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barnesandco · 4 years

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Take Your Breath Away

Love is, perhaps, most beautiful when it is forbidden by the world, and most intense when broken by war.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Smut (18+ only please and thanks), angst, mentions of racism and war. One brief mention of blood.

A/N: This is my entry for @jalapenobarnes ' writing challenge. My application of my prompt, "the feel of fingers brushing together by accident", is highlighted in bold. Congratulations on the milestone, Saran; you deserve all the joy and happiness. Your presence in this community is priceless and your friendship is so precious to me.

Hundreds of millions of thanks go to @nacho-bucky for reading this beforehand and giving me advice that was much-needed to make this fic not sound like total garbage. Thank you for your help, Cait!

The moments before dawn breaks across the Eastern horizon are quiet. Breathless, silent, like a perfectly still surface of water. And yet she is anxious enough to wake up in this hour of peace; when the rest of the world sleeps without a wink of worry, her eyes open slowly and adjust to the starlight-soon-to-be-sunlight falling through the open window at their feet like splintered diamonds across scratchy cotton.

She moves onto her side to face her new husband, turning her back to the window, internally willing the sunrise to delay itself, postpone the inevitable. Even in the shadows of near-daybreak, the lines and curves of his handsome face carve a place for themselves in the dark of their room, and in the inside of her heart. Her secret lover, her forbidden man, is due to leave for war before the day is out. With a hand to her cheek, the cool metal of her ring soothing the ache, she wipes away the beginnings of her grief with shaking fingers.

Those same fingers, she then raises to trace the outline of his jaw. It's a sharp edge she has only ever seen clenched with nerves or distorted by a smile, and felt move and ripple under her palms when he kisses her with senseless abandon in dark alcoves and alleyways, one hand under her shirt and the other holding her up by her waist while she gasps against his hungry lips, and holds his face like she'll drift away otherwise. However, now-- now, in his state of slumber, it is rounder, softened by sleep and boyish in innocence.

She feels a twinge of guilt for disturbing the state of calm as she continues her movement down his neck, hand resting on his collarbone, rubbing over the bare skin there. Littered with plum-colored marks, she has made sure that he'll have a physical reminder of their wedding night for at least some time. He had given her a wolfish smirk in the mirror when they had finally been sated enough to leave the bed and clean up in the bathroom, but the sight of his chest, her inner thighs, and his hipbone layered in reminders of love had sent him into such a tizzy that he had pressed her against the vanity where she stood washing her face, and cocooned her body with his own.

A shiver traverses her spine, and she closes her eyes and bites her lip to suppress a smile at the recollection of his warm chest draped over her back, his hand snaking around her front to find her still wet, still wanting, and then burying himself inside her velvet heat that welcomed him with a pulsing, satin embrace that had him groaning against her neck in seconds. Her hand leaves his face to trace the spot that his teeth had grazed in passion, in feverish desire.

When she opens her eyes again, the quelled fire of the memory is reawakened to see him watching her. His sky-blue eyes bore into her with a perplexing mix of amusement and lust, both tempered with the love in his expression. “What were you thinkin' about that had you short o' breath like that?” asks, the sleepy rasp of his voice carrying across the space between them to vibrate against her heartstrings.

"My husband," she breathes, watches his eyes darken as the longing returns to him, along with the memories of gasps sung out into a dark, damp midnight, his sweat-slick skin sliding against hers, joined so fully that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

He smiles, baring a row of perfect teeth, leans forward, and his hand grazes against hers on the scarce space between them. The tips of his warm fingers had brushed over her knuckles in his attempt to get closer, but whatever intentions he had are halted by the sight of her ring, shining moonlight on her finger, and he stops to take her hand into his. A gesture so simple, so chaste, still sends hot sparks racing down her arm and through her, as she observes Bucky's thorough study of her hand, brown skin glowing and gorgeous, captivating in his eyes, interrupted by the band of gold. Watches it glint and reflect, a beacon in this darkness, and he brings her hand to his lips, kisses her knuckles, and then her palm, and then her wrist, all the while locking a heavy stare on to her eyes with his own.

She swallows nervously, every drop of wanton bravery that had her keening on top of him just hours ago evaporating at his gaze. "Just" -- he suckles at the inside of her elbow, leaving a mark there, too -- "how handsome he is" -- a smile against her bicep -- "and how good he makes me feel." His lips hover over her shoulder, right next to the thin strap of her satin nightgown. Raising his head, now so close that she can count the number of hairs in the eyebrow he quirks at her with a smug grin.

"Yeah?" He asks again, more an affirmation this time, folded into the lusty tone that he presses into the side of her neck with a kiss there, and she gasps, a sound he leans over to capture with his own lips, and it's as heavenly as the first time. Indeed, she has begun to feel like there was never a time when he wasn't kissing her like a man possessed, that he slides forward to slip his knees between hers, and makes a space for himself against the landscape of her body.

Now, she's the one to break away, hands in his hair tugging gently to make him look her in the eye. "How efficient of you, Mr. Barnes," she teases, and he laughs.

"Only for you, Mrs. Barnes," he says, and she swears she can hear his heart skip a beat in time with hers upon the new title. He clears his throat, rests on his elbows above her like he's getting comfortable and ready for a nice chat, surrounds her with nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. "So? Anything else you wanna tell me about this husband of yours? Sounds like I should watch out."

She nods solemnly, strokes the pad of a finger down the shell of his ear. "Oh yes. He's a jealous fella. Would kill you if he saw us like this," she tells him. "But he's a softie on the inside. Real soft, just for me," -a hand over his heart, there, and he smiles a dopey smile. Just for her. "And did I mention how good he makes me feel? How he takes care of me?" A pang in her heart, as she realizes he won't be around to take care of her much longer. "I'll miss him when he's gone. Miss him terribly, while he goes away to fight that big, goddamn war," she says, a tremble in her throat and oh, no, the tears are welling up again, she promised herself she wouldn't cry, but she can't help it because she loves him and she married him, and what'll she do if-

"Hey, hey, sweetheart, look at me. Baby, angel, stop." Gentle pet names, all for her, delivered softly, quietly, at odds with the hard, reassuring push of the planes of his body on her. Blue eyes, now reflecting the sunrise that has started and that, along with its impending implication that it's morning, he has to leave soon, has a lump of indigestible sorrow forming in her chest. Has her struggling to breath, and Bucky sees that, sits up and against the headboard, pulls her up to sit on his lap, and cradles her face with those big, safe hands.

"Baby girl," he says, and she clenches her eyes tighter shut, the first tear escaping her eye, and he wipes it away with his thumb. Urges her to look at him, and when she refuses to, he holds her. Brings her closer with hands under her knees that frame his hips, and then rests one hand on her back and the other stroking the nape of her neck. "I know, doll, I know it hurts. Hurts me too, and you know I'm not goin' away 'cause I'm so keen to fight. Too much of a coward for that," he says with a bitter chuckle that reverberates from his chest to hers, completely ignoring the fact that he didn't enlist voluntarily because he has his family to take care of, just a few streets over.

He has Stevie and Becca and his ma, the small, happy family that were the only witnesses to their quiet, secret union. Steve, with a heart bigger than all of Brooklyn put together. Becca, a trainee midwife who can stomach the blood and gore that comes with bringing new lives into the world, but cries at the sight of stray cats her ma doesn’t let her bring home, tears that she learnt to shed from her ma. Because Winifred Barnes is a saint, who wept a river when Bucky’s enlistment letter came, who sobbed a lake full of salt upon hearing about the things his fiancé had experienced as a woman of color in this cruel, cruel world. She wept tears of joy the day of their wedding, and laid a wet kiss on each of their cheeks when seeing them off to this new apartment. A new life, cut off too soon.

But Bucky won’t let her dwell on that. No, he’s determined to make the most of what he has, and what he has, is her. His arms are full of his new bride, wedding joy tainted by premature misery that he refuses to bend to, not when she woke up speaking such pretty words, even though she tries to regret them now. Murmurs darlin’ and dearest and baby, against the crown of her head, hands sliding up and down her back to soothe the whimpers he knows she is barely holding back. Eventually, she sits up straighter. Permits him to wipe the silent tears down her cheeks, and then kiss the soft, brown skin where they had trailed down.

“Sorry, Bucky, I don’t mean to bring you down like this, I just can’t bear-” He cuts off the unwanted apologies with a kiss, trying to tell her, through the silken movement of his lips across hers, that it’s okay. Doesn’t feel like it now, but it is. Parting with a sigh, their foreheads joined together, he holds her face, thumbs running across her jaw.

“Don’t mention it, sweetheart. I know it hurts, but I swear I’ll make it better,” he says. Kiss it better, Bucky, she wants to answer, but, in the way that their entwinement of hearts is, he knows before she’s uttered a word. Turns over again to lay her on her back, and lips are on lips again, and she can taste salt on her tongue, but now, she doesn’t know if it’s his or hers. Determines that it’s better not to know, and loses herself in the abyss of his hold, the feel of his warm body over her.

Moving away from her mouth, he begins to trail open-mouthed, wet, suckling kisses down her neck, pausing to pay attention to her clavicle. Now her mark mimics his. just above where his heart resides, beating red just for her. He finds that further progress south is hampered by the silk covering her body, and he leans back onto his haunches. Smirks at her as he runs his hands up her legs, drags the pink silk up her thighs and she rises a little to get the darn thing off completely, and there, now, she is bared to him.

Only his sleep shorts between them now, he smiles against her lips before continuing where he left off, and grinning against her breast when she reaches for his hair upon the feel of his mouth on the sensitive skin there. A flood of warmth spreads like wildfire from her nipple when his mouth covers it, suckling, lapping wet heat over one sensitive peak, first, and then the other. Hands tighten in his hair, back arching to bring him closer, somehow, someway, inadvertently grinding against the hardness under the last barrier of clothing. He groans against her, and the reverberations spread and echo through her body.

The feel of her wetness seeps through the thin cotton of his shorts, and he grinds a little harder, a little more desperate, before giving up all pretense of patience, and snaking a hand between them to find the spot where yes, she is ready for him. Gasps and whimpers at the coarse but gentle pads of his fingers just tracing through her slick folds initially, and then, with a hint more pressure, before pushing to fingers into the velvet warmth that he has now become so familiar with. Once again, he slants his mouth over hers, hoarding the sounds of pleasure for a rainy day. Her walls clench and pulse, wanting, lusting for more, and the desire has her reaching for his shorts, pushing them down his hips just enough that she can hold his length.

That has him breaking away, his fingers shaking in their ministrations now and him shuddering, nuzzling into the sweaty, sweet crook of her neck, as she takes him in hand and begins to stroke. She takes her cues from the broken rhythm of his groans and gasps and mutters of Christ, baby, realizes that her thumb swirling over the tip makes him dizzy with ecstasy and does it again, until he cries out and removes her hands from him.

“Jesus, woman, are you tryin’ to kill me?” He says, putting her hands down on the mattress and twining his fingers with hers, leaning back over to kiss her, a kiss that winds up being more moan than anything else as his erection meets her silken flesh.

“You complainin’ ?” she asks with a grin up at him, his beautiful features now pink with pleasure and lit golden by the rising sun. He shakes his head, releases her hand to guide himself into her. Gently, slowly, he lowers himself and rocks up into her, and she stifles the sound his motion elicits against his neck. Teeth grazing his Adam’s apple, she grips his biceps where his arms frame her shoulders, and tries to meet him where his pelvis grinds against her.

The weight of his length inside her, sliding against her walls, every ridge, every vein grazing the sensitive flesh, it has her shaking in his arms. Sweat slick skin sliding over each other, she holds him as he moves at a steady, heavy pace, the heady scent of him a cloud around her, and her nails digging into his shoulder blades. Crescent moon shapes in his skin, new, deep purple love bites forming on hers, as he seeks to relinquish some of the pressure in her skin.

Rolling, rushing feelings like a tide running up and across her while he moves with purpose, with intent to push her over the edge and when he catches his breath for a moment, he slips his hand between them to circle over her bundle of nerves. “Bucky,” she cries, and he increases the pace of his thrusts, chasing that white light, that blinding hot rush of bliss.

---

After, is tranquil. It is serene, in the feel of him still buried inside her after she has climaxed for him, and he starts to soften in the comfort of her embrace. Tense shoulders hunch forward to press him against her, every hard plane of his lithe form molding to the shape of her tender curves, and she holds him still. Arms wind around his back, as she peppers fragile kisses across the constellation of his shoulders, maps them with her mouth.

Manages to elicit something resembling a giggle -- Bucky Barnes, big, dark, handsome soldier, breathing out a little laugh -- against her neck, where he nuzzles and nips indignantly. Upon her own shriek of laughter, he raises himself back up on his elbows, and looks. Just looks. Getting lost in those eyes of his is so easy, she thinks, tangling her fingers in his dark hair, embedding the feel of it into her skin. She could live here, in this bed, his body on hers and live off of nothing but the adoring smile he gives her. Lord knows she’s survived off of less.

And that’s the thing about people who have owned very little except for each other’s hearts; they take what they get with open arms, with the tear-wrought kiss he places on her forehead, and then forgets to release. As though he can breathe in his sustenance through where his lips meet her skin, where his hand is splayed out across her side, where his warmth meets hers in the most intimate way possible.

The tears stay in her eyes this time, and when he breaks away, pulls out with a groan to roll them onto their sides, lets the golden daybreak spill across their bodies, she looks at him with a smile. With a silent declaration of love, of hope, of faith. He returns the expression with one of his own, because words are not needed now, here. In this sanctuary woven from shimmering gold fulfillment, made secure by new cotton sheets embroidered with the scent of jasmine and cigarette smoke, there is only room for her hand clasped in his, wedding bands clinking together.

---

The docks smell like trash and sweat, sound like sorrow and the sad business that is war. Soldiers and their loved ones bustle about, a rushing mix of noise, and she and her husband stand in the middle of it all, holding hands and as bewildered as fish out of water, wondering how to go about this. She supposes she should be grateful that everyone is too occupied by their own goings-on to pay much attention to how a hand the color that hers is should not belong in his. Yet it does, and they fit together like puzzle pieces. The junction between one train carriage and the next, coupled together for the journey.

After a few more moments of contemplation -- maybe he’s rehearsing his farewell, or recounting the one he had with his family just half an hour ago -- he turns to her with a sigh. Like that exhale of breath, made sweet by a breakfast involving strawberries and cream and her mama’s waffle recipe, can carry all his burdens out of his body and into the free air. He looks at her and she wants to tell him not to. Tell him that the longer he stares at her with those blue eyes, the more she wants to drag him out of here by his hand, back to a fort made out of scratchy cotton bed sheets, where no mailman can go with a death sentence in hand.

“Sweetheart-” she places a finger over his lips, and he kisses it. Takes that hand in his, holds it in both of his safe, warm ones. “Baby, you gotta listen to me, because I got some important promises to make, alright?” A quivering nod in response, and his eyes begin to water, weakening her already paper-thin resolve. He clutches her hand tighter, and she wrenches it out of his grasp, throws her arms around his neck and holds on to him. His arms come around her waist to hold her tight to him, and he buries his face in her neck, breathing in the scent of jasmine. Always jasmine, seeping through his every pore and intoxicating him. Always jasmine, settling over him like a blanket to keep him warm, to keep him safe.

“I have a promise, too,” she murmurs against his neck, memorizing the combination of his musk, his cologne that she breathes in while inhaling shakily. Feeling him nod, she continues. “I promise I’ll wait for you.” He holds her tighter. “No matter how long it takes, I swear on my parents’ graves I’ll wait.” A suppressed sob against his shoulder, still holding him like she’ll never let go, and he swallows, lump in his throat not budging from its spot clogging his airway.

“I don’t think God woulda worked this hard to get us together just to take me away from you for all too long. You’ve suffered enough, darlin’, and I promise I’ll come back soon so you don’t have to suffer no more,” he says. Somewhere on the ramp leading into the ship, an official calls a five-minute warning for soldiers to board, and she draws back panicked. Scared. Eyes scanning the fear in his face, the loss, but most of all, the everlasting love in the tremble of his lip, the glimmering of those blue eyes.

“I love you, Bucky,” she says, because those four words are all she has left. This love she carries for him, and the ownership of his heart, is all she has. And she’s had to fight tooth and nail for it, so while she’ll be damned if she gives up hope on the one good thing to ever happen to her, it’s a monumental effort not to cry again. To blink back the sting, watch his reaction, his response, and what a privilege it is to understand Bucky Barnes so intimately that she knows his every move before he makes it. How his actions speak louder than words, and his grip on her waist as he presses his lips to hers scream volumes.

Tangling one hand in his hair, and placing the other over his bicep, she kisses back. Like it’s all she knows and all she’ll ever do, she kisses him back. Lips to lips and beating, trembling, sobbing heart to his steadfast one, she kisses him until the final, impatient call to board, when they part breathlessly.

He cradles her head in his hands, pecks her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, and places a final, urgent kiss on her lips. “I love you, too,” he whispers against her mouth. Then, he pulls back, takes her hands in his, kisses each of her knuckles before letting her shaking hands go, and backing away. She holds a fist against her lips, forces the choking sobs back into her chest, to be released later, and watches him go.

She watches his blue eyes disappear, leaving a grey world for her to navigate on her own.

#ayesha writes #saranschallenge #bucky barnes x woc!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #40s!bucky x reader #40s!bucky #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes smut

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captainscanadian · 4 years

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Doctor’s Orders | Steve Rogers x Reader (Too Weak to Speak)

My Masterlist

Summary: You’ve caught a stomach bug and Steve Rogers is determined to nurse you back to health.

Word Count: 1200+

Pairing: Doctor!Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: Stomach Bug, Nausea, Loss of Appetite, Fluff!!!

A/N: This is actually my entry for @jalapenobarnes‘ Writing Challenge. My prompt was “What are you doing up? Come to bed.” I initially had no idea what to write. And then I was talking to @dramadreamer14 this morning. Poor Naynay’s got a stomach bug and felt like shit so I decided to write this to cheer up my #1. I love you, Naynay & I hope you feel better. Gif’s not mine, credits to the owner!

It had been the pitter-patter of the pouring rain against his bedroom window that had caused Steve Rogers to wake up from his deep slumber. But the moment he had opened his eyes, his first instinct had been to roll over to wrap his arm around the woman who was meant to be asleep next to him. But when he reached over to your side, he noticed that you were not there. Your side of the bed felt cold and not slept in. He began to wonder why you were not in bed, for when he turned back to the nightstand to check the time on the digital clock, it had read 3:28 am. He was worried.

Letting out a yawn, he rubbed at his eyes to be rid of his remaining slumber and slid from under the covers. Climbing out of bed, he looked around the room for a moment before making his way over the bathroom. He was well aware that you had not been feeling that well when you had gone to bed; you had told him that you might be coming down with a stomach bug, having spent the majority of your afternoon and evening throwing up everything you ate. A part of him had half-expected for you to be crouched down by the toilet at this time of the night. “Y/N?” He called out your name before knocking. But when he looked down, he saw that the light wasn’t on. He opened the door to see that you were not in the bathroom.

His bare feet dragged along the hardwood floor of your shared Boston apartment. As he made his way across the narrow hallway and down the creaking old stairs, he shivered slightly at the cold air that was slipping through the open living room window. It seemed as though the wind had picked up along with the rain and the fact that he was wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama shorts did not help.

“Y/N? honey?” He called out to you once more as he closed the window and walked past the living room, seeing that the kitchen light as on. “What are you doing up? Come to bed.” He said as he made his way over to the kitchen table, seeing you slouched on a chair with a plate of cold pizza in front of you. It made him frown slightly. “Babe, are you okay?”

You let out a groan as you rubbed your temples. The nausea, the upset stomach and the loss of appetite that came with a stomach bug were certainly not the best feelings in the world. But you felt weak. You had no energy and you were starving. Perhaps a slice of cold pizza was not the most ideal food to have when you had woken up in the middle of the night in the midst of fighting a stomach bug. But you had raided the fridge and this was the only thing that looked slightly appetizing to your extremely peckish self.

You had been hoping that your body would appreciate at least a single bite of food at a time like this. But you might have been wrong about that. You could not bring yourself to even take a bite of the pizza, even though it was pizza. A part of you was worried that you would end up throwing up again had you eaten it. You probably would have. “I’m so fucking hungry. But I can’t get myself to eat this.” You admitted as you leaned back in your chair and sighed. “I don’t even know if I should eat... or not eat. I feel like shit either way.”

A worried Steve walked around the table to hug you from behind, crouching down to place a soft kiss on the top of your head. “You could have just woken me up, honey. I would have made you some soup. Cold pizza? Really? The pizza would have made you feel worse, you know?”

“I know...” You admitted, groaning once again as you lead your head against his bare torso. “But you said that you had a long day at work and I know you just had this really big surgery. You were so tired when you went to bed. I didn’t want to... bother you.”

“You know you’re not bothering me, Y/N.” He shook his head before letting out a sigh, stroking your hair gently before he pulled back from the embrace. “Sometimes, I wonder what you would do if I’m not around.” He admitted as he reached for the plate in front of you. “You are so caught up with caring for me that you’re so bad at taking care of yourself.”

You chuckled, weakly. “I would argue with that statement but I’m too weak to speak right now.” You admitted as you set your head down on the table and shut your eyes for a moment, clearly taken over by the exhaustion. You were miserable.

Steve gave your shoulders a gentle squeeze, rubbing your back and stroking your hair again. “Why don’t you go lay down on the couch for a bit? I’ll bring you some soup.” He offered. “And I think some ginger tea would help too. You need the fluids.”

You gave him a nod as he helped you up and led you over to the living room. “What if I throw it all back up again?” You asked him, worried that you might end up back on your bathroom floor if you managed to have some soup at Steve’s insistence. You felt like you could not afford to take that risk, for you knew that your stomach was not going to be easy on you.

“If you do, then at least you tried to get some food in your system.” He told you as he helped you over to the couch. “You have to eat something. And the ginger would probably help keep it all in.”

You were about to speak up again, but you dropped your head in defeat as Steve helped you lay down.

“You need to take it easy, babe.” He told you. “Doctor’s orders.”

You sighed as you gave him a nod, having really no choice in that matter. “Fine...” You did not remember how you had managed to fall asleep on the couch. You felt weak and tired from the nausea and the loss of appetite.

But Steve had woken you up with a bowl of soup and a cup of ginger tea just like he had promised. He had made sure you had managed to eat an adequate amount of the soup before he helped you back into bed, glad that you would not be going to bed on a completely empty stomach. He grabbed an old plastic trash can and placed it by your side of the bed, just in case your stomach did let you down throughout the night and you found yourself in a half asleep need to throw up.

The rain had stopped by the time he had climbed into bed and wrapped his arm around you; letting you snuggle up to his bare chest despite you warning him that he might contract the bug from you. He could care less, as he was used to working in the disease-filled hospital for years now.

Your bodies were gentle against each other, feeling each other’s body heat and relaxing at the sound of your hearts beating against each other. While the nausea and the upset stomach was a never-ending dilemma of a stomach bug, you were able to get some shut-eye when you were in Steve’s arms.

Thankfully, you had managed to feel better in the next day or two. Thanks to Dr. Steve Rogers’ determination and genuine involvement to nurse you back to health, and that wasn’t the first or last time he’d been the best doctor and best husband he could be.

#saranschallenge #aj writes #too weak to speak #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers fic #steve rogers one shot #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers au #i love you naynay #chris to my sebastian #doctor's orders

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tarithenurse · 4 years

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Goodbye - Challenge drabble

Starring: Thor Odinson & Jane Foster Content: We all know that a “mutual dumping” took place...but how did it play out? Prepare for sweet, sad feels. A/N: I’ve finally gotten around to write a little something for the brilliant challenge @jalapenobarnes kicked off ages ago. In my defense (speaking of the timing) there was no deadline set! When it comes to the contents...I suppose I have nothing to say except “SORRY”. I used a song prompt (“Advice” – by Kehlani) and it just was so bittersweet and couldn’t help myself. Oh and...no proper proofing as per Crazy-Days-Custom.

Goodbye

He notices something is wrong the moment their eyes lock, the pained expression is impossible to hide. Every step until he can hold Jane in his arms feels like walking in sand. Warm sand. Feet and hands are beginning to sweat. However, when she pulls away from him to avoid the kiss of reunion, Thor’s heart begins to splinter.

“Thor -” Small fingers worry with the hems of the sleeves.

He has to say something! Prevent the dread from becoming reality. “I-know-I-know-it’s-been-too-long.” The words are almost a rambled shout. Taking a quick breath, the Asgardian attempts to slow down. “I’ve missed you, darling Jane, and I...I know nothing I can say can make the silence you’ve endured better.”

“No. It can’t.” Being skewered by a bilgesnipe would be less agonizing. “And please...don’t try to make promises or...or...” A faint quiver of her bottom lip is stilled as she bites softly into it. “We’ve been here before!”

Yes. “After Lo- after New York. When the Aether -”

“Thor...”

“I understand.” He does. If nothing else, then the guilt gnawing deep in his bones is a clear indicator how hopeless their situation is. “Jane, I will not dishonour you with empty promises once more. You...you do deserve better than that, and although I’ve denounced my claim to the throne -”

“You’re still a prince of Asgard. And a hero.”

“Well...prince, at least.”

For a moment, they manage to conjure awkward but honest smiles. The gesture may not be big, still it carries with it a sense of calm to grace the sorrow of the impending loss.

Thor knows that in time, they will both move on and likely find new loves. Perhaps it is for the better this way. His brilliant Jane will no longer be caught in a web on intrigue not suffer the destiny of growing old surrounded by immortals – her kind heart will not be burdened with the concern that perhaps she could be the one causing pain simply by having a brief lifespan.

Yes, like a mayfly, she will live, love and die with someone else...while Thor passes slowly through the same process, watching he heal and thrive from afar as his own wounds linger. It is not only the bodies of the Asgardians that are long-lasting.

“Know, that you can always call on me, and I will come to your aid.” Fat tears are streaming into his beard, mirroring the glitter on Jane’s cheeks. “You have been and always will be a source of joy for me.”

“...you too.” Backing away, slowly, she has almost turned to leave when she hesitates. “Thank you, Thor. I love you.”

“And I you.”

He stands for a long time, watching the path she followed with her head held high and fists balled tightly at her sides, but eventually he departs as well. He has to do...something, or he will never move on.

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aspiratixxn · 4 years

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Wiggles and wriggles and wounds, oh my!

Summary: Tony really wants to say fuck but he can’t in front of one insistently wiggly red spider boy.

Warnings: Blood and injuries.

Word Count: 1877

Notes: For @jalapenobarnes‘s writing challenge! I know I just signed up but I sort of just churned this out because it was fun to write and because I’m avoiding my two other fics heh. My prompt was “I’m trying to stop the bleeding!”, which just screamed Tony attempting to parent injured Peter.

🚫 Starkers don’t interact 🚫

“Will you PLEASE STOP THE WIGGLINGS.” Tony can’t curse because Peter is a child and he’s really trying to cut the habit for the press, but he so wants to say fuck right now. Like really, really wants to say fuck.

The cause of said desire is of course one grievously injured Peter Parker, who’s normally fluffy hair is slick with red and he wheezes with every breath. The wheezing is less concerning when it’s because Peter’s laughing at his own stupid jokes, coming out in a pour of words.

“B-but Mr. S-Stark,” he giggles, “I’m a SPIDER! We wiggle!” And to prove his point, he wiggles a little bit even though it makes him wince from all the gashes on his body.

Tony has been blessed with multiple kids in his life. But between Harvey, Morgan and Peter, he can finally feel his age catching up with him.

To combat the raging headache beginning to bud in the back of his head, Tony does a categorical assessment of the situation. Peter’s spider suit is torn to pieces pretty much. It’s not really salvageable so he’ll strip it for parts for the next suit. Friday and Karen do a scan and reveal some pretty heavy bruising and fractured bones but no internal bleeding or compound fractures (thank fuck). Peter’s weirdo heal factor is already plugging itself in so those will be gone in a day or two. Peter himself on the other hand refuses to stop talking or moving for even a minute and he’s babbling something about how spiders spin their webs and how they walk and how their legs bend. Who knows who spider’s legs bend?? Peter Parker that’s who.

“I am. Trying. To stop. The bleeding! So, if you’ll just be a good little spider and lie still for your flies or whatever you drain the goo out of, that’d be amazing. Fantastic. Absolutely wonderful.” Tony has never felt more grateful that he has an entire med kit packed into his suit as he’s spraying Neosporin on basically every inch of Peter’s body. If he could, he might be tempted to slam dunk the kid into a whole pool of the stuff. There is to be no infections on his watch. Not after the shit he experienced in Hong Kong a few months ago. That was absolutely horrible for a regular person, who’s to say what it’ll do to Peter who can’t take painkillers or antibiotics?

“Ewwww, goo? Goo’s gross. I mean I know spiders dissolve the guts of flies and other various small insects, and sometimes male spiders but like, what do you think it’s like to just slurp goo every day for food?” Peter makes a face, interrupted briefly by the sting that the spray brings. “But I guess it’s the buggy way since flies do it too. Hey Mr. Stark, did you know that flies secrete enzymes through their feet and they drink through their feet? Or that butterflies eat flesh? Did you know that?”

Deep breaths Stark.

“I did not but you know what, of everything I sure am glad you weren’t bitten by a butterfly. Or a fly. Or any other enzyme foot secreting insect.” It’s onto the wrapping even though the worst of the lacerations are already starting to look a little better. Tony whips out a sleeve of gauze and several rolls of bandages to begin wrapping around the more severe oozing cuts, mostly located on his arms and legs though there’s quite the nasty one on his chest. Peter snorts as he begins, fingers fumbling just a bit. He’s really not good at this. His forte is more like slapping on an Avengers band-aid on Morgan’s everyday scrapes, bumps and bruises. Pepper’s the real patcher-upper. She’s off in Thailand right now though, enjoying some mangoes and a very stubborn board of directors, insisting on cutting all funds to the avengers/S.H.I.E.L.D initiative.

“It’s not enzyme foot secretions! It’s an enzyme secreting foot!” Peter huffs. “And I mean yeah this spider stuff is pretty cool y’know especially for sneaking out and stuff like walking on walls is the bomb diggity but wouldn’t it be cool if I could fly?! Imagine that!!” That’s one arm down.

“First of all, spider boy, as long as you’re not secreting enzymes on the carpet it’s fine. You know how Pepper gets about her rugs.” Peter nods solemnly, apparently remembering the Jell-O goo incident on her nice Persian rug. “Secondly, have you been sneaking out? You know how I feel about you breaking curfew young man.” And it’s a pretty generous one in his mind, at the exact stroke of midnight. Hey if Cinderella gets that much then it’s good enough for his little pumpkins to roll home and go to sleep. Peter shrugs and suddenly has the urge to look at everything else, the smoldering buildings and piles of debris, instead of meeting Tony’s eyes. He’s even mumbling YMCA to keep from saying stupid things. Oh how they grow without his notice. He sighs, thinking he’ll have to update the protocol again. Or possibly reinstall it, given Peter’s previous compulsions to just uninstall the fucking programs. Having finished the other arm, he moves onto the quickly wrap up the bits and bangs on Peter’s legs. “Third, who says bomb diggity anymore? You’re way too young to even know that term.”

“What! No way Mr. Stark, some of my favorite stuff to say is like, bomb diggity and radical! It’s a renaissance of 90’s slang.” And there’s that big, toothy smile he gives when he’s trying to butter up and get himself out of trouble. Ha! Tony’s installed a Notepad of things Peter does that are bad protocol to make sure he and Pete have some talks about things like this. Sure his old man brain might get flooded with other stuff but ever faithful Friday will remind him of it later.

The last bit requires Peter to strip off the remnants of his suit, which is going to be a bit of a problem considering Peter has a case of the jelly limbs right now. As in he’s so exhausted and beat up that his body has effectively said nope! to any form of movement that isn’t wiggling in place and being pushed around gently. So it’s the old scissors trick (not a trick) and Tony just uses some super duper ultra sharp scissors to gently cut through the wires and fabric of Peter’s suit. Peter moans a small complaint (I liked this suit Mr. Stark) but Tony’s more worried about the still dribbling tear that crosses his chest.

Peter heals like there’s no tomorrow, something that Tony only wishes he could have sometimes. But still this one looks like it might scar, especially given the kid’s habit of picking at scars. But for now all he can really do is wrap it up and-

Boss. Friday’s soothing voice chimes up and as soothing as he’s made it out to be, after radio silence all this time Tony nearly shits himself. It appears that Mr. Parker will need stitches for this one.

Aw, fuck.

Well Tony is garbage with a needle and thread so there’s no way he’s going to be doing those stitches. In fact Peter is normally the one sewing so this poses a slight problem. He doesn’t want to move the kid, who’s mumbling now about 1950’s fashion (again, who knows about these things?? Peter). And forget ambulances since they take forever to do anything and that’s not really Tony’s style in the first place.

There’s a nearby clinic, about a quarter mile away boss. Ah Friday, ever so helpful lovely Friday.

A quarter mile isn’t that bad, he reasons to himself. Even he, with his emaciated lungs, can get that far without the suit so it should be a cinch to do it in the suit right? Even with a hundred sixty four (that’s 164) pound child in his arms.

Now the real question is how to get Peter there. He’s started to sing drinking songs (he’s not even old enough to drink yet why does he know these??) and is kind of waving his arms around. Well, it’s probably not because of blood loss because Karen, and by extension Friday, would’ve let him know. The easiest thing to do would just be to scoop up the lil spider and princess carry/fly him there and pass it off to a real professional. But a part of Tony really hesitates because what if that hurts him? He’s not really known to fly slow so what if the jet propulsion opens up new words or the turbulence in-flight causes him to shift shards of bone from his fractured humerus or what if! Peter decides to start dancing to his singing!

There’s a twinge behind his eyes and he groans, pressing the heel of his palm into them. Okay. So logically none of those things will happen. Peter’s a sturdy kid. But also, Tony’s not really well versed on all this stuff. He almost tells Friday to flip a coin, carry or fly him there, but his rational brain finally takes over. It kicks his parent panic to the corner and makes him scoop up Peter, delicately of course, and take a low flying (above tree tops because they’re not getting whacked on the way to the doctor) course to the clinic, where the nurse’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. She stammers her way through the paperwork process. Peter is seen immediately by an older physician, who simply collects him and brings him back without much fuss.

Which leaves Tony to deal with the flustered nurse who literally looks like she’s about to melt into a puddle on the floor. To be fair it is 3:47 AM so this is probably a little extreme for night-time injuries. Tony mindlessly scrawls information on the papers passed to him, wrinkling his nose at the insurance one.

Strictly speaking Peter isn’t part of his insurance. But Tony quickly dismisses that, telling Friday to make a note to add him to the policy. Easily done, considering this is Tony Stark they’re working with.

The physician comes back out and ushers Tony into a room where Peter has finally knocked out, snoring on the cot like he wasn’t just painting a random street corner iron red. Tony has the good sense to sit down and try to untense his shoulder as the physician goes through lists of care items and thing, prescribing antibiotics which Tony knows won’t work. He just listens anyways, thanking her for her care and services. She says that he can take him home but in a car, not flying across the city in a suit. Probably a good idea.

He gets Friday to call Happy who is obviously very not happy about being woken up at this god forsaken hour of the night. He still grumbles that he’ll be there in ten, twenty minutes and hangs up and Tony groans once more, that headache bursting into a full-blown migraine. And he doesn’t have any ibuprofen because he forgot to restock it.

Under his breath, in the weird yellow limelight of the fluorescent bulbs above, he finally mutters a vehement, “Fuck.”

#Tony Stark #Peter Parker #irondad #marvel #mcu fanfic #blood tw #injury tw #saranschallenge #jalapenobarnes

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