#recoil-damping stock

[sw5w]

Zam Fires

STAR WARS EPISODE II: Attack of the Clones 00:15:46

[the-kr8tor]

Heatwave

Feat: The cats 😺😻😾

Pairing: Hobie Brown x gn! Reader/ Spider-Punk x gn! Reader

Word count: 1.7k

Synopsis: You and Hobie try to survive a record breaking heatwave.

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, established relationship, some miscommunication, FLUFF, lovestruck Hobie.

A continuation of this fic

My Masterlist

*I don't consent to having my work translated/ published on other platforms*

You groan loudly, as if it helps make the air cooler, but alas it doesn't work that way. It certainly doesn't help that the air-conditioning in your building completely fizzled out last night, resulting in you and Hobie waking up sweaty and grumpy.

You breathe heavily through the humidity, but the sweltering heat doesn't make it any easier.

The cats don't help too, especially that they're currently blocking the air flow from your single working fan. Crumpet,Teacup and Crowley lay sprawled across a cooling mat, Crowley looks back at you every minute or so, checking to see if you've melted into a puddle.

Teacup, the ever spoiled baby, mewls towards you, as if to say it's time for their hourly wipe of their paws with a cold damp cloth. She's lucky you love her. She's been relishing the attention lately, especially time spent with Hobie, you can't help but get jealous sometimes, this is what Hobie probably feels like with Crowley attached to your hip.

You reluctantly stand up, stretching to your full height, arms wide, you cringe at the sweat clinging to your back, arms, legs and clothes, it's safe to say you're covered in it. You grimace at how tacky your clothes feel on you, your tank top must look like an abstract painting from behind. You lick your lips in a futile attempt to keep them moist, feeling the cracks of skin underneath your tongue.

You grab the designated cloth to soak it in the sink, at the same time you open the fridge to grab another ice pack. Thank goodness you have a stock of them for whenever Hobie comes home bruised. You wish you don't have an abundance of it though, you hate it when Hobie gets hurt.

Teacup meows loudly, telling you to hurry up.

"Alright, alright! 'm coming, you big baby" not noticing your words slurring together. You lift up the cloth, wringing off the excess water.

You stride towards the cats, carefully patting the cloth on their paws, while checking their fur for any tangles. Making sure their water bowls aren't empty.

After rubbing their paws you move to pet Crumpet, moving your fingers on her head, and scratching behind her ear. She purrs under your touch.

You're concerned about Crumpet, she's a lot older than the other two, so you're taking more time to be more attentive towards her.

You rub her thick fur absentmindedly, the air from the fan blowing on your lashes. Your mind wanders back to Hobie, how is he faring in this temperature? Especially in his suit, you practically had to beg him to leave his leather vest at home.

"I always wear it, love, I don't feel complete without it"

"Yeah, I know for the aesthetic," you change your tone, you don't want to fight, "but damn it, just for today please, I don't want you getting heatstroke" you sigh at his stubbornness.

For added effect Crumpet meows at Hobie, backing you up.

Hobie sighs in defeat, "fine," he drops the vest haphazardly over your bed, you think he's mad.

He leans over kissing your cheek, it's too hot to give you a proper kiss, you curse at the temperature, depriving you of affection. "don't forget to drink water, yeah?"

"Mmhm, you too. Take breaks, okay?" you move to hug him, but you recoil your hands back, thinking the added heat might make him more agitated. Hobie thinks you're mad at him.

You wanted to convince him to leave his leather boots and wear his trainers instead, but it might've been all in vain, since he's already opening the window to swing away.

That was hours ago, you hope he's okay, and keeping hydrated. You wish he wasn't mad at you.

Putting the ice pack on your head, you lean against your sofa, watching the cats stay cool.

You zone out, not hearing the familiar thump of heavy boots.

Hobie thinks you're ignoring him, shit you look mad, your face scrunched up into a scowl, sweat dripping on your forehead.

He crosses the small distance, the cats lay sprawled on their mat, the only indication that they noticed him is their heads slightly following his movements, even Crowley refuses to scowl at him. It's hot even for the little hell spawn.

Hobie grabs the cool can inside his little plastic bag, it rustles, but you still haven't looked at him. Fuck he should've kissed you goodbye better.

You feel the cold can on your cheek, waking you up from your daze. You feel sluggish. Craning your neck towards Hobie, you give him a small smile.

"Hey, you're home, early" your eyes slightly glossy.

"Yeah, even villains are too hot to commit crime" he notices your eyes, "when did you last drink water?"

You grab the cold can of soda from his hands, your hands shake trying to open the lid. "Um, I'm about to drink now"

"Shit, sweetheart, that's not enough" he grabs the can from your hands, earning a small "hey" from you. "Let me get you some water, yeah?"

Hobie rushes towards the kitchen, shit how long have you last drank? You must've been too busy taking care of the cats that you forgot about yourself. He doesn't blame you though, those cats are your family. He should've checked in on you on one of his breaks.

Glass in hand, he webs himself towards the living room, so he can get to you faster. You hate it when Hobie leaves his webs inside, but he'll apologize and clean it up later.

Hobie brings the cold glass to your chapped lips, you empty it in a flash, water drips from your chin, he wipes it with his thumb.

"There, you're gonna feel better in a minute" he sighs when color comes back to your lips.

"Can I have the soda now?" You tilt your head prettily.

Hobie opens the can for you before giving it back, "lemme change and I'll get you another glass, yeah?" He rubs the sweat clinging on to your eyebrows, messing up the strands. He chuckles at your unruly brows.

"What's so funny?" You pout against the mouth of the can.

"Nothing" he pecks your forehead, ignoring the sweat. That kiss will have to do for now, he has to make up a lot of kisses for the lack of love he gave you that morning.

Hobie basically tears his suit off him, sweat clings inside, he should shower. He should also try and fix your aircon, but he doesn't want to leave your side, you were on the brink of heat stroke when he arrived, Hobie needs to watch over you till you're better, and the cats need attention too, he still hasn't won over Crowley yet. He's made it his personal mission since he met the rascal.

Crowley settles next to you, the fog clouding your mind slowly dissipating. You sigh with your eyes closed.

"Oi no sleeping" Hobie places another cold glass in your hands in exchange for the soda. He's now wearing an old band shirt that he's kept at your place. Hobie doesn't have shorts, so he just went for his boxers.

He sits next to you, with Crowley in between. Hobie stretched his legs in front of him, his toned legs in full display.

"Here," Hobie hands you a fresh cloth "nevermind c'mere" you happily lean towards him, "you need to take care of yourself too y'know" He dabs the cloth on your neck, drying it.

"I know," you sigh "I was just worried about the cats and you, it must've been hard being in that heat all day"

He hums too engrossed in wiping you dry. You take this as Hobie still being angry at you.

"Are you still mad at me?" You ask in a small voice. wringing your hands anxiously.

"What?" He stops his movements, "I thought you were the one who's angry" he grabs your hands, smoothing the skin with his thumbs, trying to calm your thoughts. "Why would I be mad?"

"Because of the vest thing" you look up at him through your lashes. "I thought, you might've looked at it like I'm trying to change you, I'm not, I like you just the way you are"

Crowley watches the scene with pensive eyes. Crumpet sneezes in her sleep, while teacup curls near Hobie's foot.

"I'm not mad about that, I understand you were looking out for me, and I was too bloody stubborn" he kisses each of your knuckles, his warm breath calms your nerves. You know he isn't good with his words, sometimes opting for showing what he means through his actions.

" 'm not mad either, I shouldn't have pushed you" you lay your head against the couch cushion.

"Nah, I want you to make me, you keep me in line, love. You're right I would've gotten heatstroke with it on" he softly lays your hands on Crowley, he returns to his previous action, wiping at the soft skin on your hip.

"Imagine, I fainted while swinging" he jokes but you glare at him.

"Not funny, Hobart"

"Now, you're mad" He chuckles as he moves the cloth over your nose.

"Augh!" You swat at the piece of wet cloth "that's disgusting!"

"It's your own sweat, lovey" Hobie smiles lopsidedly.

"Next time, wear your trainers instead of boots too?" You ask shyly.

"Alright, for you, yeah"

You nod, finally convincing him "you took care of yourself out there?" You cup his jaw, making circular patterns over his skin with your thumb.

"Yeah, took breaks, hydrated, can't say the same thing for you though"

"I know, I'll do better next time" you sigh, thumping your head on his shoulder.

"Oi" he shakes you with his shoulder "I still owe you that kiss"

You laugh, Crowley perks up at the sound "and I still owe you a hug"

"What are you waiting for? Come up here and get it" a smile creeping on the corner of his lips.

You lean up, head staying on his shoulder, Hobie does all the work, he cranes his neck down as he holds the back of your head, guiding you towards his lips. You sigh into his lips, ignoring the sweat forming on his upper lip.

You cling on to his shirt, slowly moving your arms around him, he kisses deeper.

By some sort of miracle the aircon comes to life, blowing much needed cold air into your flat. You both decide to ignore it, while you climb on his lap, so his neck wouldn't strain. He holds your back, anchoring you.

Crowley meows at the both of you trying to get your attention away from Hobie.

A/N: thanks for reading! Hope you liked it! Likes and reblogs are always appreciated ❤️❤️❤️

*picture above is from pinterest*

My requests are open! Check out my rules.

[just-some-random-blogger]

❤For Your Eyes Only❤

Email 2: "Me, bratty? Never." | Masterlist

CC: hotkizz_aemma@tomblor.com; aemma.a.targ@westerostargayen.com; @pinksirensong; @aralezinspace; @sloanexx; @deniixlovezelda; @targaryenmoony; @risefallrise; @slavyanskiyahui; @hypocritic-trash-baby 🔪DO NOT OPEN THIS EMAIL IN YOUR WORK COMPUTER🔪 Dear Aemma, I was so excited when Daemon told me we were going to a luncheon date in the Highgarden Hotel, but this deceptive, rat-ass cretin bamboozled me into joining one of his boring ass tennis functions like the lying man he is. So obviously, I took things into my own hands (with the help of Director Harwin Stong, hubba-hubba) then bro threw a fit! Men. With Love ❤

Daemon Targaryen x Reader

Word Count: 3k+

Warnings: Fem!reader, love/domestic quarrel, jealousy, MDNI smut (hate/angry sex, slight dub con, bdsm themes [dom/sub, ownership], taunting, biting, choking, hair pulling, degradation kink, humiliation kink, vaginal penetration), internet translated high valyrian, sugar daddy themes, annoying man!Daemon, Daemon 'fuck around and find out' Targaryen, fluff, typos, etc.

<Somewhere in the Highgarden Hotel, particularly the court>

I cannot believe I was sitting here with my shiny, chunky heels and my cute, little, green sundress all to listen to a bunch of men to my left laugh about stocks, a bunch of ladies to my right laugh about their latest fashion find, and watch my stupid boyfriend win game after fucking game of tennis in front of me.

I was too hot to be around so many cackling rich people. What if I caught their crypto fever?

Daemon grits his teeth excitedly and punches the air as he defeats his opponent, Jason Lannister. He twirls his racket in his hand and jogs up to me, pointing and cheering, "you see that, dollie?"

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at him as he nears the bleachers, most definitely to take a sip of water. The red cheeked oaf pants as he comes over. He topples next to me, throwing a hand onto my lap, getting my skirt damp with his sweat. The ladies swoon. I wrinkle my forehead.

"I swear to the Seven," I shove him off in annoyance, "get off me, you disgusting lizard."

Daemon is too high on his win to even notice I insulted him whatsoever. He hands me his racket. I hand him his third water bottle.

"Thanks, lovie."

I scoff and cross my arms.

The ladies coo at him and glare at me.

Daemon chugs two gulps of water then huffs as he stands. He hands back the bottle and gargles the cool liquid in his mouth before swallowing.

I look at him in detestation as he does this.

Upon catching my expression, while evening his breathing, he places one hand on the bleachers and leans forward. He reaches a hand to my jaw and swipes my skin with his thumb, "what's with the scowl?"

"Gee," I aimlessly look around before glaring at him, "maybe it's because I didn't expect to watch you play tennis for hours on end."

Daemon pulls away from me, placing his hands on his hips, "bit of a stretch, aye?"

I scoff loudly, "we left the house at 11, Daemon. It's nearly fuckin' 2!"

Daemon raises his brows. I mirror him. He waves his hands around and places a foot between mine, pushing my dress with his knee, hands coming to my thighs. He rubs my skirt back and forth, making it hike up, then mutters, "baby, I'm on a winning streak."

I grab his wrists, "yeah, well you're on my hitlist."

Daemon smirks, pulling his hands out my grip. He then quickly grabs my cheeks and pecks my lips. I growl at him as he recoils, dodging me by a hair as shove him.

"Come on, cutie, what's got your knickers in such a twist?" Daemon calls as he walks back.

I scoff even louder, "maybe the fact you duped me into being your caddie!"

He sniggers as he swipes his racket from me, "that's a golf thing, silly."

"Fuck you," I snap.

Daemon chortles as he jogs back to his side of the court "later! Daddy's gotta win first."

The ladies swoon, the men cheer, and I bristle in my spot.

Daemon readies himself as his next opponent, Arryk Cargyll, comes up.

In my head, I manifest Daemon's defeat. I invoke with all my braincells that he burns out and gets tired enough to throw the game. Alas, the man was built like an athlete, because he was-- he is, and never accepted anything less than victory, which was I rolled my eyes when he scored the first point.

No. I'm done.

I stand from my spot, grab my things, and walk away.

It takes a few moments for Daemon to notice, and when he does, he's flung off his game, allowing Arryk to score. So as the latter basks in his excitement, Daemon grunts, raising a quick hand, then chases after the green stormcloud walking away.

"Keligon," stop he commands as he runs up behind me.

"I'm not a fucking dragon," I hiss.

He huffs, "no, pretty girl?"

I halt and snap at him. He stills as I charge and point a finger, "and I'm not a bitch you can holler tricks to."

Daemon freezes. He grips his tennis racket in both hands, clenching his jaw. I can see the glint in his eye. I can see how he fights it. He tilts his head down and looks up at me. He licks his lips, "... no."

I snarl and shove him away, "I'm going home, Daemon."

He rolls his eyes and huffs, "dont be a brat." He grabs my arm as I march away. I shake his grip off and glare at him. Daemon makes a face, "I drove us here."

I fake gasp, flatly retorting, "how will I ever get home now!?"

"Baby-"

"Shut the fuck up."

"One last round!" he blurts, "baby, please, I-"

"Why did you bring me here in the first place!?" I snap as I turn to him.

He pulls his chin back then barks, "because fucking LANNISTER has the hots for you! And I knew he wouldn't give me time of day had you not been here!"

My jaw slack. His jaw rolls.

Needless to say, if I wasn't already fuming then, boy, was I was now!

Strong and vulgar words were exchanged.

Both of us storm off after a final, "FINE!" I was now cooling down with a drink at the bar.

You wanna know what else was strong? The man who said-

"A little early for a drink, no?"

I down my cocktail like a shot then I look over my shoulder. Why hello dark hair and blue eyes.

I turn to the bartender and motion with my empty glass. I turn back to the man that was now sitting beside me, "not for me, Director Strong."

He chuckles and leans on the bartop counter, "flattered you remember me."

I snort, "only someone with amnesia would forget you, Harwin."

He chuckles again, this time, he swivels in his spot and leans his head on his fist, "flattered me twice. It's only right I compliment how stunning you look in that dress. It's your color, I think."

I giggle and shake my head, "oh, you shouldn't say things like that to me."

"And why ever not?" he feigns an innocent look, though the upturned corners of his lips showed unmistakable amusement.

I hum and pretend to think, "maybe some stupid blonde nepobaby would pull out from your partnerships if he heard."

Harwin purses his lips in thought and leans on both his elbows. He nods. He motions to the bartender, "then I'm glad he's not here."

Multiple drinks in, Harwin and I are giggling like school girls as we talk smack about some of the higher-ups in Targ Corp.

At one point, we begin exchanging ideas, and Harwin is so impressed by my thoughts, he rather seriously handed me his card and told me he'd recruit me, offering to give me twice of what I made now.

I shake my head at his words, " I dunno," I make a face, "I get a pretty generous stipend from Daemon."

Harwin chuckles. He brushes his thick curls back and ties it up in a bun, "I can be generous, sweetheart."

I shake my head again and sigh. I pat his arm, "oh, I don't doubt it," I move to stand as I mentally note how adorable his coiled baby hairs were, "but alas, I'm begrudgingly attached to him to that idiot, no matter how he's used me as bait for the Lannisters today."

Harwin grins then pats the table, "then, milady," he stands, "would you like to even the playing field and use me as bait?

<Somewhere in the Highgardens Hotel, particularly a VIP suite>

"OH- GROW. UP!" I scream as I storm into our room, limping as I did.

"OH, YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT GROWING UP!?" Daemon counters as he chases after me, slamming the door behind him, "HOW ABOUT PRETENDING TO LIMP JUST TO HAVE SOME SLIMY FUCKER ALL OVER YOU."

"I DIDN'T fake a limp!" I snap, turning to him, red in the face. I lean against the wall and remove one shoe, flipping it over and shaking it. A lone pebble falls out. I pull a face as I turn to him, "it's called method acting, baby."

I remove my other shoe as I walk away, no limp whatsoever.

"THAT'S LITERALLY FAKING IT!"

"You know what else I faked," I chuck my shoe at him, "LAST NIGHT!"

Daemon barely dodges the hurtling object. I curse my horrible aim.

I manage to evade him enough to get into the bedroom and slam the door on my way. The idiot was too quick though, and jammed his hand and foot into gap so it wouldn't close. The pained sound he makes causes me to rip the door open.

I gasp, "Daemon, what the fuck!"

He turns to his hand and hisses.

"Are you o-"

"Fucking bitch."

I clamp my mouth shut.

Daemon turns from his palm, up to me, "on your knees."

I clench my jaw as he steps forward and takes his shoes and socks off. I do no such thing. He speaks with more venom as he takes removes sweaty top, "you heard me, bitch."

I grind my teeth. He cricles around me.

"I am not," I word intently, "a bit-"

He shuts me up by yanking my hair back. He rips me into his chest with one arm and releases an irriated sigh, "iksā iā aspo lo vestran iksā." You are a bitch if I say you are.

My breathing grows heavy when he claws my neck to push my hair to the side.

"Let me go!" I growl, pushing his arm off.

"Fucking make me," he mutters lowly against my earlobe. He tightens his arm around me that it actually begins to squeeze air out of my belly. I squeak as I fight him off, but in the end, I get thrown to the bed.

I land on my hands, and once I'm free, I scramble and grab a pillow, yeeting it to his ugly face. This time, it hits him right in his stupid head. Deserve.

Daemon is momentarily deterred, but he is perpetually angered. He loudly growls, "QUIT IT!"

He grabs my ankles and yanks me forward. And though I knew his strength, I go down swinging, unwilling to make it easy for him. Yet no matter how my nails dug into the duvet, and through all my kicking and screaming, I wind up pinned beneath him, arms behind my back, legs trapped between his, face and belly squished on the cushions under his body weight.

Daemon leans his face into mine and whispers, "stupid brat."

"FUCK YOU," I hiss, wrangling beneath him.

It was futile, we both knew it, and in truth, I knew he was only letting me move as much to tire myself out.

But I think the moron is overestimating how long he could keep me pinned down, considering he's just played tennis for hours. Even now, he pulls himself off me in a rather bleary manner.

But of course, he had to read my mind.

Daemon adjusts his grip on me, "don't think for a second, between the two of us, I'll tire first."

Defiant fuck.

"Fuck you."

Daemon keeps one hand on my arms, the other pulls my skirt up, "I don't think you deserve that honestly."

I let out a loud huff when I feel him rub against me.

"It'll calm you down though."

Lizard man is hard. My mouth betrays me when he hits my soft spot. Damned body. I mask my whimper with a grunt and save face by wriggling my hips in defiance.

He makes a sound when I do this. He breaks into a chuckle. "Don't think this looks like you want me to let you go, love."

"Let me go, Daemon," I instantly rebut.

When I cease my squirming, he rubs my rear and hums. "Okay. I'll give you a safe word. If you say it, I'll let you go." My skin stings when he digs his fingers to my side, "understood?"

I sigh through my nose, "yes."

"Good girl."

Daemon, however, does not give me a safe word up until he's had my panties to my ankles and his hand hovering my core.

"Daemon-"

"Harwin."

I freeze.

Daemon's hand works his way to my center.

"W-wh-"

"Safe word: Harwin," he exhales, "and if you fucking say it, I swear to the gods I'll fucking stop and jump out of the window."

Next moment, he releases my arms and frees himself from his shorts. And though I manage to bring my hands to the sides, he captures them once more, pinning them down by my head as he lunges down. He shudders, "say it."

A noise is caught in my throat as I feel his hardened length rub against my bare folds.

"Say you want me off you. Say you'd rather have that daft oaf on top you instead."

His words make me squeeze my thighs together. It does nothing to stop my increasing wetness, nor him humping me from behind. I crane my neck to look at him, "D-Daemo-"

"I want to hear you say it," he quips under his breath.

I do not even breathe.

Before I could think, he's pummeling into me like a billionare pummels a forest for real estate.

I cry into the bed, muffling my mouth as I did so. He does not appreciate it one bit. Daemon grabs my hair and my throat strains. With one hand secured on my waist as he taunts again, "fucking say it, slut. Don't you want to?"

He shoves me into the cushion, hand planted between my shoulder blades. He flicks his hips at a brutal pace and the sound of our skin slapping mutes out my muffled sobs.

"Say it, whore," he spits angrily, "say how you would rather have that bumbling idiot fuck you instead of me. SAY IT!"

"Daemon," I whine, feeling my eyes water, "s-stop it."

He rips my hair back, "you want me to stop?" he hisses, "you know what to say. You know what you need to do."

I whine when he thrashes me to my side and grabs my thigh and hip, positioning me in a way that can further intensify the fucking.

I cannot do much, rather than whine and succumb. I quickly feel my belly tightening because of his hips slapping into me.

"Stupid girl," he growls, "greedy gold digger," he grabs my legs and heedlessly turns me me on my back. He rips dangling underwear off my ankles then yanks my top down, exposing my chest to him, "what have I not given you already, you hussy?"

He grabs my sensitive breasts and squeezes them with spite, "do I need to leash you so you don't act up, brat?"

Daemon works one hand on my pearl while his other wraps around my neck, making whatever sound that comes out of me garbled and strained.

"You would like that won't you? Like it if I pulled you around like a bitch," he says breathlessly, thumb brushing my lip, "who's my dumb bitch?"

I squeal.

He thrust particularly harshly, "Answer. Me."

My voice is unstable, but he hears it well enough, "m-me."

"Hmm. Again. What are you?"

"Your dumb bitch."

"Who do you belong to?"

"You," I sigh.

Daemon brings his hands to my thighs, pushing them to my chest. The shift lets him hit a sweet spot but then his quick pace slows, "do brats come on their owner's cocks?"

He leans in after saying this, face sinking to my side, pace shifting into a much slower tempo. I exchange though, he moves much deeper, and I groan and wrap my arms around him, fingers digging into his hair, "Daemon."

He kisses my neck, "that's not an answer." He bites my skin.

I whine, lips quivering, "they don't."

Daemon hums and nips my earlobe, "smart whore." He squeezes my thighs, "you know what you must do then."

I whine. He sighs.

"Please."

He shifts his weight on me and thrusts firmly into a spot that makes my eyes roll back, "please what?"

"Daemon, p l e a s e."

He chuckles softly, "please what?"

"Please let me come."

Daemon nips at my jaw, "I can't hear you."

"PLEASE."

He hums, awfully pleased with the instantaneous reaction. He rasps, "nyke ȳdra daor rhakitegon." I don't understand.

I whine, tears fogging my vision as I frustratedly rack my brain for the slivers of High Valyrian I knew, "k-kostilus."

Daemon then lifts his head and increases his pace. He leans his forehead on mine and pants as he thoroughly fucks me. He breathes against my mouth, as if feeding off the whines I make at his ministrations. I feel the bed shift beneath us as he moves.

It doesn't take much for me to come undone at the rate he was going. And when I do, he does not relent and forces my head back with a hand on my jaw, teeth raking on my throat, "where's your manners, brat?"

My thighs tremble and my voice shakes. My breath strains and my mind fogs. Still, I manage, "t-thank you, thank you, thank you, thank yrou thankreyoue, thaorla eow--"

Daemon squeezes me tightly as his movements grow frantic, erratic, rugged, and eventually sloppy and languid. My body twitches at the feel of his pulsing length inside my sopping folds.

When he stills, he kneads my thighs and nudges my cheek with his nose, "your dumb fucked mind belongs to me. Your dumb fucked body belongs to me. Your dumb fucked pussy belongs to me."

I pant against his shoulder and comb his hair back.

"I'm fucking dropping that Harwin cunt."

I tighten my legs around his waist and sigh, "he was helping me get back at you."

Daemon lifts his head, eyeing me darkly as he growls, "conniving bitch."

I release a breath and furrow my brows, "stop it."

Daemon makes a face, "you're mine."

"Yeah and your angry dick belongs to me. And your credit card."

I cup his cheeks in my hands and smoothen out the lines on his face. Daemon rather begrudgingly softens against my touch.

"I might have to fuck you in the court for that stunt you pulled."

I snort, feeling my lips curve, "maybe then my limping won't be method acting."

[amenazaaaa]

Bullseye

Ashe x reader

MINOR DNI fem reader, nsfw, pussy eating, squirting, shitty writing ( idk how to write)

After weeks of begging and begging Ashe to teach you how to shoot a gun, she finally caved and surprised you by taking you to an open firing range.

You stumble back from the unexpected recoil of the gun, nearly dropping the heavy weapon as you lose your footing. Ashe’s laugh draws you away from the riffle to her.

“I thought you said you had it, what happened sweetheart?” She tilts her head with a small curl to her lips, and a teasing tone.

“It’s not funny Ashe!”

You stomp your boot on the ground, kicking up some dirt In the process.

She chuckles

“Alright alright, I’ll help you hon.” Ashe pushes her body off of the wall with a kick of her leg, making her way over to you.

“Firstly, your stance is wrong.” She says, pushing her boot between your legs and separating them; Moving your right leg towards the back, then she pushes your shoulders so that you could lean forward.

“Secondly, you’re not holding it right.” Her body presses up against yours closely. Your ass pressed against her crotch. She places her slender manicured hands over top of where you had placed yours on the gun. She rests the buttstock firmly into your shoulder.

“Place your cheek on the top right here.” She points to the top of the stock. You do as she says. your eyes stare down the middle of the eyepiece . Staring directly at the target.

“Now shoot.” She says, staring at the body shaped target.

You take a quick breath in and pull the trigger. The bullet shoots out and lands near the red circle of the body shaped target. You squeal out happily.

“Ashe I did it!”

“You sure did sugar. Now do it on your own.” She pulls away from you, tapping your ass firmly with her palm. A whimper escapes your lips, the sting from the slap leaves you aching for more of her touch.

Positioning your body the way she had taught you. legs spread, shoulders forward, buttstock firmly in your shoulders. Your eyes narrow on the target once more and you shoot it dead center.

Ashe whistles.

“You learn quick sugar. I outta reward my girl for being such a good listener.” Her arm snakes around your waist and her face dives into your neck. Leaving soft kisses anywhere she placed her lips.

“For being such a good girl.” She continues, extra huskiness added to her southern drawl that had you wishing she’d bend you over and fuck you in the middle of this field. Her words, her tone, her lips, the feeling of her body so closely up against yours, everything about her in this moment between you two stirs something in your core, creating a small damp patch in your panties.

“These damn shorts have been winding me up all damn day, your ass hanging out like that. It’s like you’re asking me to rip them off you and do things we shouldn’t be doing in public.” Ashes soft, loving kisses turn rough and hungry, her hot tounge licks at your pulse point. She chuckles deeply, sharp canines rubbing against the soft skin of your neck. Your thighs rub together searching for friction where you needed it the most.

Ashes hands trail down your stomach and to the hem of the shorts. Her hands making quick work of releasing you. Her fingers snake down the denim and into your panties.

A gaps leaves your mouth when her slender fingers slip between your lips.

“I’ve barely laid a finger on you and you’re this wet already? Do I make you this wet baby?” She coos into your ear, her fingers move in slow, sensual circles around your sensitive clit. Your mouth gapes at the sensation. Finally getting the attention your cunt craved for. Her attention.

“Speak when I’m talking to you girl.” She growls into your ear

“Yes…” you whimper out pathetically. Your mind to preoccupied with the way her fingers made you feel.

“ ‘yes’ what?” She stops her movement.

“Yes ma’am.” You desperately moan out, bucking your hips to get fingers to rub against you again. She continues.

Ashe nibbles on your neck, placing open mouthed kisses along your neck as she continues to rub your clit. Your small pants turn into mewls of pleasure, indicating that you’re close.

“Now you pick up that fucking gun and shoot till you cum. You hear me?” Her voice harsh and sharp, a growl at the back of her throat

“Y-yes ma’am!” You blurt out as you rush to pick up the shot gun.

“Legs wide, shoulders forward, just like we practiced right?” She picks up the pace of her fingers to match your approaching orgasm.

Your hold is shaky but firm on the gun. Crosshair aimed dead enter at the target infront of you. The knock back from the gun vibrates down your spine and to your core, amplifying the pleasure. Bringing you closer to your climax.

“Bullseye.”

Another shot echos through the empty shooting grounds. Your knees buckle as you succumb to your orgasm. Ashes free arm wraps around your abdomen, holding you up.

“Easy hon, easy.” Ashe whisper into your ear comfortingly. Her fingers gently rubbing at your clit helping you ride out the high. She gives you a minute, to catch your breath. Planting a faint kiss on your temple. Once she’s decided you’ve came back to your senses , she pushes your torso onto the small surface area before you. You yelp, not expecting her to have handled you so roughly after she had aided in coming down from your orgasm.

“I ain’t done with you just yet sweetheart, I still haven’t made you weep.” Her sultry voice is enough to make you horny again. She swiftly pulls your shorts down your legs and onto the floor, letting them pool around your boots. She pulls at your lacy thong, stretching it back before letting it go. You jolt at the sting of the elastic slapping your skin. She chuckles and removes her hat, placing it on your head

“Take care of it will ya?” Ashe separates your legs with her boot once more and sinks to her knees and pulls her hair into a tiny pony tail exposing the the small piece of her hair she had shaved off. Her red nails pull down at the thong till they pool around your ankles.

She places kisses on your thighs, showing both of your thighs equal love. Her hands spread your ass cheeks apart, placing a kiss on your cunt before spreading your labias apart. Her mouth waters at the sight of you pussy leaking your cum from the orgasm she gave you 3 minutes ago. She licks a flat strip up, collecting the the dribble of cum into her mouth. Her tounge pokes at your clit before sucking on your sensitive bud, her pointy nose prodding at your hole. One hand holds your thighs while the other squeezes you asscheek.

Your knees close, but Ashe pushes her tatted arm between them and pushes them apart. She pulls away from your pussy to grab air. She’d preferred to keep her mouth on your folds but unfortunately she was human and needed oxygen. Once she takes a quick breather she immediately goes back to her meal. She laps at your slick covered hole, mixing her saliva with your deliciously sweet arousal fluid.

“A-Ashe I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna cum!” You moan out, gripping onto the surface, looking down at her over your shoulder.

She pulls away to look up at you, replacing her tongue with her fingers.

“It’s okay baby, cum for me, you’re doing so good my little shooter, you know that?” She coos at you so sweetly. Her mouth returning to where it belonged.

Your overstimulated cunt clenches around nothing, Your mewls turn into guttural moans as you near your second orgasm. Her name spews out of your mouth repeatedly.

Back arched like a cat, your hand gripping the edge of the surface till the tips of your fingers had turned white, while the other holds tightly onto her hat. Making sure it doesnt fall off.

“Mmm fuck! I’m gonna cum! Baby I’m gonna-ah!” Your hips jerk as you let out scream of pleasure. Liquid squirts out of your vagina and onto ashes face, wetting her clothes and hair. You breathe heavily and clutch dearly onto the wood. Her once full face of makeup was ruined. Mascara running down her face, the foundation around her mouth and nose gone, her red lipstick faded and smeared. Your legs and neck showing where it had all gone.

Ashe sat there with wide eye. She wipes her face and groans before sticking her digits in her mouth, tasting you. She laps at her hand like a thirsty kitten does from a bowl.

Her hand grabs at your arm before dragging you down to the floor with her. She lays you flat on your back, placing your legs on her hips leaning over you.

“This ain’t over.”

She slides down devouring you once more.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

nowhere else but here

prompt: thermometer

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

heya here's one i managed to write ahead of time :) it's pre-ship illya/napoleon and that's about all you need to know. hope you enjoy!

Illya looks like death. He’s standing on Napoleon’s doorstep - standing might be a generous term, actually, more like he’s leaning against the doorframe and it’s clearly the only thing keeping him on his feet - and his face is white as a sheet, except for his cheeks, which are bright with fever. His hair is slick with sweat and it’s dripping down his face, his eyes are barely open, and despite everything, he apologizes as Napoleon all but drags him through the door. 

“Don’t apologize,” Napoleon says, instinctively, hands on Illya, feeling heat radiating from his body even through his jacket. “It’s alright.”

He half-drags Illya towards the couch, very nearly holding his hands, staying just shy of the limit. Illya’s wrists and palms are damp and clammy and all Napoleon can think about is how long it must have taken for things to get this bad, how long Illya must have suffered on his own. 

He doesn’t know whether to be glad or worried that Illya had eventually chosen to come to him. 

He deposits Illya as gently as he can onto the couch and heads for the bathroom. There, he retrieves his first-aid kit, so extensively stocked that his apartment might as well be a small hospital, along with a glass of water and a washcloth, which he dampens in the sink. 

When he returns to the living room, Illya has curled in upon himself, shivering. He looks so small, so miserable, so alone, and all Napoleon wants to do is touch him, run fingers through his sweaty hair and trace patterns onto his back and press the back of a hand to his surely burning cheek. 

He doesn’t. He can’t. 

“Hey,” he says, lightly jostling Illya’s shoulder. “You in there, Peril?”

Illya very slowly uncurls himself with a sniff. He looks at Napoleon and his eyes are unreadable, bright with fever and glassy with tears and Napoleon wills himself to be unaffected, even as he feels something within him threaten to break at how damned vulnerable Illya looks, how utterly unguarded. 

He can’t stop his training from seeping into his mind. How easy it would be to tear down Illya’s defenses, to use his trust against him. He hates himself for it. Ignores the thoughts, Sanders’ voice echoing through his head. 

He crouches in front of his partner - I’m not a threat, I would never do that to him - and opens his kit. 

His first item is a thermometer. He slips its metal tip into a cover, holds it up. 

Illya doesn’t do anything. 

“Do I really need to spell this out for you?” He tries to keep his tone light, tries not to bely the worry churning beneath his skin. 

They get there eventually. Napoleon barely stops himself from placing a hand on Illya’s cheek as the mercury in the tube rises and rises. 

“103,” Napoleon says. “Jesus.”

Illya looks as if he is about to cry.  

Everything in Napoleon is screaming at him to just pull Illya to him and hold on, to whisper soft reassurances against the side of his head. 

“We need to get that number down,” is what he says, in lieu of acting on his impulses. “No need for a hospital for now, but…”

Illya’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head. 

“I know. Here.”

He hands Illya a few fever reducing pills, presses the glass of water into his shaky hands. 

He expects resistance. But Illya takes the pills willingly, a pained look flashing across his face as he swallows. 

“Those should help,” Napoleon says. “Now lie back.”

Illya again does as he’s told. His legs remain slightly curled - they haven’t yet made a couch on which he can comfortably stretch out, though he doesn’t seem to mind at this particular moment. 

Once Illya is no longer moving, Napoleon carefully drapes the cool, damp washcloth across his forehead. Illya recoils from it at first, then relaxes. His eyes flutter closed. 

Napoleon wants to kiss him. Even if it’d mean later falling ill with…whatever it is Illya’s got. He just wants to give Illya something physical, a tangible thing that says, I’m here and I care about you and I’m not going anywhere and you never have to apologize for coming to me and about a thousand other things that he’s never been brave enough to actually speak aloud. 

He allows himself to give Illya’s hand a brief squeeze, and intends for that to be that. 

But Illya’s fingers curl around Napoleon’s own, weakly yet definitely, and when Napoleon chances a look at his face there’s a tear running down his cheek. His eyes are still closed. 

“Hey,” he whispers. “You’re going to be alright.”

Illya takes a shuddering breath and screws up his face like he’s trying to stop himself from actually crying, and Napoleon just…loses the battle. 

He raises their still-joined hands and presses a kiss to the back of Illya’s hand, light and quick. He waits. 

Nothing happens. Illya does not pull away. 

He takes a step further into the unknown. A hand against Illya’s cheek, horribly hot to the touch. 

He swears Illya leans into it. 

One step further. The last one he’s going to take, here and now. A kiss to the cheek. “It’s okay,” whispered against burning skin. 

He feels Illya relax. Hears him take a deep breath. Feels Illya squeeze his hand, knows, somehow, what he means. 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

I never want to go anywhere else. 

thanks for reading!!! hope you liked it <3

[ktwritesstuff]

Nothing Else Matters (a Triple Frontier shifters AU) Chapter 6

Title: Nothing Else Matters Fandom: Triple Frontier Rating: Explicit Characters & Pairings: Reader x Triple Frontier Boys reverse harem style Word Count: ~2,000 Summary: Tom's wake leads to a revelation for the pack.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 (below cut)

Notes: I don't know what else to say...

Technically speaking, you hadn’t been invited to Tom’s service, but you had never known a wake to require an RSVP.  The boys weren’t thrilled about you tagging along to Molly’s, but they agreed Frankie would watch the baby for a few minutes so you could say goodbye. You agreed not to stay for food or drinks or talk to anybody.  But by the time you arrived–for lack of a better term–things were already FUBAR.  The whole house reeked of a female in heat; you couldn’t help but recoil at the smell.  

Will and Frankie intercepted you in the front hallway.  You barely recognized one of their old army colleagues pitching his nose closed–blood staining the front of his dress shirt.  Benny held an ice pack wrapped in a kitchen towel to a sizable lump blooming over the man’s temple, his own knuckles bloody and bruised.

“What the hell happened?” you whispered, handing Luna over to Frankie who seemed all-too-happy to have an excuse to get out of the house.  

“It’s Tess,” Will sighed.  

The pronouncement caught you off guard although you shouldn’t have been surprised.  A heat cycle could be exacerbated, even brought on by stress.  In young females it could be particularly difficult.  It wasn’t the way you would have chosen to bring Tess into the pack, officially, but you couldn’t help but be pleased by the prospect of having another female to balance out the pack.  And with Tom’s lineage, she’d certainly give the boys a run for their money.    

“Anthony was caught off guard–lunged at her,” Will explained, gesturing to the bloodshed in the hall.  “Benny put him down.”

“Oh no,” you frowned.  “Poor Tess.” 

Despite yourself, you couldn’t help but glow with pride that Benny had stepped up to look after your own.  You knew Tom would be proud, too, at least after he had gotten over the initial shock.  Shifter genetics were a recessive trait, carried on the X chromosome; still there was roughly a 50/50 chance Tom’s girls would end up recessive carriers of the gene.  

“Maybe you can talk to her,” Will said.

“Do you think Molly is okay with that?” you asked.  As excited as you were to bring Tess back into her natural-born pack, you didn’t want to make this day worse than it already was for Tom’s family.

“I don’t think she’s got a choice,” Will said.  “Pope’s talking to her now.  Tess is in her room.”

“I’ll talk to her,” you agreed.  “If I text you a list, can you run to the store to pick up some things for me?”

Will agreed and you mounted the stairs to Tess’s bedroom on the corner of the landing.  You knocked on the door.  

“Tess, it’s Ginger,” you said.  “Can I come in?”

“Fuck off,” Tess yelled through the door.

“Will told me what happened,” you explained.  “He’s worried about you.  He wanted me to come talk to you.”

You heard a long sigh through the door.  Tess’s puppy crush on Will was one of the worst kept secrets of the pack.  Mentioning it never failed to get Tom riled up, but it was perfectly healthy and natural.  For his part, Will was always tender with her; he never tried to embarrass or abuse her affection.  

You opened the door a crack.  Tess was sprawled across her bed, stripped down to her slip and stockings.  Her face was flushed, and her hair clung to her sweat-damp neck and chest. 

“What is wrong with me,” she moaned, in obvious discomfort.  

“There is nothing wrong with you,” you said, moving toward the bed, drawing her hair off her neck and twisting it into a loose braid.  “It’s true; you’re different from most of your peers, but that doesn’t make it wrong.  Since time immemorial, there comes a time in every young woman’s life when she declares to the world that she is a co-creator of life itself.”

“So I’m just supposed to be a baby factory for any man who comes near me?”

“No,” you snapped, taking Tess’s hands and forcing her to look you in the eyes, her skin feverish and clammy.  

“Never.  That is vicious slander perpetuated by humans who are too afraid to admit that no matter how much time and energy they spend on waxing and dieting and anti-aging potions, at the end of the day they’re still just animals.  You choose your mate.  You decide when to have children.  You decide where.  That is your birthright.”

“Why me?” Tess threw herself back on the bed, still unconvinced of the splendor that being a shifter had to offer.  

“Your father only ever wanted to protect you,” you said.  “Unfortunately, that means there are some things he didn’t prepare you for.  I know we haven’t always gotten along, but we’re family.  I’m here for you.  Let me draw you a bath, you can relax, there’s nothing you need to do but take care of yourself.”  

You went to the bathroom down the hall and gave the tub a quick rinse before filling the tub with lukewarm water and a healthy squirt of Evie’s Mr. Bubbles.  You stepped back into the hallway to fetch fresh towels from the linen closet and that’s when you ran into Molly coming out of the bedroom.  Her face was puffy and red, which made her eyes stand out in a startling shade of green.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing your face here,” the fiery redhead warned you, putting on a brave face in spite of her obvious grief.  You had to admit she was beautiful; at least Tom had been right about that.

“I’m not here to make trouble,” you said.  “I’m sorry for everything that’s happened, but right now I’m the only one here who knows what Tess is going through.  I just want to help.”  

Molly bushed passed you on her way down the stairs without another word.  You took it as tacit permission to continue routing through her linen closet.  You brought Tess the clean towels and sent her to the bathroom with some implicit instructions on the various applications of a handheld shower head.  

While Tess was in the bath, you changed the bed sheets.  Will arrived with arms full of shopping bags from the Target around the corner and together the two of you started unpacking new pillows and blankets, and a few more intimate personal effects.  

“Put your arms up,” you instructed, tearing the tags off a faux-fur blanket.

Will complied instinctually, but then balked as you scrubbed the blanket against his chest and underarms.

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m getting your scent on this,” you insisted.  “It’ll help.”

Will grumbled in protest, but ultimately relented as you prepared a suitable nest of softness and warmth.  Tess returned from the bathroom in a fresh nightgown and robe.  You made sure she was comfortable with cold water, snacks, and anything else she might need until the mourners had left.      

“Tell me about my father,” Tess said, getting settled into bed. 

“Your father was a great man,” Will said.

“Not you,” Tess cut him off.  “God, I’ve heard that speech a thousand times.  I want to hear it from her.”  

“I met your father in Tehran,” you explained, perching on the end of her bed.  “He could have killed me, but instead he brought me in.  He never treated me like a woman, just another one of his warriors.  I suppose I wasn’t grateful enough for that at the time, but I miss him terribly.”

At the time, the army’s special forces unit of shifters was still in its infancy with Tom as its captain, struggling to make a pack out of lone wolves so far gone they were nearly feral.  Something the higher ups in Washington couldn’t possibly understand.  

You were living as a lone wolf yourself at the time, trying to fly under the radar, but Redfly sniffed you out right away.  Ginger was a red wolf, like him, it was possible you had a common ancestor somewhere down your family line.  The unit had orders to destroy any other wolves who could be used by foreign powers to do the same things Tom and his team were doing for the U.S.  But Tom saw your skill as a healer and knew he could make use of you.

“There was a lot I didn’t understand about Tom,” you said.  “But I know he loved you girls and your mother very much.  He fought against every instinct in order to make a life with you.  He wanted very badly to be a good father, but he was a killer by nature.  I wish I could assure you otherwise, but that’s the truth.” 

Tess nodded solemnly as you finished tucking her into bed before making your way downstairs. 

Will stopped in the kitchen to grab a beer as Santi recounted for the thousandth time the carefully crafted explanation of what had happened in Columbia for another of Tom’s acquaintances from the real estate office.

You stepped out on the porch, taking a seat on the swing, watching Frankie play with Evie in the grass as Benny tossed Luna into the air in a way that made the other mother’s gasp.  Will came out from the kitchen and handed you a cold beer and took a seat beside you. 

“Tess will make a good match for Benny,” you said, leaning on Will’s shoulder as you looked out across the yard.

Will groaned, taking a long drink from his beer as sweat beaded on the outside of the bottle.  

“Not now, but in a few years,” you insisted.  “Once she’s done with college.  I’ll be an old maid by the time Benny’s ready to settle down and start a family.”  

“Don’t hold your breath,” Will warned with a chuckle.  

After a while, Santi came out to the porch, leaning heavily on the door frame.  The sun was starting to set and the crowd of mourners had dwindled.  Frankie brought Evie back up to the porch to hand off to one of her aunties for bedtime rituals and shouldered Luna’s diaper bag.  

“You ready to go?” you said, reaching for Santi’s hand.  He mumbled something that sounded like protest and Will stepped in.  

“You should head out; Benny and I can help with the cleanup.”

“You alright if I ride with Pope?” you asked Frankie as he packed the car.

Frankie agreed and leaned over to kiss your cheek, his fresh stubble tickling your face.  

“I’ll see you back at the house.” 

Santiago insisted on driving, despite how tired he was.  You figured it helped get his mind off things.  You were renting a two bedroom flat about twenty minutes from Will’s apartment.  Before Columbia, Frankie had been staying in a trailer on the airfield, but that had fallen through after his suspension, so he was currently sharing the second bedroom with Luna.  It wasn’t ideal, but you liked having your family close.

“Come here,” you sighed, herding Santiago into the bedroom.  “Let me help you relax.”

You pressed him onto the bed and climbed up to kneel behind him.  You reached around and unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt.  You massaged his neck and shoulders with the utmost care, tracing the scars at the base of his neck.  You felt the tension in his muscles start to ease under your hands. 

“That’s better,” you said, moving your body closer.  You slid your hands down his front, undoing a few more buttons as Santiago sighed, letting his head fall back against your breasts.  

“It’s been a long day,” you said, kissing his face and neck, then down his shoulders.  “A hard day.  You deserve a break.  You’ve earned it.”  

You carefully helped him shuck off his shirt.  He let you move him, just this side of dead weight as you ran your hands over his chest and across his waist.  You had to admit he had maintained quite a nice figure despite his advancing years–not that you minded the little belly Frankie had put on around the same time you had gained the bulk of your pregnancy weight–but variety was the spice of life, after all.  

“C’mon,” you said.  “Lay down.  Let me take care of you.”

Santiago stretched out on the bed and you pulled off his shoes and socks, unbuttoned his pants and kissed a trail across his hip as you pulled them down.  You put on a show, unzipping your dress, letting it pool around your feet as you pulled down the cups of your nursing bra and climbed over him.  

You took his shaft in your hand, running your tongue over the swollen tip.  You crawled upwards with a cheeky smile and took his face in your hand, kissing him hard as you lifted yourself onto him, snug muscles gripping the hard pulse of his cock.

You braced yourself placing hands on his chest, lifting yourself up to rock against him.  Santiago hummed sleepily, gripping the swell of your hips.  

“You like that,” you murmured.  “You like how good I take this cock for you.”

You leaned forward to kiss his face, his throat, nipping at his earlobe.  Santiago growled, pulling you into him harder, nuzzling into your face and neck, running his fingers through your hair. 

You ground down against him until he shuddered with his release.  You rolled onto the bed beside him, panting in exhilaration.  You pressed your nose into his cheek, tracing circles against his skin.   

[3l1j4hhh]

Divine Punishment of Eons of Slaughter

- Conqueror of Demons: Xiao/Alatus -

Genre: Angst

Warning(s): Spoilers of Xiao's past, graphic description of Xiao's past, passing out, Zhongli watches him pass out and does nothing. (This is also NOT an x reader fanfic).

Summary: With the cold atmosphere of Dihua Marsh, a soul who carries the burden of it all resides for a short while. With what he seemed would be a peaceful night, his karmic debt reminds him of the burden that he bears.

༻ ﹡ ﹡ ﹡ ﹡ ﹡ ﹡ ﹡ ༺

Thuds reverberated through the immensely eerie and dark atmosphere of the surrounding area. Night was at its prime; moon lighting up the lands of Teyvat, directly in the middle of the rift of black. A soft cast of white luminosity curtained the ground like snow, sleeving it like sleets that fell from the sky. Stars adorned the sky with light, yet despite the millions of light sources hung above the land, they never reached the misfortunate soul of his. Screaming only sounded, an agonizing voice that could penetrate a heart alone. The strain of his scream was greatly enhanced due to the overflowing pain, encouraging him to plunge deeper into the abyss of anguish. 

He clutched onto his weapon harshly, seemingly hard enough to crack any other plain weapon. The polearm grasped in his hand was eventually let go of the confining hand that held its restraints, dropping to the ground with the sound of shuffling grass. With his hands free, unrestrained, a fervent feeling of regret only flooded his body, replacing his blood as it flowed rapidly through his veins. Out of spite and the concern of protecting his surroundings and potential visitors, his only decision was to place his hands onto his head, fisting his hair into handfuls that were enough to pull the strands out if he implemented any more strength. 

Upon hearing the beckoning of his name, his real name, his guilt only increased. Boulders that stocked on his shoulders throughout his centuries of living were finally falling down, yet they somehow managed to deepen the grief he held. Instead of lifting his burdens, the boulders crashed onto his legs, breaking the one method of escape and trapping him in this eternity of despair. He felt the recoils of his stomach, twisting and turning in such a manner that was to the point, almost unbearable. Regrets of being unable to save them all as they all met the same fate they were destined to; their voices taunting him to join him in the life of peace and protected from all forms of suffering. A divine invitation, bidding his farewell to the world. Unpleasant memories emerged from these constant talking and loud noise, truly showing just how cruel the world could be to Alatus. 

Alatus? Was that who he was? 

He regarded it as the agony he was feeling, coveting to consume his body in rage and despair, a beautiful yet destructive meld of such emotions. He didn’t forget his name, but he didn’t remember it either. Unbeknownst to him, a certain soul that had calamity following in his wake as his shadow, watched the Yaksha be reduced to such a state. He dared not say a word to the Yaksha, as he had always believed that he alone should bear the burden of his actions. As such, even the entity that he respected deeply could not sway him from his chosen path of destiny. He groaned in dismay to see his disciple and who he considered, one of his own, to be caused such pain from the sins he committed, ill-intentioned or not. Why must the passageways of fate woven in stone hold such hostility towards Xiao? 

Xiao. Ah, now he remembered. 

That realization only dawned more pain upon his body. Jerking forward, he stumbled to the ground due to his sudden impending loss of balance. His knees were first to meet with the grass, damp from the previous rainfalls. By now, his knees were bound to be coated with mud, due to the effects and actions he took during the times the pain of his karmic debt increased. He groaned in pain repeatedly, the jerk of his body simulating a feeling of his organs being crushed from inside him. They smashed against one another, hitting the sides of his stomach as they tried to fight their way out of this suffocating confinement of a body. With this, his body fell forward completely. 

With futile attempts to stabilize himself amidst the crowd of barging organs and body parts, he succumbed to the pain of his karmic debt. Although he did not give his life so easily, the overwhelming agony of such an existence had caused the young adeptus to lose consciousness. Body falling limp to the harsh cutting grass, he soon drifted into a daze. One last groan, raspiness and defeat evident in its tone formed from the vibrations of his vocal cords, spilling out his mouth in an exhausted method. 

Perhaps, one day fate shall weave an outcome that gifts an abundance of blessings towards The Conqueror of Demons.

༻ ﹡ ﹡ ﹡ ﹡ ﹡ ﹡ ﹡ ༺

I wrote this at night, surprisingly. Well, not so much. But at the same time, I'm sort of proud that I managed to become this descriptive during that time! And sorry for the sudden drop in fonts, Tumblr won't allow me to use the small text feature on the fonts so I suppose we're sticking with the regular Arial font.

-3L1J4Hhh <3

[janekfan]

hello!!! as always your recent fics have been Incredible!! i already have a prompt recently but um. would read the shit out of any h/c fic with instances of jon & martin comforting eachother when the other wakes up from a nightmare bc G-d are those boys Traumatized And In Love...

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27888373

sorry for the wait! And it’s short! T_T But I hope it’s okay!

The safehouse was a godsend. A place that was even halfway safe where, finally, Martin and Jon could afford to break in front of one another. Stilted, awkward quiet, followed by exhaustion, followed by sleep, followed by tears and confessions and whispered adorations spoken only in the velvet dark.

Followed by nightmares.

Jon didn't put much stock into his own. More often than not they were about the statements of others, replayed over and over again in his mind’s Eye, feeding him through their fear. Seldom were they awful for him, not anymore. Now there was only guilt.

But Martin’s.

Bitter cold, bitter loneliness, and a fading prior to Jon waking to Martin beside him, frozen and so stiff he was like ice. It surprised Jon when the tears slipping so silently down his cheeks weren’t trails of frost. He pulled him close, shivering in turn, pressing soft kisses into his hair, behind his ears, over closed eyes and the bridge of his nose. Chaste to his lips, his neck, leaving warmth wherever he touched and daring the cold to encroach again. Jon could see the faint outline of his own crossed legs beneath Martin as the Lonely tried harder to take control, to push him back onto that beach and out to sea.

“Martin, Martin, my darling.” Tangling their limbs together, able to see his own gasping breath in the air before him. It mingled, stolen, with the mist creeping into the room through cracks in the floor, the uninsulated sill, drifting down from the ceiling and Jon was so afraid to let go because he was afraid he’d never find him again. “Come back to me, come back to me.” Pale, hollow eyes the color of the moon gazed up at him, otherwise vacant and void, and Jon cupped his jaw, stroked over the stubble and gripped him even tighter. “Hullo, love.” It didn’t matter that he couldn’t hear it, hear him, but the Lonely could. “I have you.” Abhorrent green reflected off the fog, multiplied, bright, burning, and it recoiled like a living thing. “And you won’t have him again.” Chilly fingers ghosted along his back, Martin, curling closer and holding on tight. “You who stand among the crowd and feel nothing, surrounded by those who will never understand what it means to be alone. Forgotten, fading, while you crave connection beyond superficiality. You who watch the world pass by, ensnaring the hapless with promises of peace and tranquility. Never. Again. Like the beacon of a lighthouse, Jon’s Watching seared away the smothering miasma and panting, he blinked hard before turning his attention to the man in his lap.

“Jon.” Choked sob bare more than a whisper, but there was warmth there, again in his arms, blossoming under questing fingers, Martin’s eyes bright with tears.

“Martin.” The same relief echoed back, swallowed between a watery kiss.

“You should let me go.” Martin pushed his face into the scarred skin of Jon’s shoulder even as he spoke and he only hugged him harder.

“I will never.” Martin was trapped between, stuck in a delicate place and Jon was prepared to reassure him until he ran out of life or breath, whichever came first.

“I deserve it.” Damp lashes fluttered against Jon’s neck.

“You don’t.”

“I abandoned you.”

“Oh, darling,” Gentle, he lifted Martin’s chin, looked into him, flecked green reflected back. “You saved me.”

“I’ll only hurt you.” But he didn’t sound so sure anymore.

“I’m here. I’m here and I will never let you go, Martin Blackwood.” Jon wished there was a way to transfer the Knowing into his mind, just to alleviate this fear. Instead, he held him close, whispering soft things. Sweet things.

True things.

They should be safe here from Eli--Jonah.

But they are not safe from themselves.

And Jon hasn’t been sleeping.

He can’t, Martin knows, having appointed himself Watcher and that meant he had to keep Watch. Keep the Lonely away and it made Martin’s heart ache in his chest as he watched Jon run himself further into the ground.

While he finished the washing up, he left Jon asleep on the couch, wrapped in the softest blanket Martin could find when he finally, finally had no choice but to slip under. The man looked tired on the best of days, gaunt and drawn and hungry, but now there was charcoal smudged dark under his eyes and shadows pooling in the hollows of his cheeks.

“Nooo…” Immediately, Martin set down the plate in his hands. “No no nononono…” Murmuring, frantic and fast, exhaustion laid thick over every slurred syllable, and Martin was lifting him up, drawing him close and when the fear and confusion finally flooded his face, he was there.

“Martin.” His expression crumpled, tears welled up and spilled over in the wake of such profound weariness.

“I’m here, darling.” Jon clung weakly, pulling himself flush so he could hide in his throat and Martin carded careful fingers through tangled hair. “Come now, lay down, love.” But his eyes were darting around the room, looking in the corners, looking for the fog come to take Martin away from him. “Hush now, Jon.” Martin held tight to narrow shoulders practically thrumming with distress and when he tried to coax him to lay down, to rest, he resisted. “It’s alright, we’re alright.” Gently, he guided his head to his thigh and in the end Jon was too tired to resist any longer. “S’okay, love.” Slowly, softly, he stroked over his cheek, shaking his head fondly at the fight Jon was putting up with heavy lashes. “Just close your eyes for a moment and breathe.” Jon heaved in a deep lungful of air like he’d been drowning, shuddering like he couldn’t get enough now that he’d remembered. “Deep breaths, in and out. Lovely. Just like that.” Running light fingertips over fluttering lids just once. “That’s perfect.” He bent to kiss his sleeping face. “You’re perfect.”

[vulturhythm]

let us waltz for the dead - two

part one

- - - - -

They say that the devil is in the details.

Things can change with an instant's notice - there one second, gone the next.

They say that to lay with the devil is to sell your soul.

A fitting end.

- - -

The lower floor of the tavern is largely darkened when Geralt descends the stairs, only the fireplace lit. It's bewildering at first - after all, it isn't terribly early in the morning. The dull light of the tavern, combined with the stormclouds and rain outside, lend a gloomy atmosphere to everything, one that has unease twisting low in Geralt's stomach.

"Out of luck if you're looking to head out," comes a gruff voice, and Geralt looks to the bar, only partially surprised to see Nivellen there, wiping it clean.

Funny thing, cleaning something that hasn't been used.

"Come again?" Geralt asks as he crosses the room, settling onto a barstool and watching the damp rag move across the smooth wooden counter with passive interest.

Nivellen hooks a thumb at the windows, but doesn't look away from his task. "Storm washed out all the roads for miles around. Doesn't look as though it'll clear up any time soon, neither. Your horse would get bogged down, sure as anything."

Geralt heaves a sigh, frustrated by the confirmation, though not exactly surprised. "It came on fast," he remarks, gaze straying to the window nearest him. He could barely see the trees for the pouring rain, falling from the clouds in thick curtains that turned the world a murky gray and black. "Won't bother you if I wait it out here, will it?"

Nivellen merely shrugs, saying in a tone that, while not unkind, is nonetheless indifferent, "Long as you've got the money, you can stay for a week, for all I care. Breakfast served half-past nine, lunch at one, dinner at eight. Gonna cost you."

Of course it will.

Shaking his head, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his purse again. "Get a lot of traffic here, then?" he asks idly, counting out the notes for another night's rest.

"Decent amount," Nivellen grunts, disinterested. "Why?"

Geralt shrugs, setting the money down and pocketing his purse once more. "There was a man last night, said he spends plenty of time here. Thought it was interesting."

The barkeep falters, looking at him with a gaze that's not quite critical, not quite concerned. "Second thought, you might better not stick around."

That gives Geralt pause. "Pardon?"

"Nothing but trouble, that kid. If he's taken a fancy to you, well... more's the shame."

Frowning, Geralt looks up once more, uncertain as to how he's meant to take that.

Nivellen cocks a brow. "Just telling you how it is," he says, oddly curt now. "Plan on wantin' breakfast?"

Taken aback by the sudden change in demeanor, Geralt shakes his head. "I'll eat at one," he replies. "I should... I should go check on my mare."

The bartender seems satisfied with this, merely nodding and redoubling his efforts to clean what must be an immensely stubborn spot that Geralt simply cannot see. "Remember the stallion," he warns dismissively. "He's - "

"A biter, I remember," Geralt finishes, sighing as he stands. "I know."

As he turns to leave, reaching for the front doorknob, he realizes that the strange glint he'd seen in Nivellen's eye is not unfamiliar at all -  no, it was pity.

- - -

When Geralt steps outside, he realizes immediately that this is not a storm that intends to show any mercy to whatever happens to be in its path. The wind is fierce in and of itself, driving the rain into his skin with force that stings. He grits his jaw, grateful that there are barely three yards between himself and the stable awning. Still, he does not look forward to crossing that scant distance.

Biting back a sigh, he makes a break for it, dashing toward the awning and having just the presence of mind to marvel at just how fucking wet he gets in the span of maybe five, six seconds. He stops short once he's under cover, sucking in a gasp for air and shaking his now-drenched hair from his eyes.

If the roads weren't washed out by midnight, they sure as hell are now.

Geralt shakes himself to dislodge some of the excess rain clinging to his skin and coat, heading inside. He's greeted by the warm glow of a lantern above, somehow just as bright as it was last night when he came to put Roach away. The stable is split in half by a wide, cobblestone corridor; there are places in the floor where the stones have crumbled away, and he can see the wood and dirt beneath. Three wide stalls line each side. To his left, Roach whinnies in greeting, and he approaches with a soft croon.

She sticks her head out over the door to butt against his shoulder, and Geralt softens, smiling to himself as he brushes her forelock smooth. "Hope your night was less eventful than mine," he tells her, resting his brow on her own when she settles. Roach merely snorts, and he hears her pawing on the other side of the door.

He rests there for a beat, enjoying this moment of peace - this moment of warmth, when the world outside is so strange and harsh. A louder, deeper snort and accompanying nicker draws him from his reverie a few moments later, and he looks up.

The stallion Nivellen warned him against is in the stall to Roach's left. Funny. Geralt is certain he was across the corridor the night before...

As he straightens up, the stallion snorts once more, tossing his head. He's a draft of some sort, a big, beastly black thing, but there's enough fleetness evident in his frame that Geralt suspects he's a foxhunter of some type or another.

Lord knows he's got the spirit for it; you'd have to be deaf not to hear the way he's pacing in his stall, tail lashing and head reared back.

Geralt watches him with no small degree of wariness, wondering who thought it a good idea to move the stallion across beside his mare.

"Watch yourself," he says in quiet warning, leaving Roach for the saddle racks in the corner of the stable. He grabs Roach's brush from the saddlebag, heading for her stall and undoing the latch to slip inside. It pleases him to see that the hay net and water trough are freshly filled; evidently somebody here is in charge of the stables. The evening before, he had found the stall in pristine shape, as well - fully stocked, clean, ready for use. Patting Roach's flank, he sets to work, brushing away the night's worth of straw bits stuck to her coat.

Roach, for all that she enjoys a good bit of fun now and then, is always docile when Geralt needs her to be, and now is no exception. She stands with her head low, nibbling thoughtfully at the hay. Geralt hums a mindless tune to her as he works, though he knows better than to turn his back entirely on the stallion in the other stall; he keeps his body turned, one eye on the black beast.

At last, he moves to Roach's opposite side, the red mare now between him and the stallion. The larger horse seems to calm some, and Geralt permits himself to relax, focusing the majority of his attention on Roach once more.

This proves to be a mistake barely five minutes later.

A clamor of hooves and a blur of movement is all the warning he gets before the stallion is lurching against the stall divider, before the stallion's head is snaking for Roach. Geralt hears his mare squeal, steps back when she kicks, soothes her with as much calm in his tone as he can when she's sidestepping into him.

Geralt curses under his breath as he rounds Roach once more, letting the mare back off to the opposite side of the stall and putting himself between the horses once more. The stallion is nearly screaming now, blood on his teeth and head tossing as he paces in place. "Never taught manners, were you?" Geralt asks irritably, watching those wild eyes roll.

He glances back over his shoulder, seeing the bite wound on Roach's neck. Sighing, he backs toward her, sets a hand on her quivering side and speaks low until she begins to calm. All the while, his eyes are on the stallion, that black coat glistening with sweat as though it had been pushed hard after a fox for miles.  "No manners at all."

The stallion merely snorts again, and Geralt can practically feel the disdain in the sound. He shakes his head, trusting Roach to stay out of reach as he leaves the stall, heading once more for the saddle racks. He carries salve in the saddlebags at all times, although he has to admit, this is the first time Roach has been attacked by something apart from mosquitoes or horseflies.

It's as he returns to the stall that the stallion strikes again. Geralt is reaching to open the door when the bastard lunges, slamming into his own door with a loud thud and lashing out. Harsh teeth close over the wrist of his extended arm, and Geralt nearly doubles over with pain.

He strikes the stallion between the eyes, hating himself for an instant, but drawing back in relief when the black beast lets go, recoiling with a squeal that hurts Geralt's ears. "Try it again, and I'll hit you harder," he mutters, mostly to himself, backing off a couple of steps to survey the damage.

The skin is torn, blood dripping steadily, but he guesses he's fortunate that the bite isn't any deeper than it is already. Geralt sighs, eyeing the stallion warily as he slips back into the stall to tend to Roach. The beast is eyeing him much the same, retreating back into the corner of his own stall with a frustrated switch of his tail.

Good riddance.

- - -

The rain has shown no signs of easing up when Geralt leaves the stable; if anything, it's pouring just as hard as it was the evening before, rain tumbling from the rooftops and beating its way down through wind-bowed limbs and leaves. Geralt sighs as he stands beneath the stable's awning, bracing himself to run. He hadn't planned on rain when he'd set out for Cintra - his coat lacks a hood or cowl, something he would have truly appreciated at about this time.

Steeling himself against the cold onslaught, he rushes for the door of the Black Dog, relieved when it opens easily under his own weight. By the time he's crossed those scant three yards, he's virtually drenched once more, and he knows it'll be a welcome relief to be able to sit down before the fire. He lets the door swing shut behind him as he stalls on the rug just beyond, letting the worst of the water drip off him here as he gives the tavern floor a cursory glance, halfway expecting to see Jaskier lounging by the hearth, or, at the very least, Nivellen behind the bar, preparing to offer up a dish.

He sees neither.

In fact, he sees an entirely unfamiliar face behind the bar - a young woman with hair that's so deep a shade Geralt isn't sure if it's red or brown, chopped short and curly and uneven. She's leaning on the countertop and nursing a tankard of what Geralt can plainly smell is ale; there's a platter of food in front of her, much too large for one person.

Geralt blames surprise on the way he falters, more than anything, staring for a good half-minute.

The woman cocks a brow at him when she lowers her tankard, and lets the silence go on for another moment before she says, with a laugh that's short and sudden, "You act as if you've never seen a girl before."

Called out, he clears his throat, shaking his head to clear it as he heads for the bar. "I was expecting Nivellen," he replies, a little gruffly, and the woman shrugs, giving him a cursory once-over as he sits down across from her. "Your name...?"

"Renfri," she replies, doing a flourish-y gesture with one hand, then gesturing to the platter in front of her. "Hope you don't mind sharing."

Geralt glances down at it - cheeses, meats, pastries, a loaf of bread, all laid out in an aesthetic pattern Geralt knows better than to give Nivellen credit for. It's obvious that Renfri has already sampled the former, mostly because she reaches for another little cube of aged cheddar as Geralt watches. "Not at all," he says, and he finds he means it; Renfri seems a curious sort, certainly a better conversationalist than Nivellen. "Is it customary to dine with your guests?"

Renfri snorts, shaking her head as she pops the cube into her mouth and turns toward the wall behind her. "When there's only one guest in the entire tavern, yes," she says over her shoulder, voice slightly muffled. "What're you drinking?"

He hesitates a moment as he reaches for a pastry first. Maybe Jaskier is part of the staff, then. "Water is alright for now," he says. "Never was much for day drinking."

Nodding, she turns away from the selection of spirits and reaches instead for a simple pitcher, filling up a tankard with practiced ease. "I see the fucker bit you," she says, jerking her chin toward the wound on Geralt's wrist. "Nasty old thing, isn't he?"

Geralt glances automatically to the torn skin of his arm. "Yes," he sighs, taking the tankard from her with a grateful nod. "Looked hungry, so I figured I'd feed him while I tended to Roach, and, well - "

" - and he whipped around and bit you," Renfri says; she speaks with the sort of firm authority that makes it plain she's dealt with the stallion before. She leans her weight onto the counter once more, cocking a playful brow as Geralt reaches for the knife resting beside the platter, slicing into the bread. "Lucky he didn't take off more of your arm than he did."

He gives a weary hum, close enough to laughter, taking one of the slices and making a rather awkward little sandwich with the meat and cheese. "Have you worked here long?" he asks her, taking a bite. "Building looks like it's pretty old."

Renfri shrugs then. "Long enough," she says; the vagueness of her reply doesn't escape Geralt, but he chooses not to comment. "Longer than the grouchy old bastard usually up here."

Geralt lets the corner of his mouth tip upward in a half-smile; the description is apt enough, he has to admit. "So, ah... you know the staff well?"

A sort of veil comes down across her eyes, but she nods regardless, cocking her head to the side. "What makes you ask?"

"Well, the, uh..." He pauses there, unsure if there's any less crass way to explain things than there was a boy who very enthusiastically seduced me last night. "The younger man who works here? He's an... interesting sort."

Renfri hums then, low and amused, and Geralt falters, recognizing the glint in her eye as the same spark of pity that Nivellen's had held before. "Ah," she says, her tone suddenly flat in the instant before she seems to pick back up her smile. "Jaskier."

Geralt nods, oddly relieved, and finishes off his makeshift little sandwich. "Does he, ah... make a habit of associating with the guests?"

"Unfortunately," she sighs, although there's something different about her now, something... off. "A habit he won't be broken of, let's call it that."

"A habit," he repeats dryly. "You sound as if this is a constant issue."

Renfri scoffs, and the shake of her head is almost resigned. "To put it lightly," she replies. "If he bothers you again, I suggest at least pretending to have some degree of decorum and leaving him behind."

Geralt feels a flush rise to his cheeks, and he clears his throat. "I'll make an effort," he replies, deciding he can guarantee at least that much.

The woman nods, though she doesn't seem entirely convinced; to be fair, Geralt himself isn't the most confident in his ability to reject the boy, should he approach him again. "See that you do," she replies simply. "I trust you'll be leaving once the storm passes?"

A response is on the tip of his tongue, but as if eager to join the conversation, a peal of thunder comes from overhead, deep enough that it rattles the tankards and glasses hanging upon the racks at the back of the bar. Geralt pauses, brows cocked in a mirror of Renfri's expression as they watch the vessels, then meet eachother's gazes.

"If the storm passes," Renfri amends with a weary sigh. "Well... I've got to go tend to things in the back, but by all means, eat what you will. I'll clean up later."

Geralt nods, the softest huff of laughter escaping him as he watches the irritated way Renfri adjusts the vessels that had slipped from their previous positions. It's easy enough to tell that Renfri is the one responsible for much of the order in this place - Nivellen likely wouldn't have given the skewed things a second glance. "I suppose I'll see you around?"

Renfri offers little more than a shrug as she grabs her drink, already walking out from behind the bar. She rounds the corner to clap Geralt on the shoulder with surprising force, and he turns his head to watch her, seeing her gaze on the rain-battered windows. "We'll see," she says, and that's that. She turns to leave, disappearing down the other hallway by the hearth.

Geralt watches her retreat until he hears a door open and close. With a thoughtful exhale, he looks up to the tankards and glasses hanging from the racks.

One glass is cracked.

- - -

Geralt retreats to his room once he's finished off the platter, pleasantly full and ready to spend the afternoon in peace and quiet. Were it a nicer day, he would have taken joy out of exploring the property, or even just the halls, but as is, he finds he wants few things more than a chance at rest - and a chance to bandage his wrist, for another thing.

The sense of something being off is the first thing to hit him as he unlocks his door. He pauses there, with it halfway open, frowning to himself. From here, he can see little more than the bed, which looks just the same as always. The window is shivering under the force of the rain and wind, but he doubts it will give.

At last, he shakes his head and pushes the door open, stepping into the room.

It takes only a glance for him to realize that, indeed, he was right - something is off.

Geralt's gaze darts immediately to the mirror.

The crack is gone, and so is the blood.

He has no words for the strange feeling that settles in the pit of his stomach.

Swallowing bewildered nerves, he pushes the door closed behind him - slowly, as if to move too quickly is to alert whatever strange imp breaks and replaces mirrors - and approaches the dresser, holding his reflection's gaze.

Surely he imagines the way his eyes look brighter, the rest of him darker, in the newly-mended glass.

Geralt stands there, evaluating the glass, listening to the wind and rain beat against the window. He stands there, holding his gaze, until the room seems to darken at his back, until his mind begins to play its little tricks - until his face begins to morph, twisting into a facsimile of itself -

- and then, just as his eyes become the brightest spot in the shadows, he blinks, and the trance is broken.

A worker must have come to check the room, he decides, turning away, and replaced the mirror.

The only explanation.

He heads for the washroom, glancing down to the bite in his wrist. It's ceased to bleed, something for which he's grateful, but he realizes the pain has only barely abated.

With a weary sigh, he holds it beneath running water, watching with a strange sort of fascination as the flow turns first crimson, then pink with time.

He loses track of the minutes that pass, jarred back into reality by the sound of footsteps in the outer room.

Geralt pauses, lifts his head, meets his eyes in the washroom mirror for an instant - sees movement in the reflection, in the doorway.

He turns in a rush, uncertain as to what he expects.

He sees nothing.

The unease in his stomach is something nearer to fear now.

Shutting off the water, he turns to face the doorway, wounded wrist hanging at his side.

It came for the scent of blood.

The thought enters his head unbidden, and Geralt blinks, shaking it away. There's nothing there.

Nothing there, either, when he walks into the main room, when he glances around.

Nothing except that mirror, a hairline crack spiderwebbing its way across the glass.

- - -

He spends the rest of the afternoon in quiet, sitting in bed and watching the rain fall.

He gives no thought to the quiet sounds coming from the washroom.

Just a rat, most likely.

- - -

Eight o' clock arrives at last, and Geralt has never been more eager to flee his lodgings than he is when he goes downstairs to see if, by chance, dinner is any more or less eventful than lunch had been.

The fire within the hearth has been lit once again, and Geralt cannot help but be relieved; it really is amazing, the difference a fire can make, in making a place feel more like a home. Nivellen is once again behind the bar, and there's a plate of what looks to be roast chicken and vegetables in front of him. He looks up when Geralt approaches, motioning toward the plate with an awkward half-smile.

"Kept it warm for you," is his simple, weary greeting.

Geralt decides not to take too much offense from the way Nivellen seems less than interested in conversation now, ever since this morning. "Thank you," he says, heaving a sigh as he sits down on what's quickly become his usual barstool. "Are you - "

But before he can finish his inquiry, Nivellen is setting a glass of madeira in front of him and turning to leave, heading for the same door through which Renfri had disappeared earlier in the day.

For a good few seconds, Geralt simply stares after him, trying to decide what, exactly, he did to offend the grizzled bartender so profoundly.

He shakes his head to clear it, picking up a fork and tending to his dinner.

- - -

It's just as Geralt becomes aware of how eerie this room is, completely empty and all but abandoned, that he feels a new presence, one that's slipping onto the barstool just to his right. Startled, he looks over, nearly choking on his latest mouthful when he recognizes Jaskier, leaning an elbow on the counter and regarding him with a cunning little smile.

"Do you make a habit of terrifying guests?" Geralt asks, once he's gotten past the risk of asphyxiation. He clears his throat, reaching for his drink and swallowing a generous dose to ease the new pain. "Where did you come from?"

Jaskier ignores both of these questions, gaze fixated on Geralt's lips as he drinks. "You're still here," he says, and there's a strange little note of glee in his tone.

Geralt hides his frown, remembering the way Nivellen and Renfri had reacted at the mention of this strange little thing. "The roads are likely washed out," he replies, setting his fork down. He wonders, absurdly, if tonight will end the same way as the last. "I'm waiting out the storm."

Jaskier hums in reply, tilting his head to the side; Geralt glances down, watches as the young man's hand comes to rest on his knee. The slow brush of his thumb sends a tremor up Geralt's spine against his own will. "Drinking alone again, I see."

"Not very many others in this tavern," he points out, and Jaskier laughs.

It's the prettiest sound Geralt has ever heard.

"I would join you," the little thing replies, and as he drops his gaze to where he's running his hand up higher, Geralt feels a spike of need drive itself through his frame, "but I've already sampled the finest brandy, and I don't imagine I should drink any more."

Geralt gives him a cautious glance, biting his lip against that strange desire. He doesn't understand how Jaskier caused it so damn easily, when Geralt can surround himself with the finest company and still encourage a bit of a chase before he beds anyone, or allowed them to bed him. "Sounds like a wise decision," he says, and clears his throat.

Jaskier's hand is nearly upon his groin now, resting high on the juncture of his thigh. Geralt is tense, willing his body to remain unaffected - but he's fighting a losing battle. The moment Jaskier's fingertips brush along the bulge of his cock through his trousers, his breath catches, and he says, in a voice that sounds half-strangled, "Are you always this forward?"

The younger man shrugs.

That's all the answer he offers before he's leaning up and in, capturing Geralt's lips in a kiss that feels of searing heat.

- - -

Tonight, it's Jaskier who has Geralt pinned to the door of his room, and it's Jaskier whose thigh finds a place between Geralt's own.

Geralt chokes on a moan of the younger man's name when Jaskier deepens the kiss that already threatens to devour Geralt alive, digs his nails into Jaskier's arms to keep himself steady as he rolls his hips down onto that slim thigh. "W - wait - bed - "

Jaskier makes a noise of discontent, tangling both hands in Geralt's hair and drawing him in deeper, deeper, licking into his mouth and rocking his hips until Geralt is moaning against his lips, rutting onto his thigh like he's in heat, goddamn him. At last, all of a sudden, Jaskier breaks away, leaving Geralt bereft when he steps away and says, "I want to fuck you tonight."

Geralt is still as good as fucking reeling, his world spinning around him in a cloud of lust and confusion; he pauses to catch his breath, steadying himself against the door at his back as he stares at Jaskier.

The little thing is wearing the same clothes as the night before - an undone chemise and trousers that hug his frame so damn perfectly they have Geralt's mouth watering. He remembers the shape and size of Jaskier's cock from their romp, feels a tremor go through his frame when he imagines that cock inside him. Swallowing, he nods, and Jaskier brightens.

There's something to be said for the firmness of Jaskier's grasp when he guides Geralt to his hands and knees on the foot of the bed, those slender hands planted firmly on his hips once they make quick work of his pants. Geralt breathes out shakily, tips himself forward to rest his head on folded arms, braces himself against the initial sting when Jaskier slips a finger inside him.

There's plenty to be said of the skill of those goddamn hands. Jaskier has him panting before long, pushing back onto his hand with ragged sounds he doesn't know if he's ever made before - has him moaning aloud when he crooks his fingers up to brush over the nerves deep inside his core. Geralt's hips buck, and he lifts his head for just an instant, meaning to look back over his shoulder, but he catches a golden gaze, and falters.

Positioned like this, he's facing the dresser - he's facing that goddamn mirror - he's holding his own gaze, and kneeling just behind him, Jaskier is watching him with predatory eyes, a half-cruel smile twisting his once-soft face.

Geralt feels fear rush through him when Jaskier winks, those cornflower eyes flashing too bright, but before he can take in anything more than the absence of the cracks across the glass, Jaskier is twisting his hand once more, and Geralt is moaning aloud, eyes falling shut.

"D - darling," he fumbles out, his voice ragged with need, and the next crook of Jaskier's fingers is harsh, digging into his spot with enough force that Geralt fucking sobs.

"Don't," Jaskier says, his voice low and firm, "call me that."

As quick as the moment passes, it's gone, and so are Jaskier's fingers.

Geralt scarcely has the time to mourn their passing before Jaskier is gripping him by the hips and pushing in slow, slow, rocking in so damn deep that Geralt feels it in his throat.

He falls apart holding his own gaze in the mirror, spilling across the sheets beneath him as Jaskier's face twists into a bloody mockery of a smile.

- - -

As they lay together afterward, spent and satisfied, it's Geralt whose head is upon Jaskier's chest this time. He can't deny the comfort of Jaskier's fingers combing through his hair, nor of Jaskier's embrace, holding him steady after the younger man took him apart so entirely.

"You left before I did this morning," Geralt remarks at last, his voice hoarse from begging. The shapes in the mirror are but a fever dream, replaced by the welcome ache in his hips, in his thighs. "Had somewhere to be?"

Jaskier pauses, his fingers stilling for an instant. "Yes," he says at length, resuming his motions. "Had to go bed your mother."

The comment is so out of place, so unexpected, that Geralt laughs, lifting his head. Jaskier meets his gaze, cornflower eyes sparkling, lips quirked in a smile. "I can't imagine she's a good partner," Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier merely shrugs.

"Her son certainly is," he replies.

That's all the urging Geralt needs to lean up, stealing another kiss that gradually turns deliberate.

Jaskier moans so prettily when Geralt's cock is down his throat, he discovers.

When he tangles his fingers in sex-rumpled hair to hold him firm, they come away wet and red.

He blinks, and the blood is gone.

- - -

Jaskier is gone in the morning.

Geralt expected as much.

The storm is still raging on.

Geralt expected that, too.

What he did not expect is for the mirror to be once again shattered apart, its surface splashed with blood.

He sits up still in bed, looking at his reflection through a transparent red haze.

Out in the hallway, someone screams.

[gagmebucky]

[biker!bucky. spanking. princess.]

He twists his hand in your hair and reels it back so his breath fans your profile; in your peripheral, you see his smug smile and scintillating orbs. “You walked around like you weren’t mine. But you are, aren’t you?” Before you can answer, he cracks down again. Another SLAP! delivered harder than before, extracting a higher sound from your throat. “Say that louder, princess; I don’t think the boys heard you.” 

in which biker!bucky spanks you. (includes biker!bucky x bartender!reader, implied voyeurism, dirty talk, spanking.) 

do not repost. 

—

He’s been watching you all night. 

As you flash simpering smiles, retorting half-hearted insults with a coquettish gleam in your eyes, and pass out drinks to the myriad of men lining your bar counter, he’s glowering between them and you. Seated in a corner booth, his jaw is ticking intermittently and his knee is bouncing.

A part of you rationalizes you’re only friends with benefits so you can be friendly, borderline flirty, with your patrons—it’s an important facet of your job, anyway, therefore he can’t be upset. Yet, every now and then, when your gazes connect, something otherwise tightens in your belly. 

It isn’t long before his buddies notice the thunder electrified in his blue eyes, feeling the glare burning into their backs as you laugh at one of their subpar jokes. Although most of them are, admittedly, not incongruous, they quickly deduce the correlation between their leader's mood and your interactions. 

His best friend, on the smarter side, decides to test this theory. With a lovable grin and a devious wholesomeness to his expression, Steve casts a side glance, then leans forward to speak in your ear. “You and Bucky, huh?” he whispers while you bite your lip, silence as an answer. “Not surprised, but you’re asking for trouble with all this, you know.” 

There’s no use in denying it, anymore. You laugh softly as your eyes clash against raging pools of the sea from across the room. Averting your gaze when Steve recoils, you nod with that mischievous, vaguely suggestive curve of your lips. 

“I knew I liked you, and it wasn’t just ‘cause you serve the drinks,” he says and winks. 

When you giggle, that’s his breaking point. He abruptly stands up to his broad, leather clad stature of six-foot, rakish features fixed in dark outrage, and slams his big hands on the counter. Pupils dilated, he narrows in on you and jerks his head in the direction of the back room—the same place where your first encounter unfolded. His voice is a growl when he demands, “Go, now.” 

“Barnes, you can't just talk to a lady like that!” a guy you recognize to be a newer member chastises before you can say anything. He turns to you and shakes his head, reaching out to grasp your wrist. “Sorry about him, sweetheart. Older guys don’t have the same politeness as us younger ones do.” 

In an instant, his hand is off your skin, and Bucky’s is wrapped around the back of his neck. “Touch her again, and I’ll break every bone in your fucking arm,” he hisses, seriousness concreted into his tone, and the guy’s eyes are widening with fear. 

Before he can make good on that violent promise, you’re darting around the counter and grabbing his shoulder. “James, it’s fine. Just c’mon—come on—” At your behest, he lets him go but in that same motion, his arms are cord around your waist and toss you over his shoulder. 

Other than a yelp as your abdomen drapes over his shoulder, secured in place by his arm across the back of your knees, you make no objections; neither does anyone, either intimidated or simply amused at the caveman-like display, but both reactions have your face flaming. 

Thankfully, you don’t have to see it for long because he’s hauling you into the back; doubling as the stock and break room, he brings you in and sets you on top of a circular table unceremoniously, looming over you with a deadly expression. 

You fight the quirk of your lips and blink dazedly up at him. “And what was that about?” you breathe like you’re oblivious to the game you were playing—of course, he knows better, and he isn’t laughing. 

His angular jaw locks and his eye twitches. “You think that was funny, princess?” He gestures to the bar with a perfunctory nod. 

It was but you still play the fool. “I don’t know what you mean,” you innocently answer, glancing past him at the partially door. “But I should go back out there. You know, you’re not supposed to bother me while I’m working. Especially when I’m the only one on duty!” Your hands curl around the table edge and prepare to hop off. “Speaking of which, I have to finish serving—”

You jump on your feet but before you can side-step him, he’s manhandling you. His hands spin you around by your hips, then one palms the small of your back and the other tangled into your hair; using the simultaneous holds, he bends you over the flat surface. 

You gasp as he tactfully positions his legs inside of yours, prising them wide, and presses his dark wash denim against your ass. His body above you cranes down until you can feel the outline of his defined muscles. He reigns over your senses in a flurry of old spice and clean leather. 

“What‘d you just say?” he growls rhetorically, arching your head up to speak in your ear, “you don’t know what I’m talking about?” He moves from your lower back to his jeans, buckle jiggling and clinking as he adroitly undoes it. “Then let me remind you, princess.” 

There’s a faint whipping sound when he pulls the belt free, and he wrenches both your arms back to encircle your wrists with the cool leather. Bound, his fist tightens in your soft locks while the other snakes underneath your skirt and harshly yanks it down so it pools around your ankles. 

“James!” you mean to admonish but how can you when he’s got your panties exposed and your face smushed against cold wood. Arousal pounds through your veins and liquefies in your center. “J - James—” Your attempt to speak stronger, a failed one at that, is abruptly cut off with a resounding cotton-on-flesh, SLAP! 

A muffled burning explodes through your left cheek as you cry out. It throbs and echoes in your clit, making you jolt against the fixture you’re flushed against. Your heart is already a kick drum but it somehow thumps faster, hitching your breath. 

He twists his hand in your hair and reels it back so his breath fans your profile; in your peripheral, you see his smug smile and scintillating orbs. “You walked around like you weren’t mine. But you are, aren’t you?” Before you can answer, he cracks down again. Another SLAP! delivered harder than before, extracting a higher sound from your throat. “Say that louder, princess; I don’t think the boys heard you.” 

That detail had evaded you until that moment, that the door is slightly ajar and you can be heard, and your eyes widen. Embarrassment coils in your gut, deepening the dampness in your panties despite yourself—which he takes the initiative to tear off.  “You are depraved—” SLAP! The skin-on-skin contract reverberates off the walls, intumescenting across your behind then radiating lower. “Fucking Christ, James!” 

“That’s right, princess. That’s exactly who owns you. Glad to see you’re remembering that. Seems you forgot it before.” His calloused palm caresses your asscheeks, soothing the glowing flesh with his fingers kneading into you. “I’ll make sure next time you won’t ‘cause you’ll remember this little lesson. Won’t you?”

You try to nod. “Y - yes,” you whimper, bucking into his touch to calm the sting beginning to drip down your thighs. “Will you please just. . .!” The words get stuck in your throat but he knows you, and he knows what you want.

The grip on your hair loosens to slide down your nape. “I’m depraved but you’re the one making a puddle on the ground, princess.” He traces down the cleft of your ass, a snail pace followed to your sticky slit. “You do know your place, don’t you? Y’just wanted me to mark up your pretty ass and get it that perfect shade of red, glowing with my handprint on your skin. You get off on it. Makes ya little pussy all wet and throbbing.”

His husky timbre is like a fireball scorching your nerves, and a shiver slithers down your spine as you gasp, “Y - yes!” Any attempt to careen into him is thwarted as his hand draws back with the wiggle of your ass. Another whimper works free from your throat. “Please touch me.” 

“If you deserve it. Tell everyone who you belong to.” 

“You,” you immediately breathe, and his caress returns, albeit lightly. The rough feel of his hand wedging between your thighs prompts you to elaborate with a, “Bucky Barnes!” His middle finger rasps over your folds, pad directed over your hooded clit from behind; another noise lulls out. “Please - please just stop teasing.”

You can feel him preen in pride as the tension thickens and shifts in sync with the blunt circles suddenly rubbing around your swollen bud. “Well, when you beg like that, how can I resist?”

[masterlist / feedback]

[crushedbyhyperbole]

Promises - Chapter Eight

Chapter Summary: Tony Stark's wine cooler suffers neglect as Bucky bails on work to rush back to Izzy. Visiting her twice in the same day? Their FIRST day? Bucky is in deep, and no amount of emotional hurt is going to stop him from giving her what she needs. Little does he know that she is just as stuck as he is. 

Warnings:  Sex, Smut, bit of foul language, more sex, bit of angst.  Pretty much gratuitous smut. 18+ only please!

PROMISES MASTERLIST  |  MAIN MASTERLIST  |  MOBILE MASTERLIST

Belated Prologue Part 7 – Second Audition

Bucky got back to his apartment with just enough time to shower and get ready for work.  All the ride home he thought about Izzy, replaying in his head every look and every sound right down to her soft breathing as she slept. He decided to shoot her a quick text just so she didn’t think he’d bailed on her for a bad reason.

  [Buck]  Hey, sorry I had to leave for work.  You were comatose – cute, by the way.  Let me know when you’re up so I know you’re ok after the best sex of your life.  I’m gonna assume I passed the first audition? 😉

Bucky didn’t know whether he was overstepping or not but they both had a friendship that was full of mockery and jibes so he figured he was safe.  He didn’t know if it was ok to talk about what had happened, they didn’t cover it in the rules so he was just going to feel it out.  He wanted to tell her she was wonderful and that he’d not felt like that with anyone else, which was the god’s honest truth.  He wanted to tell her she was beautiful and sexy, and that he wanted her in whatever capacity she was willing to give herself to him.  He wanted to be with her but couldn’t tell her any of it.

 His night at work dragged by, despite being busy.  Saturday nights were always packed, even after people started making their way to the night clubs.  Stark’s was open until 1am Friday and Saturday but 11pm every other night unless there was a special occasion like a birthday party or late night sports event that was covered on pay-per-view.

Bucky kept checking his phone.  He’d sigh, irritated, when he received a text that wasn’t from Izzy.  So that was basically all of them up until about 10 past midnight.

His heart jumped when he saw her name flash up on his phone.

  [Izzy]  Yeah, I’d tell you it was more than alright but I wouldn’t want your head to get any bigger lol.

  [Izzy]  And no being a creeper!  Watching people sleep is for perverts and serial killers.

  [Buck]  I never said I wasn’t a pervert 😉

Bucky felt relieved. The casual teasing was a sign that everything was just fine between them.  He tried to put his mind on the job but found he kept most of his attention on the device in his pocket, the slightest sensation against his leg and he was whipping it out to check if she’d replied.

He was putting together drinks for the last order of the night before he rang the bell for ‘time’ when his phone went crazy in his pocket; a phone call.  Hurriedly garnishing the cocktails and presenting the order he rushed the customer away.

He clanged the bell loud enough to wake the dead.

“Time at the bar!”

Then he was checking his phone.

1 Missed Call.  1 Message.

It was Steve.

  [Steve]  You still coming clubbing after your shift?  Me and the boys are in Ikon. Let me know.

He was about to reply to Steve to tell him he’d be there by 2am when another text from Izzy came through.

  [Izzy]  I think you broke me lol x

  [Izzy]  I’m not broken enough that I can’t go again though 😉  If you’re free after work? X

Holy shit!  So soon?  Bucky practically punched the air in jubilation.  He replied to Izzy immediately but decided to leave his reply to Steve until he was actually leaving work.

  [Buck]  Sure thing, doll.  I’ll stop by my place for a few things first.  Be about an hour x

  [Izzy]  I’ll be waiting. X

 Bucky was already getting that pre-aroused feeling low between his hips.  Just the thought of being with her had his head all messed up. He broke 2 glasses as he rushed to clear up and forgot to stock the wine cooler before he left.  Tony, who lived above the bar called after him as Bucky almost launched himself out of the side door.

“Does my wine cooler offend you or sum’thin?  What am I paying you for here?”  Tony grumbled

“I’ll get it in the morning.”  Bucky stopped, turning back he gave the man a beseeching look.

“That skirt better be worth it.”

Bucky grinned, shrugging on his jacket.  “She is.” He laughed and made a dash for the door.

 He drove like crazy to his place, changed his t-shirt, sprayed some deodorant, grabbed a handful of condoms and a pack of gum and left.  He drove like crazy the few blocks to Izzy’s place too and she buzzed him in with the kind of haste like she’d been waiting on him.

“Hey!”  She said when she opened the door to him.  “You got here quick.  How was work?”

As soon as she opened the door it was only going to go one way.  She’d bathed and was all wrapped up in a fluffy bath robe, her hair was damp still and scrunched up on a messy bun.  Her skin looked radiant and the dimmed lights in the lounge were almost certainly purposefully low.  When he laid eyes on her he knew there was no way they were going to make it to the bedroom.

She had turned and padded barefoot into the lounge, leaving him to close the door behind himself but when he didn’t reply she turned with a frown.

Bucky was almost certain he looked crazed at that moment.  He kicked the door shut with his heel and was on her in a second, herding her backwards against the breakfast bar.

“Everything okay, Bucky?” Her eyes were wide with concern.

“James.”  He ground out, tugging the belt of her bath robe until it came loose.

Izzy was quick to catch on, she smirked with satisfaction, and gave him a shit-eating grin when he got the robe open and saw what she was wearing underneath.

He groaned, rolling his eyes up to the heavens in such a show of supplication that she couldn’t contain her smugness.

“Izzy…”  He sighed, pushing the rob off her shoulders to fully expose the black and red lace lingerie set she wore.  The balconette bra pushed her breasts out perfectly, the lace sheer enough he could see her nipples.  The panties were a thong and also sheer.  Sheer enough for him to see that she’d shaved everything.

“Call me Bella.”  She took a cue from him, asking to be called by something other than what they normally called each other.

It suited her, especially seeing her like this, all sultry and dressed to seduce.  Bucky wasted no time cupping her breasts and squeezing them firmly.  He stepped closer, forcing her to arch backward over the counter, pushing her hips forward against his.

“Fuck, Bella…”  Bucky moaned into the valley between her breasts, squeezing them around his face, massaging them while he circled her nipples through the lace with his thumbs.

Trailing his tongue up the clean skin of her chest, he latched his mouth on the delicate spot above her clavicle and sucked.

Izzy recoiled, pushing him away with a nervous giggle.

Bucky searched her face for a brief moment before lowering his head and teasing the same spot with his tongue.  Izzy obviously didn’t want to be marked.  Bucky didn’t mind if she claimed him, but he’d never be able to tell anyone it was her mark on his neck.

“No hickeys. Check.”  He mused as he shifted his attention to her legs, hooking his hands under her thighs and lifting her until her legs were wrapped around his hips.

His moment of looking at her in awe and exploring the new imagery of her lingerie, was over.  The breakfast bar was too high but the stools were not.  He deposited her roughly on the black varnished wood seat and shrugged his leather jacket off.

Izzy helped him, by unbuckling his belt as he dropped the jacket on the floor.  Soon she was reaching into the open front of his jeans and taking his cock in her hand.  He had been hard by the time she’d opened the door to him, anticipation built up until all he could think about was how she felt when he was buried in her to his balls.

“You’ve got such a pretty cock, but you know that already don’t you, James?”

He nodded and bit his lip, watching her stroke him.  The intense pleasure combined with the slight thrill of seeing himself in her hand as she teased him with her thumb, spreading his pre-come around the tip and under to where his frenulum was pulled tight, was intoxicating.

Bucky pushed his jeans and shorts down to his knees, pulling the condoms out of his pocket as he did so. He dropped them on the counter, save for two; one of which he tucked into the cup of her bra, the other he rolled onto himself with practiced ease.

“You walking alright after this afternoon?”  He asked, breathy from her teasing.

She smirked.  “Pretty much.”  Her light but bashful chuckle told him otherwise.

“Well, you won’t be after this.”

 He pulled her thong aside and buried two fingers in her straight away, earning him a startled gasp. She gripped his shoulders hard and her legs twitched where they were loosely wrapped around his hips.  He curled his fingers ruthlessly, repeating the stroking motion against the softness of her g-spot while he worked her clit with his thumb.

Earlier today had been an exercise in control, a chance for him to show her that he could draw out her pleasure indefinitely, make her feel amazing for more than just a few moments. Now, with her clinging to him as he relentlessly broke her down, he was here to show her his masculinity, and how much he wanted her.

Bucky worked her with his hand until the very second he felt her start to come.  He pulled his hand free and grabbed her hips, burying his cock in her all the way and stilled, fingers now only working her clit as she cried out and came around his sold shaft that stretched her almost painfully.

“Ohhhh, God!”  She cried out, scrabbling to pull him closer, clutching the front of his t-shirt in a death grip.

She felt exquisite, spasming and pulsing around him.  Her gasps were half laughs through the disbelieving grin she wore.

 Bucky began to move, long slow strokes, pulling out almost to the tip and sliding home with a powerful but controlled thrust.  Gradually increasing the speed and forcefulness, he held onto the backrest of the stool with both hands and used it as leverage to fuck her harder and faster. She was already reaching the edge of another orgasm, losing the strength in her legs so they slipped down off his hips.

He tucked his forearms under her knees and gripped the chair again.  She was so exposed now and he could see himself spreading her open, each thrust tugging against her labia, the pink flesh becoming more and more flushed as he ravaged her.

“Shit!  Bu-.”  She choked on his name.

Whether she realised and stopped herself, or whether she just couldn’t get the words out it didn’t matter.  All that mattered was the tight pleasure of her clenching around him and the ragged gasping breaths that tore from her throat as she came again, hard enough for tears.

Bucky slowed as she came, pushing her gently through the pleasure, giving her just enough to keep it alive so it wouldn’t just be an intense blinding flash of ecstasy.  He’d almost came then too.  The sight of her coming undone, seeing himself sliding in and out of her, his sheathed cock glistening with her arousal.

Sweet Jesus!

With his arms still hooked under her knees he picked her up and walked her to the sofa where he lowered himself to the cushions, still buried inside her.

Izzy looked at him then, like he might be a little crazy.

“Who are you and where have you been all my finding Mr Wrong life?”  She laughed, giddy and flushed from her release.  She had no way of knowing that her words had cut him deep.

His eyes watered to the point he had to close them.  It hurt. He was insanely happy but it hurt like a shotgun blast to the chest, he should know, he’d had one.  A Kevlar vest was the only thing between him and death. The pain was unreal, and right now he’d take that again if it would only replace this new pain, this fresh hell.

How could he tell her he’d always been here?  That he’d been waiting for her.  Always waiting for her.  He’d promised himself he’d never burden her with his feelings, and now they had rules. He was bound twice by his word to keep all of this inside.

“Ride me.”  He gasped as the pain began to sap his arousal. “Use me.  Fuck me.  I want you to ruin me.”  He practically begged her.

And she did, pulling him down by his hair, she smothered him in her cleavage as she began to grind herself on him.  She made him forget her words and forget the tears he’d almost spilled.  She made him forget he was Bucky Barnes, the man who had loved her since he was just a boy, the man who left his life behind to join the army because he couldn’t bear to be without her, the man who would live every day of his life by her side only in friendship if that was what she needed.

In those moments, there with her taking her pleasure from him, he was only James.  An abstract concept of a man, a fantasy, all bravado and cocksurety.  He lived each moment to enjoy it and the pleasure they shared.  This was the distance he needed, to almost be someone else with her like this.

She moaned loudly, throwing her head back as she began to peak.  He was swollen and riding the line between pleasure and pain where he’d kept himself until she was ready to come.  There on the cusp he waited, needing only the tiniest of pushes, a feather stroke of something different to pull his focus away from control and fully into the path of the freight train that was threatening to plough through him.

“James!”  Her sigh was like a chorus of angels.  She was so close, he could see her working for it, struggling to find her release.

With shaking fingers he reached and lightly pinched one of her nipples through the lace of her bra, then harder, twisting it in his grip.

Falling forward with a gasp that morphed into a low guttural moan, she climaxed.  Her last act before she began to slow was to return the favour. She pinched his nipple hard and tugged on it until he twitched deep inside her and spilled with a cry that was part pain and part pleasure.

Bucky’s thrusts fell away and they both sat panting, sweaty and dumbstruck, his hands idle by his sides. He couldn’t touch her.  He was too raw emotionally, right then.

“Christ!  I need to pee.”  She laughed and tried to stand, legs wobbling as she climbed off him and staggered away.

Externally he laughed, she was adorable and funny, but inside he was numb.  He thought he could do this, the no-strings sex thing.  Not with her, he realised too late.

 Bucky pulled off the condom and tied it off, dropping it on the coffee table.

“Drink?”  Izzy walked past the sofa and went to the kitchen.

“Just water, is fine. Thanks.”

“You gonna tell me about work now?”  Her question seemed too domestic now, too weird.

“Not with you dressed like that.”  He snorted a breath out nasally.

“Right, right, sorry!”   She grabbed the robe and covered herself.

Bucky was shifting his hips on the sofa, already pulling up his jeans and tucking himself away.

“I think it’s best to keep friendzone conversations separate from the sex stuff.”

Izzy looked at him sat there frowning at her and she must’ve known what it was that had gotten under his skin.  Her face grew worried as she passed him the glass of water.

He downed it.

“Look, I’m sorry if what I said crossed the line.  I guess I didn’t realise how it sounded when it came out.”   She looked sad and the last thing he wanted to do was make her feel guilty.

“Yeah, we can’t get caught up in that happily ever after stuff if you want to keep to the rules.” Bucky ran his hands through his hair. He did that when he was tired, nervous, stressed, self-conscious, among other things.

“Scared you’ll break Rule 3?”  She teased.

Goddamnit!  Why was she torturing him?

“Are you?”  His voice was as flat as he could make it, and he stood up to create some space between them.  “It’s a rule for a reason, is it not?”

She’d set that rule. He already had feelings and for her to fall for him was his ideal situation.  But she obviously didn’t want it that way.  She just wanted him for the sex.

“Sorry.”  She looked tired all of a sudden.  “I’ll do better next time.  If you want there to be a next time?”

What was he supposed to say? Yes, he wanted there to be a next time. He wanted to be her every time.

“Yeah, okay.”  Bucky sighed heavily.

“Thanks, Buck.”  She smiled, almost relieved.

She was his kryptonite. His main vice.  But also the thing that kept him ticking.  It was wrong to say she was his raison d’etre but she was pretty close.  Promises and rules, that’s what kept this thing together, like a fucking band aid to hold together a fractured but priceless Ming dynasty vase.  If it had to be, it had to be.  It wasn’t like he wasn’t getting almost everything he’d ever wanted for his whole adult life so far.

“Bucky?”

“I need a fucking smoke.” He scooped up his jacket and pulled it on.  “I’ll be back.  Don’t fall asleep, and don’t get changed.”    He gave her a crooked smile and a wink.

“Ohhh!  God dayum!”  She blushed hard.  “Okay.”

[loz-maw-of-the-earth]

Maw of the Earth: Prologue Part 2

Zelda’s senses soon returned to her, and she was greeted with… warmth. 

Her eyes eased open… before her was a small fire, though her vision wasn’t yet clear enough to make out much of anything else. She could smell something cooking over it, as well as the burning wood and the slightest whiff of damp cloth. The fire crackled gently, and she heard…

A voice, deep and resonant, humming a traditional tune of her people. 

She attempted to sit up, but her arms refused, leaving her lying there. Whoever had rescued her had stripped her down to her underdress and stockings, though she caught a blurry glimpse of her winter gear drying by the fire, alongside her other equipment. She felt a dense fur blanket in their place instead, shielding her in further warmth. She was warm, but not comfortable, as her body ached and stung, especially as she tried to move. 

The voice stopped humming at her movement. “Ah, you’re awake,” he said calmly. 

She was still unable to see the source of the voice, but a massive clawed hand entered her vision, poised gently. She flinched, and winced at the sudden movement.

“Do you wish to sit up?” The voice asked. “I can help you.”

She used what strength she had to nod, still flinching as the bestial hand drew closer. It was quite gentle, however, carefully sitting her up against the wall of… it seemed to be some sort of cabin.

Her eyes watched the hand retreat, following it to…

“The blue beast,” she whispered, her eyes growing wide as she took him all in: a massive body of dull blue fur, great tusks, shocks of flaming hair punctuating his body, great cloven hooves, sharp teeth… he retracted his clawed hand slowly, pursing his snouted lips. 

“It’s alright, I won’t… I will not hurt you…” he said quietly, lowering his towering body towards her. She winced, feeling his warm breath through his snout on her. She saw a long, whiplike tail scoot something toward her feet… a small bowl of soup. “Here… you should eat. It has been quite some time since I found you, and it will help you warm up.”

She looked at the bowl, then back at the creature. “You… you took my father’s life…” she whispered, with as much venom as she could muster before looking away. 

The creature recoiled, leaning back. “You… you’re the princess…”

“I am here to avenge him, yes… what have you done to me?”

“I-I did nothing,” the creature answered, his voice more firm than before, “and I did not kill your father. In fact, I prevented you from receiving the same fate as him.”

She paused, still glowering at him. “What do you mean?”

“He… I found him and his group… frozen to death.” The beast huffed, his menacing yellow eyes showing a hint of melancholy. “I wish I had found them before… Now I am far more vigilant when observing travelers up the mountain. I do not wish for them to encounter the same fate.”

She studied the creature… she was not yet ready to accept that her father merely froze to death, but the beast seemed to be telling the truth. 

“Please… you should eat,” the beast said, picking up the bowl. She mustered up enough strength to take it from his massive claw this time, watching him warily. He stepped back once more. 

“I am certain I am not… easy to trust,” he said, “but I am telling the truth. I mean you no harm.”

Ruminating on his words, she pondered her options. In her state, attempting to fight the creature would be suicide, and she was not properly dressed to flee from his capture. On the other hand… he had made no threat to her life yet, and he seemed to welcome her in, being as hospitable as a monstrosity could be. Perhaps it was in her own best interest to… play along. 

Cautiously, she took a sip of the soup, wincing at first at the temperature, but relishing the warm liquid as it fell to her stomach. Once it cooled, she was awed by how delicious it was. 

“Is it alright? Too hot?” The creature asked. 

She looked down at the bowl. “No, it’s… it’s delicious. Thank you.”

A fanged smile crossed his lips before he sat across from her on the other side of the fire, the flames casting his shadow across the ceiling and further heightening his looming presence. He took a ladleful of his own from the stewpot atop the fire, ladling it into a comparatively tiny bowl. 

“You may have as much as you wish, Princess,” he said, taking his own sip and finishing the bowl in a matter of seconds. Zelda huffed quietly, her attitude towards the creature turning from terror to… comfort. Amusement, even. 

“I-I do not wish to take too much. I am sure you want far more than me.”

“Mmh, I did. I had most of it already. This was my last bowl, but the rest is yours,” he said, smiling again and patting his large, round belly. “I believe there is enough here to feed two grown humans, still.”

She laughed, before flinching at the pain it caused. The creature’s face immediately fell to one of concern.

“Are you alright?”

She now realized how difficult it was to breathe, as if her lungs had shrunk. She coughed, looking at the creature. “I think I am just sore...” she murmured.

He sighed. “I suppose I should not be so fretful… you have just woken up, after all. Still, do let me know if it worsens.”

She peered back at it. “Do you have a name? Other than… other than the Blue Beast?”

He pondered that question for a moment. “A name, hm?… You… You may call me Ganon, for… nothing else seems to fit. So, Ganon will do.”

“Thank you, Ganon,” she said quietly. “Thank you for saving me…”

He smiled, a bit wearily this time. “I did what I could…”

For a moment they simply sat in silence, but this was cut short by the sound of drums faintly echoing from further down the mountain. Zelda recognized them as the traditional drums that started the new year’s eve celebrations… which meant she was missing those. 

Ganon also perked up at the sound of the drums. “Hmm… seems the new year is coming already.”

She simply nodded and continued eating. He glanced down at her. 

“You don’t object to them celebrating without their princess?” He asked. 

“I… was never of any importance to the festivities…” she said quietly. 

He huffed. “As I recall, there is a dance the young women of the kingdom partake in… even this doesn’t involve you, or at least interest you?”

She eyed him warily. “Even if it did… I don’t think I have the strength to dance…”

“I suppose not… surely you will not object to watching the fireworks later tonight, however.” He yawned, bearing more of his sharp teeth. “If I don’t fall asleep before then, that is…”

She smiled. “I suppose.”

[dzamie-oc]

Smaugust 27 - Fruit

Sylvia the hammerspace dragon wants to indulge on her favorite day: the day the Dragonslayers Guild cafeteria has strawberries! Unfortunately, it seems fate and herself have conspired to set obstacles in her way. But she REALLY wants those strawberries! (2029 words)

cw: soft vore, digestion discussion, traumatized prey

Above the heads of dragonslayers and dragonslayers in training, soared a small, golden dragoness, only a couple of feet long. Sylvia flapped her wings, twisting herself through corkscrews and slow loops as she hummed a happy tune. She glided along over heads helmeted and unhelmeted, katul and human, on her way towards the cafeteria. It was a very special day that day, one that made her consider spitting out the pair of trainees who called her a harmless mascot. Well, spitting them out sooner. It made her light mood lighter still, the active reminder that she, too, could be a man-eating dragon and terrorize a rather small bit of countryside. Not that she would, of course, but knowing she could was pleasant.

With agility and grace, the tiny dragon slipped through the open door to the cafeteria and made a beeline for the desserts, where a number of slices of strawberry cake lay out for guild members. Sylvia landed behind them, folded her wings, and looked up at the human keeping that area stocked. "Hi, Bruce! I smelled strawberries~!" she called up to him in a singsong voice.

Bruce waved at her, his curly hair kept in check with a cap. "Hey, Sylvia. But you know strawberries are for those who aren't eating people, right?"

Sylvia's wings drooped and she swept her tail around her in a draconic pout. "Aw, c'mon, how'd you even know?"

The human crossed his arms over his chest and smiled, holding up two fingers. "Simple," he explained, "one, better than even odds this time of year. Plenty of newbies around who've yet to learn Rule Number One. And two," Bruce's smile grew into a self-satisfied grin, "you just told me. Lucky guess turned into a certainty."

The little dragoness huffed, flapping her wings once and slapping her golden tail against the table. She had been betrayed by her own words! "I still want strawberries, though," she insisted.

"So just- hold on," Bruce said, setting out a sleeve of cookies to replace the one that just got cleared out, "so head into the bathroom or something, spit 'em out, and come back for your strawberries."

"Turning my punishment for them into a punishment for me?" Sylvia observed, "pure treachery. Unfettered evil. I really want those strawberries." She tilted her head as she looked at Bruce, smiled deviously, and licked her muzzle with a long, forked tongue. "And you, Bruce, are standing in my way..."

The man regarded her with skepticism, eyebrow quirked to match. "They'll be here when you get back, trust me. And if you're thinking what I think you're thinking, you better not be." He gestured with a hand to the people picking up cookies or cake as they spoke. "I mean, if I vanish, who will refill this? Then you've got a bunch of dessert-less dragonslayers with a pretty good idea that a dragon is responsible for their lack of sugary sweets, and possibly which one in particular. Imagine the carnage."

Sylvia squinted at him. "Bruce, I must say that your reasoning is exactly as strong as mine," she said slowly, "and, as you are still keeper of the strawberries I so crave, I will concede and presently return, devoid of humans." She stepped across the counter, picking her way carefully around desserts until she found a good space from which to take off. Just before spreading her wings, she turned her little head to face him again. "Can I eat you after lunch, then?"

"Sorry little lady, I have some very important not-being-eaten-by-a-dragoness to do around then. Fully booked."

"Alas, schedules," Sylvia conceded, then leapt up and flapped her golden wings. Some crumbs from a nearby cookie blew away from her wings' downdraft, but it was otherwise a very polite takeoff. She climbed, then dove and banked to speed off towards an unoccupied restroom. And by unoccupied, she meant the out of order one.

The small dragon pushed the door open with some effort, then slipped inside and perched on a sink. It was easy to see why there was a sign up on this one - two of the sinks were simply not there, as were a few stall doors. Either way, it made the perfect isolated space to disgorge a couple wet fools. And so she did.

The tiger katul quickly got his bearings, then noticed Sylvia and skipped back to keep his distance. The human was a bit slower, and, on seeing the dragoness, she shot the katul a cocky smile. "See? We're perfectly fine."

The feline nodded, not daring to take his eyes off of her. "I'm grateful," he said in a quiet voice.

"You're welcome!" chirped Sylvia. "This would've ended differently if you were, like, graduated members who should know better. I'm nice to the new guys."

"Sure you are," the human remarked. "You're surrounded by dragonslayers; there's no way we were ever in any danger."

Sylvia turned on the tap she was perched near and took a quick drink before addressing the woman. "Under three humans or katul a week, with low hoarding, and they can't even challenge me, let alone force me to accept. It's part of the enchantments around their swords and the duel circle things." She gave each of them a pointed look. "Small category dragon, green/yellow threshold. You'll have to learn it for... what is it, second year? Well before you get your real Slayer's Sword." She turned to the tiger and smiled. "But she's kind of right - I'm rarely lethal, just like to remind people of that first Rule. Know what that is, guy?"

The katul opened his mouth to answer, but the human cut in faster, "yeah, yeah, take all dragons seriously, even if they don't look like a threat. But you're clearly not a threat. You're like a scared-straight... thing." She snorted. "Hell, you're probably an herbivore or something, can't even process meat so you just do what you did to us."

A growl rose and died in Sylvia's throat, and she turned to face the woman, baring her sharp yet tiny teeth in a wide grin. "Care to bet your life on it?" she asked, forcing a sweet tone too much to be natural. "I'll eat you again, and if I'm really harmless, I'll have to let you out eventually."

"A... and if you're not?" the tiger asked.

"Then I won't have a human in my belly, I'll have a large chunk of meat and some shiny accessories I'll want to add to my hoard," Sylvia replied in a nonchalant tone. "You, however, aren't at risk here, just Little Miss Doubtful here." The dragoness leaned towards the human. "Scared? I don't bite."

Sylvia was conflicted, herself; on one paw, it would be nice for the woman to learn her lesson and back down, but on the other, eating her would be so cathartic... Fortunately for Sylvia, it wasn't her decision to make. The human stepped forward and held out her hands, then smirked towards the tiger. "I'll see you in a few hours," she said, confident in her decision. Sylvia took the offered hands, easily gulping the much larger human down without so much as a bulge in her neck or belly. And then, it was just her and the tiger.

He took a cautious step forward, watching her. "Where did she..." he trailed off, bewilderment overtaking his newfound fear of the golden dragoness.

"Oh, right, you wouldn't have seen since I ate you first!" Sylvia swished her tail, reared up on her haunches, and flared her wings proudly. "Neat trick, huh? Hammerspace dragon. We're pretty awesome."

The katul glanced at the door. "Y-yeah... may I please leave, ma'am?"

"Yeah, of course, the door's right-" Sylvia paused as his phrasing sank in. "Oh, you're terrified of me. Whoops. Um, right, so I'll go ahead and leave so I'm not trapping you in here." She took to the air again and flapped over to the door again. She struggled to open it, but with just a crack open, the smell of strawberries reinvigorated her. "Ooh, right, strawberries! Gotta go and pester Bruce some more!" she chirped, then slipped back out and swiftly flew straight back to the desserts area.

"Such a hurry," Bruce remarked as she slowed, the tiny breeze from her wings blowing against his face as she rapidly decelerated, "I told you I wasn't gonna run out of them."

"And I told you," she replied, folding her wings, "that I really want them. Give the dragon her delicious strawberries, please!"

"Belly free of people?" he asked, watching her closely. It was simple enough that he didn't expect her to lie, but just in case...

"No humans, no katul!" she chirped.

"No dragons?"

Sylvia recoiled. "What sicko would eat a dragon?! Yes, of course no dragons!"

Bruce chuckled, turned around, and returned with a pound of strawberries in a small, cardboard container. He set it down in front of the small dragoness, whose mouth fell open in a broad smile and whose pupils expanded at the sight of her favorite fruit. As she placed her forepaws on the edge and leaned in, Sylvia said in awe, "so this is what a religious experience feels like..." before leaning in and slowly taking a bite from one of the fruits, moaning softly as the juicy, tart flesh filled her mouth.

"Sylvia, member of the Dragonslayers Guild Strawnagogue, and her holy book The Frageriah," the human said as he watched her lovingly devour one of the fruits. Anyone familiar with her could tell when she really liked a food, because she'd bite into it rather than swallowing it whole, and strawberries were by far her most beloved food. He glanced up and saw an unfamiliar tiger katul, damp fur only somewhat groomed down, walking up. "Hey there," he called when the katul drew near, "new here?"

"Yeah, it's been... rough. Is getting eaten normal for dragonslayers?" He picked up a slice of strawberry cake.

"Well, it's one of the more common ways to die trying to slay a dragon," Bruce said, "but it sounds like you're the one Sylvia swallowed earlier. She just about threw a fit since I wouldn't give her strawberries with someone in her stomach."

"I did not! Fits are unjustified and excessive; what I did was perfectly reasonable!" Sylvia retorted, poking her juice-soaked head out of the strawberries. The katul screamed and leapt back half a dozen feet, eyes wide on seeing her. "What's his prob-" she looked down at her paw, then licked her muzzle experimentally, discovering the red juices on her muzzle. "Oh. Wow, he's been really unlucky with me." She blinked, then ducked back down into her strawberry heaven, slowly working through the treat, bite by tiny bite.

The tiger pointed a shaky, striped finger at the little dragoness. "Stay away from her! She killed a woman in front of me, like it was just another Thursday for her!"

Sylvia froze. Bruce froze. "Sylvia..." the human said in a warning tone, "care to explain? Because I asked you about this before giving you those strawberries."

The golden dragoness took another bite. Bruce gently picked her up, pinning her wings with one hand and holding her neck in the other. She dropped the strawberry. "I... do not consider what is in my stomach to be a human?" she pled.

Bruce was not very convinced. He walked around the counter, keeping her a reasonable distance away from the frightened newbie, and marched towards the cafeteria exit. "No murder in the cafeteria," he scolded, "naughty dragons do not get strawberries. Try another day."

The little dragon wiggled in his hands, but could not free herself. "This is cruel and unusual punishment, it violates the Geneva Conventions!" she argued, "I simply made sure to eat a meal before my strawberry dessert. How dare you mistreat a responsible, mature dragoness like th- woah!" She quickly righted herself when he tossed her into the hallway, then left her there as he went back to his post.

"Next strawberry day," she resolved, licking her scales clean of delicious strawberry juice and seeds, "next time, I will get so many strawberries."

[onceweptarchive]

IT ISN’T THE SOUND HE NOTICES WHEN HE COMES TO,    but the complete and utter lack of it. It’s enough to stir him awake, the absence of the near constant wailing that had been seared into his mind. And it’s deafening. Matthias blinks for a moment, breath halting as eyes scan the room that he’s found himself in. The light filtering in forces him to squint his eyes against it, the lack of damp leaks air that feels too crisp into his lungs. His mouth is dry. It’s the first time he’s been able to feel his body, and he almost wishes for the alternative to this complete exhaustion, to drift back...

He knows there’s no time for that now as he startles himself awake again. Rolling from his spot on the small sofa, as quick and silent on his feet as ever, he takes better stock of the room. It isn’t one of his own, the furniture tells him that. A safe house, maybe, though he knows the ranks are none too kind to potential deserters. There isn’t a wand in sight, and though his mind and body are still addled, still rife with unnameable malaise, Matthias steels himself for the potential to meet friend or foe. He creeps to the door way, muscles tense as he hears the tap of footsteps and flattens himself against the wall.

When the familiar form whips into the room he doesn’t even recognize her, lunging without thinking, pulling her against him from behind as a tray clatters before them.    “   Who are you? What do you want?   ”   He whispers the demand as his arm tightens around the others neck, a testament to the distrust that courses through his veins. To the self preservation that has been built in him. Lavender. It’s enough to make him sick as it floods his senses, and Matthias recoils instantly. Mind racing with venom, with realization that he doesn’t want to be touching her    (and yet he does all the same)    he shoves her away, nearly spitting as he speaks.    “    Nina.    ”

@nomcurners​

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

A love that never leaves (12)

Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Violence. Character death.

A/N: This was tough to write, but here we are at the end. Bucky makes a decision and the past is rarely what it seems to be. There’s a Band of Brothers reference in here, if you can spot it. An epilogue will be up next weekend!

Last year I posted Ch 9 of Safe With Me on Bucky’s birthday, which was also a real angsty chapter for him. I might need to write him something nice soon. ♥️

Links don’t work, so if you want to access the full ALTNL Masterlist, just click the MASTERLIST header on my blog.

Previously...

For two weeks, she stays there recovering, but no one comes.

In that sleepy Italian town, she finally understands.

After everything she has done, after everything they stole from her, after they broke her one last time - it appears that Hydra really was finished with her.

With freedom should come relief, but that is an emotion reserved for saints, not sinners like her. What she has done, she can never undo.

She will live with that fact, from now until the end of her days.

*****

MISSION REPORT

WAITING IS THROUGH. THE MISSION ENDS NOW.

He doesn’t want to do it. He doesn’t. But orders are orders. Tucking the white notebook into his coat pocket, he takes a deep breath.

And he walks toward the little cabin.

*****

The bedroom is quiet. Kneeling on the bed, they face either other.

Staring blankly into his lap, Bucky is frozen in place. Across from him, all he can hear are her quick, short breaths, growing steadily faster the longer they sit in silence. Distantly, he notices his fingers are clenched so tight in the fabric of his threadbare sweatpants, they’re moments from ripping apart.

“Say something,” she finally whispers.

Bucky slowly looks up.

Blatant fear rests in her face, and it makes him want to wrap her in his arms. Soothe it away and tell her everything will be okay, that he understands what happened, and he knows why she did it and he loves her no matter what.

Those are the words he should give her. They sit on his tongue, ready to be used. And he wants to use them, he really really does. But he doesn’t.

Because right now, Bucky has never felt so god damn lost in his entire life.

“What am I supposed to say?” he asks instead.

Shivering under the glare of his shocked disbelief, she fumbles her words. “I wanted to tell you Bucky, I did -“

She reaches for his arm and he involuntarily jerks away.

“But you didn’t,” he interrupts, and she recoils at the betrayal in his voice. “You didn’t tell me.”

Licking her lips, she tries again.

“I wanted - Bucky, I wanted to tell you so damn much. From the very beginning, but you were doing so well, and - and we were doing so well together, and I just wanted you to remember first. I wanted you to remember us first.”

Once again, she tries to touch him and once again, he wrenches his arm away.

“So, you lied, instead,” he says coldly.

Alarmed at the ice in his tone, she shakes her head. “No! I never lied to you Bucky, everything I told you was true. Everything about you and me, every single word, it was all true, you know that, you know it was, don’t - please don’t -" she chokes on the words as they tumble free.

Her fingers reach for him again. He pulls back again.

“How the hell do you expect me to believe you? You left out the most important part of the god damn story!”

“I know, shit, I know I shouldn’t have, but I just - Bucky, you said before, you said it didn’t matter - you said it wasn’t - that it wasn’t my fault, please!”

She reaches. He shies away.

Every time he withdraws from her touch, the light inside her dims. Finally, she stops trying. She tangles her fingers in her lap instead.

“That was - that was before I knew - you had to do that to those men, but - but I was - I was - how could you do that to me?” He hates the way his voice rises hysterically, but he can’t stop it. The question is like a physical blow and she cowers from his words.

“Bucky, I’m so sorry -“

“You ruined my life!” he shouts, and she quits breathing. “Everything I was, you just - you took it. Who I was, where I came from, what I believed - you broke it all. You broke me.”

Shrinking into herself, she has no reply. Tears spill down her face as she accepts his anger.

What the hell is he supposed to do now?

Scrambling backward off the bed, Bucky finds himself riding the dangerous edge of a full-blown panic attack. Looking at her there, sitting in the pile of soft blankets where he held her and kissed her and -

Shaking fingers comb through the wild tangles of hair falling over his face, and he feels tiny scars scattered across his scalp. Physical residue of horrific memories he still cannot remember.

Gathering her courage, she tries to speak again, but he stops her.

“Don’t,” he says forcefully. “Just - don’t.”

Looking around the room, he sees the glowing red embers of the fire, sees snowflakes drifting by the window, sees the pile of his dirty socks in the corner and her small jewelry box propped open on the dresser. All these small fragments that make up their life.

Their life here. Their life together.

It should be enough to rein him in. His heart wants it so much.

But apparently his brain has other ideas.

Spinning around, he goes to the closet and yanks the door open. Snatching up his duffel bag, he finds the pile of his neatly folded laundry tucked on the top shelf. Gathering everything, he stuffs it haphazard in the bag. Zipping it shut, he heads for the door.

“What are you doing? Bucky? Where are you going?” her voice rises in panic. Struggling off the bed, she follows him. “No no no, wait, please wait! Please, Bucky, don’t leave, please! Talk to me, tell me what I can do.”

It’s almost enough. The desperate plea nearly breaks him. Everything in him is screaming to stop, to drop the duffel bag and bury his face against her and cry until he’s empty. But he’s so god damn confused, he can barely see straight.

He forces himself to ignore her.

Rushing downstairs, he hears the soft thump of her bare feet chasing him, but he keeps going.

More pieces of their life together are strewn down below. Empty mugs with damp tea bags on the kitchen counter, a paperback book with one of his gum wrappers marking her page, the fluffy blanket Bucky wrapped around them both as they cuddled by the fire. Tiny remnants of a perfect life, a beautiful picture he never knew he craved, until he held it all in his perpetually mismatched hands.

Reaching the front door, Bucky shoves his feet into the boots he keeps lined up below the coat rack. Trembling fingers whip through the buckles and laces, and then he grabs his white jacket and jams his arms through. Without bothering to zip it up, he hefts his bag over his shoulder and pulls the door open.

Cold air swirls around him, the freshness of a beautiful morning spilling in.

With one foot outside, he abruptly halts. Breathing hard, his entire body vibrates under the strain of the anguish that sweeps through him.

Because he cannot help himself, he looks back.

Surrounded by the comforts of their home, there she stands. The love of his god damn life, hugging herself while she watches the man who promised to love her forever, as he walks out the door.

Bucky feels his heart thumping uncontrollably, smashing against his ribs, boom, boom, boom. Screaming at him to stop and listen. To let her explain and forgive her. To love her unconditionally and forever.

His heart thumps harder, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, and those sketchy memories that haunt his nightmares, the wash of red blood and the stench of black death, those painful colors that painted the life of the Winter Soldier, fill him with sick horror and it makes him dizzy.

“Please, Bucky,” she whispers. Broken. “Please stay. Don’t leave me.”

It takes every ounce of self-control he possesses, but he turns away. Slams the front door, hoists his bag over his shoulders, and leaps down the short flight of steps. With no plan other than escape, he bolts for the thick grove of pine trees opposite her house.

Knee deep drifts of snow blanket the yard, and he feels the icy bite of wet cold seeping through his pants as he trudges along, but it doesn’t matter. He keeps stomping until he reaches the cover of trees, where the thick white tapers away and the path is easier to navigate.

Breaking into a slow trot, he winds around the wide trunks of the silent forest. Now and then, he sniffs and angrily wipes away the tears that won’t seem to stop.

On and on he goes, his slow jog eventually changing to a flat out run. One mile turns into two and then into five. In the thin mountain air, his breath comes harsh and ragged as he runs faster and faster, away from the horrors of a past he can’t remember and the crushing disappointment he left on her face. On and on he runs, until suddenly, the terrain curves up, so he drops his head and sprints, scrabbling at slippery black rock. The duffel bag bounces crazily at his back and he loses his grip once, smashing his face against the icy granite. Swearing viciously, his nose gushing blood, he crawls back to his feet and keeps running.

Bucky climbs and climbs and climbs, until all of a sudden, he skids to a stop.

Spread out before him, is an alien world. Glittering white stretches into infinity, sawtooth mountain peaks clawing at the distant blue sky. In the open, it is fiercely cold, but he jerks off his stocking hat, sighing in relief at the feel of air on his blisteringly hot neck. Sweat slides down his back, pooling between his shoulder blades and he gulps down the dry air, relishing in the ache it forces into his lungs.

Folding his fingers atop his head, he tips his face to the dazzling sunshine. Slowly, his panting lessens. Slowly, he feels the wild anxiety dissipate. And slowly, he begins to understand what he’s done.

“Oh my god,” he exhales. Staring up into the deep blue sky, dread creeps up his spine. “What the fuck did I just do?”

Knees buckling, he falls hard, the sting of cold soaking through his pants. A shaking hand wipes away the blood still trickling from his nose and he closes his eyes.

Bucky Barnes will be the first to admit, sometimes he makes terrible decisions.

Sometimes they’re just normal terrible, like the time he ate four platefuls of spaghetti and then challenged Sam to a five-mile run. By mile two, he was puking up tomato sauce.

Sometimes they’re slightly more terrible, like the time he refused medical treatment and insisted on digging three bullets out of his thigh himself. He passed out near the end and cracked his head on the ceramic floor of the med bay.

Sometimes they’re pretty terrible, like all those times he forced himself to stand in a Hydra base and relieve every hideous memory that inevitably resurfaced. That just proves he’s an idiot.

But now and then, he does this. Makes such a monumentally terrible decision that nothing positive can come from it. And this one here just might be the most catastrophically stupid decision of his entire fucking life. He should have stayed. He should have dug his heels in and worked through this with her, but like a god damn coward, he ran.

“You dumb idiot sonofabitch,” he growls.

Above the whistle of wind whipping around, he hears a quiet chirp chirp sound and a striped chipmunk scurries past. The small creature stops when it sees him, popping up on its haunches and sniffing the air. Bright eyes watch him, and Bucky has the uncomfortable feeling of being judged.

“I really fucked that up, didn’t I?” he asks. The chipmunk twitches its fluffy tail in agreement and Bucky grunts. “I know, I just - I fuckin’ panicked. One minute I’m asking her to marry me and the next she’s telling me - well, you know.” The chipmunk tilts its head. “Okay, so maybe you don’t know, but believe me, it was insane.” Another chirp, another head tilt. Bucky groans and buries his face in his hands. “Jesus. You’re right. I’m a god damn idiot.”

Shame flares red-hot in his chest. How could he have done this to her? Left their trust behind and walked away?

In the crisp morning air, clarity arrives like a clap of thunder.

Despite decades apart, despite every cruel twist of Fate, despite the unending brutality Hydra leveled against them both, despite everything in the world conspiring to keep them apart - nothing worked. With only muscle memory to guide them, somehow, against all odds, they found their way back to each other.

Because this right here, is what it means to love someone with every piece of your heart.

The simplicity of that realization brings a deep comfort to his soul. He knows then, exactly what he has to do.

“I have to go back,” he announces. Jumping to his feet, he grabs his bag and shrugs into the straps. “Tell her none of it matters. None of it does matter. I get why she did it, I would’ve done the same damn thing, if I thought I could save her.” Bucky nods at the chipmunk. “Thanks man.”

Turning around, he picks up his trail and he heads for home.

*****

The trek back seems shorter. Or maybe he’s just anxious to get back, but in no time at all, Bucky picks out the familiar markers that mean home is just over the horizon. Unable to contain himself, he starts to sprint.

Relief fills him when he plunges through the trees, finding the house exactly as he left it.

Smoke curls lazily from the chimney, water bubbles merrily in the nearby stream, the pile of wood he was chopping lays unfinished by the shed. Everything in its place, everything perfect, everything -

Wrong.

There is no discernible reason for it, but feeling is overpowering. It slams into him, like a punch to the face.

Something is wrong.

Pulling up short, he goes completely still.

All those threats he imagined lurking in the darkness last night feel suddenly real, magnified in the morning sun. There are no screams, no cries, no blood, nothing that would indicate anything out of the ordinary, but still. Swinging his bag around, Bucky crouches in the snow and digs through his pack until his fingers find a gun. Shaking a round of bullets from the clip stashed inside his coat, he slips them into the chamber and snaps it shut. Rising slowly, he raises the gun, eyes darting back and forth across the quiet landscape. Picking his way carefully through the snow, he’s within a few hundred feet of the house when he sees it.

Footprints.

Coming from the opposite direction, leading in a straight line to her front door.

Bucky feels the ground disappear beneath his feet.

“Fuck,” he spits out. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Something suddenly crunches under his boot. Glancing down, he drops to one knee, his eyes tracking every direction, while he reaches blindly for whatever made that sound. Fingers touch a hard edge, and brushing away a dusting of snow, he picks up a white notebook.

Eyes still roaming cautiously, he balances it on his knee and flips it open.

Written at the top of every page, the words “MISSION REPORT” are ground into the paper. Thumbing through page after page, he finds shaky block letters in gray lead, short sentences and rambling comments and odd words jumping out at him.

Krakow. Pain. New soldiers. Old signals. Pain. Electricity. Pain. Pain. Pain.

Utterly bewildered, Bucky flips to the last few pages.

---

MISSION REPORT: CONTACT MADE BUT RESPONDENT ELIMINATED. BASE DID NOT REVEAL INFORMATION REQUIRED TO PROCEED TO NEXT RENDEZVOUS POINT. HOLD AND WAIT. WITHOUT ADDITIONAL SUPPORT MISSION FAILURE IS IMMINENT. REQUESTING BACK UP FOR –

---

MISSION REPORT: CONTACT MADE BUT RESPONDENT ELIMINATED. BASE DID NOT REVEAL INFORMATION REQUIRED TO PROCEED TO NEXT RENDEZVOUS POINT. HOLD AND WAIT. WITHOUT ADDITIONAL SUPPORT MISSION FAILURE IS IMMINENT. REQUESTING BACK UP FOR –

---

MISSION REPORT: NEW OBJECTIVE IDENTIFIED. RECONNAISSANCE REQUIRED TO DETERMINE APPROPRIATE COURSE OF ACTION. OBSERVATION WILL CONTINUE FROM A SAFE DISTANCE.

---

MISSION REPORT: LAST MISSION PARAMETERS RECALLED AND RE-ACTIVATED. APPROPRIATE TOOLS COMMANDEERED TO ADDRESS ISSUES AND SECURE ADDITIONAL SUPPORT. SECOND ATTEMPT AT CONTACT WILL BE UNDERTAKEN BEFORE PROCEEDING WITH FINAL ELIMINATION PLAN.

---

MISSION REPORT: SECOND ATTEMPT AT CONTACT ESTABLISHED. AWAITING RESULTS.

---

MISSION REPORT: BOTH TARGETS UNEXPECTEDLY INFILTRATED BASE. UNABLE TO SEPARATE AND ADDRESS INDIVIDUALLY. WILL CONTINUE HOLDING PATTERN UNTIL OPPORTUNITY ARISES.

---

MISSION REPORT: WAITING IS THROUGH. THE MISSION ENDS NOW.

---

Bucky reads it all twice, trying to make sense of the words. They look like diary entries, the barest details outlining the sketch of a person’s day.

Kind of like the notes Steve jots down sometimes, so he can fill in a more descriptive report later. Like the kind Sam sometimes writes in the notebook he tries to hide, so he can examine his own thoughts and mood swings. Like the kind Bucky sometimes marks on the back of grocery receipts, when he gets stuck inside his head and needs a way to set the anger free.

Mission reports are the hallmark of any good soldier.

Any good soldier.

An idea suddenly pops into his brain. Insane, irrational, and entirely ludicrous.

Tucking the notebook into his pocket, he grits his teeth furiously and raises the gun again. Picking his way through the snow, he reaches the shoveled path and when he hits the front steps, his feet choose the places he already memorized, where the creaking whine of the wood is silenced.

Pressing his ear to the door, he strains to hear, but finds nothing. Praying he is dead wrong, Bucky turns the handle slowly and eases the door open. Stepping into the doorway, he finds himself momentarily snow-blind from the world of white, so he blinks quickly.

The inside world takes shape. All the basics of a comfortable life remain, just as he left them this morning.

A crackling fire. The smell of coffee. The hum of a fan. A low radio playing staticky jazz in the background.

In the dim light, the barrel of his gun finds the face of someone kneeling by the fireplace.

Except there are two people kneeling there.

She sits on her knees, her arms folded behind her back. Dressed in sweatpants and a heavy sweater, thick socks on her feet, she still shivers uncontrollably. Crouched behind her, digging a gun into her neck, is a familiar face, one Bucky recognizes from a blurry photograph.

“What kind of soldier leaves his home base completely unprotected?” Henry Lewis asks. His voice is low and hollow, guttural tones of a man who hasn’t spoken in a long time. “You failed to even lock the door, I walked right inside. I expect she thought I was you, she came running at the sound.”

The resemblance to the photos is there, with only slight differences. After years of electricity and experiments, his curly black hair is now a shock of white, illuminating his dark eyes. He looks like a young man, mid-30s at most, but the haunted look in his face speaks of decades of nightmares.

When she meets Bucky’s eyes, he sees dazed shock fill her features. Swallowing hard, she keeps her eyes focused on him and tries to speak.

“Henry, I know you’re upset. You should be,” she says quietly, never looking away from Bucky. “But he has nothing to do with this. Let him leave, and you and I can figure out what you need to do. Please.”

“No, I need him here,” Henry answers, his mouth at her ear. “He has to be here for this.”

Still aiming the gun at the pair, Bucky eyes his angle, gauging his chances of taking Henry down with a single shot. The mechanics of it bounce through his head and he comes up empty. He tries to get Henry talking while he strategizes.

“Lieutenant, how are you here?”

“How am I alive, you mean?” Henry clarifies. “That’s a long story. Without a happy ending, I’m afraid. Let’s just say the serum they gave me wasn’t quite as effective as yours, but it still covered the basics.”

Bucky glances to the photos scattered across the coffee table, of soldiers and experiments.

“So, you were one of the first, then,” he states. The gun in his hand is steady as he keeps it raised, still waiting for the right angle. “You volunteered?”

“Fuck you, I never fucking volunteered,” Henry snaps. “I never would have gotten involved if I knew what the hell they were.” Nostrils flaring angrily, his lips press into a tight line. “My unit, the men I trained and served with, all of them were dying out in Germany and there I was, stuck behind a god damn desk writing reports. They said they could fix my leg and I wanted a way back into the war.” His gaze flicks quickly to her. “I wanted her to be proud of me.”

Tears spill down her face at the comment. “Henry, I was always proud of the man you were,” she whispers.

Henry says nothing. Simply clenches his jaw, his eyes back on Bucky. When he speaks again, his voice is hard.

“When they put me under, it was 1959 and I was in the Ukraine. They left me there. Useless forgotten tech. No one thought twice about the old soldiers they kept in cold storage, but decades later the tech in the place went to shit and the cryo tank stopped working. I was the only one who woke up. That was in 2016.”

A bead of cold sweat drips into Bucky’s eye and he blinks it away, shuddering at the thought of returning to cryo. Of remaining locked in that cold darkness forever.

“What then? You went back to the old bases?” Bucky questions. His gun drifts a hair to the right, still searching for a shot, but Henry knows exactly what he’s doing. Tugging her closer, he digs the gun at her neck in deep and she flinches. Bucky swears under his breath and gives up the angle.

“At first, the only thing I remembered were the locations of the bases where I was stationed. I went back to all of them, launching distress signals and trying to find someone to help. But you and your friends were the only people who ever came.”

Christ. How fucking wrong could they have been? All this time, Bucky thought they were smashing Hydra’s broken tech, but there was so much they missed.

“We thought it was the technology,” Bucky says tightly. “Never found anything at the bases, thought they were all breaking down.”

“No,” Henry says. “I was always good at hiding.” A tiny, reluctant smile curves his lips. “The day you were shot, when she found you, I was sitting in the bar. You walked right by me. Barely glanced in my direction.”

Bucky has an epiphany then, remembering the occupants of the bar with perfect clarity. Specifically, a lanky man with a ragged fur hood drawn around his face, one hand encased in a black wool glove - the other hand splayed bare on the table.

“The glove,” he says slowly. “The one I found up at the base. That was you.”

Henry nods once. Stares searchingly at Bucky.

“I’ve been in the shadows of your life Barnes. The night she wiped you, I was there for that as well. They sent me to fetch her for the procedure.” Henry seems confused for a moment. “I think they were testing me. To see if I remembered.”

“Oh,” she breathes, realization dawning. “I saw you hesitate, when you came into the cell. I remember now." Henry twitches at her statement.

“I know,” he says sharply. “You always remember. The rest of us don’t have that luxury.”

Bucky sees her face crumple at the words. He feels a flash of anger at the insensitivity.

“That’s enough,” he says sharply. “Lieutenant, why are you here? What do you want?”

Henry doesn’t answer. He changes the subject.

“I stood there in that room while the two of you said goodbye. I watched her comfort you. Everyone could see how much she loved you. It made me so fucking angry and I couldn't say anything, they wouldn't let me. But I couldn’t understand why she was with someone else. She was supposed to love me, that's why she left me those memories of her.”

At the hurt in his voice, she tries to turn to face him, but he won’t let her move. “They told me you died, Henry. They said they killed you, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry I didn’t know.”

Henry talks to her now, his voice a little lower. “The last day we were at the base, before we moved out, I snuck away and left food by your door. Unlocked in in case you wanted to leave. I had no clue why I was doing it, but something told me that I should. So, I did.”

“You saved my life,” she says, closing her eyes. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“I had to,” he replies softly. “It was like I had to do it.”

There, for a brief, shining moment, Bucky sees the gun begin to lower. But then Henry remembers himself, remembers the anger he keeps inside, and he rolls his shoulders back and presses it harder against her.

Watching him closely, Bucky tries again.

“You still haven't answered the question. Why are you here?” Still, Henry says nothing. Frustrated, Bucky tries something else. “Fine. Then do you know what happened to Richter?”

Henry’s lip curls at the question.

“I killed him.”

Her eyes fly open at the words, palpable relief in her face.

“Not that any of us here are sad about that,” Bucky says, “but why?”

“Because he was an asshole who deserved it,” Henry sneers. “I had more control after a mission and I started to remember things about him. Got so mad, I gut-shot him, wanted him to suffer.” His eyes narrow and he muses quietly to himself. “I never should have done it that way.”

Nerves tensing at the comment, Bucky grips his gun a little tighter. “Why? Why was that a bad thing?”

“He was still alive when I went over to him. He said something to me.”

“What did he say?” There is no answer and Bucky asks again. “Lieutenant. What did he say to you?”

Henry sits up straighter, his gun still pressed to her skin and he glares at Bucky. “He gave me one more mission.”

“And? What was it?”

No answer. Instead, Henry fists his hand in the back of her sweater and pulls her to her feet. Using her as a shield, he moves closer to the door.

“Lieutenant,” Bucky barks. “Dammit, what was the last mission you received?”

Still no answer. Henry holds her tight against him and she stares mutely back at Bucky.

The love he sees there takes his breath away.

When Henry finally speaks again, the words are harsh. “She did this to both of us, you understand that right? Everything that happened, it was because of her.”

“No,” Bucky says fiercely. “She had no choice. They gave her no choice. Surely you understand that. You have to see that.”

“You’re a fool.”

“Maybe. But I love her,” Bucky says simply. “I’ve loved her every day since I was twenty-seven years old. Nothing can change that.”

“Sometimes,” Henry says wearily, “it’s the things we love most, that destroy us.”

Bucky sees the devastation in her expression at those words. But still there, steadfast beneath it all, is that all-consuming love. The kind that doesn’t give up.

She loves him. He loves her. Nothing else matters.

“She could take every last memory again and it wouldn’t change anything,” he says, speaking to her now. “I told her, this love would never leave, and I meant that. If I lose it all again, I’d still find my way back to her.”

There is pity in the gaze Henry levels at him. Bucky glares defiantly back and behind Henry’s dark eyes, is a minuscule shift. A hint of relief appears, before quickly fading.

“Well. Okay. I guess that’s it then,” Henry says calmly.

“Wait,” Bucky says quickly. “Hang on, you still haven’t - tell me about your final mission.”

Without replying, Henry tucks he against him and shuffles toward the front door. Bucky tries to come closer, but he shakes his head warningly and shoves the gun into her harder. Bucky keeps his distance.

The door is still open, and Henry nudges it further, until they’re backing out onto the porch. There he pauses, giving Bucky a hard look.

“Think about it. You know exactly what the mission was,” Henry says flatly, and Bucky feels his stomach plummet. “I have to end this now.”

Wrapping one arm around her waist, Henry lifts her down the stairs, the gun still tight against her. Like a magnet, Bucky follows, the gun in his hands now coated in slick sweat.

Out in the icy world, Henry keeps going backward, pulling her through the snow. Bucky can see her shivering violently now, the wet cold soaking through her socks and thin sweatpants. Further and further he drags her, Bucky stalking every move, his throat clogged with fear.

Finally, they stop.

“Henry,” she says, her voice cracking. “Henry I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything.”

“I know you are,” he says gently. Kissing her temple tenderly, he looks back at Bucky and places the gun carefully to the exact same place his lips just touched. She chokes back a sob.

“Lieutenant put the god damn gun down,” Bucky calls, fighting to keep his voice even. “I can help you. Let me help you.”

“No, you can’t,” Henry says calmly. One long, thin finger caresses the trigger and then blue eyes meet bottomless black ones.

What he sees, cuts Bucky Barnes down to the bone.

The pleading expression on Henry’s face is something Bucky knows intimately. How many times through the years did he give that same look to other people? Handlers and henchmen and horror-struck victims. The look is gut wrenching desperation, the kind that begs for one single thing above all others.

This is the look of someone asking for death.

Please, it says. Kill me, it says.

“No,” Bucky says urgently, desperation soaking into the words. “God dammit, don’t - don’t make me do this.”

“You know I have to,” Henry says and in the cold mountain air, the finality of his words is obvious.

“Lieutenant,” Bucky grits out and Henry tightens his arm around her.

“She’s my mission,” he whispers.

There it is. This cannot end until the mission is complete. Years of training, brainwashing, torture. All of it culminating in the burning desire to complete the given mission, no matter the cost. Bucky knows that feeling like no other.

“Please,” Bucky croaks out one final time. “Put the gun down, I’m - I’m begging you. I know you don’t want to hurt her.”

“No. I don’t,” Henry agrees. But then his finger squeezes tighter on the trigger and Bucky sees him silently mouthing two words.

“Do it.”

One man squeezes a trigger. Another man takes the hit.

The sound of the bullet making contact is jarring. During the war, Bucky learned to hide the flinch, to keep the stoic mask in place with every kill, but it roils his gut all the same. Across from him, Henry Lewis drops like a marionette cut from its strings. The gun falls harmlessly by his side and in death, his lips curve up in a relieved smile.

Bucky waits a beat, before throwing his gun aside and running for her. There’s blood splattered on her clothes and across the side of her face, but she's reaching for him and he sweeps her into his arms as she tumbles forward.

The echoing ricochet of the gunshot ripples away and world is silent for a fleeting moment, before the birds resume their bright chatter. Burying her face against his jacket, she clings to him and she breaks. Great heaving sobs rip from her throat, ugly sounds of absolute dejection, of fear and relief and heartbroken sadness. Cradling her in the snow, Bucky rocks her against him and lets her cry.

“It’s okay,” he keeps saying, over and over. Finally, he scoops her up and carries her back toward the house. “It’s okay honey, I’m here. I won’t let go.”

*****

Deep in the heart of the forest, where the snow struggles to reach, Bucky stops walking.

Easing down the body from his shoulder, he unstraps the shovel from his back and starts to dig. Once he breaks through dead pine needles and the first frozen layer of dirt, the rest is easy. Through the years, he’s gotten good at digging graves.

As he digs, he thinks.

This man, with serum pumping through his veins, was one of the world’s first super soldiers. His body and blood would be a veritable gold mine of information, every scientist on the planet would be dying to get their hands on him, slice him apart and peek inside. Find out what made him tick. Perhaps he should have brought the authorities in for this one, there was so much science to learn, so much to discover.

But Bucky thinks about dignity and honor. About what it means to be a soldier, back then and even today.

And he says fuck it.

Instead, he carries Lieutenant Henry Lewis, of the British Army’s 506th battalion, to the base of a towering pine tree in the mountains of France and gives him a real burial. One fit for a soldier.

Out here, he digs alone. Back at the cabin, she had said her goodbyes. Standing on the porch, he gave them privacy, watching from a distance as she spoke to Henry, occasionally pausing to think, to wipe her eyes. When she placed a hand on the cold body wrapped carefully in her softest pair of bed linens, she squeezed his arm and smiled. Bucky never plans to ask what she said in that goodbye. That was for them alone, and he knows that every love story deserves a proper ending. He would never begrudge them theirs.

An hour later, he tamps down the mound of dirt. Dropping the shovel he sighs, clapping the rough texture of earth from his fingers. Tilting his head back, he looks up to find streaks of purple and red filtering through the thick branches soaring overhead.

Color, he thinks. Painting a new memory. This is one he plans to keep to himself. Life is funny like that sometimes.

Death always brings sadness, but there is beauty in one thing. For Henry, all those vibrant memories that made up his life will live on, held in her hands, never to be forgotten. Bucky smiles when he realizes the same can be said for him. The memories of his past held tight in her hands, accessible any time he needs. But all he really wants, is the chance to create new memories together. The past is done, he just wants a future with her.

And he gets one. She said yes.

He’s so damn lucky.

Darkness begins to descend, and he feels that aching pull toward home. But before he leaves, Bucky thinks of one last detail.

There is no gravestone here, this soldier will not rest among that familiar sea of identical white stone, each inscribed with those key details. Name. Rank. Military brand. Birth. Death. Those final black and white bits gifted to every soldier, forgetting the unending sea of color of their lives.

Slipping a knife from his boot, he crouches down and digs his blade into the tree. With a few twists of his wrist, he carves a rough cross deep into the base of the tree trunk. He gazes at the small token for a minute, before sliding the knife back into his boot.

Standing with an inaudible sigh, he backs away. Straightens himself up. Snaps his feet together and offers a sharp salute to the unmarked grave.

“Rest easy, Soldier,” he murmurs.

And then Sergeant Bucky Barnes turns and heads home.

*****

Epilogue

*****

[mamabearcat]

First Impressions

Yesterday, I reblogged this long post that gave heaps of examples of people being nice humans to each other, despite their outward appearance. And the last paragraph, where a girl with a cold goes to convenience store and has a chat to a friendly giant of a man, just struck a chord. And then this inukag oneshot happened.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Kagome cracked open one eye, clutching the blanket tighter around her as she shivered. She really shouldn’t be surprised. All day yesterday she’d been feeling like crap. She’d put it down to the stress of moving into a new place, but nope. She had a cold. And probably not just a sniffle considering she was both shivering and sweating. She swallowed, then wished she hadn’t – it felt like she had a golf ball lodged in her throat. A golf ball covered in broken glass, serrated knives and acid.

“Sangoooo?” she moaned pitifully, not wanting to move from her balled-up position under the covers. No answer. Then she remembered. Sango had gone out last night, after failing to coax Kagome to come out and meet her friends for their regular Friday night drinks at the pub. Kagome had taken a rain check, feeling exhausted after moving all her stuff into Sango’s apartment and had just wanted an early night.

Come to think of it, she hadn’t heard Sango come in last night. Surely, she should be back home by now? She pushed one arm out of her blanket cocoon, patting the bedside table to find her phone with shaky fingers, then pulled it back inside, squinting at the brightness of the small screen with scratchy dry eyes.

She had three missed texts from Sango.

Kagomeee! If you change your mind hon, we’re at the pub a couple of blocks down – Three Blind Mice. Come out and drink with us! Me and ma boys! We gotta celebrate you moving in! Don’t be a party pooper!

Are you coming?! C’mon, we’re going dancing! You love to dance!

Gon crash at Mirokuuus. Bit tipssdfy. lOve ouup Kagsssss xxxxxxxxxdsklfsx

Kagome snorted. On the upside, it looked like she wouldn’t be the only one feeling like crap this morning. On the downside, it meant she had to fend for herself. She lay there feeling pathetic. Tried whimpering a little to see if it made her feel better. It didn’t. She wished that a glass of water would miraculously appear on her bedside table, complete with flu medication and a box of tissues. It didn’t. She tried engaging her usually happy go lucky personality. C’mon Kagome! Buck up, it’s just a virus. You’re not actually dying. Lots of people have it worse off than you… probably.

Finally, she dragged her sorry self out of bed, shivering as her feet met the cold wooden floor. Note to self. Buy slippers. She had no idea where any medicine she owned might be in her half-unpacked boxes of possessions, so she dragged herself into the bathroom and opened the mirrored cabinet to see if Sango had any. Lots of eyeshadow. Eye make up remover. Some nail polish that looked like it had gone a bit clumpy. Some bedraggled looking fake eyelashes that had seen better days. But no medication. Not even a cough drop. Note to self. Buy the entire contents of a pharmacy.

She shut the door of the cabinet and recoiled at her own reflection. Gah, she looked disgusting. Her face looked deathly pale framed by her blue-black hair, which seemed to look greasy and lank, even though she’d washed it yesterday. Nose and ears bright red. Blue eyes now watery. Even her lips looked chapped.

“Uuuungh”, she moaned, and wished she hadn’t as the demon that had taken up residence in her throat commenced merrily stabbing her with a pitchfork without restraint. She leaned her head forward on the cabinet with a dull thud. There was nothing for it. She was going to have to go outside and engage in conversation with actual people to buy something to make her feel human. Dammit.

Trudging through the snow wearing her only pair of tracksuit pants, her only pair of boots, nearly every shirt she owned and Sango’s puffy jacket that she’d pilfered from the hall closet, Kagome was bitterly regretting her decision to move to New York from California in late autumn. Who does that? Her joy at finally being able to move in with her best friend Sango after securing the job of her dreams in New York was definitely being overshadowed by her physical misery at the moment. Her shivers were reaching the proportion of actual earthquake tremors, and the cold air was making her throat feel even worse. She hunched her shoulders against the cold wind, both hands shoved in the pockets in an attempt at keeping them warm. Note to self. Buy a woolly hat. And gloves. And a scarf. A trickle of dampness invaded her suede boots, which were very cute, but obviously not waterproof. And new boots.

A small eddy of frozen air whistled around her, the cold breeze managing to poke it’s frozen fingers down the back of her neck. She whimpered, and then made a determined face. C’mon Kagome. Think of the pioneers. They didn’t have puffy jackets, and they survived. Mostly. She’d been walking for twenty minutes and she still hadn’t found somewhere that sold over the counter cold medicine. Now she’d settle for just Tylenol, anything to dull the pain in her throat and the increasing thump in her head.

She spotted a convenience store on the corner and decided this was it. Whatever they had would be good enough until Sango got home. She shuffled in the door, scrubbing the snow off her boots on the mat and swiftly closing the door behind her. She could have wept in relief. It was warm in here.

Her ears were burning with the cold, and she wished she’d had the sense to buy more cold weather clothes before she moved. She was pretty sure her boots were going to be ruined, her socks were soggy and freezing. It was only mid-November, she didn’t think it would be snowing already, but apparently according to the weatherman, she’d moved in the middle of some freak early cold front. Figures.

Rubbing her ears gently to try and defrost them, she walked over to the shelves that had looked like they had medication stocked on them, glancing at the guy standing behind the counter. She stopped. Wow.

He was tall, really tall. And muscular. The red flannel shirt he was wearing did nothing to disguise the width of his shoulders. But what really made him stand out was the long silver hair, pulled back at the nape of his neck. And… omg, were they puppy ears?! Kagome nearly squeaked. She’d only met a few demons in San Diego where she’d previously lived, mostly ones that had an affinity with water, seeing there were so many jobs available that centred around the fishing industry. She’d never seen anyone like him before. One pointed white ear twitched, obviously listening. Gah, so cute!

Kagome realised she had been blatantly staring when he turned his piercing amber eyes her way, his expression a little stern, and she quickly whipped her gaze to the shelves in front of her, cheeks burning with more than the cold. Focus Kagome! Don’t bother the nice demon. So what if he’s the most spectacularly beautiful person you’ve ever seen. She picked up some Tylenol, then grabbed a basket and trailed around the little store. There wasn’t a huge amount to choose from, but she added a couple of bottles of Gatorade. That would have to do.

She approached the counter with some trepidation. At 5’2”, she knew she wasn’t the tallest person around, but next to this guy she felt miniscule. A tiny pathetic, wet kitten sized ball of sickness. He was leaning back against the wall with his eyes closed and arms crossed, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but this convenience store, and she couldn’t really blame him. She’d done her time working in customer service and it sucked. She quietly put her items down on the counter.

“Um, excuse me?” Ouch. She almost whimpered at the ripping feeling in her throat as she spoke.

He turned towards her, uncrossing his arms, his amber eyes almost seeming to possess their own glow.

“Hey, you okay? You really don’t sound so good.” His voice was like melted honey, a rich baritone, and the gaze of those golden eyes was focused directly on her. A double whammy that had Kagome feeling a little weak in the knees. Usually she would have brushed off a stranger with a bland ‘I’m fine’, but something about that voice and the concern in those amber eyes made her tell the truth.

“Not so good. I woke up with a sore throat; I think I’m coming down with the flu.”

He looked her over and Kagome felt like a deer caught in the headlights, mesmerised. Like she’d accidentally come in contact with some ancient demigod doing his best to blend into modern society by wearing a flannel shirt and jeans and failing miserably because he was just too goddamned beautiful. She tried to get her shivering under control, so she didn’t look quite as pathetic as she felt, but that seemed to make it even worse.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

Kagome shook her head, unwilling at this point to speak and risk more punishment from her throat. His throat rumbled; it was an obvious reproach, a resonating grumbling growl that woke up tiny butterflies in Kagome’s insides.

“You need to eat if you’re sick. Would ya like a chicken sandwich? They’re warm, and they’re pretty delicious.”

Kagome’s stomach spoke for her as if on cue, and he grinned at her, a sharp fang poking over his lip, the golden eyes squinting in amusement. Her cheeks heated even more, and the butterflies turned somersaults in her stomach and woke up their friends.

“I guess that’s a yes then.”

Kagome nodded again, gripping the edge of the counter for support. She wasn’t sure if it was the flu or the aura of the man in front of her, but she was feeling a little light-headed. She watched as he carefully wrapped up the hot chicken sandwich and scanned her other items, placing them all gently in a bag, handing it to her after she’d paid.

“You be careful out there, okay? The slush on the corners can be really slippery after it’s stopped snowing. Have you got far to walk?”

Kagome shrugged. “Not too far”, she tried to say, but all that came out was a creaky whisper. Great, now her voice was disappearing altogether. She swallowed with an effort. “Thankyou.”

She opened the door and stepped back out into the cold, and the wind seemed to cut into her like a knife. She smothered a small whimper and began trudging away from the store, hunching her shoulders in an effort to keep the small amount of warmth leftover from being inside still had safe, when a sudden hand on her shoulder made her freeze.

She turned, only to see the dog-eared demon from the store. With a bright red woollen beanie in his hands. Which he suddenly plonked down on her head.

“Ya know, only an idiot would be going out in out in weather like this without a hat, especially if they’re sick”, he said conversationally, tugging down the edges to make sure her ears were covered.

Kagome stared at him open mouthed.

“Either you’re an idiot, or you’re delirious. Which is it?” He placed a hand on her forehead, checking her temperature. “Dammit, girl, you’re burnin’ up! I was just jokin’ with the delirious crack, but maybe you really are!” He stared at her seriously for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. He poked his head into the store, hollered that he was leaving for the day, grabbing a jacket and a scarf that was near the front door, then walked back to her side.

“C’mon, I’m walkin’ you home”, he said, shrugging on the jacket. “You said you didn’t have far to walk, right? Can’t be good for business to lose a local customer.”

Kagome looked at him uncertainly. He certainly didn’t look like a serial killer, but she got the impression that most serial killers didn’t go about announcing their intentions either. And he’d seen that she didn’t have much money – she’d dumped the fistful of change on the counter when she’d bought stuff, with only a dollar or two to spare. What if he were some kind of pervert?

While she was trying to make a decision, he commenced winding the scarf around her neck gently, tucking the ends in her jacket. He must have noticed the hesitation in her gaze, because he took a step backwards out of her personal space.

“Hey, I promise I’m not tryin’ to take advantage of ya. I’m not that kinda guy. And even if I was, which I promise I ain’t, you really look terrible at the moment.”

Kagome glared at him. That may be true, but he didn’t have to be an asshole and actually tell her. She was tempted to rip of the scarf and hat and stomp home, but her ears had only just begun to thaw out. And to tell the truth, she was feeling so ill that she was actually beginning to wonder if she would actually make it home, stomping or otherwise.

The dog demon clicked his fingers, and Kagome noticed the long pointed nails at the ends of his fingers. “I know. What if I call a friend of mine? To vouch for me. She’s the type a girl to tell it to you straight.” He dug into his jeans pocket and pulled out a phone and dialled a number.

“Hey Sango”. Kagome’s eyes rounded in surprise as she watched him speak on the phone. He sniggered. “You sound terrible… Yeah sorry to wake you. Actually no I’m not… That’s what you get for listenin’ to Miroku – I thought you were smart. Anyway, I want you to speak to a girl I’m gonna walk home, let her know I’m trustworthy… Shut. Up. Not like that! Okay, thanks… wait, what? Oh, I dunno, guess I’d better ask huh?”

He turned to Kagome. “Sorry, just realised that I never asked your name.” He bent his head down so he’d be able to hear her soft voice over the wind whistling around them in the narrow street.

“It’s Kagome”, she whispered, almost giggling as the demon’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Wait, you’re Kagome?! Sango’s new flatmate?” Kagome nodded, shivering violently as another breeze whistled around the corner, and he the golden eyes narrowed in concern. “Shit, we’d better get you outta the wind and home before you get any sicker.” He turned his attention back to Sango on the phone. “Hey Sango, it’s Kagome. She’s actually sick, she’s lost her voice – I was gonna walk her home because she looks terrible. Can you talk to her, let her know I’m okay?”

He handed the phone to Kagome. “Here, listen to Sango for a sec.”

“Kagome?” said Sango, “is that you?” Kagome made an incoherent creaking sound. “Oh, hon I’m so sorry you’re not well and I wasn’t there this morning. Listen, let Inuyasha walk you home. He’s one of my best friends – you would have met him last night if you’d come out with us. He may look grumpy, but he’s just got resting bitch face – he’s actually a sweetheart when you get to know him. I’m gonna have a shower here and I’ll be home in an hour or two, okay? Love you!”

Kagome handed back the phone. “What the hell Sango? Resting bitch face?” he grumbled into the phone. “Yeah right, sure, when hell freezes over. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of her. See ya later.”

The walk home ended up being a bit of a blur to Kagome. She was sure she was actually leaning on Inuyasha at one point, and he may have piggy backed her up the stairs. They finally made it back to the apartment, and after he’d taken the key from her shaking fingers and opened the door, he insisted she take some Tylenol straight away and have a shower to try and warm up.

The warm water burned at first against her frozen skin, but finally she managed to thaw out. The medication must have started working because the thumping in her head had decreased from kettle drum sized down to a small set of bongos, and her shivering had almost stopped.

When she tottered back out to the lounge room, dressed in her pj’s and thick socks with her quilt wrapped around her, dragging on the floor behind her like a royal train, she found Inuyasha waiting with two bowls of instant ramen.

“Hey Kagome.” He examined her carefully, then smiled, holding out a bowl to her. “You’re actually lookin’ a little better, but you still need to eat somethin’. I put your chicken sandwich in the fridge for later, but I thought this might be a little easier on your throat. If you can’t eat the noodles, at least drink the broth.”

Kagome plonked herself down on the sofa across from Inuyasha and reached out for the bowl and chopsticks, breathing in the steam and wrapping her hands around the warm of the bowl. She smiled at him gratefully. “Thanks Inuyasha”, she whispered. “How did you know that I love instant ramen. Did Sango tell you?”

Inuyasha shook his head and returned her smile with a toothy grin, picking up his chopsticks and watching as she greedily slurped the noodles from her quilt cocoon. “Nuh, she didn’t. But it looks like you and I are gonna get along just fine.”