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watermelonlipstick · 3 years

Text

Stabbed

This was written following an anon request that read as follows:

Hello sweetie, can I please request a dean x reader one shot in which she gets stabbed during a rough hunt and it's a race against time to save her (maybe Sam is the one driving and dean gets in the backseat with her?) And dean is scared of losing her and he has a panic attack after she wakes up but she manages to calm him down?

Obviously everyone’s experiences with panic attacks are different, but I tend to think if Dean had one it might manifest more externally as a violent outburst; I think he would subconsciously feel like it’s a more acceptable way to express ~freaking the fuck out~. This fic is sort of loosely set during early season 3, partly because that contextualization made sense to me with what you were describing and partly because I feel like that tenderhearted, slightly-less-jaded Dean would be more likely to allow himself to be perceived as vulnerable in such a fraught moment.

I’ve also taken a couple liberties with the medical situation described for literary purposes. 😋 Don’t @ me, I know this isn’t exactly how hypovolemic shock plays out.

Title: Stabbed

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 4206

Summary: Dean’s anxiety gets the best of him when the reader appears fatally injured on a hunt, and is soothed only after the danger is gone.

Warnings: canon-appropriate violence, description of panic attack, swearing

Sam slammed the door once Dean had hauled you into the backseat, propping you up like a mannequin next to him on the bench. Your vision was starting to fade in and out, but the sense memory of the muscles in Dean’s side and the leather seat underneath you were comforting anyway. It seemed like the car started flying before Sam had even closed the driver’s side door and you tried hard to focus on Dean’s babbling.

“You’ll be able to give me shit about this one forever, right, kid? Should’ve listened to you, you said they would’ve left the barn by the time we got there. Always so smart, when am I going to learn?” He was trying to chuckle but it came out breathy and wrong, Dean never quite able to actually hit the casual affect he wanted in moments like this. Honestly, it made you more nervous, knowing that for injuries he wasn’t worried about he wanted to look over you with clinical precision, chastise you for being careless. He only did this pretend calm when he was trying to keep it together—you used to think it was only for you or Sam but after a few years and more than a few bad scares you started to understand it for the defense mechanism it truly was. Not that you needed extra evidence that this was bad; you could feel the life leeching out of you like a water balloon with a pinprick leak.

“Hey, come on—open your eyes for me, lemme see those stunners,” he said, guiding your chin up where you had begun to slump onto his shoulder. “Perfect, yeah, just like that. Hey, stay with me—”

You mustered up everything you had to swim to the surface of the sleep-darkness your body so desperately wanted and straightened your spine to take a deep breath. Bad idea, the wounds in your side feeling like they were splitting you clean in half even through the haze. At least it woke you up for a moment to catch Dean’s eyes, fiery with panic even as he tried to smile.

“Dean, I—” you started, feeling like your throat was full of broken glass.

“Babe, don’t try to talk, it’s okay, you can tell me whatever it is when we get to a hospital.”

Sam turned his head away from the rural highway the Impala was absolutely sailing down to look back at his older brother. “We’re hours away from a hospital, we’ve gotta go back to the motel,” he said, low and serious.

“If we’re hours away from a hospital then I guess we’re driving for a couple hours, aren’t we, Sammy?” Dean was getting worse and worse at covering the hard edge of fear-driven anger in his voice as the seconds ticked by.

“Dean, we—she’s—we don’t have a couple hours.”

Dean closed his eyes tight and set his jaw firm. “We’re going to a fucking hospital.”

His brother swerved deftly around a giant pothole, somehow able to turn the wheel so slightly that the car’s path barely changed. “Listen to me. She can’t bleed like that for long enough to get to a hospital. We have to try to handle this one ourselves or there’s no chance—”

The whole conversation felt like it was happening to someone else, your senses starting to detach from your body, and you couldn’t hold onto those trains of thought for long enough to process them. You were forced to expend all the energy you had on what you needed to say, and reached for Dean’s hand with a weak grip.

“Dean, look at me.”

He sounded like a hurt puppy when he said, “please,” and you knew he was asking you not to make him listen but you were worried you were out of options, out of time. That frantic smile looked almost crazed as it started to quiver on his face, eyelashes clumping with moisture.

“Sam, can you hear me too?” you asked, frustrated in an abstract way at how frail your voice sounded.

He gave one tight nod in the rearview mirror with a jaw set firm as iron, and when he said “Yes—yeah,” it was choked.

“I love you idiots so much. These last—ow, Jesus—however many years have been some of the most fun I’ve ever had. I wouldn’t take it back for anything. Sam, I—you’re the best friend I’ve ever had and I—fuck,” you winced, something about the breath you took to keep from crying sending an electric jolt of pain through you and doubling you over.

“It’s okay, I know,” Sam said up into the rearview mirror, and you couldn’t tell if the way the headlights were falling on the trees impossibly fast was something about your sight being distorted, because if it wasn’t then you were surprised the Impala hadn’t broken some kind of land speed record. You made a mental note to tell Dean to start drag racing before remembering you might not tell him anything ever again. What you were nearly positive you weren’t imagining were the break in Sam’s voice or the reflection of tears on his cheek as he locked eyes with you in the mirror.

By the grace of whatever higher power the Winchesters were on the good side of at the time, you connected with him in the reflection, were able to absorb some fraction of the bone-crushing, pick-you-up-off-your-feet hug you wanted so badly from Sam in that moment. You tried to be thankful for what you got and drifted back to Dean’s gaze.

“And Dean, baby,” you continued, some bizarre flutter of second wind giving you enough force to clench your hand tightly around his and remember to keep your breaths shallow, keep talking even if your eyes couldn’t quite focus. “This was not your fault, you gotta—promise—me you know it wasn’t.”

“I, ah—” he faltered, throat vibrating as he tried to keep the inevitable tears down.

You gripped his hand tighter, felt your fingers going numb, and tried to smile hoping it didn’t look too grotesque on a face almost certainly drained of lifelike color. “C’mon, gotta obey a last wish, right?” The grief-stricken chuckle of surprise that dark joke punched out of Dean opened the floodgates, and tears burst forward to stream down his face. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

You’d thought of some goofy punchline to try to give, some ‘no sleeping with random girls for at least a year, want you guys to pour one out for me every day’ bullshit but seeing the love and pain in Dean’s eyes as your vision came in and out zapped it away. “I love you baby. I just—thank you for—everything—and—”

It was getting too hard to take even those shallow breaths, your hearing gone fuzzy around the edges, and the last thing you remembered was seeing a streetlight on the edge of town as Dean took your face in his hands, “I know, kid, I know, come on—please,” fading out like he was being zipped away through a long tunnel.

You were completely motionless in Dean’s arms, pulse gone thready enough that Dean was having a hard time finding it through the rumble of the car.

“Fuck, Sam, FUCK!” Dean screamed, one hand wrapped up in the hair at the back of your neck as he fought desperately to keep you upright.

Sam muscled through the lump in his throat and tried to stay focused. “When we get there you need to be ready to go, okay, Dean? HEY, listen to me. Don’t quit on me like this,” he barked, trying to catch his brother’s eyes in the rearview mirror without taking his focus off the road, terrified at the speed of the Impala and the potential of repeating what had happened the last time he’d had someone he loved bleeding out in the backseat.

The car skittered around two corners and Sam prayed as hard as he had ever prayed for anything that there weren’t any Keystone cops looking to meet their month’s ticket quota by hanging around dark parking lots with radar guns, willed Dean to stop punching the window of the car with the hand that wasn’t clutching your head to his chest. He couldn’t decide if he thought it would’ve been better to have Dean drive, if he would’ve been able to hold it together any better than Dean was right now, if Dean could’ve focused if he was driving and not feeling you drift in his arms. There wasn’t time to figure it out and it ultimately didn’t matter, his brother turning into a bomb in the backseat and Sam needed to figure out a way to funnel Dean’s sheer panic back into the denial that would fuel him to keep moving, do anything to keep you alive, regardless of whether there was any hope left.

“It’s not over, you’ve gotta keep it together. She needs you. See, we’re right around—"

But he didn’t get to finish through the flurry of action as he pulled into the motel. He careened the Impala straight up to the door of the room, more than half of the car parked over a strip of grass intended to make the nondescript building feel more homey. By the time he’d torn the keys from the ignition Dean was practically leaping out of the backseat, carrying you into the room a quarter step after Sam half-busted the door open, laying you on a bed and tearing your t-shirt off with his bare hands like a cheap wrestling gimmick.

Sam didn’t bother closing the motel door, moving too fast to care as he ripped a cork out of whiskey bottle with his teeth and poured it all over your now-exposed side, grimacing with nausea at the way it didn’t make you draw back in pain even a little. Dean tried his best to thread a needle with floss and remember whether it was better or worse that the blood was still flowing fast and bright red out of those stab wounds rather than slowing or oxidizing—this is bush league shit Dad pounded in years ago why can’t I remember fucking any of it? His hands shook with too much adrenaline to get the floss through the needle but Sam was already working on patching the biggest wound, tying knots with the rapid precision of a surgeon.

It was only when he started getting in Sam’s way that the younger Winchester said anything more, encouraged that Dean was at least trying to pull himself together. He began talking through the stitches, muttering when he had to pull one tight with his teeth.

“We—Dean, look at me.” Sam drilled into him with those brackish eyes, struggling to maintain the appearance of being in control that his brother needed of him when he could feel you going cold underneath his fingertips. “We’re going to need to give her a lot of fluids when she wakes up; all we have is beer. Go get some stuff for her to drink—electrolytes, she’ll need electrolytes.”

“I’m not going to fucking leave, asshole!” Dean was strung out and not even pretending to hide it anymore, voice taking on that juvenile squeak Sam had only heard a handful of times since Dean was a teenager.

He took a deep breath in an effort to soothe himself before speaking as clearly and firmly to Dean as possible, no room for negotiation. “Dean. This is not helping. The best thing you can do for her is to go get some fluids. Gatorade, OJ, bananas too, if they have them. She’ll need iron but we can deal with other food once she wakes up.”

“What if she doesn’t—” Dean half-moaned, sounding like he’d been struck by something that was sucking all the oxygen from his lungs, looking like he was on the last ten feet of a hundred-mile race.

“She’s going to wake up.”

And Sam’s stubbornness actually did help Dean a bit in that moment, knowing that even if his life was about to change radically, that never would. “Go get some fucking Gatorade.”

By the time Dean came back—arms filled with so many bags of sports drinks that it would be comical in any other context—his brother had stitched up every wound, cleaned off most of the blood, and put all your limbs atop high stacks of pillows in an attempt to get as much blood to your vital organs as possible. Dean was near catatonic with the singular focus of a task, which was Sam’s intention. One thing at a time.

After about five minutes of sitting alongside Sam watching you, thick, viscous panic bubbled back up to the surface.

At first, he was muttering like he was talking to himself. “She told me, she fucking told me they wouldn’t be in the barn anymore, I didn’t listen. I should’ve been right behind her, Sam, what the fuck was I thinking—she was—she—she was alone, they wouldn’t have—” and then the way his voice built to a fever pitch matched his body, Dean perched on the mattress like a sailboat in a tempest, slammed against invisible waves of panic.

“It wasn’t your fault, Dean. You couldn’t have known—”

“She was alone against five of them, Sam, do you get that? I left her fucking ALONE!” Dean wailed, springing forward from the bed with eruptive energy and bashing the nightstand lamp hard enough that its base shattered against the opposite wall, coming clean out of the socket as easily as if it hadn’t been plugged in. Sam flinched but didn’t get up, instead taking a quick visual inspection that no shards of ceramic somehow bounced back to cut your still body. By the time he glanced up again he only had a millisecond to react as Dean threw a chair from the kitchenette against the wall, exploding the mirror there into shimmering beads of glass and ricocheting back, forcing Sam block it with a forearm lest it hit him or you.

“DEAN, enough!” he yelled, crossing over to his brother with a few powerful strides and grappling with him, battling to keep Dean still as the older of the Winchester brothers fought to destroy the room to match the chaos in his mind. Sam knew exactly what was going on, the way Dean’s brain converted fear to rage, but hated when his brother got like this, not only because it cut so deep to see him in pain but because the explosiveness was so similar to the knock-down drag-outs they’d grown up with, made it impossible to try to fix the root of the problem.

Sam tackling Dean to the ground was the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes.

“Do I pull this shit when you guys are sleeping?” you croaked from the mattress, trying to sit up and immediately abandoning that plan, stilling yourself and holding your breath until the pain settled a fraction.

Sam and Dean scrambled to get to their feet and ran over to you, hovering over the bed looking like their backs had a light dusting of glitter rather than a million tiny shards of glass.

“What’re—are you okay? What do you remember?” Sam blurted out, grabbing a bottle of Gatorade out of a plastic bag and cracking it open for you. He snatched a pillow and helped you sit up slowly, jamming it under your head so you could drink.

“Well, I’ve definitely felt better,” you tried to chuckle, but the tension it caused in your abdominal muscles made you wince. “I’m really sorry, you guys, I shouldn’t have—” you began, immediately stopped by the way Sam and Dean shook their heads, sucked on their teeth.

“I’m—ah,” Sam started, smiling self-deprecatingly through the shake in his voice and looking down at the ground for a beat with his tongue in his cheek. It was like his body knew that the worst of the crisis had passed and refused to let him hide his emotions for one second further. After a second he met your eyes again, faintest hint of tears in his eyes. “I’m really glad you’re up.”

Behind him, Dean collapsed into himself, his expression simultaneously complete relief and like he’d seen a ghost. You peered around Sam to meet his gaze. “Hey, dork,” you breathed, unable to come up with anything to match the weight of the moment.

He opened his mouth a few times and couldn’t find anything either, wincing and biting his lip hard as he rubbed the back of his head nervously. “I’m so sorry,” he finally choked out.

As always, Sam knew what Dean needed and snatched the car keys off the table as his brother tried in vain to keep his restless limbs still. He gazed at you with such naked thankfulness it made you smile involuntarily. “I’m going to see how much red meat I can find you, I’ll be right back, okay? Drink as many of these as you can and don’t stand up alone.” You nodded gratefully to him as he backed out the door.

When Sam left, Dean still shifted uncomfortably on his feet, clenching and unclenching his hands until he ultimately jammed them deep into the pockets of his coat with enough force that it shook loose almost all of the glass, sending it floating to the ground around him as if he was a mirage. You could see, even as he stood a few paces away from the bed, that his breathing was quickened from the rapid, shallow movements of his chest and neck. “I’m—ah, I didn’t think—I shouldn’t have—” he stammered against a jaw locked shut tensely enough to make the muscles bulge out of his cheeks, and the lack of the self-assuredness that was normally so Dean to you made him seem unbelievably young, made you want to leap across the room and wrap him up in your arms. As it was, you beckoned him over with a shaky hand.

He walked over to you hesitantly, only sitting down on the side opposite your injuries when you patted the sheets next to you. Awkwardly trying to move your torso as little as possible, you tossed the pillows on that side to the floor and motioned for him to lay down.

“I don’t want to hurt—”

“I’ll be fine. Please?”

Reluctantly taking off his coat and dropping it unceremoniously to the ground, he gingerly tucked himself under your arm and laid his head on your chest. You faintly dragged your fingertips down his back, waiting for his heartbeat and uneven, shallow breathing to slow down. When they didn’t and all you felt was a spreading wetness on the remaining upper half of t-shirt you still had, you twisted laboriously to see Dean’s face.

Tears streamed down onto you, Dean biting his lip so hard to keep quiet you were shocked you couldn’t see blood, the whites of his teeth almost matching the pressure-blanched skin.

“Oh, Dean,” you hummed, pulling him close to you with your one arm. “Babe, I’m here, I’m right here. Everything’s okay; I’m okay, you get to treat me like a princess for a few days and I’ll learn for the hundredth time that I shouldn’t go off by myself.”

“I—I thought you were gone,” Dean whispered between stunted sobs breaking the words off in short staccato, still fighting to speak as though he wasn’t crying even as his tears soaked you.

You craned your neck slowly to kiss the top of his head. “Not gone, right here. Always going to be right here.”

“You were bleeding so mu—just like Sam, it was just like when Sam—” he faltered, speaking slowly to try to grab the reins of his voice as it shook.

“Not just like Sam, baby, I’m still here. Everyone’s okay. And Sam’s okay too, right?” You waited for him to confirm what you knew was true and emphasize your point, drawing back to meet his gaze when he didn’t. “Right?”

Reluctantly, Dean nodded. The redness around his eyes made his irises seem almost unreal in electric green contrast and you couldn’t believe you were so close to never seeing them again. His lashes were even darker than normal, spiky black frames formed with salty tears like cartoonish mascara. You waited a beat then let him settle back into your chest before continuing, feeling the choke-hiccupping of his breath stop even if it stayed rapid. “Everyone’s okay. You’re okay,” you hummed into his hair. “You’re okay, baby.”

The two of you stayed like that until Dean’s breathing finally steadied, waiting past the clearly forced long held breaths and through to the point that he genuinely seemed like he’d hit the smooth rhythm you knew so well. “How are you feeling?” you murmured.

“Like a bitch,” he grumbled softly against your chest, and you couldn’t help but smile, thankful beyond anything for the glint of humor back in Dean, that shimmer of normalcy returning.

“Sorry for scaring you.”

“I’m never fucking letting you out of my sight again,” he said, words still sticky with swirling emotion and muffled by his cheek pressed against you. You knew he was only partly joking but also that now was not the time to push back, just kissing his hair in response.

There was no way it took Sam an hour to get you a diner burger but you were thankful for his intuition nonetheless, because by the time he got back Dean was calm enough to get up and had even helped you to put on a new t-shirt—one of his black ones; he said it was because it was looser but you suspected it was some kind of metaphor, covering you with part of himself—and shimmy into a pair of mesh athletic shorts. Standing up for a shower was still too ambitious, but the fresh clothes made you feel a little less gross. He was trying his best to clean up as much broken glass as possible when his brother opened the door and tossed him a paper bag with a bubbly illustrated hamburger on it.

Walking into the room without taking his jacket off, Sam set your food on the nightstand and grabbed a motel binder of local attractions (minimal) as a makeshift tray for you to eat off of before carefully helping you to sit up a little more. “Double cheeseburger—eat it before the fries, you need the iron. Oh, and I almost forgot—couple of these too.” He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved two bottles in one big hand that appeared to be acetaminophen and an iron supplement.

“You’re the best, Sam.” It was nice to hear your voice sound more normal, lubricated with two bottles of Gatorade already, and you tried not to imagine how awkward or painful it was going to be to try to get up and go to the bathroom later.

The Winchesters sat on the other bed, still in their boots because of the rug of broken glass no one wanted to acknowledge, and Sam turned on whatever dumb comedy he could find first. For a fleeting moment it felt like any normal night on the road, nursing an injury and eating greasy food in a room you’d never see again past tomorrow morning, and you almost forgot that (minutes? hours? you still didn’t know how long you’d been out) earlier you thought you were saying goodbye to the two people you loved most, who’d moved heaven and earth and miles of rural highway to bring you back, whose superhero resilience you’d seen start to crack at the thought of losing you. A searing jolt of pain when you reached for another Gatorade reminded you all too much, and when you hissed both Sam and Dean leapt off the bed with faces contorted in concern.

“Just stretched too far, I’m okay.”

Watching them take twin deep breaths could’ve been funny and you hoped it would be in a few days—hoped in a few days laughing wouldn’t feel like being impaled. For now, you tried to drink in this little moment of peace and made a promise to yourself that you wouldn’t take another one for granted ever again.

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cherrynojutsu · 3 years

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Title: Like Gold

Summary: Sasuke grapples with love and intimacy regarding his developing relationship with Sakura after returning to the village from his journey of redemption. Kind of a character study on Sasuke handling an intimate relationship after dealing with PTSD and survivor’s guilt in solitude for so long. Blank period, canon-compliant, Sasuke-centric, lots of fluff and pining, slowly becomes a smut fest with feelings.

Disclaimer: I did not write Naruto. This is a fan-made piece solely created for entertainment purposes.

Rating: M (eventual nsfw-ness)

AO3 Link - FF.net Link - includes beginning/ending author's notes

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Chapter 7/?: Catalysts

Sasuke doesn’t indulge in baser needs often, despite the frustrating paradox that is the male endocrine system’s apparent determination to make him do so. He finds it feels… empty, after. Like there’s supposed to be something more, but instead there’s just whatever is situated above his head to stare at while his breathing levels out, an interminable abyss of silence and stars, or tree foliage, or apartment ceiling. Impulses and feelings of a sexual nature are probably normal for anyone his age, but in the past, satiating desires like this has made him feel guilty, given the context.

When he's not plagued by nightmares rife with gore and blood and bodies, or the occasional aching memory, his subconscious takes the opportunity to bombard him with dreams of a suggestive nature, having deduced somehow that it’s the most effective method to get him to… tend to things.

This variety of dream customarily involves pale pink hair, multifaceted eyes, and soft fingertips, branded into the part of his brain that controls his most base instincts with a hot iron.

He notes begrudgingly as he gazes at plain plaster above him, brows furrowed, that ostensibly, it works well enough, if the intricate mess of thoughts and feelings in his head and on his abdomen are anything to go by.

Sasuke would never admit it to anyone, but Sakura has headlined exclusively in nearly every sexually-charged dream he's ever had, and resultingly the majority of his sentient thoughts while indulging outside of dreaming, too. When they were Genin, it was innocent enough; he had reasoned that, being the main girl his age he associated with, it made sense his inadvertent dreams, beyond the scope of his control, involved her. He'd shaken it off in those early days as the by-product of the developing hormonal cocktail that is the pubescent masculine mind, and ignored the part of himself that kind of had a crush on her even then. Or definitively more than a crush, after the Chunin Exams and the hospital and jealousy.

He had tried convincing himself of the same thing at fourteen, once he'd left the village and had attempted to sever all bonds. It didn’t work, though; by that point he knew better, knew what the feeling he was trying to squash actually was.

Which meant it didn’t work at fifteen, either.

Nor sixteen, and definitely not seventeen, eighteen, or nineteen.

All of that has been wholly indecent on its own in the past, causing him to feel shameful every time it happens, and even more ashamed if it’s a rare day where he’s weak enough to act on it, a day where he wakes up mere seconds from an edge rather than minutes.

But this morning, he woke up on the tail end of all of that with the addition of freckles , of all things to fixate on, and he just knows he's never going to forget about them now, that they’re branded into his grey matter in perpetuity. Freckles just above the interior of a shoulder, eight of them, a small scattering he had been pressing his lips to, listening to a softly whispered Sasuke-kun, reaching around her with his only arm, so he could make her say his name like that again.

It is far from the first time he’s touched himself to the thought of Sakura, but it is the first time he’s indulged since they’ve been… together.

Except this time felt… different.

Less like an unrealistic reverie he should try to abstain from and more like an eventuality. Less guilt, too, or rather, almost none, because he’s in a relationship with her now, and he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to have feelings like this regarding her. Not that he is anywhere near ready to do anything about them, because he absolutely is not; he’s not certain he even comprehends that level of vulnerability, to touch another person and allow yourself to be touched by them, though he badly wants to, someday.

No, Sasuke doesn’t indulge in baser needs often… but he did this morning, when he woke up teetering just on the precipice, fantasizing about tiny tan flecks seen and unseen, and he’s trying to work through how he feels about it, this guilt surrounding the fact of not feeling guilty like he ordinarily does, as well as the lingering curiosity he’s struggling to force down regarding how many other freckles Sakura has.

Even moreso, he yearns for soft words that he has often thought may be sentimental to the point of being utterly quixotic. It's why he doesn’t typically submit to this kind of inclination in the first place; it’s meaningless on one’s own, he secretly thinks, though he has nothing to compare it to. No sense of connection or true lasting fulfillment like he imagines there must be, for people to talk about it the way they do; just pleasure that's there for a blinding scattered second and gone the next, with nothing tenderhearted or meaningful in the moments following as his vision refocuses and he picks up the pieces.

He stares at his ceiling, an aporia of longing and complicated compulsions ricocheting in the hallways of his head, or perhaps from his skull to the roof and back again, an absurd push and pull that leaves him with more questions than answers.

Has she ever thought about him the way he thinks about her?

What would it sound like, Sasuke-kun, when she’s like that?

Is it okay to feel like this, now? To think about her in this regard?

Sasuke is accustomed to not sleeping well - it comes with the territory of his lived experience, an unfortunate fact of life he’s somewhat learned to deal with - but during the mission to Sand, he'd slept fairly restfully, though in short increments of five or six hours. That's apparently the tipping point of how long he gets to go without being sojourned by some variety of vision in the night.

He eventually makes his way to the shower, using torrid water and soap to double cleanse what’s left of his mess. That's a big contributor to his consternation, too; it's so embarrassingly messy that it’s impossible to imagine ever doing anything like it with her . He flips the dial to cold after he’s bathed for the better portion of five minutes, because serpens caput is still burned into his retinas, and he’s hoping against hope to freeze it out of himself like he has tried to do with shame in the past.

It doesn’t work; it just induces shivering, algidity overwhelming the senses but doing nothing to distract the mind.

He shoves his face into his book after, desperate for the distraction a proverbial fiction featuring an old fisherman can provide and thinking once again that he needs to acquire a lamp. Anything to get the thought of pressing his lips to her freckles out of his head, because he’s pretty sure if he keeps thinking about it, he’ll have to take care of things for the second time today, and then he really won’t know how to feel.

So when a banging erupts on his apartment door shortly following eight, followed by a shout of, “TEME! I'm here, let’s go!”, all he can think is finally, because he knows it will at least get his mind off of this strange lack of guilt and a curiosity he’s not ready to unpack yet. The book helped, but he thinks he needs the challenge a fight against Naruto can provide to truly leave behind this level of prurience. He doesn’t know how he’s going to look her in the eye when they meet at three as they planned, otherwise.

Sasuke shoves on his sandals and grabs his chokuto before opening the door. “So you finally showed. Thought you'd sleep all morning.”

Naruto’s eyes narrow, indignant and already launching into a retort. Good. Maybe he’ll get some iota of order knocked back into him, enough to put compelling constellations away for the time being.

XXX

Sasuke feels monumentally better by noon. It’s another draw, an absolute whirlwind of swinging limbs that made it impossible to focus on anything else. He didn’t take joy in it necessarily, and he suspects Naruto bruised his ulna bone to the extent it almost cracked, but it helps, the diversion of pain; the tinge he feels when he moves it is a welcome hindrance. They’d stuck mainly to taijutsu and clashing weaponry, so physically, he’s pretty exhausted.

They’re resting in the dirt, making a valiant attempt at rehydrating. It’s moderately hot for this time of year, barely on the cusp of mid April, but it’s seeming like the Konoha heat will be returning with the same vengeance it always does. A small trickle of sweat sinks its way down his back.

Sasuke feels nearly normal again. Or normal to the extent he generally feels, anyways. He gets the urge to do something good - to tip the scale, so to speak.

"...The cutting board works. Thank you." It’s not what he’s most thankful for right now, but it’s a nice thing to say as substitution.

His friend grins at him. "Welcome! It was all me, by the way. Hinata-chan didn't even help me pick it out!" Naruto scratches his head, downing more water. He’s moving rather slowly, as if he is sore, too; Sasuke thinks perhaps he came close to beating him this round.

They stare upwards for a while, soaking in the sun as clouds roll lazily by. Birds fly overhead, finches and song sparrows twittering their selections, collecting materials to build more nests for this new season. It’s another effective distraction, one that fills him with a sense of nostalgia, replacing his earlier sense of compunction regarding the mystifying concept of physical love and the whims that accompany it.

Naruto speaks up after a bit. "Ne, teme, wanna go to the market with me? Hinata-chan asked me to get some groceries and some stuff for the backyard."

Sasuke glances at his teammate and contemplates. It can't hurt. He did want to pick up potatoes to make actual curry with, and he could get some other things, too. He'll still have time to shower before he meets Sakura at the hospital.

"...Sure."

Naruto takes longer to rise than he does, shuffling carefully as if he is in pain, but once he’s standing, he seems fine enough, stupid grin slapped on his face at Sasuke’s agreement to go with. They set off in the general direction of his building so he can drop off his weapon first. He gets dirty looks sometimes, walking around, though it’s not nearly as bad as when he first returned and it doesn’t bother him on the same level that it used to. When he’s with Naruto or Sakura, he gets less of them, but he can't imagine a sword strapped to his back in the market will do much to help his reputation.

Naruto doesn't allow the easy silence to last. "Y'know, teme, it's really good to have you back in the village. It feels like everything's finally coming together. We'll have to do some fun stuff this summer. And also in the fall!” Gears are turning behind cerulean eyes, and he adds, ”...Hmm, and the winter, too!"

"...Yeah." He stares at the mountain, thinking about what cherry blossom trees look like in summer and fall and winter. It will be nice to see the one across the street change colors throughout the seasons. Or the one on the hill, where they're going later today. He has seen their like numbering in the thousands, scattered everywhere on his journey - he’s highly cognizant of them, for obvious reasons - but he hasn’t been granted the privilege of watching the same one through the whole of a year’s growth cycle in a long time.

"Sakura-chan seems really cheery lately, too. Can't imagine why." The second sentence is said flippantly, without any real conviction, as if Naruto knows exactly why.

Sasuke glances at his teammate, neck warming and heart skipping a little at the mention of her. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hearing that Sakura is happy from secondhand sources; it makes him feel like he’s doing something right for once. Maybe not all his impulses are complicated in nature enough to require dissection, as he was accustomed to doing when he was away; spending time with her is one, and he's been indulging it often.

He briefly entertains the idea of outright telling Naruto that they're together, then, but the dobe is moving on before he comes up with the words. "Well, anyways. Wanna spar Monday morning, if neither of us get a mission by then?”

That’s… specific. Maybe he doesn’t need to say anything to him, after all; he’s sure it’s no coincidence that Naruto is asking about the exact time period Sakura is busy training with Ino, probably as aware of her schedule as Kakashi is. Their old sensei might have told him, he supposes, or maybe Sakura said something; Sasuke wonders when he last saw her.

“...Sure. If you think you can handle it.”

The response he gets is a slug on the left shoulder, but it’s not overly hard. Sasuke narrows his eyes in response more out of habit than any real malice. He sees as Naruto’s hand retreats and slips out of a fist that words are written on his palm. He didn’t notice it throughout the morning due to their hands constantly being locked around weapons or thrown in punches, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes; it's likely a grocery list.

Naruto leans against the brick downstairs while Sasuke drops off his sword, and then they head to the main market area as the dobe chatters. It’s fairly busy, it being a Saturday, but it’s not intolerably so; most people are busy eating around now.

Sasuke is completely unsurprised when Naruto beelines straight for the noodles; naturally he would be out of them. He takes the opportunity to procure a blend of wild rice. Thus far he only has white and brown in his own pantry, and he’s been trying to eat it often. He's always liked rice, but it’s high in calories, too, an easy way to try putting on weight. Another variety to choose from would be beneficial.

He trails after his friend to the baking supplies next, where Naruto examines containers of flour and sugar. Sasuke concludes Hinata must bake, because he’s confident any cookie prepared by the dobe could not possibly be edible. While his teammate is occupied, Sasuke turns the corner and procures a half dozen eggs, a large bag of potatoes, and two different varieties of tomatoes. The extra five pounds of weight held in the crook of his arm doesn’t do wonders for his bruised bone situation, but it’s not wholly unbearable; he’s fairly used to dealing with pain.

“Hinata-chan said to go to the gardening stall on the north end,” Naruto says once they’ve paid and exited the building, so they begin a course in that general direction. “She said they have the best perennial bulbs; that means they come back every year!”

Sasuke twitches, surprised he can even pronounce the word perennial if he’s lived this long without knowing what one is.

“Anyways, she wants to plant some, uh…” His voice trails off, and he peeks at his hand, where Sasuke now sees the names of flowers written in feminine writing that has to be Hinata’s.

Of course. Like he could spell the words, let alone read his own sloppy handwriting.

“Iris, phlox, and uh… echo-na-na-chee-ah.”

“Echinachea,” Sasuke corrects dully, giving him a withering look.

“Sure! That! She wants to plant those in the backyard, kind of line the house with them, since the front is looking pretty nice now. She said to get bulbs; they root better. They might bloom this year, but if not, they’ll for sure come in next year!”

“...And she entrusted you with this?” Sasuke asks, raising an eyebrow.

Naruto just laughs, utterly unphased. “Duh, that’s what the list is for, teme. Hinata-chan is super smart like that. Putting it on my hand makes sure I don’t lose it!”

They meander to the northern edge of the market, past the congregation of other stalls selling seeds and garden starters. It's getting towards the end of planting season for Fire Country, but there is still plenty to choose from here, allegorical gates of green swinging open in salutation. They pass some tomato plant starters, already starting to climb their cages, but Sasuke decides against it; his hand is full presently, and the bone still kind of hurts, and none of them are red heirloom tomatoes anyways, being smaller variations like plum or cherry or grape. He likes all tomatoes, honestly, but if he was going to grow one, he’d just want the one of a favorite to worry about. Repotting a starter would also require a planter, which he doesn’t have; another thing to carry.

The stall Naruto leads them to is probably the nicest one there, judiciously laid out and everything labeled neatly with precise calligraphy. The few tables the vendor has are overflowing with perennial starters, but Naruto goes to the three vertical displays of seeds and bulbs, so tall they are at eye level with both of them. They’re filled to the brim with diminutive packages, printed with large pictures of the flowers they contain the beginnings of, along with genus names and common names in smaller text. The blond examines them, surveying his hand, then the display, then back to his hand again in scrutiny.

Sasuke watches, resisting the urge to sigh and waiting for the inevitable.

“Hmm… I guess this would be a lot easier if I knew what any of these looked like. Gonna have to read them all.”

Sasuke rolls his eyes and steps forward to point to the section of iris bulbs to start with. He gives him a minute to work out which colors to pick, observing the throng of people entering and exiting around them, young and old and in-between.

Phlox are next; he directs his teammate to the appropriate section, where there are quite a few options of hues. Naruto examines them as if he is making a grand decision transformative in nature, mumbling to himself.

“Hmm… She likes blue and purple. Maybe I should…”

His own gaze wanders as he tunes Naruto out, taking in pictures of begonias and caladium on plastic shiny in the sunlight, before his vision locks on the far display.

He wanders over to it as if his body is moving of its own accord.

There are several varieties of lilies, he learns as he scans the packaging, oriental, trumpet, and what is apparently called nerine. White nerine lilies had been the variety his mother grew, lining their yard with curved porcelain petals, clusters emanating from many single stems.

He sets his groceries at his feet to free up his hand, picking up one of the packages to read the instructions on the back. His arm aches as he does so, but he couldn’t care less.

Nerine lily bulbs require good drainage. If there are still puddles in the prospective planting area 5-6 hours after rain, locate another site, or amend the soil with organic material to raise levels 2-3 inches. Nerine lilies also require soil that is somewhat gritty, though it also must be organically rich. Adding compost may increase nutrient content.

In spring, choose a location in full sun. If you are in a hotter region, site them where they will receive morning sun and afternoon shade, and plant the bulbs with an inch of the slender top above the soil surface. The top of the bulb is the area that looks like the stem of an onion. Install bulbs 8 to 11 inches apart for a massed look.

Nerine bulbs develop foliage that gather sun rays and strengthen the plants during the spring and summer months. Flower stalks develop in the fall. Provide water when the plants are actively growing, and very little when they are dormant.

You may cut the final flower stems to display decoratively. This will not hurt the plants and the cuts last long periods of time indoors. After they finish blooming for the year, cut off any remaining flower stalks. Your plants will rest for the winter months before sending up new growth in the springtime. Over time, nerine lilies will form clumps. They like to be crowded, so don’t feel pressed to divide them unless flower production begins to decrease. Clumps can then be dug, split apart, and moved to other parts of the garden, or shared with friends.

When Sasuke looks up, deep in thought, he notices Naruto searching for what he assumes is echinacea, flitting stiffly at random between the first two displays and scratching his head. Wordlessly with the package of lily bulbs still in hand, Sasuke points to the bottom right corner of the first, where several color selections are.

“Thanks, teme!” Naruto plows back to the specified stand and stoops down comically slowly, though Sasuke barely sees, gaze drawn pensively back to the packet he was examining.

The memorial stone has decent drainage, aside from the occasional hard rain like last weekend; that will become less common as the weather warms, and one or two monsoons a summer never drowned his mother’s lilies. Shade in the afternoon could be an issue, though. There’s a large oak tree on the west side that might cast some protection over it, but he only ever visits under the cover of night, so he’s unsure. He would have to examine the trajectory in person to gauge.

He considers the market bag the groceries were handed to him in earlier, studying it closely.

Carefully, he puts the package back where he found it, though his eyes linger on it. He’s no gardener, not like Sakura is, and besides, his arm hurts.

XXX

He’s leaning up against one of the blue columns outside of the hospital when Sakura emerges at three, sprightly as ever. She’s holding the two journals and the medical text from their first trip to the library; she said yesterday that she needed to return them, but there shouldn’t be any new ones she needs to check out just yet. He hadn’t stayed terribly long after they’d finished the tenmusu because he needed to shower and write his mission report, but they’d made plans to swing by the library and journey back up the hillside to read together again. There was also mention of possibly picking up food afterwards, to take to her place. Hazel Wood must be in her tote, hooked around her shoulder.

“Sasuke-kun,” she greets cheerfully. “Whew. It’s getting warm out already.”

“...It is,” Sasuke comments before he extends his hand for her texts, his own already held there, a silent offer to carry them for her.

She blushes as she passes them to him, sliding them into his hand. His eyes drift to the freckle on her cheek, and he wipes his mind blank by sheer willpower alone as they head east. The books aren’t as heavy as the groceries had been earlier, so it doesn’t hurt as much, but he's wondering at this point if the bone might actually have a small crack. He thinks he should ask her to look at it; maybe later, at her apartment.

“My balcony days may be numbered by now, at least until the fall comes,” Sakura observes as they meander.

He contemplates. “...Do you sit out there often?” It is so utterly befitting of her that he thinks he can picture it, her reading out there, surrounded by plants. He wonders if she ever admires the night sky. Their team had stargazed sometimes, on missions that first year as Genin.

Green eyes settle on him from his right. “I like to, when it’s nice out. A lot of times in the summer it gets too hot, though there is an occasional night when it’s cool enough. Fall is really the best for it. You can see the changing leaves from above. Even if it's a chillier day, it’s pleasant with some tea and a blanket in the evening."

He debates for a long moment, but decides against bringing up stout squirrels or chestnut-flavored everything or Naruto slipping on a leaf.

“...It sounds nice,” he comments simply instead, wondering if he’ll be invited to sit with her on her balcony, once fall arrives. They would have to sit kind of close; the space doesn’t seem very big from below, and it's cluttered with greenery.

Sakura smiles up at him, a look that says she agrees with his assessment.

Then, she offers softly, "You can sit out there sometime with me, if you'd like."

His neck warms; all he can do is nod and avert his gaze elsewhere, an abundance of something tender and sweet flaring to life in his belly.

Returning the books barely takes two minutes; they’re wandering towards the outskirts of the mountain in short order. Sakura sprawls in the same spot she did last time, so he takes up the same position, too, leaning up against the trunk of the tree, stable and strong.

And then his eyes catch on another freckle she has, this one near her elbow, and all he can think about is the slightly textured consistency of his ceiling, and whether the impulse to press his lips to her skin without guilt was an okay thing to feel.

She reads and he more contemplates than reads for about an hour, sprawled beneath the scant amount of shade provided by this tree that has lost its petals, trading them in for florets of a greener variety. It’s pleasant, once he can drown his inner disarray of thoughts. He eventually gets through a sliver of his book, though turning the pages is a little cumbersome, tinged lightly with pain. Perhaps he shouldn’t wait until later to ask her to examine his arm.

Sakura finishes her own book, though she keeps the pressed petal between its pages; she must have gotten through more of it while he was on the way to and from Suna. She just reclines there, after, looking up at the sky with her arms at her sides, near exactly the relaxed pose she used to lie in when they were younger.

Sasuke finishes the passage he’s on, and marks his place with the petal she’d plucked from his hair last week, before pointedly setting the text aside and following her eyes to the azure. Fluffy clouds are floating by as the sun inches closer to the west horizon, pushed steadily by the breeze.

“How is Ichika’s recommendation?” She questions.

“...Interesting.” He genuinely is enjoying reading it, despite his aberration.

Her head angles towards him, lying against a gnarled root at a slightly different angle. Her expression is curious, like she’s encouraging him to elaborate.

“Simple, but heavy with metaphors.” He considers for a second, then adds, “You might like it. Poetic.”

Full lips twist upwards. “Maybe I’ll read it next. Her recommendations are usually pretty apt; she gets a good read on people.”

“...How was yours?”

“Hmm.” She pauses, as if thinking it over. “A girl and her mother who get caught up in some bad luck. They inherit an estate - that’s where the title comes from - and supernatural things start happening. It’s kind of a story within a story situation; the grandmother they inherited the house from was an author, so they start going back and reading her writing for clues.”

“...A mystery.” It seems like she’ll read any genre. Mysteries would probably entertain her; she’s always liked to solve things.

She laughs, music to his ears. “Yeah, I suppose it is. It was pretty good. Well written; better than the last one.”

There is a pause.

“...Maybe I’ll read it next,” he echoes, her same words from earlier.

Green sparkles at him, amused before she shifts back towards the firmament.

“...Sounds like a book club.”

It is the most Sakura joke. He huffs a ghost of a laugh as more gauzy clouds drift idly by. It is peaceful, sitting here underneath the same sky as her, observing in easy silence through branches with fresh emerald buds.

And then Sasuke flexes his forearm, shifting slightly, and it still hurts. He considers; she probably won’t mind.

"...I think Naruto cracked my arm bone," he finally confides.

She turns to him, expression fluctuating immediately into one of disquiet, pink brows knotting closer in concern. He blinks and she's standing already, walking over and sitting cross-legged in the nearest open space, an indent in gnarled roots that she navigated through and found a place in as if it were nothing.

Wordlessly, Sasuke holds it out for her to inspect once she’s seated, and she gently rests her fingertips on his forearm.

"It’s from this morning?” Sakura asks, looking concerned in a way that makes his heart thump a little. Or maybe it’s from her hands encircling his skin.

He nods; she must have deduced that they trained earlier. She prods gently before threading green chakra beneath his skin towards the bone, probing for a break.

She frowns. "Oblique fracture in the ulna, though it's very slight and non-displaced.” Her gaze flicks up to him, and all at once, it’s the exam room again, him hyper aware of how close she is to him even though this is clinician Sakura. “I’ll fix it; you really shouldn't have been carrying anything on it."

It takes him a moment to realize she’s referring to him carrying her books earlier, because he’s thinking about the groceries from the market, which were definitively heavier. Her proximity and the aroma of tart berry and the freckle on her cheekbone are all incredibly distracting. Especially the freckle. He peers at her fingers, glowing verdant, and notices one on the inner portion of her right wrist, too.

"...Sorry." He says finally, flicking his eyes back up to her nervously after a long minute is spent mending marrow back together. She inclines her head back down to his arm, apparently accepting his apology for not mentioning it sooner. It's an odd sensation; he can feel the crack fusing from the inside out, ataractic chakra seeping into the diaphysis to fortify.

He feels like he should clarify, so he adds as she works, eyes fixed on her face which has settled in concentration, “I thought it was just bruised at first.” She nods as if that makes sense, working on it for another minute or so without glancing up.

He hopes she's not mad at him. Sasuke shifts his gaze downwards, something in him sinking.

“Flex it, then bend, please,” she requests, not moving her digits; she must need to feel the arm move to determine if it’s healed. He does as she asks and it’s notedly improved, no lingering pain.

“It’s better. Thank you.” He looks upwards just as she does, hoping the jade will still be soft on charcoal.

It is, startlingly so, and she’s flushing all of a sudden, dropping her hands from his arm and rising to her feet a step away, as if she, too, just realized how close they were. It's different here, daylight and not part of their routine like her entryway is becoming.

“You’re welcome,” she says somewhat hastily, complexion darkening. He’s not sure he’s much better; his neck is warm, and he remembers very specifically where each of her fingers had just been on his skin, like the ten points of contact are singed into his epidermis, and likely his grey matter, too.

As he tries to force his pulse to even out, Sakura adds, softly, “You could have just come in with him.”

His brows furrow in confusion. “...What?”

Sakura blinks, countenance appearing as if she is sorting through a problem in her head. Pink dissolves back to her normal coloring.

“Naruto came in with a slipped back rib, earlier today. I assumed it was from sparring with you.” She rolls her eyes, then. “He went and got groceries before coming in; he had them with him. Luckily nothing chilled; he had to wait for a bit.”

"...He didn't say anything about his rib." Now the slow rising and crouching is making more sense.

She sighs, closing her eyes for a second as if something has become clear, but she only replies, "Ah. Of course."

"...Wouldn’t shut up?"

"...Yeah." She turns away slightly, cheeks stained anew for some reason; it makes him curious what their third teammate babbled to her about. "He said as I was kicking him out that he was going to plant flower bulbs with Hinata this afternoon. He showed me the ones he picked. It’s good timing; the perfect time of year to plant some. Pretty soon it'll be too warm."

He lets those words drizzle slowly into his being, a little gentler than a summer monsoon.

"...Our next Hokage can't pronounce echinacea," he eventually tells her.

She chuckles with mirth, a sweet sound he finds relieving; she must have gathered he was present for that endeavor, now, and she can't be too mad at him if he can still make her laugh. Sasuke inwardly hopes she doesn’t gather that he also got groceries; he doesn’t think she’d be very impressed. It was kind of stupid to do that with a questionable arm, in retrospect.

"No," Sakura acknowledges finally, appearing highly entertained. "And he didn’t know what a perennial was until this morning, yet he’s planting an army of them. Probably without reading the directions."

They look over the village together for a lengthy moment in which he considers text printed on the back of a white package.

Then she says his name, so quietly it’s almost a whisper. "Sasuke-kun.”

He angles to her, and sweet jade is on him again, ebbing seafoam cresting as the late afternoon sunlight hits her.

"Thank you for telling me about your arm. In the future, please come to the hospital, if I'm working. You can wait in my office, if you’d prefer. I don't mind; use the window.” Her expression changes to troubled, and suddenly she is no longer the clinician version of Sakura; everything is tinged with something more, something that burns him in its intensity. “You shouldn’t just… suffer in silence, if something hurts. Even if you think it’s nothing. Please tell me."

Oh. She’s not mad, just worried. Heat grazes his ears, and he swallows, staring down at his forearm.

He wants to be close to her. He really does.

"Okay,” he agrees, and means it, carefully meeting green.

They head down the hill together to seek dinner before the rush hits, deciding to go to the yakitori stand she mentioned when he first returned. She chatters about how Naruto wants to have a bonfire in his backyard, once summer’s here and everything is planted.

“...He’s excited about his yard,” Sasuke comments after they’ve ordered, leaning against the wall of the exterior waiting for their takeout. He requested his without the sauce, since Sakura said it’s on the sweeter side for yakitori.

Sakura grins, and she’s really pretty, shadows of a nearby tree dappling her skin, cheeks still red because he paid. It’s only fair; she’s been feeding him. “Yeah, he is. I’d like to see their flowers and garden in the back, eventually. I’m sure once they’ve got it how they want it, they’ll have all kinds of get-togethers back there. Last year we carved pumpkins at their place, instead of at Ino’s and Sai’s; there’s less mess to clean up if it’s outside. He said today that you should come this year.”

“...What?”

She blinks as if remembering something, then smiles sheepishly. “So I never mentioned this, because it happened after I…” She flushes, and she looks away for a second. “...After I sent a letter for the month already, but Sai learned about this artistic thing they do in the Land of Woods, a couple years ago.” Her gaze shifts back to his. “They hollow out pumpkins and carve designs into them, in late October. Warding off evil spirits as they go into the cooler season or something; they put them on their doorsteps with candles in them so the carvings light up the night. It’s odd, but I think it’s become a tradition now. It’s fun, once you get the hang of it. We roast the seeds with salt and Hinata bakes pumpkin bread.”

That sounds entirely odd and completely characteristic of Sai; he supposes there is the artistic angle to consider. Sasuke passed through the Land of Woods three separate times, but never in the fall. “What kind of designs?”

She smiles as if she’s trying not to laugh; his expression must be that of one who is exceedingly perplexed. He supposes it’s not an expression he wears often. “Well, they’re supposed to be scary, I think, but we don’t really do well at making them that way. They’re more funny or decorative. Sai makes pretty good ones, I guess, mean faces with sharp teeth.”

“...What do you carve?”

Her eyes twinkle. “I tried a leaf, the first year, and a crescent moon the second. Sai and I teamed up to carve one for Kakashi-sensei, too, last year; a scarecrow with a cat.”

A crescent moon is not at all what he would have guessed she’d gravitate towards; he thinks immediately of the Six Paths Yin Seal that once adorned a hand he no longer has. Then he comprehends the final part of that sentence.

“...A cat?”

“Oh. Yeah, he got a cat.”

“...His summons are dogs.”

She giggles. “Yeah, Naruto and I thought it was weird at first, too, but he does kind of seem like he’d be more of a cat person overall, the more we thought about it.” Sakura shrugs. “He’s in the village most of the time now, being Hokage, so I guess he thought he could be around enough to take care of one? They’re more low-maintenance than a dog would be. I usually get tasked with feeding it and changing its litter, when he travels to watch the Chunin and Jonin Exams.”

Momentarily, he wonders if Sakura knows what’s under Kakashi’s mask; their old sensei allowing her into his space in his absence may have given her opportunities for some form of low-key reconnaissance on the matter.

Then his brain seizes on another notion, one that’s far more amusing, because she said she teamed up with Sai, and that can only mean one thing.

“...What does Naruto carve?”

Sakura’s grin widens as if she perceives exactly what thought he’s just had. She probably does; she knows him well. “He’s terrible at it. His never look like anything; just orange mush. He loves it, though, and Hinata puts it on their front step anyway.”

He snorts. Figures.

A bell dings, so they peer back in, and sure enough, their food is ready. Sakura steps forward to collect it, thanking the worker, but as she turns, she pauses.

Sasuke follows her gaze, and sees none other than their third teammate in the street, walking their direction and waving emphatically. He’s wearing a different pair of pants, knees absolutely covered in dirt and grass stains.

“Oi, teme! Sakura-chan!”

Sakura glances up to him before swiveling towards the road, their food in hand; Sasuke trails close behind, pushing apart the hanging banners of the stand as he steps beyond the threshold of the restaurant.

“Naruto,” Sakura greets when they’re out in the open.

“...Dobe.”

“Looks like you’ve planted everything,” Sakura says more than asks, gesturing to his pants as evidence.

“Hehe, yep, all of ‘em! It was work, but it will be worth it, later in the year.” Naruto scratches his head, grinning. Sasuke lets those words sink in, too, drenching dead roots.

“And now you’re getting Hinata yakitori as a treat?” Sakura pushes, seeming incredibly amused.

“Well…” Naruto looks away bashfully, grinning ear to ear. “Yeah. Gotta repay her somehow. She has good ideas. I just follow her lead.” He looks back to them, then. “Did you tell teme about all our awesome plans?”

Sasuke’s focus falls to Sakura, who is flushed, biting her lip in a smile.

“I may have started to.”

“Well, good, because our yard is going to be totally the best, and if he thinks he’s getting out of it...” the dobe points at him accusingly, “Then I’ll kick his ass!”

Sasuke scoffs. “As if you could.”

Sakura shakes her head, pink locks fluttering with the motion. “Always with the physicalities... Anyways, I’m sure it will be lovely, when everything finally comes together.”

An uncommonly stretched pause passes where blue eyes zero in on the food container Sakura is holding, before they travel up to the two of them.

The grin shifts to something remarkably tender.

“...Yeah. I’m sure it will be.” He says it with the utmost confidence, like he is as certain about it as he is about the sun rising tomorrow, and Sasuke gets the sense that he is no longer referring to gardening.

The moment passes, and then Naruto is punching them each on the shoulder respectively and sidestepping away towards the yakitori stand. “Anyways, gotta go, so I’ll catch ya later! I’m guessing you have plans of your own.”

Sasuke blinks as their teammate disappears into the restaurant, ears burning a little. When his vision travels down to his right, Sakura is blushing a dark red. She meets his gaze, smiling sheepishly.

They turn to go to her building. The entire way there, Sasuke considers everything in the beginnings of a green that seems endless, nurtured by people from all walks of life. He has been noticing it this whole time, since his return, but now he's thinking about how dull it would be without it, whether it’s dirt roads or lifeless grey granite. This is not the wilds, where seeds sprout unabated. Here, one must put in the work to grow things, find suitable locations and till the soil.

When they reach Sakura’s apartment, his eye lingers on her plants as he follows her inside. She sets the takeout on the table by her window. A shadow of a leaf from the jasmine above them is cast hazily out of focus on her left cheek.

“Would you like any sauce with yours? I could make some teriyaki sauce quick, or I have lemons I’ll be cutting up anyway for mine.”

“...Lemon?” Citrus complements chicken, he knows, but he understands that to mean she’s planning on putting it on hers, over top of the yakitori sauce.

Her lips curve upwards. “I like it on other things, too. It’s good on yakitori.”

So Sakura slices a lemon and it sits on the center of the table between them as they eat. She drizzles her yakitori with three of them, and he takes the other three. The chicken is pretty good, tart with the citrus and seared alongside green onions. It’s still warm, as it wasn’t a long walk to her place at all, a convenient sort of sustenance.

“...What else do you like lemon on?”

She chews thoughtfully, swallowing before answering. “Hmm, a lot of things. Fish, even ones that are usually served with lime. Pork. I like it on vegetables, too. Salads, pasta, rice. Most desserts that include lemon I like, as well.” She pauses again, and adds, “Lemonade, if it’s homemade.”

No wonder they’re always in her fridge. “...And tea.”

His heart flips at the way she smiles at him.

“...And tea,” she agrees.

They watch the streets fill and empty from her window, finishing the meal in a companionable reticence, smelling faintly of citrus rind and shadowed by greenery from above.

He helps her prepare decaffeinated sencha after, trying not to stare at the freckle on her cheek. He’s pondering this morning further, the notions of impetus and yearning, and also the way she says his name, but this time uttered softly under a cherry blossom tree with an invitation into her office, if something hurts.

Sakura cares about him. A lot. Sasuke knows this, has known for years, but it’s the actions of her affection, the way she expresses it purely and simply as if it’s a true north cascading through her veins, that has inched its way into his bone marrow, engraved on the latibule he carved inwardly to avoid dry swallowing life’s more bitter medicines.

As she stirs sugar and honey into her own cup, she asks, “Care for a chess rematch?”

He doesn’t even have to think about it; he nods his assent. It’s time to test something.

They arrange the board together at her table. The first round, Sasuke cautiously plans every move, surveying alternating squares and attempting to predict what strategy Sakura will employ. In some instances, he mirrors her, moving a rook a turn after she does, shifting a pawn out of imminent danger, and so on. It’s a very involved way to play, requiring attentive calculation of each move.

It’s a prolonged match that he eventually loses with a final sweeping motion of her remaining bishop, but it’s fairly close.

“...Again?”

She grins and wordlessly starts setting up the pieces she has captured, so he begins to set up hers. It’s an interesting task, a message of opposites, her setting up his dark figures and him setting up her light ones.

The second round, he simply follows his instincts, negating planning ahead farther than a couple of turns. If he gets an impulse to shift a pawn one way, he does. If his gut tells him to move the knight into her territory or to retreat a rook, he goes with it.

It drags on for the better part of an hour, and ends in a stalemate.

The smile she gives him is breathtaking, a broad and warmhearted validation.

“You’re good,” she comments, jade eyes dancing with joy. He gets the impression that it is not often she gets forced into a draw. He wonders who else she plays with. It can't be Naruto, but maybe Sai or Ino also play.

“...So are you.” He is somewhat reassured now. His impulses used to be ruinous, stemming from anger and anxiety and loss, but perhaps his journey helped in that regard. He just needs to make sure they're rooted in the right things, whether it be logic or affection, and then the major task becomes to feel rather than to overthink.

When he kisses her good night in her entryway, another movie watched and plans for tomorrow later, he doesn’t reach for the freckle the first time, though his hand twitches with the longing to. It’s treasured, this tender pressing of lips that feels like dipping a toe into still water. It is imbued with both of her hands resting on his shoulders again, ten fingertips that have him in her grip more than she could possibly fathom.

He studies her eyes when he pulls away, staring down into soft depths of viridescence. He will drown in them someday, he thinks, slowly but surely working up the courage to wade into the deep end.

The second time he kisses her, he lets himself graze her cheek to truly appreciate the difference, allowing acknowledgment of the impulse, compelled forward rather than backward as if bound by some metaphorical form of northern star situated on the rise of her cheekbone.

Sakura leans into his touch once more as she did yesterday, but this time, she brings up her own hand and delicately lets her fingertips rest atop the outside of his, as if she encourages the caress, thumb brushing against his knuckle as his lips gently brush hers. Her other hand stays resting on his clavicle, a tender embrace, osculant in a way he has hoped for countless times, inclusive of this morning.

It is exactly what he needed, a catalyst of encouragement comprised of a heat that is gentle, coaxing, but still brands him all the same.

Maybe it's okay to want to skim her freckles and more, to allow the affinities he has to breathe. They’re together now; it stands to reason they'll one day venture into territory more uncharted, if he can concede to that kind of vulnerability. Not that he’s anywhere near ready for that - he’s not - but his instincts don’t appear to be all disastrously calamitous. Touching her cheek is something she clearly welcomes.

Sasuke gave in to darker tendencies once. Perhaps it's okay to give in to lighter ones; nothing grows in the absence of light, after all. He brushes a thumb across the high point of her cheekbone once more with her hand encompassing his before they part, embracing a new habit prior to whispering good night.

The way she smiles up at him, skin aflush and glimmering eyes, is everything.

XXX

He inspects the stone and the soil surrounding it for a long while, heavy-heartedly trying to ignore the encyclopedia of names in favor of envisioning what it would look like with lilies surrounding it. Less lugubrious, probably. The trajectory of the tree’s shadow would touch the stone in the evening, he sees, now that he’s here in person. He only ever haunts this place after nightfall when there's less chance of someone happening upon him. He wishes it was more secluded for that reason; maybe healing happens in the sunshine, and that’s why he still struggles with coming here after so many years, creature of the night that he is.

Evenings with Sakura feel like healing, though, and they linger after hours consistently. Maybe next time he’ll visit his dead kin at twilight, a brittle sort of compromise.

He'll see if the impulse still grips him tomorrow, and then decide. He knows his mother would like them. Itachi would, too, although it never feels like he's here, not the same way that it feels like the rest of them are, the air weighted with an accursed brand of perfume pouring outward in all directions.

White lilies may be able to touch the light in his stead for the time being. Even if they don’t grow, he at least will know he tried, and there is always next year. By then, he may have the capability of asking Sakura if she would help him; she’s clearly a capable gardener, and there should be less sediment, if he puts in the work.

By the time he leaves for his apartment, a thin layer has loosened.

#naruto #sasusaku #ssfanfiction #cherry writes #like gold #fanfiction #i said chapter 7 by the end of august and we cut it kind of close but we made it B)

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wkemeup · 4 years

Text

A Twice Broken Man

summary: Knowing what will happen if Hydra ever captures him again, Bucky asks the impossible of you. The road to recovery is not an easy one. pairing: bucky x reader warnings: smut (18+), canon level violence, mentions of torture, PTSD symptoms (nightmares, dissociative episode), suicidal thoughts, trauma recovery a/n: this is the dark and sad one I was warning you about. please check the warnings

There’s a hand on your forearm, a slight squeeze, and it takes you a minute to register that it is Bucky’s hand, that it is his thumb brushing in sweeps over the goosebumps on your skin. It’s cold, calloused, still as gentle as he’s ever been, but there’s a nervousness there, a hesitancy, and it runs like ice in your veins.

Time stands still for an impossible minute and you realize you’re taking too long to respond. Ocean blue eyes search yours with a cautious concern and you’re certain you’ve never heard anything worse than the request Bucky has just asked of you. Your stomach wretches as the words echoes in the back of your mind, threatening to tear you to pieces.

He parts his lips, hand trailing in gentle sweeping motions down your arm, and he asks again.

“Sweetheart please. I can’t go back to them. If it ever comes to it, I need you to do this for me.”

You close your eyes. Tears sting over the bridge of your nose. He should have waited for another time to ask this. Not when you’re both laying between sheets, bare and flustered, hearts still racing, the feel of him lingering between your legs.

It’s an impossible question but he’s asking it anyway.

He’s asking for you to end his life.

You know his history with Hydra, spent enough nights curled up against him under the thin layer of cotton sheets and against the damp sweat of his chest to see the damage they’ve caused him, heard the screams from his lips and seen the tears in his eyes.

Decades of pain, of suffering and humiliation, of agony and loss.

They broke and mutilated him. They ripped him from the inside out.

Maybe you shouldn’t be surprised, shouldn’t feel this kind of twist at your heart because maybe, on some level, you understand. If you had gone through what he had, maybe you’d be asking him of the same thing.

“Bucky, I... I can’t...” you say, voice so soft you wonder for a moment if he’s even heard you. There’s a disappointment in his eyes, a sadness etched into every feature on his face, and you know that he had.

You curl your arms tighter under the pillow, tucking the side of your face against the cushion to brush away the tears he’s already seen. There’s more than just shock and desolation plunging through your chest like the sharp edge of a blade; there’s anger, too, and you grit your teeth to keep it from spilling out.

Bucky brushes the cool metal of his fingers along your cheek, wiping away the lingering evidence of your tears and the refusal dies on your tongue. It’s in the way he touches you, watches you, like he cherishes every moment.

He does.

The anger fades and you’re left with heartbreak.

“Only if Hydra ever gets a hold of me again,” he reminds you.

He says it like it’s a far distant possibility, like his request is only precautionary, like it might not ever come to that. But you know he thinks about it more often that he admits. It’s the frequent theme of the terrors that come for him in the dead of night.

“You can’t ask that of me,” you whisper. You can barely meet his eye. Not with how desperately he’s watching you.

“Steve would never understand. He wouldn’t be able to do it.”

A sharp sting punctures through your chest.

“And you think I could?” You’re colder than you intend, harsher too, and the heartbreak of it reads on his face.

Bucky sighs, leaning in to press his lips to your wrist. Warm, pillowy soft. He’s patient with you, kind, even in his darkest moments and somehow that makes it hurt more.

“I think you know me better than anyone, sweetheart,” Bucky says sadly. He smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes and he starts to play with the ends of your hair, twirling it around his fingers, sweeping it behind your ear, almost lost in the feel of you. Fingertips trail over the bare skin of your back, gentle patterns before he continues. “You’ve seen the worst of my recovery. I can’t-- I won’t survive it again, Y/n. If it goes south tomorrow and the team can’t get me out in time, you’re the best marksman we have.”

You shake your head, lower lip quivering as the tears well in your eyes. He leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s gone too soon.

“I can’t go back to them,” he says again because he’s already decided.

The muscle aches in your jaw before you realize how tight you’ve clenched it.

“It would be saving me,” he urges, almost begging and it breaks your heart. The warmth of his breath is hot against your shoulder the closer he pulls himself against you. The cool metal of his left arm rests around the small of your back, his lips kiss at your shoulder blade.

“Baby, please.”

Tomorrow would be his first mission against Hydra operatives since his pardon and joining the Avengers nearly a year ago. Steve was careful to keep him away from anything that could possibly trigger him, regardless of the words that had been erased from his subconscious, because even he knew that there was more that could trigger Bucky than just a series of Russian words. It wasn’t just the Winter Soldier he was worried about.

But Bucky was ready, he told you, and you really want to believe him.

Finally, you nod, because you never knew how to say no to Bucky. You never really wanted to until this moment. How could you deny a man you loved with every part of yourself? He held your heart in the palm of his hand, your secrets, your intimacy, your soul. It was all his.

The relief melts through his muscles and you feel the curve of his lips against you. He pulls himself closer, murmurs how much he loves you under his breath before he drifts off to sleep.

You don’t sleep much of all.

***

Bucky's request goes unanswered for nearly two years.

He never tells Steve about what he asked of you. The two of you never speak of it again and still, it lingers.

It’s always on your mind. It’s the first thought to rush to the surface when Hydra’s name is evoked in the debriefing room and you have to control the race of your heartbeat before Natasha’s perceptive eyes pick up on it.

You wonder each time as you strap your weapons to your suit and load onto the quinjet if this was the day you’d destroy the other half of your heart.

It’s agony, but you hold it inside.

You deal with the pain of it by sitting closer to him in the hanger, hip to hip, until your thigh sits at the length of his. You lean against his shoulder, wrapping your arms around his to tug him as close as you can manage and he’ll press a kiss to the crown of your head, letting it brush over your hair. You hold his hand as long as you’re able before you step foot off the landing pad and you’re thrown into the chaos of enemy fire.

You savor every moment.

But it’s the nights before that hurt the most.

It's when he’s inside you and the headboard clicks softly against the wall with every roll of his hips. It's when he kisses at your pulse points, wetness of his tongue and the heat of his breath against the chill on your skin. It’s when your walls clench and a breathless moan escapes him, his eyes fluttering closed, hand gripping tight to the bedpost.

There’s a twist in your heart evert time he shudders above you, when he whispers through bated breaths that he adores you, that your tightness is like heaven to him, and his fingers circle at nerve endings between your legs that sent a rush of heat through you.

Pieces of you shatter even as you find your high and he releases inside you with rushed and uneven thrusts, even as he drops his body weight onto you and you worship the pressure, the heaviness of him sinking you into the mattress.

It hurts even with skin glistening, a damp layer of sweat on the line of his hair, as he smiles at you like you were made of sun and stars and galaxy.

He likes to rest in you for some time after you’ve both finished, just studying you, tracing his fingers over your jawline, a simple kiss to your cheek, before he’ll slide out to disappear to the bathroom to wash his release from between your legs.

You never feel as empty as you do when he pulls away.

He loves you. You know that.

But he breaks your heart.

And so you hide the tears from him before he returns, wondering if you just had your last night with him, wondering if you’ll ever feel the pulse of him inside you again, or if tomorrow would be the day he’ll ask the impossible of you.

***

It happens on a Thursday and you’re entirely unprepared for it.

What was supposed to be a straightforward data hack of an unmanned Hydra base in Warsaw quickly turned into a full-scale combat zone in a matter of seconds. Hydra agents flood through the halls like they’re peeling out from behind the wallpaper, coming in from all angles. You’re overwhelmed before you can call for reinforcements.

Steve is on your left, Natasha on your right; each fighting off three agents on their own, collecting nicks in their suits, scrapes to their exposed skin, and bruises underneath. Energy draining fast with another round of combatants ahead of you, you search for Bucky over the shoulder of the man charging at you with a knife in hand.

You side step him easily, elbowing him hard enough in the middle of his back to pull a pained grunt out of him. Eyes dart across the floor, seeking out long brown hair and the shine of silver reflecting under florescent lights.

You’re distracted.

Sharp pain burns in your thigh and you looked down to find a knife embedded in your leg, the sinister grin of the man at your feet below. Red oozes from the wound and stains the black of your suit, but you don’t feel much of it. Adrenaline is too high for that now.

You let out a guttural shout, yanking the knife from your muscle and plunge it down into the man’s neck. The blood that bubbles in his mouth doesn’t faze you, nor does the quick spread of red in a pool at your feet.

You leave footprints behind in the mess as you sprint out in search of Bucky.

It’s hard to breath without him. It feels like punctured holes in your lungs and anvils on your chest. Your hands are sweating, heart pounding, and you don’t think before you shoot the three men advancing on you from behind. They stumble to the ground in a heap and it does nothing to ease your panic.

“Bucky!” you shout over the gunfire, but there’s a part of you that knows he won’t hear you.

You rush into the adjoining hall where he was supposed to be stationed with Steve but got separated once the sirens began to scream and red flashing lights flickered through the hallway. Hydra agents must have jump between them, forcing Bucky to retreat while Steve was pushed in your direction.

There was no answer on the coms when you call for him.

The handle of your gun is burning hot in your hand. It stings against your palm and you’re certain it will blister, but when you release your grip long enough to check, your hand is clear, save for the red splatter stained on your skin.

You try not to think of the fate of this gun as you sprint through the double doors at the end of the hall where the light outside is blinding.

With a hand shielding your eyes from the sun, you spot the Hydra agents’ aim their weapons and you dive behind a barricade of supplies. Bullets embed themselves into the wall behind you, denting the frame.

Cocking the hammer of your gun and releasing a bullet casing, you suck in a deep breath. It takes a moment before air fills your lungs, but when you step out to fire, you freeze in your tracks.

Two men carry Bucky limply towards a cargo truck, each holding onto an arm as his feet drag along the dirt behind him. Blood coats down over his mouth, spilling in violent sweeps from his nose and his eyes are falling heavy, head bobbing. He doesn’t notice you and you’ve never seen him like this before; mangled and heavy, like a rag doll.

“Bucky!” you scream, voice cracking in the effort and you fire three shots at the Hydra agents around him. Only one falls to the ground and another quickly takes his place, the others protected by a shield of technology your bullets would not pierce.

Your cry seems to get through to him because Bucky’s head jolts up, blood coughing away from his lips and he looks up with wide, fearful eyes, to realize where he’s at, who’s hands are on him. You can see the panic from nearly fifty feet away.

He fights back but it’s not with his usual smooth, calculated movements, where every hit has a purpose and each step is intentional. No, this time it’s feral, unnerved. The scream that leaves him is broken and laced with a fear you’ve only heard in the dead of night.

You try to step forward, but a reign of bullets fire in your direction and you throw yourself behind the barrier. From the ground, you spot a single opening between the cases shielding you from Hydra’s fire and you toss your handgun to the side. You yank the rifle from the latch on your back, adjusting your position to get a better shot through the crates.

Through the scope, you can see more clearly and you’re not sure if this is worse.

Bucky sees you, eyes locking on your position and there’s only a second of relief before a taser is plunged into his side and his whole body starts to convulse. Your hands shake as his eyes roll back and his body falls slack. You lose sight of ocean blue and you can’t breathe.

You fire four rounds at the men around him and one by one they drop, heads snapping back in the impact. The victory is short lived before four more dart out from the shadows to replace them. You shoot again. More come.

“Steve, I--” your voice trembles into the com, “They’ve-- they’ve got Bucky.”

You barely register Steve tell you he’s on his way.

There’s too many of them. Too many to slow down on your own. There's no time to wait for Steve.

You step out from behind the barricade and it seems Hydra is no longer interested in you as they attempt to hull Bucky into the back of the van.

He’s struggling against them, weakened by the electricity in his veins strong enough to bring down an elephant. It's like he’s moving through water, resistance against his limbs and heavy weight on his body.

It’s when he meets your eyes from across the lot that the final splinter in your heart snaps and it shatters like glass. You see it on his lips, the pleading. The blue of his eyes glazes over; he’s scared – no, more than scared – he’s petrified, and his whole body is trembling.

Now, he mouths, or maybe he’d screaming. You can’t tell. Please, do it now.

You shake your head. Your hand is gripped so impossibly tight to the handle of your gun that your muscles ache from it. Tears blur your vision and you blink them away. They burn as they clear the grim from your cheeks and run to your jaw.

You try to tell him you can’t, that your hand is shaking so badly you’d never be able to aim properly, not even sure your body would allow you to even aim a weapon at him to begin with, but he’s asking again, he’s begging.

He smiles for you, subtle and aching, but he nods, tries to tell you it’s okay. He tells you he loves you and time moves impossibly slow as harsh hands shove and pull at him and he does his best to fight back.

You’re running out of time and he knows it. He’s growing more desperate, pleading on an endless loop.

Please. Baby, please.

Do it now.

I’m ready, honey. It’s okay.

Shoot!

Your finger moves to the trigger and it’s never felt as heavy as it does in this moment. You’re crying and it’s near impossible to see, but you watch as Bucky nods vigorously, trying to encourage you, urging the love of his life to spare him from what is about to happen.

I love you.

You can do this.

It’ll be alright.

Do it now, honey. Please.

But you can’t.

The gun falls to your side and Bucky stills almost instantly.

You can’t quite read the rush of emotion on his face because there’s too much of it but you can still see the panic, the surge of unrelenting fear, the shock of betrayal in his eyes. He fights harder now, shouting out, though his voice is raspy and his body is falling weak.

Gunfire rings out next to you and you realize Steve is at your side. You don’t know how long he’s been there but as Hydra agents shove Bucky into the back of the cargo hold and out of sight, you fall to your knees and the look Steve sends you is one of disbelief.

He’s furious. He’s scared. He’s devastated.

It’s everything you feel.

Steve sprints off after the van as it accelerates down the street, but you know it’s useless. He can chase it for miles but he won’t catch up. His stamina will only last so long.

You’re alone for a while, out in the open lot, with bloodied bodies around you of the men you’d killed. Some laying in piles, red pools oozing out from under them.

You hardly notice Natasha sink down next to you silently, her hand slip over yours and squeezing just enough to ground you. You nearly break down completely when you spot Steve rushing back towards you from the end of the road.

Alone.

“What the hell was that?” he snaps, panting, hands shaking out of rage. You don’t respond because you simply don’t know how. He’s pacing now and Natasha warns him to calm down, but he can’t. “What happened, Y/n!?”

“There were too many of them,” you try to explain, hating how shaken your voice sounds. “I tried to pick them off but they just kept coming back and--”

“That’s not what I’m talking about!”

Steve grits his teeth, voice wound tight in a coil. His hands clench and release at his side. He takes a deep breath, straightens his back and glances to the open road where Bucky was taken.

“I saw you aim the gun at him.”

You feel the jolt puncture through your chest before Natasha even has a chance to flinch. You grip at the fabric of your suit over your thighs and you try to remember the feel of Bucky’s hands, but you can’t. He’s already lost to you.

You look up to Steve and his face is red. He doesn’t understand. Just as Bucky said he wouldn’t.

“Steve, I--”

“What the fuck is the matter with you!” he shouts, throwing his arms in the air. He can’t stand still. “Why would you—What were you thinking?”

Natasha pulls herself to her feet, trying to calm Steve with a brush of her hand over his shoulder but he shoves her aside. He points a finger at you but his hand is shaking, so he wraps it into a fist. Curse words die on his tongue as Natasha pulls him a few feet away, speaking quietly to him, calmly, and you don’t try to listen in. The ringing in your ears is too loud for that.

“Why would she--” Steve starts again, but Natasha grabs his hands, trying to pull his attention.

“Steve, stop--” she urges but it’s no use.

“I thought she was gonna--”

“Calm down, Rogers.”

“She had a gun aimed at his head, Nat!” Steve shoves her away, running his hand over his mouth. He doesn’t know what to say. You almost killed his best friend. Steve doesn’t usually lose control like this. It’s a foreign feeling in his body and it doesn’t sit well. “Why would you--”

“He asked me to,” you confess, voice so soft you can barely hear it so when Steve silences, it surprises you. You look up at him, tears glossing over your eyes and you stand under shaky legs. “He’d rather die than be subjected to Hydra’s torture again, Steve. He didn’t think he could survive it a second time, but I—I couldn’t do it.”

“No-- No, Bucky wouldn’t--” he turns to Nat, seeking answers he wouldn’t find. “He wouldn’t.”

You look to the ground. There is nothing that will make this easier.

“He would,” Natasha says. Steve won’t stop pacing and she sighs. “He knew what would happen if Hydra ever got ahold of him again. They’ll try to take his memories. They'll torture him, throw him in that goddamn chair. They’d break him all over again.”

Steve nearly collapses against the outer wall of the building, unable to hold himself as the truth of your confession sinks in. The pieces were all there but Steve was too stubborn to see them.

Bucky’s trauma hadn’t healed nearly as much as he thought. He just wanted his friend back. It was all he ever wanted. It blinded him from who Bucky was today, to his pain and suffering under the surface.

Natasha grabs onto Steve’s hand, seeking out your own as well. She squeezes it lightly as it reminds you of Bucky. That, somehow, hurts worse.

“We’ll find him before they can put the triggers back in his head,” Nat says sternly, like she actually means it. But Natasha is a world class liar and you wonder if she believes it herself. She squeezes your hand again and your feel like your bones might snap. “We’ll bring him home.”

***

It takes nearly five weeks before you find him.

Five weeks of hell you could have spared him of.

You wonder if he’ll even be himself when you see him, if he ever will be again. You wonder if he will forgive you.

Steve takes out nearly twelve men on his own before you have a chance to fire. The vengeance running through his veins is enough to keep him going. You follow behind on unsteady feet.

Steve has a kind of hope you never learned how to carry. He believes that finding Bucky will be enough, that bringing him home and rescuing him from this place is the same as saving him.

It’s not.

There’s more than just the imprisonment of these walls and the torture of vile men that he will need to be freed of. There’s something this place roots deep inside of him that breaks and tears at his core until he feels like he might cave in on himself. It was what he was afraid of. It was why he asked of you what he did.

“I’ve got a heat signature matching Bucky’s description in a cell four down from here,” Nat says from behind you, eyeing the small monitor in her hand. She points to the right side of the wall and Steve takes out a guard just as he turns the corner. He’s past the point of asking questions before he shoots.

The hall is empty by the time you reach the cell Nat is referring to. Steve’s hand juts out to the handle and he snaps off the locks with the brunt of his gun, but Natasha stills him quickly with a grasp on his shoulder. He pauses, looking to her through furrowed eyes and she nods towards you. A silent warning for him to stand down.

You don’t know how she learned to read you so well, but you're grateful for it. Steve nods, lips pressed to a thin line and he steps aside, pressing his back to the wall by the door and standing guard. Natasha smiles softly at you, doing the same.

“We’ll be right here,” she tells you because you need the reminder.

The grip of the door is cold under the heat of your palms and the creak of the hinges is near deafening. You wince as you pull it open and it nearly slams closed behind you as you step inside from the weight of itself, but Steve shoves his boot between the frame to keep it propped open. None of you know what to expect and the Winter Soldier himself is not out of the realm of possibilities.

The moment you see him, it’s hard to stay steady on your feet. Your knees lock, legs feeling like putty and you lean against the wall for support.

Bucky sits in the far corner of the room, knees pulled up to his chest, stare facing the opposite wall. He doesn’t notice you as you stumble closer, trying to choke back the tears welling behind your eyes.

It’s like he’s catatonic. His arms wrapped around his knees, metal hand clamping onto flesh wrist where the skin is red and raw beneath.

You sink down by his side and still, he doesn’t move. Blue eyes locked on concrete over your shoulder and you swear it’s like he sees right through you. You lick at your lips, breath caught in your throat and you try to reach out to touch him but can’t seem to let your hands fall to his skin, to his muscle, to metal.

There are open wounds on his face; a large scar running from the center of his forehead to his left temple that is red and angry and likely infected from the swelling, and various cuts and scrapes and discoloration along his cheekbones. You can see jagged marks peeking out from under the thin layer of a ratted shirt they gave him after they must have stripped him of his stealth suit.

“Bucky,” you choke out, voice thick with tears and he doesn’t even flinch. You clench your jaw, biting down until you taste copper in your mouth. Sniffling back your own pain, you try again. “Sweetheart, look at me. We’re gonna bring you home. Steve and Nat are right outside the door, okay? You’re safe now, honey.”

He doesn’t so much as blink.

“God, what did they do to you?” you whisper. It’s not a question you expect him to answer.

Without thinking, your hand reaches out for him, hovering over his forearm for a moment before you touch him.

It happens in a split second.

Bucky’s head snaps to you, eyes wide, fearful, and he lunges at you, sending you onto your back as he climbs on top of you. His hand snakes around your throat before you can stop him and your nails dig into the concrete below.

Bucky’s eyes hold no recognition as he stares down at you, still lost, still glazed, and you wonder if he thinks this is a dream or some kind of cruel game.

“B-Bucky,” you gasp, clawing at his hand but it’s solid and metal and it does no use.

Your legs squirm under him but he holds them down easily with his weight around your waist. He pushes down harder on your windpipe and your lungs burn like fire. Your head is pulsing, face red, and you swat up at him until you see a slight flicker of realization before he shoves it away.

He’s in there – you know it – but he’s trapped; locked behind a trauma response or a dissociative state or something but he’s there. It means you can get through to him.

From the corner of your eye, you spot Steve rushing into the room but you hold up your hand, warning him to stay back. He pauses, unsure, frantically eyeing Bucky as he squeezes at your throat, but you wave him back. He doesn’t leave the room but he stands still.

Vision starting to tunnel, you reach up to Bucky’s face. Your movements are no longer wild and panicked, and you brush the hair shielding his eyes behind his ear. That seems to startle him but he doesn’t shove you away. Your palm rests tenderly against his cheek and your thumb brushes delicately along the bruising along his jawline.

His eyes flicker to yours, confused, and they dart around him for a moment, breaths heavy in his chest. Your hand falls away from him as your body weakens and you can vaguely make out Steve’s footsteps as he sprints forward and suddenly the pressure on your throat releases and Bucky’s weight leaves you.

You suck in a harsh breath and it burns.

It feels like shards of glass in your windpipe and you jolt upright. Vision restoring quickly though in blurred haze and black spots, you realize Steve hadn’t even made it halfway across the room.

You turn sharply to find Bucky scrambling away from you, hands shaking violently, a world of emotion on his face he didn’t have just moments before; fear, devastation, guilt, relief.

Blue eyes meet yours and he breaks down almost instantly. His whole body racks with sobs and he tries to hide himself, shielding his face with his forearms as he curls up to the corner but you crawl towards him. You don’t try to speak because you know the coarseness of it will only make this worse, but when you gather him into your arms, he comes willingly.

His head rests against your shoulder, his right arm clinging around your waist and he holds his left as far away from you as he can manage. Tears are wet against your skin and he’s shaking as he cries, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” on an endless loop.

You kiss his forehead, hoping to calm him, to tell him it’s alright because your voice is useless and you don’t dare test it. Your breathing comes in through raspy gasps and Bucky flinches with every damaged inhale.

Steve waits from the center of the room, just watching, and his eyes are burning red, hand shaking at his side. You don’t know if Steve’s ever seen Bucky like this before, but it devastates him. It breaks him.

It breaks all of you.

***

Bucky isn’t himself for a long time.

It takes weeks before you can convince him to leave your room to eat something in the kitchen or go on a walk around the compound.

He’s lost weight and muscle mass from his time at Hydra and even more since then. He barely speaks and when he does, he can’t meet your eye. You try to wear sweaters and scarfs that cover the bruising on your neck, but he knows it’s there. His eyes burn with tears whenever he catches a glimpse of his handprint upon your skin.

It doesn't help that Cho barred you from speaking for nearly an entire week and when you finally do again, it comes out broken and rough and Bucky flinches when you first say his name.

***

One month home and he still won’t touch you.

It’s not because you broke your promise to him and he tells you as often as you’ll hear it. It was too much, he says, he never should have put that on you, and yet, you can’t help but feel responsible for every scream in the middle of the night, every cry he tries to hide from you, every flinch away from your touch.

He won’t touch you because he’s terrified of losing control again, of attacking the woman he loves and he doesn’t know how to reconcile that.

So, he keeps to his side of the bed and withers his way out of your embrace after you’ve fallen asleep. It hurts him to do so, but he’s not sure he has another choice. He’s terrified he’ll snap again at any moment and you won’t be able to wake him up this time.

***

It’s two months before you see him smile again.

You’re sitting on the couch together, a generous space between your bodies you do not challenge and Sam trips over the edge of the table, spilling his bowl of popcorn high into the air before it lands in sweeps along the floor and over his back. Tony is practically in tears and you’re biting your lip for Sam’s sake, though you can’t help the grin aching in your cheeks.

You look over to Bucky and the corner of his lip twinges. It’s subtle and it fades almost instantly but it was there. He meets your eye for a moment and he pushes out another for you. It’s tight and forced but he’s trying.

You smile back and remind yourself not to reach for his hand.

***

Bucky never tells you, or anyone, what happened in his five weeks held by Hydra. He attempts to ease your conscious by telling you they never attempted the chair again or the trigger words, but somehow that hurts more. It leaves you wondering what else could have happened to hurt him like this, what could possibly be worse.

Fury grants your request for leave while Bucky recovers and you spend most of your days trying to peel away the darkness he’s holding onto. It’s thick and heavy and clinging onto him for dear life but slowly, inch by inch, shadow by shadow, it releases him.

When enough light can peer through, he starts to let you touch him again. It’s nearly three months after he came home.

You give him warning each time, letting his eyes watch as your hand comes to him and lands upon his skin. He needs the time to prepare for it. It takes him a moment to ease into it and remind himself that your touch is wanted, craved even, and he relaxes after a moment and asks for more.

It starts out with holding his hand and moves to playing with his hair. He prefers behind the one to touch you. He likes when you let him run his fingers in loose patterns over your back. It’s something he always did before, though that feels like a lifetime ago to him.

***

Eventually, he asks if you’ll shower with him.

It’s a big step, one that surprises you when he asks but you agree without hesitation.

“I want to get better,” he says timidly, standing in the bathroom fully clothed in three day old pajamas. He struggles to meet your eye but when he does, the blue is aching with shame. “I know you won’t hurt me but I... I can’t explain it. I don’t know why this is so hard for me.”

“It’s okay,” you remind him, careful not to step forward and invade his space. “You just tell me what you need, alright? Tell me if it’s too much.”

He nods and his hands play with the ends of his shirt. He hasn’t been bare before you since he was taken.

“I can go first, if you want?” you offer, gesturing to your clothes and he nods, thankful.

He's seen you naked before. You’d been together for a few years before he was taken but something about this feels different. It feels new, almost like the first time.

The air is cold against your skin as you pull the cotton t-shirt over your head and let it slip to the floor. Your nipples pebble against the chill and you notice Bucky’s eyes drawn to your chest. It doesn’t embarrass you. You like the way he watches you and it reminds you of the days before he was taken.

You smile at him, nodding for his turn.

Bucky takes a deep breath and tugs his metal arm through the sleeves of his shirt before pulling the rest over his head and letting it fall down his right arm. You realize then why he kept himself from you for so long.

A gasp in your throat, hand darting up to cover your lips, your eyes fall upon dozens of faded scars lining his chest and stomach. You imagine there’s more on his back, but it’s not the scars themselves that scare you. It’s the patterns carved against him. Deliberate and meaningful.

They spell out words.

Monster

Hydra

Soldier

Asset

Killer

Some in English, some in Russian you don’t understand and you bite down hard on your cheek to keep from crying. This isn’t about you, you tell yourself in an attempt to will your tears away, and you lower your hands to your sides.

“I wanted to tell you,” he mumbles, eyes on the floor.

“It’s okay, honey,” you say and you feel like a broken record, but you do mean it.

You take your pants off next, then your underwear, and Bucky follows suit. Neither of you are shy about your staring because despite the pain and the trauma, you miss each other like nothing else.

Bucky steps aside and you turn on the water, feeling for the temperature for a moment until it’s at the warmth you usually prefer and you ask Bucky to test it before he steps in. He does so and nods to you. He steps in behind the curtain and you give him a moment, trying to center yourself before you follow.

“Y/n?” he calls nervously, like he’s afraid you’ll leave if he doesn’t have eyes on you.

“Right here,” you tell him and you push down the tightness in your chest to step in behind him.

The steam is warm against your skin despite Bucky blocking the stream of the water, but you don’t mind. The relief on his face, the relaxation evident in his muscles is enough for you.

You spend the next ten minutes washing his body. You tell him exactly what you’re doing before you do it and where you’re trailing the gentle motions of the cloth before you get there. His eyes are closed the whole time, a sign that his trust is building again, and you wonder as you brush over the faded scars along his back, over the word ‘devil’ carved into his shoulder blade, if Tony could find a way to remove them.

You move onto washing his hair and he has to bend down a little for you, but it makes him smile. He sighs as your fingers work the shampoo through his hair and he turns to face you as he rinses it into the water.

He’s watching you now as you condition his hair, just studying the way you purse your lips as you work, noticing the line in your forehead as you concentrate. He’s reminded of the small things, the good things, and he lets go of another shard of darkness embedded in his chest.

He lets the water rinse through his hair, leaning back into the stream of it. When he’s done, you move to reach around him to turn off the water, but his hand gently lands on your wrist to stop you.

“I could...” he paused, licking at his lips, “I could I wash you, too? If you... um... if you want?”

He’s never been so nervous with you before, so unsure of your love for him, your eagerness to have his hands on your body. He doubts whether you want him, whether you’d even allow him to touch you. The bruising faded from your neck and his eyes still flicker there.

“I would really like that,” you say, as soft as you can manage and you don’t miss his sigh of relief.

You cherish every moment of his hands upon your body, in your hair, on your scalp. Calloused fingers running along with soapy residue along your skin, over your curves. You try not to focus too hard when he brushes over your breasts. He lets you clean yourself between the legs as he steps back with a pink blush in his cheeks.

You don’t mind. Having him this close is enough. He runs the water over your shoulders, soothing away the suds, and you close your eyes in the feeling. It’s been so long since he’s touched you and it’s like a reprieve. It’s heaven. It’s always heaven when it’s with him.

When he’s done, he holds you under the water with him and it’s the closest you’ve been since he’d been back. Chest to chest. Flesh to flesh.

When you feel his length harden between you, he clears his throat awkwardly, and steps away from you. He’s embarrassed.

“Bucky,” you croon sweetly, gingerly running your hand down his arm until you intertwine your fingers. He looks over to you, eyes drifting down to your chest, and he bites his lip. “Bucky, it’s alright. Let me help you feel good.”

He’s unsure, but he’s hard now and he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from your breasts.

“Let me do this for you, honey,” you ask again and his cock twitches. He bites down hard on his lip and his right hand carefully reach out to set on your hip, just feeling, exploring.

It takes a moment, but he nods, almost pleading. He steps aside so he’s facing the wall, making room for you under the water so you don’t catch a chill.

You watch his face the whole time, reminding him you’ll stop the second he asks you to as your hand trails along his thigh before you wrap your fingers around his cock. He hisses at the sensation, flinching at the touch because it’s been so long and you’re almost certain he hasn’t even touched himself since he’s been home.

He asks you to keep going and you do. It doesn’t take long until he’s wobbling on shaking legs, panting and thrusting into your fist. You sooth your free hand against his back, running in gentle strokes up and down his spine as you work him over. His fingers press so deep into your hip you’re sure it’ll leave marks, but you don’t mind at all.

He comes suddenly with a gasp, his release coating the wall and he follows your pumps with lazy thrusts as his cock twitches in your hand. It’s quicker than usual and you can see the pink burning in his ears, but you kiss at his shoulder, gently running your hand along his shaft until he’s given all he can.

He rests his forehead to the wall, catching his breath and you gingerly pull your hand away, rinsing it off in the water as his cum trails down to the drain.

Bucky doesn’t say anything after that but after you step out of the shower together and dry your bodies, he lets you hold him for the first time in months under the smooth surface of clean sheets. You kiss at his hairline and his cheek bones and he sighs contently, curling closer to you with every press of your lips.

He's still in your arms by morning.

***

“You should leave me,” he says a few weeks later and it tears your heart in two.

He’s lying on his side, metal arm tucked under the pillow as he faces you and there’s tears wet on his cheeks. It’s nearly three in the morning and he woke up screaming for the eighth night in a row. He’s noticed the dark circles under your eyes you’ve gained like permeant stains upon your skin. He sees the drain it takes from you to care for him and he hates himself for it.

But he’s selfish. He loves you too much to walk away. He’s withering you dry and he still wants more. He needs you to be the one to do it, to leave him, because he simply can’t.

“Please,” he cries, shivering and you tuck yourself tighter to his chest, unwilling to let go. “I can’t-- I can’t be the one to do it.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you tell him, sternly, like it’s a fact and it is.

“I’m a mess, Y/n. I’m falling apart and I’m bringing you down with me.”

You don’t care, and you tell him so.

He's been getting better. He doesn’t notice his progress because it’s clouded in his nightmares and hyper vigilance and paranoia, but it’s there. You try to remind him, show him, as often as you can that any step forward counts as progress, no matter how small, no matter how many steps back. He’s still gaining.

You run your fingers gently along his jawline. The bruising once upon his face long healed and the scar his forehead only a faded memory. Even the jarring words across his chest are nearly gone thanks to Tony’s laser tech. It would need a few more treatments but they’d vanish completely.

He looks like your Bucky again.

“You’ve got me, baby. Nothing will ever take me from you, do you understand? I’m yours,” you say and he exhales a breath that releases the tension in his muscles. He pulls you against him, his hand running along your back.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair because he doesn’t know what else to say to express the gratitude, the love, the relief inside him, so he settles on the truth.

He will always find ways to convince himself he’s not worthy, that you’re better off without him, that his love for you will never be enough. It’s part of the trauma etched into his DNA, but he’s learning to push those thoughts aside.

It gets easier with your help and soon, when you tell him he’s safe, when you tell him you love him, when you tell him you’ll be by his side as long as he lets you, he starts to believe you.

***

The first time you make love again, Bucky thinks he might actually survive all that’s happened to him.

He’s learned to accept touch again, learned to give it and crave the feeling of you wrapped in his arms. It’s like heaven and it ignites in his chest, forcing more of the light to shove away the darkness still embedded inside him.

He wants this, and he tells you over and over again because you’re terrified to push him too far; and he wants to do this for you as much as himself. He wants to touch you in places that make your lips part in a breathless gasp, that get your eyes fluttering shut, that have your hands clenching in the sheets and in his hair. He wants to bring you something other than pain and heartache.

He wants to bring you pleasure.

Bucky's body remembers yours well, so he knows how to touch you to draw arousal between your legs. You squirm under him and he chuckles for the first time in a while. It’s a sound so sweet you have to stop the tears from welling in your eyes, though it’s long forgotten as he sinks two fingers inside you with ease.

You grip onto the flesh of his right shoulder, nails digging into his skin as he pumps his fingers, curling right at the spot that makes you whimper and latch onto him tighter. You try and utter his name but it falls on your tongue. You can’t think much of anything with his hands on you like that.

“That’s my girl,” he says, drawing shivers up your spine, “come apart for me, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

He slides in a third finger and before you can adjust, he’s rubbing at your clit with the heal of his palm in rushed circles. You can hear the wetness around his fingers as he picks up in pace, and soon you’re clenching around him, gasping, panting, on the edge and it could be enough to send you over, but you want him.

“Need you,” you tell him, pushing his hand away and he looks up to you, confused. Pulling his face down to yours, you kiss his lips, something you’ll never take for granted again. You smile as he pulls away. “Please, baby. I need you. All of you.”

He’s hesitant at first, unsure, because he only cares about making you feel good right now after all he’s put you through, but when he follows your eyes down to his cock, he finds that it’s standing painfully hard against him and dripping in precum. He’s aching for you, desperate to be buried deep inside, and he’s not sure he can deny you.

Bucky doesn’t want to hold back anymore, he decides, as your fingers comb gently through his hair. He doesn’t want to hide from the woman he loves.

He lines himself with your entrance and you clench around nothing, just at the feeling of his tip brushing against your folds enough to draw such a sensation. He shudders above you and when his eyes meet yours again, they’re filled with a kind of love, a longing that you knew in him before he was taken from you.

He remembers fucking you, leaving marks and driving you into the mattress with quick and harsh thrusts but he doesn’t want to do that tonight. He wants to this to be slow. He wants to feel every moment, every clench, every gasp he can elicit from your lips. He wants to know all of it.

He wants to memorize you all over again.

When he sinks into you, the stretch is like the first time.

He doesn’t last nearly as long, but you don’t mind. It only takes a few minutes before you’re clenching around him, clinging onto his shoulders as you come. There’re tears in his eyes when he releases into you and he rolls his hips lazily to yours, stretching out the feeling as long as either of you can manage.

He falls down on your body and tucks his face to the crook of your neck. The shaking of his shoulders startles you at first and you pull his head back to find him crying, eyes red and lips trembling. Your heart lurches because you think you’ve pushed him to do something he wasn’t ready for, but instead, he smiles, leaning in to kiss you chastely.

“There was a time I never thought I’d see you again,” he sighs, pressing kisses to your cheekbones, to your nose, to your forehead, “but you’re here. I’m here. I didn’t think I’d ever come home to you and here you are. My girl.”

He wipes at the tears slipping past your eyes before you can realize you’re crying. He never once talked about his time held in Hydra’s captivity since he’s been home. He avoids it narrowly at every chance, pushes out a smile and finds a way to dodge the subject. He’s handling it, he tells you, and you only believe him half of the time, but something feels different tonight.

The way he’s looking at you, you can see the light behind the blue in his eyes. It’s like a faded navy hanging above a sunset, somewhere where the stars are collecting, peppering amongst the darkness, and shadows are casting the sun into the night. He’s beautiful.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, not sure what else to say.

“It’s not your fault, baby,” he says and there’s truth in his voice, sincerity. “I’m sorry I asked of you what I did. It wasn’t right, to put all that on you, and… hell… if you’d gone through with it like I asked, I would’ve deprived myself of this. Of being with you, here. Of surviving again.”

He kissed your forehead, pulling you impossibly close against him. He’s still inside you and though you can feel him soften, it’s the fullness of his body connected to yours that relieves you, that reminds you that he’s here with you.

“Don’t ask that of me again,” you beg, curling into him. “Don’t ask me to lose you like that. I won’t do it. I need you here with me, okay? I need you to be here.”

“I know, baby. Never again, I promise.”

You’re home in his arms and he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t flinch. He’s content, safe, and he nestles his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in the smell of you he’d lost when he was gone all those weeks. He’s memorizing you again, learning to recommit every piece of you to memory. It was all that kept him alive when he was gone.

It’s something he never had when he was captured in the war and after the fall. He never had something to hold on for, to cling to, to keep his mind focused on anything outside of the unrelenting torture.

So, he savors the feel of your body wrapped around his, the smell of your hair, the soft touches of your fingers as you run them in gentle patterns along his back, the hum of your voice; it’s all his saving grace, every piece of you.

He knows he’s a mess. He fully realizes how broken he is and he’s crumbling at the seams, especially after these last few months, but you never once turn him away, never even consider that he is as irredeemable as he thinks he is.

It’s the reason he thinks he might just be alright.

One day.

Maybe not today, because there’s still pieces of darkness clouding around him, but he’s able to see through the fog of it again. It’s something, and your sweet voice echoes in his ear, reminding him it’s the process that counts, no matter how small the steps.

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

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes one shot #marvel

3K notes · View notes

fleeting-queen-of-pepperland · 3 years

Text

Yardbirds Of A Feather

Robert Plant x Reader

Category: Fluff

Warnings: None

Word Count: 3K

-----------------------------------

Ethereal.

That was the only word that could nearly encompass Robert as he dominated the stage with his presence; his arms moving delicately in the air, his back arching through the higher notes, and the way he interacted with the audience as the music seemed to flow through him with every step he took across the stage.

Seeing him from such a short distance almost felt like a religious experience.

You smiled and leaned against one of the walls, hidden backstage in what felt like your own V.I.P spot. You had been a roadie for the band for nearly four years. Getting to know the rest of the boys and being talked into into their alcohol fueled misadventures more times than you’d care to admit had been one hell of a ride, and no matter how crazy, hectic and challenging that lifestyle had proven to be, you wouldn’t change it for anything in the world.

Well, perhaps for one thing only. Something related to the curly-haired frontman who covertly turned to look your way and smiled goofily before turning to the roaring audience once more and lifting his arms.

Robert and you had the best of friends since you were teenagers. After your family moved next door to his, it didn’t take long for him to come up to you one afternoon and interrogate you about your taste in music after claiming to have overheard Elvis Presley music coming from your room, in that extroverted and friendly way you had grown accustomed to. On the other hand, your first instinct was to bashfully blush and apologize for the noise. Since then, you had become practically inseparable.

Despite your noticeably different personalities, Robert had a knack for reading people, and he knew it was just a matter of time until you came out of your shell. It only took one year of innumerable afternoons at either one’s house, the park, or all the local pubs; talking music, films, or literally anything. By now you were certain you knew each other better than nearly anyone else, and Robert was one of the few people you were a completely different person around, shedding that taciturn and somewhat reserved layer.

However, as time went by, you began to realize your feelings towards him had begun to change, without knowing exactly when or how.

Suddenly, you’d feel especially tense and even coy when he did things such as putting his arm around you or playfully throwing you over his shoulders to carry you around; things you didn’t use to mind. At least not as much. You were no fool. Of course you knew what it meant and, moreover, you were aware of the consequences romantic feelings could have on your friendship, so you had decided you wouldn’t risk it. You’d wait until the strain you felt in your chest whenever he leaned in too close and the subconscious smile that crept onto your cheeks at the first sight of him in the morning disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared.

However, back in the present, it wasn’t until he threw you a questioning look that you realized your eyes had been on him all along, even in the middle of Jimmy’s guitar solo that had the crowd going absolutely mad. Literally everyone in the venue, even some other roadies that stood next to you had their eyes fixed on Jimmy as his fingers strummed the chords of his guitar with dexterity. Everyone but you.

“Shit”, you thought as you attempted to smile nonchalantly, waving at him awkwardly before retreating behind the stage, putting your hand over your eyes in a chagrined manner.

You nearly crashed into Gage, a fellow roadie who was laboriously pushing one of the cases in which the equipment was stored.

“Hey,” he greeted “Is everything alright?”

You nodded and got behind the massive black rectangle, next to him.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Where do you want this?”

He gestured towards the spot through which the band would be coming through when the concert was over, and both of you began pushing. By the time you got there, both of you were sweating. Fun aside, being a roadie was also exhausting.

You reached your meant destination as Robert’s voice resounded through the venue and reached your ears.

“I want to thank each and all of you for being here tonight! We love you, and good night!”

The multitude cheered, mixed exclamations of excitement and desolation for the end of such a wonderful show filled the air for several more minutes.

You reached out your arms as the boys strode off the stage and made their way to the back while still waving at the crowd.

Jimmy smiled at you and placed his guitar on your hands before receiving a paper cup filled with something that probably wasn’t water from another roadie.

“Thanks, Y/n.” he said before pouring the contents of the cup down his throat.

“Great job, guys,” You said, smiling kindly at Jimmy and nodding at Bonzo and John as they walked by. Then you turned your attention to Robert, who seemed to be ready to engulf you in a sweaty hug as he often did after his shows.

However, this time he didn’t.

Instead, he seemed to catch himself and pulled his arms back before patting you on the back with a smile before walking towards his band mates.

Well, that was odd. He probably thought you hadn’t noticed, but you could definitely see him change his mind mid-second and decide otherwise hugging you.

A new, frightening possibility invaded your mind as you carefully placed Jimmy’s guitar back in its case and left it with the rest of the equipment.

“Was I too obvious?” You internally wondered, “Oh god. He knows. He definitely knows and he feels uncomfortable around me.”

You furrowed your eyebrows and shook your head sternly, decidedly putting a halt to your anxious, overthinking brain. Robert couldn’t possibly know. He hadn’t said or implied anything, and you had made sure to hide your infatuation as best as you could.

“Hey, Y/n!” Bonzo yelled, abruptly pulling you out of your thoughts. “We’re heading down to the pub, you coming?”

You turned to Robert, who was busy lighting a cigarette and didn’t look up. No matter how much you tried to convince yourself, that brief moment of panic had made you feel paranoid, and you decided it was better to call it a night and not hang around Robert in that state, so jittery that it could be obvious something was up with you, and you weren’t a good enough liar as to take that risk, let alone with a couple of beers in you.

On the other hand, you always went to the pub with them. You couldn’t just decline and expect none of them to think it was odd.

“No, sorry. Not tonight, I’m…not feeling well.” you quickly put an excuse together and even cleared your throat a little so it was believable.

“Oh, come on,” John protested, “You showed up to work, didn’t you? You’re fine!”

“I came to work because I love you guys,” you said with a soft chuckle, your eyes unconsciously drifting to the still oblivious Robert. Good lord, even that innocent phrase made your stomach churn. This was bad. “I just need to lay down. I’ll be as good as new tomorrow, I promise”

“Alright, see you tomorrow, Y/n.” John said disheartenedly before walking away, Jimmy and Bonzo following after saying their goodbyes to you.

And so, you went to grab your things, relieved that your excuse had actually worked and you’d be able to walk out without raising suspicion.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A voice behind you said apprehensively. Your body stiffened and you made your best effort to casually turn around, lifting your closed fist up to your mouth and faking another cough as you nodded.

“Yeah, don’t worry,” you said with a smile. Robert didn’t return it. The blond singer just stared at you up and down, his lips pursed in a concerned grin.

“Okay,” he finally said before nodding and going after the others, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The moment he disappeared behind the corner, you released a long, shaky breath you didn’t even realize you were holding.

You sighed as you threw your key in the bowl next to the entrance before closing the door behind you. However small and hideously furnished, at the moment that hotel room was the coziest, safest place on Earth.

You looked inside the mini fridge in search of something to drink, finding only a couple of beer cans. You shrugged as you took one and opened it, a pleasant fizzing sound emerging from it as your made your way to the couch before turning on the television, even though you knew you probably wouldn’t pay any attention to it. Robert’s odd attitude had planted a seed of uncertainty in your heart, and you were seriously struggling to pay it no mind.

“Alright,” a soft, tentatively hopeful voice in your brain whispered. “but what if he does feel the same way?”

You even shook your head at the possibility. Or impossibility, would be a more accurate way of putting it. This was no longer Rob, the quirky teenager who wrote songs in his notebook and only dreamed of one day singing them to the masses.

This was Robert Plant, The Golden God. Girls –beautiful girls– seemed to throw themselves at him wherever he went, or stared at him with amazement and even devotion from the pit when he was onstage. Perhaps he was even flirting with one of them at that very moment.

“Seriously, why are you doing this to me?” You asked your brain out loud with a groan. You’d positively go insane sooner or later if you continued like this. Now you had actually begun to regret your decision of returning to the hotel in instead of going out with the boys and having fun, as it looked more and more cowardly with each passing minute. Sure, he’d be there but maybe the more naturally you acted around him, the faster your crush would disappear?

It sounded logical to you. If you repeatedly acted as if nothing weird happened, then you would end up believing it and everything would go back to the way it was.

“Yeah, right,” you said to yourself begrudgingly before standing up. You wouldn’t let some stupid, insecure thoughts ruin your night.

Picking up the phone, you dialed the front desk to be met by a familiar beeping sound for a couple of seconds.

“Good night, how can I help you?” A lady answered in a sweet voice.

“Hi, I know it’s late but is your room service still available?” you asked, picking up the small menu that laid on the nightstand.

“Yes, it is, what would you like, Miss?”

“I’d like a large pepperoni pizza, please.”

After thanking her, you marched to the bathroom to take a quick but well-deserved shower. Not even five minutes later, right as you were walking out comfortably wrapped in a towel, a knock on the door made your stomach instinctively growl.

“Well, that was fast,” you thought as you made your way to the door and swung it open.

However, instead of the room service person you expected, you were met by Robert’s surprised glance as he helplessly stared at you for the single second it took for both of you to react, you slamming the door shut on his face with a yelp and him repeatedly apologizing, immediately looking away even after you had closed the door.

“What are you doing here?!” You asked, bewildered, as you made your way to your closet and found the oversized t-shirt you wore to bed, throwing it on as you hurriedly made your way back to the door, opening it to find the poor singer looking awfully flustered.

“I want–” he stammered and cleared his throat, “I just wanted to see if you were still feeling better. I mean, if you were feeling sicker already.”

He blinked a couple of times and shook his head bashfully, frustrated at his involuntary lapsus.

“What about the boys?” you asked, furrowing your eyebrows in confusion. Robert just smiled and shrugged dismissively.

“They can do just fine without me. How are you feeling?”

“Golden!” you said, your voice raising almost an octave out of nervousness. Yeah, you were many things, but a professional liar wasn’t one of them. “Do you...want to come in?”

He nodded and both of you stepped into the room. It wasn’t until then that you realized he had brought an acoustic guitar with him. After looking around the room, Robert finally deposited it atop the coffee table. The room probably seemed small compared to the much, much nicer ones the hotel where the band was staying at had, but he couldn’t care less.

“I brought you chicken soup,” he announced, lifting the paper bag he was carrying. “Seemed to me that you were coughing earlier, and the cabbie said there was a small restaurant not far from here and...I hope it helps.”

“Thanks,” you said, a warm feeling spreading through your chest as you gifted him with a sincere smile. Now you almost felt guilty about lying to them about being sick.

“So,” he said, gesturing towards the T.V. “What are we watching?”

“Oh, I wasn’t really paying any attention to it,” you admitted, to which he chuckled and settled on the couch.

“You just needed some background noise?” he asked, familiarized with your habit that stemmed from your hatred of silence. “Don’t worry, I’ve got just the thing,”

He patted the guitar case and then the spot next to him on the couch, which you settled in with just a little hesitation.

“With what tale of vikings or Celtic legend will you grace my ears tonight, Rob?” you asked, to which he half-heartedly laughed.

Your smile fell a little. There it was, those odd gestures that had become increasingly frequent and made you so uneasy. He pressed his lips together until they were just a thin line and took a deep breath before shaking his head.

“None, really. I wanted to show you something I’ve been working on. Well, we’ve been working on, the melody is Jimmy’s but he said he wanted me to put words to it and...never mind, I’m rambling again.”

You nodded in agreement with a shaky snicker as you brought your knees up to your chest and hugged them. Robert carefully placed his fingers on the strings and began to play, only to interrupt the melody after just a couple of chords.

“It’s just...It’s not done yet, alright? This is just...a sample, if you may.”

“Quit stalling!” you said with an impatient laughter, shoving his shoulder playfully. He normally wasn’t afraid to show you the songs he wrote, so you knew there was something about this one.

“Alright,” he said quietly before he began to strum the chords gently once again. He swallowed hard as he parted his lips and began to sing in that clear, whispering voice of his.

“It is the summer of my smiles

flee from me, keepers of the gloom

Speak to me only with your eyes,

it is to you I give this tune…”

The melody was gorgeous, but that was no surprise. Jimmy had an amazing talent for those things. However, it was not the melody that had captured your attention. It was the lyrics, and the evident feeling with which Rob vocalized every one of them. He kept singing, humming during the bits he still had no lyrics for.

“I’ve felt the coldness of my winter

I never thought it would ever go

I cursed the gloom that set upon us, ‘pon us, ‘pon us

But I know that I love you so

But I know that I love you so…”

He strummed all the chords one last time to close the song and stared at you nervously.

“That’s...that’s all I have so far. What do you think?”

“Rob, that’s beautiful.” You said, almost breathlessly. It really was. Even though to you his lyric writing ability was unbeatable, and this had been just a small display of it, he truly had something special there. “I can’t wait to hear it when it’s complete. I don’t know where you get all these beautiful words and ideas from.”

“I do.” He blurted out. You looked at him and tilted your head, puzzled. He did? What was that supposed to mean? Of course he did, that was kind of obvious. However, as you looked at him inquiringly, he just kept staring back, like he expected something to fall into place in your head at any moment. Suddenly, he moved his hand forward and placed it on top of yours.

“Y/n, I didn’t come here just to check in on you. I need to talk to you about something.”

Those words sent a jolt of electricity down your spine. This was it. He knew. What else could that possibly mean? You were about to blurt out any excuse to explain your recent behavior, try to dig a new way out of that situation, figure out a new escape plan; until you felt the warmth of Robert’s palm when his free hand cupped your cheek.

Then, he so slowly began to lean close to you, closer than he had ever been, until his warm, musky breath hit your face.

“I know where I get those words from. I’ve known since the day you got me that notebook and told me it was where many songs that’d go down in history would be written. And I’ve known since you fell asleep on my shoulder during that first flight to America, and you can’t possibly know how many moments of my life wouldn’t have been complete without you ever since. And before I start rambling again I need you to know, I love you Y/n.”

“You do?” you asked, half expecting to wake up from whatever hope-fueled dream this felt like, but as that smile you loved so much that hadn’t changed in years tugged at the edge of his lips and his hand squeezed yours tighter, you realized this was all real.

“Me too,” was all you managed to say, breathlessly, overwhelmed by all the emotions coursing through your chest.

It didn’t take him a single second to close the breach between your lips and his, bringing his other hand to cup your face as well before slowly letting them fall down your neck, finally settling them around your waist, pulling you closer and allowing you to carefully slide your arms around his neck.

“I knew it was a bad idea to hold myself back,” he said with a chuckle after slowly pulling away from the kiss, resting his forehead against yours. “I just thought...I don’t know, you were acting so oddly around me lately that I thought you knew and you were trying to push me away, you know?”

“I guess we are two birds of a feather, huh?” you said with an amused smirk.

Robert didn’t say anything. He just smiled as he brought you in for another kiss, and you knew that neither of you would have it any other way.

#led zeppelin #robert plant #jimmy page #john bohnam #john paul jones #led zeppelin imagine #robert plant imagine #robert plant x reader #reader insert #70s music #70s rock #classic rock #classic rock imagine #rock imagines

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tokyoghoose · 4 years

Text

something that never was

pairing: daisuke kambe x reader

playlist: even if it's a lie - matt maltese*, a soulmate who wasn't meant to be - jessica benko, the less i know the better - tame impala, id rather go blind - beyonce ( cadillac records ), the house we never built - gabrielle aplin*, i cant make you love me - dave thomas junior, i go crazy - orla gartland, blow my brains out - tikkle me, hidden in the sand - tally hall

warnings: angst, mentions of cheating,

summary: the coldness he radiates gets the best of you, ultimately leading to the end.

announcements!

i dont really see daisuke cheating unless it was a misunderstanding or smth, but i liked the idea of this fic. Let me know what you think!

you can tell i didnt write this in a sitting lol. Im vv sorry if it's hard to follow!

feedback is welcome and appreciated! requests are open!

There's a warm body beside you, yet the bed feels cold. The arm around your waist feels almost as foreign as the face in front of you. It hurts to look at him, to feel him. It hurts to even be around him. He's so beautiful but he feels like half the man he once was. It's disheartening.

Maybe the saying, what you don't know can't hurt you is correct because you were feeling the repercussions right about now. Curiosity really did kill the cat, and at this point, you don't even know how to get satisfaction from it. How does one bring up cheating to their partner? Especially when the partner is like Daisuke.

He likes to brush things off without paying a price except for whatever was in his bank account, the type to hand you a card and say 'go get yourself something pretty.' And it wasn't like he was a bad lover, in fact, it was very easy to fall in love with him. He has a charm about him that's magnetic, one glance and suddenly it's impossible to look away. Or at least that was your experience.

With the final confirmation that closing your eyes will do nothing other than bringing pictures into your head, you turn your back to him and try and distance your body from his. It doesn't do anything to help when he pulls you closer subconsciously, except for maybe it makes you want to cry.

You'd confront him tomorrow, you decided.

If you need to.

———

The pace you set is leisure and if kt wasn't for the poor nail bed quickly coming to nothing, it'd seem like you weren't completely losing your head. It's all you can think about. Daisuke out with some girl—who you know for a fact isn't his sister, and who is all over him. He didn't even make a move to push her off! He hates that kind of attention so if he didn't object it, then he was asking for it. He wanted the girl on his side. In fact, for someone who insists the other person sits across from him at a restaurant- he looked quite comfortable with her nearly in his lap.

Maybe you're overthinking this, y/n.

The door clicks open and your ears strain to hear the sound of Daisuke's dress shoes. He's rather indulgent when it comes to dressing wear and the shoes were practically silent, even with the short heel on the back.

"I'm home." He says to no one particular, taking off his trenchcoat and hanging it on the rack beside the door. He stops his path to the bedroom when he sees you frozen in place and staring in the living room. He merely quirks a brow, going to take off his suit and tie.

Suddenly you can't speak and you have tunnel vision. It's unfair how calm he always looks—it's almost smug like he knows everything about you and more. Like he can read your mind and tell you your darkest thoughts and when you'll die because let's be honest, it'll probably be by his hand. Maybe you should back out now before you can say anything. Forget it all because what if you're mistaken? The more you think, the more weight is added onto your shoulders and the more it pushes you down, down further into the hole you want to crawl into. Maybe you should let it because all you want to do now is escape his piercing gaze. His eyes are studying you, taking in your form and the cogs in his brain are turning to find an explanation as to why you are standing there like a psychopath and not welcoming him home like you usually do.

You feel like you're drowning. Is the light getting dimmer? The black around your vision only seems to close in around Daisuke and you try to look anywhere else but his face. There's water in your ears, the popping of them only intensifies until you can feel it pounding into your head with faint static.

Am I going to pass out?

It's not until his hand comes down gently on your shoulder that the closing circle of vision widens out and suddenly all the imaginary water rushes from your ears. You glance down at his rings before back up him, barely catching the end of his words.

"Are you alright?"

He's never been one to beg, so you would have to answer now or he'll leave it be for the rest of the night and probably months after until you're like this again.

"I-can we talk?"

He eyes you suspiciously, narrowing his eyes and keeping his brow raised before nodding, slipping his tie off around his neck, folding it neatly into the palm of his hand. He gestures for you to start the conversation, going to the minibar curving around the kitchen and living area.

When you don't reply he urges you on, "Why so tense? Did something happen, darling?"

It'd seem like he didn't really care from how cold his voice was, but you've grown accustomed to the monotone to know that he truly is concerned for your health. He genuinely wants to know why you're acting so odd. It only makes this so much harder? You're wrong- you have to be. This must be a sick trick your brain has played on you. Or he must be playing some sick trick.

Anxiety settles itself into your gut and it seems like it won't leave anytime soon.

"Daisuke, are...- are you cheating on me?"

His eyebrows finally go lax but he doesn't look up from unbuttoning the cuffs of his white button-down. His fingers fidget at the buttons and instead of the previous loose form, his hand forms a fist.

"I- "

"Why—exactly, are you accusing me of this?"

His gaze sends chills down your spine. He's offended but he doesn't offer a defense. Suddenly your mouth is dry and you lose all your words? How exactly were you going to tell him you stumbled across him and some woman in a restaurant and practically stared them down for fifteen minutes.

You decide the bear it and swallow a lump that has formed in your throat.

"You were with a woman earlier this week snd well, the displays of affection that I saw were not very like you. You've been gone for long hours and even if you blamed it on the new job, Daisuke—you never tell me anything. Is she for a case? Are you using her for information? Go on, tell me about it. Give me a reason not to accuse you."

You regain your confidence but it falters when you meet his indifferent expression. You'd prefer it if he looked angry and the silence that fills the room is deafening and the tension suffocating.

"I can't tell you anything about our cases-"

"I'm your partner! What am I going to do? Rat you out to whoever is breaking the law? Why would I even how those connections, Daisuke?"

Daisuke inhales deeply through his nose like this whole conversation is a burden on him and you can't help but feel like a burden too. Was this relationship not worth the time to talk this out? One hand grips the bar and the other pinches the bridge of his nose.

"You aren't my partner, you're my fiance. My partner and I work together. So, no. I can't tell you about the cases."

You want to rip out your hair. This isn't about his stupid job or his stupid partner. This is about the dumb fucking restaurant and the dumb fucking woman who was hanging off him.

He can't actually be this dense!

"It's not about that! Either you aren't getting the point or you keep changing the subject because it's true!" Your voice rises in pitch, your confidence failing and turning more so into desperation. But you aren't crying yet. There are no tears and your eyes are dry and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of a Kambe.

It's like the beginning of your relationship all over again. A protective barrier around yourself so you don't get hurt and offended by his cold shoulder. Was it so bad to think you've moved on from that feeling? Why is it so difficult for him to just comfort you and push back those fears? Is he that emotionally stunted? You may not know much about his past and his family, but damn— at least you're trying to work through it with him. Can he put out a little more effort?

All he does is pour himself a glass. All he does... is pour himself a glass.

"You know what- forget it. If you're so entitled and so emotionally reserved that you can't even talk to me without a drink first, then I guess we'll talk about it another time—when you don't look like my voice gives you a headache."

Daisuke actually looks taken back by your words and you suddenly feel bad for hitting a sore spot. He may not have shown it often, but he doesn't particularly like not being able to show his true emotions; no matter the reason being.

"Y/N, wait.."

But you're back on adrenaline just as soon as he felt a drop, pushing past him to get to your coat. You just needed to calm down before you said something you'd truly regret. Words tended to stay in his mind much longer than they were intended to.

"I'm staying at my mother's. Don't call me, don't text me, don't come near me until you're ready to tell me what the hell you were doing with her. "

When he doesn't say anything more and you can practically hear the cogs in his head turn, you make your way out there door, making sure to slam it shut.

You slip on the coat angrily, slamming open the door without sparing him a glance but waiting for him to say something. Anything. Were you being too rash? You shake your head and scold yourself, mentally. You can't just turn around now, not after an outburst like that. He has to learn something from this.

Irrational or not, hopefully, his true colors would show.

#daisuke kambe fic #daisuke kambe fanfic #daisuke x reader #daisuke kambe x reader #daisuke kambe imagine #daisuke imagine #balance unlimited x reader #balance unlimited fanfiction #balance unlimited fanfic #balance unlimited imagine #balance unlimited #fugou keiji balance: unlimited imagine #fugou keiji x reader #fugou keiji balance: unlimited #fugō keiji balance: unlimited x reader #mickie writes

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styleiswild · 3 years

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Interview with Beastie Boys for Machina magazine, 07/1998

By: Rafał Bryndal

Translation: Anna Bak ( @styleiswild )

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Introduction: The party called Beastie Boys in Lisbon went on for two days. On the first day we (the journalists) were invited to the magical “Kremlin” club to listen to the new album [Hello Nasty]. I don’t think I have to explain how I felt knowing that I was possibly one of the first Polish people to listen to that phenomenal record. On the second day each of us got to meet the band in Hotel Ritz during the so-called “round-table.” It’s like a private conversation with the artists. It looks a bit like a coffee party at your aunt’s. (…) The whole meeting was just as absurd, in a positive way. The answers they gave us were often ironic, as one could expect.

R.B.: Don’t you think that being Beastie Boys is way cooler than being any other band in the world?

MCA: Unfortunately, we haven’t tried being a different band yet. So I can’t really answer your question.

Mike D: To be honest, there’s something to it. Maybe because we have so much fun working together. It’s not always fun, of course. We do work from time to time, but only sometimes.

R.B.: It seems like you work on your albums for fun and pleasure exclusively?

Mike D: I think it’s because we don’t release them that often.

Ad-Rock: Yes… Yes, you must be right, man.

MCA: Hey, we’d released Ill Communication after a two year break.

R.B.: Yeah, but this one took you four years.

MCA: Yeah, we had to level it out. It takes us three years most of the time.

R.B.: You grew up together. Are you always on such good terms with one another?

MCA: Sometimes there’ll be tripartite fights. Not sure you’ve ever seen what it looks like when three people fight each other. Each of them against the other two. That happens sometimes. Rarely, though. To be honest, we don’t really argue much.

R.B.: Your new album seems a bit like a departure from The In Sound from Way Out!

Mike D: Hello Nasty is a collection of a dozen or so songs, each of them stylistically different. That’s why you can’t really compare it to our previous releases. I guess, though, that at least two of the songs would’ve worked well as instrumentals on the previous album.

R.B.: How do you deal with the new technologies in music?

Mike D: Technology is present in all genres today and you can’t run from that. Music evolves largely thanks to the new technology. Especially hip hop music. We do it like the true rappers do, which means we start with a drum machine, then we put it on a loop, and then we use digital delay system. That’s one of the newest inventions. Technology is unpredictable, because people – who are its creators – have no clue about what the artists can do with it.

R.B.: Is it true what they say on the internet? That this album is the first one of the three that you’ve recorded lately?

MCA: You’ve really heard about that?

Mike D: Gosh, you can’t keep anything secret today.

Ad-Rock: Three? To be honest, we’ve got many more albums recorded.

Mike D: The last one of the three is a country album. The genre is so popular that you can’t really keep such a record a secret anymore. Especially when you’re in Manhattan and you walk around in a cowboy fit, it’s suspicious as hell. Because there aren’t many cowboys in Manhattan. People see a guy in a cowboy fit and assume that he has to be working on a country album.

R.B.: Is it really so important for your clothes to fit the style of your music?

MCA: You identify with your music more when you dress up. People often cheat, they wear clothes that don’t fit the music they play.

R.B.: So what kind of clothes did you guys wear when working on Hello Nasty?

MCA: I wore a bat girl costume.

Ad-Rock: I dressed up as a scared woman.

Mike D: I’d wear a bathing suit, because I wanted to go swimming all the time.

Ad-Rock: We couldn’t really find what we were looking for at first. We tried on a range of fits and finally found those that went well with our music.

R.B.: You’ve been popular with skateboarders. It’s a group of people who wear unique clothes and listen to a lot of your music, as it seems. Do you identify with this subculture?

MCA: I don’t think it’s just that one subculture. There are a few more we’d like to identify with.

Mike D: For me it’s long gone. Skateboarding isn’t much of an extreme or exclusive kind of sports discipline anymore. It’s become very popular.

R.B.: You’ve worked with Lee “Scratch” Perry on the new album. Can you tell me what kind of benefits did that bring you?

Mike D: It’s hard to say, but we’ve always been pretty impressed with his work on dub music. He’s also inspired Mario Caldato, our studio engineer. For me, Lee is an artist of science, a living fucking legend.

R.B.: Do you think that you can inspire young musicians?

MCA: Sure, but that’s a normal thing, right? If music is evolving as a part of culture, then everything and everyone inspires that process. We’re happy that we can be a part of that culture to some degree.

R.B.: A lot of white kids have gotten into rap music thanks to “Rhymin’ & Stealin’.” At least that’s what happened to me…

MCA: As a white kid… Right, it’s hard to be a black kid in Finland.

Mike D: We discovered hip hop when we were thirteen or fourteen. We’d go and see Public Enemy and bands like that. We were totally enchanted. It’s not that weird that kids who listen to us want to do the same thing.

R.B.: Some people say that you don’t like it when other artists sample your music. Some say that you’re more liberal, though.

MCA: It all depends on how the sample is used. If it’s creative, then we’re here for it. But if they go and copy our own ideas, and the whole track revolves around that idea, then we’re obviously pissed off.

R.B.: Are you as satisfied with making music as you’re with your magazine and your record label?

MCA: It’s all really about creating something new, publishing the mag, recording albums or playing gigs… We’re really into humanitarian work, too. Sure, the music is the most important thing of all. Nobody knows where it comes from, it’s hard to define the process of making music. It comes from subconsciousness.

R.B.: I’ve heard that you were to make a movie based on your “Sabotage” video?

Mike D: Unfortunately, that’s not true.

MCA: It doesn’t change the fact that we’re planning to make a movie…

R.B.: About what?

MCA: You can actually watch it in the cinema already, because Spice Girls had stolen our screenplay and made it their own.

R.B.: In the 80s there were a lot of humanitarian aids, like benefit concerts during which quite a lot of money got lost for a very simple reason. Those actions were organized on such a grand scale that it was nearly impossible to control the funds. Aren’t you scared that the same thing can happen to your organization?

MCA: Free Tibet is there to help people find out about the issue and educate them on it. The money that we get helps us organize the Tibetan Freedom Concerts. It’s not like those other actions from the past that were strictly about collecting funds.

R.B.: Do you believe that the bands you invite to play consider the gigs something more than simply another type of self-promotion?

MCA: I feel that most of those artists are really moved by the issue we’re trying to bring to people’s attention.

R.B.: You’re fighting for free Tibet, while recently it’s been 50 years since the State of Israel was formed. And Palestinians are fighting for their rights to be respected. Why have you taken on Tibet and not Palestine?

MCA: Tibetans’ fight is based on the idea of non-violence. It’s a peaceful fight. The contrast between the brutality of the Chinese government and that quiet fight of Tibetans does make an impression, and that’s why we’re popularizing the ideas behind the Tibetan struggle. We believe that the non-violent, peaceful act is the only logical way of dealing with the issue.

R.B.: Even if the peaceful fight ends up leading to the extinction of Tibetan culture?

MCA: The same thing will happen if Tibetans decide to use violence as a means to gain their freedom.

R.B.: Is it true that your music is banned in Hong Kong?

MCA: That’s right. We can’t play there. Our albums can’t be sold on their market. All of the bands playing for Milarepa are banned from performing in China.

R.B.: You’ve met Dalai Lama on several occasions. Does he like your music?

MCA: Dalai Lama doesn’t listen to pop music at all. Lots of bands give him their CDs. He takes them because he doesn’t want them to feel bad, but he won’t give them a listen.

Ad-Rock: That’s why he stores so many demos at home.

R.B. What is Dalai Lama like?

MCA: He’s fantastic. He’s a great role model, representing all of the values people associate with Tibetan culture, with Buddhism. He’s got great charisma. He oozes calmness that comes from the respect he has for everyone.

R.B. What’s his opinion on Tibetan Freedom Concert?

MCA: He thinks it’s an excellent way of spreading his word. For him, the concert is a kind of holiday.

R.B.: As far as I know, you have a slightly different view on the future of Tibet. He wants to negotiate with the Chinese government about Tibet’s legal right to autonomy in China, while you fight for total freedom for Tibet as a sovereign country. Is that true?

MCA: It’s related to his view on the type of fight. He’s so scared of any form of violence that he’s ready to negotiate with the Chinese government. He’s choosing the lesser of two evils, that’s what he’s doing. We’re in a completely different situation, though. As American citizens, we want to speak with our government about freedom for Tibet. We believe that Tibetans should be free and we want to encourage the government to take action to help Tibetans gain autonomy.

R.B.: The “Sabotage” music video was unique and quite shocking. Are your new clips going to be equally as original?

Ad-Rock: It’s gonna be some good shit.

MCA: We had lots of fun working on it. The “Sabotage” video had a lot to do with the song, though. Our new clips won’t have anything to do with the songs. They can be treated as independent short features. We plan to make a couple more totally different clips.

R.B.: You’ve been a band for so long that you must be best friends and not only, let’s say, collaborators. Can you please describe one another?

Mike D: Adam Horovitz is, to use basketball terminology, the play maker. He shows us how we’re supposed to play because he’s the one in charge of the balls. Sometimes he can’t score from a distance, though. Adam Yauch, on the other hand, is a very unusual power forward. His style is completely devoid of aggression, unlike Karl Malone’s. Or Charles Barkley’s. He can dull his opponent’s vigilance with his slow moves and get all the points.

Ad-Rock: Mike is an idiot and a thief. Yauch is a liar. I’m as cool as James Bond.

Mike D: Some people might say that we’re CSC. Crazy Sexy Cool. And that’s what we wanna be.

R.B.: Can you explain your record cover? You’re in a tin and you look like sardines.

Mike D: Doesn’t it sound pretty? “Sardine tin”? It’s almost like a big surprise. You open the tin and it turns out that people’s lives are similar to the life of sardines.

MCA: Maybe this album was recorded by sardines and you’re now talking to them? Who does know?

#beastie boys #mca #adam yauch #ad rock #adam horovitz #mike d #michael diamond #1998 #90s #hello nasty #hello nasty era #scans #interview #music interview #beastie boys interview #this is not an ‘official’ translation ofc #done it in my free time #my posts

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roselen-mylady · 3 years

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In Another Life

Bucky Barnes x reader °part fifteen°

Summary: Waiting 88 years to find your soulmate? It was cruel. But it was a cruel fate Bucky would have to face whether he accepted it or not. Bucky was a tortured man all his life and he wasn't even granted the solace of having his soulmate at his side. All he had was the promise of one in another life. They were separated by two different times.

But the pain in their lives were connected.

Y/n had been alone ever since she could remember. All she could depend on was the soulmate that was destined to be at her side. Yet when the snap occurred she lost him.

And Bucky never got to meet her.

When Y/n awoke it was dark. Impossibly so.

She didn't know what time it was and she tried to rationalize the darkness as an outcome of it being so late but the darkness didn't feel right. Especially since she had left a small light on in the living room in case Bucky needed to find the bathroom or get a glass of water. Had the light turned off somehow?

Then the cold hit her. It was like she'd left a window open. The nights were getting colder and leaving the window open would freeze the entire apartment. But she distinctly remembered making sure all the windows were closed.

In a daze, she moved to sit up but that was when she noticed something. She wasn't lying in her bed. The ground below her was frozen to the touch and rough like she was lying outside.

Her heart sank.

Where was she?

How did she get outside?

Maybe she'd been sleepwalking? She'd never done it before but maybe due to recent events, her mind was acting out in strange ways to cope? Yet as she moved to find her way back inside through the dark, she hit a surface with the same feeling.

Rough and cold. Like dirt.

She was surrounded by it. At this point she became more panicked, her breathing growing ragged and her heart started racing painfully. Frantically she reached out for the surface before her, finding that it crumbled in her hands.

It hit her all at once. She was underground.

She'd been buried alive.

Terror filled tears welled in her eyes as she desperately beat at the dirt above her, trying to dig her way out of the hole she'd been put into. With each hit the dirt crumbled, weakening enough to give way as it tumbled down upon her. She cried out, covering her face in an attempt to spare herself from the mountain of dirt she probably just dropped on herself but the great weight she feared would crush her never came.

The scent of smoke came to her first, dragging her horrified gaze back to the space she'd dug open. There was a hole now, one just large enough for her to peer out of. The sky above was a dull blue, clouds of dust preventing the sunlight she'd been hoping for to shine down.

In a panicked haste, she tore at the hole opening it enough for her to crawl out. It was a struggle but she managed to drag herself out onto the ground, laying beside the hole as she tried to steady her breathing.

The sky was filled with smoke and ash, as if some disaster had just struck. That's when she realized. The dirt below her, it was covered with debris and chaos. She was back at the battle. The battle she'd lost everything to.

There was a weight on her chest, one that seemed to grow with each breath she took. But the weight was quickly forgotten as her gaze drifted to the hole once more. There, displayed next to it, was a helmet.

Tony's helmet.

She wasn't just buried in a hole. It was a grave. Tony's grave.

She gagged back a scream, scrambling away from the hole as she clambered to her feet. This had to be a dream, some sick nightmare her guilty conscience had concocted to torture her.

Her tears fell freely now as she staggered back several feet, wanting to put as much distance between her and the grave.

She knew it was just her subconscious. Her subconscious was projecting her guilt by putting her into Tony's grave. When she said she wanted to take Tony's place, she had meant it but seeing it herself- it petrified her.

She just needed to wake up. Just wake up.

Suddenly her unsteady steps stopped as her back hit a wall making her halt. Yet as she whipped around, she realized it wasn't a wall or any type of surface to trap her once more.

Instead there stood Bucky, a soft comforting smile on his face. But it wasn't the Bucky she remembered. His hair was much shorter, tucked neatly under his green sergeant hat. He appeared younger, smaller. Yet these things went almost unnoticed as she caught his gaze. His eyes were the ones she'd always known. The ones she'd envisioned whenever she thought of her soulmate. They were bright and full of life. The welcoming blue told her he was mischievous yet kind, always ready to playfully tease someone in that loving way. They were so full of wonder and hope.

They were the eyes that sadly Bucky didn't have anymore. This wasn't her Bucky.

Yet her hysterical mind couldn't see that. All she saw was Bucky and she threw herself into his arms, sobbing into his chest. His arms came around her without hesitation, holding her like it would be the last time he could.

"Shh, doll. It's alright. You're alright." He soothed, running his hand along her hair. She could feel the warmth of his hands as they held her, the tenderness one of them no longer possessed now resting on the nape of her neck. She could feel the love he'd always held for her. "You're safe."

His words put her at ease and she felt safe in his arms. He wouldn't let anything hurt her.

But as soon as she let her guard down the warmth faded. Her blood ran cold as a familiar sound echoed in her ears. A sound she could never forget. The whirring groan in his arm when it shifted to attack. She didn't even have time to speak before his hand tightened in her hair, harshly yanking her back and slamming her into a wall.

She collapsed onto concrete, her already torn knees staining the sidewalk with blood. She recognized this. It was all too painfully familiar.

She was back on that street. The day it all happened. The day her life as she knew it ended.

Bucky didn't hesitate to grab her throat, dragging her back up against the wall she'd nearly died against all those years ago. She felt like she was 15 all over again, panicked and terrified. She fought and begged and cried for Bucky to let her go.

Not again. Please, not again.

She couldn't bare to stare at those eyes again. The eyes that haunted her. They were just as lifeless as she remembered. They held no mercy or remorse. The Soldier followed orders and didn't care about the lives that got in the way.

She continued to plead, her eyes closing as she ran out of air. But she continued to go against all odds and beg for her Bucky.

The one that was neither innocent nor guilty. The one that spent years as a weapon and now dealt with the guilt of all the lives that his handlers used him to end. The man that was trying to be better. The man that still remembered what he had done. The man who escaped.

"Y/n?" His voice came to her like a call from a savior. The pressure on her throat disappeared and her eyes opened as she fell to her knees once more. This time she wasn't met with concrete, instead a dirt road. The very one she'd met Bucky on.

She quickly looked around, finding that the rest of the scene that had haunted her dreams for years was also gone, replaced with a road that would forever be the place she first held her soulmate. The first time she'd cried in his arms and made silent promises to him. Their meeting place.

"Oh, God." Bucky mumbled, the remorse he'd been lacking all those years rolling off his words in waves.

Y/n's gaze snapped back up to her attacker only to find him gone. The Winter Soldier was gone. And there was Bucky. Staring horrified at what he had done.

She opened her mouth to tell him it was alright. To tell him she forgave him for all he'd done and everything he would do. He was her soulmate and there wasn't anything he could do to change how she felt. But all that escaped was a gasp. Something had grabbed hold of her, ripping her back against the ground. She screamed as she was tugged across the rough earth, away from him.

"Bucky!" She cried but it was no use. He watched, unable to move to help as she was dragged back toward the grave by what felt like hands that continued to grip her tighter. She frantically grasped at the dirt, dread filling her chest when she was unable to grab onto anything.

Without warning she was falling down the hole, slamming against the bottom and knocking the already limited air from her lungs. She struggled to recover and for a moment she debated just staying in the hole.

Was she going to be stuck here in this nightmarish world forever? Would she constantly be tormented by her guilt and trauma? Forever being attacked by the man her soulmate was created to be. The man they both hoped to forget.

Hopeless sobs racked her body as she trembled in the grave. Her hand pathetically came to wipe her tears but only ended up over her mouth as her tears became more powerful and her cries grew louder.

She couldn't do this. Couldn't stand this nightmare anymore.

The familiar sound of dirt shifting above her made her muffle her cries slightly. Was something else here to attack her? The Winter Soldier? Or maybe something darker? Something worse.

"Y/n?"

Her sobs fell completely silent when her name was spoken. It wasn't the fact that whoever was up there knew her name. No, it was how easily she recognized the voice.

"Nat?"

Like a vision, Natasha peered down into the hole, her smile visible even through the darkness that surrounded them. How was this possible? "Let's get you out of there."

Her hand came down and Y/n took it instantly. This couldn't be real. This was just her memories of Nat resurfacing as a way to comfort her fragile mind.

Nat's hold was firm, tugging Y/n up out of the hole with ease and grace. Y/n helped to lift herself, finding a new hope with Nat's presence. If Nat was here in this place with her then maybe things weren't so bad.

Suddenly as she climbed out of the hole, a wave of water hit her, encasing her in an underwater trap. Yet unlike when she awoke, Nat was there to pull her up, making her break the surface of the water with a gasp.

"Sorry, I should've warned you," Nat chuckled, pulling Y/n to her feet. "This place is strange."

Nat was right. There was an orange sky with clouds that glowed with the same intense color. And as odd as that was, it wasn't quite as strange as the infinite lake that seemed to make up the ground. They were standing on it, the water.

Was she dead?

Was that why Nat was here? Not simply from her subconscious but actually here?

"Where are we?" Y/n asked, looking around at this other world. Surely she was dead.

"The soul stone. At least that's what that Gamora girl said." Nat explained. She watched Y/n with a careful gaze, taking notice of how battered she appeared. She definitely hadn't expected to look in better shape than Y/n especially considering the fact that she was dead.

Y/n looked exhausted. Her hair was unkempt and she looked as if she had just run 30 miles with her sweaty brow and flushed face. It wasn't just her physical appearance that worried Natasha. Y/n's eyes remained unfocused and her hands quivered slightly. And there was a faint purple scar along her wrist and forearm, one unlike anything Nat had seen.

"Am I dead?" Y/n questioned, hesitant for an answer. She feared what would happen if she was dead. Would Pepper have to carry out Tony's wishes alone? Would something happen to Peter if she didn't watch out for him? Would Bucky move on without her?

"No. I don't think so anyways. You feel- I don't know almost at a distance. You're not completely here like I am." Nat told her, trying to ease the worry that creased Y/n's brow.

"What does that mean?"

"I can't explain it." Nat sighed. "You just have to trust me."

Y/n nodded softly. She trusted Nat. More than anyone. But she didn't trust herself. Especially not to return to her life. "How do I get back?"

"You will in time. But first there's someone for you to see."

•••

Bucky couldn't sleep.

How could he? He was just a short distance from his soulmate and yet it felt as if she wasn't there at all.

His Ma described meeting a soulmate as a tug and a hitch. The tug pulled a person to their soulmate and the hitch was that click that happened between them. That feeling that told them they were perfect for one another.

But Bucky hadn't felt it yet. And that killed him.

He already knew he cared for Y/n, much more than he had cared for anyone even though she was just a stranger to him. But it didn't feel right. The way he felt for her didn't feel natural yet, didn't feel justified.

He longed to be the person he once was. The easy going and lovable man he knew himself to have been. The kind of man that made a woman feel at ease, the kind of man that could dance all night with a girl and win her heart.

Oh, how badly he wished to win Y/n's heart. How badly he wanted to give his in return.

But he wasn't that man anymore. And it wasn't going to be that easy.

Why did everything in his life have to be hard? He was beginning to believe nothing would ever be peaceful for him and it only crushed his hopes of clicking with Y/n.

After everything he'd done, he wondered if this was punishment.

Or worse, what if Y/n wasn't clicking with him because she knew what he'd done? The thought made him sick.

What if she was scared of him?

Bucky groaned, standing up from the bed. It was dark outside but the lights from the city were enough to see his way through the room. He just wanted to move. To go for a walk or a run. Anything to get his mind off his painfully obvious disconnect with his soulmate.

Silently he slipped his shoes on, making his way out into the living room to find his coat. Maybe he'd run to Brooklyn? It sounded pitiful running home but he didn't know where else to go.

Slipping on his coat, he made his way to the door pausing only a moment. It didn't feel right to just go without leaving a note or saying goodbye. He would've been devastated to find that she'd left during the night and he knew it was wrong to do that to her.

With a sigh, he searched around her apartment for a pen and paper, eventually finding some in the desk Steve left behind.

He wrote a quick note explaining where he'd gone and that he'd eventually be back. He wasn't sure when he would. He needed time to think, to just figure out everything that had happened before trying to connect with her. He couldn't put that responsibility onto her. Couldn't make her bear the weight of loving a man who neither one even knew.

He tried to ignore the heaviness in his heart as he entered her room, hoping to set the note on her bedside table where she'd see it. It felt so wrong, leaving her. Was he making a mistake? He shook the feeling off, placing the note next to her lamp.

Yet rather than turning away to leave, he paused. He watched her silently, cursing himself for being a creep. Soulmate or not, they were strangers. And yet he couldn't stop.

She was his soulmate. His actual soulmate. He had found her after all these years. And he was leaving.

He felt stupid.

Slowly he crouched next to her admiring the way her hair laid across the pillow or how her hand cradled her face as she slept. He leaned on the bed, inching forward ever so slightly. Her eyes flickered under their lids, some kind of dream playing out before her unconscious mind.

She was so beautiful and he wondered if he really deserved someone like her.

He knew he didn't have much to offer being a 106 year old man with enough PTSD and survivor's guilt to trouble him for another century. The only thing he could promise was that he would protect her and that he would do without fail. He swore it.

He didn't know what he was doing until he was leaning forward. For one tender moment he pressed a kiss to her forehead, his fingers tracing her hairline softly.

Abruptly, he pulled away, realizing very suddenly he had gone from a creep to a major nut job. He sighed, harshly rubbing his face to try and whip away his guilt.

Then he stood, deciding he'd better go before he couldn't bring himself to anymore. So with one last look to her, he left heading off to somewhere he'd yet to find.

Part sixteen

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lov3nerdstuff · 3 years

Text

Voluptas Noctis Aeternae {Part 7.17}

*Severus Snape x OC*

Summary: It is the year 1983 when the ordinary life of Robin Mitchell takes a drastic turn: she is accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Despite the struggles of being a muggle-born in Slytherin, she soon discovers her passion for Potions, and even manages the impossible: gaining the favor of Severus Snape. Throughout the years, Robin finds that the not quite so ordinary Potions Professor goes from being a brooding stranger to being more than she had ever deemed possible. An ally, a mentor, a friend... and eventually, the person she loves the most. Through adventure, prophecies and the little struggles of daily life in a castle full of mysteries, Robin chooses a path for herself, an unlikely friendship blossoms into something more, and two people abandoned by the world can finally find a home.

General warnings: professor x student, blood, violence, trauma, neglectful families, bullying, cursing

Words: 5k

Read Part 1.1 here! All Parts can be found on the Masterlist!

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For a Saturday afternoon in late October, in Scotland especially, it was unreasonably sunny and therefore warmer than anyone should allow. Dreadful, really, and Robin was only glad that she had her beloved round sunglasses to keep the brightness out of her eyes at least as she followed the beaten path. Snape however wasn't as lucky, and all he could do was to scowl at both the warmth and the sunlight as he and Robin made their way towards Hogsmeade like they had decided to the day prior.

It was already quite late, almost the time where most students would be returning to the castle, but Robin had intentionally chosen to head down to the small village only now. If things went according to plan, they wouldn't have to come across any students at all, despite it being the most crowded Hogsmeade Saturday she had ever experienced. Bloody 'nice' weather… good thing they would be staying off the main street the entire time.

They had decided on what to sell the night prior, picking some of the less expensive objects and ingredients to test the waters for now. Still, once they reached the narrow alleyways and passages that were as void of people as they had been when Robin had been here for the first and only time, in her third year, she still couldn't help feeling a little nervous. She had managed to deal with the sleazy shop owner when she had been younger, and less knowledgeable… she certainly would be perfectly fine now too, right? All she had to do was to act on the now genuine boldness and knowledge she had only been able to feign the last time; if anything, it should be way easier now than it had been back then. Yes, she would definitely be fine; and she would win this bet she had going on with Snape.

"What should I demand for the few things I'm selling? Legal or not, I still gotta stay within the normal range of what this stuff is selling for. And since we said it's your choice what I'll be asking for, you better give me a number before we go in." Robin finally said, when they arrived in front of the ominous black shop. It was way less intimidating than it had been back then… or perhaps she had just grown used to thriving in the shadows.

"How about we stay somewhat realistic with this and set the price below value nonetheless. 200 galleons, perhaps?" Snape replied with a subtle not-smirk, giving Robin a look that conveyed both sincerity and amusement.

"That's BELOW value?!" Her jaw dropped, eyes wide with surprise and incredulity. "How much is this stuff worth for real then?"

"Anything between 250 and 300 galleons would be reasonable. In theory, of course."

"That's above a thousand pounds! That's ridiculous! Why would anyone pay that much for these ingredients when they could just gather them for free?"

"These objects are rare for a reason, namely that it is nigh impossible to simply gather them. Not nearly everyone is as… capable as you are, Robin. And for the few people in the field who require rare ingredients for their work in the first place, even 500 galleons would be no sum at all."

"As I said: ridiculous!" She scoffed, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly before she couldn't help smirking up at him when a new thought entered her mind. "Good thing I happened to you, or you'd still be buying your ingredients like a fool."

"I appreciate the way you say that; you really did happen to me. Like a natural disaster or the end of the world." He teased right back, putting on a neutral facade while quirking an eyebrow. "But I would have to agree. It was a very good thing indeed."

Robin's smirk turned into a genuine smile, and she took a deep breath. "So is 200 galleons the price you set?" She was absolutely ready for this now, all nervousness gone. "The bet is still on, isn't it?"

"If you are still looking forward to losing, then yes." He quipped, but even his tone let on now that he didn't much believe in his own victory in this scenario at all. It was a tease, and an encouragement for her to do her best. She definitely would do just that, if not for the ridiculous amount of money she could make then at least to humour him.

"Oh, we'll see who's losing here soon enough." Robin replied with one last smirk while dropping her sunglasses into her pockets, then she set her stony facade of perfect neutrality in place and focused on the task at hand. Bold, and stoic, and serious. Just like last time.

The bells above the door chimed when she stepped through first, letting her eyes flicker over the dusty shop that had very much stayed the same since her last visit. As had its owner, whose eyes widened noticeably as they landed on Robin first. She didn't miss the brief shadow of concern that flickered through his face upon the obvious recognition, but after two seconds of staring, he caught himself and flashed her a wolfish grin.

"Spare me the sweet-talk, I'm not here to buy from you." Robin was quick to speak first, giving him one of those piercing icy glares that could kill if they were to become any more tangible. The man's smirk dropped from his face immediately in return, and his frown deepened with every step that Robin came sauntering closer. So close, in fact, that he backed up seemingly subconsciously until his back hit the closest shelf behind him, making the jars and bottles rattle in protest. Obviously her sinister reputation had either spread even to this godforsaken place, or the impression she had left here four years ago had persisted throughout the time in between. Good.

"What can I do for you then?" He finally asked in a strained voice, while his eyes sought for a way to escape her presence. Honestly, Robin didn't know why people were this uneasy around her, considering how tiny she was in comparison to mostly everyone else, but then again, so were scorpions. Small in size, but often lethal. The thought made her smirk ever so slightly, which only served to upset the man in front of her even more. If everyone already thought she was insane, she might as well act on it. Showtime.

"The better question is what I can do for you." She started in an almost eerily sweet tone now, giving him a haunting smile. One of those that always made her shudder when Morgan sent them her way, and that had absolutely nothing happy or polite about them. "The dust on your shelves is piling up by the years, it seems, and yet here you are, still in business. Which can only mean that what you usually sell isn't put on display, is it? You certainly aren't that foolish."

"How do you-..."

"Knowing things is my trade, you see, and as you certainly have noticed, I have used my talents to become someone who indeed doesn't require affiliations, but who people wish to be affiliated with in return." She let her eyes trail over the many objects in the storage shelves for a few seconds, then they snapped back to his. Obviously she had no idea of whatever shady business this man was involved in, but the pieces of the puzzle she could see told her by far enough. So she would play on that now. "I have no use for this shop any longer. In fact, I could easily replace you in this line of business entirely. Or I could end your dealings with a single word in the right place at the right time. However, I have no intention to do either."

"Under which conditions?" He grumbled, frowning down at Robin wearily while the general tension and unease stayed present on his features nonetheless.

"None." She gave him that bone-chilling smile again. "I have no need to threaten you, there is nothing you have to give that would be of interest to me."

"What game are you playing at?" His question came out more shallowly than he probably would've liked, which only served to humour her in return.

"None you would understand." The corner of her lips quirked up into a sincere smirk for a moment, then she turned on her heels and sauntered through the shelves and displays. "Not when you are asking all the wrong questions."

The man seemed to be entirely confused now, deprived of his usual position of having the upper hand, of being the one who led the conversation and controlled the outcome of it. Indeed, he looked rather relieved to be free of Robin's piercing gaze now, but stayed standing in his spot with his back to the shelf nonetheless. She had him right where she wanted, and he obviously didn't have the slightest idea. Perfect.

"What are you here about?"

"Hmm." She hummed in feigned indifference, not even giving him a single glance now as she studied the dusty jars and bottles in distaste.

"What the bloody hell do you want?!" He asked again, not in anger as it might have sounded to anyone who didn't know better, but in unease and desperation.

"I want you to start asking the right questions! I don't have all day." She snapped back at him, approaching him in certain steps once more that had him trying to back up on instinct, only to hit the shelf again. For a moment he actually seemed to think then, which usually was a great improvement to any situation already, while Robin glared at him impatiently nonetheless. The moment he would realize that she was no threat to him was the moment she would lose, and thus she did her best to keep up the impression of danger as long as possible.

"What is it that… you can do… for me?" He finally dared asking, holding her gaze even though the twitching muscles in his face were a clear indicator of his real sentiments. Really, he needed to work on his facades.

"Finally a question worth answering." Robin sighed in feigned annoyance, then went back to the safe neutrality of talking business. "I have a few objects to sell which certainly will be of interest to you."

"What kind of objects?" His tone was weary, but there was no denying that he was interested in the offer. Wordlessly Robin placed the ingredients on the counter behind her, well out of his reach of course, but close enough to see. His eyes widened in an instant as he stared at them first, then at Robin. "Where on earth did you get those?"

She ignored his question, merely giving him an indifferent look for a second, then continued on her own terms. "You certainly know the value of what I have to offer, and be assured, so do I. But seeing as you obviously will be able to sell them for a much higher price than what I expect you to pay, please be so kind and spare us both the time and effort of trying to bargain with me."

"How much?"

"300 galleons."

"Are you bloody joking?!" He scoffed, while squirming under Robin's glare nonetheless.

"Do I seem like the type to joke?" She raised an eyebrow at him with an otherwise grave expression, and finally he just had to look away, anywhere but at her.

"Fine…" He grumbled in disdain, and when Robin graciously made way for him, he moved over to an inconspicuous trunk in the far corner. "But you'll have to take it in cash."

"Fine."

Without another word, he opened the trunk and climbed in, descending a staircase Robin could only guess was hidden inside it. A minute later he returned with a large wooden box, which he placed on the counter next to Robin's cardboard box of ingredients. While he then moved to inspect the ingredients more thoroughly, Robin for her part counted through the thirty stacks of ten golden coins each, in carefully hidden amazement. Honestly, if her facades weren't routine by now, her jaw might just have dropped from the amount of money under her very fingertips. A thousand and five hundred pounds… three hundred galleons. Bloody hell.

"These ingredients are first class… better than most I have seen." The man's scratchy voice finally drew her attention back to him. "I should be able to sell them for a high price indeed."

"Obviously." Robin replied with a sigh in feigned annoyance yet again, and when the man began sorting the few ingredients into the shelves far behind the counter, she carefully stored away the many golden coins in the depths of her backpack. Good gods, she still couldn't believe it. This was bloody insane.

"You know, it's been four years and I still have absolutely no idea who you are." He finally said as he came back, quite obviously more at ease now that the reason for her presence had been revealed. The wolfish grin returned to his lips a second later, but he did well to stay at a distance to Robin. "But I must say, you are still creeping me out more than anyone I know. There just is something about you, all that danger and all the smarts… If I wasn't so terrified of you every time you show up, I might just have to ask you out, now that you've turned into such a delicious piece of eye candy as well."

"The 'eye candy' will likely cut your tongue off if you do not keep your lewd comments to yourself." Snape's sharp voice cut in before Robin herself could reply, and the man behind the counter jumped visibly as his eyes frantically scanned the room for the words' origin. He obviously hadn't taken notice of Snape's presence before just now, but Robin couldn't really blame him. Snape was truly remarkable at staying unseen by anyone whose eye he wanted to avoid, and Robin could only hope that he would show her how he did it one day. For now, she just was more than happy when she felt his presence coming up right behind her, and she directed her attention back to the man behind the counter, who looked even more nervous now that they both stood before him.

"You should keep in mind who you are speaking to." Robin said to him in a neutral calm, seeing no reason to intimidate him any more now. "I came here to trade, not to socialize. Have a nice day."

Turning on her heels, she gave Snape a small smirk, then made for the door. The bells chimed once more as it fell shut behind both of them, and finally they were out in the street again, turning right and walking a few steps before Robin couldn't help grinning at last. It had gotten considerably darker now, the sun gone and the warmth quickly fading, but it didn't matter. This entire ordeal had been a big success, and gods, it had been way too amusing for anyone's good. They still walked on in silence for a little while, until Robin just couldn't help nudging Snape in the side ever so slightly in her giddy excitement.

"I did it." She grinned up at him, not even bothering to take the necessary step away again, which left her arm brushing against his as they walked. "Can you please tell me that this actually just happened? Because I honestly don't know if I dreamed it or not."

"Didn't we say 200 galleons?" Snape asked in return, a tease more than an actual question, as was visible in both his tone and the not-smirk. "Because I cannot remember saying that you should go for 300."

"I wasn't seriously going to sell under value. You know me, I like to push the limits."

"I know." His smirk turned into a real one, and his eyes finally met Robin's while the two of them sauntered along the alley. "That was one of the most impressive displays of power I have come to witness to this day."

"Really?" Her eyes lit up at the compliment, her heart skipping a beat, and when he just gave her a look in return, she went on with a smirk. "Well, find me someone else to snap at –someone who deserves it– and I will repeat the 'display of power', if it entertains you so."

"I certainly will, at a later point in time. For now I have lost a bet, and I would like to pay the price for this… unfortunate misjudgment of your talent for trade as soon as possible."

"I won't complain, I've been looking forward to this part of the trip all day."

"I had feared you would say that." He sighed, but the smirk stayed on his lips nonetheless, and Robin knew that he shared her sentiment after all.

"May I choose my drink?" She asked then, with mischief written all over her face as a mirror of the plan she had made this morning.

"You traded for more than I suggested; I would say you deserve the freedom of choice."

"Great. I want firewhisky."

Snape stopped in his spot in an instant and turned to look at Robin with an equally shocked and amused face that had her grinning even more. "Are you certain about that?"

"Yeah. I've always wanted to try it, but there's never been an opportunity to." She shrugged easily, her gleaming eyes fixed on his. "And seeing as I've never had any kind of alcoholic beverage before, we might as well start there."

A small snort escaped him as his lips curled up into a sincere smile. "You want to start drinking, and choose firewhisky as your first?"

"Whyever not? I do things entirely or not at all, remember?" She smiled in return. "But funny how that is what's bothering you, and not the fact that I am choosing something alcoholic in the first place."

"As if I would care… On the contrary, I appreciate it even! It opens up the possibility of us drinking something other than coffee in the evenings together, once in a while. However that is only if your first glimpse into the wide field of alcohol isn't ruined by something as crude as firewhisky."

"I am open for suggestions, should I end up not liking it, but I want to try it first nonetheless."

"Fine. Your choice." He mused, and as he turned to walk on, a hint of a smirk played on his lips once again, with just enough mischief in it to have Robin feeling excited. Whatever he was plotting in that big brain of his, she was definitely going to enjoy the outcome of it.

For a few minutes Robin followed him through the maze of alleyways, curious where he was leading her, until at last he stopped at the back of a wooden house that probably had its main entrance on one of the busier streets. With a not-smirk, he opened a small door that was so inconspicuous that Robin had missed it entirely on first glance.

"After you." He said as he held it open for her to pass through, and without a second thought Robin stepped into the complete darkness that lay behind it. She took three steps, but when she couldn't see where she was going nor knew where she was supposed to go, she waited until Snape had closed the door behind himself, which should leave him in close enough proximity. The suspicion was confirmed when she felt his arm moving around her shoulders to guide her along through whatever path they were following in this darkness, and for once she enjoyed the frantic drumming of her heart that came along with the situation. He obviously knew perfectly well where he was going, and as long as he kept his arm around her so securely, she actually saw no reason to be nervous for once. Only excited, by the touch and the darkness and the mystery. But before she had the time to really enjoy the feeling of being curled into his side, they took a turn and then stopped for a second as he opened a door.

The brightness of too many lamps and candles stung in Robin's eyes immediately, and she blinked it away while she let Snape pull her into the room ahead. It undoubtedly was some kind of bar or tavern, depending on what one wanted to call this less-than-average establishment. But there wasn't a single person she knew in this room, and she got the vague idea that that's just why he had chosen this place to come to. On the wall opposite of where they'd come in, the actual entrance door opened a moment later to welcome in a small group of customers, who drew Robin's attention to them with the irritating amount of noise they brought into the place. The remainder of the room wasn't any more spectacular than any other bar she'd seen before; booths and tables occupied by witches and wizards who obviously dreaded the minimal attention Robin was giving them already.

"Aren't we going to sit down?" She asked when Snape made no attempt to find an empty table and instead led her straight to the bar.

"No. We are only here for an experiment." He replied, and the calm and quiet tone of his voice contradicted the sinister facade that was back on his face now that they were among people again. Robin watched quietly as he ordered a single glass of firewhisky, and then pushed it towards her after the man behind the bar had set it down on the counter between them with an odd glance between the two. "Try it."

"You obviously haven't understood the concept of buying someone a drink… You are supposed to drink with me!"

"As I said, this is merely an experiment. I still intend to pay my debts to your very contentment afterwards."

"You do?" She quirked an eyebrow at him with a smirk, and any doubt was washed away by a new rush of excitement. If he wanted to make this a more complex thing than it had to be, she wouldn't complain. Especially since this 'experiment' obviously was just part one of a more elaborate plan he had come up with just now. With an almost teasing smile, she finally lifted the glass to her lips and took a large sip while keeping her eyes fixed on his, which were observing her intently in return. The very moment the amber liquid touched her tongue and ran down her throat however, it left a burning trace behind that really did the drink's name all honour, and she couldn't help coughing desperately. She still tried to breathe through the oddly pleasant pain of the intense burn, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears that were mainly a result of the coughing, and while she definitely had learned her lesson to take smaller sips in the future, she also found that she did enjoy the taste after all. When her eyes finally stopped watering and she could open them again and blink away the blur, she found that Snape was still observing her. And he was having a very hard time not to laugh. His facades had stayed in place of course, but beneath all that she saw raw and honest amusement. A frown settled on her face in return, but she also couldn't help her own amusement at his expression.

"I know you're laughing beneath all that neutrality, and it's not fair!" She whispered to him with a scratchy voice, in a scolding manner, but her smirk betrayed her efforts, which actually sufficed to finally break him enough for the corners of his lips to curl up into a smirk as well. He was fighting it, that much was visible, but Robin knew that he was losing.

"How was the first sip?" He inquired in barely contained humour now, his own tease threatening to finally make him laugh, and that precisely was what made Robin laugh indeed.

"Good, actually." She replied softly, once she had regained some control over her body. "Tastes good, I just have to work on the dosage."

"Measurements have never been your thing, have they?" He quipped, and Robin sent him a very unconvincing glare and stuck out her tongue just for good measure indeed. Then she made a point out of taking another sip, a smaller one this time, and seeing as she knew what to expect, the burning came as a welcome sensation now rather than a pain. The smooth liquid warmed her insides all the way to the pit of her stomach, leaving her with the pleasant impression that she was burning from the inside out. Glowing, lighting up the room.

Without a word of warning, he suddenly snatched the half empty glass out of her hand and downed the remaining liquid himself before setting it back down on the counter in one move.

"Hey! That was mine!" Robin protested in a laugh, but the mere fact that he didn't mind drinking from the same glass as her left her feeling short of breath, and even warmer on the inside than what could be blamed on the whisky. For a moment she felt overwhelmingly tempted to try catching a taste of it on his lips, to seek out something far more intoxicating, but she quickly forced the thought away. Definitely not a good thought to entertain in his company… especially not in a public place. Damnit. She couldn't even blame it on the alcohol, she had only had two sips just now, and that hadn't even sufficed to leave any noticeable difference with her other than the warmth in her chest and stomach.

"We wouldn't want to get you drunk in public, now, would we?" He raised an eyebrow at her with a not-smirk, and it sent another surge of electricity right from Robin's mind to her very core. Of course he was joking, nobody would be getting drunk tonight, but still… what exactly was he playing at?

The question only grew in extent and relevance when he leaned over the counter –unbothered and unhindered by the bar man– and fished for an unopened bottle of the same drink with an unsurprising elegance before dropping three galleons on the counter and motioning Robin to the door without another word. She frowned at him for a second, but then turned on her heels and made for the exit indeed. He went to place the bottle in her backpack even while she moved, closing it up again just before they stepped outside; a gesture that had become so familiar over the summer that it didn't surprise her anymore, nor require much thought or effort on either end.

"So, are you going to share your plan with me or do you want me to make wild assumptions to humour you?" She finally inquired as they walked along the by now entirely lamplit street. It really had gotten cold without the sun, and she regretted not wearing something warmer, but she also couldn't be bothered to fish a jacket out of her bag now to wear under her robes. She didn't even know for how long she would be outside after all, nor what to expect now.

"It will be dinner time shortly, we should return to the castle." He replied innocently, while pointedly ignoring everything that Robin had obviously meant to ask about. Insufferable idiot…

"And your debt?" She refused to let him off the hook quite so easily, and therefore started with the obvious. "Didn't you say you intended to pay up as soon as possible?"

"I did, and I will. But seeing as you have made a point out of the fact that 'buying you a drink' in this case means spending the evening drinking together with you, at my expense obviously, I would prefer to go about it correctly."

"Correctly as in…?"

"Entirely, or not at all." He said, giving her a teasing smirk that had her biting her bottom lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. He really was getting way too good at playing by her rules, but she couldn't bring herself to do anything other than loving it.

"Perhaps having a bite of dinner would be a good idea though… Isn't that one of those pieces of common wisdom, to have a proper meal before drinking alcohol?" She finally asked, while they made their way through the darkness back towards the castle. "Because I honestly have no intention to get drunk tonight. I have tutoring to do in the morning!"

He let out an amused huff in return, and even through the darkness Robin could see the lingering smirk. "Neither of us is foolish enough to get drunk quite so easily, you do know that. But we certainly should attend dinner indeed. For the meal, and to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to our whereabouts of the day."

"And after dinner?"

"That you will see then." He smirked again, and Robin rolled her eyes in return. Honestly, he was enjoying the secrecy way too much. But she had to admit, the suspense was beyond exciting, and it left her with a giddy feeling and a resurfacing smile she just couldn't get rid of. If he wanted to play games with her, she would play along; she knew that he would only ever play to her advantage after all. Who knew what the evening was yet to bring?

______________________________

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61 notes · View notes

novantinuum · 3 years

Link

Fandom: Steven Universe

Pairing: Steven/Connie

Rating: Teen Audiences

Words: 2.6K~

Summary: In which Connie’s subconscious, innocent touch helps Steven realize just how nice the sensation of gentle fingertips gliding across the surface of one’s gem can be. (Just a bunch of teen romance fluff, + first kiss)

This is set like... a few weeks before Steven leaves Beach City. I imagine he’s been recovering from what happened in I Am My Monster for at least 6 months by this point.

His days aren’t always great- there’s a lot of ups and downs- but thankfully, today is a markedly pleasant one.

_____

His house is still for once. Impossibly so. No Diamond business, no new arrivals to Earth, no disgruntled Gems kicking down his front door. No more battles, beyond his own internal ones. Admittedly, a part of him is happy for the peace and quiet. He’s appreciative of the way all his family and friends rallied around him in support months back after... erm- after his breakdown, but every guy needs some space eventually.

‘Some space’ never has to mean alone, of course.

Steven sneaks a doe-eyed glance at the girl flopped next to him on the living room couch, her mind lost in the pages of her own fantasy world. It’s a new series, something about a human accidentally falling into the world of the fae. (It’s only been like, half an hour, and she’s almost a hundred pages in already!) A pliable smile teases his lips as he watches her eyes flicker back and forth, digesting each passage with a voracious hunger. Sighing in content, he turns his attention back to his own book, externally making as if he’s busy exploring the world of fiction to hide the sappy fact that instead he’s been thinking about her all along. Honestly? He adores quiet days like these. Even if they’re not doing anything special, it’s just nice to get to spend time alone together. It’s a comfortable together.

Connie shifts, instinctively curling closer, her free arm slung against his side. With a soft hum of content he leans into her welcomed embrace, trying his best (and— caught in her innocently bewitching presence— failing abysmally) to focus on the wandering lines of text.

Everything is peaceful.

No hard knocks, no frenzied phone calls, no family disruptions. The domestic warp hasn’t even activated once this whole lazy afternoon. In recent days, he’s pretty sure that’s a record.

At long last, his house is still... and yet in a flash, his hormone riddled teenage mind— ever foolish— is everything but.

Because Connie’s touch is tickling him.

It’s subconscious, almost imperceptible at first. At some point her free hand has roved so that it’s no longer pressed against his side, but against his midriff— which is currently exposed, his shirt bunched up at the waist from all his slouching. Teasingly, her fingertips dance upon the facets of his gem with the pinpoint expertise of a prima ballerina, encoding an endless rhythm directly into the sum of his being, the feather-light contact sending vibrations almost too faint to notice coursing through his hard light veins. But not too faint for him. Not now, not while host to this kind of silence. Not when the girl draped on the couch next to him unknowingly commands every shard of his attention with the slightest twitch of her index finger.

It’s taking all his willpower not to squirm at this ticklish contact right now. It’s so... weird when other people touch his gem. It’s certainly not something he’s used to.

(Steven promptly buries the memory of the last time someone touched it, refusing to let old terrors tarnish an otherwise pleasurable encounter. He can feel the pink threatening to rise in his cheeks, that instinctual rush of panic he’s grown so numb to over the past months rearing its ugly head. It’s so, so hard to wrestle away from its thrall sometimes, but thankfully his therapist has been teaching him ways to mitigate these sorta reactions. His eyes clamp shut as he breathes deep through his nose and focuses on the tangible, on what he knows: the plump, lumpy cushions of the couch under him, the slight scent of garlic and cumin in the air from the lunch he cooked a few hours ago, the rhythmic crashing of waves outside the house. The warmth of his best friend by his side—)

Tap, taptaptap, tap, taptaptap...

His cheeks bloom a human red as her lulling rhythm continues.

Like he said, it’s obviously subconscious. It has to be, right? It would certainly make sense. From his observations, Connie’s always been a tactile thinker. It’s part of what made her such a quick study in sword fighting. Whenever her mind is alight, those beautiful neurons firing back and forth like a firework display, her body is in motion. Sometimes it’s her foot, tapping impatiently into the dirt as she parses through memory to find the precise words to say. Or it’s like how she memorizes facts for tests easier if she’s jogging, listening to audio recordings of the test materials she made herself. And then there’s times like now, when Connie is reading. When her fingers tap and glide with an almost impish touch across the diamond gemstone in his belly’s center as her eyes— by all appearances entirely disconnected from both her hand’s motion and his reaction— skim effortlessly across the unfolding tale on her page. Her hands... oh, those hands... calloused, warm, digits lithe and curious in their movement. They’re always shifting, always tapping, always twitching to some identifiable rhythm. Is this just another example of her sway towards more kinetic-based thinking? Or... is it something else? A silent yearning that extends its roots from the heart into object reality, innocently unaware of the power of its call?

Stars, Steven thinks, mustering with all his strength to ignore his burning face, so maybe I’ve been thinking a little too much about her lately...

Eventually, it all becomes a bit too overwhelming to handle. If this continues in silence any longer, well... well, heck. He doesn’t even want to imagine what embarrassing things could happen. Mustering up all his courage, he flips his book shut and drops it on the cushion beside him.

“Um, Connie? By the way? That’s kinda ticklish,” he squeaks out, voice high and reedy.

Upon his words, she notices where her fingers are subconsciously tapping and immediately pulls her hand away, her cheeks flushing dark. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she says, quickly tossing her book aside and shifting upright on the couch. “I didn’t mean to goose ya’! I wasn’t even thinking abo—“

“No, it’s okay!” he interjects with an open hand. “I’m fine, really, I am. I- it’s not like, uh- It isn’t like a bother, and- well, it just—“

Burning up with such a ferocity that he’s about one impulsive decision away from high tailing it out of this fraught social situation and dunking his glowing pink head right into the Atlantic, he forces himself to hush before he says something super stupid and humiliating in front of his best friend in the whole world that he’ll regret and replay in his dreams forever and ever for the rest of his days.

Okay, Steven, stop running your mouth like a lovesick fool for one second and think. How can you say this in a way that doesn’t sound entirely stupid and/or weird?

Watching him closely, curiosity written across every vibrant feature, Connie inclines her head ever so slight, a subtle, wordless gesture— one only a Jam Bud could understand— for him to keep going.

The phantom sensation of her fingers tapping against crystal rushes through his nerves like the physical analogue to a bad ear worm. He reaches up to itch at the side of his neck, unable to fully stifle his nervous laughter.

“Honestly, it uh- it actually felt pretty nice?”

“What, me touching your gem?”

“Yeah,” he manages to croak out, voice cracking like it hadn’t since he was freshly fifteen.

She isn’t able to fully stifle her giggle at this, pressing her hand tight to her mouth far too late.

His heart nearly plummets at the sound of her teasing laughter, the constant thrumming of his hard light veins steadily quickening as a flood of energy pulses just below the surface. He knew he shouldn’t have said anything, he knew it was far too much after every other recent misstep he’s made in their relationship! Why couldn’t he have just kept his trap shut?

“Aw, geeze,” he says, voice thick and his every muscle ready to bolt, “this is so embarrassing—“

“No, no! I shouldn’t have laughed, it’s okay!” she jumps in, pressing her hand to his shoulder to help ground him “It’s just bodies, Steven. It’s not weird. It’s just how skin-to-skin contact works. It’s supposed to feel good, because we’re meant to be social creatures, y’know?”

He hums softly in agreement, taking the offered moment to ease himself down from brink of panic. He focuses intently on the weight of her hand, resting feather-light against him. It’s a small gesture, but a powerful one. More than anything, more than words alone could say, it’s a promise. A reaffirmation, moment by moment. I’m here. We’re here. It’s a truth even the sobering reality of shared trauma can’t hope to erase: that even when the going’s tough, they have each other.

Connie brushes a stray stand of hair behind her ear then, shifting on the couch. Perhaps out of a sum of bashfulness, her eyes drift, not quite able to meet his.

“I- it’s silly, but I guess I never considered that you could even feel sensation through your gem,” she admits.

“Really? But you’ve had a gem before. Well, shared a gem,” he corrects himself, though in the end it’s all semantics.

“Well, sure, but when we’re Stevonnie, they don’t tend to think about stuff like that, because you’re used to it, and I’ve never thought about it. It’s simply... normal for them, I guess.”

“Hahah, yeah. It’s always been that way for me,” he says with a soft chuckle. “I never crawled like a normal kid, d’ya know? Dad says I always used to move around by scooting on my butt. When I tried crawling my gem would scrape against the floor, and apparently? I hated it.”

She laughs for real this time, (with him, not at him), her voice ringing true and beautiful and clear like a bell. His heart swells with joy.

And then...

Connie’s lithe fingers reach towards his midsection, hesitantly at first, before— in careful consideration of boundaries— pausing in their voyage entirely.

Her eyes lock with his, her shy expression wholly giving up the chase on what her request will be before she ever shifts her tongue to ask in words. “Is it okay if-?”

“Always,” he says, gently leading her hand under the hem of his shirt and towards the gemstone at his core.

He can’t help his sharp inhale when he feels her fingertips dance across his facets once more. Even when he knows what’s coming, knows to expect this contact, it’s funny. Not funny in a ‘haha’ way, funny in an ‘I’m not used to this’ way. After all, he’s never exactly made a habit of touching his own gem beyond periodic cleaning, and (almost) no one else has ever had a purpose to. It’s for this reason that a small traumatized segment of his mind still can’t help but spiral in panic about the mere concept of any external being brushing against this treasure, this tangible half of his very essence. Given the nightmares he’s been through, he’d have every right to deny her touch. But with Connie... beyond everything else, allowing her in this way is the greatest show of vulnerability he knows how to give.

It’s his proof to her that in this moment, he trusts her implicitly, without question.

Gracefully, she traces her finger around the edge of his gem, lines each individual facet in turn. It’s ticklish at first, much like before, but as she grows more confident in her gentle exploration he finds himself relaxing under her touch. He feels warm, a faint buzz of content flooding his system through his hard light veins. With her, he feels safe.

“It really is beautiful, you know that?” she says, a peaceful expression settling across her features. “Your gem.”

“Nah, you’re beautiful...” he murmurs bashfully, cheeks flushing.

“So are you,” she replies in swift measure, eyes soft with endless adoration.

His fluttering heart extends its gossamer wings and soars. If it weren’t for her nestled at his side, lithe fingers running across each facet in even measure, her tactile presence tethering him like an anchor to this present reality, he’s pretty sure he’d have floated halfway to the ceiling by now.

Daringly, his gaze locks with hers. He swears his heart’s beating its own drum solo within his chest, but this time it’s not because of fear, not at all.

It’s the feeling of freedom.

His fingers loop around a stray strand of hair that’s fallen in front of her eyes. That seems to happen a lot, he’s noticed. As delicate as he can manage, he hooks it back over her ear.

“Can I...?” he whispers, his warm breath brushing against her lips.

She replies in wordless affirmation, leaning forward to close the narrow gap between them. Hooded eyes drift shut. Her hand still rests on his gem as they finally move to cross that final barrier, that fuzzy, oft indistinguishable line drawn between childhood sweethearts and could-be couple, and kiss.

Well, attempt to, anyways.

To be fair, despite his schmaltzy roots, Steven only has movies and books to pull from as an example.

Their noses bump against each other’s at first. Both giggling, they tilt their heads to compensate and then mash their lips together, reveling in every ridiculous moment of their joint inexperience. It’s definitely sloppy, and he doesn’t have a clue where he’s supposed to put his hands or how long is too long, or how he’s supposed to move his mouth against hers, or— stars, did he even remember to brush his teeth this morning?? He sure hopes so— but because it’s with Connie all of that doesn’t matter. It’s perfect in every way.

“OoooOOOoo, looks like loverboy’s finally gettin’ some!”

He and Connie startle at the interruption, pulling apart from each other with equally flushed faces to match eyes with their surprise visitor.

It’s Amethyst, leaning against the kitchen table with a downright roguish smirk, probably thinking she’s the funniest Gem that’s ever emerged. Of course, who else would it be? (Though, which entrance did she come in from? When did she sneak past them? Were they really so involved with each other that they just... failed to notice??)

“Crude,” he says, brows creased with faint annoyance.

In return, she cups her cheeks and serves him the most ridiculous, schmaltzy expression she can muster. “Sap!”

Connie stifles a laugh at her exaggerated antics, but on his side he can’t help but be salty that her interruption yanked the two of them away from the blissful throes of blossoming teenage romance.

“Oh, get outta here, you,” he chimes back, and playfully tosses one of the couch’s pillow straight towards her face. “Shoo!”

The quartz Gem catches it out of midair and grins, no stranger to tests of reflex these days. Adopting a fake posh voice, she fires back her retort. “Your wish is my command, Sir Sappington...”

Tucking the pillow under her arm, she turns on her heels and skips up and over the warp pad’s platform, stalking towards her room with a victorious air. She doesn’t even try to mask her lovingly teasing snickers as the door splits in two at her command and she crosses the barrier into the temple’s dimension warping interior. The last they hear from her before the passageway shuts is an overly triumphant ‘whoop.’ Steven can’t help but raise a scandalized brow at this. What, were the Gems hosting a betting pool about him and Connie, or something?

But thankfully, in time, the beach house grows peaceful again. They’re alone together, and together they’re content.

“Geeze, sorry about that,” he says bashfully, scratching at the nape of his neck. “You know how Amethyst is, heh heh.”

Connie smirks with loving, mischievous intent, comfortably cuddling up against his shoulder. “She’s kinda right, though...”

“About?”

“You can be pretty sappy sometimes,” she says fondly, and tilts her head so she can smooch his cheek. “Just one of the many reasons I love you.”

____

Notes:

So, given that I’ve also written a fic wherein Steven wakes up feeling a hand against his gem and has a panic attack, a word of explanation with my headcanons-

Ultimately, I imagine there’s a very stark difference between a trusted individual like Connie touching his gem when he’s fully alert and it’s just them, alone, safe... and him waking up and being groggy enough to not immediately realize who it is next to him.

In the end though, I just hope Steven would be able to reclaim a once-terrifying experience (someone else touching his gem) as something that is also able to be loving and comforting when it’s done with consent.

#su #su future #steven universe #connie maheswaran #connverse #su fanfiction #steven/connie #amethyst #my writing stuff

74 notes · View notes

etherrealoblivion · 4 years

Text

Chapter Four: Supper

Table Of Contents

Fic summary: Owning a bookstore in downtown D.C. came with its fair share of downsides. You never thought that being the target of a serial killer would be one of them. Luckily, a nice FBI agent by the name of Spencer Reid is assigned to watch over you. What's the worst that could happen?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Words: 1,748

MASTERLIST

A sudden loud beep had you shooting upright in bed. You leapt up and put your ear to the door. Rather than sinister noises, you heard the faint humming of a very familiar theme song.

You cracked open the bedroom door, peeking into the kitchen where Spencer was bustling around with a frying pan and a spatula with a focused expression on his face, humming the theme music to Doctor Who under his breath.

It was actually kind of adorable. You pushed open the bedroom door further to get a better look, but the door creaked and Spencer spun around, withdrawing his gun and pointing it square in your face.

“I’m sorry!” you squealed, throwing your hands up in surrender.

He quickly holstered his gun and ran over to you. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” you tried to laugh. “A little shaken but I’m okay. Really!” you added after a doubtful look from him.

His eyes were a deep hazel that seemed to peer into your soul. His hands felt good on your shoulders, clutching you tightly in comfort. It had been a while since you’d had, well, any physical contact. He was so tall he had to lean down to level his face with yours.

Suddenly, he seemed to realize how close the two of you were and stepped back, clearing his throat.

“I was, uh, trying to make dinner.”

“I can see that,” you said playfully, with a glance at the kitchen in disarray.

“Yeah. I’m not the best cook. I can memorize thousands of recipes in minutes but i’ve never seemed to master the execution.”

You hesitated.

“Thousands of recipes in minutes? What are you a genius?” you laughed.

“Scientifically, yes. An I.Q. score over 160 classifies someone as a genius.”

Your jaw dropped.

“You’re kidding?”

He shook his head, slipping his hands into his pockets and shrugging.

“Nope.”

“Wait so you can read like, a thousand words per minute?”

“Twenty-thousand,” he corrected, stepping back into the kitchen to continue cooking.

“Twenty-thousand!? That’s impossible!”

“Actually, the unconscious brain can process up to eleven million bits of information per second. It’s just a matter of being able to—“

“—to access the information from your subconscious,” you said, cutting him off. “Wow. That’s impressive.”

He looked at you in shock.

“What’s even more impressive is that you finished a sentence for me.”

“Sorry,” you blushed.

“No! No, I mean, not a lot of people can, erm, keep up. When you start college at fourteen, not many people expect you to be smarter than them. Then when they find out how smart you really are, it can be intimidating.”

Your mouth twitched up into a smile. Spencer was impressive, for sure, but he was also entertaining. Not in a make-fun-of kind of way, but he made you laugh. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“Supper’s ready!”

You stifled a laugh.

“Supper?”

“What?” he looked over at you, reaching up to get two plates.

“Who says supper? Are you eighty?” you teased.

“I’m twenty-six!” he said indignantly.

You froze.

“Wait, really?” He nodded. “You’re only twenty-six and you’re a prominent FBI agent? How?”

“Genius I.Q, three Ph.D.’s, and my irresistible charm,” he said, giving a goofy smile.

“Three PhDs? How? I’m getting a PhD and I can barely keep up with the workload!”

“You‘re getting a Ph.D.? That wasn’t in your police report. What’s it in?” he asked as he filled your plates.

“Actually, I’m working on two.”

“Two!?”

You nodded, happy that you’d been able to shock him.

“Yep. Linguistics and Philosophy. I like Philosophy better but Linguistics is more challenging. The library won't let you into the section with the really good language books without a certain clearance. But I've actually nearly finished my thesis for it. What?” you added, noticing him staring at you.

“You’re working on two doctorates simultaneously?”

“Surprised you’re not the only genius?” you joked, taking your plate from him, then, upon seeing what he’d made, bursting out into laughter.

“What?” he looked genuinely confused, which only made you laugh harder.

“Bacon?” you said through gasps. “Bacon and pancakes? You are aware it’s—“ you glanced at the clock, “—nine forty at night?”

“Gimme a break!” he said defensively. “It’s the only thing I can cook. The word ‘cook‘ being a generous descriptor.”

It was better than Doritos and bourbon for dinner, your go to meal. You were just glad you’d had the stuff to make dinner. It would be very awkward trying to explain your unhealthy eating habits to Spencer.

You didn’t have a dining table. Anyway, you usually ate on the couch and watched something on TV. That was normal nowadays right? Whatever. Spencer didn’t seem to mind which was good enough for you.

“So, um,” he said nervously, pulling out a pad of paper and pencil. “There’s a few things I need to go over with you.”

You nodded, remembering the situation you were in.

“Is there anyone you can think of who might have shown a sort of stalking behavior before? They’d be unreliable, constantly late, not being able to stick to a schedule?”

“The only person I know like that is Claire, one of my co-workers, but she’s not a stalker, she's just always late to work. Honestly, the only people I really know are my co-workers, some people from school, and Steve, my friend.”

“The FBI is going to need a list of people you see frequently. If you could put that together as soon as you’re ready. Also, all your credit card information will have to be analyzed, everywhere it’s been used. Whoever accesses your card, even for something as small as a stick of gum, has the opportunity to use that information to find your name, your address, your workplace—”

“Ok. I get it. People I see frequently and my credit card info. Gotta warn you, there’s not much I buy with it other than books and coffee. Then again, there’s the occasional splurge at the mall.”

“Well, the FBI needs all of it.”

You nodded softly, staring at the bacon on your plate. He hadn’t said I need he’d said The FBI needs. You weren’t sure what that meant exactly.

“Do you want to watch something?” he said, gesturing toward the TV. “It might be a good distraction?”

“Yeah,” you put your plate on the coffee table, noticing that you’d barely eaten. “Yeah that sounds good. Could you just put something on? I don’t wanna choose.”

He nodded and picked up the remote.

The only thing he really knew you liked was Doctor Who so he put on a random episode. You let the TV become background noise to your thoughts as you stared off into space.

Spencer was comforting to be around. He helped take your mind off the situation you were in. You looked over at him on the couch, long legs crossed under him. He had taken off his tie and shoes and changed into more casual clothes: a jumper and some jeans. He was absentmindedly fiddling with the throw blanket between you on the couch.

His hands are so long, you thought. Wait, why were you thinking that? You shouldn’t be thinking about his hands. Or how long they were. Or what they could—

“Are you alright?”

You felt yourself twitch, startled by his sudden acknowledgment. Even more embarrassing, you were sure he’d seen you staring at his hands.

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Hey,” he moved closer on the couch, “you don’t have to be sorry. It’s alright to not be okay.”

They were just words, they didn’t help. What did help was the care behind them. He wasn’t just saying it to comfort you, he actually meant it. To him, it really was ok to not be okay.

“Thank you Spencer, that actually helps.”

You glanced at the clock. It was 10:26.

“I should do some schoolwork,” you said, cringing afterward. You didn’t want him to think of you as some school kid.

“Okay!” he chirped happily, standing as you stood like a proper gentleman. “I’ll just be out here. Is it okay if I keep watching?” The episode played on, The Doctor dangling from a rope above London. “I really like this episode,” he said sheepishly.

“Sure,” you chuckled. “I’ll be in my room and please let me know if you need anything, seriously.”

He nodded assent, but you weren’t sure if he actually would. He seemed a little withdrawn, comforting you when you needed but keeping his distance when possible. It’s his job to keep you safe, you reminded yourself. Don’t get excited.

An hour later your eyes watered from the strain of keeping them open. But you were almost done with this paper. Sure, it was due next week but you were on a roll. Using an allusion to the Holocaust to support the point that Hollywood writing is riddled with antisemitism. In the morning, it might not sound as clever, but to your sleep-deprived brain, it was poetry.

A light knock on your door startled you.

“Come in,” you croaked.

Spencer peeked into your room, squinting.

“It’s pitch black in here,” he said, reaching for the light.

You shrieked as the light filled the room, blinding you.

“TOO BRIGHT!” you yelled, slamming your computer shut and throwing your arms over your eyes.

“Sorry! Sorry!” he fumbled with the switch and clicked it off. The room was now shrouded in darkness, neither of you able to see yet.

“Are you there, Spencer?”

“Yeah.”

You were both whispering. Why was it that people whispered in the dark?

“You should try and get some sleep,” Spencer said. He was becoming more visible as your eyes adjusted to the light. He had changed into a blue set of pajamas. The fabric looked so soft.

“Yeah,” you muttered, moving toward the bed, “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

Your bed felt scratchy and cold. Just last night getting in bed had been such a relaxing experience. So much had changed in a day.

“I’ll be right in the next room if you need anything,”

“Hmm,” you hummed.

Spencer padded back out of your room.

The moment before the door closed you thought you heard a very faint, “Good night, Y/N.” But before you could wonder if it had happened or not, you were dropping off into a deep sleep. Knowing that you were safe with Spencer in the next room.

Taglist: @aperrywilliams @mjloveskids666 @dolanfivsosxox @criesinreid @fanficsrmylife @racerparker @sammypotato67 @lukeskisses @reidcrimes @you-had-me-at-hello-dear @l0ve-0f-my-life @thatsonezesty13

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid gifs #spencer reid fic #criminal minds #fanfic #fanfiction #reader insert

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thestyleswritings · 4 years

Text

Restoration of Faith

REQUEST: (this may be triggering, so i'd understand if you chose not to write it). first-time consensual sex. Y/N lost her virginity in a sexual assault but has been to therapy. It took her a while to be comfortable with sex, but now she decides she's finally ready to have sex with Harry for the first time. He know what happened wants to make it a positive experience for her so he's super gentle and attentive.

"I'm... Nervous," she admits, biting her lower lip once again and truly testing his resolve. Her lips were always a key part in his fantasies. Contrary to her words, she rocks herself onto his growing length, making the pair of them shiver.

"You don't need to be nervous, princess. This is all you. We can do whatever you want and nothing more. The ball is in your court." Harry tells her softly, though now his voice has a gruffness to it that she's only heard early in the morning.

Harry meets a girl who’s been through something awful and falls deeply in love with her.

Warnings: Smut, TW // Mentions of abuse and self-harm

4k+

Therapy had saved her life. She was ready and willing to admit that. After her attack, she stopped texting, calling, going out. She wouldn't make contact with anyone for anything, even her professors had thought she'd dropped off the face of the planet. She wasn't eating, she wasn't sleeping, and she wasn't showering. She also had a very nasty habit of hurting herself, even if only a little bit, just to feel something. The sting of a cut, the scorch of a lighter. It took her somewhere close to 3 months to even get out of her head and call a therapist.

It had been another 6 months into therapy that she'd met Harry. Before he arrived in her life, she always kept the same routine to feel as if she had more control over her life, never failing to tick every box to the letter on her list of daily activities. It helped her feel like she was really in charge of her life, an exercise her therapist taught her, and consistently praised her for continuing on her own.

The day she met Harry, everything she had structured in place for herself shifted. It started when she missed the bus she normally took to her weekly appointment, kicking herself for snoozing her alarm one too many times. She typically didn't even take advantage of the function on her phone, only she'd been feeling hazy for a few days prior and figured a moments peace couldn't hurt anyone. With a scowl on her face, she decided she'd just hoof it there and apologise profusely for her tardiness once she arrived.

Only she never made it that day. One blasted thing after another got in her way, making it nearly impossible to get to her destination. Pavements were closed on one road, traffic being directed in a never-ending stream on another. It was maddening. She could almost feel herself unravelling towards a breakdown when a man spoke to her left, nearly causing her to jump from her skin.

"Sorry love, was only asking if you knew another way 'round this intersection. I've got an appointment at a quarter til, and it's just about half-past now. I didn't mean to give you such a scare," the man sounded sincere, honest, apologetic. She felt the very corner of her lips raise at the notion. An honest man? Unfathomable.

"S'alright, I'm just a bit caught up in my mind, innit?" She offered, tone teetering on cheekiness.

"I must be too, s'why I'm on my way to therapy. Though it seems like every bloody traffic cop in London would rather I didn't make it there." The man scoffed lightheartedly, dramatically rolling his eyes for her amusement.

"Oh, that's actually where I was headed." She offers, not exactly sure why. She didn't owe him any further explanation of her presence on the street, but here she was, still giving one. It felt nice. She hadn't so much as double taken a man since what had happened to her, but there was something so welcoming about him. So she dared to ask his name, creating an inevitable conversation. She made a note to let her therapist in on this major break in her recovery realisation.

"'M Harry. You?" He said, glittering eyes gazing into hers.

Another 6 months down the road, she felt her throat close up as her heart sank to her stomach. She and Harry had laid down a sturdy foundation together in the time leading up to then, strong as mountains. They'd quickly become the best of friends, laughing at all the same corny puns and jokes and learning every little quirk that made the other up. She knew things like how he took his coffee, and what kind of jam was his favourite. She knew where he'd grown up, who he was friends with in another life, strange dreams he had, what sort of dumb things he and his sister fought over when they were young. But she also had more intimate knowledge, things like his deepest fears regarding his family, his future, if he'll have a family of his own, his regrets. And he knew those same things about her. She trusted him by showing him what she'd done to herself when she needed to bring herself back to reality. She told him what she was ashamed of, both things she had done and what had been done to her. She spoke openly about how her purity had been snatched from her grasp, although kicking and screaming. She cried to him when she felt small. They had even told the other they were in love.

That's what scared her half to death. She knew she loved him with the entirety of her soul, but she was afraid, almost petrified, to take her clothes off in front of him. She had a few unwelcomed touch-memories when he'd come up behind her and laid a hand on her hip innocently, or when he'd spontaneously kissed her neck and she nearly lost her mind.

And he understood that. He couldn't imagine the kinds of trauma buried beneath her skin, the levels of paranoia that were bestowed upon her. From the nights she spent at his flat, he knew she sometimes would even jump in her sleep. It made him upset. Not because she was subconsciously jumping from his touch, but because someone made it that way. He would never forgive himself, even if the thought was beyond irrational, for not meeting her sooner. He wished more than anything to take that pain off her shoulders. To erase the searing memory she was still so harshly burdened with. Of course, he desired her physically, but he would never be able to live with himself if he made her feel pressured or uncomfortable. What kind of monster couldn't wait to be intimate with her? It kept him up some nights, but he'd never tell her that. She felt guilty enough as it was during their waking hours, he couldn't add to her burden by telling her he couldn't sleep sometimes while thinking of the horror she went through, cuddling her to his side deeper as she slept soundlessly.

So when she went to Harry and sat on his lap, curled up like a kitten, he was a bit taken aback. He loved a cuddle and was one of the snuggliest creatures she had ever had the pleasure of meeting, but they usually only cuddled once they were in bed, where she felt the safest. He didn't dare protest, silently complying and raising a hand to get lost in her hair, petting his fingers against her scalp lightly.

"What's on your mind, pet?" Harry rasped quietly, voice tired from the full day he'd had at work. She had been home all day, thinking of ways to break the conversation, fibbing and telling him she was skipping the day's class to stay at his flat and complete her essay, bringing her one step closer to her master's degree.

"Just thinking. I love you, I've just been thinking about you all day." She admits softly, pressing a kiss to his neck just below his ear.

He feels a blush run over his cheeks, feels himself inflate with affection and giddiness, much like a puppy getting its belly scratched. He couldn't help the goofy smirk adorning his lips, he just felt too good not to.

"Yeah, baby? I love you. I'm so crazy about you. You're always on my mind." He tells her, not caring how utterly lovesick he comes across at times.

She flushes, though it comes with a tingle that travels from the top of her head to the tips of her fingertips and toes. It's almost like she can physically feel his soul in hers and she feels alive. She truly can't help but give his neck another kiss, wetter this time, and joined by several others. He shudders and she feels it, making her blood sing in her veins. She couldn't remember a time where she felt so in love, so safe and so free. She felt like she and Harry could soar the greatest heights together, the pair of them unstoppable when they were together. It was an incredible feeling.

"What are you after, baby?" He questioned, not wanting her to stop but also wanting to see where her head was at. He didn't want her to make a rash decision if she would end up regretting it later down the line.

Instead of answering outright, she removes her face from his throat with one last kiss. Her eyes are doe-like and Harry's heart stutters. She'd never looked more radiant or confident than in that moment. Taking her lip between her teeth, she looks down between them to catch his big hand in her smaller ones. The air thickened instantly, the pair of them seemingly holding their breath.

"Just.. wanna be close to you. Wanna love on you, if you let me," she purrs, causing the hairs on Harry's neck to come to a stand and his tummy to flutter. She can't be implying what I think she is? He thinks to himself. It's not that she's never shown her attraction to him, he just can't believe today could be the day he's finally allowed to touch her. He's thought about it countless times, dreamt of it even, and it nearly brings a tear to his eye that she finally, finally feels comfortable and safe enough to physically show him love.

"Yeah? Show me how you wanna love on me, princess." Harry breathes, light filling his green eyes. He wants her to show him exactly what she wants, willing to go to the ends of the earth for his girl to be whatever she wanted.

She's back to feeling shy, not really knowing how to initiate this. She knows he'd take the ropes if she were to hand them over, but they both know how important it is that she takes control at this moment. This is her choice.

She looks into his eyes and her breath stalls at the look of love he's sending her. She dives back in, kissing Harry with a fervour he's never felt from her. He can practically taste the lust dripping from her tongue onto his. Gingerly, she presses herself against his lap where he's already sporting a mainly solidly stiff prick. As silly as she feels for it, the presence of it shocks her, ripping a gasp from her puffy lips. The feeling sends her into a frenzy, pulling back with wide eyes and a rapidly rising and falling chest to meet his gaze once more.

"Mhm, you feel it? 'S for you. Always is," Harry admits with a blush. He's no stranger to dirty talk, but he wants to take precautions with her. He doesn't know how filthy he can be without sending her back into her shell.

"I want you, in every way. Stayed home to pluck up the courage to do summat about it. And to take a very, very thorough shower that involved a lot of bending and twisting to get everything shaved." She tells him, a raspberry blush appearing beneath the skin of her cheeks. He's in awe again, of his darling girl.

"Cheeky thing. Lied to me about why you stayed home just so you could strategise how to jump m' bones?" Harry chuckles, grabbing her waist delicately before making the motion to stand.

"Gonna bring me to bed?" She asks breathlessly, nerves still getting the better of her. But she won't let her fears and self-doubt get in the way of another night she could've spent wrapped up in her love. Not anymore.

The moment she feels the plush mattress beneath her, she can breathe a bit steadier. Even if they hadn't used the bed for its extra-curricular purpose, it was still a major staple in their relationship. She knew this place, and she felt safe here.

"Take off your clothes." She instructs simply. If she were to get through to the rewarding bit of this, she had to hurry and get to it already. The build-up was the worst part. His lip curls at the command as he does what she asks. He leaves himself in nothing but his tight black boxer-briefs, kneeling on the bed before advancing. Watching and waiting to see if she would ask him to do something else.

"Come here, please," she begs of him, reaching an arm out to grasp the back of his neck. He's awfully careful as he crawls up the bed, hovering over her much smaller body, not putting an ounce of pressure on her.

"I love you. I love you so much. I-I wish you could've actually been my first," she begins, but he stops her.

"I will be." He assures her, "If you didn't say yes, it wasn't your first, princess. I know I've told y'that. This is what you'll think about when you think about your first. I promise you I won't let any other thought come up." His voice breaks as he cradles her face, finally dropping his body to rest against hers. The kiss he lands to her lips shatters her and mends her at once, feeling the love and healing he put into it.

"Please, I don't know what I'm doing yet," she mumbles against his lips, grazing her hand along his length. He draws back to look at her once before he's moving down the bed again, placing kisses to her neck and gripping the bottom of her shirt. She can faintly hear him asking to undress her through the blood rushing to her ears and she nods. She may be inexperienced, but she isn't naive. She knows exactly what he's headed down to do, and more than anything, she's excited.

"Aw, princess, s'this all for me?" Harry coos his rhetorical question softly upon seeing how incredibly aroused she'd become, kissing the softest and squidgiest bit of her thigh; right up top.

"You know it is," she whimpers, threading her fingers through his thick strands. Before she's even finished her sentence, her panties were pulled from her hips. She ignores the unpleasantly familiar sensation of someone that isn't her taking them off. Harry. It's Harry.

"God princess, might be down here a while..." Harry breathes, voice drunk. She peers up at him quickly enough to catch the strong drag of his tongue against her slippery lips. The noise she makes would've made him laugh in other circumstances, a squeak, instead he grunts and grinds his hips into the mattress. He might not even make it inside her before he's tapped out.

The movement of his tongue picks up each time she squeezes the handful of hair in her grasp, which is quite often, and he's loving it. He doesn't think he'll ever get enough of her sweet peach now that he's had his tongue inside her. She can't describe the feeling, she just knows that she would be asking him to replicate his actions often. She tenses up as her clit makes its way into his mouth, hearing the filthy slurps and moans coming from his lips. She could finish just from the sound of him. She thrashes when she feels a finger tease the rim of her opening, subconsciously kicking at Harry's shoulder before he grabs her ankle and kisses it.

"I's me, princess. S' just me. Let me make you feel good, sweet girl." His voice calms her immensely, shaking her head and focusing back on him. He's so good to her, it feels like karma's personal apology to her.

"Sorry," she says sheepishly. She knew it would happen, she just hoped she hadn't ruined the mood. As if she ever could.

No more words are spoken as she feels his finger back at her hole, lips leaving kisses to her lower tummy. He slides it in further than the rim this time, sucking her clit into his mouth to alleviate any discomfort she may have felt. He thrusts his finger in steadily, not too hard but definitely not as soft as he'd been at first. She appreciates him attempting to keep some normalcy.

"Wait- Oh! Feels good, really good. Wanna feel you now, please-Please!" She nearly surrenders to her pleasure when he adds another finger, curling them right up against her spongy wall.

"Gonna make you come first, princess." He tells her, not bothering to break away from her clit. The vibrations in combination with his unrelenting fingers send her spiralling over that edge she'd wanted to fall over with him. Her moans are strangled as she reaches her orgasm, the sound bringing Harry to a pile of mush below her, still working her through it.

"Mmm," she tries to form words as he hovers back over her, but she can't seem to find any. She's overcome with a multitude of emotions that she suddenly can't convey. She feels loved, she feels proud, she feels safe and she feels clean.

"Can pick this back up tomorrow, my love. You seem sedated." He jokes, kissing her lips and leaving behind a lingering taste of herself. She shakes her head, grabbing at his hips and pulling them down to her own.

"Want it now," she breathes, kissing his neck where she knows he's the most sensitive. And who is he to argue with that? He's about to stand to get an emergency condom he keeps in his closet before she clears her throat. His attention is back on her immediately, looking for any signs of hesitation.

"M' on the pill," she mutters shyly and Harry's jaw drops. He gets to have her and she'll be bare? This day could not get any better.

"God, you're perfect. I love you," he reminds her, peppering kisses to every inch of her face possible before reaching down to take her hands and guide them to his pants. "You do this bit. You've waited long enough," Harry encourages her, slipping both their fingers into the band before letting go of hers.

When she yanks them down, she's floored. That's what I've been missing? She thinks. It's thick and tall, standing between them with a certain strength and glory. He doesn't miss the look in her eye, but he doesn't call her out on it. He has all the time in the world to tease her about her awe of his cock another day.

"Sure you want to do this?" Harry checks for the hundredth time. She kisses his nose and nods before taking a deep breath.

"I'd never regret this. I'd regret if we didn't." She assures him, gripping his torso in one hand as to brace herself. He nods, knowing her word is final.

He's gentle as he strokes himself and even gentler as he lines his cock up with her delicate little hole. He cannot believe he's about to have sex with the love of his life. He can't believe how lucky he is to be her first. Her real first. The first lover to have her this way, the only man who gets to say she's his.

The initial push causes a sting to shoot through her lower half, throwing her mind to the last time she'd felt it, but she powers through. It's Harry. It's her lover. The man she trusts with her entire life. She hears his breath hitch instantly, only having pushed the tip and a bit more in. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, indulging in the feel of his girl before opening them to check on her.

"You okay, beloved?" He asks, voice beyond strained. When she gives him a nod, he pushes more of himself into her until she's hitting his side. His head snaps to the side, expecting a look of fear or pain, but to his utter surprise, he sees a look of pure bliss. He knows he's up against her spot, feeling the rough patch massage his tip. He uses this knowledge to his advantage, bottoming out at this angle, catching the spot the entire time he glides in and sending her into a frenzy of sorts. Her legs instantly locking onto his hips, giving him little leeway to do much else but fuck into her right onto her spot. She clenches around him as he pulls back, almost like she didn't want him to move his hips away from hers for even a moment.

"Feels, god! Feel so good, angel. My sweet baby, yeah? Feel good for you?" Harry rambles, nipping the skin of her neck to distract himself from blowing his load right then.

She's a mess, physically unable to stay put for more than one thrust. She never thought she'd be doing this, never thought she'd even make it through the year last year. The fact that it's her Harry just pushing her further and further into space.

"Mhm, so good. What, what are you doing? S' really nice. Does it always-?" She's a moaning mess as she replies, feeling a particularly solid strike at her beloved spot that she didn't know existed until now. He chuckles at the unintended compliment to his performance.

"Feel this good? Nah, s' because we're in love," Harry begins, but the feeling was too overwhelming, causing the word 'love' to come out as if he'd been hit in the stomach with a steel baseball bat. As if the spoken emotional intimacy turned him on to a point he couldn't stop himself from coming. He couldn't help it as the feeling travelled from deep in his belly, shooting out all the love he could produce, spilling into his princess.

"Mm, fuck Harry, I'm about to-" She moans at the feeling of his warmth spreading inside her and he cuts her off with the rapid movement of his nimble fingers down to her clit, still pistoning his hips into her, prick softening but still effective as she came.

Harry collapsed on top of her, wrapping an arm around her back to press their bodies even closer. He was still inside of her and she could feel the spurts still going as she came down.

"I'm so sorry... I literally couldn't stop myself from-" Harry begins, but she laughs. Laughs like she hadn't laughed in a year. A genuine laugh that drew tears from her eyes and an ache to form in her belly. His cheeks and ears grew red as she continued to laugh, thinking she was laughing at his premature end.

"Hey, it happens to a lot of guys! And I got you off again, don't make fun of me," he pouts, beginning to retract his arm from around her before she grabs a hold of it.

"Not laughing at you, doughnut. I love you so much, and you did get me off again. I'm laughing because I feel, I don't know. Clean." She admits, kissing his temple.

"After that? Should feel right sticky, I know I do," Harry gests, leaving her a kiss to her own temple before pulling out slowly. She gasps at the hollow feeling, but she has an inkling he may not mind filling her right back up whenever she wanted.

"You know what I mean." She rolls her eyes, allowing his arms to encompass her.

"I know, baby. I'm glad you found the strength in yourself to do this. And not just because you let me shag ya." Harry hums, kissing the crown of her head.

"You're an idiot," she teases. She couldn't be more in love if she tried.

"'M your idiot."

And yeah, maybe the idiot had a point.

Thank you for reading! This was a little difficult to write for personal reasons, but I hope this piece was alright! Please share your feedback/thoughts!

#Harry Styles #harry styles fic #harrystyles #harry smut #harry styles smut #harry x reader #harry styles x reader #harry styles au #writing #harry styles blurb #harry styles one shot #harrystyles oneshot #harry styles dirty #harry styles fluff #masterlist #mobile masterlist #1DFF #1d fic

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treatian · 3 years

Text

The Chronicles of the Dark One: Magical Loopholes

Chapter 19: Failed Experiments

Tonight, he was testing a theory. Admittedly, a theory that he'd only come up with approximately two seconds after she'd crawled into the bed with him, but a theory all the same. She'd had another nightmare last night. It was two nights in a row now. He knew because it had started the first time they hadn't had sex since she'd come back to him, a fact he felt rather impressed with when she'd snuggled into him and told him she was simply tired and asked if it would be okay if they just went to sleep. He'd nodded and insisted that it was always up to her, that nothing ever was or would be required of her while she was with him, and that he was content to hold her through the night. They'd fallen asleep together, entwined as they always were, happy and content-

And then the screaming had begun.

Just after midnight, she'd torn herself from him with a sharp, high-pitched sound that woke him instantly. Her back heaved as if she couldn't breathe. She sat up in bed, the blankets wrinkled as she tangled them into her fists, as she looked wildly about the room.

"Belle! Belle, what's wrong? What did you see?"

"I know my name," she cried, her voice cracking, as she searched and scanned for an unseen force. "I know my name, I know your name, I know who I am, I know…I know…I know my name…"

Then she'd wrapped her arms around her legs, rested her forehead down over them, and dissolved into tears that broke his heart because she was broken. It might not be her body that was broken, her bones were whole, she'd never actually flung herself off a tower or been flogged because of him, and she might have been strong, just as strong as he'd known her to be when she was in his castle…but Regina had broken her in a way. Not mentally or psychologically, perhaps it was only subconsciously, in her dreams, that her brokenness revealed itself. With the medications to calm her no longer in her blood, it seemed the nightmares were becoming more prevalent. And these small breakdowns, moments where she folded in on herself and cried out of fear or pain or shock, they tore at him.

He could kill Regina for it. He could leave their bed right then, march over to her house, wrap his hands around her throat and choke the life from her for what she'd done to his beautiful Belle. But it was his Beautiful Belle that kept him right where he was. Leaving her in this state wasn't going to help her. Killing Regina wasn't going to make her experience vanish. It was always going to be there. They were going to have to learn to live with it. Both of them.

So instead, he'd sat up and pulled her to his side. She'd been tight. Every nerve twitched where he touched her, hypersensitive. Every muscle shook with tension. Along her spine, around her back, hip to hip, up her neck…he moved his hands gently and carefully, whispering promises into her hair.

"You are safe, Sweetheart. You are here with me, you're perfectly safe, and I'll keep you safe for the rest of my life. You'll be all right."

Eventually, she'd uncurled. Eventually, she'd released her muscles and clung to him instead of herself. Eventually, he'd laid them back on the bed and let her sleep on his chest, in the cradle his arms made for her. He was content to hold her just as he'd promised earlier but not so content that he was pleased with the turn of events.

That was last night, but this was tonight. And he noted that when she'd crawled into bed, she was shaking, and he was almost certain that it was because of the last two nights when she'd woken up screaming. That was also when it dawned on him that the last two nights they'd gone to bed, they hadn't had sex. He had a lot of knowledge, from Mr. Gold, from the Dark Ones and the Seer, even from himself. But he wasn't a doctor. He was just a curious man who knew that the brain released chemicals during sex. He didn't know what kind of chemicals, but he wondered if they weren't a drug of their own, if that was the key to keeping her happy and nightmare-free. Obviously, if it was, then it wasn't really a solution. They couldn't have sex every night for the rest of their lives, no matter how much he'd love to try with her. But he was curious. And she was scared and in need of a distraction. And they were both in bed…

"My Beautiful Belle…"

At his voice, he felt her swallow, then prop herself up on her elbow so she could look down at him. "What?"

He didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to tell her what he was thinking because he was certain that it would sound crazy to her. Or worse. He worried that to her it might sound as though she was a burden waking him up each night. He didn't want her to think that. But, of course, he didn't want to tell her the actual truth either, which was that as horrified and angry as he was at Regina, he still couldn't believe he was the one who got to calm her and soothe her back into sleep. He felt lucky when she was terrified, not exactly something he wanted anyone to know. He couldn't form the words to tell her any of this, so instead, he said the only thing he could think to say, the only thing he knew that mattered.

"I love you," he promised, then drew her mouth down to his own and kissed her until the shaking stopped. He kissed her until her panic fled, until last night was a memory so distant it had no business in her head. He kissed her mouth first, then her body, inch by inch as he stripped it bare, worshiping her in a way he'd never worshipped the gods of their world or this one. He kissed her until they were both shaking not from fear but from the place at the peak of desire where want and need mingled together with sweat and tears. He kissed her as he declared his love over and over with body and soul until she cried and returned the words that he was still certain were nearly impossible. He kissed her until they found their way back to his side of the bed and curled into one another, and he prayed his experiment was enough, prayed that she'd be comforted for the night and sleep through it.

"Stay with me," she whispered as her fingers fluttered over his skin, making pictures that left him tingling and aware of all of her beside him. "Forever."

"I can't think of a better way to spend eternity, Sweetheart." And it was true. He couldn't. If this worked, if this was a key, he knew it wouldn't work for them every night but felt like he would fight to the death to make it work. To spend every night in her embrace, to love her, to hold her! He could live with it. If the entire world was just this bedroom, he well and truly believed they had everything they'd ever need to live out the remainder of their lives in peace.

And then the Seer and the Dark Ones had to interfere.

Sometimes he was so caught up in worrying over her nightmares he forgot to worry about his own. But they still haunted him. He'd never really slept until she came around, but now that she was here and he found himself doing it more and more with his magic, his magic wanted to remind him of the real reason he was here, in Storybrooke. It wasn't for Belle, as much as he wanted it to be. It was for Baelfire. In sleep, images of his past crept up on him as reminders.

Baelfire with the bean in his hand.

Milah on Hook's ship, her heart turning to dust in his fist.

Baelfire telling him that it might have been better to fight.

A glimpse at the sledgehammer he was about to send into his ankle.

Margery leaving for her new life with her new husband.

Hook taking Milah.

Belle telling him that he'd made his choice and would regret it.

Baelfire screaming at him to let go of the dagger.

Zoso telling him to let go of the boy.

Baelfire's hand slipping from his grasp.

A bright light.

Nothing.

Belle was a heavy sleeper. There was little in the world that could wake her until she was ready, but somehow the second his eyes flung open in the night from a terror of his own, she knew. He wasn't so shocked by his own nightmares anymore, and decades of sleeping in this room meant that with a single look he knew he was awake and safe, so he didn't react as she did. But he always wanted air.

Belle moved away from him, pulling the sheets with her, allowing the cool air to touch his skin and cool him. He didn't need it. He could cool himself with magic, but there was something about a nightmare making him feel human that made him grateful for the fresh air. It helped somehow. So did walking. Usually, when this happened, he got up, went downstairs to get a glass of water, then wandered into the basement, pondering what he could do about the current situation he wasn't already doing. Inevitably he always remembered Belle and returned to bed with her when he realized there was nothing to be done. He had to wait for Emma or find August. Until then, there was nothing.

"Are you all right?" Belle finally asked as he rubbed his eyes.

"Fine," he lied, just as he always did. He wasn't fine. His tongue felt like sandpaper. And worst of all, he was happy and content sleeping next to Belle, and it made him angry because he too often forgot that she was not the be-all-end-all. Baelfire was. He felt guilty for being with her when he should be doing everything possible to get back to him.

He felt her sit up behind him and put her hands on his back. "Do you know what it was about this time?"

"No," he lied again as more guilt crept in. He should tell. He knew he should tell her. He was going to have to tell her about it someday, hopefully someday soon. Whether he left her here in Storybrooke to retrieve Baelfire or took her with him, he would have to explain it all. She'd understand. He loved her. He trusted her. But for some reason, every time she asked him what was wrong or what his own nightmares were about, the words never came.

Over his shoulder, he felt her hair brush against his arm and her mouth touch his skin in a kiss so delicate it brought him to his knees. It was so easy to give in to her, to lose himself in her night after night. Baelfire, he had to think of Baelfire.

"Come on," she whispered, tugging at his arm. "Come back to bed."

Baelfire.

"No," he answered. "I need to go downstairs to-"

"You need sleep!"

Sleep was the last thing he needed.

"I don't want to keep you up."

Water and down to his basement, away from Belle where he could at least sit and pretend his mind was focusing on Baelfire.

"The only way you can keep me up is by leaving. I can't sleep without you anymore."

Was that true? How long had it been? How long had they been like this? A week? She seemed to sleep fine during the day without him, but…

Now that he thought about it, each time this happened, and he came back to bed, she was always up, always waiting for him to lay back down so she could go back to sleep. He felt her hands move over his back as his own had moved over hers the night before. She couldn't sleep without him…was it really true already?

"Going downstairs to pace isn't going to make the memories come back, Rumple. Trust me, I know."

He glanced over his shoulder at her, and she met his eyes with a smile. She didn't know. She didn't know that he remembered because he hadn't told her. He should tell her. But all he could think about when he looked at her was that she was right. If he went downstairs, he'd get nothing accomplished just like he had every other time this had happened. At least with her he had the benefit of being with her.

She smiled when he nodded in agreement. "Come on," she muttered before she kissed his shoulder again and lay back against the mattress with her arms open for him. Hours earlier, watching her layout naked like that would have been irresistible to him. Now, instead, he just wanted to be close to her. So he let himself slide around her, put his head on her chest, just below her chin, and reveled in the feel of her small form swallowing his own up. She rubbed his back, kissed his head, moved her fingers over his scalp and through his hair in a way that settled him almost like magic. The sound of her heartbeat drumming in her chest was calming. Her breath filling her lungs was his lullaby.

His experiment had failed, for her at least. He'd have to try again another night to soothe her dreams. But for now, his own mind cleared a little bit more with every move of her hands.

"Just close your eyes," she whispered to him. "Go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

Yes. Yes, she would. But it dawned on him that Baelfire would not be, and suddenly he was awake all over again.

#Rumbelle #Rumple #Rumpelstiltskin #Dark One #Mr. Gold #Belle #Baelfire #ouat #ouat fanfiction #fanfic

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aiatiwoyouryrarialv · 3 years

Text

The Penalty For Larceny {NSFW}

Words: 2,215

Rating: E

Warnings: Sexual content

Categories: M/M

Characters: Timothy Wright, Brian Thomas/Hoodie

Relationships: Brian Thomas (Hoodie)/Timothy Wright

Tim couldn’t breathe. His throat felt like it was steadily collapsing in on itself, preventing him from drawing in a single breath. Every time he managed to force out a cough, he was left gasping and struggling to breathe. Though he had experienced this before, it still left him panicking every time and in his panic, Tim stumbled from his room, managing to make it to the bathroom.

Head over the toilet, Tim managed to calm himself enough to relax some of his muscles. As soon as he could breathe again, he was violently coughing, the force of it shaking his body. Surprisingly, he managed to keep down his dinner, though he was left feeling weak by the time he forced himself to his feet again. His hands trembled as he grabbed the edge of the sink, staring into the mirror at his pale reflection. With the lack of sleep catching up to him and his frequent coughing fits (not to mention the fact that he hadn’t had a proper meal in who knew how long), he seemed to be slowly losing the colour of his once-healthy skin, slowly becoming more and more zombie-like.

Stumbling back down the hall, Tim reentered his bedroom, ready to just lay down and get some much needed sleep. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like that would be happening.

Standing at the foot of his bed in front of his dresser was the man with a black mask, someone Tim had privately been referring to as totheark. Surprisingly, they didn’t seem to notice his return as they continued to rifle through his basket of pill bottles, tossing the empty ones to one side and grabbing the ones that still had pills, shoving the prescriptions into his jeans’ pockets.

As silently as he could, Tim crept up on the cryptic; he was nearly directly behind the person when they suddenly turned. The masked person took a single step back, obviously caught off guard, before Tim was on top of him. The two tumbled to the ground, wrestling for control. At one point, the hooded stranger actually gained control, but he was quickly stopped by Tim surging forward, knocking the man flat onto his back before straddling one of his legs and pinning down his arms with both hands.

“Why are you taking my pills?” Tim angrily demanded, though he knew he wouldn’t receive an answer. He never did.

The man beneath him was still struggling, the only noise being the quiet sound of heavy breathing behind the mask and Tim’s own laboured breaths. His arms pushed against the hold Tim had on them and his torso twisted, trying to slide out from beneath the man. In a last ditch effort, the masked man’s legs lifted, trying to push Tim off of him. Unfortunately, the only thing that accomplished was pulling a small, startled moan from Tim.

Tim was mortified. He couldn’t believe he had just made such a noise. The man beneath him froze, seeming just as startled so Tim decided to take the opportunity to retrieve his pills, shoving his hands into the man’s jeans pockets and grabbing the bottles.

Hands grabbed his wrists as he went to pull out the bottles and Tim’s head snapped up to look at the black mask just in time for the man to bring his leg up, his knee rubbing experimentally against Tim’s crotch. This time, there was no denying that it was intentional and Tim’s teeth clenched to prevent the moan that threatened to spill over his lips. The barely repressed noise, however, did not go unnoticed by the man beneath him.

Totheark’s leg lifted again to push against the front of Tim’s jeans and the man went to pull away - forget the pills - but the man beneath him had a tight hold of his wrists, holding him in place as the knee against his crotch began working him up. Tim was torn between pulling away immediately or leaning into the touch, but ultimately, the latter won. As he pressed himself against the limb that relentlessly pressed against him, he found that it wasn’t an unenjoyable experience. The man seemed perfectly content to let Tim grind against him and as the man let a small groan slip, he found his mind returning to the frequent fantasies he had. What would it be like to have his way with this cryptic? Or perhaps, for the man to have his way with Tim?

A shudder ran through his body and Tim was suddenly pushed back. His wide eyes followed totheark’s movements as the masked man stood, and Tim was quickly on his feet again. Before he could reach out to grab the man to keep him from fleeing, the man was pushing Tim backwards until his knees met the mattress and he was forced to sit. Tim’s mind was running a mile a minute and his breath had picked up, only this time, he didn’t fear that he was about to have a coughing fit.

With Tim seated on the edge of the mattress, the man leaned in a little closer, standing directly in front of Tim and staring down at him. Tim swallowed thickly, all the possibilities of how this encounter could turn out running through his mind impossibly fast.

One of the man’s black-gloved hands reached out slowly, giving Tim plenty of time to stop him, but Tim didn’t even consider it; he was already this far in and there was no way he was backing out now. Why would he, when this was exactly what he had been fantasizing about in his alone time? Not that he got a lot of it with Jay always by his side, but he didn’t truly mind.

Tim was snapped out of his absent thoughts as totheark’s hand pushed firmly against the front of his jeans, slowly tracing the zipper upward before going back down. A breathy sigh left Tim as the man’s hand grabbed his erection through his pants, massaging it gently. It wasn’t exactly how Tim had thought it would happen - if it ever happened at all - but he wasn’t about to complain. The firm but somehow gentle touches against his clothed cock had him harder than before and he braced himself back on his hands as he looked up at the disapproving frown of the mask in front of him.

A thought suddenly crossed Tim’s mind - ‘I should be touching him too’ - and he leaned forward on the edge of the mattress, his hand reaching for the front of totheark’s pants to reciprocate. Before he could touch the other man though, a hand was around his wrist, setting his hand against his own thigh.

“Don’t you-?”

Totheark shook his head.

“But that’s not-”

The masked man silenced him by giving a light squeeze to Tim’s erection, forcing a moan to stop whatever else the man had to say. Well, if he was insisting, Tim wasn’t going to stop him, though he did feel a little awkward being the center of attention like this.

Without a word - what else was new? - totheark dropped to one knee, sliding his hands up to deftly undo Tim’s belt and tug open the button and zipper. It was obvious he didn’t want to waste any time with foreplay or any other unnecessary activities as he pulled Tim’s hard cock from his jeans and underwear and gave him several firm strokes.

“Shit,” Tim swore. He couldn’t remember the last time someone else had touched him in such a way and it showed in his breathless remark and the way he was shallowly bucking his hips up into totheark’s hand. The black gloves were soft and felt odd against his sensitive skin, but that only made it better.

The man’s unoccupied hand came up to pull at the edge of his black mask, pulling the fabric up just enough to expose his mouth and part of his nose, and Tim was surprised he had dared to expose himself, even if it was such a small part of himself. He briefly wondered why totheark had even done it, but he wasn’t left wondering long as the man dipped his head forward, taking Tim into his mouth.

One of Tim’s hands subconsciously made its way to the back of the other man’s head, fisting the light material of his hoodie as his mouth fell open. Totheark was persistent, quickly taking nearly half of Tim’s length before he began bobbing his head. His tongue pressed against the underside of the cock in his mouth and Tim’s head fell back, his eyes closing as he let out a loud moan. It really had been a long time since he’d done something like this.

“Fuuuuck,” Tim groaned out, tightening his hold on the fabric in his fist. His other hand absentmindedly wandered to the other man’s shoulder, resting there comfortably as he continued to moan. Between his knees, totheark had his hands on the insides of Tim’s thighs, squeezing every so often as he continued bobbing his head up and down on Tim’s length. The man made no sounds of his own as he worked Tim’s cock over, pausing every once in a while to pull back and breathe before going down on him again.

The heat and wetness of the other man’s mouth on him made Tim nearly dizzy with ecstasy. His heels dug into the carpet and the hand on totheark’s shoulder moved back to the mattress for leverage as he bucked his hips forward, thrusting shallowly into the man’s mouth. Totheark seemed unbothered by the action as he continued sucking, managing to remain silent somehow. Something about how quiet he was only spurred Tim on, his thrusts becoming a little deeper as his moans grew in volume.

When Tim’s head tilted back down to see the man in his lap, he was graced with the sight of totheark’s nose buried in the short hair of his pelvis, his cock having disappeared between the pale lips of the man sucking him off. The view paired with the feeling of the man nearly choking on his cock had Tim close to coming.

“Shit, fuck,” Tim swore again as totheark pulled up, taking a quick moment to gulp down several breaths before going at it again. He paused for only a moment to place open mouthed kisses to the tip of Tim’s cock before taking it back into his mouth again, hitting the back of his throat on nearly every stroke.

“I-” Tim gasped, his knuckle white grip on totheark’s hoodie causing his arm to shake. He swore he’d never felt something as amazing as this as the man continued sucking with vigor, pushing him toward an orgasm faster than he had ever experienced.

“I’m gonna come,” Tim managed to warn, his arms shaking with his impending orgasm. The man gave a few more powerful sucks before pulling off, one of his hands coming up to quickly pump Tim’s cock as his other hand squeezed Tim’s thigh roughly. Tim tried to hold on a little longer, not wanting this feeling of complete bliss to end so quickly; any resolve he had was quickly washed away as totheark looked up at him, his exposed mouth curving into a smile. Behind his parted lips, Tim could see the man’s white teeth, a small gap between the first two, and his smile - a simple, fucking smile! - sent him over the edge.

With a loud cry, Tim came, his semen covering the black glove that was wrapped around his erection. Embarrassingly, Tim was nearly panting as totheark’s hands left him, wiping his dirty glove against his own jeans.

Exhaustion rushed upon Tim all at once and he slumped over, elbows on his knees, as he watched totheark stand and approach his dresser. His face heated up worse than before as he watched the man pick up the camera that had been left beside the basket of pills; the device had been pointed toward them and Tim had no doubt that everything had been recorded. How had he not noticed it before? Oh yes, he was busy wrestling the other man to the ground.

With a sigh, Tim closed his eyes for only a few seconds as he wondered how they had gone from fighting to… Well, some things were best left unsaid. It wasn’t like he was ever going to mention this anyone, but would it really matter if totheark decided to post it to his channel? It would probably be taken down quickly, but Tim knew Jay would see it.

When Tim forced himself to open his eyes again, totheark was gone, the blinds over the window swinging gently. He supposed it was for the best. His head was throbbing with an oncoming headache and he was ready to sleep. He also supposed totheark wasn’t one for cuddling.

📼 📼 📼

The night air was cool, a welcome change from the heat of Tim’s bedroom. With a camera in his hand and his pockets full of pills, Brian retreated into the darkness of the night. He had no doubt that Tim would have no memory of their “fun” come morning, which was a shame but ultimately for the best.

His only regret was that the tape was already corrupted. Pity.

#chawrites #marble hornets #Timothy Wright #brian x tim #brian thomas x timothy wright #Brian Thomas #Brian's been under the Operator's influence for a longass time #brim #hoodie #hoodie x tim #oneshot #nsft text #nsft #testing out the waters with some nsft content #yes I have a lot more already written

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nothisis-ridiculous · 3 years

Text

Take Me Home Now: Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven: To The Place I Belong

Set after the events of ME3.

A rewrite. Ao3.

FemShepxKaidan

Evelyn ripped around the Recruit; the endless stream of energy the kid displayed was a thing of envy. She was an old soldier indeed- growing exhausted from just watching the child play about excitedly. Once she swore never to become that person, but it had progressed subconsciously. It was far more than a physical tired; emotionally and mentally, she was a strange form of exhaustion that taxed her brain to move on a typical day- on the worst days, it was immobilizing. "Please, just one more lift," the mousy-haired girl begged. "You're going to get me in trouble again." Evelyn pouted, "she's not watching right now. Plus, Rahna said she isn't mad it just makes her sad, which makes her act mad." "So you want to make her sad?" "No," but there was still a little bit of defiance in the utterance. "Plus, don't you want some of that energy for Pater?" "Ugh, we won't be there for forever ."

"You could try napping in the Mako," Jane retreated as the kid threw her a cross look, "or you could write another log." The kid was precocious, but Jane liked that about her. She was only privy to the existence of the log because of her Spectre status. Evelyn had believed what all others would take as a lie at face value. Claiming a secret mission, the kid was more than onboard to keep mum about the existence of a previous life. Though Evelyn may begrudge her later, Jane hadn't utterly lied to her. "But, you're doing dangerous things," Evelyn whined. Super dangerous if they allowed the seven-year-old to bother her, no doubt, "I suppose I am. How about you help me keep an eye out for any baddies?" It kept her entertained for a while, at least until Jane started to recognize some of the roads again. Her detail was ornamental at this point the route had been quiet. Who would disturb a company of Makos and Kodiak shuttles? Having boots on the ground was only required because of the state of chaos the city was under from reasons that ran from collapsed structures to faulty ordinances. The medical equipment was worth far more than creds; it was a step toward rebuilding. Jane paused once the building crested the horizon, the corpse of Harbinger in rest behind it. Her hand raised, bringing the caravan to an immediate halt. "What's the holdup?" the 2nd lieutenant buzzed over her comm. "I want a scan of this area, "Jane couldn't quite place the exact threat, it was an absurd tingle that whispered caution, "get behind me." The woman's demeanor bid the child to comply. "Mec-" Jane's pistol fired a split second before the comm's warning, blasting the processing 'head' clean off the LOKI unit. "Woah, Woah, Woah," a figure shouted from between the buildings, the white-haired figure raised his hands, "just mechs, Recruit." "Pater!" Evelyn cried, running from her side without a hint of caution. Half tackling the man with the ferocity of her joy, but he recovered quickly, spinning the girl around before setting her down. Holding her hand for the rest of the trip to the convoy. Roy's forehead knocked against her's, hands holding her face, "fucking hell, Recruit." "LT." "Jane, you-" his voice quivered before it left, pushing her aside with unintended belligerence. His steps were wobbly as he approached the short woman wearing a sour expression. They stared at one another. He stopped just out of arms reach from the woman. "I'm not going to smack you, you old geezer." The LT muttered something unintelligible as he swept the woman up into his arms. Cue the crying and all the grotesque cuteness one could endure from the scene. Jane had to look away; it was like watching her parents kiss. It was something better left unimagined and unseen, and sure it happened just somewhere else. The pang of envy was also unbearable, despite how happy she felt for them. It was time to look for an exit. Apparently, after trouble ran into her- "It's nice to see some of the Alenko family reunited." "Is this a joke to you?" envy helped pull a simmering anger into a seething mass of it. Rahna remained gentle, undaunted, "it would be good for all of you to have some closure." Logic bid that Strawberry couldn't have known that her Roy was the Major's father. While she knew who Helen was, Jane hadn't been exactly willing to spend any time with another person during her recovery. It all seemed obvious now if she hadn't been so clouded with grief and self-gratifying misery. "Please, let me go," Jane begged. ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ Harbinger's warm (for London) breath collided around her form. They sat in a prolonged stalemate of silence, the Reaper judging the creature before him. What was a flawed creature of flesh compared to a collective intelligence? This ant was pathetic, hardly able to pose a threat to itself. Yet here it sat, thinking it was worthy of words. But it wasn't without pithy for the small things. "Death wouldn't claim you." Why would it? The real punishment was surviving. Reliving the guilt without a

barrier to stop the whole barrage of the tide. While she fought and campaigned against forces that seemed impossible, she had a way to hold back the pain. A reason to forget, a goal that kept her focused on what was forward and not on the past. The failure of losing one homeworld seemed small compared to the loss of all advanced life in the Milky Way. But now, with time, without a goal to keep her focus forward the weight of Thessia, Earth, The Citadel, Palavan, and countless untold colonies compounded together. Her personal failures insult to the injury. If only she could have provided more evidence about the Reaper threat. If she had tried harder, been louder, would they have listened to her? Was it a mistake to abandon Cerebrus? They were evil, no doubt, but could those resources have made the difference? If they had managed to find the Catalyst earlier, the galaxy would have suffered less loss. Instead of the Illusive Man needing to make her an enemy, would her compliance have stopped the indoctrination of the organization? Had she pushed them to that extreme? Was it a mistake to not take the Dalatrass's deal and fool the krogan? Even if for a short while. Was her moral qualm worth the lives and time it took? There was always more she could have given. Her repentance must be witnessing the Galaxy struggle to rebuild after what she had brought upon it. "Who would believe you were Shepard?" Just another facet she wanted to forget. How could she face his parents? Was it wrong to stick around? Helen was a nominal presence in her life, but the LT... him she couldn't forsake. Roy's company brought her peace, likely out of familiarity, a brief reprieve from the current of guilt that swept her under. Guilt she didn't want to bring into their relationship, shame that her attempt to save his son had failed. She wasn't ready to talk about Kaidan or the Normandy. It was still too much of a burden, the force petrifying her humanity. What would it change between them? Or the way everyone looked at her? Would they shun her for what she could no longer be? Couldn't she steal a little light? At the time, she hadn't saved the man for Kaidan, but at least she could protect them now. Or try her damnedest as Jane, as much would not be expected from her. "I see we found Harold again," a graveled voice chided disapprovingly. Jane flinched at the physical contact, finding her words to come out in a tumbling mess, "shouldn't you be shacking up with your old lady?" "Who's to say I haven't." Now, this was super gross, "you picked a fun one." His eyebrow raised, but he otherwise ignored the undertone of Jane's statement, "Alenko men always pick a partner far out of their league. I think my son really took the cake, though." Jane tensed, waiting for the inevitable. He knew. He had to. Rahna wouldn't keep quiet, not now. Why else would he leave his wife? Nearly two years' absence was nothing compared to a stranger disappearing for a month. "A Spectre is a Spectre, and never for an arbitrary reason," she retorted defensively, no longer waiting for the blow to come. It was also a little personal- she loathed whenever someone implied Kaidan simply rode her coattails. Yes, he was monumentally important in her crusade, but the man was his own force to be reckoned with. He was capable, intelligent, level-headed, and most of all kind. It was rare to have someone never ask anything of her, as he had. Rarer to not be put on a pedestal, the Major had always seen her as human. As a person and not the title. Despite how challenging the distance between them had been, she would always respect that he never wavered on his choice to act independently from her. "Heh, did someone have a celebrity crush?" Roy shook his head, "I didn't come here to reminisce. I wanted to speak with you about something." "Okay, let's have it." He took in a deep breath, folding his arms in a manner that made her question how she had missed the resemblance, "about that day, the raid. Look, I appreciate what you were trying to do for me, but never do

that again." "I can't promise that," she returned flatly. "You know," he drew in a steadying breath, his tenor turning into a heartbreaking rumble, "it's possible you have people out there that care about you. You're a stubborn shit, but you're becoming like one of my own. Maybe you can't imagine someone coming back for you, but one day someone's going to thank me for keeping your sorry ass alive for them." "You can lecture me all you like then," she quipped, but the hot tears slipping out from the corners of her eyes betraying her true feelings. Roy's hand returned to her shoulder, letting the woman release in complete silence. He waited a few minutes after her shaking had stopped to speak again. "But you should come inside, there may or may not be a banner with your name on it awaiting you," he said wryly, "while I think Evelyn may not mind all the attention on her, she does not need that much cake."

#shenko #fshenko #mass effect fancition #kaidan alenko #take me home

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