#or having the water in the air around you suddenly freeze enough times will have an effect on you

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Hiiiii, Congratulations on your 5K !!! Idk if ur reqs r still open, but I'll try (pls feel free to delete this if it's closed alrdy)

I was supposed to ask for a Cap. Price but since u've said that there are low reqs for Soap, I'm (humbly and kindly) asking for a Soap oneshot. U can do whatever u want (I just want fluff pls, I'm so inlove with him, he's such a cutie)

—Alive and Breathing

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [You're sick. Very sick. John takes drastic action.] ❞

Your head pounds violently, groaning softly under your breath as the room pulses with heat and fever. Sweat stains your forehead—dripping off the side of your nose as the bed is heavy with it. The window was shut tight, the sheets layered high on you in a heap akin to a garbage pile with shaking feet twitching from out the end. Your muscles jerk, lungs heaving for air that gets harder to come by. 

No matter how hot you tried to become, nothing was making you any more comfortable. You felt like you were freezing; standing out on an ice sheet and plunging into arctic waters. Everything was a sheen of blurry delirium, and you hoped that John would get home soon so you could have him help out around the house. 

You’d taken some cold medicine after you called him, but nothing was working. 

Not moving beyond the ragged coughs that make you gag on your saliva, you stay there even when the front door opens—a call of your name on the air a dull buzz in your drums. Like a fly. 

And then, suddenly, there’s a serious face in front of yours, and a hand is shoving back your blankets until you’re partially visible. 

“Up you get, now,” John grunts, eyes narrowed and his scar pulling tight at the sight of your state. Your mouth twists into a tight frown, panting at the chill of the air; you shiver violently. “I’m takin’ you in, aye?”

“M’cold, John,” you mutter through a hoarse exhilation. Shapes shift and shadows move. A heavy hand is pressed to your forehead, flinching momentarily at the heat that makes John hiss lowly. He looks your body up and down, taking in the scent of sweat and sickness. 

This was worse than the light fever you’d described over the phone. 

“Holy hell…” He breathes, glancing at the rapid pulse point in your neck. “Cold? You’re fuckin’ burnin’ up down there, Dearie. Did you take anything while I was away? Christ.”

A mind is made up quickly, concern striking John in the heart. 

He digs you out of the last remaining covers, gripping your slick body as your eyes flutter—you don’t answer him, muttering under your breath. 

“Fuck,” John growls. Once he knows you’re not going to slip out of his arms, he grips you tighter and rushes into the bathroom, nerves in his gut not leaving as your limp arm sways. “Hey!” He shouts at you, jostling your shoulder blades.

You whine, your head stuck at his pec. Everything pulses. 

Glaring, John’s blue eyes are laced with worry as he sets you down into the tub—scarred hand snapping to turn on the water on the coldest setting. 

Hands grapple your cheeks. 

“Hey, now,” the man utters, accent thick and deep as emotions take over. “Hey, focus on me. C’mon.” Water spreads over your legs—soaking into your clothes as your shivering continues even now. Your lashes flutter, teeth chattering. “C’mon, Sweetheart, right here.”

The water sloshes over the lip of the tub by the time John turns it off, the liquid cold enough to make the man shiver himself, but he doesn’t even notice—eyes trapped on your body. 

After a few long, tense, minutes, your rapid heartbeat slows to the visible eye. Your lungs ease back to a nearly-normal rise and fall; small hitches still in the muscle. 

“That’s a girl,” John runs his thumbs up and down your flesh. “That’s right.”

You huff, face still full of drying sweat until the man ahead of you takes a palm full of water and drenches your head with it. Sputtering, you weakly push at his other wrist near your cheek, gasping down air. 

“W-what the hell,” you stutter, water dripping off your nose and over your eyes.

“I’m getting you medicine,” John grumbles. “The correct kind. Cold bath won’t help in the long run, but I was out of options.”

You blink at him, still sluggish. 

“I’ll be fine, John.” A firm brow raises in challenge and you sigh shaking your head.

“It’s that or I bring you to hospital. Your choice.” 

Silence falls, only broken by the shift of the water and your small sickly sniffles. Blue eyes move and soften before John brings a hand up to his face and rubs it. He holds the limb there for a moment, taking a shallow breath. 

A kiss is pressed to your still steamy forehead, the lips staying there as you sag forward into John as his arms circle you, bringing you to him. 

“Scared me,” he utters lowly. 

You hum, tired. 

“I had the strangest dream while you were gone,” your mouth whispers. John grunts into your skin. “You were fighting a bear.”

“A bear?” He smirks, eyebrow quirking and pulling his scar tight. “Bit big for me to do alone, Dearie…I win?”

“Of course,” you try a hoarse chuckle, arms limp in the water. 

“Oh, aye, an accurate dream.” He chuckles with you. “How’d I do it, then? Was I barehanded? Knife?”

“...I’m just stroking your ego, John.”

“Can’t stroke something you can’t reach, can you?”

[cower-before-power]

Rest Easy, My Love

Pairing: Astarion x Fem Reader

Summary: Astarion is haunted by his painful memories more often than not, but you are always there to shelter him with your love.

Word Count: approx 1200

TW: Angst, hurt/comfort, allusions to Astarion's past, very very brief mention of Astarion unintentionally hurting reader, nightmares, slight dom reader/sub Astarion vibes (but nothing sexual), blood drinking

A/N: Had to write a little comfort piece for everyone's favourite vampire. He deserves peace and love and one big hug!

MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT!

The first whimper comes softly.

So soft, had you not already been awake, you wouldn’t have heard it. Your skin prickles, and you freeze, ears straining hard for another one.

It comes not a moment later, still hushed but more plaintive. A quiet gasp of pain follows it. You set your water cup down on the bedside table, eyebrows knitting together.

You’d left your lover trancing peacefully not 5 minutes prior, your parched throat calling for a trip to the kitchen for a drink. In that short time, his pleasant memories must have transformed, morphed into the horrors he’d suffered at the hands of his former master.

Even after months next to him, it doesn’t make it any easier. Or your heart bleed any less.

Your body turns towards your pale elf, his marble brow creased, his perfect mouth twisted. Reminders to approach this softly flit through your mind. You’d learned early on in your courtship that a loud voice and a rough shake was not the solution.

(Part of you was sure Astarion has never forgiven himself for that night, for when he awoke from shadows to find you gasping for breath beneath him. You hadn’t blamed him for a second, but his self loathing was a trench dug deep, and you could only fill it so much with your reassurances.)

“My love,” you call softly, gently. “My love, come back to me.”

Your hands tremble with the urge to touch him, but you restrain yourself. Astarion is mumbling now, pleas sewn in between gasps, fists closing tightly around the cool silk sheets. His whole being shakes with fear and despair.

Gods above, if you could murder Cazador all over again, you’d do it happily.

“Astarion,” you raise your voice the tiniest pinch, just enough to coax him, “wake up.”

The man beside you suddenly jerks upright, a harsh sob escaping his lips as blood red eyes fly open. He gulps lungfuls of unneeded air, and if he had a working heart, you’re sure it would be galloping fiercely.

“It’s only me, my love,” you coo, hands up in a gesture of peace. “It’s only me, and I won’t hurt you.”

“Cazador-“ Astarion chokes out, eyes darting wildly around the darkened room. “Cazador, no-“

“He’s dead, precious,” you affirm. “Dead and gone. There’s only me and you, safe and warm in our bed. Just us and the love we share.”

Red eyes focus on your face, and the glassy sheen begins to recede. “Dead?”

Slowly, carefully, you extend an open palm to him. He only flinches slightly-an improvement wrought through time and trust. Though it still stakes your heart. “Yes, he’s dead. Many months now.”

A single dewdrop slips down Astarion’s cheek. His eyes are wet with tears now, memories fading into the background. It is safe now to cup his face in your palm, to brush the moisture away with the pad of your thumb, to bestow on him a tender touch he needs. To your relief, he accepts your affection with a nuzzle into your palm.

“Darling?” his usually rich voice is hoarse and broken with pain. “You-You’re here?”

“It’s me,” you stroke his cheek reassuringly. “I’m here, precious. Right beside you. Always.”

Your arms open wide like the gates of the Heavens, and your vampire collapses into them.

Every sob that tears from him rips you apart; every tear that soaks your skin drowns you in sorrowful anger. How dare that cretin hurt your angel so? How dare he etch such monstrous events into Astarion’s soul? Cazador deserves to burn. You damn him to the very depth of the Hells, and even an eternity there isn’t enough to atone.

“Shhh, shhh,” you croon, fingers running through silver hair as your love weeps into your neck. “Shhh, precious boy. It’s alright. You’re safe with me. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

You kiss his hair, stroke his ears, squeeze him gently in your embrace. While most of you rages and shatters, a part thrills at the display of trust you are shown. Moons ago, you’d get nothing but a huff and some clipped words- a denial of the need for comfort. But now, now you are allowed to see, to hear, to touch Astarion at his most vulnerable. And more so, you are granted the privilege of easing his agony.

Astarion’s teeth scrape against the soft skin of your neck, his hands clutching at your chest desperately.

“I need-I’m sorry, please-“ he gasps, unable to voice his desires. But you know him inside and out, and you know what he needs.

You shake your head. “Never apologize,” you say, baring your neck to him. “Take what you need, my love. I am yours, wholly and completely. Take of me, and forget.”

Astarion nearly whines with gratitude, and sinks his fangs into your soft flesh. Like a babe at its mother’s breast, he sucks to soothe, less for the gush of blood down his gullet and more for the peace your taste brings. You taste and smell of home, of repose from every dark thing that’s ever haunted him. It’s a gift you’d never dream of denying him.

“That’s it,” you whisper, nails scraping gently against his scalp, “that’s it, precious boy. My good, precious boy. My wonderful love, my little star worthy of everything good and bright in this world. My heart, my joy, my Astarion.”

His body shudders at your praise. You continue to murmur it softly to him as he drinks, cocooning him in your love as best you can. Maybe you are no doctor, no healer able to stitch wounds and mend gashes, but you will bathe every hurt in your devotion most blessed. And healing will continue.

After a few moments, Astarion slows his gulping, his delirious pants becoming softer, gentler. His teeth detach but he does not, his now warm mouth pressing thankful kisses into your neck.

“Don’t ever leave me,” he begs, and his arms wind around you like twin vices. “Don’t ever leave me alone.”

“Never,” you vow, and you’d swear it on all the graves of your ancestors. “You will always have my love, precious. And I’ll always be here to chase away the dark. No god, man or monster will ever be able to tear me from you.”

Your vampire sighs, and the sound is full of shaky contentment. He sinks further into your softness, eyes slipping close as exhaustion takes its hold.

“I love you,” he murmurs, a last sentiment before he succumbs to actual sleep. You whisper your own feelings back, willing every syllable to etch itself into his very being. That your lover would be able to feel and grasps the depths of your devotion. That four little words can watch over him and protect him and turn his dreams sweet.

You know when he wakes again, none of this will be spoken of. He’ll act like this didn’t happen, like his rest was nothing but bliss. He’ll kiss you awake, teasing and light, his playful demeanor firmly back in place. But there will be love and gratitude in his eyes, and your own will affirm you’ll do it all over again, and again, and again. Until the dark no longer cuts, until the memories fade and burn to ash, until his smile always reaches his eyes.

For in your love, Astarion will come to rest easy.

[sqtorux]

7 minutes, not in heaven just yet but still heavenly

“after death the human brain lives on for seven minutes to replay its best memories”. nanami can't help but think about what his last seven minutes would look like.

nanami had recalled you telling him about a silly trend going around about people making videos of what their presumed 7 minutes just before their complete death would be like.

as reluctant as nanami was to think of either of you dying, he finds himself pondering upon two questions: what would your and his last seven minutes look like?

one of the question was answered by you a few seconds later. “hm mine would probably be all with you, and some with my family… maybe our colleagues as well.”

at that time, it warmed his heart immensely even after knowing full well his best memories were with you too.

the other question however, wasn't answered. it was in the form of a revelation.

nanami was tired. his body and mind just barely holding onto the thin string of his duties he told himself to finish before succumbing into the lure of resting.

he was sure he was in an underground train station fighting and slashing disfigured humans with the little strength he has left but why did it also feel like dancing?

dancing? ah yes gliding through the air under the warm sunshine in … a beach? a beach in malaysia yes you had always wanted to go there with him.

the grainy sand beneath his feet and the cool air blowing through his clothes and into his skin made nanami feel like he was in paradise, just not yet though because you weren't here.

you weren't here.

suddenly he wasn't in a beach anymore. the grainy sand turned into hard concrete and the warm sunshine was replaced by luminescent artificial lights. he was no longer dancing but grasping into his cursed tool, the blood of hundreds dripping down from it.

and yet you were here. the distress and horrified expression on your face made his heart ache. nanami observed you panting in exhaustion, you must have ran.

and finally there were tears flowing from your eyes, all the way down your cheeks and onto the hard concrete floor. he wishes he could wipe them away and hold you tighter than he ever did before.

but he couldn't bring himself to move. a hand was on his shoulder, the hand of the cursed spirit who was responsible for the numerous disfigured humans he had forced himself to kill.

he called out to you meekly observing how your body forces itself to look into his eyes despite freezing in place.

“i’d always save the last dance for you.” he hears himself say. he wanted to make things right and apologize profusely for ever letting you cry so painfully like this, especially over him.

“i don't think i have 7 minutes.”

mahito’s idle transfiguration would've allowed some level of consciousness to the humans he disfigured but nanami wasn't just a human. he was a sorcerer and neither was he disfigured.

“... 7 seconds.” and then he was gone.

the world was never fair. it was always ruthless and ugly but amidst that, it was also kind. kind enough to let you meet nanami.

but in a moment like this it felt like the world was purposely allowing you to feel this way, just so it could chew you up and spit you out only to step on you and laugh at your misery.

nanami’s last 7 seconds were with you, his beloved. perhaps returning to the sandy beach with warm sunshine, playing blissfully in the sea water, its currents pushing you both a little more closer, falling in love a little more deeper.

wrote this in a haze i need u all to suffer with me. i miss kento sm i will curse gege to no end </3

[warmblanketwhump]

recovering A is sitting outside with caretaker B. it’s a pleasant day, with mild weather and sunshine, and B figures that even though A’s still fairly weak, the fresh air will do them good. and for a while, it does seem to lift their spirits and bring a bit of color back in their pale cheeks.

A enjoys being outdoors at first, but despite their sweater and the heat of the afternoon sun, they’re barely warm at all.

suddenly, the sun darts behind a cloud, and A shudders.

“feeling alright?” B asks, brow furrowing.

“I’m okay.” A wraps their arms around themselves, trying to ignore the goosebumps that prickle down their spine, and wishes they’d brought out a blanket to tuck around them. I thought the sweater was enough, it’s not even that cold.

the sun returns a few minutes later, but it’s too late—A feels their frail body start to tremble, overcompensating for the slight change in temperature.

“A, you’re shivering.”

“Just got a chill, that’s all.” A hates the way their voice wavers, the way they can barely force the words out through their chattering teeth, the way their bones are suddenly, impossibly freezing, like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over their head.

B jumps up from their chair and instantly comes to A’s side, cursing softly. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you out—“

“It’s fine, B. I wanted to come outside for a change.” Still, B helps them up and guides them inside to their chair, then covers their shivering frame with one blanket, then two, and begins to build up the fire in the small cabin.

“I’ll make you some tea, too, try and warm you up from the inside…” B’s voice trails off as they rustle around in the kitchen.

But A knows it’s no use from experience: they won’t truly stop feeling chilled until their hot bath tonight. And I can’t take my bath too early or else I’ll inevitably get cold some other stupid way, and I’m not making B run me two baths.

Recovering has been slow and frustrating, this part most of all. Why can’t their body maintain their temperature like it used to? Why are they so damn cold all the time?

They don’t realize they’re crying until they feel wipe away the twin tears on their cheeks, and they see B crouching to eye level. The concern on B’s face only makes A cry harder—they don’t want to be this weak, they didn’t used to be this way, they just want things to be better…

And they must say all that out loud, because now B’s arms are around them. “I know. I know it’s hard. We’ll get through this, A.”

There will be more blankets, and hot tea, and against A’s efforts, two baths. But in that moment, A’s never been more grateful for the warmth of B’s arms.

I will get through this.

[hopingforgoodblogs]

The Fight

hey guys! so this is my first fic! ive always loved writing and i LOVE reading tumblr fics so i thought why not? lmk below if you like it and send me requests of what you want next! this WILL have multiple parts btw ;)

Modern Ellie x fem!reader

WARNINGS: cursing, VIOLENCE, d slur, abuse (please lmk if i missed anything that might’ve needed to be put in the warnings!)

Ellie Williams. Your childhood best friend. You guys were the duo that everyone recognized in the halls. You being the soft, innocent-presenting, good girl and Ellie being the more hardcore, dominant rebel. A common but iconic duo, if you will. You guys were never seen separated. That was until today. 

The night prior was very emotionally draining for the both of you (physically for Ellie). You had gotten into a serious argument. You both had gotten into disagreements and have bickered before, but not like this. 

FLASHBACK TO NIGHT PRIOR

You guys were at a party with your boyfriend. You and Ellie were already over this stupid party and since your boyfriend was wasted enough, you tried to leave. You were trying to calmly get him to stop drinking so you guys could just dip but he wasn’t having it.

“Babe, please stop drinking so much. Let’s go. It’s getting late and you’ve had enough.”

“No, I’m not done!” He slurs, his voice cracking and volume increasing.

“Oh shut the fuck up. You’re shouting is gonna burst my eardrums. If you don’t come on I’m leaving your drunk ass here,” Ellie jumped in, practically hissing her words, the annoyance and anger clear in her voice.

“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to, bitch?” Your boyfriend snaps back, getting closer to Ellie. Her face scrunches up in disgust. His hot breath, which reeks of alcohol and beef jerky, hitting her nose.

“If you don’t back the fuck up,” She takes a deep breath, gritting her teeth, “I will beat you sober,” She retorts, purposely getting spit on his face. He jolts slightly at the contact and in disgust. 

He laughs at her remark, getting up in her face, “Yeah like I’d get beat up by a scrawny little dyke like you.”

Suddenly, the atmosphere changed. Anyone around could feel the sudden change in the air. Your eyes go wide and you freeze in a state of panic, knowing how violent Ellie can get. This isn’t her first time publicly experiencing this. The last situation didn’t end so well. Your mind starts racing at the speed of light trying to figure out what might happen or what you should to do. Instinctively you run between them, placing your hands on Ellie's shoulders, pushing her back in an attempt to restrain her from getting close to your boyfriend. 

“What the fuck did you just call me? Say it again! Say it! I fucking dare you!” If you weren't there to control her, she would’ve blacked out and killed the guy. 

She keeps shouting at him and you remove your hands from her shoulders to cup her face, “Ellie please! He’s not worth it! Let’s just go.” She stops her shouting and looks into your watering eyes. She can not only see fear in your eyes but can feel the fear in your hands. They were trembling. Why is she trembling? She thought. Her eyes shuffled back and forth between yours and very quickly at your lips which were also quivering. 

After a beat of studying your worried expression, she responds, “Okay, fine. But I'm leaving him here.” She grabs your hand so she doesn’t lose you in the crowd of people. As you walk away, your boyfriend catches a glimpse of Ellie holding your hand and he starts to hunt toward you angrily. He grabs your shoulder tight and aggressively swings you around, slapping your face hard. You fall to the ground in embarrassment, cupping your now red-handed cheek. At that moment Ellie lost herself. Her expression darkened and she ran towards him, making him fall. She got on top of him, beating his face in. Horror and fear were written all over your face. You were sobbing, begging Ellie to stop.

"Ellie, please! Stop it! You're gonna kill him!"

"Wouldn't be such a bad thing. This dipshit doesn't deserve to fucking breathe!" She continues to hit him. She's beaten him so much that he can't even form a sentence.

You start to hyperventilate at the sight of your boyfriends face, now unrecognizable, "Ellie stop it! You've done enough!" The genuine fear in your voice finally snaps her back into reality. She stops herself and stares at him. He's struggling and gasping for air. If Ellie hadn't woken up from her rage she would've for sure killed him. She slowly stands up, wiping the blood from her hands, and reaches for yours. 

"Let's go," She softly speaks, trying to be as gentle as possible. You hesitantly grab her hand and you guys leave the party. 

TO BE CONTINUED…

[sciencebecameouraddiction]

title: all that glitters is gold

author: sciencebecameouraddiction

fandom: hazbin hotel

rating: PG

genre: angst

pairing: lucifer x reader

summary: every one of your nightmares ended in gold…

you never thought that a ring glinting in the dim lighting of a room could feel so frigid and unwelcoming. never thought that just a glint in the low light could have your body freeze, your mind run itself around in a panic or cause your hands to shake uncontrollably. you were faced with this reality as you watched the ring glide through the air, attached to his hand as he spoke animatedly, the conversation sounding distant. like you were under water and people were shouting above you.

that’s what it felt like. you were drowning. drowning in the anxiety, fear, and hopelessness seeing that shiny piece of metal glint caused you. it was more than the ring itself. more than the hunk of metal attached to the body of a man that said he was yours, was meant to be yours, whispered soft and sweet things to you until your heart felt like it could burst. that ring symbolized everything you felt like you had to compete with.

the ring reminded you that you were constantly fighting for his attention, because somewhere, like an old, forgotten box in the attic from when you moved, contained the love he still had for her . it showed that you weren’t enough, could never be enough for him. maybe at best, you warmed his bed for him while he waited for her, while he was your everything. the ring whispered all of their vows, their promises, right back to you every time it’s unforgiving touch scalded your skin.

that’s why when you were pulled away from your thoughts, and the very same hand, with that gold ring grabbed yours, you flinched. you saw his eyes widen, a look of concern passing on his face, but all you could see was gold. your body felt like it was enclosed in the unforgiving metal, squeezing every bit of your life out of you. your skin feeling like ice, frozen in movement and to the touch. it had such power over you, making your mind fuzzy, your lungs seemingly malfunctioning as you couldn’t catch your breath. it was one thing to see it far away but it was an unexpected dose of reality to feel that band brush against your body, reasserting itself in your mind.

“darling?” you hear lucifer’s voice travel to you and penetrate the frozen shell you had become. his voice settling in your chest and melting all your uncertainty away, clearing your mind and calling your breath. you look at him. not realizing your eyes were wide and you were crying.

“darling…” he whispers, moving to take you up to your room, leaving the party behind as you seemed to effortlessly float behind, your feet moving on autopilot. that gold band still in your field vision, almost like you had tunnel vision. suddenly, you were in your room, your eyes not leaving his hand as he stood in front of you.

“did someone do something to you?” he asks, trying to see if you were wounded as you just stood there unresponsive. until his right hand cupped your cheek, his warm touch bringing you back to clarity as you felt like you were looking at him for the first time.

“no.” you murmur. his shoulders sag in relief.

“what’s wrong? what just happened?” he asks, trying to be calm, his voice wavering.

“i don’t think i can do this.” you whisper and watch lucifer’s face fall devastated.

“what-what do you mean?” he asks, both hands cupping your cheeks. “you said you loved me.” you flinch feeling the band on your cheek. you take his left hand off you and hold it between the both of you. the gold band glinting in the light like it was dancing, mocking you. tears gather in your eyes again.

“i love you more than i ever thought i could love someone. my heart aches to join yours at any chance it can find and with your hand in mine, anywhere could feel like home to me, because you are my home.” you explain crying, watching tears pour from lucifer’s eyes. you take a shuddering breath and gather his hands in yours, holding them between you and ensuring you weren’t touching his wedding band.

“i don’t believe that you feel that way. your heart still belongs to…” you swallow, trying to stop the sob stuck in your throat. turning your head to look at him makes everything worse, as your cry runs out of your mouth, shattering the room around you in despair. “lilith. your heart, belongs to lilith. and i can’t… lucifer… i can’t…” you trail off, shaking your head as you squeeze his hands. you go to walk off but he grabs your hand.

“is it this?” he asks, holding his left hand up, showing the wedding band to you. you look off, not able to look at it fully. he sighs and curses. he lets go of your hand and stands in front of you, waiting for your eyes to meet his.

when you look eyes with him, his eyes are rimmed in red, but they reflect a determination that wasn’t there before. he holds up his left hand, and takes off the ring. your eyes widen as you look between the offending metal and his now empty finger.

“i am sorry my actions caused you to doubt my sincerity.” he says, turning and placing the ring in a small box on his side of the bed that you knew held his memories of that time. “it’s a lot to just seemingly throw away almost 10,000 years of partnership with someone. my inability to heal quickly from that, was no reflection of my feelings for you nor how i saw this relationship. you were never second best.” lucifer sighs and walks up to you, drawing your pliant body to his. he thanks who ever is listening to him that he is actually conveying his feelings well right now, making a mental note to thank charlie and her feeling exercises.

“you are it for me. yes, i was with lilith. we had a child together. that does not mean i do not love you less. if anything i love you more i think, because i was so far gone. you and charlie were the only two people to get me out of the dark place i was.” he explains, as you start crying again. his eyes widen as he tries to wipe off the tears but they’re coming too quickly. you just reach up and hold his hands against your cheeks. his eyes widen as he looks at you, a little shocked, and then you lean in, kissing him.

“i just wanted to stop feeling like i was competing against her all the time. it felt like that damn ring mocked me for not being her.” you cry. “i’m so sorry.”

“no, i should be sorry. this is my fault.” lucifer says, hugging you closer. he pulls away and looks at you again. “how can i make this right?” his question leaves you silent for a while.

“i’m-i’m not sure. really. i guess, can we start but just having a movie night up here? i don’t want to go back down stairs.” you explain. lucifer smiles snapping his fingers and you both were already in soft matching duck pajamas. your smile stretching across your face as you laugh.

“consider it done.” he says, hopping on the bed and patting the space next to him. you eagerly crawl up and lay on his chest and he holds you close. together you pieced each other back together, and while it was messy, you knew you both could do it.

[wraithdance]

Stray Dogs | GHOAP x Reader

Synopsis: You never had a problem with strays, but you should have been wary of the rabid dogs begging to be leashed.

Note: F!Reader, No phys. description but reader has background story, no y/n use, Reader is LGBTQ (Bi/Pan) w/ Avoidant attachment issues. Content warning: Mature | avoidant attachment traits, mentions of slight self harming behavior, sexually explicit content, mentions of p in v sex, description of ptsd episode, brief mention of animal death plz skip the last sentence if that may be a trigger.

Chapter two: Soap won’t go home

[4:57 AM]

You were not ‘blissfully slumbering in no time’.

Instead you were having another panic attack in a bathroom.

It would be a consolation that this time you’re at home, but you know for a fact that the Scot you let come over for a quick screw is outside the door waiting. The thought brings more hot angry tears down your cheeks as another bout of trembling makes your teeth chatter violently. 

Johnny knocks on the door again. “Hen, are ye okay?”

You hope he feels your glare burning through the plywood separating you both. It’s so tempting to shriek ‘what the fuck do you think?’, maybe it would even be cathartic.

You wish you could say it. Mean and cruel in return for the simple kindness of asking after your rightness in the world. But the same something that always sits on your chest when you think about doing what you really want constricts you like a Boa.

Swallowing the bitter angry words like thick cough syrup you bite out a shaky, “I’m fine.” 

You know he doesn’t believe you, you can hear his weight shift on the creaky tile in front of the door that you never got around to fixing.

“Bonnie, can ye open the door, just want to check on ye.”

You turn on the tap to the bathtub instead to drown him out. Shoving your hands under the scalding hot water, attempting to focus on trying to get the freezing chill out of your limbs. 

Everything had been going so well. 

Johnny fucked like a dog. A dirty disgusting dog that wouldn’t take his tongue or cock out of your body long enough for you to think much less breathe. He’d had no issue with letting you dominate, had enthusiastically agreed after sloppily and relentlessly coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of you with his tongue and fingers. 

There was a point you thought you might have died a little, as the time between him pressing an exploratory tongue into your asshole before licking up to your clit with harsh pulls, evaporated.

You’d suddenly come back to reality to him pumping two, then three fingers into your sex and tapping on the bundle of nerves inside your body in a come hither motion.

Johnny had worn a self satisfied, shit eating grin on his face when he’d finally come up for air. His jaw and throat slick with your fluids. He’d been anything but subtle about how much it turned him on to see you fucked out and barely functioning.

It’d hurt your ego more than just a little bit. You’d prided yourself on being the one to leave your partners in utter bliss.

It was the least you could do for being a no good, emotionally destitute that only hurt them in the end.

With the intent to redeem yourself you had pushed him to the floor none too lightly, dropping to your knees and diving for his swollen cock. He’d tried to pull your hair and rut into your throat before you bit the skin at his hip and snarled threats at him. It only made the bastard harder.

You’d swallowed him deep, humming around the saliva and solid length of him, satisfied with the roar he lets out in his release.

It took him less than ten minutes to get hard again. He’d pouted at the box of condoms you’d thrown at him but had been pleased when you rolled the latex on his reddened shaft with your mouth.

That’s how you found yourself boneless on top of his body as he pressed long, steady strokes into your cunt. You’d ridden him for as long as you could before the burn in your knees and thighs became too much. Johnny cooed sticky sweet things in your ears with his arms wrapped tight around you like a vice.

“Aye hen are ye tired? Let Johnny make it better, just open for me, I’ll make it better, promise, look at ye, pretty thing I’ve got ya.” Every other word enunciated with an upward thrust.

“Aye I gotcha, yer doing good hen.” He’d panted in your ear with a rasp.

The combination of him hitting the spot deep inside of you like a game of ring the bell and the crooning affirmations, had been too much. To your horror your eyes had prickled with tears. You’d bitten the inside of your lips raw, desperately trying to muffle the broken sobs that clawed up your throat, pushing back against his chest fighting for space. 

Johnny had held you tighter, one palm against your back and the other tight around your neck as he worked you both through a pitiful orgasm that had you seeing stars. Until he’d flipped you over, pinning you into a mating press. 

You’d hyperventilated until you blacked out.

You’re scowling at the way your skin puckers beneath the rushing water. You’re still numb. The trauma therapist at the psych hospital was full of it, distress tolerance didn't actually do shit for distress.

The bathroom lock jiggles and you’re whipping your head to the opening door in panic as it swings open. 

Johnny’s blue eyes are remorseful but that quickly turns to horror. You jerk your arm out from under the water and try to hide it behind your side but Johnny is faster. He’s across the floor in less than two wide strides and forcing your arm from behind you despite your jerking.

“What are ye doing? Hen, look at your arm!”

“I was checking the temperature, I’m fine.” He gives you a look of disbelief and grunts something unintelligible under his breath. He ignores your protests and shuts off the water, freezing you with a warning look when you lift your hand to stop him. 

In the sudden quiet he searches your face, you glower. 

“Come here.”

He doesn’t wait for you to decide to be cooperative, he’s maneuvering his hands around you, one on the back of your neck and the other beneath your chin. Johnny sinks to the bathroom floor to his knees and presses his forehead against yours. 

“Breathe for me, ye can do it bonnie, deep breaths.”

He’s too close. His breath fans across your face, the sensation shocking a sob out of you.  You’re stiffening with panic at the sudden flood of feeling racing down your spine. 

“I’m fine, I just need you to back up-” 

Johnny thumbs his finger across your jaw in slow swiping movements. 

“Breathe. I’m nae asking.”

Fuck.

You take stuttering breaths, he counts each one telling you to hold on the exhale.

In. Out. Good lass, I’ve got ye.

He’s lying to you. But you do what he asks anyway.

Johnny lets you pull back only when the trembling stops. His watchful eyes are bright. Soft. It makes your stomach churn.

“I’m good.” you whisper “You don’t have to stay.” 

He gets the double meaning you're only marginally trying to cover up. Instead of offense he’s smirking and there’s a layered glint in his eyes, like you’ve challenged him.

“Are ye tryin’ to get rid of me?”

Yes!

“No,” Standing from the lip of the tub, you try to side-step his large form. He watches you like a hawk, observing your awkward inch towards the door into the darkened hallway.  “I just have an early morning, so I should get some rest, I’m sorry.”

Letting out a humorless laugh he rolls his shoulders back, ambling to his feet. He keeps an eye on your skittish retreat, taking a step for every one of your own until he’s in the doorway, lifting his arms to hold on to the frame. 

It’s the first time you notice he’s still bare ass naked. 

Tan skin and darkened hair coat the expanse of his body along with various scarring. You’re staring at the small circular puckered skin on his thigh when his cock twitches where it hangs. 

Johnny’s wolfish grin makes an appearance at your grimace.

“Aye, he’s a bit tuckered out as well, hen.” The Scot reaches for you, rubbing his hands down your arms, tucking his thumb beneath his stolen shirt, “We should get some sleep, yeah?”

No, not yeah. He really needed to get the fuck out.

You stiffen in his hold, panic rising in your chest rapidly and he notices. Johnny pulls back to look at you, guiding your chin back to face him when you try to duck your face. He tells you to breathe deep, you hate that you follow his instructions again.

“Ye won’t even know I’m here, promise. C’mon hen, I’ll make ye some tea.”

You’re quietly watching him from your seat at the island. He’s too comfortable in your small kitchen, yawning while he waits for the ancient kettle to heat up.

His thick arms are crossed against his chest and his head nods off as he falls asleep while standing. He’d had the decency to retrieve his boxers when you’d protested about his dick hanging around your food stuff.

You pick at the hangnail on your index finger until it bleeds.

“Why did you defend me?”

Johnny blinks, confusedly coming back from his half sleep. “What’s that, Bonnie?” 

“Tonight,” you say slowly, “why did you fight that guy at the bar? It was because of me right?”

Johnny is quiet. You’d suspect he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open but he cracks his neck after a beat.

“Cause you look like ye needed defending. Didnae like his gommy mug eith’r.”

That causes you to shift in the stool. Johnny takes the kettle off of the stove eye and pours the water over the expired green tea packet he’d found hidden in the depths of your cupboards. When he places down the cat mug Duckie had gotten you for your birthday in front of you, you hesitantly speak.  

“What do you mean by that? That I needed defending?”

Johnny looks like he’s weighing his options before he answers. Furrowed brow and dark lashes partially obscure his electric eyes but don’t dampen the intensity of his gaze. When he concludes some kind of internal war he leans his elbow on the counter in front of you and boxes you in. His eyes tighten at the corners when you lean as far back in the chair as you can. 

“Never been one to walk by when a bonnie lass is in trouble and you looked like ye were on the way to makin’ trouble. Had this look in yer eyes.”

You pretend to not know what he’s talking about. “So if you thought I was ugly you’d have let him maul me?”

His laugh is too boisterous for the early morning, it echoes in the small kitchen. It sends warmth down to your toes to hear it. “Nae I’d ‘ave still hit him, hen. Drink yer tea for Johnny yea?”  

He makes sure you finish every drop, rolling his eyes when you dump enough sugar to rot your teeth. He says something about you being like a stubborn friend of his but refuses to elaborate.

It’s a quarter past six by the time he argues you down about letting him stay with you. His wide form swallows up half the mattress and he still pulls you to him like it’s not enough. Your skin prickles where his touches, the synapses in your brain telling you to distance yourself as fast as you can. Johnny’s hold is tight, he redirects your form back into his every time you try to slip away, so you give up.

You have restless dreams of your grandfather’s rooster, Spirit.  The sound of the bird's neck snapping as corporeal and audible as Johnny’s snores against your neck.

A/N: plz I beg, don't ask me when the next update will be. I am insane in a way that is concerning to the DSM-5 and this takes a lot of my own personal experience and years of therapy to write lmao. Gonna up the rating in the upcoming chapters and start diving into the juicy shit so warning in advance.

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[ghost-whump]

Shower Day

CW: kidnapped whumpee, defiant whumpee, sadistic whumper, waterboarding(?), hypothermia (mentioned), nudity (mentioned), let me know if I missed anything!

Whumper entered the basement with loud, clunking steps down the stairs. They flick the light on when they reach the bottom.

“Hh—” Whumpee hissed and covered their eyes, heavy manacles pressing coldly into their cheeks. “Fucking hell.”

“Rise and shine, fuckface.”

With a drawn out groan, Whumpee blinked until the light wasn’t so painful. They scooted farther back into “their” corner of the basement, drawing closer to the wall, as if they could be absorbed into it.

They turned to face the wall, the smallest act of defiance they could express, “Go away.”

“No can do, Whumpee,” Whumper’s footsteps grew closer, “It’s shower day for you.”

That perked them up. A shower? A real, honest-to-god shower? Hot damn, that sounded good! Whumpee managed the barest hint of a smile at the prospect. Their hair, caked with blood and grease and other various substances, grew unbearably thick and disgusting to even think about. And that’s not even mentioning their soiled clothes.

Rubbing at their eyes, Whumpee brought themselves to turn around. And their smile dropped.

Whumper held a hose and a bucket.

At their pained expression, Whumper chuckled, “Oh? You thought you got a real shower?” They put the bucket on the floor and took a step closer, “Sorry for the mislead, Whumpee.”

The water hit them suddenly. Frigid, icy water hit their skin like a jet — definitely enough force to bruise, at least. They cried out, futilely holding their arms out in front of them. The cold water sprayed onto their body like bullets, dousing their hair and clothes all in less than a minute.

Then, the water tapered off.

Whumpee spit some water out of their mouth. It tasted like shit, nothing like the refreshing hose water they’d had as a kid.

“Whoops.” Whumper smiled.

Then it started again. This time, with so much pressure, Whumpee was knocked back into the wall. The hose turned off.

Whumpee heaved, “Fuck yo—ACK!”

Over and over, the water turned on and off, on and off, on and off. Friction burns raised on their arms from where they tried to protect themselves. The chill of the cool, stagnant basement air started to seep into their skin, sending a shiver through their whole body.

“That should be good.” Whumper dropped the hose to the floor (much to Whumpee’s relief) and turned their attention towards the bucket. They pulled out a gray towel and turned back. “Give me your clothes now, Whumpee.”

They stood there, shivering. “What?”

“You heard me — give me your clothes. They’re all soaked now.” Though they spoke pragmatically, their grinning leer said anything but.

“Fuck n-no. I-I’m not getting n-naked in front of you.” Their teeth chattered loudly, telegraphing how cold they really were.

Whumper turned around, picking the bucket back up. “Fine, then. No towel for you, I guess.” They started back towards the stairs, “A shame, really. I had it heated up on the radiator and everything. It’s supposed to be even colder tonight, too. I’d hate to have my poor Whumpee freeze…”

Whumpee remained silent.

“Well, goodnight, Whumpee.” They flipped the lights off.

“W-Wait!”

The lights turned back on as quick as they shut off. Whumper turned, so so slowly. “What do you say?”

“Pl-please?”

this has been sitting in my drafts for SOOO long and i’ve never posted it. since i haven’t written anything in a while, i thought i might as well post it lol

thank for reading!!!

General Tag: @morning-star-whump

[pisupsala]

As I Walk Through The Valley of The Shadow of Death

Or how hell could not keep you away from each other.

John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader

Part 3 of Are You Going My Way?

Words: 10.5k Warnings: war, blood, graphic descriptions of war and wounds, angst, 18+

He didn’t make it back.

The first time you see Bucky’s name on the list of missing, it’s like time freezes. You must have misstepped between dimensions, plummeting from the high heavens into a nightmare.

You blink, and it’s three days later. Your friends look at you, worried, whispering. Another blink and another day has passed. 

Scrubbing the floor, folding sheets, assisting in the OR, night shift, day shifts, breakfast, study, the sun on your face, the raindrops in your hair, dinner with your friends, sleep, wake up, dream, scrubbing the floor again, medication rounds, changing bandages, crying in the shower, lumpy gravy for lunch, disinfecting instruments, again that dirty fucking floor, your fingers pruning from the soapy water, making beds, doing inventory, burning your tongue on hot coffee, ironing your uniform, debriding wounds, whispers of comfort, last rites, writing reports and a letter from home. 

You don’t remember what happened; you’re just there, and it's gone again in the blink of an eye. But when you look up from the crumpled envelope in your hand, nothing has changed except the date on the calendar. 

It’s shocking how quickly daily life around you settles back into the same patterns — new faces replace the old, a new tragedy every day. There are so many to mourn in the Bloody 100th. 

Once, you could shroud the harsh reality of war in a warm light, a semblance of normalcy on the dance floor, drinks with friends, card games, the way your heart beat faster when you looked into his eyes. 

The intensity of being around Bucky, the persistence of his attention, his astounding presence—they fit so perfectly in that puzzle of insanity that you are suddenly and completely lost without him. In the mere hours you had together, over the days and weeks, somewhere between the flirtatious jokes, heated kisses, and sincere confessions, he altered something in you. Drastically. Permanently. 

Nothing was normal, but it was the life you had come to accept, the mission you had chosen. It was a necessary delusion.

But it’s like a power surge popped every rose-colored bulb, and in the half-shadows cast by reality's bleak daylight, there’s nowhere to hide. This is what it always was; you lied just enough to yourself not to have to see it.

The flow of time stabilizes eventually — were days always this long? Did nights drag this much through fitful sleep? There is no news. No news is good news, they whisper, that means there’s still hope. But holding out hope hurts relentlessly. It’s like a stone in your shoe, a paper cut on your finger. You feel it over and over and over, with every breath, and each time, it hurts a little bit more. 

When you look around the dance hall, it could be an evening like any other, but there are no blue eyes to meet yours from across the room. When you walk back to your quarters, you slow your step, listening for the sound of a bicycle bell. It never comes. The hollow feeling remains.

Sip your drink. It doesn’t taste good.  Kick a stone from the path. Smile. Gossip. Read a book. Smokey whiskey doesn’t dull the pain; it just tastes acrid. Work. Work, work, work. Write home. Lie. Lie awake at night. Live your days in a daze. Wait. Keep waiting. 

Never lose hope. 

It’s sometime in the fall, with long gray days and even longer cold nights, when you start your day shift by preparing medication for the doctor’s morning round around the ward. The small, windowless room always smells of a strange mixture of chemicals and chalk emanating from the boxes and bottles stacked floor to ceiling — you always keep the door open to get at least some fresh air in. The stool at the small table is rickety; it’s a little bit too low, forcing you to painfully lean your forearms against the table's edge to keep your balance. 

The sharp rap of knuckles on the door ruses you from the daze of your task. As you stand up, wiping your hands on the skirt of your dress, you expect to see Doctor Stover.

“Major Kidd.” You can’t keep the surprise out of your voice. You have seen him around, of course, but you’ve never spoken. He looks tired, leaning against the doorpost with his shoulder. “What can I do for you?” You add automatically, politely.

Major Kidd doesn’t reply immediately, glancing around the hallway. There’s the soft echo of footsteps, voices carrying from the ward.

“I have news about Major Egan,” He announces with little fanfare. Your mouth is dry instantly, and you involuntarily step back as if to brace yourself for whatever Major Kidd will say next. The stool scrapes over the floor noisily as your left shin connects with it. Your heart is beating so loudly now, making your chest hurt.

“Is he alive?” Your vocal cords strain to get the sound out, but you need to know, to rip the band-aid off. Major Kidd nods affirmatively. You release a breath, exhaling from your soul almost as much as your lungs.

“We received word last night that he’s been taken prisoner and held at Stalag Luft III,” he supplies. You exhale deeply. The heavy weight that suddenly fell from your shoulders is making you lightheaded. Blinking heavily, you try to focus on what Major Kidd is saying—you catch that Buck and several others from Thorpe Abbots are at the same prison.

He’s alive; he’s not alone. 

Thank god.

“I hope you don’t think me presumptuous, Nurse,” Major Kidd glances around the hallway again, more nervously this time. “But Bucky - ehm, Major Egan always spoke fondly of you.”

You’re dying to ask what Bucky said about you, just how fondly he spoke about you, but you press your lips together to keep the words from pouring out. Not the place, not the time and not the person to ask, you remind yourself. 

“Would you write to him?”

You find that you actually appreciate Major Kidd’s no-frills approach. He doesn’t waste words by dancing around the subject.

“It’s -” He hesitates for a few seconds, the tiredness in his face so much more apparent. “These camps are not nice places, as you can imagine, Nurse. A kind word from home can do a lot for a man.”

“Of course,” You croak out as if you haven’t used your voice in years, clearing your throat quickly and conjuring a smile onto your face. “I’d be happy to, Major.”

“The information you’ll need,” Major Kidd nods as he hands you a folded-up piece of paper. “And Nurse, choose your words carefully. Your letters will be read.” His tone is neither threatening nor warning, simply reminding you of wartime procedure. 

“Thank you,” You nod earnestly. “Thank you for thinking of me—err—for Major Egan’s sake. I—I…”

I thought he was dead, and it was crushing me. 

“Thank you for this, Major Kidd.” You conclude calmly, wrangling your emotions to prevent them from spilling out. 

“Thank you, Major Kidd, for what?” Matron’s voice sounds exceptionally shrill as her sour face peeks out from behind Major Kidd. You stumble back again, nearly tripping over the stool. Major Kidd looks like the blood drained from his face as Matron muscles her way into the door opening. You crush the paper in your fist, demurely folding your hands to hide it.

She looks back and forth between you, her eyes so wide they almost bulge out of her skull.

Out of context, the situation looks odd; you have to admit that. Major Kidd has no reason to be in the infirmary, especially in the medicine stockroom. And there’s only you here, which makes it obvious he sought you out.

You know there were plenty of whispers about another Major popping up around you in places he shouldn’t be. Matron never confronted you about it because she didn’t have evidence, but you really don’t need the additional scrutiny.

“Well?” Matron zeroes in on you — of course, she can hardly confront a higher-ranking officer. You press your lips together, feverishly trying to think of an excuse. 

“It’s a private matter, Captain,” Major Kidd speaks up in that same calm, almost dry tone.

“In the infirmary, my nurses don’t have private matters, Major,” Matron retorts — you can hear how much she holds back by how she wrenches out the words. You are really in for it now.

“My private matter.” 

You blink. Major Kidd didn’t have to do that, but you appreciate it nonetheless. The paper crinkles softly in your folded hands. You’re not listening to Matron’s hurried apology, the way Major Kidd waves it away frostily — you can hardly keep the smile off your face at the sudden realization.

Even now, without being here, after all this time —  Bucky is still getting you into trouble. 

And by god, how you’ve missed it.

***

“Egan!” 

In his lethargy, Bucky doesn’t react the first time his name is called. Only when Buck taps his shoulder he finally looks up from his place on the bed. 

“Egan?”

“Here.” 

Unceremoniously, the young man in the too-big overcoat lobs an envelope at Bucky. Bucky plucks it out of the air just by virtue of his reflexes because his brain —which seems to move at the speeds of goddam molasses on a winter day—sure hasn’t caught up on what is happening. 

Hesitantly, he turns the envelope between his cold fingers. Buck cranes his neck to peek at the return address.

“Guess you set it better than you thought.” Buck grins, clapping him on the shoulder. Bucky doesn’t reply, unsure if the envelope in his hands is about to burst into flames, like it’ll go up in smoke before his eyes, and with it, another shred of sanity he’s been clawing onto. 

He carefully peels the envelope open—clearly, he’s not the first one to do so, as the glue barely sticks to the paper. Your careful print fills the pages—two whole pages front and back—and it fills Bucky with a warmth he hasn’t felt in so long. You still thought about him. You cared about him enough to write these pages, even when you hadn’t heard from him in months. 

In exceptionally dark moments, like demons clawing at Bucky, the thought would creep up that everyone had already forgotten him — that only that trail of chaos he left behind was some evidence of his existence. 

His eyes fly over the lines; he rereads the letter two, three times in a row. It’s like a drug, a few minutes where he can forget he’s stuck in a crowded room in a shitty, drafty building, the bleak midwinter in Germany, the hunger and the cold. 

You write openly and unabashedly that you miss him—how you look over your shoulder on the way home because you hope he’ll suddenly appear, search for him in every crowd, and your heart sinks a little when the band plays Blue Skies. You joke about how England has ruined your favorite season. Where the forests of your native Vermont are a sea of warm colors, in England, you’re drowning in monochrome gray. You apologize for copying the results from the World Series games from the newspaper, flippantly claiming you can’t make your roommates sit through another game on the radio (but then admitting you fell asleep during the broadcast). 

You write in the way you speak. When Bucky closes his eyes, he can imagine exactly how you would look telling him all this: the emotions playing out on your face, the laughter in your voice as you joke, the calm steadfastness of your confession. He can see so clearly the way you would roll your eyes at the overwhelming lack of color around you as if it’s an offense aimed at you personally, the way your nose would crinkle at the prospect of sitting through another sports broadcast, or how your tongue would wet your lips as you whisper sweetly to him, your fingers lacing through his, rocking up onto your tiptoes to kiss him.

Of all the things you write about, you never mention any names. You don’t say anything about your work, the 100th, or even mention Thorpe Abbots explicitly. Any and all information you divulge is ultimately useless to anyone but Bucky.

Clever girl.

Bucky’s pencil often hovers over the paper, scratching the surface, but no word has made it to paper so far. He’s never really been at a loss for words, especially around you — if anything, you’ve become quite effective at shutting him up. But now that he desperately wants to tell you something, anything, he has nothing to say.

Bucky was never good at writing letters, considering it a tedious occupation. He never really cared that he wasn’t getting many letters; it saved him the trouble of writing back. And there was always enough distraction locally not to have to care. 

You appear an accomplished writer, effortlessly and genuinely putting everything to paper —he doesn’t even know where to begin. Bucky doesn’t want to talk about his circumstances; he doesn’t want to fill your head with worry as much as he doesn’t want to commit his reality to paper, in some way preserving his darkest times. But just “thank you and I miss you” won’t cut it. Buck, like a good friend, would try to counsel him. 

“Have you considered telling her just that?” Buck is sitting across the table from him with a faint grin on his face, hands deep into his coat pockets, and small puffs of condensation coming out of his mouth as he speaks. “That writing letters is not one of your many apparent talents, but you are grateful for her efforts?”

“I’d like her to write me more,” Bucky grumbles, starting at the empty paper. “Not torpedo the only chance I have at contact with the outside world.”

“Practice makes perfect.” 

“Shut up.”

Buck sits up straighter in his chair, looking at his friend struggling in a way he hasn’t seen before. Bucky is the kind of person who can make everything seem effortless because he is confident enough—some would say arrogant enough—in his innate abilities to pull everything off on the first try. Just that puts him miles ahead of everyone else on a good day because, by the time they catch up with Bucky, he has the experience to back up his boasting. 

So, it’s rare to see him fail at anything. Painfully, Bucky himself is usually the cause of his failures. While others would argue that Bucky hated being Air Exec and that his deliberate sabotage to get rid of the job wasn’t a failure, Buck would disagree. It’s just exactly what he does. Faced with something that he hates and unable to shape reality to his desire through bluster and cleverness, Bucky will sooner self-destruct and take down everything with him than admit defeat.  

The fact that Bucky is agonizing about something as simple as replying to a letter, to Buck, just makes it abundantly clear it’s not about the letter. It’s about you. He doesn’t want to fail you, and it’s paralyzing him into place. Because he might actually irrevocably fuck this up. 

Bucky is his own worst enemy, as well as the only one who can talk himself out of that spiral. But that doesn’t mean he can’t use a push in the right direction.

“She’s put up with you so far, hasn’t she?”

Bucky stares at him with sullen annoyance, tapping the tip of his pencil against the paper in an erratic rhythm. Everyone in the room pretends the best they can that they are not listening in on the conversation. 

“I’m sure she’ll gladly overlook your shoddy penmanship and poor prose as part of your many faults for the joy of receiving word from you in the first place.” Buck chuckles as he gets up from the table, the floorboards creaking under his shifting weight. On his way to the door, he stops next to Bucky. The page before him is littered with messy lines and dots where the pencil's tip has hit the paper in uncertainty and irritation. 

“Just write her what you want to tell her, man.” Buck imparts on him calmly before he saunters out the door. 

***

She is magnificent. 

That pearly smile, those red lips, the carefully tailored dress uniform — with pants! — the shining oak leaves: Major Baker oozes charm. She is the picture-perfect nurse and officer, like she walked right out of a recruitment poster.

She’s not even looking at you as she passes you to the podium, but you pull up the sleeves of your too-large standard-issue cardigan anyway. Nervously, you tuck some stay hairs behind your ear. Being in Major Baker’s vicinity makes you feel like you should be better at… everything. 

The moment she opens her mouth, the room full of chatty, gossiping nurses falls quiet.

“I am here today to talk to you about the 13th Field Hospital and your opportunity to join our outfit,” Major Baker says with a smile. “But let me warn you: the 13th is not for everyone.  Actually, I’ll be honest with you ladies. It’s not for most.” 

You are listening with rapt attention. You heard the Army was building field hospitals for the European theater, but you never really thought much about it. When you told your parents you joined the army as a nurse and were going to be stationed in England, they weren’t happy, to say the least. Up until the moment you were standing at the front door in your uniform, bag packed, your mother tried to convince you to forfeit your deployment. The first time you called home, your mother wouldn’t even come to the phone, leaving your younger sister to relay the latest to the home front. Your father still ends every letter with: Are you ready to come home now?

Major Baker served in the Pacific, following the front as part of an evacuation hospital. She speaks candidly about the harsh conditions, the lack of equipment, the bugs, and the rampant tropical disease. 

“This was the best experience of my life and the worst. I hated it, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.” She’s not smiling when she says it, but you can see the fondness in her eyes, even from your spot in the middle of the room. 

You are not ready to go home. How could you be? The war is nowhere near its end, and you know, you feel it in your bones, you are not done with your part. It’s your duty.

And you couldn’t leave Bucky behind—the thought springs up so raw and quick it almost hurts physically. 

Your hands shook as you received that envelope weeks ago. It was bent, the edges crumpled, and the seal had a muddy streak. The letter was short, barely spanning two paragraphs on the small page, and your heart soared at Bucky referring to you as his beloved Dove. You laughed at his clearly sulky apology for not being much of a writer, but within a few sentences, tears rolled down your face — by the end, you were sobbing.

 Please keep writing me.

In all its simplicity and sincerity, it’s seared into your soul.

“I am not looking for good nurses—I want great, brave nurses.” Major Baker suddenly picks up in volume, like she’s challenging you personally to pay attention to her, to challenge you. Clenching your jaw, you put the bandage back over your heart. 

“I want committed nurses who are not afraid to take a spill in the mud and who won’t lose their heads under pressure. I’m looking for girls who have gotten their hands dirty in triage, the operating room, and emergency response and still look for the next challenge. Combat nursing is that challenge.”

She looks around the room pointedly. You want to shrink away under her scrutinizing gaze, acutely aware of every part of your uniform that’s not strictly complying with regulation. Your wandering thoughts are a mess, and you feel distinctly frumpy compared to Major Baker's flawless appearance and charm.

“If you have the experience, the references, and the attitude, I invite you to apply.” She smiles sweetly again. “And who knows, I might see you on the mainland.”

But you also want to jump out of your seat and hand in your application right now. 

It’s late afternoon, and the fall sun is already dipping behind the horizon when you knock on Doctor Stover’s office door. The distinct smell of his ever-present pipe hangs around the room. 

“I was expecting you,” he jokes when you enter. You try to look innocent, but a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth as you greet him. “And I know what you’re going to ask —sit down, Nurse.”

“And will you, doctor?” The words leave your mouth before you’re even fully seated. 

“The War Department sure trained Baker well,” Doctor Stover grumbles as he leafs through the papers on his desk. “You’re the fifth to come in today.”

You sit up straight, your shoulders relaxed, and your hands neatly folded in your lap. Calm and poised, just like you’ve been trained. 

“You’re the only one who has a real shot at this,” he looks up at you. Even though he’s paying you a compliment, Doctor Stover looks mildly irritated by this.

“Thank you, doctor.” You reply serenely.

“Don’t thank me just yet,” he retorts. Your eyes narrow, and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop the indignation from washing over you—you can’t help it. “You’re the one I’m most worried about precisely because of that.”

“You don’t want me to go.” It’s a sobering statement. You didn’t expect this. You have the experience and the attitude—you just need the reference. 

“I’d be losing one of my best, but I’d rather lose you to another outfit than ship you off home.” He leans back in his chair, puffs of smoke billowing from his pipe. “You, however, must be sure you’re doing this for the right reasons.”

“I wan-” 

“Major Baker has been trained, scripted, to make combat medicine sound like the ultimate challenge of your nursing career. The greatest call you could answer.” Doctor Stover doesn’t even acknowledge that he interrupted you. You’re biting your lip, trying to keep yourself from talking over him. “She fails to mention that once you’re in the field, there’s no way back unless you physically can’t do your job anymore, or you’re dead. I’ve been there, I’ve seen it all. Flying bullets kill nurses the same as soldiers.”

He leans forward. The look of determination on your face hasn’t wavered, but he knows how stubborn you are. Your stubbornness and diligence have served you well so far, making you an excellent nurse. He hopes you are stubborn enough to make it through the hell you’re volunteering for. “The field will grind away at everything that isn’t strong enough, so be very sure about why you’re doing this. For what. For whom.”

You wrinkle your nose as you move back a fraction, offended at the implication, offended that Doctor Stover deduced who’s been on your mind all this time. You tell yourself that wanting to go to mainland Europe has nothing to do with Bucky being there, that volunteering to join the front is not in part because you might find him and bring him back.

Only when the war ends will you be ready to go home.

“I have my reasons clear, Doctor.” You reply evenly, clenching your hands stubbornly.

“Sleep on it.” 

“Doc-”

“That’s an order, nurse.” Doctor Stover waves his hand, dismissing you. He notices your look as you get up, noisily pushing your chair back—the flare in your nostrils, the narrowed eyes, and your mouth set into a stern line. It makes him smile, even though that will anger you further. 

You will need every bit of that anger, every bit of that drive to prove yourself, every sliver of pure pigheaded stubbornness to arm you once you set foot on the European mainland.

Within weeks, you find yourself at the local train station waiting for the train to London. You only have what you can carry in your pack —besides the issued essentials, there is scarily little room for anything else. Just small comforts like an extra pair of socks, mittens, and a notebook for writing letters. There is no great fanfare to your goodbye, Matron—and you wish it had been anyone else, really—hurried you out of the barracks this morning before dropping you off. 

It’s misting, and Matron is hurrying through the polite formalities. You thank her nicely, shake her hand, and nod along. 

“I hope he is worth it,” It’s not kind, erring on the side of snide, but not overt enough to call out. You don’t flinch, simply staring her down. Matron doesn’t say anything else, whether she’s waiting for you to start defending yourself or it’s simply one final jab to let you know that nothing gets past her.

“Maybe he’s not,” you shrug, finally. She raises an eyebrow skeptically. It’ll make no difference.” You don’t really believe those words, but you’ll never give her that satisfaction. Me doing my job will.” 

***

You set foot on the European mainland on June 7th, 1944, disembarking at Omaha Beach with your unit. There is not enough equipment or medicine, not enough people, not enough time. You’ve been stranded with the drab fatigues you’ve been issued, a too-big helmet, and whatever you have in your pack. 

What you don’t realize yet in the chaos and bloodshed of those first days is that it will only get worse. Whenever you think the inferno has finally galvanized you, a new, deeper ring of hell is beckoning you.

Despite the drills, despite all the training, you are ill-equipped. You’ve seen air raids from a distance — but you’ve never experienced how mortars make the ground shake, the wave of sand they kick up, how tanks make your very bones tremble as they bulldozer past you. You’ve seen terrible burns, frozen flesh, torn by bullets, you’ve lost patients on the operating table — but the desperation of men dragging their buddy through the helm grass and sand, screaming, blown apart by mines, sliced to pieces on razor wire, and there is nothing you can do for them. What you have against the pain, you can’t give them because they are beyond saving.

They call it meatball surgery. Quick, hack, stitch, and out. The rate of operations is murderous, the surgeon’s hands shaking from exhaustion, bleary-eyed in the bright operating light, staring at the pooling blood. It makes you sick to your stomach. 

On the first night, huddled in a foxhole with another nurse, watching Allied planes fly over, you try to remember why you signed up for this. You are so scared, you are sure you’ll sleep again. 

You keep writing to Bucky because you promised him that. And for him, you will hold on out of sheer sense of duty and profound stubbornness. Even when there is so much you cannot tell him. You can’t share that you’ve left the 100th or are not even in England anymore — when you write about having the first sip of champagne you’ve had in years, you don’t mention that it was in Paris. You describe the pure joy at having cherries straight from the tree, but you leave out that it was on the side of the road outside Amiens. When you apologize that you haven’t written in a while because you fell ill, you don’t share it’s because you got pneumonia in the harsh Ardennes winter.

The stubborn cough and burn in your lungs linger, and with pain in your heart, you wait for the mail truck to come in, clutching your latest letter to Bucky. You haven’t heard from him since August last year—it’s February. In desperation, before Christmas, you wrote to Doctor Stover to ask if anyone back at the 100th had heard from him. He replied in a short chicken scratch note that there was no change in status. 

Finally, your name is called. Wrapped up in a blanket that made it to you in exchange for some cigarettes, you accept the small stack of letters. Sitting down on a piece of concrete from a partially collapsed house, you close your eyes in silent prayer. Please let one of these be from Bucky.Nothing. It’s the kind of disappointment you cannot take anymore. Every day without word from him, you are forced to accept a little bit more that you are too late: something happened to Bucky, he is wounded, dead, and the enemy is in no particular hurry to report it. And why would they? A ranking officer like Bucky is more valuable as leverage alive than dead, so of course, they would stretch the truth.

A darker thought strikes you. What if he just simply doesn’t want to write you anymore? Bucky is smart. Either he figured out that you’ve been lying — lying by omission is still lying — or he is simply bored, and your letters are just good for kindle.

It would probably hurt less if something happened to him, and it would be easier to accept than his ignoring you.

The blood drains from your face at the realization of what you just wished for — you can feel it draw from your flesh in a hasty retreat. How much of a horrible, selfish, and undeserving person are you turning out to be? You feel lightheaded. Have you been ground down so deeply that only the ugliest parts of you remain?

Bucky would be better off without you.

Bending forward, you put your head between your knees, breathing in short, panicked bursts. The ground is spinning. Has this all been for nothing? When Matron asked if he was worth it, was it really because you were unworthy of him?

Someone is calling your name — but you can only reply with a whimpering sob. You can’t breathe, your lungs are burning — the world around you is swaying so violently now that you drop your letters on the frozen ground, desperately grasping at the jagged stone to stop yourself from pivoting off it. 

Someone touches your shoulder, suddenly grinding everything to a halt. The content of your stomach covers your boots and letters in a vile splatter, the sour smell of the bile mixed in with this morning’s watery porridge making you feel even sicker. You sob pathetically, desperately clawing for breath, and for the first time, you realize something. It hits you so profoundly you feel it in your bones: you want to go home. You want your mom. You want your bed and your own room, your sisters, and your dad. You want the beautiful forests, not a cratered alien landscape that smells like death. You want chocolate milkshakes and coke floats, go dancing on Saturday night. You want socks without holes, feet without blisters, and you don’t want to feel fucking cold all the time.

You want Bucky to kiss you on the forehead and tell you everything will be okay.

Even if you don’t deserve any of it.

Time drags you, kicking and screaming, into spring and with the advancing front into southern Germany. The Lucky 13th has seen it all. You’ve been scared for so long you don’t feel it anymore — you sleep again. Whenever and wherever you can, really. On the back of the truck, the small hard cot when the hospital is in operation, on the side of the road waiting for orders, in a foxhole feeling the ground shake from the mortar fire. 

Getting shut-eye is a luxury, like many things you’ve taken for granted. Warm showers, for one. Thorpe Abbots was far from the comforts you were used to at home, but the field has cured you of any prissiness. Scrubbing in for surgery has sometimes been the only hot water and soap you would touch in days. 

Today is a good day. At least as good as any day in a field hospital can be. Your unit has set up shop in a doctor’s office in a small town south of Nuremberg — you have running water, warm water, real bathrooms, and a kitchen with a stove. You splash water on your face before you start scrubbing in. God, it feels divine. And that stove is going to make you a hot meal, coffee you can burn your tongue on — you can’t wait. 

Casualties tend to come in waves, chaos erupting in seconds, hallways suddenly full of people, screaming, yelling, the ticking clock. Medics are wheeling the patient into your makeshift OR. As they push the curtain away, out of the corner of your eye, you see a flash of blonde hair, a familiar movement. You want to call out when you’re called to attention. Urgent. Heavy casualties. Immediate surgery. 

You forget about it, like you forget a dream after waking up — a glimpse into a crack between the realities of a life that had once been. 

The sun is high in the sky. Yawning, you roll your head, stretching your sore neck muscles. No amount of coffee will keep you awake anymore. The instant mashed potatoes are heavy on your stomach like a weighted blanket, lulling you to sleep. You have seven hours of blissful sleep ahead of you. Blinking against the bright light, your eyes prickling, you see it again.

A misplaced memory, casually walking down the street in front of you.

“Cl- Cleven!” Your voice hikes up in volume between syllables as you pick up speed. “Buck!”

He turns slowly, confusion etched on his face. Buck looks at you like he can’t quite place you here, like you are just as misplaced in his eyes as he is in yours. He looks tired. Worn.

He regards you carefully as you approach. You’re a far cry from the reserved nurse his friend once introduced him to, now dressed in the standard army green field uniform of tough woven cotton, scuffed and washed out in places, timeworn boots, and pants instead of the much more elegant wrap dress nurse uniform you used to wear. He smiles and calls out back to you. You wave at him as you start running. 

You skid to a halt in front of him, beaming. It feels like you should hug him, but you’re not that close. He is Bucky’s friend, and you know him by proxy. He is also a very senior officer to you.

“I’m so glad to see you, Major.” You try to sound respectful, catching your breath, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. If Buck is here, that means… You don’t dare finish that thought. 

“I am surprised to see you, nurse,” He replies, not unkindly. “But glad nonetheless.”

“Are you okay? Is there anything I can do for you?” You rattle off the questions in a frenzy because they’re not the questions you want to ask. Not really. Buck knows the question that is burning on your tongue—it is so apparent in your face—your jaw is tight, the slight frown on your forehead even as you smile—you are physically trying to stop yourself from the words just spilling out of you. You are too polite to let it.

It is strange seeing you here. It doesn’t quite fit. 

“I’m fine. I’ve gotten the all-clear from the doctor,” Buck replies calmly, his tone conversational. “I have a few days of debriefing to go, and then I’m hopefully back on a plane out of here,” he adds with a wistful laugh.

“Back to Thorpe Abbots?”

“Maybe,” He shrugs. “We’ll see where they want me.”

A tense silence falls. You need to ask. Buck doesn’t really want to answer.

“Bucky…” It comes out tinged by uncertainty, and you look scared saying his name. Speaking it will make it real.

Buck shakes his head. Your stomach drops. 

“He — he didn’t make it out with us,” Buck hesitates, trying to come up with a way to explain the horror of leaving his best friend behind. “We cooked up a plan, Bucky, George Neithammer, Aring, and I. We were going to make a run for it in the night. Down the street, over the wall, into the forest. Neithammer and Aring went first; I followed. A guard clocked us before we could make it over the wall.”

You think your heart just stopped beating as Buck draws in a slow breath.

“Bucky drew his attention, stopped him from firing, and gave us a chance. We made it over.” He recounts the events without flourish.

“And Bucky stayed behind,” you whisper—there’s little emotion to your voice; it’s just a statement of fact. You sound so calm, but the way your hands are clenching, and your eyebrows are knitted together in sorrow betrays just how much you are trying to keep it together. 

“He did,” Buck affirms, pain evident in his eyes. He wants to explain and lay out the argument that Bucky knew what he was doing and that it was a testament to him as a man and a leader, but he doesn’t know if he can put it into words. Why him? Why is he standing before you instead of Bucky? 

“That sounds like something he would do.” There is no accusation in your words, but it’s rather a heartfelt affirmation. An understanding between the two of you.

It was a strange infatuation, an altered state of the mind, a disbalance in your brain chemistry brought on by the force of nature that was John Egan. You never gave it a name; it was never really mutually acknowledged how deep it went; there was never time to explore it — you just followed the path, pulled by a string.

You are in love with him. 

It started when you witnessed that the man who drove you to insanity with his overt attentions truly cared for the men under his command, the man who carried the burden of his responsibility sincerely. You know you are in love with the man who can’t resist a joke, thrives on antics that put him in the center of attention, and then selflessly, unquestionably, and without hesitation saves his best friend. 

The realization is freeing; it makes your heart flutter — it fills your stomach with lead. 

“You know what’s funny?” The irony in Buck’s voice seeps in bitterly as he chuckles humorlessly. It’s horrible to admit, and guilt burns in his gut. “Bucky had been the one talking about escaping all this time. I kept pushing back, saying we should ride this out.”

Teardrops drip onto your crumpled collar. You want to say something, but the sound that makes it out of your mouth is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. You clamp a hand over your mouth, screwing your eyes shut, you try to get your breathing under control. Buck reaches out, carefully consoling you, resting his hand on your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” You whisper, roughly running the sleeve of your jacket over your face, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry too,” Buck admits quietly, hand falling back to his side again. “I didn’t want — it should have turned out like this.”

You vaguely gesture at the crumbling houses around you, ten-ton trucks thundering past, kicking up clouds of dust, rattling the windows. Nothing should have turned out like this. Neither of you should be here. 

“Bucky is going to be okay, isn’t he?” You hate how unsure you sound, traitorous in your lack of faith. 

“If anyone would be, it would be him,” Buck looks sad, but a small, fond smile plays over his face. “Bucky would survive just to spite his captors, just because he can. He will survive because his men still depend on him.”

“And he promised he’d come back,” Melancholy echoes in your voice. It’s sort of a joke, wrapped up in the admission that you couldn’t accept a reality where Bucky wouldn’t make true on his promise.

“He owes us both that, I suppose,” Buck chuckles. You grin. There is a particular mercy in meeting Buck here and now, the only one who understands the emptiness, the cold of the shadow cast by Bucky’s absence. You’ve kept it close to your heart all this time, your little pet pain, carefully shielded from prying eyes and inquisition.  

“I’ll remind him when I find him,” you quip dryly. Buck laughs, momentarily shedding the weariness that had been weighing him down. The sudden levity reminds you of that night at the pub, squabbling over cards, when everything seemed so very normal for a moment.

“I have to admit, I think I had you wrong, nurse,” Buck tells you soberly, although his grin remains. He casually puts his hands in his pockets, stance relaxed. 

“How so?”

“You are just as insane and stubborn as Bucky is,” he states plainly. “You just hide it better.”

You open your mouth to protest. Surely, you are nothing like him. You wish you were. You wish you had that kind of confidence; if only you were that steadfast and always have an answer for everything. Instead, you find yourself increasingly and tragically falling short. 

Buck raises his hand, stopping you as you start spluttering a reply.

“He needs someone like that.”

You purse your lips. It doesn’t feel like your place to correct Buck, who has known Bucky for much longer than you and is possibly just trying to be nice to you. Because whatever, or whomever Bucky needs — it’s not you, you think bitterly. If he did, if he truly did, he would have written. You’ve run out of excuses for him long ago, but you are still too embarrassed to ask if Buck knows why Bucky hasn’t sent you any letters. It feels too intimate, too personal, too raw. 

You are simply too scared to hear the answer.

And ultimately, it doesn’t matter. The fact that you are here anyway, that you are still holding out for a glimmer of hope, that you are still discovering the depth of your feelings for Bucky— well, yes, that is a testament to your apparent insanity and stubbornness. Buck is right about that. The lack of letters broke your heart but never stopped you.

So you just smile, reeling the pain, wrapping it up close to your heart again.

***

Bucky is sitting on a beam wedged in the mud, leaning against the wall of one of the compound's overly full buildings. His eyes are closed, and the sun is on his face. He’s trying to remember how to relax as his crew around him is chatting. They are all waiting. 

It’s been less than 48 hours since the tanks rolled in and the camp was secured — it doesn’t mean anyone gets to leave. Large trucks are thundering into the camp now. Engineers, quickly followed by the supply line with food and water, a detachment of military police, and a whole field hospital — everything is being set up at breakneck speed to get the thousands of POWs processed, checked, and sent back to their units. 

Medics checked in on them, and since none of them is seriously hurt, they’ve been instructed to wait. In short, they’re going to be here for a while.

His thoughts wander, and when he allows them far enough, he can almost feel your hand in his. You are just at his fingertips.

“What about you, Major?” Hambone pipes up.

“What about me?” He replies, eyes still closed.

“What are you looking forward to most when you get out of here?” 

“Many things.” He shrugs. “Decent food, a hot shower, a mattress on my bed, seeing my girl again. In that order, preferably.”

“Are you going back to Thorpe Abbots?” Crank asks.

“That’s where my Dove is.”

“Are you sure?” The way Crank phrases the question doesn’t sound like a joke, but it’s a cruel remark, even for light ribbing. Bucky cracks open an eye, irritated.

“Shut the fuck up, Crank.”

“No, I mean—” he points into the distance. “Isn’t that her?”

Bucky's line of sight follows where Crank is pointing, his heart suddenly thundering in his ears even though it cannot possibly, rationally, be you. It must be someone with a similar stature, just that shade of hair, and an eerily similar side profile to yours.

But it surely cannot be you.

You strain under the man's weight — his leg is in such bad shape he can’t put any weight on it, the wound weeping angrily in sickening shades of green, yellow, and black, which you’ve never seen coming out of a human body. He is fully leaning on you to keep upright, groaning and whimpering in pain. Pulling your mask down over your chin as you gasp for air, you grimace. You try to flag down medics with a stretcher, but everyone is so busy they don’t see you. 

This place is a nightmare. You thought you had seen it all by now, but hell has many steps on its steep descent. Hungry, sick, and injured men stuck in the mud in half-built, half-burnt shelters. There is a stench of sickness and death that hangs around the perimeter of the sickeningly overcrowded camp. You don’t have the beds for the number of terribly wounded, days, weeks, months into suffering — and you don’t have the manpower to do effective triage. It’s monstrous.

“You’re okay,” you assure your patient calmly, fighting to keep your voice even under the physical effort. He looks pale, looking at you with panicked eyes, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. 

“We are going to walk, slowly,” you continue evenly—if you don’t panic, he won’t either. “Then the medics will take over and get you to the doctor.” 

He nods, his breath now coming out in short bursts. “Just focus on this now, okay?” You encourage him as you start moving, every step an awkward hobble, your boots sinking into the mud, the arm around your neck weighing you down. You don’t get very far when someone suddenly appears on the other side of your patient, taking the weight literally off your shoulders. Your face relaxes, and you take a deep breath, now that your lungs aren’t getting crushed anymore. 

Your skin is prickling, like little bursts of static electricity dance over every inch of your body in excitement. 

In foreboding. 

You turn to thank whomever kindly came to help. Your eyes meet the stormy blue for a mere second, knocking the wind out of you, his name dying on your dry lips — but he turns away, not acknowledging you beyond the fleeting look, mouth set in a hard line.

Bucky looks worn. 

He looks angry. 

You avert your gaze, your frozen smile melting into a grimace — that once playful static electricity now feels like a lightning bolt to the heart, stunning you.

“You’re doing great.” You comfort your patient in the kindest tone you can muster under the loom of Bucky’s palpable anger. The smile feels awkward on your face. Still, you are grateful for his help; the muddy path toward the field hospital doesn’t seem that long anymore. It’s what comes after that scares you.

“We’re almost there.” The words of assurance come naturally, despite it leaving you feeling anxious.

Patient finally on a stretcher, your hand is — steady, keep it steady, damnit — as you make notes on the patient's card before smiling as you put it around his neck. He thanks you shakily. He’s going to lose that leg, you think sadly, but you keep a kind smile on your face. If you don’t panic, he won’t. Panic won’t do him any good right now. It sure won’t do anything for you.

Bucky is not standing close; he is just at that awkward distance where it’s clear he’s impatiently waiting for you to be done, and you are expected to follow him. You can feel his eyes boring into your back, but when you glance over your shoulder, he turns his head away from you. It hurts. It’s annoying. 

“The doctor will come look you at you, okay?” You tell your patient kindly. 

He nods, face still etched in terror.

“Deep breaths,” You remind him gently as you get up. Deep breaths, you remind yourself.

The feeling of impending doom is not wholly unfamiliar; it makes you feel like a child about to be scolded. When you were younger, you could always immediately tell if you were going to be in trouble as you walked through the front door. It was something in the air. Heavy, oppressive almost. It was how your mother put down her coffee cup a little too forcefully, and your father peered over the top of his newspaper as you crossed the room. You remember the suffocating feeling of panic, the powerlessness, desperately wishing you could hide while trying to figure out what upset them, what kind of fib your siblings might have told, if your teacher might have called, or if you simply forgot a chore. 

You always tried hard to stay out of trouble so you’d never have to feel like that again.

This feels exactly the same, you think angrily. Nothing — no one — is worth feeling like this for. The thought flashes white-hot through your mind, making you ball your fists in anger at your sides.

You will face this head-on, confidently walking toward Bucky. He’s doing a great job of looking disinterested. It’s infuriating.

When you get close, he grabs you by the upper arm none-too-gently before you can say anything. He is so much taller than you; his grip hitches your entire shoulder up awkwardly. 

You stumble after him as he pulls you away around the building. Sure, you weren’t exactly expecting a heartfelt confession from John Egan. The man barely wrote you. He always demonstrated his affection rather than verbalizing it, except for those rare times, in the heat of the moment, when his sudden candid admissions of vulnerability and tender words touched you where his hands couldn’t. But you also didn’t expect Bucky to grab you like he’s leading you to the gallows. He’s still not looking at you, simply glancing around for a place, somewhere, anywhere, with some privacy. 

“Bucky—” you try gently. He ignores you, pulling you along. People are looking at you now, gawking at the spectacle of the Major hauling a nurse across camp. Under the curious stares, you feel horrendously embarrassed and uncomfortable in your own skin. Gallows actually sound kind of good now; otherwise, sinking into the mud and disappearing would be acceptable, too.

“John!” You dig your heels in forcefully, frowning. He stops, not because you have so much leverage against him, but if he pulls you any harder, the momentum will pivot you off your feet, most likely face-first into the mud. 

The silence is tense. I hope he’s worth it.

“Why are you here?” He bites out, finally looking at you — feet planted, hand at his hip, fingers still tightly wrapped around your arm, towering over you menacingly. You refuse to shrink into yourself under his intense gaze. 

“Why the fuck are you here?” He seethes.

“I’m doing my job,” You reply calmly, nails digging into your palms, pulling yourself up a little higher.

“Your job is at Thorpe Abbots.”

“I asked to be reassigned.” Your lip curls into a snarl, betraying how angry you are getting, but your voice stays even. “I’m with the 13th Field Hospital now.”

“Why?” Bucky hisses at you in disbelief as much as frustration. “Why on earth would you request to be reassigned to the front — to this hell?”

You stare at him. Bucky's angry look and thinly veiled disgust are making you sick to your stomach. The words bubble up so strongly that you think you might yell them at him—that’s what you want to do. But when they finally roll off your tongue, it comes out like an admission of guilt. 

“Because of you,” You swallow heavily, trying to stave off the tears suddenly pooling in your eyes. You don’t want to cry. You hate that Bucky is making you feel like this — so small, like your very presence is offensive to him. It’s so unfair after, well, everything. “Because I wanted to find you and bring you back.”

Before he can react, you jerk your arm from his grasp, taking a step back, desperate to create some space between you. Bucky doesn’t do anything to stop you. 

You dreamed about his touch, you dreamed about this moment, but all you want right now is to get away from this, from him. You can’t look at Bucky right now. You don’t want his hands on you; you want him to stop you from leaving.

Out of all the ways you thought seeing him again would go, you just never thought that… well, he wouldn’t be happy to see you. 

In the end, you could just never conceive of that possibility. 

You could never convince yourself that he might not be worth it.

Blinking rapidly, you shake your head, wrenching your face into a neutral look. “Forget it, Bucky,” It’s taking every ounce of your strength to keep your voice even. You look him right in the eye. He regards you coolly — it’s like a stab in the gut to realize that this is how you’ll remember him. 

“I’m glad to see you — glad to see you’re okay,” You take a shuddering breath, but your voice doesn’t waver, so calm it’s clinical. You blink against the tears pressing at the back of your eyes. “I assume you didn’t get my last letter. I saw Buck a few weeks back near Nuremberg. George Aring was with him. He’s okay and en route to England.” 

He deserves to know his best friend is alive and well—after all, it was Bucky’s self-sacrifice that let them escape. It has nothing to do with you. You’re going for a clean cut: You don’t want to owe him anything, and you don’t want to carry any guilt or have a grudge poison you. 

If only you could school your features as coolly as Bucky does, but the harder you try, the more your face wants to crumple up in misery. 

“I haven’t gotten a single letter from you in over a year.” Bucky scoffs in reply, purposefully not reacting to your news about Buck. He appreciates it, but right now, he doesn’t want to share that sentiment with you — your letters stopped coming when he needed them most, and now you appear with that same lovely and innocent look on your face and every syllable of his name so sweetly on your lips. 

Suddenly seeing you cracks open the lingering hurt, the profound aggrievement, seeping from cuts so deep it’s staining what should be joy.

“Well, I’ve sent plenty of them despite the lack of reply.” You bite out so bitterly that your face suddenly morphs into an intense scowl, melting every trace of sadness away. “Sure you did.” His words are like a knife, and you don’t want to hear the hurt and defensiveness edging out the vulnerability in his tone.

“I guess we’ll never know,” You conclude frostily, rage contorting your features. “My patients need me. Goodbye.” 

Taking a deep breath, you turn. Tears are rolling down your face now, but you refuse to make a single sound, clenching your jaw determinedly. Bucky has no right to your pain and tears; he doesn’t care anyway. 

Clean cut. Walk away. 

Bucky has seen you angry before, annoyed, exasperated. Usually at him even. The range of emotions always plays openly on your face. But the acute hurt, the cold insulted fury, the definiteness of your farewell — it gives him pause. What if he needs you?

You barely reach three steps before Bucky snatches you back, hand firmly on your upper arm again. Stumbling backward, you angrily start pulling away again immediately, trying to wrench yourself from his grip. 

“Please let me go, Major.” Your tone is harsh, louder than it needs to be, but your voice is so thick and cracking that it’s clear you are crying. You try to wipe your face with your sleeve in vain with your free hand, but Bucky easily pulls you back into him, his strong arm wrapping around your shoulders. The knuckles of his other hand skim over your wet cheek in a loving gesture — you jerk your head away like you’ve been burned, evading his touch. Your tears splatter onto the sleeve of his worn leather jacket. 

“Jesus Christ, Dove,” He sounds pained, grappling for words, backtracking hurridly. “I don’t care about the letters, I’m sorry,”

“Let me go,” You whisper sadly, trying to push away again, although there is no real conviction behind your struggle. “Please.”

“After you came all the way here for me?” He tries, attempting playfulness, a careful smile pulling the corner of his mouth, but he just gets an elbow in the stomach in reply. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry -” He groans.

Bucky hesitates. You don’t say anything or move besides the soft tremor in your shoulders as you are obviously still crying quietly — Christ, your muted heartbreak is somehow so much more devastating than if you had screamed at him. A slap across the face would hurt less than this.

“I just — I imagined you’d be safe back in England.” He admits softy. “Out of the rain, out of the cold. It -”

He had thought about it for so many hours, and it kept him company in the deepest, darkest times. Even when the letters stopped coming, the memories were always there.

You on that path from the infirmary at Thorpe Abbots, casually walking ahead of him, the alluring sway of your hips, sweet smile on your lips. The lush trees, the young green grass, and the warm sunlight. Your perfume carrying on the breeze. Bucky kept going. Every step was one closer to you — you would be waiting for him at the end of this path. 

In England. 

He didn’t want you to see him like this, dragged through hell, sweaty, muddy, dirty, hungry. He was going back to England, and he would sweep you off your feet when he looked and felt like himself again. He would never tell you of the night marches, the hunger, the slow creep of insanity of prisonerhood — instead, he would delight in that you never had to suffer like that, revel in that you were untouched by that particular horror. You would remember him how he was, and he could become that again with you.

Bucky feels like the biggest heel in the world right now. While everyone still only dreams of home, you came to him, looking for him. He should be the luckiest man alive—this is the second time you followed him where no one else would go. Letters be damned. Even your patience and forgiveness will have limits; for a terrifying second, Bucky thinks he might have crossed them. 

“It brought me comfort when I had nothing else.” He swallows. All the things he had wanted to write to you kept putting off because he convinced himself it would be easier to tell you, but the words are not coming now. Ironically.

You can hear how he’s trying to steady his breathing. You know he’s sincere. You feel how difficult it is for him. But you know you can’t forgive him just because he’s trying; you can’t amend his anger for him and take on his burden of apologizing. It needs to come from him. You have to be worth at least that for him.

Bucky can hear the tiniest sob escape you—it shakes your body in the most heart-tearing way.

 “And seeing the girl of my dreams appear in my waking nightmare — I panicked.” He adds quietly. “Forgive this poor kriegie, Dove.” 

You can hear the urgency in his voice, and you know your heart isn’t strong enough. You don’t want it to be. You only wanted to see that it meant as much to him as it did to you—that he had been worth it all—that you were worthy just as much. Slowly, you turn, your arms sneaking around his waist, tucking inside his jacket. Bucky finally allows himself to relax, tightening his embrace and resting his forehead in the crook of your neck.  

“Most drops miss,” you utter tearfully, hearing his laughter rumble in his chest. You missed feeling his laugh, the vibrations moving through you. It’s an odd thing to say, but Bucky understands that this is how you forgive him—on your terms.

“I’m glad to see you, Dove. I’ve missed you so much.” His voice sounds raw, and you feel his breath on your neck. 

“Why didn’t you lead with that?” You gently needle him, blinking, hoping your face isn’t as puffy as it feels right now.

“Can a man be worried about his girl?” He croons in your ear.

“No—yes, but…” You stumble, finally looking at him as you wipe your sleeve over your wet cheeks. “I didn’t deserve that.” Your voice is calm as ever, with no tremor, starkly contrasting with your tear-stained face. 

Bucky regards you for a moment. Your eyes are still wet, and he really shouldn’t be thinking how cute that determined frown on your face is. “You didn’t, Dove.” He agrees sincerely. 

“And I’m sorry too,” You continue softly. “I need you -” 

“Tell me how much you need me, Dove,” His urgent whisper cuts you off, mouth tantalizingly close to yours. He doesn’t want to argue — he wants that kiss he’s been dreaming about for over a year. Bucky knows that you want it just as much by the way you rock onto your tiptoes, reaching for him. Your tongue peeks out between your lips for a second, wetting them in anticipation, static suddenly, pleasantly, buzzing through every cell in your body, your hands fist his shirt at his ribs. He arms envelop you against him.

He is so warm. He is so close.

“Because I need you like I need oxygen right now.” He mouths the words against your lips but doesn’t kiss you. Bucky cut off your apology because he doesn’t really need to hear the words. He desperately needs to feel that the spark that once ignited between you, that he’d been so carefully guarding all this time, is still there—that you still feel it, too.

You don’t disappoint—you never could. Hungrily capturing his lips, you pull Bucky into you, and he follows you eagerly. You could be on that path again, bike forgotten in the grass, hiding in the shadows between buildings, sweet wine on your tongue, tangled up in his sheet in the twilight of morning — like time hasn’t passed at all from that last kiss; it was only a blink since you touched him, just fleeting moments from when he felt your skin against his, your soft sighs trilling in his ears. 

It all comes back so overwhelmingly, so wholly; it pushes out the bitterness and balms old wounds. The kiss isn’t tender, but it soothes in its intensity. 

You hear someone calling your name. Involuntarily, you giggle into the kiss, Bucky taking the opportunity to bite down on your bottom lip, drawing the laughter into a delicate moan.

You are going to be in so much trouble.

[duffslut]

Easy Rider

Modern! Izzy Stradlin x Reader

My Masterlist.

Word Count: 917

Warnings: Fluff!

Taglist: @guns-n-roses-gal @a4tumnvenice @used-to-love-her-06 @changbinsdummythiccahrms @guitarsfan @em-21 @their80smichelle @svrgs-blog @rocketttqueennn @wiifitboard @unknownperson246 @fxcethestrange @lovergirl4slash @rottoneggs01 @metallical0ver @brunette-barbie4562 @appetiteforattitude @prettypersuasion @gyaas @nenynra @brezeblog @damianodavds @ch3rry-earrings @hauntedrosie

You held Izzy's waist with your arms wrapped around him as he sped up the motorcycle, the cold wind making your hair fly in the air.

- Izzy, it's freezing! - You complained, getting off the bike, rubbing your own arms trying to warm your body against the freezing wind.

Izzy got off the bike without a care in the world, as if the cold didn't affect him, it was cloudy and there was no chance of the sun appearing later, but even so, Izzy had insisted that you went to the beach with him, and you had no choice when he lifted you out of bed and carried you to his motorcycle.

- You get used to it. - Izzy said, giving you a quick kiss on the lips and then putting his jacket over you. - Let's walk!

You two held hands and began walking along the beach, the sand warmed your feet, and as you walked, the freezing cold left your body, the beach was empty, and you and Izzy talked and laughed, every now and then having to run from the water that almost touched your feet. At one point, the two of you sat down on the sand, using Izzy's jacket to cover both of your backs, a few weak rays of sunlight struggled to escape through the clouds and you rested your head on Izzy's shoulder to admire the sky and the sea in front of you.

- You're the best company I could ask for. - Izzy said suddenly, bringing your focus back to him.

- You too. - You said, your gaze meeting his before you gave him a calm and loving kiss on the lips, the soft palm of his hand touched your cheek, caressing your skin, and even after your lips parted, his hand remained on your face.

You noticed the weather clearing up as the sun finally came out for a few minutes, brightening Izzy's face in front of you and you had a crazy idea.

- What do you think... - You started to say and then held his hand with yours, kissing the tip of his fingers - We go into the water just a little bit? - You asked giving him a playful smile.

He arched an eyebrow, but you didn't give him time to decide. You stood up and pulled him along with you, running to the water, but as soon as the wave touched your feet you recoiled, running back to the sand shaking your head and crossing your arms over your chest. Terrible idea. The sea water was freezing and the sun that was still shining in the sky wasn't enough to give you the courage you thought you had.

Izzy, with his feet in the water, looked at you convinced.

- No, no, no, You're coming in with me. - He said approaching you, and you took steps back, starting to get desperate. - That was your idea. - He shouted with an evil smile on his lips.

You screamed and begged Izzy not to do it but it was no use, there you were, trapped in his body like a child, with your legs crossed around his hips and your arms around his neck.

- No!! Izzy!! - You screamed and held on tighter to his body as he walked back into the water, soaking his pants and then leaning forward, making his body touch the water for a few seconds.

- Not so bad, huh? - He asked and you used your hand to throw water on him.

- You fucker. - You said it pretending to be upset, but as soon as you reached the sand again, you kissed him, sliding your fingers down the back of his neck, feeling his tongue run through your mouth and your teeth.

Izzy carried you to the bike again so you wouldn't get dirty with the sand now that you were wet but he didn't mind getting his own pants dirty, wich you found incredibly adorable of him.

-I'm hungry. - You muttered as you got on the bike, the sun leaving the beach with you, leaving the weather cloudy again and darker than before.

Izzy, about to start the bike, just patted your knee as if to say "I got this". You held his waist again and rested your head on his back, feeling the wind begin to dry your clothes as he rode.

As he drove through the incredibly deserted streets, probably due to the bad weather, a drop of rain fell on your skin and you looked up, It wasn't long before it started to rain heavily and Izzy had to stop at a Cafe bar in the middle of the road, there were few people inside, most of them playing pool and drinking beer, You and Izzy walked over to a quieter table, in the part where people were eating, and sat on the padded benches, watching the window panes fog up from the sudden rain.

- What a day, huh? - Izzy commented.

You were used to it, every day with Izzy was a different adventure, it was his free spirit that made you fall in love with him.

- I'll have a cherry vanilla milkshake and fries please. - You asked the waitress.

- Pancakes and coffee. - Izzy ordered, handing over the menu.

You chuckled at the difference in orders, the place was actually quite cozy, and you and Izzy watched the men play pool while your food still didn't arrive, it was a good day after all.

[lunaekalenda]

"he drinks his morning coffee in this exact spot." his voice wasn't more than a hiss, lips against your ear while he spoke low. the lights were out, and the sun gave way to the moon long time ago. the café is quiet, silent, dark. only one wall sconce barely illuminated all the bar, the recently clean glasses that wait for another use tomorrow, the shiny coins on the tip jar that he didn't collect yet and the bottles of alcohol that decorate the wall behind the furniture. it smells like coffee, like pastries, like cigarette smoke. it smells exactly like him.

you can sense it when he gets closer to kiss your neck, when your fingers tangle on his hair, when his hand grabs your waist to pull you closer to him before taking it back to your thighs. sitting on the bar, he's between your legs, tall enough to reach your mouth. his lips follow an imaginary line through your jaw, down your neck, near your shoulder. he bites, licks, kisses; the exact pressure in each of them to make you beg for more. his hands, big and warm, rest on your thighs, so close to the end of your dress that he plays with the clothing, tangling it on his fingers while his caress ascends up your skin. your mind has only one thought, and it's him. his name, his eyes, his hands, his mouth, his body, his smell. all your senses are drunk of him.

"baby, you didn't deserve that." he purrs. his mouth is back on your jaw, leaving sweet, soft kisses on it, so close to your lips yet so far. "he's an asshole. he doesn't even know how lucky he was for having you by his side." he whispers. his hand brushes your inner thigh gently, just a caress, while he speaks, leaving a kiss on your chin before. "he was ungrateful and a cheater. and you deserve someone who worships you." his lips are now on the corner of yours, kissing sweetly. "someone who would do the impossible to make you happy." his lips wander around your mouth, kissing the corner on the other side. "someone like me"

finally, his lips collide against yours, fierce, passionate. your bodies get closer, your breaths mix and your hands search the other's face, neck, sides. long caresses that run everywhere on your bodies. he bites slowly your lower lip, before pecking you sweetly and taking air. your eyes focus on his and his thumb takes away the glossy lip balm that he messed up, a tiny giggle escaping both your mouths. his red eyes scan your face, while his hand caresses your cheek sweetly. Sylus presses his lips together, before releasing a long sigh. your mind repeats his words on your head. someone who worships you. who makes you happy. someone like him.

it was evident that Sylus liked you from the very first time you met. his eyes couldn't help but wander over your body, over your face, trying to learn how to control himself while you bite your lips or expose your neck. his fingers play with the ribbon on your shirt, as your forehead rests against his. he seems like speaking, but closes his mouth quickly. there's no more sound than your breaths, muffled by some drunk teenagers that walk in front of the closed bar. he takes a step back, entering behind the bar, getting a glass of water and offering another one for you. he drinks in silence, as you do, before he speaks.

"it's been a long time since the first time it happened." you freeze. you asked him for details, after all, before the conversation turned flirty, and suddenly you two were making out on the bar and it felt way too good to worry about him. about your boyfriend. or what you should call your ex.

"mephisto?" he nods once. he takes your glass and cleans it behind your back. bending on the bar.

"he saw them. the images got directly on my phone." Sylus closes the tap and dries his hands. then, he gets closer to you again. "i'm sorry."

his brows are tense and his hands are closed in fists. taking them, you tangle your fingers with his slowly, smiling.

"better to discover it before we were walking down the aisle, don't you think?" he giggles, red eyes going back to your face. his hands feel natural tangled with yours, an even when it's been already a month since he cheated or, at least, since when you saw him, the kinda grumpy barista under your flat has been a relief. you've spent whole afternoons here, talking with him, crying with him, laughing with him. you look at Sylus now, back between your legs, a lazy index making patterns on your leg.

"so..." his voice sounds deeper than usual, and you find yourself thinking about how nice it would be to hear him every morning. "are you feeling better?" you laugh loud while he smiles. "i mean, i have more if you're still not feeling nice."

you feel your cheeks hot after his words, after the way he looks at you, after how he bites his lip and gets closer to your body. the tension grows as the sounds of the street disappear, only being able to hear his quick breath. his hand takes yours to his chest. his heart races against your palm. he exhales, softly, eyes closed. "this is what happens whenever i see you enter on the bar. my heart wants to escape my chest." your lips show a big smile before pressing a kiss to his chest.

"the bad-boy, the grumpy barista, has a soft spot?" the joke tone in your question made Sylus laugh, before his hand was under your jaw, guiding your lips towards his.

"i'll gladly show you who is my soft spot, sweetie."

[cal-writes]

boa and i were thinking what zoros curse would be in howls moving castle au and well

"Law." Ace's voice is unusually serious as he pieces the silence.

Law exhales loudly, fingers drumming on the table as he tries fruitlessly to focus on the book he'd been pretending to read. "What."

"Zoro is still walking." Ace says and Law's fingers freeze, index poised over the wood before he lets it fall. He glances over at the hearth. Ace is cowering amids his logs, flickering cheekily.

"And how do you know that?" Law asks slowly.

Ace scoffs. "I've been following him, of course." He says, daring Law to question him. Law feels his pulse rise and his skin prickle as his feathers threaten to burst forth.

"You-" Law stands, slamming his book shut.

"You don't understand. He has been walking. The entire time." Ace tells him.

And Law stops.

He breathes. "It's been two days since he left." Law says.

"I know." Ace replies heavily and Law's brow furrows deeply. His flame flickers unhappily. "Strange magic, I'm telling you."

Law closes his eyes, sees Zoro's bandaged feed and him devouring his first meal here like a man starving. "Stop the castle." Law says and walks towards the door.

It's raining. A thick sheet of water pours from the heavens, turning everything into a muddy gray as he steps outside. Only his enchantments stop his boots from getting stuck in the mud.

Zoro has no such advantage. His steps drag, barely lifting his feet off the ground at all. His figure is hunched forward as he keeps walking stubbornly ahead, his hair plastered to his head, shirt translucent from the rain. The castle was so close behind him it would be impossible for him not to notice it having stopped. And yet he keeps walking straight ahead as if driven forward by a foreign force.

Law mutters silently. He should have noticed it sooner. He hurries his steps to catch up to Zoro. Even if his legs are longer it's much too easy. Two days, Ace had said. It sounds impossible. Unless, of course, Zoro was cursed to walk.

Suddenly his worn down feet make more sense.

"Zoro." Law says, loud enough to be audible over the pouring rain. He clicks his tongue when he gets no response. Of course. Whichever magic compels him must have exhausted him. It's a miracle he is still upright at all. Law lifts his hand towards him, muttering a spell under his breath. The rain around them stops, redirected away.

Law's hand reaches him first, landing on the small of his back as he comes up to Zoro's side, taking his arm with the other hand. "Zoro." He says again, softer.

Zoro stumbles. He would have fallen if not for Law's hands on him. His face is tense, eye glued to the obscured horizon - a million miles away.

The breath in Law's throat catches against something. His skin itches. He flutters around Zoro until he can stand in his path and even then Zoro keeps walking, uncaringly colliding with Law's chest and trying to push further still.

Law shakes out his sleeve, his bracelets clink against each other as he lifts his hand to Zoro's forehead. The touch makes him flinch, his gaze briefly clears and for a second Law thinks Zoro finally sees him. Then his vision clouds and his feet continue to move. Mud squelching underneath his boots.

"Sleep." Law commands him. His spell rippling through the air and bursting the bubble that had protected them from the rain, dousing them both.

Zoro shudders, body fighting against the magic before his eye rolls back in his head and he crumbles in on himself like a puppet with its strings cut.

[kitmoas]

when the veneer crumbles

the sounds of water are always relaxing

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Warnings: **18+ MINORS DNI**, SMUT, dark and demonic themes, death, possession, drowning, magic use, Mommy kink

as per usual if there is anything I missed let me know

Author's Note: I'm so sorry this one was late, had a lot of car and financial shit I needed to figure out but I finally got it finished. This was one that i always knew how i wanted it to end, even from last year when i first planned it for the Occult series, but for some reason it was REALLY hard to put my idea into words. Hopefully it's not HORRIBLE, i'm a bit rusty after taking more then a few months off. The rest of them will be better I promise lol

Kitmoas | Necrosis Kitmoas | Navigation

The crickets in the distance are a welcome change to the busy streets of the city, cars honking 

nonstop during your work day. The world you live in is hectic and out of control but the farther you walk into the almost clear empty darkness the more you can feel the control you naively gain. Stepping into the barely touched woods behind the mostly abandoned house was something that you had missed, a childhood memory that had died suddenly. 

Allowing your mind to wander to the summers that you would spend here out on the lake, jumping off the dock, and laughing with your cousins was the welcome peace you needed as you settled along the rickety wood. Even if those fun times were cut short at your aunt’s sudden death, you knew that being here gave you just a moment of your innocence back. 

Stepping onto the rickety wood carefully, you cringe internally as your arm tightens momentarily around the rolled up soft blanket. You should have known better to bring a water proof material but it was too late for that. Knees cracking slightly as you lean down, the smooth fabric flaps in the wind and you sigh softly in relief as you are able to fully settle on the dock. Deciding to stretch out was a bit of a mistake, in your time away you forgot just how soothing the sound of water lapping at the damp wood was. 

Goosebumps spread across your skin as you slowly came to consciousness, brittle wind chilling you to the bone as you rub the sleep out of your eye. The fog is dense, and confusing as it was supposed to be a clear night. Slowly sitting up, your bones crack as you stretch as much as possible without rocking the dock too much. The unstable wood is loud even with the bare minimum movement causing you to flinch as it echoes across the empty field. 

Squinting through the haze, you try to figure out if you can gauge just how late it is by the placement of the moon. The only thing you can see is a weird tunnel out in the middle of the lake, almost like a tornado of gray. Immediate fear isn’t your first thought, though you begin to question just how awake you are. 

Condensation makes the wood wet, slipping as you try to stand up but it's the glowing red orbs in the distance that makes you freeze in your half crouched position. They are captivating even from afar. The air around you is thick, filled with the now red tinted fog that almost looks like it's bleeding. Heavy and molasses-like as it lays on your skin, eyes flickering around you try to make sense of your surroundings. 

When she gets close enough to see smaller details, your brain slows almost to a complete stop. She’s entirely too breathtakingly beautiful and tragically horrific at the same time. No color to her skin, it’s almost as though she comes directly from one of the old black and white television shows your mother liked to watch. The woman is wearing tight clothing, torn and ripped sporadically. Her eyes almost seem so gray that they are an ethereal foggy green, only flashing ruby when the shrap thin lines all over her body pulsate crimson. Her hair is long and dripping with an inky hue, tangled and disheveled. Fingertips dipped in a steaming tar, dancing near her side as she stalks towards you. 

It’s when you can almost reach out and touch the figure that you finally scramble backwards, putting distance between the two of you as the flight side of your instincts kick in. You barely make it more than five steps when you’re being dragged upwards with some sort of red translucent mist. It wraps around your wrists, dragging your arms above your head as you flop about uselessly. Screams are getting caught in your throat as you have to just hang there, watching this being get closer to you. 

When the lady is directly below you, the hair on the back of your neck stands up straight and your muscles twitch from how tense they are. You want to panic, to yell, but something stops you. Tilting her head, she has to look up at you from where her magic holds you against the rough bark. Her hand comes out to touch you, but the soft feeling comes as a surprise to you. She cups your cheek, a low red spreading in her eyes as you shake under her touch. 

She smiles at you, a soft almost nurturing thing. “You’re just as pretty as I thought you would be, little lamb.” Her voice is chilling, breathy with a raspy tone to it. The older woman’s free hand caresses your stomach, an unwanted warmth sinking into your gut. 

Her nails are jagged, cracked and repulsive, as she takes her time to explore your body. It’s sudden, the vigor in which she gropes your body. Clumsy and completely all over the place, you aren’t entirely sure what she thinks she’s doing. Struggling against your restraints, the chill covers your body like ice freezing over a lake. 

It isn’t until your body takes over, fear and anger sinking into your bones, that the creature seemingly gains control of her actions and her hand becomes confident and firm. Nails pointedly scratching at your skin as fingers map out your skin, almost stabbing at each goosebump she finds. Your eyes are glued to your face as your mind struggles to catch up to what you had done, flinching as her other hand reaches up. It doesn’t strike you as you thought it would, instead she brushes the back of her knuckles against her own face, trepidation stopping your blood from rushing through your body as you finally realize that you spit at her. 

That wasn’t what you wanted to do, you knew that you needed to act smart if you were going to survive this but for some reason all your ability to think logically went out the window. You wanted her more than anything in the world right now, and you knew that you needed to try and do anything to keep her exactly where she was. 

“Do you not have control over your stupid little body, mortal?” Her voice is low, almost filled with gravel as she mumbles. Rust filled eyes not even paying you a second of attention but instead staring at the glistening saliva that drips from her fingers. 

Your head is shaking vigorously, denying inability in hopes that she doesn’t see you as foolish. The desire to be praised by her came as a surprise, but you weren’t fighting it and it seems to have worked. A smile slowly stretches across the surreal creature’s face as she blinks slowly. “It’s so funny to see such a useless being believe they are worth anything more than what I deem them to be. You think by answering my question in whatever way you think I want will make the outcome of your situation better?” 

She speaks softly, almost nurturing as she rubs her soaked fingers along your neck, smearing your own spit against you. You crane your neck as much as you can against the crimson smog wrapped there, trying to hear her voice as clearly as possible. 

“I take what I want and no smart mouthed, stupid brained little human is going to stop that. I like to have fun, and the peak is watching you bleed out for me.” The words are harsh but you can’t help but moan as your body is thrown upwards, red tendrils tightening and dragging you to hang limply from the tree branch. It’s devoid of leaves, and creaks under your weight, but it somehow makes you feel like you have a safety net. You had climbed this tree many times in the past, and even had various hanging sets from this very limb. 

Swinging freely, you try to move your body as much as possible as the urge to escape your confines sinks in. Entirely too focused, you don’t realize that her hands are moving along your ice cold skin. Groping softly, her movements are controlled and precise to make sure that you barely register it in your brain. It’s when her hands force your legs apart, maroon vapor ropes slithering around your thighs to hold them open, that you finally realize just how hard you are breathing. Your body felt slightly warm, at least in your core, and you could feel your blood rushing downwards. It was almost like your entire being was electrified and you were entirely too conscious of every single thing you felt. 

She doesn’t take her time, her eyes narrow as she focuses on mapping out your skin. The bright  ruby lines she leaves in her wake only entertain her for so long before she finally moves in between your shaking thighs. The older woman’s finger swipes through your folds, collecting the small amount of wetness she finds there. Gasping as she spreads it across your clit, a throbbing ache despite the way your body revolts. Her jaw mockingly drops when for the first time her eyes light up with amusement, giggling when your hips chase her hand. “Oh poor baby, I can’t fuck you if you’re not wet enough. It’ll hurt your small fragile little body too much and Mommy doesn’t want to hurt you.” 

Your head is shaking violently, nonsensical protests tumbling from your lips. It didn’t matter to you, regardless if it was because you wanted her or wanted the situation to be over with, you just needed her to touch you. Even though your wetness wasn’t enough for her, you did feel aroused. Maybe it was your mind tricking you into believing this was what you wanted or maybe it was the glittering crimson behind your irises, but that wasn’t a piece of information that you needed to know. 

She tuts, chastising you. “Now don’t lie to me. I know what you want even if your mind fights it, and your body hasn’t caught up, I know.” You watch as she takes a step back, letting her eyes drink in your form. Letting the back of her knuckles run down your torso, you watch as she slowly kneels on the damp dirt. Her hands are grazing over your thighs, pushing them farther open as she leans in. The grip she has on you, though gentle, is strong and you can’t kick her when you feel her mouth along your skin. 

The smoothness of her strangely sharp teeth is hot against your cooled body, but it’s the sharp pierce and spilling of your blood that leaves a weirdly chilled warmth leaking down your leg. Eyes widening you try to look past the head of dark locks to see what just happened, but it didn’t take long for your brain to catch up and the stabbing pain on your inner thigh. 

She looks up at you, sparkling light jade eyes catching the moon light, with a toothy smile and a small dribble of crimson running down her chin. “You’re a fucking vampire?” You couldn’t help the shocked yelp, body shaking with fear. 

The being doesn’t even answer you, giggling as rolls her eyes up at you. She seems so innocent in those moments but nothing gets rid of the terror emanating within your soul. Looking back at your bleeding thigh, she swipes her fingers through the thick liquid to coat them. Her nails catch on the open wound, sending another wave of searing pain through your body but she pays no attention to you. 

It almost feels like time stops as you hang there, waiting, but the moment the brunette swipes her crimson dipped thumb across your clit something in your body cracks. It’s small but you can feel the change and in your mind you start screaming at yourself. You know being vocal won’t stop this crazy woman, but you wanted to deter her by being completely unaffected. It was the last thing you had on her, to make her believe that what she was doing was just pure torture and you found absolutely no pleasure in it, but you knew that that power over her was no longer available to you. 

Never one for vanilla sex, not even in theory, you shouldn’t be that surprised that being taken by force from a demonic crazy being would be right up your alley. No one could ever keep up with you, your fantasies were just a bit too intense or a bit too dangerous, and for once everything you ever wanted was being fulfilled. This gorgeous being was forcing her fingers farther into you, your blood dripping randomly down different parts of your body. 

Despite your want for intensely kinky sex, you knew that it should be completely consensual right? It should let you know that, and you could feel your anger rising in your body as the heat zoomed between your thighs. This couldn’t be consensual, not with how it started, but if it wasn’t then why did the idea of her actually stopping tear you up on the inside? You couldn’t fathom the idea of her ice cold thumb pulling away from your throbbing clit for too long, for her touch on your body to not cause goosebumps.  

She doesn’t wait much longer, no need to attempt to please you now that she has the wetness she wants, shoving two fingers into you with almost no remorse. A shrill scream gets stuck in your throat as you choke on the force of air rushing up, the pain bringing tears to your eyes. A sign of weakness that this twisted soul revels in as she thrusts her fingers in, letting her free hand drag up crimson periodically.  

The pain was immense and you were certain that she had to be using something besides her fingers, there was no way that the small hands in between your thighs were causing this much agony. You wanted to shove against her, but the moment her teeth sink into your breast you know you’re gone. Hips jumping, trying to get her to move more as the pleasure starts to settle in your tummy, uselessly against her body. It felt so bad that the good started to come from a delirious state, and you just needed her to move. The tips of her fingers just rubbing slightly against the soft spot inside of you, the texture of her wrinkled skin felt wrong but you were starting to become obsessed. 

“Isn’t it comical? A desperate slut like you thought you had everything together, thought I was going to ruin your life by taking what was destined to be mine?” Through the heavy fog that had begun to settle in your head you tried your best to look down at her, shock painted across your face. How did she know what you were thinking? She doesn’t give you any answer, instead her thrusting gets more aggressive as the wetness between your thighs grows, and it mixes with the blood still heavily leaking from the bite marks. 

You want to moan, whimper, maybe even plead but you were no longer sure what you wanted. Logically you needed this to stop if you were to ever be okay again, but at the same time all you wanted to do was feel her mouth on your clit. You wanted her to fuck you until you were incoherent, a drooling mess. Hatred towards yourself and her fueled your motions as you tried to work to take more of her hand, stretching around her third finger as she shoves it ungracefully into you. 

Her mouth is at your knee now, glowing eyes looking up at you as she smirks. “Taking me so well for someone so against getting used.” Her arm is moving roughly, fingers curling inside you as she ghosts her teeth along your thigh. “So clean, so dry. Why don’t you make a mess for Mommy? I like my cunts all wet and messy.” 

It was then you found your power, despite the arousal burning in your belly and the way you clenched around her fingers whenever she swiped her thumb along your clit. You knew that the more you let your thoughts wonder, even if it had to be forced, that you would be able to pull yourself from the situation. Imagine yourself somewhere else and almost black out during everything, your body would be limp and pliant but not give her what she wants. The movie you would go see in a week with your best friends, or the long list of groceries that you knew you needed to get when you went back into the city. Thoughts swarmed your head as you tried your hardest to ignore the way her fingers poked and prodded, the way her thumb caressed your swollen clit just perfectly. 

Screwing your eyes shut, you make your best attempt at seeming unaffected but you don’t realize that you aren’t winning. If anything you just make it more fun for the being below you, giving her the opportunity to make you as wet as she wants. 

Being so focused on the thoughts traveling through your brain was good until you don’t feel the tugging on your wrists, persistent and firm. It’s only when you’re tumbling helplessly through the air that you realize you are no longer hanging from the tree, but instead falling face first into the freezing lake. It’s a shock, breaking the surface of the water. It knocks the breath out of your lungs and forces your throat to close, you can practically feel all your muscles seize as well. You make the mistake of opening your mouth to scream, causing a rush of dirty water to fill your lungs, and it’s only when her hand claws at the back of your head that you feel even an ounce of relief. 

She’s tearing your body out of the water, pieces of the thin ice fly around you and you can’t believe that you relax as your body collides with her. “Don’t think that you can try to outplay Mommy like that you little slut. I know what you want, you are my destiny. You were made to take me, so be a good girl and let me do what I was made to do.” Her voice is sweet, almost soft, as she speaks through her teeth directly into your ear. It shouldn’t calm your racing heart, neither should the almost warm comforting touch of her red mist along your thighs. 

You want to let yourself fall, the intense arousal is boiling in your tummy and you can feel the coil tightening with each brush of her hand along your body. It would be much easier to allow yourself to become immersed in the pleasure coursing through your body, but it wasn’t until she allowed that crimson fog to slip inside you. Despite the fact that whatever she was pushing into you was magical, you were still too tight for her liking. There was a part of you deep down that still didn’t want this and it was causing your body to react subconsciously. 

‘If the slut doesn’t want to get wet, then I’ll keep you wet myself.” Her hands scratch up your side, a nail digging into your nipple on the way up and it makes your hip buck. You feel yourself melting back into her and a moan softly slips from your parted lips. The urge to pretend that it’s from the cold is strong, but you can’t even pretend at this point like the feeling of her hands on you isn’t turning you on. 

Her hands are running along your torso, teasing your nipples and scratching up your stomach. It almost feels normal, just another hookup and it makes you forget. Losing yourself in the way that the ruby swells inside you, rubbing against the soft spot it finds and caressing your clit softly. 

The wetness between your thighs is gathering the longer she plays with you, wine stained mist thrusting lazily into you. It almost plays with you, knowing that it ruts to hard or fast that it will bring you closer to the edge, but it keeps you writhing for more with each movement. You want to beg for more, ask her to touch you with her own hands as you have begun to crave her ice touch, though there is something that is stopping you from doing that. It isn’t necessarily pride, something you lost the moment you began to get turned on by this aggressive form of twisted affection. 

It’s when her nails scratch at the back of your neck that you realize the fog that’s dragging you slowly, almost mockingly leisurely, towards the edge is growing. Almost like a ball, it feels like she’s pushing her magic abilities to stretch you to the point right before danger. You’re confused, as your wetness starts dripping down your thighs and your breath starts picking up, how much more wet could you get? 

Instant regret floods your system almost as fast as the ice cold water that rushes down your throat as she shoves your face directly into the lake. It’s not a quick dunk to shock you this time, her claw-like hand squishing your face into the almost mud like dirt at the bottom. She doesn’t stop forcing more and more into you, her magical fog swelling larger and it presses against where your torso is now pressed against the ground. Even as you struggle against her, your internal will to try and live kicking in, you can’t help the build up in your stomach. The coil tightens as her magic moves within you, moving inside you as her nails dig into her back. 

Sharp stinging pains are a contrast, an added sensation, to your panic as you begin to think maybe she is just going to keep you submerged. There’s no way she would, right? She wants to use you, there would be no reason that she would want to truly harm you. 

A deep belly chuckle is muffled through the water, barely a vibration as your arm and head flail as much as possible. You wanted out but you can’t help but moan instead of scream, the pleasure of her nails into your shoulder blades and her thigh grinding between your thighs into the swell of mist there beginning to get too overwhelming. It was no longer a fight to survive but a fight to enjoy the last moments of life. Somewhere in your mind you knew that you wouldn’t actually make it out of this alive, but for some reason you’ve decided to ignore that. 

“Such a stupid whore, letting just anyone touch your cunt.” She fists your soaked hair in your hand, and just for a fleeting moment the pain mixed with arousal takes over your fogged mind. “You don’t even know Mommy and yet here you are, taking my gorgeous gift like the good little fuck toy you are.” Her free hand abandons your back in lue of groping your ass, pushing down against it to get you to stop moving. Her thigh is pushing against your throbbing clit now, soaked in your wetness despite water lapping up as you splash about. 

You can feel your vision start to darken, the edges of the burning sensation as you try to keep your eyes open have blurred and blackened. Unsure if you are even panicking anymore, your body starts to relax and the only thing you can focus on is the fuzzy warm arousal filling each nerve in your body. The water floating around you becomes tranquil as each muscle in your body softens and you move with each thrust into you. 

A wide sinister smile stretches unnaturally along the being’s face, pulling her almost gray lips as far as they can as she stares down at your almost lifeless body. She can see the signs and for her it motivates her even more, forcing more and more of her magic into you. You were everything she could have ever wanted and she refused to let you stay in the living world, if she was destined to be stuck to this lake forever then so would you. 

Slowly you could feel all the tension in your body start to clump together in your stomach, draining from the rest of you and tightening around the scarlet orb inside you. You craved that last bit of pleasure, that last rush in your veins to end this for good. 

When it becomes almost impossible to move and you are no longer shaking from panic or exertion, but instead trembling from hanging onto the edge, she knows it’s time. Sneering down at your limp form, she uses her grip in your hair to turn your head. Slapping at your cheek until she can just barely see your fuzzy bloodshot eyes, an almost soft nurturing smile paints along her face once she sees your drunk like state. “There’s my girl. So fucked out.” Her sphere cloud inside you starts to vibrate, her cold dark eyes once more glowing a dim ruby. 

Gripping at your jaw, her claw practically breaks your neck as she forces you to keep eye contact with her. Even as your eyes slip closed, struggling to stay open as you start to dangle over the edge, you can’t help but feel drawn in to listen. “Say my name, little toy, say it and stay with me forever.” Her voice is raspy, bordering soft but she’s taunting you. “You know it, you know you do, so say it. Say it now.” Her actions become frantic, her thigh grinding more aggressively into you. She’s trying to force you into a more pathetic state, even at the edge of death she wants you to be begging for her. 

As much as you can you try to deny knowing, because how could you? You had never seen this person, if that’s what she is even considered, before this horrific situation. The attempt at trying to keep water from going down your throat had stopped, your lungs should have filled completely with liquid by now so some other power must have been keeping you alive. 

Though you couldn’t see it, the being was getting annoyed. Her eyes rolled as she realized that you were thinking again, a brain dead creature who could still think. “Say my name and you can cum for Mommy, like the pretty little whore you are.” She spits at you through her teeth, pointed and your blood drying on the dull shine. With her words she sees a change in your stature, even held under the force of her hand, eagerness. Humming slowly she allows her maroon mist to sink into each part of your body. 

Your brain was almost empty, nothing but serene thoughts going through it as you felt yourself slip into the darkness. You thought that there would be a light at the end of the time but instead you start seeing a faint rosy hue. The being above you is yelling at you and the need to give in is strong, you want to end everything on a high. You need that high. 

Her name slips into the water almost silently, your eyes slipping closed as you fall into unconsciousness, but it’s there. She hears it, muffled, “Wanda.” Usually one of her biggest fears, not one to want to go back to the damned dark world but with you she could thrive. A black magic demon who accomplished its goal? She would rule the world with a scarlet leash around your neck. A small smirk as her magic starts to die, a sure sign she’s going back to being contained. Until the end of time you will be her needy little toy, just as you were as you took your last breath. 

[weird-is-life]

hey! For your winter asks, I’d so love to see fluffy ‘spencer and reader staying over in her childhood room for the first time on Christmas eve’? I love your work!! (Or! If you’re not doing christmassy stuff! They’re whisked away on a case and have to make the best of a freezing winter night in some dingy motel room’!

Hii, ty for the request🥰! I chose the second version, Hope this is okay, warnings: fluff, pet names, cold weather, (0.7k)

Usually, when you are away on a case, the hotels or the places you stay at are decent, nothing too fancy. There's hot and cold water, bad mattresses and heating or AC. And that's okay, most of the time, you don't even have enough time to sleep to care for anything better.

But this motel is definitely the worst place, you've ever stayed at. You were out in the cold December weather in Alaska the whole day, so you were looking forward so so much to the warmth of yours and Spencer's room.

When you step a foot inside of the room, you realise, you are not getting much warmer tonight. Yes, the heating is on, but it does nothing to warm up the room, the heating being too old and too weak.

And another thing, that makes it even worse is the barely warm water. So the shower you take makes you feel even more cold.

Spencer showers after you and by the time he gets out of there, you are already hidden under the covers, shivering madly.

Spencer doesn't seem to be bothered too much by the cold, maybe it's because he was at the warm precinct to whole day, maybe.

He lifts the covers up to get under them and as he does that the little bit of warm you've managed to create is gone.

You whine as the cold air hits you. Spencer looks confused at you.

"What's wrong?" he asks, perplexed.

"I-I'm so freaking cold," you say and your teeth almost chatter loudly.

Spencer takes one of your hands into his and when he feels, that it's icy-cold, he drags you into his arms. His big hands immediately wrapping around you.

Spencer feels like a heater, so you instantly snuggle close to him.

"You are so cold, like a popsicle," he chuckles as his hands go up and down your arms, trying to warm you up.

"I feel like one," you murmur into his chest and he chuckles again.

"My poor girl, what am I going to do with you, huh?" he asks, he knows you already feel better in his arms, but he doesn't thing it will help totally.

He does have some spare warm clothes, he'll definitely go get you those.

He moves to get up, but you hold on to him very very tightly, "where are you going?" you scowl.

"I just want to get you something more warm to wear and I'll go ask the receptionist, if they have a heater," he tries to get up again, but you don't let him.

"No, don't go, please. I'll freeze to death here," you are maybe being a little bit dramatic, but you are just too cold.

"Sweetheart, I'll be right back, I promise. You'll get warmer quickly that way," Spencer tries to reason with you. He doesn't want you to be cold, and because of it uncomfortable.

"I already feel warm enough right now," you say stubbornly, even if you still feel a bit cold.

"Sweetheart....," Spencer sighs. And frowns playfully at you.

"Just 5 more minutes okay? Then I'll maybe let you go," you respond and cheekily put your hands under his shirt.

He yelps at the coldness of your hands on your skin," stop it." Spencer begs you and you only giggle, hands not moving even one inch.

"You are a minx, you know that, right?" Spencer says, not annoyed, he could be, but he loves you too much.

"Sorry?"

"You will be, when I wrap you up in so much warm clothes that you won't be able to move and I'll cuddle you so much, you'll get sick of me," he teases you back, it's all very lovely of course.

"Please do," you reply, suddenly remembering the cold again.

"I will, once the 5 minutes are up, I'm retrieving everything for you, lovely," you don't say anything. You only nod and hum in response and enjoy the warmth radiating from Spencer's body.

You stay like that way longer than the 5 minutes. In fact, you stay like that the whole night. The comfort of being close to Spencer is enough to lull you to sleep, forgetting all about being cold. And Spencer is always able to fall asleep quickly if you are there.

[anantaru]

𝐈 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐓, 𝐈 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐄𝐓

the temperature in sumeru continues to grow with the heat making scaramouche horny and frustrated.

୨୧ WORD COUNT: 2.6k

୨୧ WARNINGS: nsfw, fem! reader, you call him kuni, riding, frustrated kuni, unprotected sex, cumming inside, sweaty and messy.

"what the fuck?!"

the persisting, nagging heat in sumeru surely reached a new record today, scaramouche was sure of it, the lingering uncomfortable feeling of his clothes sticking together was bothersome and how thick the air turned, many people facing sudden difficulties in something as easy as breathing alone.

his shirt was already pretty tight, yet the way it was clasping onto his body was enough for him to wiggle himself out of it at last, angrily tearing and throwing the damp garment on the floor, leaving him bare chested in your shared modest apartment.

the lace of sweat on his chest was obvious to be perceived, he next, voiced a sharp sigh of relief which bubbled out of his throat when he was mopping away the perspiration that had developed on his pale skin.

his tense muscles fed into each other when he stretched himself, tilting his head left and right with lidded eyes, yawning out in a frustrated manner.

the high temperature that had constricted him from moving freely was dissolving just a bit upon hearing the door open together with the sound of you, or to be exact, the silent squeal as you walked into the scorching room.

"kuni? what the hell?!"

immediately, you unbuttoned your dress and spotted your boyfriend having a near on breakdown from the hot weather, the anger laced around his features nothing but a copying mechanism to survive the heat.

"how is it even hotter in our apartment?!"

you seem to be capable to read his clear thoughts, or that's what scaramouche thought the second you questioned the very thing he had been asking himself all damn day.

"i don't fucking know, it's tedious and nasty."

with your hand fanning cool air into your face, you paced over to your boyfriend who dramatically plopped himself onto the couch, his head thrown back with his chin held high, rubbing his damp forehead that his hair was sticking on.

in any other circumstances, you might think someone who had worked for the fatui in the past and endured the freezing cold in the cryo nation had built a remarkable resistance over any weather, yet he found the heat despicable, scaramouche would rather get hit by a massive ice block than endure any more of this living, roasting hell.

the flared, red expression on his pale skin stirred the tiny hairs on your neck, he was utterly adorable, struggling and pretending that he had himself under control under a flaming fire like that.

"hey, what if we take a cold shower together, doesn't that sound good?"

posing your question, you plopped next to him as he peaked at you with his indigo eyes, perceiving your unbuttoned dress loosely hanging around your shoulders, what a sight, his mouth watering.

"look at you."

his statement was direct, turning his head to get your attention, "cover yourself or the room will get hotter, do you want to kill me that badly?"

to say you weren't flustered by his passive aggressive compliment would be a blatant lie, yet today you didn't want to give him the benefit of triumphing over you.

rolling your eyes you attempted to move away but got stopped in the end by both of his strong hands suddenly holding your waist down, a self satisfied smirk concealing his handsome, facial features.

"come on now, don't tell me you really thought i was being serious?"

how comfortable it was for him, that you clearly knew how he acted sometimes as he didn't feel the need to explain himself, ever.

"who even knows what you're serious about and what you aren't."

with you spending a lot of time taunting him, you surely were certain what right buttons to push to tickle the desired reaction out of your boyfriend.

unable to suppress a laugh, scaramouche proceeded to shift himself to your body, the small indifference of your breathing being enough evidence that whatever he was doing right now clearly coaxed a reaction out of you, one he knew very well.

"i'm very serious about this right now."

setting as to proving you wrong, he leaned in to abruptly kiss you, squeezing the sides of your hips to pull you onto his lap with you straddling him. Overlaid with the faint scent of clean sweat, you deepened your connection and placed your hands onto his naked chest, adding your tongue.

"how serious?"

there it was, the early sexual tension, the one you happen to experience whenever you shared a room, more so whenever you pressed your lips together, tongue's dancing in tandem.

"never been more serious before, dear."

scaramouche ended the sentence with an alluring smirk as he inclined his face towards yours a bit more and laid his hands over the flimsy material of your dress, drawing it off your shoulders in a fastened manner.

clearly witnessing the sudden urge in him, you ran your fingerpads down his sweat covered stomach with the curves of his natural muscles glowing. Drawing his breath in with each stroke of your hand prancing lower to his groin, his hungry kisses exposed him off his need, his arms flexing around you to press you close.

how immensely grateful he was that his pants weren't as tight as his shirt prior, his cock being semi erect now as it rested right within your clothed pussy, the blood in his veins pumping and throbbing through it.

your inability to speak out seemed to be related to the fact that you were very much enjoying this right now, the hurling inferno in your apartment coming secondary, almost forgotten when you stilled your fingers on his waist at last, hooking your skillful digits into the waistband to pull him out off his confinements.

at this point, you weren't bothered by anything anymore, lazily dragging his pants down together with his boxers until the garments hit his knees before studying his eyes, intoxicated with a haze of euphoria.

"what are you waiting for? kiss me." as flowers opened back in spring, so did your heart whenever you heard his rough familiar voice on you, all the more pleading without him actually begging.

naturally, doing as he says, you trailed yourself back into him to place your lips together, the rest of his breathing was lost against your parted mouth. Careful, you gently nibbled on his lower lip, the light sucks made his whole body tremble in significant shivers.

scaramouche groaned softly under your touch, gentleness being the very thing he longed for as he placed both hands on your wet chest, gathering you and tangling together.

there was nothing more bewitching than your breasts in his eyes, the beauty of your mounds being enhanced by the faint outline of sweat entwined around the raw curves, glistering.

rolling your nipples in between his thumb and pointer finger, you squealed into his mouth, involuntarily grinding yourself into his now fully erected cock, catching him off guard with the air getting stuck in his throat.

completely unyielding, raw, with so much emotions you thought your mind would turn blank and dizzy, on the brink of passing out.

at once, the heat was spreading into your body, one, that wasn't akin to the high temperature in sumeru, but one that came from you and your soul alone.

his touches on your breasts felt like pure liquid, soothing and wet when he drifted back to your lower region, hooking his skilled fingers into the flimsy material of your panties to messily draw them aside, exposing your aching pussy to the warm room.

fuck, scaramouche couldn't believe his eyes, honeyed fire displaying itself on his widened pupils. How wet you had gotten and how sinful it melted together with the sweat on your bodies.

he needed to feel you right now, make love to you and fill you up with another filthy essence, more so possessively mark you from the very inside.

everything about you was natural and he loved it, craved it, his hand getting a hold of his stiff cock resting on his stomach as he took it, motioning a small tunnel with his fingers to stroke himself while you continued to suck on his tongue.

you got the message, how could you not? whenever scaramouche got needy it was evident, he wouldn't admit to it, so you proceeded to study his body responses, how his breathing hitched, how the grip on his hands got harder and the most important part, how his eyes glowed with that yearned sweetness, searching your scorching touch.

your folds were so soft and your pussy so warm, squishy, so responsive to his touch when he flicked his cock head over your prickling clit, aligning himself with your fluttering hole next as he beckoned you to retract your body a bit.

"sit on it." even with you practically being on top, it still felt as if scaramouche towered over you, the sheer control and authority in his aura was heavy on your skin, yet alluring and somehow made you yearn him further, it reminded you on his past as a harbinger.

through gritted teeth, you sat down to take him in one by one, your sharp fingernails digging into his shoulders as he helped you with one of his hands while the other one held his cock up so you could properly engulf him.

the second you greedily swallowed him up fully, you both moaned into another developing kiss, his eyes half opened as he watched you through his lashes, your chests sticking together yet none of you seem to care, more so was it a positive aspect now, aiding you in being intimate.

scaramouche realized you were more wet than usual, you felt so mushy and soft it was maddening to him, both your natural lubricants made it fairly easier to slip in without you feeling a huge amount of discomfort.

he wanted to do more than just stimulate you, you've been unreservedly good to him, any time, the last thing he wanted to do was actually hurt you or give you any form of discomfort.

still remembering that one time you showed him that it was okay to crave intimacy, cradling and caressing his body, till this day said moment was proceeded to be engraved in him.

scaramouche was holding it close and applying it whenever he got to make love to you.

his cock was hot and hard within your sobbing walls, grazing over the tingling flesh with the hardened veins that was pulsating with blood. Your hole was buckling around his girth, making it quite difficult for you to move without his added strength.

at first, your grinding was soft and slow, needy but tender, scaramouche gave you enough time to find your own rhythm as he began to breathe through his mouth, the hot air swirling over your bodies and doing you no favor, at all.

fascinated at the way you were circling your hips on him, his moans stuttered in his throat, his head slightly lolled back to indulge in your filth covered beauty.

and here he thought you couldn't get any sexier, not with sweat and perspiration dwelling on your breasts and being embedded right above your collarbone, yet here you were, glowing and taking the lead from him, chasing your orgasm energetically.

you lowered your head into him, resting your foreheads together as he helped you back and forth his impressive shaft, your tight, pretty pussy being more comfortable with his well packed groin, gradually swallowing him in and out.

hips lifting, another long moan, grinding down, the technique you went for had your heart thumping under your ribcage, his face displaying that he obviously enjoyed you and drank up everything you gifted him with.

"faster, f-fuck." he asked breathlessly, astonished by your ravishing tempo as you cried out upon feeling him abruptly thrust up, your body falling further.

the dominant motion that was actually dictated by the pace of his ruts into you had your mind feel heavy, your toes were curling when his swollen tip remotely hit into your sweet spots, one time, two times, fuck, your orgasm was so close you could practically taste it on the tip of your tongue.

scaramouche had his eyes pierced in where your bodies connected and his cock disappeared in you, your fluids were dribbling down his shaft with a faint layer of your essence appearing.

not really being surprised by the sheer amount of slick, there was a barely visible white ring of pure bliss entangled over his girth. The sounds of joy and glee rolled over the walls and were hitting his ears, the next groan coming right from his belly where his climax was building up.

"I-i'm so close kuni."

the sight of your brows scrunched together and you showing him a desperate expression was exhilarating. You could perceive the echo of strain in your thighs from how hard you were pressing and grinding onto him, ignoring the ache, the tingling sensation in your pussy being far too delicious to stop yourself from swallowing his cock now.

"lets cum together."

with those words, he sealed your fate, pulling his hands off your waist only to brand them on your cheeks, forcefully drawing you into a starving kiss as the both of you released, moaning into your parted mouth with drool lolling out of the corners of your lips, staining your chin.

"f-fuck, fuck." the wet heat and the significance of having him so deep in you and in that position as well, seemed to be enough to shower you with overstimulation, your hips giving out at last when he abruptly, in a sliding second, looped his arms over your waist to push you onto your back, shoving you into the couch when he rammed his hips forward in a hungry pace, riding your climax out with his aching cock.

how desperately you wanted to cry out his name with scaramouche towering over you now, moan out screamingly yet his tempo was otherworldly, your mouth was as dry as the desert with your throat being tied together. Nothing came out of your mouth, only dying words as you bathed in overstimulation with your mouth gaped open while he fucked you silly.

with that, his heavy member twitched within your velvety insides, overflowing, spilling himself into you and painting your abused walls with white ribbons of warm cum. it was runny and sticky, he came too much as you didn't have the space to keep it all in, his seed dribbled out of your fluttering hole and just enough so that it ran over your behind.

it was too much, truly, the warm temperature and your hot body ultimately made him collapse on top of your wet body, his head resting in the nook of your neck with his uneven pants coating the sweaty, thin skin.

"archons, you're crazy." you tucked him into your arms as he laughed at your sentence, for once passing up on the opportunity to say anything snarky back to you right away, far too spend to even move an inch.

"just noticed that now?"

even without seeing your boyfriend, you knew he had a prideful smirk painted on his face, he could clearly perceive your back still being arched and your body shivering, shaking from aftershocks that had an electrifying intensity in them.

when you loosened the tension in your muscles, you laid into the soft, damp cushions of your couch, scaramouche grasped onto the left over energy he had as he pulled himself out of your core, your slick and his cum stuffed you full as it drizzled out.

"what a mess."

you dared to peak on your lower region yourself, your body was glowing and sweaty, yet his face, it told you a different story.

for once, he had a smile, that one that was normally built shown on blueprints promising warmth, satisfaction and utter love.

all of a sudden, scaramouche got up much to your surprise, sliding down his pants from his knees as he finally wiggled himself out of them, leaving him standing bare for your eyes to relish in.

"lets take the cold shower you were talking about now."

©anantaru do not share, copy, translate

[ayanominitrash]

Act Cool, Senpai! (Geto Suguru x reader)

₊˚ ♡

Geto-san falls for his dearest kouhai.

⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

4th Entry. First part here. Fifth Part here. Masterlist. 

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

Today was the day Geto realized he’d fallen for you. 

The moment of understanding was sudden, like getting his head submerged in cold water - earning him clarity when he finally pulled his head up from it; his head empty, only the feeling of exhilaration in his veins remained for the time being. Indeed, the second he came to terms with his feelings, it was a shock in his system, but it wasn’t a surprise. 

His overwhelming feelings built up from the second he saw you materialize your weapon from across the stadium, swinging it to exorcise curses in your way, Haibara by your side. There was a bit of hesitancy in your movements - the mannerisms of a rookie, but you still managed to stay elegant in the way you weaved through the chairs as you chased the curses, but harsh enough to not be afraid to get a few tears in your uniform, either from the cursed spirit’s attacks or just from bumping into places. How his heart longs for you, trying to get closer to you during this mission. He also loves the way your eyes lock on to each other unintentionally of the two times you two ran into each other looking for more curses, exchanging soft smiles before walking on by. 

Geto knowingly smiles to himself when the adrenaline of his feelings dies down, gradually descending into contentment and calmness when the once-disturbed freezing waters of his soul finally stills.

“Why are you smiling to yourself? Have you lost it?” 

Gojo approaches him near the railings, hands on hips after just killing a curse behind him that’s now dissipating in thin air. “There’s nothing to smile about - the curtain is still up so we’re still missing a curse or a few.”

“Is the Gojo Satoru worried for the first time?” He smirks up at his classmate while summoning his cursed spirit back to him, having just defeated a cursed spirit himself. “Is it because of the number of people that will soon be here?”

“No, I’m hungry and sleepy.” 

“Ah - of course.”

The two of them started talking about lunch - Gojo adamant that the Juniors treat their seniors, Geto saying it’s the other way around - when you and the others join them in the stands that are in the middle part of the arena.

“The veil is still up,” Haibara says once he’s within earshot. “It looks like we’ve got all of them though, since we’ve swept the entire place.”

“Not yet, my six eyes can still pick up a few curses nearby but I can’t exactly pinpoint it with how vast this place is.”

“Well,” Nanami starts, palming his blunt cursed tool,” is there a place that particularly has a majority of curse energy?” 

Gojo closes his eyes and puts a hand to his chin, contemplating, “My brain’s a little foggy, I can’t focus because I’m sleep-deprived and a little worn out.” He holds out a hand to you, “Prove yourself useful? Lend me some of that RCT.”

Geto’s shoulders tense up - does Gojo get to hold your hand before he even could?

How does he even stop it from happening without seeming suspicious? Without jeopardizing the mission? 

You dematerialize your weapon into nothingness before clutching the ends of your uniform, “G-Gojo-san, I t-thought I’d just hold you all back?”

Everyone looks at you dumbfounded. You’re clearly holding a grudge against your senior.

“Oh please. Don’t be butthurt. Isn’t this the very thing you’re here for? I’m throwing you a bone here.” 

You cross your arms this time, about to open your mouth but the next thing you know, you’re screaming at the top of your lungs as a large cursed spirit worm suddenly manifests itself from the arena’s roof and lunges at you, tearing you away from the group and across the room. Panic, Geto launches his spirit toward the attacker, and at the very same time, Gojo releases a lapse blue in the same direction. Much to Geto’s dismay, his summoned cursed spirit got caught in Gojo’s attack, exorcising it as well as your attacker.

The veil disappears.

Haibara and Nanami quickly ran towards you as you hit the wall across the venue, letting out a pained grunt before falling onto the ground. Gojo was going to offer his apology to his classmate but Geto was already sprinting your way.

“Are you okay?!” Haibara asks as he and Nanami pull you up by your arms. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

“I’m fine,” You shrug them off of you, annoyed and embarrassed, patting your uniform.

Suddenly, Geto catches up to you and puts his large hands on your shoulders, eyes frantic and all over you, checking if you garnered any injuries. “Hey, are you alright? Did it hurt you?”

You freeze for a moment, mind still taking in how your beloved senior looks so worried for you. If you weren’t so ashamed of how you were caught off-guard by the cursed spirit just now, you’d be swooning. “Just a few scratches, Geto-san. I can heal myself.” You try to calm him with a smile, but his worried expression isn’t letting up.

“You should forget about staying on the field.”

Gojo butts in between the two of you, like he always does. “Imagine if it were only you juniors just now.”

“Satoru, it’s done. The curse has been exorcised.” Geto holds a hand up when his classmate stops right in front of you, face to face. 

The tall man ignores him, “Do you understand? You should stay in Jujustu High - you’re just too weak for this.” 

Haibara nervously bows beside him, “Gojo-san, this is understood! We’ll definitely train harder - “

“I’m not talking about you now, am I?”

“No…Gojo-san…”

“Satoru,” Geto says.

What are you thinking right now? He thinks. 

Geto watches your glassy eyes look straight to your confronting senior, an angry look on your face before it eventually crumbles into a guilty one. You look down at your shoes and bow, “I apologize, Gojo-san.”

With that, you went running.

Haibara calls you out, ready to chase after you but Nanami holds him back with a hand on his shoulder, “Don’t worry, there aren’t any more curses.”

Geto frowns at his classmate, who only gives him a shrug.

“I’ll go check if she’s okay,” He finally says. “You guys can inform the managers.”

“Geto-san, we can - “

Nanami quickly covers Haibara’s mouth. “Understood, Geto-san. Please get back safely.” 

“Hey, Suguru - what about lunch?!“

₊˚ ♡

It wasn’t long before Geto found you.

You were sitting in one of the outside seats of a convenience store, rapidly typing into your little phone - probably ranting to Shoko with the way your face is contorted in a precious little frown. Despite all of the events that have happened so far and his weariness starting to seep into his bones, he can’t help but chuckle to himself.

You look up and jump in your seat as the very subject of your conversation with Shoko helps himself with sitting from across the table. You close your phone.

“Geto-san…”

He beams, “I thought you’d make it harder for me to find you.”

“Ah…To be honest, I thought Haibara would come after me.”

“So, you’ve noticed, huh?”

“He’s always like that.” 

“He’s a good kid, always looking out for others.”

You hum in agreement, then look down to twiddle with your fingers. “I-I’ve noticed you too, Geto-san.”

He paused, before huffing out a chuckle that leaves your heart doing 360s, “I’m not exactly subtle, am I?”

You try to stifle a giggle before fiddling with the hem of your shirt, “No. But I am honored G-Geto-san, to be receiving your, um, attention.”

Silence fills the air between the two of you, and it stays like that for a while. Both of you people-watch, eyes squinting against the bright light now that the sun was high up in the sky. When you take a peek at your senior, you catch him already looking at you, before the both of you look back to watching the bustling streets. 

“I hope you don’t hold too much of a grudge against Satoru,” Geto starts, “He can be, well, blunt,  but I’m sure it’s his way of looking out for you.”

“...I know. It’s more that, I’m…angry at myself.” 

“What is there to be angry about?”

You stare at your hands. “Geto-san, I became a Jujutsu Sorcerer not for some heroic reason or out of the goodness of my heart, but to really leave the place I used to live in.” 

He looks at you from the corner of his eye, “You’re angry because that’s your reason?”

“No, I’m not really looking for some kind of self-fulfillment. Jujutsu gave me a new home and new people in my life. I’m just hoping to be useful while I’m here, to somewhat give back. But…earlier, hearing Gojo-san say those words…am I even doing it -  am I supposed to be here? Who am I to think that any different from one of the strongest in this generation?”

Geto watches your sullen face as you continue to stare down at your hands and notices how he can see contentment in your features and your posture like your whole body has submitted to his classmate's words back there. 

A thought.

Then, “Well, if it means something, I’m one of the strongest, and I think you’re pretty great.”

You whip your head in his direction, eyes wide with a red tint across your cheeks.

There’s the cutie I’ve known, Geto thought.

You keep staring at him before shaking your head with a smile, “You’re always too nice, Geto-san. Even going far as to say things just for my sake.”

“But I’m serious.” He shifts his attention to the birds perched on one of the street lamps. “Gojo is different from us - he was raised to be who he is now. He was destined to be a sorcerer, so he was able to start training from a very young age. Meanwhile, we’re here trying to catch up.” The two of you lock eyes, “Remember, you’re still in your freshman year - you’re just starting your true journey to become a Jujutsu Sorcerer. And well, I didn’t always think that sorcerers existed to protect the non-sorcerers. They recruited me from my small village, and I’ve got no reason to say no.”

“You always seem the type to be so kind and motivated though, Geto-san. So when you said about the thing about protecting normal people, I always thought that was your ideal from the get-go.” 

“No, it was something I’ve come to terms with as I’ve started my path as a shaman. You’ll eventually find your own meaning along the way of the journey you’ve chosen. You and I are not that different.”

The both of you exchanged soft smiles. Your Geto-san reaches a hand out to you, “So if you’re going to listen to the words of one of the two strongest, believe in mine.”

You look at his hand, noting how there’s a subtle swell in them. Probably from constantly fighting curses. You take his large hands in both of yours and start to heal him, much to his surprise, missing how his cheeks are painted in bright red which mellows out to a peaceful grin.

Geto was certain, that this was the day he has truly fallen for you.

“Thank you, Geto-san.” 

₊˚ ♡ - - - -

Meanwhile. . .

“How come you didn’t tell me sooner, Nanami?! Geto-san must hate me for shutting down his advances - I’m such an idiot!” Nanami only shrugs next to him, taking a bite of his bread as he’s seated next to him at a cafe. “What are you guys talking about?” Gojo asks wide-eyed and a mouthful of food.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

(❀❛ ֊ ❛„)♡ reblogs and comments are appreciated//do not repost my work anywhere

//

I appreciate how a lot of ya’ll liked this series <3 thank you as always and happy leaks day :))) 

***Drop an ask or comment to be added on taglist bc I don’t want to assume and tag you even though I see you following the serious huhuhuhu: @dookiemeshibear @pochapo