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blythesarchives · 3 months ago

Text

Sugar Plums. | W.S

summary: The soldier has an attachment to you.

a/n: This came to me randomly but thought it was cute and somewhat spicy. I added some fluff to balance it all out and tried to keep the sexy scenes sweet too. I see so many fics of him being super aggressive in bed and those are great, but for me I think he'd be a little more like this. Takes place after the events of CA:TWS. Contains roughly translated Russian, native speakers can correct me if anything was translated wrong. Ty. ;; wc: 5.5k

It was so awkward.

Everyone sat frozen in place, their eyes locked on the imposing figure of the Winter Soldier as he towered behind you, his piercing blue eyes methodically scanning the room and studying each occupant with an intensity that made them shift uncomfortably in their seats.

"Absolutely not!" Tony was the first to break the suffocating silence, his voice sharp and decisive as he beat Steve to speaking by a mere second. There was absolutely no way he would even consider allowing the fist of HYDRA to take up residence in his tower, treating him like he was nothing more than some lost stray that needed sheltering. "He's not staying here, no way in hell - this isn't a halfway house for reformed assassins."

"Tony, come on. HYDRA is gone, their control over him is broken," you reasoned desperately, your voice taking on a pleading tone as you gestured toward the silent figure behind you, "He's been surviving on his own for weeks, barely getting by. Just look at him...he's exhausted, malnourished, and clearly needs somewhere safe to stay and recover."

"Uh, how about no?" Tony fired back, staring at you like you had grown a second head...or like you had a towering sleeper soldier looming behind you.

Tony wasn't your favorite person in the world, but he was usually somewhat reasonable.

"There's absolutely no way that he's staying here. Have you completely lost your mind? What if he suddenly snaps or loses control and goes completely berserk, hm? What if one night those sleeper triggers buried in his brain suddenly activate and he systematically takes us out one by one in our sleep?" Tony added emphatically, his hands gesturing wildly in the air as he attempted to visualize the gruesome scenarios playing out in his mind.

"Your state-of-the-art security cameras can't give us a heads up before that happens?" You asked with dry sarcasm, your tone deliberately flat and unimpressed, clearly making a joke while you tried to find some kind of middle ground that would get the agitated, self-proclaimed playboy to calm down and think rationally.

"No chance in hell, sweet cheeks," he folded his arms and glared at you with sternness that etched across his features. "Too dangerous."

"He's staying, whether you like it or not," you replied in the same unwavering tone, standing your ground with resolute conviction. "He's hurt, weak, completely vulnerable. There's absolutely nothing he could possibly do in this state. He needs somewhere warm and safe to stay, especially since he's been struggling to survive out on the streets for weeks now. Besides, winter is coming fast and there’s no way he won’t get hypothermia or something." You added with concern, knowing full well that while the soldier hadn't been entirely helpless during his ordeal, he certainly hadn't managed to secure any kind of stable shelter.

His temporary refuges consisted only of cold spaces beneath bridges, dark corners tucked away in forgotten alleys, or the remains of abandoned buildings - not a single place where he could truly let his guard down or feel protected from the harsh elements. With winter's rapid approach and already light dustings of snow, the temperatures would only get more brutal as the nights went on.

You continued to argue with Tony, Steve butting in every so often, luckily siding with you, desperate to have his old friend somewhere safe. It was a long, frustrating argument that lasted much longer than need be.

Earlier that day, while you had been making your way down the frost-covered street of New York's downtown district, his eyes had caught sight of your familiar form. Something deep within him told him to follow you, a magnetic pull that he couldn't explain. He obeyed the instinct, trailing silently behind you all the way back to the tower. When you finally became aware of his presence, he was thoroughly drenched from the steadily falling snow, his cheeks and nose having turned a bright, rosy color from the biting cold as he tried to suppress his constant shivering.

The moment you made your sudden turn to approach him, he visibly startled, immediately taking a defensive step backward as his mind raced through all the possible scenarios and potential threats. His eyes darted across your face with obvious wariness as you fully turned to face him, his entire body subtly shifting its weight from foot to foot, muscles tensed and ready to bolt away.

"It's okay...you look cold..." You spoke softly, your voice barely above a whisper, trying not to startle him as you took in his disheveled appearance. The soldier, the one whose face had practically been plastered across every news channel, the same one Steve had spoken about with such raw emotion in his voice.

You remembered how Steve had mourned his best friend, utterly confused and devastated about why he had saved from the river, while Bucky fell to what should have been his death. Steve held onto that grief, that guilt, like a lifeline. He held onto it so desperately, clinging to the faintest hope that a sliver of Bucky was still somewhere deep inside the persona of the Winter Soldier.

Looking at him now, you couldn't see any trace of the man from Steve's stories - the soldier's eyes were too wild and wide, filled with fear and confusion.

But despite everything you'd heard, despite the destruction you'd witnessed on the news, despite the intense warnings from everyone in the tower, there was something about his presence that didn't trigger your fight or flight response.

He didn't make you feel unsafe.

He looked absolutely beat down, exhausted to his very core, his shoulders slumped in a way that made you wonder when he'd last had a moment's rest. You weren't even sure he could take you down if he tried in this state, though you knew his reputation suggested otherwise. He was shaking from the cold air as it blew in a stinging breeze, his metal arm gleaming dully in what little light remained, while the incoming winter storm brought with it a thick haze and countless tiny pinpricks of needle-like snowflakes that seemed to cut through the air.

"Come inside with me, I'll take care of you." You offered quietly, your voice gentle and reassuring as you extended your hand towards him. Your body language remained open and non-threatening, shoulders relaxed and posture deliberately casual to help put him at ease and to show him you felt no fear.

After a few silent moments where his piercing blue eyes studied you through the thick haze, he finally shifted his weight forward and took a step in your direction.

The water in the shower had set a steady steam in the bathroom, the mirror had fogged and the tiles sweat below your bare feet.

You could hear the gentle splashing of water against the bathtub as he cleaned himself. The mechanical whirring of his metal arm caught your attention, hopefully that thing was waterproof, but it must be, right?

After setting out a fresh towel and clean clothes for his use, you quietly excused yourself to provide him with privacy. The state of his current attire was awful, every piece was thoroughly saturated and carried an unmistakable stench that made you wrinkle your nose. The clothes were in such poor condition that you couldn't help but wonder if they had been scavenged from someone who no longer needed them.

You wouldn’t put it past the soldier to steal from a cadaver.

His shower routine was notably brief, years of conditioning taught him to minimize the time spent on his personal care. Upon finishing, he emerged from behind the curtain and efficiently dried himself with the provided towel. His gaze fell upon the fresh clothes you had thoughtfully placed by the sink, while his previous garments had been discreetly removed.

The soldier hesitated momentarily before donning the clean outfit. It wasn’t anything fancy, a pair of grey sweatpants emblazoned with the Avenger's logo along the side and a simple yet comfortable black tank top. When he finally emerged from the bathroom to face you, his body language betrayed his uncertainty as he stood there, not sure what to do now. Comfort was completely foreign to him, and care was a dream away.

"Tony finally gave in," you replied softly, your voice sounded in the quiet stillness of the bedroom. "He said you could stay here with us."

He remained motionless, his expression blank and unreadable as he stood there, offering neither response nor the slightest hint of acknowledgement to your words. You weren’t sure what to expect but that seemed pretty in character for him at the moment.

"You'll be staying in my quarters since no one else is comfortable having you in their space just yet...but don't worry too much about that," you reassured gently, though you could tell from his demeanor that others' opinions held little weight in his mind. "They'll come around after some time, I'm sure of it."

His gaze fixed upon you then, his brow creasing ever so slightly with an unspoken question as he began to move. Each step was deliberate and measured as he crossed the room, closing the distance between you until he stood directly in front of you, close enough that you could see the water droplets from his freshly washed hair beading at the ends and falling onto the fabric of your top, leaving dark spots where they landed.

"Everything's going to be fine," you said with gentle reassurance, trying to ease the tension in the air. "Why don't we head to the kitchen and get you something to eat? You must be hungry." You offered, hoping to bring some normalcy to the situation.

The soldier shadowed your every movement, following closely behind like a faithful companion who refused to stray from their master's side.

Upon entering the expansive kitchen, you immediately made your way to the industrial-sized refrigerator, searching through its contents for something suitable to offer him. The kitchen was perpetually stocked to the brim with an array of foods, snacks, and ingredients, practically anything one could imagine or desire. It was like having a private, fully-stocked grocery store.

Though with a the ravenous super soldier with enhanced metabolism, the mighty Asgardian god whose appetite matched his status, and Banner's surprisingly hulk-ish consumption…the team still depleted their food with an efficiency that would put a pack of famished wolves to shame.

"Hm...what should you have...do you want anything specific?" You turned over your shoulder to address him, but he maintained his characteristic silence. Unmoving, and completely stoic, like a statue carved from marble.

"Нет [No]," came his quiet response, the Russian word rolling off his tongue deeply. He remained perfectly still, observing with careful attention as you continued your search through the refrigerator's contents, trying to determine what would be most appropriate for him to eat. Your mind was working quickly, knowing you wanted to avoid anything too time-consuming to prepare. You wanted to get some food into him sooner rather than later.

"How about...I could make some soup real quick? Tomato and grilled cheese might be a safe option for you. Shouldn't upset your stomach too much if you haven’t been eating a lot, and it will warm you up if you're still feeling cold." You turned back toward him once more, studying his features carefully for any hint of reaction or preference to your suggestion, any subtle change in his expression.

But, he didn't provide even the slightest indication of his feelings.

You decided on tomato soup and a grilled cheese anyway, you figured it was best and immediately set to work in the kitchen.

Although you typically prided yourself on preparing meals completely from scratch, this particular circumstance called for something different. You assembled the sandwich, buttering the bread before placing it in a heated pan to get a golden-brown crust while keeping a watchful eye on the pot of soup simmering beside it, occasionally stirring for even heating.

Once everything reached the perfect temperature and consistency, you transferred the meal onto clean dishes, relieved it didn’t take too long. You presented him with the steaming bowl of soup and perfectly grilled sandwich, watching as the soldier deliberately took his place at the counter, his eyes fixed intently on the rising steam from the bowl before him.

You watched him, noting how his entire body remained unnaturally rigid and motionless, as though every muscle was locked in place and braced for something. His lips bore a slight sheen of moisture, like he had licked them at some point when you weren't watching. Yet despite his obvious hunger, he hadn't made even the slightest attempt to reach for the food. His eyes held intense longing and hesitation, briefly meeting yours before quickly darting away, as if making eye contact was somehow forbidden.

"What's wrong?" You asked with growing concern etched across your features, "You're hungry aren't you? I can tell you haven't eaten in a while. Especially not anything warm, at least. I know it can be hard out there, all by yourself…"

His response came in the form of an almost imperceptible nod, his gaze remaining firmly fixed on the bowl and sandwich before him, as though they were the most important and most dangerous objects in the room.

"So why aren't you eating? The food's getting cold, it won’t be as good if it cools too much."

"Я не могу совершить действие без приказа. [I cannot perform an action without an order]," the soldier responded in barely more than a whisper, his voice carrying the weight of years of conditioning.

You stood there, completely lost in the language barrier between you. Your limited knowledge of Russian extended only to the most basic words - 'да' and 'нет' - leaving you clueless by his response and worried about the implications of his behavior.

You didn't want to wake Natasha, even though she would certainly understand what he was saying in Russian, but disturbing her sleep for something as simple as a quick translation seemed unnecessary and might put her in a bad mood. Instead, an idea popped into your head that would avoid an angry widow. You reached for your phone and placed it on the smooth counter surface, navigating to a translator app before looking up at him again. "Can you repeat that?"

The soldier's eyes flickered briefly to the phone screen, taking in the sight of the translation app with what seemed like recognition, before his gaze deliberately returned to the untouched food laid out before him. "I cannot perform an action without an order," he stated in perfect, albeit mechanical English this time.

You blinked in surprise, thoroughly caught off guard by the sudden switch to English when he had been persistently speaking Russian up until this point. "Okay...well...eat then, you can eat freely here, you don't need an order to do that." You slowly tucked your phone away into your pocket as his right hand gradually lifted from where it had been resting in his lap, reaching out to pick up the sandwich.

You weren't sure what you were expecting, but he wolfed down his food within a minute, that sandwich was gone within maybe three bites. The soup swallowed just as fast.

God, he was starving, and the realization made your heart ache.

"Better?" You asked gently, to which he only nodded, swallowing the last of the food in his mouth.

This became routine, the soldier stuck by your side like a duckling imprinting on its mother.

He followed you diligently around every corner of the tower, his protective instincts activated as he positioned himself like an ever-vigilant guardian. His eyes constantly scanned the surroundings, noting how others would cast uncertain and sometimes suspicious glances in his direction.

These looks made him increasingly self-conscious and anxious, as though he were some exotic creature put on display at a zoo for others to gawk at. But in your presence, he seemed a bit more at ease. He genuinely liked being around you.

Gradually, the rigid tension that had defined his existence began to melt away, and he started allowing more intimate gestures of care. He let you gently brush his unruly hair into place, carefully wash his face with warm water, or trim his growing stubble for him.

He accepted these tender ministrations without the slightest resistance or complaint, though a nagging worry lingered in your mind that his compliance stemmed from years of conditioning to submit to others' wishes. Each time you worried about that, you’d see a genuine warmth and contentment in his gaze rather than submission, showing you that he truly found comfort and pleasure in your gentle touch.

It was evening, the room reflected the warm glow of festive holiday lights emanating from a miniature Christmas tree nestled in the corner. The soldier found himself transfixed by the small decorated tree, his eyes lingering on each twinkling light as their vibrant colors danced and shimmered. The sterile, monotonous walls he had grown accustomed to during his confinement were nothing compared to the colorful lights. The gentle play of red, green, and gold seemed to awaken something long dormant within him, he almost wanted to plant himself in front of the tree and just stare at it.

Tony may have allowed his stay, but that didn’t mean there weren’t restrictions. He was stern about where and when the soldier could go anywhere with you, and he demanded that he not leave your room afterhours. It wasn’t hard to follow, the solider showed reluctance to leave your room at all, having been so accustomed to being kept in one room. You didn’t push him, but you felt bad for him because he was missing how the tower had been decorated for the holidays. So, you got a smaller tree for the bedroom to provide some kind of festive look for him to take in.

You emerged from the bathroom, wisps of steam following in your wake, your damp hair leaving little droplets on your shoulders as you continued to towel it dry with scrunches. He remained motionless on the edge of your bed, his attention immediately shifting as he turned and blinked up at your approaching figure.

His icy eyes traced a deliberate path across your form, which was barely concealed beneath the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, the hem teasingly brushing against your mid-thigh with each movement. "I am beat," you sighed heavily, your voice carrying the weight of the day's festivities. The marathon of holiday activities had clearly taken its toll, leaving you thoroughly drained. The tower often held an array of things to do because Tony loved to show off what he could afford, and it wasn’t like anyone else would object.

He observed with rapt attention as you made your way onto the bed and settled back against the pillows, releasing a deep exhale that seemed to melt away the day's tension. His unwavering gaze remained fixed on the rhythmic, hypnotic motion of your chest rising and falling with each breath.

You felt the bed shift beneath you as he moved, his weight causing the mattress to dip and creak softly. He crawled over to where you lay, his arms positioning themselves on either side of your body, caging you in. Your eyes fluttered open to find him hovering directly above you, his presence overwhelming in its proximity. This was something new…he had always maintained somewhat of a distance before, never daring to position himself so intimately over top of you.

"Я скомпрометирован. [I'm compromised]," the soldier spoke in a hushed tone, his voice carrying that distinctive gravelly pitch that made you feel tingly. The tension between you had become damned near impossible to ignore. What had started as a subtle pull had grown into an overwhelming force of attraction that seemed to draw you both together like magnets.

Still, you forced yourself to hold back, maintaining that last thread of restraint. You had no way of knowing the depth of his emotional capacity, if he was even capable of genuine feelings, or wanted to experience them at all after everything he endured.

"Soldat...?" The whispered word escaped your lips as you noticed the subtle shift in his demeanor, the way his muscles tensed as he remained suspended above you, perfectly still. "You know I don't understand-"

"I am compromised," he repeated, switching to English this time. His voice had dropped even lower, carrying an edge of frustration that vibrated through the minimal space between your bodies.

"Comprom..." You sat up slowly on your elbows and shook your head in confusion, your brow furrowed as you tried to process his words. That’s what you’d say about a machine or computer, not a man. "What are you talking about?" Your eyes wandered downward, suddenly drawn to an unmistakable tent in his fitted briefs that became obvious from your new viewing angle, causing you to freeze in place as your breath caught in your throat.

So, he could feel things.

"Oh..." You felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you as you remained frozen in place, your cheeks growing warm. "I think I understand now...you're feeling a bit pent up, aren't you?"

His metal arm whirred softly, the sophisticated machinery humming as he moved to adjust his hand placement. "Да. [Yes]," he responded in a low voice, his gleaming titanium fingertips delicately ghosted across the bare skin of your thigh, just barely grazing beneath the hem of your thin sleep shirt. Goosebumps erupted along your body in response to the contact, the cool metal sudden against your flushed skin.

"Мне не нравится делиться вашим вниманием. [I don't like sharing your attention]," he muttered with an undertone of possession, his lips curling into a slight frown as he gradually leaned closer to you. His silken hair delicately tickled your face as he slowly lowered himself, the tips of your noses barely grazing against each other in an intimate gesture. His lips parted ever so slightly, revealing a glimpse of anticipation before he dipped his head down, warm lips pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your jawline.

You swallowed reflexively, your breath catching in your throat as you felt his warm, steady breath caress your sensitive skin, sending a visible shudder of growing excitement through your body.

He continued his gentle exploration, encouraged by your acceptance and the absence of any resistance. He pressed a trail of soft, purposeful kisses along the curve of your jaw, each one more intimate than the last, before gradually working his way down to your neck. His lips carefully followed the rhythmic flutter of your pulse beneath your skin, his tongue peeking out shyly to touch against you.

"Ah-" You voiced softly, feeling him settle on a particularly sensitive spot, right against the delicate side of your neck. It was nestled perfectly between the graceful junction where your neck connected to your collarbone, the skin there warm and inviting, holding a faint trace of blood flow from the intricate network of smaller veins positioned just beneath the surface.

He kissed many times with increasing intensity, clearly finding this spot ideal for his attentions. The soft, tentative pecks gradually became more passionate, open-mouthed kisses as each one was placed. His tongue began gently pressing against your skin with each lingering kiss, the pressure slowly growing in need. You felt your cheeks flush with warmth when he finally latched on, your eyes widening in surprise as the soldier's strong arms held you a little tighter.

Soldat began to suckle a mark, his ministrations gentle and teasing at first, but quickly growing in force and intensity as his skilled tongue swirled expertly around the trapped skin between his lips and teeth. The sensation drew a breathy moan from deep within you, making your entire body feel as though it were engulfed in flames of desire. Though you were completely helpless beneath the assassin, you had absolutely no intention or desire to push him away.

This felt too damned good.

Without thinking, your leg came up and hooked around his hips, drawing him closer until your bodies were flush against each other. The heat between you grew and you felt his painful erection trapped in his briefs, straining against the fabric as his arousal was staining them. Soldat exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening possessively, but he did not let go.

His suckling grew increasingly intense, the sensitive skin tingling and starting to sting and burn with each passing moment. Still, he didn't release the bruised skin just yet.

Instead, he just bit down harder, ensuring the mark he left would last for days. You moaned loudly, your fingers gently tangling in his thick hair as your pleasured sounds encouraged his attention. He became more attentive when your little sounds of pleasure turned into sharp, quiet hisses - clearly indicating that the sensation had crossed from pleasure into discomfort, silently telling him to ease off.

When he did finally relent, he pulled back to admire his handiwork, looking down at the deep purple mark blooming on your neck. His breath came in heavy pants through his parted lips as he stayed quiet, watching intently as you struggled to catch your own breath too. The sight of you beneath him, disheveled and vulnerable, with flushed skin and labored breathing, was enough to draw him right back in.

He dipped back down with renewed hunger, his metal hand slowly threading through your hair before gently fisting it at the base of your skull, though his careful control ensured it wasn’t painful, just firm. He tugged just enough to guide your movement, encouraging you to expose more of your neck to his hungry gaze.

"E-easy..." You whispered, a note of anxious anticipation in your voice. You wanted more, god you wanted more, but his sudden change of behavior was a bit surprising for you.

"Понял. [Understood]," he whispered against your skin, pressing a soft kiss of reassurance to your jaw before returning his attention to your neck. Those soft kisses began again, trailing along your skin, but his restraint didn't last long as he quickly sought a new canvas for another mark. He latched onto a spot just a little bit higher on your neck, alternating between sucking and carefully controlled bites to gradually darken and bruise the sensitive flesh.

You felt bite after delicious bite, hickey after possessive hickey.

He marked the tender flesh of your neck in several deep, purple marks that bloomed like violent flowers across your skin...each one throbbing with a sweet ache when he pulled away. His tongue always swirled over the mark with care to soothe the sting of it, making you arch into his touch as you fell into a complete daze.

"S-Soldat," you muttered breathlessly, cheeks flushed crimson and eyelids heavy with desire. Your pupils matched his own - completely blown with hunger and desperate need. Those bermuda swirls meeting yours as he continued a torturously slow trail of hot kisses down your chest, nipping your collarbone with just enough pressure to make you gasp before following the gentle dip of your sternum.

He paused deliberately, pulling up so he could lift the thin sleep shirt over you and expose more of your bare chest to his hungry gaze, giving him better access for his heated kisses and teasing nips. Once your top was discarded somewhere on the floor, his hands gently but firmly held your sides, trailing up with reverent touches until settling against your ribcage. His larger hands completely encompassed your torso, making you feel small but protected.

The soldier was absolutely transfixed at the sight of your breasts, eyeing the soft mounds and peaked nipples as they hardened in the cool air, growing increasingly sensitive and rosy with your mounting arousal. It was like he was completely mesmerized by the sight before him, the fucking Winter Soldier, the most dangerous assassin in history, stopped dead in his tracks at the mere sight of your bare breasts.

You felt in charge now.

"What is it? Do you like them?" you purred softly to the soldier, your body swaying in a deliberately teasing motion that made them gently move. His eyes remained fixed, drinking in the sight before him as his lips parted ever so slightly. Slowly, his head tilted down again, surrendering to the moment. He let his face nestle against your chest, his lips trailing a constellation of unhurried kisses across your skin.

He began to nip and suckle the tender skin of your breasts, his mouth working to create deep, purple love bites on that delicate flesh. The bruising blossomed easily beneath his ministrations, almost like they were eager to show themselves.

His lips would find a promising spot, then he would begin lapping at the skin with gentle strokes of his tongue until he felt you squirming. The soldier took the sensitized flesh carefully between his teeth, rolling the captured skin while his talented muscle swirled and sucked.

Your chest displayed his passionate handiwork when he finally drew back to admire his creation. The plum-colored bruises created an intimate pattern across your skin, their rich hues made even more striking by the soft glow of the holiday lights that danced through the room, highlighting each carefully placed love bite until they seemed to shimmer like twilight stars against your flesh.

"Soldat...I think you covered enough surface area," you breathed, feeling overwhelmed by the intense throbbing that radiated from each mark he'd left. The sensation pulsed in waves across your skin, making it difficult to focus. Your neck was thoroughly covered in the passionate marks, and now your chest bore an equally impressive collection.

The soldier gazed down at you with intensely, his eyes taking in each little sugar plum bruise that decorated your skin like a masterpiece. Though they were scattered without any deliberate pattern, the overall effect clearly pleased him. You lay there looking thoroughly affected by his attention, hair mussed and breathing uneven, cheeks beautifully darkened with a dust of blush, just from his careful application of bites alone. The sight of you in such a state, marked so thoroughly, brought deep set satisfaction in his gut.

"Моя теперь. [Mine now]," he muttered softly, his warm breath ghosting across your skin as his lips hovered mere millimeters from your own. The almost-kiss was delicate, just the faintest brush of contact that sent electricity dancing through your nerves. He almost seemed nervous to close that final distance, his confidence faltering despite the passionate trail of marks he had already left scattered across your skin.

He drew back slightly, seemingly snapping out of a trance, and you could see the vulnerability written plainly across his features as that nervousness flickered in his eyes. Shifting his weight, he settled back onto the bed, his right hand finding your knee and tracing gentle, soothing circles there with his thumb. The tender gesture matched his hushed voice as he spoke, "Я не хочу идти дальше. [I don't want to go any further]," the words carrying both certainty and a hint of apology.

Your brow furrowed deeply as you struggled to understand what he was trying to stay, the confusion evident in the slight crease between your eyebrows and the questioning tilt of your head. You really needed to study Russian. "Do you not want to continue?" you asked slowly and carefully, focusing more on interpreting the subtle nuances in his tone rather than trying to parse the exact words he was using.

His facial expression held hesitance and uncertainty, the slight downturn of his lips and the way his eyes wouldn't quite meet yours telling you what you needed to know. Body language was his primary mode of genuine communication, and you had become very good at reading these silent signals he unconsciously broadcast.

"It's okay, we can stop," you replied with a reassuring tone, making sure to keep your voice soft to help dissipate any lingering tension he might be feeling. "Let's just lay here, okay? We can cuddle without any kind of pressure to do anything else, if you want." You offered with a warm smile, wanting him to feel that his comfort and boundaries were completely respected and that there was no expectation or obligation to continue.

This was a lot of good progress with him, you typically just cuddled or he kept to his side of the bed but he had shown you a lot of sweet affection tonight, and you loved it, it meant he was growing more confident in himself and your relationship. The evidence of his passionate yet tender attention remained visible in the form of gentle, plum-colored marks that decorated your neck and chest as you lay beside him, watching as his silent form trembled slightly beneath the heavy warmth of the thick blankets that enveloped you both.

You opened your arms, offering him a warmer space, and he quickly scooted forward, tucking himself against you. Prone to being cold, he liked being under many layers of blankets, so you made sure to provide plenty for him to not only feel warm but secure. Plus...having you to hold him always helped.

Without the worry of being a soldier, he could rest easy like this.

Thanks for reading. -em 🌿

Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Images found on Pinterest.

#bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #winter soldier #the winter soldier #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader smut #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x you #winter soldier smut #winter soldier x reader smut #james buchanan barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes smut #emwrites🌿

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astrow1zar6 · 3 months ago

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Astrology Oberservations - 41 🦃

Aquarius placements look really good in circle frame glasses.

Aries moon women I notice are single most of their life or don’t really date until later in life. They are very emotionally independent which can intimidate men into getting serious with them. If they do end up having a lot of relationships however they are usually pretty short termed until they mature.

On the other hand libra moons usually maintain healthy long term relationships. They usually have no issue finding a partner & a lot of people have crushes on them!

Neptune in the 1st house can give the native eyes that people can’t tell what color they are. They truly have the most beautiful eyes of the zodiac.

Gemini placements are way more sexual than Scorpios. They can detach from sex easily so it’s easy and stimulating for them to hook up a lot. I notice a lot of pronstars and sex workers have heavy Gemini placements. Scorpios are sexual but I feel most prefer emotional intimacy before giving up their bodies.

Saturn in the 7th house people I’ve seen tend to look more like their grandmas than their parents. Their grandmothers also could’ve impacted them a lot growing up and were usually the closest to their grandmas.

Capricorn risings tend to have very fast metabolisms. They can eat a lot and barely gain any weight. (Very blessed imo) I also notice that their hands and feet are always FREEZING 24/7. Their body temperature in general is normally very low, they get cold very easily. (Saturn is the coldest planet after all)

Venus in Pisces normally have really nice full lips (especially in the 1st house)

Libra suns are usually the prettiest in the room always.

Pisces moons just ghost people randomly. They will just stop reaching out of nowhere then will hyu months later and you find out they moved halfway across the world and are expecting a kid lmao. They do this to friends and family. Can be really secretive about their lives and what’s going on in them.

Taurus sun/moon women look amazing without makeup and they usually prefer a bare face over makeups. If they do wear makeup it’s usually very natural looking most I notice aren’t into heavy makeup looks.

Moon in libra/leo/pisces have a hard time being single

Moon in aries/capricorn/aquarius usually find it more comfortable to be single over having a partner.

Mars in Leos care a lot about their reputation and always want to come off as successful or the best. They can have very big egos & can get really pissy when people say things that make them look bad or embarrass them in any way.

Taurus/Pisces mars tend to have issues with binge eating when stresssed or anxious.

Libra Venus women tend to play dumb a lot to seem more attractive to guys.

Cancer moon women are usually such girly girls💕 they are so ethereal

Libra mars people have amazing bodies (especially the women).

I hope everyone have a fun and safe thanksgiving yesterday! Happy late turkey day 🦃🤣♥️

#astro observations #astrologist #astrology #astro community #astro notes #astroblr

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honeyncherry · 4 days ago

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we never tell - joe burrow

summary who could blame you? the night before thanksgiving was never meant to be innocent — especially not when the boy you’ve known forever looks at you like he’s already decided to ruin you

content 18+, smut, language, alcohol

The bar is loud. Too loud. Voices crash over each other, music shaking the walls, laughter splintering through the chaos. The air swirls with spilled beer, sweat, and cheap perfume. A cocktail of regret already in the making. It all clings to you, settling within your skin.

The heat inside is nearly unbearable, a sharp contrast to the biting Ohio cold just beyond the fogged-up windows.

You push through the crowd, brushing past bodies pressed too close together, faces blurring under the neon glow. Familiar ones. Unfamiliar ones. Ones you hoped you’d never see again.

Same bar, same people, same exhausting routine playing out like clockwork.

You don’t usually look forward to this night — this annual reunion of your hometown’s finest washed-up athletes, ex-prom queens, and guys who still bring up their glory days at state championships like they happened yesterday.

But it’s tradition.

And tradition says you show up, smile when people ask about the semester thus far, dodge questions about your major, sip overpriced drinks, and pretend you care about who got engaged or knocked up this year.

This is only your second Blackout Wednesday.

Sophomore year means you’re not a newbie anymore, but you’re not a regular either. You know the drill now. The way the bartenders barely glance at the fake IDs slid across the counter, even though they grew up with half the people using them.

You’ve watched guys you went to elementary school with order rounds of shots like they didn’t once throw up grape juice in the cafeteria. Girls who used to sneer at you in the hallways now drunkenly grabbing your hand in the bathroom, slurring about how much they "missed you soooo much."

It’s all fake. A well-rehearsed play where everyone pretends they aren’t counting down the minutes until they can escape this town again.

Still, you’re here.

Because what else is there to do?

You’re halfway through your first drink when you see Joe.

It shouldn’t be surprising, Thanksgiving means everyone comes home.

Home from his first year at LSU, taller and broader, shoulders filling out the long-sleeved black shirt stretched over his frame. He looks different, but not in a way that makes you stare, more in a way that makes you double-take.

You remember when he was deciding where to go after graduating OSU. The transfer talk had stretched through the beginnings of the year, the same names cycling through every conversation your brother and his friends had at the house. North Carolina? Nebraska? Alabama?

And then it happened:

Cincinnati.

Your head had perked up. Just slightly. Just enough for you to feel stupid about it later.

It wasn’t like it would’ve meant anything. It wasn’t like you would’ve seen him, not really. The University of Cincinnati was huge and you were wrapping up your freshman year. You weren’t sure why it even mattered. Why, for a brief second, the idea of your worlds overlapping for the first time beyond family ties, felt like something worth entertaining.

But then, suddenly, it wasn’t a thought at all.

Because LSU happened.

And when his family held that small going-away gathering, there was no red and black in sight. No UC decorations, no Bearcat colors bleeding into the napkins or tablecloths. Just purple and gold. Bold, glaring, almost mocking.

You remember standing in front of the dessert table, staring at royal frosting of all things like it had personally insulted you.

Some nights, when the dorm was too quiet and your phone screen was the only light in the room, you’d find yourself typing his name into Google. Just once. Just to check.

Never interest. Never anything more.

That’s what you told yourself, anyway.

It wasn’t hard to keep up. LSU was making noise, and so was he. His name started popping up in articles, on Twitter, tucked into game recaps with words like poised and potential thrown around like confetti. You’d skim them, half-engaged, never needing to look too hard because if you didn’t see his name online, you’d hear it from your mom.

"Robin says Joe’s adjusting well down there…" she’d mention casually, somewhere between asking if you needed more laundry detergent and updating you on which neighbors had finally sold their house.

Sometimes, she’d go on. He really likes Baton Rouge… Jimmy says the coaches are impressed… Robin says they miss having him around.

But sometimes, she wouldn’t.

And when enough time passed without a mention, without hearing his name tucked neatly into conversation like it had always been, you’d find yourself searching again.

Just to know.

And then you’d close the tab, lock your phone, roll over in bed, and never think about it again.

Until now.

Because now, he’s here, standing in the middle of your hometown bar like he isn’t creeping into conversations, like his name isn’t slipping into headlines, like he isn’t the reason some guy at the other end of the counter is repping purple and gold instead of Bengals orange.

He’s different. Or maybe it’s just that, for the first time, you’re seeing him as something other than the annoying older boy who was always there, easy to roll your eyes at and even easier to ignore.

You look away.

It doesn’t matter.

Or at least, it shouldn’t.

But something lingers. The kind of awareness that prickles along your skin, that makes your fingers tense around your drink, that keeps your shoulders squared even as you force yourself to focus on something else.

He’s not looking at you.

Not that you can tell.

But you can feel him.

Somewhere past the crush of people near the bar, past the bodies leaning against sticky tabletops, past the haze of smoke and too-loud music and bad decisions waiting to happen: he’s there.

And maybe it’s just in your head, it could be nothing. Maybe it’s that he’s familiar, but not in the way he used to be.

Because you know the set of his shoulders, the way he pushes his hand through his hair when he’s thinking, the way his jaw tenses when he’s listening but not speaking.

You know him without knowing him.

And yet, the weight of his presence is pressing into you like a hand at the small of your back.

You huff and try to shake it off.

"Bathroom?" one of your friends says beside you, looping her arm through yours before you can respond.

You let her pull you along, weaving through the throng of people, past someone attempting to order another round, past a couple making out against the wall like they’ve forgotten they’re in public.

The bathroom is a war zone, as expected.

Girls pressed together in front of the mirrors, smudging eyeliner with unsteady hands, fixing lipstick that’s already faded from stolen kisses and mixed drinks. Strangers throwing compliments like candy: oh my god, your hair looks amazing and I love your dress, where’d you get it? whispered between girls who wouldn’t acknowledge each other outside of tonight.

You slip into a stall, locking the door, leaning against it for just a second.

The bass vibrates through the walls. The distant hum of voices, the occasional burst of laughter. You inhale deeply, steadying yourself.

It’s fine.

You’re fine.

And if you say it enough times, maybe you’ll believe it.

By the time you wash your hands and step back into the crowd, your drink is gone, condensation leaving a damp circle on the table where you left it. Your friends have drifted toward the dance floor, the blur of movement and music swallowing them whole.

You decide on another drink, pushing your way toward the bar and waiting your turn only for someone to shove past at the last second, slamming a twenty onto the counter and barking out their order over the noise.

Your eyes narrow. Brandon Wilkes.

Of course it’s him. Always cutting ahead, always acting like he was owed something. You roll your eyes and shoot him a glare, resisting the urge to call him out. Some things never change.

"Didn’t think I’d see you here."

The words slip through the noise — smooth like they belong there.

Your breath catches. A pause, just long enough for recognition to crawl up your spine.

Joe.

Closer than before, the sharp angles of his face softened by dim lighting, his eyes flickering with something unreadable as they settle on yours.

You swallow, tilting your chin slightly. "Didn’t think I’d see you either."

His lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but something close. "Guess we’re all bound to make a few questionable decisions tonight."

You nod, shifting your weight onto your other foot. "Wouldn’t be Blackout Wednesday without a little regret."

Joe huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Regret, huh?"

"Regret," you confirm.

His eyes flicker down to your empty hand, then back up, considering. "What are you drinking?"

It’s not a question, more like a next move.

You hesitate for a second before giving him the answer.

Before you can even think about ordering yourself, Joe lifts a hand, barely even a motion, and the bartender is there in an instant. Of course.

You bite back a scoff as she leans in, all too eager, but Joe doesn’t so much as glance at her. Just gives your order, smooth and easy, like it was never up for debate.

And just like that, the bartender slides a fresh drink across the counter, and Joe beats you to it, picking it up before you can reach for it.

Your fingers brush when he hands it to you.

And it’s nothing.

But it’s also not.

You take a sip, watching him over the rim of your glass. "Trying to get me drunk, Burrow?"

His smirk deepens. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip, quick, unconscious. He leans in just slightly, just enough to see if you’ll move. "Don’t think you need my help with that."

Your stomach flips and you hate that it does. You hate the way your body reacts before your mind can catch up. The way the bar suddenly feels too warm, the noise fading into something distant, like nothing else matters except the inches of space between you.

It’s reckless. It’s stupid.

It’s inevitable.

One drink turns into two.

Two turn into stolen glances, subtle but unmistakable. A slow, unraveling pull that neither of you acknowledge out loud.

The brush of his arm against yours, the warmth of his skin radiating through the fabric of your sleeves. The way your conversations slip into something easier than they should be, like you’ve done this before, like you’ve always known how to hold a conversation between each other.

And then a touch.

A simple thing, really.

It’s subtle at first, fingers grazing the fabric of your shirt like a passing thought, something fleeting and unintentional. But then he doesn’t move away. Instead, his hand sticks, settling against your waist, his thumb brushing over your side in a way that feels effortless but also like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away.

He leans in, voice low, threading through the noise of the bar like it belongs there. His breath is warm against your skin, steady, even, completely at ease. The conversation around you dissolves into background static, something distant and irrelevant, because suddenly, this is the only thing you can focus on.

Your breath catches, you glance up, and that’s the moment everything shifts.

Because when you meet his gaze, when you catch the flicker of something dark, something hungry in his expression, you know.

And so does he.

All you can hear is the low thud of the bass and the shallow breath you take in when Joe shifts closer, when the heat of him presses into your side. His palm flexes just slightly, enough for you to feel it, enough to make your stomach tighten.

And then he leans in.

Slow. Unhurried. Like he’s savoring the moment before it happens.

His breath is warm against your skin when he speaks, just for you. "You gonna stop me?"

You should.

You know you should.

You should think about what happens after this, about how easy it would be to fall into something that was never meant to be.

But you don’t.

Your body betrays you first, tilting toward him, your fingers brushing his forearm where it rests against the bar. His jaw tenses at the contact, his fingers curling tighter against you, his head tipping down just slightly, just enough for his lips to hover above yours.

His eyes flicker, searching yours, asking a question without saying a word.

And you answer by not moving away.

It would be so easy.

So easy to close the gap. So easy to give in, to let this spiral into something neither of you can take back.

But then—

A sharp burst of laughter, too close, too jarring, snaps you back into reality. A body stumbles into Joe’s back, jostling both of you just enough to break the moment. The spell fractures, and you blink, breath catching in your throat as the bar crashes back into focus. It’s loud and crowded. Filled with too many people, too many eyes.

Joe’s gaze flicks past you, scanning the room. His fingers squeeze once more against your skin before he pulls back. "Come on," he murmurs, barely audible over the noise.

Your pulse pounds as he nods toward the door. You hesitate for less than a second before following behind him, glancing over your shoulder and realizing everyone is too busy to notice the two of you leaving together.

The air outside is crisp, sharp against your flushed skin, but it does nothing to cool you down. Joe walks ahead, his pace slow and measured like he’s thinking. Like he’s trying not to think.

The parking lot is mostly empty, just a few cars left. You recognize his truck instantly, parked toward the back under a flickering street lamp and distant from the other cars.

He stops beside the driver’s side, one hand gripping the handle, the other resting against his side. He exhales, his breath visible in the air and his head tips back slightly before he looks at you.

It’s different out here.

No music to drown out your thoughts. No crowd to get lost in. Just the sound of the wind, the distant hum of traffic, the weight of his stare. The space between you feels bigger now, stretched thin by the cold and the quiet. More time to think. More time to overthink.

His gaze locks onto you like he’s seeing something he can’t turn away from and that makes his jaw shift, fingers twitching at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to move, to close the last bit of space between you.

But then he does.

A step forward. Then another.

His hand lifts, fingertips grazing your wrist first, barely there, before slowly sliding up the length of your arm. His palm finds your waist, the same way it had inside, only now there’s nothing stopping him.

His lips part like he’s about to say something, but instead he dips his head, his nose brushing along your temple before his mouth finds your jaw. The first drag of his lips is barely a kiss, more of a test, a question traced against your skin to make sure this is real.

Like he needs you to know that this is happening.

"Tell me you want this."

The words come out against the soft skin beneath your ear. His lips linger, moving slowly, tracing a path down your jaw, stopping just at the corner of your mouth.

Your body answers before you do. Your fingers tighten into the fabric of his shirt, your breath hitching and head tilting slightly, giving him more. Giving into him.

"Tell me." His pulse hammers beneath your touch, a steady, thrumming beat against your palm as your hands slide higher, over his shoulders, curling around the back of his neck. Joe exhales sharply, the sound making it seem like he’s barely holding himself together.

You don’t answer him with words.

You tilt your chin up, closing the space between you, pressing into him until there’s nothing left but heat. Your lips part, hovering just close enough that you can feel his breath mix with yours, can feel the way he’s waiting, hanging onto the moment like he needs it just as badly as you do.

And then, he gives in.

His mouth crashes against yours, a searing pull that steals the breath from your lungs. His fingers tighten at your waist, flexing like he’s making sure you don’t slip away, like letting go isn’t an option.

The kiss starts slow, but it doesn’t stay that way. Not when your nails scrape lightly against the nape of his neck. Not when he groans against your lips, the sound low and raw, before his grip tightens, his other hand sliding to the small of your back, pulling you into him.

He pulls you closer and closer until there’s nothing left between you but heat and the undeniable weight of whatever this is. His tongue slips past your lips, deepening the kiss, and you can’t help the soft moan that escapes you, the sound swallowed by his mouth.

His hands are everywhere; on your waist, your back, your hips — all like he can’t decide where to touch you first, like he’s trying to memorize every curve of your body.

When he finally pulls back, his breathing is ragged, chest rising and falling with each labored breath. His eyes search yours, "get in the truck."

You don’t hesitate. You climb into the backseat, the leather cold against your hands, but you barely notice. Joe follows, his movements quick and borderline impatient as he shuts the door behind him. The space is intimate, the windows already fogging up from the heat of your bodies.

Joe’s hands are on you again, laying you down gently while his fingers sliding underneath the hem of your top. His lips find yours once more, his kiss harder this time, more demanding. You can feel the need in him, the way he’s holding back, the way he’s trying to keep control.

But when your hands slide down his chest, feeling the hard lines of his body through the fabric of his shirt, he groans against your lips, the sound vibrating deep in his throat. "You’re driving me fucking crazy.” His hands slither up your thighs, fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans.

"Do something about it," you whisper, your voice barely audible, but he hears it. His eyes darken, his jaw tightening. Before you can say anything else, he’s pulling your jeans down, his hands rough but careful, like he’s afraid of breaking you.

A flicker of self-consciousness washes over you, but it disappears as quickly as the heat of his body sinks into you, settling himself between your legs. His hands caress your thighs, fingers pressing into your skin as he leans down, his breath hot against your neck. "Couldn’t stop looking at you all night,” he mutters, almost to himself.

You can feel the hardness of him pressing against you, the sensation stealing the air from your lungs. You lift up to capture his lips, nipping at him, unable to stop the way your hips instinctively arch to meet him. Your body moves on its own, desperate for more.

Joe’s breath hitches, his lips trailing a path of fire as they move lower, scattering kisses across your collarbone. His hands, calloused yet gentle, slide up your sides, pushing the fabric of your top higher until your skin is exposed to the chill of the truck’s interior. But you can’t feel the cold, not when his touch burns hotter than anything else.

“So soft,” he murmurs, his voice almost reverent as his fingers trace the curve of your waist. His touch is slower now, as though he’s savoring every inch of you. His lips follow, kissing a line down your sternum, his breath warm against your skin.

You shiver, your hands tangling in his hair and urging him closer. His name escapes your lips in a whisper, a sound that seems to ignite something deep within him. He groans, the vibration of it sending a jolt through you.

His eyes flick up to yours, and for a moment he just watches. His chest rises and falls with the same urgency that’s coursing through your veins, and then, without a word, he lowers his head again, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your panties.

Your back arches, a soft gasp escaping you as his hands move up your thighs, his fingers hooking into the lace and sliding them down. His touch is teasing as if he’s testing your limits.

When his lips finally meet the heat between your legs, you nearly cry out. His mouth is warm, his tongue sliding against you in a slow, skilled motion that has your fingers tightening in his hair. He’s relentless, his movements measured yet unwavering as though he’s determined to unravel you completely.

“Jesus—” he chokes out your name, his voice muffled against you. “Taste so good,” the vibrations of his words send a shiver up your spine. His hands grip your hips and hold you in place as his tongue circles that one sensitive spot, driving you closer to the brink with every flick, every stroke.

You can feel the tension building, coiling tight in your core, but Joe doesn’t let up. His pace quickens, his tongue moving faster, more urgently, until you’re gasping for air, your hips bucking against him.

“Joe, I—I can’t—” you stammer, your voice breaking as the pleasure crests, threatening to overwhelm you.

But he doesn’t stop. His hand trails up, fingertips skimming over your stomach, teasing, exploring, until he reaches the lace of your bra. There’s no hesitation, just an easy push of the cup, baring you to him. His thumb grazes over your nipple before he pinches, rolling it between his fingers, his grip firm, possessive.

The sensation sends a shiver through you, heat pooling low in your belly as the sharp edge of pleasure tightens, unraveling the last threads of restraint. Your body tenses, a cry slipping from your lips as the wave builds, crests, and crashes over you, leaving you trembling beneath him.

Joe doesn’t stop — not yet. His mouth still moves against you, coaxing out every last shudder, every last breathless moan. His hands hold you steady, his grip firm, grounding, as if he’s keeping you tethered to him while you fall apart.

When he finally pulls back, his lips glisten and he watches you — really watches you. For a split second, something flickers in his eyes. Guilt? Hesitation? Regret?

But then it’s gone.

His gaze darkens, hands sliding up to frame your face, thumbs tracing slow, lazy circles over your cheeks. Like he needs you to feel it, to feel him. To know he’s here.

And then he moves.

His body presses flush against yours, the heat of him searing through the layers still between you, his length hard and insistent against your thigh. The thought, the uncertainty, dissolves beneath the weight of him, beneath the way his mouth finds yours in another kiss, deeper this time, hungrier.

You taste yourself on his tongue, and the sound that leaves you is nothing short of desperate. Your fingers tangle in his shirt, gripping, pulling, needing more.

Joe groans, the sound reverberating between you as his hips roll forward, grinding against you, the friction sending a sharp jolt of pleasure straight through you. His breath shudders against your lips, his hands tightening where they hold you, like he’s just as lost in this as you are.

“Please,” you beg, your voice trembling with need.

Joe hesitates, his eyes locked onto yours, something unreadable flickering in their depths. His jaw tenses, his breath uneven, and then he nods, his fingers curling around the waistband of his jeans. The sound of his zipper is deafening in the quiet of the truck, each metallic click sending another pulse of anticipation through you.

And then he’s there, guiding himself to you, his breath catching as he pushes inside.

A sharp gasp escapes you, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in as he stretches you, inch by excruciating inch. He goes slow, like he’s savoring every second, his forehead pressing against yours when he finally sinks all the way in. His body shudders against you, “you feel so fucking good,” he groans, his voice rough, almost pained.

Your fingers twitch against his skin, needing more, needing to feel him. You reach for his shirt, bunching the fabric, pushing it up just enough to reveal the solid warmth of his stomach, the defined ridges of his abdomen. Your palms slide over him, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your fingertips, the way his muscles tense under your touch.

He grunts at the contact, his body responding instantly. His hips shift, just slightly, but the movement is enough to have you whimpering, your legs tightening around his waist, pulling him deeper.

That’s all the encouragement he needs.

His grip on your hips tightens as he starts to move, slow at first, dragging every thrust out like he wants to commit this to memory. But it doesn’t last, his control frays too quickly and soon, he’s driving into you with a force that steals the air from your lungs.

The sounds between you; his breath, ragged and uneven, the wet slap of skin against skin, the soft creak of leather beneath you, fill the small space, drowning out the world beyond the truck.

Every thrust sends a jolt of pleasure through you, every noise he makes only fuels the fire burning inside you. His hands roam, gripping, teasing, pushing you closer to the edge until it’s too much, until the pleasure coils so tight you feel like you might snap.

“Joe, I’m—” The words are barely out before he angles his hips just right, hitting that spot that has your vision blurring, your body bowing into him, every thought dissolving into pure sensation.

He groans, his pace quickening, his thrusts turning rougher, more desperate, his breath hot against your skin. “C’mon,” he rasps, voice thick with need. “Let me feel it.”

And you do.

Your body tightens, your back arching as pleasure overtakes you, crashing through you in waves, leaving you breathless, trembling beneath him. The sound that escapes you is involuntary, raw, and it sets something off in him. Joe follows a second later, his hips stuttering, his movements turning jerky as he buries himself deep, a ragged groan ripping from his throat as he comes.

For a moment, the only thing that exists is the sound of your heavy breathing, tangled together, filling the confined space of the truck. His forehead presses against yours, his body still trembling with the aftershocks, and for just a second, everything else fades.

But then his grip on you loosens. The heat of his hands disappears, replaced by the cool air settling in the space between you. Reality creeps back in, slow but certain.

Joe exhales, shifting back against the seat, his chest rising and falling with the remnants of uneven breaths. He moves sluggishly, almost like he’s reluctant, lifting his hips just enough to drag his boxers and jeans back up. His fingers fumble with the button before securing it, and then he rakes a hand through his damp hair.

And just like that, the shift is instant.

The momentary haze shatters, and cold clarity rushes in.

Your pulse pounds in your ears, your skin still tingling where his hands had been, but the weight of what just happened slams into you all at once.

You move fast, scrambling to pull your pants up, to fix your shirt, to smooth down the mess of your hair — to piece yourself back together before it all slips too far out of reach. Your fingers shake as you fumble with the fabric, your breath still uneven, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

You need to leave.

Just for a second, your eyes lock with his. Joe doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t try to stop you. He just watches with an unreadable expression and parted lips, like he might speak.

But he doesn’t.

You don’t wait for him to. Your fingers wrap around the door handle and you push it open, stepping out into the night. The air is sobering, biting against your skin, but it does nothing to take away the feel of him.

You don’t look back, because no amount of distance can undo what’s already been done.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow angst #joe burrow x you

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rainrot4me · 2 months ago

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Sick Days

Summary: The Creepypasta guys are feeling a little under the weather. You, their lovely partner, spend the day taking care of them (whether they like it or not).

Characters: {Separate} Jeff the Killer x Reader, Ticci Toby x Reader, Masky x Reader

TW: Very domestic and fluffy, slight bickering

Words: 6.7k

A/N: Sorry for the delay! More Christmas-themed works coming out shortly!

Seven days of pure snowfall and ice.

It had snowed a lot—a thick blanket of white across the forest deep enough to get your boots stuck in. Winter always seemed to roll around the Slenderwoods a little later in the year, but when it did, it was brutal. And, with so much pristine white covering the ground, the mansion was on full display in contrast to the grayed-out trees.

Slenderman gave his orders. This meant longer missions, longer days in the frigid temperatures, and even longer nights recovering. You would think natural-born killers would have some inkling of instinct to keep themselves alive, but when they all returned practically half-dead…

Thick jackets and worn shoes piled by the door, somehow still defrosting and leaving obnoxious puddles of water wherever you stepped. Dusty counters were littered with piles of nasty food and dishes, laundry untouched (that wasn’t unusual anyway), and a serious lack of arguing or hysterical fighting between the walls (that was unusual). It seems the weather hadn’t only brought down health, but moods too.

So, when things turn bad in the mansion, where do they end up?

Your front door.

Jeff the Killer ▸

Jeff knocked nonstop until you opened your door, a confused look as to what in the world the killer could need. It wasn’t unusual for Jeff to stop by unannounced; he had made himself at home in your house a long time ago, but it was unusual for him to show up in the middle of the afternoon (broad daylight and all).

“Jeffrey? Are you alright?” Glancing behind him, you could see where his boots made imprints on the fresh snow covering your sidewalk, dusty snowflakes melting in his dark hair.

But, finally glancing up to meet his gaze, you could see it.

He looked terrible. More so than usual. Skin raw-red from the cold winds whipping at him, hair tangled, and head pounding in time with his too-loud heartbeat. You knew about the missions, and you knew what being in the cold for too long could do, you just didn’t know someone like Jeff could even get sick.

Stepping aside, Jeff trailed into your home, shoulders hunched so low you thought he was trying to fall over. All he gave you were hoarse grunts and shaky nods as you helped him strip his heavy clothes, shaking the snow from the sleeves onto the doormat outside. By the time you turned around, Jeff was already halfway down the hallway towards your bedroom.

The killer was so exhausted he didn’t even get his muddy boots off before he was face down into the pillows and oblivious to the world.

Given the grueling retreat he had just returned from, this would have been a reasonable response. But, as his partner, you knew better than most: Jeff never sleeps, especially when he has a fresh mission to brag about. It only took his ragged coughing and blatant pitiful state to figure out you were going to have to help him.

The can of chicken noodle soup you poured into a bowl, then to the microwave, came out steaming hot. You blew on the contents; the smell was nice as you reached for a spoon, and you made a mental note that you would also need to clean his dirty clothes still caked in mud and (hopefully not his) blood. A small towel under the bowl, and you were making your way down the hall.

Jeff hadn’t even bothered to shut the door; his limp body spread across your mattress like a corpse. He covered his head with a pillow, gripping the fabric and muffling the sputtering snores laced with evident sickness. You had only left him alone to make the soup for a couple of minutes, but that seemed to be enough to knock him out.

Jeff never slept, only when his body really needed it. But right now, his body also really, really needed something in its stomach besides mucus. You set the bowl on your nightstand before slowly kneeling on the bed. What do they say about waking a beast? You couldn’t remember.

You cringed, teeth gritted as you gently placed your flat hand onto his back. His skin was burning, heat practically radiating from him as you easily rubbed up and down his spine. He didn’t even budge, the only sign of life being the gentle rising and falling of his back as he snored into the fabric of his pillows. You ran your hand higher, fingers rubbing across his shoulders and dipping to the arch of his shoulder blades until you felt his arms slowly shift.

His breathing faltered, consciousness rolling back into him as you shifted, letting one leg dangle off the bed as you sat beside him.

“Mhhmn…” He groaned, stiffly turning his face towards you and glaring through bloodshot eyes. You nearly choked out a laugh, scanning his flushed face and horrible eye bags, appearing even more dead than he normally did. It took the killer a minute to register what was happening, his messy bangs sticking to his forehead and matting wildly; it was evident he could’ve slept for the rest of the day and then some.

But it was only 3 pm, and the sun shining through his curtains was made even worse by the reflection of the snow. He needed to eat; there was no telling how much he had worn himself down this past week. Jeff was never very good at self-preservation, especially when you had become a net to fall back on.

“Hey man… You wanna try and eat somethin’?” You tried to keep your voice low, the killer rolling onto his back and rubbing his hands over his face. He grunted, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers and slowly blinking at the ceiling.

He nodded.

Reaching for the still-steaming bowl, you cupped the contents in your hands, shifting further onto the bed. Jeff shifted upwards, slowly but surely. It was odd. You had witnessed this man jump fencelines and tackle men double his size, but give him a fever and a headache that can’t be numbed out with alcohol, and suddenly he’s defenseless. You could’ve laughed, taunted him like he often did when you weren’t feeling hot, say something to get his gears going…

But he just looked so… pitiful.

One hand cupped under the bowl, you reached the other out, delivering soft touches with the back of your hand on his forehead. Jeff watched through tired eyes, blinking slowly when your fingers brushed his sweat-damp bangs out of his face, leaning closer to your every touch.

Always loud-mouthed and quick to anger, but right now, he was just calm. His body refused to move as quickly as he wanted it to, and his head was far too foggy with nausea to even consider pushing your helpful hand away. So, he just accepted it. Reluctantly, in his mind, but accepted it nonetheless.

“You don’t look so hot. What happened out there?” You paced the words slowly, taking the spoon in your hand and collecting a bit of the soup before bringing it to his pale lips. Jeff closed his eyes when he took the spoonful in his mouth, drinking the warm broth before letting you bring it back to the bowl for another.

“Forgot to bring extra clothes… Hada’ reuse the same wet shit every day…” His voice was so hoarse, too. He cleared his throat, letting you spoon him another drink of the soup before leaning his head back on the headboard. He sounded like he had been sucking down nothing but cold air, throat raw and scratchy with the sinus infection he was harboring.

A warm shower? Or maybe bringing him to sit in front of the fireplace you had crackling in the living room? You weren’t sure what he needed, but you knew he needed to sweat out this fever before it became a real problem. He reached for the bowl, cupping the towel underneath to set it in his lap before continuing to fish spoonfuls. The warmth of the soup probably did wonders for his sore throat.

You went to stand, pressing off of the bed before a rough hand wrapped around your wrist. Glancing down, Jeff was tugging you back towards him, knotted brows giving a silent question as to why you were leaving him. You smiled, kneeling back on the mattress to place a quick kiss on his way-too-warm forehead. “I’m starting you a bath, alright? Finish your soup.”

Another quick kiss and he was letting your wrist go, satisfied with your answer. The silence was awkward, but vulnerable and quiet. Jeff had no choice but to let you care for him; something about that made your heart so full.

Roaming to the bathroom, you pushed the curtain to the tub back and flipped the faucet all the way hot. Water filled slowly as you rummaged through the cabinet behind your sink mirror, reading various drugstore medicines and cough syrups before shaking a handful of sinus and head cold pills into your hand.

You heard the gentle patter of bare feet stepping onto the tile of the bathroom just in time to turn off the running water, the tub steaming with scalding water. Arms wrapped around your middle gently as you shut the cabinet, Jeff’s nose burying into the crook of your neck as he fell limp against your back.

“Sorry…” He mumbled, his face against your skin as he breathed deep, taking in your smell. You smiled, reaching back to brush his hair back before playing yet another kiss on his warm forehead. “Hush. You need to get better, and that mansion is no place to relax. Don’t worry about it.” Despite reassuring him, Jeff still held a defeated look.

Dropping the medicine onto your sink counter, you turned to help him take off his shirt, his hands doing their best to hold onto your arms the entire time. Clingy.

“I got it.” He huffed, tossing his shirt to the ground.

“I know you do.” You smiled up at him. You undid his belt anyway, undressing him the rest of the way with little protest. There was no flirtatious comment, no sly touches, just a weak, sick boy who wasn’t used to being this vulnerable. It was sweet.

Jeff stepped into the bath, and you left him to get a cup of water. He drank the pills down, skin blotching red with the heat of the water, but at least he looked more relaxed. He was so lengthy, he had to bend his knees to fit comfortably, which you laughed at.

You knelt beside the tub, using that same cup to collect water and rinse his hair. You ran your fingers through the messy strands, his quiet groans making you smile as you poured a small dab of shampoo onto the palm of your hand. Tired eyes watched you carefully when you began to scrub his head, lathering the shampoo between the strands and massaging his scalp. He was falling apart underneath you, soapy bubbles drifting into the water while you washed him off.

His hands cupped your own, kissing your wrists. He was being so gentle, it almost gave you whiplash. There was no off comment about you catering to him, or being a jerk just for the hell of it; he was being oddly sweet. Maybe his being sick wasn’t so bad.

Until you zoned back into his coughing fit, strained coughs that looked like they physically hurt. You rinsed his hair, careful not to get the soapy water into the gashes on his face as he settled down.

You wiped the water from his face, his clammy skin wet under your hands as you went to stand. Jeff leaned back, letting his head rest against the wall of the tub while you collected his clothes, letting him know you’d be right back.

You needed to do laundry anyway, so grabbing the rest of the killer’s dirty clothing and tossing them into your load was easy enough. They reeked of dirt and outside, splotches of dried blood staining the sleeves of his hoodie. You didn’t want to know about the mission; you didn’t want to know what in the hell caused these stains, but you were sure he’d tell you sometime anyway.

Starting the machine, you shuffled back to your room, rummaging through your drawers for something that the killer could wear. You ended up on a t-shirt that was baggy on you but would fit him perfectly, a pair of boxers he left the last time he was here and sweatpants that would be good enough until his clothes were dry.

You stepped back into the bathroom, clothes in hand, and Jeff turned to look up at you. He had already cleaned himself off, water slowly draining from the tub as you helped him climb out. “Feel better?”

He nodded, reaching for the towels you had hanging off the edge of the tub and drying himself off. You set the clothes down, hands reaching to dry off his hair as he dressed himself.

You knew it had to feel so much better to be in clean clothes, let alone something that wasn’t jeans and a hoodie riddled with filth. Jeff seemed content enough, but more than anything, he looked tired. Exhausted.

“Alright, time for bed.” The sun was just starting to set outside your window, thick orange light flooding through the curtains as Jeff followed you back into the bedroom. You wouldn’t be going to sleep for some time, but you were sure the killer would be out in minutes.

Pulling back the sheets of your bed, Jeff climbed in, body nearly giving out as soon as his weak body got under the warm covers. “I’ll let you rest, tell me if you need anythin-”

Jeff didn’t give you the chance, barely getting a foot away from the bed before he was dragging you in too. You smiled, his arms wrapping around your waist and throwing the covers over the two of you. “Aw man, you’re gonna get me sick-”

You couldn’t help but smile as Jeff delivered sickly sweet kisses across your cheeks, lying you both down as his arms caged you in, your head falling onto his shoulder. “Then I guess we’ll just have to be sick together then, baby.” You knew a sly smile would break out of him sooner or later.

You both relaxed into each other, wrapping the covers tight as the sun set slowly against the pretty snow. The fireplace still crackled in your living room, the whole house warm compared to the brutal cold Jeff had been forced into days before.

Running your hands through his now-clean hair, Jeff groaned, practically purring when his eyes began to close, tight grip around your back faltering slightly as you realized the sinus meds were finally kicking in, that dazed look behind his expression. As if he wasn’t tired enough, this would have him knocked for the whole next day.

It didn’t matter to you, you’d be there tomorrow to cater to him too, taking care of the killer who rarely ever let himself go like this.

Planting one last kiss on his jaw, you felt his chest slowly rise and fall, gentle snores dragging out underneath you. Leaning back, you grabbed the remote to your TV off the nightstand, turning some show you needed to catch up on with low volume. You realized you needed to relax too, the winter season having you run a mile a minute, so this would be a good excuse to worry about something other than your crazy life.

With one final tug on the back of your shirt, you let your own eyes close, the sun finally set as a pretty blanket of dark sky finally shown through the window.

“G’night [Y/N]…”

Jeff was there by your side when you became sick the week after, a terrible fever that wouldn't break no matter how many baths or rags he placed on your forehead.

He felt bad, sure, but he felt even better that he got to make fun of your terribly red face and nasty cough that he didn’t have to deal with anymore.

Even sick, you somehow managed to win every argument or put the killer back in his place. You made him repay his stupidness with healthy fast-food runs and kisses. He quickly learned to keep his mouth shut.

In sickness and in health, you guess.

Ticci Toby ▸

Technically, Toby couldn’t feel the pain of being sick.

He never got the sting of a sore throat, or the ache behind your ears when you sneezed too much, or even the pounding head and body aches that kept people from getting up. No, he bragged about never being defeated by strep throat or the flu.

But what he did feel was the pressure, and the fatigue, and the awful way your stomach just refused to hold down any solids.

So, when it got so bad he couldn’t shove it aside anymore to complete another mission, he found himself knocking on your door.

And he was not happy about it.

“Toby, you have got to lie down.” You huffed, his limp arms in your hands as you tried and failed to drag him towards your bedroom. He was acting as if he couldn’t walk, feet glued to their respective spots in your kitchen. The brunette always played a little childish, but right now he was just being plain juvenile.

“Nah. I just swung by to gra- grab some food, there’s nothing good at th- the mansion.” Even as you held him, the boy still browsed your cabinets and pantry for snacks. You would have been more than happy to offer, but Toby had already eaten a bowl of your chili leftovers, two bags of chips, and was going for pastries next. It was like being sick turned him into a human vacuum.

“I know, but you’re freezing, hun. Your face is so red it looks like you’re going to explode. You need to get under some covers.” Toby could blame that on lying face-down in the snow for an hour, completely oblivious to the pin-pricking sharpness of the cold on his cheeks, or the frostbite that was forming at the edge of his nose. He never felt a thing, completely lost in the weightless blanket of powder underneath him. He would’ve stayed there another hour or two if Tim hadn’t jerked him up and yelled at him for being an idiot.

But now he was here, sick as a dog and getting harassed by his partner who was just trying to help. Tim was sick at the mansion, too. What luck.

“I’m fine. It’s just a co-cold or something. Quit baby- babying me.” Toby couldn’t tell if it was his tics or the uncontrollable shakiness in his hands, but he dropped a pack of crackers he’d fished out of your pantry. He groaned in frustration, crouching down to grab them, but you snatched the package up first.

“You’re not fine, Toby. You’re pale as a ghost, your voice is raspier than usual, and you can’t even hold onto a pack of crackers. Just let me help you.” You set the crackers on the counter and put your hands on your hips, glaring down at him. He glared right back, his dark eyes narrowed and defiant.

“Don’t ne- need help,” he muttered, though the stubborn edge in his voice faltered as another violent shiver racked his body. He clutched his arms around himself, but you could see how badly his fingers trembled. The eye-roll you delivered him could kill.

“Yes, you do. Come on, Toby. Just this once, let me take care of you.” Your tone softened, and you crouched down so you were at eye level with him. “You’re not going to get better if you keep ignoring yourself like this.”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering away from yours. For all his bravado, Toby wasn’t immune to the weight of your concern. You perceived the world differently than he did, concerned with the trivial things of sickness or relaxation, while the brunette hardly cared if his skin was rotting off (it was). Finally, with a heavy sigh, he muttered, “Fine. But only for a little while.”

“Thank you.” You stood and held out your hand to him. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

Toby reluctantly took your hand, and you helped him to his feet. He leaned on you more than he probably realized, his steps unsteady as you guided him to your bedroom. Once there, you pulled back the blankets and helped him sit down on the edge of the bed. In the light of snow through your window, you really got a good look at just how pale he was, lips a subtle shade of purple that would’ve had any normal boy in a hospital.

You helped him shed his ragged jacket, kicking off his boots until he was in the barest clothes he had stumbled into your house with.

“Alright, lie down,” you instructed, gently pushing on his shoulder. He grumbled something under his breath but complied, sinking into the mattress with a groan. You pulled the blankets up over him, tucking them around his shoulders.

“This is stu- stupid,” he muttered, his voice muffled by the pillow. He was facedown, something so childish, like a kid upset his mom was making him go to school.

“It’s not stupid. It’s called taking care of yourself,” you replied, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. “Now, stay put. I’m going to get you some water and medicine.”

He didn’t respond, his eyes were already closed. You smiled softly, relief washing over you as you left the room. Finally, he was letting you help. Now all you had to do was nurse him back to health—and maybe convince him that it was okay to lean on someone else every once in a while.

The next few days were a blur of soup, medicine, and relentless efforts to keep Toby in bed. He protested at every turn, grumbling about how he didn’t need to be babied, but his body betrayed him. The fever left him weak and sluggish, his usual energy reduced to mere fragments of what it once was. After having to literally calm him down with a healthy dose of cough medicine, he finally stopped berating you.

“This is the worst,” Toby groaned, his voice hoarse as he sank deeper into the pile of blankets you’d tucked around him. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, and his cheeks were flushed from the lingering fever. What started as cold chills and sickly paleness had sprung into a hot mess of trying to break the fever the brunette wasn’t aware he had. Once his body actually laid down, got some medicine, and got under some warmth, it finally started trying to heal itself. The only good thing about this was his body was so busy trying not to combust that his tics were on the back burner. His muscles were so weak, they really didn’t hold the energy.

“You’re getting better,” you reassured him, sitting on the edge of the bed with a bowl of soup in your hands. “Here, eat this. You need to keep your strength up.”

He eyed the bowl with disdain but reluctantly took it from you. “You’re en- enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Enjoying what?” you asked, feigning innocence.

“Bossing me around.” He smirked weakly, but it lacked his usual snarky bite.

“Maybe a little,” you admitted with a grin. “But only because it’s for your own good.”

Toby rolled his eyes but started eating the soup anyway. You watched him carefully, noting the way his hands shook less than they had the day before. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

By the third day, the fever broke. Toby woke up looking more like himself, his energy slowly returning. He still tried to downplay how sick he’d been, but you caught the gratitude in his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking.

“Thanks,” he mumbled one evening, leaning against the doorway as you cleaned up the kitchen. He was wearing one of your hoodies, the sleeves too short for his arms, but all of his dirt-covered clothes were in the middle of a wash.

“For what?” you asked, turning to face him.

“For... y’know. Put- Putting up with me. Helping m- me.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze fixed on the floor. Even with sickness deteriorating, that pink still lingered in his pale cheeks. “I’m not good at this kind of stuff.”

“You don’t have to be,” you said softly, walking over to him. “That’s what I’m here for. Next time, don’t wait until you’re half-dead to ask for help, okay? One day you’re going to kill yourself just because you’re stubborn.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound light and genuine. “Impossible.”

“Toby.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll t- try.”

“Good.” You smiled, reaching out to cup his cheek, running your fingers across the scars that littered the skin. He cupped your hand, tired eyes roaming your features as he leaned in, pressing a firm kiss on your forehead. It was only when you reached up to ruffle his hair that he swatted your hand away, but your smile didn’t falter.

As the days went on, Toby fully recovered, though he still feined needing to stick around your house just to be sure. Your pantry was nearly run through, and every snack you had planned to eat mysteriously disappeared despite your boyfriend’s testimonials. But you didn’t mind. Seeing him back to his usual self was all the thanks you needed. He would be buying you more, though.

But knowing Toby, you weren’t holding your breath.

Tim Wright▸

The snow was relentless, blanketing the world outside in a thick, quiet stillness.

Tim was a shadow against the swirling white, his broad shoulders hunched as he trudged up the path to your door. His steps were uneven, his breath visible in harsh puffs against the icy air, and it was clear he wasn’t in good shape. You barely managed to open the door before he stumbled inside, shaking the snow off his coat and muttering a half-hearted apology.

“Tim?” you gasped, reaching out to steady him. He was freezing to the touch, his skin pale and his lips tinged with blue. “You’re ice-cold. What are you doing out in this weather? You should’ve called me.”

“Didn’t want to bother you,” he grumbled, his voice rough and strained. He tried to wave you off, but his hands trembled as he shuffled his heavy jacket off. “I’m fine. Just need to get out of all that.” The Operator had shoved him and Brian too far, Masky and Hoodie nearly ready to saw off some heads if they had to spend one more night in the frigid snow. He knew he shouldn’t bother you, shouldn’t cross that line of his affairs and your relationship, but he knew he wouldn’t make it back to the mansion tonight.

“You are not fine,” you said firmly, taking his arm and guiding him toward the couch. “At least come inside and warm up.” You were still in your pajamas, on your way to bed when you heard the haphazard knocks on your door.

Tim hesitated, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable, but the weight of his exhaustion won out. He let you lead him, collapsing onto the cushions with a groan. The sight of him like this—so worn down and vulnerable—made your heart ache. Tim was always the strong one, the steady rock everyone leaned on, but now he looked utterly defeated.

You grabbed a blanket from the nearby chair and draped it over him, fussing despite his weak protests. “Stay put. I’ll get you something hot to drink.”

“I’m fine,” he repeated, but his voice was softer this time, less convincing. He leaned back against the couch, his head tipping against the cushion as he closed his eyes. You hurried to the kitchen, boiling water for tea and pulling together a simple plate of muffins that took less than a minute to heat up in the microwave. You would make him a proper meal later, right now he just needed to get warm. When you returned, he hadn’t moved, his breathing shallow but steady. You set the tea down on the table in front of him and nudged his shoulder gently.

“Drink this,” you said. “It’ll help.”

Tim opened his eyes, glancing at the cup before taking it with a quiet disgust. He sipped the tea slowly, his large hands dwarfing the mug, and you sat beside him, watching him closely. He much preferred the bitter taste of coffee, but something warm in his stomach was better than nothing. After a few moments of silence, he sighed, his shoulders slumping further under the weight of the blanket.

“I’m sorry, love,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the steam rising from the tea. “I won’t stay long. You need to get back to bed.”

“I’m alright,” you said softly, “I’ll kill you before that storm does if you make it out that door again.”

He didn’t respond right away, his jaw tightening as he struggled to find the words. Finally, he set the mug down and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “I’m alright. I’ll rest for a while, then get out of your hair. I need to get back before they send someone after me.”

“That’s okay,” you said, placing a hand on his back. “You’ve got at least the rest of the night before someone comes looking. Nobody is trudging through this storm just to get you, hun. You need to relax. You deserve to be cared for, too.”

Tim let out a shaky breath, his hand scrubbing over his face. He knew there was no fighting it anyway, you held some power over him even he couldn’t figure out. Your sweet words and touches were enough to stop him from war, he thought. “I- Okay, just until morning.”

“Good,” you said, your voice gentle. “Now rest, you need it.”

Tim closed his eyes, the tension in his body slowly easing as he let himself relax. It hurt your heart to see him so defeated, but if it took sickness to finally get him to relax, then so be it. You sat beside him, keeping watch as the snow continued to fall outside, a quiet reminder that even as big and strong as Tim was, he was still just as vulnerable to the cold as anyone else.

As the hours passed, Tim drifted off into a hazy state of staring at the fireplace, his breathing rough and uneven. The man didn’t sleep—he never did—but right now you really wish he would. You stayed by his side though, curled up next to him and monitoring his every cold chill.

You couldn’t help but feel a deep ache for him, seeing him like this—so worn down and fragile, yet still trying to be the strong, unbreakable as he always was. He let out a quiet groan as he shifted on the couch, his breath shallow, and for a moment, he barely seemed aware of his own discomfort. You were glad you had lit your fireplace hours before he arrived, the bright glow and gentle cracking of the logs under the flames, the heat radiating well enough to warm the whole house.

You gently touched his arm, trying to stir him from his restless half-awake daze. “Tim, you need medicine,” you said softly, your voice gentle yet firm. "You're burning up, and I need to make sure you don’t have a fever.”

Tim’s dark eyes blinked with confusion, and for a moment, he looked disoriented (meaning he was so far in the pits of his mind that there was no telling how disassociated he had become just from sitting here). The firelight danced on his tired face, casting soft shadows over the sharp lines of his features. “I’m fine,” he muttered hoarsely, but the words were weak, lacking the usual conviction. He barely had the strength to lift his head as he tried to wave you off. “I don’t need any medicine. Just a little rest.”

You frowned, your hand resting lightly on his forehead, the heat radiating from his skin like a warning. He was dangerously close to a fever, and no matter how much he fought it, he needed help. He just couldn’t see it. “I’m not asking,” you said softly, brushing back the damp strands of his hair. “A little rest won’t hold out.”

You wondered how Masky was taking the whole ordeal. You decided if his host was sick and weak, the alter probably wouldn’t want to front in such an unprefferable state.

Tim didn’t argue this time, his eyes flickering with mental strain. He let out a small sigh as you stood and walked into your bathroom, the quiet sound of your movements a comfort to him in the midst of his foggy, feverish haze. You pulled out the small bottle of medicine from the cabinet, one you always kept stocked for moments like these—when he pushed himself too far, too hard, until his body couldn’t keep up with the strain. This wasn’t the first time he had stumbled into your home due to his ailments, and you were very sure it wouldn’t be the last.

You returned to the couch with the bottle and a glass of water, gently helping Tim sit up, his body unsteady as you supported him. His gaze met yours, conflicted, but he didn’t argue. You could see how much he wanted to be strong, to be the one taking care of everything, but right now, he needed someone to take care of him. And you were more than willing to be that person.

“Drink this,” you urged softly, holding the glass to his lips. “It’ll help bring your fever down. You’re not going anywhere until it does.”

He hesitated, eyes narrowing in that familiar stubborn way, but the trembling in his hands gave him away. With a heavy sigh, he took the glass from you and swallowed the medicine in a few quick gulps. He winced, but when he set the glass down, his gaze softened, a brief flicker of gratitude in his tired eyes.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. You smiled, brushing a gentle hand over his shoulder, offering the smallest of comforts as he settled back against the couch.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you replied quietly. “Just rest. I’ll take care of everything else.”

Tim’s lips parted as if he wanted to say more, but his exhaustion overtook him, his body sinking back into the softness of the cushions, his glazing over once more against the firelight. You didn’t need him to say anything. You could feel the weight of his gratitude, the trust he placed in you without saying a word.

You moved to the kitchen again. His body was still weak, but it needed fuel to help fight off the cold and the fever. You knew he wouldn’t ask for a meal, never would. But you also knew he needed it. You’d learned long ago that showing care was sometimes the quietest, most effective way to love him—through the meals you made, the medicine you administered, the silent acts of kindness that spoke louder than words ever could.

But, a bowl of soup would have to do for right now.

The smell of broth began to fill the house, a gentle, soothing scent that would help settle Tim’s stomach once he slowly phased back to reality. You checked on him every few minutes, ensuring he stayed warm, covering him with an extra blanket when you noticed him shiver. His breath was a little steadier now, the worst of the fever easing off, and the signs of his discomfort had lessened just enough for him to be able to relax.

You made sure to brew a pot of fresh coffee, too. That breakfast brew he seemed to enjoy so much, the smell wafting through the house and silently altering the man.

Finally, when the soup was ready, you returned to him, holding the bowl and mug in your hands and a small spoon at the ready. He looked up at you, his eyes soft, tired but grateful. You helped him sit up once more, this time offering him the warm, comforting food he needed to heal.

“You’ve got to eat something,” you said gently, pressing the spoon into his hand. “You need your strength.”

Tim took the spoon and scooped a small portion of the soup, eating slowly, savoring the warmth it brought to his cold body. Each spoonful was another step toward recovery, and with each one, he seemed to relax just a little bit more, the tension in his shoulders easing as he let you care for him. He took gentle sips of the coffee, the taste seeming to steady him better than the tea had earlier, the tension lines in his face finally evening out.

When the bowl was empty, you set it aside and brushed your fingers through his hair again, a tender gesture. “Better?”

He gave a small nod, his eyes now fully closed, his body finally beginning to give in to the warmth and the comfort you’d provided. He didn’t speak, but his hand found yours, gripping it loosely, a silent thanks for everything you had done.

“Need anything else?” You brushed his cheek, the stinging warmth still hot on his skin, but evidently cooler than it had been. He scanned your face for a moment, dark eyes roaming over features he had studied a thousand times, but finally had an answer.

“I’ve got a cig pack in my jacket…” The way his eyebrows twinged upwards gave you all the hint you needed, a small chuckle rising from his chest. You slid over to the door where he had discarded his jacket, rummaging through compartment pockets that held tool knives or bullet casings, but finally landing on the half-empty carton of cigarettes, his lighter tucked neatly inside. You picked out one, lighter in hand as you sat back on the couch.

Tim went to reach for the thing before you shook your head, holding the orange end to his lips with a small smile. He took the cig, your hand following and cupping over the end as you flicked his lighter to a spark, lighting the end. It smoldered, smoke slowly rising from the stick and into the air of your house. You would worry about the smell later.

A deep breath in and you could phsyically see the tension in his shoulders loosen.

This went on for the rest of the night, the slow rotation between cigarettes and refilled cups of coffee as you stayed by his side, arms latched around his own as your head rested on his shoulder.

He slowly shed the blankets, too, the sunlight break finally hitting over the horizon and filtering into your living room. By the time his fever was gone (broken in one night out of pure stubbornness), you were quietly snoring beside him, body curled up under his arm.

He took the time to carry you to your bedroom, slotting you under the covers with numerous gentle kisses across your cheeks. He cleaned the living room and kitchen, washing the bowl and mugs he had dirtied and sorting them away, making sure to tidy everything as the early hours of the morning rolled around.

He was there to make you food when you finally woke up, returning every favor you had offered the night before. You found yourself at his side on the couch again, watching the snow in the daylight.

You stayed by his side, your presence a quiet promise that you would always be there to take care of him, just as he had always done for you.

In the warmth of your home, surrounded by the gentle sounds of his steady breathing and the comforting scent of the meal he had made, everything felt like it was exactly where it needed to be. You didn’t need words to say it—your love for each other was already in everything you did.

Thanks for reading!

Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

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dreastmilk · 2 years ago

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i wish i could talk about my culture but the most i have is the average american experience

#like im half filipino!! my mother is a first generation immigrant!!#but ive never felt close to the culture outside of eating the food and experiencing the average filipino party a lot as a kid #i literally lived in the philippines for a year #but im just so far removed from the culture #and ive never felt a want to try and get interested and involved in it #partially because my only connection is my mother and everyone else in my family from that side is halfway across the world #it feels like ive only ever experienced the bad side of the filipino culture so there's no want in me to look into it #im only filipino by blood and looks. it is weirdly alienating #especially when everyone is either white or deeply invested in their culture.#idk #akiraspeaking

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roosterforme · 2 months ago

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You're on the Naughty List, Rooster | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley knows no limits when spoiling his family, especially for his daughter's first Christmas. When he's down to the wire getting everything ready, he lands himself on the naughty list. He'll do whatever it takes to fix things, including calling on one of Santa's helpers for backup.

Warnings: Fluff, adult language, smut, oral sex

Length: 3000 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

This is a The Younger Kind one-shot, but it can be read alone! Check out my masterlist for more!

"What is this?" you asked, holding up a receipt that trailed from your outstretched hand all the way to the floor. "Because I know you didn't spend eight hundred dollars on toys on your way home from work today."

"Uh," Bradley replied, brow puckered. He looked up from his spot on the living room floor next to the Christmas tree where he was putting batteries into a remote control dinosaur. "It's, uh.... well, yeah, I did stop for a few more toys on the way home, but I only spent like seven hundred and sixty bucks..."

"Daddy!" you gasped. "Noah and Noelle already have way too much stuff! And we agreed to put money aside to go to Disney World next summer!"

Bradley rolled his eyes and waved his hand casually in the air. "Don't worry about that. This is Noelle's first Christmas, and I really wanted to spoil her."

You shook your head, balled up the receipt, and threw it at his head. But you were smiling. "Where are these toys?"

"In the Bronco," he muttered. "I was going to sneak them under the tree after you went to bed and hope you didn't notice that I got a few more things."

You deadpanned. "You don't know how to wrap gifts. They would have stuck out like a sore thumb," you muttered, sliding your feet into your slippers and pulling on Bradley's discarded sweatshirt.

Without another word, you slipped out into the crisp, cool night to retrieve everything. To your dismay, it took you several trips back to the living room before you got all of it.

"You are in so much trouble," you warned, pulling his sweatshirt off and crawling across the floor toward your husband. "You're on the naughty list."

"I'm not," he whispered. "I've been really good all year."

You pointed to the Elf on the Shelf which was perched on the windowsill next to the front door. "That's not what Skittles Junior told Santa. I saw the note he sent to the North Pole. Everyone was on the nice list except for you."

"Including Skittles Senior?" he asked, pulling you close until you were sitting halfway on his lap. The Yorkshire Terrier looked up from her napping spot under the Christmas tree, annoyed that they kept saying her name without offering a treat.

"Especially Skittles Senior," you confirmed.

Bradley wrapped his hands around your waist and whispered, "What if I bought my way onto the nice list?"

"How?" you asked, chin jutting into the air, playfully haughty.

Bradley leaned in, pressing his lips to the side of your neck. You had the softest skin, and he let himself indulge in some kisses before saying, "Maybe I already booked the trip to Disney World."

You gasped softly. "Well, this is an interesting turn of events. Did you pick a nice hotel?"

"For my family? The nicest."

"And we get to go for a week?"

"A full seven days, Princess," he rasped, brown eyes reflecting the lights on the tree as you tipped his head back to examine his face.

"Let me check with the Elf," you whispered with a wink. You turned toward the window and asked, "Hey, Skittles Junior? You think we can let the old man slide this year? He wasn't too bad."

But Bradley was already easing you onto your back, right next to the snag in the area rug, while you laughed. "I know for a fact you're on the nice list. You're so nice, in fact, I'll let you have one of your presents early," he murmured. You bit your lip as he started to tug your pajama pants over your hips. "This is something I definitely wouldn't be able to figure out how to wrap." He kissed below your belly button, tossing your pants on top of his hoodie. "But I know it's something you like."

The tip of his nose tickled the waistband of your underwear before he started to pull them down as well. Then he kissed his way along your thigh, mustache prickling you as you shivered, pussy completely bare for him. "Daddy," you moaned softly, fingers grabbing at the rug while he held tight to your thigh and dragged his index finger along your slit.

His face was handsome in the glow from the multi-colored lights, gaze fixed on where he was stroking you. "You're so fucking pretty like this," he grunted, collecting your slick and circling your clit until you whimpered. His lips found the inside of your knee before he set your legs gently on his shoulders. You watched as he licked his finger clean, eyes closed in pleasure. "You taste like a Princess."

"I am a Princess," you replied, eyes flicking to the collection of paper crowns which your son added to the Christmas tree. Then your eyes slid closed as Bradley's tongue traced you from hole to hole before his lips sealed around your clit with just the perfect pressure.

"Oh, god," you whined as your fingers sunk into his thick hair. His broad shoulders kept you planted against the floor, pussy already fluttering with need as you tried to roll your hips for more.

"Just wait," he whispered, mustache dragging through your wetness. "Don't rush it."

"But it feels good," you whined loudly, tugging him by his hair. "More."

That's when he lifted you slightly off the rug, his big hand landing on your butt, spanking you one time. You sucked in a deep breath, enjoying the sting as he kissed the inside of your thigh. "I said don't rush it. Want you to make a mess."

"Oh." He was going to make you squirt. That was the gift he was giving you. Even now, you weren't sure how he managed to make it happen every time he put his mind to it, but you weren't mad about it. You tried your best to keep your hips still as he worked you up while his hands made their way to your waist.

He drew little circles against your skin where you were most self conscious after being pregnant with Noelle, but he never seemed to mind your stretch marks. He just kept at it, licking you up and down your slit with a steady pattern until you were starting to get loud. Then Bradley shoved two fingers inside and circled your clit with his thumb.

"Don't wake up the kids," he scolded playfully, guiding his body over yours while his hand worked at your pussy. The sounds were wet and indecent as he finger fucked you while you licked yourself from his lips and mustache. "God, you're so fucking sweet," he crooned, making you whine for him as he pulled away again.

As soon as his face was back between your legs, his lips took over for his thumb, and you knew you were close. His fingers felt thick and unrelenting, giving you the most delicious friction as he sucked on your clit. When his tongue swiped you, your back arched up from the rug, and your legs started to shake. When his fingers slowed, your vision blurred, creating a colorful mosaic from the Christmas lights as you clenched around him, your body trying to keep his fingers inside.

"Jesus," you gasped, riding his fingers, looking down at his face, lips still all over your pussy. "Daddy!"

You gushed on his face, and he moaned in pleasure, lapping up everything from your ass to your clit as you gasped and giggled, fingers pressed to your lips as you shakily rode out your orgasm.

"Merry Christmas, Princess," he crooned, teasing you with his fingers before removing them. He kissed your chin and your parted lips before letting you suck on his fingers while he sprawled out next to you. Your tongue cleaned him up, enjoying the taste of yourself on his rough hands before you rolled onto your side.

"You want me to wrap all of the extra toys you bought, don't you, Bradley?" you asked, voice shaky as he nodded.

"Yeah. I mean, I thought that was a given."

You laughed, but a few minutes later, you were once again dressed, wrapping presents until well after midnight. Bradley handed you the tape and scissors when you asked for them, and he made both of you mugs of hot cocoa when you needed a break. He told you his plans for the summer vacation to Florida, and you lined up the mound of toys for Noah and Noelle under the tree until you couldn't stop yawning.

"I don't know if I'm more tired from my orgasm or wrapping. Or both?" you asked, kissing him before standing. "But I'm going to bed."

"I'll be in after I put the mugs in the sink, Princess. I love you."

You stood and arched your back in the most alluring way before running your fingers through his hair and kissing his forehead. "Don't forget to move Skittles Junior to the tree for Christmas morning."

"Right. I'll take care of it," he grunted as you walked away, Skittles Senior trailing behind on her way to her puppy bed.

After straightening up the kitchen, Bradley took the time to clean up a few wrapping paper scraps and adjust some of the ornaments. The tree looked beautiful covered in homemade art projects you and Noah crafted together. The whole house had taken on a new life since he met you, and if you wanted to go to Disney World in the summer, he was going to make it the best trip ever.

"Get over here," he told the Elf on the Shelf, picking him up and searching for a good spot on the tree to hide him. "And I better be on the nice list tomorrow, Skittles Junior. There are a lot of things I want from my wife next year, if you catch my drift, buddy."

But Bradley took a wrong step trying to avoid the huge pile of presents that he bought. His eyes went wide as he reached for the tree, somehow managing to keep it and himself upright while the presents scattered noisily across the floor. He stood there silently, trying to regroup, but then he heard footsteps in the hallway.

"Daddy, did Santa come?"

Bradley turned in time to see Noah peek into the room, his brown eyes wide as he took in the scene before him. Then he burst into tears.

"What's wrong, Bub?" Bradley asked, scrambling around the presents to get to his son.

"You touched the Elf!" he wailed, tears streaking down his cheeks. "Now Skittles Junior won't be magic anymore!"

Bradley tamped down the string of obscenities on the tip of his tongue and winced, throwing the Elf at the tree. "He's okay. See? He's in the tree now. He's just fine."

"No!" his son cried, dropping to the floor where Bradley joined him, trying to keep him quiet so he didn't wake you or Noelle. "He's not magic anymore!"

Fuck. Bradley had been setting up elaborate scenes involving the elf leaving flour footprints in the kitchen and dangling from dental floss in the bathroom for the entire month of December. He knew he wasn't allowed to get caught touching the damn thing.

"I'm pretty sure there's a way to fix his magic," he said, collecting the sobbing child against his chest.

Noah gasped for air as he said, "Someone at school told me the only way to get an elf to be magic again is if Santa sends a helper to sprinkle new magic on him. That's the only way."

Bradley tried to think of a solution to appease Noah, but he was beyond exhausted. "How about I take you back to bed, okay? Santa was clearly already here, but Mommy and Noelle are still asleep. We can open presents in a few hours-"

"No!" Noah protested, looking up at him. "I want to stay here with Skittles Junior until Santa sends a helper to give him back his magic!"

Bradley gritted his teeth. It was four in the morning. He wanted to be curled up next to your warm body in bed. He didn't know how the fuck to fix the elf as it dangled helplessly from the tree. But it was Christmas, and the last thing he wanted to do was disappoint his son.

"Right," Bradley agreed, scooping Noah up and settling onto the couch with him as a plan started to take shape. "How about you and I wait right here? I'm sure it won't take long."

------------------------------

When you woke up, the bed was cold. You could hear Noelle starting to fuss in her crib, so you went to her room before investigating where your husband could possibly be.

"Hey, Noelle," you whispered as she giggled and reached for you when you walked to her crib. Thankfully she was finally sleeping through the night now after getting a rough start. You kissed her forehead and changed her into a fresh diaper. "Merry Christmas," you told her, tickling her tummy, making her coo. "Let's find Noah and Daddy and make breakfast."

When you walked into the living room, you froze. The wrapped presents were all over the floor, Skittles Junior was dangling from the Christmas tree, and Bradley looked miserably tired with Noah pouting on his lap.

"What's going on?" you asked, and they both turned to look at you and Noelle.

"Daddy touched Skittles Junior, and now he's not magic anymore."

Noah's lips quivered as Bradley rolled his eyes behind him. "It was an accident," Bradley replied through gritted teeth. "And Santa's helper should be here shortly to remedy things."

You looked at him like he had two heads. "What are you talking about? Santa's helper?"

"It's the only way!" Noah insisted, his little fists clenched on his lap. "It's the only way to get his magic back!"

You looked from one pair of brown eyes to the other. "I'm still confused," you whispered, but then there was a knock on the front door. "Who could that possibly be at this hour?"

Noah launched off Bradley's lap. "It has to be Santa's helper!" he exclaimed, racing for the door and opening it. You nearly choked when you saw Natasha standing there, dressed as a life-sized Elf on the Shelf with heavily rouged cheeks and her hair hidden under the pointy hat. She was also wearing oversized glasses which she pushed up her nose as Bradley stood.

"Hi! My name is Pip! I'm an elf!" she squeaked.

"Did Santa send you?" Noah asked hopefully, opening the door wider for her.

"He sure did!" she told him with a smile while you took in the events before you with Noelle in your arms. This had to be the most insane thing you'd ever witnessed as your husband's best friend walked into the living room with a canister of gold glitter in her hand.

"Did he tell you my elf lost his magic?" Noah asked, pointing at the tree.

"Oh, yes," Natasha squeaked. "He said your dad was very, very naughty." She glared at Bradley who just shook his head. "He's going directly onto the naughty list for the next decade or so. Everyone knows you aren't allowed to touch the Elf on the Shelf. Only a complete moron would-"

"Okay, Pip," Bradley barked. "Can you fix the elf or not?"

She adjusted the glasses and opened the glitter. "Of course I can. Just a little sprinkle," she said, dousing the elf and half the tree in gold dust, "and he'll be good as new."

"Yay!" Noah shouted, jumping around the room. "He's magic again! He's magic again!"

You gaped at Bradley and whispered, "Do I even want to know?"

"Absolutely not," he replied, taking Noelle and giving her a kiss while Noah plopped down to open aone of his presents like all was right in the world.

When Natasha turned to quietly sneak back out the front door, you followed her to the porch, closing the door behind you.

"What in the world is happening here? I thought you and Javy were coming over later for dinner?"

She waved her hand in the air in clear annoyance. "I don't know exactly what your husband did to fuck up enough that I got texts in the middle of the night and had to drive an hour each way to the only Walmart that opened at seven in the morning on Christmas to buy this outfit, but he owes me dearly. I'll be back at a normal hour, and you can tell him he better be ready to start kissing my ass."

The elf stormed across the yard to her SUV, tossed her hat in, and drove off. You scratched your head, still confused as you went back inside. Skittles Junior was practically dripping with gold glitter as you passed the tree to find your husband and both of your children were wearing their paper crowns.

"Mommy, put it on," Noah said, handing you the purple one as you took a seat on the area rug with them.

Bradley leaned in and kissed your cheek while Noelle reached for one of the wrapped gifts. "I'll explain everything later," he whispered. "The important thing is the elf is magical again, and everyone is happy."

You shook your head and pursed your lips. "Everyone except you. Ten years on the naughty list? You better hope Pip changes her mind before she gets back to the North Pole."

Bradley groaned and sprawled out on the floor while the kids opened their presents, but there was a smile on his face the whole time.

------------------------------

It feels good to check in with them! I'm so obsessed with elf Natasha, if you couldn't tell. Thanks for reading! Happy holidays! Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

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yandere-wishes · 8 months ago

Text

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡Acolyte⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

𐙚Yandere! Qimir/The Master x Reader

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Plot: Your loneliness is suffocating, engulfing. Qimir is the only one who seems to subdue the pain. But every forbidden fruit has its price.

⁀➷Warnings: Yandere behavior, gore, angst (at the end), author having an anxiety attack over this fic

🪐Note: Why is the longest thing I've ever written for a fandom that barely exists? Anyway, here's the long-awaited Qimir piece!

⁺₊𝄞₊⁺ : Disturbia - Rihanna, Dark Vacay & Motion Picture Soundtrack - CAS

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🍓⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Your master's anger is tangible. You harbour it stubbornly on your tongue. Relishing in the frustration. You aren't sure how many times you've cut out your soul to place at a master's feet. Gnawing on perfect lips to keep quiet during another scolding. Your new master's disappointment reverberates through the room. Thick and oozing like an infected wound.

You messed up again.

"We do not injure other padawans during training. We do not lash out and attack, especially when your training partner has fallen. How have you trained for so long without comprehending these basics?"

The rage that boils inside you is not Jedi in nature. It's something else, a bizarre second, something ancient, ghoulish. An all-consuming fire that burns inside your veins. It shouldn't feel so welcoming, so familiar.

You roll your eyes.

"With all due respect master. How is one to win, if they do not strick when given the opportunity? That too should be a basic notion, no?"

You see the anger snake across your master's face. A defeated, disgruntled, glance that you've become a bit too acquainted with. This is the look that all your previous masters give you. And yet none have yet to master its eeriness quite as well as your first master. Master Sol.

Your master sighs, a piercing noise, deflating every ounce of his willpower. You are exhausting to be around, his annoyance is becoming discernible. "Master Sol is coming by the temple to check your...progress. He's requested a few items to take back with him. Please go fetch them from the apothecary."

Progress is a gentle word and Jedi love using gentle words. It's easier to say than the full truth. Sugar-coated things always taste better.

But the sugar refuses to stick to you.

It burns away in your bitterness.

Coruscant is a distant memory, it was never your home to begin with. But the high bustling volume is something that is hard to forget. Here things are quiet, you slip through the bazaar undetected. Small basket clutched tightly. You wonder what's dragging your former master halfway across the galaxy. You wonder if it's really just to see you.

You gaze blankly at the holographic list. A few rare herbs and some medical roots. This planet grows them in abundance, and the local apothecary carries more than its fair share.

The apothecary is an old, disheveled thing. The older Jedi say that its presence is as old as the temple itself. Odd how some things have a will of iron. You gently rap at the worn metal door, waiting for an invitation to enter. The hinges cry as the door opens ever so slightly. You squeeze in, surveying the cluttered den. Careful to avoid the half-empty bottles and neon puddles scattered across the floor.

"Excuse me" your voice holds an urgent annoyance. Where is the pharmacist? What kind of store owner abandons their shop in the midday? You run your fingers across the strange bottles, letting your nails pick at the murky glass. The colors flash, begging to be freed, strange space pinks, and summer oranges all trapped inside square prisons. Baby poisons dying to taste the world, burning it if they must, but experiencing it nonetheless, tasting their own form of freedom. Funny, they almost remind you of yourself.

Trapped and fatal.

"Hello?", the voice behind you is languid, dozy. Mirroring a late afternoon nap. When the man next speaks you notice a lyrical lint "What brings you here little lady?". You turn to see it, the voice, or rather the man harboring the voice. He's loosely robed and shaggy in the way that only the most spirited vagabonds are. He smiles tenderly upon seeing your face, strange red fruit caught between his teeth. "I um...I" you click your tongue anxiously against the roof of your mouth. Feeling around for those pesky words, in the end, you just shove the hologram holder forward, hoping he'll understand.

"Oh, I see, out here doing some chores?" You nod, mind preoccupied with the otherwordly fruit. "what's that?" you ask, schoolgirl curiosity lacing your voice. "What, this?" he asks holding the freckled thing between his fingers, it's only in the mild light that you notice the shimmering gold scattered across its red skin. The stranger laughs, walking closer, he places the hologram base on the black table, clicking it on as he studies the list. "They're called strawberries. They're from the forest planets, not many grow here in the mid-rims." He's nimble as he packs the herbs and roots, fumbling with the straw ties. "care for a bite" he asks, handing you the bitten fruit.

Hesitantly you bite.

Letting the sweetness erupt on your tongue.

"Thank you" you mumble trying not to moan at the foreign taste. The stranger laughs, it's a cheery noise like birds chirping in first bloom tress. "you're a Jedi, aren't you?" he asks stepping around the table, eyebrows furrowed, caught in a dream he doesn't seem to understand. You choke on the rogue static as he steps closer, eyes half-lidded dreaming of nothing. "Here..."

"Wha-" your voice catches in your throat, it's getting harder to breathe.

"Your supplies" He hands you the brown paper bag, motion a little too phlegmatic to be right.

"Oh, right...thanks" You anxiously shove the bag into your basket and scurry out of the shop. Holding your breath.

"Come back soon." the voice chirps behind you.

Your old master arrives by spaceship, a newer, albeit worn model. The landing pad ejects to reveal a small escort.

Master,

Knight,

Padwan,

Apostate,

You stand still watching as they descend. Bits of envy bubble in your throat watching your former master and his band of little heroes. You wish you had their belonging. Forgoing the loneliness to find kinsmanship with your coterie. You swallow down the bitter thoughts as they finally approach you.

Master Sol's smile reaches his eyes. Gentle and wise. The true epidemy of a Jedi in every sense of the word. Funny how he now has two failures under his belt. None of which are capable of scratching his shining repute.

His hands are on your shoulders, bright smile. "My padawan, it's been too long." You try to bow, awkwardly and stiffly. "Mater Sol, I'm grateful you've come to asses my progress". If he hears your doubt he doesn't show it. Instead, he reintroduces you to Yord, Jacki, Osha.

You try to be polite. Gulp down the awkwardness

You imagine the taste of strawberries on your tongue.

Remember their stiff sweetness and prickly tasteless freckles.

You smile. Easier this time.

They'll stay here for some time. Hunting assassins and documenting progress in their free time. Jacki seems more invested in your training than you are, trying to teach you everything she knows. At least she doesn't mind the rough play, the violent strikes, and sloppy prideful defenses. She speaks in pointers and parries. She's the one to drag you along these assassin hunts. Welcoming you...or at least trying to.

But there is something else at play. Darker, broader, Sol and Jecki welcome you into the fray. Yet you still feel your old master's hesitance, he's still wary of you. Worried about your anger, your defiance.

The distance grows, some icy void.

Sol used to tell you fairytales. This was back when you'd been young and bright-eyed. Freshly welcomed into the order and still overflowing with artless hope for a colorful future.

But even back then, he had known there was something wrong with you.

Looking back it was evident.

Every story started and ended the same. Little princess against the big bad world. Holding out until her prince came along. Only problem was the morals never registered right in your little messed-up brain.

Why didn't the princess fall for the dragon, the wolf, the tyrant king with a crown of bones? Why didn't she swoon and sigh over someone rousing, compelling? A paradox wrapped in black ember? Why settle for a sun-painted prince, with no complexities, no mysteries to unravel?

You would have married the dragon, or the wolf, or the tyrant king with a crown of bones.

Even back then, it was evident something was wrong.

The temple's roof isn't restricted per se.

It's rather abandoned as opposed to forbidden.

Maybe that's why you find solace here. The abandonment feels familiar, similar. The chipped cement kisses the soles of your feet, you imagine it's something like walking upon the rough terrain of a star.

You breathe in the night air deeply.

Expecting the fragile scents of moonshine and star glitter.

Instead, you choke on heavy mist and blood-drenched air.

The thing standing in front of you isn't human. It can't be human. It's created from the blackness, ebony in all the ways a living thing shouldn't be. For a second you think you're staring at a black hole. No doubt this creature crawled out of one.

What sheer willpower one must need to drag themselves out of endless nothingness?

"Little Jedi should not brave the night alone."

It speaks

"There are far too many monsters roaming in the dark"

Its face never moves, statue in all the ways the figures towering over the entrance aren't. This statue is something else, a lost page to some forgotten epic. Carved from gems born in darkness. Evil and rotten.

"What are you?" your voice susurrate, quivering in this surreal scene. The air is thicker now, overflowing with raw static.

Your fingers itch for your saber. Only when the cold metal kisses your palm do you regain some semblance of reality.

The hiss, the green light.

The figure chuckles.

Its voice bouncing from every direction. Everywhere all at once. When it speaks the air cackles, raining as if it were a frightened child.

"I am something akin to you, another child of the force" His voice comes out distorted, uneven in tone. "I am what's birthed when one learns of the true strength of the force."

Your body moves on its own, feet kicking the ground sprinting faster and faster before the final leap. You aim for the helmet, for the morbid toothy grin permanently etched within steel. In a flash the word stills, floating around you like fluorescent bubbles, the rain tumbles around you, curving and diving for the wet ground. It dares not land on something within his grasp.

You feel the slithering across your body. They start from the ground, summed from the unknown depths. Clinging firmly to your ankles before inching up your knees, your hips, your neck.

long, slipper tendrils curling around your body. The figure watches, bare arm outstretched. You should probably be focused on how the unseen things are inching closer to your mouth. Not on the toned muscles and limber fingers of the monster. Not on how, for a fraction of a heartbeat, his smile appears genuine, caring, aimed straight at you.

Only You

They finally reach your lips, prying your teeth ajar and flooding your mouth. Sinking deeper and deeper into your soul, your mind, you.

The smile grows.

In a blink you're suspended in the space between worlds, dark damning thing cradling your body.

"The dark side once belonged to the Jedi, yet they chose to discard it. Deeming it malignant, ungovernable."

Your weightlessness unnerves you. You're malleable in this void.

"Those few who embraced its calling were dubbed Sith." He says the word with such fervent pride. Devoted to it's weight and all it carries. You try to roll the word off your own tongue only for it to burn the roof of your mouth.

The stranger stalks closer, lethal and lithe.

The void vibrates, the darkness bends to his will.

He reaches down to cup your face. His fingers feel warm, welcoming. You nuzzle into his palm, fighting the urge to kiss each finger and suck on the dark force they emit. "You..." he starts, his voice shakes you to the core. Its horror amplifies with the proximity. You wonder if it'll cut through steel, armor, flesh.

your flesh.

"You aren't like the other temple dwellers. You have potential."

His thumb presses your lower lip, demanding entrancing. You comply, needing to feel something solid.

Something you've been denied your whole life.

"They keep you locked away. Trading you between craven masters. Seeing who can tame you first."

He nicks his thumb on your teeth,

Pressing bone into dentin.

His essence drips into you.

He tastes of power.

Of dark, dreadful things you can not name.

"They do not know how to train you. How to use your power..."

The world crumbles, ebony midnights giving way to reality. You feel yourself fall, plunging through the air like a comet bent on destruction.

"They only break you further"

Your knees collide with the harsh ground. Skin splintering in the aftermath giving way to bruises and bloodmarks.

The ground feels too solid beneath you.

A poly, a ruse.

You all but expect to melt through it. Slipping and falling into the vacuum, into him, once more.

He hovers above. Absolute in his strength. You're beginning to believe that blackholes birth divinity. Eyes shimmering with fanatic fidelity, staring up at the holy creature commanding the storm.

"Teach me..."

You've never begged for anything so terribly in your life.

But you need this.

this power

this control.

him.

Sol never told just how the princess met the villain.

He never said it wasn't love at first fright.

Sol insists that the local apothecary knows the truth behind the Jedi-killer. Definite that the unseemly man can tell you something important. He sends Osha inside to play Mea. To get the man to talk.

You crowd around the communicator urging back giggles. Yord's chin is placed upon your shoulder and Jecki's cheek rests against yours. Their touches come so early. And yet they are utterly alien.

"He will be so pleased." No sooner have the words chime from the corroded speakers that Sol is ushering you all towards the small metal hut.

Yord entwines his fingers with you as he runs.

Jacki wraps around your arm.

You feel at times they are trying to tame you.

Befriend the feral puppy they found in the backyard.

The apothecary's face is utterly stunned. He's stammering over his words fear glistening in his eyes as he stares at Sol. "Please, please don't wipe my memories. Or whatever it is you Jedi do." A rosy blush colors your cheeks, at his terror. It's terribly amusing seeing someone so carless, anxiously list off everything he knows. You almost feel bad for the poor scared man.

There isn't anything important here. But Sol decides that you will all return at midnight. The Jedi-killer will be back. Apparently, Qimir -that's his name, that the strawberry-eating, disheveled pharmacist's name- is holding something of value for her.

There's a tug on your wrist as you go to follow the others. Gentle and firm as he pulls you to his chest. "Come by tonight. I'll have some strawberries waiting for you." why does he feel too genuine? When you turn to look at him, he's painted in his usual sweet carefree smile that tugs at your heart.

He looks so innocent...

Starlight really brings out his eyes. He's laughing with a nervous smile,

School-boy crush on full display. You're licking strawberry juice from your hands as you listen to him talk. Backs pressed against the rusty wall and bodies half sprawled in the dirt. He's telling you about the first time the Hutts made him retrieve a plushie for their son from another solar system.

Qimir's voice feels like rose peddles melting into your skin. Sweet, jejeune, free. You offer him a berry from your pile. Watching tentatively as he submerges the red fruit into his mouth. Missing your fingers by an inch. He's laughing after the fact, head thrown back as if he's about to engulf the stars. You decide to laugh too.

"Are you really that lonely," he says in a voice that's almost not his own. You're not expecting the invasive question, although you guess he means well. The words still cut deep. Piercing through the laughter, stunning you for a breath too long. "No...I'm a Jedi, we do not-"

"Form personal connection. I know...But you just look so lonely." He shuffles closer, the dirt particles almost look celestial in this light. Your fingers pitch a civil war. Pinching and clawing at each other. "No, yes. I don't really get along with the others." He rolls his eyes, bored and amused in the same breath. "Yeah, no wonder your money." He's picking at another strawberry, letting the crunch fill up the silence. You're beginning to think he just likes having something to chew on. Gulping down the anxiety with something toothsome.

He's a little closer now, fingers gingerly tucking back your hair. His fingerprints reverberate across the shell of your ear. Lips gliding against yours. You swallow as his lips fall across yours, pushing sweet stars past parted lips. He tastes of odd things, whimsy things. Everything you'll never come to understand. Xeno fruits and asteroid fields. His fingers glide up your arms, leaving moondust in their wake. He slowly parts, holding you softly with his soulful dark eyes

"You taste so sweet"

Strawberry, Starberry, You kiss him a little too deeply.

Maybe your new master is right.

Maybe there are other ways of being a Jedi.

The movie playing is doused in shades of rose and lilac. Gentle in all the ways. Everyway. The twi'lek girl is in love with the zabrak boy and their families do not approve. You think you remember Sol telling you a similar tale.

The makeshift auditorium is cozy. Brown couch housing the three of you and your armada of blankets and popcorn buckets. Jacki's head is in your lap, you're playing with the end of her braid imagining the hair to be the lace of a Love-sick girl's ballgown. Yord's arm traverses the length of your arm, absentminded as he studies the motion picture, poking holes in the lose rose-tainted plot. Your head rests against his broad shoulder taking in his new cologne.

Maybe you really did miss them.

Jacki reaches for the popcorn, offering you some before shoving a handful into her mouth. You think the little symmetry-less kernels would taste better with a strawberry glaze. Qimir flashes across your mind, smiling sweetly as he tilts his head.

You think you're a little too similar to the star on screen.

Pinning after forbidden love,

Forbidden power.

Master Sol is growing acutely aware of your drastic improvements. He's noticed the betterment in your offense, your defense. To the way, you wield your saber, your techniques, and yourself. There is esteem in the way he smiles. In the words of praise, you've longed to hear. But you notice the lingering glances, the undertone of skepticism and worry when he asks about practice. He doesn't need to know of the black-glad creature that trains you in the unholy hours.

He doesn't need to know how beautifully your new master sculpts your rage into lessons. Teaching you how to wrangle the force and control it. How to use it to make the world bow.

These things will remain secret. For you fear Sol and the others will strip them of you. Strip them of the new master you've come to worship.

"Do you think people glow when they fall in love?" Jacki's voice is filled with sleep. Eyes closed as she murmurs remnants of movie memory. "No, I don't believe they do" you answer. "too...bad" There was a yawn there darling and vigorous like the rests of her. She looks so sweet like this, infantile in all the ways she can't be. Little girl dreaming of something impossible. You wonder if Sol's told her the fairytales too. You kiss the crown of her head, your baby sister you think. And big brother Yord, snoring with his head thrown back.

Maybe you should test her theory. rising softly from the couch you make your way to the door. Throwing one final glance at your sleeping siblings. Before going to find Qimir.

His lips ghost over yours, spilling star-clad secrets between each kiss. The apothecary has never been so dark, so secret, so secluded. Qimir's lips glided across your neck biting the flesh and licking the little diamond droplets of blood. Your nails rack across his spine, the wool of his throw-over itching the backs of your hands. "So precious" he mumbles, voice ridden with want, need. it's criminal how desperately he needs to feel you. You writhe under him, "Qimir, kiss." you whine. His lips feel like a lifeline, something keeping you sain. He pushes fireflies and lava pearls inside you, carving you open and enjoying you

He always enjoys you.

It's foggy outside when his tongue clashes against yours. A thick unsettling mist banging against the darkened window. "You're custom-made for me" Qimir mumbles against your lips. "Custome tailored" you boldly correct. "ummm, sure" his hands pinch at your hips, clawing mindlessly and leaving tails to your thighs. But the sensations are growing distant, you hear the heavy hum of saber activation. You psyche cracks

The world is dark,

He alone is absolute.

Your master's mask flashes dangerously across your mind. "Master Sol would be disappointed". You've heard that line a million times. Still, the words cut a little too deep coming from your demiurger. "Gullible" you don't understand, what have you done to earn his rage? He's gone, leaving you in the emptiness, you taste the charcoal from the landscape under your tongue.

Still, you long to call after him.

"Master"

The darkness subsides with the feeling of softness across your muscles. A breeze stirs you from the clutches of slumber. "Good morning" Qimir chirps, soft smile greeting you as you open your eyes. "Qimir, when did I?" he laughs, it's such a pretty sound this early in the morning. Sweet like caramel tea. He kisses your forehead. His quietude is commendable, he tries to calm you with feather-light kisses. You laugh pushing the covers away and still. Frozen.

What's this

The nightgown is lacy and short. It drapes expensively against your skin. Marring it with its tenderness. "Qimir, what's this!" he chuckles, "I couldn't let you sleep in those robes, they looked uncomfortable." You want to argue, to scream, and be angry. But the rage boils down slowly as you notice something dangling around your wrist. A bangle, and an anklet you notice later, black and gold entwined in patterns mirroring lighting stricks. "They're from Korriban, I had some relatives there." oh, why does that planet sound so familiar? "Thanks, but ask me next time before you go playing dress-up doll with my sleeping body" He pouts and can't help but trail a string of mouthy kisses across his neck. Qimir shuffles pulling you onto his lap. Pushing his nose under your chin. His eyes are honey-deo, adoring and scheming. "But you're mine." The possessive ness that flesh across his face is alarming. So is how tightly he grips your waist. It's only in this state of half-undressed that you begin to notice the taut muscles of his arms.

During your most recent lesson, your master gifts you a ripe juicy strawberry. He says it'll focus you, replenish your wither strength. You eat it a little too quickly, forgetting to savor the pink blush within. You believe too ferociously in everything your master says.

He can never be wrong.

You love the way your new master splatters blood across your sleeves. Be it yours or his enemies. He's started taking you out on his kills, having you watch as he hacks and mauls. His enemies must die, no one who doubts such marvels should be granted the privilege of life.

He's only ever spoken in half-riddles.

"Unfortunately legacy is a fickle thing. Tenacious, fervent, yet frail and erratic. No matter how hematological, we all read our bones differently."

The rain falls to your ragged heartbeat. Fast one minute and slow the next. You stick out your tongue desperate for a few drops. Your body is on fire, every muscle pushed to its limit. But the Force is screaming inside you, thumping dangerously between your fingers. You're ready for the next round. Saber ready and only half mesmerized as your master pulls out another blood-red saber. You charge, rage pumping deliciously through your body.

You forget to ask him where he got the berry from.

The next Jedi to die will be Kelnacca. That's why Sol is dragging all of you to the forest planet of Khofar. You think the name is utterly hilarious, the others don't understand the mirth.

Between briefings and Jacki and Yords packing quarrels. You sneak out to say goodbye to Qimir. Scribbling a half eligible not to leave for your master. But the apothecary is deserted upon your arrival, only a taped note on a half-full mortar.

'Gone to get more Strawberries.

Be back soon.'

You wonder if Khofar has strawberries.

Strawberry, Starberry, you're falling between the cracks of so many.

The Sun on Khofar is red, barely breaching the thick canopy. Maybe it's for the best. This scene is not one to remember, but how can you make yourself forget?

Death looms.

Permanent, Eternal

The fighting began in twilight.

The sky has grown two shades darker since.

He had floated in from the high reaches. You'd almost called out to him, 'master', the words die bitterly on your tongue. His saber ignites in the carnage, light growing redder after each kill. The bodies fall haphazardly stirring the quiet night.

Your saber falls onto the woodchip ground. No sound. He has followed you here. Yet it is not you, he seeks. Your master mask is haunting, in the dark the silver mouth glows bright white. Even against a massacre

the smile never relents.

He twirls the red saber with lethal accuracy, red arc severing another life. 'Take the right!' Jacki screams through the force, her eager voice bouncing inside your cranium. 'Don't' you scream but she's already attacked.

Saber sings saber.

Golden light flickers.

Forward. Backward. Lunge. Parry. Flunge.

Just like you practiced. Back in the quiet of the training room. Is it too late to return to the matted ground and wooden swords? Too late for safe comfort?

You won't take it for granted this time you swear.

Your master attacks with vicious zeal, cutting through the light. His black robes bleeding into the night. Jacki, scurries backward, trying to block with every ounce of strength. In one swift move, she spins freeing herself and assaulting his head with the metal of her weapon.

The mask clutters to the ground.

You scream.

He looks every bit the villain here. Blood drenched, water drenched. Smiling like the wolf in a child's picture book. Qimir's face stares back at you, hair matted to his forehead. He's panting, spent. You've never seen him toil. Dreaming him incapable of harm.

Yet he stands above the corpses. Wolf's teeth bared as he slices through the little girl.

It's been years since Master Sol tucked you into bed. Years since he's read you a story and listened to your baseless questions about romances.

You've finally gotten your answer. Painted in a shade of red indistinguishable from black.

Because the villain is too vile to be loved.

You run, catching the limp corpse before it joins the rest, you cradle her close. Tears landing on the orange of her face. There are no strawberry romances here. No sweet forbidden fruits. Just pain, hollow, empty, rotten. "Jacki" your voice muffles into her robes, rain-soaked, tear-soaked.

"Was that its name?" his voice doesn't sound right. No cheerful hellos or drowsy laughs. It's all menacing now, grating and hollow lilt. "Qimir" you wail, sob half caught in your throat. "It can't be you." He shakes his head, smile crooked and maniacal. "I'm afraid so, little one." The force pushed you up, pulling you to him. Qimirs head tilts, his fingers dancing around your throat. Squeezing squeezing squzing. Your glossy eyes take in his unruly appearance. Even now your master looks utterly perfect. Muscles relaxed as he steals your breath. "Master" you whine, your heart shouldn't be hammering like this, leaping through beats like something lovesick.

"(Y/n)" golden light fills the clearing. Yord runs, Prince Charming in every way you should have loved.

Qimir releases you, only to nestle your neck in the crook of his arm. "Don't worry darling. I'm almost done." He blocks the first attack.

Second, third. Yord scrambles to pull you away, missing each time. "Let her go" The urgency in his voice rattles you. He did love you.

Little sister, little princess.

Why is only starting to make sense now?

There's a crack, so loud it echoes across the woods.

"NO"

Yord's body joins the rest.

no no no

"Where were we?" Qimir is every bit the villain.

The dragon, the wolf, the tyrant king with a crown of bones.

"You lied to me, you killed them. Why, why would you do this."

"Because the Jedi say I can not exist." Sith, right those things were supposed to be evil. Hailing from Koriiban, the evil Jedi forced to flee. And here you were having so readily given yourself to the enemy.

The blood flows free in the rain. Dozens of bodies drained.

There's a river of blood. You kneel by the holy thing, dipping your cupped hands into the crimson. You drink deeply from the massacre thinking it'll taste sweet. Qimir pulls you in holding your throat as he submerges you.

Baptized in blood

The world flashes red.

It feels so free here. Floating weightless, letting everything be. The rage can not find you in these depths. Free like an adrift astromech. Free to float amongst the stars.

When you emerge again. The world has grown brighter. You see the wide-eyed bodies, even Sol is among the dead, you swear you see disappointment in his lifeless orbs. You gulp, swallowing the euphoric faint. You see your new master before you. Swimming to him carefully, following the gentle tug of the force. Prey meets predator. Qimir chuckles, the water is shallow by the banks. He sits awaiting, on his makeshift throne.

There is no sympathy here you should know better

"You took adorable" Qimir rasps. Hot breath fanning your ear. "Master Qimir" you mumble shifting as he pulls you onto his lap. He laughs this is submission, a breath away from grasping his desire. He cups your cheeks, drifting his hands to your shoulders. Pulling you closer, bodies melting into one.

His kisses still taste like strawberries. Sweet and metallic. All possession and domination. Biting lips and tongue and flesh. Spilling fresh poison with each snip of your neck. He licks the blood from your fingers with feral pleasure. Swirling his tongue around each digit and pulling it further down his hungry mouth. You swallow the darkness from his tongue, letting him snuff out the little embers of light. The stars are burning away bit by bit. He pushes you under again.

Mornings on Khofar are dark, caught in a perpetual twilight. Qimir wraps his robes around you letting the midnight sink into your bones. "The ships a bit of a walk. But we should be there before noon." You paddle after him. Fingers lashing awkwardly at his hand. He turns and offers you that tilted smile once more, mask bouncing in his free hand.

"Master qimir" you confess, it feels so light on your tongue. Like clutching dying white-dwarf-stars behind your teeth. He chuckles, snapping a berry from a nearby bush. His smile sings of triumph, victory, earned in blood. He places the fruit amongst your teeth. You, his little war prize.

"My little acolyte"

ᯓ♡ : @feedmestraycats @moonlovefairy @wicked0clouds @phoenixes-and-wizards @peridedarling @morax-on-my-mind @magikmaik @lov4gor3 @manchuria @bucksdonkey @embersofimagination @hauntedhedgehogs @peter-laufeyson @papitas-con-sal @f0odie @boredtone @bluechissbrain @yourfilthydevil @n0t-skywalker @xsister-serpent @gabriqllas @zionysuss @i-love-my-babygirls @pagingoswin @jxp1ter @faebirdie @deezhutts565 @thesithdiaries @pagingoswin @hauntingwolf @scentedbanditlampwobbler @uwingdispatch @mask-knife-is-buggys-girl @lunarsvertigo @scintilla-morningstar @carpinchootaku

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heavysighing-dreamyeyes · 2 months ago

Text

Devout

Guardian Angel alternative POV, or Jason Todd is the Arkham Knight, and he can't stop himself from watching you, from clawing his way into the cracks of your life in a twisted, mangled mirror of what he used to be ~3.5k words

CW: Jason commits a few murders, some gore, stalking, some religious imagery for fun

Jason Todd shouldn't be watching you. He knows it's wrong, knows he shouldn't be perched on the shadowy rooftop across from your apartment building, staring intently into your windows.

He knows. He knows. But he's doing it anyway– been doing it for weeks.

You haven't noticed once, so wrapped up in your own life, your peace of mind that no one would break the sanctity of your own home that you don't even consider closing your blinds.

He thinks you should know better. Gotham is tainted– he is tainted– yet you never spare a glance over your shoulder when he follows you down the street, never linger on that sixth sense that screams that you're being watched.

You pick up on his presence on the rare occasion, he thinks. The days you walk home quicker or the nights you actually slam your blinds shut makes him wonder if you do know you're being watched. But then you go back to normal, brush off every sign and every lingering feeling that something isn't right.

It almost makes him angry, sometimes, that you'd be so careless with your safety. But everything makes him angry now. It's a constant, tight grasp in his chest, the righteous fury he has against the world, against the city and its filth, against Batman.

The anger makes him reckless, or maybe he's just cocky. Maybe he wants you to know he's there. Jason doesn't let himself wonder why he does it. He might just be a masochist. He might just miss you. But he opens the faulty window to your living room that he knows squeaks and never quite locks right.

The first time he breaks into– visits your apartment while you're asleep, he doesn't touch a thing. He just takes in everything that's you, cleanses his fractured soul in the space he used to know like the back of his hand. The trinkets that sit on your counters. The paintings on the wall. The color of the blankets thrown over your couch.

He doesn't touch anything the second time, either. Or the third. The fourth time, though, he picks over the photos you keep on your shelves, the books you leave lying around. He moves them, just slightly. Just to see if you'll notice.

You don't. Not really. Not until the eighth time. He doesn't know why he does this either. He just does. He picks up your keys from where you usually keep them and moves them. It's something you can't deny. Something tangible and real and clear, an unyielding truth. He was here. He exists, and he can affect your life, change it with his hands.

(It's the first time he feels like he's truly alive since the asylum, the first time there's more than just revenge and watching you from afar, even if he feels like he's corrupting something that's only meant to be seen and not touched by impure, broken hands)

If your keys being displaced affects you, well, you don't show it for more than a few moments. And that bothers him. You might not know he's here– alive– and maybe he's not ready for you to, but he's still a part of your life, isn't he?

So he gets bolder. He doesn't want to scare you, not really. But he can't help but dig his nails into the parts of your life he can change. It starts simple, innocent. You were annoyed when you left your kitchen, out of sugar, just another thing on top of everything else you have to deal with.

And he wanted to help. Like he used to. It was easy to get a bag of sugar, even easier to sneak into your kitchen. He leaves just enough for a few days, just enough to get you through the week, enough that you'll think you misremembered how much was left.

And he should have left it at that. But he's never been good at doing things halfway, especially when it comes to you. So he fixes your apartment up while you're at work. Makes sure your window doesn't squeak, your shower doesn't rattle, your oven actually heats up. All things he's heard you try to get your landlord to fix.

He makes a note to give your landlord a visit as he's looping the footage in your cameras over, effectively erasing any evidence of who he is.

Honestly, he's proud of you for finally doing something about him, it's just a shame he has the skills to outmatch your attempts to figure out his identity. Not that any pictures of him would do any good. He's still nameless in Gotham as the Arkham Knight, and if he's not wearing a mask while he's easily picking the new lock on your apartment window, his hood and ballcap do the job of hiding his face just as well.

He thinks he could let it go on like this forever, just doing things for you in the shadows, never revealing himself. At least until he's routinely following you home from work one night, and he sees you get tugged into a dark, lonely alley. He recognizes the man that hauls you off the faux safety of the streets, the one that's lifting a shaky hand and a gun to wave it, demanding your possessions.

Murphy is a nobody in Gotham, just another gambling addicted alcoholic that takes work from whatever rouge is paying the most that week. Jason more or less only recognizes him because he lives on the third floor of your apartment building, but it's clear you don't know who the man snatching your things is.

The Arkham Knight resigns himself to stealing your wallet and phone back after you've gotten home, to keep himself out of your sights for as long as he can. That was the plan.

But there's a flicker in Murphy's eyes, a consideration– a passing thought that Jason can't ignore, one he's seen a million times. Maybe it's the idea that he could get more from you, or maybe he's realizing you've seen his face and wants to get rid of any witnesses, whatever it is, Jason isn't going to let it happen.

The Arkham Knight doesn't hesitate to drop himself between you and the gun. He breaks Murphy's arm without even thinking about it, effectively disarming him as he kicks the gun away from him. The sound of his bones breaking is loud, but Jason doesn't register it as something to be sickened by until he turns and sees the nausea and horror written plainly on your face.

Honestly, maybe he should be more disgusted with himself. He's just sent a man into shock, revealed himself to you in a way that's not at all comforting. But he doesn't care. No one was going to save you. No one but him. He protected you, and it's not like Bruce Batman– it's not like broken bones are uncommon in Gotham.

You take a step back. He steps towards you, drawn to you. He can't help it. He shouldn't. But his head is spinning, and he hasn't been this close to you since before the asylum. You look tired, older, but no less beautiful than he remembers.

"Who are you? What do you want," You snap at him.

Jason wants to praise you for your bravery, as fake as it is. It's a good tactic, to try and get him talking. He doesn't understand why you look so uneasy of him, though. He got you out of a bad situation, even if he's wearing military-grade armor and a mask that glows in the darkness of the alley, shouldn't you feel grateful? Safe? Happy?

He tilts his head, trying to read you. Would you feel better if he offered to walk you home? "I saved you," he tries, the modulator making his voice sound flatter than he intends to. The Arkham Knight silently curses himself. He should just leave. Should have shot your attacker from the roof without you ever seeing him. He's being emotional now, irrational under your gaze.

"You've been following me. You're the one who's been in my apartment," you accuse, eyes darting like you're trying to find an escape in the dead end alley.

He stiffens. Huh. Clever thing. You've always been too smart for your own good. A part of him wants to deny it, pretend he's just some passing good doer in a mask, pretend that he's some kind of knight, an angel here to shield you from harm.

The notion almost makes him laugh, "Have I," he prompts instead with all the air nonchalance. He wonders if you'll drop it then, actually thank him for stepping in and helping you. You don't.

"Yes," You say instead, voice low like it's a secret– a confession, "You have."

Jason finds himself impressed at your stubbornness, if not a little unnerved by your recklessness in confronting the supposed stranger you believe is breaking into your home alone. He has to give you credit for piecing it together, but who else, if not a freak in body armor, would be letting themselves into your apartment without a word just to fix what's broken?

He nods, unsure of what to do. You weren't supposed to figure it out, but you have. And now there's consequences.

The Arkham Knight turns his back to you, making a show of gathering your phone and wallet before standing and facing you again. He walks closer to you, each step measured and calculated. He holds your belongings out to you, a twisted, mirrored version of some kind of sacred offering.

He studies you as you grab at them, trying to tug them from his unyielding grip. There's bags under your eyes. He can practically see your pulse jumping under your skin.

You're less than a foot away, and Jason basks in that distance, how light he feels now that you're only an arm's reach away. He could brush his knuckles over your cheek, dip his head to take in the scent of your hair, kiss the hollow of your throat the same way he used to.

He does none of those things. Because you don't see Jason Todd. You only see a threat, a monster, some kind of demon that clawed their way out of the shadows and cracks that litter Gothams hallowed corners.

He cocks his head, letting go of your wallet and phone while greedily drinking down the color of your eyes in the dim light of the alley, "And if I have?"

"I'll go to the police," You tell him, defensive, and he wants to laugh as you shove your wallet and phone back into your pocket.

"They can't help you," he grits out, and it's the truth. No one knows who he is yet, what his plans are. Even if you told someone, whatever description you give won't be enough to find him.

"They can contact Batman," you bite out, and that does earn you a laugh. You really think Bruce can do anything? That Batman has any chance of standing between him and you? Batman couldn't even find– couldn't even save–

"He can't help you either," The Arkham Knight tells you. He gives into his desire to touch you then, partly in anger that you still believe in Batman and partly because he just misses you. He pats your cheek, but doesn't let himself linger. "Get home," is all he says before he grapples into the night.

He follows you back to your apartment from the rooftops and notes how you avoid getting too close to any more alleys. But, it's not until you're safe in your bed that he goes looking for Murphy– that he goes to finish the job.

The creep's nursing his broken arm in his dingy apartment when The Arkham Knight gets to him. He doesn't make it quick, but it is quiet. (It's difficult to scream when you're choking on your own severed tongue, after all) He brings down fire and fury and vengeance for daring to lay a hand on you and leaves nothing behind but a corpse.

Murphy's brutal death is swept under the rug by the GCPD, which Jason shouldn't be surprised by. Just another mob death, the tiny obituary in the paper reports. You don't even register the death in your apartment building. He doesn't blame you for that. Not when he knows he's scaring you.

He's getting careless, sloppy. He wants you to catch glimpses of him now, he wants you to know he's watching. It's sick. He knows that, knows it so well that it claws in the back of his throat when he breaks into your apartment to fix your fan.

He's guilty about it, sometimes. It's a pressing weight on his shoulder even when he's trying to help. So, he redoubles his efforts.

He sneaks into your room and stuffs six hundred dollars into the emergency fund you keep under your bed. He sends you flowers, fills your gas tank, finally visits your landlord, and pays off your rent for the next six months. (He's already bought you a better, newer apartment, he just hasn't figured out how to tell you that)

He knows it's all wrong, but sometimes, he doesn't feel guilty at all. He wants to do things for you, that's not a lie. He wants to do everything and anything you could ever want or ask for.

He starts letting you catch flashes of him outside your window, moves your things around just out of the sheer curiosity of what you'll do. He can't justify that, because it does nothing to protect you. But he does it anyway. The Arkham Knight needs you to know he holds a spot in your life, even if it's not as Jason Todd anymore.

He's getting bolder, much too comfortable. There's times you almost walk into your apartment as he's leaving gifts on your counter, times when you wake up and walk into your kitchen just seconds after he forces himself out your window.

He's going to get caught if it keeps going on like this. But he can't bring himself to worry or care. His plans are coming together, and while he doesn't exactly know where you fit into them yet, he knows he doesn't trust anything or anyone enough to leave you to your own devices once he unleashes his legions upon Gotham and her failure of a saviour.

He never seems to do the right thing when it comes to you, at least not since he came back. But saving you– guarding you against the vile filth of the world– that can't be wrong. He'd do anything to keep you as you are, untouched by all the cruelties Gotham has to offer. It's an unwavering, righteous mission he has commanded unto himself.

It's why he reacts the way he does when three men break into your apartment.

He was late. He always seems to be late when you're involved. He had just finished overseeing the arrival of tanks and men into Miagani Tunnel, just dragged himself halfway across the city for the slightest chance to catch a glimpse of you in your apartment, when he catches sight of it.

Your window– open. You never keep it open. Dread washes down his spine, and when he gets close enough to see the man pointing a gun towards the floor– towards you– he just reacts.

He shuts down, becomes nothing but instinct, and he brings hell on to Earth in your name.

He's clinical. He doesn't hesitate to shoot the man aiming a gun to your head through his temple. If the man were alone, he would have shot the gun out of his hand, but there's two other targets, and he needs to eliminate any threats to your life first.

He climbs through your window with the ease of a man who's done it hundreds– thousands of times. You haven't moved to get up. It concerns him, but he's angry right now, so, so angry he doesn't even consider ending this quickly.

Everyone tries to take something from him. He keeps losing. If he didn't come to watch– see you tonight, he would have lost you too. The very thought makes his vision blur red, his ears ring.

It's not a fight, what happens next. It's a death penalty. The Arkham Knight is a weapon, and he proves it with each hit. He's efficient, brutal, and purposeful with each movement. He doesn't flinch at the blood that splatters on his armor, doesn't stop even when fluids and flesh start to stick to the knuckles of his gloves.

He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, until the only hearts left beating in your desecrated apartment are his and yours.

Then, and only then, does the blood pounding through his veins start to cool. It's only then, does he turn to look at you. He expects to meet your terrified gaze, but you haven't moved, still laying on the floor. It makes his heart clench. What's wrong with him? He just– while you–

He shakes his head, slowly tugging his gloves off and stuffing them into his belt. He walks over to you, kneels carefully to your side, and watches you breathe. He matches the slow rhythm of your shoulders rising and falling, and then he helps you sit up.

You're responsive to that, at least. The Arkham Knight presses his hands to your face, waiting for something. He doesn't know what, just anything. Some kind of sign. A message of what he's supposed to do. How he can make this all better.

When you finally open your eyes, they're hazy, not quite reactive. It makes him angry all over again. You got hurt. He wasn't here.

"Saved me again," you murmur, and his throat tightens. He failed you. Yet here you are, spouting words that make it sound like he's done something good.

He runs his thumb over your cheek, savoring the feel of your skin, soothing himself and you as he reassures himself that you're still here– still alive. But you aren't safe.

It's all he can think about. He saved you, but how long until you're in danger again? What if he's not quick enough this time? What if he's not there? What if– what if– haunts him. It weighs heavier than the nightmares that plague him when he finally has to succumb to sleep.

He makes the decision then and there to take you away from here, away from the rot and the fester to some place where it can never touch you again.

He picks you up, cradles you to his chest like you're made of shattered, stained glass and tarnishing silver, but nonetheless precious. You're talking, and he's answering, but he hardly registers what either of you are saying. His mind is working over plans, where he's going to take you, the guards he'll need to recruit to watch over you when he can't, which ones he trusts the most.

Jason only tunes back in when you point out that he could hurt you. It's funny, in a way. After everything he used to be to you, after everything he's done for you, he could still hurt you. He tips his head down to really look at you, the cloudy, exhausted look on your face, the heaviness of your eyes as you struggle to keep watching him.

He can't find it in himself to lie, so, he tells you, maybe he could hurt you. He tells you that he wouldn't like it. (And it's the truth)

Maybe you recognize that, because you drop your head to his shoulder and let your eyes fall shut. The Arkham Knight never wavers in his steps, mapping the path to the apartment he'd purchased in your name in his head. It's not perfect, not filled with everything you deserve quite yet, but it'll do the job for now.

Something in him simultaneously softens and hardens when your breathing goes even and slow against him, and he curls his fingers tighter into your skin. You're weak. Weaker than him. Too naive and too soft for what's going to come.

There's no other fate for you than this now. He'll have to take care of you, protect you from it all, from all the evil that festers in Gotham, even if that includes him.

He lets the mission engrave itself into his heart– into the fabric of his very soul and right next to his revenge. You're going to be safe. He is going to keep you safe, and he'll throw himself into fire to see it done.

#arkham knight x reader #jason todd x reader #jason todd #x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you

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