#furnace blowing cold air

[goheatingairplano]

(via GIPHY)

[mickandmusings]

iii. pretend that it's love

part of the ' hangman & honey ' series!

summary: when janet and jacob sr. take off to austin for the weekend, they leave jake and honey behind to take care of the farm. jake finds himself in an empty pasture with honey on an usually chilly night. with hidden feelings festering in both of their hearts, once comfortable silence is now dangerous, leading to the end-all, be-all question: who will be the first to break?

word count: 3.3k

warnings: fluffy, awkward acts of love between teenagers, jake being a southern gentleman, unrealistic traditional southern grandparents, truly an opposites attract trope, honey being a sleepy girl (me too), plotting grandmothers and nosey grandfathers

-

For a Texas night in late April, the air was unusually chilly. The wind blew through with a sharp bite, sending chills straight down to Honey's bones. She's perched in the bed of Jake's truck, thick quilts under her to provide some comfort from the cold metal hitting her skin. Another blanket is draped across her legs all the way up to her chin, acting as a flimsy barrier between the chilling air and her cold limbs. She shivers lightly, curling herself into Jake's side. He looks down from gazing at the starry sky to look at her, pulling her close, the warmth in his body radiating like a furnace. His simple jeans and short sleeved shirt kept him plenty warm. He knew Honey ran cold, she always had, and it was something he was more than accustomed too. She always had his spare jacket thrown across her shoulders and arms, and she'd curl the sleeves around her fists to keep her hands warm. Honey buries her head into the crook of his arm, her nose cold. She and Jake had been outside in the empty field for a little over an hour, the endless sky clear and starry, prompting Honey to coax Jake to take the truck out to stargaze. It wasn't like there was anything else better to do in Haven-Janet and Jacob Sr. had gone into Austin for the weekend, leaving the two teenagers to hold down the fort. The adults trusted them, at least enough to feed themselves and keep the house standing for a few days.

"It wasn't this cold when I was reading on the porch, now I'm freezin'!" Honey was all but chattering teeth and icicles hanging from her face. "How are you not cold?"

"When you were sittin' on the porch it was still daylight, it's dark out now, it's gonna be colder," Jake shrugs and looks down at her, his windswept locks under a backwards baseball cap. "Guess I just naturally run hot."

He tacks on a wink at the end of his sentence, prompting an eye-roll from Honey.

"You're so cocky sometimes, Seresin."

Jake lets out an audible laugh, echoing off the trees in the distance. Silence quickly falls over the two, save for the chirping insects and the wind blowing around them. Jake finds this silence more deafening than if they were yelling at the top of their lungs. Silence seemed to be something new that had started between the two, one that Honey too found herself despising, despite her quiet nature. But, she had guessed, internally, what do you talk about with someone who already knows everything about you?

Honey said nothing, very rarely the first to break the quiet, only curling back into Jake's side, sending a jolt of electricity through Jake's skin. Her touch alone sent his heart racing. She simply smiled up at him and set her attention back on the stars sparkling in the expansive sky. Jake wracked his brain for something to say, the still air making his eye twitch.

"The night is kind of underwhelming don't you think? Feels like we should throw a party or a bonfire or somethin' since the adults aren't around."

Honey couldn't disagree more, she was thoroughly enjoying their quiet night. It was a little on the more romantic side, especially considering that they were just friends, but she let herself enjoy the moment. Honey takes her turn to shrug against Jake.

"It's kind of nice, don't you think? It's a beautiful night, quiet. Plus, anyone who would come to a party is at prom."

Jake only nods his head, he had completely forgotten about prom this weekend, he and Honey were underclassmen, so it wasn't like they'd be able to go anyway.

"Well," he starts, finding a response to Honey's statement. "As much as you enjoy the quiet, I hate it. We'll be at prom this time in a year or so, dancin' to music a decade old, eatin' PTO mom snacks, watchin' couples fall victim to teen pregnancy...truly a magical night we're missin' out on, huh?"

"I probably won't even go when it's our turn," Honey starts, resting in Jake's hold, his arm thrown around her to keep her close. "Why would I want to be in a room full mostly of people I detest in a dress I can't sit down in?"

"Aren't you a little ray of sunshine, Hon," Jake's reply is sarcastic, earning him a pointed look from the girl in his arms. "I mean, c'mon, prom is a rite of passage. If you don't go, who am I supposed to go with?"

"I hardly doubt you'll have any problem finding someone to go with, Mr. Haven-High-Football-Star," Honey bites back just as sarcastic. "I'll probably have to stand in line just to get a picture with you."

Jake says nothing, not having any retort for that, he only gives her a small head shake as he pulls her in close again. Honey sighs contently, starting to warm from her current ice-cube state. Her eyes gaze at the stars, taking in all the flickering lights. Jake's attention should probably be focused on the sky too, but he finds himself staring at her instead. She was here, in his arms, wearing his well-worn sweatshirt, with her eyes dazzling under a moonlit sky. It was a perfect scenario, the epitome of a romance book scene, like the ones Honey read, the very ones that lived on Jake's own bookcase. This would be her secret fantasies come to life if he could just muster up the courage to lean in and kiss her. His heart races at the thought, his overwhelming fondness for her bubbling to the surface. If she can hear his heart, she doesn't comment on it, which Jake is grateful for.

"Do you think we'll be together forever?" Honey speaks without thinking. Jake nearly chokes.

"W-What?"

"I just mean, we've been friends forever, and I know you'll sweep some girl off her feet, and you'll marry her and have like four kids. Do you think we'll still be friends? I'll be your kid's weird Aunt Honey who lives alone with her ten cats."

It hurt Honey's own heart to even say it aloud, to come to the realization that Jake would move on with his life loving someone that wasn't her, but she had quickly learned to accept it as her reality. He would find some beautiful girl, and Honey would hear all about her. He'd ask Honey's opinions about rings and proposals, and she'd go along with it, as if she wasn't madly in love with a boy whose heart belonged to someone else.

Beside her, Jake's heart sank. He'd never pictured her as some sort of quasi-relative. For nearly the past year, he'd pictured her as the woman in white walking down the aisle, the woman he pictured rocking his kids to sleep, the girl who would always sleep on the opposite side of a shared bed, just like she did now. Looking down at her wide eyes reflecting the stars, his heart begged his brain to just tell her, dammit! He longed to tell her that she would always be so much more than his best friend. Realizing he'd been quiet for perhaps a moment too long, he responds.

"Of course we'll always be friends, Honey. You can't get rid of me, ever."

His heart pounded in his chest, his palms feeling sweaty against the blanket she was covered by. She smiles up at him, one that didn't quite meet her eyes, before settling back against his chest. Silence falls between them again, and this time neither of them makes a move to stop it. Jake's mind is reeling, his heart begging his brain to just spill his every thought, while his brain fights back, saying that telling her would be a mistake he couldn't take back. Telling her could ruin the near decade of friendship, the level of comfort they found in one another, it would ruin everything.

Meanwhile, Honey sat melancholy in his arms as her cold hands played with a loose string on the blanket. Her heart sank at his response, truly hammering the nail in the coffin of her expectations. It was foolish really, to think he'd wax some sonnet for her, this was Jake, not Mr. Darcy. She let out a sigh and closed her eyes, silently vowing to herself she'd let off of the romance novels, maybe try a biography or two. Her eyes felt heavy, and her chest ached as she attempted to sleep it off.

So stuck in his own head, Jake had hardly noticed the tiredness seeping into Honey's face. Once he looked down, he'd noted her eyes drooping in exhaustion, her body limp against his. She was tired, and close to falling asleep.

"Let's get you back to the house, Hon, you're dozin' off."

Honey's chest felt as if someone had stabbed her. If they went back to the house, he'd peel her from his arms and they'd sleep at least a foot of distance from one another in Jake's bed. At least out here she could lie under the stars in his arms, pretending it was love instead of friendship between them. She shakes her head against his chest, letting out a sleepy mumble.

"M'comfortable, don't move me. Let's just sleep out here."

Jake simply nods, letting her be. She was often grumpy when she was sleepy, and there was no point in arguing with her. He'd just move her once she was completely asleep. She rested against Jake, her eyes closed as she began to breathe deeply. Jake smiled, brushing hair out of her eyes as she slept. His heart began to hammer again, she looked radiant, even in sleep.

He watches her for a moment, watching as the deep breaths cause her chest to rise and fall. With her asleep, Jake finds himself a bit more confident, knowing she won't remember anything he says or does. In an act of confidence he can't explain, he lets his lips meet her forehead, a breathy 'I love you' stumbling from his mouth. It's a quiet whisper, and Honey's asleep, so he relaxes as it falls into the night air.

Honey scoots closer to him, her head now burrowed into the side of his neck, making him stiffen. His heart beats rapidly against his chest, she had been asleep, he was sure of it.

"I love you too, J," her whisper is more quiet than his, but it's sealed with a kiss to the underside of his jaw, one that makes his face heat up. He looks down to confirm that she knew what he meant, but she was already asleep, for certain this time. He let out a chuckle, pulling her closer if that was possible. There was no great fanfare, not the love profession she deserved, but he had professed his love, and she'd accepted it. It was perfectly simple, which seemed fitting for someone like him. His hands threaded through her hair, his heart slowing in pace when he realized what this meant: he hadn't ruined anything, she felt the same way.

Honey felt the same way.

Jake was tired, and he wasn't sure if he was dreaming all of this, but as his eyes shut, his jacket under his head as a makeshift pillow, he allowed himself to fall asleep to this fantasy. Even for a brief moment in time, even if he woke up and all of this had been his mind's trick, he had the girl he loved sleeping in his arms, and she loved him the same way he loved her.

-

When Jake finally woke up, hours later, just before the crack of dawn that Sunday morning, he rubbed his eyes and checked his watch, sighing at the early morning hour. He smiled as he glanced down at Honey, who was still fast asleep in his arms, before he moved slowly to scoop her up bridal style. He swings open the passenger door and slides her into the seat as she lets out a grumble. She was definitely still asleep, but she didn't like his interruption. Jake chuckles under his breath and kisses her forehead before closing the door. He quickly moved to the other side of the truck and started it, quickly reversing and moving out of the open gate. The noise prompts Honey to open her eyes, finally looking over at Jake with squinted eyes as he begins to drive out of the pasture.

"What're ya doin'?" Her voice was full of sleep, her accent thick.

"Takin' us back home, it's late, need to get you in bed, Hon."

She said nothing, only nodding as she gathered her blanket back up around her chin, sliding across the seat to rest her head against Jake's arm. He smiled and kept one hand on the wheel, the other slinging over her frame, giving her ample room to curl into his side. She was asleep before he could even get them back to the house, the lull of the truck making her eyes droop faster than he could drive. When he parks the truck in the driveway, he scoops her into his arms again, pushing open the front door and locking it back before making his way up the stairs. Jake set her down softly on their shared bed, carefully peeling off her shoes and tucking her under their comforter. After chucking his boots across the room, he slid in next to her, Honey's body automatically gravitating toward his like a magnet. He pulled her close, tucking her head into the crook of his neck. His arms came around her waist, and hers sat atop his chest. He found himself more awake than he should be for the few hours of sleep he'd gotten, but Jake simply couldn't stop looking at her. He pushed her hair out of her face, and her eyes blinked open.

"Didn't mean to wake you," he whispered down to her.

She shook her head. "You didn't, promise." Her eyes cut down to his chest, her fingers rubbing against the fabric of his shirt, tracing the logo on his corner pocket. She brought her knees to her chest, and Jake braced himself for what she was going to say. She just had that look drawn across her face, the one that told him she would likely take everything back. That she'd only wanted to express her platonic love.

"Jake?" Her voice is quiet.

"Hm?" His heart hammers, he'd never been so nervous in his life.

"I don't regret what I said, I meant it. It wasn't just some sleep-hazed confession, I-I've loved you since we were kids," Her eyes were glassy, and Jake's heart lurched, his thumb brushing off stray tears on her face. "I get it, if you didn't mean it like that, but-"

"Honey, I meant it like that."

Jake's words stop her in her tracks, her eyes darting between his own. Her brows furrow, her mouth simply opening and closing as she tries to form words.

"I love you, Honey. I've been in love with you, and I-I realized that 'bout eight months ago, that first night you slept here. Probably before then, I was just too stupid to realize it. A-And-," he pauses, letting out a nervous chuckle. "And I know you deserve better than this truly pathetic confession," his hand grazes against her cheek softly. "You're too good for me, but I'm yours if you'd have me."

Honey's warm eyes are full of tears, most of which had already fallen. Jake thought she needed dramatic, Say Anything-boombox declarations, but she didn't want any of that, she just wanted him. She smiled as her bottom lip wobbled, but she was so happy she couldn't get her eyes to stop watering. Her brain was in overdrive, and she couldn't form words.

"Didn't mean to make you cry, darlin'," his voice was a whisper, so impossibly soft, a tone she'd never heard fall from his lips. His calloused thumb wiped them away again, and she brought her own hand to the side of his face. He leaned into her cold hand, kissing her palm. Her eyes looked into his own at the action, so overwhelmed with love for the boy she simply couldn't speak. No one had ever loved her, not the way Jake seemed to. He moved closer, only an inch of space between them before he spoke.

"W-Would it," he whispers, the hand on her face tilting her closer to his own. "Can I kiss you?"

Honey's heart hammers as she lets out a chuckle, closing the gap between them both, their lips meeting. Fireworks erupted between them, as if the Fourth of July had come early. When they separated, Honey rested her forehead against his own, smiling a smile that made her eyes warmer than he'd ever seen them. He smiled back, pulling her back into his arms, kissing her forehead from where she rested in the crook of his neck, her legs intertwined with his own.

Within minutes, Honey was back asleep, resting peacefully in his arms. Jake stayed awake for nearly an hour after she'd drifted off, simply staring down at her, his chest nearly bursting with all of his emotions. With the weight now off his chest, he tucked Honey under his chin and let his own eyes fall shut, both of them falling asleep in the warmth of one another.

-

Just a few hours later, when Janet Seresin opened her front door and trampled up the stairs to wake the two teenagers under her roof, she lightly opened her grandson's door, her eyes widening dramatically. Jake and Honey slept tangled into one another-she had seen them sleep in the same bed their entire lives, but, this, this was different. If she was any other parent or guardian, she would've woken them up with a sort of disappointed expression, making them separate. Instead she simply smiled down at them, her heart warming at the young love she'd been praying to blossom. Never underestimate the power of a praying grandmother.

She'd been all smiles when she'd descended down the stairs, her husband standing at the kitchen counter when she entered the kitchen.

"Let me guess, those two were still sleepin'?" Jacob Sr.'s voice was always gruff, but it now had a tone of humor in it.

"Yes, and I'm not going to bother them, it looked like they were mighty tired."

Jacob Sr. lifted an eyebrow at his wife, she was far too happy for them to just be sleeping. Something had happened, and he wanted to know.

"Janie, honey, you're all but blushin' and skippin' like a little girl. What happened?"

Janet smiles, still feeling like a teenage girl in love every time her husband uses his pet names for her. She smiles a wide smile at Jacob, positively giddy.

"I'm not for sure, but I think those two are together, Jay," She smiled as she pulled out ingredients for dinner from the fridge. "You should have seen them, they've always been close, but it's different this time. I told you it would happen before graduation, so you owe me my part of the bet, Jacob Seresin."

The bet had started as a joke between the married couple, a silly competition that had started when feelings began to blossom between the two teens. Janet had bet that Jake would admit it before graduation, while Jacob Sr. had a bet on Honey. Jacob simply shakes his head, leaning in to kiss her head.

"Whatever you want, sweetheart."

The gruff man swung open the door and headed towards the barn, his own smile painted across his face. Honey reminded him so much of a younger version of his wife, and he, too, had secretly hoped Jake would have the same feelings the sweet girl so obviously had for his grandson. Sure, he'd give Jake and Honey both a hard time, and there would have to be some new boundaries set, but he'd do that later. Right now, he had to build a new porch swing, his wife had won their bet after all.

-

taglist:

@djs8891

[violentdelights-violentendss]

you couldn't keep me off for long 🤺🤺

how about the same three (dazai aku and fedya) but with a reader that runs super cold ?? i love this idea for no reason because dazai would tease, akutagawa would just be funny because haha sickly victorian children, and fedya has fuckign anemia so ofc he's cold 24/7 as well. ur writing style is also delectable i would like to eat it tysm

(me when i read ur things)

OMG I LOVE THIS! (Bro thank you sm i seriously feel like my writing style is shit but I love you…and please never fend off)

to the anon requested the bsd men and cold fic it is underway, I currently have written half of it…the ones with all BSD men take longer to write 😞😞

off I go to writing this ✨✨

BSD Men With a Reader That Runs Cold

In this post: 💃 Osamu Dazai, Ryonosuke Akutagawa, Fyodor Dostoyevsky💃

Pairing: Fem!reader/BSDMen

Synopsis: BSDMen and a gf that runs cold.

Osamu Dazai

Dazai is a man that burns with joy and passion in his everyday life. Consequently, his body temperature almost always runs high. And as the saying goes, opposites attract: you’re almost always cold, and Dazai, the man of your life, seems to have fire licking his skin constantly. He eagerly appoints himself to be your personal furnace, wrapping you in his arms when you shiver, and lending you his coat without you even having to utter a word. But his gestures come with a small price. Your boyfriend always teases you, his cat-like eyes smiling fondly as you glare at him, bundled in a mountain of covers and still needing his body heat. Dazai’s favorite joke is to propose sex as a way to warm you up. No matter how much he teases, however, he will always be ready to rescue you from the freezing cold that claws at your skin, enjoying the time he gets to spend holding you close to his heart.

You walked through the streets of Yokohama, shivering like you were experiencing your own magnitude level 5 earthquake. You were bundled up in a large coat, a scarf and gloves, even a small hat adoring your adorable face, and yet, you were still shivering so hard your teeth chattered.

Your boyfriend, Dazai, was walking leisurely in front of you, wearing only his usual trench coat, seemingly unaffected by the cold that held you tightly in its claws.

“D-Dazai!” You called, feeling as if you couldn’t take another step without shattering into a myriad of tiny ice shards.

“Yes, my belladonna?”

“M’ cold…”

Dazai sauntered over to you, leaning down to peck your nose. “Such a rare occasion, isn’t it, Bella?” He cooed mockingly, caressing your lips with his thumb.

You swatted his hand away, whining. “Stop teasing. I need solutions, not problems.”

“Okay, I have a great solution.” Dazai declared, looking in your eyes very seriously. You nodded, listening, blowing some warm air on your freezing hands, which still felt on the verge or falling off, even with your gloves on. Dazai’s hands took yours in his, warming them up with his own personal heat. “We go back there, and I fuck you so good — ”

“DAZAI!” You shouted, afraid someone could hear you. You rapidly checked around the both of you, terrified that a little kid might have been lurking in a corner. Returning to look at your boyfriend, you found him doubled over, laughing.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry.” He said, a hint of laugh still dancing in his tone. “Come here,” he said, opening his trench coat. You slid inside, instantly feeling warmer. Dazai closed the coat around you, holding you tightly against him, feeling a little proud when you stopped shivering. “When we get home, l’ll make you some warm tea.” He promised, already seeing your apartment complex in the near distance.

“And then we cuddle on the couch.” You said, starting feel your ears again.

“And then we make out on the couch, yes.”

“DAZAI!”

Your joyful boyfriend started laughing, and you soon joined, your laughter intertwining into a beautiful melody, as you two walked home. Throughout the walk home, Dazai made sure you were completely covered by his coat, a perfect bundle of warmth. He promised himself he would always be there to hug you till you weren’t shivering anymore.

Ryonosuke Akutagawa

Akutagawa was a normal person, who never felt too hot or too cold. When you burst into his life, all joy and laughter, he had to get used to you, and all your wonderfully eccentric behavior. But the one thing he struggled most with, was your abnormally low body temperature. Whenever you told him you were cold, he would stare at the various layers of clothes you were wearing, as well as the winter coat you had thrown over your shoulders. Akutagawa just…couldn’t understand you. He didn’t try to be mean or anything, his mind just couldn’t make sense of it. Akutagawa soon realized that his body heat helped the perennial cold that seemingly nestled, like a frozen rose, in your heart. Whenever you would be shivering at night, Akutagawa would tentatively wrap you in his arms, and warm you with his body heat. He would crank the heat up in your apartment, despite your protests about the price (he had enough money to spend). Soon, you feeling cold became another quirky aspect of your relationship, and also gave Akutagawa the opportunity to always keep you in his arms without explicitly voicing his desire to do so, which suited your touch-starved boyfriend perfectly fine.

You were at the Port Mafia’s annual Christmas Party: an event that lasted all night long, in one of the many ballrooms owned by the criminal organization. The floors were made of polished wood, and the ceilings were decorated with wonderful paintings, and delicate flowers engraved in the dark wooden beams that supported the high ceilings. The moonlight filtered in through the mosaic windows, coloring the partygoers in different shades.

You were sitting at a table, a glass of glittering champagne in your hand. You were wearing a black slip dress Akutagawa had gifted you. It adorned your body perfectly, a slit exposing your right leg. You looked gorgeous, and Akutagawa stared at you for a good 5 minutes without being able to say anything when you had come out of the bathroom, finding you the epitome of beauty.

The night had been fun: you had successfully dragged Akutagawa to waltz with you, holding you close. You could feel Akutagawa’s heart beat against your chest, a small smile twinkling on his lips. The moment had abruptly ended when Mori had called Akutagawa to raise a toast to the Port Mafia with the rest of the high executives.

You, being a low-level Port Mafia member, had given him a kiss to send him off, and had gone back to sit at your designated table. All the dancing had made you sweat, and now the droplets were cooling on your skin, making you already colder than you always were. You had decided to sip on your champagne to warm yourself up, but your exposed arms were not helping. You had started shivering, setting the flute back down on the table, and wrapping your arms around yourself to try and create a little heat.

“Are you feeling cold, (Y/N)?” Akutagawa asked, dragging a chair to join you. You nodded, sheepishly. Akutagawa glanced at you for a few seconds, his eyes zeroing on your shivering shoulders. He exhaled, not believing he was about to do this.

Slowly, Akutagawa removed his coat, an item of clothing that was seemingly fused to his body: he rarely took it off, and only in the comfort of your home, where he knew the both of you were safe from any danger.

You watched him in utter disbelief as he draped it around your shoulders: it was the greatest act of trust Akutagawa could ever commit towards you.

Seemingly not having moved you to tears enough, he scooted closer with his chair, wrapping you in his arms and holding you tightly against him, trying to transfer some body heat.

Akutagawa was known for not liking any form of PDA. You knew. He knew. The whole Port Mafia knew, which explained the shocked glance Chuuya threw your way.

But honestly, you didn’t care, and nuzzled your face in Akutagawa’s chest, glimmering tears sliding down your cheeks and ruining your makeup: Akutagawa always found proclaiming his love to you to be extremely difficult, but clumsily, through his actions, he always found a way to tell you how much you meant to him.

Your boyfriend felt your shoulders shake, and mistook you to be still freezing. He held you even closer, until he noticed the wetness on his chest, harshly pulling you away from him to check on you. “(Y/N)? What’s wrong?” His panicked tone made you laugh through the tears.

“You’re just perfect, you know.” You whispered, bringing his hands to your mouth, leaving a red lipstick mark on his knuckles. “I couldn’t have gotten luckier.”

Now it was Akutagawa’s turn to feel his heart melt, his eyes suddenly watering. He coughed, looking away, trying to maintain his cold persona.

“Akutagawa, it’s our song!” You squealed, suddenly hearing the melody play. “Let’s go dance!” You excitedly grabbed his hand, almost dragging him to the middle of the dance floor, his coat still around your shoulders.

Akutagawa almost protested, but the smile that was engraved in your eyes the minute you started swaying in his arms was a force too strong for him to resist. You two ended the night in each others arms, singing the song’s romantic lyrics to one another, the mosaic windows coloring each part of your faces with a different color.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Listen, Fyodor is anemic, he’s always cold. Russia’s harsh winters must have infected his body, because this evil mastermind is always shivering. And when the two of you got together, and you told him you were a person that generally ran cold, Fyodor smiled, saying he was the same. The two of you share the same struggles on a daily basis, and try to rely on one another for warmth, but with little to no results. The heat in your apartment is always cranked so high that Nikolai directly comes in shorts whenever has to come over. Whenever you two sleep, you have at least 5 covers and huddle in each other’s arms. Whenever you whine that you’re cold, Fyodor does hug you, but you both know it won’t be enough, so he throws a cover on both of you, and only then can you two start to warm up. A warm tea, or a warm milk, are mandatory every night, and you have a multitude of hot water bottles stashed in the kitchen. You use one almost every night. Still, even if Fyodor knows that hugging you won’t change much, he secretly adores sleeping with you in his arms, because the love that you so clearly feel for him is enough to warms his heart.

“Fyodor, I’m still cold,” you whimpered, trying to huddle in his arms. The two of you had been cuddling in bed for thirty minutes, bundled underneath an avalanche of covers and duvets, each of you holding a warm water bottle. Fyodor was feeling…okay. Not warm, exactly but not as freezing as you were. You must have been tired: you usually felt colder when you were tired. Fyodor tried his best to rub his arms against yours, but to no avail.

“I can tell, myshka…you’re shivering,” he cooed, trying to tuck the covers around you. But nothing seemed to be working that night. Fyodor leaned back, trying to figure something out, his already fast mind moving at inhumane speed. “What if I draw us a warm bath?” He asked, caressing your cheek with the back of his hand.

Your eyes shot open, a glimmer of hope in your smile. “Yes…please,” you scooted out of his embrace, watching as your boyfriend braved the cold, sliding out of the sheets. You instantly felt colder, now that he was gone. You hugged his hot water battle as well, watching as his tall form slid inside the bathroom. You heard the water running. The harsh sound of water on marble soon changing to water sloshing on water.

You waited impatiently, jumping out of the bed when you heard his sweet voice calling you. You ran to the bathroom, trying to avoid the cold’s claws that reached for you. You almost threw yourself in the bathroom, closing the door behind you to not let the heat from the heater make its escape.

Fyodor looked at you lovingly, helping you slide your clothes off. You didn’t wait for Fyodor, almost throwing yourself inside the large bathtub. You instantly felt the cold hidden in your limbs wither and die, finally feeling at peace. The water sloshed around you as Fyodor joined you in the tub, his pale skin almost taking a pearl-like shade in the dim lights.

You happily swam towards him, falling into his arms. Fyodor welcomed you with a small smile, glad to see your cheeks flushed with heat for once. “We should do this more often,” you thought out loud, playing with your boyfriend’s hands.

“Noted, milaya.” He purred, feeling a drowsy sense of relaxation spreading throughout his body. “This sure is peaceful,” he murmured, sinking further in the bathtub, eyeing your naked body underneath the trembling surface of the water.

“Stop,” you laughed, noticing his gaze, swimming away from him and flicking some water in his face with your foot. Fyodor moved uncharacteristically face, grabbing your ankle and tugging you toward him, and pressing a kiss to your soft skin. You giggled shyly, hiding underneath the water.

Fyodor dunked his head underneath the water, meeting your eyes. You smiled at him, and he wrapped his arms around your waist, dragging you against him. He pulled both of you out of the water, watching as it cascade down both of your bodies. You laughed merrily; Fyodor laid his head on your chest, closing his eyes and humming quietly. You caressed his head, diving back in the water when you felt a sudden chill caress your spine.

You kissed Fyodor lazily, watching with half-lidded eyes as he opened the tap to let more scalding water fill the tub around you.

You two cuddled in the warm water for hours, sometimes kissing, sometimes just laying in each others arms.

You were falling in and out of consciousness, and barely noticed Fyodor lifting you out of the now lukewarm water, drying you and slipping your pjs on you. He then carried you to bed, tucking the both of you in, carefully. You snuggled against his chest, and peacefully fell asleep, finally warm, Fyodor’s hand held tightly in yours.

[lis-likes-fics]

Lady Like You

Pairings: Joel Miller x prostitute!Reader Word Count: 4.7k words Prompt: Prostitution Warning: NSFW, smut, prostitution, swearing, oral (f & m!receiving), fingering, protected sex (technically), p in v, multiple orgasms, creampie... A/N: This is really late today but it's okay because at least I posted, lmao. I hope you enjoy and thank you!

It was late and cold when you stepped out of the housing unit. Technically, it was after curfew. Everyone was supposed to be in a housing unit by now, off the streets as patrol took watch to make sure everything was in order. But you had your own job, your own business to take care of.

You sunk into a dark alley between two units, taking cover as you pressed your back to the wall and pulled your coat tighter over your body. A scarce wind blew, but you were safe from the nipping of its breeze as you checked your cracked mirror to ensure you still looked presentable.

The last client you were with had roughed you up a little. After you fixed some stray hairs and reapplied your washed away lipstick, you smoothed your hands down your front and sighed, your breath blowing out in front of you. You could go home now, he was meant to be your last job of the night.

But the thought of going home to an empty apartment, an empty bed with no one to warm up to…you let out a long sigh and feel a pang in your heart.

Maybe one more job wouldn't hurt. As you think about who to visit, the only name that pops into your head makes you feel a little warmer in the biting cold of the winter air. Joel Miller. He was sure to be alone, he was always alone. You held a special place in your heart for him, though you weren't entirely sure why.

You turn around to walk further down the alley, walking quickly to avoid being caught as you hide from patrol. Glancing around the corner, you cleared it and made the familiar trek to your next destination.

You were safely inside before you could get caught by one of the mindless soldiers guarding the place. You walked up the countless stairs, taking your time to avoid tiring yourself out before you got to the right floor. As you stepped off and walked through the halls, you fixed your hair a little—more out of nerves than necessity—coming up to his room.

You knocked on the door, placing your hand back in your pocket as you waited for the door to open. You stood there a while, glancing around you and tapping your foot as you waited patiently. You would wait here all night if you had to.

You heard footsteps approaching the door after a moment, fixing a smile on your face as the sound grew closer. Multiple locks clicked and the knob turned. When the door opened, you gave a warm smile as Joel stood on the other side and took his face in your hands. You kissed him, a long, deep kiss which took him a moment to fall into. He leaned in, wrapping one arm around your waist.

You were the one to break the kiss, humming lightly before backing him inside to close the door behind you. He was warm, like a furnace to your freezing skin as you shuck off your jacket and toss it onto the chair at the kitchen table.

“It's late,” he said, taking you in with an indecipherable look on his face. “You're not supposed to be all the way over here this late. You'll get caught by patrol.”

“Have I ever been caught before?” you asked, raising a brow as you leaned against his chest for his warmth once more.

He raised his own. “Yes. You have, actually.”

You rolled your eyes this time. It was true. You were caught once, but you got out of it and the guard who caught you was now a regular client, so it didn't matter.

“Whatever,” you chuckled dismissively. “I thought you might like some company. Besides, it's cold outside and warm in here.”

He looked you up and down. Well, no wonder you were cold. You wore a dress, an ankle length black dress that would do little against the cold. You'd been working.

“Maybe if you wore some clothes, you wouldn't be so cold,” he muttered.

You brushed your knuckles over his cheekbone and sighed. “Do you want me to leave, Joel?”

He looked at you nice and long before shaking his head with a sigh. “No.” He tapped your side lightly, letting you go as he turned. “Go on to the bed. I'll be there in a second.”

You nodded, slipping off your shoes by the door and making your way to his room. It was small, as all the rooms were. His bed, just as small, was unmade but cozier than yours for the sole reason of having Joel in it.

You sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for the zip on your back and managing to pull it down your back so you could slip out of the dress. Your undergarments were simple, the only complexity laid in the color—a nice red set not as bright from having it for so long, fancy enough for it to be sexy but not too fancy that you looked overdone. Simple.

Joel came back into the room, his shirt already gone as he worked at his belt. You rose to meet him, pressing your lips to his as you took over the task of undoing his belt. You turned him around and sat him on the bed, moving to kneel down as you kept kissing his chapped lips. Your lips brushed underneath his jaw, and he sighed at the way you handled him. Gentle.

You pulled his pants down his legs and took his cock in your hand. He was half hard as you moved your fist up and down the length of him. You looked him in the eyes as you did it, his eyes which were so dark with whatever past is haunting him. You gave him as much warmth as you could, wanting nothing more than to distract him for one night from the pain of all that weighed on his shoulders. Just one night. As always.

You licked his tip, wrapping your lips around him to suckle gently. His breath became a little louder in an attempt to control him. His hand found your cheek, gently stroking his thumb over it. You leaned into him, fond.

He tangled his fingers in your hair, just to hold you while you took more of him into your mouth, feeling him hardening as you did. You looked him in the eyes as you laved your tongue along the underside of his stiff length. He pursed his lips, stifling a breath as he looked back at you.

You pumped him in your hand again, listening to his quiet breaths pass through his lips. You took him in your mouth, adoring him as you knew how, as he knew how.

As he watched you, unable to look away from your pretty face, independent of you on your knees with your mouth around his cock—he'd always thought you were beautiful—he wondered how you could have ended up in this position, selling your body at the end of the world. There was other work to do, but here you were.

He was always different from the others—he smelled differently, he tasted differently. Joel was musky and warm and welcoming (once you got past his intimidating nature, he was welcoming). Even now, he washed out the taste of the other men you’d been sucking on the earlier that night and let him surround your senses.

You suckled around him and tasted the precum on your tongue, knew he was close by the twitch of his cock. He placed his hand on your cheek and encouraged you away from him, the rise of an upcoming climax waning with a brief grunt.

You looked at him, expectant. Because he looked at you, expectant.

“What?” you wondered, wiping your mouth with your thumb. “What's wrong?”

He sighed, shaking his head. “Nothin’.” He stood as you sat back on your legs. “Sit down,” he said, motioning toward the bed.

You sat, leaning back on your hands as you did. You watched him kneel, taking one of his legs and pulling it onto his shoulder. “You know,” you mumbled, smiling sweetly at him to hide the shyness, “you don't have to do this. I service you, you don't have to service me.”

He scoffed, pulling your panties down. “Anyone who isn't servicing you is a selfish prick. You should shoot ‘em on sight.”

You chuckled. “Well, there goes half my clients.”

He looked up at you. Pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh, he shook his head. “Shouldn't have to put up with that shit. Lady like you’s too good.”

“Lady like me–” you breathed in deep as his hot mouth pressed against your cunt, sending a delicious chill through your body. “Lady like me just needs her cards. Not too good for anything.”

He suckled around your clit, slipping his tongue inside of you. You leaned your head back, breathing steadily as his nose pressed against your clit, hot and pulsing. He pulled you in some more, holding onto you tight as he ate you out, massaging your folds with his tongue and humming into you for the added pleasure.

“Oh, Joel,” you hummed, needing more of him as you wrap your legs around his head and pull him closer.

His strong hand wrapped around your thigh, traveling along the inside before he was teasing his fingers at your hole. He prodded his thick, coarse fingers inside you, two digits crooked within you to pull a release from you. Pumping his fingers in and out of you, he gauged the way you clung to them and lightly moaned.

“What have you done tonight?” he wondered, still touching you in the way he knew you loved as he asked gently.

You hummed, missing his mouth but relishing his fingers. “Light stuff, mostly. Just some—fuck—Just some mouth work for a couple guys. One paid for the extra bit, but he wrapped up and I cleaned up.” You ground your hips against his hand. “So, yeah, all that wet is just me.”

He shrugged. “Not concerned about that. You’re gripping my fingers so tight,” he thrust them deep inside of you, “I was wonderin’ who ain’t treatin’ you right.” He shook his head, bothered by the lack of gentlemanliness at the end of the world. “People ain’t got no respect anymore.”

Your chuckle was cut off by his lips finding your clit again. He sucked on it, using his tongue to massage the sensitive bud as he kept pumping his fingers. You felt the oncoming release buzzing in your legs, traveling up from your fingers and building a knot in your belly.

You pressed your lips closed, your breath heavy as you feel it nipping at your nerves. “Joel,” you breathed. “Joel, you're gonna make me cum.”

He just curled his fingers inside you, and your body rose up to meet him as he did. “Fuck,” you gasped lightly, breathing in deeply as the knot tightens until snap!.

You tried to stifle your moan as you came, digging your heels into his back as you did. “Fuck, Joel! Yeah,” you moaned.

He fingered you through it, only pulling them away when the clench of your pussy became more scarce so he could taste the result of his good work. He licked inside you, gathering the taste of you on his tongue before straightening his back with a groan.

“How's that?” he wondered, checking in on you. Your chest was warm, fuzzy with a certain fondness.

You nodded, catching your breath. “Yeah,” you hummed. “Yeah, that felt good. Really good.”

He nodded, standing to his feet and getting rid of his shirt as he pulled it over his head. He smoothed his hands along your shoulders, feeling your soft skin under his rough palms before unhooking your bra. You took his hand and smiled at him, too fond. “Thank you,” you said.

He stared at you for a moment, clearing his throat and looking away. “Shouldn't have to thank me for it.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Should come with the service.”

He watched your bra drop from your body as you stared up at him, unashamed. He grunted appreciatively, swiping his thumbs over your nipples. “Still,” you shrugged, “not everyone likes eating out as much as some.” You looked at him suggestively, he seemed unphased.

He stood you up, taking your chin in his hand and kissing you deeply. It was way much more intimacy than what came with his usual package, but you always adored every moment of it. Joel treated you so well.

“Don't thank me.” He turned you around to press your back against his front. His hands traveled your body, feeling you up. He bent you down onto the bed gentler than he could have, putting you on your knees.

He kept a hand on your back as he stood and walked to his shitty drawer beside his bed, feeling the expanse of your bare back as you felt out a gentle moan at the sensation. He opened the drawer and pulled a tiny package from the box inside.

“How do you want it tonight, sugar?” he asked, ripping the package open with his teeth as he moved behind you again.

You hummed. “Whatever you want. I'm not picky tonight.”

“You sure?” he mumbled, kneeling behind you on the bed and taking your hips in his hands.

You nodded. “I'm sure. What about you? You want me loud or quiet?”

“I want you,” he said, plain and simple. You ignored the warmth of your heart. He positioned himself at your entrance before teasing his tip into you. You bit your lip as he pushed the crown of his cock into you, stretching you out nicely as your pussy forms around him to accommodate.

With one nice thrust, he was fully inside of you with a gentle sigh. You joined him in that breath, letting out a long sigh as you enjoyed the stretch of him inside you. In and out, he thrust in a gentle rhythm that slowly built like his need for you. He held you still by your waist, though you rocked back to meet his thrust. His speed quickened a bit. You took him well, welcoming him inside your warmth, his cock pumping inside of you smoothly.

You spread your legs a little wider, gripping the sheets and letting your eyes shut as you moaned gently, appreciating the feeling of him so deep inside you.

You savor the feeling of his thrusts. You appreciated the measured rock of his hips back and forth as you squeezed around him.

But you were missing something, a closeness that didn't come with the rutting of his hips behind you. One of his hands smoothed from your hip and cupped your breast, thumbing your nipple as he did.

You reached a hand back to touch his leg, and he paused for a moment. You stood up on your knees, his body pressing against your back as you reached behind him to hold him close to you. He wrapped his arms around body in return, his nose teasing your neck and his lips grazing the skin. He began pumping into you again, molding your bodies together as he did.

He spread your legs wide and played with your nipples, pulling your body down to meet each thrust of his hips. You could feel his breath on your neck, his hands and his lips on your skin. He kissed the crook of your neck, and you shuddered at the feeling. You felt his teeth graze your skin, careful not to mark you as he did.

You reached for the back of his head, tangling your hand in his hair and encouraging his lips to your neck. He mumbled against your skin, “Thought you don't allow any marks.”

You leaned further against him. “I can make an exception,” you muttered.

He chuckled and shook his head, taking your permission with a smile as his teeth grazed your neck once again, this time making the commitment to scrape the flesh.

You moaned lightly, closing your eyes to feel the sensations mixing together. You sighed his name under your breath, wanting more but being unable to feel the rolling waves of pleasure growing beyond the kindle in your belly. And, though he was clearly aroused by you and your body, it was underwhelming. It wasn't enough.

“Joel,” you whispered, running your fingers through his hair. Grinding your hips back, it was useless. With an almost frustrated sigh, you pat his side and shake your head. “Joel, stop.”

His body slowed against yours. He leaned back, his cock slipping out of you in the process. “What's wrong?” he asked, letting out a breath as he held your waist and kissed your neck. “What happened?”

You shook your head, turning around fully to face him. “This isn't working,” you sighed, sitting back on the bed. He sat across from you, reaching out and grabbing your hand.

“Somethin’ wrong?” he asked, propping his elbow on his knee.

“Not you,” you shook your head. “Something’s just off.”

He hummed, “You wanna stop?”

You shook your head, standing on your knees and placing your hands on his bare chest. You smoothed your hands along the length of his chest, smiling sweetly at him. “Of course not.” You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pulling him close. You kissed him, a close and gentle kiss lingering with an underlying lust. His hands found your waist, holding you against him.

He sat up, kissing you back just as much. Pressing your bodies together was nice, and you shuddered as you kept kissing him. His large hand flattened against your back. You pulled back just enough to speak, your lips brushing as you did.

“Let's try something different, yeah?”

He nodded, “Whatever you want.”

You held him closer by his shoulders and leaned back so you laid on the bed. He followed you, his hand falling to your thigh. You wrapped a leg around his waist. As you felt his cock slipping between your folds, you reached a hand down to take it.

Joel reached his hand to yours as he felt you pulling at his condom. “What are you doing?” he asked, surprised as he furrowed his brows.

“One of my clients supplies my pills as payment. The condoms are really just a courtesy.” You shrugged, your lips ghosting over his but waiting for his confirmation before you continued. “If you wanna keep it…”

He let go of your hand, and you smiled as you finished taking it off. “If you're sure,” he shrugged.

You discarded it as you wrapped both legs around his waist. He pumped his cock a few times before he was lined up with you again.

You stifled a moan as he entered you, stretching you again as he pushed in all the way. You both sighed into the other's mouth, feeling the pleasure raise goosebumps on your arms and send a shiver up your spine.

He pulled out of you, thrusting back in as you laid your head back and moaned gently. His lips pressed up under your jaw as he kept rocking into you, his hips thrusting steadily as he built a pace. You moaned at the graze of his teeth and the kiss of his lips.

It was different this time. You felt closer, your legs wrapped around his hips and your arms on his shoulders. The drag of his cock inside of you blossomed as the feeling spread through you. “That’s better, isn’t it?” he breathed into your ear.

You nodded, melting against him. You tightened your legs around him to bring him in closer as he ground his hips against you. You moaned his name, the feeling of his cock pressing inside of you. You relished the closeness, the intimacy. You held him close, just as he held you, grinding your hips up to meet his thrusts.

You clenched around him, moaning as he thrust into you and gasping a little when he pressed his hips into you deep enough. “Joel,” you moaned. “Fuck, that’s good.”

His nose bumped yours as he nodded, kissing you again with the same desperation he thrust into you with. “Good,” he said. “So nice and fuckin’ tight for me, sweetheart.”

“You’re also just–” you were cut off as your breath hitched, “–big.” He chuckled.

He pulled back to look at you, his lips parted as he took in the sight of you, your face scrunched in pleasure, your lips parted with bated breath. You cursed gently, moaning and gasping and mumbling his name. He couldn’t resist the urge to kiss you again.

When you felt his calloused thumb press against your clit, your back arched into him. “Fuck,” you cursed, leaning into him as you moaned. This was much better, you wrapped up in him, him pressed up close to you. You moaned into his kiss and bathed in the pleasure dripping in your bones.

Short spasms shot through you as he circled your clit. His free hand held you steady as he did. “That feel good, baby? You like bein’ played with like this?”

You nodded. “Yes, Joel.”

“I bet you do,” he said breathlessly, a rough thrust pulling you closer to an orgasm as the pleasure shocked through your body.

“Joel,” you moaned. “Joel, I’m gonna cum.”

“You’re gonna cum?” he repeated, circling your clit a little faster. His thrust became a little rougher, deviating from the slow and measured pace he’d picked up as his own release taunts him.  “Go on, then. Cum on my cock, baby.”

You squeezed him, sucking him into you as you enjoyed the drag of him, hot and thick. He felt so good, buried inside you like this as he just kept rocking his hips in and out and in and out. You felt the pleasure rising within you, taking you higher and higher and higher until you couldn't go any further.

You gasped as your orgasm hit you, drenching your mind with the kind of bliss that fills you up, blossoms through your body like a wave rolling on. Joel’s sloppy thrusts faltered some more at the way you fluttered around his cock, gushing around him and sucking him in.

“Joel!” you exclaimed, rocking your hips up into him as you yearned to keep him buried inside you. “Fuck,” you moaned. “Cum in me. Please, cum inside of me.”

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, breaking off into a moan. He held you still, still stimulating your pulsing clit as he reached his own peak. He buried his cock deep, grinding as he spilled inside of you. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned as you milked his cock.

You both sat there, breathing each other’s air as the crashing waves turned to a gentle swell. He ground inside of you a couple of times, pulling tiny whimpers from you before he pulled out. You let out a heavy sigh at the feeling of being emptied out like that.

He petted your hair briefly, leaning forward to kiss you again, a nice and long kiss that lasted longer than it probably should have. You let your legs fall from his waist, but kept your arms right where they were. If he broke away from you for even a moment, you felt like you’d sink into the earth and die.

When he pulled away from the kiss, you brought him right back down. You were addicted to the taste of him, to the feel of him. You were addicted to Joel Miller. No matter how many clients you took, no matter how many men (or women) you fucked, you would always come back to him.

You laid there for a little while longer before finally, regrettably, letting him go. He stood from the bed, stretching his tight muscles briefly, before walking out of the room. You laid back on the bed, breathing and listening to the steps of his feet, felt the warmth of his cum still stuffed inside of you, smelled the scent of sweat and sex in the air.

Joel came back a moment later with an old (clean) cloth in his hand. You held your hand out for it, but he swatted it away and began cleaning you up himself. You chuckled and shook your head, falling back against the bed again and deciding to just surrender to him and his chivalry.

When he finished, he picked up the clothes shed on the floor, discarded the cloth he used to clean you up with and the condom you’d done away with earlier. He cleaned up. Then he went right back to you and sat on the side of the bed, next to you, laying back with your arms under your head. His knuckles brushed your sides absently.

He sighed, looking at your tired face with his own tired eyes. “You need a place to stay tonight?” he asked gently, scratching his scalp to give him something to do.

You went to shrug and ended up stretching out, taking in a deep breath that melded into a yawn. “It’s okay,” you whispered, turning on your belly and looking up at him from your arms. “I can make it back. The guards won’t catch me.”

He raised a brow. “And if they do?”

“I’ll make them forget they caught me,” you shrugged.

He chuckled lightly. “And if they don’t fall for your charms?” You laughed. He shook his head and ran his knuckles down your spine. You shuddered and closed your eyes, feeling his touch with a sigh. “I’d feel better about you stayin’ here with me tonight.”

You reached a hand out and rested it on his thigh, looking up at him thoughtfully. “I can take care of myself, Joel.” Your words were sticky with exhaustion, mostly brought on by him caressing your spine like that. He knew all the weak points.

He shrugged. “Too bad. You’re stayin’ here tonight. I don’t want you out in the cold ‘n’ dark. You could get hurt, or worse. I ain’t riskin’ it, and I’d rather have you here anyway.”

His words touched you more than they should have. You just nodded, giving into him like you feel you always do. “Okay,” you whispered.

He nodded, speaking just as gently. “Okay.”

He looked at you a little longer before standing, making his way to his coat on a char in the corner of the room. He dug in the pocket and started pulling out his ration cards. Flipping through them, he asked, “How much do I owe you? I’ll give you extra ‘cause of the marks.”

You just shook your head. “Put your cards away, Joel.”

He looked up at you, pausing. “You want ‘em in the mornin’?”

You shook your head again. “You don’t have to pay me,” you told him.

“I ain’t doin’ that to you–”

“Put your cards away, Joel.” Your voice held a little more bravado that time as you leaned up onto your elbows. He let his arms fall to his sides. You gave him a gentle look, softening your voice one more as you smiled. “I don’t come to you for the money.”

He considered you, thinking to himself for a long, hard minute. Then, with a defeated sigh to hide the warmth in his chest, he put his ration cards down and started walking over to you again. He picked up the covers, and you moved as he did so.

He laid back in the bed, taking his spot next to you as he laid back. You smiled as you snuggled up into his side, laying your head on his warm chest. He wrapped an arm around you and pulled you close. It was almost laughable, this position—seeing a hard and intimidating man like Joel Miller snuggling up to a girl like some guy with the countenance of a teddy. You laid next to him and let the fatigue take you, cozying up to him like you were made for his embrace.

Even though the world was ending, you were safe with Joel inside these walls, warm and content with him as the cold and brutal earth outside showed the first hint of a Christmas night with the falling of snow.

Pedro Pascal taglist: @watercolorskyy @papichulo120627 @kmc1989 @the-nerdy-goddess @minigirl87 @notzammm @anotherblackreader Tag yourself here...

[anitalenia]

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒔 ₊˚⊹♡

⋆˙⟡♡ SYNOPSIS ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑡𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑓, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙 𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑡𝑦. ℎ𝑒 𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑠 ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑖𝑛… 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑤 ℎ𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛’𝑡. 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

╰✦･ﾟ✵ 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆: how he acted 𓂃⊹ the beginning of how it started. a part detailing how Batman initially treated you and handled the relationship.

╰✦･ﾟ✵ 𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏: how it happened 𓂃⊹ how Batman fell in love with you and all the things that happened leading up to it. all the signs and actions that made him love you.

╰✦･ﾟ✵ 𝒄𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒙: how it was 𓂃⊹ how Batman handled the reality of being in love with you and all the things he did to try and hide from it. better yet, his confession.

╰✦･ﾟ✵ 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈: how it all fell together 𓂃⊹ yours and Bruce’s relationship and how he was with you. some relationship headcanons for fun.

⋆˙⟡♡ PAIRING ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ battinson x fem!reader

⋆˙⟡♡ CONTENT INCLUDES ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ mentions of sex, mentions of fighting and threatening, rough kissing, mentions of sad!Bruce / undertones of depression, mentions of alcohol & insomnia, bad words, sweet kisses, tears, hair pulling, love confessions, not really a whole lot of sexiness just headcanons mostly

⋆˙⟡♡ WARNINGS ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ mature content, emotionally tortured Bruce Wayne, maybe not my best story telling :(, mentions of blood and fighting cuz this is Batman, alcoholism

⋆˙⟡♡ AUTHORS NOTE ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ thanks to @diavolosbaby for requesting this!! Hope you enjoy and it lives up to your standards 🩷

OTHER LINKS ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ 𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒎𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 | 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

𝓫𝓪𝓽𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓼𝓸𝓷 ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ He told you what this was before he even started it. Told you this was strictly business, no feelings involved; you knew who he was during a chance encounter and you were the only one he could really come to after that. It was simple, straight forward; you needed his dick and he needed your pussy.

╰✦･ﾟ✵ 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆: how he acted 𓂃⊹

⋆˙⟡♡ Bruce came to you a lot, which was a little odd compared to how you perceived him to be. You thought he was a very busy man, always fighting crime or hiding away in his mansion, always too busy to bother with someone as unimportant as you. But no, you couldn’t have been more wrong. He was there at least three times a week, standing by your window in that black suit of his with his cape blowing with the wind, waiting for you.

⋆˙⟡♡ He was always quiet, head filled with whatever torturous pain lingered in the shadows of his mind, brimming with the secrets he never told you and you never asked for. He never spoke, unless it was a command spoken in a gentle gruffness. He never smiled, tried not to grunt or make too much noise, but some nights he couldn’t contain himself and the sounds just escaped him. Those were the nights he was particularly frustrated.

⋆˙⟡♡ He never let you take off his mask at first, he’d leave it on and you were left grasping at leather and air. He didn’t like affection, having you touch his scars and his body, it was too vulnerable, too intimate, for his liking. So, naturally, he didn’t stay to cuddle afterwards. The business was over, your job was done, he’d slip out the window as you’d bask in the aftershocks.

⋆˙⟡♡ His heart was cold but his body was warm, always warm. He was like a furnace when he’d be flat against you, fucking into you with his head in your neck and his hands gripping your jaw, your waist, your thighs. You’d always get so hot, craving his warmth like a bug to a bonfire.

⋆˙⟡♡ He never bothered to ask you anything about yourself, but you had a suspicion he had to have done some research on you during those long lonely days in the darkness of his home. He was too cautious not to, too curious. And he did. He found out everything about you but didn’t share a single detail about himself. He was Bruce Wayne, rich son whose parents died by day, and then Batman, vengeance personified by night. That’s all you needed to know.

⋆˙⟡♡ Batman only came to you in the middle of the night, sometimes bloody and beaten, your fingers running over tender bruises that would make him grimace. A part of him liked the pain, figured he deserved it. Sometimes you worried for him on the nights he was particularly beaten up, but he didn’t give you time to ask questions before he was shoving you against your dresser and pressing himself against you.

⋆˙⟡♡ He didn’t like being in the light, being too seen. He liked it with all the lights off, your room glowing with the dim light of the moon and the streetlights, your face pressed into his neck or shoved into a pillow so you couldn’t look at him.

⋆˙⟡♡ In the beginning, he liked it when you just submitted to him; he mostly cared about his own pleasure at first as he told you what this was, why he was doing this. That didn’t stop him from making sure you came at least once though. He couldn’t help it, didn’t want you to feel completely used.

⋆˙⟡♡ You noticed he always had this way about him when he touched you, almost like he yearned to hold you closer but knew he shouldn’t. His hands were rough, long fingers and hot palms, lingering on your skin before he’d move them away, never touching one place too long before he’d move on. It was almost a tease.

⋆˙⟡♡ He spied on you, a lot actually, would watch you from his spot on a roof top, stare at you through your big office window. He didn’t know why, just bored and curious, he always told himself. He’d see you stress yourself out, fill out paper after paper while your boss did nothing but throw more at you. You took it anyway and Bruce was confused by why. But he never asked, didn’t want to make a connection with you and risk losing you.

⋆˙⟡♡ He remembered sneaking into your house, waiting for you, but you were late coming home from work and he wasn’t sure if he should leave or not. He felt wrong about it, but he looked through your photos and your notebooks, saw a glimpse into your real life outside of him and work and he quickly put everything back the way it was and left. He didn’t want to see, he didn’t want to see you as anything different than what he already did.

⋆˙⟡♡ He would lie to Alfred about where he was going at night, why he would be so late coming home. But Alfred knew he was lying, he wasn’t sure about what exactly, but Alfred knew Bruce would come to him in time.

⋆˙⟡♡ Bruce tried hard to keep his and yours personal lives outside of your mutual situation, he really did. He didn’t want to know you, hear you talk about your problems and your dreams and fears and learn what made you you, from your own words. He was alone and knew he was meant to be alone, planned on being alone forever. Being with him would only put you in danger, a bigger target on his back he didn’t need. It was for your own protection, for the sake of both your lives and both your hearts.

⋆˙⟡♡ He vowed to himself to keep it that way, strictly professional, a hobby almost. He really didn’t plan to fall in love, he really really didn’t…

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ Your living room was dark when you came home from work, later than usual because of your infuriating boss; he was lazy, relied on his employees to do his work while he sat in his office and ate his donuts. You hated him, loathed him, absolutely couldn’t stand him, but you understood he was just another obstacle, a milestone you needed to get through before you reached where you needed to be. So, you didn’t make a fuss, you didn’t complain, didn’t speak up. You did what you were supposed to as you were supposed to do it, just another hamster circling the wheel of business over and over until you finally got the balls to break the cycle.

Unfortunately, your ambition was almost too much for you sometimes, tonight was evidence enough.

You set your keys in the ceramic bowl by the door with a tired sigh, soft rain pattering on your windows, furniture lit up with a dim orange glow from the street lamps outside. All twisting shadows and rain drops. Your nose tickled with the scent of vanilla bean and raspberry, remembering the candle you had forgotten to blow out before you left. Oops.

Your hair was damp, gray suit littered in dark spots from the rain outside. Your limbs were sore and heavy, eyes burning and fluttering for a semblance of rest. Your heels were sore from the heels you’ve been prancing around in all day, your whole body exhausted in general. This was normal for you though, you always came home lagged and tired. You regretted being such a hard worker, but knew it would ultimately pay off in the future.

You walked to your bedroom, your heels clacking on the floor unevenly, dragging on the wooden boards as you navigated your way through the darkness. You held your purse loosely in your left hand, a shiver crawling up your spine as an unexpected gust of coolness swept up your legs and down your neck.

Your foot stuttered, lingering by the doorway in your bedroom as the rain seemed louder, less dull, wind whistling your black bed sheets. You furrowed your eyebrows at that, knowing you left your window closed before you left. Your eyes strained to see anything in the darkness as panic blared in your chest like a fire alarm, trying to make out any figure in the shadows of your room. You slowly crept forward, preparing for the worst, your exhaustion melting into hot fear that made your bones go stiff.

You swallowed, eyes immediately going to the open window to see the empty street below, the sound of a car alarm in the distance overpowering the rain that seemed to just pound harder. Your window was wide open, sheer purple curtains flapping from the breeze like a set of violet wings. Your eyes narrowed at that, hearing nothing but buzzing silence ringing in your ears. Then, it just hit you.

You couldn’t describe it exactly, but you felt a sensation of calmness wash over you as you let out a hefty breath, fear gradually melting away as your body relaxed and hands unclenched. It was like your body knew it wasn’t in any real danger, that there was nothing lurking in the shadows besides what was supposed to be. This was all too familiar to you; a setting you’ve come home to many times before. The open window, the darkness, the buzzing calm.

You felt excitement spark through you in recognition as you felt your neck tingle, a barely there whisper of a breath wash over your neck and tickle your hair.

You felt a smile quirk on your lips, turning around slowly, sucking in a sharp breath when you were met with the large bulking figure of the man in black standing just an inch away from you, a shadow hiding in shadow as he stared down at you with those black soulless eyes. He was big, a thing you liked about him, dirt encrusted on his suit and so out of place in the cozy warmth of your home. He was big and bulky, comically large for your small bedroom.

You looked back up at him, your purse dropping to the floor as instinctual arousal flooded your belly at just the mere sight of him. You couldn’t help it, your body knew what he was capable of and yearned for it. Your throat became dry, you swallowed once more as his eyes, those dark blue gems of his, looked over your face with a certain pained look in them, calculating and tortured, covered in black face paint that hid the beauty of his raw skin.

His pink lips were set in a firm frown, a faint scratch on his chin, breaths slow and even, calm. That damned mask of his covered his face, the fluffiness of his brown hair you seldom ever felt run through your finger tips. He always wore this expression, always so serious and somber like he was going through a dreadful ordeal every second he continued to live. You were always curious as to why, but knew he’d never answer, nor appreciate your nosiness.

You let your thoughts drift off, looking back up at him with a false confidence.

“I didn’t know you were coming tonight…” You mumbled quietly, losing any conviction in your voice as he took a small step forward, closer to you, his heavy boot thudding on your floor. You took a small step back, crumbling under him way too easily, as always. He always loved to completely invade your space, but never let you do the same to him.

You looked up at him, he looked down at you, breaths mingling together as a dark look washed over his oceanic eyes, his strong jaw clenching as he ran his eyes over your face like this was the first time he’d ever seen you. You felt your thighs tighten at the look in them, at the way he looked at you.

You were being honest though, you didn’t expect him tonight. You had seen him two nights ago, expecting not to see him for another few weeks at least.

“Shhh…” He shushed you gently, voice gravelly but gentle, tired but awake, undertones of desire.

He leaned down towards you and you found yourself holding your own arms back from wrapping around him and taking him already, just as he always took you. His gloved hands reached for the edge of the dresser behind you, trapping you between his strong arms and chest, completely invading your senses as your eyes looked into his, almost begging. His cape flowed down his shoulders and shrouded around you both until all you could see was black, the heady smell of smoke and rain tickling your nose, captivating.

He pressed himself against you, a brick wall, the mahogany’s edge digging into your lower back as your breath stuttered. You found yourself looking at his lips, his nose, his eyes, his closeness overwhelming you as you couldn’t figure out where to look, your skin feeling hot and stuffy, the confidence you had previously now a pile on the floor as your stomach twisted.

You could see the rain on his black suit, dripping down all his gear and heavy armor he wore and down to his waist, some falling to the floor in soft drips. You licked your lips, minding the mess, feeling lightheaded and fluttery as you looked back up at him with sparkling eyes.

He cocked his head at you, dark eyes running over your lips before looking back into your own, “Take your hair down.”

He always used such a gentle, tired voice, like he didn’t want to scare you and he could never find enough sleep, but the demand was obvious in his tone, eyes dark and predatory as they stared down at you intently. He didn’t need anymore command, knowing you’d do as he said just like you always did.

You didn’t dare disobey, sensing his need sizzling in the air just as strong as your shared want. You managed eye contact as you brought a hand up to the back of your head, taking out the black hair clip holding your hair together, the rain pattering on your roof almost too loud in your ears. He stared as your hair fell down your shoulders, cascading down your back in silky waves and framing your face. You swallowed, feeling the need to clear your throat as you put a hand through your hair and brushed it over your shoulder.

You saw his eyes run over your hair, the way it fell around your cheeks, his jaw clenching once more. He brought a hand up, big and heavy, running your locks through his fingers, imagining the softness of it as the sweet smell of apricot and citrus filled his nose, the signature flavor of your favorite shampoo.

You sighed at the pleasurable sensation on your scalp, head titling back as your eyes drooped, your hair clip falling to the ground noisily as you brought your hands up and grabbed his forearms. You might’ve been a little dramatic at just a few touches, but you were so needy, needy for this dangerous man you knew absolutely nothing about besides the obvious. He was a stranger in a suit, a stranger to you, but he somehow knew how to touch you better than any man you’ve ever been with.

He took note of your reaction, his own body twitching to touch you as he noticed the look in your eyes. He felt an intense need spark through him, his hand grabbing a handful of your hair and pulling your head back. He remained calm looking, but his eyes gave it all away.

Your head was yanked back, a pleasurable gasp leaving your lips as you squeezed his arms, looking up at him with your lips parted and breaths heavy. Your head stung, hair being pulled on in just the right way that had a familiar wetness pooling between your thighs, your body buzzing alive with feeling.

Bruce looked down at you, pressing the broadness of himself against you even harder, your breasts smushed against his suit, completely at his mercy. He looked down at you with an unraveled look in his eyes as he tilted your head up towards him.

He kissed you then, rough and hot, groaning into your mouth as his tongue played with yours, teeth clashing and breaths hot against each other. You couldn’t help but moan against him as he finally granted you what you’ve been wanting for so long now, scalp burning from his hold on your hair as your hands flew up and gripped at the leather of his mask, arms wrapped around his neck.

He was forceful and rough, his other hand crawling around your waist and lifting you off the ground with such ease it almost caught you off guard. You gasped into his mouth, his hand tightening on the hold in your hair as you grimaced at the pain.

You didn’t break the kiss, stuck on him as your heels fell off your feet and hit the floor. In two big strides you were suddenly lied flat on your bouncy mattress with Batman himself between your thighs, still holding your waist and head against him as he kissed you fervently.

Your skirt slid down around your thighs as you wrapped your legs around him, pressing him harder into you as all you wanted was him, him everywhere and him all over you. You moaned against him, helpless and desperate, as the ridges in his suit dug into your stomach, his lips movingly hotly against yours as he grunted against you. His cape flowed around you, thick and smooth, trapping you underneath until all you could see was blackness, unable to discern the space between his body and yours.

You knew this was going to be quick; he was too rough, too impatient and needy. It must’ve been a bad night for him, but you didn’t pry no matter how much you wanted to, no matter how much the questions bubbled in your throat and ached in your chest you knew you were in no place to ask. A part of you liked it that way, liked that this was strictly this. You liked that you didn’t have to answer to him, that you weren’t bound to him and he wasn’t to you. It was just simple, secrecy for a night of shameless lust-filled sex in return.

You both got what you wanted and that was enough. You appreciated that he didn’t go beyond that just as you didn’t. Outside of this room he was Batman, a dangerous vigilante some trusted and some hated, he was Bruce Wayne, an orphan child with more money and pain than he needed. But in the shadow of your bedroom, under the covers with you, there was no identity, no obligation, just two strangers seeking each other out in search of the one thing they both wanted, blessed with none of the other drama that followed a relationship.

With Bruce on top of you in this very moment, his hands gripping your body for no reason other than pleasure, you knew he would be gone before the night was over, and you’d be alone in your bed with bite marks and handprints on your skin to serve as a reminder of the man who gave them to you. You knew he would silently leave, slip away when he thought you were sleeping, you knew he wouldn’t talk or tell you any of his problems. He’d give you what you wanted and then slip into the shadows… you had to admit, It was the most perfect arrangement.

╰✦･ﾟ✵ 𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏: how it happened 𓂃⊹

⋆˙⟡♡ Batman didn’t plan on ever falling in love with you, but when he did, it had happened after a couple of months of doing what he did with you. But before he did, things had been going so well. You never intervened in his life and he never intervened in yours. Just as he expected, just as he preferred. It had been perfect, but somewhere along the way he had gotten too involved, started to trust you without even realizing it.

⋆˙⟡♡ At first, it started with him staying in your bed longer than he used to. You didn’t argue, comfortable with the heat his body gave you in the coldness of the night. He found himself dozing off after you would, your fluffy blanket soft on his skin and the mattress like a cloud for his broken body. He’d always be gone before you woke up though. You didn’t want to say anything about his little sleepovers, scared you’ll frighten him and he’ll stop. So you let him do as he pleased, enjoying his company albeit his silence.

⋆˙⟡♡ He never cuddled with you though, ever (don’t worry, he lets that slip too). Always stiff like a board on his side of the bed, expression crumbled with pain and peace. Sometimes he’d flinch, nightmares you never questioned him about but always noticed. Still, he’d wake up after about an hour, slip out your window, but not before giving you one last look, seeing how the moon shined down on your soft skin…

⋆˙⟡♡ Then, it was following you home after work, making sure you got home safe on those dark nights where it seemed like every shadow was following you. He’d be on the rooftops, claiming he was just curious and bored, cape flapping in the wind, when in reality he just needed to make sure you got home safely.

⋆˙⟡♡ You didn’t know, but he was watching you much more than you’d ever suspect. He watched your home on the nights Gotham was quiet, his body knowing you were so close but oh so far. He thought about you when he wasn’t thinking about you, thought about the routine he had found in you, the unfamiliar closeness, the comfort he had found between your body and your bed sheets.

⋆˙⟡♡ He started kissing you more, flinching less when your fingers would graze his back. He let you look at him, look deep into his eyes when he was inside you, have your hands touching his face and his back without the security of his suit to hide him. You loved when he did that, feeling him under your hands, skin to skin as it should be.

⋆˙⟡♡ He let you see his scars in the light, didn’t care when he took off his suit and your bathroom light was on, shining down on his body and the sculpted muscle of it. He had learned you wouldn’t judge him, but he was still hesitant, suffering inside when he looked down at the floor as you gazed at him in awe… you thought he was so beautiful.

⋆˙⟡♡ He would watch you when you worked, watch as your boss would storm in and demand more from you. Bruce didn’t like that, would clench his fist and grind his teeth when you’d get scolded like a child, told to work harder when all you did was work. He’d have to control himself when your boss would walk past him on his way home every night.

⋆˙⟡♡ He started conversing with you more, holding you against his chest when you two were done. He’d ask you profound questions as you two stared up at the ceiling, you’d tell him your answer. He didn’t talk a lot, just liked to listen. It would be intimate, almost romantic. He’d listen to what you’d have to say and he’d learn, learn more about who you were, where you came from, and he’d find himself not wanting to leave, a dull ache in his chest every time you’d fall asleep and he’d have to slip out your fire escape.

⋆˙⟡♡ He never admitted it to himself, but he started to look forward to seeing you, found comfort in your small bedroom and the absence of life’s problems that came with it. He started to enjoy the smell of vanilla bean and raspberry from those candles you always forgot to blow out before work. He started to pick up on your little quirks.

⋆˙⟡♡ While gradually falling in love with you, Bruce would deny, deny, deny. He acknowledged that he was starting to feel things he didn’t want to, and he’d be incredibly disturbed and moody, more than usual. Alfred would even be a little peeved with him.

⋆˙⟡♡ Bruce would find himself asking you how work was. He would be concerned about the bags under your eyes and the wrinkles in your clothes, not outright concerned but he couldn’t stop himself from asking. He wanted to hear your voice.

⋆˙⟡♡ He would be very hesitant around you, scared he was doing too much when he’d touch you now. It wasn’t like before, when he would just grab and control. Now he was really touching you, trying to feel you, every dip and curve of your skin under his fingertips.

⋆˙⟡♡ He had gotten way too comfortable with you now, even he knew that. He relied on you and the comfort you gave, a feeling he’d been without for so long. He was like a cold soul lost in the woods, searching for something, anything, hollow, a warm body to bring him back. He found that with you, and he didn’t even realize it until he started to feel pain when he wasn’t around you, a pain in his chest like a knife was stabbing into his heart. He missed you but he didn’t want to…

⋆˙⟡♡ He stared at your face a lot, too intensely for your liking, thoughts behind those dark eyes of his he’d never tell you about if you confronted him about it. He just liked to look at you, watch you giggle and smile. He’d do it without realizing how intimidated it made you feel, how you’d have to blush and look away, pretend you didn’t notice. He just liked to look at you, soak in your expressions before he’d leave again.

⋆˙⟡♡ The signs were all there when you thought about it. The lingering touches, the admiring stares, the countless nights he’d watch over you. He felt like a creep, following you around so much, but he couldn’t help it. You were a pleasant distraction and he was a fool, easily succumbing to those feelings he had for you without even knowing it. They had been growing inside of him like a blooming vine… they started out small but grew into so much more, and he ignored it, until he just couldn’t take it anymore…

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ It was a quiet night in September, it had been raining for days and the coolness of autumn had just started to blow into the city. The trees danced with orange and red leaves, strewn all over the road and sidewalks, getting stuck under peoples rain boots and car tires. Your window was cracked, letting a cool breeze into your room that made you shiver, the savory smell of someone’s cooking wafting into your noses from the apartments across the way. You looked at your tv, black screen shut off but reflecting the blurred forms of your mingled bodies on your bed, arm outstretched on Bruce’s stomach, head lying on his chest. You could hear his heart, slow and calm just as he always was, pumping in your ear and lulling you to sleep.

You wanted to stay awake though, listening to the sounds of cars driving in rain puddles and horns honking, the occasional laughter of a passerby. A candle was lit on your dresser across the room, with the faint scent of vanilla bean and raspberry in the air just as Bruce liked. Your legs were a little sore, thighs tender from where Bruce had gripped them so hard, lips puffy from where Bruce had kissed them so much. You felt satisfied, pleasant even, comforted by his presence, the knowledge of his identity absent in your mind as you didn’t register him as a millionaire, or as a crime fighting vigilante, you never really did.

He was neither of those things to you. He was… he was Bruce, just Bruce, your Bruce. Not Bruce Wayne or Batman, and that was enough for you. You took him as he is not as he was, never questioned him about his parents or how Batman was even created. He appreciated that, didn’t like answering questions about himself he wasn’t comfortable with. He was comfortable with silence, but he didn’t mind hearing you.

He was awake too, didn’t want to fall asleep before you, something in his mind telling him he should leave already, not sink into the mattress any further and let himself relish in your warmth. He had responsibilities, duties, people he needed to save and crime he needed to stop. It was Gotham, something was always wrong and someone always needed help. But he couldn’t think about any of that stuff around you, his thoughts always either empty or crowded with your smile.

His suit was a mess on the floor, scrambled just like his mind, bat mask clear as day in his vision, lit up in a red glimmer from the light outside. It stared at him with its blank eyes, watching, the buzzing of a neon light loud in his ears. It’s like it was mocking him, patronizing him. He frowned at it, turning his head slightly away from it, like it was a reminder of what his true purpose was, where he should really be this late other than here in your arms. He knew he should go, felt his arm twitch like he was about to get up and unwind from you.

“Don’t you have somewhere you should be? Or are you gonna stay?” You mumbled sleepily, voice so quiet and sweet he almost didn’t hear it.

His eyes drifted to you, rubbing his fingertips on your rib cage and savoring the feeling of your smooth skin underneath him, against him. You were so unblemished, unlike him. A few scratches and scars here and there that held stories and memories, none like his. His were ridged and pale, covered his skin, they held memories but none of them good. Memories that served as reminders of why this was so wrong, of who he really was and who he needed to get back to once he left these four walls.

He thought about it for a minute, frowning at the ceiling fan.

Did he have somewhere to be? Yes, yes he did. He always had somewhere to be, that was the problem. He couldn’t be everywhere at once, he could be somewhere else, but he was here instead. He was here with you, here with you. He had somewhere to be, could be anywhere else, but he was here. Everyone always expected him to be where they were, expected him to save everyone. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t save everyone and he couldn’t be everywhere they wanted him to be. He was with you but he shouldn’t be. Guilt settled in his gut as he swallowed, hands itching like it was wrong to touch you.

His eyes, dark and somber like storm clouds, especially just as captivating, looked over your frazzled hair like he could see your face, knowing how exhausted you must’ve been from work and sex, how it was so late already and how you’d have to leave so early. Your breathing was slow and even, warm breath brushing over his chest from your parted pink lips, all cues of how you’ve already fallen asleep. He thought about your question, yes, yes he had somewhere he needed to be, he always did.

He didn’t bother speaking, just turned his head back and looked at the ceiling as his arm held you just a little tighter against him, hearing the splash of a car racing through water from somewhere outside.

He’ll stay for a little while.

╰✦･ﾟ✵ 𝒄𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒙: how it was 𓂃⊹

⋆˙⟡♡ When he realized he was in love with you he left, he left for a long time. He refused to let those feelings blossom into anything more, grow into something more… dangerous. Love was dangerous, he was dangerous. He isolated himself from you, in a worse mood than usual. Alfred had picked up on it, knowing there was more going on than Bruce wanted to say. You couldn’t help the disappointment as the days turned into weeks, weeks of hope being crushed on with every night he wasn’t there.

⋆˙⟡♡ He told himself it was for the best, heartbreak was something you could heal from, death was something you’d never come back from. With his life, you would die. He couldn’t lose anyone else, he couldn’t. He couldn’t subject you to that same fate his parents had.

⋆˙⟡♡ Still, he couldn’t stop himself from watching you when you’d walk home, still sitting outside your job, your home, watching you from a distance to make sure you’d be alright. He couldn’t sleep if he didn’t.

⋆˙⟡♡ He couldn’t sleep anyway. Eyes a dark purple and the ache in his chest getting so much worse. It was because of you he couldn’t sleep, bed empty and cold without you, mattress hard and firm unlike yours. His nightmares consisted of your death and his inability to save you. He was better off seeing nothing with his eyes open than your blood with his eyes closed.

⋆˙⟡♡ Alfred was concerned. Confronted his Master Bruce during breakfast when Bruce was silent and gloomy. Yes, Alfred knew he would confess eventually, just needed a little shove. “I can’t stop thinking about her, Alfred.”

⋆˙⟡♡ You couldn’t stop thinking about him either… work was slow and long, your thoughts muddled together as you couldn’t stop racking your brain for a reason, any reason, as to why, why he left. Did you do something wrong?

⋆˙⟡♡ You didn’t want to say you missed him, you didn’t want to admit that to yourself. You felt almost stupid, like he had used you and discarded you, but wasn’t that the whole point? You were a mess, confused and feeling a different kind of lonely only a sad heart could bring you. You felt abandoned.

⋆˙⟡♡ Bruce would hide up in his room and think, read books but not pay attention to the words. Alfred would bring him his tea and advice whenever he could, but it seemed nothing could cheer him up. Bruce felt a different kind of loneliness now than he had his whole life. When his parents died they were taken away from him, he didn’t choose to give them up like he did you. He felt like he had lost yet another person.

⋆˙⟡♡ He really thought about moving on from you, a part of him arguing thats what was best for you. But the thought of fully giving you up to anybody else angered him. You weren’t his but you’d always been in some way, his. He yearned to be near you again, an itch in the back of his mind only you could scratch.

⋆˙⟡♡ He drunk, a lot. Spent his free time as Bruce Wayne drowning in whiskey and scotch, heavy liquor bottles empty and discarded on the floor. He almost felt like crying, but he’d just pass out on his bed, too drunk to crawl under the covers. Sometimes he’d pass out in the common room, leg hanging off the couch and hair unraveled, Alfred cleaning up the mess and putting a blanket over him.

⋆˙⟡♡ He drowned himself in his work to distract from you. He was frustrated, angry, weeks having gone by without you having set him on edge. He was beating petty criminals to a bloody pulp, sending them to Gordon barely conscious. He needed to take his anger out on something, anything. Alfred would just sigh when a bloody Bruce would storm past him, ensuring his suit was cleaned before the next day.

⋆˙⟡♡ It was a late Friday night when Bruce let his anger take control of him. It was some petty thief thinking he’d run off with the bags of cash he’d stolen. Bruce didn’t let him speak, anger taking over him like thick ropes of lava in his blood, anger that had festered in his black heart for weeks, simmering under his skin waiting for the moment it could boil over.

⋆˙⟡♡ He was bloody and dirty when he came to you in a blur of anger and love, adrenaline running through him with a determination boiling in his bones.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ It was a dark cloudy night when you saw Bruce standing outside your window; you lay in bed, cozy and under the covers, bathed in the dim golden light of your lamp. You were pretending to read a book you’ve meant to finish with a frown on your face, mind full of memories and the fruitless desire to have it all back. It was a melancholic pain that throbbed under your skin, sharp and persistent like a plant rash, the memory of forgotten things plaguing your mind and wishing it could just all go back to the way it was.

You almost didn’t see him if it wasn’t for the thud on your fire escape; you jumped and the book flew to the floor with a thud. Your eyes widened and you felt a wave of excitement and relief flourish through your veins as you scrambled off your bed. You couldn’t believe it, heart pounding as you rushed over to your window and swung it open like an eager baker opening an oven door. It was a big window, one with a giant view of the street below and the park across the ways, big enough to fit a grown man in a heavy suit.

Your hands were almost frantic, eyes wide in disbelief to just see him standing there in all his glory, back to you like he used to be all those weeks ago before he left, left you, left you behind. The memory of his loss and betrayal flashed back like a pull to reality, all those sad feelings you pushed away coming full frontal in your head like a tidal wave in your fragile brain.

Bruce’s heavy stare burned through you and it was like you could feel it on your skin, like a million microscopic bugs crawling all over you, your body buzzing with electricity and your hands almost shaking. You felt a flurry of difficult emotions coursing through you that all muddled together in one big mess in your head; anger and happiness, relief and irritation. You couldn’t pinpoint on one, feeling everything all at once when you opened your window and Batman was stood on the other side of you in all his threatening grandness.

You hated that he looked so good despite the grime.

You were left stunned as all you could do was stare at him. This was a moment you’ve only dreamt about, wished for for days and countless weeks, fantasized about for hours on end. How you would react, what you would say, how it would all go… and especially how he’d apologize on hand and knee for you, atone for his sins and plead for your pardon. It was all meticulously planned and carefully thought out, and now here it was, the moment you’ve been waiting for for so long; it was finally here, staring at you in the face. And it was so funny how all those ideas and all that confidence you had just seemed to vanish now that it was time to confront them; you were frozen as you stared back at him, unsure of what to do next and too tongue tied to formulate a thought. All that planning, pointless in the face of its precipitant.

Bruce stared back at you longingly and painfully, breaths hard and heavy and knuckles bruised and sore. His eyes were smeared in that black paint he always used, thick with an unspoken emotional torture, like he was being tormented in his own mind at the mere sight of you. He was in a way; you were his reminder of why he left, the catalyst of his destruction but at the same time his anecdote. It was all very confusing and contradictory; all he could understand was that it pained him to look at you, but he couldn’t find it in himself to look away.

Blood was splattered over his cheeks and suit, his heart pumping in his ears as he looked you over, putting all the pieces of you back in his mind; from your face, to your pink pajamas, to the black socks on your feet, then back to your cautious eyes. You were all right, you were okay and he was so relieved. He felt a weight drop from his chest, knowing you were in no certain danger but he always worried for you if he couldn’t see you, a consequence of everyone he cared for always getting hurt some way or another. Bruce felt what he could only describe as happiness, a feeling he only got with you, hit him full on like a train, smacking into his heart as his throat closed up.

He had missed you.

He had missed you a lot, more than he ever wanted to admit, but he would gladly do so for you. He had missed your pretty eyes and sweet voice, soft hands and smooth skin, and your voice, calming and rich like honeyed pastries. You were beautiful to him, so beautiful, and he couldn’t believe he had shown up here once more, that he would risk ever putting it in danger. But he had to come, he couldn’t take it anymore… and if his love for you was that perilous then his soul be damned.

He noticed the subtle way your face crumbled as your initial excitement died down, settled into pain and sadness and concern; your eyes running over the blood on him, wondering if it was his, really looking at him and realizing that he was really here, back on your fire escape. He couldn’t believe it himself, but here he was and he didn’t plan on leaving, not unless you ordered him to. You were nervous, eager to touch him, feel the suit under your palms like you used to, but you were also too stubborn to welcome him back into your home so easily, hurt once and not wanting to be hurt again. He understood that notion all too well.

Bruce felt an unfamiliar form of courage jolting through him, a type of courage so different from the one he used to fight criminals every night. This was a type of boldness that made him just want to grab your face and kiss you, hard, make up for all the lost time between you and spill all his confessions in the space between his lips and yours, make you taste the apology on his tongue. All he wanted was to be here again, here in your room; his nose was already filling up with the smell of vanilla bean and raspberry, his muscles relaxing instinctively at the sweet smell of it, knowing he was safe here. He wanted so badly to be here again, but now that he was he didn’t know what to do.

Bruce admitted that he was a little disappointed at your reaction to him, that you didn’t welcome him back in with open arms and gleeful smiles, kiss him and hug him and show him how much you missed him. But he knew that was too optimistic. He knew your antipathy was to be expected; he could only imagine the amount of hurt he’d put you through if it was anything compared to his own. He could only imagine how many nights you came home hoping he was there, waiting for you like he always did, how many days you kept looking at the clock, wishing it would hurry up and you could just go home already, how many days you hoped it would be different from the one before, how much hope he must’ve killed.

He felt horrible, regret and guilt spinning in his stomach as his muscles twitched, itching to touch you again; you were a drug coursing through his veins, and after two months of withdrawal he could say he was positively hooked once more. But, he knew he couldn’t just grab whatever part of you he liked like a greedy child in a toy store. He needed patience, he needed to wait for you to warm up to him on your own terms, no matter how long that took.

So, Bruce just stood on your fire escape with his hands holding the frame of the wall, blood and vanilla heavy on his nose as he stared at you, breathing hard but calm, waiting for you to make a move, any move or semblance of invitation.

Your eyes ran over the blood on him, the awkward silence deafening with all the unspoken words and yearning you both wanted so badly to address. Your eyes narrowed at the red spots and stripes on his suit and face, dripping off his gloves, worry shooting through your buzzing veins. You took a step back away from him in discontent, curious as to why he has suddenly appeared after so long away, eyes looking him over like the situation has really dawned on you. It had been weeks, two months even, since you’ve seen him, seen his black eyes and pointed ears, seen the vague Batman symbol on the chest piece of his suit.

Memories were coming back wave after wave at the sight of him, ones that wanted you to embrace him, ones that were gradually persuading you to give up this act and just be thankful he was here again, back to you. But you knew better than that, knew better than to just simply overlook a mistake as monumental as the one he made. You needed to have some damn pride.

Despite that…

Were you happy to see him? Yes, yes you really really were. You wanted him to just take off his mask and kiss you already, hell, you didn’t care if he left it on because you just wanted him to kiss you again. You wanted to feel his big arms around you once more and feel his warm palms on the dip in your back. Have him lift you up and smile into his kiss and say those magical words you yearned to hear. You could try to act tough all you wanted but at the end of the day you were still just a girl, a sad girl who wanted to be held by the man she missed so much… but your anger was still so present, lingering cold in your veins and greatly overpowering any positive emotions you had.

You wanted a damn good reason for why he did what he did.

“What are you doing here, Bruce? I thought you had moved on.” You licked your dry lips, crossing your arms and glaring at him with distaste and a false sense of confidence, a faux act of strength and apathy to cover up the real pain you felt. Your tone was anything but friendly, standoffish and disinterested, conveying the anger you felt almost perfectly; if it wasn’t for the waver in your voice and the glimmer in your eye you would even believe yourself.

You frowned at him, a cruel part of you hoping he was feeling any kind of hurt, any kind of hurt like the hurt you’ve felt. But at the same time, you just wanted so badly to hear that he came back for one reason and one reason alone. You. You wanted to hear him say that he missed you dearly, that he was so sorry for what he did and that he’d never do it again. If you heard that, then maybe, just maybe, you’d forgive him. No, you definitely would.

Bruce almost flinched at your tone, but knew it was well deserved. He looked at you with guilty eyes, like he’d committed the most heinous crime (which in his mind, he did), frown deep on his lips where a cut was on his skin, swallowing down the nerves in his throat at the look in your eyes.

A string of fear curled in his chest and made him nervous, made Batman nervous, a fear of being rejected, of him telling you how he really felt and you not reciprocating it. He couldn’t bear it, the uncertainty. But he was also afraid of hurting you any more than he already has, arguing with himself that he shouldn’t have come. But he was already here and he couldn’t leave now, couldn’t disappoint you any more than he already has. He looked up at you, his chest fluttering when he looked into your eyes.

“‘Could never move on from you…” Bruce grumbled in that deep voice of his, sounding pained and earnest and genuine, pulling at your heart like a trained harpist and making your eyes burn with brimming tears. He meant it, meant it more than you knew, staring at you with so much emotion in his eyes it almost scared you to see it; it was so unlike him to be so emotional, a part of you grateful that he trusted you enough to show it.

You felt a tingle on your skin when you looked back at him, a spark of joy peeking through the dark clouds around you. I could never move on from you…

Bruce’s dark eyes flickered between yours, gauging your reactions, intense and brooding as they always were. They bore into you like he was laying your soul bare in front of him, seeing deeper inside of you than you thought was possible. It made you feel flustered and agitated at being examined so fiercely. His voice, my god his voice, so soft but so gravelly, made you flustered, especially hearing it again after so many weeks of going without it. It washed over your skin like a warm blanket and made goosebumps pop up on your arms, a chill going through your spine that made your heart spike. You were trying so hard to fight it, fight that feeling inside of you that wanted him so badly.

You almost scoffed at his proclamation, looking at him offended, almost too theatrically, too rehearsed.

“Well it seems like you did, so.” You shrugged stubbornly, not knowing what else to say, really, not wanting to speak too much or else you’re afraid he’d hear the longing stutter in your voice. You shook your head incredulously and looked at the wall besides the window, where he stood outside in the cold air still. Secretly, you wanted to bring him inside already, bring him between your arms and hold him against your chest until he was one with you, unable to leave and bound to you forever, souls entwined and breaths shared. That may be a tad dramatic, but that’s what you felt; you knew he needed to cross that barrier on his own… you also knew that the moment he stepped back into your sacred space, the moment his heavy black boot stepped onto your wooden floor, you wouldn’t be able to keep your composure anymore, and you’d collapse in his arms like a dying bride.

Obviously, that couldn’t happen. You needed resistance, strength, a reason.

You couldn’t look at him, didn’t want him to see the tears welling in your eyes and the vulnerability staining your face. It was too embarrassing and too real; you didn’t want Bruce to see how easily you got worked up because of him. You didn’t want him to see all of you just yet, wanted him to feel guilty for what he did to you. He hadn’t even said much, just a single sentence, and you were already a desperate mess hiding under a false security. It was always so easy for him to get to you and you wished you were stronger for it.

Bruce knit his eyebrows at that, subtly shaking his head with a frown as his eyes still searched for yours. He wanted you to look at him, to see the honesty in his words and the sincerity in his blue eyes. He wanted you to see that he was hurting too, just as much as you.

“I didn’t… I just needed some time away… I needed to think.” He confessed vaguely, his voice gentle like he didn’t want to spook you, quiet but just loud enough for you to hear. Bruce always treated you like you were so fragile, a slippery glass vase between his clumsy hands. He never wanted to drop you, hurt you and watch you crumble into a million pieces… but he already did, and now he was trying to glue them all back together, put you back together, but only if you’d let him.

That was something you had come to appreciate about him; his gentleness, so opposite of the image he represented, what everyone believed him to be. He wasn’t just Batman, vengeful and harsh and dangerous. He wasn’t just bloody fists and sharp edges. He was incredibly genuine and tender, complex and multilayered; he was more than the bat, the symbol, the orphan, the millionaire. He was intricately sewn together with all different threads, and over the course of the year you and Bruce shared together you’ve managed to pluck and pull them all, see the warm center inside his cold shell.

Those were sides of him only you got to see, only you got to witness, only you got the privilege to marvel at and cherish. It might have been foolish to think, and you certainly think so now, but you had thought that made you special, that you were the only one he trusted enough, cared for enough, to show that side to… that there was more affection sizzling between you than you both wanted to say… but that just made it hurt so much more when he left, it just convinced you that you were too gullible for love, too naive to tell the difference between love and infatuation. When he left, he made you feel stupid.

You furrowed your eyebrows at his response, your face twisting into an anger Bruce didn’t want to see. Your eyes flashed to him immediately, burning and piercing and blazing, his words bouncing around in your head like a twisted game of racquetball. To think? He left, for months, because he needed to think? It sounded so phony, a simple excuse to disguise the truth, a simple excuse that only angered your unspoken pain.

“To think? To think about what? You’ve been gone for weeks, Bruce! You just left, didn’t tell me anything, didn’t tell me why, but now you’re telling me it’s because you had to think? That sounds ridiculous. I think I deserve a better explanation than, you had to think.” You mocked him, scoffing in his face. You were frustrated and lonely, wanting, deserving, a better reason to justify the pain you went through when he left. You couldn’t believe he couldn’t at least grant you that, a credible reason why.

Bruce grimaced, eyes closing like the sting of your words had just stung him. He slouched, frustrated that he couldn’t seem to get the words out that he wanted to. They were stuck in his throat, itching his tongue and wanting so badly to get out, but he was mute, could only try to explain himself. Besides, there were no words to express just how sorry he was, but he knew how right you were. You were always right. You did deserve more than that, you deserved a better explanation.

Bruce swallowed down his dry throat, clenching his jaw as he looked back up at you, aching to step through the threshold of the window and grab your face between his broken hands and kiss your tears away. He felt hot coils of guilt and regret wrap around his heart and squeeze, his chest collapsing in on itself.

“I-I know how it sounds, but it’s the truth. I needed to think… and to do that I had to leave. I just needed to understand why.” He spoke raspy, voice gritted with anguish and sincerity, looking at you with such desperation it made your foot itch to step towards him, made your heart yearn to comfort him. He was downright pitiful, fingers holding onto the brick so hard it could crumble under his strength. He was slouched down, looking up at you with sunken eyes, begging and pleading without an ounce of shame.

You stared back at him, clenching your jaw so hard your teeth hurt. God, you really did just want to hold him again, kiss him again… the need was too much, burning inside you and crawling under your skin. You had your hands crossed over your chest like you were physically trying to hold yourself back, like you were trying to protect yourself against his woeful whims of persuasion.

You frowned at his statement, the rational part of your brain that was still logical and loyal to you making you want to question him more, learn more, find out more. Your shoulders slumped as you looked back at him confused, lips pulled in a frown.

“Why what? Think about what? Can you stop being so vague!” You said exasperated, wishing he would just say what he meant and stop being so damn secretive all the time. Especially now, especially here. He was the one who showed up here after all this time and now he was trying to just sneak by with it. You refused to let him, forced him to confront his own dilemma. You couldn’t see it any other way, blinded by your own rose colored rage that needed an explanation.

Bruce grit his teeth, working up the nerve to answer you as he looked down at your feet, looking physically pained. He wanted to tell you why, he wanted to tell you why so badly, but just as soon as he wanted to say it he was found at a loss for words, struck with that same fear again that made his words stutter. That same fear of being rejected, ridiculed, that fear of putting his heart on his sleeve and having you pierce it with a silver dagger. He was Batman, the shadow of shadows who dealt with worse pain than you could ever imagine. He’s been shot, stabbed, cut up, pushed out of a window, and any other horror you could ever imagine but somehow… none of that hurt would ever compare to the pain caused by your rejection.

You had the power to destroy him and you didn’t even know it. You didn’t know how much of him you carried with you, how easily you could make him fall. Against Gotham he was the Dark Knight, relentless, strong and menacing, capable of things you didn’t want to think about. Against you… he was nothing, powerless, a twig in your hand you could crush without a thought. He was weak against your beauteous thrall and he just wished he could’ve admitted that to himself so much sooner.

Bruce felt his heart constrict, his palms suddenly clammy and his throat suddenly dry; he swallowed roughly. His own heart pounded in his ears, beating under his hot skin, the reality of what he was about to say hitting him full force and he felt like he could pass out, right here on your fire escape, light headed and heavy chested.

He let out a big breath through his nose, gripping the wall between his bloody gloved hands, mustering up the confidence he needed and pushing his fear down, down and deep so it couldn’t be acknowledged anymore. He smothered his insecurities and doubts like a candle wick, clenched his jaw and cleared the smoke from his mind. Bruce looked up at you, eyes glimmering like fire light as they looked over your form once more. He looked up from your socks and your feet, up to your smooth legs and pink nightgown, up to your face, where he focused intently on your lips and nose and eyes.

You looked back at him, where he was staring at you with a type of ferocity and intensity it had your breath stuck in your throat, chills going down your spine.

“…Why I was in love with you.”

You swore your heart stopped.

╰✦･ﾟ✵ 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈: how it all fell together 𓂃⊹

⋆˙⟡♡ Of course, you loved him back, and Bruce couldn’t have been happier about it. But, during the actual relationship he was very much still the same, but you could see that he was trying to be closer to you, it was just hard for him. You helped him, made him feel not so scared.

⋆˙⟡♡ You were patient with him, never judged or pushed him to do things you knew he had a hard time doing. He always wanted to talk to you about his parents but he would stop himself before he went in depth about it. That was something he needed time with, and you understood it.

⋆˙⟡♡ He was always doing small things for you that you probably wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t so focused on him. He would always smooth out your pillows for you, make you breakfast and be shy that he made something you didn’t like, he would even blow out your candle for you if you ever left it lit. He would give you small gifts, sometimes expensive, a bracelet or a necklace, a set of earrings his mother adored. You loved them all.

⋆˙⟡♡ You had to buy him those vanilla bean and raspberry candles you had. He set them up around his home because the smell reminded him of you and your house, his safe space.

⋆˙⟡♡ He still didn’t like to talk, but he loved to listen. He’d ask questions that were deeply intimate and personal because he wanted to know everything about you. He’d apologize for prodding but he really had no shame about it. He wanted to know you more, learn everything.

⋆˙⟡♡ He loved holding you in his sleep, you made his nightmares go away and made him feel less lonely. He would still flinch sometimes, keep his hands at appropriate distances away from your precious parts. He was a gentleman, that was for sure.

⋆˙⟡♡ He didn’t sleep a lot still, so he’d always stare at you when you slept, brush his hand on your cheek when he’d leave in his Batman suit for the night. He hated leaving you, but knew he had responsibilities to his city he couldn’t abandon.

⋆˙⟡♡ He introduced you to Alfred, rather, Alfred went to clean up Bruce’s room early in the morning and found you two in a rather compromising position. He just chuckled and walked out while Bruce awkwardly scrambled to compose himself. You were mortified.

⋆˙⟡♡ Bruce liked to draw you a lot, most of the time from memory when he was bored on a late night, sitting on a rooftop with charcoal scratching on ripped paper. He didn’t show them to you, but you found them anyway.

⋆˙⟡♡ Bruce was soft, gentle with you, but sex was a different story, just depended on his day. Most of the time he was sweet, making up for leaving you and hurting you. He always carried so much guilt about it, even when you told him you were over it and understood why he did it.

⋆˙⟡♡ He didn’t come out with you as a couple to the press, as Bruce Wayne. He didn’t want them to badger you and question you, make you feel uncomfortable. He came to you a lot, his house was always under constant scrutiny from the public.

⋆˙⟡♡ He threatened your boss when you refused to quit your job. It was late, he was Batman, and your boss just so happened to walk past him. Bruce threw him against the wall with promises of pain if he didn’t treat you right. You had a sneaky suspicion your boyfriend had something to do with your now positive work atmosphere and sudden raise, but decided not to question him.

⋆˙⟡♡ He was always touching you, or kissing you, hesitant to show outright affection so he was subtle when he did it. A hand on your lower back, hovering over your jacket or gently pressing into it. A hand on your arm, a peck on your forehead, a kiss to your cheek when you’d fall asleep.

⋆˙⟡♡ He told you he loved you every night, rarely ever during the day. It was in his bed or yours, when it was silent and cozy, he’d whisper it in your hair or against your skin, and you’d smile and tell him the same.

⋆˙⟡♡ You never expected anything from him besides his love, but he always felt like he owed you something, grateful that you gave him this chance to be with you despite what he did.

⋆˙⟡♡ He was constantly worried about you, on edge when you would be out by yourself or come home later than usual on the nights he couldn’t see you. He would always think the worst, think you were dead and he was too late, someone found him out and was using you to blackmail him. All the worst scenarios to prepare himself for the worst outcomes.

⋆˙⟡♡ Bruce is constantly having negative intrusive thoughts. You’ll leave him, he doesn’t deserve you, he should’ve stayed gone. He’ll go quiet and try to isolate himself when that happens, so you always try and support him and reassure him in any way you can.

⋆˙⟡♡ He still has such a hard time being vulnerable and talking about his past, but he tries with you. He’ll get tongue tied sometimes or a sentence will drift off before he can finish it, but he’ll try.

⋆˙⟡♡ Bruce is always so busy he forgets to eat. You’ll constantly remind him food is good for you. So, some days he’ll go eating nothing at all, despite you and Alfred’s insistence. But when he does, it’s a big feast Alfred prepares for him.

⋆˙⟡♡ He is very sweet, a complete gentleman. He has the best manners. He always says his pleases and his thank yous. He’ll follow a question with, when you have a chance, if you can. With Alfred though he’ll be so distracted he’ll just walk away. He doesn’t mean to, just makes sure he’s extra gentle with you.

⋆˙⟡♡ He likes black and white films to play in the background when he’s not doing anything. Or slow, almost gothic music to really set the tone. He’s emo like that and I just know it.

⋆˙⟡♡ He goes to Alfred a lot for relationship advice, scared he’ll mess up and you’ll leave him. He wants to avoid making mistakes with you, so he’ll ask for help or reassurance on what to do.

⋆˙⟡♡ Bruce has a tendency to ignore any problem until it goes away, especially to avoid a fight with you. He’s confrontational when it comes to you, so he’ll let you have your way a lot of the time. He doesn’t like to fight with you.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ Bruce was sweet and shy, always making sure you were comfortable and had everything you needed. He never judged you when you’d tell him your stories or your past, he never accused you of things, and he never raised his voice at you when things would get frustrating. He loved you too much, appreciated you too much. You had no idea how happy you made him even if his face didn’t show it.

He was still wary, scared you’ll leave him, scared one of his enemies will find you out and take you away from him. But he was always there, watching and protecting, hiding in the shadows, being the shadow, on the nights you didn’t know. He may have been Gotham’s protector, but he was also yours.

He loved you and was grateful for you, so grateful he met you when he did and that you trusted him enough to let him see every lovely part of you. He vowed to protect you, to cherish you, and he made good on that promise. Even going as far as to blow out your candle every day before you’d leave for work. Couldn’t have you burning your house down, now could he?

Honestly, I could go on and on about this man so I think I have to end this here. But thank you for reading and hope you enjoyed, especially @diavolosbaby who requested this. I really hope you like it, and if you’re not satisfied or I didn’t answer your ask correctly then don’t be afraid to tell me 💕💕 constructive criticism isn’t bad mmkay ☺️💕

[immajustvibehere]

The Rescue

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader

summary: You go missing in the mountains when you were scouting ahead with John. Luckily, Arthur finds you. The near death experience gives both of you the courage for a confession.

tags: high honor Arthur, fluffly

2300 words, 13 minutes reading time

Three gunshots pierced the silent air that for hours had remained undisturbed, unless one counts the bluster of the wind. The shots echoed through the mountains. They prompted you into action, forgetting your miserable state.

"Here! I'm here!", you screamed with everything your voice had to offer, and that wasn't much. Half-frozen to death, sitting in your own blood and desperately clutching your arm where a wolf had bitten you, you tried standing up, with no success. Your leg had been hurt and putting pressure on it made the scenery fade to black. Out of fear for fainting and not being found, you remained cowering under the icy ledge, only a few feet away from a dangerous ravine.

"Y/N!", Arthur's voice was so close, you started to cry in relief.

"Arthur!", you screamed back and suddenly - there he was. You looked up the cliff to see his worried face staring down on you. Only moments later, Javier was appearing right next to him.

"Damn", Javier mumbled. Arthur seemed kind of unable to open his mouth, but he hurried down to you, careful not to slip and hurt himself.

"John should be further down there", you pointed into the said direction, "haven't heard from him for a while though."

Arthur was almost at your side: "Javier, you go and fetch Marston, I'll take Miss y/l/n." Javier's face disappeared, and you could concentrate on Arthur who was quickly approaching you. He squatted in front of you, not giving a damn about his pants which now were covered in snow. You couldn’t deny that it looked absolutely horrible. There was no white snow around you, everything was painted in your blood, and you yourself couldn't have possibly looked any better.

"Shit, y/n", Arthur murmured, taking his gloves off by biting them and sliding out of them.

You only managed to nod, tears now streaming down your face without shame. For hours on end, you had been convinced that you'd die here, freezing to death. It would have only been a matter of time until the wolves would come back and finish the work they had started. But now you were safe.

"It's gonna be okay", Arthur tried to calm you down. Gently, he wiped away some of your tears with his hand. It probably wasn't even warm, but it felt like a furnace against your frozen cheeks.

"It's alright", Arthur repeated. He noticed that he was shaking too, not necessarily because of the cold. It was true that the ride up the glacier had his bones chilled, but seeing you all bloody before him made him realise that he was shaking out of relief. He had been afraid you were gone. And now he feared losing you, right here and right now in front of him. Since you slightly pushed your face into his open hand, he didn't dare to remove it, but rather used his other hand to hold his glove open and blow some hot air into it.

"Get yer hand in there", he mumbled, helping you with putting his two gloves on.

"Can ya still move 'em?", Arthur asked, gently pressing your two hands in between his own. You quickly nodded and waited for your lips to stop quivering before you gave an answer: "Yeah. But this one hurts." You nodded towards your left arm where the nasty bite wound was hard to miss.

"I'd worry if it wasn't hurtin'", Arthur said, a crooked smile appearing on his lips for a few seconds.

"Very funny", you replied with a straight face. Actually, it had cheered you up a bit. This interaction was preferable to dying alone and becoming a frozen mummy.

And yet, Arthur was still worried more than he was comfortable with. He knew that he cared about you, but he cared about many people. However, this felt a little different.

"Can you stand up?"

"No...something's wrong with my leg."

"Okay. Come on then-", he stated, picking you up without so much as a silent grunt.

You snuggled into his wet coat and anxiously watched him struggle carrying you on the icy ground.

"How long have you been...like this?", Arthur asked after whistling for his horse.

"Not sure. At least one night...John and I rode out yesterday and then we were attacked by some wolves. It was...sheer luck that we survived. I mean- I hope John..."

"He'll be fine."

You gulped down a sob but were immediately relieved by Javier whistling behind you. Arthur turned around so you both saw him carrying a barely conscious John on his back.

You yourself struggled staying conscious during the ride back. For safety reasons, Arthur placed you in front of him on the horse, so he would be able to secure you with an arm tightly wrapped around you. He had admitted that he didn't trust you - in your current state - to stay on the horse without his help. At first you still had some strength left in you to give a witty remark, mocking him for calling you weak, but five minutes into the ride Arthur had to beg you to keep your eyes open.

"We're almost there, okay? Try stayin' awake until you're in the cabin, would ya?". he said those words close to your ear. The hot air from his mouth made your hair stand up and, in a way, did a decent job of keeping you awake and your heart beating. After one minute had passed, Arthur felt you slumping against his chest again.

"Darlin' please", he pleaded in a whisper, for neither Javier nor John to hear.

"'m really tryin' Arthur", you mumbled. Arthur was afraid that your hypothermic body was shutting down and he wouldn't be able to hold you in both of his arms to keep you warm and awake. The only thing he could to was to ride faster and make sure from time to time, that you were still awake. He'd whisper things into your ears that he didn't knew he was capable of, but the thought of having almost lost you, or to find out that you are indeed at the brink of death from the cold and blood loss, made his tongue loose.

You listened at first, but soon you were barely conscious, only managing to nod or mumble in agreement sometimes, without even registering what Arthur was saying.

The rest was black. You woke up in dry clothes and with an aching body, wrapped into two blankets. Mary-Beth and Swanson were staring you down, both of their faces lighting up when they saw you stirring.

You weren't awake for long, but long enough to be assured that you'll live and hadn't taken any lasting damage, aside from the wolf bite on your arm, which might leave some scars and your ankle which was probably sprained, but would soon be healed if you gave it enough rest. You managed to sit up to have a look at John who was lying in another bed close to yours, Abigail at his side.

"Looking good, Marston", you smiled, simply happy to see him alive.

"You have also seen better days, y/n", John replied briefly. And with that you plummeted back onto your bedroll and fell asleep.

When you opened your eyes again, it was dark in the cabin. No daylight came in, it must be the darkest hour of the night, but the fire in the fireplace distorted the shadows of the sleeping people in the room to eerie figures. You squinted to make out the different faces, which often was impossible because they were covered with scarves and shawls. It took a while, but after a couple of minutes lying awake you realised what had woken you in the first place. It wasn’t Uncle’s snoring or the weeping of a woman in the far corner, who you were quite sure you hadn’t seen before, but it was pain.

Your arm had been tidily wrapped in clean bandages, but you felt the wound underneath throbbing and burning relentlessly. Your leg wasn’t bothering you, as long as you remembered to keep it entirely still. If you moved it, because the chillness of the room sent a shiver through your spine and made you wince, the pain ran up all the way up your body. Maybe Reverend had given you some of his morphine earlier because you couldn’t quite understand how you would have been able to fall asleep under those circumstances.

With eyes closed you laid as still as possible, hoping that exhaustion would carry you to sleep again. You didn’t know how long you had lain there like that, when you heard the door of the cabin being opened. The hinges creaked and in came the stature of a man, warmly illuminated by the lantern in his hand – Arthur. You watched him while he tip-toed over the sleeping women, halting suddenly when he reached your bed and found you looking at him with a big smile.

“Did I wake ya?”, he whispered.

“No. Can’t sleep”, you sighed, also careful to keep your voice quiet so you wouldn’t wake the others, “What are you doing here?”

“I ehrm-“, Arthur awkwardly looked around in the room, “wanted to check on you.”

“Really?”, you grinned at him.

“Sure”, Arthur scratched the back of his neck, “ya looked barely alive when we got here. Were as white as a ghost and not exactly what I’d call conscious.”

“Yeah”, you chuckled sorrily. With all the strength you could bring up, you sat upright and made space for Arthur to sit down on the bed. Your face twisted in pain when you moved your injured leg, but it paid off when Arthur sat down with a sigh and put the lantern on the floor in front of you. For a few moments, neither of you said anything. Arthur looked around the room and studied the sleeping faces, while you had your eyes glued on his. You knew there was something coming, but you weren’t quite prepared for it when he finally said it.

“’em words I said on the ride back…”, he paused. His voice had sounded so flustered, his cheeks surely must be a darker shade of red. But the dimness of the light didn’t grant you this exciting view. For a split second he looked at you, only to find you expecting him to go on. But he didn’t. Now was the time for an embarrassing admission. Though you did remember him calling you darling and even sweetheart at one point, your memory was fuzzy. You weren’t sure if it had really happened or if he had only said it in the dream which you had, but you recalled him saying the word “love”. Maybe it was “my love”, or “I love”,…you didn’t know and the harder you tried to remember, the more you doubted it had actually happened.

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I was pretty much gone as soon as you had me on the horse”, you apologized and watched the man’s face. Was he relaxing?

“Probably better that way”, he gave a smile that looked rather sad.

He was starting to stand up, when you quickly grabbed his coat. He halted in surprise and threw you a quizzical look. Since you didn’t say anything but still didn’t let go of his coat, he sat down again, looking at you with a hint of concern.

“Yer alright?”

“Ye- No. I don’t know”, you admitted, “it depends.” You gulped.

“I was pretty sure I would be dying in the mountains. And when you’re just sitting there, freezing to death, you think about the stuff you regret not doing”, you started.

You added: “I’m glad you found me.”

Arthur huffed: “Sure, I’m also glad we fou-“

“No. You. I thought I’d never see you again”, tears started to roll down your cheeks. You weren’t sad, or angry or any emotion that would have your tears streaming, just the memory of sitting in the darkest night and feeling every limb ache in pain for warmth was unnerving.

“Well, yer seein’ me now? Ain’t ya? It’s alright girl”, Arthur tried calming you down when he saw the tears in your face. Carefully, he slung an arm around your shoulders and gently pushed you into him. Your face rested on his chest while he tried to comfort you by patting your back. You waited a few moments until you had calmed down enough to speak without the quiver in your voice.

“Before I get stuck somewhere else,…or eaten by a cougar,…or shot by some idiot”, you whispered, “I really want you to know that I-…you mean a lot to me, Arthur. I love you. Have done so for a while now.”

Hadn’t you been convinced that Arthur hadn’t already made a similar confession to you on the horse with you blacked out, you probably would have kept it for yourself for many years to come or until one of you was killed by a bullet. Of course, you would have ended up regretting it, like you regretted it on the mountain, of not having it said earlier. You figured, now was as good a time as any.

Arthur held you tighter, pressing you into his fluffy coat which gave off an odour of wet fabric and pine trees.

After a while, he whispered back in a gruffy voice: “Ya mean it?”

“Of course”, you replied quickly, offended by the lack of trust but knowing that he was asking from a place of insecurity and fear of rejection.

“As much as you meant the words on the horse”, you added with a smile and peeled yourself off him, “if you want to repeat them sooner or later, I promise not faint this time.”

Finally, Arthur chuckled lightly. “That’s a start.”

[quitealotofsodapop]

So sonce Wukong is heavily associated with he earth and especially FFM, what if the mountain itself changes to fit Wukong's emotional and physical health? Like when he's sad, depressed, or hopeless it becomes more barren and cold, when he's hurt the earth itself cracks and plants wither and die, whe he's happy it's lush, warm, and beautiful like depicted in the show! It doesn't instantly change of course but slowly, the longer the time Wukong is in a certain mood, the more it affects the mountain. That'd also why the monkeys, who have EVERY reason to be distrustful of a stranger on the mountain considering literally everything in the book, are so quick to warm up to and welcome MK and his family into their midst! Because they make Wukong happy!

Ooo this is such a cool idea.

Wukong being basically the Te Fiti of Flower Fruit Mountain and the surrrounding country of Alolai.

When he ws young and unsure, the islands bloomed with new haphazard shoots and flowers.

When he jumped through the waterfall the first time, the rains came and watered the parched fruit trees.

When he travelled onto the mainland and trained with Sudbodhi, the air became heavy with the winds of his travels - A certain Macaque amongst the troop able to hear where exactly their King was based on how he sang to the breeze. Soon the skies became full of fluffy clouds so thick you could nearly walk (or rather Sommersault on them). It was one of the few joys his people appriciated whilst under the threat of the Demon King of Havoc/Confusion.

The night before the King returned, a great thunder rain occurred - startling all of them awake. A thunder of sadness and anger. But when their King landed home and cut the Demon's head in half with his new powers - the sun shined upon the island once more.

When the Brotherhood was made and friendships forged, the mountain bloomed with new life. Spider lilies flourished in the time the King had been whisked away to the Underworld, and lotus flowers sprang forth upon his return.

When their king lost himself as an attendant of Heaven, the waters in the streams became stale like a horse through, and fruits shrivelled on the branches like they had been dried for a dessert.

Oddly enough, when their King made havoc in Heaven; the most that the mountain experienced was a sudden unseasonable bloom of peach blossoms that dripped a heady dew.

When Sun Wukong was defeated and captured for the Furnance... the mountain Burned.

For 49 days straight.

They at first blamed the war god Erlang that had bested their King in the first place, but he and the rest of the brothers of Meishan rallied to save as many monkey yao as possible from the flames and the subsequent floods of murky ash.

When the Monkey King burst forth from the Trigram Furnace, it sent a volley of burning charcoal comets down to earth. Including onto the Stone Place itself.

And when the Buddha was forced to raise his hand? The island stagnanted.

For 500 years the razed island could not grow more than grass and ferns. No more fruits or flowers bloomed. The water was bitter and black with charcoal. And whats more, humans from the mainland beyond had discovered that the country of Alolai was ripe for the picking...

When their King returned once more at the helm of a fight with his religious master, the island rained for the first time in centuries. As he struck down each and every hunter he found, and saved and returned as many as his people as he could, the island seemed to Revive with the scent of blossoms and peaches.

When he left to rejoin his Pilgrim friends, the fruits and flowers still came, now just less sweet.

His subjects knew immediately knew when something terrible had happened with their King years on. The winds stopped blowing as if a switch had been struck. Stone fruit trees crumbled into dust as if they were diseased. The waters of the streams became salted as if with tears... it took a long time for the island to return to some normalcy after that. Though the plum trees never returned, no matter how ardent the efforts of those who keep mountains orchards.

A great bloom of golden flowers and fruits occurred the day their King had reached the home of the Buddha. The rush of life announced via a clap of thunder. The monkeys of the island hooted and sung for weeks at their King's return.

Many years later, fire broke out on the mountain's peak. Their King returned home with a haunted look upon his face but gave no explaination. They began to see less and less of the Western Horse-Dragon after that day... soon the fruits and waters became stale once more. The only flowers that bloomed were ones of mourning.

On a day, after many of arficially sweetened waters adn fruits, a great aurora of golden and purple lights broke forth in the skies above the island - distracting the King's subject long enough that they missed his wonder and conflict at finding a little stone monkey much like himself. The clouds rained heavy with seawater in the days to come.

And on the day a certain child appeared, the sun shone a hue so beautiful and happy that the subjects of the island just knew someone dear to the King had returned.

The plum trees returned some time afterwards, though the fruits were a little sour. They became sweet once more in the year after.

[keyh0use]

hc that Barry runs hot and needs to sleep with the windows open + fan on no matter the season, but then there's Rafe, who has to be whole-bodied pressed up against him at all times, effectively making his efforts to stay cool fruitless. (but he won't ever make the mistake of asking for a little space because Rafe's dramatic ass rolled right out of bed and left the room last time, refusing to return to bed. So Barry has learned to just deal with the mild discomfort.) Then one night it's unbearably warm—sweltering, even. There's sweat pouring down Barry's temples, dampening the pillowcase beneath him and he has no choice but to reach down, paw at Rafe's muscular thigh, trying to push the limb off him as gently as he can. But to his astonishment, Rafe turns over without waking! Barry takes the opportunity to scoot over on the bed, throwing the thin top sheet off in relief as the fan blows cold air over his tacky skin.

Barry closes his eyes at 1:15 AM as his hair dries. He opens them again at 1:35, overheated body now pleasantly cooled down. Beside him, Rafe sleeps peacefully and unaware, still facing the opposite direction. Barry should feel elated he gets to lay near his boy while not being tangled up his long, gangly arms and legs, free to sleep uncovered. It's just after 2, he watches grey clouds float across the moonlit sky. He rolls left, then right. Flips his pillow to the chilled side and turns onto his stomach, before settling back in his previous position. ABCs backwards, counting sheep, imagining where he and Rafe will be in ten years...none of it works. It's 2:55, now. When Barry snuggles up against Rafe's back, the kook is like a fucking furnace, burning up against his broad chest. But it doesn't matter anymore, not when he closes his eyes and they stay closed until morning.

[tboybuck]

swallowing hand grenades

wc: 601 | cw: mention of passive self harm, description of internalized meltdowns, references to parental violence | autistic eddie munson, inspired by the meltdown i had at work today

All his life, Eddie has been swallowing hand grenades.

At least, that’s what it feels like when everything around him is too bright, too loud, too hot, too cold, too itchy, and the tapping of his fingers against the table or the bouncing of his leg beneath the table isn’t enough to stop the explosion that’s building behind his eyes. When he was little, his mother taught him to internalize his explosions so he doesn’t turn out like his dad with his violent angry outbursts that left fist shaped holes in the drywall. 

The flooding of his overwhelmed senses always feels like he’s holding a hand grenade without a pin, and if he throws it the shrapnel will go everywhere and cause destruction in its wake, so... He swallows it, keeps the shrapnel inside where it won’t hurt anybody but himself. And most times it doesn’t even hurt him, not really. It leaves behind an ache that he doesn’t have a name for, a bone deep exhaustion that'll knock him out and let him finally get some of that blessed, blessed sleep that escapes him, more nights than not.

His mom used to say he was full of nervous energy, like a chihuahua or a Jack Russell terrier, but the older Eddie gets the less he believes that. It’s not really that he’s nervous. Sometimes, sure, that's what it is. But usually it’s the buzzing of the too-bright fluorescents overhead and the murmured conversations happening around him that sound like bugs. It’s the itch of the tag at the back of his tee shirt and the fact that one of his shoes is tied just a little more tightly than the other. It’s the furnace that kicks on in the middle of class and blows thick, hot air down on his scalp and makes his hairline sweat.

It’s the panic that rises like bile when he realizes he forgot the homework again, third time this week, and the teacher is looking at him with an arched brow and that lip curled in a sneer.

He can’t sit still, but he can’t rock side to side the way he wants or everybody’s gonna fucking look at him funny again. He can’t chew on the inside of his cheek because there’s barely anything left of the skin in there. He can’t bite his thumbnail anymore because he bit it down to the quick earlier and made it bleed. He can’t pick at his eyebrows anymore because if he goes home again with half an eyebrow missing Wayne is gonna have that look in his eye, that worried look he gets when he starts suggesting things like maybe a counselor…

So Eddie excuses himself to the bathroom and locks himself in a stall and he swallows the hand grenade, lets it pop in his tummy as he takes his rings off and shakes his hands out, flaps them a little bit so that he can start to feel human again. He presses a palm to each temple and squeezes, imagines the top of his head splitting to let all the gunk out, a pimple that’ll scab over later, one he won’t be able to resist picking at again until it bleeds.

In a few years, when he finally lets Wayne talk him into counseling, Eddie will have the language for this. He’ll know that these aren’t anxiety attacks, they’re meltdowns. He’ll know that they happen when he’s overstimulated and has nowhere to put that building feeling behind his eyes. He’ll have methods to cope with them.

Until then, Eddie will keep swallowing hand grenades.

[goheatingairplano]

(via GIPHY)

[samstree]

there is a place where I don’t feel alone

In which Jaskier is Geralt's human-shaped furnace. (General, 4k ☆ also on AO3)

Fire and ice, Jaskier muses. It’s too cliché for his poetry, but there are no better analogies when they press against each other under the covers, a cold witcher warmed by a human bard.

Jaskier is content being Geralt’s human-shaped furnace. He learned a long time ago that witchers’ fast metabolism means they are prone to running cold. He also learned, at the same time, of Geralt’s tendency of ignoring his body’s demands. He’s happy that, after all the years of being together, his witcher is comfortable asking for help, though never with words. It’s in the way Geralt brushes their hands together when his fingers are numb, or subtly reaches out for a cuddle when the night chill settles in.

The potions make it worse. When a hunt ends and the black veins recede from Geralt’s eyes, the adrenaline drop often leaves him shivering. Warmth helps, so Jaskier prepares a bath and hot tea if they are lucky enough to stay at an inn. If all they have is a camp under the sky, he can only hold Geralt close and rub his arms and back, hoping his body provides enough heat for his witcher.

Geralt gets clingy when it happens, though he’d never admit it. Hiding in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, all he can do is cling. The world overwhelms his senses, the coldness harsh on his skin, and he never lets go first.

Jaskier cannot deny him in times like these, doesn’t want to deny him. He takes Geralt in his arms every time, blowing warm air on his cold hands, murmuring soft, reassuring words. He stays as long as needed, and then he stays even longer.

He needs to make the world less harsh for his witcher, even just a little bit.

And Jaskier’s tendency to run hot is neither here nor there. It’s only a slight inconvenience, one that can be overcome easily. He doesn’t mind waking up at night from being too warm, only to find Geralt has added a blanket to their bed. It only requires some adjusting, keeping the extra blanket on Geralt’s side.

He also doesn’t mind Geralt’s cuddling habits. During the mild seasons, he will even tell Geralt to sleep on the other side of the bed, but the distance between them always closes a few hours later. Jaskier is more endeared than bothered, really, and he can simply extract himself and fall back asleep soon after.

It’s an easy enough system. They are different people, polar opposites, as many might say. It takes a lot of practice to fit their lives together, but a few decades are more than enough time.

It’s easy, to be together, to let fire and ice coexist.

It gets less easy as time catches up to Jaskier.

His hair goes grey, and the laugh lines around his eyes deepen. His body starts fighting him from within. It begins with the rushes of hotness at night. He would wake up at night from nothing, with a dry throat and sweat soaked through his back. The healer says it’s common for his age, and the hot flashes will only get worse before it gets better. It becomes increasingly difficult to sleep in the same bed as another person, especially when that person is prone to sprawling on top of him like an oversized cuddle bear.

Insomnia follows naturally, with his sleep disrupted often. The worry makes it worse. Jaskier thought he was used to sending Geralt away on hunts for days and nights on end, but it’s harder to keep check of the anxiety when his mind is tired and irritated. He’d lie awake on their bed and imagine all the ways a simple hunt could go wrong. Even when he manages to sleep, it’s restless and full of nightmares of blood and vacant golden eyes.

His body is getting old, and with it, his heart.

Still, Geralt comes back to him. He always does. The first light of dawn brings his witcher back with morning dew glistening in silver hair, his hands reaching out for touch. Jaskier ignores the hot lava-like state of his upper body as Geralt rests gently on his chest, grounded by the feeling of skin against skin, by the rhythm of his breathing.

Jaskier’s heart feels too tender in his chest, too weathered for a human bard who’s spent most of his life on the road. He wonders how long he can keep doing this.

But then, a shiver runs down Geralt’s body, and Jaskier forgets all about his self-pity.

The path leads them to a mountain, of all places.

The air feels thinner, adding to the heaviness on Jaskier’s breastbone. They find an inn, where word of a mysterious beast up in the mountain finds Geralt while he drinks. The creature sounds more mythical than real. Geralt hesitates to take the contract at first, but is unable to say no in the end. He’s never been able to, anyway.

Jaskier’s stomach churns with the sense of déjà vu. He throws himself into the performance as Geralt prepares for the hunt. The audience is captivated soon, and before he knows it, he has been encouraged by the crowd into a rendition of Her Sweet Kiss. He’s nearly staggering as the song fades, breath shuddering with worry and past heartache.

Geralt is all packed up and waiting by the door when Jaskier finishes his set. He follows his witcher to the street, and is surprised by the tight hug that envelopes him. Jaskier is flushed hot from performing, his cheeks red and heart racing, but Geralt’s armors are cold in the mountain wind. He returns the hug, lingering longer than usual.

Geralt sees through him, worry mirrored in those golden eyes. Jaskier has felt like an open book around him for years, every shift in his mood caught carefully, but his witcher stays patient. He simply kisses Jaskier on the cheek, looking like he wants to say something. Nothing comes out in the end, and Geralt wordlessly turns away.

And Jaskier waits.

It’s just an ordinary contract, he tells himself, but somewhere in the back of his mind, panic surges out of control. It’s the memory of the last time they were in a place like this, with the wind in his hair and bitterness on his tongue. The fire burns bright in the room, but his heart is away on that mountain with his love.

Geralt returns when the moon is high, eyes still black from the potions and face deathly pale. A deep gash runs down his shoulder, bleeding sluggishly.

“Basilisks,” he murmurs, “two of them. Caught me off guard.”

With that, Geralt’s knees buckle and he collapses right into Jaskier’s arms.

The blood stains both of their clothes with crimson red. Jaskier holds up most of Geralt’s weight and helps him sit down. The process of cleaning, bathing, and bandaging his witcher is a familiar one, his muscle memory working on its own, but Jaskier finds a tremor in his hands. He tries and fails to hold himself steady, and swallows the lump of fear in his throat.

“Hey,” he coaxes Geralt to sit on their bed. “Here, just sit. It’s alright. I’m almost done.”

“Jaskier…” Geralt looks faint, head dropping to Jaskier’s shoulder even before the last bit of the bandage is tied up. A pained groan rumbles out of his chest. “Cold…”

“Shh, don’t worry. Let’s warm you up. I’m here, dearest. I’m right here.”

Jaskier tucks in the bandage neatly before reaching for the blankets on the bed. He lowers Geralt onto the pillow before checking on the fireplace, and adds a few pieces of wood, keeping it burning brighter than is needed for the current weather. With a tired sigh, he finally slips between the sheets, and tucks the blankets around Geralt.

Eyes closed, Geralt’s brow knits together painfully, his muscles trembling. He’s barely awake when Jaskier settles around him, placing Geralt’s hands on the small of his back, where the cold fingers can regain some blood flow. It’s not a comfortable position. With Geralt’s injured shoulder, Jaskier has to lie on his back and support most of the witcher’s weight. He’s trapped like this, the heat gathering under the blanket.

He’s burning, almost, with a whole person sprawled on top of him. Sweat gathers on his skin, clammy and uncomfortable against the shirt.

Geralt drifts off quickly enough, catching some much-needed rest. His breaths come out in gentle puffs against Jaskier’s neck, gradually evening out.

“Stay asleep, love, please,” Jaskier mutters with relief, all the while making the slightest attempt at extracting himself, but immediately, the barest movement makes Geralt jerk in sleep. A whimper escapes his throat, too small and sad for Jaskier’s heart to handle. The arms around his waist tighten almost childishly. Jaskier huffs at the ridiculous sight of the two of them, tangled together like one. “Alright. Hush. I won’t leave, then.”

It must be the bad dreams, caused by the pain and the oversensitivity. Geralt is at his most vulnerable when his mind is muddled, and Jaskier cannot bring himself to deny any comfort he can provide.

“There.” He kisses Geralt’s forehead, accepting his fate. Being wrapped up in a cocoon of heat is a small thing to endure when his witcher is hurt.

He threads his fingers through long silver hair, and counts the moments in the quietness of the night.

Jaskier doesn’t notice falling asleep, but the familiar press of Geralt’s weight lulls him into a fitful rest nonetheless.

Blood stains his dreams, as does the overpowering sense of helplessness. It’s like a roaring flame, threatening to consume, or a ring of fire closing in, squeezing the air out of his lungs. A hot flash comes out of nowhere, radiating from the center of his back, burning every nerve from within.

Distantly, he can hear sounds of distress from his own throat. Sweat soaks through his back, his hair, but there is nowhere to run.

Suddenly, the heat disappears, all restraints gone. Jaskier drifts in and out of sleep, breathing out deeply. He shuffles, pushing away the covers on his upper body, and feels cool air hit his skin. With that, another dream pulls him under easily.

When Jaskier blinks awake after what feels like hours, his head is slow and groggy. His arms are empty and the blankets are nowhere near him. A cool breeze washes over his body like a gentle caress.

He gasps at the absence of Geralt. All sleep is chased out by a surge of panic. Jaskier reaches out for his witcher, ready to call for his name.

“Easy.” A hoarse voice rumbles above him. “I’m right here.”

Jaskier looks up to find Geralt sitting against the headboard, the pillow cushioned behind his back.

“Oh.” Jaskier heaves out a sigh, pressing his forehead against Geralt’s thigh, closing his eyes for a moment.

Another gust of wind washes over his back, loosening his muscles, and Jaskier realizes the source of it. The window next to their bed is wide open, letting in breaths of fresh air. The moon is hanging low. Soon the morning light will shimmer by the horizon. The fireplace is burning to an ember, damped by a mound of ash.

Geralt combs through the hair at Jaskier’s nape, so gently it makes Jaskier’s bones hum. His hand is still colder than Jaskier would like, so he takes it, pressing a small kiss in his palm.

“Are you alright? How do you feel now?” Jaskier blinks, observing his witcher in the low light of the bedside candle. “Feeling cold? Your hands are cold. Why did you open the window? And the fire, do you want me to light it again?”

Geralt is still too pale, the effect of the blood loss, but his spirit seems high. A half-smile warms his golden eyes when he meets Jaskier’s gaze.

“Leave the fire, Jask. That’s silly. You were overheating. Did you not notice?” he says. “You shouldn’t have kept the room so warm.”

Jaskier sits up on the bed so they are shoulder to shoulder. It is nice now, the temperature. He unties his shirt a little bit more to cool off.

“I didn’t want you to be cold.”

“I can cope.”

Jaskier pouts. “I don’t want you to cope.”

“And I don’t want you to have a heatstroke.” A frown knits between Geralt’s eyes. “You were sweating all over. Was it another hot flash?”

Jaskier looks down, absently tugging at the blanket so it covers more of Geralt’s torso.

“I’m fine,” he insists stubbornly. “It’s only one of those nights. It happens, these days. I should be used to it.”

“Hmm.”

The cicadas hum outside the window, signaling the upcoming hot days. Geralt’s eyes place a gentle weight, patient and not demanding.

“It’s just…” Jaskier cuts himself off before starting again, trying to push down the fear in his stomach. “You were in a bad way when you came back. It caught me off guard, is all, and I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Geralt sags a little, catching Jaskier’s hand and threading their fingers together. “I really scared you this time, didn’t I?”

Jaskier doesn’t think he needs to answer. Nothing can be hidden from his face, not from Geralt, who knows every secret in his soul.

“Hey, come here.” Geralt’s voice softens to a whisper with understanding. He squeezes Jaskier’s hand, tugging him close so his head rests on the witcher’s uninjured shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“It was only a hunt. I’ve had much worse.”

Something within Jaskier shudders. “Yes, I’m well aware of the occupational hazard for witchers. That’s the problem. I don’t know how I dealt with it all this time. The terror of it all…” He huffs, self-deprecatingly. “It must be the age. I’m getting old. Too old for the foolish bravado of youth. I feel like my heart is getting weaker these days. Like it could break more easily, somehow.”

A kiss lands on top of Jaskier’s head.

“You are still brave. Foolishly so,” Geralt says, reverently, proudly.

“Never wanted to be brave. Just useful, so I can take care of you.”

Jaskier turns around, so blue meets gold. Despite the lines at his temple, despite the grey hair, he knows his eyes are still the same. He still looks at Geralt the same way as all those years ago, when he was young and stupidly idealistic. They are full of love for the man in front of him. Always full of love for Geralt.

And Geralt is looking at him the same way.

“You don’t have to be useful. Not if it means you need to push yourself too hard.” A hint of guilt tugs at his lips. “I don’t want to break your heart. Never did.”

“Well, that’s the occupational hazard of a poet,” Jaskier teases, wanting to erase the guilt. It has no place between them. “I don’t blame your trade, love. It is who you are. The path, the monsters, the way you scare the hell out of me every other day. I’ve accepted it. Old age be damned. I promised to follow you until the end of my days, and I tend to keep my promises.”

“Jask, I…”

Geralt closes his mouth, and they fall into silence, though it’s a poignant one.

“It’s alright.” Jaskier wants to steer them away from the heaviness of it all. “You should try to rest more. Meditate, perhaps. That wound is not going to heal fast if you don’t—”

“Fuck it, I need to tell you,” Geralt blurs out. “I wanted it to be a surprise, but now… Jaskier, you deserve to know.”

The interruption makes Jaskier blink. Confused, he sits up straighter. “What is it?”

Geralt’s entire posture changes, and suddenly he looks a lot more serious, which is all the more puzzling. He brings Jaskier’s hand to his chest, pulling him closer. All the tiredness from the hunt is gone, replaced by a nameless excitement.

“Jaskier.”

“Yes, Geralt?”

“Don’t worry. It’s good news. At least, it’s good in my head. I think you’ll like it.” When Geralt smiles, a quiet joy lights up his face. It’s Jaskier’s favorite smile of his. It means Geralt is deeply, unreservedly happy, the kind that makes him frightened, even. Like someone could break in and take this happiness from him any moment, so he tries to not show it. “Do you remember that cottage we passed by last summer? The one we saw on the coast in Cidaris?”

The mention of the coastal trip brings back fond memories, making Jaskier’s heart warm.

“Of course. The one on the cliff, with the pretty windows. The old couple lived there for decades,” he says, still not sure where this is going. “What about it?”

Despite the paleness and the dark circles under his eyes, Geralt’s cheek grow pink with a blush.

“Well,” he simply says, “I Bought it.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen.

“What?”

“Technically, Yen bought it for us.” Geralt tilts his head cheekily. “The couple told me they were selling right before we left, so I wrote to Yen. She went to Cidaris and did it, just like that. It’s ours. It’s going to be our house. We can spend as much time there as we want. Every year, every season, if we wish to. If we get restless, the world is still out there, but we’ll have a home to return to. A place to settle down.”

The sound of the world fades away for a moment, replaced by blood rushing into Jaskier’s ears. He notices his mouth is now hanging open, but nothing is coming out. His heart grows like it's too big for his chest.

A house.

Their house. Their home.

“I—”

Jaskier, to his horror, realizes he has been rendered speechless, all the words of a bard stolen by a witcher. He stares at his witcher, his lovely, perfect, thoughtful witcher, who insists on giving him heart palpitation one after another.

“Jaskier?” Geralt softens, a hint of doubt creeping into his voice. “What do you think? Say something. Please.”

Tears blur his vision, and Jaskier chokes out a sob.

“I—”

His voice shudders with emotions, but the sight of Geralt being so unsure of himself is so unacceptable that Jaskier finds the strength to overcome himself. The sob turns into a wet chuckle.

“It’s good, Geralt. It’s the best news I’ve ever heard. You… you bought that cottage for us?” Jaskier lets the tears fall freely. Happiness tastes like salt on his tongue. “I never thought you’d ever want to stay in one place. I mean, you always said—”

“That witchers don’t retire?” Geralt catches the tears with a thumb, wiping away the streaks on Jaskier’s cheeks gently. “What else did I say?”

“That you don’t need anyone.”

“Hmm. Another lie. What else?”

Jaskier sniffles, hiding his wet cheek in Geralt’s palm. “That you don’t want me.”

Another string of tears streams down Jaskier’s face, and Geralt catches each and every one of them. He dabs them away with the edge of his sleeve, so carefully as if Jaskier could break with the barest touch.

Geralt presses a kiss at the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. It’s only a chaste thing to soothe him, but Jaskier kisses back fervently, desperately. The space between them seems too big. With an arm wrapped around Geralt’s back, still careful to avoid the bandage, he pulls them together. Salt melts between their lips.

They break apart, panting in tandem.

“You are all I ever want,” Geralt whispers, a promise carved upon Jaskier’s heart. “Just you, Jaskier. Forget the lies. I want you. I want… this, for us.”

It takes a while for the storm of emotions to calm down. Jaskier rests his forehead against Geralt’s temple, their bodies rocking together like waves lapping against the shore.

A small cottage by the coast, where the seabirds sing in the sky and the sand is cool between his toes. A place for Geralt to rest, for Jaskier to create, and for both of them to simply be.

The future of their life feels like an old, faded memory. They were always going to end up there from the very beginning. The moment they locked eyes in that small tavern in Posada, they were going to end up there.

Jaskier wipes away the last of the tears, spirit lightened.

“Wait.” He pulls away to look at Geralt, eyes still puffy. “Did you say you asked Yennefer to buy a house for you?”

Geralt winces visibly. “I may owe her a few favors again, but I’m sure she’ll be reasonable.”

“Yennefer.” Jaskier gives a look. “Reasonable?”

“Do you still doubt she has a soft spot for you, especially now that you’ve become less durable? The letters were nice enough. She even offered instructions,” Geralt says. “Told me to bring you back to the coast, make a grand gesture of sort. A nice picnic, she said, before breaking the big surprise.”

“See? Even Yen has more regard for my tender heart. Unlike a certain someone, who will put me through one hell of an emotional turmoil in one night.” Jaskier holds his chest dramatically. “It’s not good for an old man’s health!”

The laugh that Geralt lets out is better than any music Jaskier could ever write. It’s the reason for all those songs in the first place.

“I guess we are heading to the coast next.”

“Are we?”

Jaskier can’t help the grin on his face.

“Mm-hmm. For your health, old man,” Geralt teases. “I hear Cidaris is never too warm in the summer. The ocean carries over cold streams, all the way from the north. The wind is always cool. Sleep will come more easily for you.”

“But how will you cope? Won’t it be cold for you?”

Geralt hums, eyes crinkling. “I have you. I’m sure you’ll fuss enough.”

“You are damn right I will!” Jaskier begins his musing. “I’m going to make our home so cozy! Do you remember those rugs we saw at the winter market last year, the ones you said were too impractical for the road? Finally, I can get those, now that we have somewhere permanent to return to. And we shall build a garden for your herbs, and then a library for me. Plants and arts, let’s not forget! Oh, and those velvet robes you like!”

“I never said I liked them.”

Jaskier pokes Geralt on the cheek, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“You don’t need to. Your face betrays everything. You have this look when you see something you desire but don’t think you deserve—it’s how you used to look at me. I should have known you’d be the first one to suggest settling down. You always were the domestic one. The world just didn’t let you think it could be an option.” he pauses, softening. “Something must have changed your mind.”

The fondness in Geralt’s eyes melts into a golden pool of warmth. “It was someone, actually.”

He leans forward, tucking a strand of hair away from Jaskier’s face, fingers tracing the hair at his temple. A warm blush spreads across Jaskier’s face when he’s observed like this, with his crow’s feet and grey hair on display.

“That someone must be amazing,” Jaskier says, proud of his crow’s feet and grey hair when they are loved like this.

“Hmm. I don’t know. He’s very smug.” Geralt squints. “Less so with age. It wised him up, against all odds.”

They smile into another kiss as the morning sun rises, spilling silvery light into their room.

There are many things to plan in the process of building a new home. They will need to travel to the coast, for one, and then pick out all the furniture. Jaskier will insist on filling their life with soft, warm things for Geralt. Blankets, pillows, teas, and then, freshly collected flowers from their garden. Ciri will need a guest bedroom, for the girl to rest her weary feet when the path gets too much for a witcher-princess. And only the gods know when Yennefer will drop by, with her secret soft spot for domesticity.

There are many things to plan for the future.

But for now, they already have a home right here.

[delopsia]

Warmer | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 3600 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, Fem!Reader, blowjobs, oral (reader receiving), slight snowballing if you squint, implied risk of getting caught by ye ole parents! :D

"Goodnight!" 

The candle in your palm flickers vibrantly as you ease the door to a shut, set into a frenzy by the subtle breeze born from even this tiny motion. In your grasp, the icy metal of the knob burns right through you, eating away at your already cold hand. 

Aside from this singular sugar cookie-scented candle, your bedroom is nothing but darkness. Not a singular light, even from your cellphone, lying on the bedside table with its empty battery. Some good that the portable power bank was; charging by about five percent of your battery life per hour. 

A hamster on a wheel would be faster than this.

Fortunately, it's much warmer under your sheets, and the discomfort that comes with being under so many heavy sheets is much easier to ignore. It's hard to complain when you don't have any other options.

The only other options you have are starting a fire right here in your bed or snuggling into the never-ending furnace that is Rhett Abbott. Neither are feasible options, unfortunately. Not when a fire risks burning the house down, and you have no way of contacting Rhett. If he's responded to your texts about the surprise snowfall, you haven't received anything.

Thank you, phone battery, for running dry just minutes after the snowfall knocked the electricity out. 

You wonder if Rhett's got power over on his ranch. Surely he doesn't; usually, if one house in Wabang doesn't have electricity, the rest of the town is having much of the same luck. Fortunately for him, though, he always has the luxury of packing up and moving into a motel for the night. 

You don't. Not when your father is the local pastor and makes it a point that you all stay because there is always a family to help. Someone always needs shelter, he says.

Outside, the icy wind blows harder, howling as it whips around the house, squeezing through the tiny cracks of your window. You can feel the already low-temperature drop even further; any lower, and you're sure that it may start snowing in here. Another gust of wind and your window audibly clunks, perhaps contracting from the cold. 

Just as you're snuggling further into the heavy blankets, the window makes that sound again. Strange, is it cracking? Can cold wind even break a window? Flickering your eyes open, you peek over at the window. It doesn't exactly look broken; in fact, it looks just the same as it always has. 

Something black pops up from below, striking the window. There's that noise again.

Oh.

Every fiber in your body screams at you to get back into bed, crawl under the covers, and hibernate until Spring, but your feet hit the cold floor all the same. Only beginning to regret it when you raise the window, letting all that damned cold air in, just for the sake of foolishly sticking your head outside. 

"Rhett, what the fuck are you doing?" You hiss, wrapping your arms around yourself. 

Even in the dark, you can see the whites of Rhett's teeth as he smiles up at you, giddy. "Hi."

There's not a single footprint on the lawn; you're sure he's walked through the tire tracks rather than across the yard. He's gotten smart. Last time, he did leave prints, and your father called the police to file a report because he thought someone was trespassing to peek in the windows at night. 

The rope fire escape ladder is just as cold in your hands as you remove it from its box and lower the end of it out the window. It's so quiet in the house that you're almost afraid that even the soft clicking of the material against the wall will disturb your parents. Nobody comes, though. Not even as Rhett clambers up, gracefully smacking the back of his head up against the windowsill.

"What in the world are you doing here?" It's late; you don't know how late, but it feels late.  

There's that goofy grin again, so big that his eyes crinkle with it, and he can barely form his next words, "well, how else am I supposed to make sure my baby is safe and warm during a blizzard?"

If it were physically possible, your eyes could just roll right into the back of your head and never come back out. 

"Is that so?" As you slowly shut your window, careful not to make any sounds that will disturb your parents, Rhett wraps himself around you. 

Wandering hands wrapping around your waist, drawing his warm, firm chest up against your back, "what? You don't believe me?"

"Oh, I believe you," turning in his grasp, you're pleased to find that he's already bending down to meet your eye, allowing you to rub your cold noses together with ease, "I just think you wanted to cuddle."

He can't argue with that, not when he's proven in the past that he can and will make a two-hour trip just to sleep with you in his arms one more night. The gentle nudge of blunt fingernails and flickering of eyes, dancing between you and the bed, is enough all on its own. Just a few wayward steps and you're falling back into the nest of blankets you've accumulated.

A nest of blankets that, suddenly, wasn't worth your time because a walking furnace is settling right next to you. His head settles onto the same pillow as you, legs tangling together as big arms encircle you once more. You're sure he'd draw you into his chest, your head tucked just under his chin if he wasn't so keen on kissing you right now.

"What the hell..." his eyebrows furrow, leaning in to steal a kiss from your lips again. It's hard to talk when he's kissing you again, pausing and then stealing one more, stubbornly trying to figure out this conundrum on his own. "Why do your lips taste like mint?"

Oh, that. 

"Candy cane flavored chapstick," you offer, "you can taste it?"

Humming, he comes back to get another taste of you, "sure can, sunshine." 

If you'd known he was coming, maybe you would have put on one of those sparkly lip glosses your Aunt gifted you for Christmas. You still remember the last time you wore one. When Rhett kissed you silly before a rodeo, and he had to get on a bull with his lips still sparkling from you. How they still glistened in that dingy bar, and how pale that girl's face got when she realized why. 

That's a memory you'll savor when you're alone. Right now, you're too distracted by the soft suction at your bottom lip, the teeth that nip at it. His presence so warm that you can feel your cold bones begin to thaw, replaced with a growing, flaming need for something you can't put your finger on.

These little fleeting pecks aren't enough, short, chaste lip locks that don't fully allow you to savor the man that's tracing his nails up and down your spine. It's not enough, not when his thigh unintentionally squirms higher, pressing against you in the subtlest of ways. Your hands knot in his shirt, pulling him closer to you, trying for something more. 

Rhett chuckles against your lips, "and here you thought I had ulterior motives."

Nonetheless, he gives you what you want. A flush of relief rolls through you as he pushes you onto your back, effortlessly rolling on top of you. Rhett's never denied a request such as this, not when he's actively holding himself back from bending you over every time he sees you, but it still makes you nervous to ask. 

The weight that settles on top of you is so deliciously familiar; him, all of him pressed up against you, so close that you can smell his aftershave and the artificial strawberry of his shampoo. Hungry lips tangle with yours, licking at your lower lip with each kiss but not quite letting your tongues meet. 

A calloused thumb strokes at the meet of your jaw, gentle but firm, holding you there whilst he does as he pleases. Your hand twitches against his neck, overcome with the urge to tangle your fingers into those long curls resting against his nape and to pull. And that is exactly what you do.

Rhett's lips fall open with a gasp, and that is truly all you need to surge up, your impatient tongue tangling with his. They dance together with perfect, needy synchrony, meeting and exploring with each long, messy lock of lips. His hand dips down, effortlessly slipping its way under your shirt and creeping upward until it cups a soft breast. The rough drag of his thumb against your soft nipple is enough to have you squirming below him.

"So impatient," he mutters, smile forming against your lips, "love when you get like this."

One more peck against your lips, and then he's kissing his way across your cheek, taking special care to nibble at your jaw as he passes over it on his way down. Wet tongue tickling down the sensitive skin of your neck, bypassing in favor of sinking his teeth into your exposed collarbone, hard enough to leave a subtle indent that his tongue quickly soothes over. 

Cold air nips at your skin as he pushes your shirt up, high enough for him to have access to your breasts but not quite asking you to take the garment off. Even in the dark of the room, you can see the fond twinkle in his eye as he plants a kiss right between them. 

"So pretty," he praises, and oh, what a wondrous feeling his tongue against your nipple is. 

It doesn't stay long; a few swirls of his tongue, and then he's moving on to give the other one equal treatment. You can just about feel the ice forming in the saliva he's left behind, and you suppose that's why he's so sparing with them for once, tucking the shirt back over them when he's done. 

Your hips rise at the same time his fingers hitch over the hem of your panties, tugging them down with such ease, only taking his mouth off your skin long enough to get the fabric fully off you. 

"Rhett—!"

"—shh," taking his mouth off our cunt for just long enough to get his words out, "don't want your parent's wakin' up, do we?" 

His tongue is so hot against you, like a wet flame. It spreads you open so easily, tickling at your entrance and then up, up, up until it can swirl around that already swollen bud. If you weren't wet before, you are now, downright dripping with his saliva as he settles into a comfortable routine. 

"Poor preacher would have a heart attack," speaking directly into you, deep voice vibrating against where you're most sensitive, "seein' a man eatin' his daughter's sweet little pussy." 

As if to emphasize his filthy words, big hands settle upon the backs of your knees, raising them up until they're comfortably settled over his broad shoulders. Thighs caging his face as he sucks on your clit like it's candy. 

Again, your fingers itch to curl into his messy hair, and that's exactly what you do; grip locking the back of his head and weakly holding him there. Rhett groans directly into you, leaning further into you as if he can't get enough. That tongue swirls back and forth, over and over, until your hips squirm in an effort to escape it. 

He has a little bit of mercy on you, momentarily leaving your pulsating clit in favor of tracing the thin rim of your entrance. Then dipping in, once, twice, the tip of his nose nudging your clit with each motion before he pulls back just enough to wet two of his fingers with his own tongue. 

"Such a tight little thing," he cooes, thick fingers easing into you as he speaks. 

They're already crooked, so well-versed that they don't even need to try to find the little spot resting against your gummy inner walls. Perfectly rough callouses spiral right against it, leaving your thighs spasming and clenching around Rhett's head.

It's hard not to miss that big smile, barely concealed by your sex, as he returns to working your clit. You're whining, squirming helplessly below him as he devours everything you have to offer him and then some. It's too much, too much.

Darkened eyes flicker up at you, eagerly drinking in your expression, "come on, sweet thing," pausing to suck gently at your clit, fingers quickening, such simple actions that make you tremble, "cum on my face."

You barely even feel it coming on; just a few simple words, and it's snowballing into an avalanche. One, two, three, four more flicks of his tongue against you, and your back is arching, legs just about locking around his head as you cum with a barely concealed whimper. Hips convulsing as Rhett pushes harder against you, licking you through it until your back weakly hits the mattress.

"So good for me," kissing your inner thigh, he sits back on his haunches, finally letting your legs fall from his shoulders. Even from just his fingers, you can feel yourself clenching around nothing as they ease out of you, so starkly empty compared to before. 

You can't see it, but you can feel a familiar hardness press against your hip when he comes back up to you, wet lips pecking your own. Your open palm finds him, pressing lightly against the bulge in his slacks, and now it's Rhett's turn to whine into the quiet, open air.

"You don't have to worry about me," he murmurs, hair falling into his face as he speaks, "you should be tired, yeah?"

The very notion of it has you yawning, unintentionally triggering one from your sleepy-eyed cowboy as well. Even so, you don't think you can ever be too tired to see his eyelashes flutter as he cums on your tongue. 

"Not too tired for you," as if to emphasize your statement, you pat your chest, "just don't feel like sitting up, is all."

Rhett's eyes flicker, back and forth between your chest and you, as if he's waiting on you to change your mind. Even as you reach up to push his hair back behind his ear, you don't falter on your words. 

Slow, he sits up, swinging a leg over your chest to straddle you so close that you can just barely catch glimpse of him straining against the material of his pants. Still too hesitant to put his weight down on you, but that's just fine, all you have to do is push yourself up against the headboard a little, and you've got the perfect angle. 

There's no hesitation in the way you find the zipper of his pants, the soft fleece giving so easily as you gently reach inside. All you do is grasp him, nothing more, but he lets out a heavy breath, dropping his head into the arms he's folded atop your headboard. 

"Sensitive?" To which he nods. 

"Just a little," and you're sure he'd fuss more if it weren't for the circumstances. 

It's clear in the way he hides his face in the crook of his arm that this simple change in position has flustered him. All of that confidence long melted away. Yet, he's still just as hard as ever, heavy in your palm as you work him out of his cotton confines. Already leaks into your loose grasp, easily slicking your thumb as you run it along the soft skin of his head. Usually, he's only like this when...

"Something tells me you've been like this for more than a few minutes," you observe quietly. Tentatively, your hand circles around him and slowly strokes downward, and he just about jumps out of his skin.

"More or so the past week," his voice strained. There's a slight tremble in his thighs as your hand glides back up, one you're certain hasn't been brought on by the cold. "I hope you're happy that you've ruined my hand for me, doll."

It's a blessing that there isn't a singular light on in the room because you know damn well he'd give you hell for smiling at such a statement. His problem. Your compliment. 

With a firm grip on his chiseled hip bone, you nudge him forward, silently asking him to raise his hips up and toward you. They follow your lead, timidly drawing closer until you can comfortably bring your tongue to his tip, wetly swirling around it and reveling in the breathy gasp it elicits. Then, urging him forward once more until the plush head slides past your parted, swollen lips. 

"Baby," Rhett's just barely audible, even as he groans under the wise workings of your tongue, soft swirls, and chasings of veins that run along the underside of his cock.

Hollowing your cheeks, you bring him closer, those muscled hips ever so pliant and willing under your grasp. It's so easy this way, able to do nothing but focus on leading him and sucking in each and every inch he has to offer until he's bumping the back of your throat. You hold him there for a moment, adjusting to the sensation, then draw him back. 

Above you, Rhett pants like a dog, hips beginning to tremble in your hand as you lead him into a rhythm that, even despite the slowness, he struggles to maintain. So sensitive, you reckon the last time he got off was the last time he saw you. When you surprised him at an out-of-town rodeo two weeks ago, and he just about missed his ride because he was too busy laying you down in the front seat of that old GMC. 

He's still too quiet, even with the risk of your parents overhearing; you need to hear him. Breathing heavily through your nose on this next slow thrust of his hips, you push your head forward, easing him just centimeters further down your throat. Draw him back, and then again, further this time. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," finally, he peeks out from behind the crook of his elbow, keening high in his throat as you hold him there and swallow around him, "feels good." 

It's not the furthest you've managed to take him, but it's the most comfortable, and by God, he does not complain either way. Baby blues glisten as they watch you take him, slowly but surely becoming more confident in his motions until he's properly fucking his cock in and out of your eager mouth. 

Outside your bedroom, the floorboards creak under the weight of someone, likely your mother, on their way to the bathroom across the hall. Rhett's breath hitches. You keep going, downright smiling around him as you intentionally bring him even further down your throat for a fleeting second, just to feel him jolt above you. 

God, isn't it a hell of a sight to see Rhett Abbott reach up and clamp his own hand over his mouth to stay quiet. 

Those footsteps continue past your room, pausing momentarily, and for a second, you're concerned that maybe they can hear you sucking idly at the head of his cock like it's a damn lollipop. Then, you're blessed with the sound of a bathroom door creaking shut.

Rhett's cock twitches in that telltale way it always does when he's close. You draw him back in, jaw aching as you suck him down once more. Those pretty eyes screw themselves shut with the tiniest whimper, just barely concealed. Keening higher and higher in his throat as you work him with everything you've got. 

Drawing back once more, your tongue spirals, once, twice, thrice, before his entire body twitches above you, and hot, salty cum hits your waiting tongue. You swallow around him, with each and every spurt and twitch of his throbbing cock. His whimper just barely concealed by the sound of water flushing across the hall. 

You don't have time to let him go; one tap of your tongue at his sensitive head, and he jolts backward, popping out of your mouth, a small rope of pearly white hitting your lips. 

Breathless, he leans down the best he can, hands gripping your chin and lifting your head just high enough for him to kiss you. Unphased by the cum that winds up mixing between your lips.

"Rhett—"

"—don't care 'bout it," and by God does he not, eager tongue licking into your mouth the same way it always does, teasing at your bottom lip until you grant him access. 

It's dizzying, your already breathless lungs burning as he kisses you, and you're sure he must taste himself; hell, you can still taste him. 

"Can I stay with you?" He murmurs, ever so quiet as footsteps squeak back to their respective bedroom. 

"I'm not sure how well I can hide you," both of you frown at your words; you both know that the bedroom door doesn't lock anymore, the mechanism probably as old as Perry. And no amount of made-up stories can cover up for when one of your parents walks in.

That knowledge doesn't make the downward turn of his lips any less painful; even running your hands through his hair, nails scraping his scalp in the way he likes, doesn't make it go away. 

"...but I can stay with you," you offer, timid all of a sudden, "can lie, say I went somewhere to get warmer, and hope for the best." 

The corner of his lip turns upward, "I take it; I'm that somewhere to get warmer?"

Neither of you needs a verbal answer to that; you already know just what warmer might entail. 

[maculategiraffe]

the house was very cold and the heat vents were blowing cold air so we climbed down under the house and turned the furnace off and on again. vents still blowing cold air. and then I had the bright idea to turn the thermostat off and on again and that fixed it. moral: always try turning it off and on again

[footprintsinthesxnd]

Love and War

Previous Chapter Masterlist Next Chapter

Synopsis: Bob Floyd never expected to fall in love during the war, especially not with a pretty, young nurse during basic training. But love works in funny ways and can their love stand the rest of time, the war and the distance that separates them. Warnings: mentions of graphic themes, war, injury, weapons, sexual images, language, 18+.

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Ardennes Offensive - Bastogne December 1944

On the silver screen, John Wayne dressed in his Naval whites and Marlene Dietrich conversed, their figures dancing across the cracked wall as the projector shone the bright light onto it. Bob’s eyes followed the moving pictures thoughtlessly, his mind too busy with the prospect of a weekend with his wife. (Y/n) was currently stationed at a hospital near Paris, to Bob’s great relief. It meant that she was safe, she was reasonably out of harm's way. Miller and Jackson sat on either side of him, both their eyes trained on the makeshift movie screen.

“This film sucks, I’ve seen it before,” Jackson grumbled, earning a harsh shhh from the paratroopers in front of him. Jackson snapped his mouth shut, sinking into his chair with a pout on his young face. The lights above their head flickered on, the movie coming to a stop as two Lieutenants marched down between the aisles of chairs, ignoring the protests gc from the men. Lieutenant Nelson, who had been sat to the left of Bob, had his lips set in a hard, thin line, eyebrows furrowed as if he knew the impending doom that was going to be thrust upon them.

“Elements of the 1st and the 6th Panzer division have broken through in the Ardennes forest. Now they have broken through the 28th infantry and elements of the 4th. All officers report to respective HQs, all passes are cancelled.” A loud eruption of complaints filled the hall, all cursing, swearing, and praying to god. Bob felt his heart sink into his stomach, feeling the letter he'd written to y/n nestled in his breast pocket, waiting to be sent. He’d been relieved to see her again in Paris, while the other men were excited to blow some cash all he wanted to do was hold her close and know that for just that moment she was safe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The trucks tumbled along the dark roads, rocking back and forth over potholes and shaking the paratroopers that occupied them. The men huddled together in a desperate attempt to share their warmth, the frigid conditions caused a domino effect of shivers. Bob’s breath fanned across his face, icy droplets freezing nearly in mid-air and casting a mist over his face with each exhale. One man was passing a cigarette around, each man taking a long drag before passing it on to the next, the warm smoke filling their lungs, creating a small sense of comfort. The convoy shuddered to a halt and the soldiers hopped out, Bob suppressed a cry as his frozen feet hit the already-frozen ground. Thick snow poured over the edge of his boots, dampening his socks and causing him to shudder. Around them small fires appeared as fellow soldiers poured petrol into holes, lighting them to add some warmth to the glacial landscape, small furnaces of hope amongst the dismay atmosphere.

“I’m freezing my ass off already,” Jackson grumped, digging his hands deeper into his ODs pockets.

“You and me both,” Albert replied, teeth chattering uncontrollably. Bob just hummed in response, too cold to even find a reply.

“Let’s get moving. We’re in for a cold one, Boys.” Captain Nelson called out, ushering the paratroopers forward.

“But Sir, we’re gonna be surrounded.” A replacement private called out, his uniform new and shiny and he looked youthful, fresh-faced which is something many of the young men had lost.

“We’re paratroopers son, we’re meant to be surrounded.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bright crimson seeped through the once-white crisp sheets, spreading the red stain deep into the fabric. The sheets that just moments before had held a soldier fighting for his life, as (y/n) worked tirelessly to stop the fountain of blood surging from his artery as the medic placed clamps in an attempt to stem the bleeding. It had been so pointless really to try and save him, he was long gone before he reached the medics' tent, his blood strewn across the crisp, white snow outside, but if you don’t try then you don’t know. Each of these men had fought in honour of their country and this man deserved to die safe and somewhat warm rather than in a foxhole in the dark somewhere. Or that’s what she told herself, gathering up the bloody sheets that had dried brown and crispy.

Screams of pain filled the aid station and (y/n) tried her best to block out the agonising wails of the men she passed, as if she could not hear them, as if it were a silent theatre production. When she first arrived in the field she had been left shaken and terrified, but as (y/n) worked and gained confidence as a nurse she grew used to the screams, the agony, the thick iron scent that filled her nostrils and the blood that dried sticky to her hands, the never-ending death that surrounded everyone.

The rain had started about half an hour ago and it echoed above her head on the canvas sheet, much softer than the gunfire just hours before. The sound of shelling in the distance and the occasional flash of gunfire reminded (y/n) of just how close to the battlefield she was, and as she stepped outside the scene of bloodshed continued. The battlefield lay quiet, for it was now a graveyard of the unburied. Their corpses lay among the debris of the battle, deep craters littered the area and the ground was slick with rain and blood. A bitter wind swept across the clearing, causing her to shiver, gritting her teeth as she walked along the risen, wooden platforms to the wash tent. (Y/n) abandoned the bloody sheets with one of her fellow nurses, (y/n) didn’t think she’d be able to remove the stains, but knew she would try. They were running low on supplies, so stained sheets were better than nothing.

(Y/n’s) dress blew around her ankles as she walked back to the aid station, the night would be long and with the continued shelling she knew more casualties would be arriving soon. Taking a moment to stop outside the tent, she leaned against the large wooden pole that supported the air station and sighed. Closing her eyes, she took a moment to breathe in the cold night air, placing a hand on her chest so she could feel the frantic beat of her heart beneath her fingers. Her ragged breaths let out steamy puffs of air into the darkness, rising above her like the smoke from the various fires dotted around the battlefield. (Y/n) moved to the left as another group of soldiers approached the aid station, carrying a wounded comrade between them. She could tell from the way he hung limp in their arms, face pale that he was dead but they hurried past her, fear evident on their faces, but the hint of hope in their eyes driving them forward.

She looked out across the scene of devastation, eyes drifting over the fallen soldiers, discarded weapons and rubble. Her eyes drifted to a figure that was hovering in the tree line, he took a seat beside one of the trees, his back hitting the tree with a thud as he slid down the bark to plant himself by the roots. His shoulders sagged and he was bent over, cradling his head in the palms of his hands. She couldn’t remember how long it had been since she’d last seen Bob since he’d last held her in his arms since he’d last kissed her. It had been just two months since their wedding and yet it felt like years had passed. When she was first stationed in Bastogne (y/n) knew he was close by and dug in a foxhole somewhere in the Ardennes but to actually see him in front of her made her heart sore and she felt lightheaded.

When they had first met, his blond hair had been neatly parted and gelled down, silver framed glasses balanced on his nose, but now his face was weathered, covered in grime and blood, his blond hair in disarray and his glasses long since broken or lost. His once clean uniform was now scruffy and worn and the ‘screaming eagle’ insignia was barely visible under the layers of dirt. His helmet rested on the log beside him, the white spade emblem glowing against its dark background. (Y/n) pushed herself away from the tent and followed the wooden pathway towards the woods. The path didn’t follow the whole way to the trees and soon she was trudging through the copper-coloured mud, her boots slipping and sliding as she tried to keep her balance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bob sat on the fallen tree, silently cursing the cold, cursing East Company’s new commander, having had Nelson promoted they were stuck with an inexperienced Lieutenant, cursing the Germans, cursing the whole damn war. He swore under his breath as his frozen fingers caught against the rough tree bark. All of his cursing was silent or mere whispers, as first Sergeant it was his job to keep up the morale amongst the men, a job that was becoming increasingly difficult as they were bombarded with shelling every night. It was during those nights when Bob was huddled deep in his foxhole with Jackson that he thought of you. He longed to see (y/n) again, your wedding feeling like an eternity ago when neither of them had any care in the world, for those three glorious days it was just the two of them. It hit him hard and suddenly - with a deep ache in his chest. He seemed to long for her more now than he ever had before. She had been his rock since Toccoa and now when times were at their toughest he craved her embrace.

Bob placed his hand on his chest, feeling (y/n’s) picture in his breast pocket, it was crumpled and worn, the corners curling over from the hours Bob had spent lovingly looking at her, running his thumb over her face. He needed a new picture, the one from his wedding day. He remembered the photographer telling them both to look at the camera and smile, as if they both weren’t beaming at each other, unable to drag his eyes away from his new wife. He would never forget how beautiful she looked, her makeshift wedding dress hugging her curves perfectly, her hair neatly pinned and her lips blessed with a splash of red lipstick. Bob let out a sigh, a small smile gracing his lips as his mind began to wander, too distracted to notice the approaching figure.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bob’s head whipped around as she approached, his shoulders tensed, his eyes scanning the darkness.

“Flash?” He called out, waiting for her reply to know if she was an ally or the enemy.

“Thunder,” (y/n) called out in reply, watching as Bob visibly relaxed as she replied with the correct countersign.

“Welcome,” he stood as she approached him, a wide smile gracing his lips, as she grinned back at him.

“Doll,” he cradled her face lovingly between his hands, running his thumb across her cheek so delicately as if she would crumble and disappear. (Y/n) knew he was trying to memorize her features like he did every time he saw her, it was as if he feared that each time would always be the last.

“Hey love,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper as she sunk into his embrace. His eyes raked over her frame, not in the hungry way that most of the men did but with a small smile. Her hand cradled the back of his neck, her fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck before pulling him down, her lips connected with his chapped ones. The kiss was tender yet passionate, full of the loving embrace that (y/n) had been longing for so long and that her letters just couldn’t convey. He pulled away briefly, his hot breath ghosting her skin bringing (y/n) back to the present as his lips began to press along her ear and neck.

“God, I’ve missed you.” He whispered, his blue eyes shining in the dim light with unshed tears.

“I missed you too, Bobby,” she swooped your thumb across his cheek, brushing away his tears. He pulled her down onto the log beside him, his arm wrapping tightly around her shoulders as he held her as if his life depended on it. Bob’s hand brushed over the stack of papers beside him, not daring to look down at them.

“What are you doing out here, Bobby?” (Y/n) asked, watching as his eyes drifted to the paper and pen in front of him, thumbing them between his thumb and forefinger.

“I’m writing letters home.”

“Oh, are you writing to your family? How are they keeping? ” She grinned at him, she wanted a distraction, so to hear the odd story from home was always welcome. (Y/n) couldn’t wait to meet his family when all this was over and when they could escape this hell together.

“I’m writing letters to my fallen comrades’ families, I feel I owe them that much. The army sends them the same bullshit condolences letters, but they didn’t know them, not like I did. I knew each and every man, where they came from, their hobbies, they were my brothers,” his voice was thick with emotion and tears brimmed in his eyes, threatening to fall. “You know it’s Christmas soon, hell they’ll probably get these letters right before Christmas.”

“I know you did, Love, I know,” (y/n) let her fingers trace the grimy marks along his neck, trailing loosely along the metal chain of his dog tags.

She looked on slowly as Bob tried to compose himself.

“I understand your pain, I watch the soldiers come back from the front blown to pieces and littered with bullet holes. It is heart-wrenching, to hear their screams of agony. Time and time again they cry for their mothers, and I can’t help them.”

Bob placed his hand under her chin, lifting it so he could look into her eyes. His eyes held all the woes of the world, the pain, the devastation, the love.

He wrapped his large outer coat around her shoulders, trying to shelter her from the cold. (Y/n) let out a strangled sob, her hand fisting into his jacket.

Bob pressed his lips to her hair, murmuring softly. “Don’t you dare think you don’t make a difference? All the men that have been returned to my company after being cared for by you and your fellow nurses speak so highly of you. You bring them comfort in their time of need and you love them in their final moments. The calm you bring is a gift from God. Don’t ever think you don’t make a difference. I may be their brother but you are their angel in the darkest times. You're my angel.”

Bob poured his heart out to her, confessing his feelings as she watched him carefully for any sign of lie as he spoke, but his face never changed, his eyebrows knitted in a firm line, lips moving softly as he spoke.

“It is not a gift. God would not give so much pain,” (y/n) sniffed. “You know you’re kind of my angel too,” she rubbed her hand over her cheeks. “I’ve been blaming myself for so long, every man we lost, each death has stayed with me and I can’t keep it bottled up anymore.”

“You don’t have to, you don’t have to, Doll. I’m here just like you’re here for me. Please don’t ever blame yourself.” Bob cupped her cheek in his large hand, his rough, calloused thumb brushing against her soft skin.

“Then don’t blame yourself either, Bob. I’ve seen how you are with your men, you’d do anything for them.”

Bob nodded, a small smile gracing his chapped lips.

“Would you like some help writing those letters? I know I didn’t know your men that well, but I may have been with them at the end. I know what they said.” (Y/n) took Bob’s hand in hers, running her fingers delicately over his cracked knuckles and squeezing his hand comfortingly.

“I’d like that very much.” She huddled closer on the log, Bob pulled the bag of dog tags from his pocket, fishing out one at a time to go through the names.

With each name, (y/n’s) heart wrenched at the thought of their poor mothers, girlfriends and wives receiving the heartbreaking news. It made her think of her brother, he was in the Marines fighting in the Pacific Theatre. She wrote to him, telling him all about Bob and he couldn’t wait to meet him when all this was over, but the thought of receiving a letter like this for him or Bob only brought further tears.

She dreaded receiving a letter like that from Albert telling her that Bob was gone. (Y/n) couldn’t even begin to imagine what it must be like to receive that doomed letter. Bob must have seen her worried expression because he took her face between his hands.

“I’m here, Doll and I’m not going anywhere. I love you,” he admitted, his eyes watching hers for any flicker of rejection but there was none. You smiled brightly at him, cupping his cheek and running your thumb over his lips. “I love you too.”

Bob pressed his lips to hers, his fingers stroking through her bloody, matted hair, as she held onto the collar of his uniform, gripping it in desperation. His tongue ran along her lips and she gave in, letting his tongue dance with her own. She only pulled away when they had both run out of air, an embarrassed smile on Bob’s lips, his cheeks tinted pink. “I’m so glad I married you.” He whispered against the shell of your ear. “I’m so glad I made you mine.”

She sighed at his words, eyes closed, imagining their future together, a house of their own, living normal lives, maybe they would have a dog, maybe they would have a baby.

“I can’t wait to start our lives together, Bobby.” She admitted and felt his lips press against her neck once more. She wanted to stay like this forever but her hand brushed against the papers on Bob’s lap and she realised that they had a lot of work ahead of them.

“Well we better get back to writing those letters hadn't we, 1st Sergeant,” she smiled at him, taking the pen and paper from his grip. He smiled back at her, as she used his ‘new’ rank. The last time she had seen Bob he’d completely forgotten to mention his promotion, too caught up in his newlywed bliss. It wasn’t until she received a letter from him several weeks later that she found out. (Y/n) was so proud of him, Bob had proved himself time and time again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Between them, there were 18 letters written and sealed, ready to send to the awaiting families. (Y/n) looked up at Bob to see a relieved smile on his lips. “I may not have been able to help them in life, but at least I can bring their families some comfort in grief.” She squeezed Bob’s hand gently before standing and straightening her dress.

“Well, I better be going back. My patients need me,” she smiled apologetically at Bob, but he just smiled back.

“Please don’t go,” Bob pleaded, his watery eyes glistening in the moonlight.

“I’ll come back, my love, I promise but I have to go now.” She rubbed her hand over his cheek once more before stepping away, following the muddy path back towards the aid station, where she was met with the sounds of agonised screams. Taking a deep breath before entering the tent, Bob’s words rang in her mind as she hurried down between the isles of beds towards the medics.

“HOLD HIM DOWN!” Albert Miller shouted as she wrapped her arms over the wounded soldier. “Give him morphine,” Albert instructed and (y/n) grabbed the shot, injecting the medication into the soldier's leg. He groaned in agony, but slowly his movements slowed and he looked up at her, teary-eyed and with a toothy grin, “Are you an angel?” He asked, his voice weak as he feebly attempted to reach out to her.

“I am, Sweetheart, and I’m going to look after you.” He gazed up at her in awe, his eyes slowly closing as the morphine took effect. The medics began to work on his wound as (y/n) cradled his hand for a moment longer. She was going to look after him and Bob was right, to these men she was an angel.

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[yeahcurrahhe-e]

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄

𝐖𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐓

〚 𝐃. 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐘 〛

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ➛ language

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓 ➛ anonymous: can i request angst prompt ten, “because i care about you, okay?., with don malarkey from band of brothers? thank you!

SHE TASTED METAL IN HER MOUTH — blood? — she didn’t quite know in her delirium.

One moment, she’d been scrambling in a crawl with George Luz as artillery smothered their surroundings, splintering trees left and right in their path. In the blowing chaos, they’d heard Skip and Penkala beckoning them to the safety of their foxhole — come on! — their hands, scarred from frostbite and cuticles bound with dirt, had been extending across the snow like lifelines. Until the whir of a direct whistled through the bitter air of snowflakes, and disintegrated the two men before them into pieces; not even flesh, truly, just ash in the icy dirt. In the sound of the explosion, had come a horrendous echo as if it were the anguished cry of God. She had only been a few inches ahead of George, her hand grazing the icy fingertips of Penkala when the direct whirred itself into their foxhole, imploding with a force that tossed her back like a rag doll into the snow.

Lying in the snow, her glazed eyes beared witness to the simmering aftermath of the ambush, the stray flares akin to fireworks on the Fourth of July. Her brothers were feverish admirers of the explosive arrays of color, often tinkering with methods of how they could make the explosions more remarkable, boundless in their spectacle of light in the starry sky. She’d set off a fair share of their concoctions and the adrenaline that surged in her veins with each crackle, whistle, and ignition was addictive. She’d be laughing boundlessly with them in the projected, kaleidoscopic light, a few ashes of their creations intermingling with her pigtails and their tousles of short hair.

However, she wasn’t laughing now.

Her throat was throbbing, her body vigored with a heat she hadn’t felt in her months in Bastogne. Her stiff and aching back was cradled subtly in the grinds of snow — a fine mixture of blood, her own and other wounded soldiers, splatters across the pristine, crystal white. Her legs throbbed with oozing burns on skin that had been exposed by shrapnel from the explosion, twitching with her strained endeavors to claw away to safety before another deluge opened the heavens into another hell. She wanted to crawl over this slush and blood, over the spent shells and the branches, yet the cold was seeping into her wounds and the furnace of anguish was dizzying.

The pain overwhelmed a portion of her brain, as if draining every ounce of energy from her exhausted body. It was as if some invisible flame were held against the pallid goosebumps of her skin whenever a radiance of adrenaline graced her weary nerves, and she’d shakily toss herself onto her side to acquire an inch towards salvation — yet, she wondered if there was such. Skip and Penkala had been in their foxhole, a sanctuary from the daily deluges of death, and they’d still been obliterated where they stood. Throw salvation into the shitter when it came to war.

Abruptly, there was a pressure encompassing her forearm, it being the trembling hands of George as his distressed expression wavered into the bleared snowfall, his disheveled brown hair askew in his face as wind bustled it about, “You gotta get up!”

Y/N hastily shook her head, bracing her callus hands against his forearm as he bolstered her upper half from the bloodied and arid dirt, “It fucking hurts.” She peered at him through cold-bitten eyelashes as if he had three-heads. Don’t make me.

“I know, I know, but,” he commenced with a flurry of smoky breath through his gritted teeth, a distant explosion rattling the ground beneath them, “Goddammit. We need to get you help, okay? You ain’t bleeding too much…” His frenzied, wide eyes gave a once over to her uniform with a confirming, relieved nod to himself, hastily yet tenderly continuing to ease her up.

She gasped through gritted teeth at the impressive surge of agony trembling her petite frame as he hauled her up with an arm about her waist, urging shuffles through the powdery snow with their rawed feet. Just leave me, George!

“Medic! Medic!” George clamored with a trickle of cracks from his scratchy throat, as he essentially maneuvered both the weights of themselves and their gear through the churns of snow.

Y/N dubiously leaned meager stretches of strength into her feet yet cowered as if her foot met a flame rather than ice — she was a paratrooper….yet couldn’t even fucking walk on her own, muster the strength to do so. She had been banged up by a few shreds of shrapnel in Normandy, walked the entire night with a makeshift tourniquet while following a few other lost Easy soldiers, one being her boyfriend, Donald Malarkey. Her glazed eyes impossibly widened as George’s demands for a medic blurred in her hearing; both of his best friends were dead. And it was only fitting, devastatingly so, that she’d be the one to tell him.

“Luz! What happened?!” Eugene Roe’s lanky figure came hurtling over a mound of frosty dirt, hand securing his helmet atop his head as it quavered with his hasty steps. In the hazy smoke of the deluge’s aftermath, it had been rather difficult to depict just where the medic had come bounding from — however, that’s how it always seemed with the young man; he’d come when he was needed, and one may often ponder on just how he’d get there.

“She was near one of the directs when it exploded!” George panted incredibly fast as if his system was ramshackled with gradually increasing grief, now that the adrenaline had washed away. Roe bounded up to the pair of them, easing an arm to replace George’s as the man’s lip vaguely quivered, “Skip and Penkala….their foxhole got hit. They’re…they’re gone.”

“You go get yourself some rest, Luz, okay? Lip said we’re alright for now,” Roe solemnly managed, cracking a meager smile across his chapped lips, regarding how George gazed around the snowy wasteland with a distant glint in his swollen brown eyes.

He eventually bowed his head before patting Y/N’s shoulder, the tremble of his hand radiating through the cloth of her jacket, “Take good care of her, eh?”

“‘Course,” his voice was scratchy, his pink nose twitching with a cough shackling his body as George dubiously trudged away through the snow, his hand fumbling for his cigarettes in his pouch. 

“You sick, Gene?” Y/N murmured in attempt to alleviate the nauseating pain from her misery and wounds, the pair of them hobbling through the snow towards Eugene and Spina’s foxhole.

“Nah, just the cold — Louisiana ain’t never this cold, I ain’t used to it,” he shrugged whilst tweaked the place of his hand on the curve of her torso, peering towards her from beneath the contour of his helmet, “You shouldn’t be worrying about me, ma’am, anyway. You’re the one who is injured.”

Y/N mustered a nerve to smile — ma’am, Eugene Roe was undoubtedly and to a fault, a gentleman — and, yes, she was above him in rank, but he was a year her senior, nearly a foot taller than her. Such an endearment was uncanny to her.

“Someone’s gotta look after you, too, Eugene,” she asserted, tone wandering with haze from morphine she hadn’t noticed he injected. And, he just nodded away slightly at her words as they approached the foxhole, Spina mounting the crumbling dirt of it to aid them the distance to it.

—

THE NEWS OF THE direct hitting Skip and Penkala’s foxhole fell upon Donald Malarkey before she secured the opportunity to do so herself; George Luz had come numbly lumbering into a foxhole where Malarkey nursed a wrinkled cigarette between his teeth whilst he prepared food. Luz had mumbled lowly of how Y/N and him had been scrambling in a crawl towards the foxhole in seek of safety from the ambush of artillery, how Skip and Penkala had been yearning in grasp towards them — screaming their names through the descent of fiery hell — and how a direct whistled from above, landed in the abyss of the dirt, and exploded, shattering the two men to ashy pieces. How Y/N had been just mere inches ahead in the snowy distance, yet was injured by shrapnel and ripples of heat that would’ve — should have — blistered his own skin.

And Luz wasn’t shocked when the redhead blundered out from the foxhole almost breathlessly, flicking away his smoldering cigarette to the frigid earth. Luz snuffed it out haphazardly with the tip of his boot as he kindled his own fresh cigarette from his rumpled pack, shakily inhaling the toxic, invisible poisons to his aching lungs.

Donald Malarkey trudged with anchors in his tired muscles through the snow towards Roe’s foxhole. He heaved his beanie over the greasy tousle of his crimson hair, noticing how his fingers quivered from gradual shock rather than the bitter air. Muck and Penkala were dead. Y/N was injured…to what extent he didn’t know.

“Roe!” He snapped through the evening briskness as he caught glimpse of the silhouette of the medic bustling towards his foxhole, hands nestled beneath his armpits to absorb the scarce warmth of his body heat.

“Malarkey,” Roe nodded curtly in acknowledgement, peering his glossy eyes out from beneath the rim of his helmet, “‘ya hurt?”

Don briskly shook his head, nearly too belligerently, “I heard Y/N got hit — she here?”

The shadow of a helmet swayed in the vanishing daylight within the foxhole, as if the individual had perked at the mention — rather aggressive — of the female paratrooper. He didn’t stall for Roe’s agitated response, striding the dainty distance to the fringe of the foxhole, face as red as his hair.

Y/N was knelt against the curve of arid dirt, a cloth bandage cinched around her thigh with blemishes of blood dotting its white canvas, the diminishing daylight grazing vaguely over the dirt and lacerations on the highs of her cheekbones and the crook of her forehead. Hell. She looked as if she had been ravaged by hellhounds, drained of morality by Hades himself. She was far cries away from the spitfire woman that defied stereotypes years ago in Toccoa.

“You found me,” she murmured bluntly, pale fingers picking apart the resemblance of food in her K-Ration, dropping away the shreds in distaste.

“You could’ve been killed, Y/N,” he hissed bitterly, stooping to the icy circumference of the foxhole, boots crackling the wintry concoction beneath them,“And it seems like you don’t give two fucks that you almost were obliterated.”

Her anxious fingers halted in a hasty reaction, almost cramping at the abrupt cease of movement in their frigid tendons. And she laughed. It was a sputter of cynicism and miff that bubbled from her chapped lips as she fluidly pushed herself to her feet, the K-Ration tumbling aside. Her balance was thwarted by the anguished blasts of soreness in her leg, a hand clenching the grassy edge of the foxhole to bolster her achy figure upwards.

“That’s because I saw two of my best friends get shot to hell right in front of me,” she callously asserted, her knuckles thronging with white as the pressure upon the edge swirled in her frustration, “When I should’ve been, too!”

The aghast and bewilderment that irked the dullness on his face made her aware that her choked up words had opened a Pandora’s Box. The one small comment had stirred the hurricane in the both of them and their blazing eyes strung in a tightrope in the biting air. Their steady breaths canopied in front of their faces as they glowered at each other.

“You could’ve at least found me and told me you got hurt,” he chastised, a clipped reprimanding that had her feeling more so a red-handed child rather than a soldier.

“Ah,” she clicked her tongue, jabbing it fleetingly against the concave of her cheek as to contemplate her wit-drawn remark, “So, you could’ve berated me sooner?”

Her eclipse of his concern had the flush of his cheeks once more rivaling the shade of his hair — wisps of crimson against pallid complexion, distinct from those caused by the whip of arctic air.

“Because I care about you, okay?!” His true desire was to have his tone be a verbal clobber — beckon the self-preservation to her mind through some marvel — yet had to settle for a searing and acrimonious murmur in the girdle of a noise mandate.

Y/N was emotionally far past his counsel, composure shot by the regret and irritation she festered and allowed to strengthen with each moment done.

“Anybody would be fucking grateful they were alive,” she muttered, her throat aching with the pinch of a cry, “But that’s not me — if I was to be grateful to be alive, I wouldn’t be a true soldier. There are so many others who deserve to be alive instead…be here instead, go home instead….” Y/N cleared her throat of the swirls of temptation to break down crying, sniffing her pinkened nose whilst shaking her head, “And I know you feel the same so don’t even dare reprimand me, Malarkey.”

The irate snap of his surname radiated just how pissed she was presently with him, how her fury rolled off her in tidal waves, a furnace in the Bastogne frigid damnation. And he opened his mouth but never uttered a syllable. She was right. Of course — she was notorious for her tendency to be right. He’d be a foolish man to conceal the survivor’s guilt that gnawed at the linings of his stomach each day, each moment a fatality was broadcasted across the company. It was a torment that sliced deeper within his conscious, sharp knives carving out his morality with each dead body he saw, each name he heard from the casualties report.

A paper-like pressure on his clenched fist roused him to reality, away from his mind that gnawed with too many emotions to start processing. Her scarred, ivory hand encompassed his larger palm, a bustle of trembling erupting in their clasp as she peered into the dead look molded into his eyes — eyes that she was accustomed to seeing depths of youth and warmth within. Neither was nowhere to be seen.

“Don,” she beckoned, shifting her weight from the burning twinge on her injured leg, crinkles of a wince on the corners of her eyes. She gulped away the discomfort — ruminating on how she wasn’t keen on being the recipient of such obstinate attitude, “Come on … look at me.”

He collapsed the kneel bolstering him, a whoosh into the crinkled snow while glimpsing at her, the pain she subdued with the scraps of strength in her drained soul and body, the juxtaposing earnestness of her eyes. She wrenched his hand subtly, beckoning wordlessly for him to get into the foxhole for, God forbid, another deluge of artillery hail down on them. Numbly, he sank into the depth of the foxhole, resembling more of a ghost from a horror story than a breathing human being.

“Your leg,” Don muttered bluntly, beady eyes upon the haphazardly wrapped bandage encompassing her thigh, gaze moving along the crimson splotches that didn’t vanish in the evening gleam.

“Just a few minor burns,” Y/N shrugged, casting a sidelong glimpse up towards him as he crouched against the icy sludge, “Roe says they’ll be healing in a week or so.”

He shakily nodded whilst propelling his eyes impossibly fast from her, staring at the crevices of ravaged dirt before him, a habit many Easy soldiers developed in the dragging hours they were pinned in their foxholes. And even though things were rather precarious between the pair of them, she still plucked the clenched hand from atop his thigh, thumb absentmindedly trialing over his split knuckles.

“You should get some sleep,” she asserted, well aware he was a constant subduer of slumber, preferring to smoke through his cigarette packs and penning letters to his mother back home during the night, “Can’t keep yourself alive if you’ve got one eye shut.” She was acutely aware of such since she would offhandedly stay awake with him, chuckling beneath a tarp about childhood shenanigans and aiding the penmanship of his letters.

His eyes were opaque with slumber when they glanced towards her — nearly cynical — as if wondering just why she’d say such, fathom how she thought he could sleep right now.

“You first,” he dared yet she knew from the subtle grin that cracked a spiderweb of content on his face, that she had shattered even a fraction of his woe — Donald Malarkey couldn’t settle with being swamped with morose, that just wasn’t the ginger’s ways. Even war couldn’t hinder that.

His chapped fingertips skimmed gingerly on the rosy ample of her cheek once a comfortable silence glutted the cold, heaps of exhaustion flushing into her own eyes at the familiarity of his touch — the subtle warmth of it on her rawly bitter skin. His thumb brushed her bottom lip rather fleetingly, openly admiring her for a slim second before the crumbling of snow indicated someone approaching, and his hand fell away.

“You both sleep,” Roe’s voice beckoned lowly from the brink of the foxhole, as he tapped the bow of his boot against the rear of both of their helmets. His voice was muffled vaguely by the cigarette that bobbed at the corner of his mouth, “I’ll wake ‘ya in an hour.”

“Thanks, Gene,” Y/N nodded faintly back his way as he trudged through the snowfall towards an intact tree trunk.

Her head felt nearly embedded with surges of lead as it settled onto Don’s shoulder, her eyes swollen with anchors of weariness from sleepless nights and the allure to release into slumber swelled by him stroking her the hair that bustled from beneath her helmet. Whilst he shut his eyes, lips shifted to the icy ivory of her cheek in a delicate kiss, her shoulders composing away from their tension at the warmth blossoming across her cheek from the contact.

And for the first time in weeks, they soundly slept.

[a-strange-inkling]

Day 18: Cold Hands

Chicago, Illinois 1988

It’s about ten-thirty when she finally finishes her assignment in the light of the glossy bulb above the sink and the warm psychedelic glow of their little Christmas tree. She sighs in tired satisfaction, that’s the last of her homework for the year with her holiday break starting at CSU next week.

Her bones ache when she stretches, piling her papers and textbook neatly together before returning them back to her shoulder bag.

Shutting off the kitchen light, she quietly creeps into their bedroom and checks on Olivia who is still sleeping soundly in her bassinet beside the bed, where Eddie is tucked up under the covers. Livvy will be up in about another hour to nurse, so she knows better catch some sleep now while she can.

She presses a gentle kiss to her daughter’s downy little head, breathing in her sweet scent, before carefully and quietly slipping under the covers beside Eddie. She doesn’t realize how cold she is until the heat beneath the blanket seeps pleasantly into her skin. The apartment is set at a pleasant 74F, but it doesn’t seem to matter, she always runs cold, even in the middle of summer. Small as she is, she has a hard time retaining heat.

Whereas her husband, he is an inferno, his body a slow burning furnace.

She hums contentedly as she snuggles up behind him, wrapping her arms around his torso, unable to help herself when she slips her hands under the fabric of his shirt.

“Ah! Jesus Christ!” he gasps roughly, shocked to consciousness at the feel of her tiny hands. “Christina Elizabeth!” he cries sas he rolls over to face her.

“Shhh… Livvy is sleeping.” she scolds softly, teasingly, following after him as he scoots away from her touch. “Mmm you’re so warm.” she all but purrs, wanting to burrow back into him.

“Ack! Fucking hell! Sweetheart, your hands are like ice.” he hisses under his breath when she manages to slide her palms up his back. He’s like liquid sunshine. She reaches up higher.

“Woman, cut it out, you’re going…” All the air is sucked out of his lungs, when she moves her feet against his bare calves, up to his thighs, relishing this even hotter territory she’s discovered. “Chrissy!”

“I’m so cold.” she whispers innocently, nestling closer, not in the least bit sorry. He promised to always keep her warm when they left for Chicago after all.

“Yeah, no shit… alright, fine, c’mere,” he sighs, wrapping an arm around her and tucking her beneath him.

She smiles contentedly up at him as she snuggles in. He looks so sleepy and handsome, giving her a tired, rueful smile. Pursing her lips coyly, she drags her fingers down the hemline of his shirt to steal more body heat. He chuckles as he cups her hands quickly bringing them up to his lips.

Blood rushes to her face as she watches him blow gently into the little shelter of his hand, rubbing her fingers between his palms in between puffs of the hot air from his breath. “No under the clothes till I thaw these out, you little frost fairy.”

@hellcheerxmas