clintbartonswifee

[clintbartonswifee]

this.

Fluff for angst 5) A catches B talking to their sworn enemy, with,,,,, I do not know. I’ll just go with Geraskier

“Geralt!” Jaskier stomped across the room, puffing out his chest as he stepped brusquely between Valdo and Geralt. "Do you even know who you’re talking to?“ 

"I’m sure you’re about to tell me,” Geralt said, amused.

“Julian, how nice of you to join us,” Valdo said, as oily as ever. “Geralt and I were just getting friendly-”

“Friendly?” Jaskier asked with quiet threat. “Friendly? You’re about a decade too early to be friendly with my Witcher. What, stealing songs wasn’t enough, so you’re looking to steal my muse, too?" 

Jaskier’s outburst was drawing attention, patrons of the tavern turning to stare. Valdo’s face settled into a disgruntled flush before he swirled away, his back stiff as he exited the room.

Jaskier felt a beat of triumph before turning around and bumping into Geralt’s chest. 

”Your Witcher?“ Geralt asked, his head inclined.

"Well … yes,” Jaskier said, suddenly flustered. “Among bards, you understand. I am your barker, after all, which I suppose isn’t any sort of official title insofar as one I created for myself, but unless you’re thinking of replacing me with Valdo …” he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Geralt. “You aren’t thinking of replacing me with Valdo, are you? Priscilla, I’d understand, but Valdo?”

“Hmm,” Geralt said, and Jaskier shoved him on the shoulder, flushing. Geralt, of course, did not move at all. 

“What were you two even talking about?” 

"He was asking me about the drake hunt in Brenna,” Geralt said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Brenna?” Jaskier cocked his head. “That was a Korrigan. Drakes have never populated lowlands.” 

“Hmm,” Geralt glanced away, his mouth pulling into a half-smile.

“You magnificent bastard,” Jaskier breathed. “Did you feed Valdo a fake story just so he’ll embarrass himself when he tries to write a ballad about it?” 

Geralt shrugged his shoulders innocently and Jaskier burst into laughter.

“I apologize for sorely underestimating you, my friend,” Jaskier said, fondness rising warm in his chest. “Let me buy you an ale.” 

“I’ll allow it,” Geralt said, following Jaskier to the bar. “Since I am your Witcher and all.”

The purr of that last line hit Jaskier just below the navel. Geralt was joking, of course, he had to be. But nonetheless … those words? In Geralt’s voice?

Jaskier glanced at Geralt, feeling flushed. Maybe he had Valdo to thank for something after all.

#fic rec #geraskier

[clintbartonswifee]

THIS IS SO GOOD!!

Flight Risk

summary: Bucky becomes a flight risk after a failed mission and is put in lockup under Steve’s orders. Even though Bucky won’t say a word of what happened, you camp outside the door to his cell so he knows he isn’t alone. (based on an anon request) pairing: bucky x reader word count: 8.8k warnings: descriptions of canon level violence and past torture, general angst and sad boi times, protective!bucky is also a takes-all-the-blame-that-doesn't-belong-to-him!bucky 😔

You thought you knew how it felt to have the carpet ripped out from under you – the familiar drop in your stomach, the skip of a heartbeat, the momentary flash of panic as you met the ground only seconds later. But this? This was worse. As if the Earth had drawn a fault line between your boots, a tangible crack in the pavement that gave way to an endless gap of paralyzing nothingness. Falling and falling and falling until there was nothing else. Never hitting the ground. No escape from the plunge.

Bucky Barnes was in handcuffs as Steve guided him off the ramp of the quinjet. Blood caked into the metallic creases of his left hand; red stained into his right. His shoulders were slumped; sweat dampened hair falling down into his face and obstructing your view of his eyes. He didn’t fight the restraints, didn’t so much as argue a defense as SHIELD agents stumbled away from their path. Sam limped a few steps behind, his hand resting uncharacteristically against the gun on his thigh.

Whatever excitement you held, whatever smile had made its way to your cheeks in anticipation of their return was quickly replaced by a dark, unsettling dread. So deep and agonizing, it rendered you near to stone, unable to tear your eyes away from the silver cuffs securing Bucky’s wrists and the edges of the metal digging into exposed skin.

“Bucky...?” you called, wincing at how shaken your voice was.

Despite his distance, Bucky faltered in his steps at the sound of his name, his shoulders visibly tensing, though he made no move to look for you. He kept his head down as Steve led him away from the crowd, hair falling down into his eyes to shield himself from the gathering agents’ pointed stares and the not-so-quiet murmurs of disapproval.

It wasn’t until they disappeared through the hall at the end of the landing bay that the rush of what you witnessed hit with the force of a freight train. Straight to your heart, nearly knocking the wind right out of you— the dream-like delirium clouding your senses shattered.

You took off running, sprinting through the landing bay and shoving aside agents that stepped into your path; gathering to watch Captain America lead away the Winter Soldier in chains. You nearly tripped when you heard a disgruntled agent mutter, ‘we knew it would happen eventually,’ but you forced yourself to keep going. You couldn’t lose them in favor of sending a rookie to the med bay.

You rounded the corner on a deserted hallway. The echo of your steps was excruciating as you sprinted towards them, chasing after the florescent reflection of Steve’s shield and closing the distance between you. Only steps away, you could have reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder if not for Sam blocking your path.

“Steve, stop!”

You collided into Sam, his arms caging around your waist. It forced you to pause, only for a minute as you glanced down to find his grip unforgiving as it clung to the fabric of your sweatshirt, his hands prodding into muscle hard enough to leave bruises. Something was wrong; so terribly wrong that Sam felt it necessary to restrain you by force to keep you from reaching Bucky. The realization did little to ease the rush of fear and fury coursing like ice through your veins.

“Get the hell off of me!” You kicked at Sam’s shins, scratched at his arms, made every desperate attempt you could to escape.

“Y/n, you need to calm down,” Sam said in a remarkably even tone as his partner was led away in restraints strong enough to subdue a wild animal.

Steve turned his head only slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of you as you struggled to break free of Sam’s hold. There was a sadness in his eyes, an understanding, and still—he turned his back to you.

“Bucky! Bucky!” The break in your voice was amplified by the unsettling silence of the hall.

But Bucky didn’t turn around, didn’t spare a single glance in your direction, but you knew he could hear the panic etched into his name – the fear. It was written in his hands as they curled to fists, his nails digging into flesh, metal into metal.

A passage opened on their right – one that seamlessly blended into the wall – and Bucky stepped inside with little guidance from Steve. You froze, stilling in Sam’s arms as you watched Steve follow behind, his hand gripped tight to Bucky’s shoulder – not in warning or in restraint, but in comfort.

Before you could make sense of it, the door closed behind them. The panic ran like ice through your veins, adrenaline spiking straight into your heart and you broke free of Sam’s hold.

Sprinting after them, you came upon the stretch of hallway where the passage appeared. Shaking hands ran haphazardly along the wall, running over the bumps of old, dried paint, and nicks in the foundation.

“Come on, come on!” you begged, tears burning in your eyes. You slammed your hands against the wall in frustration, the sting of it burning against your palms. Sam slowly approached beside you, a frown etched to his lips, his eyes filled with remorse.

“Y/n–”

“Open the door, Sam.”

Sam clenched his jaw, though he did not move to follow your order. You wipe the tears from your eyes angrily with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. It was damp at the wrist.

“Open the door,” you said again, demanding your voice stronger than you felt.

“I can’t do that. Not yet,” Sam said softly. You could see the agony in his face, how the lines ran along his forehead in worry, how his eyes held a sort of guilt you hadn’t expected. Something about the way he was looking at you, crumbled every resolve you had left. Without the rush of adrenaline pumping through your veins, your body gave way to the exhaustion and you slumped against the wall for support.

“Was he triggered?” you asked, a lump burning in your throat. It shouldn’t be possible, not since Shuri removed Hydra’s programming, but you hadn’t seen Bucky treated like a prisoner since the aftermath of Vienna. It wasn’t supposed to happen again. He never should have been in chains again...

Sam sighed, his gaze down at the floor. “No.”

You clasped your hand over your left wrist, rubbing your thumb over the raised edges of a stubborn burn that never had the decency to heal properly – a habit you’d picked up to ground yourself. “I don’t understand. What happened to him?”

Sam set a hand on your shoulder and it was enough to bring you into his arms. This time, when he held you, it was a relief. He ran a hand along your spine as you rested your cheek to his collar.

“We’re trying to protect him, Y/n,” Sam said. “He’s a flight risk right now. We can’t let him hurt himself or anyone else.”

You pulled out of Sam’s embrace, a frown tugging at your lips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Before Sam could answer, the wall slid open behind you and Steve stepped into the hallway. There was no time to slip around his frame and dart through the passage before the wall sealed again. Steve must have noticed your disappointment because his gaze darted to Sam, a silent conversation between them you didn’t appreciate.

“I want to see him.”

Steve looked at Sam again. Something like rage began to boil in your veins.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” Steve said, thumbs resting in the belt of his suit. His Captain stance. It had never felt so demeaning until this moment.

“I don’t care what you think is a good idea, Steven,” you spat, stepping into his space until he backed up against the wall. Even as he towered over you, he retreated under your icy stare. “I just watched my best friend get escorted around his own home in handcuffs and paraded like a fucking prisoner in front of dozens of SHIELD agents that already think the worst of him! I want to see him. Now.”

“I know what he means to you, but we didn’t have a choice, Y/n,” Steve retorted.

You scoffed at his implication – that your feelings for Bucky might be clouding your judgement, that you might not be able to see the danger in the decades old assassin because all you saw were the lines along his eyes when he smiled and the creases in his cheeks from the shoulder of your sweatshirt when he dozed off on movie nights and the shy smiles when he showed up in your room with Thai food after a long training day.

Maybe it allowed you to see him more clearly. It let you see past what everyone else expected him to be. It let you see the man behind the rumors and the trauma.

“You had him in chains, Steve. Chains.” The tears were starting again and you didn’t care if they saw. They should see. They should know what it meant to put Bucky back into a cell, to restrain him and treat him like he was an unstable killer. They should know you refused to see Bucky the same way.

“You don’t know what happened out there... How many people he—” Steve bit his tongue. His jaw muscle twitched as he swallowed the words you knew he would say. There was blood on Bucky’s hands for a reason.

You swallowed. “How bad?”

“Bad,” Sam replied. “We just need to give him time to cool off. If he had his way, he would still be out there taking shots at every Hydra agent who ever laid a hand on—”

“Sam,” Steve warned. Sam pressed his lips together, offering Steve a short, apologetic shrug. The burn on your wrist ached a little more and you pressed your thumb against it until it subsided. The two of them started to mutter quietly amongst themselves; half of a silent conversation you didn’t understand.

You stepped slowly around Steve, placing a hand on the wall as if it could act as an extension to the man held in a cage beyond the dark passage behind it. You rested your forehead against it, closing your eyes at the touch of the cold wall. Sam and Steve were quiet as you turned back to them.

“I’m not asking you to release him,” you started, staring up at Steve. “Not yet, anyway. I just... I want to see him. Please.”

Steve swallowed, glancing over at Sam who only gave a short nod in response. He sighed. “He didn’t say a word the whole flight home.”

“That’s okay,” you replied sincerely. “He’ll know I’m there— that I’m not afraid. He’ll know someone is there.”

A strange look crossed Steve’s features – something mixed of surprise and appreciation and a gentle kind of grief. He set his hand against the wall and a blue light glowed under his palm, scanning his prints. When the wall slid open, it revealed the sort of hallway you'd expect to find in a hospital wing – if the hospital were cold, colorless, and entirely empty. Abandoned and haunting.

Steve led you down the corridor while Sam stayed behind. It was a twisting maze of endless hallways, each filled with dozens of empty rooms with reinforced locks. There were no windows, no glass to be broken. Only steel guarded doors holding back the darkness inside.

Steve slowed at the end of the hall, nodding to a door on your left. It was away from the others, down a short stretch of the hall on its own. Your heart sank when you realized why – twice the amount of locks, twice the security measures. Another prison cell.

You watched Steve curiously as he tapped a series of codes on the screen, revealing a small monitor projecting against the wall. You swallowed, stepping closer to the image of Bucky as he paced back and forth inside the room. His hands were free of the cuffs, but he was still coated in blood despite the sink sitting a few steps away.

“Buck?” Steve called. “You’ve got a visitor.”

Bucky paused, his gaze shifting to the door. You hadn’t realized how loud your heart was beating.

“Hi, Bucky,” you said, offering a smile before you realized he couldn’t see you through the door. He tensed, his stare centering in on the monitor in the top corner of the room. His projection met your eye as if he could bypass the door itself to find you. Still – he didn’t say a word. Instead, he resumed his pacing, his gaze fixating on the wall.

“Give him some time,” Steve said apologetically. “I’ll have Tony add your print to the wall so you can come back tomorrow.”

“That’s not necessary,” you said, unable to tear your eyes away from Bucky’s projection. You hadn’t noticed the cuts on his face when you caught the short glimpse of him in the landing bay or the bruising along his jaw. Your stomach twisted. “I’m going to stay here.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “Y/n, you know I can’t open the door for you.”

“I know.”

Steve sighed, following your gaze. You could feel him studying you as you watched Bucky’s movements and you wondered how much of your grief read on your face, if he could see how badly it hurt you to watch Bucky be thrown in a cell after everything that happened to him. A glimpse of a smile touched the corner of Steve’s cheeks, not nearly enough to notice, but it was still there.

“I’ll bring you some blankets, okay?”

You glanced up at him, relieved he didn’t intend to fight you on this. You squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Steve.”

He gave you a short nod before he disappeared down the hall. Once you were alone, you slid down against the wall, settling in on the cold tile floors and you leaned your head to the door.

“I’m still here, Bucky,” you told him, watching the projection for his reaction. His eyes flickered to the door for only a second before he resumed his pacing. He knew you were there, even if he refused to acknowledge it. He knew. That was all that mattered.

***

It had been almost a week since you last saw Bucky standing in the doorway to your bedroom, half leaning on the frame and hair falling into his face as he told you he’d been assigned to an intel mission at a Hydra facility. He still had lines from your sweatshirt imprinted on his cheeks; his clothes ruffled from hours lying on the couch. One of the most feared men in history and he was nothing but impossibly sweet as he fiddled nervously with the creases in his metal hand.

The mission meant he’d be gone for a while – a few weeks at most – but it was the longest you’d spent apart since he first came to the Avengers. You hadn’t realized how much you’d come to rely on him, on his presence, until you were confronted with the absence of it. But you’d pressed on a smile and told him to go anyway. Movie night could wait. Dismantling the organization that stole decades of his life couldn’t. You understood and you told him as much. He only seemed to relax when you crossed the room to him and set your hand against his forearm – every tension in his body slipping from the muscle like running water under your touch.

You didn’t tell him how badly you wished it wasn’t him, that he shouldn’t have to be the one to walk back into the heart of Hydra. You didn’t tell him how much you wanted him to stay, to crawl back on the couch, to hold him and pretend for a little while longer that he was yours. And maybe, if it was only his vengeance he was after, you could have convinced him.

It only took a single glimpse of the brand on the inside of your wrist to cement his stance – a burn mark in the shape of Hydra’s beast upon your skin. He turned your hand over, running a thumb along the burn that would not seem to heal, a brand they’d marked on you months earlier. Bucky may have allowed himself to move on from the horror Hydra had done against him, but he couldn’t let go of the pain they’d inflicted on you.

It had only been a few days – your time held prisoner by Hydra – but it had felt like years. Tied up and bound. Tortured for information you didn’t have. MIA from a solo mission on Brussels, you were lucky the team found you when they did. It was the first time you saw true fear in Bucky’s eyes. On his knees, his hands on your cheeks and wiping away the blood, soot, and tears, begging you to look at him.

You never spoke a word of it or what happened, but something shifted between you and Bucky after that. Casual movie nights on the couch in the living room ended up under blankets in your bedroom, close enough to share body heat, close enough to lean against his shoulder and for him not to shy away. Instead of flinching away from touch, Bucky began to seek it out – his thigh pressed against your hip, a hand on your shoulder, his fingertips brushing against yours. It carried an aura of protection, but it was more than that – between his words and within his movements, it held a crippling fear that you’d be ripped away in an instant, like he couldn’t quite convince himself that you were saved that night.

You hadn’t found the courage to go on a mission since. Instead, you found new ways to be helpful to the team. Coding, hacking, using your skillset behind a computer to assist from afar. They all understood, but no one more than Bucky. He never asked if you were ready for the field again or pushed you to resume training. He was content to watch movies all day and bake undercooked pancakes and sit on the bench down by the lake.

It was moments like that that made you wonder if he’d take you as you were – even if you never stepped back into the field again, even if you lost the identity you’d tied so much of your life to. Even if you weren’t an Avenger anymore. If he’d take you at all.

You supposed it didn’t matter. Not in this moment, anyway. Bucky had done everything he could to make sure you knew you were never alone after you’d been rescued from Hydra. He’d slept on the couch outside your bedroom, waiting for the inevitable screams that would disrupt your dreams. He held you and rocked you until your exhaustion wore you back to sleep. He dragged you outside on walks and made your meals and brought you water. He laid in your bed with you and put on your favorite movies until you finally cracked a smile.

He saved you long after he carried you out of that cell. You were determined to do the same for him.

“Steve brought me blankets,” you told Bucky through the door as you tugged the navy blue comforter up around your shoulders. “It’s actually pretty cold out here and the floor is not as comfortable as one would expect.”

You laughed to yourself, stealing a short glimpse at the projector though Bucky remained still as marble. He sat on the edge of the cot in the corner of the room in an angle that didn’t exactly look to be any more comfortable than you were on the floor. You stretched your back, cracking your spine.

You’d been making idle conversation with yourself for the last several hours after Steve came back with the pillow and blankets. Your watch was the only indicator that night had crept in beyond the windowless hallway. You caught a yawn before it escaped.

“You know that blood will be a nightmare to remove from your hand if you leave it there too long,” you said, sliding down onto the floor and resting your head against the pillow. Bucky examined his left hand, flicking off a spec of dried blood onto the floor. You smiled, glad for the confirmation that he could hear you. “I’m sure you’ll feel better with it gone, anyway.”

You didn’t dare imagine whose blood was stained upon his hands or how many people he barreled through to earn as much as he did. There was a fresh pair of clothes sitting on the edge of his bed he had yet to change into – sitting instead in favor of the stealth suit still drenched in red.

“You can keep up the silent brooding thing, Buck, but please just wash that blood off, okay?” you asked, your voice softening away from the lighthearted inflection you’d carried. You watched as Bucky’s shoulders slumped, how he took a single glance towards the sink, before he clenched his hands and refused to move.

“Don’t do Hydra a service by punishing yourself for whoever’s blood is on your hands. They don’t deserve that.”

You didn’t know if that was his intention for refusing to clean the blood from his skin and metal, but you knew he was doing it for a reason. Whether it was guilt, remorse, or a purposeful reminder of whatever set him off, you didn’t know. You were usually better at reading Bucky than this, but you usually didn’t have a three-foot thick steel wall between you.

Despite the chill of the floors, exhaustion crept in. You’d hope to stay awake with him longer, especially knowing he’d get little to no sleep himself, but it was hard to stay awake when you were talking to the walls. Your eyes began to flutter closed and it was only then you heard the faucet release behind the door and the sound of running water. You smiled into your pillow before you fell asleep.

***

“... so that’s why you always go for Sam’s knees,” you explained, detailing your combat strategy against Sam in the training ring, hoping it might elicit some sort of response from Bucky. You didn’t need to look at the projector to figure it hadn’t made a difference.

Bucky was sitting on the ground on the furthest wall of the cell; his legs bent, forearms resting against his knees. His expression was unreadable – cold and unemotive – though you knew it was a mask. Something darker was rumbling inside his head, even if he refused to let you in. He’d managed to wash the blood from his hands and clean the cuts on his face, at least. It was progress, even if the fresh set of clothes still sat untouched on the cot he hadn’t slept on.

You bounced the tennis ball Sam brought you against the wall and caught it effortlessly in your hand.

“I’m a disaster at tennis,” you told him. “The scoring system is unnecessarily complicated for one thing. I usually end up whacking it like a baseball and sent it flying over the courts. No strategy. No aim. Just full force intensity.”

Rounding on the second full day of sitting outside Bucky’s cell, you’d resorted to unfiltered stories of whatever happened to pop into your head at the time. As long as you kept talking, as long as Bucky still knew you were there with him. Whether he found it a comfort or if it annoyed him into oblivion, you supposed it didn’t matter. You needed to prove to him that you wouldn’t abandon him at the first sign of trouble.

“You ever play tennis, Buck?” you asked, knowing he wouldn’t answer. “Vision is unfairly good at it as he is with most things. Oh!” You sat up, bunching the blankets as a grin pushed at your cheeks. “What do you think about starting up a wiffleball team? Or kickball? Softball? Although, we’d have to split up you and Steve. Can’t be having two super soldiers on the same team. It would be a hell of a better than Stark’s idea of team building exercises. Pretty sure Parker’s still trying to recover from last year’s scavenger hunt.”

You grabbed the notebook from the bag Steve dropped off of your things and started to write down ideas. Pen scratched against the paper and you wondered whether Bucky could pick up on details like that, even muffled from a distance on the other side of a door. You stole a glance at the projector to find his head turned away from the camera; almost as if he had caught himself on the verge of a smile and made every effort to suppress it before it could be witnessed.

***

You spent your days sitting beside Bucky’s door. Steve and Sam brought you whatever snacks they could find in the pantry and a few hot meals every once in a while. Your collection of blankets started to pile enough that you didn’t feel the chill of the tiles anymore and you had enough pillows to resolve the kink in your neck you got on the first night.

Four total days on the other side of the door and Bucky had yet to say a word. Four days filled with mindless conversation, questions that went unanswered, silence you filled with humming as you doodled in your notebook. You never begged him to respond, never yelled or raised your voice, never so much as demanded answers from him for the blood he’d washed down the sink. You just wanted him to know he wasn’t alone – not in that cell, not ever again. You hoped he knew that, anyway.

It took until the end of the second day before you convinced him to change into the clothes left inside the cell. He’d done it overnight, long after you fell asleep as if to not raise attention to the fact that he was clearly listening to every word you said. Your cheeks ached from smiling when you saw him dressed in the clean clothes, his bloodied suit discarded in the corner of the room. He seemed to sit more comfortably in them, his body less restricted without the Kevlar and straps. You didn’t acknowledge it aloud, but it had felt like another step forward. A step closer to opening the door between you.

On the fifth day, you leaned against the wall, absentmindedly running your thumb along your burn mark. The raised edges of six tentacles, the skull at the center. Hydra’s brand upon your skin. You didn’t remember much about your time with Hydra – most of it blocked out from your memory or spent unconscious – but you remembered this. The searing pain of an iron rod fresh from the coals as it melted against your skin. A constant reminder of their ownership of you.

You’d only been their captive for a few days, but you often wondered whether you would ever free yourself of their chains. Months later and you had yet to get back in the field. Bucky had spent decades under their command and he was taking missions going right back in the belly of the beast. You couldn’t understand why your fear hadn’t subsided enough to do the same.

So you knew with absolute certainty, that you didn’t care whatever horrors Bucky had committed on the mission. You didn’t care how much of the blood he’d been drenched in was made of Hydra’s soldiers. Not after the hell they put both of you through.

But still—you knew he’d been cleared of the triggers. You knew Bucky had regained control of himself and his mind. He'd been on dozens of missions against Hydra in the years since he joined the Avengers. He was the one that led the team to rescue you from the Hydra base in Brussels.

You didn’t understand what could possibly set him off like this; to put him back into a state where he had such little control over his own actions that even Steve felt it was necessary to lock Bucky in a cell. A flight risk—that’s what Sam had called him. Did they think he would make a run for it? Would he actually leave you behind given the chance?

“They won’t tell me what happened,” you said quietly, unsure if Bucky could even hear you. You didn’t notice the slight shift in his movement on the projector, how his eyes turned to the door, his hair falling away from his face at the sudden shift in your tone.

“I don’t care what you did, Bucky. I’m not—” You sighed, pressing against the brand on your skin until it stung. “I’m not going to leave you, okay? I’ve already been a fugitive for you, Buck. I’ll do it again if I have to... if you’d let me.”

You swallowed back the lump in your throat. “Is that why they’re keeping you in here? Are you trying to run again?” You knew better than to expect a response, so you gave him little time to answer.

“I can’t figure it out, Bucky. I don’t know why Steve won’t just tell me what happened or why you’re a prisoner in your own home. I don’t-- I don’t understand what’s going on but I... but I just wanted you to know that I’m here and that I—” you exhaled a heavy breath, enough that it lifted a weight from your chest, “and that I care about you, Bucky. Fugitive or not. Winter Soldier or not.”

You bite back the words you’d almost confessed, the extent of just how far you'd go for him, how much you’d give to him if he asked. As you rested your temple against the door, blankets drawn up to your chest, you dared a glimpse at the monitor.

As still as Bucky was, his focus was entirely on the door. The carefully constructed mask he’d been wearing faltered, revealing a slight part in his lips, a furrow in his brows, hesitancy in the blue of his eyes; an expression somewhere between disbelief and longing. But he didn’t move. He didn’t speak. And you felt your heart fracture under the strain.

In your lap, your phone flashed a low battery light. Bright red in the corner of your screen for only a second longer before it died entirely despite the charging cable currently attached at the port. You groaned, plugging it back in a dozen times before you noticed the frayed wires at the end – Sam's faulty cable. If you were going to keep talking to the walls, you’d at least need the mindless games on your phone to keep you company. It wouldn’t take long. Four minutes at most to run up to your room and back.

You brushed the tears from your eyes, sniffling past the congestion that had formed, as you began to push the blankets away. You glanced to the projector, where you noticed Bucky’s stare fixated on the door, though he kept his distance on the other side of the room.

“Bucky?” you called. “I’ll be right back, okay? Sam gave me his shitty charger.”

In the rustle of blankets and gathering of empty chip bags, you hadn’t noticed the footsteps beyond the door.

“Don’t go.”

You froze with an armful of used Tupperware containers. Wide eyed, you stared at the door, then to the vague shift of light near the floor. Confirmation on the monitor showed Bucky was standing right behind the door, his hands settled on the thick steel between you.

“Please,” his voice cracked in the disuse, “don’t go.”

You dropped everything in your hands and rushed back to the door. You nearly collided against it, looking to the monitor to make sure he was still there.

“Bucky?” You knew there was no use to try to open the door on your own, but it didn’t stop you from sliding your hands along the wall in search of the palm scanner Steve had used. “I can’t open the door. I don’t know how to—”

“No, don’t.” He paused, taking a single step back. “You shouldn’t. Steve was right to put me here.”

You paused, leaning your forehead against the door. He must have heard the gentle thump of it because he took another step closer and did the same. You wondered if he knew exactly where your hands were along the door, as if he could push through the entirety of the steel to get to you.

“What does that mean?” you pleaded, tired of the vague answers from men with good intentions. “What happened on that mission, Bucky? I know you have control again, so—”

“I don’t,” he replied flatly.

“Shuri swore the words were erased. It can’t still be—”

“I don’t have control, Y/n,” Bucky repeated with a heaviness you didn’t have a chance to prepare for. He sighed and you could feel the ache in his voice, the desperation, the pain. "Not when it comes to you.”

Your eyes flickered to the projector and you watched as Bucky hung his head. He curled his fingers along the door as if he might be able to warp the metal itself in an effort to reach you. You crossed your arms over your chest.

“Tell me what happened,” you said slowly, a full step away from the door.

Bucky hesitated. “Not with the door between us.”

You flinched at the sound of footsteps as they began to echo from the end of the hall. Bucky sighed, taking a step back from the door because he understood what that meant: Steve was on his way with evening meals. You could smell the marinara sauce and oregano before you could make out the worry lines growing upon his face.

“Everything okay?” he asked slowly, studying your stance a few paces back from the door, your arms folded defensively. It only took a single glance to the projector to notice that something had shifted in Bucky.

“I need you to let him go,” you said as Steve placed Bucky’s meal in the small opening in the wall. He locked the slot behind it.

Steve shook his head. “I can’t do that, Y/n.”

“If you won’t release him, then at least lock me in there with him,” you argued, and even Bucky shot a concerned look at the door. “You know he isn’t a danger to me, Steve. I don’t care what he did on that mission... Bucky would never hurt me.”

“I know,” Steve sighed. He planted his hands against his hips as he turned to the projector. “Buck?”

Bucky gave a short nod to the camera, stepping back against the furthest wall in good faith that he would not make a run for it.

“I’ll be back in two hours,” Steve warned as he set his hand against the palm reader by the door. A blue light flared under his hand until several green lights flashed around the edges of the door, the locks slowly unclicking with each signal. When the door opened, Steve stepped back. “Two hours, Y/n.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, staring at the thin opening into the cell. Your heart was racing suddenly, pounding so terribly you knew Steve must be able to hear it. It echoed into your ears, pulsed down into your fingertips. You couldn’t place what was driving the adrenaline, but you knew for certain it wasn’t fear.

Holding your breath, you stepped inside the cell. Not daring to look at Bucky just yet, you could still feel his eyes on you.

When the door latched behind you, you flinched and stumbled forward a few paces into the room. You didn’t use to be so jumpy. Another one of Hydra’s gifts. Bucky was the only one who watched you with a level of understanding. He never carried pity within his gaze.

Bucky shifted at the edge of the room and you finally allowed yourself to meet his eye. The bruising along his jaw and the cuts on his face had almost healed completely in the days he spent in the cell, though his hair was untamed, his beard growing in a vague shadow along his cheeks. He held his left arm cautiously behind his back, as if he might be afraid it could act on its own accord.

There was something off in his eyes. The way he looked at you, you would have thought it had been months since he stood at the edge of your bedroom with that worried look on his face. The gentle shades of calming blue were storming over, filled with deep ocean currents and treacherous rainfall. It wasn’t until you stepped forward and Bucky retreated, that you recognized what it was – the same look in his eye when he crawled on his knees to you the day he rescued you from Hydra – fear.

“Bucky?” you called timidly, daring another step forward. His back was against the wall, his distance as far as he could manage, and still, he looked as though the act of withholding himself from you was an act of violence within itself.

“Buck? Are you—”

Two strides was all it took to reach you. His arms encased around your waist, lifting you into the air as he stumbled back against the wall for support. His face pressed into the crook of your neck, his breath hot to your skin. Your hands hovered helplessly over his shoulders, unsure of what to do. Until, you felt a slight tremor shake along his spine, slowly moving through his body until he wavered into a muffled cry against your collar.

His grip on you was so tight it almost hurt, but it was a gentle sort of ache you were more than willing to endure. Your hands settled along his shoulders – one massaging into the tense tissue of his right, the other rested tenderly over the fusion of metal to flesh. Your lips grazed along his hair and despite the days between, you could still smell the soft undertones of coconut in his shampoo.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered and it damn near tore your heart in two.

“Sorry?” you repeated, rubbing circled along his spine. “Sorry for what, Bucky?”

“I should have found you sooner. I should have killed them before they—” Bucky bit his tongue, pressing his nose firmer into the crook of your neck. “I’m so sorry, Y/n.”

Flashes of the concrete room you’d been kept in covered your vision. Damp and dark, with blood stains in the corners and chains around your ankles. Flesh ruined and raw—burning under chaffing metal and iron rods. Blood and tears and fear and dread and the hollow consuming emptiness of acceptance.

Flashes of Bucky breaking through the door, of the stunned relief upon his face as he skidded on his knees to you. The contrast of temperature between his hands as he held your face. His lips as they touched your forehead, his thumbs as they brushed at the tears on your cheeks. Bucky carrying you away from that hell – holding you, chasing away your demons and nightmares. His constant presence beside you as a guardian, a protector.

“What happened on the mission, Bucky?” you asked again, tears swelling in your eyes.

Slowly, Bucky lowered you back to the floor, though he did not lose contact with you. He kept a hand at the base of your spine as he guided you to the cot and took a seat at the edge of the thin mattress. You sat down beside him, gathering his hand in your own and tracing along the lines in his palm until he found the strength to take in another breath.

“We infiltrated the Hydra base as planned,” Bucky started, his gaze fixated on the floor. “We were only there to extract intel from their mainframes. It wasn’t supposed to be a combat mission.” He shivered and you held onto his hand a little tighter. “We were in this room just... surrounded by monitors. Sam was trying to break through the firewall to download what we needed but the screens all went dark before he could finish.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, his face contorting as if the memory itself was causing him physical pain. “They clearly knew we were there. Hell, we expected to have to fight our way out but... this voice came over the intercom, promising that Hydra still had leverage over me even without the trigger words.”

You parted your lips to argue, but swallowed them back. Bucky still had yet to meet your eye, but you could see the devastation on his face, the agony it took to recall Hydra’s last thread of control they maintained over him.

“They had... footage of you,” Bucky said and he must have felt the jolt in your grip, because it was the only thing that allowed him to finally look at you. It was then that you saw how badly the strain of red had consumed the blue of his eyes, how worry lines seemed to etch into his features and his lips had been chewed near raw. He lowered his head as if in confession. “They must have taken it when they had you prisoner. There was so much blood and I’d... I’d never heard you scream like that before.”

You closed your eyes in an attempt to drown out the demons hiding within the shadows of your dreams, the memories of those days held under lock and key. Most nights, you could still hear beads of water dripping from the pipe in the corner of the cell, spilling into the pool of murky pink water. You fought against the memory before it had a chance to pull you back in.

Opening your eyes again, you focused on Bucky. You didn’t dare ask him for the details of what he saw on that tape. You could only imagine it mirrored the horrors in your dreams. You squeezed at his hand again, urging him to continue, and you held him tight as you brushed away tears from your eyes.

“They put it on every monitor in the room,” Bucky continued, desperately trying to swallow back the rock in his throat. “It was... everywhere and I... I just lost it. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I just... attacked. I killed all of them, Y/n. Every Hydra agent I could get my hands on. As bloody and as violent as I could and even then, it wasn’t enough. I wanted them to suffer.”

His thumb grazed along the brand on your wrist. He turned to you, his focus entirely on the burn mark until he covered it with the palm of his hand.

“That’s why Steve put me here,” Bucky explained dejectedly, “because if it weren’t for that door, I would have tracked down every last one of them and gutted them in the streets. Rogue assassination isn’t exactly a good look on my pardon, even if it is against war criminals.”

“And now?” you asked, nearly afraid of his answer. Bucky shook his head, moving to turn away from you, but you held firm to his hands. It stilled him in his tracks. “You can’t stay in here forever, Bucky.”

He laughed at that, something dark and humorless, as if that might have been his intention all along.

“I spent days outside that door. You wouldn’t so much as say a word to me.” You released his hands, standing from your position on the bed and moving to pace around the room. You followed the path Bucky had taken within his first few hours inside the cell. It was as if tracks had been worn into the floors. You paused at the end of the room, turning over your shoulder. “Is this your idea of penance?”

Bucky didn’t respond.

“But it’s not for killing those Hydra agents, is it?”

He clenched his jaw, his eyes trailing down to the floor. “I knew it was bad, but when I saw that footage...”

“That was not your fault, Bucky,” you said firmly without so much as an ounce of hesitation.

“You spent five days like that, Y/n. Five days,” he shot back, shaking his head in disbelief. “Bloodied and bound. Tortured. Terrified out of your goddamn mind and—and alone!”

When he stood, he towered over you, his chest rising rapidly, his hands curling into fists, but you did not cower. Amongst all of your fears, Bucky Barnes was never one of them.

“I would have given anything... anything to get you back.” Bucky sank down to his knees, something fracturing in his resolve as he crumbled. “I would have given another seventy years to Hydra if they would have spared you even a second of the hell they put you though. Do you understand that? Because seeing you in that much pain...  I thought it was going to rip me to shreds. It almost did.”

His eyes were clouded over in tears as you slowly bent down to meet him on the floor. The tile was cold, even through the thin layer of leggings and you could feel every nick and stone in the surface as you crawled to him.

Tenderly, you pressed your hands against Bucky’s cheeks, guiding his gaze to yours. The muscle of his jaw clenched under your palms and it seemed as though he was preparing himself for the final blow, for your confirmation that he’d been too late that day to save you, that you damned him to hell alongside every one of the Hydra agents that dared to lay a hand upon you. Instead, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his forehead.

You lingered there for a moment, holding him as he fought against tears threatening to pull him under. He started to shake, his arms circling at your waist, and you peppered your lips along his hairline, over the crown of his head, to his cheekbones, and between his eyes.

“You saved me, Bucky,” you told him with a sincerity you’d hoped he could hear, “that day from Hydra and long after. Again and again. Every night when I wake up screaming. Every morning making pancakes in the kitchen and afternoons watching movies. You saved me.”

Disbelief shown in his eyes, breaking through the cloud of tears. He held his breath as you pulled back, your thumbs brushing gingerly along his cheeks.

“Don’t keep yourself locked in here for me. Don’t ask me to blame you for the pain Hydra inflicted. Please, Bucky.”

Slowly, as if it took most of his energy to do so, he nodded. Eyes closing, tears slipping down his cheeks and against your palms, you pulled him into your arms. You didn’t know how long you laid on the floor with him, holding him, soothing him. All you knew was you were wrapped in his arms, you could feel his breath and the steady rise of his chest, and he wasn’t alone.

Steve came by two hours later as he promised. You could hear the scuffle of his shoes down the hall and how Bucky flinched at the sound. His grip on you squeezed a little tighter.

“You ready, Y/n?” Steve’s voice came through the speakers.

Bucky lifted his head from your chest, meeting your eye. He gave you a short nod, a clenched ache in his jaw as he slowly started to release you from his hold, but you didn’t let go. His brows narrowed, confused, and you held his gaze as you called back to Steve, “I'm not leaving until Bucky does.”

Steve sighed and you could hear the clicking of locks as he opened the door. He stood in the frame, hands on his hips. “How long is that going to be, Buck?”

Bucky swallowed, his gaze shifting from you to Steve. He hung his head in shame. “I’m okay, Steve. I promise.”

“He’s not a flight risk anymore,” you added, soothing a hand along Bucky’s hair. “It’s over.”

“You’re sure?” Steve asked, unconvinced. He’d seen the footage, too. He knew how it felt to watch your torture displayed on screen, to be surrounded by men who willingly inflicted that pain upon you. It didn’t matter whether it was their hand or not. You wondered if there was a guilt in punishing Bucky for avenging you, if under different circumstances and the absence of red tape and the burden of leadership, if Steve would have joined him.

“I’m not going to leave her, Steve. Not for anything,” Bucky muttered defeatedly. It was the only reason he agreed not to track down every Hydra agent he could get his hands on – because you asked him not to, because you needed to let this go and you needed him to absolved the misplaced guilt he carried for it.

“Okay,” Steve said, pushing the door open. There would be contingencies; guards monitoring the exits, FRIDAY tracking his whereabouts in the compound, a responsibility on your shoulders if he were to run. It said nothing of the SHIELD agents’ trust he would have to earn again, if he ever had it to be begin with.

“Come on,” you urged, tugging Bucky’s hands and bringing him to his feet. You didn’t let go as he stood and there must have been some relief in that because Bucky squeezed your hand.

“Take the freight elevator,” Steve suggested. “I’ll keep the SHIELD agents out of your way. Tony and I will sort out a cover for what they saw.”

You nodded and you followed Steve into the hallway. Bucky paused at the threshold, inhaling a heavy breath as if he were breathing fresh air for the first time in days. Steve pressed out a tight smile, setting his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. There was an apology in his glance, one Bucky seemed to understand well, because he gave him a short nod. It was all they needed.

With that, Steve disappeared down the hall where he came.

“Hey,” you nudged Bucky’s shoulder, forcing a smile out of him once you were alone. “We’re a few movies behind on our list, you know.”

Bucky laughed at that. You hadn’t realized how long it had been since you heard that kind of joy from him and you heart strained a little, enough that you curled up tighter against his side and leaned your head against his shoulder.

“Been a little occupied with other things, haven’t we?” Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. His gaze flickered back to the reinforced cell and before a frown could tug away his smile, you pulled him gently by the hand down the hall the way Steve suggested.

“Then we’ll just have to make up for the lost time,” you shrugged, squeezing his hand.

“Anything you want,” Bucky sighed. “As long as you’ll let me hold you.”

Your heart skipped a beat and you tried not to let it show on your face. But Bucky smiled to himself as if he could hear every thump inside your chest. It was nice to see him smile again, to see the blood washed from his hands and the guilt cleansed from his mind.

This was Bucky as you knew him, as he was at his core. Protective near to a fault. Capable of so much kindness and joy beyond the trauma he endured. Resilient enough to laugh moments after release from a cell he’d been locked in by his best friend.

You wondered if maybe, through all of it, if he might actually be yours. Because you were certainly his.

---

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

#fic rec

[clintbartonswifee]

THIS !!

Started posting my new story, it’s my fist multi-chapter. I’m so excited about it! I have it completed and will be posting as it’s edited. So no fear on it being abandoned. So enjoy. ❤️

Growth by TimidTurnip

Running into a katana-wielding maniac leaves Peter with doubts about what this superhero gig really entails. He certainly doesn’t expect the way his body reacts as if on instinct to the mere presence of Deadpool or to have him on his mind at every moment of the day. Doesn’t know what to do with the fact the he finds Deadpool charming, funny and weirdly knowledgeable about wildlife. Before he realizes it, the next year of his life is spent trying to summon the courage to make the simplest of touches happen between them while hanging out on park benches. If he had some experience wooing maybe it wouldn’t be so difficult, or maybe it’s just that hard to win over a mercenary as notorious as Deadpool. Or Maybe he just needs to grow up.

#fic rec

[clintbartonswifee]

can I just say this is one of the best series I’ve read in the Witcher fandom.

the time and effort you’ve obviously poured into it - the details that come full circle, nothing said in this book is useless information.

it’s truly a masterpiece, thank you so much for putting so much care into this and sharing it with us all ❤️

The Lesser Evil my Witcher Pirate!AU now fully completed!!

Read it here

1674 and piracy is rife throughout the Caribbean. Plenty of work for a Pirate Hunter such as Geralt. But when he takes a contract to hunt down a pirate captain who is interfering with important trade, a harsh truth arrises that will question his morals and he will be forced to choose between two evils, and risk the one thing he never thought he would find. Love.

#fic rec

[clintbartonswifee]

the kaer morhen circus rolls into town on a dreary tuesday evening,

the posters proclaim that it’s proud to present alluring manipulators of magic, handsome strong men, brave tamers of wild beasts and the most mesmerising tarot reader this side of the continent. priscilla takes one look at the poster depicting the seductive sorceress with violet eyes and orders jaskier to accompany her.

jaskier tells her it’s no hardship, for spending an evening surrounded by pretty women and prettier men sounded like heaven, truth be told.

he just doesn’t anticipate being ditched the moment they walk through the gates. being cut off by his father had left jaskier scrounging for every penny, so priscilla had told him to keep his cash, paid their way in and then immediately deserted him in search of some pretty witches.

“i’m off to meet my future wife, have fun!” she trills, skipping off merrily without a second look back. jaskier doesn’t begrudge her and honestly feels proud that she’s so bold to go after what she wants… 

it’s just… he’s not so sure what he wants.

he wants to do something fabulous with his life and despite taking electives in anthropology, history, psychology, music theatre and creative writing, he can’t help but feel like he… well, he isn’t doing enough. he wants his name in lights, just like these performers - immortalised and famous, a household name and taught in lecture halls for years to come.

… he just isn’t quite certain where to start yet.

jaskier sighs as he meanders throughout the circus - his eyes are drawn towards a red-haired fire-eater, spraying the air with flames and smoke. she dances with grace, playing with danger like she was made for it. near to her are two men - one looks mean, with a pair of wolves by his side. the second is heavily scarred and gestures angrily to his goat. 

jaskier can’t quite catch what they’re saying, but he skitters on by quickly because there are many things he queries about the universe and the question of what the fuck a li’l bleater is, isn’t actually something he wants answered.

he ventures deeper, takes in the laughter of children, the sounds of arcade machines and breathes deeply to taste the sweet soda and salted popcorn. honestly, there’s something quite liberating with the bright lights and muffled screams of joy - the place isn’t quite a circus, nor is it quite a fairground, but it’s something, truly.

and jaskier rather thrives in walking through the crowds of people, completely anonymous. these people don’t care about julian pankratz, they don’t care that he hasn’t completed his last three assignments, that his coursework is overdue - here, he can be someone completely new and exciting. the whole feeling is addictive and sexy and well, he can’t help but wonder how one gets a job with a circus, but he could probably convince them on appearance alone.

after all, red-heads aren’t the only people who look sexy in lycra.

and so jaskier turns on his heel, intent on finding whoever this vesemir is and begging for a job when–

“oh my.”

– he comes across a tent - it’s pitch-black in colour, with the outlines of silver wolves dancing on the material. jaskier isn’t sure what it is about the tent, but he finds himself being drawn towards it, mesmerised and enchanted. he takes in the board by the curtain-covered entrance and reads the cheery words painted across the black wood.

learn more about your past,

know more about your present,

discover more about your future.

tarot readings with geralt.

and… there’s a photo of this ‘geralt’ pinned to the boards. he’s surrounded by smoke and sitting behind a crystal ball. jaskier feels his heart stutter, for the man is incredibly handsome with glowing gold eyes and a bone-structure to die for. the most enchanting thing about him, however, was the awkward expression on his face, the pained look in his eye - the man clearly hadn’t been comfortable having his photo taken, but somehow it makes him all the more impossibly endearing.

jaskier doesn’t even consider the possibility of turning away, for his heart is set on knowing this man, his mind is positively captivated and his soul sings at the thought of actually meeting this gorgeous specimen.

so, he rolls his shoulders back, vows to be as calm and collected and smooth as possible and slips inside the tent. he lifts up the curtain and allows it to fall behind him, completely cutting the world off. it takes a few blinks, but his eyes adjust to the darkness within the tent - he immediately takes in the fake candles and the soft scents of sandalwood. - in the centre of the tent is a round table, covered in a purple sheet, with a pair of plush chairs situated opposite each other, and sitting in one of the chairs was–

be calm, collected and smooth, jaskier chants desperately, his fingers twitching nervously by his sides, be calm, collected and–

“oh, fuck me,” he gasps, and instantly winces ‘cause well– “fuck me.”

geralt is just so helplessly gorgeous,

and thoroughly unimpressed.

“i wonder how many times that proposition is successful,” the reader drawls, before he holds up a finger when jaskier opens his mouth, “oh wait, i don’t need a crystal ball for this - it’s zero, right?”

Keep reading

#fic rec

[clintbartonswifee]

Literally like 30 people liked the drabble I posted but hey, I kinda like the concept so here’s part two.

part 1

Geralt doesn’t say anything and neither does the other man, but geralt steps aside to let him in. The girl jaskier lays on his kitchen table is tiny and pale, her hair almost white, and there is blood gushing from her side. Geralt doesn’t usually patch things like that up. He brings calves into the world and takes care of horses with mildly injured legs. If an animal gets mauled like this, well, then the villagers usually hope it’ll still be good for soup. So geralt has a hard time even looking at the little girl, can’t stop the reaction when his beautiful, beautiful childhood friend bends and twists close to the girl’s face, brushes hair from her forehead, grips her hand, whispers and wets her cheeks with rain or maybe tears. Still, geralt does know what to do, so he does, as well and neatly as he can. He carries the girl to bed, makes sure the room is comfortable for her.

When he comes back, the table is clean of blood and Jaskier is no longer in his cloak, but the rest of his clothes is equally wet, the blue turned a dark navy. He whispers a thanks and says they can be on their way in a couple of hours. Geralt tells him to stay at least until morning and lets him borrow his clothes, even if they’re too big on him. There is no second bed, so geralt spreads furs and a quilt on the stove. It’s a lucrative spot, and he slightly regrets not thinking of it before he placed the girl in the bed. Either way, when jaskier emerges from the bedroom dressed in geralt’s shirt, he only stares a little before he offers bread with lard and salt, pours jaskier some mead.

There is silence for a very long time. Geralt studies jaskier as he sits wrapped in the dark shirt and vesemir’s quilt. He’s almost completely certain it’s jaskier. He is much taller than he used to be, shoulders filling out geralt’s shirt quite well. But his hands are calloused now, too, and his eyes are bloodshot and tired. He’s got a fresh stubble and his hair is shorter than it used to be. He eats the slice of bread slowly, like it’s difficult. Geralt fidgets on the bench by the wall where he intends to sleep. ‘She’ll be okay,’ he says, tries to sound confident. Jaskier nods, says, ‘thank you. Thank you so much,’ to which geralt can only nod and go feed more wood into the fire in the stove before they settle in for the night. Except there’s a hand on his wrist when he turns to leave and jaskier whispers, ‘geralt,’ and tugs on his arm until geralt doesn’t sit next to him. Geralt’s heart rate picks up foolishly and he dares not look sideways even though he can feel the intense way in which jaskier watches him.

‘Geralt,’ jaskier says again, and geralt looks at him then. ‘I had no idea you’d be here,’ jaskier whispers. It sounds like an apology, but geralt doesn’t know what it is for. He doesn’t know what to say, but there’s something about jaskier that makes him speak his mind, so he says, ‘I thought I wouldn’t see you again, either.’

‘I’m sorry,’ jaskier says, which is not at all what geralt expected. ‘What for?’ There’s a shaky breath, ‘for leaving you,’ he says. Like that’s a thing that people care about when they leave, that they’re leaving geralt behind. He’s stunned, so there’s a pause and then jaskier continues, ‘parents sent me to school,’ he smiles, ‘had to become a businessman after all.’

Geralt chuckles, ‘pity,’ he finds himself saying, remembering jaskier’s songs, ‘but plans change?’ Jaskeir always said he’d never have children, didn’t ever really like his parents. Now there is a child of his in geralt’s bed. Jaskier throws a glance in the direction of the bedroom, ‘It all,’ his voice breaks, ‘ah, it all happened so fast.’ Geralt nods, doesn’t expect any more explanation, but jaskier continues, ‘Cirilla, she’s not, she’s my daughter. She’s not my blood, though, but I’m the only one she has,’ he chuckles, ‘hell, she’s the only one I have.’ There are tears in jaskier’s eyes and geralt feels desperate to make them go away. He reaches down to squeeze jaskier’s hand and gets a loud sniffle in response. ‘God, I’m sorry. It’s a bit much right now. Sorry,’ jaskier rambles and geralt feels the urge to say something dumb, like “I missed you.” but he refrains and squeezes the rough hand in his once more before going to lie on the bench. He falls asleep to the very quiet rhythmic drum of fingertips against the tile of the stove as the storm rages on.

[clintbartonswifee]

i love the idea of jaskier always cooing at geralt in like such an endearing way. just being able to see the crease between his brows disappear and go to bed knowing that geralt knows he’s loved.

like, as he bathes him and dotes on him after he comes back covered in grime after a contract in the swamps, he kisses his temple or the top of his head. he absolutely swoons over him, and when he grumbles in protest, jaskier just says “oh, hush you big baby.”

or the random moments when they are sitting on opposite ends of the fire, or even close enough to feed off of each other’s warmth, and jaskier looks at him and says, “you’re beautiful.”

“no, i’m not,” he gets in reply.

and jaskier laughs. “you are, though. you’re as beautiful as the stars in the—“

“jaskier.”

“—and when the moon shines so bright you can see it during the day.”

or the days when geralt is in a really good mood, and he smiles when jaskier sings and laughs at his jokes. then jaskier gives him tokens along with his swooning words.

he’ll help him pick flowers for geralt’s potions, and geralt will tell him stories that jaskier has never heard.

“you’re actually very good at telling stories,” he says after hearing the story of geralt’s first bruxa. “did you know?”

geralt laughs, his arm over his eyes while he lazes by the stream they’ve collected supplies from. “i did not know.”

[clintbartonswifee]

🥺

poor Steve - but such a cute ending!

Home To Her

Summary: Steve won’t let something as insignificant as severe bodily harm keep him from her. Word Count: 949 Warnings: Angst, language, blood & injury, very brief sensuality. Author’s Note: GIF Credit [X] You can also read this on AO3. Written for @wkemeup​ Writing Challenge. My prompt is the song Work Song by Hozier. No grave can hold my body down / I’ll crawl home to her. I know this is extremely late and you don’t have to include it in any master list if you don’t want to. I just loved the prompt so much that I still wanted to write it as soon as I was able to. 

My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission.

Steve wasn’t exactly sure when the mission went sideways. 

It could have been when rogue SHIELD agents swarmed the building - which, coincidentally, was the moment he found out the entire mission had been a trap. Or, it could have been when one of those very agents managed to get the drop on him, slid a blade between his ribs and twisted. Maybe it was when he spun away too late and caught a set of razor-sharp Vibranium knuckles to his temple. It was probably when he registered too late that a grenade had been launched his way. Yeah, it was definitely then. 

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#fic rec #thanks for writing this :)) #very cute

[clintbartonswifee]

Hoooo boy

baby boy

pairing: sub!peter parker x reader

request number twenty-seven: can you do sub!peter parker getting overwhelming attention to the point he’s trembling and whining loudly 👀

word count: 3k+

notes: well it’s smut so…you know. (also i don’t like the word mistress so peter doesn’t call the reader that in this.) 

Keep reading

#fic rec

[clintbartonswifee]

just read thru ur whole blog instead of finishing my midterm that i forgot about that was actually due on march 17 and can i just say thank u i don't think i've ever enjoyed hours of procrastination this much 💕💕 (also rip in absolute pieces to the fact i actually have to work on my midterm now)

*Looks at calendar* Well, it only took me a month and a half to get to your ask. I do hope your midterm went okay and you managed to get it finished! While I’m super flattered that your procrastination involved my writing, I’m also feeling a little guilty for distracting you. In honour of the time lost and as thanks for your lovely ask, please have some time related angsty shenanigans.

CW for injury and character death (which is rectified through implication and screwing with time).

Time had a funny way of working. The war was in full swing, Jaskier traipsed after Eskel, writing songs about witchers and their deeds. But Nilfgaard had been gaining ground, there were whispers of a witcher with a child surprise that was taken from him. When winter came again, Jaskier couldn’t go to Oxenfurt, he’d been outed as a spy for the resistance and had a considerable bounty on his head. With nowhere else to go, Eskel offered him sanctuary at Kaer Morhen. He’d been there once or twice before, was familiar with Lambert and Vesemir. They often spoke of another, Geralt of Rivia. Sometimes they were fond, other times they cursed him.

This winter was different. A portal opened up one afternoon and a haggard looking witcher staggered through with a sorceress in tow. They snapped and snarled at each other, obviously tied by destiny against their will.

“Geralt,” Vesemir rose from his seat and looked over the two new arrivals. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Cirilla wants revenge.” Geralt coughed. “She thinks witchers stole her childhood. She wants to obliterate us all.”

There were murmurs from the others and they were all clamouring to get more information. In the end, they settled with some drinks so Geralt and Yennefer could explain. Jaskier listened raptly, sat next to Eskel and looking to him from time to time.

“Cirilla is hellbent on destroying and conquering. Nilfgaard had taken her from us.” Geralt looked utterly world weary. More so than a witcher usually did. Jaskier would know, he’d spent enough time with Eskel to pull him out from a mindset of exhausted self-loathing. It looked like Geralt could do with someone too.

“Yennefer and I were too busy arguing, at odds over where Cirilla would serve best. She wanted Aretuza, I thought Kaer Morhen. Anywhere but Nilfgaard would have been okay. But Cirilla had enough. After one too many arguments, she slipped away one night and went to Nilfgaard, probably to spite us. She now rules with an iron fist and has a thirst for vengeance.”

When Geralt broke off, Yennefer picked up, “There is no winning. She’s collected all manner of allies from rock trolls to dragons. The resistance is dying if not dead already.”

“So you came here to die?” Lambert spat, angry.

“We came here for help,” Geralt corrected sharply. “Yennefer and I weren’t enough. But we found a way that might change the future.”

“What could another witcher do that the White Wolf couldn’t?” Eskel asked.

“Nothing.” It was Yennefer who cut in. “But your bard might be what we need. At every key moment in time that Aretuza had been able to discern before it was obliterated, he was doing something significant. Not enough to change the tide of the war. We think that in a different timeline, where he is the court bard of Cintra, he will be able to influence Cirilla. I can create a time stone, he can pick a moment in time to jump back to and try and change this whole mess. The key objective is to ensure Cirilla likes witchers and sorceresses.”

If anybody had asked Jaskier, he would have called bullshit on the whole thing.

“We’ve seen how he worked wonders with witchers in the public, his songs about the Scarred Wolf and his deeds are sung across the Continent.” Yennefer finished. “I will make the stone and have it ready for tomorrow afternoon. So I will ask that we have a decent meal this evening as it shall be my last.”

Silence filled the room before Vesemir nodded. There was no other choice. Contracts were thin on the ground, people were turning against witchers once again and it seemed that Nilfgaard was coming to Kaer Morhen. That night, they ate and drank as much as they could, knowing that it would be their last.

Yennefer retired to a room. There was no fond farewell between her and Geralt but a slight grudging respect. That night, the witchers stayed up late, staring silently into the dying fire, making peace with their lot.

By morning, Nilfgaard was advancing on the keep, humans and monsters alike bore down the path.

“We’ll need to get Jaskier to the eastern clearing,” Geralt said. “Nothing else matters. Lambert, Eskel, you’ll take flank, Vesemir, you’re rear and I’ll take point. No matter what, we get the bard to the clearing with the stone.”

Everything was left behind in the keep, nothing to weigh them down, not like they were going to have anywhere to go from the clearing anyway. It was a dead end and no escape. In a way, it was brave of them to assume they would make it as far.

When Geralt left to retrieve the stone, he looked grim. It was in a bag, glowing red through the material.

“It’s all of Yennefer’s chaos and time granted to her. Don’t waste it.” Geralt shoved it at Jaskier. “We need to move out. Now.”

There was nothing left to do but go. As agreed, Jaskier was in the middle, hemmed in by four witchers. They started off at a light run, determined to get as much distance covered as possible before Nilfgaard caught up.

It started with small attacks. Forktails and dragons trying to pick them off. At least their swords and signs could fend against the worst, even if Lambert cursed at the burns that ended up covering his arms when caught by surprise from the side.

The creatures were gaining on them, while the witchers could pick up speed, Jaskier was a human and had much more severe limits. He panted and gasped even as Eskel tried to urge him on.

“Keep going we’re almo-” His words were cut off with a grunt as a leshen stepped out from the trees, caught him in his midriff and sent him crashing through the woods. Jaskier turned in time to watch a pack of werewolves jump at him, tearing him apart without mercy.

It was a lot harder to run when tears were blurring his eyes. Almost thirty years by Eskel’s side and this was the unfitting end. Jaskier wanted to stop and cry but Geralt was moving on while Lambert and Vesemir took posts just behind and to the side, completing a triangle.

The clearing wasn’t too far now, it couldn’t be. To Jaskier it had felt like they’d been running for hours. From ahead, there was the whistle of arrows and he ran harder. A thump from behind and Jaskier turned, letting out a strangled gasp.

“Don’t turn around. Keep going.” Lambert snarled as he took rear post, Vesemir lost behind them with arrows riddling his body.

Up ahead, Jaskier could see the clearing and he pushed harder, knowing that some kind of rune circle would help him with the time stone. Someone grabbed him from behind and all but threw him into the clearing. He landed with a pained cry and watched just in time for a dragon to snatch Lambert while another attacked Geralt.

“Jaskier!” Geralt yelled. He was on the ground, blood coating half his face, matting his hair. “The stone. You have to!”

With trembling hands, Jaskier pulled the stone out. He could see Lambert’s broken body not far from Geralt and he sobbed. All he had to do was think of Cintra and then he’d be pulled back in time to the point where he could fix things. Because this wasn’t the end he’d hoped for, neither for himself, nor his witchers. The whole continent was a ghastly, tyrannical place. Soon there wouldn’t be anywhere that was free of Nilfgaardian brutality and oppression.

“Please,” Geralt begged and Jaskier looked him in the eyes, watched as he lay there, not even trying to evade the soldier who raised his sword. Squeezing his eyes shut, Jaskier still heard the sound the blow made. He didn’t want this. Clutching at the time stone, he wished and wished hard.

The world shifted around him, years fell away, aches and pains along with old injuries disappeared. Jaskier opened his eyes mid song, in a tavern. He was eighteen again, a whole life ahead of him. It wasn’t Cintra, that was for sure. Some backwater settlement on the edge of the continent. Looking around while singing, he tried to figure out what he was doing in such a shithole. As he spun, he spotted a figure in the corner, alone and brooding. White hair, armour, nobody going near him. He’d recognise Geralt anywhere. Finishing his song and being pelted by bread, Jaskier took a breath. If this was his mission, he’d accept it. Eskel had been a wonderful travel companion but time obviously thought he was the wrong witcher if they wanted to survive Nilfgaard’s attempts. Jaskier took a deep breath, thinking “well then”, it was time to make things right.

#fic rec

[clintbartonswifee]

🥺🥺

Can you please write something where Geralt, Jaskier, Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir are wintering in Kaer Morhen and Jaskier cooks dinner and ends up using an herb in the dish that acts like witcher catnip. And he ends up with 4 stoned, purring, cuddly, and playfull witchers

jaskier wrinkles his nose as his eyes scan over the ingredients.

all the labels were either too worn and illegible, or they simply didn’t have a label at all. as the stew softly boils over the fire, jaskier picks up a couple and gives them a curious sniff - he’s learned his lesson and knows not to make the meal too spicy, otherwise he’d be left with a pile of sulky puppies on his hands...

so, he hums and muses,

puts down the pot which tickles his nose and decides upon using the one with a refreshing, light scent. the label says m-nty- y -ath, which doesn’t help in the slightest, so jaskier takes a small handful and sprinkles it over the broth.

he hasn’t killed his darling wolves yet,

and despite having delicate tongues, they have alarmingly strong stomachs,

so... what’s the worse that could happen?

-

oh fuck.

jaskier sits incredibly still, his spoon frozen in his hand as he watches the scene unfold before him. it had started off so well, with his witchers tucking into their meal, making the most adorable noises - sweet hums of appreciation and little purrs of enjoyment, it was almost as if they had never been fed before. 

they wolfed down their stews with great flourish - eventually, vesemir had bid them a good night before he disappeared out of the evening hall and that’s probably when it all went downhill.

jaskier had idly twirled his spoon around the remains of his broth, unaware of the impending chaos until--

“do you...” eskel says, before he has to pause and frown, smacking his lips as if tasting his words thoughtfully. jaskier glances up and is stunned to see the man swaying on his seat, with lambert blinking slowly and geralt pawing at the man’s shoulder heavily, “do you think... li’l bleater gets lonely? bein’... outside all the time?”

geralt hums and ceases his pawing - which, on second glance, looks more like affectionate stroking, “i think-- i-- i think we should-- you should let-- let the bleater in!” he utters, slamming a fist onto the table with an air of finality.

“do... you think,” eskel replies, turning to geralt with wide eyes, “do you think he still loves me? what if he doesn’t love me?”

“i love you,” lambert chirps to eskel, before he turns to geralt and squints, “jury’s still out.”

jaskier bites his lip and wonders why they’re acting like sweet drunkards - they hadn’t imbibed much ale, but surely it hadn’t been the stew? honestly, if he had somehow poisoned his witchers, he would never forgive himself.

honestly, not even fisstech has this effect!

“this is why eskel is my favourite,” geralt says, squinting back at lambert with a pursed lip, then he turns to eskel, “don’t tell lambert i said this, but i told him you were my favourite, but i actually think he is?”

eskel nods, “that’s fair.”

jaskier drops his spoon, horror plastered across his face as his head snaps to focus on lambert. the witcher seems honestly unperturbed as he turns to eskel and places a heavy hand on eskel’s shoulder.

“listen, listen, eskel, are you listening?” he says, the prattle spilling from behind a lethargic grin, “eskel, don’t tell geralt, but you’re my favourite, okay?”

eskel nods and nods and nods, “that’s also fair.”

honestly, jaskier glances down at his bowl and pushes away the leftovers, certain that his witchers are truly going to punish him for reducing them to such... childlike demeanors.

“jaskier is my favourite,” eskel announces, his head still nodding as he makes his declaration. the bard gently clutches at his chest as a tiny gasp escapes his gaping mouth - he’s tried hard to remain quiet, for he is quite uncertain as to how these wolves would react to his presence, especially in this state.

and especially as he might be the reason for them being in this state.

“oh, fuck,” lambert gasps, “that’s a good favourite, good choice!” and then he throws himself at eskel, wrapping his arms around a well-muscled waist, “you make good choices.”

eskel trills happily and nuzzles his nose against lambert’s hair, “i do make good choices!” he agrees, turning to geralt and batting at the man insistently, “don’t i make good choices?”

geralt nods with a small smile before he joins the fray, throwing his arms around the pair with a strong, firm grip, “you make the best choices!”

and jaskier wishes he had charcoal and parchment on hand, for such a moment deserved to be immortalised in loving sketches. goodness, he hasn’t seen such quaint affection in the longest time and, he wagers, neither has kaer morhen.

“do you think jaskier would like to meet my li’l bleater?” eskel asks, tilting his head from left-to-right, taking turns in leaning against the witchers tucked against him. lambert nods as he pushes himself away from eskel - he reaches up and clasps the witcher’s scarred face between two firm hands.

“i think he... he would love to meet your li’l bleater,” the surly witcher responds seriously, radiating an aura of confidence as he stares deep into eskel’s eyes.

jaskier swallows down a bubble of hysterical laughter because - what the fuck is a li’l bleater? goodness, he isn’t sure if it’s the witcher’s name for his cock and he’s terrified of finding out the truth.

eskel whines as he leans forward, gently knocking his nose against lambert’s before he sighs and falls back against geralt. the white wolf catches him easily and allows eskel to rest his head in the crook of geralt’s neck.

“he’s so... pretty though,” eskel laments, staring up at geralt with a doleful expression, “how can someone be so pretty? it isn’t fair!”

“ask him to share, i’m sure he has a fucking... a fucking... what’s it called... fuckin’ surplus of pretty,” lambert muses roughly, blinking blearily into the distance.

“fucking... pretty face, i--” then eskel cuts himself off, sits upright and slams a fist on the table, “i want to sit on his face.”

geralt nods solemnly, “it’s a good face to sit on.”

jaskier chokes and feels his face flush with delight - honestly, he knew his shy lover adored his talented tongue, but it’s such a thrill hearing him say it aloud, so free and proud. oh, he’s going to spoil his darling when he’s in a better frame of mind.

“what... what if he doesn’t want to sit on my face?” eskel asks, his brows knitting together with abject desperation, “what if... what if doesn’t like my face?”

geralt shakes his head quickly, his hair flying about his face as he throws himself bodily against eskel’s side.

“fuck off,” he intones, slapping eskel’s shoulder roughly, “he... i asked him, okay? when i asked him about... about fucking coming here, i said, do you mind if there’s other witchers. and he said... fuck, what did he say... oh shit, he said, daaaaarling, i do love a witcher with face, and you have a face.”

“i do have a face.”

“and he wants to sit on it.”

“he does?”

“yes, as soon as he saw you, he turned to me and said, geralt, i want to die with eskel’s... thing, inside me. i can’t remember if he said tongue or cock, but whatever, you have both.”

“i do have both!”

jaskier is fucking horrified and doesn’t know whether he should laugh or cry - because geralt’s impersonation of him was truly offensive at best, but eskel’s wounded tone just breaks his heart.

fuck, he’s not quite sure if he wants them to remember this night come daybreak, but regardless - he’s going to sit on eskel’s pretty, gorgeous, handsome fucking face and he’s never going to allow the witcher to feel a strum of insecurity again.

“i want...” lambert trails off, swaying on his seat, “i want his clothes.”

eskel snorts and nods sloppily, “of course you want his fucking clothes.”

“bite me, prick,” lambert snipes back, throwing himself at eskel with a scowl on his face. he lands heavily against the man’s side and is immediately steadied with a firm arm around his shoulders, “i would look... so fucking good in his clothes.”

“you would look like an old lady widow,” eskel replies seriously, “but uglier.”

lambert bares his teeth and sinks them deeply into the witcher’s shoulder, his eyes flashing dangerously when eskel curses and tries to squirm free. he finally realises him when he gets kicked in the shin, but his glare only intensifies.

“i would be a beautiful old lady widow,” lambert snarls, with such confidence it has jaskier fully believing the witcher, “you wish you could be the husband i murdered!”

eskel’s expression of disgust as jaskier snickering behind a hand, utterly adoring how these three brave wolves have regressed to childlike imps - teasing and playful as they heckle and bat at each other.

“like i would leave anything to you in my will!” eskel retorts heatedly and it’s a stark difference to mere moments ago, when they were purring and cuddling each other like adoring pups. now, they’re growling and barking like irate wolves, snapping at each other with vicious heat.

jaskier swallows and wets his lips, because he’s still unsure if he wants them to remember his existence, but he’s always been quite the charming mediator, and so--

“darlings, don’t you think--”

“my pups!” an echoing bellow sharply cuts him off, “there you are!”

jaskier chokes on his own words as he watches, wide-eyed and full of awe, vesemir stride into the evening hall. he’s bereft of armour, dressed only in breeches and a thin shirt - he pads across the room until he reaches the table.

“vesemir! would i be a pretty lady widow?” lambert asks, his eyes lightening up eagerly. he quickly leans into vesemir’s embrace when the man throws his arms around the young witcher.

“my son, you can be whatever you want,” vesemir responds sternly, gazing down at lambert with unreserved affection, “if you want to be a pretty widow, you go out and be the prettiest widow this continent has ever seen.”

“i will do you proud,” lambert breathes.

“you always do,” vesemir responds and oh, jaskier is this close to crying. truly, no play could ever replicate the raw, vivid emotion which radiates from the scene before him. he sincerely hopes that, if anything good could come out of this sorry mess of a situation, lambert remembers this one loving moment.

“do i do you proud?” eskel pipes up with childlike yearning.

vesemir stands above his three pups, gazing down at them with fierce paternal love. jaskier holds his breath, on the edge of his seat for vesemir’s response, though he is more than certain that no one is set to be disappointed by the impending answer.

“my sons, i am proud of you all,” he replies, before he ducks down and kisses lambert on the head, “i love you.”

and then he moves around the table to reach eskel, “and i love you,” he says, kissing the scarred witcher’s forehead.

jaskier watches as the older wolf drifts over to geralt, “and i love you,” he says, kissing geralt on the temple.

“and,” he finalises, stepping around the table to cup jaskier’s face between his impossibly large and beautifully rough hands, “i love you,” and he kisses jaskier on the nose. then he staggers off, collapses on his armchair and quickly succumbs to a deep slumber.

jaskier swallows down the urge to burst into appreciative tears and turns back to the oddly silent table. he jumps when he finds three pairs of honey-golden eyes staring at him - all wide and full of curious awe.

he bites his lip and gives them an awkward wave, “hello, darlings.”

there’s a beat of silence, when--

“oh fuck, it’s jaskier!” lambert chirps, blinking rapidly as if to assure himself that the vision sat at the table was physically real, “jaskier’s here!”

“jaskier!” eskel trills, beaming brightly, “we missed you--”

“i didn’t go anywhere, sweetheart,” jaskier tries to reply,

“--don’t leave us, not again,” the scarred witcher finishes, “you were gone for so, so, so long! where did you go?”

“i didn’t leave you,” jaskier tries to protest,

“geralt, stop taking your bard away from us!” lambert demands, pouting heavily, “sharing is... it’s, fuck. what’s sharing again? oh! fuckin’ daring! you gotta... dare to share, you greedy prick!”

“i don’t think that’s the phrase,” jaskier tries to correct,

“lambert,” geralt responds, enunciating his words delicately, “i cannot... just share my bard. he has to... he has to want it. you don’t fucking... own people. i mean, he’s mine, obviously, but i don’t own him! if you want him, you have to ask. it’s called consent and it’s very important!”

lambert rolls his eyes so heavily, he ends up swaying to the side and falling against eskel - the scarred witcher hums happily and instantly begins to nuzzle the younger witcher’s cheek.

“i know what fuckin’ cons-- consence-- con-- fuckin’ consent is,” lambert snaps back, idly rubbing back against eskel’s face, “bastard - stop explaining shit to me, i’m not stupid.”

and there’s an alarming beat of silence,

and even jaskier feels a drop of concern fall into his stomach and spread like wildfire throughout his veins - he really ought to have sent these dopey puppies to their rooms ages ago.

“i don’t think you’re stupid,” geralt protests quietly, looking genuinely wounded.

lambert blinks, “you don’t think i’m stupid?” he asks, delicately insecure.

“no,” geralt shakes his head quickly, his white hair flowing freely behind him, “you’re very, very, very clever - for a brat.”

“eskel!” lambert whines, pawing at the older witcher, “tell him i’m not a brat.”

“but you are?” eskel responds with honest confusion, cocking his head, “the worst brat? terrible brat? filthy-mouthed brat?” and then he smiles broadly, “but the bestest little brat - is that a word, bestest? - anyway, i love your sour, tiny, adorable, little face. remember when you used to... you used to... remember geralt, he used to... fucking bite us whenever we... whenever we did the thing. oh, what was the thing? fuck, right, whenever we ruffled his hair?”

eskel seems to have already forgotten that lambert has bitten him once thus far, as he eagerly ruffles lambert’s hair,

and the surly witcher growls deep in his throat,

“could still bite you,” he threatens, his words muffled against eskel’s shoulder, “again.”

as they continue to playfully bicker, jaskier tears his gaze away and is surprised to see geralt watching him with steady glowing eyes. honestly, he hopes the last thing he ever sees is geralt’s pretty eyes - truly, there aren’t enough ballads in the world to encapsulate the beauty of the wolf’s stunning gaze.

“hello, darling,” jaskier croons warmly, reaching out for the wolf with a hand. his words seem to jolt to the witcher out of his dreamy reverie, as he straightens up and gasps excitedly.

“jaskier,” geralt chirps, tripping over himself as he leaves his bench to sit besides the bard, desperate and urgent to get as close as possible, “jaskier, jaskier, jaskier.”

“yes, you adorable puppy,” jaskier replies, his eyes wide as he allows himself to be tugged and pulled against geralt’s beautifully warm chest, “what is it?”

“i have something to tell you,” geralt says, his lovely eyes glowing with intent and feeling, “something important.”

oh.

fuck.

jaskier swallows, because he’s pretty sure he knows what geralt is going to say and fuck, fuck, fuck, he really doesn’t want a confession when his darling lover isn’t quite in control of his own mind. the bard is a romantic and he had privately yearned for a whispered declaration of love, with only the stars and the moon as their witness, as their bodies entwine into impossible shapes, and--

“jaskier!” geralt snaps out, his lips pursing into an awfully adorable pout, “pay attention to me!”

and oh, what utter irony this is.

“apologies, my darling,” jaskier replies, his tone soft and warm, “please, do continue.”

“my important thing,” geralt nods jerkily, throwing an irritated glare when eskel and lambert begin snickering. they’re tucked tightly against each other, arms around shoulders, both watching with glimmering golden gazes. jaskier shakes his head and cups geralt’s face, forcing the witcher to focus on him once again.

“your important thing?” jaskier cocks his head, “what is it?”

geralt blinks, leans forward until their noses brush and hums lowly.

“you,” he says, nuzzling jaskier sweetly - the bard watches, holding his breath and refusing to blink, not wanting to miss a single moment of geralt’s affection, “you sing like shit, but you have such a pretty face.”

jaskier blinks and pulls away, allowing geralt to slip and fall against him.

“you awful man,” the bard sighs, unimpressed and deadpan when the witcher begins to paw at him pathetically, “i truly don’t know why i bother with you.”

“i don’t know why anyone bothers with me either,” geralt laments, which is echoed by a set of twin sniffs from across the table. jaskier glances across to see lambert and eskel looking wounded as they stare at their fellow witcher.

“it’s true,” lambert says, with a sorrowful frown.

“we don’t know why anyone bothers with him,” eskel adds solemnly.

“he’s just so awful,” lambert continues with alarmingly wet eyes.

jaskier gapes as geralt whines and buries himself into the crook of his neck, clutching and tugging the bard back against him. jaskier allows himself to be pulled back but the outrage coursing through his veins prevents him from returning the embrace.

“because we love him!” he announces, shaking his head despairingly, “he might be an idiot, but he’s our idiot!” inwardly, he swears to never offer to cook for the witchers again - or, at the very least, scold them for having such a disorganised kitchen, “and i swear, if you--”

he cuts himself off,

for he’s interrupted with the most surprising noise,

it’s low and rumbling, soft but deep - a purr. 

the noise echoes lowly around the oddly silent room - vesemir snores softly, but even he pauses when a crescendo of geralt’s purring becomes the only sound worth making in the evening hall. jaskier sighs with awe as he gently buries his hand in soft wintry locks.

he’s... never heard geralt make such a noise before.

it’s similar to his hums, but lower, more rhythmic and sweetly soft.

“what is happening?” he breathes, gushing with reverence as he scratches at geralt’s scalp. the witcher’s purrs builds and builds, vibrating from his chest and warming jaskier from the inside out.

he glances up and he feels himself melt upon catching the twin expressions of gentle awe, watching them from across the table.

“he hasn’t done that since he was a baby,” eskel says, clutching at his cheeks with a hushed gasp, “fuck, geralt used to purr so sweetly in his sleep!”

“he’s like a little cat,” lambert remarks in the same softly whispered voice, before a small frown flicks over his face, “can i purr?”

eskel turns to him with an intensely serious expression, “lambert, if you want to purr,” he says, holding onto the younger witcher’s shoulders, “then you purr.”

and lambert nods, swallows, before he wets his licks and begins to purr - it’s a shaky noise, hesitant and quiet, but it builds and builds until eskel smiles with delight and throws himself bodily at the man. jaskier watches as they topple off the bench and onto the floor.

they land in a clumsy pile of arms and legs - lambert continues to purr as he rubs his face against eskel’s shoulder, with the older witcher rubbing his head with a dreamily elated expression shining brightly in his eyes.

the bard tilts his head and feels inexplicably fond - geralt forces himself further against jaskier, until he’s half-sprawled across the bard’s lap, purring and growling softly as he nuzzles against a fiercely beating heart.

“loud,” geralt murmurs, his voice thick with sleep, to which jaskier presses a helplessly adoring kiss against the top of his witcher’s head.

“yes, it is,” he replies softly, burying his face into thick white locks, “and it’s all for you.”

“for me?” geralt echoes uncertainly.

jaskier smiles, nods, “for you.”

#fic rec

[clintbartonswifee]

Hi! Do you write about Chris Beck? If yes, could you write something where he try to prepare amazing birthday for his girl (maybe with some problems on the way) but she love it anyway? Thank you so much! 💜 PS. HAPPY BIRTHDAY SWEETHEART! I wish you all the best! 💜💜💜

Pairing: Chris Beck x Reader

(Hi love! Thank you for the early birthday wish but it isn't for another 10 days, but thank you for requesting a Chris Beck fic! I hope this is good ♡)

Chris had woken up earlier than usual, trying his best to stay quiet as he pulled out a few small boxes and gift bags decorated with gold stars. He took them to the kitchen, placing them gently onto the table before arranging them neatly. Keeping quiet so he wouldn't wake you, Chris pulled out pans, bowls, anything and everything he needed to make a breakfast that you'll love. He was going to make pancakes, omelettes, and also make blueberry muffins with fresh blueberries added. Chris had managed to make the muffins first, whipping up the batter and then placing them into the pans. Sighing in relief when he got them into the oven, and after that, he got to work on making the pancake batter from scratch. Groaning when he kept thinking that he messed up when it was at first too thick, but then he managed to get the batter at the right consistency. All the while, Chris made sure to keep quiet, but the scents of blueberry muffins baking and the pancakes in the pan roused you from your slumber. Yawning as you rub the sleep from your eyes, getting out of bed and slowly treading out of your bedroom to where the delicious scents are coming from.

A smile slowly spread across your lips when you saw the navy blue wrapped gifts on the table. The golden stars shining in the bright lights of the kitchen, and you reached out to open up the card that was placed before the gifts. It was a simple card, Happy Birthday was written in bold white cursive while surrounded by gold stars. The inside was simple too, but you couldn't help but read aloud what Chris had written: "I love you to the moon and back. I love you across the entire galaxy, and I love you more than the stars love the night. I love you, my Venus. Happy Birthday Y/n."

Chris had turned around to face you when he heard your voice, smiling brightly when he heard you reading what he wrote. You walked over to Chris after placing the card back onto the table, giving him a side hug before motioning to the pancake in the pan that needed to be flipped. Giggling when you heard him curse under his breath, smiling softly when he apologizes for the word slipping out. You watched as he stacked plenty of pancakes onto a plate, taking it to the table before bringing over the bottle of syrup and tub of butter. Chris had pouted for you to just sit down, but you kissed his cheek and said, "but I love helping you."

He couldn't complain, not when you pressed soft kisses to his cheek and whispered 'I love you' while he finished up preparing breakfast. When Chris finished making two good sized omelettes, the two of you sat down to eat. Steaming mugs of coffee filled up, while your plates were filled with good food that was made with love. You ate in a comfortable silence, but the silence was broken when you asked Chris why the oven was still on. And then another curse flew out of his mouth. Watching on as he hastily pulls out the tray of blueberry muffins, cringing when his hand touched the scalding hot pan, which prompted you to rush over to him once he shut everything down. Being gentle, you lead him over to the sink, running his hand under the cold water and inspecting the burned area after shutting the water off. The skin was red and raw, and the area was slowly blistering up and you offered to place a bandaid over it so nothing rubbed against it. And Chris accepted it.

He was a bit sheepish after that little incident, smiling softly and reassuring you that he was fine. Encouraging you to finish your breakfast before opening up your presents that he claimed you'd love. And you did. After setting your plate into the sink, you were giddily opening up your gifts, starting with the small box ones. Within the small ones, you pulled out red jewelry boxes, and within them was a pair of gold and sterling silver earrings that were stars and crescent moons, while the other box was a gold necklace that had matching stars dangling. It was cute and you both knew that you'd be wearing them everyday from now on. Within the gift bags, you pulled out books, socks, lotions and other small things you had been wanting. Gleefully getting out of your chair and wrapping your arms around your husband's neck as you thank him for the lovely gifts. Holding him a little tighter when he pulls you down onto his lap, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist.

"Happy Birthday, my Venus."

Tag List: @jobean12-blog @the-omni-princess @jhangelface0523 @nerdypinupcrystal @kanupps06 @randomfandompenguin @partlybcrnes @addikted-2-dopamine @purelyfictionallife @binkysteebnpewter @mushyjellybeans @sebbbystaaan @starydreamer

#fic rec

[clintbartonswifee]

Quarantine 8

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (online)

A/N: Heya guys! Here’s part 8. I hope you like it ;)

Warnings: Flirting, language, breaking quarantine, nerves, feels, fluff, some sad talk, talk of the freight car incident, one single, solitary KISS(I did use a gif from endings, beginnings in here too, at the very bottom.)

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[clintbartonswifee]

thank you for giving us the good stuff

Quiet Festival Night

((another one shot based on a prompt from @sydneygremlins, thank you darling!!))

Geralt could see the glowing lights of the bustling city ahead in the darkening evening, having just rode in after fulfilling a contract. Thrown over the back of Roach behind him was the corpse of a Kikimora, a creature he found annoyingly common. He usually had to take a potion to fight well enough to kill it without incapacitating himself for a week, unless they were young and reckless, like the one strung over Roach now. To his side was Jaskier, loyally at his heels as usual. The feisty little bard had been with him for about thirty years now, but he had hardly seemed to age. There were a few indications, however; Jaskier had started to grey a bit – nothing extreme, but noticeable to himself and the Witcher – and had grown a short but thick beard that also housed streaks of grey. Aside from that, Jaskier had the same spring in his step as he did when he first joined Geralt. There were a few times, of course, where that spring died, and Jaskier would drag his feet to his next destination, usually leaving Geralt behind. Geralt had never forced him to stay, but had always wished it. It was selfish, almost cruel, but he was so used to his endless chattering and song that Geralt was unable to bear the crackle of fire and find sleep beyond his reach, and skip meals, sleep, company, to keep moving. Always keep moving.

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[clintbartonswifee]

JUST KISS YOU IMBECILES

i liked this lil series 👌 very nice

Geralt doesn't get cold as easily as a human and when it's cold he can warm up Jaskier OR Geralt's heartbeat is slower than a human's and bc of that his body doesn't produce as much heat and he's slow to warm up so Jaskier snuggles him to help.

Geralt warms up Jaskier when it’s cold

Snow blankets the landscape, falling in delicate flurries and deadening their footfalls to soft thuds. Geralt would prefer to keep riding into the night, but Jaskier is lagging behind and he hasn’t heard a peep about his wet feet for hours.

Geralt hasn’t been traveling with the bard for long, but he’s already learned that when Jaskier stops complaining, that’s when he should start paying attention.

He reins in Roach at the next rocky outcrop which will provide shelter from the snow and gets to work making camp. It’s some time before Jaskier arrives, shivering and glum. There’s a snare of annoyance in Geralt’s chest, though he isn’t sure if it’s directed at Jaskier for not keeping up or at himself for not noticing how far behind he’d fallen.

Jaskier drops to the ground in an inelegant pile and huddles as close as he can to the small fire Geralt has started. He crosses his legs in front of his chest and puts his arms around himself, his fingers blue and swollen.

He looks a truly sorry state, and after a moment’s hesitation Geralt hands him the bowl of stew he’d been planning to eat himself.

“You should get out of those wet clothes,” he says as Jaskier eats, and it sounds gruffer than he intends. The fact Jaskier nods wordlessly and doesn’t respond with some kind of lewd comment has Geralt more worried than his shivering.

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[clintbartonswifee]

AAAAAA ITS HAPPENINGGGGGGG

Quarantine 7

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (online)

A/N: Heya guys! Here’s part 7! I hope you enjoy it ;)

Warnings: Flirting, language, quarantine, feels, fluff, moments of sadness, storms 

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#fic rec

[clintbartonswifee]

okay but like,,, seb makes bestfriend!reader watch EB when it’s out, and he notices she’s getting a little hot and bothered during THOSE scenes, and he just decides to show her what he can do, and later coughs up that he was thinking of her during some of the more explicit scenes

Ooh

Omg but imagine having a movie night with your best friend, Seb, and you decide to watch his new movie because he’s very proud of it

You’re sat in his living room, on his comfy couch and you’re just passing commentary on the movie - telling him how much you love it and he just laughs and hides his face each time you congratulate him

However, he soon notices that you get completely quiet when the sex scene comes on

and he turns his head to look at you; smirking

the lights are dimmed, and you look adorable in the soft sweater which you stole from him a while ago and Seb just can’t help but reach out and touch your face. 

He notices you shiver as soon as he touches your cheek gently. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and you can hear the cockiness in his voice, “Frank’s got you all hot and bothered?” he asks again, teasingly, and you just shake your head but he chuckles and pulls you closer

you end up on his lap and he wraps his arm around you and stares into your eyes, “I can help, you know?” he says softly, discretely pressing your body against his

and you look down into his blue eyes and you decide to just go for it, so you lean in and press your lips to his and kiss him deeply. 

He smiles into the kiss and ends up laying you down on the couch and hovers above you. 

“So that’s what it took for you to notice me?” he teases you again, hinting at the paused movie on the TV. 

you giggle, “Oh shut up.” and you lean in to kiss him again and he doesn’t hold back this time. 

he kisses you passionately and tugs on your lips and he slips his hand under your sweatshirt and caresses your skin softly

He slips his hand past the waistband of your shorts and into your underwear; toying with your clit and moaning into the kiss when he feels just how wet you are

“All that for me?” he mumbles against your lips, pulling away just a little to watch your face morph into a frown as he pushes two of his fingers into you

you moan as his fingers massage your walls gently, touching you in all the right places

he makes you cum rather rapidly, all over his fingers

and he proceeds to removed his fingers from you and place them on his tongue, shamelessly moaning at your taste

“Fuck… you taste amazing.” he tells you and gets on his knees and spreads your legs further apart and pushes his face in between your hips and eats you out hungrily

his tongue against your sensitive clit making you lose your mind

he hold you down by pressing his palm against your abdomen and you tug gently on his hair as he makes you cum a second time in the matter of just a few minutes

he pulls away after licking you clean and kisses his way up your body while he lowers his sweatpants

Seb would push into your gently; taking his sweet time and enjoying the sounds of soft moans and whimpers which leave your lips as he fills you up nicely

your walls wrapped around him perfectly and he groans at how warm and tight you feel 

he starts out slow; rocking in and out of you gently 

but once you get comfortable with him in you; he speeds up into you and fucks you relentlessly

he’s wild and passionate; kissing you and biting down on your lips and holding you as close as possible

maybe you can’t help but wrap your arms around his waist and press him into you 

and you simply cannot resist grabbing his ass and giving it a little squeeze - which then makes him chuckle in your ear and kiss the side of your face

your moans get louder and louder as he pounds into you; his cock slipping in and out of you perfectly 

the sounds of your skin slapping against one another is obscene and it makes you blush but also turns you on

and soon you feel the familiar warmth taking over you as you feel the pressure in between your hips becoming too much to handle 

and you let go and moan his name out loud as you cum all over his cock

Seb bites down on your shoulder as he speeds up again; chasing his orgasm as well

and he cums right after you; biting down on your skin and almost growling in passion

he collapses on top of you; both of you panting and you slide your hand into his hair again and play with his hair while the two of you catch your breath

you giggle when you feel him leaving soft kisses along your neck

“How did you do that in a room full of people?” you ask, referencing to the sex scene

he chuckles and pulls away to look at you and confesses, “I thought of you, you were the right muse.” he winks and leans down to kiss you again

“Perv.” you giggle and mumble against his lips

“Be mine,” he says out of nowhere when he pulls away to look into your eyes again.

“Seb…” you trail off, not knowing what to say

“Come on, you’ve known me for three years. Just say yes.” he leans down to gently brush his nose against yours and you smile and accept

“Yes.” 

And upon hearing it, he had the biggest smile you’ve ever seen on his face and leans in to kiss you again

#fic rec