#that should??? be the only trigger warning needed

[athzhowakar]

Hands As Cold As Ice ❄️

⚜️ Pairing : Cregan Stark × Female!Reader

⚜️ Period : Post Dance AU where Jacaerys and Daemon are alive. Rhaenyra is the Queen.

⚜️ Synopsis : The widow of Prince Aemond and the daughter of Queen Rhaenyra is to marry Lord Cregan Stark as a means to secure a political alliance. The princess marries Cregan despite not wanting to do so.

⚜️ Trigger warnings : Intimate scenes ahead, mention of death, kind of non-consent, depression, incompatible relationships.

It had been a month since Queen Rhaenyra had taken the throne. Princess Y/N was strolling in the garden and gazing at the walls of the Red Keep. It had only been four months since she became a widow with an empty belly. She loved her mother, she loved her mother's husband who had raised her, she loved her brothers and she loved her cousins. That was the sole reason behind escaping the Red Keep after her poor dear brother, Lucerys was killed by her very own husband. She had disliked Aemond, loved him and hated him. After all this time, she missed him. She did not understand by which sorcery, Daemon and his dragon survived something which Aemond and Vhagar could not. Caraxes was wounded. But wounds heal, lives do not come back.

Y/N had been wearing black for quite some time. They thought it was to show loyalty to the 'Blacks'. But she herself knew and so did a few others, that she was mourning her husband. Because despite everything, he loved her. He used to look at her with the one eye the Gods had spared him and smile. She used to play with his long silken silver hair and kiss him. Now that he was gone, there was no one to hold her.

She had moved into her dead husband's chamber after Queen Rhaenyra had taken the Red Keep. For she feared that anyone else would throw away Aemond's things and she would have nothing to remember him with. The war was a tragedy for everyone. It broke several families. One of them was her own.

Y/N had many responsibilities during the war. She could not spare time to cry for her husband whom she had left in the Red Keep or cry for her husband who had died fighting her step father. She did not get the time to grieve for the child which she had lost during the war either. Sometimes she wondered, "Did my mother know about my child? Were she and Daemon responsible for me losing my child?" Difficult times do not grant the luxury of such leisurely thinking. She called it the will of the Gods and carried on.

While she was walking, she saw a man approaching her. She had not seen him before but still, she recognised him. People had described him enough.

"Princess Y/N"

"Lord Stark"

"It is good to see you."

"I am glad to see you too, My Lord. I hope that your stay in the capital is comfortable."

"I am sure it will be, My Princess."

"Why are you so sure?"

"I was... being polite."

"That's nice of you to do so."

"Your mother suggested we spend some time together and get to know each other. After all, we have to be ready for what is to come."

"I... don't understand, My Lord. What is to come?"

"Why? Our wedding. Prince Jacaerys wanted it to happen as soon as possible. He insisted on getting us married next week."

Lord Cregan Stark said with a smile. Y/N's eyes widened in shock. Her eyes filled with tears of pain and anger. Before she could say anything, Jacaerys appeared. He said to Cregan, "My Lord, I would like to borrow my sister for a moment." He held her hand and took her inside the Keep.

While in the hallway, Y/N freed her hand from Jacaerys' grip. Jacaerys looked at her. He knew that his sister wanted answers.

"Y/N... Sister...listen to me"

"LISTEN TO WHAT?"

"It was an alliance. We needed the support of the North."

"So you promised my hand to him?"

"It is your duty. All of us need to perform our duties."

"Do not dare to talk to me about duties. I know what duties are."

"Then why are you fretting?"

"WHY SHOULD I NOT? You didn't think that it was necessary to consult me before making a decision on my life?"

"I had to make certain decisions on my own, Y/N. You are not the only one whose matches were arranged by me. I arranged the matches for Joffrey and Aegon too."

"They are babes! They can't give an opinion about matches. But I am not a babe!"

"This was a diplomatic decision. Lord Stark gains an advantageous match and we get his men."

"And was insisting on getting me married next week also a part of your great diplomacy?"

"Sister....listen..."

Jacaerys had not even finished speaking when he felt a blow on his face. He looked up to see his sister's tear stricken face and eyes filled with rage. She started slapping and punching him. When he fell down, she started kicking him.

The guards separated them with some difficulty. In this commotion, Y/N fell on the ground. Facing the cold hard floor, she started sobbing. Lord Corlys and Queen Rhaenyra were informed about the argument and they rushed to the site. Rhaenyra was horrified to see her daughter sobbing in that way and then her eyes fell on her son, who was bleeding from his broken nose. Lord Corlys helped Y/N get up. She hugged him and started sobbing even louder. The old Lord only caressed her head to comfort her.

Y/N did not want to cry. She had not cried openly after Aemond's death. But now, she could not stop crying.

Coincidentally, everything happened outside the chamber in which Dowager Queen Alicent was confined. She had heared and understood everything. She felt strange. She did not know that there was someone else who mourned her poor child. She had not expected the mourner to be the very same wife who had abandoned her son to join his enemies.

Later that night, Lord Corlys, Prince Jacaerys and Prince Daemon were discussing the situation with Queen Rhaenyra in her chamber.

"My granddaughter has done nothing to deserve this," Lord Corlys said, angrily.

"We are not punishing her. It is an advantageous marriage. She will be wed to the Warden of the North. She will be the Lady of Winterfell," Jacaerys replied.

Corlys approached him and said, "Are you blind? Can you not see that your sister is in pain? She is grieving!"

"Grieving for a traitor!" Jacaerys almost shouted.

"Do not talk of treachery, My Prince. We all know who the traitors, liars and usurpers are," Corlys said with a low tone hinting at something. "What I am trying to say is, my granddaughter is entitled to her feelings. She did what was right. She fought for the rightful queen. Now, if she wants to grieve her husband, she should be allowed to. It doesn't matter which side her husband fought for. What I know is, he loved my granddaughter."

"My Lord," Rhaenyra said. "I have seen my daughter. She is lonely. If she doesn't get married, she will only continue to grieve. I want her to start a new family."

"War has left scars on our chests, Your Grace. I lost my wife. I know about the pain," Corlys replied.

Daemon had been silently listening to everyone till now. He spoke up, "My Lord, the date for the wedding has already been fixed. Changing it will not be a good idea. Lord Stark might think that we do not intend to wed our daughter to him at all and he might take this as an insult."

"So will my granddaughter not even get a year to grieve?" Corlys asked, with tears in his eyes.

Daemon replied, "I am afraid not, My Lord."

Corlys did not say anything further. He bowed to Rhaenyra and left the chamber.

Corlys searched for his granddaughter everywhere in the Red Keep but could not find her. The search continued for some time before he found Y/N in one of the least frequented part of the Godswood. She was sitting by the fire which she lit herself. In that fire, she was throwing one thing after the other. He approached her.

Y/N was throwing several things into the fire. Books, papers, letters, clothes made of wool, clothes made of the finest silk, leather and many other things.

"What are you doing, my dear?"

"I am burning his things."

"Why are you doing that?"

"It is better to burn them myself than to see them being thrown away by someone who doesn't care about them."

"Granddaughter....."

"I should have burned his body. He should have gotten a funeral. I could give him nothing. I couldn't even save him. I am such a failure as a wife."

Corlys wished he could say something to calm her. But the deeper he thought, the sadder he became. It was indeed true. Y/N had been an ideal daughter, an ideal sister and even an ideal granddaughter. But she could not exactly fulfil her duties as a wife.

"No man is flawless, my dear. Besides, it is not your fault. You only did what you thought was the right thing to do."

"I loved him so much....Why did he have to be on the Usurper's side?"

Corlys could not answer her. He sat beside her and watched her cry as she burned all of her dead husband's possessions one by one.

Once everything was burned, Y/N was exhausted from crying. She kept her head on Corlys' lap and closed her eyes.

"Grandsire..."

"Say it, Granddaughter."

"Can you take me to Driftmark for a few days? This place suffocates me."

"That will be good. I shall talk to your mother about that."

Even though Rhaenyra had denied to postpone the wedding, she could not deny Lord Corlys when he expressed his desire to take his granddaughter with him to Driftmark for a few days. However, she did that on the condition that he would bring her back for the wedding on time.

The wedding was a grand affair. Many Lords attended the wedding with their wives, sons and daughters. Prince Jacaerys and Prince Daemon were talking to the Lords in the feast.

Y/N was getting dressed for the wedding. She had worn a cloth-of-gold gown. Her necklace had rubies and her earrings had them too. Her hair was braided and arranged around her temples like ram's horns and then covered by a hairnet.

Rhaenyra entered the chamber to see her daughter already dressed.

"You look very beautiful, Y/N," Rhaenyra said, smiling at her daughter.

Getting no response from her, she asked the ladies-in-waiting to leave them alone. She then made her daughter sit beside her on the bed and said, "Y/N, I know that this is hard for you. I do not blame you for loving my half-brother. He was a good husband to you. Besides, we do not choose whom we love."

Y/N only stared at her mother and said no word. Rhaenyra held her hands and said, "Lord Stark is a good man. He will keep you happy. I want you to accept him and start a new life. Be a good wife to him, give him children. Do your duty to him. You cannot hold on to the past forever. You have to let go."

Y/N wanted to say, "If you had let go of your foolish feelings for Harwin Strong, then our lives would have been much easier." But she remained silent.

Rhaenyra made her stand and put the cloak containing the colours of House Targaryen and House Velaryon around her shoulders.

Rhaenyra had tears in her eyes. "Will you not speak to your mother at all?" she said.

"Did you kill my child?" Y/N said, with a voice which was barely louder than a whisper.

"Child?" Rhaenyra asked, bewildered.

"Yes, the child in my belly...Aemond's child...which I lost only a few days after fleeing to Dragonstone," Y/N replied. She asked again, "Did you kill that child?"

"Oh my poor child!" Rhaenyra burst into tears. "I would never. I did not even know that you were with child. Trust me, I have done no such thing."

"If you say so," Y/N replied with a cracked voice.

Rhaenyra was crying. But Y/N did not want to look at her. She was not fully convinced. She walked out of her chamber and saw her brother Jacaerys standing outside her chamber.

"It is time, Sister. I will be the one to give you away. Come with me," he said to her.

Y/N spoke no word to Jacaerys. She did not even look into his eyes. She walked with him through the hallways into the Castle Sept. He took her to the wedding altar with a smile on his face. Lord Cregan Stark was standing there with the most charming smile he could have. In front of him was someone who looked almost like a Goddess. However, like many men, he too failed to read her mind. But the other women present there didn't.

Dowager Queen Alicent saw her son's widow getting on the altar with a face as pale as snow. There was no joy in that face. It looked like someone has drained all the happiness out of her and she could burst into tears at any moment. Y/N's lips were dry and shaking. The area around her eyes had turned pink from frequent wiping of her tears.

"Poor child! Look what that whore has done to her own daughter!" Alicent said to herself.

The vows were exchanged. The septon blessed Y/N and Lord Stark and declared them man and wife. Now, it  was time for the bedding ceremony. Jacaerys was about to declare the starting of the ceremony when Rhaenyra glared at him, as if daring him to speak.

Daemon approached him and said, "My Prince, you do not want to make matters worse. Arranging this wedding already gave you a broken nose."

Jacaerys nodded.

Y/N was escorted to her chamber by her ladies-in-waiting. She sat on her bed reflecting on what her life had become. She saw the decorated bed. There was a knock on the door and it opened. Cregan entered through the door and shut it close from inside.

He approached her with a smile on his face. Y/N would have traded all the gold in the world for the ability to evaporate from that place at that moment. She tried not to show any signs of discomfort. "Stay calm," she kept telling herself repeatedly. She had married him and she needed to perform her duty.

Her gently kissed her cheek and said, "You look very beautiful, Princess. Just like the moon."

He took her right hand in his and said, "I am aware of everything. I will not force you to do anything that you don't want to. If you don't wish to lie with me, then it will be that way."

"That won't be necessary, My Lord," Y/N replied. "The marriage has to be consummated anyways."

"I am glad you think so," Cregan said. "And I want you to address me by my name, at least when we are on the bed."

It did not take much time for Cregan to undo the laces of her gown, nor did it take him much time to unbutton whatever buttons came in his way. Soon, Y/N was out of her gown and as naked as her nameday. She lied on the bed and tried not to look at Cregan getting undressed. He climbed on her and claimed her with quite a great passion. His touches however, contributed more towards triggering the memories of Aemond than it contributed towards pleasuring Y/N. She certainly did not like the way her body was betraying her mind.

Cregan claimed her several times that night. And fell asleep after rolling off her.

Y/N curled up on the other side of the bed and sobbed.

Cregan was very pleased with his wife. He had been a widower for a few years. He was glad to have a beautiful wife like Y/N by his side.

However, things were not so easy for Y/N. Pretending to be a wife was harder than she had imagined. After returning to Winterfell, Cregan visited her almost every night. "Filling your belly is one of my favourite things to do, you know," he used to say.

Cregan used to think that his wife likes to bed him but was shy. He used to think that the war had made her quiet and reserved. So, he used to try to cheer her up by saying those things. Little did he know that bedding him was the most traumatizing part of their marriage. Men can be so clueless sometimes.

Y/N's nights were sleepless. The first half of each night was taken by Cregan and the second half was spent crying. She preferred bathing alone. She used to rub her body vigorously to forget the feeling of Cregan's hands on her and to remove his scent from her body. The scent seemed to never go away, no matter how many perfumes she used on herself.

She started keeping to herself most of the time. She craved loneliness. She spoke very less and only if it was very important.

It was one of those nights. Cregan entered Y/N's chamber. She had worn only a thin gown for sleeping. Y/N's fingers started shaking when she saw him. She tried to calm herself by holding on to nearby objects. Cregan took off his robe and held her waist.

"Was I disturbing your sleep, my love?" Cregan asked.

"As you can see, I haven't slept yet, My Lord," Y/N replied.

Cregan turned her to face him. He caressed her face and touched her lips with his index finger. He said, "Do you know how beautiful a smile will look on these lips? I think you don't. Because if you did, you would smile more often."

Seeing no response, Cregan whispered into her ears, "Let us bet. If I make you scream in pleasure tonight, you will smile for me. What do you say?"

"Sure," Y/N replied.

Cregan bit her neck as he grabbed her waist. She had a weak spot somewhere near the waist and below the navel. He discovered it a few days ago. He pressed that area and saw his wife biting her lips.

Y/N clenched her fist so hard that her nails almost pierced her skin. "Just a few hours," she kept telling herself. On the other nights, Y/N did not only cry after the deed was done, but also in between. She made sure he didn't notice it. But that night, as Cregan turned her around to undress her, she could not control herself. He had finished undressing her when he moved the hair from her face and saw her face. The suppressed tears had finally fallen. She was crying.

"What happened?" Cregan asked.

"I can't do this...I can't anymore...I am sorry...I am sorry...I can't..." she kept saying.

She was hiding her bare breasts with her hands and had closed her legs. Cregan had never seen her like that. He panicked.

"I do not understand. What is the matter?" He asked.

"I can't do this... I don't want to do this... I did... I tried... I can't anymore..." Y/N kept saying tearfully.

Cregan covered her with the sheets. He sat at the edge of the bed. An hour later, Y/N had calmed down.

Cregan looked at her. His eyes were red.

He said, "On our wedding night, I asked you whether you wanted me to bed you or not. You said that you wanted to go for it. All this time, I had been trying to win your smile and happiness with my love, while you had been grieving for a dead man. You brought the load of your past marriage into ours. That dead man was and is everything to you. While I am nothing. You find my touch disgusting. Yet you lie with me every night and pretend to be the perfect wife. Tell me, Princess, was there anything that was real between us?"

"I am sorry... I can't..." Y/N said, when she was interrupted by Cregan.

"Stop that. I don't want to hear that. I don't want an apology. What I wanted...was honestly and that is clearly not your virtue," Cregan said.

He got up from the bed and wore his robe. He then walked out of the chamber.

A month had passed since that night. Cregan stopped coming to Y/N's chamber altogether. Now that he had realised that his wife actually loathed his presence, he avoided her completely. This sudden change in behaviour did not go unnoticed. It was a topic of gossip among the servants but he paid no heed to them. But the seed that Cregan had left in Y/N's belly did not seem to ignore her.

Y/N noticed that her moon blood was late. But she brushed it off thinking that it might have been caused because of stress.

She was sitting at a table in her chamber and waiting for the maid to bring her food. Cregan no longer dined with her. The maid brought chicken and mushroom pie. Y/N remembered that it was one of the things which she liked a lot. But as she took a bite out of it, she spat it out.

"Gods be damned! What is this?" She shouted at the maid.

"It's....the pie, Princess," the maid said, tearfully. The little girl got scared of the sudden outburst.

"You call this a pie?" Y/N asked. "Horse shit must taste better than this. Take this away from my eyes."

An older maid who was standing nearby signalled the maid to take away the remaining pie. The old woman brought some boiled potatoes and sprinkled some salt, poured a little vinegar and added some herbs to them, and then smashed them a little. She gave them to Y/N and said, "Try these, Princess."

"Boiled potatoes?" Y/N was confused.

"Just try it once, Princess," the old woman sighed.

Y/N took a bite of a potato and surprisingly, found it very savoury. She quickly finished all the potatoes. The maid then brought some pieces of lemons and asked her to eat them. Y/N ate them too.

When she was done, the maid said to her, "These are the early signs of being with child, Princess."

"Child? How do you know that?" Y/N inquired.

The maid smiled and said, "I am nine and eighty, Princess. I know a woman carrying a child when I see one. However, for your satisfaction, you should get yourself checked by the Maester. That old man is believed by everyone after all."

A chill ran down Y/N's spine. A child would change a lot of things. Besides, her relationship with Cregan was not good anymore. Truth to be told, she hoped for a daughter because a son had no future there. Cregan already had an heir. Her son would only be a second son who would stand to inherit nothing. A daughter, however, could be married off to a Lord.

She sent for the Maester. The maester arrived with haste. She shared her worries with him and he listened to all of them very attentively. He said to her, "Princess, it is very much possible that you are with child. Please lie down so that I can examine you."

After examining her, the Maester said to her with a smile, "You are to be a mother, Princess. Your doubts were indeed correct."

"How long have I been with child, Maester?" Y/N asked.

"One and a half months, Princess" he replied.

Just then, Cregan arrived at her chamber. They exchanged a brief glance. The maid had informed Cregan that Y/N might be with child and that's why, he had come to talk to her. On seeing the Maester, he asked him, "What did you find out, Maester?"

"The princess is indeed with child, My Lord. You are to be a father again," he replied. He then glanced at both Cregan and Y/N and said, "I shall take my leave now."

Cregan approached Y/N with slow steps and sat on the bed beside her.

"We are to have a child, Princess."

"Aye"

"Do you know what that means?"

"I do."

"Our child deserves parents who love each other."

"I know."

"What I am asking from you is, a chance. I want a chance to make you happy. We cannot play pretend husband and pretend wife in front of our child."

"I will try."

"Will you...truly? Or will you say that to my face and cry when I turn my back?"

Y/N burst into tears on hearing that. Cregan hugged her and kissed her forehead. He cupped her face and said, "Look, I know that you loved Prince Aemond a lot. I am not asking you to forget him. I have not forgotten my Arra. But you see, Arra and Aemond are our past. But the child in your belly is our present and future. I am not asking you to bed me. I am asking you to let me into your life and to let me take care of you. Because I married you to start a family with you. I want to love you."

Y/N was still silent. Cregan had gotten his answer. He said, "If that is your wish, I will stay away from you. But once the child is born, you will not try to keep it away from me. If you do so, I will not tolerate it. Because the child is mine and I will never ever give up on my child."

..

..

..

To be continued

Taglist : @anime-lover-forever-1127

[reversedpineapple]

∘•····· 𝕐𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕖 ℙ𝕣𝕠𝕗𝕚𝕝𝕖: 𝔻𝕒𝕟 ℍ𝕖𝕟𝕘 ·····•∘

꒷꒦ Yan!Dan Heng x Nameless!Reader ꒦꒷

TWs: obsession, stalking, slight spoiler for Penacony (maybe, not really), talk about death, wounds, self-harm (not reader), unhealthy relationship, imprisonment, isolation

Comments, likes and reblogs are always appreciated. :D

ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ Word count: 2.3k ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬

By continuing to read beyond this point, you have agreed to the trigger warnings and to be at least of the age of 18. The author does not hold any responsibility whatsoever for your actions.

It’s impressive how secretive the Vidyadhara would fall for you

The fact that Dan Heng is someone with a cool exterior but with a lot of warmth to give to those he considers dear to him is no secret. As such, one could expect for him to just fall in love with someone along the way but the truth is everything but that. Things like relationships are dear treasures to him and as such, something like romantic affection is put on such a high pedestal by him that most can not even fathom how they could ever reach it. It’s not unattainable. It just takes a lot of time, more than most would like to give if the end result is the possibility of him considering them as a romantic partner.

As such, someone who is part of the Nameless could consider themselves lucky to be so close to the ravenette. The Astral Express is not as big as it once was, not by a long shot, and as such running into each other at least thrice a day is only natural. Something like that is of course not enough for him to see someone as more than just a friend but by the love of the Eons, please do not force yourself onto him. Dan Heng the patience of a saint but some things are just too much. At some point he would just turn around and leave the room, fed up with your constant pestering and consider yourself as that neighbour. It’s not a status you would want, trust me.

You could join the Experts before or after everything on the Xianzhou Loufu but one thing is essential of slowly climbing over the high walls he build around himself; helping him work through all the confusion and also (partially hidden) pain the place brought him. He was confined and raised in its prison so there is guarantee of him having downright night terrors for him. If you are already part of the team during that time and help him with, uh, everything he would be more than just thankful. Dan Heng may act as if the Loufu doesn’t make him feel more than slight unease but inside he is ready to just turn around and return to the Archive. Just be there for him. He doesn’t even care if you can fight, the Vidyadhara is called the guard of the Express for a reason after all. Should you join after all of that then there is still more than enough he would need help with. Traumatic memories don’t just disappear over night. Dan Heng may be known as the Expresses recluse but he is not someone who shuts the metaphorical door in someone’s face should they offer help. The only thing you need to do is just wait and befriend him more and more. Like already said, the whole process takes longer than most are willing to give and subconsciously it might also be a test from him. If you can stand him for that long perhaps you could even… All you really need to do is hold his hand from time to time, sometime in a less literal sense.

When Dan Heng slowly realises this feeling as more than just the friendship you build and the trust he feels toward every Nameless, he honestly does not know how to approach them. The biggest horse in the room, not a real one of course, is the cultural difference between the two of you. The Vidyadhara are native to the Xianzhou and as such spend most of their time among members of the Long-Life species and as such, changes among customs usually happen slowly to barely. The ship is of course open to outside influences but beings living that long like to hold onto old customs so as not to feel like the entire world is slipping from their grasp. Despite being raised in a place described as a lightless abyss, he was exposed to at least some of the places culture and since romance was not really part of his expectations for the future, has not really changed much of his view on it despite visiting many different planets.

Please have mercy on this man. He is not someone who cares much about exposed skin but the second he sees a bit more than usual from you, as an example your trouser leg accidentally riding up or your shirt slipping off your shoulder, he will act like a Victorian man seeing an ankle. He will not shame you, by Lan no, but don’t be surprised when he drapes his coat over you, claiming that you looked cold whilst discretely fixing your appearance. He also simply likes to take care of you so that is another reason for his behavior. There is just a /very/ long pining stage so buckle up because once it starts it will take some time before he is comfortable enough to consider confessing to you. A negative is though, that he sometimes gets so uncomfortably overprotective. Problems he would have solved before with a few words of reasons are now more likely met with him being a lot more trigger happy should you be somehow involved. Once, another person talked behind your back about you and he had walked over to them to give them the verbal dressing down of the century. Another time an enemy got close to spotting you and he absolutely pulverised it. It would be a lie to say that the look he wears every single time does not unsettle you.

When he finally comes around to tell you how he feels, he almost expects a rejection. Dan Heng has just played for so long your trusted friend that he himself doubted that there could be more. At the same time, he also wants you to know how he feels. He will not be angry should you turn him down but he will also not back down with his overprotectiveness. He would much rather stay as your friend than leave your life entirely by acting bitter. When you accept though, he does not really know what to do at that point. The Vidyadhara didn’t really expect to even get this far so… yay? It does not matter if you had many relationships before or if this would be your first one, either way you would know more about relationships than him. Dan Heng does not concern himself with things he deems unnecessary, perhaps a passed down trait from Dan Feng, so he did not really delve much into the subject of romance before you. He is by no means completely oblivious, just a bit, you know, dare I say awkward?

Once that part is over though, you might question if you had just dreamed up that scenario. Were you still in Penacony or was this some other weird influx of Memoria? Changes will happen slowly (like everything to be honest). At first, it was him simply asking more often how you are doing. You looked a bit tired this morning, are you all right? If you want he can recommend some calming herbal teas. Then it’s /tiny/ bits of physical contact. Whenever he runs into you in the hallways of the Express he brushes the fingertips of one of his hands along your knuckles. It started when you had to fight one day outside of the express and punched someone so hard your knuckles bled. Those wounds, despite being small, were a sign of failure to him. No one other than him knows but he got so angry at himself for letting something like that happen to you that he himself wounded the knuckles of his right hand, the self-inflicted scabs hidden by his glove.

But for a while, that’s it. The biggest problem is him simply being too flustered to do more. So, either you wait once more or, and in this case it is alright to, just cross that boundary yourself. Just… don’t be too extreme. Dan Heng really wants to get closer to you in a way only partners are but he also does not want you falling over him like a starved hyena. Not only would he be embarrassed, since he has no idea how to reciprocate, but also think he failed as your significant other. You don’t need to break the ice with some grand gesture. Approach him slowly and gently like someone would with a wounded street cat and hold his hand or, if you are in a really calm situation, give him a hug. I would highly recommend taking his hand since you can see this way how his face turns redder than a tomato. He doesn’t hate it. In fact, he loves it but he also does not know how you would respond to hearing something akin to purring (?) coming from him so he just turns his head in a fake cough. The tips of his ears are still very visibly red.

Despite still feeling shy in the beginning, he would start to approach you more with intimate acts and, if you can believe it, actually acts fast. The Vidyadhara is afraid he would feel too uncertain if he waited too long so he just goes for it. But be aware, once he visits you in your room (get your mind out of the gutter), he feels absolutely safe to a ridiculous level with you. You could tell him to leave his spear in the party cart and he would comply as long as he is allowed to stay with you. Sometimes, your pillow smells like his shampoo as well. Dan Heng would never tell you but whenever he is alone in your room, sometimes you know, sometimes you don’t, he would bury his head in your pillow and… well… relax? Not in a weird way but he just enjoys your smell. There is only one place more heavenly than your bed and that is your lap. At first he would always ask for permission but after a while he just lays down with his head on it. It’s not rare that he falls asleep and from time to time, his less human traits slip out. The first time it happened you were combing through his hair with your fingers whilst playing on your phone only to suddenly feel something other than hair. To your surprise your lover had turned into his Vidyadhara form and started to let out hums which vibrated through the entire room.

Please tell him you saw his not-so-human self and that you didn’t mind. He wants so badly to be his true self around you or rather, as true as he can be without scaring you away. Dan Heng knows that Vidyadhara have an elegant charm to themselves most humans can’t help but wonder at but he doubts you would stay if you knew everything that entails. Now, even he knows that his infatuation is not considered normal amongst his own kind. Those rings he got for the two of you are more than just symbols of your relationship. Of course he also treasures them as those but in that small blue-greenish stone is a tiny piece of electronics always telling him where you are. He could never tell you. You would be freaked out and who knows, even depart the Express out of fear. There is also that worry inside of him that you could leave. Not because of him but simply because you wanted to settle down for a calmer life and as such, he makes sure you don’t grow /too/ fond of one of the places you visit, especially the Xianzhou Loufu. Everywhere else he might be able to convince himself to follow you but not that place. Huh, been a while since you visited…

What you don’t know can’t hurt you and as such, the ravenette holds that principle holy. Sometimes though, his grip along your waist is a bit too tight when he pulls you in, his sharp teeth grazing just the slightest bit too much against your lips for you not to notice that this is not just like any other kiss. There is fear in his eyes. On one particular night when he decided to stay over, old nightmares haunting him once more, he told you how he sometimes feared that the Express crew would turn out like the friends of his past life. He doesn’t know much about them anymore, any memory of them washed away during his time in his egg, but what if? In comparison to everyone else (other than your gray haired companion, you never knew with them) he was considerably stronger than most, although you eyed Welt sometimes suspiciously. What if he was left as the only one standing. Vidyadhara don’t fall to the Mara by natural means. They usually go through the circle of rebirth before that can happen but should you depart the world before that happens, Dan Heng doubts he could stay with a sound mind and as such, he pulls you close whenever he has the chance. For all he cares Nanook could go ballistic but as long as you are safe and sound, he does not care one bit. At this point, you are his main motivator to continue on as usual.

For the sake of the universe, please live for a long, long time and preferably beyond the lifespan of Dan Heng. Memories wash away but only as long as he repeats the usual circle. Should you not, the universe would have to deal with the former high elder using the Abundance once more only this time, he would inflict it on himself as well. After all, there would be no sense in doing this if he would forget all about you after his next reincarnation.

Do not copy, translate or use my work without my permission. All rights belong to the author.

[wrestlersownmyheart]

"Tweet Of Fate" Chapter 4 (Damian Priest X OC)

Title:��Tweet Of Fate Pairing: Damian Priest X OC: Sharlotte Taylor Summary: Little did Sharlotte Taylor know that her first little tweet to WWE wrestler, Damian Priest, would change her life forever. Hearing about his nasty breakup with his girlfriend, and seeing so many hateful tweets to him regarding his failed relationship, she wants to send him something encouraging, so she sends him an inspirational quote. It sparks Damian's interest and leads to a flirty, but close online friendship between the two. A friendship that turns into a little something more than either of them had counted on.

Disclaimers: I own nothing or anyone associated or affiliated with WWE. I own only the original characters. This is just a fictional story that came from my imagination. Content/Trigger Warnings: None

Chapter 4

One Month Later…

Feeling better than he had in the past three years, Damian drove up into his driveway, pulled inside the garage and killed the engine. Unlike the way he had hesitated a month before, he instantly got out of his car and grabbed his rolling luggage out of the trunk. Heading for the door to the kitchen, he opened the door and stepped inside. His eyes instantly fell on Jasmine sitting at the kitchen table, eating a salad.

At hearing his footsteps, she turned to face him, and her face broke into a huge grin.

"Oh, Damian! I'm so glad you're home!" She ran to him and threw herself into his arms. "I was so afraid you'd never come back!"

Damian had pulled back and smiled down at her, "Relax babe. Everything has a way of working out."

Jasmine smiled up at him, her green eyes lighting up in excitement. "We need to celebrate!"

Damian nodded, "I'm way ahead of ya. You've got a special delivery that should be here in a little while. Now, why don't you go upstairs and pack your suitcase?"

"A trip," Jasmine asked happily, playing with her long, dark brown ponytail.

"Yep," Damian smiled, and flashed a dimple at her. "Wherever you want to go. I think a nice long trip will really ease some of the tension in our relationship."

Jasmine's forehead wrinkled in confusion then. "Well, babe, I agree. This is great...But, I thought you were going back to work now that you're officially off your suspension."

Damian shrugged and laid his hand on the counter. "I'll manage. One way or another," he answered.

Before she had a chance to think about his cryptic statement, he took her hand and squeezed it. "Get up there and start packing, woman!"

Giggling, Jasmine did as he said and ran up the staircase to their bedroom, while Damian rolled his luggage to the laundry room down the hall. He pulled all of his clothing out along with some of the newer items he'd bought while he was living out of a hotel room. Piling them in the large washer, he began running the water and adding the liquid detergent and softener. He had just shut the washer door and was heading out of the room when he heard the doorbell chime.

He hurried through the foyer to the front door and opened it. A uniformed postal worker stood at the door.

"Is a Jasmine Greenberg here," the postman asked, glancing down at his clipboard.

Damian smiled, "Yes, she is. Feel free to step inside. She's upstairs. I'll go get her."

Leading the postman into the large home's foyer, he jogged up the stairs and to the bedroom he shared with his girlfriend. "Jasmine? You need to come down and sign for your package. Are you through packing?"

"Yes," Jasmine smiled, and kissed him as she walked by him. "Why couldn't you sign for the package," she asked, heading down the stairs with Damian right behind her. "Is it some sort of new rule or regulation?"

"I don't know. Probably," Damian answered. "Hurry up though. I want to see the look on your face when you see what's inside."

This made Jasmine's steps speed up drastically. Eager to see what surprise Damian had got her, she stepped into the foyer and met the postman.

"Hi," she greeted, as the postman handed her the clipboard.

"Hi," he returned, "If you'll sign right here and date it, it's all yours."

"Great," Jasmine smiled, and scrawled her signature and the date on the form. In the next instant, the postman took the clipboard back and passed a thin box over to Jasmine.

"Thank you," she grinned, and began opening the box as the postman headed out their front door.

"Careful," Damian said. "I wouldn't want you to damage it. It's more valuable than you could imagine."

"Oh, Damian..." she smiled. "I just know I'll love it." She continued gingerly opening the box until she could safely reach inside and pull out its contents. She found herself looking down at a sheet of paper. The top of it read in big bold letters:

EVICTION NOTICE

Speechless, Jasmine looked up at John, her green eyes shooting daggers.

"What is this," she demanded.

"Well, it looks like an eviction notice," Damian answered bluntly, pulling no punches.

"No way. This doesn't work Damian. I am not leaving you."

"I'm not asking you to leave. I'm telling you to. Don't fight me on this, Jasmine. I've done my homework, trust me. I don't just jump in and do something. I think it over, and I research my decisions. You can't stop me from kicking you out of here."

Jasmine growled out a colorful curse, throwing the paper and box at him.

"I'd take care of that if I were you," Damian taunted. "You just signed the proof that it was delivered to you. If you destroy it, or ignore it you'll be in a whole LOT of trouble. You really don't have a choice, Jasmine," Damian said. "You have zero control over the situation. I know that's driving you up the wall, and I can't lie and say I'm not enjoying it."

"You cruel...piece of..." Jasmine spluttered out an incoherent insult.

"Maybe I am," Damian said with a shrug. "But at least I'm walking out of this relationship with my freedom back intact, along with my balls. You'll be leaving with what you came into the relationship with. Nothing."

"What are you talking about? You can't take gifts back!"

"Jasmine, Jasmine, Jasmine," Damian clicked his tongue, "Do you really want me to post that footage of you online?"

She screamed in rage, then and lunged at him, her hands ready to claw his eyes out.

Damian quickly and easily dodged her attack and then grabbed her arms in an attempt to restrain her and avoid injury.

"Jasmine, calm down, or I'll have you arrested for domestic violence. I rarely toss my name around to get what I want, but so help me if you lay one finger on me I'll call the cops so fast your head will swim."

She screamed again and struggled against his hands. He was careful to hold her tight enough so she couldn't get loose, but loosely enough so he didn't bruise her. The last thing he needed was her accusations of domestic abuse.

"Now, are you calm enough, or do I need to restrain you a little longer," he asked.

She glared at him, but said quietly, "Let me go."

"Fine."

He loosened his hold on her wrists.

"You sorry excuse for a man," Jasmine spat. "Why did you do all this? You said we were taking a trip. You said we'd worked everything out!"

Damian shook his head, "Nope. What I actually said was that "everything has a way of working out". And it is working out. For me. And as for the trip...all I said was for you to go pack. And to go wherever you wanted." He paused with a malicious glint in his chocolate-colored eyes. "Now, go get your things and get out of my life, Jasmine."

Sputtering in rage, but unable to manufacture a coherent sentence, Jasmine stomped up the stairs to get her suitcase and anything else she owned.

A couple of minutes later, she came stomping back down the stairs and started for the front door. Damian stopped her however.

"I want your keys."

"What?"

"You heard me. I want your keys to my house, my gym, my cars, my storage unit and I want the remote control garage door opener. Now. Hand them over, or I'll get them myself."

Growling in fury, Jasmine dug into her purse and grabbed her key ring. She fumbled around and handed Damian each of the keys he demanded, and the garage door opener.

"There," she snarled, her eyes flashing fire. "You're going to be sorry, Luis Martinez," she said using his–rarely used in her case–real name. Very sorry."

"Nope. I've already been sorry where you are concerned. I think now, I'll be happy."

Mumbling something about hating him, Jasmine spun around, and stalked out of the house, calling a taxi on her cell phone.

Damian puffed out a sigh of relief, as he watched her brunette head grow smaller and smaller.

He then went upstairs to do something he had not done in months.

He took a nap.

}i{}i{}i{}i{

A group of kindergartners listened intently as Sharlotte read the story of Hansel and Gretel to them in the children's corner.

"'We will bake first,' said the old woman, 'I have already heated the oven, and kneaded the dough,'" She read out loud. "She pushed poor Gretel out to the oven, from which flames of fire were already darting. 'Creep in,' said the witch, 'and see if it is properly heated, so that we can put the bread in.' And once Gretel was inside, she intended to shut the oven and let her bake in it, and then she would eat her, too.'

Sharlotte was near the end of the story when she felt her cell phone buzz in her pocket, signifying a text message. She ignored it for the moment and concentrated on the story. She loved the looks on the children's faces as she read the exciting parts. They were enthralled. And that was a big part of what she loved about her job. Teaching people to appreciate books and stories. There wasn't anything more satisfying than sharing her love of books.

Except for when I was able to skate, she thought. Then skating was what I loved to share with the world.

Turning to the last page of the book, she finished the ending to the story.

When she was done, the children clapped and cheered.

"Did everyone enjoy the story," Sharlotte asked, smiling.

"Yeah," the children cried.

"Wonderful! Maybe your teachers can bring you back sometime, and I can read you another!"

"Yay!"

Sharlotte laughed and stood to her feet, "You all have a great rest of the day, and be sure to come back and visit here. We have so many stories and books to choose from." She watched as the teachers directed their students into single file lines and led them from the library. Several of the children waved to Sharlotte and she waved back, happy with how the reading hour had gone.

She felt her cell phone vibrate again and pulled it from her pocket. Glancing at the screen, she found both messages were from Leena.

Leave it to Leena to think since it's her day off, I'm automatically available, she thought chuckling. She tapped the screen a couple times and read the newest message first.

"HEY! Ya there?"

The first one read:

"Guess who's single now?"

Shaking her head, she texted Leena back.

"You have my attention. But I'm at work, lol. Can this wait till I'm off?"

She headed back toward the circulation desk, and had just entered her office when her phone buzzed again.

"Leena, what am I going to do with you?"

Sighing, she looked at her most recent text message.

"No need to reply back till you're off, but thought you'd like to know. One word: Damian."

She gasped, but wasn't completely shocked. So many bad rumors could be found online about Jasmine Greenberg, that Sharlotte often wondered why John stayed with her for so long.

"Poor guy," she thought out loud. "I can only imagine the crap that's being said to him on his Twitter."

She shook her head, baffled by the immaturity and hatefulness of so many people. She went to the circulation desk when she heard a customer approach, intent on reading up on the situation the next time she had the chance.

}i{}i{}i{}i{

" @archerofinfamy Dude, breakups are what happens when you're not at home enough to take care of your woman's needs, LOL!"

"@archerofinfamy was too busy fooling around with other Divas and Ring Rats to realize his relationship was failing! Haha!"

"@archerofinfamy's girlfriend is at home messing around behind his back. And he's too stupid to realize it! #Loser"

Sharlotte sat on the sofa, staring at her laptop's screen in awe of the stupidity and meanness she'd just read on Twitter.

"Unbelievable," she uttered.

Between the dirt sheets and Twitter, Damian Priest's name was being run through the mud. And she felt sure that Jasmine Greenberg would do her own share of mud-flinging in the next couple days.

His anti-fans neglect to realize he broke up with her. Men who cheat on their girlfriends or spouses rarely are the ones who initiate the breakup, she thought. She rolled her eyes and glanced up at the television to watch a few seconds of an AEW match between Jon Moxley and Hook. Her gaze shifted to Noah who sat on the other end of the sofa. So far he'd not mentioned Damian's breakup with Jasmine Greenberg, and she planned to keep it quiet. She didn't want to do anything that might mar Damian's reputation in the boy's eyes.

Sighing, she turned her attention back to the computer and read a few more horrid tweets. She really did feel badly for Damian. He was going through enough as it was. An idea struck her then, and she got up and headed upstairs to her bedroom. She walked to the large bookshelf and grabbed her book of inspirational quotes and looked up the heartbreak section. Walking back to the desk she flipped through the book till she found the quote she was looking for. She smiled, setting the book in front of her. Within a few seconds, she had the quote typed out, and tagged Damian in it.

"@archerofinfamy 'Your value doesn't decrease based on someone's inability to see your worth.'"

Clicking the "Tweet" button, she turned away from the laptop, then stood and flopped across her bed to watch the remainder of AEW.

It wasn't long till her eyes grew heavy, and she fell fast asleep.

}i{}i{}i{}i{

Damian stepped out of the shower in the men's locker room and dried off quickly, eager to dress and get to his hotel. All he wanted was a good night's sleep. He'd been used to getting proper sleep while he was suspended, and then he got back into the grind of work. He was staying pretty tired as of late. He figured it was due in part to the stress of the media dragging him through the mud. Not to mention, the stress Jasmine was putting on him with her numerous calls, and texts.

After pulling on his jeans and t-shirt he grabbed his phone to put in his pocket, but stopped to glance at his twitter interactions before heading out.

He scrolled through the many hate messages he'd been expecting, and the psycho obsessive fans' "I love you" and "Marry me" messages. He finally came to a few sane ones wishing him well through his ordeal, and quickly liked their tweets. He finally came to one that stood out from the rest.

Drastically.

But in a good way.

"@archerofinfamy 'Your value doesn't decrease based on someone's inability to see your worth.'"

Damian wasn't one to read inspirational quotes, let alone use them, but he got the message loud and clear, however. The woman who tweeted the quote to him was letting him know to not worry about what Jasmine or the media said, his true colors would shine through. And as long as he did that, everything would be fine.

Knowing he needed to hurry and get to the hotel, he wanted to thank the girl nonetheless. Her thoughtful gesture really did help him feel better about the situation.

"And it's nice to not have a woman saying only what she thinks I want to hear," he thought out loud. He clicked on her profile and didn't hesitate to click the Follow button. Then he took note of her real name, and typed out a message to her directly.

"@IceLover1981 Thank you so much for the kind words and gesture, Sharlotte. Can't tell you how much better it made me feel."

He clicked the "Tweet" button, then took one last look at her profile. "Pretty," he said, observing her profile picture. He saw a young woman with gray eyes, long golden hair, and an almost haunted smile. She looked quite angelic, and made Jasmine pale in comparison. But when John realized he had spent a long moment just staring at her face, he closed out of his Twitter app, and went on his way, frustrated that he was already thinking of other women.

}i{}i{}i{}i{

Rise For the Night began playing on Sharlotte's phone.

She smiled and giggled in her sleep as her cellphone rang, the sound of Damian's voice entering her dreams. However, when the beat of his theme song kept thumping near her ear, she finally came awake, and realized her phone was ringing.

"Oh!"

She sat straight up in bed and grabbed the phone, looking at the screen. Groaning, she tapped the "Talk" icon to answer the call.

"Leena, what in the world are you doing calling me at three in the morning?"

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't help it! Sharlotte...I couldn't sleep. I got online...checking Twitter, and...You're not going to believe this!"

"What, Leena? Tell me, or I swear I'm going to hang up and go back to sleep," Sharlotte threatened, brushing her long braid over her shoulder.

"Damian Priest tweeted you! He thanked you for some quote you tweeted to him earlier tonight. And I just looked at your "Followers" list, and he even followed you!"

"No," Sharlotte gasped. "For real?!"

"And he didn't just call you by your twitter ID, he called you by name!"

"Okay, Leena...I'm having information overload. Calm down, or you are going to be the cause of me losing it, and acting like a pathetic fan girl."

"I'm so excited for you," Leena went on. "He called you 'Sharlotte'!"

"Oh, my God," Sharlotte fought off a giddy scream. The last thing she needed was to wake up Noah and have to tell him that their favorite wrestler was following her on Twitter. It might make him feel disappointed that he didn't get followed too.

"I know, right?"

Sharlotte headed over to her laptop which was still running on her desk. "Are you sure," she asked her friend. "I mean...you aren't just seeing things?"

"Nope!"

She sat down and went to her Twitter interactions. Sure enough she saw where THE

Damian Priest was following her, and saw his reply as well.

"@IceLover1981 Thank you so much for the kind words and gesture, Sharlotte. Can't tell you how much better it made me feel."

"Oh, my God," she cried again. She could actually feel goose bumps and tears burning her eyes. "Leena, he said I helped him feel better! I helped him feel better!" She giggled then. "I'm so happy!"

"So am I," Leena giggled back. "That's so freaking awesome!"

"Has definitely made my night! Wait...no...it's made my...decade!"

"I bet! Well, I think my adrenaline rush is leaving, so I'm gonna let ya go now. I may actually get some sleep now."

Sharlotte heard her yawn then, "Okay, well I 'll talk to you soon. Thanks for calling me!"

"You bet! Later!"

The two disconnected the call, and Sharlotte quickly typed another tweet to Damian Priest.

"@archerofinfamy My friend just woke me up at 3 A.M. to tell me you followed me & tweeted me, LOL! Wow...thank you SO much! Wasn't expecting that at all! And I'm really glad the quote helped you to feel better. :-) Take care & keep your chin up."

Then she shut her laptop down, and went back to bed, smiling happily in her sleep.

If you want on my tag list, just ask! 😀

Tagging:

@oreillystolemyheart @lookalivesunshine-x @southerngirl41 @claymoresofinfamy23 @beccalynns-world 

@Heerah34 @dersha89 @shortyiceheart @wwechristina87 @expert-texpert

@sassymox @sammyfinn21-blog @alliecatsworldsblog @potatosackk @keisha-knell 

@peaceloveandcurves @terrortwinunicorn @mzv11 @jazzyboo123-blog1 @ibelievedinjh 

@fafomama @zigzoggy @raya-hunter01 @sharmelasworld @queenmotionlessxo

@skyesthebomb @moxley99 @mandabrammer2021

[light-wrath-paradise]

Now I'm not saying I want to wear things like crop tops or short shorts but I just wish I could without being reprimanded and reminded that I'm not something the public should "have to be subjected to."

[pwurrz]

trigger warnings are like. gay marriage. they have absolutely no effect on people outside of the group that directly benefit from it, and they definitely don’t cause anyone harm, but people somehow manage to get really upset about them anyways.

[ghostdnfie]

the urge to 'come out' as a dream stan on my phan tumblr account grows and grows every day and watch as the (likely) antis who follow/interact with me either unfollow or hardblock me never to be seen again

[asthe-crow-flies]

Hospital Bed - Lolina: Origins

i am obsessed with this concept album its on bandcamp please go listen to it i need to not be the only person who cares about this

[id: a digital comic consisting of three pages, in grayscale and red.

the first page is four panels, each the width of the page. the first is all black. four beeps go diagonally down across the panel. the second panel is mostly black, with a somewhat fuzzy light in the middle left of the panel. it reads "what is this pain? what is this place?" in the third panel, the fuzzy image of a person is visible, the edges of the panel are still dark. it reads "am i alive? am i awake? what are these scars across my face?" in the fourth panel, a woman in a lab coat and a mask, the doctor, leans in. the right side of the panel is still dark. a speech bubble from the woman says "you are home". the narration interjects with "they say". the woman continues "you are safe."

the second page is three panels, the first one taking up most of the page, with the other two next to each other under it. the first panel is a birds-eye view of a room in a hospital. in the center is Lolina, a woman laying on a hospital bed. she has black hair, a bandage wrapped over her eye, and a red cut down the side of her face. the doctor stands next to the bed. sideways, in large letters, it reads "hospital bed, I'm back on mars." the second panel is a close-up of the upper half of Lolina's face, focusing on her left eye, which is red, and the bandage covering her other one. it reads "but i am wounded." the third panel is a close up of the lower half of her face, focusing on the cut on her cheek held together with butterfly bandages, and the large bandage on her other cheek. it reads "I feel the scars."

the third page is a drawing of the doctor standing by the bed, from Lolina's point of view. across it is dialogue interspersed with small panels. the doctor says "we can regrow your cells," and next to it is a small panel showing cells dividing. then she says "we can restore," and next to it is a panel showing the right half of Lolina's face, with her eye and cheek healed. then she says "you will go back," and next to it is a panel reading "Sandy's Place" in glowing red letters. the narration interjects with "they say." the doctor continues "to the life you had before." under it is a panel divided diagonally into four sections, the first showing red lips, the second showing black hair swishing, the third showing a pair of legs wearing red high heels, and the fourth showing a body from neck to hips, wearing a strapless red dress. under that the narration reads "to the life i had before". end id.]

(I've never written an id for a comic before and there was some visual stuff that was really tricky to describe so if I've messed something up or if something should be clearer please tell me and I'll try to fix it)

[hockeytwittereats]

IDK what the tumblr version of a subtweet is but:

there are people who go online just to get mad at someone for not saying something the way they want them to and then lash out at that person only to accuse said person of that behaviour.

I firmly believe that you are responsible for your own feelings online. If someone is upsetting you, it is up to you to leave the situation. No one else is responsible for this except for you. And once you realize that, you will be better off.

[butchlifeguard]

I HATE FANDOM WANK YALL ARE UNHINGED. VERY NEGATIVE BTW

[ember-knights]

Should I or should I not watch the Piers Morgan Jordan Peterson interview… my brain and heart and soul say no … but my hand slipped ..and the first words out of that pseudo-intellectual Peterson makes me wanna commit atrocities…

Peterson says that it is normal to have moral quandaries during a war (because ofc war crimes are normal, you silly goose Piers) and I am having a moral quandary on whether he should be beaten to death 🤔

[elvesofnoldor]

honestly it truly is fucking nearly impossible to adapt interview with the vampire (1976) into any sort of visual medium that is 1. honest to the source material and 2. not triggering as fuck to watch. The only adaptation of IWTV that i will accept is a MAG style found footage audio drama of the entire book told as the conversation between Louis and Daniel. It'd be presented as the cassette tapes that the conversation was committed to, so it'd have the cassette tape audio effect the way that MAG episodes had. It'd also have the sort of eerie non-diegetic ambient mood music that MAG has, and the soundtrack would played over passages that's most revealing of Louis' true character. Different than the book, Daniel would interrupt Louis when Louis describes Claudia in very gross and p*do language, asking him to clarify, so that audience is more directly called to ask to question what kind of person Louis really is. And instead of ending in Daniel asking to be made into a vampire, this audio drama would end in Daniel questioning the narrative that Louis presented and Louis' intent for inviting him home after spotting him at the bar, angering Louis and prompting Louis to attack him. The cassette tapes would abruptly end with the attack. The End.

[sunsetcupid]

EYES OFF! ; F1 GRID.

synopsis: When you are catcalled on the street, it is only natural that your boyfriend reacts a certain way, be it possessive or enraged.

trigger warnings: Use of feminine pronouns from the reader’s perspective; Descriptions of romantic acts and behaviors; Suggestive remarks; Descriptions of cat-calling; Mentions of physical altercations

a message from the author: Once again, I added Daniel Ricciardo to this fic. I think I’ll be doing that for the rest of the stories in this series. If any of you would like to add a driver or request a certain scenario, don’t hesitate to message me in my inbox!

ISACK HADJAR

He can’t believe his ears – he can’t begin to fathom why someone would make such a vile comment, especially to his girlfriend, the sweetest, most loving person he knows. It physically repulses him, and for a moment, you think he might vomit all over the sidewalk.

Likewise, as soon as he hears the leering statement, he freezes in place. Head cocked to one side, fists clenching until the knuckles turn white. You have to practically drag him away, telling him that “It’s not worth it” because the boxer in him is just itching for a fight.

“No one should be saying those things. Not to you, not to anyone. They need to learn a lesson, and I’ll fucking teach them.” He repeats it as if it were his personal mantra, over and over.

For the rest of the day, he’s sulking. An invisible rain cloud is hovering over his head, but it doesn’t stop him from being extremely clingy. If you dare move out of his eyesight for a second (to get a snack or to put your phone on charge), he immediately panics and can’t stop kissing you afterward.

OSCAR PIASTRI

Oscar is not a confrontational guy at all. His version of arguments are stony silences, unanswered texts, and the cold shoulder. Nevertheless, he rather enjoys keeping a level head and remaining calm. But when a guy walking down the street wolf-whistles at you and cracks some lewd joke about wanting to explore the curves of your body, Oscar wants to tear him apart.

He takes a few deep breaths, attempting to regulate his rapidly pounding heart rate before it explodes out of his chest. He might consider walking away, but when he sees your panic-stricken expression, it’s game over.

Oscar stalks over to them, his voice low and gravelly as he makes the catcaller regret his existence with a few well-chosen words. He’s more forceful, more direct than you’ve ever heard or seen him be, and it turns you on. 

LANCE STROLL

His head whips to look at the culprit, his eyes widening in astonishment. For a moment, he thinks he’s imagined it, but the leering smirk on the offender’s face dashes his hopes. “What did you just say to my girlfriend?” Lance’s voice is eerily calm, not a hint of his inner rage visible on the surface.

The only way you can identify how he truly feels is the vein pulsing on his neck, and the fact that he’s gone rigid, like a tree trunk. You have to place a hand on his arm to get his body to relax.

As a result of the incident, Lance becomes more vigilant, walking in front of you at all times and blocking your body with his – a very attractive shield. He even offers to get you a personal bodyguard, but you adamantly refuse.

LANDO NORRIS

His face flushes with anger, eyes turning into flinty shards. He’s so pissed off that someone would dare to tease you, especially in such a creepy manner.

You have to whisper-hiss at him to not get into an altercation with the person who catcalled you. He’s like an overgrown puppy, growling at the person and trying to tug himself free of your grip in order to go fight the other person. “I don’t give a fuck about race penalties. He’s a fucking bastard!” 

Once he’s regained some composure, he posts a lengthy paragraph on social media, denouncing misogynistic behaviors and urging everyone to make donations to women’s empowerment groups. “We love to believe that the world today is modern and equal, but it can never truly become inclusive if these events are still commonplace.”

CHARLES LECLERC

He curses in French, letting loose a dictionary’s worth of swear words you didn’t even know existed. That’s his clash with the perpetrator. On track? He’s ready to fight. But in person? He’s less eager to do so.

In lieu of this, he wraps you up in his sweater, taking your hand in his and comforting you with his closeness. “I’m here for you, mon ange. And I’ll always protect you.”

He’s big on physical touch after – kissing your cheeks and cuddling, enveloping you with his body like he can shield you from every harsh remark people make. Perhaps he can. He’s just that magical.

DANIEL RICCIARDO

He’s absolutely incensed. The happy-go-lucky facade disappears in a snap, replaced by cold fury. He slings one arm around your shoulder, laughing menacingly. “Hey, mate! Eyes off my girl, and fuck off.”

Daniel would 100% get into a brawl with someone who insults his girlfriend, not because he is a violent guy, but because he wants to properly defend the love of his life. 

He could be bleeding and bruised for weeks after, yet he will forever be proud of his capability to defend his girlfriend.

Later, he tries to make light of the situation by making jokes. Ultimately, however, all he wants is to take you in his arms and never let you go. You’re everything he could ever want, and he hates that other people have the power to hurt you.

Credits: Dividers — @strangergraphics

[novy2sirius]

JUPITER HOUSE ASTROLOGY CORE

© novy2sirius

⧼ trigger warning: killing, diets, narcissism ⧽

⧼ these r abt isolated placements so don’t take this incredibly literal. certain aspects could change this ⧽

jupiter in 1h core

being thicc af, having a body part that’s bigger than average, having the most random luck when u need it most out of nowhere, getting into a bunch of random fights or dragged into them when u literally r just trying to mind ur own business, feeling unhappy when ur not moving around a lot or traveling

jupiter in 2h core

being a bag chaser, being wealthy, having a wealthy husband/sugar daddy, having really good fashion taste, finding the most joy in life from eating food in your bed while watching tv, singing a lot randomly, being a good cook/baker, holding a bunch of grudges

jupiter in 3h core

having a bunch of siblings, being popular on social media, arguing a lot, being dragged into a bunch of arguments when ur just existing, posting a lot online, having strong political beliefs, having a very childlike energy/youthful spirit, aging well, overusing tiktok slang, reading a lot

jupiter in 4h core

always getting the biggest room out of all ur siblings in the houses u grew up in, being overly empathetic or emotional and literally crying when someone’s even slightly mean to u, having a big family, feeling fulfilled only when ppl care abt u, having a narcissistic mother or family member, being a huge homebody

jupiter in 5h core

being told that u should be an actor or performer all the time, letting people walk all over u bc u see the good in them too much, ppl repeatedly dragging u into a bunch of drama when ur just existing, having a bunch of children, having a high sex drive, having a bunch of flings

jupiter in 6h core

constantly doing too much for others even when they don’t deserve it, being happier around animals than ppl, catching something immediately after being around someone who’s sick bc ur immune system is ass, having a lot of random jobs, going vegan for two weeks when u were in high school then quitting, having anxiety from simply existing

jupiter in 7h core

having a lot of ops and conflicts in ur life, dating a bunch of ppl, having multiple marriages, finding the most joy in life when ur w ppl and not alone (always needing a companion), dating (long term) or marrying sagittarius/pisces placements, being fruity, most of ur celebrity crushes being from another country

jupiter in 8h core

being obsessed with true crime and knowing you’d be a better detective/killer than any of the hoes in the shows, ppl randomly feeling like they can trust u and venting to u right after meeting u abt all their trauma, sagittarius/pisces placements being drawn to u, having a lot of stalkers, having a high sex drive, having a dark sense of humor

jupiter in 9h core

traveling a lot throughout ur life, getting depressed rly easily when ur isolated or in ur room for too long, being rly religious or spiritual, being super open minded but sometimes too gullible, being happier living outside of ur home country, knowing multiple languages, reading a lot

jupiter in 10h core

naturally being able to gain lots of attention or fame w ease, being pressured by ur father to be successful, having a narcissistic father, finding the most joy in life when ur working 24/7 and have a lot of long term goals ur working toward, being more successful in careers involving traveling, having a dry sense of humor

jupiter in 11h core

having a lot of friends that r apart of different cultures than u, partying a lot, being happier in the city parts of places, posting a lot online, having strong political beliefs, being really free spirited, having a rly unique personality, having unusual beliefs sometimes, having out of pocket humor

jupiter in 12h core

finding more joy in being alone than anything else, having a low social battery, having a lot of secret enemies, having a lot of secret admirers, having a lot of stalkers, being bullied a lot when ur young but then making better friends when ur older, having dreams that predict things, being psychic

[huh-i-guess]

Fever

(Task force 141 x F!reader)

Summary: While out on a mission you are injected with a substance that might lead to a shift in the dynamics between the 141.

Warnings: SMUT 18+, sex pollen, fingering, dub-con/non-con (under the influence of sex pollen), choking, nasty Simon, Gaz has morals

Word Count: ~ 4.2k

(Reader's callsign is Pepper)

I don't own MW2, the characters, or the gif above.

“What the fuck was that?” You shouted as you felt a sharp pricking sensation on your left ass cheek. You reached behind you to feel what was causing the sensation and groaned as you felt a syringe protruding from your behind. You looked down and noted that you had stepped on a pressure plate of some kind and triggered the laboratory’s defense mechanism.

“Oh fuck, lass.” Johnny mumbled.

“Shit, Pepper.” Gaz exclaimed in disbelief.

“No fucking way. Why does this shit always happen to me?” You yanked the dart-like needle from your behind and examined the leftover contents. The remaining contents appeared to be a blue syrup-like fluid. You sighed and pocketed the syringe hoping you could take it back to base to have it examined by the scientists at the lab. 

“Pepper, what was that?” Price called over the comms hearing the distress in everyone’s voices. Your thoughts ran at a mile a minute as you tried to figure out if you should tell your captain, that you probably had a mild crush on and always wanted to impress, that you just stepped on a trap. Or if you should lie. You hated lying to Price. It felt like you were letting him down and any time you did, you found yourself immediately retracting your statement and telling him the truth hoping he’d forgive your indiscretion. You readied your mouth to let out some kind of answer but snapped your mouth shut as you heard Gaz from your right side, “Looks like they tranqed Pepper or something. We were sweeping the lab and she was the first one in.” You turned your head toward Gaz and offered him a look that was a mix of thankfulness and regret. 

“Shite. You're still standing, lieutenant?” Price probed in a tone that, only those close to him could tell, was full of doubt and concern.

“Yes sir.” You pushed further into the lab taking extra care where your steps landed. The lab had been recently abandoned by russian terrorists working on some kind of bioweapon. You could only hope that you didn’t just get dosed with whatever they were concocting. As the three of you pressed further into the dingy lab you felt like the mass of your body was slowly doubling. 

“Soap. Gaz. If I drop, I need two to keep moving. We need to get this intel out of here as soon as we find it.” You could faintly hear the heavy footsteps of the terrorists behind you.

“No way in hell we’re leaving you behind.” Gaz contended. 

“Listen I-” 

You were quickly interrupted by Laswell’s voice in your ear, “Pepper. Evac will get to you and the boys in 11 minutes. It’ll be 2 clicks north of your current location. We’ll get you to the safe house from there.” 

“Copy.” You replied as Soap took a step closer and fixed his mouth to ready a response to your order. 

“Lass I don-”

“Listen. We don't have time for this. I don’t know what I got hit with but I know that at the moment we have a job to do. Let’s keep moving while I can and clear the files we came for. You will keep moving if I drop and that’s final. This mission can't be a waste of time.” You were met with an apprehensive “Yes Ma’am” and a “got it LT” and you snapped your head around to continue sweeping the lab. 

You knew you were being harsh but if you gave them room to argue you’d be stuck here going back and forth with them about it. Truthfully it was a ruse to make it look like you weren’t basically shitting bricks. You couldn’t stop the thoughts that flew through your mind.  I’m going to die today. Holy fuck I’m not making it out of this. I don’t know what I got hit with. How long do I have? You didn’t have much going on in your home life so the thought of a family didn’t even cross your mind until you thought about who around you did have one. Soap had his sisters back in Scotland that loved to “force” him to watch those really crappy rom-coms that he claimed he hated so much but then recommended for team bonding nights. Then you had Gaz who had his mom waiting at home for him. She always sent him care packages with little hand written notes that gave him updates on the status of his neighbors’ cat who had slowly been making itself comfortable on their property back in London. She even sent him photos of the cheeky little tuxedo cat. Your mind shifted from thoughts about yourself to thoughts about them. I have to get these boys out of here. They have so much going for them. They really are some of the best we have to offer. I can’t let them down. If I can't get out of here at least they can. 

Gaz went to the computer and plugged in a decryption device and began to sift through the scientist's digital files while Soap went through some of the scattered papers left in the room.

“They were in such a rush to get out of here they weren’t even effective at scrubbing their drives. Pep, I think I might have something.” You walked to the computer Gaz was stationed at and noticed a folder titled “Project Vitality”. 

“Good job, Gaz get it and we go. Soap anything?”

“A couple of poorly redacted files with the same name.” Soap chipped from your left. You made your way to him and patted his shoulder in praise.

“Alright we gotta move.” You heard the footsteps boom as the incoming enemies approached. You felt yourself slowly start to stall and noticed you had a difficult time focusing your eyes. It was like you were wearing a pair of glasses that weren’t meant for you and you couldn’t take them off. You willed your eyes to focus but it was becoming a hassle. Fuck me. You turned your head to Soap on your left and said, “Soap I need you to take point on the way out. I'll watch our backs as we exit.”

“Are you-” he started then pressed out a short, “Will do.” The look on his face was filled with so much concern, that for his sake, you almost wanted him to ask you if you were okay. He turned and rushed out of the room followed by Gaz and you at the back. The three of you navigated the winding corridors of the combatant base and made your way back, passing the rooms you had previously cleared. 

“Pepper. How we doing?” Price questioned over comms.

“Got the documents and drives, sir.”

“I know you did. That’s not what I’m asking about.”

“What kind of answer do you want, Cap?

“You know what I want to hear.” You knew Price wanted the truth but you couldn't let him know the fact that you might be starting to lose motor function and that the mass of your body felt like it had doubled. There was a large part of you that wanted to make him proud and craved his approval so the thought of disappointing him always stirred something deep inside you. But then there was Gaz and Soap. They were your sergeants and they often looked to you for guidance. The image they had of you rarely faltered from confidence and strength. They were right by your side and were clearly worried for you. If you told the truth to them they probably want to stop and question your status or maybe even try to do some kind of makeshift field evaluation on you and you’d definitely lose out on valuable time. 

A shaky, “I’m doing just fine, sir.” fell from your lips then silence. A sigh from Price that was then followed by a gruff, “Bring it in safe. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Of course sir.” You acknowledged. He knew you were lying. The slight tremor in your voice told him exactly what he needed to know. 

Soap led the three of you out of the compound but not without running into a couple of the remaining terrorists that missed your group upon arrival. You, although struggling to see and move, caught the slight movement as you three made your way to the entrance of the compound. A brown jacket sleeve that moved just a bit too slow was all you needed to gather that the combatants had reached your location. Years of intense practice and strenuous training had you firing your weapon with a practiced precision that was barely impacted by your declining physical state. 

As soon as you exited the compound you were met with a glaring brightness from the snow of the siberian tundra. The almost blinding whiteness was a massive contrast to the dimly lit compound so the massive shift in intensity had your head spinning. Gaz noticed you stumbling but only met you with a face of concern and a hand on your shoulder as he watched you struggle to get your bearings. 

Trekking through the Siberian tundra in your worsening condition was one of the hardest things you'd had to do in your career. The whirling of the wind was so intense that it felt like someone was screaming directly next to your ear and the pressure of it was enough to make your head pound. The snow was coming down so hard that each snowflake that hit your face felt like a tiny pin prick over and over again. Your feet were so deep in the snow that it felt like you were gaining an extra 20 pounds of weight with the effects of the drug starting to control your movements. You tried to pull yourself together. It was undeniable at this point that you would not be winning the battle against whatever medication they injected you with.

“2 minutes till evac” Ghost chimed in your earpiece. Your hearing was so sensitive that you could almost feel the loud mechanical static and the whirl of the helicopter in the background of his response.

“Oh my days. Ghost is the one flying us out? I don’t want to end up out the bloody chopper again” Gaz groaned. Oh. I wasn’t the only one to hear the helicopter then. 

“It was either me or you freeze out there, Sergeant.”

“LT, if you fly that thing the way you drive, Gaz might be better staying down here. Less chance of him getting thrown from the bloody thing.” Soap chirped. 

The world slowly started to look like a mass of colors and shapes with no definite beginning or end. The only thing you could do at this point was push and pray that you were gonna have enough strength to make it to the evac point. Everything was so intense that overwhelming wasn't even the right word to describe the feeling. You struggled to pick up your head as you began to hear another distinct whooshing sound that could only belong to that of a Puma HC2.

“I’m here aren’t I?” Soap and Gaz stopped moving as Ghost put the helicopter on the ground. 

“I’m glad you are sir. Good to see you, Ghost.” Soapsaid as he flung the door open and made his way on the aircraft.

“Always good to see that ugly mug of yours, Johnny.” Ghost turned his head to get a good look at everyone. “ Pepper, you don't look too hot.” Ghost concluded as you dragged yourself into the seat next to what you could have only imagined was Gaz. The words that came out of your mouth were something along the lines of “Not” and “Good” but no one really understood you with how slurred your response was. They did however understand that something was really wrong when your body slumped backward and went limp next to Gaz. You could vaguely hear the commotion of Gaz, Soap, and Simon, around you as they shouted your name and desperately tried to keep you from slipping out of consciousness. The last thing you heard was Price pressing to be informed on your state and him telling Ghost to get all of you to the safe house. 

---

“A neurotoxin that sends the body into overdrive. Increases nervous sensitivity and impulsivity, and impairs functionality of the prefrontal cortex and hippocampus.” Price read from the lab report with a stubby cigar in hand.

“Why the hell would they want to make something like that?” Gaz questions.

“Apparently in small doses it can be used as an aphrodisiac that it increases blood flow throughout the body, promotes sexual stamina, and increases pleasure outcomes? They must’ve been trying to develop something to sell on the streets.” Price continues.

“Right so they dosed her with super viagra?” Soap questioned. 

“That's what it sounds like?” Gaz said. 

“I thought that stuff didn't work on women?” Simon interjected. 

“It looks like they’ve altered it so it impacts both sexes but they haven’t been able to work out the less desirable symptoms. Tachycardia, fever, headache, dizziness, loss of consciousness, heart failure, and death.” Price paced as he read the outcomes. 

“Oh shit.”

“Heart failure? Death? How do we make sure that that doesn’t happen?” Gaz frantically questioned.

“The only way the toxin can be expelled from the body is through coitus…” Price trailed off as he dropped his cigar into a bowl. That can’t be right. He read it three times just to be sure and the words on the page didn’t change. 

“Steamin’ Jesus.” Soap deadpanned.

“No blood way.” Gaz stood with an open mouth. 

“Someone has to fuck her.” Simon said. 

---

When you awoke, you noticed you were lying on a firm mattress and were surrounded by the smell of smoke laced with a heavy sweetness that only came from Price’s cigars. You felt undeniably cold and couldn’t help but to shiver. You rubbed your fingers across your palms and felt them drenched in sweat. As you slowly began to turn to your side, you were overwhelmed with the feeling of the rough sheet that laid under you. 

“What the fuck?” You noticed that you had been stripped out of your vest and snow gear and were left in your black polyester thermals. You could feel every inch of fabric that you wore and immediately moved to take off the thermals. You were left in your sports bra and underwear.  Why am I taking off my clothes? I’m freezing? You ran your hands up and down your body trying to get a semblance of warmth but then decided that putting thermals back on would be too much for your unusually sensitive skin. As you dragged your hand down the sides of your thighs you couldn't help but notice how good it felt to touch yourself. You moved your hands to your inner thighs and couldn’t contain the moan that slipped from your mouth. You brushed your hand over the gusset of your panties and whined at the feel of your hand gliding over your already sensitive clit. 

“Pepper?” rushed out of Gaz’s mouth as he entered the room. He looked over to the pile of thermals on the end of the bed. “How are you feeling?” he probed.  When did Gaz get so attractive? He wore a red henley that hugged his arms perfectly and his soft curls made an appearance without the presence of his well worn UK hat. He made his way over to you and touched your forehead. “You’re burning up. Damn. The fever’s started.” The feeling of his hand on you was almost indescribable. He was warm and firm and exactly what you felt you needed at that moment. 

You felt yourself acting on purely impulse as you grabbed his hand and dragged it down to your mouth. You started to kiss his palm and moved your attention to his thumb. You placed it firmly between your lips and began to suck. “Oh fuck.” Gaz exhaled as he watched you with wide eyes. You continued your ministrations and moved from his thumb to his index and middle fingers. You began to lick around his digits before you engulfed them in your mouth with a guttural moan. You could taste the salt and gunpowder from the mission and it only made you crave him more. You lifted your gaze to him and willed your eyes to meet his. The groan that fell from his lips was divine. You removed his fingers from your mouth and helped his hand descend to where you really needed him. “Fuck. No. I can't do that princess. Not when you're like this.”

“But I really really want you to. Come on, Kyle. It’ll help me feel so much better.” You purred. Gaz let out a shaky breath, pulled his hand from you, and walked out the room but not without you noticing him readjusting himself in his pants. Fine, I'll do it myself. You sighed and pulled your panties down your legs till they rested at your ankles. You slid your fingers between your legs and gasped at how wet you were. You slowly started to trail your finger through your folds, collecting some of the wetness that had dripped from you and began to rub your clit. As soon as your finger pressed against your reactive little nub you were in heaven. You started in small circular motions and rubbed until you felt you needed more. You moved your other hand to your breast and tugged at your nipple. You kneaded and grabbed your breast like it was the key to your survival. You’ve never felt like this before. It's like you can feel everything, everywhere, all at the same time. You felt the rough fabric of the sheets, the scratchy wool of the pillow behind your head and you felt the soft cotton that was resting around your ankles.  You were still shivering from the fever but you felt like you could feel the stimulation of your clit in your toes. You needed more. 

You moved your hand from your plush breast to rest right at your soaked opening. You circled your middle finger a few times just to get it wet, and sank right into your leaking entrance. “Oh fuuuuuck”. You could feel the pressure of the finger at your walls as you started to curve your finger inside of yourself searching for your g-spot. You continued rubbing your clit and curling your finger inside of you hoping to seek your elease. It felt so good but it just wasn't enough. You slipped in another finger and moaned at the intrusion. You started to pant and whine with how good you were feeling, but you felt yourself needing more. You continued the calculated movements and felt your orgasm approaching. You just needed a little more. One more push to get you there. One curl of your finger turned to two, then to three, then the pleasure turned into frustration. “Fuuuuuuck.” You groaned as you  pulled your fingers from your body and layed on the mattress in a heap of sweat and frustration. You felt yourself slowly drift back into the unconscious void even as you worked to steady your breaths.  

---

“She sucked my fingers. Wanted me to fuck her. With my fingers. Uh she begged me to. And she was down to her knickers” Gaz confessed as he dropped his eyes to his combat boots, too unsure to look at his team. 

“Did you lad?” Price probed. 

“No, I couldn't do it. I really thought about it and I- I don't know. She definitely has a fever though.”

“Hm.” Was all that left Price's mouth. 

“We're gonna have to check up on her. Make sure her heart isn't working too hard and see how to keep her satiated. For her sake.” Simon stated matter of factly. 

“Does it say it has to be expelled through “sexual intercourse” or can she just, ya know, uh.. “Get there”, and work it out her system.” Soap questioned, looking toward Price and seeking the answers he normally has. 

“Johnny. It says coitus.” Simon replied. 

“No one’s gonna fuck her like this. It’s not right.” Gaz stated.

“What if we have to?” Soap doubted.

“Maybe we should see if an orgasm is the solution. If that doesn't work then last resort, someone will do what needs to be done.” Price said with a sense of finality. 

---

You felt the press of two fingers at your carotid artery and shivered at the warmth they offered. You fluttered your eyes open and nearly jumped out of your skin when they met dark brown ones behind a human skull mask. You’d seen Simon before and regularly worked with him but you'd never woken to him standing over you like the grim reaper.  

“Jesus, Simon.” 

“‘Just checking your heart rate.” He confirmed. Simon almost always has his gloves on. To feel his fingers at your neck had you craving more of his touch. You grabbed his hand that was at your neck and splayed it across your jugular. You looked up at him with full, pleading eyes and felt him squeeze a bit. A light moan left your lips as you begged him to squeeze harder. The groan that left his mouth would surely implant itself in the depths of your mind for years to come. The sound coming from him went straight to your core and you felt yourself clenching your thighs. 

“Simon, please.”

“Fuckin’ hell. Don’t look at me like that. Not while you've got your knickers round your ankles.”

“Please. Si. I need you. I’m so fucking horny. I can feel everything Simon. Please just help me feel good. I promise I’ll be good. You can use me however you want. However you need to. Please.”

“Don't say that y/n.” He turned his gaze away from your face. 

“I mean it. Please help me.”

“Just my fingers darling.” 

“Yes. Yes, thank you so much.” You nodded your head eagerly and bit down on your lip. If your fingers weren't working to get you there, maybe his would. You parted your legs for him and he hung his head and rolled his shoulders while he let out a deep “Fuck”. His grip on your neck tightened and you felt your head go light. “Oh fuck yes.” His other hand made its way between your plush legs and ran between your folds. Simon’s eyes were locked onto your pussy and he was in awe of how wet you were. He knew what the toxins effects on you were but to see them in person had him stiff as a board in his pants.  Fuck this was so wrong of him. He knew he wanted to help you but part of him was living out his sick and twisted fantasies. To have you, a stunning woman, dripping wet and begging for him to fuck you, he’d be insane to not feel at least a bit aroused. He dragged a finger around your clit and almost purred at the whine that left your lips. He continued to make slow and tedious circles around your clit. 

“Simon, please I need more. Can you - mmm fuck- can you fuck me?” How could he deny you when you’ve asked him so nicely. 

“Only with my fingers, darling.” He slipped in two fingers and groaned at how tight you were. Your back arched so deeply and he wondered to himself what it would be like to be behind you when you arched like that. Simon began to work his fingers inside of you. He started with slow but deep pumping motions and moved onto scissoring his fingers inside of you searching for that special spot that he knows will make you tick. Your breath hitched in your throat and you let out a long high pitched squeal. 

“Is that it, darling? Right there? Hm?” He beamed with a sense of condescension that made your pussy tighten on his fingers. 

“Oh fuck Simon. Please, please let me cum.” His fingers were hitting all of the right parts of you and you felt your orgasm nearing. 

“Of course you can come, darling. Fucking soak my fingers. I know you need it. Come on, darling.”

You slid your hand down to your clit and rubbed it in furious circles. His grip tightened on your neck and you felt fuzzy everywhere. “Cum all over my fingers. Make a mess, why don't you.” And at that final comment from Simon, you felt the band within you snap as you had one of the most intense orgasms of your life. Your toes curled and your back was nearly curved into a C shape. Your pussy clenched and unclenched as Simon continued his assault. You felt your ears ringing from the intensity of the orgasm and felt like you lost hearing for a little moment. As you panted and tried to recover from your climax, Simon removed his drenched fingers from you, lifted his mask to just below his nose, and brought his hand up to his mouth. He locked eyes with you and you watched him in amazement as he cleaned you from his fingers. Your eyes flutter at how intense the sight was. His strong jaw, scarred but pink lips, and traces of stubble left you wanting more. He moved the hand that was on your neck back to your pulse point to check your heart rate.

“It’s slowed a bit. Get some rest," and with that he left the room and you felt yourself slip from consciousness.

[thebarneschronicles]

Out of Depth, Into You

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 8.3k

Synopsis: Bucky Barnes was supposed to get in and out. Simple. Clean. But Hydra had other plans.

An ambush leaves him broken, bleeding, and barely standing—and you’re the only thing keeping him upright. Trapped in a safehouse, patching him up with shaking hands, you realize the truth you’ve been avoiding: you almost lost him. And that scares you more than anything.

Because Bucky isn’t just your mission partner. He’s yours.

And maybe… just maybe, he’s known it all along.

Trigger Warnings: Violence (injuries, blood, broken bones, combat); Medical trauma (setting a broken bone, treating severe wounds); PTSD/trauma symptoms (flashbacks, avoidance, emotional suppression); Self-deprecation/self-worth issues (Bucky struggling with his identity and past); Smut (very little but still there !!!!)

Author’s Note: OOPS, I did it again. Idk, man, thoughts of being the one to save him for once were swirling and I had to do it again. Blame the hormones! Hope you like it and let me know what you think. B x

--

He should’ve been in and out. That was the plan.

But somewhere between Bucky taking out the first two guards and you directing him toward the extraction point, everything had gone to hell. You should’ve known he couldn’t, shouldn’t have gone in alone.

No matter how much time had passed, no matter how many missions he completed, Hydra never stopped hunting him. They never stopped wanting their soldier back, their weapon, their ghost of the past. Maybe they’d been waiting for an opportunity just like this—Bucky Barnes, alone in Eastern Europe, tracking down a Hydra splinter cell. Everything had been fine until it wasn’t.

And when Hydra saw their chance, they took it.

You had been following this lead together, him on the field, you in his ear, his eyes when he couldn’t see, his guide when things went south. But neither of you had expected the ambush. Too many hostiles. Too little time.

You heard it before you saw it. The grunts of effort, the dull crack of fists against flesh, the sickening crunch of bone breaking. Bullets ricocheted off vibranium in sharp, ringing bursts. Shouts filled your comms, angry orders in languages you didn’t recognize, and then—

Then you heard his hiss of pain. Short, sharp, barely contained. A sound that turned your blood to ice.

Bucky never let pain show.

Your hands flew over the keyboard, trying to pull up security feeds, but his voice cut through your panic, strained but calm. Too calm.

"I need an exit. Now."

Your heart stopped.

Bucky Barnes never walked away from a fight. He fought until there was no one left standing but him. If he was asking for an exit, it meant something was very, very wrong.

You yanked up the nearest camera feed and felt the world lurch beneath you.

There he was—cornered in a crumbling warehouse, backed against a stack of rusted shipping crates. He was holding his own, but barely. Blood dripped down his temple in sluggish trails. A bruise darkened his jaw, stark even in the grainy footage. But worst of all—his right arm, his flesh arm, was hanging limp at his side, twisted at an angle that wasn’t natural.

You gripped the edge of the desk so hard your knuckles ached.

Broken. His arm was broken.

And if his arm was that bad, you didn’t want to think about what other injuries he was forcing himself to fight through.

Your voice wavered, but you forced it to stay steady. "Bucky, there’s a service door to your left. Get there and I can guide you out."

"Copy," he gritted out, his breath heavy, strained.

He fought his way to the door, but you saw it—the way he staggered, the way every movement came at a cost. Every punch with his left arm rippled agony through his body. Every twist, every block, every moment that should have been second nature was suddenly a fight to stay upright.

And still, he kept going.

By the time he made it through the door, you were already running.

Darkened streets blurred past as you sprinted toward the extraction point. Your lungs burned, but it didn’t matter. You needed to get to him.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to come out unscathed, meet you at the car, and get out before things got messy.

There weren’t supposed to be this many Hydra agents.

There wasn’t supposed to be a fight.

Fear clawed at your throat.

You rounded the last corner and skidded to a stop.

Bucky.

Leaning heavily against a brick wall, half-shadowed beneath the flickering glow of a streetlamp. His chest rose and fell too fast, his breath ragged. His skin looked pale—too pale. Blood painted the side of his face, his fingers, his shirt. He lifted his head as you approached, his jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grinding.

Up close, he looked worse. So much worse.

And that—that terrified you.

You had seen him bleed before. Had heard his sharp, bitten-off curses through comms, had watched him shake off pain like it was nothing. But this was different.

This was Bucky barely standing.

This was his chest rising and falling too fast, his face too pale, his right arm twisted and useless at his side. This was blood—so much blood—seeping through his jacket, dripping from his fingers, staining the ground beneath him.

And you—you couldn’t breathe.

Your hands trembled as you reached for him, the rest of the world fading away. Nothing else existed except for the wreckage of him—broken, bleeding, and still standing.

You weren’t supposed to feel like this.

He was just your mission partner. Just the man in your ear, the one you guided through hell and back, the one who always came out on the other side. Just the Soldier.

Except he wasn’t.

He was Bucky.

Your Bucky.

You swallowed hard, shoving the rising panic back down where it belonged. You couldn’t afford to lose it. Not now.

Stepping into his space, you braced his good side, feeling the solid weight of him against you. And that’s when you realized—

He was leaning on you.

Bucky Barnes, who carried the weight of his past like an iron chain, was letting you carry him.

Your throat tightened.

"Hey, Soldier," you murmured, voice steadying through sheer force of will. Anything to drown out the fear clawing at your ribs. "Still with me?"

For a second, he didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at you.

Then—his lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk, like he wanted to make some cocky remark. But all that came out was a wince.

"Yeah," he rasped, voice rough, worn down to nothing. "Just having a great time."

Something in you cracked.

You exhaled sharply, fingers twisting in his jacket, clutching onto him like you could hold him together.

He was alive.

Battered, broken, bleeding out against you—but alive.

And you were going to keep him that way.

The drive to the safehouse was short, but agonizing.

The car felt too small, too silent, too full of blood and fear. Your hands clenched around the steering wheel, knuckles bone-white as you tried to keep your body from shaking apart. You had to stay focused. Had to keep breathing. Had to ignore the way Bucky’s breath, shallow and uneven, filled the space between you like a countdown.

Every bump in the road pulled a ragged sound from his throat, one he barely let slip past gritted teeth. His broken arm was cradled against his chest, his fingers twitching, blood soaking through the fabric of his jacket and seeping into the leather seats. Thick. Dark. Too much.

Don’t think about it.

You’d already gone through a mental list of everything you needed to do once you got him inside—stop the bleeding, set the bone, clean the wounds. All of it so completely out of your depth that panic pressed against your ribs, sharp and unforgiving.

The safehouse appeared through the trees, a dark shape buried deep in the woods. You yanked the car into park, twisting toward him before the engine had even died.

"Buck," you said, voice unsteady. "Buck?"

Nothing.

"Bucky, you still with me?"

For a second, nothing but silence—and then, finally, a low, pained grunt. A small nod. Barely anything, but it was enough to keep the panic from swallowing you whole. A grunt of acknowledgment that shouldn’t have felt like relief but did.

You swallowed hard and moved fast, yanking open his door, looping an arm around his waist as you pulled him up. He was heavy. Too heavy.

Getting him inside was its own battle.

Bucky Barnes was all muscle and solid weight, and even now—weaker than you had ever seen him, barely upright, barely conscious—he still outweighed you by too much. You nearly buckled under his weight, but he held onto you.

His full weight pressed against you, and for the first time since you’d known him, he didn’t try to carry himself. Didn’t try to tough it out, to stay standing on his own. Because he couldn’t.

Each step sent fresh bolts of pain through him, his teeth clenched so tight you swore you could hear the grind of enamel. He swayed dangerously, his blood leaving a trail in the grass, marking the path of his suffering.

Your heart slammed against your ribs as you tightened your grip around his waist.

"Almost there," you whispered, half to him, half to yourself. "Just a little further, Buck. Stay with me."

His only response was another sharp exhale through his nose—the sound of a man trying not to curse or scream.

By the time you dragged him over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind you, your entire body was trembling. The adrenaline that had kept you moving, kept you upright, was beginning to wear off, leaving only panic in its wake. Your breath came in short, uneven gasps as you struggled to keep him upright, his weight more than you could truly handle.

"Come on, Bucky, please, just a little longer," you begged, voice cracking as you guided him toward the worn-out chair near the fireplace. You barely managed to ease him down before your legs nearly gave out beneath you. "I need you to stay awake, honey."

The endearment slipped out without thought, but neither of you acknowledged it. His head lolled forward, strands of damp, sweat-soaked hair clinging to his forehead. His breath was a shallow rasp, chest barely rising and falling.

Logically, you knew he could heal. His body would knit itself back together, given enough time. But logic didn’t stop the knot of dread twisting inside you, didn’t chase away the fear choking you as you took in the state of him.

You had never seen him this bad.

His skin was pale—too pale. Sickly, almost. Sweat slicked his forehead, tracing tracks down the sharp angles of his cheekbones. The bruising along his temple was already deepening, a sickly shade of purple that stood out against his ashen skin. His left arm was an ugly mess—swollen, bent at a sickening angle. And then there was the gash along his ribs, jagged and deep, seeping blood at an alarming rate.

Your hands scrambled for the first-aid kit, tearing it open with fingers that wouldn’t stop trembling. "Okay," you said, forcing a steadying breath, forcing yourself to focus. "I need to set your arm."

Bucky exhaled slowly. His eyelids fluttered, his breathing labored. But when his gaze finally found yours, there was no fear. No hesitation.

Just quiet, unwavering trust.

A barely perceptible nod.

No complaints. No resistance. Just Bucky Barnes trusting you with his pain.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because Bucky Barnes never let anyone take care of him. He barely let people touch him, let alone see him like this—vulnerable, human. The weight of that trust settled deep in your chest, thick and heavy.

For a fleeting second, a dangerous thought slipped through the cracks of your resolve—what would it be like if he let you touch him in other ways? If his trust extended beyond battlefield necessity, beyond survival, into something more?

You swallowed hard and shoved the thought away. Now was not the time.

Shoving it down, you grabbed the shears from the kit and began cutting away his ruined jacket, peeling the blood-soaked fabric from his skin. His arm was an ugly mess—swollen, bruised, bent at an angle that made your stomach turn. But the deep gash across his ribs wasn’t much better, the bruising on his temple stark against his too-pale skin.

Your hands hovered over him for a moment. Hesitant. Terrified.

You can do this.He needs you.Your fingers pressed against his skin, searching for the break. He barely reacted.

Except—when you touched the worst of it.

His body tensed. A muscle in his jaw ticked. His metal hand curled into a fist against his thigh.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, throat tight. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—"

Then, before you could think too hard about it, before you could hesitate—you pushed the bone back into place.

The sound it made was sickening.

Bucky’s whole body locked up. His teeth clenched, every muscle in his body straining against the agony tearing through him.

Your stomach lurched. You wanted to take it back. Wanted to take it from him.

But then—it was done.

You looked up, searching for his eyes, needing to see that he was still with you.

But his eyes were shut, his lips a thin, bloodless line.

He hadn’t screamed.

Hadn’t even made a sound.

"Buck?"

Your voice was barely more than a whisper, but it felt like a scream in the suffocating silence of the safehouse. Your hands were slick with his blood, still shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps. You didn't know how to make it stop.

"Bucky?"

Still no response. His head lolled slightly, his breath uneven, shallow. The dim light in the room cast long shadows over his face, accentuating the stark pallor of his skin, the gauntness in his features. He looked fragile, and that was something you never associated with Bucky Barnes.

Your fingers fumbled, pressing against his neck, searching for his pulse. Your mind screamed at you to calm down, to think logically. The serum would keep him alive. He wasn’t dying. He couldn’t be dying. But logic meant nothing when fear had its claws in you.

Too fast. But steady.

He was alive. He was going to stay alive.

A sob clawed its way up your throat, thick and suffocating, but you swallowed it down. No time for that. You had to focus. He needed you.

You forced your trembling hands to work, pressing gauze against the deep gash in his side, trying to stem the flow of blood. The fabric soaked through instantly, a deep crimson blooming across the sterile white.

"Come on, Buck," you murmured, voice barely holding steady. "The serum needs to kick in. Just let it work, okay?"

Your fingers traced the edges of the wound, breath hitching at the heat radiating from his fevered skin. The cut was deep—too deep—but not fatal. It had to be something sharp, something deliberate. The thought made your stomach twist. Whoever had done this had meant to hurt him, had meant to make him suffer.

You pressed down harder, desperate to keep the bleeding in check. He let out a low, pained groan, his body tensing beneath your touch. Your heart clenched.

"Did I make it worse?" Your voice cracked. "Am I hurting you more? Please, Buck, you gotta tell me something, anything..."

Silence stretched between you, thick and unbearable. His chest rose and fell in slow, shallow movements. The hum of the wind outside filled the void. Your hands, stained with his blood, trembled against him.

Then—

A rough, barely-there sound. A groan, deep and strained.

His throat bobbed as his lashes fluttered. His brows drew together, his lips parting as he struggled to pull in a breath.

And then, so quietly you almost missed it—

"Nah."

Your heart stuttered.

His voice, though raw and wrecked, was unmistakable. Relief crashed over you like a tidal wave, so overwhelming it nearly knocked the air from your lungs. You reached up, pressing his sweaty hair back and away from his forehead.

His head shifted slightly, his fevered skin pressing into the palm of your hand. His breathing hitched as another wave of pain rolled through him, but he forced his eyes open just enough to look at you.

Blue. So damn blue.

And looking right at you.

"It’s not—" He swallowed thickly. "Not your fault," he rasped. His lips twitched, like he was trying for a smile, but it barely formed before fading. "I'm still in one piece."

A breathy, choked laugh escaped you, completely unbidden. God, how could he joke right now?

Your fingers curled against his jaw, your grip grounding both of you. "Barely," you whispered. "You���re a mess, Bucky."

A slow, uneven exhale left him. "Wouldn’t be the first time."

Your throat tightened. Even now, bleeding out, clinging to consciousness by a thread, he was trying to reassure you. Trying to make it easier.

"Is there anything else I can do?" you asked, voice small, desperate. "To make the serum work faster? God, why isn't it working, Bucky?"

He let out a slow breath, his fingers twitching against his thigh. His lips parted, but it took him a moment to form words.

"Takes... time," he murmured, voice slurred with exhaustion. "Always does. Just gotta... wait."

Wait. The thought was unbearable. Sitting here, helpless, while he fought to heal—it felt like torture.

Your fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble rough against your skin. He blinked sluggishly, exhaustion tugging at him, but he was here. 

"You’re supposed to heal, Buck," you whispered. "Please. Promise me."

A slow, lazy blink. Then another. His lips parted, another whisper of breath escaping. Speaking seemed like a tremendous effort.

"‘I will, doll."

The nickname slipped out, rough and unintentional, but it sent something hot and aching through your chest.

He didn't know. He had no idea. How much you loved him. How much it would break you if he didn’t recover. You could barely even entertain the thought.

You swallowed hard, pressing your forehead against his, letting his warmth seep into you, grounding you.

"Good," you breathed, voice shaking. "You better."

His lips quirked—just barely, just enough.

And then, exhaustion pulled him under again.

–

He slept for hours.

So long that time lost meaning. The only markers of its passing were the slow shift of light through the windows, the way the world outside darkened and quieted, and the steady rhythm of his breath.

At some point, just before nightfall, you had dragged him to the old couch, wincing as his weight slumped against you, his body a dead weight of exhaustion and blood loss. The couch was too small, barely accommodating his frame, but it was better than the rickety old chair. You had folded up a sweater to tuck beneath his head, hoping to give him something resembling comfort.

Then, you sat beside him. You stayed there, unmoving, watching over him like some kind of silent sentinel. Every breath he took became an anchor, something to hold onto while the storm inside you raged.

The serum was working, you realized. 

You willed it to.

You willed your hands not to tremble when you finally dared to check his wound. The bleeding had stopped. The deep gash at his side was still an angry thing, but no longer a threat. You cleaned him up as best you could, dabbing away the dried blood, the sweat, the remnants of a battle neither of you had been sure he’d walk away from. He didn’t stir when you bandaged him up, didn’t even wince when you pressed down to ensure it held. He was dead to the world, lost in some place where pain couldn’t touch him.

The relief hit you like a punch to the gut. So intense it nearly stole your breath.

You could have taken a shower. You could have eaten, slept, done a million things in the endless stretch of time before he woke. And yet, you sat there, knees drawn to your chest, hands curled into your sleeves as you watched him. The soft light from the kitchen, the only you one had dared to turn on, flickered across his face, softening the sharp planes of his jaw, making him look almost peaceful.

Almost.

Bucky Barnes never looked truly at peace. Even in sleep, there were the faint lines of tension around his eyes, the ever-present ghosts lingering beneath the surface.

You had no idea when it happened. When he became more than just the man you guided through missions, monitored from a distance, and kept safe from behind a screen. It had snuck up on you in the quiet moments—the way he paid attention to your every word, the way he trusted your intel without question, the way his voice softened just a little when he spoke your name. The rare, fleeting glint of warmth in his.low chuckle when you cracked a joke through his earpiece like you were the only thing tethering him to something lighter, something more than the constant battles he had to face.

You never meant for this to happen. But it had.

And now here you were, sitting in the half-dark, staring at him like a fool, with a heart that beat too fast in your chest.

A low, hoarse sound broke the silence. A groan, rough with sleep and exhaustion.

Your breath hitched as his head stirred against the makeshift pillow. The twitch of his fingers, the slow shift of his expression—until those blue eyes finally cracked open, hazy and unfocused.

“Am I dead?”

His voice was a rasp, rough and broken, like gravel scraping against metal. It sent a shiver racing down your spine, an involuntary reaction to hearing it at all. Because for a terrifying moment, you thought you never would again.

Still, the laugh that tumbled from your lips was more relieved than anything else. “No. But you were trying really hard to get there.”

His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his battered face. He moved sluggishly, turning his head toward you, eyes struggling to focus as he took you in. The sight of him awake, coherent, was almost enough to bring you to your knees.

Almost.

“If you had,” you murmured, arching a brow as you gestured around the small, dimly lit room, “would this be your heaven?”

It was a joke, mostly. A feeble attempt to lighten the moment, though the humor didn’t quite reach your voice. The old house was barely livable, the bare minimum of furniture thrown together in a desperate attempt at a safe house. It lacked warmth. It lacked everything, really.

Bucky exhaled sharply, something caught between a laugh and a scoff. “You think I’m going to heaven?”

That laugh. Short. Self-deprecating. Dripping with irony. You hated it.

“You don’t?” you challenged, gaze unwavering. “You must’ve earned a place after all that suffering.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

The word slipped from his lips so easily, like breathing, but it knocked the air right out of your lungs. You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to react, but it was useless. Especially when you realized he was still staring at you. Taking you in. Seeing the exhaustion that clung to you like a second skin, the dried blood smeared across your hands and clothes—his blood. The worry written into every crease of your expression.

You felt exposed. Raw.

“You... been sitting there this whole time?”

You hesitated. You could lie. Maybe you should. You could brush it off, say you had just been checking in on him, nothing more… Instead, you settled for the truth.

“Yeah.”

Bucky exhaled heavily, his head falling back against the pillow, but his gaze never left you. Something flickered in his eyes, something unreadable, but you felt it all the same.

After a moment, his lips quirked slightly. “Didn’t know I rated that kind of devotion.”

Your breath hitched. If he noticed, he had the decency not to comment on it.

“I never saw you like that before,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. “You were bleeding all over the place, Bucky. You’re… you’re my super soldier. My Terminator. You’re supposed to be invincible.”

The joke melted into something softer, something vulnerable. You dropped your gaze, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. You couldn’t let him see. Couldn’t let him know just how close you had come to breaking.

“You could’ve at least taken a shower.”

He meant it as a distraction, but it only served as a reminder. The truth was—you hadn’t wanted to leave. Not even for a second. But admitting that? Dangerous territory.

“I couldn’t,” you muttered instead, shaking your head. “I had to make sure...”

Bucky hummed low in his throat, the weight of his gaze pressing against the side of your face. Then, with a sigh, he reached out—slow, careful, testing the limits of his body—and let his fingers ghost over your wrist. Barely a touch, but it sent your pulse into a tailspin.

“Thank you,” he murmured, the words rough, real.

You swallowed hard. “Yeah, well... just try not to do it again, alright?”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he studied you for a long moment, then sighed. “You look exhausted. Should’ve told me to move over.”

The thought of sharing a bed with him—this small, intimate space—had you reeling. “The, uh, couch is too small. And you needed the rest.”

His eyes drifted over you, lingering. “And you didn’t?”

Desperate for some normalcy, you let out a small huff, adopting a teasing tone. “I don’t need as much beauty sleep as you, Barnes.”

That earned you a tired chuckle. “So that’s how it is, huh?”

“Yup. You were looking a little rough before all the blood loss. Thought I’d do you a favor and let you rest.”

Bucky groaned. “Damn. Knew you were brutal, but this?”

“Hey,” you grinned, squeezing his thigh lightly, “if you can keep up, that means you’re feeling better.”

Bucky let out a breath, and for a moment, something warm flickered behind his exhaustion. “Guess I must be.”

Silence stretched between you, heavier this time, something unspoken weaving through it. You allowed yourself to lean against the cold metal of his vibranium arm, savoring the quiet until he shifted, groaning. Both of you stayed there and you thought he’d fallen back asleep when his groan broke through the quiet. Carefully, Bucky pushed himself upright, wincing slightly as his muscles protested.

“Gonna take a shower,” he mumbled, rubbing a tired hand over his face. 

"Bucky, I don’t think—"

"Not asking, sweetheart," he cut in, already pushing himself to his feet. Wobbling. 

Stubborn son of a bitch.

“Why won’t you listen to me? You always listen to me,” you argued, audibly on edge, rising to your feet to try and make sure you were prepared in case he tumbled over.

“I am covered in blood and I smell,” he grunted, vibranium hand pressing to the bandage you had patched him up with. He was clearly still in pain but too stubborn to admit it. “It’ll make me feel better.”

You rushed forward, steadying him before he could fall over like an idiot. "Jesus. Fine. But keep the door unlocked, okay? In case you—"

"I'm not gonna drown in the shower," he deadpanned.

You gave him a look. "I was gonna say in case you pass out and crack your head open again, but now I’m adding ‘drowning’ to my already very long list of concerns, thank you very much."

Bucky sighed, squeezing your hand before stepping away toward the bathroom. You should have looked away when he peeled his blood-streaked shirt over his head, revealing bruised skin beneath. But you didn’t.

And when he glanced back at you, a tired smirk still playing at his lips, you knew he had caught you staring.

You exhaled, running a hand through your hair. He was alive. Battered, broken, but alive.

The weight of the past few hours pressed heavily against your chest, like a vice squeezing the air from your lungs. Your hands still trembled faintly, a phantom reminder of how close you had come to losing him. You told yourself you should move, should get some rest, but you couldn't. The exhaustion sat on your shoulders, thick and suffocating, but it couldn't compare to the quiet, gnawing fear that still hadn't fully released its grip on you.

What if he hadn’t woken up? What if his breathing had slowed, softened, and you hadn't noticed until it was too late? What if, even now, you had missed something—some unseen wound, some deeper injury lurking beneath the surface?

The thought made your stomach twist uncomfortably. He had survived this time. But the next?

You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly to clear the sting in your eyes. No, not now. Later—when he was truly safe, when you weren’t holding yourself together with nothing but sheer stubbornness and the desperate need to keep him breathing.

Then you heard it.

A muffled groan.

Maybe a pained grunt.

Then— your name.

Your stomach flipped. Fear, sharp and immediate, sank its claws into you, coiling tight around your ribs.

Without thinking, without hesitating, you moved.

The door swung open—

And you froze.

Steam curled around the small bathroom, thick and humid, clinging to your skin. The weak spray of the shower rained down on him, rivulets of water streaming down his battered body. His head was bowed, one hand braced against the tiled wall, his broad back rising and falling with every breath.

Bucky was naked.

Completely, gloriously naked.

Your pulse stuttered, breath hitching as your gaze trailed over him, helpless to look away. It wasn’t just the powerful cut of his shoulders or the elegant curve of his spine, the way his waist tapered into lean, honed muscle. It wasn’t just the deep bruises shadowing his ribs, the still-healing scrapes and cuts littering his arms and torso, each one a whisper of a battle he’d barely survived.

It was all of him.

The sculpted lines of his abdomen, the way water cascaded over his taut skin, tracing over each dip and ridge like it worshipped him. The sharp cut of his hips, leading down, down—

Oh. Oh.

Heat licked up your throat so fast you almost choked on it.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, slowly, he lifted his head.

Blue eyes locked onto yours—heavy-lidded, exhausted, but aware. A single droplet of water trailed from his collarbone, slipping down his chest, following the defined ridges of his stomach before disappearing.

Your brain bluescreened.

You forgot how to function. Forgot how to breathe. Forgot everything but the way he stood there, utterly unbothered by his own nakedness, watching you with quiet, unspoken curiosity.

The last thread of your sanity snapped somewhere between the sculpt of his abs and the way his very beautiful, very distracting cock hung between his thighs.

“Doll?” His voice was rough, hoarse from exhaustion, raw with something else, something you couldn't name.

The way it sank into you—deep, warm, consuming—nearly made your knees buckle.

Your throat worked, but words failed. You tried again, this time barely managing to rasp out, “You called?”

A small furrow appeared between his brows. “I didn’t…” he murmured, voice gravelly, confused.

You were so, so done.

You should turn around. Give him privacy. Make some joke, brush it off, leave before this moment became irreversible.

But Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t look away. Didn’t demand you leave.

He just stood there, watching. Waiting.

“Sweetheart?” His voice was softer now, laced with something dangerous. “Is there something you need?”

There was no anger in his expression. No embarrassment, no shock—just quiet patience. Just exhaustion. Just that quiet, quiet thing that had always existed between you, humming beneath the surface, never spoken aloud.

The air between you crackled, electric, charged. The space between the door and the shower stretched impossibly vast. Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out logic, reason, the part of you that still had a chance to walk away.

Instead, you took a step forward.

Bucky didn’t stop you.

Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t tense.

He just watched as you took another slow, deliberate step into the bathroom, your fingers trembling as they reached behind you—

And closed the door.

The quiet click sealed something between you, a silent understanding woven into the steam curling around you both.

You were going to do this.

Your fingers twitched at the hem of your shirt. Slowly, you lifted it.

His gaze dropped.

Tracked the movement, eyes dark and unblinking. Watched as your hands trembled, hesitating for only a fraction of a second—before you dragged the fabric over your head and let it fall to the floor.

The air thickened, heavy, pulsing.

Bucky’s breathing changed, a sharp inhale barely audible over the patter of water. His pupils widened, lips parting slightly. You felt the weight of his stare, dragging over every inch of newly exposed skin as you unbuttoned your pants, sliding them down your legs.

Piece by piece, layer by layer, you joined him until you were bare.

There was no way you were leaving now.

You had crossed a line—an invisible but irreversible threshold, shifting whatever had existed between you and Bucky forever.

You weren’t leaving.

Couldn’t leave.

Not tonight. Not when he was hurting. Not when this had been building for far too long. Not ever.

And as you stepped into the warmth of the water—into him—Bucky exhaled.

The heat of the water curled around your feet, sinking into your skin as you stepped closer. Closer to him. The steam wrapped around you both, thick and humid, clinging to your skin like a second layer. You were painfully aware of how bare you both were, how little there was between you—just air, charged and heavy, laced with hesitation and the weight of unspoken words.

Bucky swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His vibranium hand twitched at his side, the black and gold glistening under the water, fingers flexing as if torn between restraint and impulse. His other arm—still sore from the break but free—hung at his side. He shifted slightly, muscles rippling, making room for you as you moved beneath the steady stream of water.

The moment your bodies brushed, heat flared—electric, searing. His hip grazed yours, slick with water, and you fought the urge to lean into him, to close the meager space that remained. Instead, you tipped your head back, letting the water cascade over you, washing away the remnants of the day—the grime, the blood, the sweat, the panic.

When your eyes reopened, blue locked onto you. But not the sharp, perceptive blue you were used to—this was deeper, darker, laced with something raw and consuming. Something that mirrored everything you had fought to keep buried.

"Is this as nerve-wracking for you as it is for me?"

Your voice barely carried over the steady rush of water, but the confession was out before you could second-guess it—honesty slipping through the cracks of your restraint, as it always did when you were pushed past your comfort zone.

A flicker of hesitation ghosted across his face, fleeting but there. You caught it. Felt it.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, voice rough, edged with something raw. "You don’t have to—"

"I know."

You stepped forward, letting the water cascade off your shoulders, droplets ricocheting against his chest and streaming down the ridges of his abdomen. Heat radiated from his skin, from the space between you, from the sheer gravity of this moment.

"I want to," you admitted, breath hitching. "I’m just… a little nervous. There’s a lot of you."

A slow, uneven breath left him. His vibranium fingers flexed, tension coiling in his posture, but his gaze dropped, something unreadable flickering behind his storm-colored eyes.

"Not really," he murmured. He lifted his left hand slightly, the metal catching the dim light, gleaming through the mist. A humorless smile ghosted over his lips. "This is all I got right now. Kind of half a man at the moment."

A pang shot through you at the quiet self-deprecation laced in his words. Before you could stop yourself, you reached out, fingertips brushing the smooth, unyielding metal. Another step closed the distance, your chest grazing his, the barest contact sparking something molten, something inevitable.

Your voice was steady when you spoke. "You could never be half of anything."

Bucky inhaled sharply, your words sinking into the spaces he kept guarded. Still, he didn't move. He just stood there, letting you guide his hand to your waist, letting himself feel.

A moment passed. Stretched. Deepened.

Then, rough and uncertain, he confessed, "I’m not sure… how to do this."

The words slipped out before you could stop them. "Do what? Me?"

The tension in his face broke, just for a second—surprise flickering, then amusement. A real, genuine laugh rumbled from his chest, the sound so foreign in the moment that it stole your breath. It was almost impossible to believe this was the same man who had been bleeding beneath your shaking hands only hours ago.

"I don’t think that’s in the cards for us tonight, sweetheart," he said, voice edged with both apology and something else—something almost reverent.

You tilted your head, lips curving. "Thought you'd be more confident than this." Leaning in, you pressed a kiss where metal met flesh, felt the way his breath hitched. You smiled against his skin. "Big, strong super soldier, shying away from a little skin?"

His exhale was sharp, almost a scoff, but it didn’t quite mask the way his grip on your waist tightened—just barely, just enough to betray him, just enough to make your pulse trip.

"Not shying away," he murmured, voice thick against your ear. "Just… don’t wanna mess this up."

You tilted your chin, brushing your lips against the space just below his collarbone, feeling the way his muscles tensed. "And what exactly would ‘messing this up’ look like?"

His jaw clenched, tension rippling through him. "Rushing. Disappointing you… taking more than I should."

His hand flexed at your waist, like he was testing the edges of restraint, feeling out what was safe, what was allowed.

A slow exhale left you as your fingers trailed higher, mapping out the scars, the history written into his skin. "Bucky," you whispered, the warmth of his name wrapping around him. "I never thought… never thought you’d want me like this. I want you to take whatever you want."

His forehead dropped to yours, and for a moment, there was only the steady rush of water, the ragged edge of his breathing. Then, slowly, he pulled back, eyes searching yours, something fragile, unguarded, unraveling in their depths.

A quiet, breathy laugh left him—something between disbelief and surrender. His lips hovered near yours, close enough that his breath warmed your skin.

"Want isn’t quite how I’d put it."

Your breath hitched. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t joking. The depth of his words settled over you, heavy and thrilling and terrifying all at once.

"Then how would you put it?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper, fingers threading into his damp hair.

He exhaled, slow and deliberate, his forehead pressing into yours. "I think you already know."

And then his lips brushed yours, tentative, testing. Your body answered before your mind could catch up—arms winding around his neck, pressing closer, heat pooling low in your stomach. The kiss deepened, unhurried, a slow unraveling, a discovery.

Bucky's hand splayed against your spine, mapping the dip of your back, fingers tracing down to your hip, exploring, learning. Every glide of his tongue ignited something deep, every touch sent a fresh wave of heat spiraling through you.

You let your hands roam—over the hard planes of his chest, the dips and ridges of his stomach, the firm grasp of his waist. Each touch was a silent question. Every shift of his body, an answer.

"You’re shaking," he murmured against your lips, voice thick. "Still nervous?"

"A little," you admitted, breathless, cheeks flushed with heat. "I want… I want this so much."

His mouth curled, the faintest smile, almost apologetic. "I’m sorry I can’t give it to you."

"It’s alright, I—"

You surged up on your toes, kissed him harder, pouring every ounce of want into the press of your lips. A small, needy sound escaped you as his hand tightened at your waist. When you pulled away, your teeth grazed his bottom lip, and he exhaled sharply, his body rutting forward—instinctive, aching, desperate.

Your bare stomach brushed against him, and your breath hitched. "God, okay—can I touch you?" Your fingers curled at his waist, pressing, feeling the tremor in his muscles. "I want to make you feel good."

Bucky's breath stuttered, his hand tightening just enough to send a shiver racing through you. His forehead pressed to yours, a war waging behind his eyes.

Then, voice low and wrecked, he whispered, "Sweetheart… you already do."

Your fingers traced lower, over the taut muscles of his abdomen, feeling the way he tensed beneath your touch, like he was trying to hold himself together. His breath was ragged, unsteady, and when you let your nails graze lightly over his skin, a low, shuddering sound rumbled in his chest.

"Bucky," your voice was a whisper, sweet and coaxing, threading through the steam like a promise. "Will you let me touch you?"

His jaw tensed, head dipping forward as though the weight of restraint was too much to bear. "You don’t—"

"Please." Your fingers trailed lower, teasing, testing, watching the way his muscles twitched beneath your touch. "I want this. I want you."

A sharp inhale, his control fraying at the edges. Then—he gave in.

Not all at once. He unraveled in pieces, like a taut thread snapping one fiber at a time. His body melted under your hands, surrendering inch by inch. His vibranium fingers flexed at your waist before falling away entirely, like he couldn’t trust himself to touch, to take. But you saw it—the way his pupils blew wide, the way his lips parted around a strangled breath as your fingers wrapped around his length.

"Jesus," he rasped, head knocking back against the tile.

You bit your lip at the sight of him—chest heaving, muscles taut, his restraint hanging by a thread. Slowly, deliberately, you tightened your grip, savoring the way a groan tore from his throat, raw and unguarded. You stroked, slow and deliberate, thumb teasing the slick head of him before your fingers curled, picking up the pace.

"Is this okay?" Your voice was breathless, uncertain for the first time.

His answer was immediate—a sharp nod, his hand covering yours for the briefest second, grounding himself before letting go again. "Yeah, sweetheart. Yeah, just—"

A strangled noise broke from him when you abandoned his length in favor of the heavy weight of his balls, rolling them in your palm, feeling the heat, the way his hips twitched into your touch like he couldn’t help it.

You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to drop to your knees and taste him, make him fall apart in a way that would leave him wrecked for anything else. You wanted him to snap, to pin you against the wall and take you, bury himself so deep you forgot your own name.

You wanted, wanted, wanted.

It was all you could think about.

"Fuck," he choked out, vibranium fingers digging into the slick tile, his flesh hand flexing like he wanted to grab you but didn't trust himself to. "You're—"

"Good?" you teased, pressing a kiss to his jaw, smiling against his skin when he trembled.

"Perfect," he groaned, voice wrecked.

Encouraged, you found your rhythm again—slow, deliberate, teasing your thumb over his sensitive head, drinking in the way his chest heaved. Your other hand cupped his balls, rolling them in tandem with each measured stroke, and his head tipped back, eyes squeezing shut. Water streamed down his skin, but it did nothing to cool the heat rolling off him, the way his body shook beneath your touch.

"You always this quiet?" you murmured, pressing your lips to the hollow of his throat.

A breathless laugh, broken at the edges. "Tryin’ not to lose my mind here, sweetheart."

"Maybe I want you to," you whispered, tightening your grip and twisting just enough to make him curse under his breath.

His hips bucked into your hand, desperation bleeding into every ragged exhale, every twitch of his muscles. He was unraveling, piece by piece, falling apart in your hands, and God, it was intoxicating.

"I think I could come just from watching you," the confession tumbled from your lips, unfiltered, the pulsing ache between your thighs intensifying. "You’re beautiful."

A guttural noise, raw and wrecked. "Fuck, you’re killing me." His forehead pressed against yours, the last fraying strands of control slipping from his grasp. "I—shit, I’m not gonna last."

Pleasure curled hot in your belly. He was holding on by a thread, and you wanted to be the one to pull him under.

"Don’t," you urged, pressing closer, stroking him faster, feeling the way his muscles locked beneath your touch. "Don’t hold back, Bucky. Let me see you."

His breath hitched. His jaw locked. And then—

He let go.

A shuddering moan, unrestrained and devastatingly raw, tore from his lips as he spilled into your hand. His body jerked, muscles seizing, fingers digging into the tile like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. You felt the tremor in his limbs, the sharp, broken breaths leaving him, his forehead still pressed against yours like he needed the anchor.

You stayed close, pressing soft, lingering kisses along his jaw, his cheek, his temple, until the tension bled from his body, until his breathing evened out.

A low, breathless laugh rumbled through him, rough around the edges. "Jesus. You’re dangerous."

You grinned against his skin, feeling the way his chest still rose and fell unevenly beneath you, the tremor of aftershocks still running through his muscles. His vibranium arm curled around your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you against the heat of his still-thrumming body.

"Not dangerous," you murmured, brushing your lips against the sharp line of his jaw, lingering at the corner of his mouth. "Just very, very into you. And willing to wait."

Bucky exhaled, still catching his breath, still holding you like you were the only thing keeping him upright. But this time, it wasn’t because of his injuries. It was because you had unraveled him, completely and utterly, in a way no one else ever had.

His fingers flexed at your hip, gripping you like he was still making sense of the way you fit against him. "Sweetheart," he muttered, voice low and rough, "whatever patience you got? You might need it for me."

You smiled, threading your fingers through his damp hair, pressing your lips to his in something soft, something promising.

"Can’t wait."

His arm curled more firmly around you, holding you against his chest, warm and steady. Your hand traced down his bruised arm, gentle over the battered skin. He tensed slightly beneath your touch, but didn’t pull away. Instead, he let you hold him, let you feel the weight of him—whole, breathing, here.

You nuzzled against his chest, pressing a lingering kiss over his heart, feeling its steady rhythm beneath your lips. "You scared me today," you admitted, barely above a whisper. You tightened your grip around him, clinging to the solid warmth of his body, trying to ignore the heat of desire curling low in your stomach, giving way to something even stronger. Something scarier. "Don’t ever do that again. I mean it, Buck, I—"

"I know." His voice was softer now, his lips pressing into your hair. "I could see it. In your eyes, you were—"

"Yeah." You swallowed hard. "I was."

Silence settled between you, thick with everything you weren’t saying. The air still hummed with the remnants of adrenaline, of tension, of the quiet fear that had lodged itself in your ribs the moment you saw him bleeding, barely standing, on the edge of collapse.

Bucky shifted, just slightly, his vibranium hand pressing against the small of your back, keeping you close. Then, quietly, deliberately, he murmured, "I need you to know something, doll."

The seriousness in his voice sent your heart skipping. You lifted your head, meeting his gaze. "What is it?"

For a moment, he hesitated—like he was choosing his words carefully, like he was about to step over some invisible line he could never uncross. His thumb brushed over your jaw, a touch so tender it made your breath catch.

"This isn’t just tonight," he said, voice steady despite the rawness in it. "It’s not just the adrenaline or the heat of the moment. It’s not even just because you saved my ass back there." He exhaled, his forehead briefly pressing against yours before pulling back, searching your eyes. "It’s you. It’s been you for a while now."

Your breath hitched.

Bucky’s hand trailed up, fingers ghosting over your cheek, tracing the curve of your face like he was committing every inch of you to memory. "I don’t always know how to say the right thing," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "Or how to be good at this. But I know that I want you. Not just here. Not just now. I want all of it. All of you. If you’ll have me."

A sharp, aching warmth bloomed in your chest. He was laying himself bare, in a way you knew wasn’t easy for him. No bravado, no deflection—just truth.

A slow, shaky smile tugged at your lips as you lifted a hand to his face, your thumb skimming along his stubbled jaw.

"Bucky Barnes, you are the most ridiculous man I have ever met."

His brows furrowed, lips parting—until you leaned in and kissed him. Slow, deep, like he was something precious. Something worth holding onto.

When you pulled away, you pressed your forehead to his, your fingers still tangled in his damp hair.

"I’m not going anywhere," you murmured, voice thick with emotion. "Not tonight. Not ever."

A breath shuddered out of him, and then his arms were wrapping around you—tightly, fiercely, like he could somehow pull you into him completely.

"Good," he whispered against your skin. "Because I think I’d go crazy if you did."

You smiled against his collarbone, letting yourself melt into him, into the warmth of his body, into the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat.

Bucky was safe. He was healing.

And now, finally—he was yours.

[flowersforbucky]

you drew stars around my scars

bob reynolds x reader

summary: you show bob that he doesn’t need to be insecure about anything with you.

word count: 1k

warnings/tags: 18+ only, mentions of past drug use, descriptions of scars from drug use, insecurities, hurt/comfort, kissing and suggestiveness, implied smut, no use of y/n, some angst, fluff

author's note: i fully believe the sentry project would have gotten rid of any scars but i couldn't get this idea out of my head so.. just pretend with me.

please do not read this if any of the warnings could be triggering for you. you are responsible for your own media consumption, take care of yourself ♡

“Honey,” you breathe. He plants a trail of kisses from your jaw down to the pulse point of your throat, where he begins to bite and suckle.  

He knows that it's your weakness.  

Normally, you'd melt into it – let him take his time peppering you with love bites.  

But right now, you're seeking something else. He knows it, too. It's the reason he's trying his hardest to distract you.  

The second that your hands crept under his shirt and began easing the fabric up his back, he broke the heated kiss you’d been lost in, moving his lips to your throat, instead.  

And then to your collarbones, and then the peaks of your breasts, and your sternum, and so on – until he’s so far down your body that you have no choice but to let your hands fall away from where they’d been resting under his shirt.  

A blissful distraction, but a distraction nonetheless. 

“Honey,” you repeat when he gets to the waistband of your panties. He pauses before he can pull them down, looking up at you with an expression of hesitation and uncertainty.  

“What’s wrong, baby?” He asks, concern etched in his voice. “Do you want me to stop?”  

“Well, no,” you laugh. “I don’t. I just…”  

You trail off, looking up at the ceiling. You’d been planning how to go about this conversation in your head for days, but now that it’s actually time to string the words together to formulate what should be a relatively straight forward question, your brain is drawing blanks.  

“What is it?” He asks gently. He sits up on his knees, placing a comforting hand on your thigh. “You can talk to me.”  

There's a part of you that wants to drop it entirely. The last thing you want is to be embarrass him, or pressure him, but you also need him to know that you want to touch him, feel him, see him completely and fully.  

Mostly, you want to understand why.  

Why doesn’t he want you to take his shirt off? Why is he insistent on wearing long sleeves when it’s the middle of summer? Why is it that when he does take his shirt off during sex, it’s only at night when all of the lights are turned off? 

It hurts you to think that he may not see himself the way you see him. All you want is to assure him that he never has to hide any part of himself – not from you. 

“You know I love you, right?” You sit up, eye-level with him. His brows crease, in the endearing way they usually do when he’s confused or in deep thought. “All of you?”  

He drops his gaze, as if realizing the direction this conversation is heading. He nods. “Of course I do.”  

You place a handle beneath his chin, gently tilting his head back up so that he's looking you in the eye once more. “Can I see all of you, then?”  

“It’s not that I don’t want you to see me,” he murmurs. “I’m just afraid that you’ll look at me differently once you do.”  

“Bob,” you breathe, stroking the side of his face with your thumb. “There’s nothing in this world that could make me love you less. You’re perfect to me, no matter what.” 

He gives you a small, hesitant smile before he grabs the hem of his Henley and slowly pulls it over his head. At first, your eyes go to the muscles of his chest. You have caught glimpses of them and have felt them from beneath his clothing on many occasions, so you’re not surprised by the defined planes of his abdomen, but you still can’t help but ogle.  

As many times as you’ve tried to picture what he'd look like without the baggy shirts, you're now realizing that your imagination failed you.  

Then, he extends his arms. Your eyes follow his to his inner elbows, and that’s when you realize that his insecurity was never about his physique.  

You know what you’re looking at without him having to explain. Though it isn’t something he talks about often, his history with drug addiction is not a secret. You're still surprised to see the slightly raised, discolored lines in the bends of his arms, however. Mostly because you didn’t think it was possible for him to have scars anymore.  

There’s a couple on each arm, some more noticeable than others.  

“All of the others faded a long time ago,” he says meekly, staring down at the marks. “But these got infected, so they scarred worse. I had hoped that the serum they gave me in Malaysia would take care of them, but I guess it doesn’t really help older scars, ‘cause they’re still here.” 

You scoot closer to him, once again tilting his face to look up at you. He gulps, blinking quickly to keep unshed tears at bay. Leaning forward, you slate your lips over his. He kisses you back, practically sighing against your lips with relief.  

You pull his right arm to you, leaning down to press your lips to the more prominent of the two dark lines in a series of feather-light kisses. Bob’s posture relaxes, and you hear the faintest hum of contentment emanate from his chest. When you've kissed both scars, you move to his left arm and do the same.  

“I love you,” you whisper when you pull away. “I think you’re beautiful, Bob. I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to hide any part of yourself from me.”  

“I love you, too. More than you know.” He smiles, no longer looking ashamed or embarrassed. He maneuvers you back down against the mattress, hovering above you. There’s a playful look on his face as he smirks down at you, eyes roaming down your chest and to where his fingers once again toy with the band of your underwear.  

“Now that we have that conversation out of the way, maybe I could get back to what I was trying to do a few minutes ago? If that’s.. if that’s okay with you?”  

You snort a laugh, pushing away the locks of his hair that fall down over his face. "Of course."

******

thank you so much for reading!! as always, comments and reblogs are very appreciated <3