#for those wondering things are still touch and go

[buckysleftbicep]

soft hands, heavy heart 𐙚 b.b

pairing: inexperienced!new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, soft smut, praise kink (sorta), slow first time, unprotected sex, creampie, a tinge of angst if you squint, the fluff makes up for it

summary: bucky wants you, but he just doesn’t know how to let himself have you. but you’ll spend every second showing him how it feels to be wanted.

word count: 4.5k

author's note: hi my sweethearts! i'd like to think that after bucky returns, he would need a lot of reassurance and tlc, especially after all he has went through. i feel that he would love to be guided and to know he is loved. so i hope this fic encapsulates that 💌 love ya guys and stay safe out there! requests are open!

so in love with soft!bucky

It starts with his hands. Or rather, what they don’t do.

They hold yours when you’re walking down quiet halls in the compound, fingers interlocked, the brush of calloused skin a comfort more than anything else. 

They linger at the small of your back when no one’s looking—firm, steady, grounding you when the world gets too loud.

They cradle your face when you’re scared, trembling, coming down from the edge of something violent. Missions gone wrong, intel turned sour, blood on your skin. In those moments, his hands are everything you ever needed. Steady and safe.

But when your lips are on his?

When your body presses into his in the quiet dark of your shared bedroom, heat blooming between the both of you like something long-restrained finally breaking free?

That’s when they stop.

Always. Just… stop.

Bucky, your boyfriend, your partner, the man who has grown to be your person. He kisses you like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world, but somehow, he never touches you when it matters most.

And it’s not like you haven’t tried. You have, god you tried.

More than once, lying against his chest at night, your fingers ghosting beneath the hem of his shirt, tracing the hard lines of his abdomen. Kissing along the sharp cut of his jaw, whispering how much you want him. How much you need him.

Each time, his breath hitches, his body goes rigid. Then, slowly, carefully, almost apologetically, he pulls away from your touch. 

Not with disgust, not with rejection. There’s no coldness in the way he moves. No sharp recoil.

But there is something worse that you have come to realise. Fear.

The first time it happened, you brushed it off.

He’d had a long day. The mission briefing with Val had been rough, all sharp orders, bad intel, and barely contained frustration within the team, Walker had quite literally stormed out of the meeting room.

Bucky had come back tense, shoulders tight, jaw set, that look in his eyes that meant he was still somewhere else. Still halfway in a fight.

So when you leaned in that night, pressing soft kisses under his jaw, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, and he stilled beneath you, gently shifting away with a quiet murmur of your name, you let it go.

You curled into his side instead. Told yourself he was tired. Told yourself you were tired too. You ran your fingers lightly along his arm until his breathing evened out, steady and slow.

And when sleep finally took him, you whispered a kiss to his shoulder and closed your eyes, thinking, hoping, maybe next time.

The second time, you wondered.

It was a few nights later. He wasn’t tense then, he wasn’t distracted or moody or freshly back from some dark place.. He was relaxed, even, the kind of rare, quiet ease you didn’t always get from him.

You both had laughed over dinner, some home cooked lasagna you had whipped up after finding the recipe online. You had teased him until he smiled into his fork and shook his head, muttering about how much trouble you were.

He’d watched you like he always did, like you hung the moon and the stars, like he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this, to deserve you.

And when you kissed him that night, slow and lingering, your hands soft on his jaw, you felt that same warmth in him. The way he kissed you back, like he meant it.

So you tried again. Slid your hand beneath his shirt, fingers brushing the firm lines of his stomach.

He flinched. Not much. But enough.

And then, just like the first time, he shifted away. Pressed a kiss to your forehead and murmured, “Get some sleep, sweetheart.”

You froze. Pulled your hand back like you had touched something sharp.

And then you nodded, smiling just a little too quickly.

“Yeah. Okay.”

You turned onto your side, curled up with your back to him.

Tried your hardest to not let the sting behind your eyes show.

His arm came around you a few moments later, his chest pressed to your back like nothing had changed. Like everything was still okay.

You didn’t say a word.

But that night, long after you were sure he was asleep, your eyes stayed open. Staring at the shadowed wall. Wondering what it was about you that made him pull away.

The third time, you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

It had been an easy day, all things considered. No missions. No debriefs. No emergencies. Just the two of you, and the rare kind of quiet that settled into the compound like a blanket.

You ate dinner in bed, greasy takeout balanced precariously on Bucky’s lap while some forgettable movie played low in the background.

You stole bites from his container; he rolled his eyes but let you. Laughed when you misquoted a line. Kissed your cheek. Brushed rice off your shirt with the softest smile.

And maybe that was what made it worse.

Because everything had felt right. Comfortable. Easy. The kind of night that warmed you from the inside out.

It was late when the movie finally dwindled into credits. You stacked the empty containers on the nightstand, slid back under the covers, and curled against his chest with a sigh. His arm came around you like it always did, instinctive, easy. Protective.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The glow of the screen lit the room in soft, flickering blue. Your legs were tangled with his. Your cheek rested against the cotton of his t-shirt. He felt steady beneath you. Safe.

So when you tilted your head up and kissed him, it wasn’t with expectation. It wasn’t about sex, or hunger, or even want.

It was soft. Familiar. The kind of kiss you gave someone when you were in love.

He kissed you back, of course he did. That part was never the problem. He always kissed you like you were the only thing in the world that could anchor him.

But the moment your hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, everything changed.

Just the pad of your fingers brushing lightly over his stomach. Just a touch.

And still, he tensed.

You felt it the way someone feels a tide turning, quiet, sure, inevitable.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t recoil. He just went still. Careful. Measured. One hand lifted to catch your wrist and gently moved it away from his skin, like it wasn’t a rejection. Like it didn’t mean something.

But it did.

He turned slightly, as if he meant to settle back into bed like nothing had happened. Like you could pretend this wasn’t the third time in a row.

But you didn’t follow.

Instead, you sat up slowly, drawing your knees to your chest, the sheet falling across your thighs. You stared at the far wall, lips pressed into a thin line, throat tight.

You heard the shift in his voice before he even finished asking.

“Hey,” he said softly, already sensing the change. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer right away.

The silence that followed wasn’t loud. It was thick. Still. The kind of quiet that feels like the moment before something breaks.

When you finally spoke, your voice came out low, shaky.

“Do you want me?”

He didn’t move.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You kept your eyes on your hands, twisting your fingers in the blanket like it might keep the rest of you from unraveling.

“Because I want you,” you continued, quieter now. “And every time I try, you pull away. I know you care about me, I know you do, but I can’t help wondering if maybe I’m wrong about all of it.”

He went very, very still.

Then, “Stop.”

His voice was sharp, and the suddenness of it made you blink.

You turned, startled.

He was sitting up now, scrubbing a hand over his face. His jaw was tight. His shoulders tense. Like your words had opened something he hadn’t meant to expose.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “I didn’t mean to—just. I’m sorry. Don’t say that. Ever.”

You stared at him.

“Then talk to me,” you said softly. “Because it’s getting harder not to take it personally.”

He didn’t look at you.

His gaze dropped to the sheets. His fists were clenched in his lap. The vibranium hand trembled slightly. The other, human and scarred, looked like it was holding on to something invisible.

You sat beside him again. Close, but not touching.

Your voice was quiet. Measured, ounded, but not accusatory.

“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” you asked. “Like you’re in love with me?”

You swallowed hard.

“Because you do. Every day.”

He still didn’t say anything.

“And then I touch you, and you freeze. Like I’ve crossed a line I didn’t know was there. Like I’ve done something wrong.”

There was something in your chest pulling tighter with every second of silence. Something raw and anxious and aching.

His hands stayed clenched.

You reached for him, carefully, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. The human one. His skin was warm. His pulse jumped beneath your touch.

“Bucky,” you whispered. “What is it? You can tell me.”

He exhaled. Rough. Uneven.

For a second, you thought he might deflect. That he might dodge this like he had before — with a soft kiss or a change of subject. But then he swallowed hard, eyes flicking to yours for just a moment before dropping again.

“I haven’t…” he started, then paused. Cleared his throat. “I haven’t done anything since before the war.”

The breath caught in your chest.

He laughed, but it wasn’t amused. It was hollow. Embarrassed.

“Not just sex,” he said. “Anything. After HYDRA… after everything. I didn’t—I couldn’t.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, visibly ashamed. Smaller, somehow. Like admitting it out loud took more from him than he’d expected.

“It’s been over eighty years.”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched him.

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” he said, still not meeting your eyes. “You’re here, and you’re kind, and you’ve never pushed. But I get so far and then it’s like—like my body just shuts down. Like some part of me still thinks I’m not allowed to want things.”

Your heart twisted.

Not from pity. But from the weight of it. The quiet devastation he carried like a second skin.

Then, more quietly:

“You think I don’t want you?” His voice dropped. “Fuck, sweetheart. I want you so bad it hurts. Every night I lie here hard as a fucking rock just thinking about you.”

His jaw clenched. His eyes squeezed shut.

“But I’m—” He shook his head. “I’m scared.”

You moved then.

Not away. But forward.

You reach for his wrist again, let your fingers slide gently down to his hand. His pulse was racing. His breath shallow.

“Scared of what?” you asked, softer now.

He looked at you. Finally. Really looked. And what you saw in his eyes made your chest ache, something wide and raw and terrified.

“That I’ll disappoint you,” he said. “That I won’t know what I’m doing. That you’ll want someone who’s not stuck in the goddamn 40s when it comes to this stuff.”

Your face softened. A small, aching smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, even through the tightness in your chest.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

You climbed into his lap carefully, like you were afraid you’d spook him. You framed his face with your hands, your thumbs brushing along the curve of his cheekbones.

“You’re already everything I want and more,” you said, steady and sure. “But I need you to believe that.”

His breath hitched.

“And if you let me,” you continued, voice barely above a whisper now, “I’ll show you everything. I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”

He didn’t answer right away.

His eyes searched yours. Guarded, hopeful. Terrified. Like part of him still thought this might not be real.

But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

And when he did, something in you finally, quietly exhaled.

You don’t rush him.

After everything he’s said,  every word laced with fear and heartbreak and hope, the last thing he needs is haste. Or pressure. Or you moving too fast for him to feel safe.

So you just breathe for a moment.

You stay in his lap, arms curled gently around his neck, your forehead resting against his. And you breathe.

His chest rises beneath yours, shaky and tight. His hands are still in his lap, fists curled like he doesn’t know what to do with them,  like he doesn’t quite believe this is real, like one wrong move will send the whole thing crumbling to pieces.

So you start small.

You tilt your head and kiss the corner of his mouth. Once. Then again, slower this time, letting your lips linger against his skin.

His breath stutters. His lips part.

You kiss him properly next, slow, deep, but gentle, your mouth moving against his with no urgency, no push, just quiet devotion. Like he’s something sacred.

His hands twitch in his lap. He doesn’t lift them yet, but he doesn’t pull away either.

You murmur against his mouth, “Can I touch you?”

He swallows thickly. Nods.

You kiss him one more time, a promise, before you shift in his lap, your thighs bracketing his, and reach for the hem of his shirt.

The moment your fingers graze the fabric, he tenses.

You pause. You meet his eyes.

“I’ll stop any time you need me to,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure.

He holds your gaze. His throat bobs with a hard swallow. Then he nods again, slower this time. “I want you to.”

You offer a gentle smile. “Okay.”

You lift his shirt carefully, baring him inch by inch. You don’t rush. You kiss every strip of skin you uncover, the ridges of his ribs, the warm slope of his sternum, the sharp cut of his collarbone.

You take your time with it, as if mapping him out with your mouth, like you’re memorising every inch with intention.

When the shirt is high enough, he lifts his arms, stiffly, hesitantly and lets you pull it over his head. You toss it aside and look at him.

He’s bare from the waist up. All muscle and scar tissue, strength and survival. The room’s low light catches on the vibranium, glints over old wounds, highlights the long-healed lines across his chest and side.

You let your gaze roam.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. He looks away, jaw tight, breathing shallow.

You reach out, slow, deliberate, and place your palm against his chest. Right over his heart.

He flinches. Just a little. A twitch in his shoulder. A held breath.

But he doesn’t pull away. You lean in and kiss the skin just beside your hand.

“Is this okay?”

His voice is low and rough. “Yeah. Feels nice.”

You smile against his skin, then keep going.

Your mouth trails lower, painting a path down the plane of his chest. You kiss over his heart again, then rest your cheek there for a moment.

“Still beating,” you whisper, a soft marvel. 

You feel it stutter beneath your lips.

Your hands slide lower, down his abdomen, his skin warm, twitching under your fingers. You follow the faint trail of hair that disappears beneath his waistband, fingertips brushing gently, not demanding. Just exploring.

He exhales shakily, stomach tensing, hips shifting just slightly.

“There’s not a single part of you I don’t want to touch,” you murmur, kissing along his ribs.

He turns his face, like he’s trying to hide, like the intimacy of your words is too much.

“Hey,” you say softly. You reach up, cupping his jaw, gently guiding his gaze back to yours. “Let me say it. Let me mean it.”

His lips part like he might argue, but he doesn’t.

You rest your forehead against his.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper. “So strong, You’ve been through hell and still came of it.”

His eyes flutter shut. His breath catches.

Your lips brush his softly, like reassurance. Then again.

And this time, when your hands slide down to the waistband of his sweats, he doesn’t flinch.

You look up at him. “Can I take these off?”

His voice is strained. “Yeah.”

You move slowly, tugging them down inch by inch, watching his face the entire time. He lifts his hips to help, barely, and you kiss the inside of his knee as you go. Then the other.

By the time you’ve got them off, he’s flushed all over, from his chest to his ears to the very tips of his fingers. And trembling.

His cock is hard and leaking, resting against his stomach. Big. Heavy. Throbbing.

He tries to close his legs out of instinct. Reflex.

But you shift forward between them and place your hands gently on the outside of his thighs.

“You’re doing so good,” you say softly. “Are you okay?”

His nod is jerky. “Just—don’t look too long.”

You blink. “Why not?”

He swallows hard. “’Cause you’ll know I don’t have a damn clue what I’m doing.”

You smile, warm, never mocking.

“Baby,” you say gently, “I already know.”

You lean in, kissing the inside of his thigh, slowly, gently..

“But it’s not a problem,” you murmur, lips brushing his skin again. “It’s a privilege.”

His head drops back, his fists clench the blanket. You trail your mouth up his thigh, closer and closer, and then wrap your fingers around the base of his cock.

He jerks under your touch, breath catching sharp in his throat.

“Fuck—” His hips twitch. His mouth opens, like he’s trying to say something and can’t find the words.

You stroke him once, slow, deliberate, and his entire body shudders.

He’s flushed dark at the tip, leaking already.

“Nobody’s ever…” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

You look up. “Ever?”

He nods, barely. “Not like this.”

You smile. “Good.”

You stroke again, firmer now, and his jaw clenches, breath ragged.

Your thumb brushes over the tip, collecting the slick, and he whines, high, desperate, like he’s trying to hold everything in and failing miserably.

You kiss just below the head and he moans, low and broken.

“Holy shit—sweetheart, I’m not gonna—fuck, I’m not gonna last—”

You press a kiss to his hip. “That’s okay. That’s why we’ll take our time.”

You climb back into his lap, hand still wrapped around him, your other resting at his cheek to keep him grounded. He looks dazed, overwhelmed, like he doesn’t know whether to hold you or fall apart in your arms.

“Can I ride you?” you whisper.

His hands shoot to your hips like a lifeline. “Please,” he breathes. “I want you to. So bad.”

You guide him to your entrance, your slick soaking him already, and ease down, slow, careful, inch by inch — until he’s fully seated inside you.

Bucky’s head drops back, a strangled moan caught in his throat.

“F-fuck, baby—” he gasps. “Too much. Feels too—”

You don’t move.

You stay still in his lap, your hands on his chest, letting him feel you. Letting his body adjust. Letting the moment settle between you like something holy.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods, frantic. “Yeah. I—just give me a second.”

You wait. When his eyes open again, they’re soaked with emotion. Glassy and bare.

“You okay?” you ask.

“I think you’re killing me,” he says hoarsely. “But I don’t wanna stop.”

You smile.

Then you start to move.

Slow, gentle, rocking your hips, letting him feel everything, every squeeze, every inch, every slow drag of your walls around him.

His mouth falls open. He moans your name like a prayer.

“Feels too good,” he pants. “I’m not—fuck, I’m not gonna—”

You lean in, your forehead pressed to his.

“Then don’t,” you whisper. And he does.

With a choked cry, he spills inside you, body tensing, arms wrapping tight around you, hips bucking helplessly. His hands shake against your back as his breath catches in your hair.

He clings to you like he would fall apart without you.

And even after it’s over,  even after he’s finished, breathless and wrecked, he doesn’t let go.

He just holds you. And for the first time in years, he lets himself be held, too.

He’s still trembling.

You don’t move. You don’t shift or speak right away. You just stay where you are, wrapped around him, your body cradling his, the last aftershocks of his orgasm still echoing in the taut lines of his body.

His cock is still inside you, softening slowly. The stretch of him, the heat of him, the slick, overwhelming closeness of it all—it makes your heart ache in the gentlest way.

Your fingers stroke through his hair, trailing through the sweat-damp strands at the nape of his neck. Then down his spine. Slow, comforting passes, like you’re coaxing his body back into itself.

He clutches you tighter.

His arms are around your waist, strong and firm—not bruising, not panicked. But desperate. Like he’s afraid that if he lets go, this will all vanish. Like maybe none of this was real, and holding on to you is the only thing keeping him grounded.

You don’t pull away.

You let him hold you. Let him shake. Let his breath shudder against your neck while your hand keeps moving slowly down his back.

His face is buried against your throat, and when he finally speaks, it’s muffled—barely audible. Raw.

“I didn’t mean to finish so fast.”

Your heart breaks for him a little, even as your lips tilt into a soft smile.

You press a kiss to his temple—tender, grounding.

“I know.”

His voice is barely there. “I just—fuck, I couldn’t stop it. You felt so good. I couldn’t think."

You hum softly, stroking his hair again. “That’s kind of the point, baby.”

He lifts his head, just a little, pulling back enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are wide, glassy, dazed, those perfect cerulean eyes soft and unguarded, boyish, almost.

His cheeks are flushed. His hair’s a mess. His lips are kiss-swollen.

He looks completely ruined. Completely beautiful. Yours.

“But you didn’t—” he starts, then hesitates. His gaze drops. “You didn’t finish.”

You don’t stop smiling. There’s no hurt in it, no impatience, just quiet warmth.

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whisper, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. “Tonight was about you.”

His brows pull together, like he doesn’t quite know how to process that.

“That’s not fair,” he mumbles. “I want to make you feel good too.”

“You already do,” you murmur, your nose brushing his. “But if you really want to keep going…”

You pause deliberately, shifting your hips slightly.

Just enough for him to feel the movement, just enough to tease.

He gasps, high and sharp, his body jolting.

“…we can.”

His hands flex at your waist. His eyes flutter. His lips part like he’s trying to speak but can’t form a single thought.

“I’m still—,” he whispers, like it’s a warning. But there’s no hesitation in his tone. Only want.

“But I want it,” he adds. “I want you.”

You kiss him again, slow and deep, and begin to move. Barely. Just a gentle roll of your hips, enough to stir friction between your bodies again.

He moans into your mouth, soft and aching.

You rock slowly, dragging your walls against his still-sensitive cock. He twitches inside you, starting to thicken again already. It’s slow, but unmistakable.

“Okay?” you whisper.

He nods frantically, hands gripping your waist like he’s drowning in sensation. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Just—shit. I’ve never… I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

You smile against his jaw. “You wanna come again for me?”

His moan is barely a sound. His eyes flutter shut.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Fuck, yes. Please—”

You tighten your thighs and roll your hips again, drawing a sharp gasp from him.

“Such good manners,” you whisper, kissing his throat. “So sweet for me.”

Your hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. You start to circle, slow, wet, just enough pressure to build your own heat.

He watches you.

Like you’re made of stars, like he’s never seen anything so beautiful.

“Touch me,” you murmur. “Please, Bucky. I want your hands on me.”

It’s the only encouragement he needs.

His hands move slowly, softly, trembling,  sliding up your sides, grazing your ribs, cupping your breasts. His thumbs brush over your nipples, and you moan, arching into his touch.

The sound makes him groan, deep and wrecked.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ perfect, baby—can’t believe I get to have you like this.”

His voice breaks on the last word.

You’re slick around him now, your arousal mixing with the mess from earlier. Every slow rock of your hips has him thickening more, twitching inside you, inch by inch.

His thighs are shaking. His jaw clenches.

“Feels so good,” he whines. “I don’t wanna stop. Don’t wanna come yet. Wanna feel you forever.”

You ride him harder now, the heat in your belly rising faster.

“You feel that?” you gasp. “How close I am?”

His hands tighten on your hips. His breath turns ragged.

“Please—please come around me, sweetheart—need to feel it—need to feel you—”

You bury your face in his neck. And let go.

Your whole body seizes around him, a white-hot wave crashing through you, stealing your breath, your balance, your thoughts. Your moan is broken, helpless, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

Your walls clamp down hard around him.

And that’s all it takes.

He thrusts up once. Then again. Deep, desperate. A cry tearing from his throat as he comes again, shaking, gasping, flooding you with warmth.

His arms wrap tight around you.

He holds you close. Close enough to feel your heartbeat thunder against his. Close enough that the tremors in your bodies blur together, indistinguishable.

This time, his grip is softer. Still strong, but different.

Not desperate. Tender.

His hand strokes up your spine. His lips press to your temple, then your hair, then your jaw. Like he can’t get close enough.

You stay there, wrapped around each other, skin to skin, breath mingled and unsteady and you don’t rush to move.

Not yet.

“Jesus,” he whispers eventually, voice raw. “What the fuck just happened?”

You laugh softly, breathless, dazed. “That was called good sex,.”

He groans into your neck. “That was more than good. That was—fuck. That was divine.”

You smile, pressing a kiss to his hair.

You collapse gently against his chest, boneless and warm, and he doesn’t let go. His arms stay around you, wrapped like a shield, like a promise.

Neither of you move for a long time. There’s nothing left to prove. Nothing to say.

Just the slow hum of your heartbeats and the safe, sacred space you’ve made between the two of you.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Bucky feels wanted.

And safe. And home.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it! if you did, drop a comment or a reblog! thank you my loves, your support means the world to me! <3333333

[buckyseternaldoll]

hey! just read your sub!Bucky pieces and went absolutely FERAL for them. was just wondering if you had plans to do any more, maybe even one where Bucky slips into subspace? just a thought lol no pressure but I really really do love your writing it's AMAZING <3

Hi love! Let's just say I was working on this, which I felt it's giving the similar wavelength (not sure if this was the plot you're looking for) but I hope you'll enjoy this one too! 💜 This was already 2k words in before I saw this ✨

𝓌𝓇𝒶𝓅𝓅𝑒𝒹 𝒾𝓃 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 ᢉ𐭩

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: It’s Bucky’s birthday, and for once, there’s no mission, no alarms, no need to be the strong one. Just a quiet morning in your shared bed at the Watchtower—where you worship every inch of him, show him how deeply he’s loved, and let him drift into the softest subspace under your touch.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, sub!Bucky, praise kink, emotional subspace, riding (f on m), blowjob, soft dom!reader, birthday sex, aftercare, gentle smut, romantic smut, post-mission softness, cuddling, emotional vulnerability, sleep kink (non-fetishized)

Word Count: 3.8k

It was just another quiet weekday in the Watchtower. No missions. No briefings. Not even a sparring session. The corridors were still and silent, bathed in late morning sun, untouched by urgency or tension for once. Peace like that was rare—but today, it felt deserved.

Especially because it was his birthday.

The two of you stayed in bed longer than usual, tangled beneath soft cotton sheets, both of you naked under the covers. Your body pressed close to his, skin on skin, warm and unhurried. Bucky’s head rested against your chest, his stubble grazing the swell of your breast as he breathed you in—like the sound of your heartbeat was the only thing tethering him to this quiet moment.

His flesh hand had found its way to your breast sometime after waking. Not with lust. Not to tease. He simply held you there, fingers splayed across your soft skin, thumb stroking lazy circles over your nipple. It grounded him. Anchored him. It made him feel safe.

You let him stay there, one arm curled around his shoulders, the other slowly carding through his messy, dark hair. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His body told you everything—the way he sighed softly when you touched him, how his thumb slowed, how his entire weight pressed into your side like he trusted the bed wouldn’t hold him but you would.

And maybe it was the quiet. Or the sunlight. Or just the fact that today was his. But something about the moment made you want to give him everything.

You kissed the top of his head first. Then his temple. The soft corner of his brow. Your lips moved slowly, reverently, down the side of his face until you reached his jaw—and you felt him exhale, deep and warm, like he was already letting go.

There was no urgency. No fire. Just love.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you whispered into his hair. “Let me take care of you today. Let me show you how much I love you.”

You felt him nod, so faintly it was almost imperceptible—and that was all the permission you needed.

—

You shifted gently, guiding him with slow, coaxing hands until he lay flat on the bed beneath you. The sheets rustled beneath his body, catching little patches of morning sun that filtered through the curtains. His hair splayed out on the pillow like a halo, and when you leaned over him—hovering, bare skin brushing against his—Bucky didn’t resist. He just looked up at you with those steel-blue eyes, soft and stormless.

You began at his forehead. A single kiss. Barely a press of your lips. Then another—this one firmer, lingering. You trailed them down the center, between his brows. Then to the left, then the right, your mouth ghosting every inch of skin like it deserved worship.

You kissed the bridge of his nose, let your lips curl there, smiling gently when he scrunched it in response. His cheeks, flushed already, warmed further under your attention. You mouthed over his cheekbones, slow and fluttery—kisses like soft feathers.

Then, his eyelids—and he closed his eyes for you, without being asked. Trusting. Vulnerable. You kissed each one with quiet reverence, your thumbs brushing just beneath them.

His ears next—one, then the other—the shell, the lobe, the sensitive curve just behind it. You whispered there, voice velvet-soft:

“You don’t even know how beautiful you are, do you?”

He shivered under you.

You moved down to his chin, traced your lips beneath it, then finally met his mouth. A kiss, then another. Plush, slow, deep. Not hungry. Just… full. He sighed into you, his hands twitching slightly on the sheets like he didn’t know whether to pull you in or surrender entirely.

You chose for him.

You kissed down his throat next, dragging your lips over the strong line of his neck. One side, then the other. You kissed every inch—the sharp line under his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the side where his pulse fluttered quick under skin. You nuzzled there, inhaling deeply like he was your favorite scent.

Then came his collarbones. You traced them with your tongue, kissed over the dips, and left little open-mouthed presses over the stretch of chest between them.

His chest.

God, his chest.

You slowed there, sitting back on your knees for a moment to just look. His skin was lightly freckled, chest rising and falling steadily, pecs soft but sculpted with strength. His nipples were already pebbled from your touch, from the air, from the sheer intimacy of being looked at like this.

You leaned down again, mouthing at his left nipple. A soft suck. A slow swirl of your tongue. He let out the faintest breath—not a moan, but something deeper, like surprise. You repeated it on the right, just as lovingly.

“I don’t say this enough,” you murmured against his skin, “but I love your chest. Every inch of it. The way it fits against me when we sleep. How solid you feel when I hold you. How soft your skin is right here…”

You kissed the space between his pecs. Let your nose brush down the ridge of his sternum.

Then, you took both of his hands.

First, his flesh hand—calloused but warm, fingertips twitching with the desire to touch. You brought it up to your face and pressed it against your cheek, nuzzling in. Then his vibranium one—cooler, but just as familiar. You mirrored the movement, setting his palm against your other cheek, letting the contrast of heat and metal ground you both.

You kissed the knuckles of one, then the other. Not up to his shoulders—just enough to make him feel cherished, honored.

Then your lips began their descent.

You pressed slow kisses down the flat of his stomach, dragging your tongue briefly over the cut ridges of his abs. His stomach twitched beneath you—his muscles contracting, not from restraint, but from feeling. Each kiss came with breathy praise:

“So strong for me, baby...”

“Look at you, you’re unreal…”

“I could kiss you here all day…”

You moved lower, past the lines of his hips, brushing the edge of where his body was already beginning to stiffen with arousal. But you didn’t go there. Not yet.

Instead, you lingered. Paused. Looked.

Your eyes lifted, meeting his—half-lidded, soft with awe.

“You still surprise me, you know?” you said quietly, voice touched with wonder. “No matter how many times I’ve gone down on you, no matter how many times you’ve been inside me…”

Your gaze flicked down again.

“You’re still so damn perfect. Thick… long… veiny in all the right places… curved just right to ruin me.”

Bucky let out a low moan—barely there, like he was trying to hold it in.

You leaned forward, lips brushing the base of his shaft in a slow, wet kiss. Then another. You mouthed up his length, lips parting slightly to taste the warmth of him. Your tongue flicked just beneath the ridge, teasing gently.

He groaned this time—not loud, but from his chest. His hands fisted in the sheets.

You glanced up, lips still near the tip.

“You don’t have to hold it in today, baby,” you whispered. “It’s your day. You can moan as loud as you want.”

—

You kissed the tip of his cock once more, lips plush and wet, before taking him into your mouth—slow, steady, no theatrics. Just love.

He was warm and heavy on your tongue, the weight of him familiar, comforting even. You wrapped one hand around the base as you sucked, your other resting gently over his thigh, grounding him there. Your tongue moved in slow, tender motions—tracing along the underside, flicking softly under the head, then swirling around the crown like you were savoring the taste of him.

He moaned low—not because he was trying to, but because the sound slipped from him naturally. Bucky didn’t try to take control. Didn’t buck his hips. Didn’t reach for your head.

He just let you love him.

He surrendered to it. Fully.

You adjusted your pace now and then, never too fast—never trying to bring him over the edge, only to bring him peace. Your hand began to stroke slowly in tandem with your mouth, coaxing soft pulses from his cock as you pulled back and slid forward again, humming lightly around him. Every so often, you paused to mouth around the head, giving it gentle, fluttery kisses before sinking again.

His breaths were shallow now. Chest rising and falling with rhythm, hands fisting gently into the sheets beside him—not out of desperation, but of feeling too much and still wanting more.

And you gave it to him. Every drop.

After a while, you pulled back with a soft pop, one hand still stroking his length, slick and slow. You moved back up his body, hovering over him once again, your thighs straddling his hips now. His lips were parted, cheeks flushed, his eyes glassy when they met yours.

And then you kissed him.

A kiss so deep it made your chest ache. Tender, gentle, plush—just lips and warmth and love pouring into him like water into something parched. He moaned into your mouth, and you drank it down, your hand still stroking him between your bodies.

You broke the kiss barely an inch from his lips, whispering against him:

“I love you, Bucky. I love you so much it hurts. Nothing I do will ever be enough to show it. Nothing.”

You kissed him again, and he melted into it.

Still stroking him, you lifted your hips just enough to guide the tip of his cock toward your slick folds—already soaked, your body aching to take him in. You ran him through your wetness, coating him slowly, letting him feel the heat of you.

And then, you began to lower yourself.

Inch by inch, you took him into you—your breath catching, your moans soft and open. His hands remained beside him, his brows pulled slightly in a dazed, vulnerable expression as your warmth enveloped him.

“You’re perfect,” you whispered as he stretched you open, “So perfect for me… strong, kind, mine…”

Another inch.

“I love your mind… your body… your heart… every broken piece, every scar—I want them. I want you.”

You bottomed out, hips flush against his, his cock deep inside you—and his moan this time trembled. His chest rose sharply, his eyes shut tight. You felt him start to come apart.

He didn’t say a word—but the way his body softened beneath you, how his hands stopped clutching the sheets, how his breath started coming in slow, heavy waves—you could feel it.

He was letting go.

Slipping under.

Not because of pressure.

But because of love.

—

You leaned back, lifting your chest away from his, placing your hands on either side of his hips as you settled into a rhythm. Your body curved like sculpture as you began to ride him slowly—hips rolling with purpose, with grace, with love. Every movement was deliberate. Every descent a declaration.

He filled you so perfectly, thick and pulsing, stretching you just right. The familiar pressure made your head tilt back for a moment, a soft moan slipping past your lips as your walls clenched around him instinctively.

“God… Bucky—,” you breathed, eyes finding his again. “You feel so good inside me…”

His gaze was already on you—wide and heavy-lidded, ethereal in their pale blue softness. His hair was fanned across the pillow, chest rising with each breath, muscles loose beneath you.

But you could still see it—the flicker of something in his expression. That quiet tension he never fully let go of.

He still thought he had to be the strong one. The one who kept everything together. The protector. The man.

It was written in the furrow of his brow, the way his jaw flexed like he was trying to hold himself still, even while being loved.

But you weren’t having it.

You leaned into the movement, riding him with a little more rhythm now—still slow, still soft, but enough to make him feel. Your hands trailed down your own body, touching your breasts, your thighs, showing him how deeply he affected you. Your moans came easier, sweeter now.

“You don’t have to be anything right now,” you whispered. “Just let go, baby. Let me love you.”

He exhaled shakily. His hands stayed on the sheets, fingers twitching. His muscles were no longer holding tension—they were melting. You could feel it happening under you.

Your hips rolled deeper, and a fresh wave of slickness coated him, helping him glide within you with even less resistance. You moved with love—like he was your rhythm, your anchor, your purpose. And all the while, you kept your eyes on him.

“You’re so perfect like this… letting me take care of you…”

A little faster now.

Your moans turned breathier, your voice lilting every time his cock hit that perfect spot inside you—the gentle curve brushing your most sensitive places like a promise.

“You’re everything to me,” you whispered, and it cracked slightly on the edge of a moan. “Everything, Bucky. I love you—God, I love you so much, I don’t know what to do with it…”

He was trembling beneath you now—not from exertion, but from feeling too much. You knew his orgasm was close. Just like yours.

You rode him with more urgency now, but still soft. Still loving. The pace was steady, grounding—enough to build your pleasure to its peak without shaking the serenity of the moment. Just when you started to lose rhythm—your thighs tightening, your breath catching—your orgasm bloomed through you, warm and slow and full-bodied.

“Bucky,” you moaned, not loud, but with every ounce of devotion. “Bucky—I love you…”

That was all it took.

His eyes fluttered shut. His hands clenched the sheets. And then he came.

Hot pulses spilled inside you, his body jerking slightly beneath yours as he let go, all at once. You kept grinding down on him, slow and indulgent, milking every drop, wanting him to feel it—the depth of what you were giving him. The love you poured into every movement.

When the last wave passed, you slowly sank down, chest hovering over his again as you rested lightly on him, his cock still buried inside. You were panting, your skin dewy with sweat and satisfaction. He wasn’t—damn super soldier stamina—but he looked like a man completely undone.

And he was smiling.

Soft. Wide. So genuine it made your heart ache.

“God,” he murmured, voice rough with awe, “I love this… love how you cherished me.”

You smiled, leaning in to kiss him—tender and slow. A kiss that told him you heard him. That you always would.

You whispered against his lips:

“Happy birthday, baby.”

Another kiss, this one to the corner of his mouth. Then his cheek.

“Never too old to be the love of my life.”

—

Later—after your bodies had cooled and your breathing had steadied—you straddled him again.

But this time, you reached for him gently. Pulled him up with slow hands, guiding him to sit upright. His body followed yours instinctively, pliant and warm, his chest flush against yours as he came to rest in the middle of the bed with you wrapped around his lap.

You cupped his cheeks, kissed him—just once, deeply—and then reached beneath, guided him back inside you.

A soft gasp left both your lips.

You rolled your hips again, slow and steady. He was already hard again—of course he was, supersoldier resilience and all—and the way he filled you from this angle made you moan softly into the space between you.

Your face found his neck. You buried yourself there, lips brushing his pulse point, arms wrapped behind his shoulders as you moved up and down with slow rhythm. There was no urgency. Just this.

Your breath caught as you whispered:

“Bucky…”

A thrust.

“James—”

Another.

“God, Buck… I love you. I love you with every part of me…”

You kept moving, hips gliding down over his again and again, the wet sounds of your bodies joined mixing with the occasional sigh he let slip.

His arms had found your waist—not to control, but to hold. Lightly. Just to feel you close. His forehead rested against your shoulder now, breath warming your skin. His lips parted, but no words came. He didn’t need them.

You could feel the way he was slipping—further into you, further away from his thoughts. Every time your hips rolled, every time your voice cracked from how much you loved him, you felt the tension bleed out of his muscles.

His eyes stayed closed.

He was quiet. Floaty. Gone.

And you kept going. Riding him slow, murmuring his name like a lullaby, whispering your love into the curve of his neck.

“I love you, baby. I love you so much, I don’t even have the words…”

“You’re so good for me, Bucky… always so good…”

“Just stay here with me… you don’t have to carry anything else right now…”

And then it built again—soft pressure mounting inside you, your thighs starting to tremble, your moans breaking into breathy stutters. You held him tighter, and you felt it in him too—the little twitch of his cock, the sharp inhale against your skin.

“Come with me,” you whispered, “please, baby… just let go with me…”

And he did.

You came together, soft cries tangled into each other’s skin. Your body clung to his, every part of you melting, soaking in his heat as his release spilled deep inside you again. His arms wrapped tighter around your back, face buried in your shoulder, lips ghosting your collarbone in a dazed smile.

His voice cracked with emotion as he finally spoke:

“Baby… I never felt a love this strong. Not ever.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face—flushed, soft, dazed—and you smiled, cupping his cheeks.

“You deserve it, Buck. Every bit of it.”

You kissed him once, slow and warm. Then another.

With a soft sigh, you eased your hips back and slowly slid off of him, his cock slipping free with a wet sound that left you both breathless. You watched him blink—floaty, flushed, still gone—and reached for the small towel you’d tucked by the bedside earlier. You knew he’d need help now. You wanted to take care of him.

—

He was still seated, still inside that soft, slow daze, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of someone who felt held in every way.

You kissed his temple, voice soft in his ear:

“It’s your birthday, baby… So just lay down for me, yeah? Be the king you are today. Let me show you how much I love you.”

He didn’t answer—just nodded, dazed, letting you guide him gently back down onto the bed. He settled flat, arms relaxed at his sides, body loose like he didn’t have to carry anything anymore. You straddled beside him, reached for the towel, and began cleaning him.

First, his softened cock—still twitching slightly, sensitive, slick with your combined release. You were slow, so slow. Wiping him gently, careful not to rush or overstimulate. You murmured as you worked, each word like honey:

“You did so well for me, baby.”

“You let go so beautifully…”

“I’m so proud of you… so proud to be yours…”

You finished and kissed his hip softly, then leaned back to clean yourself. He watched through half-lidded eyes, not quite there, but present enough to follow your movements—like watching you anchored him to the world.

Once you were done, you tossed the towel aside and curled beside him, pulling the blankets up just enough to cover his lower half. You guided his head gently to your chest, his cheek resting over your bare skin. You felt the heat of his breath against you, the slow lull of his heartbeat syncing with yours.

And you threaded your fingers into his hair.

Soft, rhythmic motions. Over and over. Stroking behind his ear. Tracing circles over his scalp. Holding him.

He looked blissed, completely. His eyes were half-closed, lips parted, lashes fluttering like he was floating somewhere between sleep and peace.

Then, in a voice barely audible—more breath than sound—he mumbled:

“…love you so much…”

You smiled. Because you understood. You always would.

“I love you too,” you whispered. “So much.”

You kept petting him, holding him like he was something sacred, something worth all the time and care in the world. Minutes passed like that—maybe more—until eventually, you felt him stir a little.

He blinked, slower than usual. His eyes finally met yours—and there was clarity there now. The fog had lifted, just a little.

“Wow,” he said, voice rough and raw. “That was… new.”

He paused, searching for words.

“It felt like… I don’t know. Like being wrapped up. Like being hugged from the inside out. Everything was warm. And soft. Like I didn’t have to think anymore—”

Your smile deepened, thumb stroking his cheek.

“That’s love, baby Bucks,” you said softly. “That’s what it feels like. And I’m not gonna stop showing it to you.”

He closed his eyes again. Letting that sink in. Letting you sink in.

And with his arms slowly wrapping around your waist, pulling you close—you knew he believed you.

—

Bucky didn’t say anything else after that. He didn’t need to.

His head stayed tucked into your chest, arms loosely wrapped around your waist like he was holding onto the warmth that had brought him back from someplace far and quiet. You kept your fingers in his hair, slow and soothing, dragging your nails lightly over his scalp in slow patterns. You could feel his body softening more with every breath—his chest rising deeper, slower. The kind of breathing that only came when someone felt completely, utterly safe.

Your other hand traced gentle circles across the curve of his shoulder, then down the line of his back. You weren’t drawing any pattern, just touching to let him feel that you were still there.

Present.

Loving him, even in stillness.

He didn’t speak again. Didn’t shift. His breathing evened out—no sharp inhales, no tense exhale. His whole body went heavy against yours. No loud thoughts. No guilt. No duty pulling him from your arms.

He was asleep.

Just like that.

It had never been that easy before. Not for Bucky.

You smiled, still drawing lazy shapes on his skin, still playing with his hair. You didn’t rush your own sleep. Just let the warmth of him—his weight, his scent, the soft rhythm of his breathing—pull you in too.

Outside the window, the sun had climbed higher in the sky, stretching golden light across the floorboards of your shared unit in the Watchtower. There were no sirens. No mission briefings. No alarms.

Just calm.

Just love.

Just the two of you.

You let your eyes drift shut. Your arm curled tighter around him. And together, you both sank into the quiet peace of a late morning nap—wrapped in warmth, in safety, in everything you had given each other.

[empresskylo]

     ‎｡･ﾟﾟ･ captain john price x gn!reader (pet name "doll" used)

short fic of price comforting reader with a much needed bear-hug.

cod masterlist

You threw your hand of cards down on the poker table in defeat, laughing as you stood. "Anyone want anything to drink?" you asked the boys still engaged in the round. Soap mumbled a request as he stared Ghost down, trying to get a read if the lieutenant was bluffing or not. "All in," Ghost added, making Soap's eye twitch. Gaz laughed from beside Soap, leaning over to try and get a quick glimpse of his hand.

You shook your head with a ghost of a smile on your lips as you left to the adjacent room to grab some drinks from the fridge. A wash of unease took over your body when you no longer had to keep face in front of the men. You stared at the glowing shelves in the refrigerator, the light bulb flickering, counting your breaths. The anxiety rushed into you at full force, and you suddenly were struggling to breathe. Footsteps sounded behind you and you quickly moved to grab a bottle.

You knew it was Price before he even got close, smelling his musky cologne when he entered the room. You put a forced smile on your face, ready to spin around to face him. When you shut the fridge's door, your movement a bit shaky, Price's arms wrapped around you, engulfing you in a bear-hug. You made a small noise in the back of your throat in surprise, your shoulders hunching, almost like you were uncomfortable with his touch.

"Y'okay, doll?" Price questioned, noticing the way your body tensed.

"Of course," you mumbled.

Price stood silently with you in his arms and you worried what he might be thinking. You went to open your mouth, but he was faster. He spun you to face him, his hands resting across your back to keep you close. "What's the matter, love?" he asked quietly. His voice was rich and deep, but the way he lowered his tone raised gooseflesh along your skin.

Your bottom lip wavered, unable to hold back. Perhaps if Price hadn't caught you when you were in the process of letting your guard down. Perhaps if he didn't hug you as you tried to push down those rising feelings. Perhaps if he didn't ask you what was wrong--twice--knowing you were lying. Perhaps then you wouldn't have sobbed. But Price did just those things, and you couldn't contain it any longer.

Tears rushed down your cheeks and Price's eyes danced between your own before tugging you back into a warm hug, his arms wrapped snugly around your shoulders. You buried your face in his chest, wrapping your own arms around him, locking your hands behind his back.

"You're okay," he said into your hair.

Your breathing stuttered as you let your body release the cries, shoving your face deeper into his shirt. "Tighter," you mumbled against him.

His arms tightened around you immediately. The pressure calmed you, let your heart beat return to its normal rhythm. He brushed his hand through your hair, his other sprawled over your back, trapping you close to him. You must have stood like that for several minutes in silence. You had closed your eyes, your breathing steadying, the hug and pressure keeping you at ease. And knowing it was Price who comforted you--who put in the effort to try and bring you back, to steal you from the dark confines of your mind--made you feel safe.

You finally pulled back and Price raised his hand to caress your cheek, his thumb stroking across your skin. He didn't speak, but you knew he was asking if you were okay. You nodded and he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"Did y'wanna go back?" he asked, his arms hanging around you loosely now.

You gave a weak smile. "Yes." You wondered what he might have done if you said no. But you did want to go back. Especially with Price now at your side.

He escorted you back into the room and you were so thankful when none of the men commented on the fact that you were gone for quite some time. Price sat beside you, his arm around your lower waist in comfort, his fingers squeezing your hip.

You finally felt like you could breathe again.

[theotherrookie]

"I will provide my opinion as you proceed, but I believe the two of you will be able to do most of the work."

As much Willow didn't mind helping, she was still the Core. Designing and building a tablet with the level of technology they were accustomed to wasn't the most challenging task.

She would provide her company, but only so much advice to help without ruining the fun. The process was more interesting than the destination.

"Now, that's an excellent idea. A safety harness would likely benefit Rook's hesitant approach to the task."

"I'm not scared!" Rook snapped, "I just have a lot of stuff to worry about when I'm jumping off a high place and trying to stay up there... I'm not worried about getting dropped."

It was a whole other set of issues, but it mainly had to do with controlling her wings feeling like trying to balance on a unicycle using her hands.

But did they even have to talk about this now, of all times? She had just taken on Five and walked away from the fight in one piece. She had earned the right to feel like a valiant warrior for a while, as well as to stare and judge Travis for enabling Lucien like that.

"You're a bunch of nerds. But yeah, I think Russell can pull it off if he gives it a shot."

"Looks are also a matter of attitude. You would look wonderful." Lucien added. He seemed to genuinely mean it.

"And I guess that'd catch the attention. Though it's kinda weird, you know." Rook said, making a wide motion with her hand, "Thinking that we would eventually open up the place after what we did in there."

The whole deal with Ratchet could have some repercussions. It would be wise to install some defenses against any ghosts that might be attracted by the lingering bad vibes.

"We just have to make the place look real nice– Oh no!" Erica watched as Veronica sprayed Antonio anyway.

"Mum, he already took it back." Rook protested.

"There isn't a single organ left in me and I still felt that." Veronica replied, "Besides, you must always make sure your cat is adequately hydrated."

Erica wanted to point out that method mainly worked on plants, but knew better than to bother the ghost lady when she was disappointed in somebody.

"Maybe they figured that Russell is always using 2% of his power and decided not to mess with that." Erica suggested, "Nobody wants to. Or maybe things with Five got so stupid that they felt anything was better than that."

It really didn't take much, but the coffee probably helped. Erica tilted her head when Veronica handed her the spray bottle.

"Take this, Erica. Spray this everywhere before you touch those seats." Veronica instructed.

Erica nodded, before shoving the bottle in one of her pants pockets. "I guess Antonio can relax now."

"Don't worry, dear, I brought a spare."

Erica wasn't worried. That motherly mildly threatening tone wasn't directed at her.

"Oh, Willow doesn't plan to talk to them!"

Willow's grin seemed to confirm that. "It's nothing lethal, don't worry."

"We could do that, if Willow doesn't take the car first. But let's get going." Rook snapped her fingers to summon a portal, before she looked back at Willow, "Do you know where we're meeting up?"

"Your pocket only takes you to places you have already visited. I don't expect you to get daring this evening, of all times."

"Then, I'll race you there." Rook smiled, "Come on, guys, step into the fog."

It would be a good time to check on Frosty.

"I would gladly join in on the conversation, if you wish. Though I would be fine with simply listening to it."

Some would call it eavesdropping, she considered it as a way to stay up to date on her friends' lives. The lack of ill intent made a major difference, of course.

"I know I'm good at other things, but it'd be fun to do more than falling with style." Rook explained, "At least while in this form."

Flight was much easier when she fully turned into a phoenix. The bird instincts only ever seemed to kick in when her wings were about to embarrass her in some way.

"Well, you can work on it. First, you've got to spice your wardrobe like-"

"Such as if grunge never died?" Lucien asked.

"No. We can start with a nice top to show off your tattoos–" Rook hastily turned to glare at Lucien, "Don't say a single word."

"You're killing me, Rook." Lucien snorted as he was threateningly poked in the chest, "But we should consider installing a ramp at the club."

It would be a nice place to practice before heading out. Now that they weren't under threat of being killed the moment they lowered their guard, he would also find some time to go through those catalogues the Twins were so fond of. Decorating was one of his passions after all. He would quickly get invested in fixing the club.

Lucien then joined Rook, Erica and even Willow's shock by grimacing at Antonio's suggestion. Now, that was nasty.

Veronica was quick to draw the spray bottle from earlier and aimed it at Antonio. "Please, don't traumatize your sisters."

"As long as he suffers." Erica replied casually, before smiling, "Yep! It's a quiet area. Maybe if we cleaned it up a bit we might get to see deer too!"

It would have been nice. Wild animals were scarce around the facility. She would have liked seeing more.

"Well, if it turns out we need them again, I know their shadows now." Erica said, before raising her hand, "I wanna come along!"

"I may join as well." Willow said, "Just in case you come across any police patrols along the way."

Though she also happened to have found an interest in cars lately. Willow chose to ignore the way Rook was looking at her.

"Well, I'm never going to fit in the car like this." Rook said, "I guess the rest of us could take a shortcut and dump all the contaminated evidence before we go spread Five's toxins in a crowded place."

[sleepparalysisdemon112]

Calling out to the Devil

A/N: I did not proofread this it’s also the first thing I’ve wrote in FOREVERRR so maybe ass but I am itching for this man

Warnings: smut, p in v, slightly mean Remmick, sub/dom, pussy slapping, face slapping, blood play, slight degration, praise, male oral and female oral receiving, dick riding

When you're never allowed to feed into temptation, it's only a matter of time before that desire takes over.

That's what you had done, you had manifested this man in front of you, teased him through the safety of your home, now he was here, and he was going to do as he pleased with you.

He kissed you roughly, lust seeping through every kiss as you fell back onto your bed, already bare from stripping in front of your window as he stood outside, enticing him only more.

You had finally let your devil in, a manifestation of everything wicked you desired.

He pushed you onto the bed, staring down at you red pooling around his eyes, "You thought that was cute didn't you? That little strip tease act you did," you nodded up at him biting your lip, "You just keep making it worse for yourself darlin, I intend to make sure you never forget the feel of me, what I do to you, will haunt you every night you sleep beside your husband for years to come," you said nothing just reaching out to unbutton his shirt, in response he grabs your hands pinning them over the top of your head.

"No ma'am you wanted to tease me, your going to show me how bad you want to be touched," he walked away from you then confusion dampening your face, he sat in the arm chair in the far corner of your room legs spread and arms on both arm rests, drool beginning to seep from his lips. "Crawl to me," he spoke coldly no sign of joking in his words, you sat up, staying still wondering to yourself if you were actually about to crawl to this man, "Crawl to me now, or I will rip that pretty little throat of yours clean out," wet heat pooled between your thighs, you got down off the bed, knees and palms touching the hardwood floor, piercing your bones in your knees.

And so you did as he said, you crawled over to him keeping eye contact the whole way as he smiled down at you, "C'mon now darlin I'm dying to feel that throat of yours be put to use," when you reached him you placed both hands on either side of his knees, he removed his suspenders and began unbuttoning his shirt as you unzipped his work pants.

You pulled them down just enough so you could have easy access to his cock, and pulled it free. You ran your hand over his length one time testing his reaction as you stared up at him through your lashes, before popping the head of his dick into your mouth.

He did not say a word didn't groan just watched you hollow your cheeks and begin to slip it further down your throat. Until you reached the very bottom of his length, eyes beginning to water as you let out a gag. "Good f'ckn girl, I'm gonna be a little rough with you now, but I'm sure you won't complain anyways," before you could react his hand was on your head controlling the pace in which you took it, your mouth just becoming a vessel for his cock.

Moans began to slip from his lips along with a string of curses as his other hand grabbed the side of your jaw rubbing small circles across your cheek, "So f'ckn pretty taking my dick, look how sweet those little tears are," you shut your eyes as he pushed you all the way down, your knuckles turning white from squeezing your fists together.

He suddenly pulled your head up releasing his dick from your mouth with a pop sound.

You then realized how much wetter you had got as you worked him, and the emptiness of nothing in your mouth caused you to frown.

"Don't be sad now darlin', much better things are coming your way don't you worry," He rubbed his thumb over your lip pressing it into your mouth all the way to the back of your throat as you moaned around it, when he pulled it out he rubbed your spit, and his precum, still coating your tongue, over your bottom lip smearing it all over.

He stood up and picked you up from your kneeling position placing your body over his shoulder with ease, from the strength of what he was.

Throwing you back onto the bed, he now kneeled down, spreading your legs apart to inspect the mess you had made,

"Jesus, I turn you on that bad sugar?" you nodded down at him, and he slapped your bare cunt, pain stinging up your body, "Use your words now,"

"Yes, yes Remmick you do,"

"Good girl, it's not that hard to open that mouth, you were all talk a few days ago when you had me beggin out there like some mutt," he smacked your cunt again, your slip coating his hand, "Tell me your sorry," your face flushed with embarrassment, regretting your teasing, but at the same time his punishments only brought you more pleasure.

"I'm sorry Remmick, I should've just let you in," he smirked at the look of sheer embarrassment on your face, "No baby, no you shouldn't have," he pulled your cunt closer to him, and gently pressed his fangs into the side of your right thigh, pressing down just enough to make you bleed, a piercing pain shot through your thigh, "Remmick what are you doing," you shot up resting your weight on your elbows, "Sorry darlin, looks like I just couldn't help myself," keeping direct eye contact he licked the dripping blood that now came down your thigh, “just as sweet as this pussy about to be I betcha,” and with that he was on you deep red staring into your eyes.

He started with a long strip up your pussy stopping at your clit and sucking on it brining two fingers up to your entrance and placing them inside, curling his fingers as he brought them farther inside you, your back arching in response as little moans began to slip from your lips.

He set an agonizingly slow pace of his fingers, as he moved his face up and down your slit, licking and sucking at all you were, your hand found his hair gripping it deep down to his skull.

Earning a groan that vibrated your core.

“So sweet I might have to keep you forever sugar,”

He continued his pace your grip only getting tighter as you could feel yours edging closer and closer to releasing with each increasing thrust of his fingers and suck on your clit, his free hand slid up and down your torso, almost like he was worsening your body.

When you did come, fireworks flashing form your eyes he didn’t stop, he let your ride it out nice and slow before pulling his fingers out and licking them clean, savoring the taste of you in his mouth.

“Yeah I think I’m going to have to keep this just for myself,” that same wicked grin slid over his face, “I won’t bite too hard,”

He stood and began removing his shirt, along with his pants before he stood completely bare infront of you, dick still hard and slightly wet from your own spit coating it. He let his hand give it a single stroke before he grabbed your hips pulling you up as your placed your hands on his shoulder, he sat on the bed were your body once was and placed you hovering over his lap.

“You wanna ride this dick baby?”

“Yes, please Remmick,”

He dropped you onto his dick nothing easy about the feeling of it immediately hitting your cervix, the both of you moaned in response. He set the pace, moving your hips up and down before allowing you free control. Your hands rested around his neck hands gripping the back short strands of his hair holding on as you bounced up and down breathlessly on his cock.

He moved to kissing down your jaw and down your neck gripping your tits in his hands massaging your hardened nipples as his lips worked on sucking small bruises into your neck.

“Would you let me turn you?” “I can fuck you real good like the slut you are forever if you just give me the word sugar,”

You thought about it for a minute through the clouded lust of your brain you honestly didn’t see a reason to tell him no, you called on him to save you, save you from your fate of marriage and a perfect white Pickett life that was set out for you.

You continued to bounce not answering as you thought it through, a part of you believed him to be joking, your soul knew otherwise. Shutting your eyes you just focused on the feeling deciding you would think about it just as soon as you came.

He wasn’t taking that for an answer though one hand left your boob and came up to slap you on the side of the cheek gripping your jaw and forcing you to stare into his eyes, “I believe I was talking to you,”

In shock your answer seemed to slip out without you thinking before you spoke, “yes, yes I would let you,”

He rubbed the spot he slapped with the pad of his thumb going back down to your neck, leaving soft peppered kisses all over, “I already knew sugar,”

And then within seconds pain sliced through your knack and you screamed, white hot pain flooding your vision as you began to faint your body going limp, his dick still pulsing inside of you.

“See you soon darlin,”

[usherdownthesky]

Rating: General Audiences

Category: F/M

Relationships: Gale & OC Tav

Words: A LOT (7261)

Tags/Warnings: OC Backstory No One Else Cares About, Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Flirting, Nudity, Skinny Dipping, Sensuality, Kisses, Minor Blood and Injury, Introspection, Gale Gets A Darcy Moment, NOT A BOT I JUST LOVE EM DASHES OKAY JESUS

Contains non-explicit physical intimacy and light references to past suicidal thoughts. A celebration of ripped Gale, silver fox Gale, heterochromatic Gale

And typos, probably. I always see them too late.

Summary:

As Tavania reckons with her past and the idea of moving on from her intense loss, a chance midnight encounter with Gale leads them to a place of honest discussion and unguarded closeness-of the physical and emotional variety. As they stand at the brink of becoming something far more, Tav finds herself falling--but Gale still harbours dark secrets that threaten to tear it all apart.

AKA non-Origin Gale gets to touch an Act 1 boob maybe?

I'm posting it here in its entirety for people who might prefer to read on Tumblr, BUT IT'S LONG Y'ALL. UNFURL THE POST AT YOUR PERIL.

and she never wrote anything ever again.

For the third night in a row, Tavania could not sleep.

Every rock beneath her flimsy bedroll might as well have been a boulder—every blade of grass a longsword, piercing her through. Even her skin felt irritated—not exactly feverish, but hot and tingly, like when she was little and her brother used to amuse himself by grabbing her arm and twisting her skin in both directions until she cried out. Given the circumstances, it was hard not to think back on Gale's graphic descriptions of ceremorphosis, all splitting skin and elongation, and wonder if this was finally it.

You're being ridiculous, she told herself. If she was changing, Lae'zel would already be upon her, knife at the ready, boot on her neck. No; this agitation was wholly her own.

She glanced at Gale's tent. The flap was open so she could see him inside, seemingly fast asleep, an occasional soft snore and unintelligible murmur rising from him. A pang of longing precipitated a mad urge to join him. She pictured herself pressed up against his back, arms around his middle as she buried her face into his hair to drown in the sweet, smoky musk of him… How swiftly rest would find her there, she thought. How happily.

Sighing, Tav rolled onto her back to stare up at the cloudless sky. By the hang of the bright, full moon, she guessed that dawn was still several hours away—too many to spend wallowing in her various frustrations. A walk, she decided, kicking out of the thin blanket tangled about her knees; a quick stroll would burn off some nervous energy and help clear her head.

If only it were that easy.

She slipped from camp, crossed the stream and followed its winding shore, skirting the denser parts of the forest. Ever since she was little, the very idea of the woods had terrified her. Too many storybooks full of bandits and goblins, ravenous wolves and child-eating hags, she supposed. Having faced down all those things and more in the last tenday alone, it seemed a silly thing to be afraid of now. Besides, if life had taught her anything, it was that the worst things that could happen to a person often occurred in places they thought themselves most safe: their homes, their beds—inside their own hearts and minds. What was a common hag next to those, most intimate of betrayals?

Still—one could never be too careful.

The stream eventually widened into a small lake that spilled in a misty froth over a crag into the wild river several dozen feet below. Not yet ready to return, Tav followed the cliff edge up out of the forest hollow to a desolate granite bluff high above the treeline. The climb turned out to be much steeper than it had looked from the ground, and the humid night air was as tepid as a cup of forgotten tea, so by the time she reached the ledge she was panting, dripping with sweat, and her legs had gone to jelly.

Tav stood at the edge of the bluff while she caught her breath and was surprised to see how far she had come. All she could make out of the camp from here was a few errant slivers of orange glow, flickering through the forest shroud. On the livid horizon several leagues beyond, the twisted hulk of the rotting nautiloid loomed, its cursed bowels still smouldering more than a tenday after the crash. As they headed up into the mountains in search of Lae'zel's fabled creche—a lead Tav had little reason to believe would bear fruit—she wondered grimly if they would ever escape the wretched thing's monstrous shadow.

She closed her eyes, putting it out of her mind.

Midnight stillness pressed in around her. The silence was uncanny—so thick, even the rush of the river could not penetrate it. A feeling of unease crept along her spine, of trespass, as if in her rush to escape her troubles she had accidentally slipped somewhere she should not be. A place between worlds, not meant for anyone.

Not the living, anyway.

It was not an altogether new sensation. Time and again over the years, at the lowest points of her life, she had found herself here: poised precariously on the edge of some great precipice or another, gazing deep into the face of grim oblivion. One foot in the warm, pulsing present. The other—

The breeze pushed against her back. Tav stretched out her arms and began to unconsciously lean forward. A dizzying sense of lightness swept over her. Calm; pleasant, almost. One good gust and she would be gone.

There was a time, not so very long ago, she would have welcomed it. Not out of despair, exactly, but something more like fatigue—need of a decisive push from some power greater than herself, toward a freedom she did not have the strength to reach for on her own.

The difference was that now, she knew how it felt to fall. It was not what she had always imagined—a wild, liberating plunge into nothingness. No; it was horror, and helplessness. A grand unravelling, time stretched thin to reveal its insides, which contained only regret. Not a single, clean moment of it but a turbulent flood seething with life’s debris. Every chance not taken, every song unsung. No absolution waited at flight’s end—only a bloody exclamation point, rammed violently into the middle of a sentence not yet finished.

The impulse was no longer there. In its place, she found the blunt ache of something far more terrifying:

Hope.

Tav’s eyes snapped open. As she took a gasping leap back from the rocky edge, another realisation hit her, a bolt of the most exquisite agony exploding beneath her ribs: she had not thought of her sister in days. Not since the assault on the goblin camp, their first dashed hopes for a cure, the party, and—

Gale.

So consumed with the business of living, she had had no time for the dead.

All her life, no matter where she was, how much time or distance or twist of circumstance separated them, Tav had never gone a day without thinking of her twin. Long before she was a wound, Lavinia was a lifeline, the pair of them so deeply tangled up in one another, it was impossible to tease them apart. The end, when it came—sudden, brutal, final—left a gaping hole; a hollow space where Tav’s second heart used to beat.

She had tried to fill that space with her sister's memory, holding on to whatever she could like a cherished song, stitching the tatters of her own life around the rhythm of the loss.

But Tav should have known better. She should have known that a song could not be caged, any more than a memory could be made to endure, and both could eventually turn sour.

But what if she kept forgetting?

What if the days she did not think of Lavinia began to outweigh the ones she did?

What would be left of her?

What if she dared to let herself feel something other than her grief?

What if she already had?

You're allowed to have a life, some other, treacherous part of her mind interjected. Haven't you punished yourself enough?

Tav sucked in a wet, trembling breath. Guilt was a difficult lesson to unlearn; moving on was just a different kind of loss.

She remained a while longer, watching the spill of Selune's Tears turn overhead in a sleepy echo of her own. When she finally set off for home, sorrow and slumber dragged on her limbs, leaving her leaden and off-balance. Halfway down the craggy slope, her foot struck loose granite, shifting and giving way beneath her. Tav fell hard on her left side and slid, jerking to an eventual stop at the brink of the sheer drop into the roiling river below.

It took a moment to register that she had stopped sliding. That she was still alive. She lay a there, breathing in ragged gasps, until the pain caught up with her, dull crimson waves rushing up her left side.

Groaning, she pushed herself upright, held her arm toward the moonlight and peeled away her tattered sleeve with a trembling hand to reveal a raw graze that stretched all the way from wrist to elbow. Blood oozed to the surface in bright, wet jewels.

“Shit,” she whimpered.

As she struggled to her feet, the hazy throb sharpened into searing white blades that stabbed her in the hip and knee with every step. Involuntary sobs slipped from her throat as she limped on, wishing even one of her friends were here with her.

Shadowheart, with a timely healing spell.

Wyll, with a sturdy shoulder to lean on.

Karlach, with a rousing 'C'mon, soldier! Knees up!' for encouragement.

Gale, with a tender touch, that charming smile, a story spun in golden tones to help her forget her pain…

Oh, Gale…

You don't need them, she told herself, wiping her wet cheeks with a filthy hand.

No. She didn’t need them. She could make it on her own, as she always had.

But wouldn't it be nice? To not have to fight so hard for every inch? To have someone to laugh or commiserate with? Someone to catch her when she inevitably fell again? Just because she could manage on her own did not mean she needed to.

The contrarian within made no reply.

Back on level ground, Tavania hobbled to the lake’s edge and lowered herself with a grimace, her swelling knee protesting every inch of the way. She dipped her arm, hissing at the sting, but once the initial shock subsided, found the water was pleasantly warm and soothing. Inviting, even.

It was late.

She should get back, take a potion, get some rest.

Instead, she began tugging off her boots. Peeled off her bloodied blouse. Trousers next. With her hands poised at her hips, she hesitated, scanning the tree line, half-expecting a bugbear to come charging out of the shadows—her luck would run that way. But the woods remained still and so, with a laugh, she slipped her underwear down and left the whole lot in a heap upon the shore, wading out until she was hip-deep. There, she sank, stretching out her legs to let the water carry their weight, and leaned back on her elbows. She dipped below the glossy surface, washing the dirt and sweat from her hair in a single breath.

Relief was immediate and complete.

Moments of calm like this had become such a rarity. She was not made for all this…adventure, as the others so frivolously called it; horror was the word she would choose. The things she had seen this week; the things she had done. The things she feared she would need to do if she was to survive this…

It was little wonder she could not sleep.

Each night when she sat down to the evening meal, all she could taste was blood and brimstone. She would chew and swallow in silence, forcing it down without betraying her distaste to the others, all the while wondering: Why her?

What was she next to a fierce githyanki warrior; the Blade of Frontiers; a veteran of the Hells; or the archmage of Waterdeep?

Just a stray witch and musician long without a vital muse. A scrap of worthless by-catch tangled in a net full of far more valuable prizes. Every time she was forced to raise her hands and reach for that murky well of untamed power inside of her, it felt like reciting a prayer in a foreign tongue to a god whose name she did not know, hoping that her graceless fumbling would not be mistaken for blasphemy.

Admittedly, Gale's instruction had been helping. The somatic gestures he had her practice as they walked provided her with much-needed focus, and she could feel them beginning to settle into her bones. In some ways, it was like breaking in a new instrument: painful and stilted for the first while, but then one day, the hands simply knew what to do.

Tav winced, that uncomfortable tightness from earlier returning, twisting its way inside of her thoughts as they gathered predictably around him, and more specifically, their would-be kiss.

A ripe piece of stupidity on her part. Impulsive. Destructive. So like her. Tav wished she could take it back, forget the feel of his satiny lips and breathless need, the roughness of his beard and the hungry fumble of phantom hands… Gods. It had not even happened, yet it haunted her more vividly than some of her actual memories. Even now, as she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend it was his thumb tracing slow, yearning circles along her hip and not her own.

That night, he had left her without any real explanation—only half-mumbled apologies. Things had felt…different since, in a way that transcended simple embarrassment. Outwardly, they had carried on as if it never happened—which it technically hadn’t, no matter how lurid her daydreaming—but subtle cracks had sprung up between them. The way his eyes often avoided meeting hers, and the distance in them when they did, as if his mind were miles away. The careful stiffness of his speech, as if he had wound himself back to the day they met, that polished version of himself—polite, but not completely honest.

A guardedness she knew all too well.

“Cheer up, old girl,” she said, lifting a hand to watch the water rain down her arm. “Could be dead tomorrow, and all this fretting will be for nothing.”

A sound tore through the stillness: the snapping of a twig in the woods somewhere behind her.

Heart hammering, Tav surged to her feet. White-hot pain lanced up her leg, but she barely registered it, her body operating on instinct. With no blade and no armour, she turned instead to flame. Magic surged through her, fierce and primal, but she caught it on her fingertips, dancing through movements Gale had taught her, graceful and sure. The fire burst to life, bright, ready. As was she, drawing back her arm on a held her breath, poised to strike.

A flicker of silver at the treeline caught her eye. A figure, tall and slender, ducking behind the trunk of an ancient cedar.

“Astarion!” she called, instantly vexed by his intrusion. “I see you!”

A hand shot out from behind the oak, the long, elegant fingers gilded in familiar rings. A voice followed, yelling, “Easy! It’s only—” He paused. “Wait—Astarion?”

“Gale?”

Tav’s stomach dropped. What in the hells was he doing here? Had she���summoned him, somehow? In her mindless yearning, had she perhaps accidentally whispered his name too loudly into the Weave? Was that…could that even happen? Gods—what if she had projected something? Again.

“Yes, Gale! You were expecting Astarion?” he cried, his voice pitching high and then cracking apart like skim ice beneath the heel of the other man's name.

“I wasn't expecting anyone,” she snapped. The fireball flared, casting wild shadows across the trees as the heat licked down her arm. “But if anyone was going to be skulking about at this hour like a woodlands pervert—”

“Not skulking! Approaching! Very cautiously, I might add! Speaking of which, would you mind, terribly, putting that out? I would do it myself, but fear that would be awfully nude—rude! I meant rude!”

Tavania blinked.

“Oh, gods!” she yelped, dropping like a stone into the water with a splash, a sizzle and a grey curl of steam.

“Much obliged!” Gale waved again. “I’ll just—turn around and be on my way!”

“Wait—!” She arranged herself into a modest crouch, arms folded over her naked breasts and released a resigned sigh. “You might as well come over here.”

Crickets chirped. An owl hooted. Water burbled apathetically over the rocks.

“…Are you certain?”

“No,” Tav barked, her cheeks burning, “but you’re already here, and I’m already mortified, so—yes. Unless you'd rather summon the entire Sword Coast with our shouting?”

“No! No…” Gale poked his head out from behind the tree—only far enough to reappraise the situation. “Very well. I'm coming over—I shall avert my eyes!” he announced, then extended one long leg from his hiding place. “Here I come, ready or—well, just ready, I hope!”

She dipped her head, snorting a laugh into the crook of her elbow and muttered, with glowing affection, “Idiot.”

True to his word, Gale kept his eyes fixed with studious intent on the ground for the entirety of his theatrical passage, coming to an eventual halt beside her pile of clothing. Her underwear sat on top like a flag of surrender—practically waving at him. Tav bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a sound—half laugh, half whimper; altogether a nightmare.

Gale rocked stiffly on his heels, arms folded so tightly across his chest, he looked as though he might vanish into himself.

“What are you doing here, Gale?”

“Looking for you, of course,” he replied, brows twitching together as if he did not understand the question—why it needed asking.

He drew a short breath before elaborating.

“I woke and saw your bedroll was empty. At first, I presumed you'd gone to relieve yourself, or some such. When you didn't return in a timely fashion, I…well.” Gale hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice bore all the weight and frailty of a grave confession. “I was worried.”

Tav looked away.

Of course he was worried. From the moment they’d met, just a fortnight ago—though it felt like far longer—he had been watching out for her. Not always in loud or obnoxious ways, but with a simple and steady presence he wove around her like a magical armour. A healing potion, pushed into her hand before she could ask; a soft word to bind her together when her nerves or temper threatened to fray her all apart. Always hot on her heels whenever she hurled herself into danger, his concern for her safety often eclipsing any thought for his own. Always loitering at her side after a fight, helping her to her feet when she needed it, steadying her, making sure she was still whole.

Kindness like his had always made her wary; in her experience, it never came without cost. Gale’s did. Not once had he demanded anything from her. When he had asked for help, it was with open heart and open hands, without guile or expectation; she had been all too happy to give him what he needed.

She was willing to give him a great deal, as it turned out.

Now here he was, trembling nervously in the dark because she had gone missing, and he had noticed. And she had nearly set him on fire for his troubles.

“I couldn’t sleep. Decided to take a walk,” she said, guilt twisting keenly in her gut. “I didn’t mean to be gone so long, I’m sorry. For worrying you—and for almost fireballing you.”

“I'm merely relieved you're all right.” He glanced up, smiling so warmly it made her shiver.

“It was an impressive fireball, by the way,” he added as an aside. “A little…enthusiastic, toward the end, but you held onto it expertly and your form was—well. Exquisite.” He paused. “Not that I was admiring your…form, or…” He trailed off into a timid, almost silent whine.

A smirk tugged at her lip, more delight than embarrassment; she knew he would not offer such praise lightly. Whatever else he may or may not have noticed in the course, she opted not to address.

“You're an excellent teacher.”

“I know,” he murmured, absently prodding the sand with the toe of his boot. Then, almost to himself: “Though you’re the first to say so.”

An easy hush fell over them. Tav’s knee began to ache again, and she was about to say something when Gale lifted his head and glanced around.

“Lovely spot, this.”

“Yes.”

“How is the water? I must say, it looks…”

He turned back, his gaze locking onto hers—sharp, steady. In the moonlight, she caught the quick bob of his throat as he swallowed.

“…rather enticing.”

Heat flushed through her, from her scalp down to her toes. The way he looked at her now, clear and unflinching, was precisely how she had hoped he might after their magical kiss. The look of a man who knew exactly what he wanted: to be here. With her.

If only she would ask.

The words slipped from her lips, barely louder than a whisper. “Come see for yourself.”

A slow smile spread across his face as he raised a hand to his shoulder and the three toggles that secured the front of his robe. His eyes never left hers as he painstakingly worked the first two loose. At the third, he faltered. “Forgive me, but would you mind…?” With his free hand, he made a small circle.

“Hardly seems fair,” Tav said with a mock pout, “but fine—I'll even close my eyes.”

A chuckle followed her as she turned awkwardly in place—more of a waddle, really—though she was not sure why she was still concerned with her own modesty when it was clear he had seen…well, enough.

From behind her came the rustle of falling fabrics, the unsnapping of boot buckles. A muttered 'Bollocks!' and then the crunch of gravelly sand.

“Stuck, wizard?” she teased. ”Need a hand?”

“Hah! Never living that down, am I?” he replied. “I think I've quite enough, thank you…for now.”

Tavania smiled and shook her head, a rosy fondness unfolding within her. This was what she had missed these past days of fracture—his lopsided charm, playfulness, his endearing fumbling. The way things were when it was just the two of them, without pretense or pressure to perform.

Her smile faltered—maybe that was the thing that most unsettled her, keeping her awake at night: how easy it was to miss him.

A splash at the shore broke her meditation, followed by a subtle pull in her blood, like the tugging of a loose thread, and a tingling at the nape of her neck. Magic; he was casting something. Curious, Tav cracked one eye open in time to see a handful of pale blue lights scatter like marbles across the bed of the lake, illuminating the depths in a fuzzy, dreamlike glow. Then Gale, diving into the water after them. The light clung to him, shimmering over his bare skin like a divine blessing as his body cut through the water with effortless grace, muscles rippling in a symphony of strength and radiance. For just a moment, she did not see a mortal man, but a godly being stitched together from ancient threads, older and more elemental than time itself. Every line, every muscle, every glorious inch of him woven out of raw, living magic—awe and power incarnate.

Tav forgot how to breathe.

She had never seen a more beautiful man in all her life.

He surfaced with a gasp in the inky heart of the lake, then rolled onto his back with a satisfied sigh, arms flung wide. There he drifted, his hair fanned out around him in a silver crown. As he stared serenely up at the starry sky, moonlight caressed his face with the delicate reverence of a lover’s hand, and Tav felt another pang, her longing this time envious, wishing she were the moon.

She smiled, unable to help herself; he looked so utterly content.

That was the puzzle of Gale of Waterdeep. He was all charm and warmth, quick with a quip to ease the tension or cast light on an otherwise dim moment—but his levity rarely tarried. Over his carefully curated exterior lay an untold sorrow, worn like a threadbare cloak. It suited him, in a way—the thoughtful furrow etched permanently between his brows lent him a sort of scholarly gravitas—but it made her heart ache. Tav did not know yet the exact shape of his burdens, only that it resonated deeply within her. On her coldest days, she selfishly wanted nothing more than to lift the corner of his grey shawl, crawl inside and hold him so that they might find some warmth together.

“You look quite in your element,” she called to him, grimacing as she finally relented, unfolding her limbs and easing back into a comfortable recline. “I didn't realise the ‘of Waterdeep’ was so literal.”

Gale laughed. “A mere stroke of serendipity. Though I do love to swim. It's the closest thing in this mortal plane to experiencing the freedom and lightness of true ethereal delight.”

He stilled as he said this, his tone shifting into wistful lament, as if floating in bleak pool of memory. The moment passed swiftly as the blinking away of a tear. With a splash, he rolled over onto his side and began to swim toward her.

“My tower in Waterdeep overlooks the sea, which is terribly convenient,” he continued, stopping to tread water at the edge of the shallows. “No better way to begin the day than with a cold plunge, in my estimation. Thoroughly invigorating—for body and mind.”

Tav tried to picture it. Gale, rising with the dawn, the salt breeze tugging through his hair as he dove from his tower steps—but her own memories of that city, blurred by time and shrouded in youthful regret, muddied the waters. She backed away.

“Sounds lovely,” she said, a bittersweet taste remaining on her tongue.

“Perhaps, someday, I can show you what I mean.”

Their eyes met briefly. There was something so fragile about it, hopeful and hurting all at once. Possibility cobbled together from wisps of nothing: vivid enough to almost be convincing, but ephemeral and formless. Another well-crafted illusion.

Gale shattered it with an abrupt clearing of his throat. “What about you? Do you swim?”

“I grew up a ways inland—more than day’s walk east of Baldur’s Gate,” she said, now watching her fingers make swirls across the surface of the water. “There was the river nearby, but we were forbidden from going near it; three children were swept away in a storm surge the summer Lavinia and I turned two.”

“Oh,” he said quietly. “My—how awful.”

Tavania nodded. “Two of them were our closest neighbours; the older boy was friends with my brother. He could easily have gone with them that day had my father not needed help fixing fences. I think that made it worse for my mother—that pervasive nag of might-have-been made her a little crazy, which I suppose in turn instilled a lasting fear in me. That’s the way of things in a village as small as ours was. Even a small incident resonates. A tragedy like that, it…alters the rhythm of everything irrevocably.” She stilled her fingers, watched the last of the ripples ebb. “Can feel almost like…like a curse…”

Gale said nothing, and she was grateful for his restraint. The churn of falling water filled the silence.

“I do love the sea, though—from a distance,” she continued, more brightly. “I could sit beside it for hours and just watch the colours shift, squall clouds gather...There’s a certain romance to it, don’t you agree?”

“Completely.”

“And seafaring tales are some of my favourites,” Tav went on. “Gandorra Burr’s Fifty Years at Sea—have you read it?”

“The second volume only,” Gale replied, almost apologetic. “Ironically, I found it a little dry.”

She snorted. “Fair. Though the sparseness of the text added to the experience for me, compounding the dread and desolation. Her description of the Whalebones, for instance: there’s something innately chilling about a natural graveyard, and the matter-of-fact way she described those monstrous bleached ribs jutting up out of the black sand was just so…doleful. Haunting. I think that’s the true appeal for me. Romance, yes, but there is an inherent sense of tragedy about the sea. The loneliness and enormity of it feels quite…otherworldly.”

This time when he did not speak, she risked a sidelong glance and found him simply watching her, smiling dreamily, his eyes shining with a doting interest that was completely disarming.

Dangerous, indeed.

“Perhaps I need to revisit it,” he ventured, scratching his beard. “Or better yet—hear it read aloud by a talented bard with a gift for finding the poetry in bones.”

Tavania laughed. “If we stumble on a copy, I’ll happily read you to sleep, wizard.”

“I’ll begin the search at once.”

She bit down on her lip, blushing. “To answer your actual question…” Tav lifted one leg out of the water and wiggled her dripping toes. “This is as deep as I go.”

Gale’s expression shifted—a certain tilt of his head, a new glint in his eye that fell just shy of mischief. The spark of an idea. He planted his feet and rose in the chest-deep water, holding out a hand.

“Come here.”

Tav blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“Come here,” he repeated, beckoning her this time with his spellbinding fingers, his many rings of gold and silver playing in the moonlight. Then, as if remembering himself, he lifted his other hand to shield his eyes. “Ah—apologies!”

“I think we’re a little beyond that, don’t you?”

He hummed, his smile turning luminous and sly. “True. One can’t always be a gentleman.”

Gale let his hand fall away and he watched her, keenly, as she stood and made her measured way to him. If he noticed the faint limp in her stride, he gave no sign. Merely waited, mute, his hand outstretched and lips slightly parted as he drank her in with something close to wonder, studying her as if she were some rare beauty he could not grasp the meaning of—but would gladly spend the rest of his life in the rigorous pursuit.

By the time she reached him, every inch of her was aflame, and when she slid her hand into his, she felt the same spark she had the very first time they touched, the day she pulled him from that rock. Then, she had dismissed it as magical interference; now, there was nothing else between them but a few scant inches of cold lake, and something far deeper as well. Undefinable. Inevitable.

“Exquisite,” he murmured—so absently, she was not sure he was aware he said anything.

The heat in his gaze was suddenly too much to bear. With a nervous laugh, Tavania looked away—down, to his chest, its vital rise and fall, and the ominous circle of flame branded into the flesh over his heart. The black tendrils that curled up his throat had long intrigued her; she suspected them connected to his mysterious affliction, but the rest he had always kept carefully concealed. Seeing it now, a thing of uncommon elegance laid bare by moonlight, a storm gathered inside her. Sympathy, curiosity, desire…

A bloom of quiet dread.

“Is this”—a breath quivered from him—“all right?”

Tav glanced up, catching his eyes. One, a rich and velvety brown a person could get lost in forever; the other, silver as a frost-laden sky. Dusky tear stains tattooed the cheek below as if he once had wept all the colour out of it.

She was not sure if his question was meant for her, or for himself.

Summoning her most charming smile, flush with rosy light, she asked, “Are you going to teach me to swim, professor?”

With a snort, he said, “In good time,” as if time was a luxury they had in abundance. “For now, I offer merely a taste.”

“Of drowning?”

Gale frowned. “You wound me, my dear.” He sought her other hand beneath the water; his fingers were warm despite the chill. “I hope you know I’d never allow that to happen.”

That quiet ‘my dear’… A slip that sounded so natural, she suspected it was not the first time the words had occurred to him, even if he had never spoken them aloud. Her chest constricted. All she could say was, “I do.”

He smiled. “Are you ready?”

Without knowing precisely what he intended, she nodded; a stark realisation of trust. “Yes.”

“Any time you want to stop, you need only say the word,” he assured her as he began to walk slowly backward, the pull of their joined hands coaxing her deeper with him. “Be aware, there is a sudden drop.”

She nodded again, only half-listening, focused instead the water rising up her arms, her chest, floating her nerves with it. It was far colder here than it had been by the shore; Tav shivered as it lapped up to her collar bones. She her felt herself becoming more buoyant as it breached her shoulders, her footfalls feeling far less grounded in reality. Around them, Gale’s magical lights had dimmed into soft, pulsing pinpricks, drifting constellations that mirrored the stars. Suddenly, they were nothing more than two small, fragile bodies adrift in an ethereal sea of cosmic dark.

And then, on her next dizzying step, the ground vanished entirely.

Water surged up her neck, into her ears, her nose. She gasped in alarm and swallowed a mouthful. Coughed. Choked. Somehow in her flailing panic, she slipped free of Gale’s grip, losing him in a thrash of bubbles as she tried to claw her way back to the surface, but there was nothing to grab on to. Nothing above, nothing below. Only cold, uncaring darkness.

Instead of floating, she was falling.

Her thoughts splintered, half of her back aboard the burning nautiloid, its sinewy walls quivering in the hot rush of wind as it tore apart around her. The tadpole squirmed in her skull. She could not breathe. She was going to die. She was—

And then he was there. His arms wrapping tightly around her waist, lifting her up, his voice cutting through the roil of terror.

“I have you.”

Coughing, she threw her arms around his neck, clinging to him, shaking.

“I have you,” he said again, lips closer against her ear. “I have you.” Again. And again. Until she believed him.

“Don’t let go,” she rasped.

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

She believed him.

Safe in his arms, Tav let her body slacken. Shivering, sputtering, she breathed, matching the steady rise and fall of his chest, finding his rhythm to anchor herself. The cold and the dark remained, but soon she hardly noticed. All she felt was Gale: the warm glide of his bare skin against hers, the subtle shifting of his muscles and the push-pull of the water around her feet as he kicked gently to keep them both afloat.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, squeezing his arms around her. “This was a terrible idea. I’ll take us in.”

“Wait—” she said in a rush, clinging harder, desperate to hold on to this, to him, this precious moment.

He stilled beneath her.

“It wasn’t terrible. I don't know what happened, I just—” Tav exhaled. “Can we just…stay?”

Gale skated a hand up her back to cradle her neck, a warm and solid comfort. “Whatever you wish.”

The river current split and flowed on around them, and they drifted a little in its gentle course, Gale ever kicking to keep them steady. They began to turn in aimless circles, as if caught in the stream of a silent waltz. As the last vestiges of fear receded, Tav began to see the music in her mind: pretty waves of indigo tangled up in midnight blue, threaded through with silver strands against a canvas of star-soaked black. The song made its needful way to her throat, and without meaning to, she began to faintly hum.

“What is that?” he asked after a time. “I don’t recognise it.”

“No, it's…” Not know how else to describe it, she said simply, “Us.”

Gale let out a blissful sigh, resting her head against her temple.

Tav shifted her weight, a sudden sting breaking the spell; the music slipped away from her, leaving only a sharp yellow hiss of pain in its wake.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Tavania Starling,” Gale said sternly.

Rolling her eyes, she lifted her wounded arm from his shoulder for him to see.

“Hells, Tav!” he exclaimed at a glance. “That’s hardly nothing—it’s your whole bloody arm!”

“It’s nothing,” she insisted, an edge of irritation cutting in. “A graze, that’s all. Skin-deep.”

“Skin-deep! You’ve hardly any skin left at all! What happened?”

“I slipped like a clumsy fool coming down the bluff, that's all. Honestly—this”—Tav shook her arm at him—”hurts far less than you calling me by my full name in your grumpy wizard voice.”

“I don't have a—” He huffed, a splinter amusement in it, the rest pure exasperation. At least a little of it with himself for taking her bait.

“I may have also sprained my knee.”

“Mystra give me strength…” he grumbled, taking hold of her wrist for a closer look. He was careful, methodical. She suppressed a cringe as his thumb barely brushed the bitter edges of her wound.

“What’s the prognosis?”

“Quite dire, I’m afraid,” he said, solemn in tone if not in spirit. “And we once again find ourselves confronted with the glaring void in my otherwise formidable repertoire of expertise: the restorative arts.“

“Well, I had a good run,” she said with a shrug.

Gale tutted. “Not so fast, madam. I do happen to know of one very old technique, proven to help ease pain and hasten recovery, popular to this very day among certain wise practitioners of the gentler arts. If you would permit me to try it.”

She raised one eyebrow. “By all means, if you think it might help.”

Gale gently lifted her arm above the waterline, droplets trailing from her elbow as he leaned in, squinting in an exaggerated show of scrutiny. “Yes, I think—”

A soft kiss, just above her elbow.

“Any better?” he whispered, barely lifting his lips from her skin.

Tav swallowed a lump. “Still hurts…”

“I see.”

Another kiss, a touch higher than the last, lingering this time.

“Now?”

She did not answer. Couldn’t.

Gale continued, tracing a deliberate path up her arm with unbearable restraint. Each tender kiss sent a jolt through her—hot, electric, winding her up from the inside out. The fingers of her other hand flexed, digging into the taut muscle of his shoulder, eliciting from him a soft, aching sound; she was not sure if it was pain or pleasure—or both.

At last, he arrived at her wrist. There, he paused, just long enough for anticipation to coil itself around her throat, leaving her breathless. Gale turned her hand, pressing one final kiss into the centre of her palm. Longer. Deeper. His lips warm, his beard soft, his tongue a sweet whisper of heat falling into her heart line. As he moaned again, this one distinctly rapturous, she blearily wondered if he could still taste the scorch of magic on her skin.

He sighed her name, and she cupped his cheek to draw him closer; Gale obeyed, coming back to rest his forehead against hers.

“About the other night…”

Tav winced. “You don’t have to—”

“I have thought of little else for days,” he blurted, undeterred. “Only you. But I acquitted myself poorly—then and since. For that, I must apologise. I was…startled. It’s been a very long time since I was…close…to anyone…in that way,” he said, struggling even to say it, and she could feel his brows pulling into a frown. “In any way, really. Or for that matter, wanted to be.”

“Same,” she confessed in a small voice.

Gale pulled back to look at her, offered a smile that seemed to comfort them both. “To be perfectly clear—I do want to be close to you, Tavania. Very much so.”

A giddy laugh teased the back of her tongue. “We could scarcely be any closer.”

“Oh, I can think of a way or two.” His eyes narrowed, turning his smile wryly suggestive, and Tav felt herself flush again.

A familiar shadow fell over him, his shoulders drooping beneath its weight.

“But, I am…afraid…well, of many things,” he admitted. “A great many things, indeed. Chief among them: the sudden contraction of time.”

Gale barked out a humourless laugh.

“If someone had told me two weeks ago that I would find myself here—dumped unceremoniously in the wilds of southern Faerun, with a deadly parasite squirming in my skull, harried by deranged cultists hailing the coming of a new god”—he paused, his harsh tone softening into molten gold—”with the most magnificent, extraordinary woman I have ever met wrapped my arms…”

Tav nudged his shoulder lightly. “Charmer.”

He flashed a quick grin. “Suffice it to say, I would have declared it the ramblings of a madman—or the stuff of an overwrought, implausible bodice-ripper, replete with gross misrepresentations of my character.”

“True,” she agreed. “To my knowledge, you’re yet to rip a single bodice.”

“Yet…” Gale emphasised. “When it happens, you shall be the first to know.” He sighed then. “The timing of all of this, however, is—”

“I know.”

“—inopportune. To say the very least.”

What neither of them said loomed loud in the ensuing silence: This might be all the time we have.

Tav’s gaze was drawn again to the grim brand above his heart. Her hand slipped from his cheek, fingertips tracing the searing circle’s edge with a feather-light touch. Gale held perfectly still, failing even to breathe, and she thought she felt something stir beneath his skin—a faint pulse that did not belong to him. Something other. Something wrong. In her own blood, her magic thrummed like a struck chord and then…recoiled. As if even her wild and untamed power feared what lay within him.

Gale caught her fingers in a sudden vice grip and wrenched her hand away—too rough to be intentional. Guilt followed instantly; he brought her hand to his lips, kissing the backs of her fingers in trembling apology.

Tav gaped at him, a chill creeping through her that had nothing to do with the icy water.

The terror in his eyes just now…

“We should head back,” he said hoarsely.

She nodded.

With one arm still around her waist, Gale turned and swam them back toward the shallows from which they had drifted. Tav clung to him, numb, barely kicking her trailing feet. At last he slowed to a stop in the shallower water and set her down, making sure she had her feet fully beneath her before letting go.

They looked at one another. Tav saw the distance gathering, tendrils of creeping fog come to pull him away. She was losing him again.

Without thinking, she brought her hands to his face, pulled him closer as she leaned in, and kissed him. Softly. Briefly. Nothing at all like desperate, hungry the thing she had imagined nights ago.

But it was real.

And it was perfect.

Left as waypoint for him to find her by when he was ready. If he ever was.

Then she let him go, limping the rest of the way to the shore on her own.

[stellarparallaxcomic]

PREV || NEXT

FIRST

[firestne]

there's this relief that vidar feels when alejandro understood his meaning, he thanked the years they've known each other because someone else most likely would've ignored it or got the wrong impression. he let himself be guided, as if he was a puppet on a string, almost wanting to use the wine they drank not long ago as an excuse when in reality vidar felt like he was in a dream. the last time the two of them got so close together was during that night and that night only and ever since he has been fighting the thought of being this close to alejandro again, but yet here they were, vidar had his arms around the other while alejnadro had his hands on vidar's face.

how long has it been since he heard his name out of alejndaro mouth? there was a sudden realization that he missed it. terribly. still, vidar had no voice still but he could nod at alejanadro words, believing that he was still there, that he understood what vidar was trying to tell him despite the lack of communication. vidar's heart was beating so fast he wondered whatever or not alejandro could feel it with how close they were being. there was no air, there was no space, there was nothing else but the two of them, together. and maybe it was the nerves, but it made vidar hold onto him a little tighter, afraid that if he listens to the voices in his head he would let alejandro go and break his heart all over again, because that's why the other broke, wasn't it? that night, that kiss, meant something and vidar thought that by ignoring it it would make everything better but instead it was doing nothing but hurt and shatter pieces of them.

vidar shook his head slowly, he did deserve it. alejandro was right to get angry and frustrated because vidar himself felt the same way and wishes he could change it but alas he can't change the way he woke up as, just somehow managed to live with it, and the last thing he wanted was for alejnadro to get into the crossfire, he deserved better, he deserved the truth. if it was even possible, vidar pulled them closer and closed his eyes, taking a moment to feel the other man against him before pressing their foreheads together. again, fighting with his throat, willing it to speak even if it hurts. "i'm sorry." it was hoarse, it was painful, but vidar didn't care. alejndaro needed to hear those words. it didn't stop vidar from having the feeling of still wanting to flee, still wanting the feeling of his heart beating out of chest to stop and be forgotten but maybe... maybe it worth suffering if it meant... them.

was he as broken emotionally as he originally thought he was? vidar opened his eyes, the feeling of hands upon his cheeks again felt nice, who would've thought that such an intimate touch would be so welcoming? vidar huffed with the hint of amusement, they're standing so close to one another, is that not making a move? maybe alejndaro knew better than him. "don't." if alejndaro didn't want to part from vidar then why should he? or maybe vidar was scared that if they flee again from one another, they'll go back to square one and despite the fears, vidar had to admit that he didn't want that to happen.

ALEJANDRO’S BODY STILLED the moment he felt vidar reach for his wrist. he expected for the man to let him walk away and for this to be the last moment they spent alone if they didn’t need to be. he looked down to the hand on his wrist and then up finally see vidar’s face. the frustration was clear on a face that never let itself waver. he felt guilty then for having let himself boil over like he had, knowing it was difficult for vidar to express himself. but that was part of who alejandro cortez was; he was explosive and passionate. was that really something worth keeping around to vidar? as if the man could read his thoughts alejandro feels himself gently tugged forward and he moves insync with the pull.

ALL HE HAD needed was something, some sign to tell him that vidar hadn’t regretted what happened. some answer to these confusing feelings he felt between them, something to tell alejandro that he hadn’t ruined the connection they had spent so long building. vidar grabbing his wrist was that sign and pulling him closer had been that confirmation. his own hand moves, moving to cup the side of vidar’s face in a gentle embrace, an offering of a silent apology before he spoke. “okay,” he whispered, “i hear you.” his arm guides vidar’s around him, carefully taking his wrist from the man’s gentle grip, then with his other hand he guides the other arm around him.

HE COULD STAND in this room for eternity like this with vidar, relishing this moment forever. “vidar,” finally alejandro said his name again, after months of reverting back to just boss, “i’m here.” he reassured as he wrapped his arms around vidar’s neck, wanting him to know that he really wasn’t going anywhere. he would never return to a brothel again if they could have moments like these, even if they were far and few in between. the silence that filled the room now did not feel as suffocating as it had moments before when he had exploded or when vidar had turned away, if anything it felt a bit comforting to be in silence right now. he looks at vidar with a gaze full of adoration, soft and caring, “you didn’t deserve my outburst. for that, i am sorry. deeply so. i should have communicated with you what was going on in my head instead of playing a role i am so used to stepping into. i’ve known you long enough to know what i should’ve done, so please…do not take too much of what i said to heart. i know you do not hate me. i know you care about me as much as you do for everyone who is part of your crew, and you treat us like so.”

HE LET OUT a soft sigh, pulling them closer. he brought forth both hands to take vidar’s face in them, brushing gentle thumbs against both his cheeks, hoping to help ease any tension that might’ve built within him from what had just occurred. “i don’t…really know how to ask what i want to ask, because…it’s going to sound like i am trying to make a move on you.” he chuckled, softly, shaking his head. sometimes it did frustrate him how unserious he could sound when he truly was trying to be very serious. “i simply wish i did not have to part with you tonight.”

[aethersea]

normally I don't bother questioning when a high fantasy is all "ooh the prophesied one will break the world or save it" bc that's what high fantasy is for. don't worry about it, focus on the journey, we'll get to the prophecy when we get to it. but this show has got me wondering what that even means.

the innkeeper who served the Dark said that the Dragon could break the Wheel so that there would be no more suffering, no war or famine or poverty. and the Wheel, we have been told many times, is the Wheel of reincarnation and of fate. It's the metaphor for how all of history has a cyclical bent to it, and it's a real religious belief that souls return to the world many times to live many lives.

how do you break that Wheel such that there is no more suffering? you can't bring about a perfect utopia by breaking such a Wheel. the two concepts just aren't connected at all. the only way I can see is to just......end everything. to live is to suffer, right? there's no suffering if everyone is dead.

kind of a defeatist cause to pledge yourself to, really.

[petrow1tch]

They weren't lying, this psychological recovery journey got hands

[nogodsinfoxholes]

hey i’m the one who commented and this is interesting! i actually got my undergrad degree in psychology. at the time DSM-4 was the king and clinical is not discussed nearly as much as the layperson thinks it is in undergrad, so because of my personal experience, i did a lot of out of class reading. in college i had a professor suggest to me i had szpd but szpd had even less research at the time, and it was very definite “this can not be diagnosed with autism”.

in fact, the professor posited it because he was in disagreement with my (at the time) self-assessment of asperger’s/autism (this was back in 2007). i later went on to be diagnosed with asperger’s, then asd, and a multitude of schizospectrum diagnoses before being diagnosed both asd and szpd in my 30s.

this is my first time seeing such a chart and the restricted emotion section is interesting because i was referring to online communities where sensory issues really wouldn’t be present and alexithymia may be easier to deal with when it comes to writing. another thing i was afraid to voice is it was difficult for me to understand the things that “set back” other autistic adults sensory wise — hell socially too (like someone being rude or mean). i have issues with dissociation, but i feel part of szpd is this ability to “tolerate” things, probably more than you should. often, i’ll not understand complaints of ableism on a personal, emotional level.

i remember an adult mutual of mine who was autistic being very, very upset they couldn’t use headphones in a college class for sensory issues, not a hearing disability (and being very upset someone had called them immature for this). i remember my initial response being “wow, just get over it? get used to it? i’ve had to be treated much worse” — only of course, to take a step back and realize that had been wrong to do to me too, and i should be more sensitive to their differing needs. i have to be very mistreated, neglected, and abused to get emotional — and i do wonder if that goes back to being indifferent to praise or criticism. i was raised in a very abusive and neglectful home. this can make me seem very strong to others, but i also have little self-direction, and social encouragement can help but doesn’t have the same impact.

and, of course, i do have sensory issues myself. sometimes that ends up being a source of my anxiety and i just kind of, was blocking it out and “tolerating” it. maybe those people are simply more in touch with themselves than me!

i definitely have many traits listed solely on the autism side. i’m very poor at typical non-verbal language. as an adult i still fail to make eye contact a lot, i have to force myself to do so, and it’s such a conscious effort i’ll just… kind of forget halfway through a conversation, or not even remember to do it to begin with. i’m bad at understanding facial expressions, but i’ve gotten good with vocalization and vocal tone. i similarly love routine and repetition, even if sometimes other issues have made routine difficult to follow, but i perform my best, *consistently*, under a routine.

i’m definitely not a clearcut case of either of these, though — in the past i’ve had psychotic episodes, but psychologists later thought they were more related to trauma, particularly active trauma i was literally going through while having them. plus carrying both a dx of asd and szpd creates a lot of murky confusion (obvious by this post’s very existence).

learning about what szpd is is making me question if I am actually autistic or just have szpd or maybe both. I wish there was more info about the differences and what having both looks/feels likes.

sadly i am not equipped enough to help you on this, maybe someone else in the notes can give you more info?

[triangulum-theory]

Wistfully thinks of Spellwind, I should make a headcanons up to ep 31 list its just my equivalent of like Skyrim or lotr where theres so much going on and so dense but god damn one of my favorite episodes was when two of my favorite characters became trees and the entire experience was like...they were tripping on shrooms but also one with the shrooms? Its like episode 8

and I love the dms orc captain that hates going on land and is there for the in between transportation from sea to sea land to land ferryman (not really I feel like its mostly hard to narrate and have a character at the same time) I just love captain buttocks' (yeah I'm pretty sure thats his name) humor and how him and djett ('jet') were closer in the beginning

I love ty and varsha together but I also ship smith with them as time went on, I can't tell who I want to joke as the third smith and varsha are friends to lovers, ty and varsha are irritated assholes to lovers, smith is just a jaded old fuck that loves his morons (he respects varsha a lot and thinks ty is an entertaining idiot)

Varsha and Djett are siblings they love each other like family and share different spells and potions and knowledge of interest notes

I feel like the only person really thinking too deeply about this tabletop story and wanted to drop a few lines of appreciation, I like listening to it to go to sleep since its so slow paced and gently spoken and the music and sound efx is so sweet

[deviousdiesel]

.

[eight-means-infinity]

ooc: Those next couple of posts are going to be a summary of the roleplay that's happening right now in discord.

Well, I dunno, you've been here longer than I have! Kinda assume you'd know a thing or two 'bout the guys and their behaviors.

[Star refrains from pointing out Eight's contridiction and readjust their mask]

Don't look at the drones... okay, I can do that. But what if they look at me? I know I should've gotten a suit, but those are expensive, and this was last minute, ya know? Will... will the mask be enough?

[They paused hesitanly.]

Maybe they'll just assume I just tried on some of the old costumes? I mean, this jacket... was one of Charlie's. From the, uh... from the Dating Show.

[The nagging voice of Eight rang back in response, as unhappy as usual.]

Yeah, no, drones don't just "try on old costumes", also why the hell do you wear a jacket from a show in the first place? From *that* show in particular??

[They didn't truly care about the damned jacket, it was just another way to insult Star, to try and provoke them. What Eight did know is that Star held the item of clothing close, for whatever silly reason. That's all that mattered.]

[Star is quick to reply to the rethoric question.]

I uh, got it from a magic basket one of the anons gave me. Said it'd give me whatever I needed in the moment and... it gave me this. This was... back when I first figured out Charlie's my brother so...

I don't think I've even touched that basket since. Kinda freaked me out that it just... Was able to give me this. Anons are already weird enough, I do not need that kind of power for myself, ya know?

[They tug at the sleeves of the varsity jacket and take a deep breath]

We're getting off topic. Are there... I dunno, any suits lying around if the mask isn't enough?

No, the suits that drones wear appear out of thin air with the power of magical ponies and friendship.

[Eight's voice was as flat as they could possibly make it.]

..Yeah. You should be passing by one of the rooms which stores them soon enough. So just.. keep going or whatever. That drone left already.

Hardy-Har-Har, okay, I'm going.

[With a shake of their head, and a quick scan of the hall, Star comes out of the closet, carefully making their way down the hall]

Just let me know where.

[Guided by Eight, Star managed to find the costuming room and steal a suit from there. After a couple more corridors and rooms, the ex-actor was finally in the big, open space right before Seki's room.]

Alright the space is fairly clear, just don't be stupid. Although I doubt you can do that. But try your best anyways.

[There's a smug tone to Eight's voice.]

[Star rolls their eyes in response.]

Hilarious, if you ever get out of here you'd do wonders in stand-up.

[They tug the front of their suit and take a deep breath. They never really thought about what they'd actually say to their... to the Security. Then again, they didn't really think much at all getting into this, so what else is new?]

Alright... Let's do this.

[Star can hear the soundtrack of mission impossible playing through the earpiece and snorts.]

Thanks, Eight Ball.

[Star just so happenned to pass the open space at a good time. There's only one drone and he glances at them suspiciously but does not take any action. They reach the room safely.]

(The sound of someone approaching the gates echoes through the Security's cage. It doesn't go unnoticed, but it's ignored)

... SOMEONE IS HERE.

... It's probably just Poppy from before.

ISN'T SHE YOUR FRIEND? DON'T YOU WANT TO SEE HER?

... not really.

... YOU CANNOT AVOID THE OTHERS FOREVER. YOU ARE THE SECURITY OF SHOWFALL MEDIA.

Yeah, well, I never fuckin' asked for this, did I?

WHETHER YOU WANTED THIS OR NOT, THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN DO NOW BUT OBE-

[Star peeks inside of the room.]

Um... Hello? Security? Or... Seki? Are you, uh... in there?

(The beast is silent. The beast is deathly still)

... SOMEONE NEW.

Yeah, I got that.

[Eight stays mostly silent, glancing at their camera. They somewhat expect for Soul to show up, if not on the camera then somewhere else. They hope it won't. Not yet.]

[Eight turns their mic off.]

No harm in letting them have this.

Um... I'm gonna. Come in now. Just letting you know... Sir? God, I'm fucking this up already

[Carefully, Star opens the gate and steps inside]

(In the corner of his enclosure, SecuriTV's screen stares)

INTRUDER.

... It's just another drone. Calm down.

THE "DRONE" SHOULD NOT BE ABLE TO COME IN HERE.

Maybe it's... subbing for the janitor?

... THAT IS-

Stupid, I know, just shut up and let the kid talk. It already looks scared half-shitless

...

(It clears its throat – or rather, its voicebox)

.... . .-.. .-.. .-.-.- / .... . .-.. .-.. --- .-.-.-

(HELL. HELLO.)

[Star jumps, not expecting the sound coming from the wired monster. In the corner, all hunched up, it looks pitiful. Hard to imagine... this thing killed their friends, their family, multiple times]

Um... hi? Sorry, I dunno if you um... were saying anything there. Sounds like Morse Code, but I... don't know it.

[They stay close to the exit as they look around]

Um... nice place you've got here?

[Immediately they wince, although it's hidden behind the mask. They rub their face under the mask]

Shit, this is... sorry, I just... never really expected this to uh... happen

(SecuriTV's head tilts slightly)

THIS "DRONE" IS ACTING STRANGE.

Yeah, well, most of the drones have been acting strange.

BUT NEVER LIKE THIS.

Just let the kid talk, god damn it.

... YOU ARE UPSET. WHY ARE YOU UPSET?

None of your god damn business.

(The inner conflict goes unshown as his voice rumbles)

.. / - .... .. -. -.- .-.-.- / -.-- --- ..- / .- .-. . / -.. --- .. -. --. .-.-.- / .--- ..- ... - / ..-. .. -. . .-.-.- / .- .-.. .-.. / - .... .. -. --. ... / -.-. --- -. ... .. -.. . .-. . -.. .-.-.-

(I THINK. YOU ARE DOING. JUST FINE. ALL THINGS CONSIDERED.)

[After a couple of seconds, Eight's mic turns back on. It's awfully convenient, having direct access to the internet from your mind.]

He says that he thinks you're doing just fine all things considered.

[They do debate about making a remark on how after all these years Star doesn't even know what to say to their dad, but decide to keep their mouth shut. Not the time.]

[Star hums]

Well, uh... thank you? Shit, I uh... don't know what to say, honestly... I've thought about this moment for a while. Just what I'd say when I meet you and now... I dunno, nothing's coming up...

[They fidget with the suit sleeves. It's a different texture and feeling from what they're used to, but it works just the same]

I don't even know if you... if you even remember me – if you remember anything from before... this.

[They gesture around at the room, settling at Seki itself]

... before they turned you into this.

[Against their better judgement, they sit down against the wall. Father and child, in the same room yet so far apart]

I don't even really know why I came here. It was uh... it was my birthday recently... I think, time's gotten kinda weird here. My phone still says February, though... so I'm going off of that.

Anyways, it was my birthday and... I dunno, I just thought... I wanted to spend it with you... maybe talk to you... though I guess that'll be... difficult with the whole, heh, language barrier, I guess. But I've got a handy translator to make fun of me... so shouldn't be too hard...

(It takes a moment for the words to sink in. The implications of what this... "Drone" is saying)

.-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- / .- ... - . .-. ..--..

(... ASTER?)

(The implications frighten him.)

[This one isn't too hard to decode, they didn't even need the online translator. But as soon as Eight realises what was just said, they freeze.]

I don't know what you were getting at but you are. So fucked. He just called you by your name.

"Aster?"

[The name sits wrong in their mouth.]

He clearly remembers.

[Star sits up stalk straight at that]

You- holy shit, you remember? I- uh

[They're tense, clearly not really expecting this, vaguely moving their hands, very unsure as to what to do or say next before landing on...]

... Hi Papa?

1/?

[A bit after the image of the map, another message appears: "The earpiece is in the unlocked box with the fire extinguisher."]

[The exit that was marked on the map is on the far eastern side of the building, there are no guards around. The electrical lock on the exit clicks and opens as soon as Star approaches it, almost as if somebody purposely unlocked it as soon as they saw Star coming.]

[Past the muted red door, a blank, white corridor with flickering lights stretches onwards and onwards, eventually turning left. There's a red, metal box on the wall. Inside there is indeed an earpiece, lying near the fire extinguisher. The earpiece is clearly Showfall technology, but if Star inspects it more closely, they can see that the part where it was supposed to connect to a device was taken out and some wiring had been modified as well.]

-🎱

[It takes a second to figure out where the exit on the map is; Star is what one might call directionally challenged, but at least they know their lefts and rights... mostly. Not to mention, as Star has said before, the mall is huge, and the inside doesn't quite match up to what they're seeing... at least they don't think it does? This whole place is so confusing]

[Turns out, they were on the other side of the building to the exit, so when Star finally gets to their entrance, they're already gritting their teeth in frustration as the door opens. With a jump, they stare at the door in shock for a moment before grumbling about "show off"s]

[Upon entering, they look around for a moment, clenching their fist once, releasing a single shock from the gloves, and ready for any sort of attack. As nothing happens, they finally approach the red box. They consider taking the fire extinguisher for a moment, before deciding against it, picking up the earpiece instead. Gotta stay lightweight]

[Turning the device in their hands, they examine what is clearly Eight's handywork. It's clearly rushed and amateur. Maybe if the teen gets out, Star can teach them a thing or two about proper technical engineering... if they want it anyways]

[Star shakes the thought out of their head. That's real wishful thinking, even for them. Eight probably does not want anything to do with them after this, in or outside of Showfall]

[With a slight grimace at the wires, they slot the earpiece on, pressing what they assume is a button to talk]

Testing, testing, one, two, and three. Eight? Can ya read me?

[caromari]

just finished watching all of ash coyote’s furry documentaries and ive never wanted to wear a fursuit more in my life than in this moment 👉👈

[atlxolotl]

Transcript and links to Reddit under the Read more:

I miss my husband so goddamn much

February 27th, 2025

I (35M) divorced my husband (36M) three years ago. And God, I miss him. I asked for a divorce for a few reasons, most of which being that his depression got exponentially worse day after day and he refused to seek treatment. Sometimes he wouldn't even go into work and ended up getting fired from his job. I stayed with him for so fucking long, praying that one day he would start trying to get better. It was all I ever wanted, but that day didn't come. I sobbed the entire time signing those papers, and when I handed them to him and asked for a divorce, he just gave me the emptiest, deadest look and signed them without a word. My heart felt like it had been shattered with a hammer, anger and sadness and fear tied together in the world's tightest, ugliest knot and inset deep into my chest.

I put on a brave face for my friends, tried to frame it as shackles coming off and a new beginning, but it was a lie. It just hurt, and it keeps hurting, and it will never stop hurting. He was my soulmate. I'll never love anyone like I loved him. He used to be so sweet and loving, so passionate and happy and every other wonderful thing a man could want from another.

They say each day gets easier, but it isn't for me. It's been three years and I'm still reaching over to the other side of the bed in the morning to pull him close, and it always stings when my hands touch fabric and not his skin. It's been three years and I'm still expecting to see his car in the driveway when I get home from work. It's been three years and my heart isn't any less broken than the day he left.

I've been stalking his socials, I'll admit. He's been getting back to the gym, started meds, and I see him smiling so genuinely in these photos. He looks so incredible. Maybe if I had just waited, he would have changed his mind and went to a doctor like he is now? Or was it me that held him down? Was I making it worse?

I hope not. I wanna go over to his place and just fall into his arms and beg him to take me back. Maybe he's wishing the same thing about me. If there's even a chance I could have my boy back I feel like I should try. I'll never know otherwise.

EDIT: One: I am a homosexual man. My husband is a homosexual man. I am not a woman. Yes, I know I'm effeminate and kind of emotional. Get creative.

Two: my husband was a binge drinker. He refused treatment no matter how much I begged. We got antidepressants but he wouldn't take them. I know he's started meds now because he's posted about them and his 2 yrs sober chip that he got last month.

Three: I never stopped loving him. I never loved him any less. Near the end of our marriage, I started drinking to cope. The second I realized I was, I realized he was dragging me down with him, and I couldn't help him anymore. I didn't dip the second it got hard. Many of you are being kind of rude. I'll accept that I wasn't the perfect husband, nobody is. But claims that I never loved him are just wrong and make me feel sick to my stomach.

EDIT 2: No, I am not the catalyst for this. His depression started when his young brother died terribly and unexpectedly. It's not because he just hated me so much. We were childhood sweethearts and had been together for years when this happened.

[UPDATE] I met my husband that I divorced 3 years ago

March 2nd, 2025

Well, with Reddit's advice, I did it. A few days ago, I called my (35M) ex-husband (36M) whom I divorced after 6 years when he refused to seek treatment for his depression.

I called him later in the evening. It was the first time we'd spoken since a bit of trouble he'd had while he was still drinking 2 1/2 years ago. He picked up on the second ring. Our conversation was a little stilted at first, as to be expected, but he said he was really glad to hear from me. We ended up meeting up for coffee yesterday as so many of you suggested. I'll admit: it was kind of hard to see him, but in a good way? He looked so much better than the last time I had seen him, but he looked exactly like the man I married. He had put off a ton of weight (he gained like 75ish pounds during his struggle with depression, and before some dick says so, I didn't leave him because of his weight gain), he looked way healthier and very put together. I'll just say it: he looked incredibly hot. What made it hard was that I couldn't kiss him hello like I used to. But God, the way his eyes lit up when he saw me, I barely needed to.

We got our coffee and sat, and he updated me a little on his life in the last 3 years.

What really turned his life around was in part the divorce but moreso a DUI (nobody was hurt, he was caught a few blocks from his apartment). He's since gone to rehab and AA, gotten his license back, and had to use a breathalyzer whenever he started his car for a while. He hasn't had a drop of alcohol since and I told him I was so fucking proud of him. He's also started antidepressants, and made a point of telling me that they're not SSRIs, but when I asked what that meant he got embarrassed and told me nevermind (???). Bottom line is that they've been helping him, he's back to being a gym rat, and he's almost completely turned his life around. This was around the point I started tearing up. It just felt so good knowing he was okay. Better than okay, he was *good*.

I also apologized to him for not sticking by him. He cut me off and said I had nothing to apologize for. He was a wreck, and I was being dragged down with him. That also felt good to hear. I apologized for not contacting him much during the last 3 years. That apology, he accepted.

He was dating someone for a few months, too. He broke up with him once he tried to get him to drink on New Year's. He seemed dismissive of the guy. Guess it wasn't too serious.

We got up and went on a walk after a few hours, and I think we both realized it felt like a first date. I had to stop myself from trying to hold his hand at a few points, I'll admit. We ended up sitting on a bench in a nearby park, and I confessed.

I told him I missed him more than anything, how I never stopped loving him, and how if he wanted to, I'd love to try again from the beginning this time. We'd go to couples' therapy, keep our heads above the water, and take it slow. He was quiet for a minute before he told me something. He said he was doing better now, but there may be a time where he sunk low again. Depression isn't easily cured, and he was far from cured. He still had bad days, but he said there would be one difference: he promised he would never stop trying to improve. He was never going to give up like he did before, and refused to neglect me like he used to. If I was willing to accept that truth, he was willing to try again. I agreed, and he pulled me into an embrace and snuck a kiss to my temple. You know when it's the first warm day of spring after a cold, harsh winter, and the soft breeze and basking sun hit your skin at the same time? It felt something like that, to the 1000th degree. After a while he walked me back to my car and squeezed my hand goodbye, and the second I got inside I started sobbing like a baby. Happy tears, though.

I'm currently sitting in bed, kicking my feet like a teenage girl, texting him back and forth to schedule an actual date. He said he'd plan everything, and try his best to make up for the birthdays and anniversaries he missed. He said it would "knock my socks off." What a dork. I love being in love. Not gonna lie, this is gonna be a bit hard to explain to my friends and family. Not looking forward to those conversations, but right now I don't care. My man loves me.

Thank you to everyone who had kind words to say, and all the people that messaged me with sympathy and advice. I hope we all find happiness, and love if we want it. I never would have made the leap if y'all hadn't encouraged me. Best of luck to all of you, and sorry for the overly flowery language <3

EDIT: we've scheduled a date for tomorrow evening. I'll let people know how it went two days from now in my final (unless something big happens) update.

EDIT 2: at his place presently. Shame me not, reddit.

[FINAL UPDATE] I went on a date with my ex-husband last night

March 5th, 2025

My (35M) ex-husband (36M) and I recently reconnected. I won't go over the details of why we split or our reconciliation since I'm sure the average redditor can click buttons and most likely read. He was the one taking me out, and promised that it would, in his words, "knock my socks off" to make up for his neglect of me. He sure as hell delivered.

A little backstory, we've been together since we were 15 and 16 respectively, and have never moved out of our hometown. This year would have been our 20th anniversary (of getting together, not marriage). We were dating secretly for about five years before our parents caught us one day during summer break. The fallout from finding out their son was gay actually made his parents split. His dad wanted to send him away to conversion therapy. He's seen his father maybe once per year on average, and every time he's incredibly cold towards me. Would never refer to me as his son-in-law, only my husband's "pal." I wonder why. Anyway, not what you're here to read. I'll get on with the lore.

He picked me up from the house and wouldn't tell me where we were going, but told me to dress warmly. He ended up taking me to the place where we met: a run down ice skating rink in our town. He used to do hockey, and I spent some time trying to learn figure skating until people started beating me up for it. Both sports would practice at the same time and I remember barely being able to keep my eyes off him. We went skating, I tried to pull off a few of the moves I remembered (he only had to catch me from falling on my ass once or twice, and I won't complain about an attractive man that I love hooking his arm around my waist), and we spent an hour or so there until our feet hurt. At one point I said that my face was getting cold, so he skated around in front of me and placed his gloved hands on my cheeks to warm me up. I just about burned a hole in the ice from how hard I was blushing, I swear to God.

He wasn't done then. We left and went to dinner, specifically the restaurant where we had our first date. It's a cheap hole-in-the-wall place, seeing as we were poor teenagers when we first met. We chatted and ate food that probably took 5 years off our lives, he was an incorrigible flirt, and even held my hand underneath the table like he did all those years ago. I know I said I never stopped loving him, and I stand by that, but I think I somehow fell in love with him a thousand times over again during that meal.

At the end of dinner, he asked if I had energy for one more simple thing, to which I agreed. He took me a while out of town to a dark sky zone park, specifically the one where he proposed to me ten years ago. He set out a blanket to sit on and another to cuddle under, and we went stargazing all bundled up together. You never know how much you miss the sound of someone's heartbeat until you haven't heard it for so long. We shared a bottle of sparkling grape juice in plastic champagne flutes and dumb, giggly kisses. It felt so similar yet so different. He told me in a moment of quiet that he loved me, and oh, God. It took everything I had not to cry. I barely hesitated before asking if he wanted to change venues. He seemed surprised, but eagerly accepted.

I ended up at his place, as some of you may have seen from my edit on my second post yesterday. I wanted to take it slower than this, but it was so hard to. I was so starved of affection and hadn't been intimate with anyone for just about six years. I'm gonna keep what happened at his between us, but all I'll say is that his medication was no issue and all of you should be jealous. I woke up in his bed this morning, reached over for him, and pulled him close just like I used to do. I haven't been this happy in a long time. We had a sleepy discussion and decided to get back together, but we're not using the term boyfriends. It just feels weird after all this time. So he's my partner, or my lover. He's mine.

Thank you, reddit. Wouldn't have done it without a little push from the internet. Let's see where all this goes.