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ohforficsakelibrary · 11 months ago

Text

Barbados

Summary: You've been carrying on with whatever this is for months, pushing and pulling, until one night Frankie wants control.

masterlist

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!Reader

Word Count: ~2.2K

Rating: Explicit 18+ for smut/ Unprotected piv, edging, multiple orgasms (f), creampie, a hint of dom!Frankie, a dash of brat-tamer!Frankie, still a Consent King, a pinch of blasphemy, y'all are gonna get a noise complaint / Minors DNI

A/N: As with Dominica, this is written about these two idiots, but flipped to the reader's perspective. Can be read as a standalone, only a few tiny, non-critical nods to the series.

Happy Frankie Friday to all those who celebrate.

Eight months into whatever this is, Frankie pulls noises from your throat that you’ve never made in your life.

And to think, you had fought him on it.

You’d been working each other up all evening, spiking heated glances over the dinner table as you listened to Pope go on about something.

Can’t remember what.

You’d both unceremoniously deposited Santi in his room next door, each smacking your key cards against the reader so quickly that it took three tries to unlock as Frankie groaned into your mouth and you pawed at his belt. This room was one of yours.

Can’t remember whose.

It doesn’t matter, one key eventually worked.

In your haste to have each other after a month apart you’d skipped his mouth, and his fingers, and everything you would have demanded if you’d had more sense.

Sense. The thing he simultaneously robs you of and delivers in spades to every starving nerve ending.

The two of you hadn’t even made it to the bed.

Frankie’s behind you on the couch, your upper body draped over the armrest as he works his way inside you.

“Mmfh, hold on, wait, wait, wait,” your hand finds his where it’s wrapped around your hip and immediately he stills as you hiss through clenched teeth.

“Shit. Baby, talk to me.”

“Just. A little sharp.”

“No, I should have…” he makes a move to pull out completely.

Your hand flies back to his hip, “Francisco Morales, don’t you dare.”

“Baby, just let me taste you,” he barely has the tip of his cock inside you now as he cranes to drop kisses along your spine, “get you all warm and ready for me. ”

“I’m fucking ready for you now.”

Stubborn as a moose is not the saying, but Frankie reckons it should be.

“Baby, please, I’m not doing this if it hurts.”

He’s mad at himself, more than anything. Frankie doesn’t fuck around with this. He knows what he is.

He’s normally so methodical. He has his procedures. His checklist. You blew right through it and in his haze of want—he let you.

You’re doing it even now as your nails bite into his hip when he makes a move to pull away.

“Baby…” he urges again.

“No.”

Talons of irritation tug at the back of his scalp.

And he gives in to them.

“You know what, fine,” he growls, hands leaving you completely as something shifts, “you do it then.”

You move to bring one of his warm palms back to your skin but he snatches it away.

“No. That’s all you. You wanna take me? Take me. Go ahead.”

Oh.

A Frankie Mood.

He hasn’t had you in a month and already they’ve returned with a vengeance.

You throw him a look over your shoulder, half expecting to see his arms crossed over his chest. One hand’s braced on the back of the sofa, and you can feel the heat from the other where it hovers over your hip.

His bottom lip is trapped between teeth.

Okay, Frankie.

You prop yourself up off the arm of the sofa with one hand, reaching down with the other to guide the tip of his cock against your entrance, gently shifting your hips and rocking back onto his hard length at your own pace, moaning as you do.

A pace you’ve slowed way down for his torture benefit.

It smarts a little less and you take a little more.

But this stopped being about that a few inches ago.

You can hear Frankie sucking sharp breaths in through his nose. The back of the sofa creaks with the white-knuckled pressure he’s subjecting it to.

While his words are bold, his body’s barely held together.

But he’s composed enough not to give you the satisfaction of the moan that’s bursting at the back of his throat.

“God, Frankie,” you breathe when the curve of your ass meets his stomach.

He barks a dark laugh.

“Oh, I thought you could take this whole thing,” he leans to cover you with his body, nose skimming the shell of your ear.

“I’ve still got two more inches here for you, babe,” he continues to taunt just before he bites down on your earlobe, soothing it with his tongue.

“What are you gonna do about that?”

You have half a mind to flip him off of this couch and onto the floor.

Instead you drop your chest back down to the arm of the sofa, tip your hips forward, and squeeze around him.

It makes him give you the last two himself.

It hadn’t taken long for you to discover how to short his brain and send his hips slamming into yours in search of more.

“Ohh, you little…” he’s growling but you can feel the smile against your ear.

He loves this.

The push and pull.

You guide his hand to your clit, where he immediately starts rubbing slow circles with his middle and ring fingers.

He’s gonna drag this out.

You tip your face to meet his mouth, sucking on his bottom lip before he gives you his tongue.

“You okay?” He whispers softly when you break for air.

“Yeah, baby.”

Frankie drops a kiss in your hair before he bucks his hips against you without pulling out.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

“Mmmm,” he rumbles, sitting up and holding your hips with both hands. He gives you a few tentative strokes, slowly, palms mapping the contours of your back until you take it upon yourself to push against him.

“You’re so fuckin’ impatient, aren’t you,” his hips don’t falter from their lazy pace as one hand grabs the back of your neck. “So fucking greedy for me. For this cock.”

You clench down around him to make your point, smiling when he groans, his hips stuttering.

“You know what?” He brings his face to your ear, “let me have it, baby.”

Control.

Let him have control.

He can’t see the way you arch an eyebrow in challenge, but he knows it’s there on your face.

“Fine,” you whisper and cant your hips back against him.

“Need a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ gatita.”

“Yes. Frankie.” It’s sour in your mouth as you say it. But you trust him. Trust that he’ll take care of you. That he’ll work you up and over and through until “yes Frankie” is all that you can scream.

You trust that he’ll take you past the point of words.

And so “yes Frankie” it is.

He rewards you by picking his pace up to something you luxuriate in, humming with approval as warmth builds low in your belly. You instinctively reach down between your legs and Frankie immediately pulls your hand away.

“That’s mine,” he growls, “and I’m not ready for it yet.”

You bury your face into the armrest and moan in petulant protest.

The hand on the back of your neck soothes, rubbing down over your shoulder blades. He follows the motion with his mouth and you arch up into him.

You can feel his eyes on you, reading your body in the absence of your face. He slows his pace when your breath goes shallow and waits for it to deepen again before building you back up.

When your fingers dig into the armrest, he nearly stops, holding you in place by the hips, grinding his pelvis against you. He leans forward to drop kisses at the base of your neck and scrapes the scruff on his chin down your spine, the prickle of it giving you another sensation to latch on to. After a few moments, he skates a massive palm over your skin to wipe the feeling away, hooking it over your shoulder and yanking you backwards faster against him.

The next time he pulls you back from the brink it’s with a hand in your hair and teeth in the curve of your shoulder.

He unwinds you like rope, pulling at each cord, twisting until it frays, until all that’s left is you pleading and panting in front of him.

By the fourth time you’re telling him to go fuck himself, and he’s purring in your ear that no you feel much better between thrusts that drag the crown of his cock over every spot inside you with the capacity to light you up, he’s just doing it too slowly to cause a spark.

“Frankie, I swear to God…”

“You can swear all you want, gatita, God isn’t here. Just me.”

And oh but He is, in the searing palms that hold you firm, the thick, clever fingers that finally slip down to where he fills you to rub tight circles against where he knows you need him most.

In the way your ears ring when he speeds his hips and his hands up��and finally allows you to break.

A gasp, a captured breath, and a cry when you exhale again.

Except now, he doesn’t stop.

“Frankie, fuck, Frankie, Frankie, Fr…Fran…FranKIE,” discretion abandoned in favor of open-mouthed pleasure. His pace is brutal and you don’t care who knows that he handles you with a pilot’s precision, one hand encouraging the arch in your back, pulling where it’s wound in your hair, fingers of the other working faster over your clit.

You’re keening as you claw at fabric and bury your face in the armrest, Frankie never letting up as your walls clamp down around him again.

He grits his teeth through your torture, grunting as he continues.

He continues until you’re laughing deliriously.

Until you’re growling.

Whining.

Sobbing.

Jesus, Catfish. Don’t kill her. Frankie’s phone buzzes with a text from Santiago.

Neither of you notice.

You’ve angled your hips to take all of him, hair in your face, death-grip on the armrest because it’s the only thing keeping you here.

He cracks you one last time, has you crying and moaning and screaming for him in the seconds before he holds you fast, deafening you with the guttural scream that rips from his chest as he pumps you full of him, stuttering hips fucking hot spend into you as desperate cries escape his throat.

His teeth sink into your shoulder and his weight becomes yours to bear when he finally quiets and collapses, sucking open-mouthed kisses into your sweat-damp neck between gasps for air.

You stay a moment like this.

Feeling his lungs fill at your back.

Feeling his heart hammer against your spine.

He finds himself enough to take his weight, but your hand grips his hair before he can move much further.

“The couch,” you pant a warning and he catches your logic in his hormone-addled brain, wrapping an arm around your waist and rolling you with him down to the hardwood floor.

His body breaks your fall.

Broad palms roam your stomach, up over your breasts and down again, hot, ragged breath rasping over the shell of your ear and catching in your curls.

He guides your hips up enough to allow him to pull out with a groan before he encourages you over, one hand immediately flying to the base of your skull to bring your mouth to his.

You can feel the warm rush of him between your thighs.

“Was that okay?” He sighs against your lips.

“More than, baby.”

“I missed you.”

And you hum with a smile, raking damp hair out of his face.

You missed him too.

Both of your phones clatter repeatedly against coffee table glass and it finally spurs Frankie to his feet.

You both still alive?

You need electrolytes?

Fish, rub some sugar on her gums.

You read the group texts aloud from your back on the floor and Frankie laughs, returning with a warm washcloth and your underwear.

All good, Santi. So good.

Frankie sits on the couch and kisses your stomach as you stand and shimmy your panties up your legs. He pulls you to curl against him where he can still trail his nose over your sweat-slick neck.

How do I know Fish didn’t take your phone? Proof of life.

It’s tossed offhandedly with a smile. He doesn’t expect his screen to light up with a photo from Fish.

The look on your face in the photo is apologetic, one hand raking the hair out of your eyes, the other holding your phone with the screen lit to display the date and time. Frankie is behind you with his nose pressed into your hair and a Cheshire cat grin playing on his lips.

God, on the COUCH?

Sorry, not sorry, Pope. Is his answer.

Santi offers only the eye-roll emoji in response.

_____

Fifteen minutes later, when you’re both showered and in bed, Frankie’s head resting on your stomach and your hand gently raking through his freshly washed hair, your phone fills the room with blue light.

From Santiago to you alone.

You’re better for him than you know.

The truth is, he hasn’t seen the man smile like that since his daughter was born.

I can’t save him, Pope.

No. But you can make him feel.

And you understand exactly what he means because someone once did the same for you.

You stretch and Fish moves, rolling you onto your side where he can fit against your back, solid arm locked around your waist, breath brushing peacefully against your neck.

Yeah.

You can make him feel.

And sometimes that’s enough.

#frankie morales #frankie morales smut #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #ohforficsake

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deathbyhertouch · 5 months ago

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Over and Over Again

Phoebe Bridgers x f!reader

warnings: Smut 18+(mdni), angst, fighting, swearing, fingering, brat!reader, pussy slapping, bondage, hair pulling, choking

word count: 1.7k

Enjoy 😘

“Oh fuck off, don’t fucking do that shit.” She growled through gritted teeth. You rolled your eyes at her and crossed your arms.

“Sorry, I have to fight for your attention, all of the time, Phoebe.” You spat back at her.

“Are we seriously going to go through this fight, again?” She asked, voice slightly raising. You looked up at her, blinking back tears, but determined to hold your ground on this. She was home late for the third time this week, after promising to be home for date night with you. It wasn’t like she was an hour late, she was nearly 5 hours late. No text, no call, just late-again. You knew she was working hard preparing for the tour and getting things set, but on the other hand you were a bit fed up with being pushed to the sidelines. You had tried to be patient, knowing how hard she works for her career, but countless nights being fed glass promises such as ‘it’s only for tonight, i promise you, just need to get this chorus down’ or ‘the boys need help with coordinating tour venues, i will be home on time’. You can’t even remember the last time you slept together. She either rode the couch most nights or was staying the night at Lucy’s apartment.

“Apparently we are, since you seem to forget about me every other day. Honestly, do you even still love me anymore? Or am I just some accessory to only be yours when you decide you have time for me?” You huffed under your breath. One look at her face however, you knew you had pinched a nerve. Her face was beet red and her hands were curled into tight fists, knuckles white. In the blink of an eye, she was standing in front of you, looming over you.

“Wanna say that again, sweetheart?” She whispered. You knew now was not the time to test her, but fuck it, you hadn’t gotten properly fucked in months, and seeing her like this flipped some sort of switch in you.

“I said- I must be just some plaything to you, you barely touch me anymore.” It was a bold move on your end, knowing that playing the brat card was high risk, high reward. You were horny, and this might be an ends justify the means situation.

“Fucking brat, you know that? Fine. You think you’re just a toy, then I will treat you as such.” She growled in your ear, her delicate hand wrapping itself around your throat, applying a light pressure. You swore she could smell the arousal in your panties. You knew better than to play on something she had no control over, but you wanted attention, and by god you were about to receive it.

“Bedroom, now. You better be fucking naked by the time I get in there.” She pulled back, releasing her hand from your throat. You swallowed, eyes growing wide. Not really wanting to jinx the situation, you muttered a ‘yes, ma’am’ and made your way to the bedroom. You turned on the salt lamp, the soft orange glow illuminating the room. You made quick work of ridding your clothes and sitting on the bed, awaiting further instruction.

It wasn’t long after, Phoebe came in, her hair now tied up in a small bun. She approached you, sweetly running a hand across your cheek, before gripping your hair into a fist and yanking harshly. It hurt but you were way too turned on to care. You gasped and she stuck two fingers in your mouth. She angled your head to look up at her and gave you a sly grin. She leaned over your agape mouth and spit into it.

“Swallow, like the greedy little whore you are.” She spouted at you, releasing her hands from your head altogether. You graciously accepted, not able to help the moan that escaped your lips, clenching your thighs together.

“Thank you, ma’am.” You muttered, eyes raising to meet hers. She smiled down at you and ran her thumb over your bottom lip.

“Good girl. Now close your eyes and lay on your stomach.” She gave your cheek a small smack, before she pulled back completely. You followed orders, turning and closing your eyes. You could hear some light rustling, assuming she was removing her clothes, or something of the like.

It felt like an eternity, before you felt her nimble fingers, beginning to tie restraints around your wrist. She moved her fingers, almost feather-light, down your body. You felt a loud crack, and the rush of blood to your ass cheek. You whimpered, before feeling her hand rub over the sore spot.

“ Count to five, whore. If you’re good, I might consider giving you a reward.” She quipped, hand coming off your ass. You nodded lazily, humming with content.

Smack. “One.” She rubbed your ass, cooing at you.

Smack. “T-two.” Your voice now breathy and uneven. You were absolutely dripping onto the duvet at this point. Phoebe must’ve also noticed because you heard a scoff from behind you.

“Not even phased by your punishment, are you? Making a fucking mess.” She spoke softly, but you could hear the smile in her words.

Smack. “Fuck, three.” Your ass was sore, and you were positive that come tomorrow morning, her handprint would be emblazoned on your cheek, broken blood vessels in its wake.

Smack! “Four.” Her slaps got sharper, as they moved to your other cheek. You were grateful she let up on your left cheek, however making up for that by using harder force on the other.

“One more, pet.” She whispered. You nodded, silent tears now rolling down your cheeks.

Smack. “Five.” You croaked, happy that the harsh treatment was over, but fuck if you weren’t utterly turned on right now.

You felt her lean her head over you and placed a kiss on each of your now bruising cheeks. She hummed lightly, satisfied with her work. She ran a single digit through your folds, collecting your arousal. She brought her finger to her lips, savoring the taste of you.

“So wet for me, pet.” She smirked at you. “I suppose, you’ve been good, maybe you deserve a bit of recognition.” You whined and nodded in agreement. Her hands moved up to untie yours, giving each of your wrists a small peck.

She helped you turn onto your back, moving to sit against the headboard, your body leaned up against hers in between her thighs. She placed wet, hungry kisses up your neck before grabbing your jaw and pulling it to face her as she ensnared your mouth in a heavy kiss. Her mouth was warm and wet and inviting, this was the intimacy you needed. It was a rather rough way to get it, but you were happy nonetheless.

“I l-love you, Pheebs. I’m sorry for what I said earlier.” Your voice was no higher than a whisper. She hummed against your neck, placing a soft kiss against the sweaty skin. She moved a hand down your body, fingers grazing your breast, making you shiver against the gentle touch.

Her hand found its place on the top of your pubic bone, eliciting a light mewl from you, bucking your hips up into nothing. She huffed a light chuckle, and placed a teasing slap to your pussy. You yelped at the sensation, utterly turned on. You must have been oozing at this point, her fingers finally granting you her sweet touch to your aching core. When she swiped her fingers through your folds, ending with rubbing deep circles on your clit.

“You close pretty girl? You’re making such a mess on the sheets.” She cooed at you, knowing how much you loved when she talked to you this way, just did something ineffable to you.

“Please, ma’am, can I cum for you? I want to cum all over your fingers.” You were begging, which in turn made her slip two slender fingers into your dripping pussy. You moaned loudly at how easily her fingers slid in. She began pumping into you at a rapid pace. You were a panting mess, feeling that pit in your stomach. You were racing towards your release when you moved your head so you could look her in her eyes.

“Yeah? You gonna cum f’me?” She growled in your ear, tugging your soft lobe between her teeth.

“Please, please let me cum, ma’am. I’ll be such a good girl for you.” You gave her your best doe eyes, watching the wheels turn in her head. Her fingers sped up, your pussy now making a squelching noise. She hummed into your hair, the hand not currently servicing you moving to pinch your nipple. You moaned and leaned up to kiss her, and she captured your lips, kissing you deep and slow.

“C’mon princess, let me have it.” She whispered into your mouth. You sighed happily and nodded, absolutely drunk on the feeling she was giving you. You felt your orgasm ripple through you, becoming a sopping mess, gripping her arm tight. Her fingers slowed a bit, helping to soothe you as you came down from your orgasm. She pulled her fingers out of you and brought them to your mouth. You opened up and took them on your tongue, swirling the tip around the digits. You hummed at the taste, she pulled them out with a pop of your mouth, before leaning down to kiss you sweetly.

“ I love you, Phoebe, sorry I dealt a low blow.” You said, breaking away from the kiss. She pecked your cheek, running her fingers through your hair.

“I love you too, I’m sorry i’ve been so busy lately. I promise to make it up to you.” She spoke to you with such care and tenderness. You were happy, wrapped in her arms.

Love, A

#boygenius x reader #boygenius #boygenius smut #phoebe bridgers x reader #phoebe bridgers smut

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hottpinkpenguin · 2 years ago

Text

Joel Miller X Fem!Reader - Last of Us - Part 2

A/N: read part 1 here!

Warnings: hints of sexual violence (no descriptions); dark themes; post-apocalyptic dystopia; death of reader's minor child; probably a lot of non-canon details since I've never played the game; not proofread; spoilers if you haven't seen the show/played the game Word Count: 2650 Abbreviations: QZ = quarantine zone; FDRA "Fedra" = Federal Disaster Response Agency

----

“You look like hell, Joel.”

“K.”

Tessa looked Joel up and down, making a point to grimace as she did.

“What, am I too ugly to do business with or something?” Joel’s tone was biting, his patience running thin. The restlessness in his bones was gnawing something awful today.

“Where’d your pet go?”

Joel’s stare was flat, but Tessa knew him well enough to see the slight jump in his jaw muscle as he clenched his teeth momentarily.

“My pet?”

“Yeah, that sad sack with the dead kid.”

Joel’s knuckles turned white on the back of the chair he was leaning on.

“What are you talk-”

“Oh come on, Joel. Don’t act like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like every other stupid fuck around here.” Tessa gestured around the dimly lit basement where she’d met Joel for the swap. They were alone, but Joel knew who she was referring to. Her crew. Good at stealing, running, and turning profits, but not amusing to her the way he was. Joel didn’t react, he just kept staring at her.

“It’s my job to know what my guys are up to,” Tessa pointed out as if she were explaining something to a young child.

“I’m not one of your guys,” Joel countered through gritted teeth. “The only thing we need to know about each other is what I have and what you’ll pay for it.” He looked pointedly at the half-smoked pack of cigarettes, sawed off shotgun, and car battery on the table between them.

Tessa chewed on the inside of her lip as she looked up at him. The bare lightbulb overhead cast harsh shadows on her face.

“That wasn’t always true, though.” Her voice was softer now, a hint of playfulness in her tone. An invitation. She smirked up at him coquettishly. Joel shook his head, trying to shake out the memories that expression brought to mind.

“That was a mistake, Tessa.”

“A good one, though. Sometimes good mistakes are worth making a few times.”

Joel shook his head, exhaling softly. He should have known better. Never put your prick where you put your money.

“No, Tessa.”

“Come on, Joel. Just for old time’s sake.”

“Not gonna happen.”

Tessa’s eyes turned from flirtatious to bitter as the smile melted from her lips.

“So she was your pet.”

Joel felt himself tense up. This was a game that he really didn’t want to play. Tessa was a dangerous woman. He’d done well to stay on her good side for so many years, but this had been a serious miscalculation. He shouldn’t have plucked at her jealousy by bringing you into the mix.

“She wasn’t anything,” he insisted. He kept his tone even, forced himself to hold Tessa’s accusing gaze. Tessa had a good bullshit meter, but she was blind when it came to Joel. He’d used that a few times before, but this was a moment when it really mattered. He couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk you.

A heavy tension settled between them as Tessa took a drag of her cigarette. Joel swallowed down a surge of anger at the oblique threat to your safety.

“Fine.” Tessa stood up quickly, tamping out the end of her cigarette on the table and surveying its contents. “I’ll give you eight for the lot.”

Joel ran a hand through his graying hair in exasperation.

“That’s less than half of what we agreed on.”

“Yeah, it is.” Tessa knocked on the metal door behind her. It swung open, two of her lackeys swooping in to scoop up the contraband that Joel had brought her. Tessa grabbed a duffel bag from one of them, unzipping a side pocket and rifling through a dirty, wrinkled stack of meal cards. She pulled out eight pink slips and thrust them towards Joel. He knew better than to argue, and took them begrudgingly.

“You’re screwing me on this, Tessa.”

“And you’re screwing her.” Tessa’s voice was low. Joel didn’t miss the pain in her words. “In your dreams or in reality. Either way, you’re screwing her.”

Joel opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. His mouth snapped close. Tessa nodded in confirmation. She zipped up the duffel bag and swung it over her shoulder as she turned to leave.

“So this is about me not picking you?” Joel couldn’t stop the question from slipping out. He could have kicked himself for the fucking stupidity.

Tessa froze halfway up the first step of the stairwell behind the door. She half-turned back to him. On the other side of the doorframe, her entire face was cast in shadow.

“Partially. But partially because I can’t trust you anymore.”

“How do you figure that?” Joel stuffed the eight cards into the back pocket of his jeans, sensing that their conversation was coming to an end. He didn’t want to linger any longer than he needed.

“Because. You’re not a free agent anymore, Joel. You’ve got something to lose. Which means people can get to you. And if they can get to you, they can get to me.”

Tessa didn’t wait for him to reply before she started up the stairs. The door behind her swung shut, leaving Joel alone with the bare lightbulb and a jolt of fear in his gut that confirmed one thing:

Tessa was right.

*****

The frozen ground crunched under your knees as you knelt down in front of the lopsided piece of wood that marked Gabriel’s grave. He wasn’t buried there, of course; FDRA confiscated all the corpses. What they did with them from there, you couldn’t let yourself think about. But you’d buried his favorite pair of sneakers and the tattered Captain America comic book he loved so much in this spot. It had been weeks since you’d visited.

“Hi, baby.” You patted the cold, hard soil in front of his grave marker with a trembling hand. The frigid January air had gnawed your fingertips numb.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

In the distance, a raven cawed.

“Things have been… well, they’ve been bad since you left.”

The abandoned lot you’d buried Gabriel in was overgrown with vines. It had been a playground once. A rusted swing set lay overturned on its side a few feet from where you knelt. Behind it, a monkey bar and slide combo emerged from the weeds. Gabriel used to like to play here when he was little. Eddie would take him on the rare days he had off.

“I miss you.” You choked on the words, feeling your resolve beginning to fracture as tears burned the corners of your eyes. You swiped them away as your nose started to run.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m trying to do better. I’m trying, baby.”

Next to the wooden stake with Gabriel’s name roughly carved into it, a second stake stuck out from the ground. It was more worn and weathered after years of sun and rain. Eddie’s name was barely visible anymore. Like Gabriel, Eddie also wasn’t buried here, but this was where you chose to remember him.

“I love you both.” Two hands on the ground this time. One in front of each of your boys. A tear slid free from your cheek and slapped onto the frosted ground between your knees.

“I’ll visit more, I promise.” You rose from your knees, tucking your frozen hands under your armpits with a shiver.

“What are you doing out here all by yourself?”

Your body went still, icy dread shooting through your veins. You knew that voice.

“Just paying my respects, Dirk.”

You turned to face Dirk Reynolds, keeping your face in a mask of calm. He was the last person you wanted to run into out here so far from the rest of the QZ.

“Sorry to hear about your boy.” Dirk sounded anything but sorry. He was walking towards you slowly, eyeing you like prey. You fought the urge to run, but the sight of the FDRA-issued semi-automatic in his hands made you think twice.

“Thank you, that means a lot.” Actually, it meant dog shit to you, but Dirk Reynolds wasn’t a man to play with. Even Eddie had been afraid of him, and Eddie was as fearless as they came. You swallowed, suddenly feeling very aware of how alone the two of you were.

“You’re all alone now, aren’t you?” You couldn’t help but take a half step back. He was still a good fifteen paces from you, but too close for comfort. His words set your teeth on edge.

“I like to come out here by myself. Get some peace and quiet.” You knew that wasn’t the kind of alone Dirk was getting at, but you were desperate to change the subject. His brown, bloodshot eyes raked you up one side and down the other. Despite the layers of clothing you’d piled on to try and fight off the Boston winter, his gaze made you feel woefully underdressed.

“That ain’t what I meant, y/n.” His voice dropped an octave, practically turning into a growl. He kept moving closer to you, taking his time, his eyes never leaving you.

“I’m getting by,” you stammered back. “Mrs. Hughes and her girls are good to me. They look out for me.” You wondered if Dirk would back down knowing that there were people who might miss you if you stayed out too long. Mrs. Hughes and her daughters were good to you, but you doubted that they’d notice your absence until well past curfew. God knows what shape Dirk would have you in by then. Your throat went dry and you felt your lip start to tremble.

“You look scared, y/n. I ain’t gonna hurt you.” He was close enough that you could hear the frost-stiff ground crunch under his feet.

“I- I know.” Your reply wasn’t convincing in the least. Because you knew one thing: Dirk Reynolds would hurt you. You’d heard plenty of stories from the other women who lived near you in the QZ.

“I look out for my friends. And I’ve got plenty of friends around here. I could treat you real good. Keep you warm, comfortable. Keep you safe.” Dirk lingered on the last word, a thinly veiled threat.

“I’m sure. And we all appreciate everything you do for us. Truly.”

Dirk was FDRA, but he was also something of a self-styled neighborhood mafioso. He took bribes from all the drug dealers, smugglers, and pimps in the four block radius where you lived, and in exchange Dirk turned a blind eye to their goings and comings. You remembered him from when you’d first gotten to the QZ. He’d been a fat, boastful lecher back then. The twenty years since had seen him shed the beer gut and hone a real violent streak. He wasn’t the brightest man you’d met by half, but you couldn’t make the mistake of underestimating him. You hoped your appeal to his ego would work.

“I wouldn’t mind if you showed me some of that appreciation.”

You fell back another half step, your hands still raised in the air like it was a stick up. The fact that he hadn’t told you to put them down told you enough about his intentions.

“What… Dirk, I- uh, I’m not ready… For all that. Still grie-grieving.” You could barely speak, the sheer panic ringing in your ears like bells. He was close enough to reach out and touch you now. You started calculating the chances of making it if you took off in a run. That gun he held in his hands gave you pause. You’d seen what Dirk did to some of the women who’d turned down his advances. And you’d known a few women - by face only - who’d mysteriously disappeared. There were rumors, of course, that Dirk had something to do with it; but up until now, you’d been able to wave those rumors off. You had other worries to pay attention to. But now, all you could think about was getting away. You didn’t think you’d make it very far before he shot you. And despite everything you’d lost, the terror pulsing in your blood told you that you weren’t ready to die. Not yet.

“Y/N! There you are!” A vaguely familiar voice called out to you from over Dirk’s shoulder. You kept yourself completely still as Dirk’s face darkened in irritation, grunting angrily as he spun around to face the source of the sound.

Joel Miller was striding across the frozen carpet of vines at the northeast corner of the empty playground, waving at you like you were an old friend. Your knees almost buckled in relief at the sight.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you! I wish you’d told me you’d come out here to see Gabriel.” Your heart twitched at the sound of your son’s name. An idle corner of your thoughts wondered how Joel knew that’s why you were here, but that was a question for later. With Dirk distracted, you made your move. You scurried around Dirk, careful not to get close enough to let him grab you, and made a beeline for Joel. You had to consciously fight the urge to run.

“Sir, I appreciate you looking after her.” Joel’s tone was sunny and friendly. A little too obsequious, you thought, but maybe that was because you knew Joel was putting on a show for Dirk’s benefit.

You closed the distance between you and Joel quickly, the skin on your back prickling in a frenzy to get away from Dirk.

“Get behind me,” Joel whispered to you through gritted teeth when you were in earshot. His voice was low and urgent, but the smile he wore for show never faltered.

“Yeah, sure, no problem.” Dirk’s reply was casual, but his tone was threatening and coarse. “Pretty little thing like that shouldn’t be alone in these parts. Can’t be too careful. All kinds of things slipping through the wall these days.” You knew Dirk was referring to the infected that occasionally broke into the QZ through the maze of dilapidated buildings, subway tunnels, and sewers. For your part, you’d have gladly traded the open city to get as far away from Dirk’s leering stare as possible.

“That’s what I tell her, once a day if it’s twelve times. Isn’t it?” Joel turned to you, obscuring his face from Dirk’s view. There was a question in his eyes: did he hurt you. You shook your head quickly, letting your eyes fall to the ground. You sidled closer to Joel’s shoulder. He noted the movement and casually shifted his weight to step squarely between you and Dirk.

“We’ll go on and head back then. Don’t want to miss curfew. Thanks for your help, again. I won’t let her out of my sight, that’s a promise.” Joel turned away from Dirk, gesturing with his eyes for you to walk towards the boarded up building at the far end of the playground. He kept himself behind you, between you and Dirk.

“Make sure you do that,” Dirk called out after the two of you. His voice was bitter and dark.

“Keep walking. Don’t look back,” Joel urged. He hovered a hand on your lower back, his touch so light you thought you imagined it. Despite the remnants of fear crackling in your nerves, his touch sent a gentle wave of warmth up your spine. You felt the terror subside slightly.

You let Joel lead you silently back to his apartment. The two of you never shared a word, but there was a clear understanding that you wouldn’t be going home. It wasn’t until you stepped through the familiar doorway that you let out the faintest smile at the promise Joel had made: I won’t let her out of my sight. You knew the promise had been made under duress, but you sincerely hoped he was serious.

read part 3 here! **let me know if you want to be tagged in future chapters!

#joel miller #joel miller imagine #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #last of us #joel miller last of us #last of us imagine #pedro pascal #pedro pascal last of us #pedro pascal joel miller #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x y/n #last of us hbo

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butterflys-roses · 1 year ago

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An Angel Falling

Katsuki Bakugou x Suicidal Reader

-Angst, Readers death, major character death-

▪︎= start/end of flash back, hc = hair color, r/n = random boys name.

Summary: katsuki never learned how to express his feelings but he wished he could've sooner

3rd person pov

Katsuki bakugou felt sickened as he stepped into ua's ground how could he become a hero after what he did, what he did to you, he lost hope to become a hero but here he stands in the best hero school in the whole of Japan and everytime he closes his eyes a flash of you appears he hasn't had a goodnight sleep since.

Katsuki pov

'It was a mistake I shouldn't be here' flashes of her kept appearing and my throat started to close up 'I should of told her, I should have caught her' my hands started gripping my hair as my breath became more rigid and my vision more blurry "I can't be a hero" I whispered by voice slightly cracking, I released my hair and slightly stepped back "I can't do this".

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"Hi I'm l/n yn, what's your name" I jumped as a girl popped up in front of my way "no one cares extra" I muttered and roughly pushing past her and grunted as she started to whine "katsuki bakugou" I muttered before walking off to my usual break spot "can I sit with you" she asked as she skipped along beside me "no, go find someone else to bother" I grunted "come on" she whined bumping into me "stop it" I muttered turning to her "bu-" "I said leave" i said interrupting her "fine" she huffed before leaving.

My eyes brimming with tears as I remembered when I first met her "how could I been so mean" I turned away towards the entrance trying to convince myself that I do belong here and it wasn't just a mistake "kacchan" I flinched hearing deku from behind me "what deku" I seethed through gritted teeth "you couldn't have done anything to stop it" his words making me clench my fists tightly making my knuckles turn white "i could've" i whispered.

Izuku pov

I watched in sorrow as he looked up to the sky " I could've" i shuddered hearing the sadness in his voice I knew he had had mixed feelings when he got the acceptance letter, even his mom became worried because of his reaction "she would've wanted you to do this" I said slowly coming closer towards him "she always wanted you to be a hero" I murmured and shakily put my hand on his shoulder "to be number one".

Katsuki pov

I huffed as I heard her annoying humming "leave me alone extra" i growled closing my eyes and leaned my head against the tree i was sitting by "here" she squeaked making me open one eye "what" i muttered "I saw you didn't have lunch and had a extra bento" she murmured softly "i don't need your pity food l/n" i said and stood up knocking her back causing her to fall and the bento spilling all over her, my eyes widened as the few students around us started laughing which only made her hiccup before running off, I sighed running my hand threw my hair "crap".

"I don't know what she would've wanted" I said shrugging his hand off before walking away from him to leave "kacchan" I ignored dekus calls as I slowly started making my way home trying to avoid the concerned stares I got from people i passed, it wasn't long till I stopped in my tracks and looked down the familiar alleyway where I used to beat her up, I shakily lifted my hand up to my mouth "why was I so mean to her" I choked and slowly started my way of again, my gaze never leaving the ground till a giggle reached my ears making my head jerk up 'no it can't be' i started to frantically look around till my eyes landed on a hc girl who was faced away from me "yn" I murmured and started to push my way through the crowd but as I was about to reach out she started moving away "yn please" I called but my calls were only met with weird stares.

3rd person pov

The blonde boy hastily followed the girl through the crowded streets and his calls were never answered and as bakugou did the final push to get out the crowd he realized that the girl stopped in front of a familiar building, a building that now filled his nightmares "y-" katsuki reached out to grab the girl but as his fingertips grazed her uniform she disappeared like she was never there.

Katsuki pov

'This must mean something' i prepared myself as I walked onto my old schools grounds remembering all the terrible things I did as I made my way through the halls, looking into all the classrooms to see if anything could tell me why I'm here, I slowed down as I came to my old homeroom and peered into the class.

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"I left my books ill be right back" I muttered to my so called 'friends' as I turned around to make my way to the classroom 'I wonder where yn is i haven't seen her all day' i was about to go into the classroom when I heard someone inside "thank you for helping me with my homework yn" I growled and gripped my fist tightly "its no problem r/n-san" she sung sweetly, I quietly moved so I could see them from the door and the site made my blood boil.

Yn pov

I slightly shifted in my seat as r/n leaned over my table his arms almost caging me in "as a thank you how about I take you out tomorrow night my treat" he smiled brightly "I would li-" "what the fucks going on here" I froze hearing bakugou's voice echo through the classroom "nothing i" r/n stuttered before running out to escape 'scaredy cat' i thought to myself before sighing and looked towards katsuki "what is your problem" I muttered swiftly picking up my stuff and tried going past him but he roughly grabbed my arm stopping me in my tracks.

3rd person pov

"My problem my problem my problem is you" bakugou shouted at the poor girl as she started to tremble "I fucking hate you" he growled throwing her onto the ground "I fucking hate how your also so friendly even though your so pathetic, I hate you confront that quirkless bastard even though he doesn't deserve it" katsuki's anger was getting the best of him "I fucking hate when my mom compares me to you I fucking hate when you smile at me when I'm being a fucking dumbasd" but his anger was slowly turning into jealousy and sadness "I fucking hate that you were born" he yelled out grabbing the poor girl by her neck, she struggled and whimpered for him to let go "kat k-kat p-please" she begged and he only letting her go as she started to faint "pathetic" he spat before leaving her bearly conscious body behind.

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Katsuki trembled as he stared into the class "how could I do that" he murmured as a single tear ran down his cheek he quickly moved further and further into his old stomping grounds shedding a tear and every spot he remembered where he bullied her but the last one he couldn't bear any longer and fill on sobbed as he slowly creeped to the edge the edge where his true love fall and he couldn't do anything about it.

"Why don't you take a swandive off the roof of the building and hope you get a quirk in your next life" bakugou's words repeated over and over in her mind 'was she really that useless' her tears left a small trail as she treaded up to the roof she was finally done, done with his bullying done with her life, he finally broke her.

Katsuki pov

I laughed as she walked away but something felt off but ignored it and started walking out the classroom and out into the courtyard to bully some juniors but as I stepped foot outside I heard yelling and pleading I looked infront of me to see a crowd but they weren't looking at me they were looking up I slowly walked I'm front of them my heart burning with each step and I finally turned and looked up my eyes widened and heart stopped 'n-no no' it was yn standing on the edge I wanted to shout and scream at her to not do it but I was frozen I couldn't even blink 'please no'.

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I slowly climb over the railing staring down at the floor 'I can't do this without you anymore' I closed my eyes tightly as pictures filled my head, the blood that splattered when she dropped, the lifeless look she had in her eyes when the paramedics were covering her up "I just can't do it" I cried, I blinked away the tears looking up towards the sky "I'm sorry yn, I loved you to much and I just didn't know how to show it, I hope you forgive me" I said before falling.

{Plot twist}

The h/c girl laughed as she watched the boy she once loved hit the ground she and her partner laughed as the neared his body "he totally deserved that" she giggled as her partner pulled her in close kissing her passionately "he sure did princess" dabi grinned evilly.

#x reader #mha #mha x reader #mha x reader angst #mha x suicidal reader #x suicidal reader #x reader angst #tw.suicide #mha x depressed reader #character x reader #character x suicidal reader #character x depressed reader #katsuki bakugou #katsuki bakugo oneshot #katsuki bakugo x reader #mha oneshot #katsuki bakugo mha #katsuki bakugou x depressed reader #katsuki bakugou x suicidal reader

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yourfavoritebookclub · 1 year ago

Text

WINGLEADER: A Xaden Riorson POV Fanfiction

CHAPTER 10

Sgayel flies overhead almost as soon as the last of the cadets have filed out onto the Threshing grounds, her wings kicking up a cloud of dust and fragmented rock as she lands.

Without a word of goodbye to the others, I tighten the straps on my leathers and pick up the daggers and short sword I left in my bags before Gauntlet started. If I can keep my head down for long enough to get off the ground, I’ll be fine, but as of right now my patience has worn so paper thin I can almost feel where it’s peeled away in some places.

All I want to do is fly without tactical thought or violent intent. I need to be in the air.

I bend down on one knee and tighten the straps of my left boot, my fingers moving with practiced efficiency. Before I can even get the buckle secure, I hear the crunch of rock and dry grass behind me.

“What, Aetos?” I snap over my shoulder.

His footsteps halt.

“What?” I repeat, harsher this time. I stand up and spin on my toe to face him. Dain is standing in front of me, shoulders squared and feet spread apart, his hands in easy reach of his daggers. A defensive position. I glance at his daggers and then flick my gaze up to meet his. What the fuck is going on?

I cock my head at him, eyebrow raised, “Speak, or get out of my way Aetos.”

He stands there for another moment looking at me with what’s meant to be an intimidating glare. My mouth quirks up into a mocking grin at the dominance he’s trying, and failing, to hold. Dain clenches his fist in answer, his knuckles white, eyes hard and challenging. Then all at once his body goes slack. “Please.” He says the word quietly, but he’s not begging. I don’t think Aetos would ever beg to me, not even for Violet.

My eyebrow raises higher, “Please, what?”

He gives me an irritated look, “Violet. She’s made it this far when she shouldn’t have. Just drop whatever game you’re playing with her.” The last words come out through clenched teeth.

His little subservient act didn’t last long.

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. “Aetos, will you get the fuck out of my way? I’m not going to kill Violet.” I raise my head to look at him and plaster a smirk on my face. The picture of violent arrogance. “She’s going to get killed all on her own, especially when her biggest ally here keeps trying to ship her off to the Scribe Quadrant instead of actually helping her survive.”

His body goes rigid, all the color leaching from his face. He opens his mouth to speak,

“Resume your post Squad Leader.” I say, cutting him off.

Dain opens his mouth again, “Do not make me say it again, Aetos.” My duty to handle lower ranks bullshit ended when the last cadet made it through the Gauntlet. His mouth shuts so fast I can hear the click of his teeth as they snap together. He gives me a single curt nod and turns on his heel to go.

I turn back to face my dragon, and take a measured breath before I start into a running leap up her foreleg and onto her back, swinging my leg over the little groove at the dip between her neck and spine.

“That might’ve been the most defiant thing Aetos has ever done.” I say to Sgaeyl.

“And still, he gave up when authority demanded it.” She counters, with a snort.

“Yes. Yes he did.”

“He does not deserve her.”

“No.” I pause. He doesn’t. Maybe no one does.”

Sgaeyl’s great wings spread wide, and with a flap of her wings and a single push of her hind legs, we shoot into the sky.

My stomach drops, leaving my body on the ground that’s becoming farther and farther away as she continues her near vertical climb into the sky.

The wind rushes past, my hair flying behind me, eyes watering from the sheer speed Sgaeyl is flying. I take a steadying breath, waiting for my body to catch up to the rest of me, and for just a second I feel more free than I’ll ever actually be.

…

We fly over the clumps of forest that pepper the bright grassy fields, Sgaeyl moving at a slow, lazy pace. At this point, Tairn would have normally been flying beside us, but I have a sneaking suspicion she’s ignoring him. I’m laid back on her spine, ankles crossed and hands behind my head, my arms cushioning the rough blue scales covering Sgaeyl’s body. Anyone else in this position would fall right out of their seat. But the shadows I’ve pulled from the pockets of shade down below hold me steady.

Until Sgaeyl’s voice booms through my mind. “Up.” She commands, the word laced with an edge of panic. It’s a shorthand we’ve developed over the years that essentially means Get in your fucking seat.

I pull up just as she’s commanded, sliding into my seat, arms out in front of me, thighs locking onto her sides.

She shoots forward like an arrow, the wind whizzing past us as she picks up speed, and then, without warning, she plummets to the earth.

“Sgaeyl, what’s happening.” She doesn’t answer. “Sgaeyl.” I repeat, my voice going sharp and bordering on panic. We always communicate, she doesn’t shut me out like this.

As we near the ground I spot a bright yellow beacon in the grass.

The Feathertail.

Standing in front of it is a small figure, her silver hair glinting in the sunlight. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I scan the area around her and my heart plummets into my stomach at the sight of the three other people closing in on Violet and the Feathertail, their weapons drawn.

Sgaeyl and I land silently amid a cluster of trees, my shadows cloaking the sound of our landing.

We make it to the edge of the trees in time to see Oren Seifret, Jack Barlowe, and Tynan…whatever his last name is, stalking toward Violet, and the fury pawed Feathertail.

Paws. Not claws, but fucking paws.

Sgaeyl has gone into a searing, predatory calm behind me, and I pull myself into that same lethal calm, crossing my arms and leaning against a tree at the edge of the clearing.

The three boys settle into formation, Jack at the front, with Oren and Tynan flanking him at each side.

“Letting something so weak, so incapable of fighting, live is against our beliefs!” Jack shouts at her.

At her. Not to her, but at her. About her.

“You’re going to have to get through me, then.” Violet says as she raises both daggers, one poised to fly with that lethal aim of hers, and I get a small twinge of satisfaction at the way her stance has improved, knowing that it’s because of me. That she’s paying attention.

“I don’t really consider that a problem,” Jack snarls, lifting his sword. Oren and Tynan lift their swords in unison, and in that moment I remember who Violet is down to her core. She won’t go for a death blow, even when her life depends on it.

“I would strongly recommend you rethink your actions,” I command, and all five heads in the clearing whip toward me in surprise.

#fanfiction #fourth wing #violet sorrengail #xaden riorson #xadenviolet #violet and xaden #fourth wing fanfic #sgaeyl #tairn and sgaeyl #liam mairi #andarna

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greenorangevioletgrass · 2 years ago

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Rooster × actress!reader blurb week!!!!! I'm *very* interested in the blurb that goes with the Bruce Springsteen song (my dad and I love blasting Springsteen in the car) - previously not into rooster anon

aaah thank you guys so much!! this song is such a classic, and i would like to apologize in advance for bringing you Angst, but i hope you enjoy it anyway! ALSO! @shipping-not-sailing basically co-wrote this, she has a brilliant mind and the day she starts posting her fics will be the day y'all DIE an epic death <333

warnings: language, an argument, angst, allusions to trauma & trigger response, hurt/comfort, but they're fine i promise!!!

***

The first time you and Rooster fight (and really fight), he’s terrified it was the end.

He doesn’t even remember how it started. He’s had a bad day at work (a minor mistake that cost him an earful from his commanding officer), and now he’s getting another earful from you about slamming doors or stomping through the house or… something. The words are coming through, and he knows you’re right, but his head is pounding and his hands are going numb from the way he clenches and unclenches and he can’t take it anymore—

“Look. I hear you, okay? But you didn’t have to talk to me like I’m a child. A normal conversation would’ve been nice. Fuck knows I could use some of that today.”

The words aren’t cruel or threatening. Neither is the tone of his voice. But maybe it’s the way he grits it out through his teeth, or the way his muscular frame looms over you, imposing on your space in his little kitchen.

Or maybe it’s just the fact he looks so… angry.

It all happens so fast. The way you flinch back. Your shoulders tensing up. The flash of terror in your eyes.

Fuck.

“Sweetheart, I—”

You back away before he can touch your arms, hands tremulous —fearful, almost. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry. It was my fault,” you recede, moving away to the other side of the counter.

It doesn’t make any sense to him. One minute, you were dead sure that you were right, and then suddenly, you’re withdrawing from his touch and scurrying away from him so desperately. What has he done?

“I gotta, uh…” you look away, avoiding his gaze at all costs. “Dinner’s in the fridge. I’m going to bed.”

You turn on your heels, padding quietly upstairs while he stands frozen.

Every forkful of his dinner, delicious as you might’ve made it, feels like swallowing a boulder, and he has to constantly remind himself that he needs to eat, and you need to be alone for a moment. Both of you need time to cool off. So he finishes his meal and washes the dishes, wipes the counter, although every second feels like his reality is crumbling apart.

He survives an agonizing 22 minutes before he decides to climb up the stairs. The wood under his shoes creaks a little, and it grates in his ears over the quiet hallway.

The door is closed and he knocks. Softly. One, two. No answer. He knocks again. Once. He prays you don’t lock him out, because he might just collapse then and there. His knuckles grip the handle until they turn white, and when he turns it…

A sigh of relief as it gives and opens.

And there you are, curled up under the covers, wide awake, barely glancing as he walks through the threshold. As he makes his way over, and sits on the edge of the bed. He really shouldn’t be surprised to see your face tear-stained, your eyes distant, but it crushes him anyway.

“I fucked up, didn’t I.”

It doesn’t sound like a question, and you don’t make a peep to answer. Then again, your non-answer is an answer enough, no?

“I’m sorry.” He places a hand on the bend of your knee, over the sheets. Soft. Pleading. “I had a bad day, and that’s still not an excuse. I hurt you, and I’m sorry.”

You turn away upon hearing the crack in his voice, a sorry attempt to hide your tears. As if that’s still even possible.

His heart aches, but he offers it anyway. “Do you want me to take the couch tonight?” Please don’t make me go.

You pause for a moment, oh god she actually wants me to, before you eventually shake your head. He doesn’t know what’s worse; sleeping on the couch, or in the same bed knowing you hesitated before letting him in.

“Go shower and come to bed. It’s been a long day.”

He doesn’t know if it’s meant for you or him, or both, but your hand rests over his for a moment, soft and gentle and familiar, and he relishes in what little he can get.

There’s no time to waste. He gets out of his uniform as soon as the bathroom door clicks closed behind him, wasting no time lathering and rinsing and drying and dressing himself. As if afraid you’ll change your mind.

When he emerges from the bathroom, though, he is surprised to find you sitting up against the headboard, knees brought up to your chest. A little frown etched between your brows, the million thoughts visibly running through your head.

“Hey.” he smiles a little, slipping into his side of the bed. Close enough, while giving you as much space as you need. As much space as he can.

You straighten up, bracing yourself to speak your mind. “I am sorry, too.”

“Sweetheart, it’s not your fault—”

“No, listen to me.” you take his hand, firmly this time. “I’ve been in… certain situations that has fucked me up and,” you clear your throat, feeling it catch as memories come rushing in, “...made me react this way. It’s an issue, I’m aware of that, and I’m working on it. And I’m sorry I rattled you.”

He stares at you, silent. Confused. Upset. Not at you, but on behalf of you. For the first time since he’s known you, he sees you breaking at the cracks, trying so hard to keep it together. When you don’t have to. Not with him.

Not when he’s hanging on by a thread as it is.

“We’re gonna work through it together, alright? You don’t have to do it alone.” He kisses your knuckles, holding it like his life depends on it (it does.)

Your face crumbles, and tears come melting down your cheeks again. “I’m so tired…”

And in this exact moment, he breaks down, too. Please don’t end this I love you so much don’t make me go…

“Can we just go to sleep?” you whisper quietly, and he breathes again. Snagged and ragged and aching, but he’s breathing. “We’ll work through it tomorrow, but right now, just— please?”

“Of course, sweetheart…” he wipes your wet cheeks with his thumbs, nevermind that his own vision is blurred with his own tears. “C’mere. I got you.”

It’s almost… strange now, to feel you melt into his arms again. He keeps replaying the way you tense up when he reaches out to you. Thinking about what had happened to you, and who did it to you, and how could they get away with doing such an awful thing to someone as tough and intelligent and kind as you.

And that now, he’s added himself into the list of people who hurt you.

“Try to sleep, okay?” you gaze up at him, cupping his face with one hand. Mirroring his gesture earlier, thumbing away the trails of tears absently. Kissing his cheek and burying your face in his chest, the way you always sleep when you’re with him. “I love you.”

With his arm wrapped around you, nose buried in your hair, he eventually falls asleep as he replays this gentle reminder in his head over and over.

We still have tomorrow.

#the actress & the aviator #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x actress!reader #rooster imagine #rooster x reader #rooster x actress!reader #ava writes #previously not into rooster anon

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gintrinsic-writing · 2 years ago

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CW: alcoholism, reference to noncon

It isn’t a problem for the first three weeks. Their journey takes them through bustling towns and backwater villages with drink aplenty, and on the nights when civilization lays too far beyond the horizon, Warriors has his flask. He copes, as he has always coped. Self-medication turns him into a poet, lets him see depthless gold in the amber swirl of cheap brandy. He chases relief and tells himself that the liquid burn is in truth a gentle warmth he well-deserves.

Early into the fourth week, when the sky still slumbers under a black and star-filled blanket, Warriors is chased awake by a familiar nightmare. He sits up with a gasp, blinking away the afterimages of silk sheets, a four-poster bed, and sparks of magic designed to hurt. His skin is too warm, too close, too tight; he feels a creature trapped by its own body.

Pet, his mind supplies in Cia’s voice, and he clenches his fists to keep from biting his knuckles. Scars decorate his skin where he has given in before. That’s unbecoming, my beauty, my pet. Don’t do it again. Your body belongs to me, and I want it whole.

“Fuck,” he whispers hauntedly. “Fuck. Fuck.”

Warriors swears he can still feel her touch, swears he wears brands in the shape of Cia’s fingers. Despite how low it rests, the neckline of his shirt feels like a collar. He almost takes it off. Sleep won’t return. Not when horror lies in wait behind his eyelids.

Trembling, Warriors reaches for his bag, ignoring the strange, uncomfortable flutter of his heart. His flask is tellingly light. He uncaps it, stares into its dry mouth, then tips it back against his lips anyway—the only kiss he can tolerate these days. The memory of brandy is not enough.

Despair curdles his blood like a sickness. How many days has it been since he ran out? Just two? He’s never had to worry about this before; vices were easy to come by in the army, and much easier to ignore. He holds his flask in both hands and tells himself he’s fine, he’ll be fine. It’s all fine.

Of course, he isn’t lucky enough for any of this to go unnoticed.

“Wars?” Four whispers. His eyes seem to reflect the moonlight, though his face is wreathed in shadow. He looks like he’s been awake for a while. “What’s wrong?”

Warriors shakes his head, waving one hand dismissively; with the other, he tries to subtly put the flask aside. “Nothing,” he whispers back. “Good night.”

Before he can lie back down—before he can fake sleep while praying for the dawn—Four shifts closer. “You’re out, huh?” He presses his lips together, fiddling with the end of his hood. “How bad is it?”

The lie comes naturally. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do.”

Warriors tenses, feeling his expression close off even more than usual. He offers Four the same cold-eyed stare he’s used to face traitors. “Mind your own business.”

Four scratches his fingers through the shadow at his side, digging through moss and white clover. “I’m not trying to pry—”

“Then don’t.”

“—but this could affect the rest of us. It’s a dangerous addiction. If you want to talk—”

“Four, respectfully, fuck off. I’m only here because I was forced to be. I’m not your friend, and I’m not your project. As soon as this quest is over, I’m gone.” To war, he thinks bitterly, to fresh nightmares, to home.

Four has the nerve to look hurt. The worry in his voice sets Warriors’ teeth on edge. “It doesn’t have to be like that. We don’t even know how long this quest might take. And besides…” He glances toward the others and sighs. “Our spirits are connected, right? We’ve never been less alone. I think it’ll be good for us.”

Warriors doesn’t bother hiding his disdain. “Spare me your naivete. It’s a quest across the ages, with nine destined heroes. We’re being set up for tragedy, mark my words.”

“Tragedy?” Four frowns, then shoots the flask another quick glance. “I don’t think you mean that. You should—”

“Enough,” Warriors cuts in sharply. Legend rolls over in his sleep, and Wind mumbles something incoherent before snoring lightly. “Enough,” he says again in a whisper. “Go to bed.” Without waiting for an answer, he lies down and turns his back on Four.

For a long minute, Four doesn’t say or do anything. Then, with a huffy little sigh, he lies down as well.

The rest of the night passes slowly. Nausea and shakiness settle beneath Warriors’ skin like thorns. When sunlight finally peaks over the horizon, he pretends not to notice either, just as he pretends not to remember the way Cia used to call his name. He rises from his bedroll with a sense of purpose, if not a sense of faith.

Hopefully, they will find a town today.

#lu warriors #lu cia #lu four #lu fic #linked universe #reference to noncon #alcohol #gintrinsic writing #alcoholic warriors

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captainwans · 3 years ago

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TREACHERY.

— RAFE CAMERON

pairing: rafe cameron x pogue!fem! reader

summary: y/n faces the aftermath of john b’s disappearance, and rafe doesn’t make the situation better.

warning: traumatized reader, lots of angst, cursing, mentions of death and loss, mentions of anxiety disorders, and all the feels. this is a sad one, y’all.

word count: 2,2k | ( gif not mine! )

masterlist!

[Y/N] WIPED THE COUNTER IN FRONT OF HER AS SHE DOZED OFF, her mind wandering into a melancholic state as she reminisced the past events that kept haunting her. Losing John B into the storm was something she couldn’t comprehend yet, not when it recently just happened. She went into complete denial with her best friend being gone, blocking every negative emotion inside her body whilst she went back to her usual routine. Her heart was slowly and painfully crumbling, weakening with every second that went by but she wasn’t ready to break. Her friends were worried, especially JJ, who has been watching her carefully with concerned eyes and been by her side ever since it occurred, but she simply brushed them off and lied through her gritted teeth, and went on with her days.

A snap from her co-worker’s finger pulled her out of her thoughts, bringing her back to reality. She gripped on the cloth, the tight grip making her knuckles almost white. She looked at them with a tip-lipped smile. “W-What’s up, Claire?” she said in a soft tone, her voice wavering a bit as she wiped the table one last time.

Claire was an absolute sweetheart and adored [Y/N] to pieces, not caring that she was a Pogue. She found the young woman incredibly hard-working and loved her like she was her own. [Y/N] tried to return the gesture, but she found it hard to believe that a Kook offered her a job and actually liked her since she’s so used to them disliking her. To this day, she felt cautious of her act of kindness, but she tried to remind herself that not all Kooks were snobby and rude.

Claire mirrored her smile, placing a hand on her shoulder, “Table four wants to order. Could you cover for me? I need to make an important phone call.” she asked, her emerald eyes gazing into hers as she gave her a sheepish simper.

[Y/N] stopped wiping, her gaze searching through the crowdy room before landing on the group of people she loathed the most. She could feel her heart soar against her chest, a wave of uneasiness bubbling up to the surface. A crimson painted her cheeks once she locked eyes with Rafe, her eyes glowering with disgust and abhor. She quickly turned her head and looked back at Claire, giving her a simple nod before grabbing a note and a pen.

Rafe clenched his jaw, watching how she neared their table with a vacant expression etched onto her delicate features. His feet were tapping aggressively as he looked at the menu in front of him, his mind maundering a thousand miles per hour. Topper and Kelce dragged him into it, wanting him so badly to get out of his house and mentioning how they missed having a day with the three of them.

“Dude, you okay?” Kelce asked, his eyes clouding with a tint of concern. Rafe looked up from his menu, his slightly wide eyes gazing down from him to Topper, who looked at him with a confused look. He cleared his throat, wiping his face with his hand and nodded, brushing them off with a hand gesture.

“I’m fine, just tired, that’s all.” He lied, rubbing the back of his neck. Before the pair could say something, [Y/N] stood in front of their table, with a pen ready to write down their order. Rafe bit the insides of his cheeks, his glistening face illuminating from the sunlight as his eyes gazed down to the table.

“You guys wanted to order?” Her sweet-honey voice filled his ears, making him look up from the table to meet her eyes, but her gaze was on the paper instead. Topper shifted awkwardly in his seat, not expecting her. He ended up responding with a simple ‘yes’ and gave her a small smile.

With Kelce taking the lead, [Y/N] scribbled down their order and Rafe noticed her trembling hands making him bite his lip, his guilt eating him from the inside as his mind started to drift. She let out a sigh, swallowing a lump forming in her throat. As she was about to leave their table, voices from her customers made her froze in her spot.

“I’m glad John B is gone. That’s what he deserves for being a murderer. I mean, what would you expect? It’s always some god damn Pogue.” They voiced out, making a few nod their heads at their statement as multiple customers started to join in.

[Y/N] turned her head at them, her teary eyes gazing down at them with such much hatred. A burning pain prickled at her chest, squeezing her heart with every breath she took. Rafe’s jaw clenched, his eyes looking at the waitress who was glued to her spot, her shaky grip on the notebook tightly clasped in her hands.

“Right? Would you believe the Pogues blamed Rafe Cameron for killing the sheriff? I mean, that’s so fucked up.” They said, their voices lacing with disgust. She scoffed, her eyes getting slightly blurry from her tears. She licked her lips, her jaw tightly clutched as she tried to compose herself.

[Y/N] left their table and headed to the counter, blocking the comments and trying to get on with her day. Only 30 minutes left, she reminded herself and grabbed the plates, and headed over to another table. She could feel multiple eyes on her, some looking at her with disdain and others with pity. But she ignored them, placing the food on the table with a fake smile.

“Finally! We’ve been waiting for hours. You need to quicken your pace, Pogue. You’re in Figure 8. God, why did they even hire you?” they whined, scooting their chair away from her. Her breath hitched and she closed her eyes, her hands forming into a fist.

[Y/N] could feel her body betraying her because the next thing she did was slam their drinks on the table, making the glass break into small pieces piercing through her skin. Crimson blood trickled down her arm as she inched her face closer to them, her eyes glaring daggers at them. Their eyes screamed terror, a wave of fear engulfing them as their mouth was glued shut.

“You keep your mouth fucking shut, Kook! All of you!” She snapped, standing up and pointing a finger to all of them who talked down on John B. The room went silent, even Topper and Kelce stopped their conversation and looked at [Y/N] like she had grown two heads. Rafe’s eyes welled up, the tears blinding his vision but he vigorously blinked them away. He looked down at his hands, watching how they shook and he closed his eyes.

“John B didn’t murder anyone. He’s fucking innocent, is that so hard for you to see? It was Rafe Cameron who killed the sheriff. Him.” She argued, pointing a finger at Rafe who was frozen in his seat, his heart clenching as he looked at her with what seemed like a guilty look, but she couldn’t tell.

Kelce shook his head, turning his head to Rafe before standing up from his seat, giving her a glare. “Stop with all the lies, [Y/N]. It’s-” he interjected, but was quickly interrupted by her shouts of demands. “Shut up, Kelce. You don’t get to say shit. Say another fucking word about him, all of you, I will-”

“You will what? Sue us? You’re the Pogue, sweetheart.” One of the customers butted in, their amusement showing through making her close her mouth. Her shoulders dropped, a look of hopelessness clouding her face. She scoffed, nodding to herself, and walked towards the entrance, ready to get the hell out of here. She took off her apron and left it at the table just as Claire came into her view, her worried eyes taking in her form.

“Shit, [Y/N], your hand. Let me take a look.” She said in a gentle tone, making tears well up in her eyes, but she shook her head and shrugged off her hand, and left the restaurant. She used both of her hands to open the door, the sudden strength making Rafe’s heart churn.

Her breathing got more shallow and heavy as she walked over to a parking lot. She held a hand over her throat, clutching it tightly. She let out a whimper, panting heavily as she crumbled to the ground. A heavy feeling settled into her chest, the dark cloud entering her body as she slipped. Her breaths came in gasps, vigorously hitting her chest as tears slid down her pink cheeks.

[Y/N] let out a gut-wrenching sob, not being able to hold onto her grief and agony she bottled up inside. She covered her face with her shaky hands, rocking herself back and forth as she cried for her friend, and herself. Some people who were walking near the area couldn’t help but look, giving her pity looks but she didn’t care.

Rafe bolted up from his seat and dashed over to the door, ignoring his friends’ pleads. His eyes squinted at the sun blinding him. He let out a shaky sigh, his hand shielding him from the light. His stomach churned, his face frowning at the sight in front of him. He took hesitant steps, his eyes never leaving her.

Her shortness of breath ceased and she removed her hands from her face before leaning her head backward with her eyes closed. She let out a tired sigh, feeling her muscles sore and tense, making her grimace. She wiped her eyes with her palm, sniffling before she slowly stood up. She felt his presence behind her, but she shook her head. “You happy?”

Rafe gulped, his teary eyes gazing at her back. He shook his head even though her back was facing him. “[Y/N], I-” he croaked out, his words wobbling. He walked closer but held a good amount of distance between them when he came closer.

“You got what you wanted, Cameron. He’s gone. John B is gone because of you! And even your god damn sister, Rafe.” She shouted and turned around, making him flinch.

Rafe brushed a hand over his mouth, his glistening eyes mirroring hers. He could feel his throat closing up and he didn’t want to speak, knowing that he will break so he decided to seal his mouth shut instead.

[Y/N] ran a hand over her hair, shaking her head as she mumbled incoherent things. Her chin trembled like a child, the desire to be in the arms of her friends increasing every minute. Guilt engulfed her, feeling bad for shutting down her friends. They only looked out for her, and what did she do? Brushing them off and ignoring them.

Rafe inched closer, his chest tightening at her taking a few steps back. He shook his head, bringing out his hand out, but she slapped it away before it could touch her. “No, stay the fuck back, Rafe.” she squeaked, looking at him with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry.” he managed to let out, his voice quivering at the end. She paused, a look of disbelief plastered onto her face. She narrowed her eyes at him, making him almost squirm at her stare.

“You’re sorry? You’re fucking sorry, is that all you have to say?” she said, her voice cracking. She let out a dry chuckle, “Fuck, Rafe! I trusted you. I fucking trusted you!” She exploded, her tears tracing down her cheeks, but she quickly wiped them.

Rafe closed his eyes, feeling anger bubbling up inside of him. “I did it for my dad, okay?!” He snapped, his eyes glowering. He shifted his body to the side, bringing both of his hands to his face “I-,uh, I needed him to see that I was-”

“God, just stop with that bullshit, Rafe! Ward doesn’t love you. You didn’t do him a favor and made him proud. He’s a piece of shit and a manipulator who has you wrapped around his little finger.” [Y/N] exclaimed, looking at him with a glare.

Rafe’s shoulders hunched. He shook his head, her words being repeated into his brain like a mantra. A wave of tension entered his body, making him almost gasp for air. His eyebrows knitted together, “Y-You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” She said, her voice emotionless. She came closer and jabbed a finger into his chest, “You caused this. This is your fault, Rafe, and now you lost me. I don’t wanna see you, hear you, talk to you, and I don’t even wanna look at you.” She spat, sniffling. She whimpered, biting her lip as she looked at him, watching how his face fell.

Rafe could only look at her, his mouth being unable to utter a single word as her last words took a great tremor for him. His breathing became heavy and he felt her words stabbing him like a knife was being held over a fire.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, watching her body turning away from him and leaving him on the spot. A scream tore out from his throat. Tears flooded down like waterfall as he choked on his sobs. He fucked up, again. And he couldn’t make it up to her, never.

#rafe cameron #rafe x you #rafe outer banks #rafe x reader #rafe x y/n #rafe imagine #obx rafe #outer banks #rafe cameron masterlist #drew starkey #obx #obx masterlist #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron imagine #outer banks x reader

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psychdelia · 3 years ago

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steve knows he’s being fucking stupid. that he should grab his stupid scoops ahoy hat and shirt and put them back on.

but he’s never been too bright, especially when he’s in love.

“open the door.” he meets shaky breaths and silence. “open the door!” he snaps at the kids behind him, eyes locked on his boyfriend, rocking back and forth in the sauna.

these damn kids were about to get themselves killed. he has to save them yet again, but it’s not just their asses on the line. billy is in there, possessed, and max couldn’t get through to him so now it’s steve’s turn to try. shirtless, scared steve who has no idea if he’ll make it out of there alive. running on love and adrenaline, he doesn’t care.

eleven cracks the door open just enough for him to slip in, locking it again.

steve starts sweating immediately. it’s hot. billy is just sitting there, rocking back and forth, knuckles white as they grip the bench he sits on.

steve slowly drops to his knees in front of billy, keeps distance between them as he stares up at his boyfriend. his expression is blank, lost, but his eyes. fuck, his eyes. they’re so sad. exhausted and glazed over, wet with unshed tears. he doesn’t know if billy’s all there, or even there at all.

“billy.” he murmurs softly, hands hovering above his knees, not quite touching him. too scared of what might happen if he does. “billy, baby, it’s me.”

steve doesn’t have the time or energy to deal with the shocked and confused gasps that come from the kids, not when billy’s eyes finally meet his. they brighten just a touch with recognition, still red rimmed and teary.

“hey.” steve smiles sadly. “i-i know you’re in there. i know you’re probably so fucking scared, but you gotta be strong. you’re so strong billy, you just gotta fight.” steve’s hands finally land on his knees, not daring to squeeze or startle him. or the mindflayer.

a tear rolls down billy’s cheek, face unmoving.

“i know.” steve frowns sadly, smoothing circles over billy’s knee with his thumb. “i know you’re tired of fighting and hurting. please, billy, it’s just one last time. i’ll keep you safe and make sure nothing - no one ever hurts you again.”

more tears roll down his cheeks.

“i promise.” steve adds softly. “i know you’re in there, i know you see me, hear me. come on, billy, talk to me. please.” steve begs. he doesn’t realize how the sauna has gotten significantly hotter.

doesn’t have time to worry about it when billy finally cracks and breaks, broken sobs and whimpers leaving his throat. he chokes out a broken “steve.”

the clarity comes back into his eyes, sadness and fear written all over his face.

“he made me do it,” billy cries, shaky hands grabbing onto steve’s and squeezing so tight.

“who? what did he make you do?” steve climbs up onto the bench beside billy.

he should be scared, shouldn’t be pressing their sides flush and ridding of any distance between them. but with billy back to consciousness and seeking his comfort, well he has a little glimmer of hope and lots of love to give.

“i don’t know he-he’s like a shadow. he made me hurt people. i don’t wanna hurt people, steve, please forgive me. i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.” he’s crying freely now, slumping against steve.

“it’s okay, it’s okay. it’s not you, baby, you’re not doing this. none of this is you, but you gotta stay with me. you can’t let it take you again. we’re almost done, just. please stay.” steve’s voice breaks off at the end, holding billy up as his shoulders shake through sobs.

“heather.” billy whimpers. “she’s in m-my trunk. i don’t wanna hurt her anymore but he’s making me.”

“we’ll get her out, okay? she’ll be perfectly fine, just like you. just breathe and stay with me.” steve rubs billy’s back, catches sweat on his fingertips and palm. he glances up to find max tossing lucas the key to the camaro before he sprints out. he comes back with heather, looking shocked and scared and sad.

“it hurts.” billy whines through gritted teeth. “it’s so hot. he-he likes the cold.”

“i know. we’re gonna get him out of you soon. you just gotta keep fighting. gotta stay with me. then everything will be okay. i can’t lose you.” relief washes over steve as billy nods weakly, shaking and crying in his arms.

steve pulls billy even closer and tighter. he’s starting to burn up too, skin sweaty and prickling. he can’t even imagine how billy feels, burning from the inside out. he sneaks a glance out at the kids, catches their shocked and sad eyes. he finally finds eleven’s, big and too strong for a kid her age. she must read his mind because then she’s nodding and reaching toward the thermometer. her eyes are shut tightly, face contorted in pain and determination. it takes a second, but the room gets impossibly hotter.

“too hot.” billy hisses, his skin burning up beneath steve’s hands. they’re both too hot, skin red and sweaty and on fire.

“we’re almost there.” steve reassures. “you love the heat. the california sun and beaches and warm water. this isn’t any different. i’ll take you back. take you to all the beaches and your favorite stores and restaurants and try those street burritos you always talk about. i’ll burn under the sun while you get golden tan and hot to the touch. i wanna give you the world, billy.” steve rambles.

billy cries harder, so scared and in so much pain.

“i love you so much, fuck. too fucking much it hurts. i don’t want you to hurt. not anymore. please just fight him out.” the room feels like it’s getting hotter, steve’s chest getting tight.

he thought he knew love. thought he had already gone through the trial and error of being in love with nancy.

that’s nothing compared to this right now.

“what if i can’t and-“

“you can.” steve cuts him off fiercely. “you can and you will.” the room feels like it can’t get any hotter, feels like it already it.

steve’s moved on from love and sadness and grief. he’s angry, now. so hot and sweaty and irritable. he wants billy to get angry.

“fuck him.” steve spits. “fuck all of them. your mom for leaving you, your dad for hurting you. all the teachers and adults in your life who failed you. fuck this shadow. fuck them! don’t let them win. you’ve been through so much, too fucking much. you can’t give up now. can’t prove them right.”

billy just weeps, shaking his head.

steve gently grabs his face, such a contrast from the anger running through his veins. he coaxes billy into looking up, making eye contact with him.

“listen to me. you’re billy fucking hargrove. you’ve been fighting your whole damn life and you’re so close, so close to winning. to being free and letting me drag our asses back where you belong, under the stupid fucking sun on the stupid fucking sand. you lose now, there’s no more beaches. there’s no more warm water and burritos and sand stuck in your hair for days. you let him win - your dad, the shadow - you lose so much worth fighting for. you hear me?”

billy nods. he’s stopped full on sobbing, left with a quivering bottom lip and leftover tears wetting his cheeks.

“so be my strong, stubborn hardheaded asshole boyfriend and fight this thing out. NOW.”

billy clenches his jaw, nostrils flaring as the fire simmers underneath blue.

“NOW!” steve yells.

the room is as hot as it can get, eleven’s screaming at the thermometer about to break through the fucking wall. max is crying in heather’s arms and the boys are chanting and yelling, cheering billy on.

billy’s eyes and veins are turning black, body twitching before he’s screaming in pain and agony, the black shadow leaving his body and crashing through the sauna ground. it feels like it goes on forever despite it only being a minute, the mindflayer fucked up entity finally leaving billy’s body and leaving a hole right in the middle of the ground.

billy gasps for air and slumps against steve once the room stops shaking and lights stop flickering and the black hole looks more like layers of cement and foundation. he coughs and heaves, throwing up black goo. steve holds him upright, makes sure he’s gotten everything out of his body and system.

steve gently pulls billy back up when he’s reduced to groans and whimpers, beyond relieved when he finds billy’s eyes and skin have returned back to normal, no traces of black or mindflayer left behind.

“hey, hey, hey. billy, you there? look at me.” steve cups his cheeks in his hands, forcing billy to look up at him.

he looks like shit. red and sweaty but worryingly pale at the same time. his hair is damp and flat, sticking to his face. steve can’t imagine that he looks much better himself.

“tacos.” billy finally speaks. he looks up at steve. “they’re street tacos. not burritos.” he grins, sideways and tired but still billy.

steve smiles so fucking wide, heart too big for his chest as he pulls billy into the tightest fucking hug, peppering kisses all over his face and head.

“let’s get you out of here.” steve helps him up, guides him around the hole in the ground and out of the sauna after el opens the door for them.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #this is how the sauna test should’ve gone #wdym this isn’t canon???#billy and steve are so in love #and steve is blinded by love

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wkemeup · 4 years ago

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Eclipse

summary: When a mission leaves you empty and broken, Bucky is determined to heal the wounds that linger deeper than the cuts on the surface. pairing: bucky x reader word count: 8.4k warnings: canon level violence, hurt!reader, PTSD, dissociative episode, nightmares, a rapid switch from sweet/fluffy to pain, angst with a happy ending

An eclipse finds its home in the darkness Thriving as it suffocates the sun and shadows her light In its passage she lays in wait Waiting— for the moon to give way and grant her morning

Bucky thinks he’s found heaven when he lays with you under the cover of thin, linen sheets; the soft, white of the fabric touching over curves and edges of exposed bodies, peaks and dips, like snowcaps nestled upon the crest of mountaintops. Lying flushed with heat, hearts beating a little faster, breaths a little labored, Bucky reaches out and traces the lines of your face.

The tip of his finger brushes over your nose, slips down along your jaw, touches the sun kissed stream of light against your cheek as it seeps in through the sheet thrown over your heads. You giggle as he pulls you in for a kiss, chaste and sweet, his hand curling into the hairs at the nape of your neck and he tugs you closer. It’s the most beautiful sound in the world, the way you laugh to his lips, muffled in his kiss but still uncontained.

Hidden under sheets, shared breaths between you in your own little world, Bucky decides he will be content if he stays here forever.

“I won’t be gone long, you know,” you tell him as you press lightly on his chest, just enough to get draw his attention away from the trail of kisses along your cheekbone and down your jawline. He pouts playfully at you, but you soothe your hand along his shoulder, recognizing the shift in energy as his eyes flicker a shade of hesitancy. “I’ll can handle myself.”

“It’s not that,” he replies quietly, voice soft, barely a whisper, as his smile begins to fall. It’s subtle, but you notice.

“Then what?”

Bucky shrugs, swallowing back the anxiety that begins to pool deep into his stomach every time you leave on assignment. But he pushes out a smile, one you do not question, and he leans in to kiss the button of your nose.

“I’ll just miss you, is all.”

You grin and it lights up wide across your face. The cast of sunshine behind you as it filters in through the sheets tossed over your body drapes down like a halo, an illumination of an angel, and Bucky commits the image to memory. Stored to a safe place in the back of his mind for the dark nights alone in this room. He’ll find you those moments, even when you’re miles away.

“You’re a sap, Bucky Barnes,” you laugh, ruffling his hair as you toss the sheet up from over your faces and take in a deep breath of fresh air. It’s brighter in the room than you realized and you squint your eyes, tucking your face to the crook of Bucky’s neck to shield yourself from the sun.

“Only for you, sweetheart.” He tries to ignore the bright red flicker of the clock beside you as he crawls out from under the safety of the bedsheets, the fantasy fractured by the reminder of your impending assignment; four weeks in a classified location, entirely on your own.

A smile presses tight to his lips as you steal a glance back at him full of bright eyes and sunshine.

He does his best to swallow the anxiety though it churns like blades through his stomach.

***

Bucky paces back and forth in his room, stealing looks at his phone as it sits face up on the bedside table. He taps the screen every few seconds, as soon as it dares to fade to black, so he can see your face again; the picture of you laughing behind an ice cream bar melting down your hand. A shimmering red bow and mouse ears on the top of your head from your trip to Disney last spring. He can still smell the melted vanilla and hardened chocolate when he looks at it and he tries hard to focus on the memory, but he knows it’s an excuse to make sure he doesn’t miss your call.

Tap.

Still nothing.

You’ve been gone over a week now and though he does his best to busy himself with time spent sparring with Sam in the gym, running out along the lake behind the compound, cleaning the kitchen until the stench of bleach burns up to the floor above him, you’re still at the forefront of his mind.

He knows you’re safe. He knows that you can protect yourself and that you were capable of solo missions long before Bucky came crash-landing into your life, but it doesn’t stop him from worrying. It doesn’t stop the incessant twitching in his hands as he curls them to fists, doesn’t stop the frantic pacing and the wear he drives into the carpet, doesn’t stop the panic that skips the beat of his heart when it’s two minutes past check-in and you haven’t called.

“Stop it,” he grumbles to himself, “she’s fine. Stop worrying. She’s fine.”

Another glance back at the phone. Tap-tap on the screen until it lights up with your smile. Nothing.

Three minutes past check-in.

He has half a mind to track down Fury himself when suddenly, the phone rings.

A ringtone you’d changed early in your relationship - a synthetic, almost electric, instrumental of Can’t Take My Eyes Off You right when the music starts to pick up and the trumpets are blaring and it throws him straight into overdrive.

Bucky lunges it at, hands fumbling for the phone but it falls to the floor in his hurry. He hits his shoulder against the edge of the nightstand with a loud thump and collapses down to the carpet as the phone bounces down under the bed.

“God-fuckin’-- ugh!”

He grips tight to the phone by the chime of ‘I love you, baby!’ and quickly brings it to his ear. He’s out of breath but he stills himself, takes a moment before he says anything and he hopes his voice is calmer than the rush in his chest.

“Hi.”

You snicker on the other end of the line and he knows in an instant he’s been busted. “Thought I told you not to wait by the phone, Buck.”

“I wasn’t.” A full faced lie. He grimaces as it comes out.

“Sure, you weren’t,” you drawl, a laugh tucked sweetly into the hum of your voice.

Bucky can hear floorboards squeaking faintly through the speaker between your breaths. Old wood, the whistle of the wind in the distance; a motel built in the early sixties with poor insulation and cracking foundations. He wonders where you are or if the image of you pacing amongst faded shades of burnt orange and green curtains, of once brightly colored comforters and pealing wallpaper only exists in his imagination.

“You okay?” he asks first because he needs the confirmation. Despite hearing the even tones in your breath, the sweet laughter in your voice, he needs to hear you say it.

“Always am, honey,” you respond lightly and Bucky lets himself take in a deep breath before you add, “I miss you though. It’s awfully cold here and I could really use a super soldier to keep me warm.”

It makes him smile; the first one that pushes up into his cheeks without force since you left. God, he misses you.

“Don’t go calling Steve now, okay?” he teases, the anxiety draining from his body in gentle waves, cast out by the flow of ocean water through his bloodstream in the sound of your voice and the image of your smile as you tug your lower lip between your teeth.

“Never. I prefer my men one-armed and dangerous.”

Bucky laughs as he sinks down further onto the floor, the carpet rubbing against his tailbone though he doesn’t mind. He’s grinning, listening to the sound of your voice as you tell him about how much you’re craving popcorn and chocolate chip movie nights and he feels like you’re sitting right next to him. He can see the creases in your smile, the lines by your eyes, the faint markings of old scars on your skin. He hears your voice and it reminds him of home.

“It’s beautiful here, Buck,” you sigh and he wonders if you’re staring out a window to mountains or ocean or tundra. “I wish you could see it.”

“Where is ‘here’ again?”

You giggle and—God—it's the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard, even crackled and broken through the speakers of an old satellite phone miles away. “Nice try, baby.”

The timer on his watch starts to ding and his heart clenches.

“Time’s up, huh?” you whine playfully, but he can hear the disappointment in your voice. It’s never long enough, these three minutes that Steve allows for you, but he’ll take seconds if he can get them. Just long enough to calm his nerves, to give you the motivation to keep going on your own, without the possibility of the call being traced.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs, clenching at his hand. He brushes closed knuckles against his forehead, presses deep into his temples because he can already feel the pit in his stomach forming again. “Stay safe, alright? Come home to me.”

He pictures your smile, the soft edges and the curve of your lips.

“Always do, don’t I?”

You do. He knows this.

But his mind is cruel and it wonders when the day will come when you won’t.

***

“I’ll raise a Kit-Kat,” Bucky concedes nearly two weeks later with a tired huff, tossing a chocolate bar to the center of the table to accompany a handful of M&M’s and mini-Twix. It knocks over Natasha’s carefully constructed tower of Milkyways and she shoots him a warning glare.

To his right, Sam snickers under his breath, a laugh too confident for a man with a dwindling stash of chocolate in front of him to the mountain sitting beside Natasha. He hides his face behind the fan of cards, but Bucky can still see the crease in his brow, the pinch of lines together at the center that tell him Sam is bluffing. Natasha is as stone cold as he would expect and he has no interest in challenging her resolve, so he decides to weed out Wilson first.

“When’s your girl getting back, Barnes? Think you might need her around to console you after I obliterate your snack drawer,” Sam taunts, changing the subject abruptly. Another tell of his.

“End of the week, I think,” Bucky replies with a shrug, playing it off casually because he knows Sam is trying to throw him off his game.

“As if you aren't counting down the seconds.” Natasha scoffs, a smirk pushing at pursed lips.

“You're an absolute goner for her, you know that don’t you?” Sam says as he pushes a few more M&M’s to the center. Brightly colored pile at the center and he plops one from his own stash into his mouth.

Bucky, meanwhile, chews on the inside of his cheek, avoiding Sam’s wandering eyes because he knows it’s true. You’ve only been together a little under a year, but he’s spent twice that loving you from a careful distance, just out of fingertip’s reach until he’d come back from a mission with one too many bullet wounds in his body and he couldn’t take the tension between you anymore.

He could still picture the smile on your face as he told you, the way your eyes lit up and you jumped into his arms; IV drips and wires to machines and all. The press of warm lips to his cheek, his temples, his nose, his mouth. Sun streaming in through the window and casting a halo behind your hair.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Atta boy.” Sam nudges Bucky’s arm, grinning wildly.

They turn to Natasha as she nods in approval before setting her cards down on the table with the kind of look in her eyes that tells Bucky the game was over before it even began. Royal Flush.

“Not again!” Sam whines, slumping down into his chair.

“It’s starting to feel cruel playing with the two of you.” Natasha reaches into the center and gathers the mountain of chocolate to drag it towards her towering pile. She starts to unravel a mini-Twix, keeping a taunting eye on Sam as he glares back at her. The chocolate passes behind parted lips and she bites down with a contented hum.

Sam rolls his eyes. “You owe us drinks, ma’am.” He gestures to his empty glass.

Natasha smirks, conceding easily as she stands to grab their glasses. She turns to Bucky. “You want a refill, Barnes?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, sure.”

As Natasha makes her way back to the kitchen, Sam sneaks a few M&M’s from her pile and quickly plops them into his mouth with a cautious glance over his shoulder. Bucky begins to shuffle the cards and he can feel the burn of Sam’s stare even before he opens his mouth.

“What do you want, Wilson?”

“When’s Y/n coming back? For real.”

Bucky glances up. Sam’s arms are stretched out along the backs of the empty chairs beside him. He’s relaxed into his position, chewing on the stolen chocolates as he raises an eyebrow.

“End of the week... like I said.”

Sam leans in closer. “That a question?”

“No,” Bucky retorts shortly, though Sam clearly isn’t buying it. He exhales a tense breath as he bridges the deck. “She’s supposed to call tonight. Longest stretch without a checkpoint since she left.”

Sam nods. “What about the three minute calls?”

“Last one was four days ago. Same day she checked in with Fury.”

“You worried?”

Bucky slices the deck. Shuffles it for the fifth time. Bridge. Repeat. “Course not. I’m sure she’s fine. I’m not worried at all.”

“You sure?” Sam chuckles, leaning back into his chair with another quick grab of a few stray green M&M’s.

“Fuck off, Wilson.”

That gets Sam laughing. He reaches across the table and snatches the cards out of Bucky’s hands before he can shuffle for a seventh time. He flashes Bucky a smile, dimples into his cheeks and all.

“I’m dealing this round.”

Bucky nods, letting the tension slip easily from his muscles. He pushes out a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

But then, a glass shatters behind him and Bucky jolts up to his feet.

“Nat? Are you--”

He freezes in an instant, tension burning through him like marble; the full force of a train straight to his chest and knocking the wind from his body, fracturing the stone to pieces around him.

Natasha stands just a few paces ahead of him, her hands clasped at her mouth in an array of shock and horror, glass shattered at her feet. Ice along wooden floors and the smell of vodka burning into the air.

Bucky almost doesn’t recognize you. There’s a slump in your shoulders, a far off look in your eye like you can’t quite focus on what’s in front of you, and a knife in your hand that won’t stop shaking.

But that’s not the worst of it.

You’re covered in blood. Deep red seeping into your hair, sticking thick and wet to your face and down your neck; trails of it along your cheeks like raindrops against a windowpane. It soaks into what remains of your suit, ripped and torn, exposed skin stained with grim and dirt. You look like something out of a horror movie.

“Oh God,” Sam mutters out, pulling Bucky from his trance.

He wants to sprint, wants to scream for help and sound every alarm he can find, but instead, Bucky only manages broken exhale as he slowly walks towards you. He moves with cautious steps, a hand out towards you defensively, like he’s approaching a frightened animal. It’s what you used to do when the line between him and the Soldier blurred, how you’d seek him out amongst the trauma and distortion and bring him back home.

“Y/n?” he calls gently and finds his voice rough in his throat.

You don’t respond, don’t even look at him as he stands within a foot of your reach. Nat and Sam are close behind, but they hold their distance.

“Sweetheart, what happened?” Bucky asks as evenly as he can manage, eyes glancing down over your body in search of injuries. There’s too much blood and he doesn’t know how much of it is your own. He wants to tug you into his arms, tell you that he’s got you, that you’re safe now, but for the first time since Shuri removed the triggers from his head, he’s afraid to touch you.

Your lips part, a few short blinks of your lashes, and you mumble out, “I came to find you.”

Your voice doesn’t sound like your own. It’s too flat, too void of emotion, and it rips Bucky right to his core. It’s a defense mechanism, he knows that. You’re still in there somewhere, he just needs to get you through this first.

“That’s good, sweetheart,” he tells you, trying his luck as he sets a hand on your back. You don’t flinch, but you don’t lean into him either. He shares a worried glance with Sam and Natasha before he turns back to you, pushing out a smile. “You did good.”

“How did she get all the way here from the Hanger without anyone stopping her?” Sam questions, eyes trailing over the mess of blood in your wake, footprints following you from the staircase by the elevator.

“She’s covered in blood and God knows what else,” Natasha whispers back. “They were probably afraid of what might happen if they did.”

Bucky can’t tear his eyes away from you, vision tunneling on the mess of blood rooted in your hair and the stains of red on your face, your chest, your hands. Natasha and Sam’s voices become muffled beside him as he slides his hand down your back and gently lays it over your grip, still shaking as you hold onto the heel of the knife as if your fist had molded to stone around it. The tremors stop as he holds your hand.

“It’s okay, honey,” he whispers, impossibly soft that not even Nat or Sam hear him, “I need you to give me the knife, alright? You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

It takes a moment, but your grip on the knife slacks. It falls to Bucky’s palm and he gently guides it out of your reach and hands it over to Natasha. He doesn’t know what happened, but he knows what you’ve done for him when the Soldier has taken over his mind, when he didn’t feel like himself and needed reminded who he was, where the ground was solid under his feet.

He knows what he needs to do.

“Nat,” he starts, but she’s already a step ahead of him.

“I’ll go find Steve,” she says, like she can read his mind. “I’ll tell him what happened, see what he knows about her assignment that would have led to this.”

Bucky swallows back the bile in his throat and he nods. “Sam--”

“I’ll sweep the jet, see what I can find,” Sam replies quickly. He sets a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, gives it a slight squeeze, and pushed out a tight-lipped smile. He was your friend long before he was Bucky's. The determination reads in his eyes.

"Thank you,” Bucky whispers.

Sam and Natasha disappear down the hallway and then, Bucky is left alone with you. He’s suddenly made aware of how harsh your breathing sounds, like you’re gasping in air through a straw. You stare beyond his shoulders, though he can tell you’re not looking at anything at all. You’re existing. It’s all your mind can cope with.

“Love?” Bucky calls, willing his voice stronger than it is. “Can you come with me?”

You don’t respond. Bucky clenches his jaw and tries again.

“I’m going to take you to our room, alright?”

He thinks it’s better not to present you with choices. It never worked well with him when he got this like; too much stimulation. He knows you’ll resist him if you need to. He slips his hand along your back to guide you towards the bedroom and you take a step as he does.

You’re limping, he notices, as you cross the threshold into the bedroom. He tries to push his mind away from what caused such an injury, what could have possibly happened to result in the amount of blood drenched over you.

That’s Sam and Natasha’s job. Bucky’s only concern is you right now, in this moment, bringing you home, making you feel safe. He guides you to the bathroom.

“I’m going to start the water, okay?” Bucky tells you. You used to do the same for him, telling him what you were doing step by step in an effort to orient him. It grounded him back to his reality, brought him down from the plane of existence above his own head.

The room starts to fill with steam, enough to fog the mirrors, and Bucky tugs his shirt over his head. He removes his sweatpants, but he resolves to leave his boxers on.

“Sweetheart?”

You look in his direction and Bucky can’t help the wash of relief as it floods through him. You don’t smile and it’s almost as if you’re looking straight through him, but it’s something. Progress.

He extends a hand to you, waiting patiently. Though you do not take it, you step a take closer to him, then past him as you walk into the shower fully clothed in your tattered suit. Bucky steps in behind and closes the glass door.

There’s enough room inside that he can stand comfortably behind you as you approach the stream of water. You stare at it for a moment before you reach out and let the water fall over your hand. You watch as the water around the drain begins to turn a dark red.

“I’m going to wash this off. Is that okay, honey?” Bucky reaches steadily for the loofa behind you, though he pauses as he feels the texture of the sponge: exfoliating mesh. It’ll be too much for you in this state. He resolves for the body wash squeezed into his empty palm.

“You let me know if you need a break.”

Still, there’s no response.

Bucky pushes back the burning lump in his throat and gingerly reaches towards you. He places a soap lathered palm against your shoulder and finds your muscles so tense they could have been made of steel or the vibranium seared into his own arm. You stare at his chest as if you could see through to his heart, maybe beyond that to the shower wall behind him, as he begins to peel the dried blood and grim from your skin.

The water at his feet becomes muddied and red, the water slipping down your legs tainted by the aftermath of violence laid upon your body. He’s careful to only use his flesh hand as he washes you, something softer and kinder than the harsh touch of metal.

You start to relax the more he works, your rigid stance easing as the blood cleans from your body. Your suit is still plastered to your skin, ripped and torn and cut open, and Bucky knows he needs to get this off of you. There’s blood behind the fabric, seeped behind the open slashes.

He thinks of the softest clothes he has to dress you in when you’re clean and dry, something too big for your frame that smelled of fresh laundry or maybe the sweatshirt draped over the chair – the one you liked to wear when he was out on missions because it smelled like him. He just wants you to feel safe, to feel warm and protected.

But he needs to get you out of this suit first.

He reaches for the zipper at your chest and the next thing he knows, he’s pressed up against the shower wall, his head pulsing at the impact as you grip tight to his wrist. You’re panting, eyes unfocused at the center of his chest.

He lets you hold him there. He doesn’t try to resist though he knows with his strength he could easily overpower you.

“Sweetheart, it’s me. It’s Bucky,” he tries, his voice soft against the fall of water behind you. “I’m not going to hurt you, love.”

You don’t move, but your breaths start to come in a little more even. Your grip falters on his wrist though you don’t let go. His heart feels like it’s shattering inside his chest, stray shards embedding themselves into his stomach, his ribs, his lungs.

“Honey, look at me,” he pleads. “You’re safe now. You’re home. Let me take care of you.”

It takes a moment, but your eyes begin to trail up his collarbone, hesitant sweeps along his neck, his jaw, and then – his eyes. The hard resolve upon your features begins to crumble. Your lip quivers, your hand gripped tight around his wrist slacking in the tremors, tears burn into your eyes and Bucky doesn’t waste a moment before he gathers you into his arms, presses you tight to his chest and encases you against him.

It's like something finally clicks, a floodgate burst open, because you’re clutching onto him like a lifeline. He can feel the sob as it travels up your spine and shakes your body as you cry. He’s grateful for the mist of the shower that hide his own tears as he rubs gentle circles along your back, easing you the best he can. It’s torture seeing you like this and feeling so powerless to help.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there with you, but eventually, you stop crying. The exhaustion begins to take hold and your legs begin to shake under you, too weak to hold yourself up.

“I’m going to take your suit off, okay? You’ll be more comfortable without it,” Bucky says, gesturing to the zipper. You follow his gaze in understanding and then, you nod.

The suit already clings tight to your skin without the added pressure of the sticky residue of blood drenched into the fabric and the soak of water from the shower. He slides the zipper down to your navel and slowly peels what's left of the sleeves off your shoulders.

There’s cuts and slashes underneath, wounds where blades had cut through your suit and nicked your skin. They’re superficial, better than they could have been if not for the suit taking the brunt of the attack, but they’re still painful to look at.

Bucky helps you step out of the suit and he leaves it in the corner of the shower. He glances at your underwear and you slide it down your hips without question.

“Can I wash your hair, honey? Please?”

You nod and Bucky works quickly. You’re starting to shiver as the water loses its heat, so you stand a little closer to him, seeking out his warmth. It removes just an ounce of the boulder sitting upon his chest.

When he’s finished, the water at the drain is clear again. The fresh scars upon your body and the distant look in your eye the only evidence remaining of what happened.

Bucky reaches around you to turn off the water. He pulls a towel from the rack and begins to gently pat it over your skin until you’re dry. Then, he scrunches out as much of the water as he can from your hair, before he leaves the towel resting on your shoulders to soak up the rest.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells you as he finished drying himself off. “I’m going to go grab some clothes for you.”

He doesn’t even make it a step out of the bathroom before your hand is on his wrist again. He stills, looking back at you. Your eyes fall to the floor.

Bucky swallows back the burn in his throat as he nods. “Okay. Okay, honey. Can you come with me?”

You nod.

By the time you’re dressed in a fresh pair of his boxers and the t-shirt he slept in the previous night, you can hardly keep your eyes open. He wonders how long it’s been since you slept, if maybe it was since the evening he spoke to you four days prior. You sway on your feet as Bucky guides you to the bed.

He lays you down, pulls the covers up to your chest and quickly rushes around to the other side of the bed to crawl in beside you. You come into his arms, curling up against his chest, and Bucky tries to pretend for a moment that this is just another night, that you just returned from a successful mission and there’s a relief in holding you again.

But he can’t shake the crippling dread as it burns into his skin. Even as your breaths fall even and you slack into his arms, Bucky stares up at the ceiling, eyes brimming with tears. He doesn’t sleep at all.

***

A few hours later, the soft tap of a knock draws Bucky from his trance. He blinks a few times, realizing how long he’d been staring up at the ceiling before he lifts his head and finds Steve peering in through the doorway. There’s a solemn look on his face as his eyes flicker towards you.

Bucky gently slides out from under you, careful to place a pillow under your arm where you’d been laying upon his chest as not to wake you. The bed rises a little as he stands and he takes a moment to brush the hair from your eyes before he makes his way to the door. When he meets Steve in the hallway, he’s careful to leave the door to the bedroom open a crack, just in case.

“What did you find?” Bucky asks.

Steve sinks down onto the couch. A hand brushes over his face.

“That bad?” Bucky can already feel the nausea beginning to take hold.

“We recovered footage from her last know whereabouts – the safe house in Juno,” Steve says. He leans forward to rest his elbows upon his thighs, staring out into the empty space of the kitchen. He sighs. “She was ambushed, Buck. The feed cut out a few minutes into the fight.”

“Who were they?” Bucky chokes out. His throat is made of sandpaper.

“We don’t know,” Steve admits, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Mercenaries, probably. Could have been hired in retaliation against SHEILD. Her mission was to identify the point of contact for an illegal arms distributor that was shipping assault rifles into Canada and carrying them over the border. She wasn’t supposed to see any action, Bucky. It was a surveillance op.”

Bucky doesn’t realize how tight his hands are clenched until he looks down to find puncture marks in the palm of his right hand from where his nails buried into his skin. He thinks of the woman who left him behind that morning, with sun kissed skin and a smile so sweet it made his heart melt, who has barely spoken in the hours since returning home, who’s bright eyes have dimmed into something empty and lost.

He’s missing something, he’s sure of it. Maybe if he could just see the footage for himself, identify the bad guys, track them down... maybe he’ll be able to fix this. He could bring you back, make you smile again. Killing those men who hurt you will be a small consolation prize for his efforts.

Bucky is determined as he stands. “I want to see it.”

“Absolutely not,” Steve shoots back. Bucky doesn’t even need to clarify before Steve puts an end to it. “What purpose will that serve, Buck? You don’t need to see the tape, okay? Just trust me on this. I’ve got everyone we have analyzing that video frame by frame. If there’s anything on it to lead us to those assholes, we’ll find it.”

“I have to do something, Steve. I can’t just sit here. Not with her like that...” Bucky glances back at the door to the bedroom. He can’t muster the energy to conjure the image of you standing before him drenched in blood that was not your own, a vacant look in your eyes as if you could see straight through him.

“She needs you here,” Steve argues, rising to his feet. “What do you think will happen when she wakes up and I’ve gotta tell her you’ve run off on some vengeance mission? That you’ve left her alone to face this by herself?”

“That’s not what I’m doing—”

“Yes, it is!” Steve clenches his jaw as his voice echoes into the hall. It’s quiet for a moment and they listen for the bed to squeak, for any sign that you’re awake, but they’re only met with silence, Steve relaxes again. He takes a step forward and places his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. It startles him for a moment, but he can feel the tension as it melts in his muscles. “Just be here for her, man. When there’s something to know, I’ll tell you.”

Bucky keeps his stare on the thin crack in the door, the moonlight peering in from the window and seeping out into the hallway. He listens for the even breaths as you sleep soundly for the first time in days and he knows Steve is right. He doesn’t know if he could leave you like this even if Steve handed him the direct files of every man who laid a hand on you.

“I should get back to her,” Bucky resolves, offering Steve as much of a grateful smile as he can manage. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but Steve understands.

***

It takes days before Bucky can get you to leave the bedroom. He’s only been able to get a few words out of you here and there, short answers to direct questions, and you can’t hold his eye for very long, but he takes it as improvement.

It’s the small steps.

He remembers you saying that when he was at his worst, when he could barely get himself out of bed, when he could hardly touch you without fear of breaking you in half, when the guilt tore and ate through him unchallenged.

So, every time you lift you head when he speaks, when you glance in his direction, when you nod in answer of a question, when you curl against his side and seek out his warmth – it matters. It’s more than what you were able to do the day before and that has meaning.

When you finally do venture out into the living room, Bucky is sure to keep a hand on you at all times. Whether it’s wrapped up tightly in your own, pressed gently to the small of your back, resting against your thigh, over your shoulders – it helps to ground you, remind you that he’s there. You start to drift off into yourself otherwise.

Meanwhile, everyone else is walking on eggshells around you.

Tony turns out of the room before he can even step foot into the kitchen when he sees the back of your head over the couch. Peter is constantly shoveling food into his mouth to keep from his usual rambling one-sided conversations. Steve is deceptively quiet, constantly glancing in your direction as if he’s just waiting for something to set you off. Even Natasha keeps her distance, which surprises him. She stays in the room but she keeps to the corners, observing, like Steve.

Sam, on the other hand, was never one for subtleties.

“Hey kiddo!” Sam throws himself onto the couch beside you, bowl of popcorn in his hand as it jumps up into the air before landing back safely in the bowl.

You flinch at the sudden intrusion next you and Bucky all but stares daggers into Sam for startling you. Bucky was trying to keep your environment as calm as possible as not to set you off into one of those dissociative states again. It could take hours just to get you to acknowledge his voice after that and Bucky can only take that so many times before he’ll simply crumble.

“You know what I’ve been dying to watch?” Sam says aloud, as if someone is listening to him. He shovels a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

“Sam, no.” Bucky warns as he pulls you closer to his side. That movie has far too much violence, even for an eighties film. He doesn’t know how you’ll react to it.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Sam shoots back. He settles into the couch beside you, grinning as he turns in your direction. “Come on, Y/n. It’s been ages since we’ve watched Indie. I know the first is your favorite anyway.”

Bucky is all but ready to clock Sam ten ways to Sunday when you mutter out a quiet, “okay” and Bucky stills completely. It's the first time you’ve even acknowledged anyone besides Bucky since you came home. He stares at Sam with wide eyes, but Sam doesn’t seem to be surprised at all.

Instead, Sam simply sinks into the cushions, turns on the movie he must have already lined up in the queue, and leans the bowl of popcorn in your direction.

Indiana Jones starts his first trek into the cave in search of the Golden Idol and you reach your hand into the bowl. A few bites of popcorn within the first minutes of the movie and it’s more than Bucky has been able to get you to eat without coercion in days. A whisper of a smile crosses your face as Sam almost chokes on the handful he shoved into his mouth.

Sam Wilson might be a massive pain in Bucky’s ass, but he’s a damn good friend. He’s the only one who hasn’t treated you like you’ve lost your mind. He gives you a sense of normalcy when the floor has been pulled out from under you.

For that, Bucky owes him everything.

***

Bucky finds out a week later that there are no bad guys to track down, no one to enact vengeance on for the trauma they’d put you through. There is a reason you came home covered in blood and grime with barely more than a few superficial scratches on your body.

You’d killed them all.

“Are you sure?” Bucky asks Steve, hands planted firmly on the conference table. The night sky is littered in cloud covered stars beyond the windows, crickets chirping in the distance. Bucky stares down at the mug shots of a dozen men now presumed dead.

“We’re sure.” Steve slowly reaches out to gather the images, sliding them back into the file and out of sight. “We’re still working on who sent them but it was probably the arms dealer she was sent to identify. Fury’s sending out a team in the morning to bring him in.”

“That’s... that’s good.” Bucky doesn’t have the strength for revenge anymore. He’s grown tired of carrying it in his chest, on his shoulders, weighing him down as if sinking him to the trenches of an ocean.

“How’s she doing?” Steve asks, gesturing towards the doorway as they begin to walk back to the elevator.

“Better,” Bucky replies honestly.

He’s even seen you crack a smile a few times watching movies with Sam in the living room, maybe even heard a breath of laughter when Sam dropped an entire bowl of popcorn and threw a fit about it.

You’re talking to Bucky more, asking questions, starting brief conversations outside of the necessary ‘yes’ and ‘no’s, humming to yourself as you shower with Bucky standing just a few feet away. It’s something. Small steps.

“She’s strong, Buck. She’ll get through this.”

Bucky takes a deep breath as the elevator doors chime open. He presses the button for his floor. “I know. I just hate seeing her like this in the meantime.” The elevator reaches his floor and he waits as the doors begin to part. “Thanks, Steve. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Steve nods. “You got it, brother.”

Bucky makes his way down the hall from where he’d left you just a few hours earlier. You’d insisted that you’d be alright on your own while he met with Steve. Sam is still sitting on the couch watching Netflix just a few feet outside the bedroom, leaving a blanket of security in Bucky’s absence. He can hear Sam singing along to the theme song as he passes by.

There’s a ghost of a smile on his face as he approaches the living room, but a sudden, gut wrenching scream stills him in his tracks.

Sam jumps up from the couch, popcorn spilling to the carpet and Bucky stares back at the cracked door to the bedroom with wide eyes. He exchanges a glance with Sam and as another scream echoes out into the hall in a broken cry, the two of them rush into the room.

Bucky shoulders his way through the door, breaking the hinges on the top of the frame as he stumbles his way inside. You’re lying on your stomach, arms clutched under the pillow, sweat dampened sheets kicked off down by your feet. You’re whimpering, tear tracks into the pillowcase and your whole body is trembling.

“Y/n?” Bucky calls as gently as he can, his voice breaking in the effort. He moves closer to the bed, his hand hovering over your shoulder, almost afraid to touch you. “Sweetheart, wake up.”

You cry out again, face contorting in pain as you press your face into the pillow.

“I should get Cho,” Sam says behind him, starting to inch towards the door, but Bucky barely hears him as he runs into the hallway.

“Come on, honey,” Bucky tries again. He sinks down to his knees beside the bed. His heart is stammering in his chest. It’s pounding so loudly he’s sure the whole compound can hear it. He feels the tears burn in his eyes as you start to sob. “You’re safe. You’re alright, love. I’m here with you. I’m here, baby.”

Bucky lets his hand ghost over your shoulder and he barely has a chance to react before you jolt upright and there’s a sudden, stinging sensation across his chest. Your eyes are wide, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. It takes a minute before Bucky sees the hilt of the knife gripped tight in your fist.

“Bucky?” you gasp. “What are you—Oh my God...”

The knife drops from your hold as your hands clasp against your mouth. It falls at Bucky’s knees. You’re trying to stifle a sob as it threatens to consume you whole and Bucky tries to reach out for you, but you scramble away from him, fearful eyes staring below his collarbone.

Slowly, Bucky follows your gaze to his chest. There he finds that his shirt is torn in a long, pristine cut. Blood begins to soak into the light grey of the fabric from the open wound underneath. The knife you’d held in your hand bares his blood upon the blade.

“What have I done?!” you cry, shaking your head as you scurry off of the bed and into the corner of the room. You sink to the floor and Bucky shakes himself of his stupor to rush towards you.

“I’m alright,” he tries to reassure you, though he knows it’s no use. “Baby, I’m fine. It’s nothing. It’ll heal in a few hours. I’m okay.”

“Oh God, Oh God! No... I didn’t-- I didn’t mean to--” Your words are barely distinguishable, slurring together in your slobs, and you can barely catch your breath. You shake your head, fresh tears streaming on your cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m-- I’m so s-sorry. I didn’t-- I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Bucky coos. He can feel the itch of a tear as it passes his jawline. “Honey, I need you to breathe for me. Please, let me hold you. I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me.”

But your eyes are glued to the open sliver of his t-shirt, the blood as it soaks into the cotton, and the slash underneath. It only makes you cry more. Its uncontrollable, like you might pass out if you can’t allow yourself to take in enough air, and Bucky feels like he’s reaching out into a fucking void because there’s nothing he can do for you.

“Sergeant Barnes,” a stern voice calls suddenly from behind him. Helen Cho stands in the doorway with Sam just beyond her shoulder. She steps into the room, uncapping a syringe. “Hold her down.”

You’re in hysterics as Bucky pulls you into his arms. You don’t resist as you fall against his chest, but he can feel the unease with which you sit in your own body, like your skin is crawling and you’re caged inside of yourself. He knows the feeling well.

You barely notice as the needle punctures your neck, heavy head falling to rest against Bucky’s shoulder. He eases his left hand down your spine, hoping the chill of the metal will help soothe you as your breaths become more even and the sobs fall weak and far between.

“I’ve got you, honey,” he whispers. You start to close your eyes, giving into the sedative. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Just rest, love. I’ve got you.”

No one relaxes until it’s clear you’re out cold. Sam lets out a heavy sigh from the doorway, slumping into the arch. Helen sinks onto the floor beside Bucky, tossing the syringe into the disposal bag before she rubs a tired hand over her face.

Bucky feels like he can hardly breathe. He waits until Helen and Sam retire to their own rooms before he allows the lump in his throat to consume him whole, before the tears on his face mirror the watermarked stains on his shirt. He doesn’t move from the floor until sunrise, unwilling to disturb your sleep.

***

“I don’t know why you haven’t left me yet.”

The words pass your lips and they puncture straight through Bucky’s chest - like a knife embedded through his skin, nicking over bone and tearing through flesh. He feels sick, a wave of nausea crashing through him as he turns to look at you.

Your eyes are swollen red, lips chewed raw. It only takes a flicker of your gaze to the long faded pink scar across his chest to know what’s on your mind.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky says firmly.

You shake your head, unconvinced. “I could have killed you.”

“Don’t you go underestimating me, now,” Bucky teases, lighting his voice despite the burning ache he feels in his chest. He smiles at you but you can hardly meet his eye.

Your legs are swung over the bedside, hands wringing in your lap, reddening the skin. Your breaths are shaken, lower lip trembling, and he knows you’re trying to hold back tears. He can practically feel the lump building in your throat, suffocating you.

He sighs, sinking down to his knees in front of you. His hands reach out for your own and you flinch at his touch. It takes a moment before you can remind yourself who’s hands are holding you, who’s love you’re surrounded in, and you relax.

He thinks of the woman who taught him how to love again, who woke him from a decades long nightmare with the sweet touch of her hand and the adoration in her smile. He conjures the image of you he preserved before you left on your last mission, with sun kissed skin and laughter in your chest, as he stares up at the dark circles under your eyes, the frown upon your lips, the aching claws of shame draining you of the light you possessed.

“Sweetheart, look at me.” He tips a finger under your chin and guides you to meet his eye. He smiles, softening under your gaze.

“You hold so much space in your heart for compassion and forgiveness,” Bucky eased, stroking his thumbs gently along the backs of your hands. “You never hesitated once to absolve me of my sins as the Winter Soldier. It didn’t matter how may nights I woke up empty, not knowing where or who I was. It didn’t matter how much I thought I was a burden to you and the team, or whether I deemed myself worthy enough to be loved by you. You were patient with me, kind beyond what I ever believed I could deserve. Can you not reserve some of that for yourself, too?”

He watches the sob creep up your spine before it breaks. There’s little more either of you can say and he resides to holding you in his arms, caged protectively against his chest where not even the demons lurking in the back of your mind can find you.

He knows, eventually, you’ll be okay. You taught him that. Even when the tunnel was its darkest, when he could barely see beyond the tips of his fingers, and the sun was cast over in shadows -- you showed him that as long as he kept walking, he’d find the light again.

***

“Come on, Y/n, what is the matter with you?”

Bucky hears you grumbling to yourself in the kitchen. He wipes the trail of sweat off his face from his morning run as he approaches the island covered in stray dollops of pancake batter, bottles of maple syrup, and mixing bowls. He smiles as he leans against the counter, waiting for you to notice him.

“You weren’t supposed to be home yet,” you groan, catching Bucky out of the corner of your eye as you dump a plate full of burnt pancakes into the sink. Your hair a little out of sorts, a bead of sweat dripping down your temple. It’s almost endearing if it wasn’t for how fast your heart was beating. Bucky could hear it down the hall.

“Missed you.” He shrugs casually, testing a smirk and you started to smile in return; all shy and sweet and full of the woman he adores. He glances to the mess in the kitchen and the smoke piling on the ceiling. “What happened here?”

“Pancakes aren’t my strongest suit.”

Bucky laughs at that. “I can see that.”

You sigh, scratching at the back of your neck. “I just wanted to do something nice for you, Bucky.”

Bucky can feel his heart sinking but he holds the smile to his face. “You do a thousand nice things for me all the time. Just being here is enough for me, sweetheart.”

“You know what I mean,” you say under your breath, eyes falling to the floor by his feet. “After everything I put you through since that awful mission-”

“Hey, hey -- Don’t do that.” Bucky crosses the kitchen and places his hands gingerly on your cheeks, guiding your eyes back to his. “You didn’t do anything wrong; you hear me? You survived. You’re still surviving and I’m just... I’m so proud of you, Y/n.”

You part your lips to say more, to argue against him, but it dies on your tongue as Bucky smiles at you as if you hung the moon and the stars and every damn

“You don’t need to bring me coffee in the morning,” Bucky says before he presses a kiss to your forehead, “or bribe Stark into making new tech for my arm,” then a kiss to your nose, “or make me burnt pancakes to thank me for loving you through this.”

He pauses as he pulls back. You’re watching him with an expression somewhere between awe and relief, but it’s the warmth of your smile that does him in completely.

“We take care of each other, okay? That’s what we do,” Bucky says, leaning in to kiss your lips sweetly until he can feel the smile grow against his mouth. He pulls back, chuckling a bit under his breath. “Besides, I’m the last person who is going to be scared away by trauma.”

You laugh as you wrap your arms around his waist, pulling yourself closer to his chest. Engulfed in the sweet smell of maple and butter and batter, Bucky feels a wash of calm for the first time since you left on that mission.

He thinks you may have finally found your way home.

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n

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