#shakes like a wet bear in headlights

[cubtales]

if you're fine with me makin' frequent stops in your inbox pls interact with this post ! i come bearing gifts (*ˊ˘ˋ*)♡

[daryltwdixon]

Hii I was wondering if you could please write a one shot about Daryl x Grimes!Reader (Rick’s daughter) I was thinking younger Daryl, they gotta keep their relationship secret (Rick thinks his sweet angel is too pure for redneck Daryl). It could be fluff, smut, or both!

Daryl Dixon x Reader || smut MDNI 18+, semi public sex, pinv, secret relationship, rick'sdaughter!reader, farm!daryl, idk im sure there's more tags but im tired. this is a fantasy world where creampies don't equal babies || a/n: anon requested this awhile back and just reminded me of it during my prompt giveaway! I'm sorry this took so long my love!

The wood panels at your back groan again as Daryl drives into you, the tempo of his thrusts like sweet euphoria, each one sending little shocks of pleasure rippling through your spine.

“Fuck—” he grunts into the side of your neck, “If your—” he slams up again, his hands firm under your ass, holding you off the ground with your legs tight around his waist, “If your dad catches us—”

“He won’t,” you breathe, whimpering as his grip tightens. “Just… please, Daryl. Don’t fucking stop.”

“Been waitin’ for this,” he mutters, kissing down your throat, lips dragging over flushed skin. “For so long.”

“I know, baby,” you moan, fingers tangled in his hair, tugging at the short strands at his nape. “You feel so good. So, so good—”

He groans as he sinks into you, your walls fluttering around him, stretched wide by his cock. He's so thick, so deep, and hitting places you didn’t know could ache like this. Your whole body clenches around him when he hikes one leg higher, angling deeper, and the moan that leaves your mouth is ragged, sharp, completely involuntary.

And then—

“Y/N?”

You both freeze.

Rick Grimes. Your dad, your ever present, over-bearing father. His voice is unmistakable drifting from the front of the house.

Your breath catches, eyes going wide. Daryl’s head jerks up like a deer caught in headlights. His body stills inside you, every muscle tense and almost trembling.

The voice sounds far enough away—he’s gotta be in the house, maybe the porch. He hasn’t come around back yet. You’re hidden, mostly. Behind the trees, behind the house. You doubt he'd even see you, hidden behind Daryl's body. At least at first glance. Hopefully.

Daryl starts to pull out, but you catch his face, hands sliding from his sweaty neck to cup his cheeks, forcing him to look at you.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. Your lips press into his, warm and open and desperate. He exhales into your mouth, trying to stay quiet as he kisses you back, swallowing the sound of both your sighs.

You pull away just enough to murmur, “Please. Keep—”

“Y/N?” Rick calls again, closer this time.

“Shh,” you whisper, darting a quick glance over Daryl’s shoulder toward the oak trees. “Sh sh sh—just listen—”

Daryl’s jaw clenches, his brow furrowed. “We should stop. Now.”

“Please, Dare,” you whimper, hips rocking gently against him. Your voice is quiet, pleading. “He’s far away. Please, please just fuck me. I need it. I need you.”

His eyes find yours, and suddenly, his mouth crashes into yours again, tongue sweeping in as he starts to move. Slow and shallow at first, he's trying to stay quiet even though every part of him is shaking. The quiet thump of his hips against yours, the creak of the siding, the faint wet sound of him sliding in and out—it’s all too loud in the open Georgia afternoon.

“Christ,” he breathes against your mouth, “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”

He groans, forehead pressed to yours as he fucks you deeper now, picking up speed. Every thrust drives a breath from your lungs, your legs tightening around his hips. You’re so close—so fucking close—and the fact that your dad is somewhere nearby, calling your name, just makes it worse. Better. Hotter.

“Dare, I-I'm so close—” you whisper, your voice cracking. “Please, Daryl—I’m gonna—”

“Yeah,” he pants, breath warm against your cheek, “Yeah, I got you, sweet girl. Come on my cock. Feels so good, don't it? Fillin' you up? Splittin' you open, huh?”

He shifts, angling just right as his filthy words tumble into your ear, hitting that spot that makes your whole body jolt. Your head slams lightly against the siding, eyes rolling back as heat coils low and tight in your belly. Your thighs tremble around his waist.

Daryl groans low in his throat, the sound strained and messy. “So fuckin’ tight, girl, holy shit—don’t stop squeezin’ me like that—”

You bring your head up to bite his shoulder just to keep from crying out, your orgasm hitting hard and fast, your body pulsing around him as you fall apart in his arms. He holds you tighter, fucking you through it, chasing his own end now, his rhythm going sloppy.

“Fuck,” he gasps, his head falling against your chest, “Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You clutch at him, nails scraping down his back, pulling him as deep as he’ll go. “Do it,” you whisper, still breathless, still pulsing around him. “Come inside me, Daryl, come on—”

He groans into your neck, loud and broken, and you feel the twitch and heat of him spilling inside you as his hips stutter, buried deep. He holds you there, both of you trembling, breathless and flushed and wrecked in the golden light.

Your limbs go loose around him, boneless with satisfaction, and you laugh softly into his shoulder.

Daryl’s still holding you up, still inside you, his face buried against your collarbone. When he lifts his head, there’s a dazed kind of awe in his eyes. He smiles—soft and real, like he can’t believe he actually got to have you.

You giggle, light and breathy. “Told you he wouldn’t—”

The words die in your throat.

The sound of boots crunching in dry grass cuts through the quiet. You hear the swish of tall grass, the steady tread of someone rounding the side of the house.

Both of you freeze—tangled, sweaty, completely exposed.

And then Rick Grimes steps into the sunlight.

You, pinned against the back of the farmhouse, skirt bunched around your hips, legs locked around Daryl’s waist. Daryl’s pants are half-down, his hand still gripping your ass, his cock still buried inside you. Sweat clings to both of you, and your mouth is open, chest rising and falling.

Daryl doesn’t breathe.

Rick doesn’t blink.

“Oh, God,” you whisper.

Your dad's voice is low, furious, deadly:

“What the fuck—”

[anilovie]

thinking about anakin if you’ve had a bad/hard day & coming home to him just being ur safe place to unwind & cry if you need to, & he just UGH is so warm and gentle w uuuuuu i need him

I know it’s not exactly what you asked for but my anxiety has been soooo bad lately, i needed this too 🥲💕 -- thanks for the request!!

WC: 1.8k

CW: mentions of anxiety, angst + fluff, soft ani <3

You’d been on edge for days.

You could tell when it was getting bad again – your sleep schedule was off, your eating habits askew, easily irritated, and unable to stop moving for even a second to allow yourself to think. Thinking meant your thoughts would all come slamming back into you, and nothing was worse than that. 

You were in a piss mood for multiple days in a row, the stress and anxiety getting so bad that you eventually fell into robot-mode. Everything in your life just kept piling on top of each other, from work problems, family issues, even relationship issues. You just came from a work meeting, which only seemed to add 10 tons to the plate you were already struggling to hold. These days, you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

Not to mention, you missed Anakin.

Your relationship was still new, and you’d been distancing yourself lately so he wouldn’t bear the brunt of your moodiness. Once you got everything handled– if you could just get a little better– that’s when you’d seek him out again.

“Y/n,” speak of the devil.

Usually, his deep voice would be met with a flurry of butterfllies in your stomach, but not today. Now, it was met with a sinking feeling.

Anakin was sitting on a bench outside the training room, fiddling with something on the hilt of his lightsaber. He had an ankle crossed over his knee, robes spilling over his shoulders, and usually you’d be delighted to see his pretty face.

You skid to a stop before him, frozen like a deer in headlights. “Anakin.”

He uncrossed his leg and leaned toward you, voice lowering so only you could hear.

“Where have you been? Feels like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

You rocked back on your heels, twisting your fingers all in a knot. “Sorry, Anakin. I've just been busy.”

“Are you okay?”

“‘M Fine.”

He’d never heard that sort of dullness in your voice before. Never seen that… exhaustion in your gaze. He could see that you were trembling, even just standing there before him, like a storm was brewing beneath your skin… but your gaze was glaringly empty. He frowned, tugging gently at your wrist. “Come with me.”

Dread dumped over you like a bucket of ice water. The last thing you wanted was to be confronted – Anakin was supposed to be your safe space. You didn’t want to taint him with any of this. Didn’t wanna ruin his perception of you, of his good, sweet, brave, strong girl. 

He pulled you into an empty battle-planning room, the lights dimmed so it was all shadowy inside. He closed the door and turned to you, concern etched into his handsome face. 

“Y/n, tell me that truth. What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong? What’s wrong?? 

Everything was wrong. Just the thought of it had wet, hot tears rushing to your eyes, the ones you promised yourself you wouldn't let appear. Before he could see, you ducked your head and covered your face with the crook of your arm, hiding from him.

You tried to swallow it down, the unexpected emotion so thick you couldn’t choke any words past. Your silence was answer enough– Anakin immediately reached out to touch you, but you shifted back an inch.

“‘M sorry,” your voice came out high-pitched and shaky, voice breaking. You were too ashamed to let him touch you. 

Quickly, your sleeves became soaked in the hot tears you tried to stuff back into your eyes. You could hear your breaths grow quicker and quicker in your ears, a squeezing sensation in your chest furthering your panic. Your head was dizzy, unable to think past the fact that you were crying in front of Anakin, and you were so ashamed about it, you couldn't stop shaking, and you couldn’t breathe–

“Hey,” Anakin called your name in a soft hush, reaching for you again. This time, you let him pull you closer, hand encircling your waist, carefully guiding you back to him. You were still hiding in your arm, scrubbing at your face and muttering “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,” as if to convince yourself you were.

He crouched before you, trying to be on your level so you would look at him already. When you finally let him tug your arms away, his heart ached at the sight – your eyes were all red, cheeks flushed and shining with tears. You looked exhausted, embarrassed, and… scared. 

“Talk to me,” he murmured, allowing a warm hand to cup your cheek and brush the tears away with his thumb.

You still couldn’t look him in the eye, avoiding his worried gaze as you studied the robes over his chest. You were still trembling like a leaf in the wind, muscles tensed and gut rolling as everything you’d been suppressing washed over you like a tsunami.

“I’ve just– I just–” you sniffled, twisted your hands together, another tear trailing its way down your face. “Well, y’know I get anxious sometimes…” you muttered, breaths hiccuping in your chest. 

Anakin hummed his agreement, urging you on.

“t’s just been really bad lately,” the admission felt like defeat. Pathetic, worthless defeat. Another wave of tears made your voice turn into a whimper, almost ending the sentence as a sob. But Anakin pulled you into him, tucking your head under his chin and against his chest, arms winding themselves around you.

You muffled your soft cries in his Jedi robes, clutching them in your fists to ground you. 

“I just want it to go away,” you hiccuped. “I don’t know how to make it stop.”

“Shhh, honey, ‘ts okay,” his touch was gentle against your back, rubbing up and down in soothing motions. “I’ve got you -- I've got you.”

You felt like you could cry and cry and never stop. The feeling would never go away, you would always feel like there was something chasing you, hunting you, waiting for something to go wrong, always on edge, even in your sleep.

But at least his chest was warm. And he smelled like Anakin – your Anakin – and his arms were strong around you. Nothing was going to hurt you in this room. Not while you were with him.

After a long, long while, you were finally able to pull away a bit to gulp in multiple deep breaths. Your chest didn’t feel so heavy anymore, but now you were just exhausted – mentally and physically. 

Rubbing at your sore eyes, sniffling, you mumbled, “‘M sorry, Anakin. I haven’t been avoiding you on purpose. Jus’ didn’t want you to see me like that.”

He sighed softly, shifting so that one of his knees was planted on the ground for balance. His hand traveled back to your face, smoothing the hair that got messed up back behind your ear. “You don’t have to hide from me. Ever,” his words were stern, but his voice was honey-sweet. “Especially not something like this.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he shook his head, eyes bright with intensity. “I want to help you, you know.” 

Your lip quivered, nodding in understanding.

“Look at me?” he requested, gently directing your chin down between his thumb and pointer finger. You blinked at the ground for a moment before lifting your eyes, meeting his shining blue ones, filled with concern. His face softened as soon as you looked at him, the corner of his mouth tiling up a little. “There she is.”

“Hmph,” you ducked your head again, embarrassed. You’d never cried – truly cried – in front of him before. And now that the anxiety had been flushed from your system, all that was left was the shame. 

You should be better than this, letting the emotion pierce you so deeply. Letting it get so bad. You should have had a better handle on it by now.

“Stop beating yourself up,” Anakin whispered, thumb swiping at your bottom lip to still the quivers. “You’re okay. I promise.”

You nodded again, obedient, but the more you heard the words the more they felt real. 

“You wanna talk about it?” he asked, head tilting to the side. 

You shrugged. “Just work stuff. Family stuff. I dunno… just need to stop thinking so hard about everything, I guess.”

“Hmm,” he agreed. “Anything I can help with?”

“Not really,” you whispered.

“No?” his brows drew down, a little crease forming between them. “When’s the last time you ate something?”

“Mmm… yesterday.” Your stomach had been twisting and turning for days now, too nauseous to eat much of anything. 

His frown deepened. “That was over 24 hours ago, sweetheart. When’s the last time you drank something?”

“This morning.” 

You didn’t have to look at him to know what expression he was making. Letting go of your face, he dropped his hands to pull the both of yours apart, keeping them from twisting at each other any further. He curled your fingers into your palms, holding them warm and steady in his as he said, “How about I take you back to your room and make you something good, hm? Then you can take a nap, and we can watch a movie or something later tonight. Get your mind off everything?”

You finally lifted your gaze to him willingly, hopeful yet tired. “You’re not too busy?”

“‘Course not. I’m all yours tonight, no matter what,” his thumb rubbed patterns on the back of your hand, lips tilting up in another sweet, encouraging smile. “How’s that sound?”

“I– I’d like that,” you nodded your head, voice still too soft and quiet for his liking, but at least it wasn’t shaking anymore. “What’re you gonna make?”

“Whatever you want,” he insisted, hoping his smile would rub off on you. “What about that soup I made a while back? The one I made for Obi-Wan’s birthday? You really liked that, remember?”

“Oh,” you cooed, glossy eyes brightening a bit at the memory. “Yeah. That sounds good.” 

“Okay, then I’ll make that.” He was still crouched before you, letting his eyes wander over your face for a moment more, thinking something you couldn’t decipher. Before you could ask, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your still-damp cheek.

“You’re gonna be okay. You know that, right?"

Your lashes shuttered, and strangely, the world didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

“Right. I’ll be okay.” You took a deep breath, sucking the air in and puffing it back out, breathing life into the words as they floated between you.

Before he could stand back up, you wrapped your arms around his neck and gave him a gentle squeeze. “Thanks, Ani. I feel a little better now.”

You couldn’t see, but he was smiling into your shoulder. “Good,” he murmured, petting your back again. Then he pulled away and rose to his full height, grabbing your hand in his.

Neither of you cared if anyone saw as he led you out of the room, falling into step beside you as you headed home together. 

[oscquinn]

DAY TEN → rain soaked, carmen berzatto

TAGS & WARNINGS → noma!carmy, all fluff, pre-relationship, mutual pining is implied

WC → 417

the city of copenhagen is beautiful. each day you spend here reminds you more and more of the beauty surrounding you. even now, with dark clouds on the horizon. 

you look over at carmen, noting his frown. “you’re gonna be fine bear, it’s just a little rain,” you tease him. 

when his eyes meet yours there’s a sparkle in them. “nah, i-i just wanted to stop by that vegetable stand,” he murmurs, gesturing down the street. an umbrella guards the little stand, and you can make out the small old man still selling his produce.

“it’s still open,” you chirp. carmen looks at you with wide eyes when you push back your chair and gather your used plates. you make it to the door and he’s still in his seat, and you have to pause just to smile to yourself. “carmy, come on.”

that does the trick. he stands, pushes his chair in, and follows you out the door. you wait for him under the awning, watching the water pouring from the edge. 

carmen fishes out his wallet, then looks over to you. you feel like a deer in headlights as his intense blue eyes draw over you. “is the rain uh—“ he gestures vaguely towards you, sounding nervous. “’s’it gonna mess up your hair? or anything?”

he averts his gaze when you look at him with confusion, fingers fumbling with his wool patch jacket. he removes it and passes it to you with a tight lipped smile. instead of protesting the gesture you take the jacket and hold it above your head. “you ready to run?”

carmen shakes his head at the situation, then says, “ye’h, come on.” 

the two of you run out in the rain. you shriek when you realize the puddles are touching the long hem of your skirt, and drop one hand from the jacket to hitch up the fabric. you dash towards the vegetable stand, standing at carmen’s side as he orders in danish, pointing out the brightest, most ripe produce. 

when he faces you again his curls stick to his forehead, freckled cheeks dripping from the rain. “we should make ratatouille!” he exclaims.

your face contorts, failing miserably to contain your joyful laughter. “carmy, you look like a wet rat!” you tease, watching him laugh along with you. “who’s place os closer? we need to get dry.”

“dunno if i have the cash for a taxi,” he responds sheepishly, and raises the bags. “i think i blacked out buying these?”

© gallaghershal, 2024. masterlist. inbox. div. by saradika

part of bearblr promptober, created by my lovely friend @carmenberzattosgf!

[doomtrooper77]

Wrong Kind of Affair

The case started out straightforward enough. Wife suspects husband. Husband keeps strange hours. I follow, I observe, I report back. Easy money—or so I thought.

For days I shadowed him discreetly, expecting scandal but getting monotony. He was about as interesting as wet cardboard. Wake up, drive to work, stop at Starbucks—grande Americano, two sugars. Leave work, casual drinks at a cozy pub with coworkers. Home by eight, rinse and repeat. Nothing scandalous, not even close.

Tonight, though, things shifted gears. After the usual routine, he took an unexpected detour—pulling into the gravel lot of a run-down biker bar on the edge of town. Neon signs flickered through grimy windows, painting distorted blues and reds across cracked pavement. He hesitated in his car before stepping out, visibly anxious. Two shady figures emerged from the shadows of the bar’s doorway, big grimy types in black leather jackets with bad reputations painted clearly across their sneers. My target exchanged brief, heated words with them—faces briefly illuminated by intermittent headlights—before handing over a thick envelope. They, in turn, had him a package.  My camera captured it all, shutter snapping softly from my discreet vantage across the street.

Afterward, he got back into his sedan and hurried toward an older part of town—a neighborhood long past its prime. I tailed at a cautious distance. The narrow streets became progressively rougher, culminating in a dead-ended alley flanked by abandoned apartment buildings. I parked my old Jeep Wrangler inconspicuously along the curb, hidden among similarly neglected vehicles. Dark windows lined buildings like empty eye sockets, the stale scent of neglect heavy in the air. From this spot, I had a clear, unobstructed view straight down the alley.

Less than a minute after my subject disappeared into the crumbling building, something enormous filled the far doorway—a shadow blocking out the faint glow of a flickering streetlamp in the alley. A man—if you could call him that—stepped deliberately out onto the cracked asphalt, massive enough to bend logic. Easily six-foot-four, possibly taller, he had to weigh upwards of 375 pounds, every ounce of it dense, rippling muscle. Shirtless, pale orange light danced over intricate tattoos that covered his chest, shoulders, and massive, corded arms. A thick biker beard framed a face made of menace, dark eyes sunken beneath a heavy brow.

He swaggered slowly down the alley, each powerful stride exuding arrogance and absolute confidence. As he neared the street, the sheer mass of him grew intimidatingly clear—huge shoulders tapering down to a thick powerful waist, barely contained in denim jeans stretched taut across thighs thick as tree trunks. The jeans seemed barely adequate, seams strained by thighs powerful enough to crush steel drums. Heavy black harness boots echoed ominously with every step, their metal rings reflecting faint streetlight.

At the mouth of the alley, barely forty feet from my Wrangler, he stopped abruptly. He scanned the street methodically, side to side, slow and deliberate. Then, as he twisted slightly, the glint of metal caught my eye, tucked casually into the back waistband of his strained jeans. My heart skipped—a revolver, enormous and instantly recognizable: a .50 caliber RedHawk, a firearm powerful enough to drop a charging bear in its tracks.

My breath tightened, but I kept shooting, trusting in the special one-way tint on my windows—transparent from within, opaque and reflective outside. Safe behind my illusion of anonymity, I zoomed in as he muttered something to himself, shaking his head slowly. He turned to head back down the alley. Then, terrifyingly, mid-motion, his massive head snapped toward me. Through the camera’s viewfinder, magnified cruelly close, I watched his gaze lock directly onto my Jeep. He couldn’t possibly see me. Could he?

His stare didn’t waver. Instead, he pivoted fully, muscles shifting and swelling beneath tattooed skin like cables pulling taut. He folded thick, tattooed arms across a chest broader than most doorframes, tilting his head slightly as if assessing a curious puzzle. Suddenly he took a slow, heavy step toward my vehicle, then another. Each step brought dread crashing against my chest.

My pulse thundered as I tossed the camera onto the passenger seat, fumbling desperately for the ignition keys. The engine roared to life just as his massive hand gripped my driver's side door handle, metal squealing as it bent under his impossible strength. I stamped on the accelerator, tires shrieking as the Jeep lunged forward, leaving him behind.

I glanced back through the rearview mirror, heart pounding and breath ragged, to see him standing calmly in the street, holding the mangled remains of my door handle casually in one enormous fist. My pulse thundered in my ears, adrenaline washing cold through my veins.

Five frantic minutes of random turns and rapid maneuvers later, I slowed down, breathing gradually steadying. Fear gradually faded into professional pragmatism. Whatever trouble my client's husband had stumbled into was obviously much deeper than marital infidelity. But I felt confident in the security of my carefully constructed anonymity. My Jeep, along with my other vehicles, was registered through multiple layers of shell companies—corporate mazes intricate enough to stop even the most trackers cold.

He might be a monster—powerful, intimidating, clearly dangerous—but I was a ghost. I’d vanish long before anyone ever connected those dots.

At least, that's what I thought at the time.

[Please share, like, and comment. I am thinking of making this a multi-part story. Let me know if you would like that]

[divinehedons]

i won't hurt you.

navigation: masterlist

word count: ~1.9k words

summary: you meet joel in the aftermath of a terrible accident. reeling from the aftermath of the event, there is a looming shadow that complicates your relationship with the southern man you just somehow happened to meet 

warnings: explicit (but not graphic) content–MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! relatively dark(?)-ish joel miller, allusions to smut (not heavily detailed), graphic depictions of injury, some scenes include hospitalization (not in graphic detail), dubious consent, joel miller radiates mansplain / manipulate / malewife energy, men are trash in general wbk

note: oh. my. god. it has been far too long and i’m so so very sorry for just now coming back! i’ve hit a terrible writer’s block alongside very bad mental health and i’m just now recovering :’D thank you so so so much for 800 followers, it’s going to take a while for me to respond to everyone but i’ll be going through them! i love you very very dearly, mwah!

note 2.0: pls pls lower your expectations, 🫣 i am trying to get back into the groove of things!

You remember the screech of tires on frozen asphalt. A flash of headlights. Spinning, spinning, spinning. Your body ignited in pain. Then… darkness.

Darkness that seemed to spread before you for an eternity. Untethered and stuck in limbo, perhaps in another universe, you would call it the most peaceful slumber of your life. The misfortune comes when you wake. Lightning strikes shake you awake from the darkness of your subconsciousness. Electricity trembling in your chest as it shoots through your beaten frame. A light peers through your closed eyes. Brighter, and brighter… bigger and bigger. A ringing in your ears that almost deafens you.

The world shifts around you, and you wake paralyzed, staring at the ceiling in the warm sun that falls on your body lying there. Everything hurts. There is a humming in your head that you cannot seem to shake out of.

The solitude lasts for a beat. Then another. That’s when you see him.

A sleepless, roughened man looking at you with his warm eyes. Through the bleary vision of your own gaze, a shaky breath escapes him. His crinkled eyes looking over your features with a swift once over.

“Oh, Christ, you’re awake.”

And that’s how you met Joel.

–

In the week that followed your complicated recovery, Joel tells you he saw the crash. Tells you the asshole who ran you over was nowhere to be seen. He says most of it with his eyes averted. Yet you hold your gaze.

You will not be weakened by the shame of your misery.

It is two days later when you confess to him; your throat still rasping as the pain in your head boils and toils beneath your skull. You look at him when he arrives, paint-stained shirt providing evidence of a messy day of working. “I don’t want to think about what happened to me anymore, Joel.”

Your tongue grabs at words the way young children do with sticky fruit in the summer. As if language has become foreign to you.

Joel, keys in hand, meets your gaze with a furrowed brow. “Sure, sugar. Whatever you need.”

Maybe your eyes were tricking you, but you could’ve sworn you saw his shoulders relax from some kind of tension leaving his body.

–

Joel doesn’t know what he had gotten himself into. What he does know is that for some reason, he couldn’t bear the idea of staying away from you. You tell him fragments of what little you remember, your concussed consciousness blindly clawing at every last bit of beaten brain matter for some kind of answer. 

You sometimes cry from the effort it takes you to think, but he’s there. The first few times, he held your hand. As the hours bled into days, he held you as you wet his shirt with warm tears. Sometimes, when the nightmares reach him in his own bed a few miles out from the hospital, it feels like you’re bleeding into him.

From the moment he saw you, he had been marked. And no matter how many times he scratched at his own skin, he could never wash away the blood on his hands.

–

He’s the one to take you home to your quiet little apartment, having grown dust in your absence. You apologize, he waves you off. He watches you as you peer out of the window, comprehending a view that had once been so mundane, transformed into some shred of a miracle for you to still be there, witnessing it all. He’s behind you, ten feet away, tilting his head as your hair catches what little sunlight blessed you the day you left the hospital.

He says your name, and you look back at him with a curious smile. “My God,” he followed. “You look just like starlight.” He steps forward, and that’s when you know everything had fallen into place. Without another moment lapsing, he takes your face into his hands, pulling you into a searing kiss.

You apologize so many times. For the hospital smell on your skin. For your trembling knees. For the dizzying sensation of human contact without the involvement of medical processes. For feeling so unclean.

Meanwhile, he apologizes, too. For kissing you. For pulling you to him. For holding you. For carrying you to the forlorn couch grown cold from the absence of human warmth. So many times that there are times that you don’t know what is there to apologize for. You shake your head each and every time.

The tears roll down your cheek just as he pulls away and his eyes immediately soften. You shake your head, pulling him into another kiss as you whine.

There are many things you want to tell him. But you don’t dare tell him this: Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you have been ruined.

“Tell me to stop, honey, and I will,” he murmurs, holding your cheek as you pause between touches. You shake your head immediately. You want many things. You are hungry and untamed. But you do not want him to stop.

You tell him as much. “Joel, don’t you dare stop.”

And he doesn’t. Not when you’re naked and he sees your bruised skin, purple and yellowed in places. He looks to you just as your body tenses. His demeanor softens, kissing along your jaw and your neck with a shaky breath.

“I won’t hurt ya, darlin’.”

He keeps to that promise. Even when your legs are around his waist and he’s caught in your warmth. He says it again and again as you whine into the cool, quiet solitude of your home.

I won’t hurt you, I won’t hurt you.

–

Falling in love with Joel was both so complicated and so simple at once. Whenever you wake beside him, you wake up writhing from the pain of your injuries; sometimes crying from the nightmares that followed every waking moment. You felt marred by shame for putting so much of your perceived burden on his shoulders. He never departs from your side, his strong arms placating you while his lips press against your temple.

It’s all so simple, the way he cares about you. And whether or not you admitted it, you like the feeling of being cared for. Of having someone that cares.

Regardless, you cannot escape the fact that someone did this to you. And whenever the pain shocks your body, everything but rabid rage escapes your body. You curse the stranger, whoever they may be, for that cursed night.

Joel sees glimpses of this. He saw it most that one afternoon when the hospital called, saying you had been taken care of. By who, they didn’t say. Only that the stranger apologized for what happened.

You were on the floor, hands trembling in the fists you held them in. The hospital bill crumpled a few inches away. You do not see him. What you see is all red.

A wail escapes your trembling mouth just as your hands claw at anything they can touch. It is an uncontrollable surge of blinding, mouth-foaming, unbridled rage. He’s there, trying to hold you down before you hurt yourself. Each wail pierces another hole into his aching heart. Each struggle followed by his gentle shushing, trying to assuage you in the crest of your emotion.

“Whoever it was,” you told him then as you sobbed. “They ruined my life.”

“Darlin, darlin’...” He breathes in, cupping your face. “Maybe he’s around and he regrets-”

“No!” You claw at him, just as he holds you tighter against his chest. “If he could find me, then he could say it to my face. He wouldn’t be some coward who left me alone like this after he ruined my life!”

It destroys him. And you can see it in his face. All he can do is hold you as you cry against his chest. All he can do is shut his eyes, letting the waves of grief crest over and over your frame. Letting your sobs tear him open and burn him out.

He tells you nothing lasts forever. That he’ll be there for as close to forever as possible. You shake your head because you know better. He says nothing lasts forever. He doesn’t know he’s just afraid your pain can last longer than he is capable of loving you.

–

Perhaps, to the end of his days, Joel will regret that drunken night. He’ll regret following his bleary gaze through the quiet, sleet-slick roads. He’ll regret the fact that he couldn’t have stopped his truck sooner.

When he steps out into the cold just as he smells the acrid scent of burning tires, he sees your bloodied face in your car. So small. So undeserving. He muttered a string of cusses. The sudden shock of adrenaline washing away the last of his drunkenness. He looks back at his truck, horrifically beaten, his gaze doubling from his last bout of drunkenness.

He bargains that night. Calls up someone high up amongst the police rank to bail him out. He negotiated for ten minutes. Then he hides the truck somewhere off the side of the road for him to come back to and dispose of. And then, only then, did he call for help.

Only then did he reach you in the driver’s seat, blood now caked to your skin as he lay you out amongst the concrete.

You make some sound, and he cusses to himself.

His rough palms cup your cheek, trying to get you to look at him then. But you were too far gone.

He spoke, anyway. Just in case you’ll hear it.

“It’s alright, doll. I won’t hurt you.”

Even now, weeks after he stole your life from you, he holds you and tells you the same thing anyway. The same set of words that manage to calm you down.

He does love you. And it breaks him every day to know he was the one to endanger you.

I won’t hurt you, I won’t hurt you.

[senka-mesecine]

I'm a complete sucker for the usual damsel in distress story, you know, reader running away from something or someone, completely defeated, scared and strugglin. And then there he is. just seeing Barnes as the savoir grabbing his leg in pure dispair while he "fixes everything".... ahh🫠 I wonder what kind of spin could you conjurer up on a classical tale such as this 👀

The Irregularity of Dames and Damsels in Field Warfare.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

---

wonderful gif by @woman-with-no-name

---

There's no training that covers what to do when you're scared.

Of course, there's a tactical course (emphasis on the course as opposed to actual drilling, priming and tutelage) that skims through basic survival on field and what to do in theory, but when caught in a crossfire, all instincts are buzzing wildly, both contradictively alerted and frozen, causing you to feel like a deer in the headlights who was fully aware of the fact a load bearing truck was moving towards her at high speed and yet that she couldn't move, finding her legs shaking and glued to the highway. It takes an act of genuine willpower for you to practically fall over and crawl through the mud when the shooting starts, covering your head with your hands and moving on your elbows, slithering on the moist muck drenched gravel on your stomach, practically crawling into a branch filled ditch covered with foliage, certain that you bruised, scratched and and battered just about every part of your body huddled in what was basically a hollow in the ground, no different from a frightened jackrabbit, knees up to your chest, embraced around you by your arms. If you died now, today, you knew you'd die frightened, wet, cornered and with no way out. The same way there's no training to defeat fear, there's no training to hide elation either, sudden, washing over you like a warm tide when a boot eclipsing the faint bit of light peeking into your hiding spot and the sleeve of the fatigue trousers tucked into the footwear familiar, almost like they belonged to someone you tended to avert your gaze around whenever he'd show up, preferring to look at the ground rather than look into his eyes, fearing getting levelled and burned by a mere stare.

Sergeant Barnes.

The sudden silence after the roar of battle and the ambush shootout is deafening.

Like he knew you were inches beneath his feet all along, he grazes you with a gaze thrown your way from underneath the shadows of his helmet, his M16 held in one arm, the barrel still smoking. You gulp hard, shock causing it hard to breathe. From where you were tucked away, he looked like a giant blotting out the sun and the foliage.

-"What'chu lookin' at, girl?"-

He drawls with all the casualness of an early morning small talk.

You cannot tell if it's you crawling to the surface on your own or if he practically grabbed, lifted and hauled you up, landing you at eyelevel with his knee. This is how...people rescued from the brink of drowning must've felt like; even the fact he was practically yelling at you didn't seem to hit as hard as it validly should've. -"Move out, get out of the way! You sittin' duck out here!"- He relocates his leg a mere inch from where you were, looking to shake you off, spring you back into action; only then do you realize you were holding unto him for dear life, fingers squeezed and coiled around the material of his trousers. Somehow, the hollow spot in your gut where embarrassment should've sat was empty and absent. -"Sir, you saved my life."- You manage, sobbing the sounds out in one breath, daring to look up at him --- something about how stupefied you were making it easy to say these things. The quietude all around you was practically screaming; almost like the trees themselves echoed the cacophony of silenced gunshots. Only then does it become abundantly clear that the surroundings of your hovel were riddled with corpses, freshly felled. One, two, five, ten. He offed well over a dozen combatants to get here. You were so close to dying, you could almost feel it slowly but certainly creep up on you, caressing your throat with an icy hand. -"Thank you."- Your whimpering mouth makes the shapes necessary to utter those words but you weren't if they came out audibly, your mouth shaking too much to actually speak. Barnes gives you a perplexed, stern look, like being thanked for something was a universal novelty he had to process through, or maybe simply because he was disgusted with your overall predicament. He did once mention that dames and damsels were an irregularity in open field warfare when you first got stationed at base. You still remembered as much. Somehow, you aren't certain you actually said anything and yet it's almost like he read your lips well enough to retort.

-"Tea party talk's cheap; go on, take your ass on away from perimeters! One of them bullets hits you, ain' no machine that's gon' be puttin'ya back again an' you're gon'have your pretty face hangin' off the branches!"-

He hoists you up by your arms causing you to reluctantly let go of where his knee met his shin, holding you firmly in place, shaking you a little and part you felt he was talking about himself; funny that --- your Sergeant was angrily barking into your face, warning you off with a veiled anecdote about what no doubt happened to him and all you could focus on was the fact he inadvertedly, in the most roundabout fashion called you pretty. You'd laugh at this and yourself one day, you knew as much. The dumb absurdity of it all.

-"You in shock or sumn'!? Well, go 'bout snappin' out of it before those sonsofbitches regroup!"-

He orders, pointing out towards the jungle, spitting his words.

Your mind's blank. You understood what he was saying.

But it was like two parts of your brain couldn't connect.

All you could think about was gratitude.

So much so that it takes a good while to notice his hand's cupping your face.

-"Thank you, Sergeant."-

You try again, hoping he'd understand.

This time going at it harder, with more tenacity.

His pupils dance back and forth for a second, looking over your expression, examining you, no doubt to assess if you've hit your head somewhere, not even waiting for you to hurry and head out to clearing on your own, practically grabbing your elbow and pulling you side by side with him not unlike a cat carried by the scruff; the place where his fingers touched your cheek and jaw feel cold and lonely in his absence. -"You're like a knight in shining armor."- You mutter quietly, real quietly, not even sure why you did it, but the words come slipping out of your mouth, unheard by anyone but you and him, causing Barnes to give you a look, dark this time, like there was something intent on fixating you there once he practically hands you to another pair of arms that weren't his. The difference goddamn nearly makes you flinch. It was jarring. A whiplash. Only then does it hit you; he's been carrying you the whole time in his arms and only once your feet hit the ground were you aware of the fact you were standing on your own two feet. God, your whole body felt heavy. -"Check this one's head, Doc. She's talkin' delirious."- Barnes gives out a direct order, pointing his index finger at the man's face seemingly pissed off, stomping away, further back into the bush. The gravitas of the situation has time to set in once you're finally with your own, surrounded by groaning, moaning men fresh from a skirmish. Up against trees, cradling wounds and tending to their injures. Your hiding place was like a battlefield and you were crouched right in its middled. It was more than ten men that the Sergeant finished off. More like double that. Not even thirty steps away from where you crawled into. Your mouth's agape and you practically need to be pushed to the ground by your shoulder to be seated. He not only saved your life, he...how many is that?

Fifteen people? Twenty?

He did that?

For you?

And he didn't even want to accept basic acknowledgment?

Guilt, fear, lurching disgust and...what was that you were feeling? Admiration?

You don't know why, but if anything, you yearned to lower your cheek back on his knee.

-"Shit, mowed them down like flies too. Looked like he really enjoyed that."-

Doc mentions offhandedly checking if your scalp was alright, finger fidgeting through your sweat-drenched hair as you caught your breath, setting your hand down on your chest and feeling your own heartbeat thumping, allowing for the surroundings to finally sink in and for the world to cease appearing so chaotically dreamlike, your medical colleague talking to you as well as the befuddled, onlooking men inches away, and all you could focus on is Barnes's back melting and disappearing into the wilderness, intrusively imagining the very thing Doc was describing. Barnes smiling under the line of fire. You shiver. It wasn't right. It wasn't right. It wasn't ---

There was no training covering this, no.

But you knew you were in love.

You loved the man.

[writinglittlebeasts]

i haven't posted anything substantial in a while, so have this . animal death warning also

It happens too quickly for Ramsey to wonder exactly how, but, later, when his insomnia keeps him glancing above the surface of sleep he'll wonder if it was the rain or the radio or the violent shivering of the grasses by the roadside that had kept any one of them from noticing it.

Creed is too impatient to slow his truck to a crawl even in the heaviest downpour, even when the tailgate of Maurice's junker disappears into the gloom and its taillights are dampened to dull blooms in the scant feet between both vehicles. If Maurice slows to examine a turn-off or a pothole Creed will lean on the horn like his life depends on keeping up a consistent forty miles-per-hour. The same principle applies to Ramsey, bringing up the rear in another truck long past its prime; experience tells him that if he should stop to get his bearings wind nor rain will keep Creed from climbing down out of his cab and stalking back the way he'd come to knock some gumption into him. It just so happens that Ramsey is more exhausted than he is afraid of peeling out into a ditch at the moment, and he knows that dying in a wreck would still be easier than arguing with the old man.

The ceaseless hollow metal clatter of the rain on the truck's tin roof is grating on his nerves, itching the backs of his eyes and making the muscles in his hands jump over the steering wheel. Every bump in the road adds to that edgy feeling, because surely this is going to be the one that sends him skidding into oblivion. On the dashboard, the radio struggles through a slow rendition of Ain't No Mountain High Enough as it's intercut by jolts of static; he can't summon the will to pry his hand from the wheel to turn it off, so Ramsey makes himself content with the geriatric warble: No matter how far-- worry, baby-- have to worry.

Creed's truck comes to a full stop in front of him so suddenly that Ramsey barely notices the change in time to pump his own brakes. There are only inches between the bumpers, and in the intervening seconds Ramsey waits for the horn with bated breath. No river wide enough to--

The horn never comes. Ramsey jerks the door handle and kicks it wide open, and rain starts to pour into the cab by the sheet. He's soaked in seconds, the downpour cold through his clothes, and he pulls his cap low over his eyes– for all of the good that it does him –as he leverages himself to the ground.

--day I set you free--

He slams the door shut behind himself when he goes, and the sounds of the idling engine and the sputtering radio disappear.

Ramsey follows alongside the flank of Creed's truck as quickly as he dares. Without his headlights he can't see a damned thing, and the embankment on the road's either side is shallow but earthy; he's liable to break a leg if he slips, and he'll never hear the end of it-- if he isn't swallowed up by the billowing switchgrass and drowned in a puddle.

"Creed!" Ramsey calls out, and he loses his own voice in the rain. His father's driver-side door is shut and the cab is dark; he isn't inside. He carries on, his feet wet in his shoes and his damp hat turning his scalp to ice. The same frost settles over his back and the rain trails miserably down his bare arms. While he crosses the gap between Creed's truck and Maurice's van he extends one cold hand and his fingertips catch briefly on a patch of rust marring Maurice's back hatch. "Creed!"

"Ramsey!"

Now he can see the shadow of a man in the headlights in front of him, seeming to loom over the hood of the van. Ramsey feels just a bit of the tension in his body fade as he realizes that Creed isn't holding a gun; that there isn't any immediate danger.

Ramsey rounds the van at the same time that Maurice appears on its passenger side holding a large flashlight, which cuts through the gloom more decisively than the headlights and finally illuminates Creed's critical frown.

Ramsey shakes his head and water flies from the bill of his cap. He shouts to be heard above the rain:

"What's wrong with the van?"

Creed's brow pops. He doesn't acknowledge Ramsey otherwise.

Maurice swings the beam of his flashlight from the wild, rolling fields to the hood of his van.

In a deep vee of crumpled metal that stretches from the roof to the hood, amidst a torrent of water and a spider’s web of cracked glass, is a hefty whitetail buck. Its limbs and neck are bent, splayed away from its shuddering exposed belly, and it shivers from end to end with the last vestiges of life.

The windshield pries itself apart from the roof as they watch, sinking into the cab and bringing the water with it, gravity pulling the body of the buck down while it struggles.

"Shit," Maurice rakes his free hand through his hair.

Ramsey casts his eyes on the bumper and finds it intact.

Creed's elbow jostles Ramsey out of his thoughts, and as he moves to take the buck by the horns Ramsey does the same. It's a labor, and even under all of this rain Ramsey can feel sweat breaking out along his back while they pull the beast from the van. The windshield fails entirely when the buck starts to thrash, and the damage to the shell of the van is extensive, but finally it slips from the hood and onto the road, where its body falls out of sight.

The van is pushed onto the roadside into that sea of switchgrass, and Maurice climbs into Creed's passenger seat before they all carry on at just the same speed as before. Ramsey focuses steadfastly on his driving as the collision disappears in his rearview, but later he'll think: deer don't collide with trucks from above. In that field, and maybe a breath from his own nose, there had been something capable of throwing one.

[shay-creates]

Find the Word Tag

Thanks for the tag @oh-no-another-idea!

My words are: split, stain, smirk, and sure.

I've lost my list of people to tag in these, so I'll have this as an open tag. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in this or future games. Your words are: Undead, Past, Revenge, and Hold.

Split:

(a scene from Deja Vu, a scrapped story)

Phin takes a moment to get his bearings so he doesn't get lost, realizing he's where Song's fatal accident had happened, would happen. He takes in the surrounding area, surveying for anywhere he could use as cover should Song not want company on his walk that night. His eyes glance at the street and he tries to convince himself the dark spot in the middle of the road and stain on the yellow pain was melted asphalt or spilled paint. Anything but what it could actually be.

While looking across the street, the sun is suddenly darkened and the street is only illuminated in street lights. His legs and lungs feel as though he'd just been running, but he'd been fine just a moment ago. He looks around to see Song sprinting across the street without looking. Phin calls out to his friend, trying to make him stop. Song does and turns towards Phin, his look of confusion being illuminated by a black truck's headlights as it speeds down the road. In his confusion, Song realizes the truck barrelling towards him too late.

A split second before the truck hits Song again, Phin blinks and is met with the bright summer sun when he opens his eyes. It seems only a moment passed, but everything had seemed so real. Phin must have tried to save Song before, becoming the cause of his friend's death.

Stain:

(Part of a scene written for Shadow of Doubt)

Kit faces the table in front of him again, right thumb gently rubbing the light blue cat collar in his hand. Milo hadn't gotten the chance to wear it. Tears sting his eyes and a few escape just thinking about his beloved pet. It's all his fault...

"Kit?"

He forces himself to look at Freidy, broken from his thoughts by her voice. Kit's posture becomes smaller as they barely hold back tears, his eyes already red and wet from crying. Unable to continue looking at Friedy, he drops his head to stare blankly at the table between them.

"Yes. I'm-I'm okay."

Freidy's face is full of sympathy and pity in equal parts. "Are you sure you don't want to get checked out at the hospital?" Her eyes glance at where he'd been stabbed only a couple hours ago, the blood staining his shirt barely hidden by his arms.

Kit shakes his head quickly, tightening his arms' grip on himself. "They said it... it isn't as bad as it looks... I-I'm just so scared...I don't know what else to do..."

Smirk:

I couldn't find this one, so I believe that is a fun fact.

In a few of my stories, there's a lot of talk about ascension and the stages of ascension. Not all people in the universe are able to ascend to immortality because the stages are more difficult to achieve the higher your stage. Most people don't even reach the first stage.

Bonus: The stages of ascension.

Infamous standing

Kingdom recognition

Primordial recognition

Heroic recognition

Immortal recognition

Fable and Lore

Ascension

Sure:

(A short scene written for Dread Secrets. )

There was, of course, proof that a battle had taken place. A vicious and violent one at that. The burned and ruined buildings had all nearly broken down. Time and the elements finishing the job of ensuring anyone who survived would not be able to take shelter or easily hide. The whole place was damp with fog and sorrow, despondent and heavy. Some of the buildings seemed to lean against the nearby trees in an effort to stay standing, as if expecting someone to need their services to shelter from the elements.

From the look of things, this place had not seen or felt life, save for the plants and shrubs that clung to and grew into wherever they could get a foothold, since the siege. Yet, despite its looks, it felt as though something were nearby. Perhaps more than one thing, hiding in the shadows and trees surrounding the group. Whether these things knew the living were there or not, Xiang could not be sure. He only knew the hair on the back of his neck had not stopped standing on end since before they had even stepped foot in the Dread Kingdom.

[cubtales]

cubbie morning (っ˘зʕ•̫͡•ʔ and happie timezone ! how are you all ? i do hope this weekend is comforting and serene as we go into december 🐾 i for one is impatiently waitin' for spotify wrapped to drop (⌯︎¤̴̶̷̀ ᴗ ¤̴̶̷́⌯︎)✧

[bloodsalted]

dean's hands were shaking by the time he hung up the phone. took him about five minutes of standing there staring at the blank screen and his reflection inside it for reality to sink in. that voice sounded like cas. the way he spoke sounded like cas. the gut instinct in dean's entire body from toes to stomach to brain tells him, screams into his head actually, that it is cas. and cas is waiting for him. alone. confused. WAITING. found his way back from the dead. and it wouldn't be the first time one of them died and came back. hell. he's done it so much, he should've got a punch card for a get-out-of-10-deaths-free-with-your-next-10 deal. and that's just him.

doesn't make him jarred to his core any less. doesn't make the tears welling up in his eyes cause his vision to wobble any less. doesn't make him want, deep down inside his fucking soul, for this to be real and something GOOD for once any less. hope is so god damn terrifying, though. cause hope crushed? dean's not sure how much more of it he can take before he loses any shred of feeling it again. that's a dangerous, dangerous thing for someone like him. like them. with what they do. with the weight bearing on all their shoulders.

cas is WAITING. "please don't let this be a fucking sick joke.." a palm reaches up to wipe away the wet still clinging to his eyelashes. his keys steadied the way his hands continued to shake when they hit his palm a few seconds later.

dean drives all night. all day. doesn't stop unless he's gotta take a leak or grab something to eat. there's coffee cups littering the back floor of his beloved impala damn near ankle deep. he doesn't stop going and makes the drive in a dangerously less amount of hours than 25. more like 20 hours. it's what 20 to 30 miles an hour above the speed limit more often than NOT does to ya. the impala rolls to a stop and he takes in the sight of the angel staring directly into his headlights.

dean's certain his heart's about to burst out of his chest. glass shatters and hits the ground but he can't take his eyes off cas. the blue of his eyes. the way his mouth moves. it's him. it's him. his feet are moving before his brain catches up. all he can do is hold him. kiss him back and savor the press of lips against his own. ones he told himself he'd never feel again. savoring the warmth, the reassurance--you're here. you're here. oh fuck i need this. one hand cups the back of cas's head as he tucks away into his neck. the other arm remains wrapped around his shoulders. tight. "i missed you. oh fuck i missed you so much," his voice is cut off by another round of kisses. to his temple, his hair. anywhere he can reach.

@bloodsalted ;; meme I can't find anymore a kiss while being reunited after a long time

                           IT'S A 25 HOUR DRIVE FROM LEBANON, KANSAS, TO NORTH COVE, WASHINGTON. Castiel offers to try and hitch a ride to bridge at least some of the distance, but Dean insists on him staying put so they don't accidentally miss each other. Castiel doesn't have a phone anymore; his pockets are empty, not even carrying the bonbons or chocolate bars he stashed there for a serious case of low blood sugar. It's also a different coat — the one from before. Castiel doesn't know how the Empty brought him back, but he's not going to question it. All he wants is Dean and Sam and the certainty that this is real.

                             He spends the time between his call to Dean and the hunter's arrival close to the public phone booth in case he calls him again. People pass him by, looking suspicious, but Castiel stares ahead, hands buried in the pockets of his brand-new old trench coat, and tries to picture their reunion. He knows from an old newspaper that several weeks have passed since Kelly went into labor and Lucifer— What will Dean do? What will he say? Will he believe it's Castiel?

                             It's late evening when he hears the familiar rumble of the Impala coming down the alley. Dean stares at him when he climbs out of the car. "It's really me," Castiel tries, even though that's what a shapeshifter would say, too. He makes a lightbulb behind himself explode because he doesn't know how else to prove it. Showing the shadow of his wings is too much effort for what little grace he has right now; he needs a day or two until he's back to his former power and can fly again.

                             Then Dean rushes over, pulls him close, squeezes at his arms, and with a tired but happy smile, Castiel returns the embrace, hugs Dean to his chest tightly before he puts his hands on Dean's face to tilt his chin up for a brief kiss – no tongue, no passion, just the warm press of lips, a silent it's me and yes, I'm back, I'm okay before he buries his face in Dean's neck, inhaling deeply. This is real. 

[navegandoaciegas]

Not so shy now

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader

Summary: You’ve been pushing Bucky’s buttons for days, and he finally snaps.

Warnings: smut, 18+, watersports, omorashi, dom!Bucky, brat!reader, a lil’ bit of humiliation and daddy kink, outdoor sex, rough sex.

A/N: I don’t usually write dom!Bucky, but I hope you’ll like this!

You weren’t one for the outdoors, that Bucky had found out the hard way a couple hours into your mission together, being the sole witness to your bitching and complaining for hours on end.

10 days later, all he wanted to do was bludgeon you to sleep until the mission was over.

Or alternatively, fuck you stupid until you’d all but forget about your backpack being too heavy, the bugs being gross, the blisters in your feet too painful and the meals too bland.

He’d been painfully hard for days and his ears just needed a break from your endless complaints, and stuffing your loud mouth with his aching cock seemed like a practical solution to both problems.

And Bucky was nothing but a practical man.

“Barnes,” you huffed, voice coming out in a childish whine, “Bucky? Buck? Let’s take a break, I need to pee.”

And of course, the biggest problem that had surfaced in your time together: you drank like a camel but your bladder had the capacity of a toddler’s.

“You went less than an hour ago, you can’t be serious right now.”

You, on the other hand, watched in amusement as Bucky turned around, a murderous glint in his eyes. You wondered how much more he could take, how much more you could push, until your grumpy but collected colleague would finally snap.

You felt giddy with excitement imagining all the ways that vibranium arm of his could put you in your place. Would he slap you, choke you, pull your hair? Would he be condescending or mean, how much would he degrade you, and most importantly how much could you take before you broke?

“I couldn’t really go,��� you shrugged, feigning innocence, “I was scared that a bug would crawl up my ass, to be honest. And I have a shy bladder, you know. Can’t pee if you’re hovering behind the trees.”

“I wasn’t hovering,” he cried out in disbelief, crossing his arms over his middle.

You smiled wryly, following the flexing muscles of his bulging biceps with your eyes.

“You kind of have a hovering problem, Barnes. A staring one too but we can unpack all that later, I really need to pee right now.”

You stomped over to him, swinging your backpack over your shoulder and hitting him square in the chest with it, mumbling a ‘thanks’. He let out a wheeze, stumbling back as you kept walking.

“You fuckin’ brat,” you heard him grumble, “Been gettin’ on my damn nerves all week.”

You heard a loud thump behind you, and before you could turn around, you were yanked by the arm, and your back hit the trunk of a tree as Bucky caged you against it with his beefy frame.

“It’s about time someone put you in your place, isn’t it? You’ve been running your mouth, so loud and so fuckin’ annoying, bitching and moaning about everything.”

You opened your mouth to sass back at him, but his rough, callous hand grabbed your jaw, shutting you up.

“I’ll give you a reason to bitch and moan, sweetheart.”

Before you could process it, Bucky slanted his mouth against yours in a messy kiss, all clattering teeth and drool, his hands forcefully roaming over your body, you tightly clutching his biceps for support.

You were dripping already, panties ruined with the amount of slick that leaked out of your pussy.

You’d been fantasizing about this moment for nearly a year, and in the end it had only taken you 10 days to crack your colleague. Although, as one of his hands groped your breasts and the other kneaded your ass, you had the feeling that he would be the one to crack you. And your back, and neck.

His hips bucked against yours, and your walls fluttered against nothing as you felt his hard length press on you. You’d accidentally seen him before, and you knew he was going to fill you up like no one ever could before him.

You could ignore the pressure in your bladder and the simmering pain in your lower belly for the moment, in favor of losing yourself in the warmth of his built body, in the shivers that ran down your spine with every one of his rough touches.

In a blur, your t-shirt was discarded, your bra ripped and your pants and panties shoved down your legs, while he stood completely clothed over you.

His thick fingers weren’t delicate when they cupped your cunt, harshly pressing down on your engorged clit, but he was so intoxicating that you could forget the scratch of his nails and the mosquitoes tormenting your ankles.

Fuck, neither of you smelled like roses after a whole day of hiking, but all that you could feel was Bucky and the goosebumps and love bites he left behind.

He leaned back just to watch his fingers dip into your dripping folds, smirking at the way you shuddered.

“Fuck, I just knew you were a fuckin’ whore, you’re so wet for me.”

He plunged inside you, feeling your walls clamp down on his hand.

“What, cat’s got your tongue? You’ve been pestering me all week, if I knew this would get you to shut up I would have done it before, doll.”

You moaned his name when his fingers curled inside you, and the tingly sensation in your lower abdomen made your eyes widen in realization.

You still needed to piss. A lot. And the more Bucky’s vibranium hand jerked inside your pussy, the more your urge grew, the pressure so painfully, maddening pleasant.

Bucky latched his lips onto your pulse point, sucking a bruise on it. You clenched your thighs, whining in shame and need, as you fought the urge to release in his hand.

If you accidentally pissed on him, you’d just quit your job and change identity.

You couldn’t bear the shame of it, brows scrunching as you willed your tense muscles to hold in.

Bucky was none the wiser, continuing his ministration and mistaking your heaving chest and copious sweat for pleasure.

It was delirious, brain turned to mush as part of you wanted to let go and cum (and piss), while the other restrained your urges, and witheld your orgasm.

Bucky’s thick fingers inched you closer and closer to your release, but you bit on your lip and dug your nails in his back to stop you from falling off the edge.

“Don’t hold yourself back, doll. I wanna see you fall apart on my fingers and on my cock, wanna make you cream my fingers, pretty girl. I know you can do it.”

Your entire body shook as he doubled his efforts, panting against your ear as his arm vibrated inside your pussy.

You squeezed your eyes shut, body on fire as you tried and failed to conjure any gross image that could sour your mood. None of it worked, though.

A sharp yet somewhat delicate slap on your face brought you face to face with Bucky’s pissed expression.

“Damn brat, never doing what she’s asked,” he tsked, shaking his head, “You’re lucky you’re so pretty.”

You whined in disappointment but internally cheered when his fingers slipped out of you, and despite the emptiness he left behind, your aching bladder could finally sigh in relief.

Relief that was short lived when he manhandled you again, spinning you around and slamming you front against the tree, ass up in the air.

“I’ve been waiting for this for so long,” you heard him mumble as he tugged his sweats and boxers down to free himself, “Wanted you for so long.”

He slapped his leaking cock on your ass, hot and heavy.

“Please, Bucky, please,” you whimpered, parting your legs wider.

You should have been begging for him to stop, but the ache in your pussy was too unbearable, and the prospect of his fat cock splitting you in half too appetizing.

“I like the sound of that, c-could get used to this.”

You felt as the breath had been knocked out of you when he breached your entrance, your gummy walls sucking him in. He felt better than you’d imagined all those lonely nights with your fingers down your panties, his name on your tongue as you made yourself cum imagining his hand instead of yours.

His breaths tickled the back of your ear as he gave you time to adjust, bracing one arm against the tree and the other on your shoulder.

Once he started thrusting inside you, the ache returned, stronger than it had been before.

His cock hit all the right spots inside you, which also meant that it jammed against your bursting bladder with each forceful snap of his hips.

The heat in your core was so great that you couldn’t feel the bark scratch against your chest, or the sweat trickling down his hair onto your back.

Again, you wanted to beg him to stop but words failed you, and all you could muster were some broken whimpers as your tongue lolled out of your mouth and you lost your mind on his dick.

The more he pistoned inside you, the more your need to cum grew, the more the idea of pissing all over yourself and Bucky seemed less scary.

“I can feel your tight pussy clamping down on me, doll. So tight, so good to me. Fuck,” he groaned, lost in his own pleasure, cock swelling inside, “‘M all yours, all yours.”

His arm snaked around your waist to pull you flush to his chest, which proved to be an awful move when his hand pressed against your bladder and you shrieked, a spurt of piss erupting out of you.

“God, you’re squirting? Oh God, fuck,” he grunted, clenching his teeth, “I’ve never made anyone do that before.”

You wanted to laugh, and cry.

“Bucky, Buck, stop, please, stop, I can’t, I-“

“Yes, you can, you’re doing so good for me, c’mon.”

“Bucky, no.”

Your tone was much harder than before, and Bucky froze like a deer caught in the headlight behind you.

You could feel his heaving chest on your back, and could sense his confusion in the air.

“But I thought…?” he muttered, pulling out of you, “Did I hurt you?”

You debated lying to him, but settled on telling the truth despite how humiliating it could be.

“No,” you hesitated, drawing in a deep breath, “‘S just, I really need to pee, I can’t hold it anymore.”

The air was still for a moment. You gulped, not daring to meet his eyes. After what felt like a century, you heard a low growl behind you.

“You and this damn piss,” he grunted, “Gettin’ on my nerves again, you fuckin’ brat. Always drinking water and whining like a child.”

His fingers dug painfully in your hips, surely leaving bruises behind. You were too speechless to protest.

“‘Bout time I teach you a lesson, sweetheart. I’ve been too good to you, and like the little brat you are, you’ve taken advantage.”

Bucky slammed his cock inside you again, pistoning his hips with brutal force while his hand found your front again.

The pad of his callous finger traced the bulge of your bladder, tickling the skin before pressing down on the swelling.

You had no time to think or react before your body acted on its own, releasing another spurt of hot piss against the tree.

You clenched your muscles to hold the rest of the piss in, and Bucky groaned behind you, feeling your pussy throb around him. You could tell he was getting off on your humiliation, watching you struggle to keep your dignity as he played your body like a fiddle.

“And I thought you were squirting,” he chuckles, “C’mon, piss all over yourself like the dumb bitch you are, princess. Show daddy how stupid his little toy is.”

Had you been more conscious, his alternating moods would have given you whiplash, but your sole reaction was to clamp down harder on him, biting on your lips until you could taste your blood on your tongue.

His cock dragging up and down your walls, the pressure in your cunt, the pain in your bladder, his hand on your belly, it was all becoming too much.

You opened your mouth to scream and all that came out were incoherent mumblings as you released all over yourself and his cock, your hot piss coming out in spurts as he kept fucking you.

“Dumb fuckin’ brat, you’re gonna be a good girl and cream all over daddy’s fat cock, aren’t you?”

You nodded, trembling head to toe with the sweetest release you’d ever felt, mind completely wiped as you lost control over your own body.

“Daddy, daddy please,” you wailed, “Make me cum, please.”

Your voice didn’t sound like your own as you begged, Bucky’s words lost on you when the ring in your ears got louder and louder.

You didn’t realize you were cumming until waves of searing hot pleasure crashed through you, the orgasm so intense you felt like you were going to black out.

You had the impression of being underwater, blissfully disoriented from reality, Bucky’s cock being to only thing to ground you.

You felt him throb and grow inside you, and he came with a grunt, filling your cunt with his hot cum so much that it began spilling out of your pussy while he was still hard inside you.

You both slumped against the tree, his arms around your chest, his head on your shoulder.

You were covered in dirt, piss, sweat and cum, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

“Not so shy now, that bladder of yours, hm?”

——

Pease let me know if you enjoyed the filth! Leave some feedback and reblog if you can! ❤️

[venicebixch]

Crush part 3

trigger warnings for this one include physical fighting, verbal altercations, DV, and mentions of blood and vomiting, although those last 2 are fairly mild. mostly, just beware of the fighting and DV if that could possibly be triggering for you. other than that, enjoy :)

After finishing up my errands, we grabbed lunch then went back to the hype house. We got everything ready for everyone to come over and then hung out until people started showing up.

Now I’m about 6 shots of tequila and 2 Coronas deep. Vinnie has had probably twice as much as I have, and he’s rowdy as usual when he’s drunk. But he’s in a really good mood, making him the life of the party tonight.

I stumble off to the bathroom to pee and take a little breather. My introverted self needs these moments alone after a long day with people, plus I feel kind of sick from drinking.

Having a minute alone makes me realize how sick I actually feel. I stand at the sink and try to pull myself together but the burning sensation in my stomach won’t go away. I look down and realize my hand is stuck to someone’s used, wet tissue that was left sitting on the sink. That pushed me over the edge and I immediately feel the urge to vomit, barely making it to the toilet. I come out maybe 15 minutes later and Vinnie and Jack were in the middle of a heated conversation.

“You’re not gonna sit here and tell me that a fucking gorilla is gonna beat a bear’s ass in a fight bro,” Vinnie all but yells across the room.

I’m genuinely confused but expect nothing less from this bunch.

“Have you ever seen a gorilla up close and personal? They’re huge,” Jack fires back.

“Bruh, a bear weighs like 600 lbs and gorillas weight, what? 200, maybe 250? On weight alone bears are gonna win. Not to mention their claws, teeth, and sheer speed. Bears are fast as fuck,” Vinnie looks over at me.

“Y/n, let me ask you something. Who’s gonna win in a fight, a gorilla or a bear?” He asks.

“Uhm, bear?” I say agreeing with Vinnie.

“Boom, see?” He says, looking back at Jack.

“I’m not gonna keep arguing it. Whatever. You’re both wrong but whatever,” Jack walks out of the room, waving his hand at us.

Vinnie comes over to me. I must look sick, because as soon as he gets close to me he gets a concerned look on his face.

“Are you okay?” He asks, rubbing my back. I’m a little surprised by his touch, he usually keeps his hands to himself. I like it though, it’s comforting.

I shake my head no. “I threw up,” I say with a pouty look on my face.

“Alright, we need to get you home,” he says. He calls Jett over. Luckily he stayed sober tonight.

“Hey, can we take y/n home? She’s not feeling well.”

“Yeah, of course,” Jett says.

Vinnie walks to the fridge and grabs me a water and helps me get my shoes on before we head out to the car.

I sit in the backseat so I could lay down on the way home. I nod in and out, hearing bits and pieces of their conversation about Seattle. Every once in a while I have to sit up and take another small sip of water to keep myself from getting sick again.

“Are you okay?” Vinnie asks, looking back at me.

“Yeah,” I say, keeping my eyes open staring at the car ceiling. The world keeps spinning when I close them and the movement of the car doesn’t help.

Vinnie reaches back and grabs my hand, squeezing it gently to comfort me. “We’re almost home.” He says softly.

I sit up when we’re finally almost to my house. As Jett approaches the driveway, and I see a car sitting there with their headlights on.

“What the hell?” I say. “Who is that?” As we get closer I realize it’s Luke’s car.

“Oh my god,” I say, rubbing my forehead.

“Who’s that?” Vinnie asks.

“It’s fucking Luke,” I sigh, irritated. I don’t want to deal with Luke right now. I don’t want to deal with him ever, actually, but especially not right now.

“Why the hell is he here?” Vinnie sounds just as irritated as I am, if not more.

“I don’t know. He texted me this morning and said he wants to talk tonight. I ignored his messages, though. I don’t know why he thought it would be okay to just show up.”

“You should have blocked his number.”

“Yeah,” I agree. Maybe it’s childish of me but I purposefully left his number unblocked and specifically turned my read receipts on for him just so I can get under his skin and make him feel like shit getting left on read every day. I mean it’s literally the least I could do after what he did to me.

I grab my bag and get out of the car. Vinnie rolls his window down to monitor the conversation.

I walk toward the other car and Luke shuts it off and gets out.

“Are you seriously not ever gonna respond to me?” He says angrily. “And who the fuck are you with this late, it’s literally 1 am. I’ve been here since 8.”

“You sat here for 5 hours waiting on me to get home? I ask.

“Yeah, you’ve left me on read for 3 weeks now, it’s getting ridiculous. You’re done playing these games with me.”

“Luke, it’s not a game. You text me multiple times a day every day, I don’t know what you want to talk about,” I say.

“Don’t act like I’m the crazy one.” He laughs, shaking his head at me.

“Did it occur to you that I probably don’t want to fucking talk to you? I don’t want to fucking see you?” I ask.

“Don’t fucking cuss at me,” he grabs my arm and starts pulling me toward the house. I try to pull away but can’t get him off of me.

“Luke, let me go,” I demand. I drop my bag trying harder to get out of his grip. He’s starting to hurt my wrist now.

“No. Stop being a bitch,” he’s now forcefully dragging me toward the front door as I struggle against him. “You’re gonna talk to me, like it or not.”

“No!” I yank back as hard as I could and he turns around and grabs both of my arms shaking me hard.

“I said STOP! Come inside and talk me to god damn it!” He yells, before grabbing my wrist again.

“You’re hurting my wrist, Luke, please stop!” I grab his forearm with my other hand, depserately trying to lessen his grip. I’m starting to get really upset, having flashbacks to my last relationship. That awful feeling of not having control of the situation and being scared creeps right back in like it never even left. Tears start to form in my eyes and my heart starts racing. I feel like I could scream.

I hear a car door slam and I look behind me to see Vinnie full force storming over to us. I swear his eyes look black with rage and I can feel the vibration of his anger from 10 feet away.

“Oh, THIS fucking guy?!” Luke says loudly, laughing. He finally lets my wrist go. “Buddy, just go ho-“

Before Luke could finish his sentence Vinnie rears his arm back and slams his fist right into Luke’s jaw, knocking him backwards on to his ass. I swear I heard a crack when his fist made contact with his face. Luke looks genuinely stunned, like the wind got knocked out of him.

“Vinnie!” I yell, stepping back.

Jett gets out of the car and runs over. “Vinnie, what the fuck?” He says.

Not saying a word, Vinnie drags Luke up to the house by his shirt collar. He gets him back up to his feet by pulling his hair then forcefully slams his back against the house, causing Luke to hit his head hard against the brick wall.

Vinnie leans in, almost nose to nose with him. “So help me god, if you ever fucking touch her again I will take your head and curb stomp the teeth right out of your fucking skull, Sapranos style,” Vinnie says in an eerily calm tone. “If you have any will at all to continue to live your pathetic life, you’ll leave her alone. Permanently. Do you fucking understand me?”

Luke glances over at me. He looks genuinely scared now. Vinnie grabs his face and turns it back toward him. “Don’t you fucking look at her, look at me. I said ‘do you understand me?’”

Luke stares at him, silently, his mouth parted slightly. Vinnie moves his left hand up to his neck, choking him and brings his right fist up, punching him directly in his nose. Blood starts pouring down his face, and Luke’s eyes shut and he goes limp. Vinnie knocked him out. He shakes his head, holding Luke up by his shirt collar, waiting for him to regain consciousness. Just a few moments later, he comes back around and Vinnie starts right back up again.

“I thought you were tough, huh? You act tough when it comes to grabbing her. Bullying and harassing her. Using her. Now you’re face to face with someone who can kick your ass and fight back, and you wanna act all scared?” Vinnie laughs sarcastically.

“Vinnie, please stop it! You’re gonna seriously hurt him!” I beg. I’m full on crying now. I’m less concerned about Luke’s well-being and far more worried about Vinnie ending up in prison on a felonious assault charge.

“Vinnie, enough! Let him go,” Jett says sternly, grabbing his arm.

“Nah, not until he fucking acknowledges what I’m telling him,” he doesn’t break eye contact with Luke.

“Al-alright,” Luke finally stutters out.

“Alright what?” Vinnie eggs him on.

“I’ll leave her alone. She’ll never hear from me again,” Luke says, closing his eyes. He starts crying.

Vinnie finally lets him go. “Fucking leave while you still have the chance.”

Luke stumbles back over to his car, leaving a trail of blood drops behind him. He desperately searches for his car key and gets in, driving off.

“What a pussy bitch,” Vinnie says, laughing out of anger.

[cursedwriter]

Dancing with your Ghost - Fushiguro Megumi

Jujutsu Kaisen Masterlist 

Warnings: Deals with death, Megumi has various breakdowns, it’s just really sad over all... sorry for making you cry in advance! 

Words: 4.9k

Author’s Note: Kind of inspired by this song: Dancing with your Ghost - Sasha Sloan // Also, when they dance, I kinda imagined them to dance to this: Technicolour Beat - Oh Wonder 

“Is he still in there?” Yuji pointed at the door by the end of the hallway. Gojo was walking in his direction, his expression unreadable.  

“No matter what I tell him, he won’t come out.” His voice sounded tired, almost worn out. The sight must’ve been hard for him to bear. Itadori gulped. He wasn’t sure if he could take it. “You should try talking to him. Maybe he will listen to you. We both know he would regret it if he missed the ceremony.” Gojo patted Yuji on the shoulder, hand lingering for a few additional seconds in silent comfort.

“I’ll try my best,” Itadori nodded, though, he sounded more hopeful than he was. This was going to be rough.

Soon after, Gojo disappeared behind the corner and out of sight. His shoulders were slouching and his head was hanging low as if he couldn’t walk upright. This was hard on everyone. But the person who had it the worst of all was…

“Fushiguro, can I come in?” Yuji knocked on the door three times. No answer. He tried again. This time more forceful. “Hey, Megumi! It’s me, Yuji! Do you mind if I come in?” Still no answer. Itadori sighed, but he pushed the door open anyways, peering into the dimly lit library of the Jujutsu Tech High school. Admittedly, he’s never been in here before. Yuji wasn’t really the non-fiction reader… or anything that wasn’t manga, really. But upon entering the room, he couldn’t help but gawk. The shelves were stacked to the max, piling up above his head in a seemingly endless supply of books. There were books everywhere. The amount of knowledge that was stored in here was immense. And all about curses and jujutsu? Incredible! Maybe he should’ve come here sooner. He bet that there had to be at least a dozen books about Sukuna here somewhere.

“It doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t make any sense.” Itadori was pulled out of his thoughts by the repetitive mantra that was coming from somewhere behind a shelf. He followed the sound that was mingled with quiet sobs and he had to force himself to keep walking. This was more terrifying than facing all the curses of this world together.

“Megumi?” He peered around the shelf, finding his friend sitting on the old wooden floor, frantically flipping through a book with yellowed pages that seemed to be falling apart at the seams. It must’ve been ancient.

“No sense, no sense, no sense,” he repeated over and over again as if that phrase was the only thing keeping him sane.

“Megumi?” Itadori tried again and finally Megumi’s head snapped up and he looked at Itadori like a deer caught in headlights… only way worse. His eyes were bloodshot with dark purple circles underneath them. A stark contrast to his sickly pale skin. Briefly, Yuji wondered if Megumi had slept at all since it happened. Tears were streaming down his face and it felt like they would never stop. An endless river of sorrow and despair. Yuji was sure he heard his own heart shatter in his chest as he looked at his best friend. He wished he could take some of the pain away. Even if it was just a little, but of course that was impossible. “The ceremony will start soon and-“

“That’s stupid!” Fushiguro cut him off harshly, his voice hoarse and quieter than usual. “Why would there be a freaking ceremony when she’s coming back?!”

“Megumi, she-“

“No! Stop it!” He yelled, throwing the book he was reading against the opposite wall. “Stop it! Shut up!” He pressed his palms against his temples as if he wanted to crush his own skull. “I’ll do it, you’ll see! All of you! You’ll see! I’ll bring her back! I’ll bring her back, okay?! I will – I will!” He repeated it over and over again and it was apparent that he wanted to proof himself right more than anything else. Maybe making him believe would help ease his pain? Should he encourage him? No. Despite wishing that he could provide some words of comfort right now, Itadori knew that false hope would be the cruelest thing he could offer. No matter how much it hurt, but Megumi couldn’t go on like this… searching for something that wasn’t real.

“Megumi, please. You’ll regret it if you don’t come,” Itadori tried again, picking up the book that Megumi had thrown away. He flipped through the first pages and he could already tell that the answers Megumi was searching for weren’t in this book. It was mostly about how sorcerers could reincarnate as curses if their dead bodies weren’t handled properly. If they died you had to make sure that the last hit was infused with cursed energy. Usually, that took care of things. However, if they died of natural causes, diseases or accidents there was a special ritual, a ceremony that made sure their bodies were put to rest accordingly. Kind of like a funeral, but then again, not quite. This was the ceremony Fushiguro refused to attend, even though it was highly valued among sorcerers. It was a way to pay your last respects, value their accomplishments and thank them for their sacrifice. He probably refused to go because that would make her death final and he would be forced to move on, no matter how hard it would be… and it was going to be very hard.

“SHE’S COMING BACK, DAMMIT!” Megumi yelled at him, reaching for another book that was stocked in a pile he’d built himself. The tower crumbled with the way he yanked it out, dozen books falling to the ground, scattering to their feet. It was eerily quiet for a second, Yuji didn’t dare to speak. The atmosphere so thick, he doubted even Maki’s demon blade could cut through it. And then, right when he wanted to say something, anything really to get rid of the suffocating silence in the room, Megumi started sobbing. Not like before. Impossibly, it was even worse. His whole body shook with the action, hands that were clinging onto the book were trembling and despite him hanging his head low, Yuji could see the frequent tears that were hitting the old worn out pages of the book, blurring the ink further, making it almost unreadable.

Hesitantly, he took a step forward, but he wasn’t quite sure what to do. Should he hug him? What could he even say? Should he call for someone? Gojo-sensei? Would he know what to do? Or Nobara? Or, wait! Y/N always knew what to do when it came to him… Oh, right…

Yuji slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. How could he forget?! It really didn’t feel real yet, huh? Itadori tried to swallow the big lump in his throat as he crouched down and gently took the book out of Fushiguro’s shaking hands. He looked so fragile, as if a single slap to the wrist could break his arm.

“I just don’t get it,” Megumi whispered. His voice sounded far away, as if he was underwater or as if Yuji had cotton in his ears, muffling his voice to a point where it was almost incomprehensible. “It’s just so unfair.”

Yuji placed the book on the ground beside him, skipping over the title “Resurrection and the balance of the world”, it read. He gulped again. Could it be possible?

“I know it is.” He laid a comforting hand on his shoulder and another muffled cry escaped Megumi’s mouth. Yuji had seen a lot over the course of just one year, but not once has he witnessed such utter despair. The sight pulled on his heart strings in ways he couldn’t even explain.

“She fought against the most heinous creatures every day and you’re telling me she died because some fucking asshole thought it was a good idea to drive while being absolutely shit faced?!” Some of his words were swallowed by his sobs, but Itadori understood him well enough. “I refuse to believe that! I refuse to accept that!”

Momentarily Itadori was thrown back to the moment they got the call, he remembered it all too vividly. The shock, the confusion and his scream…

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the nurse led them into the room. The air was chilly and it smelled like disinfectant.  The stench so unbelievably strong, Megumi thought he might throw up. It burned in his eyes and nose and he distantly felt his cheeks getting wet. He couldn’t tell if it was because of the smell or of what was to come… at this point, it still felt like a sick joke, some twisted game or prank. Just not real, like a dream, a nightmare he would wake up from any second.

There was a single bed in the middle of the room, the body underneath covered by a white cloth. Gojo, Nobara and Yuji gathered around it, hands clutched together in front of them as if they were silently praying. Megumi hesitated. He stood in the doorframe, looking at the scene in front of him and nothing seemed to make sense anymore. Everyone was crying. Even Gojo seemed more tense than usual and he was sure he saw a stray tear slip from underneath his sunglasses.

The room was silent, except for the door falling shut behind him as the nurse left them to mourn in peace. This was a dream, right? A nightmare? How could it be anything else?

Megumi’s footsteps echoed off the walls as he hesitantly approached the bed covered in white sheets.

This is just a dream. This is a nightmare. You’re going to wake up any second now. Just wake up. Wake up! Wake up, dammit!

But he didn’t wake up. Not even as he reached for the white cloth. And he didn’t wake up as he slowly lifted it up. He didn’t wake up when everyone sucked in a sharp breath. And he didn’t wake up as Nobara’s knees buckled and she fell to the ground sobbing. He didn’t wake up as he laid his eyes on your peaceful but lifeless face.

Megumi didn’t wake up. But God did he wish he did.

He stood there for what felt like an eternity. Studying your features. How your hair was softly flowing on the pillow, how your lips were slightly parted as if you would wake up at any given moment and tell him something important. But he also noticed that your cheeks lacked their signature pinkish tint and your lips were more blue than their usual vibrant red.

His hand inched closer to your face, connecting to your cheeks and adoringly caressing it. It was cold underneath his touch. Your skin feeling more like wax than it felt alive.

No one said anything, the only sound was Nobara’s quiet sobs that she tried to stiffle to the best of her abilities. Everyone watched Megumi and no one knew what to do. Neither of them has ever felt so helpless. Even Gojo was rendered speechless at the heartbreaking sight in front of him.

And then, everything slowly started to sink in…

She’s gone.  She’s gone. She’s really gone! You’re not waking up! Why aren’t you waking up?! Wake up!! No, no, no. This can’t happen. This can’t happen. This isn’t happening! Tell me this isn’t happening?!

Didn’t I just talk to her this morning? Didn’t we talk about going to the beach as soon as it got warmer? Didn’t we make dinner plans? Didn’t she boast about a new recipe she wanted to try? Didn’t this just happen? And you’re telling me that all of that is just… gone? Just like that? In a moments notice… poof?! Evaporated into thin air? You’re telling me that?

“Wake up, dammit! Wake up, dammit! WAKE UP!”

Everyone stared helplessly at Fushiguro. At first no one knew if he was talking to himself or you, but then he started desperately shaking your shoulders, repeating the words over and over again. “We wanted to go to the beach, remember? You told me you couldn’t wait! Come back, and I’ll drive us right now! Come back! Come back to me, please! Please!”

Gojo couldn’t bear the sight anymore. The way he shook your body as if that would change anything. With a few long strides he closed the distance between him and Megumi and pulled him away from the bed. He was thrashing at him, screaming in his face to let him go, but Gojo didn’t listen. He gladly took a hit or two if that meant Fushiguro could get at least some of his frustration out of his body. To Gojo, the room itself was a hard place to be in – for obvious reasons. The energy here made him feel uneasy and on edge. The amount of cursed energy gushing out of Megumi was immense and almost unbearable. He had to get his emotions in check or else…

Megumi continued to yell and thrash. “Let me go, you bastard! Let me go! I need to see her! I need to see her!”

“I understand that this is hard for you, but you need to calm down!” Gojo’s voice was stern. This was probably the first time ever that he actually put on the façade of a responsible adult. Nobara and Yuji watched the two with wide eyes, but didn’t interfere otherwise. “If you keep this up, you might end up cursing her! Do you want that?!”

“Let me go! Let me go!” Megumi wasn’t listening.

“Megumi, snap out of it!” Gojo’s palm connected to Megumi’s cheek, his flesh burning hot where it had connected. For a moment, the room was silent again. Only Megumi’s labored breaths broke through the thick tension.

“You bastard!” Megumi launched himself at Gojo with all his strength, but that was exactly what Gojo intended. It was better if he directed all his energy towards him than having it leak out of him uncontrollably. Otherwise he had the potential of manifesting a new special grade curse that neither one of them wanted to deal with, especially if you were to be reborn as said curse.

Megumi stopped his relentless attacks, knees buckling under his weight as a single agony filled screamed echoed off the walls…

Megumi slowly opened his eyes. His head was aching, blood soaring in his ears. What happened? He looked around himself. The room was dark, only illuminated by the moon light that peered through his partially closed blinds. He was laying in his bed, the room a mess just like he remembered. That was unlike him. Well, ever since that day he hasn’t been himself at all. Now, he more or less felt like an empty shell, existing but not alive.

He groaned, sitting up while he rubbed his temples, hoping to get the relentless throbbing to stop. Ah, that’s right. A few flashes of the previous events reminded him of what had happened. Megumi’s frustration and anger had gotten the best of him and he started throwing books, ripping them out of their shelves and even tearing some of them apart when he couldn’t find the answers he was looking for. Yuji had to call for Gojo and he in turn had knocked him unconscious.  

Megumi huffed. Great. Now he was probably not permitted to go to the library again. He should really start thinking before lashing out like this. No, matter, though. If push comes to shove he’d find a way in and if it’s the last thing he did. He didn’t really care anymore anyways. What’s the worst that could happen? Expulsion? That was nothing.

He peeled the covers back, his shirt sticking to his body uncomfortably. Maybe he should take a shower before he went back again.

Reluctantly, he got up and walked towards his bathroom, mindful not to trip on anything that was scattered on his floor.

Once he was there, he turned the shower faucet on, letting the water heat up while he stripped out of his clothes. His head was still killing him and his whole body ached. He shivered, even as he got into the shower and the hot water burned his skin. He was still cold. For some reason he didn’t seem to be able to get warm anymore, as if you took all of his warmth with you, when you left him.

“Ew, stop doing that,” you laughed wholeheartedly as Megumi shook his wet hair in your face after coming out of the shower. “Seriously, are you a dog?”

“No, but I love hearing you laugh.” Megumi wrapped his arms around you, pressing your back against his naked chest as you both watched your reflection in the mirror. “I really love you, Y/N. So much,” he whispered in your ear, not taking his eyes off the mirror. He could see the faint blush on your cheeks and he placed a soft kiss to the nape of your neck to emphasize his words.

“I love you, too.” The smile on your lips and the way your eyes sparkled with joy, filled his heart with warmth and light. He could bask in it for all eternity and he would never get tired of it.

Megumi turned the water off, still shivering. It was to no use. His skin was burning red, though, and the whole room was filled with steam and yet, he had goosebumps all over his body. His teeth started clattering as he dried himself and he put on new clothes.

The clock on his bedside table told him that it was three in the morning. He felt like he forgot about something… something important. What was it again?

And then his eyes widened in shock. No, no, no.

“Hey, look!” Megumi felt your slender fingers wrap around his wrist, your warmth immediately warming his cold skin. You tugged him gently and he followed you. It didn’t take long for you to reach your desired destination and you stopped, eyes shining with awe in them as you watched over the city, lights sparkling and illuminating the darkness. Megumi couldn’t deny that the view was breathtaking, but he couldn’t keep his eyes from constantly looking at you instead. The way your face lit up, the way the lights danced on your face and how your cheeks were always tinted in their usual pinkish color, made him fall for you all over again. His heart hammered in his chest and his pulse picked up. Butterflies assaulting his stomach in the best way imaginable and he felt like he was floating above ground. Never has he felt so happy. “There! It’s starting!” You beamed at him as the first flash of light painted the night sky in a bright blue color, then it changed to red and then green. The sound of other fireworks being set off rang through the otherwise silent night. Here, on top of the mountain away from anyone, it was the most peaceful place he could imagine. But he wasn’t sure if it was only because of the view and the fact that no one was around or if it was because you were here. Whatever it was, he didn’t dream to fight it. The feeling so foreign yet so welcomed.

Suddenly your hand appeared in his line of vision and he didn’t hesitate to take it. What he didn’t expect was you starting to spin around. It took him a moment to catch up. “C’mon, Megumi, what are you doing? Don’t just stand there so stiffly! Dance with me!” You urged him on and Megumi felt his cheeks heating up in embarrassment. He could only hope that you couldn’t see it.

“There’s no music, though,” he said, trying to find an excuse to not make a complete fool out of himself. You see, Megumi wasn’t a dancer. Give him a choreographed fighting formation and he could do that no problem, but moving his feet to the rhythm of a song? Nope. That was sure to end in him tripping over his own feet and in the worst case break his leg or arm.

You rolled your eyes at him, but instead of saying anything, you reached into your back pocket to get a hold of your phone. It didn’t take long and the sound of the fireworks was mixed with the soft tune of a song that he didn’t know. “Better?”

Well, not really… Megumi scratched the back of his head, unsure. Better to come clean, I guess. “You see… I can’t really dance… like at all,” Megumi stammered.

“So what? I can’t dance either,” you laughed, spinning around and jumping up and down like it was the most normal thing to do. The smile on your face never faltered and you did another spin, throwing your hands up in the air, moving them around awkwardly. Megumi couldn’t help but laugh at your awkward movements. You looked so silly, it was hilarious. “See? Now it’s only fair that you make a fool out of yourself, too. You can’t leave me hanging like this!”

What the hell, right? Megumi started moving his feet, still super stiffly and anything but graceful, but he did it. He looked at you, following your movements and it didn’t take him long to get the hang of it… well, somewhat at least. He still looked really awkward and helpless, so you reached both your hands out for him again and he grabbed them without hesitation, just like before. You started spinning both of you in circles, giggling at the way his face lit up slightly. He joined your laughter, looking at you with the most adoring smile in the world. It felt… so easy. Everything with you felt so easy.

So now it was just the both of you, spinning around in fast circles, laughing at the night sky filled with stars while in the distance the sound of fireworks slowly died down. The music playing softly in the background, but you didn’t even care that the rhythm of the song didn’t match with your movements at all. Nothing mattered in that moment. Just the two of you. Together. Forever.

“Ah, I was wondering when you’d show up.” Gojo scratched the back of his neck, smiling apologetically. “Maybe I was a bit too rough, when I knocked you out. Sorry about that.”

Megumi stared at him sitting in the front row of lined up chairs. The room was only dimly lit by the candles at the other end. The soft light they cast illuminated a picture of you in a black frame. It was the same one he had saved as his phone background. Megumi gulped, feet moving on their own as he approached Gojo, though, he felt his knees wobble unsteadily. The air became thicker and thicker with every other step he took. It felt excruciatingly hard to breathe. It was suffocating.

Megumi sat down on a chair next to Gojo, forcing himself to tear his eyes off the framed picture in front of him. If he didn’t he was afraid he might break down again. So he shifted his attention to the man in the chair next to him. He was already looking at him, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, as usual. There was a slight frown in his features, though, and his mouth was pressed into a thin line, a stark contrast to his normally giddy self. So Gojo could be serious, huh? Who would’ve thought? Bet you would’ve loved to see him like that…

“Megumi,” Gojo broke the silence first, his tone soft, but there was a certain sternness behind it that Megumi didn’t know he had until now. It left no room for interpretation. This was going to be a serious talk and Fushiguro didn’t know if he was ready for that yet. “I know that losing someone you care about is not easy and I’m not trying to pretend that I know exactly what you’re going through right now, but I’m telling you as your sensei and as a friend… you have to move on. And that means you have to stop looking for ways to bring her back.”

Megumi opened his mouth to tell him off, but Gojo just held a finger up to show him he wasn’t done yet. The crease between Megumi’s brows deepened, but he kept his mouth shut regardless. “The world works under a few distinct principles. Rules that cannot be broken, if you will. Like we know that after the sun sets, dawn will come. With darkness, there is light and no matter how harsh a winter might be, spring will always come next. And the pinnacle of those rules will always be that with life there comes death. We don’t get to choose when this’ll be or how it’ll happen, but from the moment we’re born we know without a doubt that we’ll have to leave this place at some point. Death is certain. It’s but one part of life and disrupting that cycle, breaking one of the unbreakable rules, would cause the whole system to fall apart. It would level the ground for mayhem and destruction, nothing would make sense anymore. The world would crumble. As sorcerers you know that we protect the ones who cannot protect themselves, but we also maintain balance and Megumi… while I do understand your desire to see her again, I have to warn you… even if there is a chance, I won’t let you do it at the expense of everyone else’s life.”

Silence fell between them again. Megumi had a hard time believing that these words really just came out of Gojo’s mouth. Deep down, he knew he was right. He knew it was a futile plan to bring you back. It was selfish and irresponsible, but he was so… desperate. So desperate to hear your voice again, so desperate to listen to you laugh or complain, so desperate to feel your delicate and warm touch on his cold skin. He was so desperate for these things; he couldn’t think straight. His mind felt foreign to him without you there. He didn’t know who he was, who he would be without you by his side. He didn’t know if he wanted to be in this world anymore with his source of warmth and comfort gone. They said, time healed all wounds but as of now that seemed impossible. Just a thing people told themselves to keep moving forward. A lie that was supposed to protect oneself from the cruel and harsh truth that the world didn’t stop spinning, that time passed by and that dawn always came… no matter what. The world moved forward regardless if you were here or not and it felt like a cruel joke to him. Nothing seemed the same. He didn’t recognize anything, looking at the world with different eyes. How could there be a world without you in it? Why was everyone moving forward while he was left behind? And how could they? How could they move on? Why didn’t the world stop spinning? It should. Because nothing felt right. Nothing was the same. And yet… that only held true for him.

Megumi wiped away his silent tears with the sleeve of his shirt. “But I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” he croaked out. It was the first thing that came to his mind. He replayed the morning with you over and over again and he couldn’t remember if he said goodbye to you when you left that fateful day. Did he? Did he not? In any case, he would’ve never thought how final of a farewell it would’ve been in the end. “I don’t even remember the last thing I said to her,” he sobbed.

He felt beyond guilty for not being able to recall it clearly. Did he say ‘I love you’? Did you say it back? He wanted to believe he did, but he just wasn’t sure and it drove him insane.

“She knew that you loved her very much, Megumi. I’m sure she knew until the very end.” Gojo patted his shoulder a few times, before he got up. “Take all the time you need.” He left the room, closing the door behind him, but not before he turned around one last time, looking at Megumi with worried eyes. “But remember, Megumi… You have to move on eventually, no matter how hard it is. For her sake and your own… Just know that you have people in your life that you can rely on any time, okay?”

Megumi nodded and Gojo let the door fall shut behind him. The silence that ensued was almost deafening. Finally, Megumi let his tears fall freely, sobbing like a child and sucking in air after shallow breaths.

Everything hurt with you gone. How could he ever move on? How could he ever love again? Megumi was scared he might break in half. How much pain could someone even bear? Though, deep down he knew that he didn’t have a choice… He had to try. And he would try his hardest to keep moving forward, holding on to that tiny glimpse of hope that one day he’d see you again. And when he did, he swore to himself to never stop telling you how much he loved you. Always and forever.

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Red

Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 3680

Warnings: Kink and trauma. You know, in case you forgot whose blog you were on! Night terrors. Non-graphic flashbacks to violence, very graphic smut. Bucky’s head is just not a very fun place? References to brainwashing and torture. Kink discovery, including some hitting/slapping during sex and some power/control fantasies, all within the context of a very happy relationship. It goes down dark but there’s a distinctly soft aftertaste. 

A/N: For @cockslut-padalecki and her Decade Under The Influence challenge. My prompt was “The Crimson” by Atreyu. Thanks for always hosting the absolute best challenges, and congrats on the milestone! 

Pre-reads by @thoughtslikeaminefield @mskathywriteswords and @fangirlxwritesx67​. Inspiration from that scene where Sebastian Stan gets slapped. You know the one I mean. 

The companion fic to this will be coming soon! It’s significantly darker and way outside my wheelhouse, but please let me know if you want a tag. 

The Soldier stalks silently down the hallway to the bedroom, scanning the shadows. 

The closet. 

Something itches, deep under the ice: knowledge that closets are for hiding — 

— a small girl, giggling in the back corner of the closet — 

— ready or not, here I come — 

— but those frozen things don’t belong to the Soldier. 

He opens the door and finds the woman on the floor, trying to hide in the darkness. He picks her up by the throat. Moonlight from the open window glints off her wide eyes and the Soldier’s metal hand. She fights back, clawing at his arm uselessly. 

He waits for her to stop struggling. They always do. 

Bucky opens his eyes and bolts upright, gritting his teeth against the sweaty, shivery wave of nausea. 

It takes a moment for the numbing chill of the Soldier’s memory to fade. 

He knows it’s a memory. He lost so many things in the deep emptiness of cryo-sleep, but he couldn’t bury them forever, and now they claw their way out while he dreams. The darkness gives him back his life, one nightmare at a time. 

Sometimes he wakes up screaming. Sometimes he wakes up convinced that the bed under him is soaked with blood, and it takes a few awful seconds to realize that he just sweated through the sheets. Other times he’s paralyzed in the darkness, convinced he’s back in the cryo chamber, and he wants to punch and claw and fight his way out, wants to see the sun again, but he tried that one too many times — he learned his lesson about wanting things. 

At least he didn’t wake her this time. She makes a breathy sound as she stirs, but she’s still sound asleep, and when he inspects his hands in the glow of her night light, there’s no trace of red. 

She got the light about two months ago, when he started sleeping over. She didn’t ask him, didn’t mention it — he would’ve been embarrassed, if she asked, but it helps. She helps. 

He’s goddamn crazy about her. It hasn’t been long, but he knows this is it for him. 

Bucky curls up facing her. Her hair is a mess, and there’s a damp patch of drool on the pillow under her slack mouth, and she’s beautiful. It’s amazing that she trusts him enough to fall asleep next to him. 

He closes his eyes. This time he doesn’t dream.

The end credits of the movie start to scroll down the screen, and she makes a grumbling noise that means she doesn’t want to get up and turn the TV off. Her little apartment is full of the rich smell of whatever she’s got in the oven, and the day has been so sweetly domestic that Bucky wonders when everything will start to twist and distort and go bloody. He must be hallucinating. 

But the hallucinations always had a sort of airbrushed quality to them when they started, an inhuman perfection that felt easy, like he was floating. Right now his stomach is growling, and when she shifts, her elbow digs into his side, and she’s a heavy comforting warmth on top of him. 

The hallucinations were the product of his own brain, which might be why they came back all too quickly when he started to recover his memories. Even when he couldn’t remember his sisters’ faces, he remembered the drug-fueled torture that took place behind his closed eyelids, scenes that started like fantasies and ended like nightmares. 

Most memories from before the fall are weak and hazy, sepia-toned afterimages that overlay the living world like ghosts. Other things bleed through the decades, making it hard to keep track of whose memories he’s seeing. The Soldier’s memories are always sharp and cold, and they’re the hardest to shake off. Sometimes they’re triggered by the present, and it’s always a surprise; he’s stepping into a crosswalk and the past is washing over him like — 

The water from the hose is freezing cold as the handler rinses off the blood — 

— and he’s still staring down at the slushy puddle, but — 

— the Soldier keeps his eyes down, clenching his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering, watching the red swirl over the cold cracked tile and disappear down the drain, and — 

Bucky has to fight to hold on to the honking taxis and the Brooklyn stink, because the cryo chamber is quiet like a coffin in the last few seconds before he’s frozen into unconsciousness, and — 

— and sometimes he feels frozen even when the dreams dissolve, even when he knows they’re only dreams. 

The frigid paralysis was mental more than physical, for the Soldier, and that’s a hard thing to shake. The raw human parts of him iced over, head and heart numb while his body carried on following orders. 

She sits up and stretches, making her shirt ride up, and he notices bruises on her hips, wrapping around the side. 

“Did I do that?” he asks, voice thin. 

She looks down like she didn’t notice. “Probably.” 

He tugs the waistband of her yoga pants down a little and finds the shape of a handprint, stained purple. She twists to show him a matching set on the other side. They’re more defined on the side he was gripping with his metal hand last night. He feels cold all over. 

“Sorry.” 

“No biggie.” 

He’s too scared to meet her eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I would never hurt you.” 

“What if I asked you to?” she tosses back, playful and easy. 

Bucky doesn’t know how to react to that. He can’t let her see how badly he wants that, so he just freezes like a deer in headlights, forcing himself to go still, to shut down, to say nothing.  

“Whoa, hey, don’t do that,” she says, and she moves into his space slowly, deliberately, giving him time to tell her to stop. He blinks at her, and she smiles, soothing. 

He spent the first month of their relationship waiting for her to turn and run. It’s gotten better, but… 

“Why the hell do you trust me?” he blurts out. 

She frowns, and hesitates, and he wants to reach up and smooth out the little frown line that forms between her eyebrows, but he doesn’t. She curls up against him and kisses his jaw. 

“Would you ever choose to hurt me?” she asks. 

“No.” 

“There you go.” He feels the movement when she shrugs, as if it’s that easy. “You control your choices. That’s it.” 

“But I —” 

“No buts,” she interrupts, and her voice is firm. “I choose to trust you and you don’t get to talk me out of it.” 

Bucky lets out a huff of not-quite-laughter at that. She’s stubborn as hell when she wants to be, and he knows better than to argue. 

“Okay,” he says, and wraps his arms around her, kissing the top of her head. She settles closer, her breath a warm damp tickle against the side of his neck. 

His body used to be a weapon. 

“You can’t blame yourself for things that are out of your control,” she mumbles, as if she heard him. 

He takes a deep breath and says it again: “Okay.” 

He can see her reflection in the mirror; she bites her lip, teeth white against her bright red lipstick, trying to hold back, but the whimpers are getting louder by the second as he fucks her harder. She’s bracing herself with her forearms on the sink, her entire body shaking with each sharp thrust. 

“Shhhh,” Bucky says, half-laughing, but he doesn’t slow down. 

He’s pretty sure this was her plan all along. They barely made it an hour into the party before she tugged him into the bathroom, and usually he would protest, but he’s been half-hard since he first saw her in that damn outfit. 

She opened the door earlier looking like a pinup, complete with glossy curls and red lips and this dress: flared skirt, nipped-in waist, curves threatening to spill over the scooped-low neckline. He had just stuttered for a few seconds as a wisp of memory cast a sepia glow over her pleased smile. 

He used to have a dog-eared print of one of those calendar girls, and it was tame compared to some that were carried to war, but there was something warm in her smile that made him hold onto it. He used to daydream about her waiting at home, welcoming him at the door, when everything else was heavy and grey. He used to look at her smile when he couldn’t bear to close his eyes, knowing he’d only see blood. They took it when he was captured, of course, but he used to imagine — 

— this, he used to imagine this, the way the skirt is rucked up around her hips and she’s bent at the waist, the way she stretches open around the shiny-wet length of his cock. 

He has a flash of certainty that this is just a fantasy, something he’s imagining desperately as he fucks his own fist and tries not to make a sound, pressing his other palm to his mouth to muffle his labored breathing. He’s picturing this so vividly that when he opens his eyes and sees the stars, framed by the caved-in ceiling of another bombed-out shell of a building, he’ll have to fight back tears of disappointment. 

The sight of her face in the mirror is utterly pornographic, threatening to send him over the edge too soon, but when he looks down, he can see the way her ass bounces and jiggles as she shoves herself back to meet each thrust, and that’s goddamn obscene too. Bucky’s imagination has never been this good. 

She’s so close, too close to stay silent, and just as she lets out a high-pitched, keening moan, there are footsteps right outside the door. 

He reacts instinctively, before he can think better of it; he slaps his hand over her mouth, muffling the sound against his palm — the metal one, he realizes, a split-second too late. 

Their eyes meet in the mirror for one wild heartbeat. Her skin looks dangerously soft under silver fingers that could so easily break the fragile jawbone they grip. 

Then her eyes roll back in her head, and her orgasm blindsides both of them with its intensity. If he wasn’t silencing her, she would’ve shouted, he’s pretty sure; she spasms violently against his grip, writhing like she’s trying to shake him off, and — 

— he imagines her struggling, fighting back, until he pins her against the wall and — 

— it hits him like a gut-punch. He doubles over, curling himself around her as he comes with a rough shocked grunt, and the white-out lightning-bolt electroshock feel of it is so incredible he forgets, for a few seconds; he just buries his face in those curls and kisses the nape of her neck. 

He straightens up and realizes her lipstick is smeared over the metal hand, deep crimson red. 

“God, we’re a mess,” she laughs breathlessly. She turns to kiss him, eyes sparkling, and then they have to clean up, put themselves back together, and he brushes it off. 

It was probably a memory, a ghost whose features he confused with hers in one fevered second. Unwanted memories — 

— dreams — flashbacks — fantasies — hallucinations — 

— invade his reality every day. 

It didn’t feel like a memory, though. 

She smiles, and there’s no doubt in his mind that the smile is real, so Bucky swallows his guilt and smiles back. Her hand is warm in his. 

There’s a knife in his hand and blood on the floor. 

It’s messy, but those were his orders. Easier to frame the mistress this way. At least the carving knife was sharp. Red drips down the blade onto the metal fingers.  

He’s about to place it next to the corpse when he hears the gasp. The mistress had been asleep four minutes ago, but people are unpredictable that way. 

Messy. 

The Soldier pivots, finds her standing in the doorway, hand over her mouth, eyes wide. She’s paralyzed by fear, like a deer in headlights as he stalks closer. Usually they run. Sometimes they fight back. This one just stares. 

“I won’t say anything,” she whispers. “I didn’t see —” He grabs her wrist, and she shrieks, trying to twist away, until he pins her against the wall and holds her in place. Tears start to roll down her cheeks. “No, please, I’ll do anything you want — just don’t kill me! You can — anything, I promise, I won’t struggle! Do you want —” 

“Want” is buried deep under the ice. “Want” is for bodies that are warm and soft and human. The Soldier is a weapon.

He presses the knife into her hand and forces her fingers to close around the handle. She was supposed to be asleep. 

She’ll be blamed, one way or another, but maybe it’s better this way. Cleaner. 

No witnesses. It’s an order. 

Bucky wakes up. He’s trembling, sitting up with his hands twisted in the sheets, but it’s not as bad as it could be. She’s sitting up next to him, one gentle hand on his chest as she watches with wide sad eyes. 

“Sorry,” he chokes out. “Fuck, I hate waking you up.” 

“Almost time anyway,” she says, which is when he realizes that it’s morning. Sunlight is streaming in through the sheer curtains. He settles back against the headboard, taking it in. They’re both naked, with her big downy comforter around their waists, and the residual chill of memory thaws immediately in the cozy warmth of her bed. 

She leans in hesitantly and brushes her lips against his. He can read the worry plain on her face — she doesn’t know what he needs right now — but he tugs her onto his lap, tilts his head back, mouth opening easily under hers for slow lazy kisses that stretch like taffy and then turn deep and dirty. She swears like a sailor as she sinks down slowly onto his cock. 

Christ, she’s gorgeous. 

It must be real. He could never hallucinate something so flawed and incredible as the way she looks naked, the stretch marks under his palms, the calluses on her fingers when she cups his jaw, the way she moans when he plants his feet on the bed and fucks up into her. 

She’s flushed and dewy with sweat, moaning in the sharp bitten-off way that means he found just the right angle, and her thighs are shaking hard enough that he has to grip her hips and hold her steady. He can feel her starting to get close, clenching and flooded around him, when her alarm goes off. 

“Cocksucking motherfucker,” she snarls. 

They both look helplessly at the phone, just out of easy reach on the nightstand. Bucky’s tempted to just ignore it, but she’s already leaning over. She twists at the waist but doesn’t stop rocking her hips down against him, squeezing in little pulses like she can’t help herself, so he settles her more firmly on his lap, holding her weight and anchoring her as she reaches for it. He works his right hand down between them, an awkward angle that’s totally worth it when he can rub her clit with the pad of his thumb and feel her spasm around his cock. 

“Five more minutes,” he suggests breathlessly. 

“Not gonna need that long if you keep doing that.” She trembles and almost collapses before finally grabbing the phone, and she hits the snooze button immediately. 

He’s already rolling his hips, grinding in deep, and he must hit something just right at the same moment she starts to straighten up; it makes her twitch, jerking uncontrollably against him as she moves, and her elbow cracks across his jaw, snapping his head to the side hard enough to rattle his teeth. 

“Shit!” she hisses, and then: “I’m so sorry, I — are you —” 

But the rough throb of pain hit like a swell of heat in Bucky’s gut, making him jerk up into her and shudder with pleasure. He lets his head loll, taking a deep heaving breath and letting it out as a moan. 

It’s not until he tilts his head back to look at her stunned face that he realizes what just happened. His cheeks burn but she doesn’t look disgusted; her eyes go all heavy-lidded and she bites her lip as she starts to ride him again, swiveling her hips. 

He’s opening his mouth to make some excuse, to deny it, when she leans in for a bruising kiss: teeth scraping his lower lip, a whimper rough in her throat, cunt silky-hot and soaked, so good his head is spinning. 

Then she asks raggedly, “Do you want me to do that again?” 

Without even thinking about it, he blurts out, “Yes.” 

Her palm connects with his cheek, a sharp sting that draws a guttural sound from deep in his chest. He moves on pure primal instinct, gripping her hips to slam her down on his cock. 

From there it’s rough and frantic and desperate. He’s only dimly aware of the way she moans, bucking against him, the way they’re moving against each other like animals, the way she bites his lip so hard he tastes copper and then he’s gone, coming so hard his vision goes white with the first intense pulses of it. She shudders as she follows him, riding out the shocks of pleasure with her forehead pressed to his and her hands in his hair. 

He shivers against her, breath hitching as reality washes in like ice water. 

“I can feel you freaking out,” she mumbles. “What, they didn’t have kink in the thirties?”

It surprises Bucky enough that he lets out a huff of laughter. “No. Not exactly.” 

“Why is this freaking you out?” 

He stutters for a second before he manages, “What’s wrong with me?” 

She sits up and looks at him intently. “Fucking nothing.” 

“That should be the last thing I want,” Bucky mutters, cheeks burning. 

“That’s not how it works,” she snaps. “Sex isn’t — it doesn’t always make sense. It’s messy.” 

“I’ve had enough of hurting people for a fuckin’ lifetime.” 

There’s something vulnerable in her sheepish half-smile. “Sometimes your body likes shit it shouldn’t. You can’t control what gets you off. Believe me, sweetheart.” 

He blinks, ready to question that, and she leans in for a quick kiss. As if on cue, her alarm goes off again. 

“Fuck.” 

“I gotta go,” she says reluctantly. “But later — later we’re going to talk about some things. Okay?” 

He doesn’t say it out loud, but he thinks it very clearly in that moment: I love you. 

“Okay.” 

The Soldier pins her brutally against the wall, one hand around her wrists, the other around her throat. He doesn’t squeeze, not yet, just holds her there and savors the thrill; she’s writhing and lashing out at him like a caged animal, but he’s got her and she knows it. 

It’s beautiful, the way she snarls and tries to struggle. 

He wants —

 — so this must be a normal dream, not a memory, but — 

— he wants to fuck her just like this, up against the wall, and —

— his hips jerk and his cock throbs, and — 

— fuck, he wants her. 

“Baby?” Her voice comes out as a sleep-slurred moan. 

He tries to blink away the dream, but instead he’s rolling over and pinning her, rocking his hips down before he can stop himself. She sucks in a breath, spreading her legs to meet the next slow thrust, and she blinks dazedly up at him, mouth dropping open as they rut against each other. 

“What was it?” she asks, raspy and heated. 

He lets out a pained sound and drops his head, hunching to bury his face in the crook of her neck. He’s so goddamn hard, so close, all over a fucked-up dream, and — 

“I was holding you — up against the wall. Your wrists.” 

“Yeah?” she says, voice smoky and eager. “Remember what we talked about?” 

“Traffic lights. Red if you want me to stop.” 

“Do it.”  

Oh. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Fuck yes.” 

He snatches her wrists and crosses them over her head, watching the way her lashes flutter at the touch of metal, the way she bites her lip. She shifts under him, squirming until the length of him is slotted up against her slickness and her legs are up around his hips. 

He slides in slow, relishing every inch, her body welcoming him with living dripping heat. She arches up, and he adjusts his grip on her wrists, squeezing slightly as he braces himself. All he wants in the entire damn universe is to drive into her, piston his hips until she’s screaming, but he starts to fuck her with steady even thrusts, holding back, trying to let go of the last lingering doubts. 

���Doesn’t this scare you?” Bucky asks hoarsely. “That you’re trapped.” 

She lets out a moan that sure as hell doesn’t sound like fear. This isn’t a dream any more, but it still feels surreal. 

“Yellow,” she says.  

“Shit. What’s wrong?” He tries to pull away, but she’s got her ankles hooked, keeping him in place with her legs. He lets go of her wrists, at least, and hauls in a deep breath, trying to make sense of that fierce expression on her face. 

“Nothing. I just wanted you to see that you’re in control. You chose to stop.” 

He swallows hard. “Yeah. I did.” 

“Stop punishing your body for wanting this,” she says. 

His breath catches, and for a moment all he can do is stare. She gives him a smile so soft it threatens to rip him open.

Then he curls his fingers around her wrists again — they’re still crossed, right where he left them. He waits for her nod. 

“Green.” 

Companion fic is here. 

[herherteartear]

our special time | 14

a/n— i’m sorry if you don’t like written chapters, i tried to keep it short tho💞

You flinched at the sudden feeling of droplets landing on your body. Turning your head towards the sky, a raindrop fell on your eyebrow. You mumble out a curse. Of course, it just had to rain right now. Right now being the fact that you were aimlessly walking around a place you didn’t know because there was no way you were going to let Hoseok take you home. Not after he cheated on you.

Well, cheated wouldn’t be the appropriate word. In all honesty, you couldn’t find yourself being jealous of the girl he went on a date with. So what made you dramatically storm out of the restaurant with a distressed Hoseok calling after you? Simple: you had been in love with him for years, waited for him for years, and the moment you guys were finally able to give being together a shot, he goes and dates another girl. It was insulting! He had hurt you in a way you would never hurt him. Then, a wave of guilt washed over her body. You would never hurt him like that.. right? Surely, it was different with you and Taehyung.

Except it wasn’t. And you knew that. The way Taehyung made you feel was the exact same way Hoseok made you feel once upon a time. You shake your head with a sigh. This was all just so confusing to you. You don’t even remember when you had fallen out of love with Hoseok. Perhaps it had slowly happened over the duration of waiting for him. It had been awhile since your crush on Hoseok began. Jin was right.. Your feelings weren’t the same they were 3 years ago.

You pulled your phone out of your sweater pocket. You couldn’t stop the swell of warmth you felt when you caught a glimpse of your background, a silly selfie Taehyung deemed worthy to be your background. The comforting feeling Taehyung’s face gave you made you frown. Had you done Hoseok dirty? Your thoughts were interrupted when you saw all the missed messages from Jin, Namjoon, and Hoseok. Deciding to ignore them, you checked the time. 10:39. Taehyung should be here for you soon. So you sat patiently on the park bench, hugging your drenched sweater as close to yourself as possible and tried not to think too much.

Taehyung clutched the steering wheel so tight, his knuckles were white. His whole body was tense and his heart was frantic. The second you texted him to pick you up, Taehyung had raced out of the studio and into Jimin’s car. He didn’t even stop to think how Jimin and Jungkook would get home. But he didn’t care. Taehyung’s thoughts were consumed by you. Which isn’t something unusual these days, but this time they were fearful. He had to get to you. He had to make sure you were okay.

He got to the park you texted him in record time. Taehyung slammed his car door shut, ripped open the umbrella and began his search for you. You’d seen the car’s headlights. Knowing no one in their right mind would go to the park at this time, you rushed towards it, in desperate need of Taehyung. Gripping the umbrella, Taehyung ran to you. You both crashed into each other, ungracefully and slightly painfully, but that didn’t matter. You embraced each other like lovers meeting after being torn apart.

“C’mon.” His voice rumbled through his chest. You reluctantly pulled away. He lead you to the car, and only once you had climbed in did you notice how soaking you were. You turned to Taehyung with a sheepish smile.

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled, gesturing to your clothes that clung to your body. Taehyung let out a throaty chuckle.

“Let’s get you home.”

Taehyung sat on your couch, patiently waiting for you to get changed from your wet clothes. He let himself observe the place better than the last time he was invited into your home. A smile overtook his features at the sight of the various paintings you had hung up, but what he enjoyed the most was the framed pictures you had of yourself, your friends, and your family. Taehyung reached to pick up a particular picture frame of you and Hoseok. He studied the grin on your face that reached your eyes, the way your hand was lifting up to cover your mouth (a habit you had when laughing, Taehyung noticed), but mostly the way you were wrapped in his arms.

“That was about a year after Namjoon introduced me to Hobi.” Your voice pulled him out of his deep thoughts. Taehyung whirled around to face you. His eyes widened as he tried to stutter out an apology. “No, its okay. I don't mind. If anything, it’s kind of embarrassing to think about how much I liked him.” You rubbed your hands together as you breathed out a laugh.

Taehyung took in the pajamas you changed into, cute light blue pajama shorts with a matching button up shirt. As he took a seat next to you on the couch, he saw you were wearing fuzzy socks with bears on them. His favorite animal.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Taehyung asked cautiously. He knew he wasn’t your best friend or anything, but he hoped you could see the genuine care he had for you. Your eyes fluttered away from his, as his dark brown orbs made your heart speed up. Could he hear it? You definitely could.

“I– I don't know.” Every word you knew seemed to have flown out of your mind when Taehyung sat next to you. Taehyung gently took your hand in his. Both of your skins burned at the feeling. Your hand was so soft in his.

“What happened tonight?” He asked. Taehyung hoped he didn’t come off as pushy; he only wanted to help you. Deciding to focus on his hands as his eyes were too intense for your little heart to handle. You began to play with his fingers, which, unbeknownst to you, made his heart skip a beat.

“I’m not sure if you saw, but apparently Hoseok went on a date with another girl.”

“But you guys aren’t dating, right?” Taehyung tried to mask his fear with curiosity. He didn’t want you to want Hoseok. He wanted you to want him.

“No! Not really, we were just feeling it out. And I’m not, like, jealous or anything. I’m just.. hurt?” You tilted your head to the side as you said that. Your eyes peeked up at Taehyung’s. “I fell in love with Hoseok the moment I saw him. I’d been in love with him for a year already when we took that picture.” You referred to the picture Taehyung was looking at. He furrowed his eyebrows.

“How long have you loved him?”

“Three years? I think. When I told him, he said that I was cute, but he wasn’t ready for a relationship. He wanted to work on his career first, which is totally understandable–”

“To an extent.” Taehyung interrupted. Your hands paused their actions. “If it were me, I never would’ve asked you to wait and if I did, for whatever ridiculous reason, I would never make you wait three years.” He seemed to have gotten a lot closer. You could feel his clothed thigh against your exposed one. A soft smile fell on your lips. Taehyung glanced down at them, letting his lips fall into a smile, too.

“Well, if only past me knew you, Tete.” You laughed softly. He loved the sound of your laugh, whether it was a loud one, a wheezy one, or a breathy, barely there one. He wanted to make you laugh for the rest of your lives. “I waited, and along the way, I stopped fawning every time he called my name and I saw him as just my friend, Jung Hoseok.” You paused and gripped Taehyung’s hand with both of your own. “But it was three fucking years.. I had to try with him, y’know? I wasted so much time on him! I owed it to myself to try, or else.. or else, I’d be humiliated.” Your eyes were now welled up with tears. You clutched Taehyung’s hand to your chest. He felt his eyebrows knitting together, in anger and in sadness for you. “And then he went and dated some girl! While we were dating! While I waited for him for years! I’m hurt because he would never had waited for me.” The tears were now rushing down your face. You couldn’t seem to pinpoint if it was from sorrow, embarrassment, or resentment. Taehyung pulled his hand out of your grasp to pull you onto his lap.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” He reassured as he held your head against his chest. You listened to the rumble of his chest every time his spoke and the steady beating of his heart; or was that steady? It seemed a little fast to you. Eventually, your tears stopped. You didn’t dare move a muscle, though. “I don’t know how anyone could ever do that to you.” He murmured. His cheek was now resting against the top of your head. Fresh tears pricked the edges of your eyes, threatening to spill out. You quickly wiped them away, just in time for Taehyung to pull you both into a standing position.

“Will you dance with me?” He asked, his toothy grin taking over his features. You smiled brightly at him. Taehyung giggled at the sparkle in your eye. He reached down to grab your hips and spun your around. You shrieked out a laugh.

“Wait! Aren't we going to play music?” You protested. Taehyung grabbed your arms to drape them over his shoulders.

“Don’t need it.” His deep voice rasped in your ear. He rested his head on the crook of your neck as his arms wrapped themselves around your waist. Feeling him so close, in such an intimate position, made your stomach erupt in butterflies. But even then, that wasn’t enough to describe the utter happiness you felt in this moment. Right now, playing with the ends of Taehyung’s hair, feeling his soft breath tickle your neck, having his strong arms holding you.

You knew the exact moment you had fallen out of love with Hoseok. It was when you met Kim Taehyung.

idol!taehyung x dancer!reader

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