#(chapter 6)

[madokamanga]

[sara-the-wizard]

I Care. Chapter 6 (part 1/2) (Rottmnt comic)

Donnie and Raph assemble the wheelchair back together for Leo. And honestly, after being stuck in bed for a week, Leo is super excited to get away from the med bay! On the other hand, Donnie doesn't think he deserves any gratitude for finding the wheelchair pieces. It was his fault Leo was hurt in the first place! Donnie wanted to set things right and fix Leo. Truthfully, it looks like everything would be okay! But... Leo's not out of danger yet.

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[mdzs-mangatranslation]

CHAPTER 6 ✨

Bato ◦ Mangadex ◦ Download .CBZ ◦ Chapter index

After a short hiatus we're finally back! Enjoy the new chapter!

Support the manga by buying the original Japanese releases at cmoa.jp!

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (6)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 10.8k

Warnings: mentions of murder, death, blood, knives, dead parents; crying; self blame; injuries; fever; tension; worried!Bucky

Author’s Note: I came to notice that the word counts in my chapters differ significantly from one chapter to another. I apologize if this is weird for you. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

There’s a new kind of silence between you now.

It extends and winds itself into the trees, wrapping around unsaid words like an ivy branch.

This is not a natural silence and not the kind that felt almost comforting a day ago. It’s prickly and tense and laden and you hate how restless it makes you feel.

Each breath you take seems deafening, each movement you make achingly deliberate, and every moment of eye contact is a crack of electricity with no set destination.

Turns out, Bucky has been angry at you.

And he has chastised you for joining the fight in the first place.

But not in the way you’d expected.

You had braced for it. For venomous flames sprouting from his tongue. Ready to take anything he might throw at you.

You anticipated a different kind of anger, one that was intense and vocal, manifesting through harsh words and direct blame. Your stomach was a knot of anxiety, hands clenching.

The guilt has been bubbling within you ever since hurling that dagger, and you were ready for his rage to pour over it like oil on flames, transforming it into an intolerable blaze.

But Bucky didn’t give you that.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t even raise his voice.

It was slow and withdrawn, enough to expose the sharp rocks underneath. If anything, he sounded worn. The kind of worn that digs itself deep into a man’s soul.

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed,” he said, voice rather quiet, flat but somehow heavy. His hand has scrubbed over his face in a rough movement, as if trying to erase a hurtful memory of you standing there like the helpless girl you were, blood running over your temple. “You didn’t help. Didn’t even know what you were doin’.”

His words hurtfully slipped deep into your mind. Not because they were cruel, but because they weren’t. He didn’t berate you for stepping in, didn’t accuse you of foolishness. He simply sounded tired. Like someone who’s seen this before. Like someone who didn’t have it in him to carry the weight of your recklessness on top of his own.

It hurt more than anything he could have said in anger. There was something underneath the fatigue, something defeated, but also sharp. Disappointment, maybe - at you, or himself. Or fear. Or guilt. Or everything at once.

You braced yourself against his wrath, but instead, he gave you this hidden reprimand that left you feeling small.

It made you want to say something. Offer some sort of apology to soften the ache his words ignited in you. But the words stayed stuck between your heart and mouth. I’m sorry would have been so simple to say, but it didn’t feel like enough.

And so you just nodded your head to acknowledge you heard him. That you understood. Although you did not. Although your mind was a scrambled mess.

You saved him. You acted when you thought you had no other choice. When the alternative was losing him, and somehow, that felt more unbearable than the thought of taking another man’s life.

Yet, his words rang with truth. You didn’t know what you were doing when you started scrambling for that dagger on the ground. Nothing seemed logically possible. You just were desperate to act. Desperate to be helpful for once. But were you?

You saved him, but does he feel saved?

You only watched him as he turned on his heel, the line of his shoulders as stony as could be. He began to clear the area you stayed without another word, without a single glance back at you. Though he did keep you in his peripherals.

That’s when the silence started.

Because all you could do was sit there, unmoving, your thoughts a flurry of confusion and guilt and so many more twisted versions of those emotions.

The image of the man you killed still ticked in your head, counting the minutes you were leaving his metaphorical blood on your hands. It won’t ever stop counting. It will count you dead.

At one point, you forced yourself to rise and felt the heaviness of a tired body dragged down by a stinging stab at your side.

Bucky only tilted his head in your direction but didn’t meet your eye, continuing to tie knots, secure straps with his jaw set and clipped movements.

The routine of clearing your chosen sleeping spot for the night was basically the same as the last weeks but it felt so much more different today.

The river has been cold, shockingly so. The icy water irritated your skin, currents tugging at you as if meaning to pull you under. But it somehow grounded you in a way that nothing else had since the fight. Painfully so. It cleared a narrow path in your mind, through the wildly jumping and flickering memories.

You scrubbed at your hands, your arms, the hem of your dress, but no amount of washing could take away the feeling that still holds you captive. No scrubbing would be able to wash the blood from your hands because this is rather figurative. The metallic tang of it lingers in your nose. It will always stay.

Just like the sensation of that dagger slipping from your grip, its blade penetrating flesh, the extinguishing of life in a heartbeat. The frozen expression of shock and anguish cast over this man’s face.

Bucky washed himself as well.

You heard the faint click of metal, the soft rustle of fabric, and turned to him. He didn’t seem to care that you were only a few feet away, standing in the water with your dress on. Or maybe it was a deliberate decision not to move to another part of the river to clean himself. You weren’t sure.

But he did not so much as glance in your direction as he unbuckled his armor and pulled it off. He moved methodically. Not even thinking about it.

And then he peeled off his shirt.

Your breath caught, your fingers curling against the smooth stones at the river’s edge as you didn’t take your eyes off him. The faint moonlight that had illuminated the clearing earlier was gone, the silvery glow of the moon replaced by sunlight. And it painted his skin. It played with it. Each muscle of his torso and arms etched with stark definition.

But it wasn’t even the sheer strength of him, the building muscles that drew your attention. After all, you’ve seen him use them. You’ve seen them strain his armor across his chest.

It was the scars.

The crisscrosses over his chest, some jagged and irregular, others clean and straight as though left by a scalpel.

And then there was his left shoulder.

The scars there were different, deeper, more savage. The flesh around his shoulder and upper arm was tissue, cratered, and puckered, stretching away from the shoulder like the aftermath of some violent attempt to sever his arm completely.

It’s the thought - not the sight - that made bile rise in your throat.

And he didn’t even care about you watching. Maybe he didn’t even notice.

He moved toward the river without hesitation, stepping into the icy water as though it were no colder than a warm bath. His breathing was controlled, his muscles didn’t flinch. If anything, he seemed detached, sterile. Movements so robotic.

And it reminded you of something. Or rather someone. A soldier. A soldier of the navy army. Your fathers. Yours. Rumlow did say he was a soldier once.

You should have seen it earlier. Should have noticed the similarities. Should have been able to recognize it in the way he carried himself. But it was clear to say that he no longer acknowledged himself as a soldier of your army. It was clear to say that the manners of the soldier in him were something he revolted against.

He crouched in the shallows, water lapping at him the same way it lapped at you but he didn’t pay much mind to the currents. He only cupped a handful of it to pour over his head.

You shouldn’t have been watching him. But you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

The beat of your heart was a crazy commotion in your chest. It was shock churning with embarrassment and another feeling you could not seem to identify. Or did not want to.

These scars are stories you couldn’t begin to imagine. Stories he hasn’t dared to share and probably won’t ever bother to tell. And still, there was something sacred about watching him so completely stripped of what always seems like two layers of armor, both literal and metaphorical.

His eyes were fixed on the horizon, on something far beyond the river, something far beyond this moment. The strength of his stare was palpable, as if he was seeing ghosts that only he was able to perceive. He looked tight-lipped, his expression unreadable. But there was something sitting on his shoulders as tangible as the scars that marred them.

One hard swallow and you felt your throat closing tight. There was intrigue in the jumble of unfocused thoughts surpassing the barriers of your mind, while your rightful feelings begged for the right words to come out.

How could someone bear so much and still keep moving? How could he carry all of this - whatever it truly is - and still find the strength to protect you, to shield you, to chastise you for risking yourself for him?

You thought back to the fight although you didn’t want to. The way he moved looking so deadly, how he stepped protectively in front of you without a moment’s thought for his safety.

Just who is this man? It is a question that has been plaguing you for some time now.

Not just the man who stood in that river, water coursing over his scarred body, but the man behind the scars, behind the silence, behind the bitterness that lingers around the peripheries of all he says and does.

He turned then. And the look that cut over you was making you heat up despite the cold water. There was no surprise, no embarrassment, no anything. Just a studying look that lingered a moment too long.

“Finish up. We should keep moving.”

And with that, he stood, water streaming off his skin, and moved to the bank to retrieve his shirt and armor.

Your cheeks remained burning.

And then you were trailing him again. Through the woods.

You walked in his shadows, his presence looming even when he didn’t speak. There was something tipped about him, something like restrained that made it seem like he was trying to keep himself together. The air brimmed between the two of you with a strange energy, a fraught tension that was an uneasy, almost elemental pull.

The ache in your side flared with each step, but you didn’t complain, didn’t utter a single word.

He checked on you more often than probably necessary, his glances quick but searching. Narrowing as they flicked to your wound.

Every time his eyes met your own they carried something thick, but when he looked away he seemed to leave behind emptiness as if he was turning the locks to prevent you from coming in.

And all he said were short commands, clipped and dry.

“Sit there.”

“Hold this.”

“Tell me if it hurts too much.”

You followed his instructions without protest, without question, because the look in his eyes left no room for argument. His tone didn’t invite conversation, but it was not cruel. It was not sharp. It simply was matter-of-fact, just like everything else about him. Practical. Precise. But aloof.

The tension between you felt like it was building something, but you didn’t know what. A confrontation, maybe. Or a confession. Or nothing at all. Maybe this was how it would be now - this silence, this distance, this shared yet separate burden.

The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time you stopped to rest. He spouted an improvised campsite like every night - a small clearing, flanked by plump pines with their branches woven in dense roofs. The ground is mildly plush because of moss and littered with fallen leaves. Life seems to thrum in the forest around you, with crickets chirping and small animals rushing through bushes but it’s still muted by the tension yet to fold from the air.

Bucky set to work straight away, gathering firewood and checking the perimeter with sharp eyes.

You dropped your tired bones onto a decaying log, exhaustion pulling your shoulders down, mind not able to settle. You pulled your cloak tighter around yourself.

There was something about Bucky in this moment that felt unreachable. As though the man you had come to know - the man who shielded you with his body, who taught you to throw a knife, who hated seeing you fear him - was retreating. Pulling back into himself. And you hated that you didn’t know how to bridge the gap.

Your emotions swirled fiercely and unmanageable. It wasn’t just the guilty prick lying in knots in your stomach, but it was accompanied by fear and anger. Though you didn’t even know if it was directed at him, at yourself, or even the world that had shackled you into this lunacy.

When he finally sat in front of you, the fire crackling softly between you, you avoided each other’s eyes. Perhaps even each other’s presence altogether.

There was something feeling almost intimate, as though the firelight had drawn you closer even as the unspoken things between you kept you apart.

You thought about things to say that might ease the tension, but your chest felt too heavy to let any word come up.

And so you sat there, the firelight flickering in between, the forest shedding all its secrets in the dark.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, or how you would face it.

All you knew was that the silence between you edged on being both a barrier and a bridge, and you didn’t know which it would become.

You sigh heavily. Relieving the day in memory and emotion.

The ground beneath you feels harder tonight, the ache in your muscles sharper, the wound at your side a constant throb you’re not able to ignore.

The forest floor is rocky, the thin carpet of leaves and moss providing little cushion against the roughness of the roots and stones pushing at you against your back.

You’ve been lying here for what feels like hours, though time has lost its meaning since the sun disappeared behind the horizon.

The night is thick around you, with the stillness broken from time to time by the faint rustling of branches overhead, stirred by a wind too weak to reach the forest floor.

You know he’s there, just a few paces away. His presence is profound. As tangible as the pain in your side and the sting in your pride. He is silent. Too silent. He isn’t sharpening his knife, a sound you’ve come to associate with him as much as his footfalls when he resigns to pacing at night.

But he doesn’t. He isn’t even shifting. The rustle of his movements absent in the hush of the woods.

But you know that he’s awake. You can feel it in the air between you. A vibration, almost imperceptible.

He’s lying there too, as still as you are, but his stillness is different. Alert. Vigilant. You don’t dare turn your head to check, don’t dare disturb whatever you hold between you.

You wonder, what he’s thinking, whether he’s still angry with you, whether he’s even capable of anger right now. He seemed so tired earlier, so worn down.

You stay with your back to him, trying to match his silence with your own shallow breathing so as to convince yourself you are not even there at all. That you’re somewhere else entirely. Anywhere else.

Maybe even the palace.

It comes back to your mind immediately in vivid detail. The soaring arches of marble halls, lanterns casting their diffused glow through the gilded walls, the cool and polished floor beneath your feet.

You picture your chambers, the bed that had always been too large for a single person but always felt too small to hold your restlessness. The bed you would give anything to climb into right now.

You can almost feel the silky and soft linen sheets against your skin, pillows downy and cuddling your head. Almost hear the palace life at night, the distant sound of guards patrolling, wind whispering through stained-glass windows.

You can almost taste the security of it, the confident certainty that tomorrow would come as it always had, with the same routines, the same expectations, the same smiles.

But the more you picture it, the more it mocks you. The differences are too sharp, too cruel, too much and it makes a lump rise in your throat. A knot that feels like it’s tied to the weight in your chest, tugging you further down.

You think bitterly about the irony of wanting the home you had once longed to escape more than anything now. You had believed freedom to feel bright and airy but it only ever feels disgusting and cold and everlasting.

Out here, beneath the sky, encased in a moon of brilliant enormity, you feel incredibly small, tender to your soul, and so unanchored to anything.

You feel lost. Lost in a way you didn’t think was possible. Lost in a way no map or compass could ever remedy. You thought you already were a lost soul as the princess in the castle but you’ve been so off the rails.

Your heart seems misplaced in the way it’s beating, uncertain where to send the blood. Your thoughts are darting like startled birds, too quick to catch but too loud to ignore. But all that resounds in your mind is the reflection of your desire extending infinitely into the emptiness you have yet to flee.

You stare at the faint pinpricks of light above, stars that barely break through the tangled mesh of branches. It is beautiful in its own way. So vast and wild. But tonight, even that feels like a cage. No. It feels like you are the only caged thing in it.

A faint heat blooms behind your eyes, the pain of too much thinking with nothing resolved.

None of this makes any sense. The freedom you thought you wanted came at a cost you weren’t prepared to pay. You have nothing but the clothes on your back and the man sitting silently behind you, watching the dark as if it might rise up and devour you both.

You wanted this, didn’t you? You wanted to escape the palace and see the world beyond it. You thought you understood what that meant. Oh how wrong you were.

Your lips press together as a tear slips free. It seems to come out of nowhere, tracing a hot path down your cheek like a secret you need to keep. Your jaw tightens at the vulnerability you can’t suppress, biting on the inside of your cheek, pearling saliva in your mouth. Though the harder you try to will away new tears forming, the harder it becomes to hold them back from spilling over.

More wetness pools in the corner of your eyes. This is weak. You know that. And you hate it. Because he might hear it. He might hear you losing your mind. But you can’t let him. You won’t.

You shift slightly, turning your face toward the ground as though burying it in the crook of your arm might somehow hide it. From yourself. From him. From the forest.

The grief and guilt and helplessness all twist inside your chest like a knotted rope not so easily undone. You feel so utterly adrift, like a ship lost at sea with no stars to guide it home. And the funny thing is, there are stars. But they won’t steer you home. Because there is nothing like it.

Your shoulders shake ever so slightly with the effort of staying silent. You can’t bear the thought of him knowing, of him looking at you with those eyes of his and seeing your inner turmoil, hearing the sobs that tremble in your throat. It terrifies you. Bucky has his own demons. You’ve seen them in the way he moves, the way he fights, the way his gaze would drift past anything like he was seeing something else, something darker.

You swallow hard, letting the tears fall - silently enough you hope - leaving them to soak into the earth beneath you.

Clenching your fingers into the fabric of your cloak that hangs over you, you attempt to find stability in it.

Another wave of tears spill over and you bury your face deeper into the cook of your arm, pressing hard against your mouth to muffle the sound. Bucky can’t see you this broken and so far from the person you thought you were supposed to be.

You struggle to breathe through your grief, your inhalation raspy and shaking enough to make the ground underneath you seem to tremble. Telling yourself to quit crying and mend all your broken pieces of composure, but your tears keep pooling down your cheeks in hot trails. They nearly bleach the coarse fabric of your cloak and soak into the damp earth beneath your head.

You hope you are well enough hidden in your bubble of sadness, where no one, even yourself, is welcome to look too closely.

“Princess?”

It’s low, rough at the edges from disuse, yet somehow startlingly gentle. The sound hits you like the fresh air on a day of cold winds.

Your entire body goes cold, muscles locking up, stiff as if turned to stone. Even your shoulders freeze in place. But there are still tears falling from your eyes. They don’t stop. They never do when you need them to. You start clenching your teeth, shutting your mouth down so tightly with a bit of a bite so that you can actually feel the coppery taste in your mouth.

You don’t answer.

There’s a pause, long enough that you think he’s given up. Maybe he’ll pretend he didn’t see. Maybe he’ll let this moment pass through memory-

“Are you cryin’?”

It isn’t an accusation, nor is it dripping with the condescension you’ve heard from others who thought tears made you weak. There is curiosity blended with a softness that is unfamiliar for him, as if he is surprised by the possibility but not unkindly so.

You swallow hard and press your lips together to smother any sound that would give you away, despite the fact that he already knows you are crying.

It’s your self-esteem that demands you to be quiet, but your body betrays you with each shiver, each sharp hitch in your chest.

Bucky shifts behind you. The rustle of movement reaches your ears. It grates against your nerves, making you wish you could sink into the ground and vanish from sight.

You don’t know if he moves closer, or just sits up. But it seems he prefers not to intrude upon your delicate space.

A weary sigh. “How’s your side?” His voice is quiet.

You absentmindedly touch your side, where a mix of blood and sweat has dried into a sticky mess beneath the bandage Bucky put on earlier. A hot pulse runs through the wound, prickling like raw heat. But it hardly warrants any thought amid the other pains that eat away at you.

“It’s fine,” you finally utter, though your voice is hoarse and brittle, barely a whisper. You sniff out a sob.

“Don’t make me check it out myself.” His tone is almost light, close to teasing, but with a solemn undertone that squeezes your heart.

A soft huff escapes you more as breath than laughter. “You would not dare.”

“You sure about that?”

A beat of silence falls, and you realize with a strange sort of relief that he is trying to draw you out, to break through the darkness of your thoughts.

“I said I am fine,” you say softly, sniffling into your arm.

He doesn’t press you, but you hear him shift again, as if considering whether or not to take your word for it.

His next words sound closer.

“Good,” he says simply. “Don’t need you keelin’ over on me.”

There is an air of concern in the silence between you. You feel his charged eyes on you. They won’t leave you for a second. They burn you.

The pause continues to linger once more but he seems strangely patient behind you.

He lets out a long breath. “You never stayed down,”he states then, his tone somewhere between chastisement way too soft for him and admiration way too admiring for him. “Told you to stay back, but you didn’t listen.”

His words pass right through you, piercing to the core. His tone does not mean for his words to sting but they do. Your chest is buzzing brutally. So ruefully. Disgraceful.

You didn’t listen. You didn’t stay down. You tried to help, and look where that has gotten you - wounded, broken, and sobbing into the dirt like a child who wandered too far from home.

“I was trying to be useful,” you whisper, voice hitching slightly with your breath. A sob shakes your shoulders.

“Could’ve gotten yourself killed out there.”

“Why does it matter?” you murmur, voice cracking. A shiver whacks your spine. Your fingers clench around fabric. You inhale a wavering breath.

Bucky exhales sharply through his nose. More rustling behind you. “Well,” he grounds out somberly. “M’ supposed to keep you alive, not the other way around.”

You sniff. Then huff sobbingly. Vulnerability drops from your words like the tears from your eyes. “My mother is dead. It is not like she would know if you completed your debt.”

You didn’t think your words through and now they sit uncomfortably between the two of you. You still feel his eyes on your back. But if you regret those words, then why don’t you make the effort to take them back?

“I know,” he says after a beat, quietly, nearly softly. Almost careful. There is no rebuke, no anger. It’s a simple acknowledgment.

The wind sways the trees beside you, absorbing all the emptiness left by your words. You squeeze your eyes together tightly and then rub the two fresh tears away from your skin.

“But I would,” he adds after a long pause. His voice is deep, resolute and something in it tries to form an understanding within your mind.

There’s a pause again, thick with things neither of you can bring yourselves to say.

But then you break it with a shuddering breath.

“What did she do for you?” Your voice sounds barely louder than the leaves in the wind around you. You don’t dare turn to him.

Silence goes on for long enough that you believe he might not have heard you, or perhaps ignored you altogether. But you hear him adjust his position again behind you.

“What?” His voice is rough, hinting at uncertainty.

“My mother,” you clarify, though you are sure he knows. Your heart is a balled-up pain in your chest. It strikes you with every beat. “What did she do for you? To make you promise something so huge?” You don’t have to clarify that part as well. He knows what he promised. And you still wonder if he resents that promise, if he resents you for being the living embodiment of it.

Tightly wound energy buzzes around you, coming from him. Bucky is not in your line of vision but he feels gripped with tension.

An exhale sounds out. It is measured, careful even. But so heavy. Profound. Meaningful.

You don’t want to be pushy. But his past is a labyrinth you don’t have the map for and you are tired of getting lost in it. Tired of not finding a way out. Or to the very center of it. Depending on the exits you take. Depending on the dead ends you meet. Depending on how tight the walls all around are pressing in. Every path you take just doubles back on itself, each question about him folding into another.

“She was so good,” you acknowledge quietly. Maybe even to yourself. You need to get the ache off your chest with words about the loving mother you lost. To him or yourself, it does not matter. “She always looked out for people. She gave so much of herself. I used to think it was exhausting - how much she cared. But-” you swallow hard, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. “Whatever she did for you must have been huge.”

The longing in the hollow between your ribs is moving to the surface and colors your voice. You see her in your mind’s eye - the way she moved through the court with so much regal grace but stopped for even the lowliest servants. You miss the warmth in her voice when she spoke your name, as if it was the most important word in her kingdom.

A sob silently muffles against your arm as you press your face further into the ground. You just exposed yourself with this confession. Being so vulnerable and fragile by crying in front of him alone.

You would have believed him to brush it off. To lay back down with an annoyed sigh and ignore you and your drama altogether.

But even if you thought he might actually carry on this conversation, never would you have imagined it to be like this.

“I’m sorry.” His words resound so deep, carry so much weight that it catches you off guard. “For your loss.” He exhales a sound more felt than heard.

It’s the first time he has offered condolences. It’s the first time he acknowledges, really acknowledges the magnitude of what you’ve lost. And it’s genuine, remorseful in a way that makes something crack behind your ribs.

The sincerity in his voice stops your breath.

You turn then, unable to stay with your back to him any longer. The ground shifts beneath you as you roll over, blinking against the brim of lingering tears.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice delicate but earnest.

Your gaze captures his and it gets strong in the air. His eyes are dark and piercing, faltering now at the sight of your tear-streaked face. He works his jaw, muscles moving under tight skin as he seems to bite down on words he does not know how to say.

The discomfort glimmering in his expression is telling, but so is the gentleness hiding underneath. Something softer, something unspoken but unmistakable.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. All that there is, all that you feel is this glance held between you two, stocked with grief and understanding and something profound. Things that haven’t been there before.

And then, after his eyes study you for a while longer, intense and all, he breaks the quiet with a resigned sigh. As if he can’t believe he is doing what he does. “She saved my family,” he murmurs roughly, clearing his throat and avoiding your eyes. “My ma and little sister. Becca. Sent 'em away to another country. Made sure they were looked after, by trusted people.”

You don’t know what sinks in first, the surprise of him even telling you, or the revelation itself. But the knowledge strikes painfully inside you. Each beat of your heart bumps against a bruise you can’t see.

Words form and dissolve in your throat, swallowed before they can escape.

You take your time to organize your thoughts.

“Why were they in danger?” You know he probably won’t answer that. This is already more than you expected, more than you ever thought he’d share.

A hand moves over his face and he rasps out a sound resembling a cough. “They’re safe now. All that matters,” he says gruffly, shaking his head and brushing it off.

He doesn’t look back at you and you almost regret asking. Something swells in your throat. Maybe your next words. Maybe the meaning of them. “She never told me,” you stammer, hardly above a whisper, voice still laced with tears.

“She promised to keep it to herself,” he utters uncomfortably.

Your chest feels as if it might burst because of the jingling of pride and sorrow and pain all mixing together in a way that now has you unable to distinguish one from the other.

You take a second to listen to the leaves in the night breeze, followed by the crackle of branches settling deeper into the earth. But it seems rather drowned out beneath the thrum of your pulse, too insistent in your ears.

Shifting your gaze to the ground, you follow the uneven patches of dirt and scattered pin-needles with your eyes. You pull the cloak tighter around yourself, half to shield your shivering body against Bucky’s gaze and half to shield it against the cold.

Bucky’s presence in front of you grazes your skin and races into your nerves.

Turns out he did move closer to you while your back was toward him. He’s not in touching range, but close enough for you to feel the warmth emanating softly from him, an assurance piercing through the chill. It is strange and reassuring and terrifying in equal measures.

Your lips again begin to tremble and you press them together to stop the quiver before it betrays you further. But it’s no use. Your heart is beating too loudly, trying to outrun the revelations now planted within you.

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a moment. But his gaze rests on you. The fizzling tension in the air feels anything but hostile, but it cannot be categorized. It’s subtle and soft and also intense.

You inhale a shaky breath. The sound of your ragged breaths is unbearably loud. “I am sorry,” you ground out, voice rougher than wanted.

Bucky shifts. His brows run together in a furrow. His confused eyes meet yours before you avert them again. “For what?” he asks slowly, his tone gentle but curious.

Your throat constricts. “For everything,” you say, hating the way your voice shakes. Saying it like that is easier than pointing everything out one by one. You are sorry for being reckless, for getting hurt, for dragging him into your mess, for existing as the burden he was forced to carry.

There is a long moment of silence. Bucky’s gaze is fixed on somewhere in the woods, lost in thought, and then he exhales slowly. It drags his shoulders down. “Ain’t your fault,” he mutters heavily.

There is a soft quality sounding in his tone, like he is trying to be gentle though it doesn’t come naturally to him.

Tears prick your eyes again. You blink hard, willing them into submission, but you are losing. A tear rolls down your cheek - bright and warm against the cold air. It makes you flinch slightly, hating the display of weakness.

Bucky does not move away.

The world seems unfathomable wide and unmoving but at this moment, it is only you and him.

You begin to lift your hand to wipe the tear away, but Bucky seems to be faster.

His long and rough fingers touch your skin almost in a careful way. Calloused knuckles sweep across your cheek, followed by the pad of his thumb, wiping the tear away with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. The touch is fleeting but it is left burning on your cheek.

You freeze a little, not really knowing what to do about the intimacy of the moment or if you even deserve it. The ground feels harder beneath you. Almost like an unforgiving bed for your body, and that is nothing compared to the wound twisting inside your chest.

Bucky’s hand slips back to his side and you instinctively follow it with your eyes before looking back up at him. His shadowed and shifting blues hold your own in a way that keeps you from turning away. There is that softness attached to his expression.

You swallow, the lump in your throat giving you full determination to stay. You bite down on your lower lip in hatred of how it quivers.

“Get some rest.” It might as well be a whisper spoken only for you. “We’ll have to keep movin’ soon.”

And though you grant him with a nod, his eyes don’t leave you for another few heartbeats.

****

You wake up with the sun in your face and birds singing in your ears.

The brightness of the sun stings in your eyes, still slightly swollen from crying.

Taking a deep breath, you savor the refreshing and strong smell of wood and soil, the earthiness due to the damp ground and new pine.

You blink hard against the sharp light, gritting your teeth, eyes feeling grimy after what couldn’t have been more than a few broken hours of sleep. Your muscles feel stiff and sore like every morning and you carefully move them around on the rocky ground.

Awkwardly rolling on your side provokes a jabbing pain that comes from the wound and pours itself into the very core of your bones. So incredibly uncompassionate. Wincing, you grab hold of the bandaged wound. Bucky will probably be on you right away and make sure to change the dressing again. You dread it already. Not wanting to show an ounce of weakness in front of him again. The crying was enough quite frankly.

But then confusion creeps in. Your limbs grow fidgety. Fingers tapping. Feet shifting.

Because something feels off. It’s too still, too quiet in all the wrong ways. Birds are chirping, leaves are swishing, but those are not the sounds you are straining your ears for.

Where are Bucky’s footsteps pacing the perimeter? Where is the crackle of the fire he always stokes back to life before dawn? Where is his voice telling you to pack up?

You turn your head sharply in search of him, expecting to find him standing somewhere between the trees, sharp-eyed and alert the way he normally is. But he is not there.

Your heart slips into your throat and panic flares in its place. Sweeping your gaze back across the clearing, you let it slice the air for a glimpse of his broad form.

And then you see him.

Still on the ground.

The sight makes you pause. It feels wrong. Something prickles down your spine. He’s always up before you. Always. But it seems not today. And there’s got to be a reason.

Uneasily, you sit up, the bedroll crinkling beneath you. You look over at him worriedly.

Bucky’s brows furrow in deep creases onto his skin, conflict etched everywhere. His lips twitch, forming words that never quite make it past the threshold of sound. Sweat gleams on his forehead, catching the morning light in beads that glisten. A ghost of a shudder flicks through his body.

Your stomach knots. Bucky looks in pain. You don’t know what kind of pain it is. But there seems to be an emotional component, a sort that goes deep, almost like that of someone with a hunger reaching down to eat away at the very soul - life refusing to give him a break.

The groan that slips out of him is a tortured sound.

Instinct draws you closer before you can talk yourself out of it. Your hand hovers over his shoulder, indecisive. You wonder what he would want you to do. To wake him? To let him work things out by himself? You don’t know. You never know with Bucky. He bears his burdens quietly, a fortress with walls too high to scale.

Each breath that makes his chest rise and fall is labored and strained. His fingers curl into the dirt as though he is fighting something you can’t see.

But seeing him like this - so undone - makes an ache spread across your chest that you didn’t expect. He looks nothing like the unbreakable soldier who’s been your reluctant protector. The very man scolding, bandaging, and guiding you through nights and days of peril. Bucky this unguarded is unsettling you. But worrying you even more.

You fight the urge to comfort him with whatever is stressing him out in his sleep. But Bucky is not the man to take solace easily. So what can you do?

You hover there rather awkwardly, knees pressed into the earth, hands hovering at your side.

Branches around you sway like nothing is happening.

But your heart is racing inside your chest. Tension knots your shoulders, pulling them upward, closer to your ears.

“Bucky,” you whisper, voice as hushed as the rustle of leaves.

He doesn’t stir. Well, he does, but not to the sound of your voice. Muscles tic and shudder uncomfortably and his head lolls to the side, in your direction, but his eyes stay closed. He does not wake.

Your fingers twitch with the longing to smooth the furrow in his brow, to brush away the sweat that runs down his temple. But you stay rooted in hesitancy.

Your throat bobs with a swallow but the knot stuck there refuses to loosen.

Thorned thoughts and worries lie thick and knotted, climbing up the walls of your mind and scratching against them as you stay kneeling beside Bucky.

He groans again, shifting a little. And that’s when you notice something. A dark splotch on his right shoulder. You hardly even register it at first. But it spreads. And the color demands attention. A stark crimson, savage against the muted browns and greens of the world around and the dirty grey of his shirt.

Blood.

Your breath stutters painfully at the back of your throat. Fresh blood. He’s bleeding.

It leaks wetly through the fabric of his shirt, staining the edge of the brown armor strapped across his chest, discharging slowly but it only makes your pulse pick up. It spreads like ink dripping from a feather onto parchment.

For a moment, your brain is struggling to rationalize this. The forest tilts, and for an absurd moment, you convince yourself it’s a trick of the light. Shadows, perhaps, cast by the trees overhead. But shadows don’t glisten like that. Shadows don’t spread in sinister blooms.

A sharp jolt of fear grips your chest, spreading chaos through your veins. It makes them tremor and causes your skin to prickle with urgency.

Leaning closer, you try to get a better look, tracing the rise and fall of his chest. His brown armor is scuffed but intact, yet the dark stain has crept onto the leather straps as well. He’s hurt.

How? Why? He didn’t mention being hurt. Not once. There were not even signs, no grimaces or falters in his movements.

When he washed himself in the river the day before, you noticed the blood on him. But you assumed - god, you assumed - it wasn’t his. That it belonged to the fallen men. You were distracted. By the sharp lines of his scars and the story they told. By the bulk of his body - embarrassingly. You should have looked closer. Should have seen him getting hurt this way.

Questions collide in your mind, splintering and darting and tumbling over one another. And you hate that you can’t answer any of them. How could he have hidden this from you? Is this why he hasn’t woken up before you? Is this why he sleeps so restlessly, his body shivering and stuck in whatever nightmare grips him so tightly?

You basically let him down by assuming he’s inscrutable. How foolish. How silly. Because here he is, bleeding and in pain. Silently. Because of course, he wouldn’t tell you. Of course, he would shoulder the burden alone, just as he always does. As though his pain is something negligible, unworthy of mention.

Anger pikes beneath your worry. How dare he. How dare he be so reckless with himself after all the lectures he’s given you.

Goosebumps rise as a chill snakes its way down your spine. He looks so vulnerable like this, too much so for a man like him. You don’t like it.

You let your shaking fingers hover near the stained fabric. But you don’t want to touch it, don’t want to confirm what your eyes already tell you.

The blood is not gushing, but it is fresh enough. And the coppery scent tangles up cruelly in your senses.

“Bucky,” you mumble, voice unsure.

He does not respond to you. His brow furrows deeper.

This isn’t right. None of this is right. He’s supposed to be the one who knows what to do, who keeps you both alive and moving forward. He’s not supposed to lay here bleeding and shivering in the dirt, just another thing to bear without complaint.

The skin of your palm burns as your nails press into it. You won’t let him do this to himself. You’ve already seen too much loss, felt too much helplessness. And if he thinks he can just bleed in silence and carry on like nothing is happening, he is sorely mistaken.

Your breath snags, every single one feeling sharp, splintering on the way out. Erratic and barely controlled.

The fingers creeping towards him are trembling and hesitant. You don’t know if you should disturb him in this position. But the sweat running along his face practically makes you anxious.

His lips move to utter an incoherent murmur. The sound is hoarse.

Your heart stumbles. He’s never appeared so open, so unguarded, in a way that it feels disconcertingly intimate. Sharp lines and stern resolve are what should characterize him, never this mess of tension brought low by an injury and dreams you can’t see.

The heat of his skin makes you feel nauseous as your fingers lightly graze over his temple. His dark hair is damp and sucked to his forehead and you tenderly tuck the few sticky tendrils away. Carefully, you try to wipe away the sweat with the dark fabric of your cloak. Your movements are gentle but clumsy. Your hand is shaking. His skin is feverish. It makes you chew the inside of your cheek. You only touch him as lightly as possible as though the wrong pressure might cause him even more harm.

You put off your cloak and cautiously drape it over him.

And while doing that something sitting beyond him catches your eye.

You let your gaze drift in between the trees behind Bucky, to the soft green gleam of familiar leaves peeking from a tangled cluster of low ferns. You almost let out a gasp.

Your hand falters in its path across his brow, gaze fixed on the spot behind him.

It is a narrow plant with pointed leaves, faintly shining you in the eyes. Pale white and pink flowers with star-shaped petals tucked between the greenery are swaying with the breeze. Recognition sends your heart stuttering.

Lady’s Balm.

The name blooms in you, coming into your mind with so much meaning. You basically hear your mother whisper it to you through the trees as if she were right beside you.

You remember her leading you through the palace gardens, her palm pressed warmly against your back when she would bend low to show you this very herb, nestled along others.

She would brush her fingers over the soft petals while telling you stories about ancient queens who would carry sachets of Lady’s Balm into battlefields and about healers who would save lives with nothing but their knowledge of the earth.

You carried those stories in your heart, the wonder of them filling you with something akin to admiration and belonging.

A strange, giddy anticipation wells up inside you, picking its way through that heavy gloom that has been your unwanted companion for some time now. It feels so bittersweet.

You can help him. You can do something instead of simply sitting here, wringing your hands in uselessness. You can make a tincture, or at least dress his wound with something that might actually stave off the worst of it.

Purpose hums in your body, and you steal another quick glance back at Bucky to asses his situation before starting to go for the plant. The blood has stopped spreading, for now, darkening only the patch of fabric near the wound.

The relief of that is enough to make you rise to your feet, neglecting the protest of your muscles. The forest floor feels bumpy, though you cross it with some speed, heart racing out of urgency.

Dropping to your knees in front of the plant, you let your fingers caress the leaves just like your mother used to.

It is just like you recalled. Fragrant and earthy, with a faint bitter aroma that lingers on your fingers. You gather some leaves gently in your hands, heart thumping with an unusual mingling of excitement and hope, mindful not to damage the roots. The pedals tremble as you cradle them in your hand. The clean scent wafts upward.

Glancing around, you scan the undergrowth for more treasures. If Lady’s Balm grows here, there might be other herbs nearby - ones that could help with Bucky’s pain and fever. The thought propels you forward, breath quickening with hope.

There is a strange consolation, an off kind of reclamation of loss that is making its place within you. The palace gardens may be far behind you, out of touch forever, but the knowledge your mother gave you remains. It’s something linking you to her, to a past that wasn’t always filled with tears and sorrow.

You might not have the grandeur of the palace gardens at your disposal, nor the apothecaries who once served your family, but you have your mother's knowledge.

And the knowledge alone that you even are able to do something for him kindles a spark of resilience.

After a glance back at Bucky to see him still lying there, you get pulled deeper into the woods, walking through the bushes and trees to continue your search. Picking your way over crooked roots and patches of moss, slick with morning dew, you don’t try to rush yourself to be more aware of everything you might encounter.

The leafy arms of ferns brush your fingertips. The air clogs with dampness and smells of earth upturned.

Sunlight seeps through the trees in scattered golden shafts, each catching drops of water clinging to the leaves, making them glisten like tears.

Anticipating eyes dart over patches of greenery, intently looking out for familiar shapes and hues.

Then, your fingers graze a cluster of pale green leaves, serrated like tiny teeth.

Feverfew.

The small white flowers nod in all directions. You kneel, your heart lifting with recognition. Feverfew to bring down his fever. Delicately, you pluck a few stems and tuck them into the folds of your blue dress.

Wind passes through branches above you. You continue your path, walking deeper into the woodlands. Shadows grow longer and the air begins to get cooler.

Wild mint catches your eye next. Its aroma is sharp and sweet and you breathe it in with a sigh of relief. Mint is calming and cleansing and you swiftly gather the crisp leaves and stash them in your dress.

A mass of red clover blooms stand just beyond, brilliant petals contrasting with their surroundings. You remember your mother telling you about its blood-cleansing properties, transporting the energies of fight and rescue into one's body. A warrior’s ally she had called it with a smile. The soft blossoms graze your skin when you pick them.

Somberly, you notice that this is the first time in weeks that you actually hear her voice in your head. So sweet and kind. So clear in your mind.

You picture her kneeling in the place garden with dirt under her fingernails. A queen who never minded getting her hands dirty.

It has been some time since you thought of her in this way - not as a woman cloaked in velvet and responsibility, but as the woman who taught you to recognize healing in unlikely places. The woman who regarded plants and petals with the same respect she offered to diplomacy.

It’s a strange kind of thing connecting your past to your present. You never would have imagined that knowledge born in the meticulously tended gardens of the palace might come to use in the deep and untamed wilds. But now you are following in her footsteps.

There is something grounding about it. Each plant you recognize pulls you closer to yourself, where and who you once were before everything broke apart. You feel like it makes you no longer just a runaway princess, no longer just a burden Bucky has to drag around with himself. You can actually do something, however small, to care for him for a change.

The thought is a support as you plunge deeper into the forest, eyes skimming the underbrush. There is less sunshine now slicing through the foliage above, shadowing the trees around you slightly. Wildflowers juxtapose against the green with splashes of violet, indigo, and pale yellow.

Your gaze lands on another familiar plant, wide-leaved and glossy. Yarrow. A faint smile curves your lips. “For wounds,” your mother had said with that air of confidence, “to staunch the bleeding.” she made you memorize the shapes and uses of innumerable herbs, always patient, even when your attentiveness wavered.

You don’t know if she ever believed you could actually make use of that knowledge one day. But you’re beyond thankful that she taught you anyway. And well, perhaps, she even knew that you would leave the palace life one way or another. You just don’t think she imagined it the way it actually happened.

Crouching, you pluck a few sprigs, making sure to avoid trampling the grass around. The scent lingers on your fingers - sharp, almost peppery. You tuck the narrow into your pouch with the rest. The weight of it is reassuring against your hip.

The forest around you seems indifferent to your presence but generous with her gifts. And somehow you are in tune with that.

With each step, there are new herbs catching your eye. A patch of goldenrod dances under a shaft of light, bright plumes illuminated in it. The twisted tendrils of wild thyme cling to a rocky outcrop.

Your mother would have loved this place. The thought fills you slowly, almost carefully. But it does. She would have knelt right there next to you, her keen eyes picking out the smallest details, her hands sure and deft.

Something presses against the base of your throat. It’s thick and impossible to gulp down. You force yourself to concentrate. Grief is always waiting for a great moment to rise to the surface like the horrible thing it is. But you force yourself to concentrate. It won’t serve any purpose to help Bucky now.

Nevertheless, this connection to her brings some strange comfort - a reminder that she is not wholly gone. She exists in your memories, in the knowledge she gifted you, in your bones. And here within this wild beauty of the forest, you feel closer to her than you have in what feels like ages.

So much has been taken from you - your home, your title, your sense of safety - but not this. Stubborn as the forest itself, this little gift from your past remains in your possession. And for the first time in a long while, you hold onto it fiercely.

You sweep through the bushes, looking if there is something more you haven’t noticed yet. Secretly though, you want to float out of this moment, where the burden of the world and its demands soften thanks to the flying leaves and the scent of wild things.

But Bucky waits. His fever waits. The blood staining his shirt and the torn flesh underneath wait.

Lastly, you pick some pine needles off the ground in a hurry and turn with the herbs you already collected, your heart lightening but still troubled. The path back is not marked, but you know your way. You know because it feels like the forest is guiding you as ludicrous as it may sound.

And as you make your way back, you realize that this place of nature is teaching you something your old life never could. How to survive. How to care. How to fight for what matters.

Even if that fight takes place in a shadowy forest, with nothing more but leaves and hope as your allies.

“Y/n!”

You freeze.

“Y/n!”

The calls of your name sound frantic through the denseness of the forest. They bounce off the trees, becoming tangled in the wind.

“Princess, where are you?” Bucky shouts, alarm stirring in his voice. “Say something, come on!”

A startled breath lodges in your throat, making the sounds rising to meet his desperate shouts stay stuck, leaving you to stay silent.

Your hands tighten around the bundle of pine needles and leaves in your grip, knuckles blanching as you stay rooted.

Then there’s rushed movement behind the sound of cracking branches and the scrape of bark as he seemingly barrels through the underbrush without a care for stealth or his injury. There is fear in it. He does not weigh his words and steps carefully. He is in panic.

Your name resounds in the air over and over again and the urgency in it startles you.

The way he says - or rather screams - your name stuns you. It sounds strange hearing it this way. Not in idle conversation, not in teasing disbelief, but with a gravity that matters more than anything. He says it as though it’s the only word that matters.

Another crash rings out around you. It’s nearer this time. You can hear his breathing - raspy, harsh, and wild, as if he is racing through the forest without regard for where his feet are landing. You’re surrounded by leaves crunching and twigs snapping.

“Princess, come on, don’t do this to me!” His voice wavers and cracks. Dread marks his tone. “Y/n!”

You’re not sure if you remember to breathe. Your lips part, instinct telling you to call out to him, to assure him you are here, but you don’t know why he is so worried in the first place. The call stalls halfway up your throat, dissolving into silence before it can break free.

Your legs twitch with the urge to move, to step toward the sound of him, but they lock in place.

It’s like the world closing in around you, that pine and musty smell saturating your senses. Sun rays shatter down from the canopy, drenching leaves in crystalline gold. Speak, you tell yourself. Say something.

But then he already bursts through the brush, eyes wild, chest heaving breathlessly, and looking utterly disheveled. His face is flushed, and damp with sweat that makes some strands of dark hair hang onto his skin.

His crazed eyes lock onto you in an instant and you see the exact moment relief crashes over him, folding into something aching.

“Goddam it,” he exhales, stumbling forward. His voice is thick. “There you are.”

Before you can get a word out, he crosses the distance separating you with a few long strides. His hands find their way to your face, fingers rough but careful as they cup your cheeks. He tilts your head up, urging you to meet his eyes.

“Are you hurt?” he demands breathless. Sharp eyes are searching your face, your body, every inch as though expecting you to go limp in his arms any second. “God, please tell me you’re okay! Are you okay?”

You blink up at him. Baffled at this concerned display of him. Bucky’s thumbs slide over your skin, steadying you even as his own breath shudders. His eyes are so intense, they pull you in. Every second that passes without an answer from you seems to grate on him.

“I’m fine,” you reassure, voice as weak as you feel.

Despite your answer, his eyes won’t stop searching you. His hands won’t stop holding you.

“You weren’t answerin’ me. Why weren’t you answerin’ me? And what the hell are you doin’ out here? What were you thinking, huh?” His tone drops an octave. But despite the hardness of his his tone, there is something vulnerable in the loosening strength of it due to the persistent fear and concern lingering there.

Blood rushes through your ears, so loud, it becomes deafening. “I was looking for herbs,” you manage, lifting your hand slightly as evidence. “For you. For your wound.”

Bucky’s brow furrows, confusion slanting across his features. “Herbs?”

“For a tincture,” you explain softly, voice coming easier now. “To help with the fever. And the bleeding.”

He blinks, just staring at you for a moment, trying to comprehend. His thumbs swipe your skin absentmindedly. And then his gaze drifts down to the green bundle clenched against you. His expression rearranges itself - something tender slipping into the creased lines. A brief hesitation tugs at the corners of his mouth.

He lets his hands rest against your cheeks for a moment longer, reluctant to let go. You try not to like the feeling of them, but there’s nothing you can do because it feels actually really good. Grounding. You can feel the warmth of his calloused fingers, the tremor that hints of adrenaline still coursing through him.

“Scared the hell outta me,” he mutters hoarsely. “Woke up and you were gone.”

“I’m sorry, Bucky.” His fingers flex faintly against your skin at the sound of his name. “I did not mean to,” you add, guilt building for leaving him alone like this. “I thought you needed the rest. And I wanted to help.”

A tightness pulls at his jaw, muscles twitching beneath his skin. There is something fraught and substantial hanging in the air between you.

He considers you for a while. Lips part, but brows soften. He seems contemplative. At a loss for words for a laden moment. You hear his breathing balance out slowly.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he starts, almost gently, voice softer now. But there is something suppressed in it - emotions he does not want to let in. “I don’t want you to go off alone, alright?”

You nod faintly, the smallest timid smile lifting the corners of your mouth. “I just wanted to do something.”

Bucky draws in a deep breath. The movement in his throat is slow, his adams apple jerking with a swallow, as if trying to push past something sharp.

His hands now retreat slowly from your face with a breath that shakes just a little and he looks almost nervous for a second. Bashful. But he does not take his eyes off you.

The sounds of his desperate calls for you recede to your memory. The tension is still there.

Bucky clears his throat and scrubs a hand over his face and into his hair, loosening the damp strands. Perhaps he is trying to banish the last remnants of panic. A hesitant gulp catches in his throat before he can compose himself. “Wake me up next time. Don’t matter what for. Just- just wake me up, alright?” he says gruffly, some of the tension bleeding out of his voice. There is a weariness instead, a seriousness that matches his exhaustion. “Don’t want you runnin’ off alone into the woods.”

Something hot coils in your chest. Your hands turn clammy around the herbs. You nod. “Okay.”

The pause stretches interminably between you, with neither of you moving. Maybe he acknowledges how far you would go to prove yourself useful - including yourself into a fight you obviously were not capable for, killing a man, stomping through the woods alone the very day after in search of plants that would help concoct a healing tincture.

The apparent concern he felt for you does not feel like it’s choking you. Rather, it creates room for something else - something not fully developed, but real.

“I am sorry,” you whisper, earnestly, meaning it in a way that spreads far beyond this moment.

He looks at you. There is a stillness to his expression, seeming to carefully guard his thoughts and emotions. “Just don’t do that again, yeah?”

You bob your head, eyes shifting to the ground for a moment, your heart still thudding in strange patterns.

Something seems to have fallen into place between you. Something discreet yet important enough to serve as a link that connects you both, tying you together in a way neither of you can comprehend as of now.

“Forests have secrets,” he said gently. “It’s practically what they’re for. To hide things. To separate one world from another.”

- Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless

Part seven

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret @singsosworld @mrsnikstan @melsunshine @hawkinsavclub1983

[orellazalonia]

Where Were You Then?

Summary: You and a bunch of other people are moved to a new base due to the Avenger’s meddling. There, you bond more with one of your colleagues who warns you one night about what the Avengers may be up to; leaving you to sit with the weight of knowing they’re only now interested for reasons unknown.

Word Count: 2.9k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

You were just finishing up the day’s work when the knock came.

Not sharp, not urgent. Just a brief, polite tap on the metal frame of your open door. When you glanced up, a man in dark gray stood there. Clean uniform with no insignia you recognized, but the kind of posture that said he didn’t waste time unless it mattered.

“Can I speak with you?” He asked.

You gave a short nod and pushed your chair back. “Now’s fine.”

He stepped inside, calm but brisk, like someone used to planning six steps ahead. “We’re relocating you.”

You blinked. “Relocating?”

“It’s not disciplinary,” He clarified quickly. “Your record’s clean, your contributions are beyond solid. This is a matter of preemptive caution, for everyone.”

You straightened. “Meaning what, exactly?”

He hesitated, just a second too long.

“Details are on a need-to-know basis,” He spoke carefully. “But your transfer has been cleared. Secure transport will arrive within the next forty-eight hours. You’ll be reassigned to a secondary site more isolated and protected. Same role, just… farther from high-traffic areas.”

There was a weight to his words, one he wasn’t allowed to unpack.

Your mind jumped too easily. The Avengers? Could they have found a trail? No one here had ever said it outright, but this organization didn’t recruit former personnel from that world without reason. You didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer. But something in his tone softened when you stayed silent for too long.

“You’ve done good work here,” He said. “There are people who’ve noticed. This isn’t a punishment. It’s just… insurance.”

You nodded slowly. “Understood.”

He gave a short nod back. “You’ll receive the full transfer package in the morning. Pack light, essentials only. We’ll handle the rest.”

Then he left. Just like that. No apologies. No threats. Just… consideration. Like your presence actually meant something here, like moving you was part of protecting an asset, not brushing aside a liability.

It was strange, being treated like you mattered. Unsettling, almost.

You stared at your desk for a long time after, thoughts circling like vultures. You weren’t sure what was coming, or who was coming for that matter but this time, someone had moved you before the storm hit.

And somehow… that made all the difference.

They moved everyone at dawn.

For you, there was no drama. No armed escort. Just two people in a quiet transport vehicle, neither of whom spoke unless you did. The silence wasn’t cold, it was purposeful. Measured. Like even the air between words had been screened for unnecessary noise.

You watched the base disappear through a small, reinforced window. The trees beyond it blurred into gray-green smears. You didn’t ask where you were going. If you were meant to know, someone would’ve told you.

The transport itself took most of the day.

Surprisingly, there were no trackers, handcuffs, or weapons secured on your back. Just a sealed case of your belongings at your feet, and the weight of knowing this wasn’t just a job shift, it was a severing. A quiet severing from the last version of your life.

When you finally arrived, it wasn’t to a bunker or a prison. It was… clean. Remote, yes. Nestled in the shadow of a cold, low mountain range and shielded by layers of climate camouflage but still functional. It had a sharp-edged, efficient charm to it. Made of glass and steel, but no gloss.

Someone met you at the gate. Middle-aged, sun-weathered, and the kind of face that belonged more to ranches than espionage.

“Welcome.” He greeted, eyes kind but searching. “We’ve been expecting you.”

He didn’t offer his name, just a handshake. Firm, not too long. Genuine. You nodded once in return and stepped inside.

The interior was no different; quiet hallways, soft lighting, nothing flashy. Your new quarters were modest but well-prepared. A real bed. A desk with working equipment already logged in under your name. A few small touches that made it feel not temporary. There was also a chair pulled out. A folded set of fresh clothes. A cup and kettle beside sealed packs of tea.

Someone had gone out of their way to prepare for you.

That was new.

You didn’t unpack right away, just stood in the center of the room and let the silence fill in all the gaps the Avengers used to ignore.

Nobody here looked at you like you were an afterthought. They didn’t praise you either, but somehow that felt more honest. More grounded. You still weren’t anyone special, but you weren’t invisible.

Later, someone would bring you a meal without being asked. Even later, someone else would knock softly to ask if you needed help setting up your gear.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected when they said you were being relocated. Isolation? Containment? But not this. Not quiet competence. Not care in the form of practical support.

Still, the question lingered at the edges of your mind like a bruise that hadn’t healed right.

Why now? Why move you before anything happened?

What were they protecting you from?

Or more hauntingly, what were they protecting from you?

Regardless, you couldn’t dwell on it too much, you still had work. A job. You were still needed, wanted. Speaking of such, it was sometime past midnight when the knock came.

Two soft gentle taps, just enough to make sure you were awake, not enough to demand your attention if you weren’t. It was considerate.

You were awake, of course.

Sleep didn’t come easy anymore though. So you sat up, brushing the throw blanket from your legs, and moved to open the door.

Maren stood on the other side, still in her boots, curls pulled back in that effortless way that made her look always in motion. She had a folder tucked under one arm and a mug in the other, something warm and lightly spiced, if the smell was anything to go by.

“Sorry,” She apologized sheepishly. “I know it’s late. You can throw something at me if you want.”

You didn’t. You stepped aside.

She entered and settled into the chair near the desk with a soft sigh, setting the mug down in front of your chair. Cinnamon, you realized.

“I figured you were up,” She added, flipping open the folder on her lap. “Also figured if I stared at this mess any longer without asking someone smarter than me, I’d end up walking into a wall tomorrow.”

You arched a brow. “That happen often?”

“Oh, sure,” She replied easily, glancing at you with a lazy grin. “But this time I’d have deserved it.”

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t leave either. You sat down slowly, fingers curling around the mug. It was warm. Too warm to pretend you weren’t grateful.

Maren didn’t talk for a moment, just flipped through the schematics, frowning and murmuring something under her breath. Then:

“You ever miss it?” She asked. “The Tower. The mission boards. The forty-five emails from Stark at 2 a.m. because he was convinced everyone else had forgotten how to sleep?”

You didn’t answer right away.

She glanced up. “Sorry. I said I wouldn’t bring it up. I’m just–… curious.”

You stared into the steam curling from your mug. “I don’t miss being invisible.”

She didn’t smile at that, didn’t say “of course” or “you weren’t invisible.” Just nodded like someone who believed you.

“I used to work under people who never remembered my name,” She confessed after a moment. “I learned to smile fast, be useful, be quiet. Eventually someone told me I had a ‘pleasantly neutral presence.’” She snorted. “Didn’t know whether to thank them or cry.”

Your lips twitched, just a little. That was the thing with Maren. She didn’t really dig. She didn’t poke either. She just… dropped little stories beside you like breadcrumbs and let you decide if you wanted to follow.

You didn’t know what her role was here, not exactly. She wasn’t one of the shadowed higher-ups who briefed you through glass. She wasn’t part of security, or intel. But she had access. She came and went freely. Her badge could open more doors than yours.

And she kept coming back.

Every day, she brought something. Not always files. Sometimes it was a snack. A joke. A book she thought you’d like. Once, a scarf. “It’s ugly,” She warned you with a smirk. “But it’s warm. Don’t get sentimental.”

You’d kept it anyway.

Now, she leaned back in the chair and tapped a page in the folder. “This code, they’ve been using it to mask movement through the lower grid. I think it’s one of the Avengers’ old cloaking patterns. But I can’t break it alone. Thought maybe you’d enjoy the irony.”

You took the folder without replying and that was enough of an answer for her.

She pushed herself up a second later, stretching slightly, then moved toward the door, but paused before she left.

“…Hey,” She called softly, hand still on the frame. “If you ever get the urge to leave… walk out, disappear, whatever, I won’t stop you.”

You blinked. She turned slightly, looking at you over her shoulder. Her voice was quieter now. “I just hope someone finally deserves you enough to give you a reason to stay.”

The door closed gently behind her.

You stared at the folder in your lap. At the mug. At the silence she left behind, warm for once, not cold. And you didn’t know what scared you more:

That you were starting to truly care. Or that maybe… she already did.

In the new base, your days started earlier now.

Not because anyone made you. There were no mandatory check-ins, no shouting instructors or looming supervisors. But people noticed when you showed up early, and unlike the Tower, they actually said something about it.

Noticed you, that is.

The job was… well, it wasn’t so different, really. Coordination, data analysis, and communication relays between cells. You monitored activity across networks the Avengers didn’t know how to see, flagged inconsistencies, tracked patterns. Only this time, when you submitted a report, someone actually read it.

Once, someone even scribbled:

Brilliant work. You saved us three days. - E

On the margin of your printout in ink, as if it mattered.

It felt strange, at first. Being thanked and being seen. Even stranger was how the others treated you. They weren’t perfect. Some were gruff, standoffish, or slow to trust. But it wasn’t personal. It was how they were with everyone. You weren’t an outsider, they just weren’t the warm and fuzzy type.

Still, you found your rhythm.

There was Janek from logistics, who swore too much and brought you coffee and stale biscotti when he was grateful. There was Yara, who ran fieldwork planning and somehow always knew when you needed five minutes of silence and a desk light turned away just so to help your headaches.

And of course, there was Maren.

Her visits were less daily now, but they lingered longer. She’d still drop files or jokes or awful candy bars she pretended to love, but some days she just sat across from you, legs propped up on a nearby chair, flipping through a book or doodling in a notebook while you worked.

She never hovered, never demanded, never asked what you were thinking. But she always seemed to know when something was off.

One afternoon, when your hands had been trembling under the desk for half an hour, she passed you a pen you didn’t need and said, “You don’t have to break yourself to be useful here. That’s not the deal.”

You didn’t reply. But you held the pen a little tighter, just for the weight.

You weren’t in a cell. You weren’t being coerced. You hadn’t signed your name in blood. But somewhere between the cracked teacups, the high-security reports, the nods of appreciation, and Maren’s steady quiet, the lines had blurred.

This place, they made you feel like you mattered. And no one had ever done that before.

Still, there were nights you stared at the ceiling, palms clammy, and wondering if it was all too easy.

Too good. Too tailored. But when you thought about leaving, really leaving, your heart didn’t race with freedom. It knotted with fear. Not just fear of what they’d do, but of what it would feel like to go back to being invisible again.

The Avengers never saw you. But here, people did. Maybe that was manipulation. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe you didn’t care.

However, you would have to figure it out sooner or later. The fact becoming more evident in your recent visit with Maren.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Most nights, you kept to your quiet rhythm. Work, rest, repeat. The corridors outside your quarters stayed empty this late, and that was how you liked it. Silence had become more of a comfort than people ever had.

So when the knock came with soft, deliberate, two even taps, you knew exactly who it was.

You didn’t speak. Just opened the door.

Maren stood there with her hands in the pockets of her jacket, shoulders relaxed but eyes too focused for this to be casual. She didn’t smile.

That alone made your chest tighten.

“Can I come in?” She asked softly.

You stepped back to let her through.

She hovered by the desk instead of sitting, gaze sweeping briefly over the files you’d abandoned and the mug still half-full beside them. It looked like any other night but she wasn’t treating it like one.

“You don’t usually stop by this late without something to drop off,” You said finally.

“I know.” She glanced at you. “Didn’t want to wait.”

That answer made something cold settle at the base of your spine.

You crossed your arms loosely, leaning back against the wall. “So don’t make me guess.”

Maren let out a breath, slow and tired. “They’re moving. The Avengers.”

You didn’t react outwardly, but your fingers curled just slightly against your sleeves.

“How close?”

“Not at the gates or anything. But they’ve started poking around. Someone pulled old records; training logs, field reports, tech inventories with your name half-scratched out of them.”

You looked away, jaw tight.

“You knew this might happen,” She said. “Didn’t you?”

You gave a soft shrug. “Eventually. I just thought they wouldn’t care enough to follow through.”

Maren didn’t deny it. “They didn’t… until now.”

She finally stepped closer, but not enough to crowd you. She wasn’t here to push. Just to deliver something real.

“I wanted you to hear it from me,” She said. “Before it’s sirens or breach codes or worse.”

You searched her expression. “Why warn me at all?”

She gave a small, tired smile. Nothing like the smirks or smiled she used when teasing you about snacks or work stuff.

“Because you’ve been more honest with me by saying nothing than most people ever are running their mouths,” She said. “Because you help, you’re there. And because even if you never told me what really happened with them, I can see it. In how careful you are, quiet, like you learned the hard way not to expect anyone to come back.”

You looked down. That last part hurt in a way you weren’t prepared for.

“And you’re not trying to stop me,” You murmured.

“No,” She said. “I’m just making sure you don’t get caught waiting for a rescue that may not happen.”

The silence stretched. Then, just as she turned to go, she paused and glanced back.

“Remember what I said… If you want to disappear, I won’t stop you. I’ll help. If you want to stay and fight, I’ll cover you. But whatever you choose, do it because you decided, not because you’re still trying to be something for people who never saw you.”

Your throat felt tight, but you nodded.

Maren didn’t say goodbye. She just touched the edge of the desk as she passed it again, a quiet habit she’d picked up, and slipped out into the hallway like she’d never been there at all.

You didn’t move for a long time once she was out of sight. Her words echoed, low and slow, like ripples spreading through still water. You sat down at your desk, fingers brushing the edge where she’d touched it last. An absent gesture, meaningless to most, but it reminded you that she saw you. Had, maybe, for longer than you wanted to admit.

But that didn’t make this choice any easier.

You’d walked away from the Avengers quietly, with barely a notice. Not because you wanted to disappear, but because they never looked hard enough to remember you were there in the first place. And yet, somehow, you weren’t gone. You were just… on the other side now.

Funny how that worked.

They’d start a war to fix a system, but not a conversation to fix a person.

You stared at the half-drunk coffee on your desk. The files a colleague had brought earlier, harmless recon work. Nothing personal, but it all now felt like a test. A choice dressed in paperwork. Stay or run. Fight or vanish.

Or wait for someone who never looked back.

You couldn’t decide tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow.

But you knew this: If the Avengers showed up, you wouldn’t be caught off guard. Not scrambling, not pleading, not waiting. You weren’t that girl anymore.

And if they asked you why?

…You still didn’t know what you’d say.

Maybe nothing at all. Maybe just:

"Where were you when I needed someone?"

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi @viktor-enjoyer @vicmc624 @msbyjackal @winchestert101 @greatenthusiasttidalwave @avivarougestan

[manga-meow]

[kochab-comic]

[Chapter 0] [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Ch 6] [Site]

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Thanks for reading, everyone <3

[momo-no-tane]

[ammckk6262]

Asagiri-kun should've put Chuuya in the likes section too ;))))

[madokamanga]

[chleem]

Flashing Lights #6

Series; actor Drew x actress reader

Summary: Drew gets involved in the worst scandal of his career. One way to solve it? Proving to the whole world that he’s the sweetest lover to exist. Who better to help than the one person he can’t stand? You, an A class actress with an alcohol addiction. So, will Drew clear up his reputation, or leave with a bigger mess to clean up?

Genre: fake dating, enemies to lovers(?, slow burn, angst, smut,

Warning: mentions of alcohol, swearing, mentions of k!lling oneself, mentions of rape & sa, mentions of drug usage, smoking & vaping, (read at own caution

⋆.˚ please dont copy/translate my work

⋆.˚ this is entirely fictional, if uncomfortable then don't read

♡⸝⸝ chapter5 | index | chapter7

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Mid-May 2024

It’s just you and Drew now.  

Laura left after getting the two of you settled in this hotel room, explaining how your stylists would be here in less than an hour, Vogue coming over to film a getting-ready vlog. 

You anxiously stand by the window, looking down to the city. It was beautiful; but your anxiety didn’t let you appreciate it. You wanted a smoke. A drink too. 

The no-smoking sign on the table catches your eye, and you look at the ceiling. Smoking detectors were on it. Fuck. So, you reach for the alternative. 

You pick the room cell up, typing the number to the lobby. 

But Drew hangs it up, then grabs the cell from you. You look at him, pissed. “What? That was important,” you lie, but it was partially true, you needed alcohol to settle yourself. 

“Really?,” he says, putting the cell back. He glares down at you, as if you stole his money or something. “I’m not letting you.”

You let his words hang in the air, sharp and defiant.

Instead, you reach for the room cell again. 

Drew harshly grabs your wrist, which you immediately shake yourself out of. “Hey. What’s your fucking problem?” You ask impatiently. 

“That’s what I should be asking,” he replies. After a few seconds, he talks again. “Why would you go out with him?”

Oh. So he’s asking about what happened last week. 

It was nothing. You met Theo at the grand prix, who was surprisingly friendly. The two of you weren’t alone on the yacht; there was a small party before it. Theo and you just stayed longer, and the media made it seem like it was like that the whole night. 

Of course, you were too drunk to remember the details of what happened when it was just the two of you, but from the pictures; yeah, it was really bad. Your PR team gave you a hard scolding for that, and even fines for breaking one of the terms on the contract. 

You cross your arms, holding your head high. You didn’t do anything wrong; Drew’s intimidating stare won’t break you; nothing will. “I didn’t go out with him.”

“Does he know that?” His voice unable to hid the mockery behind them. 

“Of course.” Lie. Maybe a lie. 

“Y/n.”

“What? I can’t answer for him. But I know it wasn’t a date.”

“Right, two people of the opposite sex alone, on a yacht-“

“Not a date-“

“With wine, table candles, food-“

“Not a fucking date-“

“Touching each other? Smiling like he’s the funniest shit ever-“

“Fucking shut up, Drew,” you say, slightly louder than him. What he’s going on about, is just stupid. You already got scolded by the PR team, you didn’t need another person telling you you fucked up. 

Drew does shut up, but only for a few seconds. “Fine, then what really happened, y/n? Tell me, tell me and I’ll believe it.”

You look at him.

“Why should I fucking tell you?” 

The anger in your voice isn't just directed at him; it's a mix of frustration and confusion, the feeling that you shouldn't owe anyone an explanation, least of all him.

Drew’s eyebrows furrow even harder, his tongue poking against his cheek. You go on; ignoring how you’re filling up his anger meter. “All you need to fucking know is that it wasn’t a date. Fuck, why are you even talking to me about this? It’s not part of the contract, it’s not part of-“

“Contract?” He interrupts, looking at you in confusion and disbelief, as if your point of view was absolutely shit. “What does this have to do with-“

“That’s the whole reason you’re here-“

“What the fuck does the contract have to do-“

“Every fucking thing, Drew. The contract has everything to do with you being here. You don’t even care-“

“I do care,” he answers quickly, but you scoff. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be talking to you-“

“Really? You do care? What do you care about?”

“You,” he exclaims, his features softening. 

Bullshit. “Your fucking reputation, you mean?”

He shakes his head, a smile on his lips. You furrow your eyebrows, feeling pissed that he’s laughing. “What-“

“You’re unbelievable, y/n,” he starts, and suddenly, his aura feels cold, different from earlier when it was just pure anger.  “Why can’t you just explain the situation to me? Huh?”

“I don’t want to,” you tell him, lowering your voice. No. You won’t- can’t tell him.

“Okay, because I might not care?” He asks, ignoring what you want to add on. “If I really didn’t, why would I ask?”

Drew’s blue eyes make you want to yield everything to him. There’s a bit of comfort in his eyes, behind all the anger, “because…because you’re just another co-star I meet. You don’t really care.”

You continue to stare into his eyes, challenging him to disagree. 

“But I do.”

He says it so faintly, that it felt like the words were your hallucinations. But he did say it. Well, too bad you weren’t one to be swayed easily by words. “Stop lying, Drew. It just makes you look stupid.”

You brush past him and reach for the room cell. You needed like, five bottles of wine to move past this. To even survive the film festival later. 

But Drew stops you yet again. “Let go of me,” you threaten, shrugging his hands off your wrist. 

He doesn’t budge, even after saying it a second time. 

“Why can’t you can’t understand basic shit?” You snap, finally shaking him off and putting the cellphone back.

If you knew your next insult towards him would end badly for you, you wouldn’t have said it. “You’re so insufferable to be around, you know that?”

Drew stares at you, furrowed eyebrows back in place. 

What was he thinking of now? Thinking about a better insult? Thinking about all your flaws? It’s evident that he wants to say something mean about you. 

“What? What were you going to say?” You ask, getting impatient. “Say it. I’m sure whatever you’re thinking, they have it worse for me.”

His lips form a small frown, but his eyes stay mean, staring down at you. 

Okay. Now this was annoying. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel like talking?

“Do you need help forming it?” You tease, stepping closer to him. His eyes flicker fast to your lips, before back into your eyes. “Let me give you a few ideas. Druggie,  coke-head, slut, oh, wait, BBC said something about me once. It was-“

“I don’t think of you that way.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

“You think of yourself that way.”

“What?” You scoff yet again. 

“You could be so much better, y/n. But instead, you let yourself rot,” Woah, what is he talking about? “Always getting drunk, smoking your lungs out, and putting on this- this sloppy attitude. You give up on yourself when other people haven’t. Why- why the fuck would you do that? Y/n, why are you treating yourself this way?”

His words throw you off track. It’s the first time someone has said this type of stuff to you.

You swallow hard, your throat running dry. For the first time in a while, you feel exposed. His words hit you like a punch to the gut, unexpected and hard. You freeze, unsure of how to react, how to process what he’s saying. 

“Why do you make yourself so insufferable?” 

You want to hate him for making you feel this way, for making you feel like you're doing something wrong by existing this way. But you can’t. He’s right, isn’t he? 

Even with the constant buzz stinging your mind, you still refuse to show weakness. You refuse to show that his words have impact on you. “No; you make me insufferable in your eyes. You hate me, you hate how I bring more trouble to you-“

“I don’t hate you-“

“You hate how you’re stuck in this situation with me, but you know that only I can help you out-“

“Maybe, but I realized-“

“You stick around and then act like you care-“

“How many times do I have to tell you I do care about you-“

“You’re just like the rest, Drew!” You yell over him. He shuts up, looking at you with furrowed brows. “The fame, the money, the people I can bring you, that’s what you care! You’re just waiting for your payoff. ”

The contract again. That fucking contract mentioned again. 

You see his Adam’s apple move, his features softening. 

The doorbell rings, probably the stylists. You look away from Drew, hugging yourself tight, to keep yourself together. 

He brushes past you, going to open the door. 

The crew starts filing in, talking and setting up like nothing’s wrong. The noise feels like a wall around you, a barrier between what just happened and the performance you have to put on.

You glance around. Drew’s gone.

He must've left.

——

You tried your best to make Drew’s words leave your mind. 

You drank a bottle and smoked half a vape in a the last few hours while getting ready, and still, his words left a scar on you. You couldn’t believe yourself either, affected by Drew’s fake concern for you. 

“Give it to me, y/n, we’re arriving.”

Laura’s talking about the vape in your hand. You take on last breath, before handing it over to her. “This dress is uncomfortable,” you comment while puffing out the smoke. This dress was very tight. 

“You look beautiful,” Laura says, and a part of you wonders if she actually means it. “Now, the cast is already moving along the carpet, you’re the last one.”

“Where’s Drew?” You couldn’t help but ask, knowing that you only attended the Cannes’ film festival to be seen with him. 

“Right… there,” she points out the window. You see Drew, in a black suit that matches your dress, signing and happily taking photos with fans. He looked… fine.

“Ready?” Laura asks, once the car stops. 

It was your first time at the Cannes film festival. You’ve always declined because of your ‘schedule’, but really, it was because of your anxiety. The flashing lights, the disrespectful questions, and audience that have high expectations. These reasons are mainly why you’ve always declined award shows, festivals, or any kind of event that required you to interact with people. “Yeah,” you force out. 

Laura opens the door, and steps out first. You take her hand when getting out, and while adjusting your dress, multiple cameras flash. The industry never changed, has it? 

Once you’re done adjusting your dress, you smile at the cameras, waving at them nicely. The lights are blinding, but you’ve trained yourself to not flinch to them. 

You walk down the red carpet, until you reach where Drew was. Of course he noticed you, all the photographers were shouting, hoping that you would stare at their cameras. 

He says bye to fans, before walking over to you. 

He doesn’t say anything to you, and you don’t either. 

Drew simply takes your hand and puts it on his inner forearm. You purposely grip tight, hoping to cause physical pain to him. 

The two of walk side by side until you reach the middle, stopping for photos to be taken. 

Drew wraps his arm around your waist, standing closely to you. You pretend something is wrong with his collar, smiling while adjusting it. You meet his eyes, and you just smile even more; acting. He smiles at you too; acting. 

Acting. Act. Act. Act. 

He whispers in your ear, making sure to get close enough so photographers don’t catch his lips. “You smell like grapes.” Oh. His breath hits your neck, and you feel your goosebumps rise. 

He moves away, looking at you lovingly; acting. 

You pat his chest and smile at him lovingly; acting. 

The photographers’ camera’s flash doesn’t stop, not even for a brief moment. All eager to capture every movement of this couple. Little did they know, while the both of you posed lovingly next to each other, hours ago a catastrophic fight happened. 

After a few more seconds which felt like minutes, one of the staff informs you to move up the stairs, where your other cast members were waiting for you. 

As you make your way toward the stairs, Drew’s hand hovers close to your lower waist, almost like a protective gesture. The warmth of his palm against your skin is an odd comfort, and for a moment, you forget everything else—the argument, the tension, the walls you’ve built up between you.

When you turn your back to the cameras, the weight of the moment hits you. The flashing lights and fake smiles are just a blur now. You face him, your words soft but certain. “You’re right.”

He blinks, taken aback, and lifts his hand, waiting for you to take it. “What?”

You meet his eyes, swallowing down the mess of emotions swirling inside. For a brief second, you think about pulling away, about keeping the distance. But instead, you take his hand, letting it slip into his.

You raise the hem of your dress slightly, your steps becoming more deliberate as you climb the stairs. “You’re right,�� you repeat, your voice steady, almost as if saying it out loud makes it real. “About everything.”

"Y/n, why are you treating yourself this way?"

“But, the industry shaped me to be this way. I don’t know any other way,” you confess, looking at the stairs while saying this. 

The two of you reach where your co-stars were, and you let go of his hand. 

The director of this movie, which is about the working class in the 1800s, makes space for you in the middle, urging you to stand next to him.

It was the director’s first work, so he was very eager to have his main leads stand next to him. Not only that, but because of your performance in this film, today, it was nominated for numerous categories.

You do, and smile at the camera with the director’s arm around you. 

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” the male lead, whispers to you, a smile on for the photos. “You never come.”

“This one’s special,” you reply, referring to Drew. 

He must’ve thought you were talking about the movie, “good thing I persuaded you to take the role.”

The flashing continues, but the staff informs that it was time to head inside. You turn around expecting Drew to wait at the top for you, but he wasn’t.

You hide your disappointment, seeing your co-star offer his hand. “I believe we’re sitting together?”

“Yes,” you smile, taking his hand. 

The two of you walked up the stairs with the rest of the crew, and into the main venue. 

——

The standing ovation lasted around ten minutes. Yet, felt like eternity. 

The sound of clapping fills the room, surrounding you, and for once, it’s not just noise. It’s recognition. It’s validation.

It felt…extraordinary. Like something out of a dream. You couldn’t believe how many you’ve missed out on. You want to soak it all in, to savor the moment, but a part of you can’t help but wish you weren’t alone in it.

Your co-stars would stare or blow kisses at their loved ones, whispering thank you to them. But you? No one. Not even your ‘boyfriend’, who was gone from the start of the night. 

Even when going up to receive awards, you wished you had someone special to dedicate your speeches or awards to. Or someone you could lock eyes with in the crowd. 

You had no one. 

Drew was still gone, and you soon realized, he was gone the entire night. 

——

You push through the door, finally getting it open after multiple tries. 

You immediately fall to the ground, your legs and arms giving up. You laugh, still a bit drunk even after sleeping in the car. 

“Where were you?”

Your blurry eyes squint at the source, and you see Drew. He’s sitting on the couch, half naked and hair still wet. “I should be asking you that,” you smile, the alcohol in your veins making it hard to control your features. “I missed you.”

It wasn’t you talking; obviously the alcohol talking. Drew knew that, because he walks over and stands in front of you. “Where’ve you been?”

You look down at his toes. They’re funny. “Hey, your toes are-“

“Where the fuck did you go?” He asks more firmly this time.

You look up at him. His jaw is tight, brows furrowed in something between concern and irritation. But all you can feel is the burn in your chest, the strange weight of his question. “Why do you care?”

It comes out cold, defensive, but his eyes soften, just a little, as if he’s already heard the answer, as if he knows the real reason why he does care.

He bends down to grab your arm. He helps you up, placing your arm over his shoulder. You’re too tired to protest; letting him place you on the couch. He walks away, but he comes back with a bottle of water, a trash can, and some pills.

“Hey, drink some water,” he says, his hand going behind your neck, as he helps you sit up. 

His hand is always so warm. Why?

His thumb rubs the back of your neck while you drink the water, surprisingly, you find it comforting. You finish half of it, before handing it back to him. “Wanna tell me where you went?” He asks you much more gentler this time. 

“The afterparty,” you reply, as Drew removes his hand from the back of your neck. The warmth disappears, and you actually feel sad. “Your turn.”

“I stayed in here,” he confesses. His voice turns quieter now, almost hesitant. “I didn’t want to see you.”

Just because of that, he leaves? What a selfish dick. “I didn't want to see you either, but did you see me leave? No.”

“And I’m sorry,” Drew apologies. You look into his eyes, and see the sincerity in them that can’t be faked. 

“I felt so stupid,” you continue, “The only person I knew was you.”

Drunk you could talk about whatever you wanted, and no one could stop you. “I know you hate me, but couldn’t you have stuck around? You only had to watch me, you didn’t need to do anything else.”

A tear falls down your cheek. It feels almost foreign, as if your body is betraying you, allowing a moment of vulnerability you didn’t expect, one that you didn't know you were capable of outside of a scene, outside the cameras.

You quickly wipe it away. “I would’ve never done that to you.” 

And you meant it. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes again, the only right thing to say right now. 

Silence lingers in the air, the two of you staring down at the floor. 

“It was my first time experiencing a standing ovation,” you start, giving him a soft smile. He sends you one back, a faint, quick smile. “No wonder why people like going to award shows.”

“You’ve never been to one?” He couldn’t help but ask. 

“During the first few years. But after that… overdose incident, I wasn’t in the right state to attend public events,” you feel your voice shake; the memories of that night coming back to you. “Not only was I afraid, but so were the executives.”

You’ve never told any in showbiz about your drug overdose incident. Why are you telling him? Maybe, there was just something about Drew that made you want to. 

And sure, everyone knew, from the media, where things are often exaggerated and vilified. But, did anyone bother hearing it from you? 

This incident changed your entire life. To others, it was just hot gossip. 

“Have you ever had a standing ovation for you?” You change the topic, his lack of response worrying you. 

“No; but it sounds amazing,” Drew says. “I’ll…I’ll look for you when I do.”

There's something in his voice, though, something that almost feels like a promise.

“Will that time even come?” You decide to tease him instead, uncomfortable with how cheesy this is going. 

“Sooner than you think,” he winks at you, before glancing down at the pill. “Take one after you shower; you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, before looking towards the bathroom. “I stink, don’t I?”

“Not the worst you’ve stunk,” he comments, and you roll your eyes. 

“Whatever,” you get up, but way too fast, making you almost stumble. Drew holds onto your arm, steadying you. 

“Need help?”

“I can manage,” you breathe out, shaking his hand off and walking over to the bedroom. You spot your suitcase, opening it and taking a shirt and underwear. You see the bed, realizing that it’s yet another one-bed situation. You peek out the bedroom door, and Drew immediately turns his face over to you. “Um, you can have the bed if you want.”

Shyly, you close the door, ending the conversation. 

—— 

Drew slept on the couch that night, without any protests. 

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

word count: 3.5k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: a lot to take in for this chapter...phew

i have a one shot idea coming up, so look forward to it! same as usual, thx for reading, and sry for the long update (ignore my mistakes). i try writing as much as i can, but schedule doesnt allow it T_T

ps, is this a safe space? um, i was kinda losing motivation for this series a couple of days ago. but, i saw the taglist, and the ending i planned for this series. so, safe to say i got to writing!

elevator | other | index | ch5 | ch7

[sara-the-wizard]

I Care. Chapter 6 (Part 2/2) (rottmnt comic)

Leo finds it hard to see himself as useful anymore, sense he has to rely on someone else to help him get around. On the other hand, Donnie's injuries have been healing up well! Can't say the same for Leo though... As Leos mood drops, so douse his health. Leo refuses to make himself more of a burden by being sick. But as Leo was just about to care for himself, the shadows refuse to give him peace.

Next Part: Previous Part: Start:

[childrenofthelightcomic]

Children of the Light- Chapter 6, Page 11 Next > Start Reading Content Warnings If you like the ball in your court, please consider supporting me on Patreon!

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

Royal Duties FINAL Chapter 6

Summary:  Princess Y/N is betrothed to Prince Bucky Barnes, a political match to form bonds and alliances.  A friendship is formed between them built on understanding and allyship.  But can real love grow from forced circumstances?

Warning:  Language, eventual smut, miscarriage/pregnancy, mentions of possible cheating

Previous chapter

Y/N cancelled all upcoming events for a while.  She needed time to heal physically and emotionally.  Bucky stayed with her as much as he could, but some things couldn’t be ignored for long.  He checked in with her often, whether in person or over the phone, and she appreciated his thoughtfulness and concern.  He had made it clear to everybody on the palace staff that Natasha wasn’t allowed back under any circumstances, blaming her for the stress Y/N had been under and for possibly creating the situation in which they lost the pregnancy.  

He was her rock, as he always was, and her love for him grew deeper by the day.  One night a few weeks later after she had a hard day and was trudging toward the bathroom to shower in an attempt to wash off the sadness, he appeared next to her and helped her undress then got in the shower with her, washing her slowly and carefully.  He was being so tender and gentle that it made her cry again, and without thinking as he kissed her she murmured against his lips, “I love you.”

Bucky inhaled shakily and broke the kiss to look her in the eyes.  He stared at her with an unreadable expression for a long moment, then smiled.  “I love you,” he replied, then held her close in a tight hug and kissed her passionately.  Y/N kissed him back feverishly.  Within moments he had her pressed against the shower wall with her legs wrapped around his waist.  This time was frenzied, like they couldn’t stop the outpouring of love that they finally confessed to each other.  Y/N let herself let go of the hurt, the loss and the anxiety so she could feel all of this.  Bucky lined his cock up with her entrance and thrust into her slowly, letting them both feel every inch of him stretching her into the perfect fit her pussy made just for him.

“God I love you, Peaches,” he said breathlessly, kissing her anywhere he could reach and dragging his mouth across her skin.  “I’ve loved you since our honeymoon.”  Y/N whimpered at the memory of how soft and sweet and understanding he had been with her on their wedding day and into their honeymoon.  “When I met you I considered myself the luckiest man alive,” he said as he thrust up into her at a languid pace, his metal hand holding her still against the wall and his flesh hand caressing her everywhere like he couldn’t decide what to touch next.  “My beautiful, intelligent, passionate, kind girl.  My wife.  You’re my everything, Y/N, you know that?”

Her tears fell faster as her heart felt like it was expanding in her chest.  “B-Bucky,” she stuttered, her emotions going haywire at his words and making her unable to voice her feelings.

“I know, baby, I know,” he said reassuringly.  “You say so much with your eyes and your actions, I know.  I knew you loved me after our first time.”  He picked up the pace of his thrusts.  “I could see it in your eyes, and how you talked me through my insecurities.”  He switched his arms that held her so his metal hand could cradle her head how he knew she liked.  “I knew I just needed to wait until you were ready to say it.  But I love you so much, Peaches.  I love you.”  He kissed her repeatedly, praising her and telling her he loved her over and over again between kisses.

Y/N felt so overwhelmed that her orgasm hit her by surprise.  She suddenly careened over the edge of her pleasure at a particularly deep, tongue-entangling kiss, cumming around him so hard it had his knees buckling.  Bucky groaned as he carefully eased himself and her down to the shower floor as she continued to cum, then within a few more thrusts once she was on her back he was cumming deep inside her with a low, soft moan.  His face was tucked into the crook of her neck, and they both breathed deeply as the water sprayed over them from above.  She caressed his back with featherlight touches of her fingertips and kissed the side of his head.

“I love you, handsome,” she whispered.

Bucky chuckled at the pet name and lifted his head to look at her.  He smiled adoringly and kissed her softly.  “Are you okay?” he asked quietly.  “That’s the first time we’ve done that since–”

“I’m fine,” Y/N replied quickly, her heart not hurting as much this time at the mention of the miscarriage.  “I’m okay.  Thank you.”

He nodded and nuzzled her nose.  “We should probably get off the floor,” he smirked.  

“Probably,” Y/N giggled, then sighed as he pulled out of her and got up before helping her stand.  Bucky helped clean her off again before washing himself and then assisting with everything else and getting her tucked into bed.  He lay down with her and held her hand with his metal hand, his thumb tracing the back of her hand gently.  

They stared at each other for a long time until her eyes began to flutter closed.  “Goodnight, my love,” he murmured, lifting her hand and kissing her knuckles.

“Goodnight,” she mumbled, squeezing his hand back.  “Love you.”

***

Bucky took it upon himself to fuck her almost daily after that.  Y/N had a sneaking suspicion it was to get her pregnant again, but she could tell it was his way of expressing just how happy he was that they were on the next level of their relationship.  Confessing their love seemed to knock down the last wall of hesitancy or unsurety between them, and he was obviously appreciative of her love so much that he needed to not only tell her but show her.

Y/N tentatively started doing her royal duties again, trying to get back into the swing of things.  The meetings started back up, the appearances rescheduled and the humanitarian efforts resumed, making her busy again.  Bucky tried to make sure that they went to the same places together, not wanting to be away from her more often than he had to.  It sparked rumors and gossip with the tabloids in Brooklyn, but they ignored it.  If there was any news to report, they would do it in their own time.  

The 18 month mark of their marriage was fast approaching and suddenly Y/N’s parents reached out with a formal request for a dinner with her and Bucky.  When Steve relayed it to them at lunch one day Bucky looked at her with concern.  “Do you want to see them?” he asked.

Y/N looked over the letter again with a frown.  “They didn’t say what they wanted?” she asked, looking back at Steve.

“No.  They just requested dinner,” he shook his head.  

Y/N took a deep breath and handed him back the letter.  “I don’t necessarily want to see them, but I’m curious as to what they want,” she said, looking at Bucky.  

“So am I,” he said, the look he gave her laced with something else she couldn’t name, then with a nod he turned to Steve with a meaningful glance.  “Go ahead and send the approval.”

A week later Y/N and Bucky stood waiting at the front door as their staff bustled around getting things ready.  Her parents would be arriving any minute for the dinner audience.  “You ready?” he asked, taking her hand and squeezing it.

“As I’ll ever be,” she shrugged, squeezing his hand back.

Shortly after the doors opened and revealed her parents being escorted by a butler who announced them and they came forward.  It looked like it physically pained her mother to bow to Y/N, and her father barely gave a head nod to Bucky.  She inwardly rolled her eyes.  Even now, they couldn’t find it within themselves to have decorum to the man and country who won out over theirs.  “Your Majesties,” her father said tightly.  “Thank you for accepting our request.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Bucky replied with an easy smile and shook his hand.  “We’re family, after all.”

Her father bristled at being called ‘Your Highness’ after being demoted down to a Prince after the takeover, but kept a grimace of a smile on his face. Y/N knew that back at home he was most likely still making his staff call him ‘Your Majesty,’ even though that wasn’t what he was anymore.  Her mother then greeted Bucky and turned to her, stepping forward and giving her a stiff hug.  “Hello dear,” she said with a sickly sweet tone.  “So good to see you.”

“You as well, Mother,” Y/N said evenly.  

They were escorted to a private dining area where the table was set and the staff were waiting patiently, helping to seat them and then starting to serve the different courses.  The conversation was unnatural and short, making it the most uncomfortable dinner Y/N had ever been a part of.  She was already exhausted by her parents’ presence in her new home, and hoped for a quick end to the evening soon.

Once they were moved into a different room for dessert and coffee her father cleared his throat, and she knew that what they really wanted was about to come.  “Well, we have another reason for requesting this audience,” he said, trying to sound firm and business-like.  “Obviously we had hoped for a good match between our kingdoms and for our daughter, and it seems things are going well?”

“Very well,” Bucky said, holding Y/N’s hand.  “I consider myself very blessed to have your daughter as my wife.”

Y/N gave him an appreciative smile and squeezed his hand before focusing back on her parents.  Her mother was watching them like a hawk, analyzing every little detail and movement.  Her father cleared his throat again.  “That is wonderful,” he said in a clipped tone.  “We were also hoping to inquire in person because our previous attempts at communication have been unsuccessful,” he said pointedly toward Y/N.  “Are you with child yet?”

As much as Y/N was expecting that question, it still made her heart clench uncomfortably when he asked.  She took a deep breath as she could feel Bucky’s grip on her hand tighten.  “And why would that be any of your business, Your Highness?” Bucky asked with his own clipped tone.

“We only ask in concern,” her mother chimed in.  “Since you struggled with it at the beginning of your marriage–”

“It seems highly inappropriate to ask about your daughter’s sex life,” Bucky interrupted, his voice sounding more angry by the second.  

Her father huffed out a sharp breath.  “Well, it seems our styles are different,” he said angrily.  “We don’t hide things from each other or beat around the bush–”

“Alright,” Bucky nodded, a dangerous smirk lighting up his face.  “Then you’d be happy to know that I’ve fucked your daughter on the regular for the past year and 4 months.”  That stunned her parents, and Y/N bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling.  “We just had sex last night, right love?” he asked her, giving her a glance.  “I made you cum twice and then came inside you twice, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Y/N answered quietly with an amused smirk.

“That’s right,” he continued with a nod and a proud smile.  “And I plan on doing it again tonight, and then tomorrow, and the next day, for the rest of our lives if possible.  And not just to knock her up, because apparently that’s all you care about.  But because I love her and want to show her how much I love her as often as I can.  Children will come eventually, but when is up to fate.  Hopefully I’ve got some good swimmers, huh Dad?”

Y/N held in a laugh as she watched her father’s face turn purple and her mother choke on a gasp.  “That’s enough–” 

“Oh I’m just getting started,” Bucky said.  “Let’s not beat around the bush, huh?  I could also bring up the fact that you’ve been planning to circumvent the treaty we made,” he said, his voice sharp and low.  “That you’ve been siphoning large sums of money from overly taxing what are now my people under your stewardship into off-shore accounts to use at a later date for when you try to take back what was previously your land?”  Y/N looked at him in shock.  She didn’t know about any of this, and she looked at her parents, becoming even more shocked at the surprise and guilt they displayed.  “It’s all being stopped as we speak,” he said flippantly, leaning forward and glaring at her father.  “Like my father told you when we conquered you before, Brooklyn is always two steps,” he continued.  “You are both hereby stripped of your titles, and will be arrested for treason.  The baby you were hoping for will be the future King or Queen of Brooklyn, and not a pawn for you to use for your own political gain.  You need to learn how to lose graciously, sir.”

Her father let out a spluttered breath and her mother jumped as the doors opened behind them and Steve guided in a team of guards that swiftly made them stand and placed cuffs on them.  Her mother started wailing and then turned to Y/N.  “Do something!” she screamed.  “I’m your mother!  Help us!”

Y/N just stared at her in disbelief.  She stood and walked over to her until she was toe-to-toe with her.  “Is it true?” she asked.  Her mother’s lips tightened and she blinked rapidly.  Y/N grunted in frustration.  “Tell me!”

“Yes,” she replied coolly.  Her father tried to backpedal but she looked at him sharply.  “Oh shut up!” she yelled at him then looked back at Y/N.  “We are the King and Queen.  And no war or filthy Brooklyn baby is going to change that.”

Y/N wasn’t sure what happened but suddenly her palm stung.  It took her a second to realize that she had slapped her mother across the face, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care as her mother cried out in pain and looked at her in shock.  She leaned forward until they were almost nose to nose.  “Fuck you,” she spat.  “I hope you live a long life Mother, just so you can truly appreciate everything you lost while in prison.  Long live the King of Brooklyn.”

Her mother tried to jerk her hands away from the guard holding her back, but Y/N merely stepped back and walked back to Bucky who was still sitting on his chair, watching with a proud smile.  The guards dragged them away as Steve nodded toward them and shut the doors to give them privacy.  Y/N stood before Bucky for a moment as the silence enveloped them, then knelt before him and laid her head in his lap.  His hands immediately went to her hair and the back of her neck, massaging it with his metal hand while his flesh hand moved her hair away and ran his fingers through it gently.  

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“Why would you be sorry?” Bucky asked incredulously.

“I didn’t know,” she said.  

“How could you have known?” he asked, then made her look up at him as he leaned forward.  “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to cause any more stress or heartbreak.  We’ve been watching everything carefully since the end of the war, and I knew just from how your father acted that he wouldn’t go quietly.  So we waited and investigated.  That was part of the reason I didn’t want you talking to them anymore,” he explained, pulling her up and into his lap, making her straddle his hips on the loveseat they had been sitting on.  “I didn’t want you anywhere near whatever it was they had planned.  And with the way they spoke to you, I knew that they were using you as an unwilling and unknowing part of it.  They would have tried to use our child against me,” he paused, having to take a breath to steady himself and the anger she could see broiling within.  “I’m not angry with you.  I don’t blame you.  None of this is your fault.  Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she nodded as he cupped her face in his hands.  “I just…I’m so angry,” she said, her emotions becoming overwhelming and making her cry.  “Angry that I didn’t see it, that I was lied to and used and unloved–”

“I know,” he nodded, wiping away her tears as his own brimmed his eyes.  “I’m sorry you didn’t get the love and care you deserved growing up with them.  Nothing I do will fix the past, but I need you to understand that I want you.”  He pulled her down and kissed her lips softly.  “I care about you.”  He kissed her nose.  “I love you,” he finished, kissing between her eyebrows.

That made her cry harder, and he hugged her to him, tucking her face into the crook of his neck as his hands rubbed her back.  She wrapped her arms around his neck and could feel his shoulders slightly shake as he held back tears for her hurt.  They sat like that for a long time, just letting each other feel and cry it all out.  When her tears finally dried up she sighed heavily and kissed his neck.  “Thank you, handsome,” she breathed, continuing her kisses up to his ear and then his jaw.  “Thank you for loving me…for taking care of me…supporting me–”

Bucky’s head tilted to the side to give her more skin space, a deep sigh of his own coming out a little ragged as his metal hand gripped her hip and his right hand reached up to pull at his tie and unbutton the first few buttons of his dress shirt.  Y/N pulled his shirt away from his neck the second it was loosened and started licking and sucking at his throat and along his collarbone, her hands scratching down his chest.  The day’s events still hung heavy on her mind, but she let herself give in to the love she felt for this man, focusing solely on showing him how much she wanted, cared for and loved him, too.

She could feel him hardening in his pants below her, making her smile against his skin and then pull away to sit squarely on his lap and start rocking her hips over his agonizingly slow.  His eyes looked glazed over as he watched her hips grind over him for a while, his mouth agape and his hands on her hips guiding her over him.  When he met her gaze again his pupils were blown and his heavy panting breaths fanned her face.  She nuzzled his nose, teasing her lips over his while continuing to grind and cup his face in her hands, scratching at his beard gently.  “I love you, handsome,” she murmured.  “I’m not good with my words but I do.  Let me take care of you this time.”

His head tilted back against the loveseat cushion and his eyes fluttered as she ground down a little more firmly.  “Fuck…Peaches,” he groaned, a lustful frown marring his brow.  “Please…”

Y/N smirked at him and kissed the tip of his nose before shifting herself off his lap.  She unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants, and he lifted his hips to help her pull them and his underwear down to his knees.  She then took off her own underwear under her dress, tossing it aside and hefting up the skirt before climbing back into his lap.  She was already wet from how much she had been teasing and grinding before, so her pussy lips glided over his cock easily.  Bucky sputtered, his stomach tensing as the pleasure rippled between them.  She grinded over him for a little while longer, enjoying watching him struggle to keep his composure in such a public room that anyone could walk in at any moment.  Not that it would have necessarily stopped them, but it was a thrill they had only explored once before.  

After another teasing glide of her clit over the head of his cock Bucky shivered and whined.  “Y/N please,” he begged, his fingers tightening on her hips.  “Please baby, I…fuck I need you,” he grunted, his hips rutting up into her.  

Y/N took pity then and reached between them, holding his cock in place before sinking down on top of it.  Bucky’s eyes rolled back and his head dropped open wider as her pussy enveloped him.  She moaned as she stretched for him, a welcome and familiar sensation that she could never get enough of.  Once she was fully sat on top of him she waited for a moment to let them both adjust, then started a slow swirl of her hips.  They both panted against each other’s mouths, a steady stream of soft noises and the slick sound of their pleasure all combining into a lusty haze settling over them both.  No more words were exchanged, just touches and sounds and passionate kisses.  

She could feel him pulse inside her, his hips trembling as he kissed down to her neck.  He pulled her close so she was angled forward, and she lifted her hips to bob up and down on him more.  Bucky moaned at the change in position, and he thrust up to meet her hips as she lowered each time, driving him deeper inside.  Her eyes rolled back this time, a shaky breath fanning his hair.  Their bodies moved in perfect synchronization, and she could feel her orgasm building quickly.  She moved her face back up to his face, her chin pressing against his, making their lips brush against each others’ as she fucked him harder, chasing her finish.

“That’s it, fuck me,” he whispered.  “Fuck me, Peaches.  Cum all over me.”  He sucked at her lower lip and nipped at it.  “Make me cum and fill your pretty pussy please!”

A rolling shiver creeped from the base of her spine until it reached her skull, and then the coil deep inside sprang free and she came hard on top of him.  Her whole body stiffened as her pussy gripped his cock, the waves of pleasure in her body triggering his own release.  Her mouth was open in a silent scream and Bucky filled it with his own groan, then made her swallow the sound as he gave her an open-mouthed kiss while his tongue licked and tasted her mouth.  They both shook for a while until their combined orgasm subsided slowly, and she sagged against him.  “Fuck, handsome,” she mumbled, her voice sounding hoarse.  “You feel so good…so deep inside me.  I can feel you filling me up…shit.”

Bucky nodded, keeping his hold tight on her so she wouldn’t try to get up just yet and get every last drop from him.  “Thank you,” he said lowly.  “That was so good baby.  Fuck, I love you.”

“I love you,” she breathed, nuzzling his face with her own.  “I love you…I love you…”

***

3.5 months later

Y/N paced around their bedroom, wringing her hands in front of her.  Her heart felt like it was going to burst from her chest as she waited for Bucky to get out of a council meeting.  She had waited for a while, making sure everything was going well before wanting to tell him.  The doctor had confirmed it and was feeling confident that everything would be okay this time.  The telltale sound of his staff talking a mile a minute to him came from down the hallway and she stiffened as their footsteps all headed towards the bedroom.

“Yes, okay, I…let’s tackle that tomorrow,” Bucky’s voice echoed through the door.  “I’d like to spend some time with the Queen if you don’t mind.  Go on.  Thank you.”  He opened the door and quickly shut it, letting out a long breath before turning around and smiling when he saw her.  The way his eyes lit up made her give him a small smile back.  “Hey Peaches,” he said happily, walking toward her and wrapping her up in a hug.  He hummed as he held her.  “I missed you.”

“I missed you,” she said quietly, hugging him back.  “I need to tell you something.”

He pulled away and gave her a quick kiss before waiting for what she had to say.  She took a deep breath, the anxiety flaring in her chest again.  He frowned at the way she tensed up.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, whispering so her voice wouldn’t wobble.  “I’m pregnant.”

Bucky’s eyes widened and he froze for a moment, then his gaze flicked to her stomach and back to her face.  He seemed cautious this time as he tried to breathe normally.  “How far along?” he whispered, his eyes turning glassy.

“Thirteen weeks as of yesterday,” she replied, her eyes brimming with tears.  

He let out a long sigh, his shoulders relaxing as he closed his eyes and hung his head.  “The doctor?”

“He said everything looks good,” she said, sniffing as she wiped away a few tears that fell from her eyes.  “We can find out what the gender is within the next week or two.”

Bucky huffed out a shaky laugh and his eyes opened, tears falling from them as he smiled at her.  “We can?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” she nodded.  “We’re gonna have a baby.”

He nodded and bit his lip, trying not to cry out loud.  “We’re gonna have a baby,” he repeated, his watery smile widening.  “My love,” he said, his metal hand cradling her head and his flesh hand resting over her stomach.  “My baby,” he breathed.  “I’m so happy.”

Y/N felt so much relief flood through her it almost made her knees buckle.  It wasn’t that she was afraid of his reaction, she just didn’t want to let him down again.  The miscarriage wasn’t her fault, she knew that, but being the vessel for what could and would be their child was a big responsibility and she wanted it to succeed this time.  Her hands reached up and wrapped behind his neck, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.  Bucky pressed his forehead against hers as they took the moment to enjoy the news together.  “I’m happy, too,” she said.  “You make me so happy, Buck.”

It was a phrase she genuinely didn’t think she’d say back when this all started almost two years ago.  She never expected to fall in love with the man who conquered her home country and she was forced to marry to keep the peace, and yet here she was, crying with him over the promising new life they were bringing into the world.  She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, making him smile against her lips.  Everything turned out to be alright. 

@unicornqueen05 @greatenthusiasttidalwave @roslynsworld @ozwriterchick

Thank you all so much for the likes, comments, and reblogs for this story! I'm sorry this last chapter is kinda long, I couldn't find a better way to split it up, so it became one long thing. But I'm so happy y'all liked this one. I've still got a few oneshot requests I'm working on and more stories to come. Love you little darlings!

[writeyouin]

Lucifer (Hazbin Hotel) X Fem-Reader - Sinless Sinners - Chapter 6

Chapter 6 - Misery Loves Company

A/N – Okay, so for anyone who loves Stand-up comedy as much as I do, I highly recommend you watch Daniel Sloss’ tour, Dark. That’s his first tour, and it was where he coined the term Wanker-Anchor, which is used in this story.

Warnings – None.

Rating – M

TAG-LIST: @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @sseleniaa @randomgurl2326 @22carolina08 @astrxwitch @yu-87 @clover-1767 @lil-bexie @thesimpybitch @reverse-soe @koirb @usernameunavailable2 @lavenderkita @kannakanan @mcueveryday @amarokofficial @mbruben-stein @tyrythewolf @lasagna-501 @bizzardvark @firefirefeline @kaylanotkk @missme-07 @memontica @angelsdemonsmonsters @tj4shy @midoria-kinnie @meesachan @fusehoundshipper @velvettenoctus @crescent-z @just-trash-yeah-thats-it @rosiescannibalwife @skylerbutterfly @hamthepan @latersgaters-steven @kryptidkova @sleepyhead-number27 @cherry-4200 @harcourtholmesii @alastorandluciferspouse @holyspacething @kedelman24 @becsmarvel @vash-yuu

MALE VERSION HERE

GN VERSION HERE

“Whoa,” Charlie said upon seeing you.

She had seen your Demonic form before, but it was a rarity and it usually meant that you weren’t doing well mentally.

“Are you okay?” She asked, sucking in air through her teeth, her voice pitching high, indicating that she already knew the answer but didn’t want to point out the obvious in case it upset you further.

“I’m fine,” You answered shortly.

“Really? Because you uh, well,” Charlie twisted her hands back and forth, “You uh, you look a little- I mean, hey, I think you’re beautiful inside and out but when you’re like this it usually means- It’s normally-”

“You’re fucked up,” Vaggie finished for her, getting straight to the point.

“I’m fine,” You insisted, using the words everyone used when they were decidedly not fine. “Where’s Angel Dust?”

“In his room,” Vaggie explained.

“What happened? He was doing so well.”

Charlie’s eyes welled up with tears and she threw her arms around you, sobbing out an explanation, “It was my fault. I asked him about his contract, and he told me not to worry, but I did worry, and then I wanted to make sure he’d be okay when me and Vaggie go to visit Heaven, but he said he didn’t need a babysitter, and then I got Husk involved and Husk told me not to fuck with things I don’t understand, and then Valentino came-”

“Wait, Valentino came here?!” You pulled Charlie off you so you could look her in the eyes.

“Well, not exactly, but he sent his crew here and told Angel they had to film and I said no, and-”

You left Charlie and ran to Angel’s room. Both Charlie and Vaggie followed you as you pelted through the corridors. No wonder Angel had relapsed. That piece of shit Valentino had used Angel’s contract against him. As part of the deal they had made, Angel had to do any work Valentino demanded of him, and that fucking scumbag had dared to invade the one place where Angel felt safe.

Knowing Charlie, she would have pointed out that Valentino couldn’t use her property and would have to wait for Angel at the studio, but that wouldn’t matter. Valentino would play by the rules; it wasn’t really about filming at the Hotel, it was all a matter of proving that Angel belonged to him and that there was no safe place he could hide away.

Besides, even if Valentino hadn’t gotten his way at the Hotel, he would take it out on Angel the next time he was in the studio. It was a lose-lose situation, something that Hell was always too eager to provide.

When you got to Angel’s room, you paused to compose yourself. It wouldn’t help if you sounded too desperate or concerned; Angel didn’t respond well to that. It would make him blame himself for making you worry, and then he would spiral further.

You knocked on the door, “Hey Angel, it’s us. Can we come in please?”

“Go away,” Angel’s heavy accent came through the door, marking him more as Anthony than Angel Dust, though you didn’t say anything about that; there were very few people who knew his real name, and he didn’t like to be reminded of it.

For better or worse, he was Angel Dust; that was who he needed to be to survive.

You glanced at Charlie and Vaggie, then tilted your head, indicating that they should leave. Charlie hesitated until Vaggie placed a hand on her shoulder, then after an affirming nod from you, she let Vaggie lead her away.

“Come on Angel,” You said when they were gone. “It’s just me. Let me in.”

“Piss off.”

You sighed, then sat outside the door, and began talking. You didn’t have a grand speech planned, only what was on your mind, and if Angel wasn’t going to let you in, then it became a matter of letting him know that he wasn’t alone and that you wouldn’t abandon him, though you would respect his space.

“I get it. Valentino fucked with you. He love-bombed you, and that didn’t fucking work because you’re stronger than he is and you’re not going to fall for his shitty manipulation tactics. Now, he’s sending his goons here. It’s all just another one of his games, Angel. Don’t let him win.”

There was no response. You stayed quiet for a minute then were struck with a thought; misery loves company.

“Hey, I also kind of feel like shit today, you know? I kept thinking about Hell and… a lot of things. I told Charlie’s dad how I died. That was fucked up.”

Again, there was no response, but you thought you heard Angel shuffle closer to the door. Until that evening, nobody had heard anything about your mortal life, and now you were talking about it for the second time.

“I was murdered for a snuff film. I still have nightmares about it.”

There was a bluntness to your tone. Although it hurt to state the memory aloud again, albeit in less detail, you decided not to put too much thought into it. If your death could help someone, well, there had to be some good in bringing it up.

You stared at the peeling red wallpaper across from you, just so you had something to focus on. “I’m terrified that one day, I’m gonna walk down the street and see the guys that killed me. Like, what do you even do in that situation? Call them out? They’re in Hell, that’s punishment enough, right? Will they find it funny to see me again? Find new ways to hurt me?”

I honestly don’t know what I want in this scenario. I don’t want them to die, ‘cos then they’ll be here, but if they live, they’ll do this to other people. Kidnap them, sell them to the highest bidder, film it for the black market. I dunno… I’ve been here for a year, and I keep thinking about that.”

The door opened and you fell back, looking up at Angel’s concerned face.

“That’s the most fucked up shit I’ve ever heard.”

He lifted you up, setting you right with two arms, while the other two brushed you off.

“So… this is you?” He asked, taking in your rag-doll appearance.

You laughed and imitated his voice, your Demonic abilities kicking in to mimic him perfectly, “I can be anything you want, bay-by.”

“That’s the hottest you’ve ever sounded.”

“Yeah, yeah,” You waved him off blasély. “Just let me in, okay? I can help.”

“So, uh, with the voice, and the-” Angel gestured at your new look, moving his hands in a circular motion, “Can you uh- Be other people?”

“I don’t know,” You said slowly, looking at your hands, “Never tried.”

You concentrated for a moment, trying to transform back to your original self. Usually, it was effortless. Yet, as you stared at the stitches that bound you together, you found it difficult to do more than revert to your original skin colour. Seeing that beneath the stitches was somehow worse, so you stopped trying to change, accepting that for now, you were a ragdoll.

You shrugged your shoulders, “Fuck it. I am what I am, and that’s all that I am.”

You caught sight of Angel’s precious pet pig. Scooping him up into your arms and cuddling him, you cooed in a baby voice, “Besides, you still love me, don’t you Fat Nuggets, yeeeees, precious baby.”

Sitting down on Angel’s bed, you looked up at your friend, deciding that it was better not to let the difficult conversation wait and fester.

“Soooo…” You scratched Fat Nuggets behind the ear, “Charlie told me that you relapsed. Wanna talk about it?”

Angel sighed and flopped back onto the bed so he was lying next to you, his legs planted on the floor.

He dragged two hands over his face, the other two lay despondently over his stomach.

“I- It was just such a shitty day, and Val sent those pricks here, not that they could fill any holes. Wrong kind of pricks, you know?” He half laughed, but it died when he realised the joke wasn’t funny in such a shitty situation.

Still, you smiled at him. When Angel was sad, he didn’t always need someone to sympathise with him. He needed to see that you weren’t going to change and start treating him differently. Sometimes that meant just listening, but other times it meant making the meanest jokes you could think of and laughing at how horrible everything was.

You were his Wanker-anchor, chaining him to reality by being a dick; Husk was the best at it, but seeing as he was nowhere to be found, Angel had you instead.

“Here,” Angel held up a small sealed bag, with his stash in it. So, he hadn’t relapsed after all. He’d just come very close.

“No thanks,” You joked, “I’m full from all the crack I had at breakfast.”

Angel got up and punched your arm, “You’re such an asshole.”

“Takes one to know one,” You took his stash, tucking it away in your pocket, then you stood up, leaving Fat Nuggets on the bed, and you offered Angel your hand. “Come on.”

“What-”

“You need a distraction. So, I challenge you, Angel Dust, teach me how to dance.”

“You’re fucking kiddin’, right?”

You shook your head. “You can dance, I can’t and I’m bored. So, come on, give me some lessons. It’ll be good to get moving.”

“When you fail, can I call you a retard?”

“Fuck no. You can’t say retard anymore, what the fuck is wrong with you. You can insult the shit outta me, but keep your terms acceptable, okay?”

Honestly, Angel had thought he was up to date on what insults and trash talk were deemed acceptable, but evidently, he was wrong.

“Alright, I’ll teach you to dance, but you gotta keep me updated on all the latest slang, and what’s changed up there,” He glanced up as if he could see Earth.

“I’ve been dead a year, bud. A lot can change in that time,” You said, thinking about all the ways you were probably outdated.

Angel grabbed his phone and turned up the tunes, “Sounds like a coward’s excuse to get outta teaching.”

And so it was that you and Angel started to dance. It was nothing like his work, or when he was forced to pimp himself out in clubs as a form of ‘networking.’ Instead, it was stupid, fun, and uncoordinated with you as his partner. Christ, he had never danced with someone so terrible. You let him lead, and together, the two of you laughed at each other’s expense and forgot all about the shitty things that had happened that day.

Up in his Radio Station, Alastor grinned sinisterly. He had heard you quite clearly as he went about his business in the Hotel. You were murdered? How delightful. Victims were so easy to manipulate. Furthermore, you were a ragdoll. Oh, how wonderfully he could exploit that power.

All it would take was an invitation of friendship, a desperate situation, and an offer of assistance. When Alastor had sent Husk away on an errand earlier, he hadn’t imagined it would turn out so wonderfully.

Now, there was a new piece on the chessboard, and Alastor was determined to capture you as his pawn.

Your soul would be his.

[manga-meow]