open rp;

[dreor]

open roleplay post for PSLs, meme continuations, AU world building, and everything in between! ⅰ. reply with your character. include a prompt. written prompts work best! ⅱ. request a character/verse/continuation in the subject line. ⅲ. have fun! unsure of where to start? here are a few of our favourite bakerstreet memes for inspiration: texts from last night morning after rainy/snow day hurt/comfort road trip insomnia rules: Ⅰ. nsfw stuff is welcome and encouraged, but please comment or PM for heavy kink discussion. Ⅱ. i am terrible at writing action scenes. this isn't really a rule, actually, just a fair warning. Ⅲ. be nice. no shaming or wanking and you get a free cookie. Ⅳ. do not comment here if i haven't played with you before, or if we haven't previously discussed starting a thread. graphic by idrilka

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[fbitchesgtmoney]

(nsfw) for broil;

[dreor]

[ it's at least past two in the morning. the music is still blasting loud from the speakers, the dance floor is still crowded and pulsing with the beat, and James (as he's determined his name to be, that much has been made abundantly clear and "Bucky" just doesn't sit well for some reason--) is enjoying himself, for once. he's not entirely certain how long it's been since he'd left Hydra's control and struck out on his own, but then again, he's also not sure how long he's been at this club. he's not even sure why he's here. but he knows what he's doing.

he's making his own damned decisions, for once. he's not here because it was an order, he's not here because there's a target in the building, he's here because he wants to be. and he fucking loves it.

not having all of his memories back is helping out here. he doesn't recognize anyone, and he doesn't have to. if he wants to cozy up to a sweet gal at the bar until she buys him a drink, or slaps him to make him go away, that's fine. if he steps between a couple on the dance floor and he can't determine whose hands are feeling him up, that's fine too. no one knows him here, no one's watched the news in recent weeks or is too drugged up, high as a kite to recognize him. he's well on his way to joining them; it started with the drinks, then the smoke in the lounge, and after a few hours of dancing he'd pretty sure the others weren't sugary candies.

his head is swimming as he heads back to the lounge, his hat and coat long since disappeared, sweat across his forehead and a madly content grin on his lips. he can't even remember being happy. but he is now, he's free and he's having fun. he needs a breather, and he's sure the stranger he's flopped down next to is used to similar crowded-lounge-type situations. everybody does this sort of thing once in a while, right? right. ]

wingmate; bed sharing, florist & tattoo artist au

[dreor]

It started out innocently enough. A client wanted a very specific flower for a shoulder tattoo, but the pictures provided from her phone were pretty much the least helpful, and rather than look it up on his own phone, a trip to the local florist had been in order. The intent had only been for a single trip, get the references he needed, and that would be it. It ended up being four trips, his excuse being that there were far too many different flower species he wasn't aware of and wanted to be prepared, and now there was a small cactus plant on the front counter of his shop. He named it Frank.

That had been at least four months ago by now. After more than a few visits to "learn more about proper cactus care," and discovering they coincidentally liked to stop at the same corner bakery the odd afternoon (after a teasing discussion about stalking,) he had taken the brave step and asked the really cute florist if he'd be interested in maybe having dinner together sometime no pressure. And now, all those months later, he's half dressed and lounging in Sam Wilson's bed, sketching out a design in his sketchpad as he waits for Sam to finish up in the shower.

He's not sure if it's exactly what Sam's thinking of. Usually, Bucky's pretty good at visualizing another person's descriptions and ideas for tattoos, but it's different when it's a customer or client. If he doesn't get it right, then they don't come back, simple as that. But Sam's different, and even though it was just an off-handed suggestion over lunch earlier that day, Bucky couldn't get it out of his head. Even if it doesn't actually end up being a tattoo at all, maybe Sam will like it on paper well enough.

After a while he takes a break, rubbing his wrist as he turns his head to look out the window. It's been a miserable day outside, dark clouds and persistent rain since the morning, but that just means it's a day for staying warm and cozy indoors. His shop's closed for the day and Sam had finished his shift an hour ago, what better way to spend the rest of the evening?

Once Sam's finished and returning to the bedroom, Bucky smiles (only a little nervously,) and turns the sketchpad over for him to see.

"What do you think?"

[justlikeacircus]

It had been a long day, that's the only excuse he had for making such a stupid mistake - it happened sometimes, and he beat himself up over it every time. He moved just a little too slow and the mob hitman he'd been fighting got the drop on him. He was injured, and Dick had already disarmed him, so at least he took the opportunity to run rather than try and take advantage of the opening Dick had foolishly left him.

He scooped up his gun on the way past, firing blindly over his shoulder (the bullets thankfully going far too wide) and disappearing down the nearest alley. Dick scrambled to his feet and took off after him, swearing under his breath.

He caught the flash of the guy's leather jacket disappearing round the next corner and heard another gunshot followed by a couple of thuds - like the sound of an extremely heavy fist hitting somebody's face, and that somebody hitting the floor, perhaps. He skidded to a halt round the corner and found his quarry on the floor, unconscious, with another man standing over him.

"...uh, thanks?"