Cᴏᴍᴍᴏɴ? Nᴏ. Tʜɪᴇғ? ...Eʜ.
ᴀɴɢᴇʟ♔ ʙᴀʟᴛʜᴀᴢᴀʀ ♔ ᴛʜɪᴇғ♔
› multifandom ; multiverse ; multiship
› 10 years+ rp experience ;; 2+ tumblr experience
› knows all seasons ; falls into whatever season someone wants ( fuck s9 tho )
› loads of meta posts
› will sing for liquor
› script ; prose ; novella friendly
› might actually be balthazar
- review from some person about this blog
Kiran Desai, The Inheritance of Loss
"he had his demons. he wasnt one. remember that."
agent-hs: independent howard stark roleplay blog✈ 10+ years experience, 1+ years on tumblr
✈ mun is 18+ and muse is well over 18+
✈ primarily mcu, but blended with 616 and Ultimates
✈ multiverse, multiship, multifandom
✈ script with icons or gifs or prose
✈ kik and skype available as well
My mom used to write smutty Kirk/Spock fanfiction back in the 80’s so I’m like a second generation smut writer.
so you’re the next generation smut writer
don’t [ pick up ] the gun
if you can’t
p u l lthe t r i g g e r
Tonight? They’re perfect.
( They’re not. )
( —— And they never will be. )
"Take a break," he says. And she gives him that same, hard look. It’s practiced to perfection, smooth as marble and just as strong.
"Take a break," Bucky insists.
( Take a break, because you’re already broken. )
He isn’t Tony. His shoulders are too broad; he’s just a couple of inches too short. His mouth is rough and his arms possessive as they wrap around her.
( There’s a moment when her fingertips brush cool metal…
she mistakes it for the suit just for a breath… )
His tongue is more of a dull blade, no honed quips left to slice and cut, no matter how shallow or deep. When he leans in, hungry and grateful, he tastes the roof of her mouth.
And she knows…
She isn’t Natasha. Oh, she still has that poise and that strength, but she isn’t pliable like his dancer. Her hair isn’t flame and he looks into warm brown eyes instead of green.
They both are carved by duty, wrecked to ruins by falling in love.
But then he moves his hand against her hip to cover the cracks. And when she closes her eyes, she can’t see his wounds pouring open.
Neither of them forgets.
Tonight, they’re perfect, and they always will be.
Tonight, a break is a distraction. She isn’t home, but he rests. And he doesn’t say he loves her, but she doesn’t expect him to.
Tonight? Tonight, they’re perfect, because she can’t see the craquelure underneath his palm. And he hides the stains on his hands in the curve of her waist.
Tonight, they are pristine.
Because tonight… in the dim lighting, she can forget the way that the uneven bristles on his chin differ from the carefully trimmed inventor’s goatee. And he can ignore the way the steadying hand on his jaw feels almost like an admonishment.
Tonight, they’re perfect.
( And nothing can change it. )