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starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

Note

Omg thank you so much for writing my request for tom :) Can I ask for a part two where you try not to read the comments, but end up doing so, and most are good, so it's fine. Until you post a picture of you on your account, and tom's fans start calling you names, and tom's so tired of all that happening that he posts on his account a whole paragraph about how his personal life it's no one's business?

Posted

This is part two, find the first part here

Summary | previously Tom had accidentally posted a picture of the two of you, exposing your relationship. And so, you decide to purposely do the same on your Instagram, though the response is much different than what his post had received.

Warnings | hate comments, some angst, swear and demeaning words

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

Tom was asleep beside you, his head tucked into the crook of your neck, you were able to feel his gentle, slumbering breathing against your skin, and it caused goose bumps to prickle upon the outer layer of your flesh.

The two of you had vastly fallen asleep upon the couch, and your phone was on the coffee table, and to say that you were itchy to reach for it was an understatement. There would be comments on the picture that Tom accidentally put online, and you were hungry to see them, whilst simultaneously nervous.

Tom was a big actor, known for his presence in the marvel cinematic universe upon many other projects, and some of his fans, whilst proven during Comic-Con panels, were borderline crazy. They’d snap if they even so much as saw something that they didn’t like, and this time, you would be on the receiving end of it.

Being motionlessly captured, with your face on show, was certain to bring much attention. You too were within the acting department, but there had been no correlation between the pair of you until now, most of the world weren’t even aware that you knew each other. And not to mention, your span of reaching an audience was smaller, although, certainly not non existent.

You had reprised fame during your appearance on Modern Family, as the friendly neighbour of Phil and Claire, and a classmate of their eldest daughter, and not to mention Luke was crushing hard on the character you played, though, with that said, your character laughed his efforts off due to the age difference, yet still found his pining weird and often uncomfortable.

Another role that you were becoming known for was your character in Netflix’s Irregulars, where you met Harrison Osterfield, Tom’s best friend. Through filming the show, you were introduced to the Spider-Man actor, and the pair of you had hit it off almost instantly, if you didn’t include Tom keeping his amorous distance, wary just in case there was something going on between you and your mutual friend. To his relief, there wasn’t.

And thus, when he received that confirmation, he was far more forward, yet respectful at the same time with his intentions. That was how you had ended up here, as he half used you as a pillow, his arms wrapped around his ribs, and his soft peaceful snores filling the void in the air.

Stretching your arm at its furthest length, your fingertips wrestled with the side of your phone, padding it closer to yourself, so that you could slide it across the small living room table, and closer to yourself. You were victorious in your efforts, and so on you unlocked your screen, going to your camera app, and leaning sideways so that you could snap a few pictures of your predicament with your loving and sweet boyfriend.

Looking at the images that you had captured, a smile arose upon your face; you truly did love this man, and you wanted the whole world to know how much you adored him. You wanted them to see that you cared about him, and that he was in good hands with you, to cool off any of his fans that were processing their hurt feelings for seeing Tom with another woman, show him that he was getting the love that he deserved.

Extreme courage coursed through your veins, focusing within your fingertips as you opened insta, gulping as you readied to post the image. There was no editing required, it was perfect just like him. And so, the caption was something to think about, you didn’t want to make it too obvious that you were dating as the online community already assumed, the priority was to show them that you cared about him.

‘He’s taking a nap, and crushing my hip a little, but I don’t mind 😌’ you typed, your finger hovering over the post button as you chewed your lip. It was easy to press your digit down, and so, taking a breath, you did just that, encouraged by the previous and kind comments on Tom’s earlier post.

Within a matter of minutes, your phone was blowing up, and you were too tempted not to glance at the growing comment section. There were various accounts, some supporting your confidence to show such a domestic version of yourself with Tom, you assumed that they were your followers, and the ones that weren’t so light hearted were those that intently watched anything on the media that involved Tom.

‘He’s too good looking for her, she should be dating someone within her league. Tom is clearly taking pity on this hoe.’

‘Aw look at him, and ew, look at the state of her. He could do sm better 😔’

‘Why doesn’t she look like his exes, they were hot af, and now he’s with some rando that is after his fame and money. Maybe she should just take better roles if she wants to get noticed so bad.’

Your eyes kept reeling through the intentionally hateful words that continued to come through beneath the image. Tears began to fall from your eyes as you tried to stifle the movements and the sound of your gentle sobbing, as to not wake Tom. Quickly, your fingers raced through the social media, and you, knowing that there would still be presence of the image somewhere online, you deleted it, muting notifications and shuffled back into Tom.

The man stirred, tugging you closer by your waist, pressing a kiss to your locks as he awoke. He noticed however the way that you refused to face him, and so he rolled you over with a gentle grip on your shoulder, frowning when he saw the recognisable redness beneath your eyes, and the sad expression floating within your eyes.

“Princess, what’s going on?” He wiped his thumb beneath your bottom lashes, collecting your tears as he worriedly looked down at you. His brown eyes searched every inch of your face for an idea, but found nothing but your broken hearted expression.

“It’s nothing Tommy.” You tried and failed to convince the man, wincing half heartedly as he sat back on his thighs, gripping your hips so that he could pull you up with him, giving him a clearer view of your face. It was clear that he did not believe you, and he hummed, trying to make you give in. Eventually, after much concerned staring, you gave in, slumping your shoulders as you tucked your arms around the back of his neck. “I posted a picture of us, the response wasn’t great.”

Instantly, Tom’s brows uplifted, surprised by your action, though he had a strong inkling of a feeling that the reaction that you had earned was not complimentary. These were not tears of joy, instead they were stricken rivers of anguish and insecurity running down the length of your face.

“Let me see.” He spoke, softly to you, but his intents towards defending you strong. You shook your head lightly, tracing circles upon his knees as you gulped, flickering your guilty gaze up to his watchful eyes.

“I deleted it. I just couldn’t deal with knowing that the longer that it was up, the more hate would be directed at me. I’m sorry.” Tom grasped your face by your tense jaw, his fingers stroking your chin as he sadly stared at you.

“Never be sorry. Now send me the picture you used so that I can give everyone a piece of my mind.” Reaching for your phone, you sent the image to him, and in a second his device pinged, revealing that it had successfully sent to him.

“Cute.” He described the picture, his hands furiously typing away on his phone, his constant unsettling of his rabidly moving fingers drawing anxiousness from you. “And some.” Tom finally breathed, closing his phone as you went to his account, checking what he had posted publicly.

‘This may concern some people, who keep sticking their noses in where it does not involve them. I appreciate you all, the support, the love, everything. But one thing that I do not stand for is people coming at my girlfriend just because they don’t approve of our relationship. If you check mate, I never asked for your opinion, I love y/n, and some online hate, that needs to stop otherwise you are not someone I want to be calling themselves a fan of me, needs to stop. It makes no one happy or feel healthy with spreading such toxicity around the internet, if you don’t like something, then keep your blood mouths shut, this has nothing to do with you, it is just me and my girlfriend. I’d think you’d want me to be happy, because I want the same for all of you, so can people please give my partner some respect, she’s done nothing wrong but bravely chose to reach out to you all, and she had that spat back in her face. It’s not on, and I want this to stop now.’

“Tom...” you were shocked by the paragraph, it came across as aggressive, and very over protective. His action, that could affect how he was cried by people that put him on a pedestal, and that made you feel guilty that he had reached out to them in such a way.

“It’s okay baby, I’d do anything for you, and you know that. No one messes with my girl.” He put his arm around your shoulders as he pulled you close placing a kiss upon your forehead. Not only was he your boyfriend, but he was your protector, your knight on a shining cell phone.

#tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #tom holland one shot #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x you #tom holland reader insert #tom x reader #tom imagine #marvel actors x reader #mcu actors x reader #imagines #imagine #xreader

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athenawrites-stuff · 4 years

Text

Of Ice and Blood

Part 4

Pairings: Tai'chi Kashharzol (Orc) x Pearl Blackbell (Human OC/Reader)

Warnings: Violence, Fighting, Use of curse words, and shouting.

Word count: 1.8k + words

Sensing another one behind me, I went low and struck his leg with mine, using his fall to punch his chin with my right fist this time, being careful to use a controlled amount of force or else the nerve I hit will result to permanent brain injury and can be fatal.

I got up, swift in my actions as I saw the guy with a raised baseball bat heading towards me from my left flank, and the other one from the right, fast.

On reflex, I leaned back, the bat that was aimed at me hitting his comrade on the shoulder instead. Guy’s lucky, actually. He would have suffered internal bleeding if it bashed the side of his skull.

Four down, two to go.

I took my stance once again to ready myself. This dude was a foot taller than me, with muscles packed with raw strength, but even so, pale in comparison to Tai'chi’s p—

Stop thinking that! Focus!

“Smash her head Dan!” The man behind him yelled.

This ‘Dan’ went straight to me with his bat raised with intent once more.

Breathe in.

Everything slowed down. I let my heart rate decelerate, my hearing sharpened, my sense of smell heightening even further.

I closed my eyes, letting the rest of my senses take over. Years of practice, days of pain from training, each motion engraved to my entire body with purpose. To defend not only myself, but also those who are looked down upon, discriminated and stepped on like dirt. My parents had always taught me to defend myself. Me. Don’t get me wrong, my parents are good people, albeit wary of the other races in our community. But the moment I left the roof of my home, I knew it was time for me to defend someone other than myself. I don’t give a damn about where we come from or what kind of blood flows within our veins. I will protect those who need protecting, and set anyone straight and down to the ground when they deserve it.

Breathe out.

At the last few moments, with my eyes still shut, I changed my form. I followed his aura and pictured out the shape that was drawing up to land a serious blow to my head. Dan is solid and heavy, but everyone has at least one weakness. And this guy is not spared from that.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

I opened my right fist, right foot forward and relaxed my arms, my legs serving as a firm foundation for my upper body. With the bat inches away from me, I smoothly dodged to the side, using my palm to push away the hand holding the weapon and punched a vital pressure point right under his bicep.

I bent my legs even lower and struck the center of his ribs with my thumb, closing my hands as I jabbed his sciatic nerve on each side at the same time, both located in the middle line of the thigh between the groin and the knee. A solid blow to those nerve points will cause intense pain and shock to the person, along with a temporary immobility of the feet.

a/n: Self defense 101! Remember that dear readers♥

With the support of my left leg, I went behind the man, standing straight and proud. Calm, I opened my eyes when I heard his fall, staring right into the fearful ones of the moron that started all of this.

“Y-You- You killed them!”

Is he that dumb?

“Correction, I didn’t. I knocked them unconscious is all. And the fellow that attacked me first? Well, he passed out from the pain of his now funny-looking arm.” I stated flatly as I trudged to where he was standing.

“S-Stay away from me! Monster! Freak!” He stumbled, his ass on the ground and away from me until he felt a tree trunk on his back.

I scoffed and withdrew my knuckle dusters back under my baggy sleeve.

“You wanna know who the real monster is?” I stopped and held him in place with my scrutinizing gaze. He was trembling like a wimp at this point.

“It’s you.

"You and your disgusting racist friends.

"You, along with all the people who view and treats anyone other than humankind as lowlifes and pests that are meant to be squished and eradicated from the society.

"No, it’s you, and the ones who have the same mentality as you, who are monsters under the guise of a human.”

I paused, not even blinking as I bore holes into his skull.

“I am human, down to every inch of my being. But unlike you, I respect and treat everyone, regardless of kind or gender, and to those who deserve it, fair and right.”

Before I could continue, I scented new people coming into the scene. It was the teaching staff, along with the uni’s guard.

Shocked of what they have seen, they turned towards me, angry, surprised, confused expressions on different faces.

“What have you done?!” A female, human instructor, looking to be around her late 20s shouted.

“Ma'am, if you would just let me explain—”

“You are hereby expelled from this institution, young lady!”

All the color of my skin left me as I heard the words I have dreaded even before I set foot in the campus grounds.

“Now let’s not go straight to conclusions. We need to deal with this professionally AND properly Miss Holson. You are also not in authority to suspend this student.” A heavily bearded dwarven professor, clad in a brown suit and Oxfords, told her off firmly.

“What are you saying Mr. Dulrik? Look at her! Look at this! She murdered students and oh my God, is that the dean’s son?!”

For the love of— she blind? Why does everybody think I killed someone???

“Ma'am they are—” I was about to tell her but got cut off, again!

“Helpmehelpmehelpme!” He scrambled away from me and ran to the group of teachers and hugged the young instructor. “I don’t know what came over her! She just attacked us out of nowhere!”

The audacity of this fucking bitch!

“Pardon me? Attacked you? YOU were the one who followed me out here! You and your” —I gestured to the bodies laying flat on the ground— “ buddies over there!”

“She is lying! The orc was with her and and and—”

It dawned on me that I almost forgot about Tai'chi. My eyes widened, and I frantically scanned the area around for him. And there he was, standing by the oak tree, right where I told him not to move.

He seemed…irritated?

Oh no. At me?

“I have not moved an inch from where I am standing ever since I planted my feet here.” He said with his deep baritone voice, turning to confront the staff. “What she’s speaking is the truth. They were the ones who followed her here and attacked her, first.”

“And how can we be sure you are telling the truth, orc?” Miss Holson replied spitefully.

Even the teacher, huh? Her odor smells like vomit. I mean, I knew she was…foul, but I thought it was because of the situation. Guess not.

Tai'chi did not respond. Instead, he moved to look at me in the eyes. His gaze, searching, but not in an awful way. Was he asking me what I’ll do?

“How about we discuss this in the office, shall we?” An elderly professor spoke. She was wearing the university’s formal teaching uniform together with black, flat, closed toe sandals. “And Miss Holson, please quiet down. As Mr. Dulrik said, we should not jump into baseless conclusions.”

Miss Holson fumed and shut her mouth, holding the coward in her arms.

“Now then, Miss…?”

“Blackbell.”

The woman paused. I caught a smell of surprise and… astonishment?

She cleared her throat “Well, then Miss Blackbell, please follow us to the Dean’s office, along with your, companion.”

Weird.

“Oh and Mr. Smith, kindly call for assistance and take the unconscious students to the infirmary to be treated and looked unto. Thank you.” She told the guard. With that, she and the rest of the faculty started walking back.

I glanced at Tai'chi once more to find him, again, staring. I approached him warily, expecting him to be mad at me.

“Uh. Hi?”

I let out a long exhale when he replied, with a slight tug of his lips, his tusk jutting out. “Hi.”

I fidgeted, trying to come up with words to explain myself.

“I uh, uhm. Are you mad?”

With his brow raised, “Why would I be?”

Yeah why would he be?

“I-I never told why I keep wearing my mask.” I stuttered, “You see I—”

“You two! Start moving before I force you to.” A teacher yelled at us from a distance.

“We’ll talk later, Pearl. For now let’s get this resolved first. I know for a fact that they won’t expel you unless they ignore the ill intentions of the ones who attempted to harm you first. But better be safe than sorry, he was the dean’s son afterall.”

“Yeah… Thanks. We should.. go.” I turned and started walking along his side.

******pov shift for a bit*******

Little did Pearl know, he was thinking about how…nice, yeah that’s the word, definitely not sexy, you were when he witnessed your skills in combat. It awakened something in him that it took a lot of control not to get aroused there and then, which was the real reason why he stood there, unmoving from his place. Not once did he leave his eyes from you, almost jumping to help you when the guy with the baseball bat was closer than we would have liked. But oh no, he was not surprised, he was astonished and shookt , amazed when you pulled that last technique, sending the human plummeting to the ground almost soundlessly. And the way you stood right after, he knew he was smitten. That proud and intense aura you gave off was enough to make him bow down at your feet. He could feel it. He could smell it. That was his secret, he can scent people and catch any mood shift they make. Even though he told her that her eyes and brows gave it away, it was not entirely true as he could smell, literally, you and the changes on your scent.

Oh but little did he know you could to. Just not as observant as he is.

*************************************

Thank you for reading<3

I've already written Chapters 1-6 so stay tuned and check them out in my pinned post. Stay safe and healthy!

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funkzpiel · 4 years

Photo

In collaboration with @crocro-dyle for the Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang (@geraskiermidsummerminibang)! Crocrodyle is the amazing artist responsible for the illustration you see above, and you can continue to follow their amazing work via Tumblr or Instagram!

Special thank you to Smaller who was the wonderful beta for this fic!

Also available on AO3.

TW: graphic violence during hunt

Summary: Jaskier had always known Midsummer to be a night of festivities, celebration and heavy drinking - preferably with a beautiful partner to warm his bed. When a stroke of good fate landed them in a village prepared to honor the occasion, Jaskier couldn't wait to share the night with his witcher as soon as he returned from his hunt.

Then Roach showed up in town. Alone.

The wound was severe. Claws had torn into his side, piercing flesh like butter, and were it not for his armor and the very last of his wits, he would have been gored. But he hadn’t been. And the attack that should have secured the victory of the Alp that he had been hunting blessedly became its end. As long, wicked talons carved deep into his side, Geralt grit his teeth and with his elbow he pinned that eviscerating hand to his side – all the while thinking of the words of witchers before him: One must aim one’s sword with great precision, for Alps are unequaled in the art of evading blows.

She would not evade this.

The female Alp howled, the pale span of her thighs quivering as she yanked to free her hand. Nails tore through tissue. Geralt felt pain rip the air from his lungs, but he endured. He endured, because that was what witchers did. Endure until the job was done.

His silver sword would be too long, so Geralt dropped it. The Alp sneered as that silver blade sang against the gnarled roots of the great tree they found themselves entangled beneath. Lush, green leaves crooned a hushed lullaby above them, thrumming with the power of the impending shift into Midsummer. That pending change echoed in the sway of the grass, in the way the breeze carded through his hair. He couldn’t die now. Not before he paid homage… Not before he gave thanks…

“Have you given up, witcher?” the Alp hissed, lips pulling back in a cruel grin of fangs and bloody teeth. Venom pearled at the tips of her teeth. “Too weak to hold your sword?”

Let her think him weak, he thought to himself, free hand reaching back for the hilt of his silver dagger, its blade dipped in Vampire Oil and glistening with deadly promise. Let it be the last thing she ever thinks.

He plunged the knife into her neck without a single word, his own teeth bared and white as marble against his dirt-streaked face. What began as a shriek to incapacitate him in a last-ditch bid for freedom became a howl of pain, then grew wet, her teeth marred by her own blood. Black, shark-like eyes stared at him, enraged. Afraid. He anticipated that she would pull away. Anticipated one last grapple to the ground to finish what he had started. Instead she clenched her hand into his side more viciously and pulled him in. Despite drowning in the weeping of her own wound, his knife still in her throat, she bit him. Carnivorous teeth dug into his shoulder. Venom pushed into his veins. Geralt let out a strangled yowl before yanking his knife through the rest of her throat. Blood poured down his front as the Alp let him go, stumbling back. He let her, the hand he had used to pin her to his side now rushing up to check the worst of the bite.

Surprisingly superficial, he realized. But death likely hadn’t been the intention. He could feel venom threading through his veins already, black ichor spreading like a spider’s web beneath his skin – promising suffering ahead.

The Alp fell into the underbrush of the forest around them, body writhing as her heels dug into the dirt and her hair tangled in the twigs. Her ribs heaved. She gasped wetly. Slowly, her thrashing stilled.

Finally, naught was left but the hum of Midsummer’s approach in the wind and Geralt’s breathing – sharp and thready – as the venom began its work. Not for the first time, Geralt cursed his foolishness for not taking another night to brew Black Blood as he should have. But another night would have meant another innocent death, and so he took the job without it. At least then the death might only be his own.

He curled an arm around his wounded side and with shaking fingers, he whistled for Roach. His hands were nearly numb with venom as he dug into her saddlebags. He wouldn’t be able to take much, lest he trade one ailment for another. Half a vial of Swallow to stem the worst of the bleeding from his side and neck. Half a vial of Golden Oriole to dampen the venom coursing in his veins. The last of the vial fell numbly from his fingers not long after. He leaned into Roach. Felt her snuffling at his hair.

“Jaskier,” he tried to tell her, to ask her to fetch him, but all light began to wink out of his vision. Beneath his skin Alp venom sang and nightmares beckoned. Midsummer kissed his cheek with a pleasant, warm breeze. It reminded him of the homage he had yet to pay. He grasped that thread like a lifeline.

But it was too late. Between one shuddering blink and another, he was gone.

- ˑ༄ؘ -

Jaskier was grateful that – for once – their travels brought them to a sizable village right in time for actual civilized festivities. Midsummer was upon them and there was no mistaking the fact that the village was prepared to celebrate it in style. While it would by no means be an affair like the ones in Oxenfurt that he held so close to his heart, the town had a healthy population of villagers and appeared to be enough of a trade hub to have allowed the town to celebrate a little more lavishly than most. Kegs were being set up at stands in the streets. A wide range of summer wildflowers had been woven together by the women and children to wreath the town’s buildings and signs in floral drapery. Candles dotted the edges of the roads and vendor tables, all ready to be lit at dusk that night. It was an attractive enough scene at noon, but Jaskier knew that once night fell, the light of the candles and the fireflies would cast their cheery party in a beautiful, ethereal glow. It appeared there might even be a wedding planned for the night. It wouldn’t be an uncommon affair. Midsummer was known to be a celebration of life and love; how better to celebrate than through consummation?

He could already imagine the pleasant heat of the bonfire. The way it would tickle his cheeks as he drank beer and enjoyed slices of cured meats and cheeses, and danced among the townsfolk, learning the steps common to their dances here, whatever they might be. Maybe he’d even be able to coax Geralt into joining, if he were lucky. While they had known each other for years, this would be the first opportunity to spend the occasion of Midsummer together. He wondered if witchers celebrated it, or if Geralt would see it as an opportunity to rest in the inn without harassment after his hunt – not that Jaskier would blame him.

He hoped they could spend it together, though. The mere thought of Geralt beside the Midsummer bonfire, his creamy skin alight with warm oranges and yellows, sent a prickling up his spine not unlike the feeling that looking at a masterpiece painting might inspire.

Maybe he could even sneak a few flowers into the man’s white hair. Bursts of forget-me-not blue and dandelion yellow entangled in snowy locks, all cast in the flickering shadow of the bonfire’s glow—

—Jaskier visibly jumped when his thoughts were cut short by nosy lips snuffling at the back of his collar. Nearby the children giggled at the way he shrieked. He scowled at them, then whirled to find Roach pushing her long snout against his chest with a great, heaving sigh. She had been running, he realized.

Running without Geralt.

“Where is he?” he asked, all ire crushed beneath the great weight of dread falling in his stomach. She took him by the collar again and tugged, careful to mind her teeth. Jaskier needed no further prompting. He climbed into her saddle and let her take him away – all too aware of the blood smeared on the clasps of the saddle bag and the unmistakable red handprint on her neck, large and familiar.

- ˑ༄ؘ -

Jaskier found him face down in the mossy underbrush of an old tree, the sort of tree that spiraled high into the sky. He was mere feet away from a woman, her face twisted into the ugly grimace common to Vampires. Her throat was nothing but a bloody maw, open and wrecked. Already she had begun to stink of rot and death. Jaskier covered his nose and felt a weak shiver thread down his spine, nearly stealing the strength to stay in the saddle from his bones. Beneath him, Roach stamped her hooves impatiently, pawing at the ground. Jaskier gave himself but a moment to gather himself – just long enough to ensure the sight and smell alone wouldn’t make him fall disgracefully from Roach’s back – before he dismounted.

He forced himself to ignore the dead Alp. Forced himself not to take in the long red train of her hair, or how normal she had probably looked among the other villagers before Geralt had coaxed out her true nature. Instead he went to his knees beside the witcher, his name on his tongue as he reached for those broad shoulders and flipped him over.

He was paler than normal. Jaskier didn’t think that was possible, yet here they were. He looked as white as a crisp royal sheet, bleached like a bone in the sun. His neck was a mess of punctures, and with a shiver that shook him right down to his belly, Jaskier plucked a tooth from Geralt’s flesh and flicked it across the clearing. Worse yet, there was a gash in his side. No, not a gash – more punctures. Punctures where clawed fingers had made a home in his flesh. Both wounds had slowed to a sluggish bleeding, however, and a quick look confirmed his suspicions. Not far away two bottles lay forgotten in the grass. One empty, one still the littlest bit full – their contents puddled into the earth. Potions. Two of them.

At least he wouldn’t die of blood loss, Jaskier thought as he started the long, arduous task of trying to settle Geralt over Roach’s saddle as safely and harmlessly as he could. So much for celebrating Midsummer in style. Though even as that thought struck him, he found it to be more a muted old ghost than any true regret. An echo of selfishness from lonely days.

Instead Jaskier whispered a soft plea of gratitude into the air as he took Roach’s reins beneath her chin and began to lead her away.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you for getting me here in time.”

- ˑ༄ؘ -

Jaskier had wanted to return to the inn. He wanted a roof over their heads, and a tub of water to clean his hands with rather than the river, and a bed to let Geralt rest. But the thought of parading Geralt’s limp body through the village gave him pause. And furthermore, the promise of music and partying that was sure to fill the streets that night nixed the deal entirely. There would be no rest for his fickle sleeper of a witcher even if he weren’t injured. Add in potion-intoxication and fevers from his wounds, and he’d be miserable without reprieve; on edge, instincts flaring, and unable to do a thing about it.

So instead he took him further into the woods, away from the Alp’s corpse or anything the bloody battle might attract. Finding a spot to camp was second nature to him now after years of traveling at Geralt’s side. Not too close to water where prey animals and predators alike gathered. But not so far away as to make fetching water impossible. A dark, nestled nook of trees that were out of sight most ways you looked at it. There was little he could do to hide Roach, but she was – in her own right – another layer of security. She’d sense if something was wrong long before Jaskier ever would. And she’d never failed to protect herself before. So he removed her saddle, bit and bridle, and let her graze at her leisure with a soft promise to wash the blood from her coat as soon as he could.

He took Geralt’s tent from her saddle and set up a slanted covering using the trees. Something to provide a little security and buffer from the wind that night without limiting too terribly his ability to tend to Geralt. He rolled an old shirt into a tight ball and tucked it under Geralt’s head. He made sure the witcher was as comfortable as possible before he took a spare water skin and trudged to the river to wash the worst of any filth from his hands, then to fill the skin in preparation for cleaning Geralt’s wounds.

It was thankfully a far tamer affair than usual, with Geralt unconscious. No half-hearted embarrassment to make the witcher growl and sit stiff as a board as Jaskier tended to him. No self-depreciation for needing care. Geralt’s muscles didn’t fight him as he lifted his arms, legs, chest or neck to remove what clothing needed removing to do what needed doing.

Jaskier cleaned the wounds as delicately as he could. He mopped the sweat from Geralt’s brow as the man twitched, and tossed, and turned, plagued as though in the grip of a nightmare. And the reality was not far off, Jaskier realized. He had heard Geralt explain the dangers of an Alp’s kiss to villagers before. He knew the nightmares their venom could induce. He could only hope one of those vials the witcher had taken had subdued the worst of it somewhat.

He wrapped the wounds. Stitched what could be stitched and left the rest for the witcher’s biology to handle. Then he helped the man back into his clothing, left his armor aside, and shifted Geralt’s head until he had it cushioned in his lap, fingers threading through his hair.

Geralt’s eyes opened. Soft flickers of hazy gold peeking out from beneath sooty lashes. Sweaty brows furrowed and creased. The witcher moaned – a sound that was as much reaching out for Jaskier in confusion as it was reacting to the pain. Beside them, their little campfire leapt and popped merrily, painting Geralt in relief with yellows and oranges, and for a moment Jaskier nearly laughed as he thought perhaps he would get to see his witcher beside a bonfire after all.

“Jaskier?” Geralt croaked, looking up at him from his spot in the bard’s lap.

Jaskier weaved his fingers through sweaty hair – the knots long worked out – and said, “How kind of you to join us, sleeping beauty.”

Geralt frowned, but the ire melted away the pain that had contorted his face, and if Jaskier had to deal with a little ire to soothe those wrinkles away, he’d gladly do so. The bard smiled.

Weakly, Geralt lifted a hand, asking without words for water, and it was a testament to their time together that when Jaskier helped him sit up enough to drink, Geralt did not snarl or pull away. The bard held the water skin with Geralt as the witcher drank, urging him to slow when Geralt forgot to be mindful of how quickly he quenched his thirst. Geralt didn’t begrudge him the help. Communication so personal and second nature that neither had recognized when they had become so fluent in that language; only that they were grateful that they had.

When Geralt had drunk enough to soothe his throat but not so much as to upset his stomach or the delicate blend of potion and venoms therein, Jaskier set the skin aside – Geralt’s fingers trembling over his.

“The Alp?”

“Dead,” Jaskier said, “I just didn’t think we should camp near it.”

He knew Geralt would want to go and find it tomorrow when he felt better. That he’d want the head as a trophy to prove to the town he had done what he had set out to do, lest they try to swindle him. The Alp might be devoured by then. Jaskier knew that thought rankled Geralt something fierce. But he didn’t regret his choices, and he knew that while annoyed to potentially lose out on payment, Geralt didn’t begrudge him the decision either.

“Good thinking,” Geralt rasped. Jaskier felt a little plume of warmth unrelated to the fire fill his chest.

“Believe it or not, I have picked up a trick or two from you on our travels,” Jaskier preened.

Geralt’s fingers brushed over the wrappings that concealed his side, his throat, and said, “I believe it,” the words acknowledging, and the tone grateful. As close to ‘thank you’ as witchers tend to get. Once upon a time, Jaskier would have harped on the man for more. Now, it felt like everything.

“I fed and cleaned Roach. Your pack is fine,” Jaskier rattled off, this not having been the first time they’d had this conversation – nor would it be the last. “Afraid we don’t have much in the way of food, however. We’ll need to go back to town in the morning.”

“Surprised you didn’t go tonight,” Geralt said.

“Ah, yes, well… It's Midsummer’s Festival tonight. I didn’t think you’d appreciate the noise,” Jaskier admitted. He longed for a hot tub to soak in, fresh clothing and a pitcher of ale to watch the festivities with – but even so, none of those desires made him regret where he actually was or what he actually was doing. The thought of staying behind to celebrate, oblivious to Geralt lying wounded in the woods, made him shiver. It must have shown too, because Geralt’s hand closed over Jaskier’s free one on the witcher’s shoulder and squeezed.

Another unspoken pearl of gratitude.

“You said you had my pack?” Geralt asked, eyes fixed on Jaskier as though he were in the middle of deciding something.

“Yes,” Jaskier said, his own brows drawing ever so slightly tighter as his free hand moved from Geralt’s hair to his forehead, “You didn’t forget I said that, did you?”

Worry bubbled in his gut.

“Just making sure,” Geralt said, squeezing his other hand again. “I… It’s Midsummer tonight.”

“Yes, I know. I told you that. Are you sure you’re alright? You don’t feel feverish, but—”

“M’fine,” Geralt said quickly, cutting him off before his worries could spiral too transparently. “Truly. I just… there’s something I have to do tonight.”

Jaskier leaned back a little at that, surprised. He blew out an amused little breath and said, “I didn’t take you for the celebratory type, Geralt. We can just have our own party tomorrow night, if you’re that keen on it. I’ll braid flowers into your hair, and we’ll have our own little bonfire when your side looks more like flesh and less like holey cheese.”

“Lovely imagery,” Geralt deadpanned.

“Thank you,” Jaskier said beatifically.

Geralt searched his face for a long moment after that. Between them, the fire crackled innocently. Insects chirped. The moon filtered in pleasantly through the pines. But all of that paled in comparison to the look Geralt gave him. It was all at once unidentifiable, but also perhaps one of the most intimate things Jaskier had ever shared with the man. It stilled the breath in Jaskier’s lungs and left him as attentive as a deer in the field, waiting – always waiting.

“It can’t wait, Jaskier,” Geralt finally said.

“What, are you cursed to celebrate Midsummer or you’ll self-combust?” Jaskier joked, trying to ignore that lingering sense of dread that was snowballing dangerously in his gut. This was entirely unlike Geralt. Jaskier could count on fewer than the fingers of one hand how many times Geralt had sought his permission in situations like this. If he wanted to do something, he’d do it. He’d pick himself up from their makeshift camp and he’d limp off into the night, and the best Jaskier would be able to do was follow and hope he could help.

Even as their fight from the mountaintop rang in his head – long forgiven, but still haunting – he’d try to help.

And yet Geralt was not lifting himself up. If anything, the man looked as though he were on sleep’s doorstep. Jaskier brushed white locks back from Geralt’s sweaty brow and felt fear clench in his breast when Geralt closed his eyes at his touch and didn’t open them again right away.

“I’m too tired to explain, Jaskier,” he finally admitted. “And I’m… I don’t think I…”

Geralt choked on the words, still unable to admit his weaknesses after all this time. Some habits were rooted too deep to conquer and weed out altogether. But what the witcher had weeded out made Jaskier proud. So in this, he couldn’t begrudge them. They all had their flaws. Nothing was ever conquered in just a day.

“What do you need me to do?” Jaskier asked instead.

Geralt swallowed.

“I’m supposed to do it,” he said.

“And you will. Just help me help you do it,” Jaskier affirmed.

The witcher let out a slow, whistling breath through his nose. Then, after a moment, he nodded. And he told Jaskier what to do.

That’s how the bard found himself opening Geralt’s pack – not his large, more often-used rucksack of equipment and medical items, but instead a smaller pouch he hadn’t noticed had been attached to Roach’s saddle. Inside was a small saucer with a curved lip, a handful of candles, and a pouch of recently plucked flowers. It echoed the festivities he had seen in town, but without much effort it was obvious to note that this was different. Through his studies he had a rudimentary knowledge of flowers and their meaning. Of candle colors and scents and wicks. Each and every item in the pouch had a meaning. Flowers that promised blessings. Scents that paid homage. Colors that prayed for forgiveness. Little blooms that helped the dead find their way beyond the veil. And at the bottom of the pouch a small bundle wrapped in cloth. He had nearly unfolded it when Geralt said clearly, “Don’t,” from across the camp.

Plagued by curiosity, Jaskier looked to Geralt, fingers paused. But at those eyes – so amber and dazed, yet so keenly worried – Jaskier simply nodded, and stood to place it in Geralt’s hand, still wrapped, instead. He heard Geralt swallow thickly. Felt their fingers brush gratefully.

Geralt had a lovely voice, when he deigned to use it. He spent the early hours of the night listening to Geralt explain how to weave the flowers. Which colors and blooms to use when. What to lace over what. Which to tuck where and when. Without any description of what final result to expect, Jaskier followed him on faith. Something warm stoked a fire in his chest as he realized the more they went along just how personal this must be to Geralt. He had never quite heard of anything like this. With a quick pang he realized it must be a well-kept tradition of witchers – or at the very least of the Wolves of Kaer Morhen. And he – Jaskier – was helping Geralt do it.

Once upon a time he might have thought of it as a very boring, and perhaps even demeaning, way of helping the witcher. It wasn’t heroic or theatrical. He was so much more talented than a mere man with ten fingers to weave flowers with. But as Geralt narrated him through the process and his tone turned steadily nostalgic, Jaskier was struck with how much more this simple act meant to Geralt than any wound Jaskier had ever sewn.

He made a wreath of flowers and when it was done, he held it up for Geralt’s inspection.

“Like this?” he asked.

A little bit of the tension in Geralt’s brow softened, making him look younger as he breathed, “Yes. Just like that. Set it on the plate.”

Jaskier did so. The little blooms ringed the curved lip of the plate beautifully, leaving the pale center of the dish exposed plainly.

“Now set the candles inside. First the tallest along the inner edge of the crown of flowers, then the second tallest, then the third. Leave room in the middle.”

Jaskier did.

“Good,” Geralt said between heavy blinks, “Now light a match to melt the bottom of the candles to the plate and let it cool… We can’t let them fall.”

Jaskier did. It took a few matches and a few burnt fingertips and a few curses, but he did.

“Now what?” Jaskier said after he had waited for the wax to cool, gently poking the tallest candle of the three to ensure it wouldn’t budge.

“The part you won’t like,” Geralt finally said, beginning to force himself to sit up.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait now!” Jaskier said, delicately setting the plate aside so he could scramble up beside Geralt. He had half a mind to ease him back down, but the look in Geralt’s eyes was sharp and telling. He had allowed Jaskier to do as much as possible, but there would be no persuading him to lay back any longer. Not at this point.

“It’s midnight, Jaskier,” Geralt said through clenched teeth as he forced himself to his feet – swaying all the while. “I must do this.”

The bard caught him by his elbow when amber eyes drifted, and it looked as though he might fall. Geralt leaned into him for only as long as it took for the dizziness to pass before drawing in a deep, steadying breath, his gaze falling on the bard pointedly.

“I must,” he repeated.

“Then we will,” Jaskier said simply, but he kept his grip on the witcher’s elbow tight and just as pointed. He waited, jaw clenched and shoulders set, for Geralt to argue. Instead, after a brief moment of searching Jaskier’s face, the witcher merely nodded.

Jaskier held the plate in one hand and Geralt’s elbow in the other, and together they slowly made their way into the dark with nothing but the moon, Geralt’s uncanny eyes, and the sway of Midsummer’s breeze around them to guide the way.

“Where are we going?” Jaskier asked only once, but Geralt did not answer. They paused when they needed pausing, pacing themselves by the rasping of the witcher’s heaving breath. Occasionally Geralt would turn his nose to the wind, sniff, and change their course accordingly. Side by side, Jaskier followed his witcher into the dark until finally the trees parted and the moon rose high above to light the clearing that Geralt had found.

It was a lake, vast and wide, at the mouth of the river Jaskier had been using for water. The lake was wreathed in trees, and in the center of its glassy surface the moon above shone brilliantly. It lit the water in a fiery glow of pale opalescence, enchanting and so much more than any pool of water Jaskier had ever seen before.

“Help me down,” Geralt said, drawing Jaskier’s attention.

“Down?” Jaskier asked. “You don’t mean…”

But Geralt just leveled him with a patient, if unyielding stare. With a little sigh of resignation, Jaskier tested the solidity of the bank and plotted a course to ease the witcher into the water. The water was freezing. His clothing would be ruined. Mud squelched beneath his boots. Water sunk into his shoes. His back arched like a cat and with his shoulders up against his ears, he tottered around to offer Geralt a hand and help him in – only to pause, hand halfway between them.

Geralt looked otherworldly. Despite his damaged shirt and muddied pants and his bloodied flesh torn asunder, he looked beautiful. In him the moonlight seemed to catch and grow – not from any magic, but from the sheer significant focus in the witcher’s face. Whatever this was, this was important to Geralt. This was no party, no night to dance to. This was tradition in a sense that most people no longer understood. This was decades of beliefs passed down by calloused hands and grizzled, spoken words. A small moment of peace and mercy in a lifetime of ungrateful, dangerous work.

Jaskier sucked in a little breath, then steeled himself. He took a squelching step forward and raised his hand for Geralt to take. He bade his body maintain its balance as Geralt’s weight made him sink further into the mud, but for once the thought didn’t even cross his mind that he had likely ruined his shoes beyond repair. Every trivial worry, every materialistic concern – all of it disappeared as Geralt took his hand and let the bard guide him into the water.

The water rose first to their knees, then just below their hips, until finally Jaskier stopped Geralt with a firm hand against his sternum. He wouldn’t let the wound get wet. That was the line he wouldn’t cross, and in the moment Geralt looked at him, the witcher seemed to recognize a fight not worth having when he saw it.

“Hold out the plate,” Geralt finally said, his hair a halo of moonlight. When Jaskier did, he formed a quick sign with his free hand, and one by one the three candles sprung to life. Then he paused.

Jaskier looked between the plate and Geralt once, twice, then asked softly, “Is that it, or…?”

From a little pouch tied around his neck, Geralt removed the bundle he had asked Jaskier not to open back at camp. He swayed in the water, tired and aching, but remained steadfast as piece by piece, he revealed a silver medallion emblazoned with a wolf’s head. It looked just like Geralt’s, only older. Older and scarred, a jagged groove slashed right across the width of it, its chain dangling weakly from Geralt’s fingers.

“We give thanks for the lives we saved,” Geralt said, the words sounding like the echo of a prayer said dozens and dozens of times across the span of centuries, “and we beg mercy for the things we couldn’t change…”

Jaskier stilled, the candles flickering delicately between them, and waited with bated breath. Afraid that any inhale too loud, any flinch too jarring might shatter the moment.

Geralt’s gaze lowered to the medallion in his hand. He ran a rough thumb over the scarred metal, licked his dry lips and said, “We pray for safe passage for our brother, and plead that his sacrifices weigh more than his sins. For he was good, and in this hard world he tried to be just.”

Jaskier’s fingers tightened on the plate. He felt the lake sway around them comfortingly, as though it were a presence all its own. This is what witchers did on Midsummer while humans drank and danced. And while he hardly begrudged the town their making merry and celebrating, it made this moment all the more painful to bear. They could celebrate because of witchers like Geralt, who saved their fathers and mothers, their daughters and sons.

So why didn’t witchers get to dance and make merry?

Instead they prayed for peace, and grace, and mercy – knowing that when they returned to the hunt the next day, that the people they protected would widely never truly thank them for it. Jaskier felt suddenly choked by the contrast. His lashes burned, but he bit his cheek and forced himself to bear it. The plate felt suddenly so heavy. No wonder Geralt couldn’t carry it alone.

With a sharp breath – a sound that struck Jaskier as resigned and weary – Geralt placed the medallion into the halo of flowers and candles.

“And finally, we ask for blessings in the coming days,” Geralt said softly as he brought his hands over top of Jaskier’s instead of taking the plate away, “so that we may walk the Path until it ends, and another prays instead.”

Jaskier sucked in a shuddering little breath, his eyes only darting up when Geralt rubbed a thumb soothingly over the backs of his hands on either side of the plate.

“Lower it down,” Geralt said softly, and as though they were lowering a man into his grave, they set the plate atop the surface of the lake. With a gentle tap, Geralt urged it on its way and they watched it drift, side by side.

It was a long moment before Jaskier could find the words to speak.

“I thought witchers burned their dead,” he croaked, his hands trembling from the weight of it all. Even as Midsummer blew a warm, soothing breath across the back of his neck, he shivered. Geralt didn’t take his eyes off the plate as he thought over that, leaning into Jaskier the longer they stood in the lake – the mud slowly giving way beneath his feet.

“We do,” Geralt said. “But we do this too.”

“You deserve better,” Jaskier said.

Geralt hummed.

“Perhaps,” Geralt said, voice trailing away as the plate became a pinprick of light in the night. “But doesn’t everyone?”

Jaskier looked at him then. Took in the profile of this man – this man who had his childhood stripped from him to protect the very folks that abandoned and condemned him daily. Felt the weight of that injustice. The beauty of that sacrifice. The urge to write swelled within him. Ballads to convey the witcher’s plight. Rich, round words to even the scales and turn the tides.

And yet he knew that Geralt would not want that. That Geralt would not want to share this rare glimpse of peace with the world. This moment was for witchers and their tiny found family. And so the ballads faded, and the songs bled into silence, and instead all Jaskier could think to say was this:

“Thank you for sharing this with me, Geralt.”

“I’m sorry it’s no feast,” Geralt said weakly, wryly, as though he had been afraid of what Jaskier would think about this witcher’s tradition in comparison to the parties he was used to.

“Midsummer is a celebration of life and love,” Jaskier said, holding Geralt’s gaze. “There is no wrong way to do that, Geralt. It only matters that we do.”

Geralt nodded at that, not blinking as Jaskier wove an arm beneath his own to help take some of the weight off his wounded side.

“This is how the Wolves of Kaer Morhen pay homage to Midsummer,” he said softly.

“I hope they won’t mind that I imposed,” Jaskier went for charming, but an apology drifted anxiously at the heels of the sentence. Geralt hummed.

“You don’t have to be a witcher to be a Wolf of Kaer Morhen, Jaskier,” Geralt said. He stood stiff in the bard’s arms. Anxious, Jaskier realized. Even as his own heart soared, he realized the significance of what Geralt was suggesting. The fear of rejection that corded his muscles tight.

“Noted,” Jaskier said, turning Geralt just slightly so they might press their foreheads together and simply breathe. “Then I suppose I’ll have to mark the occasion on my calendar from now on, won’t I?”

Geralt’s breath shuddered against his lips. An exhale that emptied him of all fear until nothing was left but two men standing in a lake, family found in suffering. A consummation of love beneath the moon, a promise made in the curve of two bodies holding one another up despite the hardships that awaited.

A homage to love in Midsummer; quiet, patient and unrelenting.

#Gerasker #geraskier midsummer mini bang #the witcher #geralt of rivera #jaskier #witcher writing #art by crocro-dyle

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the--sad--hatter · 5 years

Text

Bloody Roses - Chapter Four (Bucky x reader)

FANDOM - MARVEL

WARNINGS - SOME BLOOD AND INJURIES, MENTIONS OF NUDITY

SUMMARY - What you thought was a trapped squirrel turned out to be a super soldier in need. It’s not every day an Avenger turns up in your garden, in serious need of help but you deal with it as best as you can.

And then he keeps coming back...

Masterlist

Chapter Four

You were in the co-pilot’s chair of an actual quinjet and if Bucky hadn’t strapped the seatbelt over you, you would be literally bouncing up and down in excitement. Othello shared your enthusiasm and let out a tiny happy ‘boof’ from the space between your and Bucky’s seats as the engine rumbled to life.

“Put your hand on this lever.” Bucky told you, grinning with unrestrained eagerness as you did as he said.

He placed his hand over yours and slowly and steadily guided you into pulling the lever back, making the jet hover off the ground.

A small excited gasp bubbled out of you as you realized you were doing that, you were flying a baby plane.

Outside the window in front of you, you could see the treetops as you rose higher until they disappeared from view were replaced with a scenic picture of the landscape, the place you called home.

“Oh my god.” You whispered reverently, sitting forwards in your seat to better take it in.

That wasn’t the end of it though, oh no. You kept rising into the sky until all you could see were clouds.

“Othello, we’re in the sky!” You said enthusiastically.

Bucky chivalrously held back his laughter and settled for a small smirk as he piloted the jet, flying you through the clouds. You were enraptured by the scene just beyond the glass, your hand reaching out to press against the glass that was separating you from the sky. Bucky noticed this and after watching you for a moment with a contemplative look he suddenly stood up and rummaged around until he found a length of jump rope and wound it through Othello’s collar, leashing him to the Pilot chair.

“Come on.” Bucky said, unclipping your seatbelt and walking to the back of the jet.

You shot him a confused look but followed nonetheless. There was a definite twinkle in his eyes as he reached over and pushed a button on the wall, making the back of the quinjet open.

And suddenly there was nothing between you and the clouds. You gazed out at them, hypnotized by the mind blowing beauty you were witnessing and took a step forwards, and another, until you were right at the edge of the floor. One step away from the open space.

You weren’t afraid of heights but so far up in the sky, amongst the clouds, you found a healthy dose of distress flooding your system. Still, you didn’t step back from the edge. How could you? This was an experience you would never have again and when you felt the heat radiating from Bucky’s body at your back, you knew that in that moment, hovering miles above the earth with nothing in front of you but miles of sky, you were the safest person in, on or above the world.

Adrenaline ignited in your veins, shooting through you until your skin erupted in goosebumps and your heart fluttered beneath your ribs like a trapped hummingbird. It was like having the physical reaction to anxiety without the emotional turmoil and instead of feeling trapped, caged in your own skin you felt… free.

You glanced down to your side and laced your fingers with his metal ones, holding on to him tightly before you let yourself tilt forwards until you were hanging over the edge, his hand the only thing holding you back and you laughed in wonderment until he gently tugged you back.

You didn’t fight it, letting your body fall back into his, laughter still on your lips. You turned your head and found his face just inches from yours. His lips were slightly parted and turned upwards at the edges, his pupils blown and awe written across his features.

“I wanna stay like this FOREVER!” You exclaimed.

His fingers flexed against yours and the weight of some deep, unfathomable emotion filled his eyes as he answered.

“So do I.”

“PIE!” You yelled abruptly, making him jump slightly.

“Pie?”

“Pie. In the oven.” You clarified.

As truly magical as it was up here, you did have to go back down to earth at some point and preferably your house wouldn’t be on fire when you did so with regret, you unlaced your fingers from his and stepped back.

“Oh. Right.” He sighed, hitting the button to close the back of the jet up as you ran back to the front, scratching Othello behind the ears as you settled into the co-pilots chair.

Bucky took his seat next to you and kept shooting furtive glances your way as he piloted the jet back to your garden. He landed it smoothly while you untied Othello. As soon as the ramp descended Othello’s shackles went up and he darted out of the jet, snarling. Bucky’s arm came up, sweeping you behind him while he pulled out a gun.

“Bucky no!”

“Stay here.” He commanded.

“Bucky wait, stop! It’s not Hydra, it’s not an enemy. It’s Taz!” You insisted in a rush, the world tumbling out of you nonsensically.

“Who?”

“Taz. It’s a cat from a few miles away. About once a week he wanders onto the property to torment Othello.” You explained.

“Stay.” Bucky commanded again, looking no less calm about your assurances.

You nodded and slowly backed away, further into the jet. You let him leave, knowing he wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d checked every inch of the house and surrounding area. He hit the button for the ramp on his way out, sealing you inside. It took about twenty minutes before he came back. His jaw was clenched and his shoulders tight as he waved you down the ramp and as you drew closer you could see the shame brewing in his eyes.

“You were right. It was just a cat.” He whispered.

“Nobody has any way of knowing you’re here Bucky and nobody has any reason to come after me. This place is as safe as can be, but you’re allowed to worry anyway. I don’t mind that you carry a gun or that wanted to check it was safe before you let me inside. It’s ok. It’s ok.”

Your assurances that it was safe but he wasn’t an idiot for making sure of that seemed to calm him and he huffed out the breath he’d been holding forcefully before relaxing his shoulders and nodding to show he understood.

“I turned the oven off.” He said meekly, looking at you for reassurance he’d done the right thing.

You smiled happily, relieved that you wouldn’t have to start from scratch.

“Thank you. But you’re still not getting any until you’ve had lunch.” You said mock sternly, daring him to challenge you as you lithely pranced away.

You figured that if you treated the incident like it wasn’t a big deal, he’d realise that it wasn’t.

“But I’m hungry now.” He whined petulantly, catching up with you by walking at a normal pace.

“Then go wash up.” You instructed.

When had you turned into such a mom friend? It was disgusting. And hypocritical. But it seemed to work on him because he jogged ahead of you, heading straight for the bathroom. You stifled a laugh at his antics and made your way into the kitchen, putting the pie on the cooling rack before you started making lunch.

By the time he came back you were plating up his food.

“Dry, cured pork on a bed of lettuce and tomato, served on home baked sourdough.” You announced pompously as you handed him the plate.

He looked bewilderedly at you as he took it and you could see the gears turning in his head as he tried to think of a way to word the question on his mind politely.

“It’s ham sandwiches Bucky.” You scoffed, shooing him towards the table.

Thankfully, you’d remembered what he said about Super Soldier metabolisms and used about three quarters of a loaf of bread to make him a comically large pile of sandwiches, which to your utter disbelief, he wolfed down in no time at all. By the time you brought a pitcher of ice water and a glass over to him, the plate was half empty.

“These are good!” he exclaimed as you set the jug down.

“Yeah well, you have super strength, I have super sandwich making skills.” You joked.

“See, you say that like it’s a joke doll but I guarantee the team would let you in if they tasted these.” He said.

“Do I get a supersuit? I think I’d look great in tight spandex.” You mused aloud.

Bucky must have been eating too fast because he chose that moment to choke on his sandwich and had to down half a glass of water to clear his throat while you silently panicked and wondered if you were physically strong enough to Heimlich a super soldier.

“Are you not eating?” He asked, still a little red from his near choking experience.

“Yip. I’m having pie!” You announced as you walked back over to the counter and pulled out two bowls and a carving knife.

You cut about a third of it for him and a slightly smaller slice for yourself.

“Do you want ice cream?” You asked with your head stuck in the freezer as you dug around for the ice cream in question.

“Yes! Please.” He said and you turned around just in time to see him feeding a crust to Othello.

He looked guiltily up at you when he realized he’d been caught.

“If my dog gets fat because of you, you’re taking him on extra walks.” You snorted.

You slid his bowl across the table to him as you sat down, kicking your feet up on empty chair and handing him one of the spoons. He immediately scooped up a spoonful and let out a little grunt of surprise that turned into a moan of appreciation as he tasted the dessert.

You weren’t proud of the way your heart leapt into your chest and your thighs automatically clenched at the sound.

“Definitely a superpower. Doll this is… divine.” He said emphatically.

“There’s still half of the pie left. You can take it with you if you want.” You offered.

“You should come to the compound and deliver it. Steve wants to meet you, to thank you for helping me. Sam want to meet you and berate you for it.”

“That’s nice.” You said, shoving as much pie in your mouth as you could in the hopes you could avoid the conversation.

“I could fly you out if you wanted.”

“Mhaybye.” You said around the mouthful.

“You don’t want to meet them.” He stated, picking up on the distress that was practically pouring off of you in waves.

“I don’t do well with people. I just… I prefer to not be around them unless it’s unavoidable.” You explained, sighing as you realized there was no way around it.

He went through an impressive range of emotions. Confusion, understanding, sadness and landing on a frantic guilt and embarrassment.

“Listen.” You said before he could say anything.

“It’s like this horrible itch, right under my skin. This buzzing building under the surface until it feels like my skin just doesn’t fit, like I’m all wrong. I get so unbearably warm and sometimes I feel like I’m going to pass out. Static build in my head and I can’t think. It’s exhausting and draining and I can put up with it, I can push through but when it’s over I have to lock all the doors and draw the curtains and be alone until my skin fits again.” You told him.

You hadn’t meant to go into quite so much detail but the words came pouring out of you and you couldn’t stop them. He looked down at his lap and took a deep breath before he looked up at you again with resolve.

“When I started coming back to myself, I felt like that all the time. Every day I remembered a little more and it got worse until I realized I was trying to be the person I remembered from before Hydra instead of the person I am now. I know our reasons for feeling that way aren’t the same but I understand what you’re describing and how unsettling it is. I am sorry for making you feel that way, I don’t know. I didn’t mean to…”

“But you don’t make me feel like that. Being around you isn’t stressful. You’re basically like Othello. Wait… no. That came out wrong.” You reflected with a squinted frown at what you’d just said.

“I’m like your dog?” He asked, his forehead crinkling up as he frowned at you.

“No, that’s too kinky even for me.” You sniggered.

He audibly gulped at the throwaway remark and you wondered if anyone had ever committed suicide by spoon before or were you about to be the first.

“Bucky… I feel comfortable around you. You being here with me is so normal I didn’t even think about it until after you left. You’re here and I like it. That’s what I’ve been trying to say.”

“You like it? So I can stay? Even though I haven’t made a dent in the bookshelves I’ve been promising to build?” He asked with a soft hopeful smile.

“Stay as long as you like.”

The way he smiled at you then made everything kind of melt away, until you were just gazing at him with what was probably an idiotic grin on your face.

“I should get on with it. I’m wasting daylight.” He said, standing up and looking as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself.

“Ok. Do you need anything? Can I help?” You offered.

“You really want to get that close to the power tools?”

“I’ll be upstairs reading if you need me.”

“That’s what I thought.” He teased.

“Bucky? Thank you. For the flight. It was… I don’t have words to describe it.” You laughed gently.

“I’ve read your book doll, I know that’s not true.” He challenged, crossing his arms and staring you down.

“It was transcendent. It’s the kind of experience that someone carries with them in their soul for the rest of their lives and if heaven exists and I can spend eternity in one moment, then that will be the moment I will choose.” You told him seriously.

“Well… That’ll do.” He whispered and walked away, slightly dazed, glancing back at you with a serene look on his face as he walked out of the back door.

As you piled the dishes into the dishwasher and covered the leftovers it occurred to you that he probably wasn’t expecting you to tell him that a moment with him was your idea of heaven.

Oh well, it’s not like he would read into what you’d said.

Speaking of reading, you dug out your favourite book, knowing nothing less would be enough to distract you from the handsome handyman in your garden.

The sounds of sawing and hammering, of wood being sanded down all faded into the background, providing a soothing white noise as you lounged on your bed, propped up by pillows. It felt domestic and soothing and you barely noticed when the sounds moved inside as you lost yourself in the book, reading the familiar exploits and adventures of your favourite characters. Occasionally the bed would shift as Othello jumped on it to stick his snout in your face and check on you and you’d absentmindedly pepper kisses into his fur without looking away from the book. At one point a fresh cup of coffee appeared next to you and you didn’t even question where it came from as you sipped it, enthralled by the inner monologue of the hero of the story as they realized their world wasn’t what they thought it was.

Only when the light dimmed and you couldn’t clearly see the words on the page did you break out of your reverie, looking up in shock. The sun was barely visible on the horizon and you realised you’d lost the whole afternoon and most of the evening.

“Shit!” You exclaimed, jumping to your feet and immediately wincing as your bones all simultaneously let out screeches of protest and your bladder made it’s presence known.

You ran/hobbled down the stairs and into the living room, skidding to a halt at the phenomenal sight that greeted you.

“Welcome back.” Bucky said, looking over at you with an incredibly amused expression.

Your jaw fell open as you turned slowly in a circle, looking around the room. The once bare walls (you kept meaning to paint them, really you did) were… gone. Well not gone, covered. There were now rows of dark bookshelves covering three of the rooms walls, from floor to ceiling.

“How?” You demanded, looking at him with a ‘what the hell?’ expression.

“You… you don’t like it?” He grimaced.

“I love it, it’s like a literal library. But HOW?” You asked again.

You’d only been lost in your book for half a day.

Right?

“Well I work faster than most people, and I can carry more weight so moving the stuff was less time consuming.” He explained.

“Bucky this is…”

“It was the wood you had in the shed but if you don’t like the colour I can varnish it.”

“It’s perfect. It’s like the better, beautifuler version of what I had in my head.” You told him.

He lit up at the way you looked around, beaming with happiness at your newly renovated living room.

“I took measurements of the porch for that swing, I’ll get started on that next time but..”

“But?”

“I have to go now. Steve called a little while ago, we have a short mission in the morning. I’ll be gone for a couple of days.” He said apologetically.

“Will you be ok?” You asked, concern flooding your veins.

“It’s nothing we can’t handle. I’ll be back soon enough.”

“Ok.” You said, nodding.

He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words, which was ironically how you felt as well.

“This.” You said, gesturing around the room. “It’s amazing and so very perfect. Bucky I love it, I can’t thank you enough.”

“I’m only trying to repay you for saving my sorry ass darlin.” He chuckled, kneeling down to give goodbye pets to Othello.

“Thanks for your help today buddy.” He murmured.

You let out an internal aww at the adorable scene as you quietly backed out of the room, grabbing the covered pie dish out of the fridge. You heard him come into the kitchen behind you and you held it out to him as you turned around.

“I’ll see you soon doll.” He said.

You felt like you should do something but a handshake was too formal and a hug felt too presumptuous so you ended up awkwardly waving at him as he left. When the door closed you sighed and your shoulders dropped, already missing him. Then the door swung back open and he strode over to you, dipping his head down to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth, just like the last time he had left.

You couldn’t have stopped the smile that burst forth if you had tried and he smirked.

“Bye darlin.”

“Be seeing you Sarge.”

________________________________________________________

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