#it’s leaking water like Jesus’ wound

[bigfootsmom]

eddie as st. sebastian for @thequeenofcarvenstone <3

this is a prompt fill with the @911actions gotcha for gaza! check out how you can still donate and support the cause!

[anticomedygarden]

wolf

-

tw: blood and injury

sequel

-

"Fuck, fuck, motherfucking christ, jesus, fuck," Sirius muttered as he tore off his steaming shirt and pants and tried to ignore the frankly disturbing sounds coming from outside.

The young man had just gotten home after a 16-hour shift at the hospital, and he was not in the fucking mood. As soon as he'd gotten home, he sped through a shower, changed into pajamas, and heated up some leftover soup James had sent with him last weekend, and all he wanted was to eat and watch some mindless TV, and that was exactly what he had been about to do, at least until something made a loud crashing sound outside, and he flinched so badly that he spilled his hot soup all over himself. 

Now his thighs and stomach were burning, his clothes were unwearable, the couch was ruined, there was soup everywhere, and some-animal-or something was probably dying from blunt force trauma in his front yard. Fuck.

He sighed and walked into the laundry room. Doctors didn’t need sleep, right?

Once he found a shirt and old football shorts good enough for his own front yard at 5:30 in the morning on a Wednesday, the strange noises had mostly stopped, and Sirius deemed it safe enough to venture outside. After all, if he didn't, one of his neighbors would, and that could only result in a call from the commonhold.

Walking toward the front door, he wondered idly if the sun was out yet. As an ER doctor who often worked overtime, he missed the sunrise and sunset most days, and his thick curtains rarely let any light in, a so far unsuccessful strategy to combat his insomnia.

The sun was not out. It was dark as fuck. He tripped on a rock.

"I hope you're happy with yourself," he muttered, even as he clearly saw absolutely nothing in the yard. Groaning, he walked around to the side of the house and stopped short.

There was trash everywhere. The garbage bins were completely overturned, old food was strewn across the lawn, and the bin lids had rolled into the neighbor's property. Christ, this would take hours to clean up.

Just as he was setting the lids back on his side of the property line, he heard a thud and a low moan.

With one last mournful look at his front door, Sirius traipsed into the backyard, and got his third shock of the morning.

A massive grey wolf was laying sprawled out in his bushes, blood from a dozen wounds leaking sluggishly into the dirt. Immediately, Sirius snapped into ER mode. 

First, he ran his hand along the inside of the animal’s inner thigh until he found a pulse - slow, but definitely there. Then, he checked quickly for any head, neck, or back injuries, and finding none, carefully lifted the thing in his arms, wincing at the feeling of blood on his bare skin. He stumbled to the back door, staggering under the weight of the easily 200 lb canine. The door swung open easily which meant he forgot to lock it again, but within two minutes, Sirius was setting the wolf down on the cement floor of his basement. 

Next, he ran upstairs and grabbed his emergency medical bag and ran back downstairs, then ran back upstairs when he remembered that wounds on dogs should be cleaned with water, not disinfectant, and got several wet towels. 

When he made it back downstairs, he quickly knelt and started taking stock of the injuries. They all seemed to be surface level claw marks with what looked like large bite marks here and there, nothing deep but several long and still bleeding. 

“All right, bud, I’m gonna start cleaning some of these scratches,” Sirius told the dog, a habit he’d picked from one of his instructors. The wolf didn’t give any sign of awareness, not even when he touched the wet cloth to the biggest scratch on the animal’s back. “Something really got you good, huh, buddy?” 

He continued cleaning the wounds and eventually moved onto bandages until the wolf’s whole abdomen as well as a hind leg were all wrapped up. Sirius would still have to get the animal seen by a vet, but for now, it would do. 

He moved to stand but stopped when the wolf gave an absolutely pitiful whine and turned its snout toward Sirius. It whined again. 

“Hey, buddy,” he whispered, rubbing the animal behind the ears. “Good morning.”

Suddenly, the animal’s eyes opened wide, revealing beautiful amber orbs, and the thing fucking screamed. Horrified, Sirius fell backward, and there was nothing he could do but watch as the wolf writhed on the floor, and, as if that wasn’t enough, its fur started disappearing, pulled back into what looked like golden-tan human skin. The elongated snout retreated to form a normal human nose, the ears shrank, leading into matted light brown curls, and the clawed paws turned into human hands, stained with blood, and then Sirius was looking at a fully grown human man. 

“What the fuck?”

-

word count: 843 @wolfstarmicrofic

[undercoverpan]

A young boy opens his eyes, facing the ceiling. He does not recognise the room he is in, but doesn't panic.

Well, he would, but he can't. He can feel a vague sense of something in the back of his head, but he can't grasp it. Like running water slipping through his fingers. He could focus on it, but then his mind aches worse than his body. It feels like a bleeding wound, and the more he presses, the more blood and pus leaks out. It hurts, he doesn't like it. It's–, it's–,

"Scary?" 

A helpful voice responds from right next to him. There is a large creature, with blue skin and yellow eyes, sitting next to him. He has his large blue hands through his hair, running a hand through short, (short, short, short, why?) curly locks that just reached a bit past his shoulders. They are slightly matted, but the creature's fingers gently pull them apart. He is so patient with his hair, he wonders if they do this often.

He does not respond, but the creature takes this as confirmation. Unfocused brown eyes are still staring at the ceiling, no longer seeing anything. His head, it's in his lap, right? The rest of his body is curled on the cold floor, but he barely registers his form shivering.

"Miles? You've gotta talk to me, that's how this works."

Miles. Who's Miles? He twitches, tilting his head. Dull brown eyes shone lifelessly, but managed to hold a questioning gaze.

The creature huffs. "You're Miles, remember?"

The boy, 'Miles', frowns. He blinks once, twice, before narrowing his eyes. Still, his lips remain firmly pulled together.

"I'm Quaritch. I'm—-," he hesitates, "--I'm your dad, remember, Miles?" The creature leans over, and they look at each other. His hair is long compared to his, he noted. His eyebrows are pulled downward, and there's this emotion in his eyes that he cannot place. They stare silently.

'Quaritch' looked away, muttering something about Jesus Christ (is that also his 'dad'?) and that something was being taken too far. Strange. Was Quaritch always this strange?

"C'mon kid, you're telling me you have no idea who I am? Who you are?" He asked, and his tone shifted. Something about it stirs an emotion deep in him, one that hurts. He doesn't like it. It makes him feel small and useless, and he kind of is, at least in Quaritch's lap. He muttered even more, the hand in his hair holding onto him securely.

He has done something wrong, hasn't he? It's the only thing that can explain the, the shame that has crept upon him. How does he fix this? Can he fix this? Will he hurt him? What's going to happen?

The hand in his hair trails down to his face, gently cupping his cheek. "Don't worry about anything, kid. I'll talk to Ardmore, see if I can do anything."

Miles wants to ask who Ardmore is, but decides against it. He has a feeling that knowing won't do him any good. So he just focuses on the warm hands on his skin and lets himself drift.

_______

There's no way to tell time in this room. He still doesn't know where he is, but that's not bothering him. He knows time has passed since Quaritch was here, though. Pale legs are crossed on top of each other as he sits on the bare mattress in his room. The room is mostly empty, cold and grey. There is only the mattress and a thin blanket. The door leading in is heavy, and has a slot that they pass his food through.

He's already eaten today.

_______

There is a blue creature in the room. He doesn't know who or what it is (I don't know anything, I don't know anything, please pleaseplease), or what it wants. Its hands are on his shoulder, its mouth wide and stretched upwards, revealing sharp fangs. The eyes, a sharp yellow colour, look friendly. Is it friendly?

"Miles! C'mon kid, I'm taking you out!" It said, it's tail swishing back and forth. The boy blinked owlishly at it and the creature sagged.

"We've been over this. You're Miles. I'm Quaritch. I'm your dad." Quaritch said. It straightens itself and turns to walk away, it's arm pulling him along. Miles stops as the door opens, his breath hitching. He feels himself freeze and pull back. Quaritch runs a hand through his hair. It feels safe and warm.

He follows it--him? outside. The floor is just as cold, but the air is less stale. This room is no less new to him than the room he woke up in. It has more inside, tables and chairs and papers littered with symbols that hold no meaning to him. There are other figures in this room, wearing all white, watching him as he passes by. Their eyes make him uneasy. He clings to his dad, who barely reacts to the boy. 

"You'll need to switch your clothes if we're going outside." He remarked, and Miles looked down. He was wearing a blue gown, one that felt uncomfortable against his skin. He didn't know what the outside looked like, nor why he needed to change. He looked away from Quaritch. "Oh? You wanna stay in the dress?" Hesitantly, Miles nodded. It was the only thing left of the room he can now barely recall. It was comfort. (Wrongwrongwrong, these are not his clothes, where are his clothes.)

________

Time had passed again. He did not know where he was. There is a mask over his face, and he's holding a tall creatures hand. His hand is large and blue and engulfs him, but it feels safe and warm. There are large things around them. Some glowed when he touched them. Some were very sticky and smells odd. This room is strange. There are no walls nor ceilings, and the light stings his eyes and leaves odd shapes in his vision.

The creature watches and pulls him back. He wants to see this wall-less room more. It feels free and new. If everything before made him uneasy, then this room made him feel easy. They (whowhowho) said he couldn't breathe the air here, but he felt elated. He wanted to run and jump and climb everything he could!

Clumsily, he grabbed onto the little bits poking out on the….thing…., and pulled himself up. This felt easy, but not new. His body moved like it had a mind of its own, arms and legs pushing himself higher, higher, higher. The higher he got, the better he felt. This is not new! He knows this!

Though his breath ran ragged and his limbs ached, he breathed easily. He laughed; a happy, ugly sound that bounced in the room.

And then he fell. 

This was not new, but it was sudden. It frightened him. He barely registered the air whizzing past his ears, could only hear blood rushing to his head as the room tilted and rushed past him. He's going to hit the ground! It will hurt! He laughs again, grinning. 

He does not meet the ground. Instead, he lands in the arms of the blue creature. His blue face contorted, eyebrows pulling down frowning. Slowly, he matched the boy's expression, teeth baring themselves in sharp corners. "Having fun, kid?" He asked. The boy nodded vigorously, wrapping his arms around the others blue shoulders, his face against sharp collarbones. 

His chest starts to shake with laughter. And though he can't see, the creature looked at him fondly, his hold turning possessive. "Yeah? Falling's fun?" The boy's laughter quieted down. He pulls his head away from the shoulder to look up at the creature. His blue face is still smiling, but there's a snarl hidden in his expression. Aggression. 

"Don't. Don't go falling off of trees, alright?" He hissed, and the boy nodded. He felt shame. Like a child who'd just been caught doing something bad. 

The creature did not put him down. He spent the rest of the day in his tightening hold, catching glimpses of the room around him. He mourned the loss of feeling the ground beneath his feet, but it felt safe in the creature's arms. His body is warm, and the beating in his chest is grounding. The boy does not know how much time passes, but he knows the ceiling is darkening. The room comes alive, softly glowing. 

"It's gettin' dark, huh." The creature remarks. "Should head back." Violently, the boy shook his head. "Oh, wanna stay out here? In the cold, with the man eating animals?" He pushed, but the child frowned. This place is good. Kind. Not dangerous. He wants to stay here forever. He'll forget, if he leaves. But then again, he'll forget even if he stays.

_______

They're walking back when it happens. Something rustles in the bushes, and the creature stops. He gestures his head towards the noise and another blue creature (since when were there others?) approaches, a large weapon drawn. The one holding him looks around, then his ears twitch and his eyes widen. He shouts something, but the boy doesn't understand. 

Other blue creatures emerge from the trees (he'd told him that that's what they were called. Trees.), their weapons drawn. They are speaking, and the boy feels that he should know what they're saying. Instead, their voices just sound like noise. Strange noise, with sharp sounds. Swiftly, they shoot their weapon, and something long and sharp imbeds itself into the tree next to the other creature. It grazes him, leaving a small trail of red rushing down his cheek.

The reaction is practically instantaneous. The arms that wrapped around him grew unbearably tight; practically suffocating him. He is shouting something, loudly, and it makes the boy's ears ring. Suddenly, they are moving faster, away, away, away. The ground is a blur beneath him, and he's holding onto the creature for dear life. The other creatures, the fully clothed ones, were moving with them, turning back to shoot their weapons at the newcomers. The sound rings loud and clear in his ears, making him wince and turn, burying his face into his shoulder. 

They run for what seems like seconds. There is shouting, noise, loudloudloud. He hates it. His ears are ringing. If this keeps up, he'll get sick. He is abruptly thrown to the floor when something hits the one who held him. He scarmbles, the short fall leaving him disoriented. He digs his hand into the ground and tries to push himself up, but he feels a heavy weight on his back, pushing him down. There is something sharp at his neck, but the weight doesn't allow him to turn and look. He still struggles, though it is futile.

The noise–, the voice is sharp, sharper than the blade at his neck. They sound angry. Scary. He whimpers. 

With a rough push, he is flipped onto his back, and a strange sight greets him. The one threatening him is also large and blue, but wears very little clothing. He is holding something long and sharp, a spear, and pointing it right at his neck. He is saying something, but the boy can't understand. The creature repeats himself, but when it becomes clear that he can't understand, he huffs. Raising his hands, he brought his weapon down on his neck.

The boy was scared, but like almost all his feelings, the sensation was like wrapping himself in a ratty, old blanket. He knew it provided warmth in the past, provided comfort and familiarity. But now it was worn out and torn, a reminder of what it used to be. What it used to give. His fear was all consuming, but it felt like he'd already been consumed by it, a long time ago. 

(If it were 2 years ago, when his mind was still his, he'd cry with relief and fear. He'd been found, but not saved.)

The spear never meets his neck. Instead, he watches as the creature is tackled by another. He makes quick work of the one who tried to kill him, thin lines of blood splattering across the mask that lets him breathe. The sounds the two were making made his head spin. All sharp and aggressive, teeth bared, gurgling on his own blood. After their short struggle, the victorious one aproaches him. He kneels down, reaching his hand towards him, and the boy cowers and whimpers, trying to push himself away. The creature frowns.

"Miles?" He says, and the boy is confused. Who is–, "You. You're Miles. I'm Quaritch, I'm your dad." He says solemnly. His dad picks him up easily, but Miles is tense. He cannot keep his distance in the others arms. Quaritch holds him close to his face, gently checking him over for injuries. He can feel his knees sting, and now that he thinks about it, his hands are shaking. He is clammy and sweaty and wants to leave. He wants to be safe. This room is not safe, it is dangerous, it is scary. 

(Please, Eywa, let him stay here. Let him die here. Let him rot here. But please, do not send him back there.) 

He clings to Quaritch hashly, nails digging into his skin, when another approaches. This one is dressed like his dad, but different. Quaritch seemed to notice his weary grip, because he turned around sharply, before relaxing. "That's just Wainfleet, kid. He's safe."

Safe. He's safe. He won't hurt him? Is Quaritch safe?

He looks at the body of the creature who attacked him, now laying lifelessly on the ground. A large slash laid across his throat, blood running from the injury like a river. His chest felt tight, and he felt like he knew that man. Had seen him before. He can't remember. Can't remember. Can't remember. Won't remember.

What?

______

He wakes up inside a room. He is sitting on a chair, metal digging into him uncomfortably. There are restraints, binding him tightly. There is panic running through him. He knows why he is here. He can't remember, but he knows.

His chest had wrapped itself into tight coils, so he was struggling to breathe. He is still shaking, he noted. He is clammy, sweaty, and breathing heavily. 

He knows this. He knows this.

He is afraid.

_______

A young boy wakes up in a room. He tastes blood and his skin is burning. The room is cold and hard, but he is resting against something warm. The boy feels his throat is too dry and torn to even try to speak, so he settles for a pathetic, questioning moan.

"You back with me, son?"

He tries to turn, but he cannot. The slightest movement hurts him. It feels like his nerves are on fire.

His hands, rubbed raw and bloody, are gently clasped in another's hold. They look tiny in the others blue hands.

"Yeah, that was…uh…a long session, huh? Thought you'd be used to it by now, but ya scream just as loud every time."

The son can tell it's meant to be a joke; a casual remark, but he can also hear the grimace in the man's voice. The gritted teeth. His tightening hold. He is upset. Why?

His wounds sting. The son sucks in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. It hurts. His hands, they hurt. The large man behind him seems to take notice, as his hold loosens, barely. He breathes, uneven, but more easily. It hurts less. Insignificantly less, but less is something.

The boy notices a hand through his hair. It is warm and gentle, and massages softly into his scalp. 

He doesn't know his own name, nor the person behind him. He does not panic, though.

The end

For now?

I actually don't know if i want this to have multiple parts or not all i know is that there is a tortured boy w daddy issues and i love him i want to tuck him into bed mwah mwah

[iamcautiouslyoptimistic]

“I wanted to tell you” ~ Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Reader (One-Shot)

{Author’s Note} Thought I’d share something I wrote a few months back. It was originally for some friends but I’ve wanted to get my writing out there for awhile now and see what people thought. It is a reader insert fic but it’s written in the third person. If I post more in the future, I’ll probably change it to second person POV. Kinda cliche but oh well. Just wanted to see if people would enjoy this and be interested in more. Hope y’all like it :)

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Reader (Alias: Halo)

‼️Content Warning: swearing, violence‼️

~ ~ ~

She was the only member of the 141 who hadn’t yet seen Ghost without his infamous skull mask. He didn’t realize that fact until she was bleeding out in front of him, her shaking hands pressed to a deep stab wound in her side. With the blood that was leaking from her lips, it was obvious the blade had managed to slip between her ribs and puncture a lung. She coughed and Ghost could hear blood gurgling in her chest, his eyes widening as she attempted a smile with crimson-stained teeth. 

“Just hold on, Halo,” Ghost said as he pressed his palm to her wound, desperate to stop the bleeding. He called for a medic, too afraid to move her and cause more problems than she already had. 

“Ghost.” She choked on his name, bloodied fingers grasping at his forearms. He hushed her but she only shook her head as her eyes began watering. 

“I wanted to tell you,” she gasped, trying to suck in as much air as possible. 

“Tell me what, sweetheart?” he asked, knowing he had to keep her awake. He glanced over his shoulder, searching in vain for someone who could help. “Where’s the fuckin’ medic?!”

She smiled again, eyelids drooping and head lulling forward to rest against his shoulder. “I never got to say it,” she mumbled. 

“Stay with me!” he demanded and sat her upright. “Keep your eyes on me, alright?”

She nodded weakly, fingertips brushing the edge of his skull mask. It was then that he ripped the fabric off his face, finally letting her past the wall he’d created so long ago. 

Her eyes widened upon seeing his features, the glaze of pain fading for a moment as she drank in the sight of him. She set her hand on his stubbled cheek and stroked his cheekbone, leaving a bloody smear across his skin. 

“Simon.” Her voice was soft and laced with adoration. It made his heart swell in his chest and he wished he’d shown her sooner just so he could savor that beautiful smile of hers. 

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus.” Soap’s voice sounded behind him and Ghost turned to see the man looking just as horrified as he felt. 

“Get the medic before she fuckin’ dies on us!” the Lieutenant ordered and Soap rushed into action. Ghost faced her again, only to find that she’d lost consciousness. 

“Dammit, Halo, wake up!” His voice nearly cracked with how loudly he screamed. “You can’t die on me!” 

With his touch lingering on her cheeks, she found comfort in knowing he was the last person she got to see. 

[krikeymate]

About the chosen one… I don’t think they’d let Tara take the pictures herself. She would have to let them take them. It’s too easy to edit stuff, so her sending pictures of herself doesn’t prove anything. But let’s go into two different scenarios… they take the pictures and they get published in a way Tara didn’t expect, so Sam finds out. How would Sam react to that?

OR Sam, being the overprotective sister she is, knows something‘s up. Tara‘s acting weird-er. She’s more jumpy. Whenever Sam tries to talk to her about it, she deflects. So Sam starts to follow her around. Tara goes out to the meeting where they want to take the pictures. She watches someone hand Tara an envelope. Tara briefly checks it. There’s a lot of money in it. Sam‘s almost ready to intervene right there, but she needs more information. They lead Tara into an old, abandoned building. There are more people in there, so it’s a bit difficult for Sam to get in undetected. But when she gets in, she finds Tara, in the process of undressing in front of all these strangers who stare at her sister like she’s the last drop of water in an endless dessert - and they have cameras and phones in their hands. Tara looks soooo uncomfortable, but she seems to be doing it willingly. No one’s pointing a weapon at her or anything. What the fuck is going on here? Sam is angry. Angry at these people. Angry at her sister for doing whatever she’s doing. They will definitely need to have a long conversation about this. But first she needs to get her sister out of here. She jumps in, ready to kill or at least severely hurt whoever gets in the way of her getting Tara out of that situation. (No one gets in her way. They part like the sea for Israel when they spot her, staring at her in absolute awe.)

Previous. Why can't it be both?!

She accepts some money and they take some photos on their phones back in their dorm rooms. The photos get published online, on their weird little forum. Tara tries not to care. It's not obvious it's her, it's just some wounds, who's going to know, how many people are really going to see? It's not like anyone is going to find out, and she made sure they weren't going to reveal how they got the images, they weren't going to mention her by name. They call it the final girl's wounds and make some weird comments about Jesus and the cross and the wounds he bore. But people do find out, because Mindy stalks those sites sometimes, and Sam finds out because Kirby is watching those forums too.

They have a family meeting, Sam is focused on promising Tara that they'll get them taken down. She's so mad that these freaks are getting pervy about her sister, that they're pretending they have 'nudes' of her. Kirby swears she'll do everything she can to shut it down. The photos aren't very high res, the camerawork is shaky, but they do seem kinda accurate, Sam thinks. It makes her a little suspicious. Tara's reaction is what really makes her rethink the situation. She expected her sister to be upset, to rage, but she just sits there fidgeting and the picture of uncomfortable. It makes her wonder if Tara hadn't taken the pictures herself and... sent them to a boy, maybe. It can't be Chad that leaked them, he's furious, and she trusts him not to do something like that. And these wounds... they're not- that one there is new, it's barely healed... these pictures were taken recently. But if Tara's been sending pictures of herself to someone...

Sam thinks Tara might be cheating on Chad, and begins to watch her closer, waiting for the right moment to catch her in the act and confront her, to make her cut it out before people get really hurt.

The boys offer Tara more money, triple this time, to get photos taken professionally. There's been so much interest, they say! Same rules as before, they'll keep her name out of it, her face will remain obscured. All she has to do is stand there and look pretty for the camera. Sam just got fired from one of her jobs, how can she say no?

So Tara gets to the location and she expects it to just be the three of them, but there are more people there than expected. She didn't expect this many people, why are there this many people?

Sam's been following Tara, and she has to resist the urge to scream where the hell are you going as she walks down a street she has no business walking down. It's not the kind of place a young girl should be going. She watches her meet... two boys, what? Then they hand her something... Sam can't see what it is. She catches the glint of the white envelope as Tara stores it in her bag. Sam isn't sure what's happening, but she knows she doesn't like it one bit. She's beginning to suspect that something worse than cheating might be happening, she's beginning to think it might be drug related.

Sam sneaks up to peer through a window and is captivated (derogatory) by what she sees. Tara is taking her shirt off in front of half a dozen boys with cameras. Her baby sister looks so uncomfortable, but there are no weapons, no yelling or crowding her, she even hears one of the boys ask her if she's ok, if she wants to continue, when she pauses for a moment. Tara's doing this willingly.

What the fuck is going on here?

She's so angry, she almost thinks she might be sick. What the hell is Tara doing, what the hell are these boys taking pictures of her for?! There's a part of her brain that tells her she needs to calm down, to think rationally. A larger part of it has her already storming through the door towards her half-naked sister.

Tara looks horrified, and a little afraid, as Sam stomps up to her and forcefully shoves her shirt back on. "What the fuck is going on here?" she demands to the room, eyes swivelling to the boys when Tara fails to answer her.

Only one is brave enough to respond, the rest whispering, in awe and fear at her presence. "Nothing weird! I promise, it's just photography, for our blog! Her face will be hidden, we're only interested in her scars."

"Nothing... weird," Sam repeats, staring at him in disgust. Her hand never leaves Tara's forearm. "It's not like she's not getting anything out of it," he explains, "we paid for the pictures!"

"PAID?" Sam growls, turning back to her sister. Tara flinches, eyes stuck to the ground. "What were you thinking?" she demands. "I was thinking we need the fucking money, Sam!" Tara cuts back, embarrassed and frustrated.

"The- get out." She tells the boys to leave. It's not a request. "But what about-" one tries to interject. "You'll leave now or I'll give you some scars to take pictures of," Sam threatens. They leave. The brave boy lingers in the doorway, he feels guilty. "Are you going to be ok?" he asks Tara, concerned to leave her with her angry 'psycho' sister.

Tara sighs, running a hand through her hair. "It's fine David, I'll see you in class."

"Class?! He's a fucking classmate?!"

"Would you rather he was a fucking stranger?"

"I would rather you weren't doing this at all! Why would you do this?"

"We need the money, Sam. You can't- you're so tired all the time, and I know the pizzeria just fired you and I just... I just want to help."

Sam pulls her sister into her arms, clutching at the back of her head. "You never need to worry about something like this, ok? And you definitely never need to resort to selling yourself, do you hear me?" Sam thinks of her teenage years, of the times she slept with someone for just another hit, of the times she used herself as currency. Tara will never go through something like that.

"But-" "No." "I-" "Tara."

Tara sighs, whispers ok into Sam's shoulder and relaxes in her grip.

"How much did those losers pay for those pictures anyway?"

"5k."

"How much?!"

[autisticlancemcclain]

I posted 1,392 times in 2022

That's 1,391 more posts than 2021!

625 posts created (45%)

767 posts reblogged (55%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

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I tagged 1,009 of my posts in 2022

Only 28% of my posts had no tags

#voltron - 273 posts

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Longest Tag: 139 characters

#lance eating a spoonful of peanut butter bc he desperately wanted to try it and have very poor impulse control: bc i’m about to need it lol

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

lance is 100% the boyfriend who asks keith if he will still love him if he’s worm and cries when he says no

391 notes - Posted April 13, 2022

#4

“I cannot believe you did this to yourself.”

Lance is frosty. He is mad. He is glaring heavily at Keith’s bare torso, where he is gently — ever so gently — cleaning the large gash stretching across Keith’s ribs. His hands are steady, like they always are, but his teeth are chattering, even as he tries to clench them.

“Of all the gall-brained, idiotic things to do. Jesus fucking Christ. It’s worse because I know you’re smart, you fucking imbecile, so I don’t know why you tried to do that!”

Keith keeps his mouth shut. He lets Lance yell, lets him rant, although his hands remain steadfast and his touch never gets rough. Lance is right, this time, and also Keith feels bad. Keith knows he fucked up. He knows he pushed himself too far, he knows he didn’t think about consequences, knows he let his anger consume him.

Keith feels a droplet hit his skin, outside of the damp cloth dabbing at his wound. He blinks, finally lifting his head to look Lance in the face, and is more shocked than he has a right to be to see the steady tears dropping down the Cuban’s face.

“I just…”

For the first time, Lance’s hands tremble. He notices immediately, pulling away from Keith’s skin and busying himself with re-wetting the cloth.

“I don’t understand. Genuinely. Why would you do that to yourself? Don’t you…”

Keith never finds out what he does or does not do, because Lance’s breath hitches, and he chokes on a sob before he can finish his sentence. Keith rushes forward on instinct, trying to make pull Lance into a hug to rub his shoulder or anything, really, but the movement pulls on his torn skin and he yelps, collapsing right back to where he was.

“Don’t fucking move, you’ll only make it worse,” Lance snaps, glowering at him through red and puffy eyes. He twists out the cloth, draining the excess water. His hands have stopped shaking, but tears still leak heavily out of his eyes, and every other breath shudders.

The guilt churns in Keith’s stomach, forming a lump in his throat. He flinches Lance presses the cloth to his chest, even though he doesn’t press hard. Lance mutters an apology, loosening the pressure a little.

“I’m the one that’s sorry,” Keith whispers. “I really am, Lance. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about how dangerous I was being.”

“Then what were you thinking about, Keith? Because when I walked in that room the only thing that I was thinking was that I was going to watch my best friend get killed right in front of me!”

Keith carefully reaches over and pries the cloth from Lance’s clenched hands, tossing it to the side. He slides his own hands in the space left behind, holding onto Lance just as tightly as he was gripping the cloth.

“Hey,” he says. “Lance. Look at me.”

It takes a few minutes, but eventually he does. Keith quirks a small, sad smile when he meets those dark brown irises, squeezing their hands together three times in quick succession.

“I’m okay. I’ll need a couple stitches, maybe an hour in the pod if you think that’s best, and then you can give me all the shit I deserve, okay? You can even tell Shiro and Allura so they can yell at me, too.”

Lance’s face crumples, and he lets out another sob. “It’s not about the fucking yelling, Keith, it’s just — I can’t lose you, Keith. I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t—”

Keith can’t watch Lance break down. He can’t watch Lance cry like this, he can’t watch the despair play through his face. The terror in his eyes when he first walked into Keith getting nearly slaughtered by the level-way-too-high training bots will already haunt him every night. So he does the only think he can think of.

He leans in quickly, careful of the pull on his skin, and presses his lips to Lance’s. He cradles his face in his hands, as gently as Lance was touching him earlier, using his thumbs to wipe the tears from Lance’s cheeks. He tilts their heads, trying to find the most comfortable angle.

Lance makes a sighing noise into his mouth. Keith doesn’t know if it’s a good sigh, not at first, but then Lance drags his hands halfway to Keith’s shoulders, mindful of his gash. His fingers flutter over Keith’s skin as his hands twitch, every time their mouths move. Keith moves one of his hands from Lance’s face to curl their fingers back together.

“You’re not forgiven just because you kissed me,” Lance mumbles between kisses.

“I know.”

“I’m still furious.”

“I know.”

“…I love you.”

“I know. I love you, too.”

“Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

See the full post

398 notes - Posted August 16, 2022

#3

Lance has a very embarrassing secret.

See, everyone thinks that if Lance went back in time and told his preteen self that he is completely and irrevocably in love with one Keith Kogane, Preteen Lance would be horrified. The truth is that Lance has had a big, fat, humiliating crush on Keith since they accidentally bumped into each other during the new student orientation day at the Garrison when they were eleven years old.

Lance has been gone on Keith’s ass for nine goddamned years. Seriously.

The whole thing is just humiliating. Not even Hunk knows. The only person who knows is Keith himself, and he knows because he is unfortunately very charming and Lance is very bad and keeping secrets from pretty people. (Also, somehow Keith suspected the horrible secret even though Lance is very subtle, and one day decided he was going to make Lance admit it and kissed it out of him. Lance is a little annoyed he caved so easily, but he would honestly challenge anyone to be pressed against a door and kissed so hard it’s almost bruising by Keith ‘Walking Sex Machine’ Kogane and not spill every single one of your life secrets. Keith is a very convincing individual, who is well aware of his pretty privilege and his no qualms against using it.)

“I love you and all your embarassing secrets,” Keith promises. Lance scowls, burrowing further into Keith’s chest and hiking their fluffy space blanket above his head.

“Shuddup.”

Keith’s chest shakes as he chuckles, and Lance pretends the sound doesn’t make him smile. It’s useless, because Keith knows him better than anyone, but whatever. He feels a pressure on his head as Keith presses a kiss there through the blanket, then wraps both arms — big, strong arms, that Lance admittedly gets distracted by often — around him and rolls them over so they’re both laying on their sides. He then gently tugs down Lance’s blanket burrow, so his face is visible.

“Is it really so bad that you’ve loved me for so long?”

“It’s not that,” Lance huffs, eyes crossing as he tries to look Keith in the face (they’re very close). “It’s the fact that I did the whole rivalry thing because I was too embarrassed to talk to you. That’s the horrible part.”

Keith laughs again, shifting down the kiss him properly. Lance allows it, even though he’s pretending to be grumpy, because he likes Keith kisses. They’re the best kind.

“I’ve got nothing for you there. That is embarrassing,” Keith says between kisses. He never goes far, which Lance appreciates and also knows it’s because Lance has him koalaed a little. Lance hums and decides he is done talking, wiggling closer into Keith’s space (so close there is no space where they aren’t touching, no space where they aren’t pressed close close closely together). He presses one more kiss to Keith’s mouth before sighing and resting his head back on top of Keith’s heart.

“I love you more than anything,” he whispers, because he does. He presses yet another kiss to Keith’s chest, because he’s sappy and because he can.

“You are the best thing that has every happened to me,” Keith responds, just as quiet. He runs his hands through Lance’s hair, scratching gently every fourth or so pass.

Lance smiles. Maybe his secret really isn’t so embarrassing, after all.

426 notes - Posted September 3, 2022

#2

Lance smiles self-deprecatingly. “Jack of all trades, master of none. You know how I am. I’m not really needed for anything.”

Keith could not believe what he was hearing. Lance thought he was unnecessary? Lance?

“Lance, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Look, dude, I don’t need false reassurances. I know I don’t have any specific thing, I’m not like you guys. You guys all have your specialty. You’re important. My specialty is being a stand-in.”

Keith feels his jaw drop at the pure conviction in the Cuban’s voice. How does he not know?

“Lance,” Keith says again, “being the jack of all trades is your thing. There is nothing you can’t do, and I’m not saying that in a frilly, ‘if you just put your mind to it!’ sort-of way. If you choose to do something, genuinely, you can do it. It’s fascinating.”

Lance frowns. “Man, what are you talking about? I’ve never really excelled at anything. Nothing important, anyway. Like, look at you — you’re a master swordsman. You can beat anyone in a duel. It’s awesome. I can’t even come close to that!”

“But why do you have to? Lance, I can’t shoot for shit. On God, unless the target is right in front of me, I cannot hit them with any kind of projectile. But you can use a sword, dude. You might not be an expert, or whatever, but you can hold your own.”

“So what?”

“So that’s what I’m trying to explain! No matter what skill you decide to pick up, you figure it out eventually. You wanted to learn how to read Altean? You did it.”

“I can‘t even speak it!” Lance argues. “I can only read and understand it. I can’t, like, hold a conversation or anything. It’s embarrassing next to Allura or Coran.”

“You are missing the point. You can’t keep comparing yourself to every expert and hating yourself for falling short. Of course you’re not as good as Allura or Coran at Altean. They’re native speakers! How well do they speak Spanish?”

“…They don’t.”

“Exactly! And think of all the other things you were able to do after just, like, reading the instructions. You were able to work the healing pods after a week in space. You’re the only other person on the ship besides Hunk who can make food that Pidge will eat. You figured out how to sew because you were bored and you needed something to do. Hell, Lance, you’re the only one who’s evolved more than one bayard form! And you figured out how to pilot Blue faster than anyone else in their Lion! You don’t have a thing, Lance, and that’s exactly it — you can pick up everyone else’s thing with ease. You’re the most adaptable person I’ve ever met, Lance. Jack of all trades, master of none — but better than a master of one. You’re missing half of the quote.”

Lance is silent for a few minutes, contemplative. “I guess I never considered any of those things skills. They’re just things I can do. They aren’t hard.”

Keith smiles, fond and exasperated. “Not to you, man. No one else can just choose to learn a skill in an hour and do it. That’s a Lance thing. And if you ask me, well. I think you’re pretty wonderful.”

517 notes - Posted June 29, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

“Shiro. Shiro. Shiro. I have important information. Shiro. Shiro.”

“Yes, Keith. I’m listening.”

Shiro looks at his dumbass little brother patiently, setting down his knitting. Keith is staring at the space slightly to the left of where Shiro is sitting, eyes unfocused. Shiro lets him sit in the silence for a bit, knowing the meds made him a little slow and loopy. He’ll get there.

He can’t tamp down a fond grin. It happens so often it should be boring, now, but loopy Keith will always be funny. It was like every bit of jadedness he’d picked up over the years melted away, leaving only the awkward, loveable dork Shiro knew and loved.

“I have — I have important information,” Keith repeats haltingly.

“I got that, buddy,” Shiro encourages. “Want to share that info? I’m listening.”

Keith hums. He blinks a few times, gaze finally locking onto Shiro’s, who smiles at him.

“It’s — it’s about Lance.”

Shiro fights to keep his smile from getting mischievous, to keep his expression pleasantly neutral. Oh, this was going to be good.

“Yeah, bud? What about him?”

Keith blinks again, his expression grave. “His tongue peeks out a little when he smiles real big, Shiro. A real smile. The one he gets when he talks about his family.” Keith takes great care to enunciate every word, tone completely serious. “That’s — it’s Very Important, Shiro. Okay?”

Look, Shiro’s a disciplined guy. He has a lot of internal strength. Really. But keeping a straight face as his baby brother looks him dead in the face, eyes as serious as a heart attack, and starts talking smush about how much he loves his crush’s smile?

C’mon. Come on. Of course he laughs a little! It would be weird if he didn’t!

“Shiro!” Keith scolds. “I’m serious! It’s important! We have to make sure Lance smiles like that. He gets sad sometimes. We gotta remind him he’s important, so he smiles.”

“You’re so whipped,” Shiro says fondly.

Keith goes back to staring at the wall, just as serious as before.

Shiro wonders if he’s thinking about Lance’s eyes, this time.

It won’t be the first time Shiro heard about them, that’s for damn certain.

———

“I did what.”

Keith’s face is so red that it’s concerning. Or, well, Shiro would be concerned, if he wasn’t so busy losing his shit.

“‘We have to protect his smile, Shiro’,” he mocks between wheezes. Keith wacks him full-force with a pillow.

“Fuck off,” he says hotly. “There’s no way I said that.”

There’s a moment of pained, contemplated horror, before Keith looks at him aghast. “Did I?”

Shiro laughs so hard he goes silent. Keith hits him again, but it’s weaker.

“Oh my god, I did fucking say that. I fucking — oh my god. Oh my god!”

Keith collapses back on his bed. He puts his pillow-weapon over his face and screams. Shiro finally gets ahold of himself, forcing his laughter down. He pats Keith on the shoulder, trying very deeply to be supportive and understanding even though literally all he wants to do is laugh and laugh and laugh.

“There, there,” he says, voice shaking.

Keith removes his pillow just to glare at Shiro. “Fuck off,” he says again, but this time it sounds resolved. “God. Do I — do I like him?”

Shiro blinks. Is he — is he serious? “Are you being deadass with me right now?”

See the full post

570 notes - Posted October 14, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[soddenprincess]

it’s hard to remind myself that i’m in control

when i’m spinning out

spiraling outta my mind

literally feelin like letting jesus take the wheel

let it all wash away from me and drown me out

a lots been on my mind lately, it’s those thoughts i’ve written down in my journal that have made me tear up with despair. cry and wash my face, a certain kind of violent soothing. like hushing a bubbling child with the chill of water and soap.

most of the time i feel like an open wound. that won’t close cause it just keeps getting reinfected. with puss that leaks and leaks and a stench that’s taken over my senses. a wound so ugly you can’t look at it for long without thinking about a slow death. eternal rest is near.

[johnsonfungcs]

“I’m a loud introvert!”.

I’m convinced. I find it draining to socialise, I avoid large groups. I find comfort in solace. After years of succession of personality tests, I’ve been refined as an “introvert”; I fit all the criteria, right?

That is, until one day as I pondered in my identity, I felt Holy Spirit ask me: “Are you really introverted, or did hurt turn you into one?”.

Then, memories of my youth re-embarked itself into my consciousness.

I see myself joyful, talkative, loud, energetic week after week with people. Effortlessly talking, speaking to many new people, making many friends along the way.

Interestingly, i thought I had outgrown a “youthful” part of myself that loved being himself unapologetically.

I guess in my many years along the way, life has drastically sullied me into a pessimistic realist. It has drain joy out of me for people.

It isn’t the people that has drained me- it is the circumstances that has drained me enough to not find joy in people, if that makes sense? That in loving so hard, you’ve allowed your vulnerability- your heart- to be broken into, robbed, and left empty- locking it with chains and disallowing even your blood to flow into it to sustain life- or even God Himself.

I realize now that people aren’t necessarily draining my social battery. I realized it was many wounds that had been a baggage to carry that has drained me of the love necessary to give to people: like a water bottle leaking out its contents.

I’m unashamed to admit that my wounds has caused a rift in my social capacity. I believe that it was grace that has led me to this conclusion to write; not as an explanation, but to interpret that God truly knows us deeper than we can ever know- and the way He made us to be is something He truly cherishes about each loving children He cares for. And that He wants to fill that aspect of life again with His presence: to consolidate His love for us in new ways that we can’t ever dream to imagine. “Satan comes to steal, kill and destroy- but I have come to give life in abundance”.

And I don’t feel condemned in this weakness. It’s as if Holy Spirit is asking me “would you love again?”

After countless disappointments, hurts, and tribulations- it’s funny that God will ask you if you’re willing to be yourself again- and not reinterpret yourself, but to interpret yourself through the lenses of God. And to open yourself to vulnerability again.

“What if I get hurt?”

I believe hurt isn’t absent in those who love strongest. I believe it takes courage of Godly proportions to manifest that kind of love- a willingness to be hurt- but forgiving.

It makes sense!

Jesus loved the denying Peter, and the runaway disciples, and the betraying Judas; He loved despite the damages of the cross, and Israel through the unjust accusations.

A Spirit love is a love that understands that it can thrive even in hurt, not afraid of it, neither denying of it. But irrationally forgiving of hurt; and disallowing it to form a prejudice to love.

So, yes. I am an extrovert. I wish I am a part of the cool introvert club, but I guess I’m comfortable as I am as God intended! Denying your identity is denying God’s reflection that was meant for you to see.

Edit: hate lies to you that love is the absence of hurt. It totally isn’t true. Love is the acceptance that hurt is the tenderness of your heart processing the pain of being vulnerable. An unhealthy view of hurt is to avoid it like the plague- but that shouldn’t be the case. It’s allowing yourself to process hurt in a healthy way.

[quandaryqueen]

Sick days

Batman Unburied Riddler X Reader

Just a peek at sick days between you and your close friend Edward...

Written as a platonic piece, but can be read as romantic. I want to try my hand to write this version. Also I wrote this when I was sick and in need of self-indulgent sick fics.

You awoke to a loud crashing from the outside of your apartment. Having been in Gotham for a long time, you were able to distinguish between troubling noises in the night or just the general city noise. You dreaded to identify the noise as the troublesome kind, that tonight you might not be getting your sleep.

You kept the bat by your bedside and pull your blankets off. It will never be your intention to fall asleep whilst something like this remain unresolved. Then there was another crash, and in your fear, your unabashed flinch had you swinging at nothing. It was justified, as the crashing was made inside your living space.

You make your way out of your room, the bat raised for your defense. Holding in a breath, you take your steps and then--

"I can be slender and wooden, I can be swung, I can fly, what am I?"

"AH!"

"NONONONONO! IT'S ME! IT'S ME! DON'T—!"

"OH MY FUCKING GOD, EDDIE! DON'T DO THAT!" Out of panic, your arms latched around his neck and pulled his head against your chest. "Jesus Christ, dude I thought I was going to die tonight. What the fuck, bro? You can at least text me and something."

"Funny that you say that... I think I'll be the one dying tonight." He coughs.

Alarmed, you pulled away. Out of the panic, you didn't realise the trail of blood that followed him from the window which he broke into and stained you upon embracing him. You looked down to see the thick crimson running down from his abdomen. Your face washed with an ash colour at the view before you.

"Hey-hey! Don't faint on me!" Edward snaps his fingers in front of your face, before placing both of his hands on your shoulders for balance. He subsequently leans his entire weight on you from the blood lost, making you almost lose your balance.

Profanities spilled from your lips like a mantra as you assisted him to your couch, before you shuffle around your house in search for the first aid kit... Would a first aid kit even do at these circumstances? He was bleeding on your couch and he was losing blood fast.

"Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck... Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my fucking god! Eddie what the fuck happened? Dude! I have like a box Hello Kitty bandaids and rubbing alcohol, why the fuck would you go to me for medical assistance?! " You frantically mutter, getting your hands on a few towels and a basin of water. You threw your hands up. "Fuck this, I'm calling an ambulance--!"

"No..."

"Well I don't know what you want me to do Eddie! Do I look like I can perform an emergency surgery in my living room?! Fuck it, why do you not want to call the hospital?"

He looks at you with a raised brow. Does he really need to say that he is a crook? Goddamn it he just wanted to breathe out of Arkham but that's not the point.

"It's just a graze."

"WELL WHAT THE HELL HAVE I BEEN TELLING YOU? SO YOU'RE TELLING ME YOU GOT INTO ANOTHER ACTIVE SHOOT-OUT AND FOR WHAT? JESUS DAMNIT--!"

Eddie gazes at the ceiling, as if he'd find a sliver of patience up there. Then he decided, fuck it, he's leaving. But before his legs can lift himself up, he falls back down with a groan.

"Well don't fucking do that! I don't know what the fuck I'm going to do, Ed oh my god! I'll go get some gauzes and some elastic bandages... You stay there, apply pressure to the wound—"

"I'm not leaking out, it's just a graze."

"I'm not leaking out, it's just a graze-- shut it!" You mimped, before haphazardly shrugging your coat on to conceal your blood stained clothes underneath.

For what seemed like a second, you return with the said materials. Here you were, awake at 3 am on a weekday-- the Riddler topless in your living room, tending to his wounds... I guess it's just what friends do I mean, he's helped you with questionable things at 3 am and sure he whined, but at least he helped out.

He promised that his life of crime shall never ever involve you, but knowing him the only reason you wanted to be involved because of the shit he gets into. Especially at one of these nights, what if he never managed to reach you? What if he bled out and die?

"Done." You spoke the first word after the excruciating silence.

".... I'm so sorry."

"For what?" You looked up at him as you put some equipment away.

"For troubling you like this." He averts his gaze, his fingers softly picking on the firm wrapping around his abdomen.

"No, no... It's okay. I'm sorry for yelling at you." You pulled his hand away from fumbling with the bandages. It must've been subconscious when you held his hand within yours. "I'm... Just really scared for you."

The silence stretched across the room, as he didn't really know how to respond to that. Reassuring you with white lies would feel like slapping you across the face with betrayal and telling you the truth is... He thinks it won't end well.

He breaks the silence and diverted away from the topic.

"Bat."

"What?"

"The answer to the riddle earlier; Bat."

"Oh..." You didn't even remember him telling you a riddle, maybe you might not have heard it from the ensuing panic.

"So... Where do I sleep?"

He ended up sleeping in your bed, wrapped himself as a cocoon in your fluffy pink hello kitty blanket, wearing one of your oversized sweater and shorts while you stayed awake for the remainder of midnight cleaning the blood in the living room. You lied to Edward about sleeping on the sofa, but something within you knows that Edward knows that you won't be sleeping on the bloodstained thing. It's not like you'd be able to sleep with the image of the predicaments in mind, along with the shot of adrenaline from the utmost concern you had for Eddie.

He predictably slept in, finally getting out of bed at the afternoon. It may have been the best sleep he's ever had, maybe he should start doing that often. But then he felt uncomfortable. He doesn't quite know why.

"Y/N? N/N? Yoo-hoo~"

Edward began to call for your name, wandering around your apartment, unnerved by the silence. Taking leisure steps around your living space, he wanted to remain calm, denying the touch of anxiety wiring his brain to think of the worst.

God, what if Penguin wanted to get back at him? That they sent someone to follow him and kill you? Fuck, he shouldn't have went here, why didn't he think this through--

"Y/N!"

He rushed over you body that lay motionless in the bathroom, hot to the touch. He listened in your breathing, as you shook with shuddering breaths. His palm lands atop your forehead and without a doubt, you've somehow kept a fever.

~•~

The very first thing you felt upon finding the strength to open your eyes through the sting of a raging headache, was a palm smacking on your forehead.

"Fucking ow, the fuck is your problem?" You snap at the owner of the hand with a nasally voice, squinting at the man who you just saved from blood lost.

"Well, nurse, you could've done it softly at least."

"I'm just checking for your temperature manually."

He notes that though you were still hot, at least it wasn't as severe as when he found you. Edward nods to himself out of relief.

"Sorry, I might or might not have done that on purpose. And besides, it's just me being affectionate."

"I pity whomever decided to permanently saddle themself with y—"

The banter was cut short when Edward decided to flatten his whole palm across your face.

"If my rightful retaliation comes across as disrespect, you should actually see me being disrespectful. Well then," you settle under your cover, pulling your blanket over your head. "You can start by cleaning my tiles in the living room, caretaker."

"You were more bearable when you were asleep." He smirks when you grab his wrist and removed his hold from your face, its consequent removal revealed your narrowed gaze at him. "Well, at least I know your fever is bearable enough for you to disrespect your care taker."

He rolls his eyes and pulls the pink hello kitty blanket and tucked it just below your knees.

"It's cold!" You whine, attempting to lift the end of your blanket to toss over your head, when Edward stops you.

"You'll overheat. I know it's cold, but if you cover up it'll increase your temperature. And you don't want that."

Edward watches your bitter expression grow less bitter, with a begrudging acceptance you simoly cross your arms to your chest and stick your bottom lip up. He couldn't help but to laugh to see you like this, his hand reaching up to brush your hair out of your forehead. He turns away to wring a hand towel from a small basin of lukewarm water. Your eyes followed his hand as he place the damp towel on your forehead in earnest, his eyes slightly tinged with worry.

"Funny that you ask that, my taste buds are fucked at these times."

He leans away and sighs. "What do you wanna eat?"

Oh. Right.

Seeing his face contort with a wince made your stomach sink with guilt. God you should have been less harsh, he was just trying to help.

"Can I have some chai?"

"Are you sure you don't want anything to eat?"

You fumble with your shirt, your finger twirling a loose piece of thread. "No, I'm good."

"Good, I'll be ordering myself a pizza then." He cheekily smiles, flashing your wallet in his hand and before you can protest, he was skipping out of the room.

"Prick!" You yelled after him with your sore throat, just in time to reach him when he closed your door just in case you had to shoot projectiles at his trajectory. He was so fucking spry for a man with a bullet-grazed abdomen.

God what an asshole...

Through the pain of your pulsating headache amplified by the annoyance and betrayal of Edward, a small smile makes way through your features.

It's good to have him back, though.

[watermelonlipstick]

Stabbed

This was written following an anon request that read as follows:

Hello sweetie, can I please request a dean x reader one shot in which she gets stabbed during a rough hunt and it's a race against time to save her (maybe Sam is the one driving and dean gets in the backseat with her?) And dean is scared of losing her and he has a panic attack after she wakes up but she manages to calm him down?

Obviously everyone’s experiences with panic attacks are different, but I tend to think if Dean had one it might manifest more externally as a violent outburst; I think he would subconsciously feel like it’s a more acceptable way to express ~freaking the fuck out~. This fic is sort of loosely set during early season 3, partly because that contextualization made sense to me with what you were describing and partly because I feel like that tenderhearted, slightly-less-jaded Dean would be more likely to allow himself to be perceived as vulnerable in such a fraught moment. 

I’ve also taken a couple liberties with the medical situation described for literary purposes. 😋 Don’t @ me, I know this isn’t exactly how hypovolemic shock plays out.

Title: Stabbed

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 4206

Summary: Dean’s anxiety gets the best of him when the reader appears fatally injured on a hunt, and is soothed only after the danger is gone. 

Warnings: canon-appropriate violence, description of panic attack, swearing

           Sam slammed the door once Dean had hauled you into the backseat, propping you up like a mannequin next to him on the bench. Your vision was starting to fade in and out, but the sense memory of the muscles in Dean’s side and the leather seat underneath you were comforting anyway. It seemed like the car started flying before Sam had even closed the driver’s side door and you tried hard to focus on Dean’s babbling.

           “You’ll be able to give me shit about this one forever, right, kid? Should’ve listened to you, you said they would’ve left the barn by the time we got there. Always so smart, when am I going to learn?” He was trying to chuckle but it came out breathy and wrong, Dean never quite able to actually hit the casual affect he wanted in moments like this. Honestly, it made you more nervous, knowing that for injuries he wasn’t worried about he wanted to look over you with clinical precision, chastise you for being careless. He only did this pretend calm when he was trying to keep it together—you used to think it was only for you or Sam but after a few years and more than a few bad scares you started to understand it for the defense mechanism it truly was. Not that you needed extra evidence that this was bad; you could feel the life leeching out of you like a water balloon with a pinprick leak.

           “Hey, come on—open your eyes for me, lemme see those stunners,” he said, guiding your chin up where you had begun to slump onto his shoulder. “Perfect, yeah, just like that. Hey, stay with me—”

           You mustered up everything you had to swim to the surface of the sleep-darkness your body so desperately wanted and straightened your spine to take a deep breath. Bad idea, the wounds in your side feeling like they were splitting you clean in half even through the haze. At least it woke you up for a moment to catch Dean’s eyes, fiery with panic even as he tried to smile.

           “Dean, I—” you started, feeling like your throat was full of broken glass.

           “Babe, don’t try to talk, it’s okay, you can tell me whatever it is when we get to a hospital.”

           Sam turned his head away from the rural highway the Impala was absolutely sailing down to look back at his older brother. “We’re hours away from a hospital, we’ve gotta go back to the motel,” he said, low and serious.

           “If we’re hours away from a hospital then I guess we’re driving for a couple hours, aren’t we, Sammy?” Dean was getting worse and worse at covering the hard edge of fear-driven anger in his voice as the seconds ticked by.

           “Dean, we—she’s—we don’t have a couple hours.”

           Dean closed his eyes tight and set his jaw firm. “We’re going to a fucking hospital.”

           His brother swerved deftly around a giant pothole, somehow able to turn the wheel so slightly that the car’s path barely changed. “Listen to me. She can’t bleed like that for long enough to get to a hospital. We have to try to handle this one ourselves or there’s no chance—”

           The whole conversation felt like it was happening to someone else, your senses starting to detach from your body, and you couldn’t hold onto those trains of thought for long enough to process them. You were forced to expend all the energy you had on what you needed to say, and reached for Dean’s hand with a weak grip.

           “Dean, look at me.”

           He sounded like a hurt puppy when he said, “please,” and you knew he was asking you not to make him listen but you were worried you were out of options, out of time. That frantic smile looked almost crazed as it started to quiver on his face, eyelashes clumping with moisture.

           “Sam, can you hear me too?” you asked, frustrated in an abstract way at how frail your voice sounded.

           He gave one tight nod in the rearview mirror with a jaw set firm as iron, and when he said “Yes—yeah,” it was choked.

           “I love you idiots so much. These last—ow, Jesus—however many years have been some of the most fun I’ve ever had. I wouldn’t take it back for anything. Sam, I—you’re the best friend I’ve ever had and I—fuck,” you winced, something about the breath you took to keep from crying sending an electric jolt of pain through you and doubling you over.

           “It’s okay, I know,” Sam said up into the rearview mirror, and you couldn’t tell if the way the headlights were falling on the trees impossibly fast was something about your sight being distorted, because if it wasn’t then you were surprised the Impala hadn’t broken some kind of land speed record. You made a mental note to tell Dean to start drag racing before remembering you might not tell him anything ever again. What you were nearly positive you weren’t imagining were the break in Sam’s voice or the reflection of tears on his cheek as he locked eyes with you in the mirror.

           By the grace of whatever higher power the Winchesters were on the good side of at the time, you connected with him in the reflection, were able to absorb some fraction of the bone-crushing, pick-you-up-off-your-feet hug you wanted so badly from Sam in that moment. You tried to be thankful for what you got and drifted back to Dean’s gaze.

           “And Dean, baby,” you continued, some bizarre flutter of second wind giving you enough force to clench your hand tightly around his and remember to keep your breaths shallow, keep talking even if your eyes couldn’t quite focus. “This was not your fault, you gotta—promise—me you know it wasn’t.”

           “I, ah—” he faltered, throat vibrating as he tried to keep the inevitable tears down.

           You gripped his hand tighter, felt your fingers going numb, and tried to smile hoping it didn’t look too grotesque on a face almost certainly drained of lifelike color. “C’mon, gotta obey a last wish, right?” The grief-stricken chuckle of surprise that dark joke punched out of Dean opened the floodgates, and tears burst forward to stream down his face. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

           You’d thought of some goofy punchline to try to give, some ‘no sleeping with random girls for at least a year, want you guys to pour one out for me every day’ bullshit but seeing the love and pain in Dean’s eyes as your vision came in and out zapped it away. “I love you baby. I just—thank you for—everything—and—”

           It was getting too hard to take even those shallow breaths, your hearing gone fuzzy around the edges, and the last thing you remembered was seeing a streetlight on the edge of town as Dean took your face in his hands, “I know, kid, I know, come on—please,” fading out like he was being zipped away through a long tunnel.

           You were completely motionless in Dean’s arms, pulse gone thready enough that Dean was having a hard time finding it through the rumble of the car.

           “Fuck, Sam, FUCK!” Dean screamed, one hand wrapped up in the hair at the back of your neck as he fought desperately to keep you upright.

           Sam muscled through the lump in his throat and tried to stay focused. “When we get there you need to be ready to go, okay, Dean? HEY, listen to me. Don’t quit on me like this,” he barked, trying to catch his brother’s eyes in the rearview mirror without taking his focus off the road, terrified at the speed of the Impala and the potential of repeating what had happened the last time he’d had someone he loved bleeding out in the backseat.

           The car skittered around two corners and Sam prayed as hard as he had ever prayed for anything that there weren’t any Keystone cops looking to meet their month’s ticket quota by hanging around dark parking lots with radar guns, willed Dean to stop punching the window of the car with the hand that wasn’t clutching your head to his chest. He couldn’t decide if he thought it would’ve been better to have Dean drive, if he would’ve been able to hold it together any better than Dean was right now, if Dean could’ve focused if he was driving and not feeling you drift in his arms. There wasn’t time to figure it out and it ultimately didn’t matter, his brother turning into a bomb in the backseat and Sam needed to figure out a way to funnel Dean’s sheer panic back into the denial that would fuel him to keep moving, do anything to keep you alive, regardless of whether there was any hope left.

           “It’s not over, you’ve gotta keep it together. She needs you. See, we’re right around—"

           But he didn’t get to finish through the flurry of action as he pulled into the motel. He careened the Impala straight up to the door of the room, more than half of the car parked over a strip of grass intended to make the nondescript building feel more homey. By the time he’d torn the keys from the ignition Dean was practically leaping out of the backseat, carrying you into the room a quarter step after Sam half-busted the door open, laying you on a bed and tearing your t-shirt off with his bare hands like a cheap wrestling gimmick.

           Sam didn’t bother closing the motel door, moving too fast to care as he ripped a cork out of whiskey bottle with his teeth and poured it all over your now-exposed side, grimacing with nausea at the way it didn’t make you draw back in pain even a little. Dean tried his best to thread a needle with floss and remember whether it was better or worse that the blood was still flowing fast and bright red out of those stab wounds rather than slowing or oxidizing—this is bush league shit Dad pounded in years ago why can’t I remember fucking any of it? His hands shook with too much adrenaline to get the floss through the needle but Sam was already working on patching the biggest wound, tying knots with the rapid precision of a surgeon.

           It was only when he started getting in Sam’s way that the younger Winchester said anything more, encouraged that Dean was at least trying to pull himself together. He began talking through the stitches, muttering when he had to pull one tight with his teeth.

           “We—Dean, look at me.” Sam drilled into him with those brackish eyes, struggling to maintain the appearance of being in control that his brother needed of him when he could feel you going cold underneath his fingertips. “We’re going to need to give her a lot of fluids when she wakes up; all we have is beer. Go get some stuff for her to drink—electrolytes, she’ll need electrolytes.”

           “I’m not going to fucking leave, asshole!” Dean was strung out and not even pretending to hide it anymore, voice taking on that juvenile squeak Sam had only heard a handful of times since Dean was a teenager.

           He took a deep breath in an effort to soothe himself before speaking as clearly and firmly to Dean as possible, no room for negotiation. “Dean. This is not helping. The best thing you can do for her is to go get some fluids. Gatorade, OJ, bananas too, if they have them. She’ll need iron but we can deal with other food once she wakes up.”

           “What if she doesn’t—” Dean half-moaned, sounding like he’d been struck by something that was sucking all the oxygen from his lungs, looking like he was on the last ten feet of a hundred-mile race.

           “She’s going to wake up.”

           And Sam’s stubbornness actually did help Dean a bit in that moment, knowing that even if his life was about to change radically, that never would. “Go get some fucking Gatorade.”

           By the time Dean came back—arms filled with so many bags of sports drinks that it would be comical in any other context—his brother had stitched up every wound, cleaned off most of the blood, and put all your limbs atop high stacks of pillows in an attempt to get as much blood to your vital organs as possible. Dean was near catatonic with the singular focus of a task, which was Sam’s intention. One thing at a time.

           After about five minutes of sitting alongside Sam watching you, thick, viscous panic bubbled back up to the surface.

           At first, he was muttering like he was talking to himself. “She told me, she fucking told me they wouldn’t be in the barn anymore, I didn’t listen. I should’ve been right behind her, Sam, what the fuck was I thinking—she was—she—she was alone, they wouldn’t have—” and then the way his voice built to a fever pitch matched his body, Dean perched on the mattress like a sailboat in a tempest, slammed against invisible waves of panic.

           “It wasn’t your fault, Dean. You couldn’t have known—”

           “She was alone against five of them, Sam, do you get that? I left her fucking ALONE!” Dean wailed, springing forward from the bed with eruptive energy and bashing the nightstand lamp hard enough that its base shattered against the opposite wall, coming clean out of the socket as easily as if it hadn’t been plugged in. Sam flinched but didn’t get up, instead taking a quick visual inspection that no shards of ceramic somehow bounced back to cut your still body. By the time he glanced up again he only had a millisecond to react as Dean threw a chair from the kitchenette against the wall, exploding the mirror there into shimmering beads of glass and ricocheting back, forcing Sam block it with a forearm lest it hit him or you.

           “DEAN, enough!” he yelled, crossing over to his brother with a few powerful strides and grappling with him, battling to keep Dean still as the older of the Winchester brothers fought to destroy the room to match the chaos in his mind. Sam knew exactly what was going on, the way Dean’s brain converted fear to rage, but hated when his brother got like this, not only because it cut so deep to see him in pain but because the explosiveness was so similar to the knock-down drag-outs they’d grown up with, made it impossible to try to fix the root of the problem.

           Sam tackling Dean to the ground was the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes.

           “Do I pull this shit when you guys are sleeping?” you croaked from the mattress, trying to sit up and immediately abandoning that plan, stilling yourself and holding your breath until the pain settled a fraction.

           Sam and Dean scrambled to get to their feet and ran over to you, hovering over the bed looking like their backs had a light dusting of glitter rather than a million tiny shards of glass.

           “What’re—are you okay? What do you remember?” Sam blurted out, grabbing a bottle of Gatorade out of a plastic bag and cracking it open for you. He snatched a pillow and helped you sit up slowly, jamming it under your head so you could drink.

           “Well, I’ve definitely felt better,” you tried to chuckle, but the tension it caused in your abdominal muscles made you wince. “I’m really sorry, you guys, I shouldn’t have—” you began, immediately stopped by the way Sam and Dean shook their heads, sucked on their teeth.

           “I’m—ah,” Sam started, smiling self-deprecatingly through the shake in his voice and looking down at the ground for a beat with his tongue in his cheek. It was like his body knew that the worst of the crisis had passed and refused to let him hide his emotions for one second further. After a second he met your eyes again, faintest hint of tears in his eyes. “I’m really glad you’re up.”

           Behind him, Dean collapsed into himself, his expression simultaneously complete relief and like he’d seen a ghost. You peered around Sam to meet his gaze. “Hey, dork,” you breathed, unable to come up with anything to match the weight of the moment.

           He opened his mouth a few times and couldn’t find anything either, wincing and biting his lip hard as he rubbed the back of his head nervously. “I’m so sorry,” he finally choked out.

           As always, Sam knew what Dean needed and snatched the car keys off the table as his brother tried in vain to keep his restless limbs still. He gazed at you with such naked thankfulness it made you smile involuntarily. “I’m going to see how much red meat I can find you, I’ll be right back, okay? Drink as many of these as you can and don’t stand up alone.” You nodded gratefully to him as he backed out the door.

           When Sam left, Dean still shifted uncomfortably on his feet, clenching and unclenching his hands until he ultimately jammed them deep into the pockets of his coat with enough force that it shook loose almost all of the glass, sending it floating to the ground around him as if he was a mirage. You could see, even as he stood a few paces away from the bed, that his breathing was quickened from the rapid, shallow movements of his chest and neck. “I’m—ah, I didn’t think—I shouldn’t have—” he stammered against a jaw locked shut tensely enough to make the muscles bulge out of his cheeks, and the lack of the self-assuredness that was normally so Dean to you made him seem unbelievably young, made you want to leap across the room and wrap him up in your arms. As it was, you beckoned him over with a shaky hand.

           He walked over to you hesitantly, only sitting down on the side opposite your injuries when you patted the sheets next to you. Awkwardly trying to move your torso as little as possible, you tossed the pillows on that side to the floor and motioned for him to lay down.

           “I don’t want to hurt—”

           “I’ll be fine. Please?”

           Reluctantly taking off his coat and dropping it unceremoniously to the ground, he gingerly tucked himself under your arm and laid his head on your chest. You faintly dragged your fingertips down his back, waiting for his heartbeat and uneven, shallow breathing to slow down. When they didn’t and all you felt was a spreading wetness on the remaining upper half of t-shirt you still had, you twisted laboriously to see Dean’s face.

           Tears streamed down onto you, Dean biting his lip so hard to keep quiet you were shocked you couldn’t see blood, the whites of his teeth almost matching the pressure-blanched skin.

           “Oh, Dean,” you hummed, pulling him close to you with your one arm. “Babe, I’m here, I’m right here. Everything’s okay; I’m okay, you get to treat me like a princess for a few days and I’ll learn for the hundredth time that I shouldn’t go off by myself.”

           “I—I thought you were gone,” Dean whispered between stunted sobs breaking the words off in short staccato, still fighting to speak as though he wasn’t crying even as his tears soaked you.

           You craned your neck slowly to kiss the top of his head. “Not gone, right here. Always going to be right here.”

           “You were bleeding so mu—just like Sam, it was just like when Sam—” he faltered, speaking slowly to try to grab the reins of his voice as it shook.

           “Not just like Sam, baby, I’m still here. Everyone’s okay. And Sam’s okay too, right?” You waited for him to confirm what you knew was true and emphasize your point, drawing back to meet his gaze when he didn’t. “Right?”

           Reluctantly, Dean nodded. The redness around his eyes made his irises seem almost unreal in electric green contrast and you couldn’t believe you were so close to never seeing them again. His lashes were even darker than normal, spiky black frames formed with salty tears like cartoonish mascara. You waited a beat then let him settle back into your chest before continuing, feeling the choke-hiccupping of his breath stop even if it stayed rapid. “Everyone’s okay. You’re okay,” you hummed into his hair. “You’re okay, baby.”

           The two of you stayed like that until Dean’s breathing finally steadied, waiting past the clearly forced long held breaths and through to the point that he genuinely seemed like he’d hit the smooth rhythm you knew so well. “How are you feeling?” you murmured.

           “Like a bitch,” he grumbled softly against your chest, and you couldn’t help but smile, thankful beyond anything for the glint of humor back in Dean, that shimmer of normalcy returning.

           “Sorry for scaring you.”

           “I’m never fucking letting you out of my sight again,” he said, words still sticky with swirling emotion and muffled by his cheek pressed against you. You knew he was only partly joking but also that now was not the time to push back, just kissing his hair in response.

           There was no way it took Sam an hour to get you a diner burger but you were thankful for his intuition nonetheless, because by the time he got back Dean was calm enough to get up and had even helped you to put on a new t-shirt—one of his black ones; he said it was because it was looser but you suspected it was some kind of metaphor, covering you with part of himself—and shimmy into a pair of mesh athletic shorts. Standing up for a shower was still too ambitious, but the fresh clothes made you feel a little less gross. He was trying his best to clean up as much broken glass as possible when his brother opened the door and tossed him a paper bag with a bubbly illustrated hamburger on it.

           Walking into the room without taking his jacket off, Sam set your food on the nightstand and grabbed a motel binder of local attractions (minimal) as a makeshift tray for you to eat off of before carefully helping you to sit up a little more. “Double cheeseburger—eat it before the fries, you need the iron. Oh, and I almost forgot—couple of these too.” He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved two bottles in one big hand that appeared to be acetaminophen and an iron supplement.

           “You’re the best, Sam.” It was nice to hear your voice sound more normal, lubricated with two bottles of Gatorade already, and you tried not to imagine how awkward or painful it was going to be to try to get up and go to the bathroom later.

           The Winchesters sat on the other bed, still in their boots because of the rug of broken glass no one wanted to acknowledge, and Sam turned on whatever dumb comedy he could find first. For a fleeting moment it felt like any normal night on the road, nursing an injury and eating greasy food in a room you’d never see again past tomorrow morning, and you almost forgot that (minutes? hours? you still didn’t know how long you’d been out) earlier you thought you were saying goodbye to the two people you loved most, who’d moved heaven and earth and miles of rural highway to bring you back, whose superhero resilience you’d seen start to crack at the thought of losing you. A searing jolt of pain when you reached for another Gatorade reminded you all too much, and when you hissed both Sam and Dean leapt off the bed with faces contorted in concern.

           “Just stretched too far, I’m okay.”

           Watching them take twin deep breaths could’ve been funny and you hoped it would be in a few days—hoped in a few days laughing wouldn’t feel like being impaled. For now, you tried to drink in this little moment of peace and made a promise to yourself that you wouldn’t take another one for granted ever again.

-

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[the-iceni-bitch]

Fix You

Pairing: angsty!soft!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Words: 4173

Summary: Bucky has been working hard at getting over the trauma that came from being the Winter Soldier, and you do your best to help him through it. But a particularly painful memory almost breaks him.

Warnings: ANGST (I’m so sorry y’all), explicit language, explicit sexual content (oral sex (F receiving), fingering, unprotected vaginal sex), soft!broken!Bucky, fluffy ending, TW: this fic contains implications of animal cruelty in a character’s past. It is extremely vague and non-specific but I will put a warning in the text itself if you still would like to read but this particular type of thing upsets you. Please be mindful of it my soft babies!! SMUT, 18+ ONLY!!!!

A/N: This is my entry to the Happy Hoelentine’s Day gift exchange hosted by the absolutely fabulous @chrissquares​, @drabblewithfrannybarnes and @amythedvdhoarder​. My giftee was @bucky-the-thigh-slayer happy v-day sweetie! 😘

Soo, apparently, I cannot just write a sprinkling of angst, I have to write cut your heart out of your chest and watch it beat in front of your face angst. This fic made me cry while writing it so if you are a big softie, you might want to skip this one. Don’t worry, I gave everyone a nice, fluffy, soft ending to soothe the pain!

Happy Hoelentine’s y’all! Check out my masterlist and join my taglist if you want!

dividers are made by the lovely @chrissquares

not my GIF

You weren’t sure what had initially roused you from sleep. Maybe it was the fact that you were used to Bucky’s frame being draped over you, smothering you with his body heat. Whatever had woken you at first, the sound of shattering glass snapped you from your dazed state immediately.

You flew out of the bed and ran towards the bathroom. The light was leaking from underneath the door and when you wrenched it open, you swore under your breath.

Bucky was seated on the floor by the tub, his head in his hands as sobs wracked his chest. The mirror over the sink was smashed, pieces of reflective glass scattered all over the counter and across the floor.

You ignored it, not even noticing as you cut the bottoms of your feet while making your way to him. You knelt beside him and drew him to you, tucking his head under your chin as you ran your hands over his back, trying to calm him down.

“I’m here, Buck.” You murmured as you pressed your lips to his hair. His breathing was coming in ragged gasps as he leaned into you, and you could tell he was still upset. “Do you want to talk about it, honey?”

He just shook his head as another sob ripped out of him, his fingers wrapping in your sleep shirt.

You knew this was all part of the process. Bucky had been working with Bruce and his psychiatrist for 6 months now on identifying and moving past his repressed memories, but damn if it didn’t break you heart every time a new one popped up. This one must have been especially painful, he hadn’t had a breakdown like this in months.

“Sweetie, I’m gonna call Bruce, ok?” He was still a mess, even with you there, and it made you worried.

“No, don’t leave me.” He looked up at you desperately as he leaned against your shoulder, his eyes a startling blue from his tears as he pleaded with you.

“Shit, Bucky.” God, you fucking hated seeing him like this. You felt so helpless. “I can call from here. FRIDAY? Let Banner know we need him, stat.”

“Will do, Y/N.” The AI chirped back at you.

You reached your arm to the sink and turned it on, running a washcloth under the warm water before bringing it back to rest against his forehead.

“Y/N? Bucky? It’s me, Bruce.” You heard Banner call from the front door.

“Yeah, we’re in the bathroom.” You called. Your shoulder was soaked with snot and tears as Bucky continued weeping against you.

“Jesus, what happened?” Bruce hissed when he found you, picking his was through the broken glass as he knelt to examine Bucky, opening his medical case.

“I dunno Bruce, I woke up and found him like this.” You did your best to straighten Bucky up as Bruce took his pulse before pulling back to assemble his otoscope.

“Ok, Barnes, I’m gonna give you a sedative, buddy.” Bruce murmured as he dug in his case again, bringing out a vial and syringe. “I called his doctor when I heard from you and she’s on her way, but she was in Chicago for a conference, so she won’t be in until later this morning. She gave me the ok to calm him down for now.”

You just nodded as you stroked Bucky’s hair, doing your best to distract him as Bruce wound the tourniquet around his arm before plunging in the needle. He released the band before pushing down the plunger, and you felt Bucky relax against you almost immediately.

“I hate this so much, Bruce. I just want to be able to do something for him.”

“You’re doing it, Y/N. I don’t think his recovery would be going so well if he didn’t have you.” He looked down at your feet and winced. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“What? Oh, fuck.” Now that Bucky wasn’t occupying your attention, the slices on your feet and knees were throbbing.

“I don’t think you need any stitches, but I’m gonna use some skin glue to keep these from opening up repeatedly.” He muttered, rinsing the cuts with a betadine solution before patting them dry with some gauze.

“Thanks Bruce. Can you help me get him back to the bed?” You asked as he finished his work, throwing a towel over the broken glass and shoving it out of the way.

“Sure.” You each put one of his arms over your shoulders and hauled him to his feet, shuffling awkwardly back to the bedroom. “Dr. Laurent should be here around 10, if you could get him to the med center around then?”

“Of course Bruce, thank you so much.”

He just waved you off as he left, closing the door gently behind him. You changed into a new t-shirt and climbed back into bed, curling yourself around Bucky as you tried to fall back asleep, failing miserably.

  It had been two weeks since Bucky’s breakdown. His nightmares had gotten better, but you could tell he was still upset about things. He was barely talking to you, and he hadn’t initiated sex during that whole period. You could maybe coax some small talk out of him over meals, but you could tell he was avoiding talking to you about what he remembered. All you wanted to do was comfort him and he wasn’t letting you.

Dr. Laurent assured you that they were working through it, but that this particular memory was harder to move past. All you wanted to do was comfort him, but he wouldn’t let you close.

The two of you were sitting together in silence, you were going over some field reports with your feet resting in Bucky’s lap as he read some trash mystery novel that you would usually tease him about. Your phone rang from the coffee table and you stretched to pick it up, grinning when you saw it was your sister.

“Hey Frankie!” You said cheerily as you picked up. “What’s going on?”

Bucky smiled to himself sadly as he listened to you chat with your sister. He felt so guilty about what he was doing to you. You were amazing, and kind, but he was so worried that if he let you all the way in, you’d see what a monster he was and leave him.

“Oh my god, a puppy!?” You squealed, and Bucky felt all the blood drain from his face. “Send me all the pictures! We’ll have to come visit soon and meet him.”

Bucky stood up and walked towards the kitchen, getting himself a glass of water and drinking it down greedily.

“Hey, Frankie, can I call you back tomorrow? Great, love you!” You had picked up on Buck’s change in demeanor and followed after him. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He muttered, filling his glass again and taking a sip.

You let out a deep sigh at his attempt to dodge. You knew you weren’t supposed to push him, but watching him withdraw from you like this was killing you.

“Bucky, please talk to me.” You pleaded, fighting the urge to go to him and wrap your arms around him, drawing all his pain into yourself as you held him tight.

He shook his head at you as he set his glass down on the counter, avoiding making eye contact. “I can’t.”

You took in a sharp breath at the crack in his voice and your resolve broke. You took three steps forward and pressed your body to his, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and bringin his forehead down to lean against yours.

“It’s ok, I’m not going anywhere.” You murmured, bringing up one hand to run through his hair, trying your best to soothe him as you watched tears leak from his eyes.

“Promise?”

“Fuck, of course I promise.” You murmured before pressing your lips softly to his. ���Bucky, I’m not going to leave you. I love you.”

He buried his face in your neck and let out a deep sigh, inhaling your scent and letting the warm comfort of your body relax him. You kept stroking his back and hair, waiting for him to speak.

⚠️TRIGGER WARNING ⚠️

“When I first woke up,” He started after several minutes of silence, still not looking at you. “They would never let me outside. It was almost a year before I saw sunlight. They eventually let me out once they were sure the brainwashing had done its job, but only for a little while. There was…”

He choked on his words and you made soft soothing sounds against his cheek, doing your best to not hold your breath as he opened up to you, worried you were going to spook him like a baby deer.

“There was this tiny stray mutt I found on the compound one day. It was hiding in a little hole in the wall with an injured paw, scared of everything. I managed to sneak out some of my rations the next day for him, and did the same thing for the next week. He wouldn’t take the food from me directly, but I would leave it for him, and it would all be gone when I came back.

“It took a few weeks before he would take the food from my hand, and a couple more before he would let me pet him. Seeing that little guy was the best part of my day. The only break I had from the fighting and the torture. Sometimes he’d crawl into my lap and curl up, and those were the days I thought about making a run for it.” Bucky finally looked at you, giving you a sad smile as he pressed his forehead to yours again before screwing his eyes shut. “I named him Vladik.

“I don’t know why it took them so long to figure out he was there. The guards were supposed to be watching my every move. I wasn’t supposed to have anything for myself, no happiness or solace. And that was all he was. Just a harmless little friend. But the Soldat couldn’t have any friends.

“When the doctor in charge of my programming found out, he told me to bring him the dog, and he… he made me…”

⚠️END TRIGGER WARNING⚠️

He started sobbing before he could finish, and you felt tears running down your own cheeks as you held him tightly, the two of you sinking to the floor as Bucky wept in your arms. You curled yourself around him, wishing you could do something to just take all of that pain from him.

It was an hour before either of you moved. You were stiff from leaning against the counter for so long, but until Bucky started to straighten up, you didn’t even notice. He drew you up after him and you moaned as you unfolded yourself, your legs tingling as blood rushed back into them.

“I love you so much, Y/N.” He whispered against your hair with a heavy sigh, drawing you into another deep embrace. “Fuck, I’m exhausted.”

“I love you too, honey.” You murmured, pressing your lips to his forehead. “I’ll be right there.”

You left him to strip out of his clothes as you headed to the bathroom, locking the door behind you as you splashed cold water on your face, trying to keep yourself from having a meltdown.

You were so relieved he had finally opened up to you. But every fiber of your being just wanted to fix all of this, and the fact that you couldn’t was killing you. You choked back a sob as you bent over the sink, bile rising in your throat. It took you a few minutes to fully calm down, but you got your emotions under control with some deep breathing.

You splashed your face a few more times before heading back out to the bedroom. Bucky was still up, sitting on the edge of the bed as he waited for you. He gave you a small smile as you walked toward him, wrapping his arms around your middle and nuzzling his face against your stomach.  You moaned as he started to lift your shirt, pressing his lips to your skin softly as his fingers traveled to brush against your breast, squeezing it gently.

He held you tightly and turned his body until you were laying on the bed underneath him. He crawled up your torso slowly until his face was hovering above yours. His vibranium palm cupped your cheek softly as he gazed into your eyes before bending to kiss you, his mouth needy against yours as he bit at your lips before pressing his tongue to yours, drawing a whine from your throat.

Bucky ran his hand down your throat before his fingers started working to unbutton your blouse. He made quick work of it and his mouth moved to your neck as he slid it down your shoulders. You gasped and moved your hands to wind in his hair as he unclasped your bra and wrapped his lips around your nipple, sucking softly and swirling his tongue around it until it was peaked and sensitive. Your cunt clenched around nothing as he moved to your other nipple, and you wrapped your legs around his waist as he continued to move down your body.

His tongue dipped into your navel as he worked at undoing your jeans, pulling them down your legs swiftly along with your panties before diving between your legs.

He had missed this. Those soft sounds of want you made were a panacea for his wounds, soothing his heart as he moved his lips over your sex, his tongue running through your folds as he lapped up your arousal. You arched into his mouth when he pressed against your clit, your hands digging into his hair as his hands gripped your thighs, keeping you spread open for him.

He moaned against you as you wriggled beneath him, your back arching and relaxing as he brought you closer to your release. You grip on his hair was bordering on painful as you tightened it, and he relished your loss of control as you fought to close your thighs around his head and press him even closer.

“Mmm, Bucky!” You moaned as he wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking softly. He finally released your legs and you wrapped them around his neck as he pushed two metal fingers into you, making you yelp.

He scissored his fingers inside you, stretching your canal as he drew obscene squelches from deep within you. He loved the feel of your pussy clenching and fluttering around him, trying to draw his fingers even deeper inside you as he edged you towards your climax.

When he curled them against that sweet, secret spot within you, you lost it. Your heels duck into his shoulders and your back arched you off the bed violently as you clamped down on his fingers. You screamed as your release flowed into his mouth, making him moan as it covered his chin. He licked his lips as he straightened above you, savoring the taste of you on his tongue. It tasted like home.

He gazed down at you lovingly as he removed his boxers, kicking them away before bending to kiss you deeply. Bucky kept his mouth on yours as he crawled onto the bed, tucking his knees under your thighs as he pressed one palm against the small of your back, drawing you up to straddle his lap.

“I love you so fucking much.” He whispered against your lips, running his fingertips through your hair before his tongue was invading your mouth, curling against and tangling with yours as he stole all the breath from your lungs. His metal hand curved over your ass as he ground his hips into you, running his cock through your slick folds. “I need to hear you say it, please doll.”

“God, Bucky. I love you.” You panted as he positioned himself at your entrance, making you whine as he breached you with just his tip. Your fingers dug into his shoulders as he pulled you onto him and you hissed through your teeth as you stretched around his length, relishing in the sting you felt each time he entered you.

“Never leave me.” He pleaded as his hips started moving, his thrusts slow and sensuous as he stared deeply into your eyes, watching your face contort with pleasure as you lost yourself in the feeling of being filled with him.

“Never.” You murmured as he buried his face against your neck. “Fuck, baby.”

Your head rolled back as he picked up the pace just barely, his pubic bone grinding against your clit with each thrust and bringing you close to your edge. He nuzzled himself between your breasts and mouthed against your soft slopes gently as you tightened one hand around the back of his neck.

One particularly forceful drive had you falling backwards with a gasp. You managed to catch yourself on one arm and you pressed your toes against the mattress on either side of his hips, doing your best to keep your balance as your pussy clenched around him.

“Fuck, right there.” You whispered, your nails digging into his neck.

He brushed his teeth against your nipple and you almost collapsed against the bed, but Bucky wrapped his arms around you and held you tightly to him as your body spasmed uncontrollably, quivering in his grasp as your pussy fluttered and your release seeped out of you, soaking both of your thighs.

“You feel so good doll.” He murmured against your chest as he kept fucking into you, still moving in rich, deep plunges that made it hard for you to breathe. “So tight and warm. I fucking lose myself in this pussy.”

All you could do was whine as you wrapped your legs around his waist and gripped his neck tightly. You took in a sharp breath when he suddenly lifted himself off his knees and pushed even deeper into you, his cock hitting a new spot inside you that had you seeing stars. He gripped his hands tightly at the small of your back as he ground against you.

He hit you at just the right spot and you came again, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his hair as your body vibrated against his. He inhaled your scent with a moan as he fell forward, catching himself on his vibranium hand before he collapsed on top of you.

You kept your body wrapped tightly around his as he held you in that position with one arm, carrying all of your weight as his hips started moving violently, slapping against the back of your thighs as soft wet sounds came from between the two of you. It only took a few thrusts before you were cumming again, screaming against Bucky’s neck as the coil in your stomach snapped, your muscles finally giving out as you rode the wave of your pleasure, your body rolling underneath him as you released his neck and he let you sink back onto the bed, your arms falling above your head and your feet coming to rest on either side of his knees.

Bucky kept one arm hooked under the small of your back, arching your body at a beautiful angle as his hips started to stutter, his cock twitching inside of you as he neared his own end.

“Gimme one more doll.” He whispered, mesmerized by the way your tits bounced with each thrust of his hips, and the way your face had that blissful, fucked out look as you bit your lip and screwed your eyes shut.

He ground his hips in a circle with his next thrust and smiled as your body tried to curl off the bed. You sobbed as you came, crying his name as your thighs squeezed his hips and your cunt milked his cock. He collapsed on top of you as he came right behind you, his spend shooting into harshly, painting your canal in thick white ropes as his hips stilled.

You held him to you tightly, refusing to let him go as the two of you drifted off to sleep. All you wanted was to rest with him inside you, and he needed to feel you around him, to let you know that you were his home, his haven against all the pain of his past. You smiled as you felt his breath grow deep with sleep, your hand resting on his back as your own slumber took you.

  Bucky made a lot of progress over the next few weeks. Telling you had lifted a weight from his shoulders that he didn’t realize he was carrying. His sleep was still interrupted by nightmares occasionally, but every time he woke up to find you next to him was like a balm for his soul.

He was finally starting to feel truly happy, and that made you happy. Dr. Laurent had finally given the ok for him to start going on missions again, and that was great, but he really found fulfillment at home with you, and the best part of his day was when he walked through the front door to find you waiting for him.

You were excited for Valentine’s Day. It felt like the first holiday you could really enjoy as a couple as he had made so much progress. You were thankful that Steve had kept him occupied all day, giving you a chance to work on your present for him. He was out for a run in the rain right now as you put the final touches on the meal, reviewing the recipe a final time as you set the table, shrugging to yourself and lighting the candles.

You almost dropped your match when you heard him open the front door, cursing as you narrowly avoided setting the tablecloth on fire.

“In here baby!” You called as he came inside, shaking himself from the rain. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

“Aww, doll, this looks… is that aspic?” He asked, one eyebrow cocked as he eyed the meal you had set out for him.

“Sure is!” You said with a grin as you eyed the brown, gelatinous entrée, doing your best to tamp down your nausea. “Steve said it was your favorite back in the day, so I decided to surprise you.”

“Steve?” He asked, a grin spreading over his face as he ran his fingers through his hair. “You asked Rogers what to get me for Valentine’s Day?”

You studied the look on his face and looked back at the meal, considering things.

“That motherfucker.” You said as he broke down, laughing hysterically. “I’m going to murder that giant.”

“I can’t believe you thought I would actually like this!” He said, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“I dunno, the 30s were a weird time!” You cursed yourself in your mind for being so gullible. “Well shit, I wasted a whole day. I’m ordering Chinese.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself doll, it’s the thought that counts.” He said, giving you a mock pout before wrapping his arms around you and kissing your hair. You yelped when you felt something move in his hoody.

“What the fuck, Barnes?” You screeched as his pocket squirmed, something inside it making a tiny squeaking sound.

“Uhh, don’t be mad.” He said sheepishly as he tucked his hand into his pocket and drew out a tiny, white kitten who was screaming bloody murder. “I found her in a ditch when I was on my run, and it didn’t seem like her mother was anywhere nearby. I didn’t want to just leave her out there.”

“Oh my fucking god, Bucky!” You reached out and he handed her to you. You wrapped your hands around her loosely and cradled her against her chest. “We need a heating pad.”

“What?” He asked confused for a second.

“She’s barely a week old honey, she can’t regulate her own body temperature, go get my heating pad from the bathroom.”

“So, we’re keeping her?” He asked, a grin spreading over his face as he rushed into the bathroom.

“Of course we’re keeping her Barnes.” You scoffed at him. “FRIDAY, we need kitten milk replacer as soon as possible, and specialty feeding bottles for newborns. And get a vet here too.”

“On it, Y/N. There’s a house call veterinarian that can be here in one hour, and the rest of your supplies should arrive within 30 minutes.”

“Thanks FRIDAY.” You were making soft cooing noises at the baby as Bucky came back into the room with the heating pad, and he practically groaned at the smile you gave him.

“Happy Valentine’s day, doll.” He murmured as he kissed your hair and wrapped one arm around you, handing you the heating pad.

“Happy Valentine’s day, Buck.” You whispered back at him. “What should we name her?”

“What do you think of Alpine?”

Tags!

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[apollos-garden]

Accident

Word count: 1320

Summary: you cut your hand, flashback + panic attack ensues

A heavy bass fills your earbuds as you dump various vegetables onto the spacious kitchen counter. The Stark tower had a truly extravagant kitchen with oceans of counter space, a fridge stocked with every possible ingredient, and two ovens. Coming from a tiny NYC apartment where you sometimes had to chop things on the floor for lack of space, you intended to take full advantage of  every single square inch. 

Turning the burner on to heat oil pooled on the bottom of a large pot you found, you rinse a stalk of celery and dice it. Once the oil started to simmer, you poured the celery in along with a few diced carrots, garlic, and onion. Turning to the sink, you rinsed your hands and was about to move to the spices when you felt two hands suddenly wrap around your waist. You jump and rip your earbuds out, turning to see Bucky. “Jesus!” 

He grinned. “No, it’s me.” You sighed at the horrendous pun and swatted him halfheartedly with the towel tucked into the side of your jeans waistband. The bass of the song could still be heard tinnily pulsing through the mini speakers hung around your neck. “You know I can’t hear you coming with those in.” “I know. It’s cute when you jump.” Your eyebrow cocked up. “It’ll be less cute when I reflex-punch you one day.” 

Bucky moved over to the stove, breathing in. “What’s this? Smells good.” You finish toweling your hands off and join him, stirring the bottom. “It’s going to be vegetable soup. Come back in, oh, forty five minutes.” You tap the watch dial fastened to the inside of your wrist. “And no more jumpscares, please?” Bucky holds up his hands in an approximation of innocence as he backs away. “Promise!” 

Shaking your head, you turn back to the counter, grabbing the spice jars and moving to the counter. Thyme, pepper, salt, a bay leaf... hmm, maybe some paprika? You stir every powder in thoroughly, watching for clumps. Throwing in the rest of the vegetables and a good amount of broth, you lean back against the counter. That should be everything. 

You wash your hands and wipe down the cutting board, then reach for the knife and sponge. Noticing some unknown spots of something on the handle, you carefully hold the knife by the blunt side of the blade and scrub the handle too. Rinsing the handle under the water, you look out the window at twilit New York. 

From up here, the twinkling lights formed a mosaic of colors outlining the surrounding skyscrapers. Far off in the distance you could see the reflections of the river. Suddenly, you feel the knife slipping from your grasp. You mindlessly grab for the knife before you fully register what’s happening. And catch it you did- catch the blade right in the middle of your palm. A dull sting blooms up your arm as you blink at your hand, tap still running. Fumbling for the handle, you switch off the water and breathe deeply before gently lifting the knife up, setting it on the counter. 

The sting had gotten decidedly sharper and you fight back the familiar prick of tears. Then you made the mistake of looking down. Dark blood was pooling in the hollow of your curved palm. Fuck. You look back out the window and clench your fist, ignoring the sharp throb accompanying the action. It was dark enough to see your reflection in the glass, and you stared at the outline of your body as you try to keep the image of your bloody hand out of your head. 

You wrench your eyes shut, forcing yourself to breathe deeply. Against your best efforts, though, your mind dragged you back to the tundra forest you had tried so hard to leave forgotten in the past. Dimly, you are aware of yourself sinking down to kneel on the floor, but in your mind’s eye you could see perfectly the body of your friend motionless in the snow years ago. The gunshot wound had bled steadily despite the pressure of your shaking hands. Long after they were past the point of saving, you had knelt in the snow, staring at your blood soaked palms. 

The ringing in your ears grew louder as you mentally shake yourself, trying to pull yourself back to reality. Still, you kneel there like a statue, chest tightening painfully as tears leaked from your tightly shut eyes in silence. Over and over, you watch them crumple into the snow, leaving a pool of red that stained the knees of your pants. Their blood dripped from your cold hands. You couldn’t save them you couldn’t save them you couldn’t sa-

You flinch as a hand clamps onto your shoulder, shoving blindly in the direction it came from. Your hands hit against someone’s chest weakly. “Woah, hey, Y/N, what’s going on? Wait, what happened to your hand?” You swallow and take a shuddering breath. “It’s fine.” You heard Bucky shift and the floorboards creak through the ringing. His hand settled hesitantly on your back but you pushed it away gently. “Please, I- sorry.” 

You took another deep breath and forced your eyes open, focusing on the cabinets in front of you. How stupid, to freak out over a little bit of blood. You were an Avenger for god’s sake. You thought about standing up, but your muscles wouldn’t budge. Your vision blurred over with fresh tears. “I couldn’t,” you whisper hoarsely. Fabric rustled and you felt the weight of Bucky’s leather jacket drape over your shoulders. “Should I stay?” Bucky asked softly, crouching down to sit next to you. 

You nod silently, clean hand absentmindedly fisting the soft cotton lining as you fight the pull of the memory of crimson stained snow. Gingerly, you turn yourself around, resting your back against the cabinet door. Your heartbeat pounded too fast in your ears and throbbed rhythmically in your palm. Bucky broke your tense silence. “You’re breathing too shallow. Here.” 

He shifts forwards, moving to sit crosslegged in front of you, and pulls your good hand to rest against his chest. “Breathe with me.” Quietly, you inhale and exhale with the steady rise and fall of Bucky’s chest. It slowly became easier to focus on the warmth of Bucky’s hand over yours, the way his calluses felt against the back of your hand and the planes of his chest under his shirt. 

Eventually your breathing stabilizes. The relentless pull of your memories slackens and in the lull you become aware of how bone-achingly tired you feel. You swallow and wipe at your eyes, skin tacky with salt. A nagging feeling of shame starts to grow at the back of your mind and you shift your eyes to the floor. “I’m sorry that you, ah, had to see that,” you start to apologize, but you don’t really know where to take it. 

Bucky shakes his head. “No. You have nothing to be sorry for. I get them too.” He lifts your hand, examining the cut running across your palm. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” Standing, Bucky left, returning with a pack of cloth bandages. He carefully washes off the old blood with a damp towel and starts to wrap your hand with the gauze strip. You watch Bucky’s fingers fold the cloth precisely over the contours of your hand, his brows furrowed slightly in concentration. 

“Thank you.” It was strange to have someone near you after an attack like this. Usually, you rode through it alone, curled tightly into yourself in your bedroom or leaning against a supply closet wall at the train station. Never had you really considered that you could allow someone to see you like this, that it was even an option. But maybe, you thought to yourself, you could learn to let the right person in. It just might be better this way.

[darthwheezely]

sand and stone - g.w. - prologue

summary: new marine biologist y/n is assigned to her first major case in a remote area of the atlantic when she makes a major discovery...

pairing: merman!george weasley x marine biologist!reader

warnings/info: slow burn, enemies to lovers, heavy petting in future chapters, possible sex in future chapters, alludes to sex, cussing, mentions of trauma in future chapters, mentions of blood and injury

You hated boats.

Dr. Lockhart had told you ages before that you needed to get used to it, which was true, it was idiotic to cling to this stupid fear.

It wasn’t even that you hated boats themselves. You hated how, in your mind, unreliable they were. How they bobbed and were so small in comparison to the infinitesimally large area of the ocean surrounding you.

The ocean was a lovely woman, that’s what your father used to say. She has so much energy and life, but her moods bring destruction and descent upon those who hurt her.

Now, clutching the steering wheel of your boat, Captain Montague behind you, you felt more small than you had ever before.

“This your first time on a boat, miss?” He shouted over the steady waves, you swallowed and shook your head, your eyes briefly focusing on barely a shimmer of movement in the waters ahead.

“N-no. I’m quite used to them by now,” you narrowed your eyes at the flicker of movement again, turning the ship gingerly to accompany your curiosity.

“The water I’ll never be used to.”

-

The water was still, silent even. He looked around for any movement or a flicker of another red head in his vision, the sight of his twin brother anywhere in range.

He stroked forward, his graceful body, clad in freckles and beautiful aquamarine gils smoothly cutting through the current. He had gotten past Captain’s Pass when-

“Jesus, fuck, Fred you scared me,” he barked, his back muscles scraping against the toughness of the rock, Fred chuckling behind him.

“Please, you were looking like a marlin with your eyes that wide, if I were a shark you’d be chum by now, baby brother,” he smirked ruffling his brother’s hair as he did somersault and back flips in the water, winking at the mermaids that sat on the rocks across and giggled at him.

George looked between the two parties and scoffed, curving next to him and swimming in tandem with his brother. “Don’t you have anything better to do than be a hot mess for me to take care of?”

“Find a girl and tell her I love her but since that will never happen I figured I’d start small and-“ he stopped to pick a flower and stick it behind a young lady’s ear, “-and take what I can get.”

“Petty flirting?”

“Petty flirting, brother.” They laughed and swam for a while, pushing farther into the current, the boyish charm flooding through their veins as they raced across reefs and aquatic valleys, sand erupting upward in their voracious movement.

This was the best time for them, the necessities of being young princes in a kingdom born of past fury and violent wars fought by their father suddenly drifting away the longer they were together. Nothing mattered except each other, their parents frequently kept them separate from each other in all affairs because of the erratic nature when they were together.

They were young. Twenty two year old boys in a stifled world that needed them to be older, to be wiser - and in the current, none of it had to matter. Not now, not ever. Until-

“George...what’s that?” Fred stopped dead in his wave, nodding upward at the mass of blackness where the sun should be shining in the water.

“I-I’m not sure,” George faltered, suddenly in his own world before he saw his older brother swimming to the mass.

“Fred, stop,”

“Good Gods, what is this thing,” the older brother whispered, unaware of the pleads from the sensible brother behind him. Fred felt time for in slow motion as he reached forward before the metal hook sank into his hand and he yelped with the pain.

“Fred!”

“George!” The screams were stuttered, as Fred was suddenly being pulled by the enormous object, George straining to catch up behind him, tears leaking from his eyes as he felt his gils scream in pain. He was desperate to catch up to Fred, the hook in his left hand leaving a suspended trail of blood in his wake. Time seemed to go in slow motion, as when George finally caught up to Fred, he yanked his brother’s hand from the metal grasp of the hook - but not without flying backwards and catching George in the arm. He screamed as Fred was sent back past him. His little brother had protected him.

And now his little brother was gone, the speed of the boat and boy caught on it drifting so far upwards his body briefly caught wind of the surface, where a young scientist felt a hitch in not only her breath but in the water as well, the boat getting a knock of pressure to the outside of the hull.

George was being pulled to the surface, the pain in his arms meeting the brisk air of the Atlantic, the sun bright in his eyes and hell to his wounds, muffled voices ringing in his ears like popping bubbles.

“Fred...where’s...where’s Fred...” he mumbled, he was faintly aware that he was on a surface, but of what he had no clue.

“Who is Fred?”

“By God, what is that thing?”

“I’m not sure,” you swallowed, your hand meeting his gorgeous and all together chiseled cheekbones, feeling the flesh and seemingly human bone there.

“But I’m going to find out.”

···

taglist of people that may like this series! send me an ask or dm to be removed or added! @writingsomewrongs @anchoeritic @amxrtentias @wandsandwheezes @wand3ringr0s3 @diary-of-an-onliner @harrysweasleys @theweasleysredhair @lumosandnoxwriting @whizboyhalo @loony-loopy-lupinn

[abarbaricyalp]

I wish you would write a fic where Sam and Bucky have to hide in a super small closet during a mission and ~feelings~ happen

Ohohohoho, I also wish for me to write this fic

*Am always taking prompts for just about anything on my page*

Read on AO3

A Conversion of Worry and Love

Sam had told Bucky to just wear a coat instead of relying on the cybernetic mesh to hide his arm. But, no, Bucky wanted to test out the new tech himself.

It’s a gala, Sam, what could go wrong?

What a fucking asshole.

Sam skittered around a corner in the grand home of some shady diplomat, champagne and not much else sloshing in his stomach as he took off down the hall. The sounds of the chasing party were growing a little more distant--security guards trying to save face in front of the rest of the guests more than they were trying to catch Sam. He ducked down another hallway, a little darker, a little more off the path of the dinner, and leaned on his knees heavily to catch his breath.

Almost instantly, there were hands on him, yanking him off his feet and into a room. The door locked sinisterly behind him. When Sam tried to scramble away, he realized it was less a room and more of a closet. He fell into a shelf of furs and dust wafted into the air thickly, sending Sam into a coughing fit. It only earned a hand over his mouth.

But it was a hand he knew. Metal and gun oil and a slight golden glint in the light leaking in from the door.

“Mmmcky?” Sam asked and then gasped in a few more breaths when the hand finally fell away.

“I take it people saw the arm then?” Bucky said. Sam had never been so happy to hear a familiar voice. Sam heard Bucky shuffle around, more dust, and then a faint light from a small flashlight on one of the shelves. “I don’t want it to be visible under the door,” he explained.

“Yeah, people realized the Winter Soldier was at dinner with them,” Sam said drily. “And they came after Captain America when they couldn’t find you.”

Bucky tsked a little. “One day, someone’ll recognize us by face alone.” Suddenly he grimaced and reached for his side, sliding down the layers of shelves until he was sitting on the floor.

“Bucky? What’s wrong?” Sam asked as he tried to kneel by Bucky’s side. The closet was small and the protruding shelves didn’t help anything. Every shift of his body sent a shoulder or a knee crashing into something. The harder he tried to make sure that that something wasn’t Bucky, the more bruises he gave himself.

“It’s nothing, Sam,” Bucky answered. He fought Sam for a second when Sam reached over to pull his hand away from his side, but must’ve ultimately decided it wasn’t worth the effort and let Sam expose the tacky mess staining his shirt.

“Jesus, Barnes, you’ve been shot.”

“Grazed. I told you, it’s fine. It’ll heal.”

“Not if you bleed out all over this closet. Shit.” Sam shifted to straddle Bucky’s thighs, tugging his own jacket off and working on Bucky's button down shirt as carefully as he could. His knuckles scraped the wall, Bucky’s metal shoulder hit a shelf. They both smacked the door trying to get the shirt sleeve off of Bucky’s wrist.

Bucky couldn’t think about anything at all beyond the press of Sam’s legs against his, the brush of his arms as he worked, the touch of his fingers. He blamed all of it on the light headedness that was crawling through his skull.

“Can’t wait to tell the gossip rags about how you couldn’t wait to undress me at this dinner,” Bucky joked. He notably did not look down at the wound. Sam couldn’t look away from it.

“You don’t suppose there’s a first aid kit in here, do you?” he asked, chewing on his lower lip as he rifled through the stacks of coats and blankets around them.

“Oh, wait, I can probably help,” Bucky offered. He shifted and hissed in pain and reached into his pants pocket, producing three mini-bottles of alcohol.

“You’re kidding me,” Sam deadpanned.

“They were by the door! What, I wasn’t supposed to take any? You said we were supposed to act like this was just a party.”

Sam glared at him and grabbed the whisky bottle. “You couldn’t have grabbed water or something. There’s no soap or hand sanitizer in your endless pockets?”

“Someone said I couldn’t wear tac pants and soap isn’t as fun as alcohol,” Bucky defended.

They both stilled and fell silent as boots stormed past the door. Sam could feel Bucky’s breath on his cheek, his blood slick fingers curled around Sam's wrist, the heat pooling around them.

“All clear. Keep someone posted in the hall,” a voice barked and boots stormed past again.

Sam shifted away for a second, let Bucky’s hand fall to his thigh instead, and freed his shoulder holster. “Here, bite on this,” he ordered quietly. “We can’t risk you making noise while I work.”

Real terror flashed over Bucky’s face as he looked at the holster. His jaw tightened and he jerkily shook his head. “Could you just…” He trailed off and then reached for Sam’s wrist again, bringing Sam’s hand up to his mouth.

Sam let out an aggrieved breath and nodded, pressing his hand more firmly over Bucky’s mouth before opening the bottle with his teeth and then pouring the contents over Bucky’s side. Bucky strained under him, but Sam was able to hold him still enough until Bucky remembered that he was trained for this, that he could grit his teeth and fight through pain and be quiet.

“There’s got to be something in here we can shred and use as a bandage,” Sam said a few breaths later. His hand fell from Bucky’s mouth and Bucky dropped his head back against the shelf behind him. He tried to focus on the burning in his side and not the scalding memory of Sam’s palm over his jaw.

“All this fur isn’t gonna help shit,” Sam continued, tossing aside coats and wraps and scarves. “And all the rest is so damn dusty I’d probably give you an infection.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky reminded again. “I’ll heal.”

“Shut up, Barnes. Give me that jacket.” They'd both be bloody by the time they had to leave and ruining the jacket would mean they couldn't hide it, but it was the only material Sam had to work with

Bucky passed over Sam's jacket and Sam kneeled over Bucky’s thighs again, holding the balled up material against the wound firmly. Bucky’s hands fluttered over his before finally settling on Sam’s forearm.

The noise of a group walking down the far hallway floated under the door and then dissipated. “Why are you doing this? You’ve seen me take worse,” Bucky pointed out finally.

“Just because you can handle it doesn’t mean you have to. I have the training to make it hurt less,” Sam said. He looked away from Bucky’s face to watch the light strip under the door. In the blue glow of the flashlight, Bucky looked more pallid than he should and Sam didn’t want to see it.

“I have the training too. Sometimes resources don’t have to be wasted.”

Bucky felt something thrill all the way through him at the way Sam’s eyes snapped back to his face. “You’re not a waste of resources, Bucky,” he said so seriously that Bucky had to laugh. Sam’s hand was back over his mouth, warm and firm and grounding. “I’m serious. Be quiet.”

Bucky pulled Sam’s hand away. “You’d be the only person to think a man who can heal himself isn’t a waste of medical supplies.”

“I’m using a three ounce bottle of whisky and a ripped suit jacket. It’s hardly a hospital grade job we’re doing here. And even if I was…” Sam’s eyes slid away and he chewed on his lip again. “It’d still be worth it, alright?”

Bucky brought his fingers up to Sam’s jaw, tracing along the curve of it slowly. Then he patted Sam’s cheek and closed his eyes. “You’re insane,” he said.

Sam rolled his eyes and shifted around to grab the jacket again. He carefully wrapped it around Bucky’s waist and tied the pieces of what was left together to hold the ball in place. Bucky grabbed his arm again, one hand going to the back of Sam’s head to hold him close. Sam tensed for a second before he relaxed, dropped his head to Bucky’s shoulder, wrapped an arm around his back.

“Relax, Sam,” he sighed softly. “I’m fine.” Sam didn’t sit back, didn’t look over at Bucky. “You know, I had a little sister. And Steve, but if I panicked every time he got hurt, I’d have had an aneurysm before I turned fourteen. Anyway, I had a little sister. She was six years younger than me, which gave me a lot of time to worry about her when I didn’t know how to worry.

“Mom always said I never let anyone else hold her. I always said someone was hurting her head or pinching her arm. She said Becca never actually hit the ground when she was learning to walk because I was always there to catch her.”

Sam snorted and turned his head against Bucky’s shoulder. It was an awkward angle and he mostly got stubble in his line of sight. The closet was getting too warm to be sitting like this and he knew he shouldn’t be putting undue stress on Bucky’s abdomen but he couldn’t convince himself to peel away from being able to feel Bucky’s pulse under his cheek.

“I remember one time, when I was sixteen and working on the docks, I came home late. I’d been out with Steve or something. And no one had told me Becca was gonna be home alone and she’d hurt herself earlier the day. Cut up her leg something bad. She wouldn’t tell me what she’d done, so she’d probably been climbing in our parents’ closet, looking for hidden treasures, y’know. And I remember looking at her and this bruise crawling over her leg and then I passed out ‘cause I forgot to breathe.”

“Is there a point to this story, Barnes?”

“Yeah, yeah, the point is that she was just about totally fine. She’d been home all day, hadn’t gotten help from a neighbor, had cleaned the cuts herself, was running around with friends the day after while I was confined to my bed ‘cause they couldn’t tell if I had a concussion from hitting my head. The point is, all that worry didn’t do anyone any good. No amount of trynna protect her beforehand kept her from climbing in the house while she was alone. When I did get home and saw it, I wasn’t any use to her ‘cause I was panicking so bad, so it didn’t matter. She actually ended up running out on that bad leg to get Steve to help wake me up.

“I think--and stop me if I’m getting too deep for you, Wilson--but I think that worry is just an overflow of helplessness and...love. Loving something and knowing you can’t always be there to protect it. Her. Him. Me. Whatever. Maybe it would’ve been more useful to let Becca skin her knees while she was learning to walk so she’d know the perils of adventuring. Maybe I should’ve let someone else hold her and catch her for when I couldn’t be there. Maybe I should’ve let someone else share that worry, take some off my shoulders.

“Becca could scrap with the best of them. She was constantly bruised and scraped up, like a half-decade-younger Steve. No matter how many people I yanked aside by a collar or shouted at across the street, she always found trouble to get into. And she didn’t learn it on her own, y’know. She learned it from following me around. She was copying me. All that worry, all that protection, and she’d always rather just love me and be loved by me. She just wanted to spend time with her brother and grow up like him.

“I can’t change who we are, Sam. This profession we’re in, or the fact that people are gonna manage to spill their drinks on incredibly expensive cybernetic mesh when I didn’t even earn having a drink thrown in my face,” Bucky said, brushing his hand over the back of Sam’s head, down to his neck to massage a knot, and then back up. “But I can tell you that I’m not gonna try’n give you any more reason to worry about me than you need. I can tell you I know when I need to go get help from the neighbors and when I can just throw some rubbing alcohol on it and get back to looking for Christmas presents. It kinda feels like it’s just us sometimes. I don’t have a Steve to go run to when you pass out from anxiety over something that isn’t worth it. And, honestly Sammy, I can name about a thousand other ways you can put all that extra love to use.”

Sam hadn’t even realized his eyes had fallen shut listening to Bucky talk, that the racing of his heart had changed course from a building panic attack he hadn’t even been able to recognize to something that was blooming between his ribs. A heart not racing away from something but towards something, always towards the same thing recently.

He sat back enough to finally look at Bucky again. Some of the color had come back to cheeks during his speech and his eyes were damn near glowing in the light from the flashlight. “I don’t have panic attacks over you,” he lied, “but if I did, they’d be worth it. You’ve got to stop saying you’re not worth things. You’re worth it to a lot of people. You’re worth a lot of shit to a lot of people. And I don’t mean you’re a valuable...asset or whatever. You’re worth the worry and the love, Bucky. You’re worth taking care of. You always have been.”

Bucky brought his hand back to Sam’s cheek, curling the tips of his fingers behind his jaw and pulled him forward. Their mouths managed to meet without noses or teeth getting in the way. Sam’s hand found Bucky’s ribs, the opposite side of the graze, and Sam just about let himself melt against Bucky as Bucky leaned up into him.

Sam couldn’t tell if he gasped or Bucky, but they both pulled back enough to rest their foreheads together. “Do you feel better?” Bucky asked with a small smile.

“I think I’ve still got some of that excess love-worry to work through. Why don’t we try burning some more up?” he suggested with his own grin.

His mouth met Bucky’s again.

[autisticlancemcclain]

“I cannot believe you did this to yourself.”

Lance is frosty. He is mad. He is glaring heavily at Keith’s bare torso, where he is gently — ever so gently — cleaning the large gash stretching across Keith’s ribs. His hands are steady, like they always are, but his teeth are chattering, even as he tries to clench them.

“Of all the gall-brained, idiotic things to do. Jesus fucking Christ. It’s worse because I know you’re smart, you fucking imbecile, so I don’t know why you tried to do that!”

Keith keeps his mouth shut. He lets Lance yell, lets him rant, although his hands remain steadfast and his touch never gets rough. Lance is right, this time, and also Keith feels bad. Keith knows he fucked up. He knows he pushed himself too far, he knows he didn’t think about consequences, knows he let his anger consume him.

Keith feels a droplet hit his skin, outside of the damp cloth dabbing at his wound. He blinks, finally lifting his head to look Lance in the face, and is more shocked than he has a right to be to see the steady tears dropping down the Cuban’s face.

“I just…”

For the first time, Lance’s hands tremble. He notices immediately, pulling away from Keith’s skin and busying himself with re-wetting the cloth.

“I don’t understand. Genuinely. Why would you do that to yourself? Don’t you…”

Keith never finds out what he does or does not do, because Lance’s breath hitches, and he chokes on a sob before he can finish his sentence. Keith rushes forward on instinct, trying to make pull Lance into a hug to rub his shoulder or anything, really, but the movement pulls on his torn skin and he yelps, collapsing right back to where he was.

“Don’t fucking move, you’ll only make it worse,” Lance snaps, glowering at him through red and puffy eyes. He twists out the cloth, draining the excess water. His hands have stopped shaking, but tears still leak heavily out of his eyes, and every other breath shudders.

The guilt churns in Keith’s stomach, forming a lump in his throat. He flinches Lance presses the cloth to his chest, even though he doesn’t press hard. Lance mutters an apology, loosening the pressure a little.

“I’m the one that’s sorry,” Keith whispers. “I really am, Lance. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about how dangerous I was being.”

“Then what were you thinking about, Keith? Because when I walked in that room the only thing that I was thinking was that I was going to watch my best friend get killed right in front of me!”

Keith carefully reaches over and pries the cloth from Lance’s clenched hands, tossing it to the side. He slides his own hands in the space left behind, holding onto Lance just as tightly as he was gripping the cloth.

“Hey,” he says. “Lance. Look at me.”

It takes a few minutes, but eventually he does. Keith quirks a small, sad smile when he meets those dark brown irises, squeezing their hands together three times in quick succession.

“I’m okay. I’ll need a couple stitches, maybe an hour in the pod if you think that’s best, and then you can give me all the shit I deserve, okay? You can even tell Shiro and Allura so they can yell at me, too.”

Lance’s face crumples, and he lets out another sob. “It’s not about the fucking yelling, Keith, it’s just — I can’t lose you, Keith. I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t—”

Keith can’t watch Lance break down. He can’t watch Lance cry like this, he can’t watch the despair play through his face. The terror in his eyes when he first walked into Keith getting nearly slaughtered by the level-way-too-high training bots will already haunt him every night. So he does the only think he can think of.

He leans in quickly, careful of the pull on his skin, and presses his lips to Lance’s. He cradles his face in his hands, as gently as Lance was touching him earlier, using his thumbs to wipe the tears from Lance’s cheeks. He tilts their heads, trying to find the most comfortable angle.

Lance makes a sighing noise into his mouth. Keith doesn’t know if it’s a good sigh, not at first, but then Lance drags his hands halfway to Keith’s shoulders, mindful of his gash. His fingers flutter over Keith’s skin as his hands twitch, every time their mouths move. Keith moves one of his hands from Lance’s face to curl their fingers back together.

“You’re not forgiven just because you kissed me,” Lance mumbles between kisses.

“I know.”

“I’m still furious.”

“I know.”

“…I love you.”

“I know. I love you, too.”

“Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, Lance.”

[travistheaussie]

Be Patient

Pairing: Travis Fimmel x Black!Reader

Warnings: Daddy kink, female oral receiving, dirty talk, breeding kink, submissive!daddy

A/N: Hey, all! So after a week or so of writer’s block, I finally have something to write! It’ll be short (I hope), sweet, and to the point! Hope you guys enjoy!

Summary: Travis has to stop his work on the farm to take care of you. Dirty, dirty, filthy, filthy!

You were bored. Like, deathly bored. You could die from the boredom. For most of the morning, and well into the afternoon, you sat in the living room channel surfing, never being able to settle on something that actually intrigued you. After you made breakfast for you and Travis, he went out onto the farm to work, promising he’d be back for lunch. That was hours ago. You had hoped he would come in to eat and then have his way with you. But no. He’d get so caught up in his work, he’d forget about coming inside for a while. It also felt like he’d forgetton about you.

So, as you sat on the couch, an idea popped into your head. You’d decided that you were going to get his attention, and you knew the one thing he couldn’t resist: You acting like a needy little girl and calling him daddy. You shut off the television and ran out of the house, clad in one of his large tshirts. You spotted him in the garage, working on one of his many off-road toys.

“Travis!’ You whined out, holding in a giggle when he jumped up slightly.

He turned and smiled before turning back to his bike. “Hey, lovey.”

“I’m bored, baby.” You said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m almost done. I’ll be inside to take care of you in a little while.”

You huffed and sat down on one of the benches in the garage and laid back. While he continued to turn the wrench on his bike, you slowly began to raise up the shirt you wore, revealing your wet pussy. You gently ran your fingers through your folds, breath hitching. You noticed Travis pause at the sound that came out of you before starting his cranking once again. You smirked and pulled the shirt up to your neck and palmed one of your breasts, pulling at your nipple, moaning softly. You pushed a finger inside your pussy and began fucking yourself, causing lewd sounds to erupt from you.

“Baby, please.” You moaned loudly, already feeling the beginnings of an orgasm coming up.

Travis sighed. “Be patient, lovey. Just a few more minutes.”

“Daddy, please.” You cried wantonly.

Travis’s breath hitched and he dropped the wrench. He turned to you slowly and groaned out at what he saw. He walked over and fell to his knees before you, placing his hands on your thighs, rubbing softly. “Oh, baby. Has Daddy been ignoring you?”

“Mhm. I’ve been waiting for you all day.” You pouted.

You continued playing with yourself, pulling at your clit. And he watched as you did so, mouth watering. He slowly took off the baseball cap he wore and tossed it aside. Then he grabbed your hand, pushing it away so he could fully see your glistening pussy. He let out a whimper and bent down to swipe his tongue up through your slit, making you moan and arch your back. One of your hands went to his blonde mane while the other tugged at the lengthy hairs of his beard. Travis grunted and sucked your throbbing clit in his mouth, slurping obscenely. Your core tightened, signaling the tell-tale signs of your impending orgasm.

“I’m close, Daddy!” You cried, tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

“Mmm.” Travis pulled off your clit with a wet pop and inserted two fingers inside you. “Fuck, baby, you’re drenched. Want you to cum on Daddy’s fingers. Can you do that for me?”

“I don’t think Daddy deserves my cum.” You teased as you ran your fingers through his locks. “He hasn’t paid attention to me all day. I think Daddy needs to be punished.”

Travis gazed down wantonly at your soaked pussy before looking at you again, desperation in his ocean blue eyes. “I’m sorry, lovey. Daddy didn’t mean to ignore you. I’ll do anything you want.”

“Take your cock out, Daddy.” You demanded.

You watched as Travis stood and unbuttoned his shorts and pulled them down just enough so his thick, uncut cock sprang out, hard and leaking. He twitched at the sight of you and tugged on his balls before going back to his knees in between your thighs. “What now, baby?”

“Stick it in me.”

You knew he had no problem doing that. Travis rubbed his tip up and down your slit before entering you, bottoming out in one thrust. You whined, placing your legs on his shoulders. He placed his hands on your knees and kissed a wet trail up your calf, moaning with each swivel of his hips. After a few slow strokes along your tight walls, he picked up the pace, pounding deep into you. Your thighs began to tremble and your grip tightened on his thick forearms.

“Is my baby gonna cum?” Travis panted out. “Cum for me, sweet girl.”

As if on command, you erupted, squeezing around his cock as your orgasm overtook you. Your eyes were screwed shut and your mouth was agape, cries coming deep from within your chest. Travis slowed his movements, waiting for you to come down from your high. Once you seemed to have come back to your senses, he started his assault again, balls slapping against your ass. He grabbed your ankles and pushed your legs back until they were in a triangle shape, then began going deeper, striking against your g-spot relentlessly. You came again, your second orgasm sneaking up on you.

“Fuck, Daddy.” You cried loudly.

Travis grunted and his thrusts began to turn sloppy. Before he could bend over you into the position you knew he assumed when he was about to cum, you wound your legs around his waist and squeezed, stopping his movements. He looked up at you, panting, eyes wide and confused.

“Don’t you dare cum yet.” You growled, pulling down on his beard.

“Dammit.” He leant down and licked at your neck. “Why?”

“You cum when I tell you to. That’s your punishment for leaving me alone all day.” You stated. “We’re gonna go slow, and every time you start to go too fast, I’ll delay your orgasm.”

“You’re killin’ me, baby.” He whined, slowly moving his hips again.

You giggled and released your hold on him, allowing him to start thrusting deeply. “Be a good Daddy and I’ll let you fill me up.”

“Fuck yes.” Travis grunted, looking down at where the two of you were joined. “I want my load deep inside this pussy. So bad.”

He did as he was told, keeping a nice and languid pace. Soon, though, you noticed him starting to go faster. His moans became more frequent and he grew sloppy again. You saw the veins in his neck and his arms shake. Sweat began to drip from his temples and onto your chest. You knew he was dangerously close. Yet you weren’t done having your fun just yet.

“Ah, ah.” You chided, tightening your legs around him once more. “You’re going too fast, Daddy.”

Travis cried out, squeezing his eyes shut. “Fuckin’ hell! Please, baby! I’m so fucking close.”

You couldn’t help but feel bad for him. He looked like he was in pain from holding back so much. You pulled his head down and kissed him, tongue intertwining with his. He cried into your mouth before pulling away and moaning incredibly loud.

“Okay, Daddy. You can cum.” You relented, grabbing onto his forearms again for the impending wild ride he was about to take you on.

He began fucking you wildly, animalistic grunts coming out of him. He wrapped his arms around you and held your body to his chest as he pounded into you, groaning at the sound of your creamy pussy. “Want me to fill that pussy up, baby girl?”

You whined. “Yes, Daddy. Give that big load. Come on.”

“Jesus, lovey. I’m gonna cum.” He murmured. “I’m gonna fuckin’ cum in you.”

With a few more hard thrusts, Travis stilled and let out a guttural moan as he emptied himself inside you. He pushed into you deep as he filled you up with his cum, shuddering violently. After a few moments, he slowly unwound his arms from around you and sat up, watching his cock twitch inside you before pulling out and watching his cum trickle out and down your ass.

He sighed, pushing his hair back. “That was good. A little painful but so good.”

You chuckled. “Maybe next time you won’t leave me alone all day.”

“Never again.” He leaned down and pecked you on the lips.

A/n: Yeah this was a bit random but I got the itch again and wanted to write something. Hope you guys enjoy! Please be sure to reblog so others can see this!!!