life.

One day, he woke up and decided to face it. He woke up and decided to face her. The nearness to the object of his desire had his body practically buzzing in anticipation. Her company alone pleased him just as much as it upset him. So close, yet still so far away.

“You want to travel together?” Nora asked him, her head tilting to the side. “What about Goodneighbor?”

“I’ve been too comfortable. Getting too used to this lifestyle. I need to get out and sharpen the old warrior instincts.” He met her eyes, saw her smile that perfect smile of hers. “I would like to tag along with you, if you’d have me.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” He felt more excited than he should have been.

“Yeah.” Nora held out her hand. Hancock’s gaze focused on her palm, on her fingers. He wanted to touch her, wanted to hold her hand. He wanted to travel the map of lines on her palm with his fingertips.

He settled for the handshake.

Her palm was warm and soft, while her fingers carried a soothing chill. The handshake ended far too quickly, and Hancock barely managed to hold back a sound of disapproval that grated against the back of his throat. Had he let it, it could have easily been a whine or a desperate whimper. The hunger that he experienced wasn’t sexual, it wasn’t a carnal hunger. It was an overwhelming desire to be touched. And not to be picky, he wanted it to be by someone who cared or someone he cared for. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep with her tucked so securely in his arms that he knew that she would still be beside him when he woke up. He wanted to hold her hand. He wanted to lace his fingers between hers and just… exist. Just existing with Nora would be a beautiful existence, to be sure. Far better than existing alone.

But the handshake was fine, he told himself. The handshake would have to do.

At some point in his life, Hancock let himself lose track of time. Half-past leaving Diamond City and turning into a ghoul he simply stopped paying attention. As far as he was concerned the time, the date, was always After. After leaving Diamond City. After ghoulism. Days, weeks, birthdays, and holidays were all blurred together in a haze of Jet and Mentats, Lethargy and sleepless nights. The next time Hancock had the opportunity to touch Nora again was exactly nine days after leaving Goodneighbor. He didn’t recall keeping any sort of mental tally, but some part of him knew that it had been nine days, and he knew it without question. Nine days of walking the Commonwealth, doing nothing in particular but cleaning up riff-raff. Nine days of sleeping on the other side of the campfire, sharing meals and sharing stories. Nine days of being so damn close to her that he could smell her – but never touching. Not once.

They had been ambushed by raiders. After nine days of clearing out their strongholds, the raiders had clearly decided to hunt the duo down. Though they won the fight, they did receive a bit of a beating. Nora, whose armor had been in a state of disrepair during the ambush, had a pool cue broken across her back. Hancock took a bullet to his shoulder. Though painful, the injuries were incredibly minor when compared to what typically happened when unsuspecting persons were ambushed by raiders.

After the raiders were dispatched they found a safe place to hunker down so they could tend to their wounds. They hid out in the back of an old bus, sitting on the dirty floor as Nora unloaded all of her medical equipment from her rucksack. Hancock shrugged his coat from his shoulders and tugged at the plunging neck of John Hancock’s tunic to expose the bullet wound. The bullet didn’t go too deep, but it was deep enough that he couldn’t pry the lead out with his fingers. Another scar to add to his collection. Not that it mattered. Turning into a ghoul fucked up his body so badly he couldn’t really differentiate between scars and what would be considered normal. Slender fingers slipped into view, and before he could brace himself for the contact, Nora was touching his arm. Barely-there pressure was applied to his skin, and he dragged in a ragged breath. He would let her think that it was a sound brought out by pain, but it was caused by her proximity, her willingness to help him.

“It’s not deep,” she said, breaking the contact. His eyes shot to hers. Nora was leaning in close – so close he could smell the floral perfume she had spritzed on her clothes however many days ago. He could see the dusting of freckles that danced across her nose. Though he felt the urge to kiss her, the desire to press his forehead against hers was so much stronger. He wanted to press his forehead to hers, card his fingers into her hair, and close his eyes and just breathe.

Nora held up a set of forceps and asked, “Do you want me to…?”

“Go ‘head.”

The woman reached out and touched him again, though this time it was firm and so much more real than the ghost of a touch she had used earlier. Hancock nearly vocalized his appreciation, but remained silent. The forceps dipped inside of his skin, touching torn and bleeding muscle. Metal audible clinked against the chunk of lead and a sobering amount of pain shot through the length of his arm. The bullet was extracted with no trouble. She plopped the bloodied slug into her palm, holding it out to him.

“Way to go,” she said teasingly. “Wish I had a lollipop to give you.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Hancock jested.

When Nora offered to stitch up the wound Hancock turned her down. Despite the effervescent need he had for her to touch him in any capacity, she needed to save her supplies. There was no sense in her wasting them on him.

“Nah, Doll,” he said. “I’ll find me a puddle of radiation and I will be right as rain. Let’s take a look at you, huh?”

Nora sighed, and she turned her back to him. She removed her measly chest armor and then hoisted the back of her thread-bare shirt up and over her head. The hem of the shirt was hooked around her neck so her front remained perfectly covered with her modesty intact. Hancock was gifted with a nearly unobscured view of her back. It was beautifully smooth skin that would have otherwise been completely unmarred if it wasn’t for the colorful damage the pool cue had left behind. The bruising was raised and swollen, red and splotchy with a laceration that traveled beneath the bloodied strap of her once white brassiere.

“I’m going to unhook your bra,” he warned her.

“What, a girl can’t get a drink first?”

Hancock chuckled at the half-hearted joke, but he felt so damn breathless. He would finally get to touch her. He would get to tend to her injuries and help her heal. Nora was entrusting the task to him, and he’d be damned if he was going to mess it up. A smoothskin like her would need stitches for the mess that had been left behind. Hancock’s radiation mangled fingers brushed the outer edge of the angry bruise. Nora exhaled through clenched teeth. Nora was pained while Hancock tilted his head back, closing his eyes. He so desperately wanted to glue his body to hers. He wanted to hike up his shirt and pull her back against him so he could have the skin-to-skin contact that he had been hungering for.

With his body trembling, he went about cleaning the cut. Though it was only a couple inches in length, the location of the laceration would be uncomfortable; it stretched across the skin where the clasps of her bra rested. Hancock taped some gauze down, but even then, the material would probably chafe against the sutures. He watched as her back arched, as she found her bra straps and went to reconnect them. She released a loud hiss.

Hancock said nothing as she placed her supplies back in her pack. Her chest armor was pulled back into place and secured. The hunger left his body burning. He had been so close to her. Nora had touched him, and she had trusted him to touch her and he realized that was becoming a substantial piece of what he wanted. A mutual trust, a friendship created from the ground up. No ulterior motives, no exchange of chems or caps. The way he craved it was just sad.

The duo left the bus, and they continued to wander. They seemed to be meandering idly, and that was completely fine. There was companionable chatter as they walked. There was no awkwardness, no pregnant silences. Maybe this was what he needed, too. He needed companionship. That wasn’t to say that Fahrenheit had been a bad friend or bodyguard, but the woman could be painfully quiet. Nora talked, she sang with the radio. She was a tangible presence in his life, one that couldn’t be overlooked or ignored, or forgotten.

“You’ve never heard of Tarzan?”

“Is he Grognak’s cousin?”

“Oh, you poor man. How about Beauty and the Beast? That one is a classic.”

“… Is that first one about that chick that tried to fuck a deathclaw?”

“Whoa. Whoa! You’re kidding! You have to be kidding!”

When Nora’s Geiger counter began to click angrily, she stopped and looked over her shoulder at him, flashing a pleased smile. The puddle of radiation that she had found was a literal puddle of water in a flooded out neighborhood. Old barrels of waste were overturned, creating the perfect place for someone like him to heal up. Hancock dressed down, then knelt beside the water, cupping handfuls of liquid and palming it over the open wound in his shoulder. Nora retreated far enough that her Geiger counter wasn’t going haywire, waiting patiently.

“Oh, sister, I wish I was kidding.”

Hancock regaled a stunned Nora with his story, and she laughed and made appropriate grossed out noises. At one point, he found himself just watching her, no longer treating his gunshot wound. She was in the throes of laughter, her hand cupping over her mouth to stifle herself, eyes screwed shut. The woman was too damn beautiful, too genuine, too kind…

He stood, and returned to her side, shrugging his coat back onto his shoulders. As he neared, she dropped her hand. She was grinning ear-to-ear. She met his eyes and said, “I’m glad you came along, Hancock. It gets lonely out here. Your company makes all of this a whole lot easier.”

Her words touched his heart. There had to be others who were willing to travel with her, better ones, and she had picked him. He offered a lazy smile, pulling his cigarettes from his coat’s breast pocket. “Well, what can I say? I aim to please.”

“I mean it!”

“So do I.”

The next time they touched was five weeks later. Five weeks of sleepless nights, of watching her from the other side of the fire as she sang along with the radio. He was feeling irritable, and he was doing his damnedest to keep himself in check. There were times where he found himself reaching out to her as her back was turned, reaching out to pull her back towards him. He didn’t like it when she turned her back to him, didn’t like it when she wandered off alone – and he had damn near gone completely feral when she left him in Sanctuary for all of an hour one sunny afternoon.

It was another fire fight that had brought them together. It was another interaction created by circumstance, and not by a sudden yearning to reach out and take his hand. They were battling Super Mutants. Though the duo got the drop on them, when push came to shove, those assholes had suicidal crazies on their side and there wasn’t much that could be done about that. A rhythmic beeping had just caught his attention when, not a second later, Nora grabbed his hand in an iron grip and started running.

The contact was unsolicited and surprising. He didn’t expect her to grab his hand, to practically drag him behind her as she ran for cover. He was touched that she thought of him, that his safety mattered to her. His hand clasped hers just as tightly and he never wanted to let go. The brief windsprint ended with both of them diving behind an old vehicle. They tumbled against one another. Hancock ended up on his back, with Nora stretched across his body. No, he wouldn't let her take the brunt of whatever was coming. Hancock rolled, tucking her beneath him, an arm curling around the top of her head while the other wrapped around his own.

There was an explosion of sound, and then an eruption of force that shook the vehicle that they had hidden behind. His ears were ringing. There was a rush of heat as debris rained down around them, clanking into the car, slapping into the ground, peppering against his back. The Suicider exploded frighteningly close, but they were fine. They made it out unscathed. It was only after the chaos that Hancock noticed that Nora’s arms were wrapped around him. She was holding him close, gripping the back of his coat. The realization made him shudder. Hancock pressed his face into her neck. She smelled like sweat and something floral – He wondered if she had that perfume bottle hidden in her pack somewhere. Hancock inhaled deeply, and allowed himself to enjoy Nora’s embrace. He could stay there, in that moment, forever.

“Hancock?”

His body shook, his eyes squeezed closed. No. No, he needed this. Please, just a minute longer. God, please. Hancock grit his teeth, and he slowly sat up. It hurt him. It hurt him so badly. The hunger was suddenly so much worse. He had gotten a taste of what he had wanted, and then it was ripped from him. He felt needy, and weak, and his heart felt heavy – so fucking heavy. There was a tightness in the back of his throat he forced himself to swallow it down. No, he was more than used to the hunger by now. He wouldn’t let it ruin him.

Hancock sat and pretended to survey the damage around them, “Shit. That was real fuckin’ close.”

Nora sat up slowly. “You’re not hurt?”

“Not a scratch, doll,” he started patting his pockets in search of his cigarettes. He craved something stronger; something that would fog his mind and maybe distract that persistent need he felt in his chest. There wasn't a drug strong enough to stifle the hunger. It was always there. A cigarette was pulled from the pack in his breast pocket, followed by the lighter. He didn’t light it up immediately, he let his hands have something to touch and hold for all of a few seconds. He ran the pad of his thumb over the lighter’s chrome casing, rubbed the cigarette between his fingers.

“Are you sure?”

He stalled for a moment, finally lighting the cigarette. He filled his lungs to capacity. “Yeah. Just a little bit of a rush is all. That may have been better than the chems.” He pushed the smoke through his nose, letting it obscure his view as it surrounded him like a cloak he could hide in.

That night, as they sat together by the fire, there was a tense silence between them. The sleeping bags had already been rolled out on opposite sides of the fire, just like every other night. They already ate dinner and they talked, and conversed, just like every other night. But the silence that followed it all was tense, and uncomfortable. Hancock had the added bonus of absolutely dreading the idea of crawling into his sleeping bag and trying to sleep. He wanted her to talk to him about her life, about her favorite colors – she could have screamed at him and it would have been a far cry better than the silence. He hated himself when he realized that she could have punched him square in the face and he would have welcomed the contact, and he would ask her to punch him again. Anything from her, the good or the bad would have been entirely welcome. So long as it came from her. Only her.

“So…” His eyes snapped towards her, eager to hear her speak. “Are we going to talk about today?”

“Whaddaya on about?”

He started to search for his cigarettes. The coat had too many fucking pockets.

“Today? The Super Mutants?”

“That was nothin’,” he said a bit gruffly. “It was a little bit of a rush, had a flashback sort of. Just a combination of bad memories and adrenaline.”

“Hancock,” she said his name so softly he nearly shivered. “Please don’t lie to me. Let me help.”

The ghoul grit his teeth, finally snatching the cigarettes from his right-hand pocket. He lit up, and took a deep drag.

“Don’t lie to you? Let you help? What about you, sister? What the fuck are we doing out here? You said you were looking for someone, and you never said who. And we haven’t been looking for anyone!” Another drag. The smoke filled his lungs, it seeped from the cavity that had been his nose, it leaked from his mouth as he continued his tirade. “We’ve been wandering, doing absolutely fucking nothing. How about you let me help!”

He was sorry. He was already so sorry. He wanted to take it all back, but something in him had finally snapped. He needed to run her off, and then throw himself headfirst into the chems, and alcohol. He wanted her erased from his memory, completely obliterated. But he also desperately wanted her acceptance. This was a mess - he was a God damn fucking mess.

“Don’t change the subject,” she said, her voice still soft and gentle. “If you will tell me what’s wrong, then we can—“

“We can what, Nora? There isn’t anything - !” He shot to his feet. Another drag, and the cigarette was done. He tossed the butt into the fire, while he was already reaching to start up another. “How about you tell me what’s wrong, huh?”

Nora stood as well, so he was no longer standing over her and yelling. She said nothing, but let him yell at her. He hated himself, what was he doing? He was killing what happiness he had, he was destroying it. No. Please, stop. Please just fucking stop.

“You can’t even help yourself. You’re out here stalling. What are you afraid of, huh? This has been a complete waste of time!”

Time. Like he cared about time. Everything was After. After Nora. He didn’t want to know what it would be like After Nora. But it was coming, speeding at him like a bullet. Nora suddenly raised her hand, and he anticipated a slap to the face – he wanted to be slapped in the face. Anything. Give me anything before this is all over. Give me something to hang onto for when After Nora begins.

The hand that palmed his cheek was soft, the contact gentle. Her thumb stroked his ruined cheek, her fingers sliding up the hard slope of his mottled jaw. He didn’t manage to restrain the weak moan that tore through his throat. His legs buckled, unable to hold his weight. Nora followed him, her free hand reaching to give the other side of his face the same attention. She sat on her knees across from him, holding his face in her hands.

Finally.

“Oh, Hancock…” Her voice was a whisper that soothed his frantic mind. His hands fell on top of hers, keeping her palms flush to his face. His throat felt tight and constricted. When he opened his eyes his vision was blurry. Her figure wavered and danced in the flickering fire light, he could barely see her face. When her hands suddenly slipped out from under his, he felt his heart – his entire being – shatter into a million pieces. Of course she would leave. After what he said to her, after how he had been acting, she had every right to leave him. His hands slipped over his cheeks and covered his eyes and he sank. He sank further into himself, slouching and shrinking until he was doubled over, his forehead nearly touching the ground. If this was what was left of his life, then he didn’t want to exist. Not if it hurt so much. Existing without her wasn't an existence at all. The hunger roiled. The void in him grew impossibly wide. It made his stomach twist and his eyes burn.

“’m sorry,” the voice came out as a feeble whisper. He didn’t want After Nora. “’m so sorry.”

“Hancock, hey…” His body jerked, his head lifted. His heart throbbed in his chest so quickly that his breathing came in hard, uneven gasps. She was crouched beside him, her hand extended to him. “Hey, come on. Let’s get you in bed.”

He didn’t want to go to bed, it was too far away, he wouldn’t sleep. He couldn’t sleep. He took her hand anyway, relishing the contact. When Nora shifted to the side there was a spark of hope that warmed his entire body. He looked towards her, then back at the sleeping bags. While he was busy falling apart, Nora had taken the two sleeping bags and zipped them together. The end result was an arrangement that was more than capable of fitting two people. Both of their pillows were there at the head of the sleeping bag. A numbness consumed him, muting the hunger as she went about helping him out of his coat, as she removed the tricorn hat. She even pulled off his boots, the old socks he wore, the sash around his waist. With all of the patience in the world, she helped him into the joined sleeping bags.

Hancock followed her every move. Nora crawled over his body to the other side of the sleeping bag and tugged at her own boots, her socks. She removed her pieces of armor, and then she slipped in beside him. There was a brief moment where Hancock was afraid to move. He didn’t want to scare her off. When he didn’t move, she did. Nora scooted in close to him, her hand finding his under the covers.

“Nora, can… can we…?”

“Whatever you need.”

Hancock turned to his side, facing her. He rasped, “Can I hold you?”

The smile she gave him was small, but sweet. Nora rolled to her side, facing away from him, and then he tugged her flush to his body. Hancock encompassed her body, touching every bit of her that he could. His feet hooked beneath hers, legs and thighs touching, his hips against hers, his stomach and chest at her back, and her head tucked beneath his chin. Nora tugged at his arm, pulling the limb up against her chest. His forearm was between her breasts, his palm cupping her neck. He could feel her pulse. It was rhythmic, steady, and real. Her arm curled around his, her hand at his wrist.

As his body went boneless and relaxed, fragments of lucid thoughts managed to fight to the surface. Outside of his embarrassing state of need he was finally able to think. She had been so gentle with him, even after he yelled at her. He had done nothing to deserve her kindness, but he would willingly accept every bit of it. Hancock pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, letting his eyes close.

“Thank you, Nora.” His voice was still too weak, all ragged and airy.

Her thumb brushed against the inside of his wrist, and she said something that he didn’t quite catch because he was already drifting off to sleep.

For the first time in a long time, Hancock woke up and felt completely refreshed. There had been no point in the middle of the night where he woke up in a fit of restlessness. He didn’t wake up to gaze at her through the dwindling embers of their camp fire. When he woke up, Nora was still secure in his arms. At some point in the middle of the night she had rolled over to face him. Their legs were tangled together, one of his feet pressed up against a naked expanse of leg. The plunging neck of John Hancock’s shirt allowed Nora’s forehead to press into the skin of his chest, her hands curled beneath her chin.

Hancock watched her for a few moments, memorizing the details of her face. He followed the trail of freckles at her nose, the small beauty mark under her eye. His fingers tangled into the ends of her hair and he closed his eyes. He could feel her pulse, could feel her breath. The hunger was silent, the yearning need was blissfully absent and it was all because of the woman he had wrapped so securely in his arms. He wanted to kiss her eyelids, her cheeks, he wanted to kiss her until she woke up. He didn’t want to get out of the sleeping bag, he wanted to stay there for the rest of his life just holding her.

“Nora,” he whispered, dipping his head to whisper into her ear. “Nora?”

Her eyes fluttered slowly. Her body stretched and arched, and then she snuggled in closer, sighing quietly.

“Mm?”

“I would like to tell you something,” he said, his voice still soft. He suddenly felt quite foolish. He could have waited until she actually woke up, but then again he couldn’t. The need to apologize was much too strong for him to sit idly and wait. The moment would pass, or he’d get cowardly and opt to remain silent. This needed to be said at that very moment.

“Mmhmm?”

He swallowed hard, “Did you sleep alright?” Already backing out. Coward.

She hummed a sleepy response, “I forgot how nice it was to be held.” Her words were slurred with sleep, but touched him all the same. He pulled her closer, if that was at all possible, and gathered his courage.

“I wanted to say thank you for last night. You could have left me here, and you didn’t. I will never be able to thank you enough. What you’ve done for me… I won’t forget it. Not ever.” He dragged his fingers through her hair, staring off into nothing as he spoke. “And… I didn’t mean what I said. If you’re not ready to tell me who you’re looking for then that’s fine. I will be here when you are. And it hasn’t been a waste of time, none of it has.”

“It has been, though.”

He looked down. She finally had her eyes open, and she was staring at his chest.

“This entire time, I have been doing nothing but wasting time. I’m sorry, but I’m… I’m just so scared.”

The woman who had exuded so much strength and patience the night before was curled into him, looking weak and fragile. He knew that she wasn’t quite ready to tell him who she was looking for, and that was fine. He would show her the same patience that she had shown him. He would wait until she was ready, and then he would do whatever he could to help her.

“Whatever you need, Nora,” he said. “Whatever you need from me, and I will give it to you – whenever you need it.”

She finally met his eyes, and she smiled weakly. “Thank you.”

The two remained snuggled close to one another for a few hours. Hancock drifted in and out of sleep, and every time he woke up Nora was there. If she wasn’t curled against his body, she was dragging her toes up along his leg as she played with her Pip-Boy. When they broke camp and actually began their day Hancock stayed close to her side, occasionally snatching her hand in his. She never shied away, always giving his fingers a welcoming squeeze. Despite what she said – despite what he said – their time together hadn’t been a waste. Not at all.

Time had returned to Hancock’s life. There would always be the After; After Diamond City, and After Ghoulism. There was also After Nora, but it no longer signified an ending. After Nora, he started feeling hole again. He no longer just existed, he really lived. A weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and he could breathe easier. The hunger still existed, but it had mutated into something else entirely. He hungered for her laughter, and her happiness. He yearned to ensure her safety, and he wanted to provide for her. And he did, he did his absolute best to provide for her, he strived to make her happy.

Eventually, right around the three-month mark, Nora told him who they were looking for. She showed him the wedding rings that she had threaded together with an old golden bracelet she’d found. Hancock had been understanding – of course a woman like her would have been married, of course she would have had a baby. Nora would have made a wonderful mother, all patience and understanding and gentleness. She would have been the absolute best. He promised her that he would be with her until the end. They would find her kid, and they would most definitely find the man who had caused his Nora so much pain. She deserved happiness, she deserved all of the happiness in the world.

Month five brought the first of many, many, kisses. It had been a rare night where the stars peaked through the haze of radiation laden clouds. Nora had been downright exuberant as she stretched out on their sleeping bag and pointed out constellations. Half of the time, he didn’t quite see the formations she was identifying but that didn’t stop him from enjoying the warmth that radiated off of her. Throughout the duration of their star gazing she had her head rested against his chest, content and comfortable. His hand was in her hair, idly tugging at little tangles until he could card his hand through it without trouble. When she was finished she rolled to face him, all smiles and without warning she kissed him.

It was timid and it was hopeful, and the very second she tried to pull away Hancock had his hand on the back of her head, pulling her back towards him. He had waited until she was ready. He had waited so patiently. It would have been a great life just being her friend, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want more. Hancock took great care to never initiate anything beyond playful flirting, deciding that if they were to be something more it would be on her terms. But Nora kissed him like he would shatter, and he was having none of that. By the end of the night she was so thoroughly kissed she was in a daze, a lopsided smile on her kiss-bruised lips. He hungered for more, but he would wait. He would wait for her forever.

Hancock’s forever came in their sixth month together. It was the first bed that they had been in for a rather long time – at least one that was surrounded by four actual walls. They were back in Goodneighbor. He had wined and dined Nora at the Third Rail where Magnolia’s crooning voice coaxed them into a slow, lazy dance. After, they went to his room in the State House. It started with snuggling and quiet words, followed by some wrestling. He would pull her flush to his body and he would tickle her mercilessly as she shrieked and wiggled and laughed. She would push and bite at him in a futile effort to stop him.

Their playful wrestling match ended with Nora on top of him, straddling him and completely flushed and breathless. Hancock’s hands slid up her thighs, gripped her waist. She leaned down and kissed him, shifting against him so slowly it was near painful. The playfulness became super-heated and needy. Hancock was on top, kissing Nora senseless when he sank into her. She rose to meet him, holding him close with her legs around his hips. She whined his name as she came undone. Hancock could have died happy. If God struck him down in that very moment, that would have been just fine. Nora was gorgeous, and absolutely breathtaking - and she was all his.

It was month nine when he told her that he loved her. She had been particularly withdrawn after the events at the Memory Den. They were shacked up in one of their favorite haunts. Nora had been a bit short tempered, and Hancock had been irritable. They had been bickering, fighting over something small and meaningless when out of nowhere they were yelling, screaming. They were at each other’s throat, not listening to one another, just desperately trying to be the loudest.

“Well if you’re so sick of it you can leave!” She suddenly shrieked. She shoved her palms into his chest, pushing him towards the door. “Get out of here!”

“Nora—“

“I said leave! Go!”

A roiling growl left him as he turned and stalked out the door. Though he knew better than slamming doors at any of their abodes, Hancock slammed the door for all he was worth. He got a whole yard away from the house before he stopped. A little yelling wasn’t going to end them. Their argument meant absolutely nothing, he was frustrated but he wasn’t going anywhere. He turned back, and simply stood beside the house, right next to the front door. Leaning against the metal wall, he lit up a cigarette. Hancock understood that Nora was dealing with a hunger that was unfamiliar to him, and she would deal with it in her own way. There was a lot on her plate, and even more on her mind, but she had been particularly quick to anger over the past week and something in him just snapped. Damn woman – she was why he would go feral. He had just taken a hard puff of the cigarette when the door shot open – it swung open hard enough that it bounced off his boot.

“Hancock! John!” Nora was yelling, running into the darkness. “John!” Her voice was cracking and desperate. She slowed, and he could see her shoulders shaking with the aid of the Pip-boy that was lit up on her arm. “I’m so sorry… ” It was a broken sound, soft and fragile.

Hancock threw the cigarette to the ground. He made his approach, nearly jogging to her side. “Nora…”

“John, John I am so sorry. I didn’t mean it, I…” she was in his arms, gripping his coat in a flash. Her small body shook as she fought to keep her tears at bay, but it was no use. “I didn’t mean it. Please don’t go.”

John chuckled, slipping his arms tightly around her. Aside from the night that they first slept together, this had been their first real fight. A screaming match in the wee hours in the morning. A screaming match about nothing. Literally nothing. He kissed the top of her head.

“Wh-why are you laughing!?” She managed to sound fierce despite her tears, and he laughed a little harder. “Stop laughing.”

“I love you, you crazy woman,” he tilted her head back so he could kiss her. She tried to push him away, those full lips turned into a hard frown.

“You… You’re telling me that you love me now? Right now? After I—”

Another kiss, “Yeah,” and another. “I guess I am.”

“But—“

He held her tear streaked face in his hands, and kissed her again, nibbling at her lip.

“But, I just—“

“Nora, do you love me or not?”

“Of course I love you. But dammit-”

Hancock scooped Nora up into his arms. She let out a squeak of surprise as he turned and walked her back towards the house. He was careful going through the doorway, and then the hall. After he placed her on their bed, her head resting among the mess of overstuffed pillows, he kissed her again.

“So,” he drawled. “Let’s try this again.” A brief pause. “Nora, I love you.”

The softness that he was so used to seeing returned to Nora’s eyes. Her arms slipped around his neck and she finally smiled. This was After Nora. This was happiness. This was living life. It was the ups and the downs and the beautiful in between. It was ridiculous arguments in the middle of the night, and it was making love immediately after.

“I love you too, John.”

#fallout 4 #fallout #ghoul x human #Hancock x Female SoSu #Hancock x Female Soul Survivor #touch starved #kink meme prompt #fanfiction #ancient fanfiction I’m bringing over for funsies #fallout fanfiction #fallout ghoul

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