#it's a dream it's a nightmare it's bliss it's agony

[dnangelic]

whenever dark's life/existence as the niwa's curse gets equated to a living nightmare i fall over

[withoutyouimsaskia]

Sometimes It's Fated (Sandman Short Story Part 4)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

GIF: Originally posted by @teenwolf-theoriginals

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader

Summary: Reader Self-Insert. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Title inspired by Placebo's "This Picture".)

Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark!Morpheus. Soulmates. Angst. Obsessive and possessive behaviour. Tension. Threat. Dubious/non consent. Groping. Language. Kissing. Nudity. First time. AFAB receiving oral/manual sex. Fingering. Mentions of overstimulation.

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: Hello there my lovelies! I come bearing a new chapter and this time it is pure smut. It's probably the darkest, filthiest thing I have ever written so brace yourselves. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated. In other news, I watched All of Us Strangers on Friday and it broke me in half. Hope you are all doing well. All my love, Saskia xx

Sandman Masterlist

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

The first thing that registers upon returning to your physical body is the touch of Morpheus' hands and mouth.

Warmth blooms at every point of contact and counteracts the biting winter weather.

Both hands have gone under the hem of your shirt to explore the skin of your back. The top three buttons have been undone to give access to your throat. Morpheus nuzzles there, pressing possessive kisses to the sensitive skin.

Navigating through the lingering brain fog, you realise that this was the source of the ghostly grazes you had felt during your meeting with the Fates.

Even when your mind was disembodied from your physical form, he was still able to affect you.

The connection between your souls is strong.

His sense of curiosity is strong too as he creeps a hand round and upwards to cup the flesh of your left breast. Your mind fully snaps back into your body and you make a squeaking noise, overcome with the intimacy.

He removes the exploring hand and pulls back from the crook of your neck, speaking your name eagerly.

Gentle fingertips stroke from your temple to your jaw bone. The world undulates when you try to open your eyes, and you sway on the spot.

He takes the weight of your body until your strength returns. Your eyelids flutter as you try to blink away the excess moisture that has accumulated there.

"That's it, come back to me," he murmurs.

You see the ocean blue of his eyes first, and then pan out to take in his whole face. Once again, you are wonderstruck by his exquisite beauty. Have you ever seen a bone structure combination as exemplary? No. Absolutely not. No one ever has.

The angles are balanced perfectly with his pouty lips, all pink and swollen from use; the sight of them urge you to replicate the same activity with each passing second.

There is no chance allowed for Morpheus disrupts your objectification. "Did you gain some clarity on the situation?"

You pull your coat closer to protect your décolleté from the weather, and take time to thoroughly contemplate his inquiry. There was much to unpack and while you had no inclination to do so standing out in the winter-washed street, you believe that for now Morpheus at least deserves an abridged version.

"Yes. And no. I may have more questions than before I spoke to them..."

"I see." He swallows visibly, hinting at trepidation. "You need not tell me of the specifics of which you conversed. All I need to know is that they have not changed their minds. That you are still mine."

You are smiling reassuringly before he has even finished the sentence. Your intuition tells you it was agony for him the entire time you were gone and you cannot leave him lingering in that state any longer.

"I am yours," you say ardently as a blissful, expanding feeling blossoms in your chest. "My soulmate."

You brush your knuckles over his cheekbone and cup his face with the gentlest of touches. "My Morpheus."

Saying his name in front of him for the first time has a considerable effect on him. His pupils dilate, lending him a feline air and he groans lowly and quietly in the back of his throat. Hips then roll forwards to give further evidence to his arousal.

You reflect this lustfulness by putting both hands on the back of his neck to pull his face down to yours. He goes willingly, of course, laying claim to your lips like he is an addict and you his vice.

The previous kisses you had shared had been led by Morpheus. You had participated with enthusiasm but he was clearly the one conducting the order of events. Now it was a duet.

Your confidence is shown in your touches. The placement of your hands on his nape and the small of his back, gripping tightly to maintain his closeness. Peppering in open-mouthed kisses in an attempt to get him to open his mouth in return. You want to taste inside him with your own tongue.

He lets you.

You both moan as you trace the inside of his upper lip with your tongue. The taste is just like before; a heady and delicious mixture that blinkers and exposes you in equal parts. You open your mouth further, intending to go deeper when he suddenly delves into your mouth too.

You kiss and kiss and kiss, all the while becoming aware of a trembling heat just above your sternum that carves a path straight and true down to your core.

The hands that were at your sides disappear and the wind begins to pick up. There are gritty specks hitting your bare skin, but you are too overcome with pleasure to wonder why. Morpheus takes hold of your hands and squeezes tightly.

Your head begins to swirl. Is it due to a lack of oxygen? You breathe in through your nose. The adrift feeling persists. The grip Morpheus has on your hands is causing them to go numb.

There's a pressure in your ears similar to that created by the ascent of an aircraft. You feel it straining against your eardrums and spreading across your sinuses. All sound then disappears, as does the floor beneath your feet. Your heartbeat thuds frantically in the back of your throat, pulsating with red flashes behind your closed eyelids. You don't stop kissing him though. He is the only thing that has sense and stability in the disorientation.

The spinning ceases and the pressure fades as your feet find solid ground again. The chill factor has reduced to an ambient temperature. Morpheus extricates himself from your mouth slowly and unwillingly.

There's a sleepy dust-like substance in your eyelashes; you dislodge and wipe it away and open your eyes.

Your location has changed.

The puddle strewn pavements are now white marble. The stinging light emanating from the lamp post replaced by a peaceful mixture of moonlight and starlight through vast windows.

It is extremely familiar. You are trying to figure out why when your focus falls on the statues.

The niggling thought that you put on the back burner is suddenly set free from its cage.

The King of Dreams and Nightmares. That was what the Fates had called him.

You had visited this gallery as you slept and touched yourself in front of a ethereal man.

You vocalise the end of your train of thought as mortification clenches in your gut.

"You were in my dream last night."

"Yes." There's a tiny movement of his lips that suggests pride at your comprehension. "I've been in your dreams for many nights now."

"In the crowds, and that room?"

"Yes."

It all made sense now. It was him you had been waiting for in the blank room and after then, he was the one you had been able to feel watching you from afar. That was why he seemed so familiar. He'd been with you for weeks.

"I can't believe I did that in front of you."

The predatory gaze is back as he surveys your flustered form.

"Hmm," he purrs, "You were quite the spectacle."

"Did you make me do it?"

"I set up the parameters of the dream. Your actions within it were your own."

"I don't remember choosing," you comment in a small voice.

You feel his hands about your waist. "Perhaps you were guided by instinct, rather than conscious thought."

It sounds very plausible for instinct had undoubtedly been in the driver's seat since he touched you for the first time.

You decide to change the subject from your exhibitionism. "So this is your realm?"

"We are at the heart of it, within the palace. Few are able to come here when they sleep. Even fewer are permitted to see it with a cognisant mind."

You look down as a bashful blush stains your cheeks. It is truly moving that he let you into his inner most sanctum, even before he had divulged your connection.

A strong thumb and forefinger find purchase on your chin and tilt your head up so he can assess your countenance. "What are you thinking of?"

"I'm just... all of this. What's happened tonight, it's beyond anything I could -"

"Dream?" He offers with a quirked eyebrow.

You laugh. "I was going to say imagine, but dream works just as well."

He brings you in for another passionate kiss, one that goes from lips to earlobe to neck, designed to make your head loll back and knees go weak, and you do both with a sigh.

"I would like to take you to my chambers now," he whispers against your pulse point.

That delicious vibration in your sternum shifts up a gear and you let loose a faint groan in lieu of a reply.

He speaks your name.

The inflection of his voice as he says it is so beguiling that you would probably do anything he suggested.

You are nodding, hazily repeating the word yes a few times even though Morpheus hasn't technically asked you a question.

The pressure you felt before in your ears returns for the briefest of moments and in the time it takes for you to blink, your surroundings have changed once more.

The first thing you notice is the bed, the lone piece of furniture in the room. The frame is an ornately carved pale stone, it twists and turns with gorgeous fluidity. The silk sheets upon it are a stark contrast; black with an iridescent quality that looks like the wings of a corvid. Its presence carries a raft of expectations with it and sets forth a barrage of nervous energy. You ignore the bed for now and look to your soulmate who has moved a few steps away from you.

He looks correct here, you note with intrigue. It's not as if he was out of place outside the function hall, for he has a humanoid form, but the grandeur of this private place is casting him in a different light. Here, with the omniscient gaze, assured tilt of his chin, graceful poise; he looks like the King he is.

And through a funny quirk of fate, he is all yours.

Your chest begins to ache, you raise a hand to it and frown in confusion. It's like your soul is pining, calling out for help.

Morpheus is by your side in an instant.

"I need to touch your bare skin again."

You waste no time in permitting this, shrugging out of your coat and letting it fall onto the black marble floor. Next to be shed are your heeled boots and socks. The height difference between you is lengthened by a couple of inches as you relax the tendons in your feet. You're left in your underwear after you take off your button-up blouse and trousers.

Morpheus' lips part as he observes your body. His eyes dart up and down and you can see the hunger within the darkening irises. His long fingers skim liberally and indiscriminately across your skin, diligently taking away the pain and cataloguing the sensitivity of your body at the same time.

The fingers of his right hand then twitch and his all-black ensemble dissolves into nothing, leaving him completely naked.

Your flush must be fuchsia as you notice his size, and twitches that traverse the length. You look to your own pile of clothes that took you several minutes to remove, hoping that a change of focus will steady your stomach's ever burgeoning butterflies. "That was efficient."

"Once you are dressing in garments created in the Dreaming, I will be able to disrobe you just the same."

You're not entirely sure how you feel about that. It's risky yet also kind of sexy.

"As long as you don't ever do it in front of people by accident," you assert playfully.

"You need not worry, I would never do such a thing to taint your honour."

You nod and close the gap between you.

To say you are astounded by his nude form would be an understatement. Whispers of sinew cord through slender limbs and across his torso, and for each angular peak proffered by bone there is a counteracting swathe of soft, flawless skin that covers it.

You yearn to touch him.

Morpheus' stares are intense as you place your palm over his heart. He hums out a sound of pleasure at the warmth this new skin-on-skin contact has created.

He draws you closer and suddenly lifts you off the ground, knocking the breath out of your lungs. You feel safe in the strength he possesses yet you cling to him with all four limbs regardless, pressing against his bare chest. Having so much of his skin against yours is creating a heat that is close to burning in the most wonderful way.

He lays you onto the bed and watches you with unwavering focus.

"Are you going to perform for me again, or would you like me to take control?"

The notion of that kind of pleasure being administered by him causes your reply to be breathless, "Touch me again, please."

The mattress dips slowly as he gracefully joins you on the bed, straddling himself on top of you.

He starts with your face, caressing you with adoration. Next, pressing kisses to your neck and shoulders before reaching down your body. One hand fondles your breasts while the other cups between your legs. You sigh, relishing in the warmth and how slowly he is taking things.

Deft fingers then dip below the waistband of your underwear.

You jolt and moan, simultaneously thrilled and taken off guard.

"Good," he says with dark delight. "You respond well to me."

He teases at your entrance and you are all at once very overwhelmed.

"I look forward to seeing how you react when I push inside you."

It truly does sound like something you want him to do - you've longed for a physical relationship for years however there's a detail that you know your soulmate should be privy to before you try. How it will be received, you cannot begin to guess, but you need to be upfront.

"I've never been with anyone in that way," your words sounding even more vulnerable than you feel.

Morpheus stops his attentions immediately and for a handful of heartbeats, you are admonishing yourself for the bluntness of your admission.

He moves back up your body and his eyes find yours. His expression is gentle and devoid of judgement, the following sentence backing up what your optic nerves are perceiving.

"Then I will teach you."

He presses a single chaste kiss to your lips; an act that seals his promise. Your apprehension melts away. You run your hands through his hair as you bask in the sweetness of the moment. The Fates were right: Morpheus really is perfect for you.

"I am going to worship you now."

He's ridding you of your bra and underwear immediately after you consent. The second he sees you fully bared, his eyes turn black.

You wonder what you've just agreed to.

He kneels on the floor at the foot of the bed, grabs your ankles and pulls you towards him until your legs hang off the edge.

You've seen depictions of oral sex in media however you have always reasoned that they are likely to be unrealistic; fantasies created in controlled environments and you would be naïve to hope that it could be like that for you, when it happened. Until now. Morpheus is the expert in dreams after all. Maybe you are allowed to get your hopes up.

His lips tease your inner thighs as he settles himself closer and closer to your throbbing, wet core until you feel the tickling of his breath.

He observes you for a moment, parts your folds with a single finger, grasps your hips and then goes down on you like you are an enticing, delectable treat that must be devoured.

Your lips falls open as his own closes around your clit. The heat that is brought from this touch is an inferno. You moan, and look at him, at this otherworldly being smothering you so adeptly, and how his intense eyes dance with pleasure of their own. He is enjoying this. It makes you gush.

Morpheus, taking advantage of this, very quickly collects the slick on both his index fingers and reaches up to lubricate your hardened nipples with it.

You groan from this additional stimulation and throw your head back with abandon, getting a good view of the vaulted ceiling above you and the seemingly literal constellations that float glimmering and glowing in the rafters.

Soon you are writhing on the cool silk of the sheets and he is forced to resume holding your hips to keep you still.

He then switches to a two-fronted approach. Two fingers sink into your cunt, the thumb of the same hand curling up to press on your clit. It's quite the step - letting another person inside your most intimate place and his reverent groans at feeling your tightness envelop his digits shows that he acknowledges this too. All it takes is a few deep, well angled pumps and then you are granted a mind-shattering orgasm.

His hand presses into the softness of your lower abdomen and the ecstasy becomes ten fold. You repeatedly moan his name as vibrant colours explode behind your eyelids, like the green and purple phosphenes that form if you rub your eyes too hard.

"Was that to your satisfaction?" He asks once your body has gone limp.

You look at Morpheus through the pulsing haze of aftershocks; his cheek resting against your inner thigh as his skin gleams with the same divinely beautiful quality as the stars above you.

"It was more than that," you declare emotionally.

What he's just given you is beyond your highest hopes of what intimacy could be. You had let another person see you at your most vulnerable, and reaped the rewards of that trust. Now, you must show your devotion to him.

"Your turn."

He stands and shakes his head. "No."

You are crestfallen but catch on when he begins to spread pre-cum over the length of his erection.

"Oh, um, Morpheus, I'm sorry. I don't think I can take you right now."

The notion of any kind of touching so soon after climaxing would be the guarantor of pain.

He ignores you, his movements calculated as he adjusts your position; arranging you in the centre of the mattress and splaying your trembling legs.

"Morpheus. I appreciate that I'm inexperienced but I know my body. I can't -"

His tone is dangerous as he interrupts you, "You are my soulmate. You have been made for me and as such, you will be able to take me."

You sit up. "I want to do things for you too."

He climbs on top of you, takes your wrists in his long-fingered hands and leverages you back towards horizontal.

You still don't concede. "Morpheus, tell me what you want."

His voice rumbles with authority, "I want to fuck you without delay. Pour myself into you. Possess you. Merge with you and have us become one."

He ups the persuasive tactics, leaning in close so all you can see are dark eyelashes framing even darker eyes. The heat under your skin is stifling.

"This is the final stage in your awakening. Don't you want to know what will happen when it's done? Allow me to guide you there. Be your first and only, make you feel exquisite with my touch."

He places a palm onto your chest and smiles a twisted smile when a luscious shuddering in that spot above your sternum makes you whimper and squirm.

"Submit to fate," he whispers. "Let me tie our souls together."

He is so eloquent and compelling and he delivers the killer blow as he lines his thick, long cock up at your entrance.

"Will you surrender yourself to me, Y/N?"

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

Tag list: @herfantasyworldd @kpopgirlbtssvt @littleblackcatinwonderland @1950schick @lollipopsandlandmines

"In the middle of the night in my dreams, you should see the things we do. In the middle of the night in my dreams, I know I'm going to be with you so I take my time. Are you ready for it?"

[evanspresso]

Could u maybe write something where evan has trouble sleeping, like he moves, cries a lot in his sleep and sometimes has really bad nightmares especially after shooting Dahmer and that makes his sleep really bad, and reader comforts him and cuddles whispering to him that’s she’s there whenever these episodes happen?? thank you 🥺

through thick and thin

Y/n knows it’s hard when you’ve been with someone for about a few months- give or take it’s been around five. She lost count because everything went to darkness.

It’s even harder when you start falling in love with someone who is having a hard time and there is nothing you can do but watch as they suffer there, right in front of you.

Y/n didn’t like to complain because what good would that do? She tried her best to be there for him and she tried her best to sooth his nerves and hold him when he cried.

She tried her best. It’s all she could do.

She snuggled under the covers, holding her boyfriend in her arms as she tried to match her breathing pattern with his. She kissed his back gently, fluttering her eyelids closed feeling the exhaustion wash over her body.

God only knew how tired she had been with the busy week she had been having. Job hunting was not her friend.

Y/n’s breath falls into a rhythm as her body started to finally rest into sleep mode. She felt herself drift into the blissfulness of pillows. Clouds and roses of dreams before suddenly jolting awake as she heard him cry out in utter agony.

"No, no, no, no!" he wined in his sleep. His voice raspy from exhaustion.

y/n immediately sat up and peaked over at her sleeping boyfriend who seemed to be having another one of his nightmares. Nights like these were when she cursed the day Evan was offered that role.

"Evan." she shook, "It's just a dream, it's not real please wake up." she cried out.

She friended watching him thrash against the sheets, beads of sweat dripping from his temple causing her to shake him with more force as she. Evan ti panic slightly.

"Hey, hey, look at me. Open your eyes my love." she pleaded, caressing his damp cheek.

She watched as his dark eyes blinked open, tears pooling at the rim's causing her chest to tighten before he pulled her down onto whims he could cling to her.

"It happened again" he whispered.

"I know, baby. It's just a dream though okay? It's not real life." Y/n whispered against his neck, peppering her plump lips against his warm neck.

Evan held her tighter, his heart beating so quick he was scared it would jump right out at his girlfriend. He let himself breath deeply against her as she held him in his arms, the couples breaths filling the air as she helped him calm down his breathing.

In and out. In and out.

"I'm sorry." Evan spilled out a while after the silence and breaths.

Y/n sighed, lifting her head to look at her boyfriend as he sighed out in defeat, his head falling back onto the pillow and making his messy hair fan around his head like a halo.

She gripped his face in her warm hands making him look directly in her eyes as she caressed his cheeks with her thumbs, a shudder rumbling between the two as he rested his hands against her hips, squeeing them in acknowledgment.

"Don't say sorry. You know I don't want to hear you say that. I am your partner and I love you and I am always here for you." she pressed.

"Even during the bad?" he asked bashfully. He knew the answer but he wanted to double check

"Especially during the bad." she said sternly. "You got that?" she nudged her chin.

"Yes." he hummed.

-

Her legs dangled off the countertop as he stood in between her parted legs, and boy, did he fit perfectly there. They smiled at one another as he took a sip of the hot chocolate she had made him.

Extra mini marshmallows because they didn't have the big ones. Y/n even dusted coco powder on top for the full affect making Evan smile happily.

"Best hot chocolate. Ever." he mused as he took a big gulp.

Y/n took a sip from her mug and beamed up at him through her lashes- placing the mug down onto the counter. "Feeling better?" she wanted to know.

Evan sighed, nodding his head slowly before placing his mug down so he could snake his arms around her waist and pull her into him. "Yes." he hummed. "Thank you.

"Always." she said lowly, placing her lips against his Adams apple. he groaned against her lips causing her to smile against his heated skin.

"What would I do without you?" he said aloud as he looked down at her before placing his lips against her softly.

"Not have the worlds best hot chocolate" she pointed.

[wolfpawzjakey]

Jason wakes up from a nightmare in the middle of the night and presents a dagger to Percy's throat thinking that he is the enemy, the Siren!Percy uses his Charmspeak to calm him down and put him to bed.

Percy's smile is gentle and sweet, as if Jason woke him up with a kiss and not with a sharp blade pointed at his throat.

Jason sometimes wishes Percy would leave him and find someone better.

"Jay" Percy's voice is charming and affectionate, thin threads of delicate silk are woven into his mind, lovingly mastering his mind "put away the blade and come to me, we will sleep hugging, everything is fine, there are no enemies here, only me."

It's commanding, gentle and sweet, Jason is happy to drown in the viscous soft molasses of his boyfriend's voice and throwing the dagger on the floor, jumps into his arms.

Percy is supple and silky, his arms wrap around Jason's neck without any threat at all and Jason kisses him on the cheek, his fingers cling to Percy's skin, enjoying its velvety and warmth.

"It's okay, belover," Percy's voice is drenched in charm, "It's okay, it's just me and you safe here-we'll sleep comfortably all night in each other's arms."

If Percy says something in your special voice, it's true. Jason falls asleep in bliss, this time there are no screams and blood, only the gentle presence of Percy.

Agony.

-

Percy who rarely uses his charmspeak, only when necessary. And Jason who has been having more and more violent dreams. Percy doesn’t want to use his charmspeak on his friends and his boyfriend most of all, but on one particularly bad night, Jason is so deep in post traumatic nightmares that he can’t even see Percy, can’t even see that he’s about to kill him and out of panic, Percy uses charmspeak and Jason is broken from the episode. He sees Percy under him, tanned skin on his neck now cut by his own blade. Comforts Jason as blood trickles from the light wound. Jason’s been sick with himself since causing it, which has caused him to have more and more nightmares. The more stress he’s put himself under, the more often he’s waking up in fits of violent struggle or screaming. The more wakes with Percy in a situation of danger caused by no one other than himself.

But Percy only gives him a gentle smile as his words bring him back to the earth. Percy would never manipulate Jason otherwise, they spoke after the first night of Percy using his charmspeak due to Percy’s conflicting emotions, but Jason assures Percy he’s more than welcome to bring him down even if it’s through such manipulation. Percy never changes his actions to do anything other than rest and calm down, Percy wouldn’t break his trust and Percy makes true to that knowledge. It’s hardly a symbiotic relationship, but Percy doesn’t care, never minding when Jason stresses to him that Percy doesn’t deserve to be in the danger Jason puts him in. Percy still never cares, smiling while holding Jason for the umpteenth night in a row as his trembling dies down, speaking calming words that wrap around and cling to the worries, carefully making them disappear as he coaxes Jason back to sleep.

The scar is a forever reminder of the dangers of sleep for the two, but it’s merely another mark of Jason that Percy holds dear to him.

[eldritch-spouse]

Does cured Vinnel have nightmares about waking up back in his old body? 

Like it was all just a dream, being able to experience the world without having to worry about melting. And then he ‘wakes up’ in a cold sweat, back in his sickly old form.

Oh definitely. The first few nights were actually spent with Vinnel in cold sweats. He was deathly afraid that it was all just make believe, that he was trapped in a cruel illusion. The slime feared that shutting his eyes would end his bliss once and for all.

Vinnel has dreams about his new form starting to melt away in the middle of a performance, of the smallest touch setting off a jagged symphony of agony like it once did. Of his eyes burning into blindness and tasting the rot of his sickly insides. To say he wakes up screaming, trembling and hyperventilating is an understatement.

The jester is so afraid of losing his newfound boon that he tends to enter a state of shock when he realizes he's getting sick. Not even Gallon's reassurance that it's nothing serious can calm Vinnel down. The jester will avoid contact with anyone like they have the plague and hole himself up in his room until he feels normal again.

Curiously, another thing that changes is his devotion to Krulu- Which intensifies tenfold. The siadar had saved his life and now he gave Vinnel a brand new one. While he was already respectful and dedicated to ensuring the Lord-Master's will is fulfilled, he has become a lot more reverent in his ways, dedicating entire shows to the greatness of his savior and actively tormenting those who dissent.

[corner-stories]

wildflowers in every direction

Mikasa Ackerman. Jean Kirschtein. Cottages. Flowers. Beautiful Dreams. 830 words. (ao3.)

On the edge of the forest is their little corner of the world, a rugged cottage surrounded by fields of green, a stream that leads into a pond, and trees of every size. The life it gives its inhabitants is quiet, but after a previous existence filled with blood, warfare, and battles of heaven and earth, a little bit of peace is the least they can ask for.  

At the back of the cottage is a slope covered in grass and wildflowers of every color. At the top is a tree older than the structure in front of it, one with branches so vast that it often casts shadows on sunny days. 

And here Mikasa lies, hidden under the shade in the midst of early spring, an afternoon characterized by the shining sun and the final throes of winter having melted away. She sleeps in peace, entangled in the arms of her lover as the only sound that fills her ears is that of a breeze, a gentle force that sways the leaves on the branches, creating a noise that is beyond soothing. The aroma of wildflowers in every direction combined with Jean’s clean, soapy scent and suddenly she feels like she’s living a life she never deserved.

A life of tranquility, nature, and not the neverending nightmares that had plagued her first nineteen years. 

She wrestles with survivor’s guilt more often than she would like — images of those she has lost slipping into her mind in moments that should be full of bliss. Why has she been spared? Why is she allowed happiness when they are not? Why is she given the chance of life when some deserve it more? 

The remorse never truly leaves, but in the last few years it’s been growing with her, becoming more refined and palpable as she ages. 

Because on occasion she’ll get a day where she feels free, a day where she feels like she deserves the life granted to her. 

Her existence now lies in the forest, where she splits wood before dinner while the dog basks in the sun, or watches Jean as he sits on the porch and sketches to his heart’s desire. On warmer months he’ll cool off in the pond at the bottom of the hill while she hides under the shade of the tree, and in the colder ones they’ll huddle close by the roaring fire. Sometimes he’ll kiss her hair or she’ll nuzzle her face against his chest, where she always likes to be, then make a quip or two about the unruly state of his beard, to which he might laugh and kiss her even more. 

On really good days she knows that this is what she’s earned. She’s spent far too many years in agony, and who’s to say that after all of that she isn’t entitled to just a sliver of joy? Who is to say a forest cannot grow back after being devastated? It just needs a little time. 

So Mikasa lets herself rest in Jean’s embrace, basking in the warmth of him and the sun as the afternoon goes on. 

She doesn’t know how much time has passed since she fell asleep, but after a few moments she opens her eyes. Her head is against Jean’s chest and one of his arms is around her shoulder, holding her close like she can slip away at any moment, but she knows she won’t. She could never. 

She looks up very slightly to see Jean awake. In his free hand he is holding an open book, which he reads as she rests. He does this often and sometimes she swears that the position he’s in cannot possibly be comfortable, but he has yet to utter a single complaint. 

Mikasa takes him in, the light hitting his sun-kissed hair and making the hue of his hazel eyes shine. 

Near their feet is the dog — a pointy-eared canine named Hugo who sports a mix of black and brown, but mostly black fur. Despite his jaws and wolf-like appearance, he’s a lot more comfortable napping with his masters as opposed to doing anything else. Fortunately, neither Jean nor Mikasa seem to mind. In fact, they prefer him this way. 

After a few moments Jean glances down and catches Mikasa staring at him. A smirk tugs at his pretty lips. 

“Sleep well?” he asks. The arm around her shoulder moves to play with the strands of her hair. 

“I did.” She then proceeds to nuzzle her face against his chest again, pressing a kiss to where his beating heart is. 

Five more minutes, she could whisper like she does in the morning, when slumber has been too kind to her and all she wants is a few more moments of peace. Nowadays Jean can read her like a book, so she never really has to say it anymore. 

“I had a beautiful dream,” she says instead before closing her eyes and letting herself fall asleep again. 

[shimmerbeasts]

Everything had been a blur. A meeting with Gortash. An offering of wine. A sickening feeling, and trailing between the world of the conscious and the safety of the unconscious. A ritual - a towering figure from a blazing portal. Screaming...so much shouting and screaming - all spilling from her own lips. Hands grasped at her, claws digging deep, ankles torn from digging into scorching rock and rough stone. The heat...oh Gods, the heat! Oppressive, suffocating... Deadly. Days rattling around a room, whispers of Infernal from every devious attendant to her cell. She was to 'go next', was all she knew. Again she fought - with everything she had. Her muscles tore and pulled from the strain of her escape attempts. Eventually, some form of spell caster rendered her motionless. Unmoving, yet awake. A stone table. Thick, heavy chains around her limbs and waist. Her eyes were the only things to flicker - looking around her frantically, trying to make out her captors faces but it was next to impossible with the heavy smoke. She may not have been able to see much, but she could hear plenty. Scraping of metal on metal, as if prepping something. More Infernal - speaking of a Zariel and how she would be observing. How this was to succeed, or it would be their heads. Then the pain came. Unable to move...unable to scream. But oh, the agony... Her vision rendered mute, flashes only of white as her brain failed to process the sheer amount of input her body felt. At times, her blurry vision returned, looking down to see ivory towers bursting forth from her chest...blood coated everything. The smell of blood was sickening - it was soon joined with the scent of sulphur, smoke and cruor-laced vomit. Then she saw it... In these brief moments of being awake, she saw her heart lifted from her chest. Pulsing so rapidly, as if to jump from the surgeons hands and make it's own escape. She could feel her own blood warming her skin, yet the only thing she could recall in this ocean of white-hot agony was the sting of her tears in her eyes. All she could think of when she looked at her heart was her mother... How her Mum had spent near a year perfecting it. How she tended to raise it with goodness built in. Now... Now it was- Darkness. Silence. Bliss, for such a brief amount of time. Soon spoiled as she was roused once more. The spell had waned, but her body was far too weak to even pull against the chains. It hadn't been some twisted nightmare, but a soul crushing reality. She screamed. A piercing yell full of rage, turmoil and pain. For what else could she do? The pain in her chest remained. Everything there was so heavy. As if a weight pressed against her ribs. Oh Gods- it was so hot! Everywhere now! Gods, the heat was melting her from the inside-?! Tear stained, lips glossed over with her own blood, she shook as she turned to the figure that made itself known close by, her body breeching the cusp of shock. There was only one name anyone ever spoke... "Z-Zariel..." Karlach whispered through bared fangs.

The howl of pain of the Tiefling rang through the laboratory. Zariel did not even flinch. She stayed seated, observing with her fiery, blazing eyes, taking in how the blood money, Gortasch had given her, came to life once more. He had claimed she would be strong enough to survive the procedure. That this Karlach Cliffgate would be the perfect warrior.

Well, you had to hand it to Gortasch. Unlike most mortals, who had dreams of grandeur and wanted to deal with her of their own accord, he had not put his foot in his mouth. Karlach Cliffgate had survived an operation, which had cost many lesser men and women their lives as her engineers had worked to perfect the infernal machinery beating in the Tiefling's chest. It would be a question of whether or not the girl would be able to withstand the heat and function as she was meant to. So far, she had not yet been cooked alive, so that was promising. Still, heart and host body were far from accustomed to each other.

They had a lot of work cut out for themselves.

Zariel got up from her seat and slowly stepped out of the darkness. Even with having chosen her less tall, true form, she still towered over most of the Cambions and devils, who had worked on Karlach's infernal heart. Her skin was white and ashen, making it hard to pinpoint if you were staring at flesh or bone. Her ears were pointy, almost akin to an elf's, and her head was completely bald, save for a blaze of fire or lightning, which circled her head like a twisted version of a halo.

She was dressed in thick, tethered leather armour, which seemed to be made from the flailed skin of creatures from all over the Nine Realms, all unified under a black coat of paint. The corset bloomed into a frayed, partly torn skirt, which seemed to conceal a pair of strong, scale-covered legs, ending in nasty talons. Her left arm seemed to be missing by its elbow and instead was donning a long winding, rattling flail, whose chain seemed to have an eerie life of its own.

A pair of large, beautiful, yet oddly ruined wings sprouted from her back. Unlike Cambions, who had bat-like wings with leather spinning between long, thin bones, these wings resembled those of perhaps a bird of prey, but the feathers were covered in cinder, singed at their edges and some seemed even moulded together like a horrifying amalgamation. The only colour among her blackened feathers were streaks of red like smears of blood coating their insides. Zariel's wings kept themselves open for a couple of seconds before with precise control, they folded up on her back, draping behind her like a natural cape.

"How right you are." The archdevil placed her hand on her chest, smiling a self-serving grin, eyes blazing brightly. "Allow me to properly introduce myself, so you understand the significance behind my name, little girl. I am Zariel, the archduchess of Avernus, which is the first layer of Hell and the very place you are residing in right now."

"You must be wondering why you are here and what has become of you." Zariel reached for the iron chains and unlatched the clasps, knowing that Karlach must be too exhausted to attempt to run away, even if her body radiated heat as much as it radiated fury. "Your former employer, Enver Gortasch sold your body to me. My engineers have implanted an infernal engine into your chest. It will replace your heart, and, believe me, you are going to need it for the coming hardships ahead."

@iron-hearts-ablaze cont. from here.

[light-lanterne]

This story is set in the universe of one of my main stories, The Darkest Eyes, which I post in AO3 and for which I’ll provide a link below this. You don't really need to read the story to understand this, but it could help understand some of the characterisation I've gone for. For context, this happens around a year before the start of the story, just a few months after they've defeated Vecna. The only information you need if you haven't read the main thing is that Mike was attacked and almost killed during the final battle. - - - - - - - - - - - ao3 || masterpost || support me on ko-fi!

As he looked up, Mike was greeted with the beautiful sight of the evening sky, the receding burnished gold ushering indigo and crimson hues across the firmament, its velvety surface broken only by fluffy clouds of wonders and dreams.

They moved a little. The clouds. Gusts of westerly wind kept stirring them delicately, shaping them into thin strands that closely resembled candy floss, or perhaps ivory foam atop the glistening ripples of the ocean. And he’d only been there once, to the sea, a family trip at the tender age of eight taking him across the country and into the cold waters of the East Coast in early spring, but he remembered the texture of the spume and he was willing to bet the cirrus above him felt just the same.

Fingers sinking into fuzz, disappearing amidst spectre-like froth that swirled around upon touch… He wished he could feel it.

For now, however, he’d have to make do with just observing from afar, back pressed against the grounding bark of an ancient cedar, worn-out sneakers surrounded by a tapestry of celandines breaking up the homogeneity of the meadow, their yellow petals fully unfurled to absorb even the last ray from the reckoning sun. A fresh breeze danced across the cedar’s leaves, their soft rustling accompanying the song of a nearby goldfinch as it prepared for the night, the cold raking its fingers over Mike’s skin.

His breath billowed, cheeks turning ruddy and nose pinching at the sensation of the zephyr, goosebumps covering his freckled arms as a shiver ran down his spine. He knew he should’ve worn a thicker sweater, or perhaps a coat over his current ensemble, but he’d insisted on the lightweight garments for he enjoyed the cold. The eidolon of winter, the ghost of its relentless bite… Bearable yet unpleasant, Mike had recently discovered his affinity for the numbing frost for it was a confirmation. Reassurance, even, that he was still alive.

That despite everything they’d gone through, everything they’d seen and been forced to do, they’d all made it through the end of the world.

And it was still rather fresh. A gaping wound that had not closed yet, blood oozing in a disorderly manner that no longer made any sense, waking terrors finding him in every dark corner, every shadow, every abandoned building and in the face of every neighbour he ever had. The pain in their faces… The loss they’d all been through… Everywhere he went, Mike found a reminder of the horrors that had destroyed their town and stolen away part of his soul and that of the ones he loved the most, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t stop the searing fear that sometimes took over his brain.

It was agony, to know with certainty how everything had occurred and how it had all ended, yet still being unconvinced at the fact that they were now safe, unable to retreat to the blissful peace of his childhood memories because even those had been tarnished now. Corrupted. Rewritten to be a part of the nightmare, a maelstrom of broken thoughts being everything he had left in his mind.

Henry. Vecna. One. Whoever the monster had been, he’d really enjoyed messing with Mike’s head and it was still too soon for him to accept he no longer was shackled to the kismet the Devil had chosen for him.

It was… overwhelming, sometimes. Most times. Closing his eyes still produced abominable sights he wouldn’t wish upon his worst enemy, and today was one of the days when it was harder to focus on anything beyond keeping his breath steady and avoiding the inquisitive eyes of the population of Hawkins at large. As a former member of Hellfire —the coven they’d chosen to blame for the destruction of their quiet lives—, the town had turned their back on him and it was still hard to digest that he had somehow become a personification of everything they hated.

An omen of bad luck. Their reminder of what had happened.

As if he needed more stress in his life, his days had evolved into a continuous cycle of hostility that he wasn’t sure he could endure for too long, lingering dread and trauma already making it hard to get up in the mornings, the pain on the side of his neck and up his jaw being the only thing that could constantly convince him that he was genuinely not a corpse. A husk… a shell of who he’d once been, maybe. But still very much a living being.

He hated it, how peace seemed within reach yet always eluded him like a feather floating in the air, but there was nothing he could do to change his fate. There was no enemy to defeat this time; no battle to fight. Just endless days to get through, the promise of a beautiful sunset every day being the second main reason he even went through the meaningless static mess that time had become.

As for the first main reason…

Well, that one was even better than the scenery before him. Better than the dappled light that danced in the raindrops clinging to the surrounding grass, a result from an earlier squall. Better than the silvering gibbous moon that now reigned the sea of twinkling stars. Better than the daffodils and violets that tripped through the lawn, nearby hydrangeas filling the air with their sweet jasmine-like fragrance as a sweet robin chirped its “Goodnight” to the world.

By all definitions, Mike had found himself in a painting. A canvas full of colour, harmonious strokes creating the closest thing to Eden a human could aspire to see, the closest thing to a safe place Mike had come to know in the post-apocalypse world he now existed in.

And yet, the beauty he found himself surrounded with paled in comparison to that of his companion. To that of Mike’s best friend, partner in crime, beloved.

Will Byers.

The boy who’d survived; the boy who’d saved Mike in more ways than he could even imagine.

The boy he was irrefutably in love with.

It was still weird to think like that. To allow himself to think like that. But he was done denying the truth, and the truth was that he adored Will with all of his heart. That he wanted to spend the rest of his life alongside him, go to college together, live in a shitty flat on top of a rundown convenience store and watch marathons of all their favourite films every weekend. That he wanted to sing annoying tunes as they did homework or prepared dinner, take care of the other when he fell ill, and wake Will up when their alarm clock inevitably malfunctioned and they were running late.

Mike wanted to keep Will company on the days when he felt as though he was stuck in the Upside Down again, and relish on the calming sensation of Will drawing on his arms when it was his turn to be having a bad day.

Of course, it made sense in retrospect. It was a natural progression of their relationship, the only way things could’ve ever been, and now that he had come to terms with it, Mike was eager: eager to spend as much time with Will as he could, eager to explore the possibilities he hadn’t even allowed himself to dream of, eager to slowly expand their bond to new, exciting lands which filled Mike with happiness by merely thinking about them, and eager to meet his favourite person in a new, completely different light.

It was an exciting thought. One that was slowly turning into a genuine option because they weren’t in a romantic relationship, not yet, but it was undeniable that their friendship had slowly evolved beyond the realms of the platonic and, as nerve-wracking as it was to think about the likelihood of everything going awry, Mike was willing to give it a try.

After all, all of his insecurities, their shattered lives, Eldritch beings from hellish dimensions and Death itself had all conspired to keep them away from the other and yet, somehow, despite all odds, they had always found their way back to each other. Like gravity pushing them together, a quantum pattern from which neither of them could ever escape. Mike would forever be in Will’s life and the other way around, so why should they resist their shared craving of gifting each other more of themselves? More of their fractured souls and corroded beings?

It was only logical to give in to the desire, the rest of the world be damned. They deserved it after everything they’d gone through, after all the time they had lost and the innocence they would never recover.

And they’d agreed to go slow; heal from the aches of growing up in a world that hated them for what they were, fighting a different reality that hated them for who they were. They’d only started holding hands recently, were slowly re-learning to exchange a variety of hugs with different meanings —some far more intimate than others—, and it’d only been a few days since the first time Will kissed Mike’s cheek before going home. Threading carefully like deer in a field of flowers, they were taking every precaution to not destroy what they already had as they built something new, advancing at a leisurely pace that would’ve decidedly driven Mike nuts if he were younger and less experienced.

But right now, sitting in a field on the outskirts of town, watching the sun disappear beyond the horizon as the cicadas started up their eternal song, Mike thought things were going well.

He nudged his knee against Will’s, the rip of his jeans allowing for his bare skin to brush against the coarse denim of Will’s hand-me-down pants, touch gentle as to not disrupt the illustration his friend was making and Mike wasn’t an expert in many things, but he knew Will Byers well enough to understand that the frantic turning of pages and closing of the sketchbook was probably because Will was drawing him again.

Their eyes met. Mike smirked and rose an eyebrow, Will glared at him for a moment then shook his head and chuckled. A dusting of pink coated his face, embarrassment from being caught, but his expression was that of curiosity.

Looking up from between the curtains of soft hazelnut bangs, Will rose his eyebrows and pointed at Mike, tongue darting out for a moment to wet his chapped lips because he had a big problem with staying hydrated, always too busy reimagining world around him to remember to take proper care of himself. Mike wished he could scold Will for that, but he knew he’d only be setting himself up for he was the worse offender out of the two of them.

He still rolled his eyes, though. Quick and offhandedly as to not give ammunition to Will, yet visible enough to earn himself another brief glare. Mike didn’t pay it any mind and instead pointed towards the front of them, towards the hidden sun and the ebony dome that was now the sky. A silent question, an invitation to get going because Joyce was cool and always gave Will space, but she still got rather nervous about them being out in the middle of the night and it wasn’t the greatest idea to let her get antsy. Not so much because of her anxiety, for she now had Hopper to calm her down, but because she was supposed to make dinner tonight and she already struggled to make passable food on the good days, let alone when she was nervous.

Will seemed to read his mind, lips breaking into a grin that mirrored Mike’s own.

And many things had happened in the last few years. Mike’s life was no longer simple, his preoccupations far beyond anything anyone his age should think about, the scars on his face and body evidence of fights no one should’ve ever had to endure. Getting up from bed was a challenge every single morning, pain and fear entwining to form a debilitating cocktail that kept him on edge all day, his mind slowly turning into his own worst enemy as time went by. People in Hawkins hated him for associating himself with a dead man who hadn’t even done anything wrong, and his parents despised him for failing to become the person they’d wished he’d been from the moment he was born.

However, right then, at that moment, seeing the small gap between Will’s front teeth, the peachy tinge of his round cheeks, and the star-like glow in the kaleidoscope of green, brown and golden that were his eyes, Mike knew everything would be alright.

[fatedstrands]

Abandoned By God

@geraniumshurricane asked:

“Calm down, you are safe.” Delirium. Agony. Pain. He was abandoned, cast aside like he was nothing. He'd protected his Divine so He could be removed from the warzone by the others, the God injured heavily from something he didn't quite understand. But this left the male broken and vulnerable as poison from the bullets of the townsfolk leeched into his veins and burned his body hot. He'd lashed out until his mind went blank and his meat sack finally gave out. The last he'd seen was vibrant teal reaching for him. Twisted dreams haunted the apostle, ripping screams from his throat as he writhed in bouts of awareness that had thrust him from the chilled throws of wretched agony. He knew not his words in those moments, knew not his pleas for the Divine to end his life, nor had he know frantic confessions of fear and terror. Least of all the prayers for forgiveness, for his sins and his weakness. When the fever finally broke, the nightmares grew violent, foul and cruel as parasitic growths formed on his body, when clawed out tendrils of viscera was hauled with it. Each movement pulled through his muscles, making him feel like strands of his body were tugged free with the strange writhing mass of soon congealed blood.

To which, a beak-like protrusion formed, gelatinous to the touch before the many mouths parted to let forth a horrid cacophony of screams;

And he awoke to his own voice, raised in weakened terror at the veil, writhing as pain followed from his dream, morphing the sound to unholy agony. It's not too long before hands find his body, pushing him down to the bed, a soothing voice of an angel easing the mangled mass of frayed nerves and tortured thoughts.

Golden rings blearily tried to focus, seeing a halo of light framing a soft face laced with fear and concern as the Angel looked upon his pathetic form. Shame filled his gaze, but he relented into the demanding hold, sinking down into the surprisingly plush surface. It wasn't lavish, but for one used to a stone cot, it was paradise.

Calm down, you are safe.

The words laid upon him were like a blanket to his soul, the metal in his mind resonating with the tone of the other's voice, settling from the presence of Divinity above. Though the pain still ran rampant through his body, crashing and thrashing like a wild devil, he'd managed to restrain it's reveal to ragged breaths and full body tremors.

"Forgive me, Angel. I should be stronger." though vocals were torn, they were found in whispered prayer to the one above him, eyes glossing with agony once more as he bit to blood vessels to silence the sounds threatening his form.

"Please, worry not over my wretched form. For this is how I shall atone for my sins. Or be sent to the devil should it not be enough." a hand found his rosary, still thankfully intact despite the horrors his body faced against the betrayal of the Undertaker and the poisoned foray of the townsfolk.

The blissful grasp of dreamless sleep reached for him, clawing his mind down into the frozen abyss as tears formed in his eyes yet never fell.

When next he woke it had been weeks since he'd dropped, in another place, the soft bed he'd been in replaced for the desert sand. The roaring fire beside his frame eased the chill of the evening nipping at his skin. Lids flutter open as he stared upon the darkening sky, lights twinkling from an unfathomable distance away, offering soft sparks of wonderous dreaming.

He shifted, a dull groan echoing from his ribs as slowly pain threaded into tired bones. He'd known not that he'd been tended to for so long, that his whole survival had been treated to in the throws of barely registered awareness and raw weakness. He knew not of his murmurs of gratitude and mewls of affection, though he feared for what had transpired in his lost mind.

Finally, he sat up of his own accord, an arm tucked around his sweatered chest, noting his usual bulky jacket had been discarded somewhere. He felt bare, despite the clothing adorning his skin, free hand drifting to his head where blood had trailed from his right ear, a soft sigh at the reveal of another bleeding event from within his skull. The Doctor would be displeased.

Eyes slowly took in the space he was in, fear itching at his veins, threading through to the Strands within as a meek whimper left his disoriented throat, finding the vocal net torn beyond use, causing only a deeper thread of dread to plunge into his body;

Where was he, what had happened, to him and to his God?

"Calm down, you are safe."

There is was again, those same words whispered in faint glimpses of a dream, or was it reality? They reached for him just as teal glinted in firelight, making him recoil from their arching path. Eyes narrowed in pain as he pushed himself, threading the frailest shard of his power to freeze the arm before it could reach further.

Though even that was too much for him, releasing the grip on the other's body with a ragged breath as eyes slowly focused on the golden halo once more. They cleared, noting details and soon he froze, staring Divinity in the eye with a new fear lacing through mortal flesh;

This was not his God. But the brother He'd so desperately reached for.

Which only meant he had been abandoned by God.

[illumins]

CHAPTER NINE

Beginning Change

This dream felt like poison, searing beneath her skin, burning through every cell and molecule. She reached out, desperate to escape, but her body remained anchored, trapped in the torment. Her voice, silenced. Sora felt like a caged bird in flames, the roaring fire muting her screams.

Images invaded her mind—some bloody and grotesque, others steeped in sorrow and despair. One portrayed a man in torn, bloodied clothes, a scar snaking across his face from forehead to jaw, yelling futile cries as he struggled against chains. But these terrifying visions dissipated as fear fought to reclaim her consciousness. Her soul felt ablaze, embers igniting along her body.

In an unwanted moment, she was thrust into a vision of a woman, not pleading for her own life but for another's. Sora felt the agony as if it were her own, drowning in tears, suffocating amidst a world awash in red. Brunette hair turned jet black from dried blood, a white gown tattered and soiled. '’Please, spare him. Even in death, I'll surrender my soul to the inferno if you let him live.’ The woman's wails echoed in her own throat, tearing at her being. ‘'NO!’ The final cry echoed, plunging her into darkness.

“NO!”

Sora jolted awake, sheets tossed in disarray, one leg entangled while the other dangled off the bed. Her chest heaved with the same fear that gripped her in the dream. Were they dreams? They felt too real to be mere dreams. Her hand reached from her stomach to her throat, fingers brushing sore spots, traces of night sweats dampening her hair.

A shower might help. Grabbing a discarded towel, she weakly made her way to the bathroom—a modest space with the usual amenities. With trembling hands, Sora removed her sweatpants, feeling the cool air against her skin. Gazing at her reflection, a sense of unease gnawed at her. They're just nightmares. Anyone can have them. Calm down… She turned on the shower, watching the mirror fog up until her reflection became a blur. Before stepping behind the curtain into the warm water, she noticed a spot of bright red on her reflection, trailing from her nose to her lips. A nosebleed? Wiping it away, she stared at the stain on her finger. I've never had nosebleeds. The memory of a conversation from four years ago at the hospital resurfaced, a conversation about potential future health issues.

Sora rejected the frightening thought. It can't be. I knew it was a possibility, but not now… Fearing the worst, she looked away from her reflection, stepping into the warm water to wash away the haunting thoughts.

~

Her shift at the café began in the afternoon, affording Sora more time than usual to assist her grandmother.

The shower had eased the night's tension that weighed heavily on her head and shoulders. As she moved, her limbs trembled at every step, yet with each movement, strength returned. Sitting by her grandmother's bedside, her fingers traced the contours of her face. Nana used to do this for her, sharing the love Sora had lacked. Memories from the past resurfaced.

“I wonder sometimes if I should remember…”

As her grandmother drifted into sleep, Sora's phone buzzed in her pocket. Heading to her room to get dressed, she saw a text from Mark proposing a day out by the lake. Without hesitation, she agreed and prepared for the day.

~

An hour passed since their plan. The thought of seeing Mark shifted her focus from the morning's turmoil to complete bliss. She admired herself in a white flowy romper dress, donning a cardigan for the incoming winter. She texted Areum to take care of her Nana but found herself too busy, so she asked Sicheng for the favor, and he agreed. The assurance that her grandmother would be cared for eased her mind.

As she locked the door, a grey car pulled up. Through the passenger seat window, she saw Mark's bright smile that always melted her. He was clad in all black, exuding charm. With excitement, Sora hurried towards the car, feeling his gaze on her.

“What?” she asked.

Shyly, Mark straightened himself and drove off, “Nothing, you look beautiful in white.”

Sora pursed her lips, fighting the urge to grin widely. Her heart raced, her cheeks flushed, but she kept her composure. Next to her, she heard him chuckle, his attention on the road as he hummed.

“What?” His grin slipped out.

“Nothing, just focus on the road,” Sora said seriously but with a gleam of delight in her eyes.

Mark parked outside the park, a medium-sized lake at its center, inviting for those seeking a leisurely swim. Stepping out into the winter breeze, Sora adjusted her wool cardigan, relishing the frigid air that made her fingers numb yet felt as fresh as mint. In the midst of a season that seemed lifeless, she found herself invigorated. Mark, already halfway in, stood waiting, hands in his pockets, his eyes exuding warmth. Jogging to meet him, Sora took a moment to absorb the surroundings—minimal trees, cut grass, a gravel path, and benches. The usually lively lake lay deserted, its waters shimmering like an ocean of diamonds moved by gentle waves.

Unbeknownst to her, Mark once again found himself captivated by the girl, his gaze lingering on her behind parted lips. He discerned a heaviness behind her cheery smile, visible when they shared moments of silence. Wondering if this was a constant behavior or a recent development, he snapped out of his thoughts when he noticed her catching his stare.

“Is something wrong?” Sora shyly inquired.

Sighing, he glanced at her hands, withdrawing one from his pocket to intertwine with hers. “Let's go, we still have four hours to kill.”

Nodding, she followed, her excitement apparent in every step, perhaps even skipping along the way.

They reached the lake's edge, a gentle descent into the water surrounded by rocks and plants. As they stood there, admiring the glistening view, Sora heard Mark draw in a deep breath. Observing him, she watched as he glowed like the moon, a captivating presence. His black hair took on a dark gold hue from the reflecting lake, his chest rising and falling with every calm breath, eyes closed in contemplation.

“Your eyes will burn if you don't blink,” Mark advised with closed eyes, still gazing toward the water.

Flustered, Sora covered her face, apologizing, “Sorry.”

This time, Mark laughed and looked down at her. “Don't feel bad.”

Despite his assurance, regret crept into her mind. He probably thinks I'm weird. Oh god. Sora mentally facepalmed, but outwardly, she stared into the water, still hiding her face from him.

Suddenly, two arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the ground. Instinctively, she held onto the playful boy, looking down at him with confusion and a reddened face. He flashed his signature smile.

“You were too in your thoughts.” Without warning, Mark headed into the cold lake, teasingly starting slow as if to gauge Sora's reaction. Realizing his plan, she began to squirm, the prospect of cold water leaving her frozen in worry.

“Relax, the water isn't as cold as you think.”

“Yeah? Then how come there's no one in it, Mark?”

“Well, we're going in anyway,” he smirked.

“Mark, I swear—” Sora playfully threatened, but he cut her off, now at the water's edge.

“What? Tell me, Miss Sora, what will you do?” he laughed.

For a moment, they locked eyes. She above him, he smiling mischievously. This provoked a chuckle from her, and that was all Mark needed. With her in his arms, he ran into the lake, loud splashes echoing through the quiet park. The moment the water touched her, Sora shuddered and yelped.

“Holy crap!” Instead of resisting his grip, she clung tightly, trying to absorb his warmth.

In return, he held onto her as they both started feeling the sting of the freezing water. “Shit, it's cold,” he said, letting out shivering laughs. When the water reached mid-thigh, Mark decided they had ventured far enough and let her go. Sora moved a couple of feet away, her breaths long and heavy as she tried to control her freezing body.

Damn it, Mark. He continued to watch her with amusement, hugging himself. Sucks to be cold, huh? With swift hands, Sora started splashing water at him, and in return, he retaliated. Exhausted, both from the cold water and the effort, they continued their playful duel.

Unable to endure it any longer, Sora raised her hands in defeat. “Stop! Stop! You win, damn it. I'm too cold and drenched to continue.”

With her hair damp and clinging to her face, Mark heaved in exhaustion, laughing at the pouty girl. He reached out for her arm and pulled her toward him, enveloping her in warmth. Instinctively, she moved her arms between them, shielding themselves from the open, cold air.

The moment lingered, quiet yet filled with tension. Even though he's holding me, he doesn't know how crazy my heart is going now. Resting her forehead on his chest, Sora counted down from a hundred, hoping to calm herself.

He was the first to break the silence. “Sora... can I kiss you?”

Her breathing hitched. If she was cold before, now she was frozen. How do I respond?

“Sora?” He called out to her quietly.This time, she lifted her head from his chest and looked up at him, seeing the worry in his eyes. He probably thinks he made me uncomfortable. It took her another second until she knew her answer. I don't have to say anything… Instead, Sora smiled, and with that, she watched as his face transformed from worry to delight. Holding tightly to her, he leaned down and planted the softest kiss, one that melted the cold.

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

Whumptober Day 2: Insomnia and Crying to Sleep.

Canon compliant. In exile, Tommy's insomnia is bad enough to the point he’s severely sleep deprived. Initially angry at Tommy's inability to do much, Dream softens when Tommy starts crying. Warnings for sleep deprivation, delusions and hallucinations (both from insomnia and a long lasting psychotic disorder), religious delusions/hallucinations, religious guilt, some graphic (hallucinated) violence, abuse, self hatred, self victim blaming, and some internalised ableism.

ao3 link

—— The sun rose from outside the Tnret, painfully bright even with the canvas dulling the overwhelming light. Birds chirped a cheerful warning, a cue that Dream would arrive soon.

Dream, who would blow up everything Tommy had made the past day. Dream, who’d expect him to put in the hard effort to get it back and would, undoubtedly, punish him for failure.

Tommy wasn’t being lazy- that wasn’t the issue. If he was being a fucking leech, Dream would have every right to beat him half to death and tell him how much of a fuck-up and a failure he was, who no one would ever tolerate. And Tommy had accepted the truth now- that he was such a horrible brat that even Tubbo hated him, and Dream, saintly as he was, was the only person who’d ever want to be his friend ever again if he didn’t shape up.

No, Tommy wasn’t being a self-pitying, obnoxious nuisance. The thing was, he hadn’t slept properly in a week. He’d had a handful of minutes, a blissful hour, maybe, of course. You couldn’t stay up that long without a few grasps at unconsciousness without dying, and the universe wasn’t merciful enough to allow Tommy that. And he’d- he’d tried so hard to be good despite seeing shit and feeling like he was gonna vomit and his head being all hurty as fuck. He did everything Dream said like a good kid would.

But he’d just crashed completely once Dream had gone last night. Woozily, he’d managed to limp back to his bed before collapsing straight onto the floor, but after that, he just… couldn’t move an inch. The bed suffocated him, but when he closed his eyes to sleep, he felt phantom hands nipping at his skin, heard voices indistinguishable but loud, saw colours dancing in front of him with such a bright intensity he couldn’t keep his eyes shut. What little sleep he’d been able to snatch from Life’s cruel grasp had been awoken by horrific visages, loud screams that came from nowhere, agony like a sword through the chest.

And it wasn’t like he wasn’t used to seeing shit. It was normal, he reckoned- he’d been dealing with it since he was little, and no one told him you weren’t meant to do it, so everyone must do it- and so it was his responsibility to deal with. But his exhausted state made it so hard to tell what was real and what wasn’t anymore.

Prime, he would be in so much trouble. He wasn’t sure of much, but that he was sure of. Dream would have his hide if he just flopped around all day and could barely recall his own fucking name.

He was barely even startled when he heard a “Tommy?”. Usually, he didn’t hear shit; that was fucking weird, but he’d started doing so about a day into his insomnia nightmare experience, and it was strange how quick you got used to that shit. He just buried his head deeper into the pillow, the scratchy, dried blood feeling like ants digging into his cheeks and through his bones. He could have sworn he heard them digging into him, too, puncturing flesh.

That was as real, and as fake, as the sound of Dream calling his name.

The canvas sliding open made a kaleidoscope of painfully bright colours cover Tommy’s vision: blue-yellow and pink-green, and other shades that didn’t exist. He groaned, the words straining against his throat- he couldn’t remember the last time he drank, and he felt like devils were poking at his tongue when he tried to make even the tiniest of noises. Dimly, he thought it might have been a punishment from the Gods, for not honouring the Primes enough.

The figure that entered he vaguely recognised as Dream, yet seemed more like a divine servant, sent to punish him for his sins, the way the light refracted on him leaving a halo, the air humming around him with the faintest sound of church bells. Tommy couldn’t help but stare, unable to focus on the words out of his mouth and instead on the shifting lights obscuring Dream’s mask from view. Like it was too sacred for Tommy to see, censored from a sinner’s eyes.

Prayers formed in Tommy’s throat, malformed and scratchy. The holy words came out distorted in his mouth, the energy it took to say them enough he couldn’t keep his eyes open. It took such an effort to try he didn’t even see the slap coming.

His cheek stung, as if impacted by holy flame, and Tommy yelped, his own voice sounding harsh and heretical. He could barely tell the location of the impact, his whole body aching, as he tried to listen. He was a good follower, and he’d do as Dream taught, or as much of it as he could remember through the confusing hazy fog of his mind.

“Tommy.” Dream’s voice was a low growl. “Are you trying to hide from me?”

Tommy took a slow blink, unsure of what Dream was even talking about. “I- I, the Primes, didn’t I pray? Did- was it wrong? What was the- what? I’m sorry.”

“Tommy, what the fuck are you talking about?” Dream shook his head, iridescent shine through his hair making him harder and harder to look at. “I- are you screwing around? Tommy, do you want a punishment?”

“I- it’s been, there’s been, it’s all been digging in, y’know?” Tommy could not communicate the depths of his damnation, and it became clear to him as he spoke that that was the cause. “I’m sorry, the light, the- the things in my skin and shit, it’s been- I haven’t prayed, haven’t slept, it’s been- are you here to send me away? I don’t…” He trailed off a frustrated huff, tears pricking at his eyes.

Tommy wasn’t sure if the noise following was an amused chuckle or the bells of the Primes. “Tommy, how much sleep have you gotten?”

“Um, like, two hours over the past week, I think? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- I’m just so, I’m just so tired, I can’t even- I’m sorry, I’m-“Tommy cut himself off with a sob, one he wasn’t sure if it came from frustration, sadness, or fear. Maybe it was all of them. Maybe it was love.

“Well, then. No wonder you’re like this.” There was a softness to Dream’s voice like an aura of light, and being unworthy in that presence made Tommy cry harder, so confused and feeling sick with himself. “Aww, you don’t have to cry. You’re not in trouble for being unable to sleep or whatever. You should have just told me.”

A gentle hand ran through his hair, lifting him into sitting as the other wiped away his tears as much as possible- a fruitless task, since Tommy was still wailing, but wasn’t that what toiling for the Gods and the Primes was, really? The touch felt like it was draining Tommy’s sin away, taking away the weight that left him awake and leaving him floating in his own brain, finally able to sleep after the tears broke through.

As Tommy drifted off in the arms of the Primes, he vaguely heard a soft “I should do this more often, really.” The words only sounded like hymns in his head, a promise that his holy status had been restored and he was once again in the Primes light.

What was he without that, after all?

[magicspaghetti]

I won't wake up

By February's end

The nightmare I've been dreaming

Will finally cease

I'm sleeping, starving, fading

Soon I can rest, slip away

The blissful escape

What is life if not torment

Whatever highs it offered tempered

By the lows and their vicious blows

When all I can do I cope

Surviving, never thriving

When the good times are fleeting

And the bad times ever increasing

Is it a cycle, or a prophecy?

When the only thing that calms

The agony in my chest

The twisting of my heart and mind

Is blood dripping from a blade

Is it not a promise

That violence is all I am?

Violence is all I can see

And I yearn for kindness

For peace, and softness

But I am hardened, forged

I have bent as far as I can go

Yet the pressure only increases

And I am poised to snap

Shards of metal flying

While I disentegrate

A final trip, a last goodbye

36 days remain

The anxiety cannot overwhelm

The relief that floods me

The hope I finally feel

For peace and rest

When all that tethers me to

This mortal plane

Is guilt and obligation,

Why bother?

Why not take death by the hand

Leap from the cliff of mediocrity

And soar upon the updrafts

Away from everyone who ever hurt me

Leave behind my body, scarred and shaking

And breathe deeply, the fresh air

A paradise of not feeling, not caring

Not living.

I am so very tired

My sword arm weary, my shield arm dropping

My armour tarnished and bloodstained

I have fought alone for so long

So hard, and never for myself

Do I not deserve the kindness,

The peace of resting?

Shall I lift the visor of this rusted helmet

And gaze upon the moon that sings my name

I love her, la lune, she calls me

She sings me a story of walking beside her

In darkness and quiet, away

Rest unconditional

She has offered me her hand and her love

And I am choosing to take it

[down-home-charm]

Remy let out a small laugh. “You ever gonna let me forget that moment?” He said pulling her on top of him. “Close as he may be, gambit ain’t perfect. What skills I may lack in the cold, I like to think are made up for elsewhere, like…”

The words didn’t come out, they couldn’t. Gambit began choking and a moment later he began coughing. As some blood came out of his mouth, he looked down and saw Rogue’s hand protruding out of his side.

A picture perfect dream full of peace and happiness, had now devolved into a nightmare. Their bed now turned into the rocks on the ground in Genosha. “C-cher?” He wheezed before looking up at her and offering a sad smile. “Gambit get it now, I *was* just entertainment. Someone to make you feel better until you found someone else… someone you actually cared about.” Burn marks began appearing on his body and it began glowing purple. “You never loved me at all did ya?”

What began as moments of bliss, the happiest in so long, devolved into the worst memory - the worst pain - Rogue had ever known. Nothing, not even the death of Carol Danvers or how she'd hurt Bobby, was worse than that moment on Genosha. Holding the man she loved as he died...and there was not a damn thing she could do to stop it.

Now he was dying again, and saying words she had thrown at herself endlessly since the attack. "No!" she protested, reaching for him as the burn marks appeared. "No! Remy, that's not true! I really did feel I was holding you back! I was stringing you along when I could never give you all of myself. I-I just wanted you to have everything you could out of loving someone! Because I love you!"

Her hold on him tightened, just as it had that horrible night. "I love you! I love you!" she begged, tears falling down her face. "I wish I could take all these wounds as easy as I could your powers. I'd take every agony in the world if it meant I could get you back!!"

She leaned down and pressed her forehead against his, her sobs making it hard to speak. "Please...Remy, please...please don't leave me...Give me your pain. Your wounds. All of it. Please, please, don't leave me."

[beommiya]

So that was actually all it took to get him to his breaking point? Xuan was a tad bit disappointed, but he wasn't going to hold it against the young man. Kibum had already been through a lot and Xuan wasn't one to actually take extreme pleasure in torturing others. Sure, he enjoyed inflicting pain, but of other natures, of the more pleasurable kind that would make the other person beg for him to grant them the release of bliss and pleasure, not scream in agony and beg for mercy. With a sigh, he puts the camera back on the table and takes the SD card out of it, to hand it to his secretary later for delivery to Ian's HQ. "Sorry kiddo, but I can't do that. Those photos were the only reason I even brought you here in the first place and had you beaten to a pulp. I have to send them." He then turns back to Kibum and actually does something unpredictable by crouching down and starting to undo the ropes keeping him tied to the chair. "Look, don't start crying now! The worst is finally done and the good part is that I am not going to kill you. In fact, I feel like I've done you a favor. Once that fucker gets the photos, he'll think you're dead and that means you're now free. So, in other words, you can actually go on and regain your freedom and return to a normal life, retire from the crime world and put your life back together, start a new chapter." As he speaks, Xuan then picks Kibum up in his arms, starting to walk towards the stairs. The younger's arms and legs are still tied together so that he wouldn't attack Xuan or hurt himself, but other than that the raven haired is actually... weirdly gentle towards him.

"And I did promise I won't cause scarring, didn't I? Come on now, stop whining. We'll get you patched up." Xuan sighs again and finally steps out of that hellish place. To Bum's surprise, as Xuan steps into a big hallway, the surroundings are like a complete 180 from the previous moldy basement. They are now in what appears to be the inside of a rather beautiful looking house that's more reminiscing of a castle or those really fancy victorian mansions you'd see in a movie. He can't admire the views for long however, because Xuan keeps walking and he continues like so until they reach two big doors leading into a new room, equally fancy and lavish to the hallways, if not even more so given that it's very spacious and has a lot of really nice furniture and a big, beautiful comfortable looking bed. "Okay, I'll put you now on the bed to rest, so I can actually treat your injuries. Just try to calm down and rest, I won't hurt you anymore, promise!" He lays him onto the soft sheets as promised, seemingly unphased that Kibum would stain the white silk material with grime and blood, then Xuan turns to look for a medical kit and some treatment ointments in one of the drawers and cabinets in the room. The shift in atmosphere is like completely crazy, it almost feels as if he's in just another nightmare or a twisted dream.

He had not seen his own face yet but, deep down, he knew just how bad the pictures turned out. The idea of Ian ever seeing him like that almost makes the boy beg for Xuan to just kill him at this point at pull him out of his misery. But the words that followed made his heart rate go crazy. What does he mean by freedom and starting a new life? There was no life, no freedom on his own, without Ian. He's been groomed by the man since Kibum was only 13 years old. He didn't know life without his guidance, his protection and his evilness that to Kibum was masked into kindness. "I don't want that, I can't do that" he wanted his phone, and he wanted it now. He needed to see that at least he called but he had no idea where his phone was at this point. He sighed; struggling would only get him into more trouble so for now he simply accepted his faith. As soon as he found himself into Xuan's arms, the boys stopped questioning his own sanity and started to question Xuan's. How could someone who made others torture him could be so sweet and gentle now? It was beyond him. "You're fucking strange..."

The sudden change of scenery and the light felt like a fever dream. His head felt too heavy, resting is against Xuan's chest, drowsy but curious eyes trying to catch as much as everything around him. The bed felt like heaven right now, so soft and warm, so different from the cold basement. But he was not ready to give up just now. The first step of his plan was a success, he was out of the basement. All he needed was for his legs and hands to be free. His wrists were pulsating from the burn caused by the ropes. "I can take care of them myself...I don't need you to fix what you already broke" he said rather coldly, eyes looking at Xuan with so much hate. He should be more grateful for Xuan's kindness yet here he was, still not learning anything.

@phoenix-of-jade

[xstarforged]

LOCATION: Velaris & the most recent Starfall event

TARGET: @azraehl​

DETAILS: Flashback (recent). Continued from previous thread, remade for tumblr formatting purposes!

Cosmic eyes openly indulged in him; unashamedly memorising every angle and shadow when he coolly turned towards her. It was a prevailing habit to sweep over his impressive stature, scrutinising for any sign of injury - especially since those sinister moments threatened to invade and to torment. An urge to protect ached through her veins, igniting them with an ethereal light which webbed across her skin like the fracturing of a star’s heart. She wanted to carve out the souls of their enemies and obliterate them into nothing more than dust between her ancient fingers - not even the gods were permitted to harm him again. 

Yet there was a newfound distance to Azrael after the war. It felt as if a veil shrouded his innermost sanctum; carefully weaved from obsidian winds and fierce darkness. She wondered whether the isolation was designed to shield the world from his sacrifice -  to forever keep his people safe - whilst he bravely, yet tragically, faced his inner torment alone. But she was also there. Immovable and patient. Her soul ached to envelope him in soothing starlight, cocooning him from the agony that pursued him. In the deep night, Seren heard the cracks splintering, and the howls of his roaring screams echoing from those sleepless dreams. Unable to retreat and rest, seemingly hounded by the traumatic tempests which unleashed hellish nightmares. Visions which she shared in and would cradle him through, whilst reminding him in a gentle voice that he was safe and their enemies had been punished. Destroyed. Eliminated. Rendered into nothing. The bitter poison of hatred would always still coat her tongue - at the reminder of his treatment at the hands of those monsters.

Yet no barrier or wall could conceal his mighty strength from her - a peerless power that seemed to wield the midnight touches of a legacy born before life itself. It roared with the force of night’s dominating shadows. She had witnessed it eradicate enemies into nothingness within a blink of an eye. He was captivating and unconquerable like the sky above them. Indomitable. Unyielding. Where there was chaos, he brought order - tempests stilled, torrents stemmed, and thunder stopped. His will came manifest, where he so chose. Some called him a monster for the power that raged within him. But they did not understand the vast complexity of his very soul. He may be the manifestation of midnight and all of its fearsome secrets; but even darkness could breathe with a gentle, cooling touch. They both echoed the enigmas of the eternal night; the dark side of the moon and the light of the stars. Unfathomable to most, but not to eachother.

When an easy smirk appeared on his lips - a sight which she delighted in seeing - Seren bathed in that answering surge of joy. Everything else faded into obscurity as she focused on him. Everything he was and ever will be. There were no beginnings or endings, simply the present, and the thread which bound them together. “Such a wicked High Lord for asking me to predict your secrets,” she purred slowly in response. When his voice echoed in her mind and she felt his presence embrace her inner thoughts, a wider smile tugged on the edge of her lips and she dared to take a step closer.

His scent seized her; grounding her with the sensation that this - him - was home, and she tilted her face upwards to indulge in the closeness. A dangerous line they had been balancing on for too long. I would wish for a selfish dream, her voice - low and intense - echoed through the bond. To hear his laughter again. To chase away his demons. To secure the night - his legacy and birthright - to only bliss, and not to torment. To take his place in shouldering those burdens. All of those wishes rushed through her mind with a burning, painful ache. Because even if she was bestowed with a boon - a wish - for anything in the vastness of reality, she would still wish for him. Let her be condemned to the consequences of selfishly choosing him over the world. Tell me. What would you truly wish for, Az? Her breath whispered across his skin, challenging every ounce of her immortal patience, yet she remembered that they had the power of time. To heal, to build, to forge. Sensing the possible vulnerability that lurked beyond the shadowy ocean, she tugged on the bond with a teasing tone. A playful distraction, followed with a huff. And she raised a single, curved eyebrow in amused defiance. But every High Lord must have its secrets. I might forgive you for your silence if you indulge in my request for company. Our beloved family has already raided far too many bottles of my favourite wine.

[luxeavenger]

We Can't Go To Hell If We're Already There

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!super soldier!reader

Words: 7939

WARNINGS: PTSD, BRIEF DESCRIPTIONS OF TORTURE (in section TWO), nightmares, insomnia, angst, emotionsl hurt/comfort, idiots in love, porn with plot, nsfw, oral sex (f receiving), piv sex

Summary: Bucky and the reader offer each other comfort when PTSD and nightmares make it impossible to sleep.

Main Masterlist | Ko-fi

Please reblog/comment if you enjoy it!

——-

ONE

The first nightmare burrows through the walls, and straight into your head.

The shout wakes you from a dark dream of blood and death and pain burning through your synapses like a forest fire. A vivid and torturous nightmare; the scream blending seamlessly with the horrors that play behind your eyelids. You don’t even realize you’ve woken until you hear the slam of a door close by. It’s too benign a sound to be part of the miasma of images haunting your sleep. The screams you hear outside your room are a primal sound that makes you think of nothing but unending, unendurable agony. It’s the noise of someone who longs for the blissful silence of death, but is deprived the luxury of making the decision to end their own suffering.

Beyond your door, the Avengers compound lies silent and still, save for the mournful noises from the neighboring room. Steve Rogers is on the floor outside of the room from which the wounded cries issue. Lamely seated, with knees to chest, and forehead to knees, he starts when your door clicks shut. His blue eyes are wide and brimming with unshed tears. A purple bruise the color of an eggplant blossoms around his right eye, the eyeball itself blooms red with burst blood vessels.

“What’s going on?” you whisper.

“Bucky,” Steve answers. He doesn’t go on, so you assume he’s got the situation under control, almost turn to leave, but a blood-curdling scream sounds from behind the door.

You move to enter the room, but Steve grabs your leg. “Don’t,” he urgently demands.

“Someone has to help him, Steve.”

As a super soldier who was rescued from the Winter Soldier program, you had an idea of what nightmares haunted Bucky on any given night, maybe even better than Steve did. You’d heard the stories of what Bucky had endured, and they were enough to turn your stomach. Bucky had actually lived them. You couldn’t bear to leave him to wrestle with his own mind alone.

“It’s bad though. He hit me, y/n. We fought. I couldn’t even get him to wake up. It’s never been this bad. I tried to wake him up. He wants to kill me. Kept repeating it over and over again in Russain.” Finally his tears break loose, and dash down his face only to stick in his stubble. “It’s never been this bad. Don’t know what to do. He usually wakes up. I can’t get him to wake up.”

Steve is heartbreaking in a wholly different way. A man who loves Bucky with every cell in his body—who’d give his own life to spare Bucky even a single moment of suffering. A capable man who isn’t used to being ill-equipped to handle any given situation. You want to comfort him, but Bucky is more in need of aid right now.

“I’m going in there, Steve. He needs someone. I’ll be fine.” And you would. You were a super soldier too, so even if he broke you, you’d heal. You’d been broken before. Hell, Steve’s eye, a fresh injury when you’d stepped into the hallway, was already starting to fade, the purple dulling to a sickly yellow-green color, the blood spots in his eye already diffusing back into the aqueous humor. A week worth of healing time-lapsed into a five minute conversation.

“I’ll stay out here, maybe he’ll be less upset if I do. Just… be careful. Don’t touch him. It all went to hell when I touched him.” Steve sighs around the weight in his heart.

You slip soundlessly into the room. The air is suffused with the salty bite of sweat, and the coppery tang of blood. Signs of a struggle are everywhere: the dresser canting crazily to the side, desk chair smashed to kindling, bathroom door pulled off its frame, its hinges twisted and mangled.

Bucky keeps his television on at night, the static of white noise is supposed to help him sleep. But falling asleep has never been his problem. What happens in his sleep is the rub. The blue light from the TV makes the blood smudged down the side of Bucky’s face look purple. You can see the cut on his scalp from across the room.

Bucky is curled into a ball in the middle of the bed, bloody handprints drying tacky on his ash grey sheets. His cheeks glisten in the dim light, the sheen of tears make him look fragile, broken. He’s whimpering, making small pleading noises, begging no, no, not again, please don’t, please stop, please no.

You crouch at the foot of the bed, and softly say Bucky’s name a few times. He doesn’t react. You try soldat—if he’s stuck in the Winter Soldier’s memories it might work—but it just makes him flinch and sob no.

Okay. Something different then. “James,” you cheerfully singsong, “James Buchanan Barnes. It’s time to get up. Come on, James. You need to get up.”

Something about the casual way you speak to him cuts through his nightmare, shredding the diaphanous dreams with a machete. Bucky’s eyes snap open, and he bolts upright, scuttling away from you, retreating into the pile of pillows at his headboard.

“Shh. It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s all okay, Bucky. You’re awake now. Shh.” You adopt a soothing tone, hold up your empty hands, trying to quell his breathless fear. “I’m here, Bucky. It’s Y/N, you know me. I’m not going to hurt you. I just need you to wake up.”

He blinks at you owlishly. The tension in his body lets go in increments. Legs uncurl, shoulders climb back down his neck, jaw relaxes, breathing slows to normal. He nods, parrots your words back to you, “It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m awake now. You’re here, I know you, and I’m awake.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He vehemently shakes his head. Squeezes his legs to his chest to armor himself against whatever memories still swim like sharks near the surface of his mind.

“That’s okay.” Maybe someone more familiar would help him feel safe. “Do you want me to get Steve?”

He shakes his head again, hanks of sweaty hair falling in his face. “I just… I don’t wanna-I-I can’t go back to sleep.”

“That’s fine. You don’t have to.”

“Can you stay for awhile?”

“Sure. I was having nightmares too, so I think I’m done sleeping for the night. If you want, I can make some popcorn and we can find a movie to watch?” He nods.

You come back from the kitchen, and Bucky has washed the blood off his face. You help him make a nest for himself on the floor using his blankets and pillows. Not wanting to invade his space, you make yourself comfortable on the floor just outside of his nest. You greet the dawn from your spot on the floor, Bucky curled up in his blankets beside you. He’s finally calmed down enough so tension no longer sings through his body like vibrations through a tuning fork. You’re discussing Return of the Jedi, which is playing on the television, while Steve snores softly just outside the door.

———

TWO

The next nightmare comes three days later. This time—it’s yours.

Hands are on you. All over you. They’re wielding needles and blades, cutting and digging into your soft parts, arms covered in hot, slick red up to their elbows, rooting around inside of you until the pain carries your mind away on a dark, salty ocean of blood. You regain consciousness days later, healed again, and the torture begins anew.

Your body is nothing more than meat, rocking violently when they saw through your tendons, scrape your muscles away from the bone, dissecting you with their too-dull blades. You’re muzzled, but you scream into it anyway, helpless to stem the hysterical outpouring of sound. You try to lash out. You always do. Swinging your arms, the restraints only allow you the barest inch of movement. You scream again, anger and pain bubbling up your vocal cords.

A shout in the dark startles you out of your sleep like a slap to the face. You dart upright, unrestrained arms held up for protection, unrestrained mouth pleading for mercy.

“Y/N, it’s me! It’s Bucky! Y/N it’s okay. You’re awake. Hey, it’s okay. You’re awake. I’m not gonna hurt you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Bucky?”

“Yeah, doll. It’s me. I’m here.”

“I-I can’t see you…”

Your bedside lamp switches on, illuminating Bucky’s worried face by the edge of your bed. By the door Steve stands, wringing his hands nervously. You see him there and flinch, hiding your face in the pillow. His stature is too reminiscent of the shadows invading your dreams.

“That’s just Steve,” he explains. Then to Steve he whispers, “I’ve got her, man. You can go back to your room. I’ll let FRIDAY know if we need you.”

You don’t peek out from the pile of pillows until you hear the door to your room click shut. You find Bucky where he was before, but Steve is gone. It lets some of the tension drain from your muscles.

Bucky slowly rises, and you see he’s sporting a vivid bruise over his cheekbone.

“Shit. Did I hit you?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

You swallow, “I’m sorry.”

“Hush. It’s okay.” He sits gently on the edge of your bed. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

A hysterical sob bubbles up from your throat.

“Hey, hey. You don’t have to.” He hesitantly reaches for your hand to offer comfort, “Is it okay if I touch you?”

You launch yourself at him, and he catches you with a grunt. Your arms go around his neck, you bury your face in his shoulder, and release the torrent of tears dammed up inside you.

Bucky makes soft soothing sounds, rubs gentle circles in your back until your tears become mournful sniffles. He scoots you off of his lap to retrieve some tissues.

“Bucky, don’t leave me. Please. I don’t want to be alone. I-I can’t-”

“I’m not going anywhere. I promise. You wanna watch a movie?”

You nod, and use the tissues to clean your face. Bucky asks, “You want snacks? I can text Steve, ask him to bring us something.” You shake your head, content to linger with Bucky’s soothing presence.

Bucky searches through the channels until he finds Raiders of the Lost Ark, an Indiana Jones movie you both love. You curl up on your bed, Bucky right next to you on the floor, his back pressed against your nightstand. The dawn finds you both fast asleep. You bundled in blankets, Bucky reclined on the floor, your hand gripped by his, clinging viselike together in the dreamless space between you.

———

THREE

The next nightmare hits and you hear it all the way in the medbay.

You’re fresh off a mission where you’d taken a bullet to the thigh. It tore through your femur, shearing the bone in two. Bruce assured you that being a super soldier meant that months worth of healing would only take a few days. You also needed skin grafts to cover the ragged, fist-sized exit wound on the front of your thigh, so Bruce wanted you to stay in the cradle overnight. The medbay was so quiet you’d fallen asleep in the contraption.

Bucky’s room is nearly on the other side of the compound. The sound of his hysteria reaches into your dreams, balls a fist into your hair, and drags you back into the waking world. Instantly you start trying to climb out of the cradle, causing Dr. Cho to panic. You tell her, in no uncertain terms, that you’re getting up, and she can either help you or get the fuck out of your way.

She wraps a quick and dirty bandage around your splint to reinforce it, and helps you into a wheelchair. She starts to push you down the hall, but she’s too slow, and you take off, speeding the chair towards your destination with your powerful arms.

Bucky’s door is open already, and Steve is trying to rouse him, but everytime Steve speaks another scream rips loose from Bucky’s chest. You stop the chair outside of the door, not wanting it in the room in case there’s another tussle. Steve looks relieved when you call him from the hallway. He picks you up and carries you into the room.

“Put me on the bed, Steve.”

“Y/N, if he fights…”

“I’ll be fine. Put me on the bed.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but you hold up a hand, “I’m not fucking asking, Rogers. Put me on the goddamned bed.”

He relents, setting you down gently.

You reach a hand out to Bucky, slipping your fingers into his open palm and calling his name. His hand grips yours and he yanks it toward him without waking. You roll over onto your injured leg with a groan.

Bucky’s eyes flutter open at your pained noise. “Wha’…? Shit, Y/N. You’re supposed to be in the medbay. Fuck, I hurt your leg.”

“No. I’m fine. You’re not the one who shot me, so you didn’t hurt anything. Are you okay?”

Steve sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, “You two are a huge pain in my ass.”

“Yes. Yes we are,” Bucky says with a big grin plastered on his face.

“I’ll be in my room. Let FRIDAY know if you need me.” He exits the room with an eye roll.

“It must have been a bad one. I heard you all the way in the medbay. It’s just one of the many perks of this damn super-soldier hearing. Don’t suppose you want to talk about it?”

“It’s bad enough I have to see the shit whenever I close my eyes…”

“You don’t want to poison the air with it when you’re awake?”

“Yeah. Basically.”

“It’s the same for me, Bucky. It never really goes away, so it’s best left behind in the nightmares.”

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

“Jesus, Buck. That’s a little heavy handed coming from you. You went through worse than I ever did. I’m sorry about everything they did to you.”

“Okay, okay. Enough of that. Now that the apologies are out of the way, you need to get some rest.” You try to argue, but he stops you, “No. Bruce wanted you to spend the night in the cradle. You had skin grafts, and given how fast you heal, that bone needs to be stabilized so it doesn’t mend wonky. If your stubborn ass won’t sleep in the cradle, you’re going to sleep in here so I can make sure you stay still and stay quiet.”

You give a petulant huff at his lecture, even though you know he’s right. Then you start struggling out of bed. “Well then, I’ll go get my blankets and pillows.”

“No you won't,” Bucky says sternly. “I’ll be dammed if you’re sleeping on the floor with a broken fucking leg. You sleep in the bed. I’ll take the floor.”

“Nope. I’m not kicking you out of your own bed. That’s a dick move.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to huff. “Fine. But I want you on this side, so your bad leg is away from me. I don’t want to bump it accidentally.”

You nod. “I find these terms acceptable,” you agree.

Bucky helps you scoot over to his side of the bed. He piles pillows up under your head, and props your leg up on another pillow, then piles blankets over both of you.

He turns the light out, and you tense. “Bucky,” you whisper, “can you… It’s too dark. Can you leave the TV on?”

“Of course, doll.”

You stare at the ceiling for awhile, unable to fall asleep. You’re surrounded by Bucky’s scent. Gunpowder, leather, and a spicy musk; it’s crisp and clean, and uniquely Bucky. It’s a heady feeling to be enveloped in his scent like this, and to have his body heating the mattress next to you. Your chest is full of a curious warmth.

“Bucky?” you say softly.

“Yeah?”

“I feel bad.”

“You want me to get Bruce?”

He assumed you meant your leg. It did hurt, because there wasn’t any pain medication that Bruce could give you that worked for very long, but that wasn’t what you meant.

“No. I feel bad about Steve,” you clarify.

“Why?”

“He wants so badly to help. He doesn’t understand though. He doesn’t know what it’s like at HYDRA. No matter how much we explain it, he’ll never get it.”

“He means well.”

“I know.”

Silence falls between you again, and it’s Bucky that breaks it this time.

“Y/N?”

“Hmm?”

“How much do you remember?”

“I remember everything.”

“Me too.”

The mutual silence is pregnant with over a century of accumulated pain and sorrow. You both know these memories have teeth, and to tamper too long is to risk destruction.

“Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“I promise I won’t let HYDRA take you away.”

“Me too. We can keep each other safe, okay?”

“Yeah,” you pause. “Hey…”

“I’m here.”

“Can you hold my hand?”

When the first threads of dawn spill into the room, you’re both sleeping soundly, dreams unbothered by darkness. Bucky is clasping your soft hands in his, holding them against his strong heartbeat. Bones mend in daybreak’s light, while hearts and minds begin their own journeys as each of you dream of one another.

———

FOUR

The next nightmare doesn’t come.

Steve is taking Bucky, Natasha, and Sam to Belgium on a mission. They’re supposed to be gone for three weeks—if everything goes well.

“Steve, I wanna go.” Steve just told you they were leaving you behind, and you’re already yelling.

“Y/N, I tried to bring you along. I did, I swear I did. I talked to Bruce about it. You were shot less than a week ago, your leg has only just healed, and he’s worried that going back to active duty this soon may reinjure it. I’m sorry. I know you and Bucky need each other, but I need Bucky. He knows his way around these Hydra bases better than any of us. I’m sorry, Y/N, but you can’t go.”

“I told him I’d have his back.”

“I know. And you have my word I won’t let anything happen to him. Our intel says this base has been defunct for twenty-plus years. It’s been sealed shut—no one in or out. No heat signatures. It’ll be completely empty. Sam is going to patrol the woods outside with Redwing, but I need Bucky and Natasha to help inside, there’s a lot of ground to cover, and a lot of computers and tech we need access to. If Bucky doesn’t come it’ll take twice as long. No one will lay so much as a pinkie finger on him. You have my word.”

You get right in Steve’s face, stabbing at his chest with your index finger, “So help me god, Rogers. If a single hair on his head is out of place I will make myself a pair of boots out of your hide.”

Twenty-one days pass about as quickly as a three week long root canal. You’re waiting in the yard thirty minutes before the quinjet is even in Avengers airspace.

When the cargo bay door opens it reveals Steve with Bucky leaning heavily against his side.

“What did I fucking tell you, Rogers?” you yell.

“Whoa, whoa. Easy. He isn’t injured. I didn’t lie to you. The place was empty. He had a bad dream the first night we were there, and after that he refused to sleep,” he lowers his voice, “Y/N, he hasn’t slept in twenty days. I tried to get him to sleep—even just take a goddamned nap—but he wouldn’t do it. I don’t know what he saw, but it scared the shit out of him.”

“Jesus fuck. Gimmie him.”

“How’s your-”

“I’m fine,” you growl. “Gimmie him.”

Steve sighs heavily, but he lets you slip under Bucky’s shoulder, and guide him inside. “I’ll come check on you both after debriefing,” he shouts at your back.

Bucky doesn’t say a word the whole way back to his room, despite you trying to engage him by asking questions about the mission the whole time. You sit his limp body on the edge of his bed and start peeling him out of his tac suit. You’re scared shitless at how quiet he’s being, and your fear turns into anger.

“Goddamnit, Bucky. Eleven days. Eleven days is the longest someone has ever gone without sleep, Buck—I checked! And you nearly doubled it. Are you trying to die? You’re supposed to take care of yourself. You have to take care of yourself,” a sob shudders through your chest, and you finish softly, “I love you, you idiot.”

You’re dangerously close to crying, and Bucky still isn’t responding to you, so you grab his chin and force his eyes up to yours. He looks like a ghost. His skin is translucent, the delicate blue veins that trace over his face are obvious through his paper-white skin. He’s gaunt, as if he hadn’t eaten the whole time he hadn’t slept. His cerulean eyes are dull and empty, and ringed by vibrant purple bruises. It shocks you, and you flinch as if you’ve been struck.

A distraught noise is all you can produce, tears rolling down your face. Bucky blinks at you slowly, eyes still flat and confused, but recognition brings life back to them bit by bit.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah, it’s me, Buck. You’ve gotta go to sleep. Now.”

“Can’t sleep. Dreams are red,” his words are slow and slurred.

“I know, babe. That’s why I’m here. I know how to chase the red away.”

“‘way?” His dull eyes search your face, “Yeah. Red go ‘way.”

He sounds like a child, all innocence and trust, and your heart shatters into a million tiny shards. “Okay, I’ll make the red go away, but you have to go to sleep first.”

He obediently scoots back onto the bed. His eyes track you around to the other side of the mattress. You climb under the sheets, and Bucky grabs you roughly and pulls you against him. His head goes to your chest, and he curls around you like you’re a human-sized security blanket.

It takes one inhale for him to register the vital lub dub sound of your heartbeat against his cheek, with the next exhale sleep has taken him. You gently kiss his forehead before sleep carries you away too.

Steve finds you both hours later as sunset casts a pink and purple blanket over the compound. Fast asleep, each clinging to the other like a life raft. He leaves a tray of food on Bucky’s dresser, with a few bottles of water. He watches you both sleep for a moment, his heart overfull, tears pricking at his eyes. Finally, he shuffles across the hall to his room and grabs one of his sketchbooks and a pen. When he slips out of the room again there’s a folded scrap of paper under the tray with a note:

Y/N,

I’m not a man who apologizes easily, unless I'm wrong.

I’m sorry.

I underestimated what you are to each other, and overestimated my ability to mimic that. The truth is, I understand I will never fully grasp what you have both been through. But I promise that I will never stop trying to learn, or listen.

I also promise never to let you both down like I did this time. Bucky means the world to me, and now I trust that he means the same to you too.

-Steve

———

FIVE

“Buck, you have to tell her.”

“I want to, but…”

“But, what? I’ve seen the way she looks at you when you’re not watching. It’s the same way you look at her.”

“But, what if you’re wrong, Steve? What if I tell her and she doesn’t feel the same way? What if she hates me? God, what if she thinks I’ve been using her?”

“Using her for what, Buck? To get a decent night’s sleep? You both do that. I’ve never seen someone so efficiently put you at ease—awake or asleep—as she does. When we came back from Belgium last week, I was scared shitless, man. You hadn’t slept in weeks. I didn’t even know it was possible to go that long without sleep and survive, even with the serum. I really thought I was gonna lose you. You slept for three goddamned days straight, and she never once left your side.”

“She’s been through so much.”

“So have you.”

“She deserves someone better.”

“Bucky, there is no one better than you. You’re the kindest, strongest, and most genuine person I’ve ever met in my life. After everything that happened to you, and how hard you fought back against all the shit HYDRA put in you, you are still such a genuinely good man. She deserves someone exactly like you.”

“Fuck. I just love her so much, Stevie. What if I fuck this up?”

“I’m telling you, the only way you’ll fuck it up is if you never tell her how you feel.”

——

SIX

Bucky spends the rest of the day in his own head. He’s vacillating between being brave and confessing his feelings to you, or convincing himself that a little of you is better than none at all. That losing you isn’t a price he’s willing to pay. That this small part of you he has now is enough, and he’d be selfish and greedy to ask for more.

That evening he’s detached from the unmitigated chaos that always takes place at the Avengers dinner table. You watch him carefully from your seat between Wanda and Steve. He’s intently focused on the food on his plate, pushing it around instead of eating it. His hair draped around his face like a curtain, so you can’t even see his eyes to gauge his mood.

Feeling strange and restless, you leave dinner early to walk around the compound for awhile. As the sun draws below the horizon you sit by the lake to watch the brilliant shades of the setting sun shift colorfully over the sky.

You often wished you had the aptitude for art that Steve possesses, especially at times like this. It would be such an incredible gift to be able to capture the way the sky looks as the sun drops behind the horizon, or the way Bucky’s eyes crinkle in the corners when he laughs, or the rapt attention on his face when you tell him a story, or the way his eyes glimmer with happiness when your eyes catch his from across the room. You could draw his face a million times and never grow tired of it, never fail to find some nuance you hadn’t noticed before.

But your hands are blunt instruments—weapons—better suited for cleaning guns, throwing knives, and taking apart HYDRA agents.

By the time dusk has fallen completely there’s a chill in the air, and the grass is damp with dew. You feel no less strange than you had before, so you ask FRIDAY where you can find Bucky. Sergeant Barnes is in the common room, she replies. You find him alone there, relaxing on the long couch, in flannel pajama pants, and a blue henley, reading a Neil Gaiman book he’d swiped off of your bookshelf.

“Hey, doll. Is everything okay?” he asks, looking worried.

“Yeah. I’m fine. I’m just… I don’t know. Restless, I guess.”

“You have to guess?”

You snort. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

“Oh-ho-ho, look who’s being a smartass tonight,” his eyes sparkle with laughter. “You wanna watch a movie, doll?”

“Sure. Your room in fifteen? I’m gonna grab some snacks. I didn’t really eat at dinner, and now my stomach is kinda pissed about it.”

“Sounds good, doll. Grab something for me too.”

When you push open his door he’s scrolling through the long list of movies. He’s made a soft and cosy little fort at the foot of his bed out of as many pillows as he could scavenge from the rooms on this floor. He looks comical in the middle of them all.

“On a scale of one to ten, how pissed are Steve, Sam, and Clint gonna be when they try to sleep later and find they have no pillows?”

His lips quirk into a smirk, “Oh, that’s going to be a ten, for sure. Well, probably more like a twenty, since I took Nat and Wanda’s pillows too.”

“Yikes. We may not live to see morning,” you laugh.

You drop the snacks on Bucky’s dresser, and open a beer for each of you. Neither of you could get drunk off of human alcoholic beverages because of the serum, so drinking beer was all about the nostalgia.

You flop down next to him, bumping your shoulders together accidentally on purpose. He bumps you back and you giggle.

Midway though the movie Bucky yawns, his arm coming down on the mattress behind you. A few minutes later it drops onto your shoulders.

You pause the movie and turn toward him. “Weaksauce, Barnes,” you tease. “Is that what passes for flirting in the forties? If you wanna kiss, just ask.”

His eyes dart down to your lips, and heat rushes up your neck. “Ooh.”

He licks his lips, “I’d very much like to kiss you now,” he breathes.

“That wasn't a question,” you whisper before you curl your fingers into the front of his shirt and pull your bodies together.

It starts out slow, a gentle press of lips, then Bucky’s tongue dips out to swipe over your lips. Your mouth opens for him and that small spark sets you both alight. You’re both all too aware of the other’s heartbeat kicking into a gallop as you devour each other.

You draw away first, panting. “What is this, Buck?”

He smirks, “Well, doll, I know I may be a little rusty, but I remember this being called kissing...”

“Bucky-”

“Sorry, doll. Look,” he presses a hand over your heart, “I can hear how your heart speeds up when I touch you,” he runs his fingers down your side to squeeze your hip, “and I can smell how wet you are for me right now.” He sucks in a deep breath through his nose, eyes falling shut, he whispers against the shell of your ear, “You smell so. fucking. good.”

“And I can smell you leaking into your boxers right now. Is this… You want me? For real?”

“Jesus, doll. More than anything.”

This time when he kisses you your arms go around his neck. He leans into you, and pulls your hips toward him so you slide down onto the pillows. His vibranium arm pulls you tight against him, and you gasp when his stiff cock presses against your hip.

“This okay?” he asks, lips still grazing yours.

“It’s very-fucking-much okay,” you murmur, smoothing your palm over the soft cotton covering his broad chest, and curl your fingers into the fabric until Bucky ducks his head and lets you pull his henley off, his dog tags falling loose with a jingle. Your hands go to his bare chest, and a growl rumbles just under your fingertips and he seizes your mouth again.

His cool metal fingers move from your hip to dip under the hem of your t-shirt. He leaves a trail of goosebumps along your skin before his hand cups your tit through your bra, making you moan when the nipple quickly stiffens under his cold thumb. You push your chest up into his questing fingers, and he swears softly, urging you up so he can strip off your shirt and bra. His chilly thumb is replaced with his hot mouth, and he hums around the hard peak. Your hips rock, seeking friction, but only finding it between your own thighs as you squeeze them together.

“So fucking eager.” You aren’t sure if he’s talking about him or you, but it doesn't matter because he’s dragging your shorts and panties down your legs. He gently spreads your thighs wide, drawing warm fingers through your slit, dipping into your wet heat.

“Fuck yes, Buck. More.” You push your hips toward his hand, pleading. Demanding.

The slack-jawed adoration on his face ignites a flame in your core. “You smell like heaven. Fuck, wanna taste you, Y/N.”

“Bucky, please,” you whine.

His mouth lowers to your clit, his sky blue eyes on yours. When his tongue swirls around the sensitive bundle of nerves your head falls back with a groan.

Bucky stops what he’s doing. “No, doll,” he lightly taps your mound, “I’m right here. Eyes on me—wanna see your face while I make you feel good.” When your eyes are on his again he purrs, “There’s my good girl.”

He slips warm fingers inside of you and curls his tongue around your clit. Sucking and licking at the little bud gets you even wetter, slick dribbling out of you with every pump of his fingers.

“Bucky, is it okay—can you… can you use your other hand?”

Quickly, warm fingers withdraw and two chilly fingers press against your entrance to replace them. You gasp as a shudder licks up your spine. “Fuck yes,” you whimper, as the cool digits push into your slick channel, curling inside of you and stroking your g-spot. You keen and let your head fall back again. Bucky smacks the inside of your thigh with his right hand and forks two fingers at his eyes. It’s a stinging reminder: Right here. I told you to watch me. Chastened, you nod.

Bucky gives head with the same energy he has when you spar with him: every movement is quickly and carefully calculated, no effort is wasted. Bucky yanks an orgasm out of you with ruthless efficiency. The heated weight in your core builds, overwhelming one moment, and the next you’re groaning his name, and spilling hot slick over his chin and arm. He laps it up with a hum of gratitude, and continues to slurp at your cunt until your body goes lax and boneless under him.

“Fuck, doll,” he breathes against your mound, “taste so goddamned good. Look so fucking gorgeous when you come. Your pussy is so fucking wet. Want it wrapped around my cock.”

“Fuck,” you moan, “please, Buck. Want you to fuck me. Want you to fill me.”

He quickly strips his pants and boxers and climbs up your body. His dog tags drag lightly over your skin as Bucky stalks slowly up your body. He looks savage like this, an apex predator on the hunt, thick muscles undulating with every move he makes, back rippling when he dips to suck and bite marks your skin as he goes. His fat cock is on display, ruddy, thick, and heavy, trailing sticky precome as it grazes along your sensitive skin as he prowls up your body.

His short beard is shiny with your wetness, and he slips his vibranium fingers past your lips. The earthy flavor of you spreads mellow over your taste buds before he hooks those fingers in your cheek and wrenches your jaw open so he can slide his tongue against yours, his wet beard coating your chin with your juices. He kisses you like he owns you, and fuck if you don’t wish he did.

His hardness slips hot and heavy against your hip, and you roll your pelvis, grinding his cock between your bodies.

His voice is soft and gravelly against your lips when he asks, “You ready?”

“Fuck me, Bucky. Please, just need to feel you.”

“Of course, doll,” he says when he really means anything for you.

He wraps a hand around his dick and drags it through your folds, teasing the head around your clit before easing into your slick channel. He presses his forehead against yours while his thickness stretches you, he wants to stay close so he can devour every little whimper, plea, and breathy moan you make as he fills you.

Finally his hips are flush with yours, and you feel impossibly full.

“Your pussy’s so fucking tight, doll. Squeezing my cock so fucking hard.”

“Jesus, Bucky. You feel so goddamn good, but you gotta move. Fuck me, please.”

He grinds his hips against you, and just the small movement makes you moan. Then he pulls out so just the tip is resting in your entrance and pushes back in with a languid roll of his hips. He fucks you slow and deep, hungry to feel every inch of you, the way your walls quiver around him, to hear you begging for him, moaning for him, the way you whine his name into the space between your bodies.

His dog tags sit coolly between your tits, a stark contrast to the fire his body stokes in you. “Faster, Bucky,” you mewl, “‘m so fuckin’ close.”

“Taking me so fucking good doll,” his rough voice is full of praise. “Feel fucking amazing. Gotta come for me, just once like this, then I’ll give you whatever you want.”

He slides a hand between your bodies to circle your clit, and angles his hips in a way that drags his dick against your sweet spot perfectly.

“Bucky, fuck,” you groan.

“Say it again, doll,” he purrs, dropping a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “Say my name.”

“Bucky, god you feel so good,” you moan, right on the edge of your orgasm is making your voice breathy and needy. “Gonna make me come, Bucky. Gonna come all over your big cock, Bucky. Oh fuck, Bucky.”

He growls and slams into you hard. Electricity sparks through you, and your orgasm rolls over you, assaulting your senses, your cunt clenching a chokehold on Bucky’s dick.

Once you’re able to breathe again, you roll so you’re straddling Bucky. He groans a curse, “Fuck, doll. You’re so goddamn sexy.” You lean back and plant your hands on his thighs, and his thumbs trace intricate patterns over your hips as you start to bounce on his dick.

Bucky feels even bigger like this, and not just his cock, even though he’s filling you so full there’s barely room leftover in your body for breath. His whole body seems larger this way. The way his hips force your legs to spread so wide, the expansive plane of rigid abs, the massive breadth of his shoulders with the beautiful prosthetic arm he wields with such precision, the way his thick thighs expand and contract under your hands as he fucks up into you.

Bucky Barnes is a fucking work of art, and you can’t fathom how you got lucky enough to have him under you, inside of you.

“God, you’re so beautiful, doll,” his hands trace up to your tits, “can’t believe I get to have you like this.”

You put your hands over his, hot and cold and a bit overwhelming, and tell him, “That’s funny, because I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

A smile lights up his face, and damn, the hoops you’d jump through just to have him smile at you like that again. He pulls you down for a kiss that leaves your head spinning.

You twist your hips, and Bucky whimpers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. I wanna fuck you hard, doll. Want you to still feel me in the morning.”

“Well, fuckin’ do it, Buck. I ain’t gonna break.”

He snarls, one hot hand going possessively to your throat, squeezing hard enough that the world goes fuzzy around the edges. His legs bend, planting his feet on the floor for leverage, and starts fucking into you hard and fast. The room is filled with the rough slap of your bodies colliding, the wet squelches his cock drives out of your cunt, and the breathless pleas and praise you both shower upon each other.

Chilly fingers ghost over your pussy, exploring the apex of your thighs, tracing around the area where his cock splits you open. A cold thumb circles your clit, and two chilled digits force their way into your cunt next to his cock. You’re perfectly, painfully, exquisitely overfilled, and the dam inside you bursts. Liquid heat sizzles through you, lighting up your nerve endings, and whiting out your vision.

It takes a moment for the world to come into focus again, and Bucky chuckles, “Where’d you go?”

You shake your head, “I’m here. I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard in my life.” Bucky’s lap is soaked, and moisture drips down your thighs onto the pillows under your knees.

“Good, ‘cause I’m close, doll. Gonna fill you up.”

“Please, Bucky. Fuck, I want you to come for me.”

He wraps his arms around you, squeezing you against his broad chest, and pistons his hips into you, chasing his own bliss with a groan. Soon his rhythm falters, and he buries his cock deep inside you and comes with a grunt. Heat floods your tight channel as he paints your insides with his come.

You lie together like that for a bit, but you can feel your juices drying on your thighs. You roll off Bucky, and he jumps up to retrieve a wet washcloth for you to clean yourself up.

He stands above you with a strange look on his face. You’re unable to decipher the meaning of the look, so you ask, “What’s wrong?”

His lips squeeze into a line and he shakes his head, “Doll, I don’t think anyone is gonna want these pillows back.” You laugh as he helps you off the floor and into his bed.

You lie facing each other with the sheets gathered around your waists. Bucky looks at you curiously. “What is it, Bucky?”

“I think it’s probably personal, doll. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s okay. If it makes me uncomfortable I’ll tell you—no hard feelings. Deal?”

“It’s just,” he reaches out ever so gently to trace some of the scars that criss-cross over your torso, then touches his chest, which bears many of the same marks. “It’s just that we have a lot of the same scars. And, well, I know how I got mine…”

You sigh heavily, and before Bucky can wave away his question you hold up a finger. “I don’t like talking about it, but I’ll tell you, because you deserve to know.” He nods, so you continue.

“Hydra stole me from my parents when I was fifteen. It was during the sixties, and hippies aren’t big on watching their kids apparently. I was the youngest of a group of a dozen others that were given the super-soldier serum. They put me through tons of training, a lot more than the others, because most of the others were already trained soldiers who volunteered for the program.

“Once they decided I was done training, they sent me on missions. Sometimes I was supposed to collect information from important men—I was expected to sleep with them. Some were targets I was supposed to assassinate. I refused to follow a single order Hydra gave me, no matter how many times they tried to scramble my brain, I refused to kill, refused all orders given to me. I was just a general pain in everyone’s ass. I made one escape attempt after another, and at some point it became one too many.

“Rather than just terminate me and waste all the resources they’d already invested in me, they used me. They tortured me, cut me into pieces to test how a super-soldiers body worked, how much damage we could take, how much they could carve us up and still have us recover. I was the ultimate guinea pig. Over and over again in thousands of increasingly creative ways. They were using me to figure out how to… motivate all of the other assets who may be stubborn enough to resist their programming. They used me to figure out all the ways they could hurt the other soldiers—hurt you—but still be assured they’d recover afterwards. That’s why we have so many of the same scars. They used the things they learned from me, on you.”

You don’t look at Bucky’s face while you tell your story. You can’t stand for him to know you were the reason they were able to keep him in line so thoroughly and effectively. You stare just over Bucky’s shoulder, where everything is wet and wavering through the liquid screen of tears you can’t allow to fall.

“You were part of the Winter Soldier program?”

You nod and a traitorous tear breaks loose and dives off the tip of your nose. “The team knew I was a super soldier—that was unavoidable—but I asked Steve not to tell anyone I was one of the Winter Soldiers. He’s the only one who knows. It’s a lot of baggage to carry around and I guess I thought it would be easier if no one else knew. I’m so sorry, Bucky. I should have told you before… before we… I’m so sorry. You must hate me. It’s okay. I understand. I’ll go.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey,” his hand grabs your forearm to keep you from leaving, “Why on earth would you apologize to me? What was done to you wasn’t your fault, any more than the things they made me do were my fault. They used us, they tortured us… Hey, look at me,” he says gently, pinching your chin to lift your eyes up to his, “It is not your fault. Not in any way, and I need you to know that. You’re carrying around guilt that was never yours to begin with, and you’ve gotta lay it down before it crushes you.”

You break down, body shaking with the force of your weeping. Bucky gathers you in his arms and pulls you close to him. He makes soothing sounds, but lets you cry it out, because all that pain and guilt has to go somewhere and it’s a burden he’s happy to help you shoulder. Soon you run out of tears, and Bucky gently cleans your face with a tissue.

He presses a kiss to your lips, soft and tender, he pours all of his feelings into the small gesture. “Y/N, I love you.” He says it in a way that suggests he’d pluck the moon out of the sky if you asked him to. He says it in a way that means unequivocally and unconditionally and forever.

“Bucky, I love you too.”

The smile on his face is so incandescent it puts the sun to shame. With one big hand along your jaw he pulls your mouth against his.

Eventually there’s a knock on his door. He opens it, still naked, and unashamed of his nudity.

Natasha barks, “Damnit, Barnes. Put some pants on before you answer the door! Or a towel. Fucking something!”

He leans against the frame and shrugs. “What do you want, Nat?”

“Did you steal my goddamned pillows?”

He shuts the door, and grabs a couple pillows from off the floor, and shoves them out the door at Nat.

A few moments pass, and Bucky’s door flies open hard enough to bounce off the wall behind it. Natasha yells, “You perverts owe me new pillows! Fucking degenerates!” Two pillows fly into the room, and Bucky snatches them out of the air with a laugh.