#fic: like the Princess | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 1 year ago

Text

I CAN'T CLOSE MY EYES ALONE ; SATORU GOJO

synopsis; arguing with satoru is always exhausting. bitter and spiteful, you leave him in the bedroom and go find another place to sleep; your couch would be the obvious choice, but where’s the fun in that?

word count; 4.2k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, f!reader (he calls you ’stubborn girl’ n ’pretty girl’ but other than that it’s gn!!), toru and reader have a fight, reader sleeps in the bathtub (don’t ask it came to me in a vision), hurt/comfort, he's doing his best :<, fluff!!

a/n; smth abt …. arguing w satoru gojo ……. idk why the concept has possessed me in the way that it has i just think hurt/comfort w toru is <33

okay, so maybe this wasn’t the best idea you’ve ever had.

in your defense, you weren’t exactly thinking straight; fueled by spite, eager to get far away, and admittedly a little curious as to how it would feel, the decision was made almost purely on impulse. and stupidity, probably.

it’s not comfortable at all.

maybe it could be. maybe if you had just a couple more pillows, a fluffier blanket with a cozier texture. maybe if you had something soft to put beneath you, another blanket or a comforter or — whatever. maybe if you had a warm cup of tea to drink. maybe if you had something warm to hug to sleep.

or someone.

(aw, what’s wrong? can’t sleep without me after all, huh?)

— nope. you are not going back there.

just the thought of how smug he’d get makes you bite the inside of your cheek, increasing your already growing frustrations. in desperate search of a more comfortable position, you nuzzle further into the pillow, but nothing works.

your limbs feel stiff, and your bones can’t seem to relax, a discomforting numbness seeping into your spine. and it’s cold. the feeling of porcelain against your skin keeps you tossing and turning, akin to an icy winter breeze, caressing the apple of your cheek.

still, there’s simply no other option. under absolutely no circumstances can you turn back now. not when you’ve come this far, when you can almost begin to sense an inkling of sleep’s familiar call, the drowsy flutter of your eyelashes.

it takes time, and perseverance — but eventually, the road to sleep does seem to brighten on the horizon. crawling closer and closer, lulling you into its embrace, while all you can do is lie there. completely at its mercy, exhaustion ghosting your subconscious, eyelids ripe with fatigue.

slowly but surely, your consciousness begins to fade. tenderly, soothingly, like a curtain over your eyes being slowly unveiled. you can almost taste it, on the tip of your tongue; sleep is only a moment away.

soon, you’ll fall into that cozy abyss. and then you’ll open your eyes, and the morning sun will greet you. it’ll be a new day, a better day.

so you keep your eyes closed, and sink a little further into the plush of your pillow, and —

the light flickers on.

in the state you’re in, tiptoeing on the edge between dreams and reality, so tantalizingly close to falling asleep, the brightness is positively grating. even through your shut eyes, it invades your senses — a glow so irritating it’s startling. the bathroom lights mock you with their shine, illuminating your figure, curled up in the tiny bathtub.

the whine you let out is involuntary, coaxed out from deep within your throat, as the uncomfortable sensation rouses you from your would-be slumber.

satoru raises an unimpressed eyebrow, where he stands by the door.

chest bare, wearing only a flimsy pair of sleeping shorts, he looks at you with tired eyes. exasperation painted onto his dishevelled features. then he clicks his tongue, voice raspy and rich with fatigue.

”you’re ridiculous.”

the judgemental tilt of his voice only makes the annoyance in your veins bubble up once more, just when it was finally about to dwindle. eyes squeezed shut to escape the burn of the artificial light, you let out a sharp wince, burrowing your face deeper into the pillow.

”turn it off!”

ignoring your angry plea, satoru makes his way over to you. with long, slow strides, vaguely uncoordinated steps. just a little clumsy. he plops down on the edge of the bathtub, and gazes down at you.

you’re lying on your side, arms wrapped around a fluffy cushion, knees against your chest. under the illumination of the bathroom lights, he can see you clearly; messy hair that he yearns to ruffle, a crease between your brows that he yearns to smooth away.

you look awfully uncomfortable, to no one’s surprise. he isn’t sure what else you were expecting.

despite the sting of the bright lights, you force your eyes open — only to give satoru a halfhearted glare, an attempt at appearing intimidating. though you somehow doubt it’ll work.

resting his jaw on the heel of his palm, satoru tilts his head. soft locks of white hair follow the movement, falling over his eyes, a little more tousled than usual. like he’s been tossing and turning, sprawled out on the bedroom mattress.

and, just like you suspected, the dirty look you send his way doesn’t seem to scare him off. not even in the slightest. if anything, you think you catch a flicker of lazy amusement dancing through his eyes. and it irks you, it does — an itch beneath your skin, a taste of irritation on your tongue.

because satoru is looking at you like you’re somehow in the wrong, here, like you’re the one acting out. as if he isn’t the reason you’re here in the first place.

at this point, you barely even remember what the fight was about. too sleep-deprived to recall it properly, too stressed to make a genuine attempt. all you remember is getting ready for bed, and the familiar sensation of frustration prickling your skin. you remember his pretty little grin, his teasing remarks and refusal to take you seriously.

remember the way he laughed, when you told him what was bothering you; the crinkle of his eyes, the warmth of his hands reaching over to squish your cheeks. a little patronizing.

(there was no malicious intent behind it, that much you know. he probably just wanted to lighten the mood. but it irked you, all the same. hurt you, maybe. just a little bit.)

then you remember storming out. grabbing a blanket and pillow and telling him to sleep on his own, if that’s how he was going to be. the words felt cold as they left your mouth, little breathy icicles. and then you left.

which is why you’re here, right now. curled up in your goddamn bathtub, for some reason that still escapes you, trying desperately to get even a wink of sleep without your boyfriend there to help.

and that’s also why satoru is here, back a tad slouched as he sits on the edge of the bathtub, looking at you like you’re some misbehaving cat. blinking slowly, drowsily, dragged down by the fatigue clinging to his eyelashes.

(he can’t sleep, either.)

”you’re really gonna sleep in there?” he sighs, after a moment’s pause. any honest concern in his voice is almost entirely overshadowed by the sense of admonition that follows it.

a scoff falls from your lips, sharp like a razorblade. ”yes,” you deadpan, shifting to lie on your stomach, hiding away from his insistent view. ”i was sleeping just fine before you barged in here.”

satoru shoots you a look, thoroughly unimpressed, entirely unconvinced of your blatant lie. ”you’re being dumb,” he huffs. ”at least sleep on the couch.”

”i don’t wanna hear that from you,” comes a hiss, low and disgruntled. a growing irritation. ”and i’m comfortable where i am.”

another dissatisfied huff. why are you being so irrational? he just doesn’t get it. scrambling for excuses, satoru tries his hand at another tactic.

”you’ll hurt your back.”

another little scoff. oh, so now he suddenly cares? you can’t believe him.

”so what?”

a moment passes. satoru bites his lip, teeth sinking softly into the flesh; a little pang of ache, but it’s nothing compared to the twist of discomfort in his chest. you’re making this more difficult than it has to be, he thinks. always so stubborn.

what is he supposed to say? how is he supposed to convince you to come back to bed, when you’re already so set on denying him?

god, he’s tired. he just wants to sleep, close his jaded eyes. just wants to not have to think, for a couple hours, curled up with the only person who makes him feel safe. just wants to dream in soft shapes.

but if you aren’t there, then…

a deep sigh. weary, annoyed. ”c’mon,” he coaxes, blinking sluggishly. ”you know you won’t be able to fall asleep without me. can’t we just make up already?”

your nails dig into the fabric of your blanket. every word he says only seems to deepen the sense of irritation plaguing your sleep-deprived mind.

it makes you want to shut him out, bury your head in the soft sheets and forget about everything else. he keeps acting like you’re just overreacting, like you wanted to have an argument. like he wasn’t the one who made you upset and then laughed at you about it.

”i don’t need you to fall asleep,” you grumble, muffled by the pillow in your grasp, arms tightening around it. nuzzling deeper into the soft velvet comfort.

satoru’s fingers twitch, as if urging him to pull you close. he almost glares at the cushion in your arms, that you’re hugging so fondly, putting all your body weight on — snuggling into it in search of comfort and warmth.

(that should be his chest.)

the gears in his head turn, slowly and mechanically, as he brings a hand up to card through his hair.

satoru hates seeing you so upset, so far away from him. having to watch you close yourself off, not allowing him to be near, soothe you and take care of you. kiss all your worries away. that’s all he wants to do, everything he needs to keep himself whole, to keep himself from being devoured by an exhaustion he’s lived with for as long as he can remember.

a strong frustration gnaws at his conscience. a certain desperation.

a big, heavy sigh leaves his lips. it bounces off the walls of the bathroom, the white tiles and shiny mirror, as he drags it out. almost childishly. then he’s angling his body to face you properly, big hands resting on his knees, a determined gaze set on your figure.

”look, i’m sorry,” he starts, rigid and earnest. blinking once, twice, chasing away the drowsy weight of his eyelids. ”i shouldn’t have laughed.”

your ears perk up.

shifting to your side as if hoping to hear him better, you peek up at him through half-lidded eyes. almost in disbelief, a kind of hope sprouting in the corners of your dilated pupils.

is he genuinely going to apologize, you wonder? admit that he was in the wrong? does he actually feel bad?

a moment passes. slow, drawn out, until satoru’s voice spills into the air again.

”there. i apologized,” he exhales, a little gruff. annoyed. ”now will you please just come to bed?”

…

wow.

okay, nevermind. you hope the ceiling fan falls on him.

beneath your skin, a mellow kind of anger bubbles up, blood slowly coming to a boiling point. he’s not sorry at all. of course he isn’t. you were stupid to think he’d actually give you a sincere apology, stupid to think he’d do the one thing that would actually make you want to fall back into his comforting embrace. stupid, stupid.

clenching your teeth, nails digging into the velvet fabric of the pillow, your eyelids flutter shut once more. only this time, you don’t plan on opening them again — at least not until morning comes. not until you see the sunkissed tiles of the bathroom, until the ache inside your chest has passed.

”satoru,” you enunciate, frigid and final. ”just let me sleep. we can talk tomorrow.” a beat. the tiniest grumble resounds from your lips, tinged with exhaustion. ”i’m too tired for this.”

under his breath, satoru winces. that palpable fatigue in your words sends a tremor running through his chest, discomforting, a shiver of his heart. you won’t look at him anymore, and the hint of finality in your tone makes him feel slightly dejected.

god, he’s awful at this. sincerity has never been his strong suit. he’s gotten better, lately, but it’s still so very foreign.

he didn’t mean to make you angry, didn’t mean to upset you. didn’t mean for the lilt of his voice to make his apology sound insincere. but that’s still what happened.

and satoru isn’t quite sure what to do.

he’s tired. eyes heavy with lost sleep, glimpses of would-be nightmares he knows he’d have were he to fall asleep right now. an anxious lump has long since formed in the back of his throat, and he misses you. misses your presence, your warmth. misses the feeling of having you close, the knowledge that you haven’t left yet.

(without you, he can’t —)

a sigh. soft, and resigned, flowing from his lips.

the inner turmoil in satoru’s mind begins to fade, slowly but surely, smoothed away by the sight of you. bundled up in a blanket too small to cover you properly, lying in that cold and cramped bathtub, discomfort evident in your features. sadness dripping from the bitter words you grace him with.

so out of reach, too far for him to follow, a boundary he wants to cross more than anything. but something about that meek expression makes him falter, makes his heart twist and turn inside his ribcage.

(he knows that you’re tired, too.)

so satoru swallows his pride.

the words are spoken in a whisper, hushed, through a voice so low you wouldn’t hear it if the silence of the bathroom wasn’t so suffocating. a soft lilt of his voice, bare and raw. meek, in a way that makes him want to crawl under a rock and die. but it’s there, and he lets you hear it; that soft little truth.

”… i can’t sleep without you.”

satoru doesn’t look at you. his confession rings in your ears, laced together with a softness you’ve come to associate with warm spring mornings and rooms so dark you can’t see his face. moments in which satoru feels safe. safe enough to be sincere.

— inevitably, your heart begins to soften.

(he’s trying. it’s difficult for him, but he’s really trying. sincerity and honesty are things that have been used against him all his life, so it’s no wonder he’d be scared.)

it’s very hard to stay mad at him, when he sounds like that. when his words come out sounding a little too much like a plea, a silent call for help.

with hesitance, you allow your eyes to flutter open, shifting a little to get a better look at him. he’s there, staring into space — the man you’ve grown to love so dearly. his tousled white hair, those slightly forlorn eyes. the vague darkness beneath them, slightly puffy skin. that tired, tired expression.

satoru taps the edge of the tub with the pads of his fingers, absentmindedly. index finger, middle finger, ring finger, over and over.

then, at last, he meets your gaze. and you think he swallows down a gulp, before smiling — it’s a pretty smile, somewhat tiny. a little sheepish, but awfully sincere. awfully satoru.

he tilts his head, gazing into your eyes with a tenderness that melts your heart to the marrow.

”… please?”

a second passes. then two.

soft and melodic, your heartbeat resounds in your ears, akin to a lullaby. like the call of a siren, coaxing you into giving in. and you’re weak, you realize, so very weak. just a smile and a tilt of his head, and you’re rendered utterly helpless.

(he’s just too pretty.)

without fully realizing it yourself, you’ve begun to move, dragging yourself up with sluggish motions. blanket still draped over your shoulders, and pillow snug against your chest, you blink. drowsily, slowly. a little meekly.

and satoru brightens.

it’s visible, in the way he physically perks up, back straightening, smile finally reaching his aquamarine eyes. a blend between hope and affection sprouts in them, slathered over with something honeyed.

a soft grin blooms on his lips, and he opens his arms wide — silently beckoning you to fall into his embrace. a raspy coo tiptoes on his tongue.

”c’mere.”

before you can make a move to do so, satoru leans over. scooping you up with ease, as if you weigh absolutely nothing, tucking you into his warm embrace. smothering you in his cushiony chest.

almost instinctively, your arms go to wrap around his neck, cheek smushed against the warm skin of his shoulder. if you strain your ears, you think you can hear the soft patter of his heartbeat. he smells of the tiramisu you ate before going to bed, and just a hint of expensive cologne. he smells of comfort.

satoru is soft, and warm, and everything you need right now. lulling you back into that cozy, sleepy state. your very own personal dose of melanin.

with a big palm on the small of your back, satoru keeps you pressed up against his chest, as if you could change your mind and try to escape at any moment. he stands up, still holding you, and hikes your legs around his waist. breathing out a satisfied hum, before turning on his heel.

satoru smiles, and presses a kiss to the crown of your head. ”let’s get you back to bed, baby.”

after turning the bathroom lights off, he begins to walk to your shared bedroom, still carrying you with one arm. always so strong and reliable. you know for a fact that he’s not going to drop you, so you opt to close your tired eyes; stretching out your limbs, lazily, releasing a quiet yawn that makes his lips curl up.

despite your lingering frustration, you find yourself nuzzling into the crook of his neck — and satoru coos, so painfully soft that you barely even hear it. the restlessness inside his own chest washed away, by the familairity of your body against his.

and before you know it, he’s dropped you down on the mattress. gently, but still enough to make you feel a little jostled, so close to falling asleep in his arms. he drags the blanket up to cover you, tucking you in; this one is bigger, with a fluffier texture, enough to cover you both with ease.

smiling softly at the sight of you all cozy, content in the knowledge that you’re finally comfortable, satoru crawls beneath the blanket and takes his rightful place beside you. eyes crinkled at the corners, rich with affection.

two strong arms reach around your waist, to pull you flush against him, until your head meets his chest and you can hear the soft thrumming of his heartstrings. then he sighs, in pure bliss, thoroughly content. melting into your embrace, rubbing his cheek against the side of your head, nuzzling into the warmth that seeps from your body to his.

he runs his big hands down your back, affectionately, rubbing circles into your skin. coaxing you into melting a little, too.

”see, isn’t this much better?” he smiles, a little cheeky. such a tease.

”… the bathtub was fine.”

a chuckle rumbles through his chest, rich with fondness. his hand goes to card through your hair, nimble fingers smoothing down your scalp and running through the soft strands. every touch gentle, full of care. every word soaked in a syrupy sweetness.

”stubborn girl.”

despite your best wishes, you’re too tired to bite back the blissful sigh that leaves your lips. a part of you still wants to protest, to push him away —

but then you start leaning into his touch. helpless to his warm hands, his soothing voice. satoru is just a little too good at making you melt. so good that you finally begin to let your guard down, nuzzling into his bare skin, sinking a little further into the mattress.

and satoru stifles a coo.

”honestly,” he sighs, equal parts exasperated and amused. ”sleeping in the bathtub… you’re so silly.”

before you have a chance to respond, he’s pulling back — ever so slightly, just to get a better look at your face. arms looped around his neck, you blink up at him with droopy eyes, and he can’t resist the dopey grin that sneaks its way onto his lips. doesn’t even begin to try, when you look so unbearably sweet.

unable to stop himself, he broaches the distance between you, leaning close to kiss the top of your nose. and you squeeze your eyes shut at the gesture, face scrunching up, but it only makes him chuckle. smiling, honey-sweet, he admires your sleepy pout. soaks up every soft little grumble that slips from your lips.

his hand comes to cradle your cheek, thumb smoothing down your cheekbone. just gazing at you, taking you in, every single contour of your face. there is only adoration in his eyes. something silently delighted, that seeps into his words, his raspy voice.

”my pretty, pretty girl.”

a heat rushes to your cheeks. looking up at him, into those lovesick eyes, you can’t help but grow flustered.

he looks so content.

all you manage is a weak furrow of your brows, pressing a palm against his bare skin. softly, as if pushing him away, forehead meeting his chest with a soft bonk. hiding away, so he won’t see how much his words affect you.

”lemme sleep, toru…” you mumble, stifling a yawn.

unfortunately, your boyfriend is not one to give in so easily. before long, his fingertips are trailing across the skin of your jaw, coaxing you into lifting your chin. and you’re too sleepy to resist — practically melting, as he begins to smear openmouthed kisses all over your face. all you can do is close your eyes, attempting to ignore the sound of his exaggerated mwahs, frowning in a silent disapproval that you know you don’t actually mean.

satoru notices it, though. he always does.

”you still mad at me, baby?” he asks, in a way that sounds a little like he’s cooing at you. there’s a teasing tilt to his voice, but it’s also a genuine question. your frown deepens.

averting your gaze with a soft huff, even as he cradles your jaw with his slender fingers, a pout plays at your lips. under his kind eyes, you feel just a bit meek — recalling your argument from before. absentmindedly, you fidget with the waistband of his shorts, hoping to ease your nerves.

despite your valiant efforts to direct your vocal cords in a different direction, the voice that spills from your lips comes out sounding just a tad hurt.

”… you never take me seriously.”

satoru’s eyes soften.

his smile falters, by a hair, a brief stilling of movement. subtle, but hard not to pick up on. there’s a certain sense of shame in his irises, a genuine guilt stirring his heartstrings; several discomforting sensations, gnawing at the bones of his ribcage.

(you look so small.)

two hands reach out to cup your cheeks, big and warm. swallowing up your whole face. and before you can react, satoru leans in to press a sweet, chaste kiss against your lips. he tastes like tiramisu.

”’m sorry. we can talk about it tomorrow, okay?” he hums, and you can tell that he means it. ”i promise that i’ll take you seriously. for real, this time.”

as you look into those eyes of his, blue and soft around the edges, the last of your frustration is finally washed away. with a meek downward glance, and a faint nod, satoru relaxes — releasing a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. relieved at your silent forgiveness.

tomorrow, he’ll definitely make it up to you. he’ll hear you out, without opening his big mouth, or trying to skirt around any emotions that make him feel even slightly uncomfortable. smoothing a big palm down your back, he hopes you feel it as a silent apology.

for now, he’ll just hold you. he’ll hold you, and kiss all your worries away, and keep you comfy and warm. that’s his duty. the only one he’d willingly choose, the only weight on his shoulders that never feels even a little bit suffocating. the only one he wouldn’t cast away, if given the chance.

nuzzling back into the safety of his collarbone, your heartbeat settles into a drowsy rhythm, slow and serene. satoru squeezes you in a tight hug, reassuring. comforting.

he can be a handful, and a little insensitive, but you love him a lot. you can’t imagine not loving him.

”… goodnight, toru,” you whisper. ready to give into sleep’s call, at last.

satoru smiles. you can hear it in his voice, sweet and silky, a soft curl of his lips. ”goodnight, honey,” he presses a kiss against your shoulder. warm, his breath on your skin. ”i love you.”

a yawn escapes your throat. ”love you too…” you mumble, sleepily. that one soft truth, before your consciousness fades.

and satoru’s smile only grows. hopelessly, inevitably, in the same way his hands can’t help but to bring you closer. until your heart is flush against his own, and he swears he can feel your heartbeats synchronize.

finally, with those three little words, satoru should be able to go to sleep. drifting off, he can only hope you’ll still be in his arms by the time he awakens.

(then again; you always are, aren’t you?)

#im not arguing w satoru gojo lol . whatever u say princess ! <3 #this is an old piece that i polished a lil (lot) phshdh so the writing might not b anything special but !! i kinda like this toru .#just sleep-deprived n grumpy <33 #gojo has this duality where he can be silly n goofy but then also serious when he needs to be… n kinda gruff….#but then he also has this. Sincere Tenderness to him. that i think would bleed through w someone he loves #hhhhh i love this man w all my heart T_T #usually i make all my fics gn but. smth abt satoru gojo …. callling u his pretty girl………… yeah. sorry. for being this way #me personally i would fold immediately but i respect reader for trying #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #jjk x you #gojo satoru x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x you

1K notes · View notes

marvelstoriesepic · 9 days ago

Text

Like a Phoenix (7)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 7.7k

Warnings: mentions of murder, fire, death, knives, blood, loss of parents, fever, betrayal; injuries; grief; self-loathing; crying; heavy revelations; tension

Author’s Note: Omg I'm over 50k into this story, I can’t believe it lol. I'm actually proud of myself. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter! ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

The collections of brilliant greens and golden blossoms are spread out before you. The merge of all the wildflowers and herbs is sharp with pine and earth and mint and honey-like. Invigorating.

You kneel on a patch of mossy ground near the campfire. Bucky had lit it the second you got back. The fire is crackling.

Pine needles shimmer faintly with dew, their resinous tang sharp in your nose. Feverfew with its delicate flowers nestle beside clusters of clover blooms, their soft pink petals almost luminous in the flecked sunlight.

Contemplating with what you are going to begin, you run your fingers across goldenrod stems, their tiny mustard-colored buds crumbling slightly under your touch. The medicinal scent of yarrow stands proud among the rest.

The familiar smells and colors again bring echoes of your mother’s voice from the palace gardens. Patient and gentle as she taught you the properties of each plant.

The pale leaves of Lily’s Balm feel waxy on your fingers. They are good for soothing inflamed wounds and drawing out heat from infection. Feverfew against his overheated skin, lowering the fever, its green frilled edges so delicate and lace-like. Wild mint will ease his breathing and calm his body. Clover blooms for their gentle healing abilities. Yarrow and Goldenrod, both strong bases, to slow his bleeding. Wild thyme to cleanse, and pine, sticky with resin, pungent and purifying.

You exhale slowly, deliberately dragging air through your lungs. This is your time to be useful. To actually do something other than dwell in your sorrows and the losses you had to endure.

Bucky is slightly hovering in your line of vision. He is silent. But you don’t like him walking and shuffling around the way he does while the fever sweat hangs onto his brows and the freshly stained blood lingers on his shirt. It makes you queasy. You don’t know if he hid his injury due to oversight or simple stubbornness, but either way, he should not walk around like that.

“You should sit down,” you tell him while beginning to strip the yarrow leaves from their stems.

He doesn’t answer right away, so you glance up. He stands there stubbornly arms crossed over his chest, looking right back at you with a guarded expression. Though he definitely looks paler than he should be. And you avoid looking at the blood stain on purpose.

“M’ fine,” he grumbles, brushing you off. And before you get to an answer, he continues. “Your side,” he counters, voice gravelly. “Let me check it first.”

“I am not the one bleeding.”

His lips purse. “You callin’ me color blind, darlin’? I know what I'm seein’. That’s definitely red there.”

Well, maybe you did bleed through Bucky’s bandage, but that will have to wait.

“We can get to that later.”

Bucky takes a step closer, shadows flickering across his face from the low fire. “Princess-”

“No. Now sit,” you instruct, cutting him off and surprising even yourself with your tone.

Bucky is silent for a beat. You hear him shifting but stay focused on your herbs. “You tellin’ me what to do now, princess?” There is a sparkle of amusement in his voice and in the tug of the corner of his mouth.

Briefly glancing back at him, you meet his eyes with a steadiness you don’t quite feel. “No,” you tell him. “I am telling you I would not know what to do if you passed out.”

He scoffs, clearly offended by the suggestion. “Gonna take more than that to knock me out, darlin’.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “Humor me?”

He watches you for a moment longer, eyes narrowing, trying to decide whether to argue further. But then he relents with a low huff, lowering himself onto a flat rock by the fire basically in front of you. The movement is slow and you catch the wince he tries to hide. But he looks more relaxed sitting down.

Satisfied, you turn back to your work. The yarrow leaves are crunched between your fingers. Their pungent smell rises while you release the healing oils from the leaves and add them to a small tin cup filled with clean water from the stream.

The goldenrod comes next. The yellow of the flowers vivid against the darker-turning liquid.

Furrowing your brow slightly, you swirl your head around to look for something that might help you prepare and stir the herbs. And then you remember. Hurriedly, you get up and walk over to the discarded cloak, the one you had laid over Bucky in his sleep. There’s something safely tucked inside that you can use at the moment.

It’s a dagger. It’s not as lengthy as Bucky’s, but it is enough. You took it from the fight. Obviously, it is not the very same one you picked up to throw at Rumlow, because that one is likely still buried in his body, but you found it lying on the ground and picked it up.

You just did not find something useful to do with it. Until now.

You walk back to the herbs and Bucky at the fire.

Since Bucky’s gaze followed you, he catches sight of the blade immediately and looks up at you in surprise. “You kept that?”

Not looking back at him, you settle down and focus on slicing the leaves of Lily’s Balm into thin ribbons. “Didn’t know whether I would have to save your life again,” you quip.

You don’t know where that came from. Perhaps having a real purpose for once is making you regain something akin to confidence.

The sound that follows though, startles you. It’s a laugh. Bucky’s laugh. Sudden and loud and gruff, lifting somewhere far within his chest. It’s so unbridled, stemming from surprise. And it is utterly captivating. It makes your hands halt. Never have you heard him laugh before. Really laugh. Not like this. You are entranced. The sound floats for a while and you never want it to stop. It makes his voice to a soft glow of mirth.

You stare at him, half amazed, half in disbelief.

But he isn’t even looking at you. His head is tilted to the ground, shaking. He’s still chuckling to himself. Lips pulled into a wide grin. “Aren’t you full of surprises, darlin’.”

You watch him for a few seconds longer. The corners of your mouth lift and there is nothing you can do to stop them. “I am glad that this is entertaining for you.”

Turning back to the leaves, you try to calm the fast pace of your heart. The blade slices cleanly through the stems and leaves. But you can’t really focus on that. The shake of Bucky’s shoulders in a silent laugh catches your vision. His laughter keeps ringing in your mind. And you still want to hear it again.

Pine resin is sticky on your skin, the sap gleaming amber in the sunlight. You crush the prepared leaves into the dark liquor and mix it into a fine paste, adding the pine resin to create a thick, fragrant balm. The yarrow adds a cooling element, its sharp scent cutting through the heavier tones. It is perfect to stop the bleeding and prevent infection.

You take a quick glance over at Bucky. His head is bowed, forearms resting on his knees, but his eyes are fixed on you, sharp despite his fever. There is something quiet in the way he watches you. Astonishment. Curiosity.

“Where did you learn that?” he speaks up quietly, as if using a normal voice would disturb something intimate. There is something about the way he uses his voice and winds his tone, that almost makes you believe he is admiring what you are doing. As if this is a wonder.

You don’t look up at him, hoping he won’t notice the slight flinch in your fingers. Or the pang in your chest. “My mother taught me.” Your voice is even quieter than his has been.

He doesn’t say more. Perhaps he doesn’t even have to see the pang in your chest. He heard it in your voice.

You start the second tincture, the one for him to drink. Feverfew, wild thyme, clover blooms, and wild mint. Combined they will help ease his fever and cleanse his body.

Your hands almost move on their own, preparing the leaves. On instinct. It feels unexpected. But it makes you realize just how important those moments with your mother really were to you. And now they turn so monumental, it makes your chest close in on itself. You carry this from your old world. Something useful. Something that has survived of her even if everything else now lays in ruins.

Your breath trembles on the cusp of grief. But you get a hold of it.

Another glance over at Bucky makes something cold skate down your back, leaving a trail of tension.

Sweat accumulates again on his forehead despite the coolness of the forest. His lips are pressed together. The bloodstain on his right shoulder has again spread further than you hoped, darkening the brown leather of his armor. His fever is climbing. That’s not good.

You rush through the second tincture, mixing everything in water again and heating it over the fire at the same time. The liquor is thick and green with a sharp scent. Carefully, you pour it into another small tin cup, making sure it’s not too hot for him to drink.

Rising, you cross the short distance to him and crouch down again.

“What’s that?” Bucky asks immediately, eying it warily.

“It will help you relax and lower the fever,” you assure him gently. “Drink it.”

He leans forward slightly, skepticism written all over his face. He grimaces faintly at the smell and you have to hold back an amused smile. For a man like him, he surely acts like a diva.

“You sure you’re not tryin’a poison me, darlin’?” he drawls, humor winding through his words. However, if you’re not wrong, you can detect a hint of nervousness.

It makes your heart sink but you manage to play lightly, rolling your eyes. “You are the reason I am alive, so I am pretty sure poisoning you would be counterproductive.”

His brows inch upward as he looks at you with an unreadable, but intense expression. With a deep sigh, he then takes the cup from your hands and downs it in one swift motion. His face twists with disgust and he swipes the back of his hand against his lips, releasing a cough. ��Tastes like dirt,” he rasps.

Biting back a smile, you get up to retrieve the balm for his wound. “I think you will live.”

You watch him set down the cup with a heavy sigh, the lines of his face softening.

“You don’t gotta do this, darlin’.”

“You have done it for me,” you retort, walking back over to him and kneeling down. This time with the tin cup holding the balm for his wound.

Bucky lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head at your stubbornness. He watches you with intrigued eyes. But there still is that nervousness surrounding him.

“Let me see,” you request, almost timidly, but willing strength into your voice.

He shifts where he sits on the rock, clearly uncomfortable with the request. His jaw is hard. Muscles are tense beneath the bloodied remains of his shirt.

“You are still bleeding,” you acknowledge more firmly. “Take it off.”

His brows rise at your sudden authority, but there is amusement in the motion. A smirk curves his lips despite himself. He doesn’t make a move to do what you say though.

“Gettin’ a little too bossy there, for my likin’, princess,” he teases, each word dripping with sly delight.

“Bucky.” Your tone turns soft again, but your resolve remains firm. His shoulder is worrying you. “Please.”

After a tense moment of quiet, he drags out a long and sharp breath through his nose and straightens up. With a grimace, he slowly shrugs off his brown armor. His shirt underneath is sticking to his torso, dark with sweat and dried but also fresh blood.

You swallow hard as he peels the fabric away from his shoulder, revealing a part of the wound he’s been keeping to himself.

The gash extends out from his shoulder and dips slightly towards his upper chest. It’s an arc of torn and angry flesh. A mass of swelling blood crusts around the edges under a layer of sweat, laying a dreary tapestry of red and brown on the skin below. It looks puckered and bumpy, suggesting that the blade that pierced him must have been of serrated or distorted nature upon impact.

You might have stared at it a second too long because Bucky lets out an uncomfortable cough.

“Lucky swing,” he says tersely, to make this a little less awkward. It does not quite work out, because now you are staring at his face oddly. To you, this does not look like someone got lucky, considering the fact that the man responsible for this is dead now and Bucky has to carry this around.

But what snaps your attention back to the wound is the heat you feel radiating off it. And it confirms what you already suspected - infection is setting in. The skin around the wound is inflamed, making it glisten ominously.

However, what makes your hands tremble lightly in discomfort is the fact that you won’t be able to access every part of that gash with his shirt on.

“You, uhm-” you start nervously, unsure of how he will react. “I am going to need you to take your shirt off as well.”

He stares at you.

“I will not be able to reach everything like this,” you explain, still timid.

He sighs, dropping his head a fraction, before slowly starting to peel his shirt off. He winces with the movements of his arms, fabric tugging against drying blood.

The full extent of his wound looks even uglier. You try your best to ignore the pale lines of violence scattered across his skin, especially his other shoulder - the scars you caught glimpses of at the river. Your gaze quickly moves to the flesh injury.

You don’t want him to feel uncomfortable. Well, not more than he already seems to be.

“Lean back for me,” you instruct, not wanting to waste more time, but keeping your voice kind.

There definitely is something surreal about telling Bucky what to do. You’ve been doing that basically your whole life - giving instructions and following the ones you’ve been told by people higher than you - but with Bucky, it feels different. The words taste odd in your mouth.

Bucky hesitates. His lips press into a thin line and he eyes the tin cup gloomily. He looks as though he might argue but then he thinks better of it. Reluctantly, he shifts his weight and braces himself against a tree behind him.

You dip your fingers into the balm, the cool, thick paste sticking to your skin. Bucky watches you, his whole body full of tension. A tremor passes through his throat as he forces a breath past the lump there.

He is not used to this. To being cared for in this way, to having someone’s full attention on his pain. That much is clear.

“This might sting,” you warn, voice quiet.

He grunts.

Steeling yourself, you let your hand hover over his shoulder. “Are you ready?”

He grunts again, giving you a tight nod. You try to ignore the way he watches you. He seems to be bracing for more than the sting of the tincture.

Warming the balm between your fingers, you press it gently against the torn flesh. The scent of the wild herbs is strong in the air.

Bucky goes incredibly rigid. His breath hitches sharply. His eyes flash for a fraction of a second before settling into a void you can’t decode.

Even the forest around you seems quieter while you spread the self-made lotion on his shoulder. You are precise in your sweeps, careful not to meet any of his skin that doesn’t need your touch.

The more you work, the steadier he gets. He doesn’t make a sound, but the discomfort doesn’t entirely leave his body. Discomfort of pain or vulnerability, you can’t tell. Probably both. His hands are clenched into loose fists at his sides. But you do notice the few relieved sighs he lets slip unintentionally after a few swipes over his skin.

The wound resists at first, but you move your fingers with patience and caution, in even strokes. Quickly, the ointment begins to calm the irritated areas, drawing out some of the heat.

Bucky’s chest rises in a deep inhale against your fingers and you avoid the almost magnetic pull his piercing eyes have on you. He watches you so intently, all you can do is to keep your gaze on your task and resist whatever heat simmers in his stare.

The herbs already seem to ease the swelling a little bit and you are confident that they will stave off the infection. It makes you breathe easier, despite the intimacy of your current situation. You’re so close to him, asking so much of him, and with every careful sweep across his torn skin, you are getting more aware of it.

Then, without warning, one of his hands reaches up and wraps around your wrist gently. Making you still mid-motion.

“Stop,” he says quietly, his voice rough but not unkind.

You freeze startled, blinking at him. “What?”

“Keep some of that for yourself,” he insists, slowly pulling your hand away from his shoulder. “You need it.”

You take a moment to consider what he even means. Then, you shake your head. “I do not-”

“You don’t wanna argue with me, darlin’. Keep the rest for yourself,” he repeats, more sternly this time. His eyes darken into something bordering on concern.

You stare at him. And then you don’t. Eyes going to his now-covered wound, and the tin cup in your hand that still holds some of the paste you made.

Biting pressure makes your heart seem to seize.

You didn’t even consider using the balm for yourself. Your side is still stinging. The bandage is still red with blood. But you did not spare it a single thought. Did not think about caring for it in the way you did for Bucky’s wound.

Every leaf, every petal, every drop of resin has been meant for him. The idea of keeping any for your own wound has never so much as crossed your mind. You haven’t thought about it consciously, but now it is glaringly obvious. You would use every last drop of the balm for him without hesitation. There’s something wrong about that, something you dislike confessing even to yourself.

Bucky is still watching you with his brows drawn together. He nods toward the tin cup in your hand but keeps his eyes on you. “If you knew how to do that the whole time, then why don’t do it earlier? For yourself?”

You take a pause. His hand is still warm around your wrist, basically lying on his lap. Sharp eyes are gauging your reaction.

“I just- It did not come to my mind,” you admit, shaking your head dismissively. “But it is of little consequence now.”

His expression is hard. Not the kind of hard you knew his features to hold when you met him. It’s not meant for you directly. But it still is there because of you, because of the way you think. His jaw shifts, muscles moving in tense vibrations, grappling with words he isn’t sure he should say. “That’s bullshit,” he voices with a stiffness in his tone.

The blunt language of this man is an insult on its own. But the meaning of his words still hit you.

A shaky breath falls from your lips.

Never once have you thought of soothing the pain of your own conscience or making a balm for yourself.

Your side has ached, the wound pulsing and throbbing and hurting, but it faded to insignificance as soon as you saw the streaks of sweat trickling from him and the blood blooming across his shirt. Every instinct has driven you to help him.

And why? Because you somehow deserve the agony, don’t you? The thought is bitter in your chest. You don’t believe you deserve the care, the relief of healing herbs, the preservation of your own body.

You haven’t been of use to him, needing his protection at every waking moment. You killed a man. You failed to stay out of harm’s way like Bucky had told you to. That’s what got you injured in the first place. Stupid girl.

It is shameful to think of how invulnerable you have thought him to be. You relied on him so utterly, so selfishly, leaned on him without a care in the world, and laid all your troubles upon his already burdened shoulders. How many times did you assume he is untouchable, indestructible? And now here he is, bleeding, just like everybody else, and keeping it to himself. Because you haven’t been enough.

This is your fault. You relied on him too much, demanded too much, not even considering the toll.

Darkness engulfs those thoughts.

Your throat feels bound. Your heart works in stuttered pauses. Breathing doesn’t feel like relief. Swallowing doesn’t drag down the tide of self-loathing making its way up your spine.

Bucky’s thumb brushes against your pulse and it snaps your attention right back to him. You pull away from his hold and he releases your wrist immediately. Though his hand retreats to his side rather slowly.

“Whatever you’re thinkin’, don’t” he states rather calmly but somehow still so intensely. His voice is so low it seems to be scraping against something hard.

You meet his eyes then. They are insistent. Resolved. Sharp. They make you attempt another try to gulp down the knot in your throat but it doesn’t work.

“What?” you ask weakly.

His persistent eyes remain fixed on you. “I know that look. Stop it.”

A choking sensation cinches tight around your throat. It is strangling and stifling and makes you want to turn away. But he somehow manages to keep you on the spot.

“I-”

“Don’t,” repeats, softer this time. His hand twitches at his side and he takes a quick glance at the quiver in your own fingers. “This isn’t on you, got it?” His voice is rough with conviction, so fierce.

His gaze still is so relentlessly focused on you to get his point across.

It makes you want to vomit. His words push against the very flimsy barrier of defenses that you have constructed around your guilt. He sees right through it. His gaze makes it see-through. Ineffective. Worthless. Fruitless. Just like how you feel.

“It is not about that,” you try to defend yourself, but it comes out with a frail voice.

“Yeah, it is,” he maintains. “Whatever you’re punishin’ yourself for. Stop. It ain’t gonna get you nowhere.”

The tension in your shoulders doesn’t fully ebb, but something grows warmer around you.

Letting out a long, reluctant sigh, you let your shoulders slump with surrender. Bucky’s gaze softens, something like gratitude crossing his face.

“Thank you, darlin’,” he says quietly, his voice sincere and grounding. “For this.” There is no bravado, just a genuine gratefulness.

You shake your head, heat flooding your features. Your knees ache when you shift and the pain in your side kicks in again.

Bucky stands up slowly and his expression shifts, something resolute settling in his features. “Now,” he announces. “Let me help you with that.”

You blink, thrown off by the sudden change in his tone.

“You don’t-”

He cuts you off with a raised brow and a gesture that brings back his commanding nature. “Sit down,” he orders, pointing you to the stone he sat on moments before. “And better do it now. Because that’s not lookin’ too good.” He throws a concerned look at the tear in your dress that reveals the bloodied dressing he put on.

You open your mouth but his eyes are authoritative enough. You stand up, only to reluctantly sit down again on the very same rock he’s been sitting on. You calculate your movements, to not show him how painful it actually is.

“You always interrupt me. That is not very nice,” you exclaime, perhaps to make his attention on you waver, or just to throw him off with another topic and distract you or him from what he is going to do. Or maybe you should really be annoyed at the way he doesn’t let you finish speaking. But somehow him constantly interrupting you even feels endearing in some kind of way you can’t explain, considering the fact that he only ever does it when he knows he won’t like the words coming from your mouth. Maybe because you tend to talk yourself small.

Bucky’s lips quirk into that maddeningly amused smirk as he takes the tin cup out of your hands. “Not used to people interruptin’ you, princess?” The title carries no cruelty, only an enjoyable warmth that causes a tingling sensation on your skin.

You huff. “Well, I am getting used to it now,” you grumble.

And there it is again. The sound that has caught you off guard before. That laugh. Full-bodied, sonorous, and so utterly disarming in its power over you. It makes its way into your chest. His head is tipped slightly backward, exposing faint laugh lines at the corners of his eyes.

You find yourself staring breathlessly. It’s a sound so human, so rare, so special, that you wish you could bottle it up and keep it safe.

You’re mesmerized by the perfect way his teeth are gleaming at his wide grin.

He catches your gaze and you quickly avert your own, neck turning hot.

Bucky shakes his head, an amused look on his face he obviously tries to stifle. “Come on. You made me listen. Now it’s your turn.”

You sigh, while Bucky moves closer to you in a crouched position. His eyes move to your side and his expression shifts to something far more serious.

“Let me see,” he orders, tone gentle, but somehow not meant to go against it.

The weariness in your body wins out. Or rather, his voice wins out. You pull apart the torn pieces of your dress to give him enough access to the makeshift bandage wrapped around your side. His brow furrows as he takes it in.

“You should’ve said somethin’,” he mutters, seemingly more to himself somehow.

“I was otherwise occupied.”

He snorts, clearly unimpressed with your lame excuse. “Bein’ the stubborn girl you are.”

“Do you feel a change yet? Is the fever going down?”you inquire after a beat.

“You tryin’a distract me, princess?” he hums with amusement. His lip tugs upward lightly.

“I might.” You guess, you can't directly tell him you're genuinely concerned about whether he's feeling any better yet. He certainly appears better, however. He ceased sweating, his eyes are focused and his actions are more precise than before. It causes you to inhale deeply. A sigh that is full of relief.

Bucky breathes out a small laugh. “Don’t know what it is that you did there exactly, but it worked,” he acknowledges with a lighter voice. There is something like disbelief in his tone. Delight. Appreciation. That tiny hint of admiration that seems grow an inch or two.

You watch him carefully remove the fabric around your wound, to look at the injury beneath it. His brows immediately cease together tightly. Tension draws along the lines of his face, knotting his jaw. His face is hard again.

He doesn’t waste time, dipping his fingers into the salve you prepared, the thick paste now covering his calloused fingertips. His other hand brushes against your soft skin as he rather unnecessarily helps you peel back the fabric of your dress on your side.

His other hand moves to your gash so slowly, reverent almost. The first touch to your wound makes you hiss through your teeth and he lets you adjust to the feeling before spreading it around gingerly.

Blue eyes glance up to your face, watching closely for any sign of discomfort as his fingers move over your side, slowing his pace, when he sees your brows twitch, and your breath hitch.

The light of the day shimmers faintly against the angry red margins of your wound getting deliberately covered by the dark paste.

The trail of the many intertwined scents goes for your nose, mingling with faint metallic tangs of blood.

The mixture tingles against your skin, cooling and soothing the angry redness.

It’s a distraction from the fact that he hasn’t bothered to put his shirt back on.

He’s still shirtless.

The forest air kisses bare flesh. The light brings a glimmer of sweat to stand out like bronze, bringing to life the scars and distortions of his muscles. You try and tear your gaze away, dizzy with heat as it spreads over your neck and cheeks, but curiosity is what pulls your eyes back.

He is so very close in front of you. You basically see everything. Each of those lines across his naked chest and shoulders has its own tale you are sure you will never be told. You look away again, but your gaze goes hopping back.

He’s so mesmerizing in every way. He was bleeding in front of you just a moment before, but he still looks so strong. So bulky, despite the fact that he can’t eat much out here and keep his muscles trained because he has to keep an eye on you.

“You’re starin’,” he remarks quietly, not looking up. Fixed on applying the ointment.

The next beat of your heart skips. “I was not-”

“You were,” he confirms, though his tone isn’t accusing. It’s rather light. Lighter than you would have imagined. Amusement underlines his statement.

You bite your cheek, seeking to say something. “I was just thinking,” you mumble, half-heartedly attempting a defense.

“That right?” Soft and subtle humor winds around his tone. He doesn’t glance up, still thoroughly smearing more of the balm over your skin, respecting your reactions. Concentration on his features.

Silence hangs in the air, only interrupted by the rustle of clumps of leaves and a softly wafting breeze.

You hesitate. Your heart gallops in your ears. You tentatively nod at the tin cup in his hand. “Maybe this might help with your scars?” you ask, voice so soft, they almost turn into a whisper. Your fingers are clammy. It’s a feeble question.

Bucky’s hand stills. For a moment, you think he might pull away, but he does not. His finger continues to sweep but a shadow of thought passes over his face. It is not hostile. Not repelling. Just contemplative. Maybe a little surprised.

Then, there is a faint shake of his head. “They don’t hurt anymore,” he says finally. There is a subtle thickness to his voice. But he seems to have control over it.

“We could try,” you say quietly, almost in a hopeful way. So full of good intention, it makes Bucky freeze again.

He huffs out a tiny and gasping laugh. It reaches your collarbone, grazing it faintly. His head drops as though it has become too heavy for him momentarily.

“It won’t work, darlin’.” He says it so softly. Carrying an almost apologetic tone, sympathy wringing his voice dry. His thumb lightly swipes over your skin right above where the wound sits as if it is you who needs the grounding.

Your eyes move to the forest floor. There is a stillness in the air between you, unsaid things hovering in the void. The only sound is the fire crackling undisturbed.

The balm is starting to cover your wound, fragrant with mint and resin, its healing properties also somehow meant for wounds deeper than skin.

The firelight dances across his scars, making them look almost alive. Like memories etched too deep to fade.

Timidly, your quiet voice breaks the silence. “How long?”

Bucky’s brows twitch further together, lips pressing into a thin line. He watches his fingers move over your skin. You see the glimmer of reluctance in his eyes, the internal debate waging behind them.

You immediately regret asking. “You do not have to answer that,” you rush to say. “I apologize for asking.”

He exhales slowly, a sigh heavy with something unnamable rising and falling with his chest. After a long, deliberate pause, his voice is almost indifferent. “Five years.”

The simple answer hits you harder than expected. Five years. A timeline begins forming in your mind, grim shadows stretching across those years - the kind of scars that can’t always be seen.

Your back tightens as a cold shiver winds through you.

Five years. You find it hard to process. Five years of carrying whatever - whoever - has carved those scars into his body.

“You were a soldier,” you express quietly, voice so small, almost fragile.

His eyes are detached when he nods once. It’s a simple gesture and yet so complex. “I was.” His voice is clipped, but not harsh. He lets out a sound resembling a cough.

You needed the confirmation. Needed to hear it from his own lips. It solidified something inside you.

You feel your breath grow shallow, thoughts going into a haze. You have heard the bitterness in his voice whenever your father was mentioned, words tinged with disdain. He didn’t hide his contempt. He even let it out on you. But it begins to take shape. Those scars. The way he no longer claims the title of soldier as if that privilege was taken from him along with something far more precious.

He still carries himself with that form of discipline, even when standing still. Always ready for the next hit to strike. But he tried to shrug off the remnants of that past as a soldier - a soldier in your father’s army, no less.

Something has happened. Something shattering. Something traumatic.

A shiver of unease crawls along your spine, prickling every nerve.

Your father always held you to impossible standards. His love was a conditional thing that you were forever grasping to earn. He has always been a man of authority, his word was a law, and his decisions were never questioned. But there were cracks in that facade, fractures that you have chosen to ignore a long time ago. And now, those cracks are gaping, yawning wide, and you are meant to fall into them.

Your gaze falls back to the marks on his shoulder. Throat feeling constricted.

“Did my father have a hand in that?” Your voice is wavering. Anxiety gnaws at your chest, each heartbeat heavy with dread.

Bucky’s gaze lifts to you. He looks you in the eyes so intensely. Whatever he’s thinking remains locked behind his gaze, hidden from reach. But he seems to be contemplating whether to shield you from the truth.

“Yes,” he admits then, the single word falling like a stone into the silence.

It struck you with breathtaking force. The earth seems to have slipped beneath your feet and the world tilts, causing a sudden strain in your chest with the awareness that came.

You want to deny it. You want to argue that your father wasn’t capable of such treachery. But deep down, you know better. The cracks have always been there. Carefully tucked behind his walls.

Your throat is a clenched fist, made of muscle, gripping hard against the swell of emotion threatening to rise. Every breath that tries making it up your throat is only getting squeezed out by that fist.

Tears are gathering behind your eyes, the sting of them uncomfortable.

Bucky watches you. He is gauging your reaction with a poignant gentleness - not cruel, not gloating. Just honest. His expression softens, guilt shadowing his features as he takes in your reaction. He clearly does not revel in your heartbreak. It’s clear he regrets having to say it.

You fidget with your fingers. It takes Bucky finishing attending to your wound - smearing the last bit of the balm onto it and dressing it again - until you get a hold of your voice again.

“What happened?” Your voice cracks. Part of you wants to withdraw the question, fearing what he might answer. Or if he even will.

He sighs again. A hand moves to slide over his face as he sits back down, keeping the tin cup in his hand. His forearms lean on his knees, head tilted to the ground. He stays like that for a little while.

He only lifts his head for a second to see the shake in your hands.

“We were in battle. Rumlow and his men went behind our backs. Slaughtered every standin’ soldier. Got me real good, but I wasn’t quite dead. Learned to stay real quiet. Lyin’ on the ground, and all.” He huffs out a humorless laugh. He can’t meet your eyes.

You don’t know if you’re still breathing. It feels like you aren’t.

Your hands clench instinctively, grasping for something that might steady you, but the air only offers shifting shadows.

“And my father-” you choke on a swallow. “He-”

Bucky nods once, sharp and terse. His jaw locks, bracing for words he’d rather not say. “He covered it up.”

An intense pain builds in your heart, burning through the last traces of your faith in the man who has raised you.

The muscles in your face are trembling and there is that stubborn pulse inside your chest where that sob you won’t release tries to carve its way free.

Your father had a hand in Bucky’s pain.

Not just the scars on Bucky’s body, but the ones that run far deeper, the ones so deeply embedded into his very being. A soldier, abandoned by the kingdom he served, betrayed by the very man who should have protected him. Betrayed by the very man whose daughter he’s now been forced to protect. It is such a cruel irony, you can’t breath.

You feel like the air is trying to choke you. Gravity itself seems to conspire against you, pulling you down into the earth’s depths where the air is thin and hope does not exist. It slips between your lungs before it can soothe you.

A picture forms you haven’t dared to assemble until now.

And it makes tears well in your eyes. Pain stabbing and stabbing and stabbing your heart to death. You blink furiously, unwilling to let them fall. You can’t look at him. Not even closely.

Bucky told you about his mother and sister. He told you that your mother sent them away for their own safety. But he didn’t tell you why they were in danger in the first place.

Now you understand.

Your heart races, seeming to try and outrun the collapse of your world. It hammers against your ribs like fists on a locked door. The more it hammers, the more chaotic it gets, beating to the tempo of misery.

“No,” you whisper, lips wobbling. Tears cling to your lashes. Your chest heaves with the effort to breathe through the pain.

Bucky’s brows are deeply furrowed. His eyes never left you, teeth grinding together. His features are full of a struggle he tries to break out of.

Bucky Barnes was a soldier, abandoned by the kingdom he served, betrayed by the very man who should have protected him. And worse, threatened into silence by the safety of his family.

“No,” you repeat, the word a single quiver. “Your mother, and- and your sister-”

Bucky’s head drops. His hand moves over his hair. His breath leaves him with a harsh, strained sound.

Your father has threatened them, using their lives as leverage to keep Bucky silent about whatever horrors he had endured. Because exposing the truth would have cost Bucky everything he held dear.

Bucky��s eyes are the confirmation of what you are already puzzling together.

And you can’t look at him any longer. A choking sound leaves you. Your gaze moves to the flames of the fire lazily flickering upwards into the sky. The heat sears in your eyes but you don’t look away.

If you weren’t sitting already, you’d be lying on the ground by now. Your muscles are unsure whether to hold firm or buckle under the pressure. A tremor starts in your knees, making its way upward like a warning your body already understands.

How could the man you once idolized be capable of such cruelty? And how has Bucky borne it all, carrying all of this silently, without breaking?

Shame prickles under your ribs, seeping through every breath. It’s like a slow erosion happening inside you. A sense that you are both too much and never enough. You burn, consumed by something that leaves no smoke but scars all the same. Each breath fans the flames. No matter how full or brittle.

Bucky’s eyes burn you down and you can’t help but meet them again.

His face is softened in a way you’ve never seen before - not even in those rare moments when his walls seemed to crumble just enough for something warmer. There are shadows in those blues but they lock onto yours with a gentleness that has your muscles trembling.

A tear slips from the corner of your eye and you swipe at it hurriedly. You try desperately to pull your thoughts together, but there is nothing left to be done. The dam has already burst. A sob leaves you.

Another tear follows, streaking down your cheek, hot and bitter, filled with all the hurt that has just been released between you.

“Hey,” Bucky says quietly, a gritted note in his voice full of kindness. “No.”

A large, calloused hand cups your face, his thumb swiping the damp trail across your cheekbone.

The unexpected tenderness makes your breath quake, and more shame creeps onto your skin for having allowed yourself to shatter in the open.

“C’mon don’t do that,” he murmurs under his breath. He sounds pained by the sight of you. The sight of your tears. Again. Like something in him is crying out for an answer to your broken heart.

He leans closer, shifting on the dirty ground, to brush his other hand gently against the side of your jaw, framing your face between rough palms. His palms feel warm in contrast to the hot current running through your body, but he holds on steadily.

Bucky tilts your chin enough for you to meet his gaze, blue irises that grapple with guilt, but also something more subdued. Something soft and real you aren’t sure you even earned from him.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart. Please,” he pleads near a whisper and it rips something off inside you.

The pain in your heart only seems to get stronger. You want to claim him wrong, that if anyone should rightfully feel grief or tears for the pain they carry, it is him. But the words refuse to leave your throat. All that comes is a strangled sound, a whimper, a sob, followed by a few more sweltering tears.

His thumbs continue to diligently brush your cheeks once more, painstakingly slow as if erasing the evidence of your hurt could undo it altogether.

“I mean it, darlin’,” he implores quietly. His voice is still rough. “Don’t.”

It does not feel easy though. You just found out how much has been robbed from him, how your father has contributed to it all, the man who has loomed over your life like a shadow not easily warded off with a single light. The personification of cold judgment.

And still, Bucky is softhearted and steady-eyed against your breaking moment, offering kindness and comfort.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper thickly. “I am so sorry.” Your voice is fractured. It feels inadequate. Hollow. Not enough.

Bucky’s thumbs rest against your temples as if trying to reground you.

He bites down hard on a slightly trembling lip, the muscle in his cheek standing out sharply. For a moment, his eyes seem to look for a distraction somewhere far away, somewhere only he can see.

When they return to you, there is a pool of his own apology shimmering within them, deep enough to drown in.

He releases a gruff breath. “Not on you. This is not your fault, Y/n.” His voice is firm but also breaking with a sorrow he can’t fully express. “Wasn’t exactly easy on you,” he says lowly, gravelly. He clears his throat. “I was wrong. About you.”

You shake your head, still wedged between his hands. Your lips are wobbling, your voice in cracks. “You had every right.”

“No.” His voice is resolute. Tension pulls at his jaw. His brows almost meet each other. He shakes his head, letting his hands slide into your hair. “I didn’t.”

You sniffle. A harsh, wavering breath falls from your lips. A sob crawls up your spine. “I do not blame you for hating me.”

Bucky’s hands against your face go still. They stiffen. He even seems to flinch ever so faintly and it makes you look at him briefly. He bites back a dry swallow as if something wedged there might never leave. Something urgent pulls at his jaw, making it tick.

“I don’t hate you,” he leans his head in, looking you directly in the eyes. “Don’t hate you, princess. Alright? Don’t think that. God, please don’t think that.”

Your hands are still shaking in your lap and Bucky’s own hands fall from your face for an instant so he can trail the pads of his fingers along your wrist.

“I’m the one bein’ sorry, sweetheart.” His voice falters, a huskiness catching in his tone.

Your chest is swollen from the hard work of breathing against its pressure, while new tears still threaten to slip out of the corners of your eyes. But Bucky stays close. Still kneeling right in front of you.

“Look at me, please.”

You do, although your tears blur your vision.

“I’ll say it again,” he murmurs, swallowing dryly. “Please don’t cry, darlin’. Don’t cry.”

His eyes hold the pain he is too broken to voice.

“Yes, you will rise from the ashes, but the burning comes first. For this part, darling, you must be brave.”

- Kalen Dion

Part eight

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret @singsosworld @mrsnikstan @melsunshine @hawkinsavclub1983 @homiesexual-or-homosexual @vvs-dlxodyd

150 notes · View notes

baldursgate3tempobsessed · 1 year ago

Text

Astarion Very Happy Ending

So full disclosure, my Tav was a Selunite, and I can't stop thinking well if Bhaal can have a mortal chosen one, why can't Selune?

Also, spoiler warning, stop reading here if you don't want, but like damn girl I freaking turn a Shar priestess away from her god back to you, free a man from his devil's contact, high-key save the world, kill bhaals chocen, convince my vampiric lover to not sacrifice thousands of people, stop an entire goblin army from murdering Tieflings and druids alike, and literally free your daughter. A reward is in order!

This is that reward:

Astarion was slowly getting used to living in the shadows again, as loathe as he was to admit it. It was quite the transition, despite the fact that his time in the sun had amounted to less than a year. But what a lovely year it was. Nearly a perfect one in comparison to the rest of his life. And the promise of more of the same was a suitable balm to being cursed back into the darkness.

It was difficult, but with the love of his life by his side it was more than tolerable. Borderline beautiful in fact, to be able to live his life so freely despite the infuriating complications.

The money also certainly helped.

That was one thing Astarion always had over his brothers and sisters, his fantasies of a better life had always surrounded around Cazador's murder. Not his approval. He may have been completely unaware of the horrifying dungeon beneath their feet, but he did know where the deed to his estate and other properties were kept. And now had enough connections with the higher up's of Baldur's gate for some frankly exquisite forgeries. It had been a particularly satisfying feeling to sell all of his former master's possessions off, even more so when it came to the land. Almost like he was tearing apart his legacy and handing it off to the highest bitter, piece by piece.

Though, being there with you to find and settle in your own little corner of paradise was an even better feeling. Maybe it didn't quite reach his past dreams of grandeur, but it turned out settling in a quaint and poorly lit townhouse in the upper city was more than enough for him to be satisfied.

It was a good charming life, one that Astarion was sure he didn't deserve. But that certainly wasn't going to stop him from enjoying it. Though as much as he adored where he ended up, he'd be lying if he said it was perfect.

No, perfect would have been finding a way for him to ascend without becoming a monster, living in a world where he could be with you fully, completely, out in the sun like the kind of lover you deserved. It made him feel... startlingly inadequate. Everything you did had to be in accordance to his schedule. His lack of capabilities. And just because you always insisted it didn't matter didn't fix the feeling of inadequacy. He hated it, hated the fact that there were so many hours of the day that you couldn't share. He didn't regret his choice, not for a moment, but that didn't mean he was fully satisfied with the consequences.

But in his own defense, he did make up for it in other ways. Mildly frustrating and draining ways, if not a bit rewarding. It had been his own fault, falling so utterly and completely for such a goody two-shoes. A zealot to Selune, as fierce as she was compassionate, always trying to do what was fair and just. Always dragging Astarion on for the ride of her cleric duties.

But he couldn't blame you for all of his new do-gooder ways. Not when he was nearly the leader of a bizarre cult of repentant vampire spawn.

It was just the slightest bit exhausting to so often be playing the part of their heroic leader, fighting all of his murderous instincts to work for a better future for himself and the brethren he had personally damned. Though he'd be lying if he said he didn't get any satisfaction from it. It felt... good to teach them new ways to live. To give them the chance at the beautiful life he had managed to secure for himself.

He wouldn't do it forever, just until he was confident enough to be sure that his departure wouldn't lead to a massacre on either side. Then the two of you would be off to explore the lands, working to do your goddesses work with just a touch of hedonistic activities on the way.

Astarion was looking forward to it. He hadn't done all that work to be selfless forever. No, he was going to be forced to insist on a few years of having you all to himself, with only the occasional bits of volunteer work for the temple as interruption. Then the two of you could go back to galivanting about the lands being local heroes. But he had earned an extended vacation.

One that, luckily, he hadn't had to fight you on too much. That was just one other thing he loved about you, your complete understanding that Astarion would always be a little selfish, especially when it came to you. The one person who had ever really been his, who loved him, who understood him, who believed in him. Could he be blamed for wanting to have you all to himself?

And admittedly, he did have you more often then not. Even if on occasion he did have to share with your beloved goddess.

Astarion sighed as he watched you pray in the moonlight, completely absorbed in your quiet, mystical chants. Despite his distaste for the length of your prayer sessions, Astarion did like seeing your more ritualistic side. Just... maybe not for the morally correct reasons.

He was well aware that being so involved with a vampire was clearly against your religious doctrine. But it didn't matter. You still choose him, despite how the knowledge nearly made you an outcast amongst your own kind. But he mattered more than your reputation, more than the lessons you had been taught your entire life regarding love and evil.

You still had your faith, but you never let it shake the faith you had in him, something that he valued more than he could ever express. It was perhaps a sick thought, but it also made him feel exceedingly powerful, to know the true extent of your feelings. Even more connected. It was almost... like he was defiling you, corrupting a beautiful flower to turn away from the sun to something even brighter. A love that Astarion doubted most could ever hope to feel.

Perhaps that was not the best outlook on your religion, but oh well. He'd keep those thoughts to himself. What you didn't know wouldn't kill you. Besides... if anyone had been corrupted it was him, plagued with a new sense of loyalty and gods, justice. All from the beautifully strange woman kneeling in the moonlight.

Though, you sure were taking awhile tonight. Nearly twice as long as your usual nightly prayer. He hated to interrupt your worship but this was starting to cut into his time a bit here.

"My dear," Astarion called out, swinging his legs over your shared bed to stand, "Don't you think that you've been kneeling there for a touch too long?"

But you didn't respond, still muttering under your breath, even faster than before.

Astarion narrowed his eyes as he walked closer towards you, confused by your lack of response, "Darling-Tav?"

Astarion stopped, eyes wide as he got a solid look at your first. Your eyes were wide open, body rim rod straight as your irises glowed a vibrant blue light.

What in the nine hells was happening? Astarion kneeled next to you, his heart in his throat as he shook your shoulders, "Tav, love, can you hear me? What is this?"

You didn't answer, you didn't even acknowledge his presence. But you did start floating in the god damn air. Astarion stared, helpless as he watched you levitate, words that he didn't understand spilling from your lips.

Then just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. You fell unceremoniously to the floor. Astarion scrambled towards you, his heart in his throat as you started to come to. He settled your head in his lap, his hands shaking as he touched your face, lost on what he should be doing.

You blinked your eyes open slowly, that angelic glow still radiating from your irises. But you didn't look frightened, more... excited.

You grinned up at him, your voice slightly cracking when you murmured, "We've been blessed."

Astarion stared at you, brow furrowed. He was happy you were alive and speaking but...

"That's lovely?" Astarion tried, "But severely lacking in terms of an explanation. Are you okay?"

You nodded eagerly, suddenly sitting up with an unexpected amount of energy, "I'll explain later, we don't have much time."

What was it that compelled you religious types to be so cryptic? But you didn't give him anytime to question. Instead you wrapping your arms around his neck and smashing your lips together, kissing him hard enough to take his breath away.

He wrapped strong arms around your back, pulling you in closer, always helpless but to return your affection. But something about this was different. He could feel it, holy magic spreading through him through your lips, down throughout his veins, changing something inside of him. It wasn't unpleasant per say, but it certainly was startling. Startling enough for him to almost push you away, if it wasn't for the fact that he trusted you with everything inside of himself.

Neither of you pulled away until the blue fire in your eyes had died out, and Astarion was left with the intense sensation that something had changed, irrevocably inside of him.

You stared at each other, Astarion in confusion while you looked nothing short of gleeful, "Do you feel it?"

He felt... strange. A warmth still spreading through him that was settling. Astarion raised a brow at you, exceedingly impatient when he asked, "First, how about you explain to me what in the hells that was?"

But you didn't answer. Instead you stood with an adorable hop, lending a hand out to help him up, "Do you trust me?"

Astarion almost rolled his eyes as he took your hand, annoyed that he fell for someone that had just as much of a flair for the dramatic as he did, "You know I do."

You helped him to his feet before you started to mumble again, a startlingly familiar incantation seeping from your lips. It was the spell for daylight, the very same that you had used to help defeat Cazador. The kind that could now kill Astarion in mere moments.

He was too shocked at your audacity to even protest, believing for a split, terrifying second that he was about to die a fiery death. Sunlight suddenly filled the room, bright enough for Astarion to tightly shut his eyes.

Then...nothing. No burning, no pain, nothing but the sounds of you both breathing.

That didn't-how was he-what did you just do?

Astarion stared at you, absolutely flabbergasted with his mouth hanging open, staring at the borrowed daylight like a simpleton, "But how?"

You were still grinning ear to ear, looking happier than Astarion had ever seen you before. You grasped his hands in yours, your smile gentle as you explained, "I told you. We were blessed. Our Lady of Silver gave me one gift, and this is what I choose."

If sunlight wasn't already staring him in the face, Astarion would never believe it. But here he was, alive and standing under it's warmth. A gift from a goddess, spent on him of all creatures.

"It can't fix everything," You clarified with the slightest frown, "But it can fix this."

He could feel the truth in your words. He was still... wrong. A creature born of something awful, doomed to eternity and a life of bloodlust. But part of that wrongness had been culled, curling up and dying from Selune's holy magic, from your enduring love.

It was a dream he never thought possible. One that he had accepted never having. But here he was, here you were, continuing to give him the impossible.

It was enough to bring tears to his eyes. Astarion reached up, cupping your face before confessing the truth he couldn't quell.

"I don't deserve you," He whispered, voice hoarse, "I'll never deserve you. Words can't express my thanks. You have given me everything, while I have nothing but myself to give in return. But it's always yours. Everything inside of me."

He meant every word, he always would. Until his last breath.

You shook your head, gentling cooing at him, "This is a time for celebration my love, not for doubt. You've earned this."

He hadn't. And he doubted you'd ever be able to convince him he had. But he'd still take it. Gladly.

"I love you," Astarion murmured, helpless to say anything else. He pressed his lips against yours, the gravity of his new life just starting to settle in his mind.

He was free, as free as he could ever hope for. You had achieved what Cazador could not, all without a hint of malice or horrifying sacrifice. But through kindness, love, and perseverance. You had already freed him once from his own mental shackles, his last remaining ties to the tyrant that made him.

And now you've done it again, saving him from at least a portion of the taint on his soul.

It was beautiful, wonderful, and Astarion would never waste a moment of it.

#astarion #astarion fic #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #baldur's gate 3 #spoilers #and that's how selune got herself a cult of 7000 vampiric spawn hoping for the same blessing #this is very fairytale romance #like mr. i'm not a fairytale prince is kind of acting like it here #or is he the saved princess?#up for debate #romance #very romantic #i think #fluff #very fluffy

1K notes · View notes

call-me-maggie13 · 1 year ago

Text

Beatrice doubts she’s ever been so nervous. Her head is spinning and she fidgets with the bundle in her hands, brown paper crinkling as she tugs softly on the tiny yellow bow wrapped around it.

She hesitates on the front step, considers tossing the bouquet into the bin closest to her and running the opposite direction. This is possibly the worst decision of her entire life. Completely unprompted. She should’ve consulted Shannon.

"Oh." Ava pauses in the doorway, one foot on the stone steps mere inches away from Beatrice. "Were you…"

Beatrice feels her face burn when Ava’s eyes settle on the red tulips in her arms. Eleven red and a single yellow tulip.

Red tulips. A declaration of love.

"Mama, move it!" Diana pushes through Ava’s legs, stumbling into the daylight like a newborn deer, squinting against the sun until her eyes adjust and she recognizes Beatrice, grinning and leaping into her. "Papa!"

Beatrice can’t look away from Ava, she’s analyzing every micro expression that passes over her face. Ava knows what it means. Perhaps Valentine’s Day isn’t the time for this. Beatrice should’ve waited.

"Papa!" Diana yanks on Beatrice’s coattail, pointing to the brown paper bundle in her arms. "What’s it?"

Beatrice forces herself to thaw, heart pounding against her ribs as she swallows it from the back of her throat.

"It’s a gift. For you and… and your mama." Finally, Ava lifts her eyes, cheeks pink and lips parted. Beatrice fumbles over the flowers, trying to find the yellow tulip to tug free for Diana. But she doesn’t look away from Ava.

Beatrice had really hoped to catch them while Diana was still napping so she would have time to process before attending to the little girl. In fact, she probably had arrived while Diana was napping but she’d spent so long doubting herself that Diana had awoken.

Diana takes her flower from Beatrice, inspects it quietly before extending it for Ava to admire.

Beatrice hadn’t meant to declare her love for Ava in the snowy, winter air. She hadn’t meant for it to be a grand gesture. It was meant for Ava alone. For her and Ava.

She’d had a speech prepared for Ava’s tiny entryway, her stained linoleum tiles, her crayon colored walls.

I’m yours. She had wanted to say. For as long as you’ll have me.

Beatrice offers the remaining bouquet to Ava, extending them for Ava to either accept or deny. Waiting for Ava to either accept her or turn her away.

The next second moves impossibly slow. Ava steps toward the tulips, hand reaching to brush their petals before moving away. Beatrice’s heart falls, sinking deep into her stomach. Ava has been considering the best way to reject her. Beatrice has read too deep into their interactions. She’s misinterpreted and ruined everything and -

Oh.

Ava’s lips are soft and warm against hers, tender and tentative. Beatrice’s mind has barely processed what was happening before Ava is pulling away, apologies clouding the minuscule space between them until Beatrice surges forward and they crash together again.

They haven’t kissed since they returned from Christmas. Beatrice isn’t certain why, not a single moment has passed that she hasn’t thought about kissing Ava. The thought had overtaken her, pulsed deep in her veins until she’d had to pull away, little by little, creating a chasm between them. A chasm flowing with anxiety and worry.

She’s not certain what she’d ever fret over before because this might the only thing Beatrice had ever been certain of in her life.

They’re only pulled apart by a high whine from Diana, a cry of boredom and annoyance. Even then, they linger in each other, noses brushing and breath mixing.

Beatrice still hasn’t found the words she’d rehearsed previously, only four she hadn’t considered tumble past her lips into the shared air betwixt them.

"Will you be mine?" The uncertainty lingers only a moment before Ava pulls away to giggle, nodding rapidly and blushing deeply. She flings her arms around Beatrice’s neck and buries her nose there, effectively knocking the flowers from Beatrice’s hand. Beatrice doesn’t much mind.

"I thought I already was."

Find more here!

#warrior nun #ava silva #sister beatrice #avatrice #warrior nun s2 #bea and ava #warrior nun season 2 #wn s2 #save warrior nun #warrior nun netflix #babysitting au #babysitter au #fic: like the princess

143 notes · View notes

bruisedboys · 2 years ago

Note

can I request eddie and shy!reader with reader’s first kiss?! I imagine he’d be so gentle with her!

I want him to be my first kiss so bad!! waiting for him to be real so he can kiss me tbh

summary: eddie gives shy!you your first kiss

shy!fem!reader 0.9k words

Eddie thinks you look really pretty.

He’d tell you so but he’s already told you twice tonight, and he’s pretty sure if he says it again you’ll burst into flames on the spot. You’re quite shy — it’s endearing and very adorable but it also means Eddie has to be more careful of what he says and does. He wouldn’t want to scare you off.

He watches you pore over a book, sitting cross-legged on his bed. He badly wants to tell you how lovely you look. In a t-shirt that’s too big for you and a pair of sweatpants. Your hair all messy pretty and tucked behind your ears. He holds his tongue, turning back to the old band tee he’s hacking the sleeves off on his bedroom floor.

“Eddie?”

Your voice breaks the comfortable silence you and Eddie had been sitting in. Eddie puts down his scissors and looks up. He likes the way you’ve said his name, like he’s the only person ever. He’s sure he sounds similar when he says your name. He smiles at you.

“Yeah?”

You shuffle forwards on his bed, sliding to the edge until your legs dangle off. Eddie’s struck, yet again, by how beautiful you are. It takes all the breath out of his chest.

“Um.” You pause then, and get this nervous look on your face. Eddie knows it well. You’re often nervous around him.

He sits up straighter. By the looks of it you’re wanting to tell him something. Or ask him something. “Yeah, honey?”

Your eyes flick to Eddie and then back to your hands where they’re twisted in your lap. Eddie sees the tap tap tap of your foot, the wringing of your hands. He shuffles forward on the floor and gets a hand on your knee, fingers curling around the bottom of your thigh.

“What is it?” He asks softly.

When you answer your staring at your lap, determined to avoid Eddie’s eyes.

“Well … I just. I was reading that part in The Princess Bride, the bit about the five kisses? And I just wondering …” You reach up and scrub the back of your neck awkwardly. “Why haven’t we kissed yet?”

Eddie balks. He was not expecting that. It’s a big question — for you to ask and for Eddie to answer. He has his own reasons. The biggest one being he’s afraid to scare you off, to mess up maybe the best thing in his life right now. Not only that, but he knows how tentative you are about relationship stuff. It’s all new to you.

The silence stretches too long. Eddie rushes to break it before you think he’s gone and backed out on you.

“Oh.” He says, more flustered than he’s ever been with you. Normally you’re the flustered one. He’s realising now how hard it is being on the receiving end. “Well, um. I … I guess—“

“Do you not want to?” You ask quietly, interrupting Eddie’s rambling.

Eddie stops short. “What?” He stares up at you. He can hardly believe you think that. Of course he wants to kiss you — he’d kind of thought you wouldn’t want him to. “No. No, sweetheart, that’s not it. I just. Well, I just wanted to wait until you were ready … “ He pauses, catches the look on your face, like you’re waiting for something to happen. “Are you ready?”

You bite your lip. Not for the first time, Eddie wonders what it would be like to kiss your lips. You nod very slowly.

“I think so,” you say. You’re staring at his mouth now.

Eddie nods so quick he almost snaps his neck. He hardly cares.

“Okay,” he says earnestly. He scrambles to his feet and then moves to stand in front of you, your knees pressing into his legs.

You blink up at him. Eddie can’t resist taking your face in his hands. Your skin is hot to touch. He imagines his face would feel the same.

“You’re really pretty,” he says despite himself. Even though he’d promised not to tell you again until at least tomorrow.

“Eddie,” you chide softly.

Eddie just grins. “Are you sure you want to?” He asks you, struggling to hear himself over the thump of his heart in his ears. He very much wants to give you a Princess Bride worthy kiss right now.

You nod around his hands. “I’m sure,” you say.

Eddie leans in then. His hands on your face, pulling you gently towards him. His eyelids fluttering shut. It feels different but it feels right. He’s about half a second away from kissing you when you say,

“Wait.”

Eddie opens his eyes. You’re so close he could count your eyelashes.

“What?” He whispers back.

“I’ve never kissed anyone before,” you say. Your breath fans over Eddie’s mouth, your lips ghosting over his. It takes all his might not to kiss you right then and there. “I don’t know how,” you admit.

“That’s okay,” Eddie tells you. It is okay. And he’s maybe a lot more honoured than he should be that he’s gonna be your first kiss. “You’ll learn.”

“You’ll teach me?”

Eddie looks at you and thinks yeah, he’ll teach you. He’ll do literally anything you could ever ask of him. “Of course, angel.”

“Okay,” you say. You smile and Eddie thinks if he doesn’t kiss you now he might pass out.

He kisses you. He doesn’t pass out but he comes pretty close.

3K notes · View notes

aerequets · 1 year ago

Text

the uncertainty of the sea by @nire-the-mithridatist

#i havent drawn in so long hnnngg #nothing like a nire fic to get back into it #my art #spy x family #loid forger #yor forger #twiyor #sxf #sxf loid #sxf yor #thorn princess #agent twilight #loidyor #loiyor

3K notes · View notes

kittykatstiles · 5 months ago

Text

this is the kind of face people go to war for

#jsyn i’m reading hedwig new fic right now #guys i’m spiraling….#no one talk to me #the most desirable omega on earth ofc it’s him #derek would declare a war for him #like that’s derek’s omega #that’s his angel princess !!!!!#stiles stilinski #sterek

262 notes · View notes

unfinishedslurs · 7 months ago

Text

The boy stops in his tracks. “I know you,” he says, tilting his head curiously. He’s not tall, but he’s regal nonetheless, dressed all in white. Something about him makes Leia’s hair stand on end, and although she hides it she feels a stirring in her own chest. I know you like I know my own soul, she thinks wildly, and wonders where it came from. Has she gone insane?

“That’s nice,” she says, and shoots him anyway.

He deflects it in a flash of light, a glowing blue laser sword appearing in his hand like magic. She’s only seen one of those before, and it’s Vader’s. If this boy is anything like Vader, she realizes, she’s in deep shit.

She’s smart enough to know when she’s outmatched. Leia makes the tactical decision to run for her life.

Later, as she’s getting the hell out of there, she wonders why he didn’t try to stop her.

She remembers being young and tugging on her mothers skirts, demanding to know why their guest was so sad. “Does he not like it here?” She’d asked, and then, trembling, because Kenobi always seemed saddest around her. “Is it…because of me?”

“Oh, Leia,” her mother sighed, lifting her into her arms. “It’s not that, I promise.”

“Then what is it?”

“Master Kenobi lost a child under his care, years ago.” Breha’s eyes grew deeper, darker. “It was not his fault, but he blames himself. You remind him of that child, that’s all.”

Leia had quieted at that, contemplative.

The next time she’d seen Master Kenobi, she had given him a hug. He didn’t seem to know what to do with that, so she resolved to give him more of them. “He’s lonely,” she’d told her mother. “No one should be lonely.”

Looking at Obi-Wan Kenobi now, the memory seemed so far away. He’d aged thirty years in the ten it had been.

He looks, Leia thinks with a small twinge of regret, very lonely.

“Leia,” he greets. “It’s been a long time.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Leia sees a glint of white.

Kenobi freezes in his tracks. “Luke?” He whispers, and through the distance Leia can hear it as if he’d been speaking directly into her ear.

Master Kenobi lost a child under his care, her mother whispers in her head. He blames himself.

In an instant, Leia understands everything.

Kenobi is still staring at the boy he’d lost so long ago when Vader cuts him down.

Later, as she’s pacing around on the Falcon to Han muttering darkly about Princesses and supernatural abilities, she rememberers the way the boy collapsed, as if all his strings had been cut. Vader was too occupied with him to even look at her as she shot at him desperately.

Luke. She hates him more than she hates herself.

“They know where you are,” he hisses frantically. “They’re coming for you. You have to run.”

“Wait!” Leia quickly pulls up their sonar. Nothing yet, but it would explain the distant queasiness she’d felt since they’d landed. She tended to trust her gut. “How do you know? How much time do we have?”

“Not important, and not enough,” he says. “I have to go, and so do you. You need to leave yesterday.”

“How do I know I can trust you? I don’t even know who you are.”

He pauses. “Call me Skywalker.”

“That’s not an answer, Skywalker.”

“Yes it is.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but there are faint voices on the other end, drawing nearer.

“Shit,” Skywalker mutters. “I have to go. I’ll be in contact, okay? Don’t ever tell me where you are, or where you’re heading. Vader and Palpatine aren’t shy about reading minds. Just leave as soon as you can, and figure out the rest.”

“But—“

It’s too late. The comm has disconnected.

She stares down at it, disbelieving. How would the Empire know they’re here? Why should she trust a stranger who somehow got her personal comm code?

Gut feeling or not, on paper this was a perfect location. Supplied, armored, and most importantly, extremely well hidden. There was no real reason to think it would possibly be found out.

It’s probably a trap. Almost definitely a trap.

Han sticks his head in the door, a sour look on his face. “Hey Princess, can you tell these idiots—“

She makes a decision then and there.

“We’re leaving.”

“What?”

“We’re evacuating, effective immediately.” She pushes past him, and he follows so close he’s nearly stepping on her heel.

“Why? I think it’s pretty cozy here. Actual sunlight doesn’t hurt, either.”

“Apparently too cozy.” She grabs the first person she sees, a pilot who stares at her with wide eyes. “Emergency evacuation. Spread the word to pack everything you can and leave, I’ll let you know where we’re headed when we’re in orbit.”

He salutes and scurries off.

“Woah, hey now.” Han snatches at her elbow until she turns around to face him. “What’s going on?”

“There’s a new informant. He told me the Empire knows we’re here. They’re coming for us.”

“And you trust this person because…”

“I don’t have a choice,” she snaps. Someone runs past them, holding three packs filled to the brim with rations. “It’s either he’s lying and we’re not in danger, or he’s telling the truth and we’re going to die if we don’t listen. It’s not exactly hard math.”

It could be a trap of course, but he hadn’t suggested any sort of direction or destination to follow, and Leia wasn’t inclined to share. Especially not after his tidbit about Vader and Palpatine reading minds.

He squints at her. “That’s not it.”

“What?”

“I don’t believe you,” he insists. He’s so infuriating. Leia doesn’t know why she hasn’t kicked him out yet.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do, and you’re either gonna tell me why, or find a different transport when we head out of here.”

“Who said I was riding on your hunk of junk?” She demands. She actually was planning on going with them, since the Falcon has more than enough room for all the supplies that can’t fit in the other ships and none of the trustworthiness of the other pilots, but Han doesn’t need to know that.

“Well?”

Damn him. Damn him for knowing how to read her. She doesn’t know when she let that happen.

“I feel it,” she admits, defeated. “Something tells me he’s trustworthy. We’ll wait and see if it’s right.”

He studies her. She holds her head high, but inside she’s jittery at the scrutiny. They don’t have time for this.

“Yeah, all right,” Han finally says.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” He rolls his eyes, like she’s not acting absolutely insane by putting all her trust in a random man she’s never even met. “Now come on, Princess, weren’t you the one who said we had to hurry?”

What is it about this man that makes it impossible to tell whether she wants to punch him or drag him into the nearest supply closet? They don’t have time to find out.

“So there’s good news and bad news.”

“Bad news first,” she demands.

“They know there’s a mole.”

“Shit.” Of course they know, how could they not? She should have been more careful, less obvious about the correlation of their movements with the Empire’s plans. “The good news?”

“They’ve tasked me with hunting down this ‘pathetic rebel spy,’” Skywalker says, humor in his voice. “That should buy me some time.”

Leia can’t quite stop the snort she lets out. “Seriously?”

“Yep. You’re speaking to a professional mole-hunter, here.”

“Well congratulations on the promotion, Skywalker.”

“Thank you,” he says grandly. Then, quieter, “It won’t last, Princess. They’ll find out eventually.”

“I know. Just hang in there, it will be over soon.”

“Will it?” He asks, suddenly sounding very young. She realizes that she has no idea how old he is. She doesn’t know anything about the man who has saved them more times than she cared to admit, and the idea rattles her until they sign off.

Later, she looks up the name Skywalker in their archives. There are a few results, but only one sticks out.

Anakin Skywalker, Jedi Knight and hero of the Clone Wars. Killed at the hands of Darth Vader. There are gossip articles too, speculations on his relationship with the pregnant Senator Padmé Amidala, who died around the same time Skywalker did. The baby, it seems, died with her.

Unless he didn’t.

It’s ridiculous. It’s impossible. The idea is so ludicrous that Leia almost rejects it entirely.

But it makes sense. By the Maker, it makes sense.

The child of Anakin Skywalker, it seems, would be a powerful Force user indeed. Powerful enough for Kenobi to take the baby and run. Powerful enough for the Emperor to want him for his own gain. Powerful enough to send Vader after Kenobi and take the boy himself.

Maybe even powerful enough to shield his mind from Vader and Palpatine’s intrusions.

Powerful enough to hide the fact that he’s a spy.

Leia sinks into her chair, covering her face as she laughs.

Maybe Luke isn’t so bad after all.

“No, no, no,” she mutters, digging through the smoking wreckage of the TIE fighter. “Don’t be dead, please don’t be dead.”

“Princess…” Han lays a hand on her shoulder that she immediately shrugs off.

“No, he’s not dead. He’s not. Luke!”

A faint cough answers her, and she’s so relieved to hear it she could cry. Behind her, Han starts bellowing for a medic and, “Some damn help here, do you expect us to move all this ourselves?”

“Luke, it’s me,” she sobs. “It’s Leia. You’re at the Rebel Base. You’re safe.”

More coughing, and there’s a worrying rasp to his voice when he says, “You know…my name?”

“I figured it out.”

“Smart.” This time, the coughing is so bad Leia and Han both wince.

“Shit, kid,” Han says, moving another piece of rubble. “Don’t talk. We’re gonna get you out of here, all right?”

“Stand back,” Luke chokes out.

“What?”

“Stand back. Please.”

Han protests, but something in Leia knows they should listen to him. She drags him back, and motions everyone else to fall back with them. They do, albeit reluctantly.

“Clear,” she calls, hoping Luke can hear her.

The TIE explodes.

“Fuck!” Han goes back in, Leia on his heels with the terrifying feeling that she’d just allowed Luke to die, before they both stop in their tracks. Around them, the broken pieces of the TIE are floating.

And curled up in the middle is a man dressed all in white.

“Luke!” She pushes past Han to start dragging him out, and after another moment of staring around them, he helps her.

As soon as they get clear, the pieces fall to the ground with a clatter. Luke falls limp with them.

Han is still looking at the TIE. “Can you do that?” He asks quietly.

Leia pauses her examination of the unconscious man in front of her to glare at him. “Is that what you’re most concerned with right now? Really?”

“Excuse me for asking, Princess!”

“It’s white,” Luke grumbles, pulling at his hospital gown bitterly. “I hate wearing white.”

“Should I be offended?”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t even. You look great and you know it. I just feel like I never left.”

“Well,” she says gingerly. “I guess it’s a good thing you got sick of it. If we went around in matching outfits all the time, people might think we’re twins.”

He snorts. “Yeah, right.”

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #luke skywalker #han solo #leia organa #imperial luke skywalker #exactly when luke was taken by the empire is totally up to speculation it could honestly be anywhere from newborn to 5 #as for why luke has his dad’s blue lightsaber here instead of like a red one or smth- well you see your honor I thought it would be a slay #but also when you think about it for more than 5 seconds you’re like actually yeah that’s sick and twisted of palpatine and vader actually #you’re carrying your fathers most treasured weapon #you don’t know your father once fought the rise of the very empire you stand to inherit with that blade. you don’t know who he defended #you don’t know your father brought about the end of the republic with that same weapon #he killed the younglings with it. he fought his closest companion with it #you’re carrying what was once your fathers most treasured weapon. you are your fathers most treasured weapon #just as your father is a weapon now #also I didn’t make it clear but obi-wan has his ‘strike me down and I become stronger’ moment like he still dies on purpose to cause proble #but when he saw luke he couldn’t look away. he had to see him with living eyes one last time #can u tell I had So Many Thoughts on everyone else’s perspective in this fic too #han is having a constant crisis in the background because 1) force is real 2) princess is annoying AND pretty which sucks for him #in particular and 3) pretty princess is learning to use the force and is hot while doing it. Chewie is laughing at him. life is hell #good lord did not mean to put an entire essay in the tags. i love their super special twin powers (cosmic entity that binds their souls)#edit: GUYS I FORGOT TO NAME THE FUCKING AU #AND WHEN I TRY AND FIX IT IT GLITCHES OUT ON MEEE 😭😭😭

242 notes · View notes