“A self-styled spiritualist who splashes table salt around, and a middle-school esper who is, in a manner of speaking, being used. When I first started drawing this manga, it was (well, was until the end) groping in the dark with shaking hands, and I recall sweating and struggling over various things. It could be that ‘Salt Splash’ too was born as a technique to dispel that sort of anxiety and bad thoughts.
It think this is a weird manga, but it ended up as something I couldn’t recreate on command, a thing filled with my memories.
It’s thanks to everyone that I was able to draw it to the end like this. With the help of the multitude of thoughts and letters and fan arts, I was somehow able to push through to the finish line. If you would occasionally go back to read and laugh again, it would bring me the greatest joy.
Thank you very much!”
thank you one for the great series, great ending, and these touching final words!
Before midnight on 4/12. I lay in bed, soundly asleep. The clock hits midnight. I sit straight up in bed in a cold sweat shaking slightly, my pupils dilating. Into the cold night I whisper, “it’s 4/13”.
“For a moment he felt a wild hope: perhaps this really was a nightmare. Perhaps he would awake in his own bed, bathed in sweat, shaking, maybe even crying … but alive. Safe. Then he pushed the thought away. Its charm was deadly, its comfort fatal.”
Summary: This is pure, multi-orgasmic porn with Dean. Enjoy.
Warning: smut, overstimulation (sort of)
Word Count: 1600ish
A/N: Just felt like writing some Dean porn. No plot here, lol. XOXO
Dean’s moving at just the right pace.
It’s the ‘you aren’t quite at the orgasm yet, but this will get you there soon’ pace. The slow and steady pace that’s more about going deep and hitting all the right spots that being hard or wild. The pace that makes you shake and sweat like your body is totally under Dean’s control now.
Your heat was early. You knew it as soon as you opened your eyes, your body already covered in a thin sheen of sweat and the inside of your thighs slick with arousal. You barely had a chance to adjust to the soft morning light filtering in through the blinds before you were curling yourself in a fetal position, the first cramp rolling painfully through your abdomen. It hurt like a bitch and you whined in protest, securing your arms around your midsection as though that would help quell the pain.
It felt as though every nerve ending in your body was on fire, you skin prickling with the warmth. It had always felt like this but you had never gotten used to it, usually taking suppressants so you wouldn’t have to feel the full force of your heats. You hadn’t been expecting it for another two weeks though and as a result hadn’t packed them when you left the compound. You were on a stakeout for only a max of three days and you hadn’t thought of packing them just in case. Oh how you were regretting that decision. Especially with an unmated Alpha so close to you, the very same one you’d been pining after for the last couple of months.
You kick the blankets away from your body as you start to pant, suddenly feeling very constricted under the layered cotton, the fabric sticking to your body uncomfortably. You fist the bed sheets underneath you tightly, pushing your head back into the pillow as you fought to regain control over yourself. It was getting increasingly more difficult as another cramp spread through your body and you knew there was only one thing that was going to help at this point.
Swallowing around the dryness of your throat you slip off the edge of the bed, the cool touch of the floor welcome as you pad across to the door, opting to not put on any more clothes than the shorts and singlet you’d worn to bed. Minimal clothing was always better when your whole body felt like it was attached to a live wire.
Softly making your way downstairs you paused on the last step, Bucky’s scent slamming into you like a freight train, your eyes dropping closed as you breathed it in greedily. He smelt like old spice soap, fresh coffee and the smoke from the fireplace in the corner and mixed together it was intoxicating, your cunt throbbing with want. His back was towards you as you edged into the room but you saw his shoulders tense before you had the chance to say anything, Bucky moving quickly to his feet as he looked at you. You didn’t need to say anything to him, you knew that your scent was enough for him to understand.
You could already see him beginning to harden in his jeans and you licked your tongue over your bottom lip, dragging your eyes over him as you stepped closer. Bucky’s eyes were wide and almost unsure as he maneuvered himself to the other side of the table, keeping the obstacle between you. At this close proximity you could almost taste him on the back of your tongue, your whole body humming with anticipation as the dampness between your legs grew.
Because of this addition on the post by @tinkdw I felt compelled to write a short… thingy. :P
Over You (1264 words)
When Cas comes back as a human, he has nightmares. Dean doesn’t
notice it at first; the bunker is huge and the walls are mostly sound
proof and Cas – well, Cas always looks tired.
And Cas does his best to never let it on that he dreams, every
night, of all the people he killed, all the mistakes he made, all the
knowledge he has lost because his human mind can’t comprehend it
anymore. Some days he wakes up screaming, others crying – often
both. But he never talks about it because, well, if he’s learned
one thing, then this: Winchesters don’t talk about their feelings.
And he’s a Winchester now, at least this much has Dean made clear.
Dean notices when they’re on a case in Iowa, sharing the motel
room because Sam got the short straw and has to observe a haunted
house they’ve theoretically cleared but – better safe than sorry.
It’s almost 2am and Dean’s not even remotely tired so he’s just
idling around when a soft whimper makes him perk up.
It grows louder. At first it’s barely noticeable but after a
while the whimper turns into groans (and not the sexy kind either),
then small cries and Dean can hear Cas’ breath hitching before he
lets out a shout. Dean’s up before he knows what he’s doing,
standing at Cas’ bed. He’s sweaty and his face is distorted into
a grimace; without thinking, Dean grabs Cas’ shoulder and shakes
Cas sits up almost immediately. “I didn’t -” he stutters. “I
didn’t want -”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Dean says softly. “It was a dream.”
He’s surprised by the gentleness in his voice and swallows heavily;
he shouldn’t turn this into a chick flick moment.
“Dean.” Cas recognizes him and immediately recoils; Dean’s
hand is falling from Cas’ shoulder. “I’m sorry.” He sounds
tired. “I – had a bad dream.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” Dean answers.
“I’m sorry,” Cas repeats. “I didn’t want to disturb you.
I can go sleep in Sam’s room if you want.”
Dean shakes his head without even thinking about it. “Dude, no,”
he says forcefully. “That’s not a problem. I’m used to it. Sam
had them all the time. Me… me too.”
“I – I may have had them a lot,” Cas admits. “In the last
weeks. But I didn’t want to disturb you. And it’s not a problem,
really. Don’t feel pressured into doing… something.”
“I’m not. Come on, let’s try to go back to sleep, okay? I’ll
sit here a bit. Watch over you.” He points at the end of the bed.
Cas tilts his head curiously. “You always said I shouldn’t do
this,” he says.
That makes Dean blush. “Well, that was – different,” he
explains. He doesn’t exactly know how, but it - well it was. Most
definitely. “You deserve it,” he adds as an afterthought.
Maybe it’s because Cas is too tired to argue or because he
actually believes what Dean has said, but he agrees and lets himself
fall to sleep shortly after. And it seems to help, very well actually
– no nightmare in sight. Dean doesn’t fall asleep that night but
that’s okay - he can sleep in the Impala, let Sam drive. He’s
always happy when he can.
After that, it becomes a habit. Of course, because Cas is Cas, he
at first puts up a fight – but after the third night in a row where
he needed more caffeine than humanly possible to even held his head
up he realized that this is his best option.
So Dean stops sleeping in his room, instead watching over Cas
every night. He doesn’t mention it to Sam because – it’s no big
deal anyway, and it’s just until Cas stops having these dreams. He
sets up a comfy chair next to Cas’ bed and it works. When Cas has a
nightmare, he wakes him up, they go back to sleep.
No need to talk about it. Not that they don’t talk – actually
they do talk a lot, sometimes for hours at a time. About everything,
being human, their last cases, philosophical questions; sometimes Cas
tries to lure him into a conversation about mathematical equations
because he ‘doesn’t want his skills to get rusty’ but Dean
shuts that down pretty quickly.
They do this for a week until Dean’s back and neck starts to
hurt. He doesn’t say anything because he has enjoyed their nights
together so much that he fears saying anything will threaten whatever
fragile thing they have build together but Cas, of course, notices it
When Dean groans and massages his neck as he sinks into the chair,
Cas sighs and pointedly looks at his bed. “My bed is pretty big,
you know,” he says.
“Um,” Dean says. “Okay?”
“It’s just – I see that you’re hurting. And I feel bad.
Because I – I feel like my happiness comes at your expense. I don’t
- I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not, Cas. I’m just old and cranky and
shouldn’t be doing this stuff anymore. But if I can handle a
wendigo I can handle a fucking chair.”
“Well, you don’t have to.”
They don’t talk about it for that evening but when it’s 2AM
and Dean wakes up with the worst crick in his neck that he has ever
experienced, Cas wakes up and holds up his blanket as an invitation.
“Come on,” he says and it’s not a plea, it’s not a
suggestion, it’s an order.
So, of course, Dean obeys. He’s shaking and sweating at the
prospect of sharing a bed with Cas, but he obeys. It doesn’t
mean anything, he thinks. Cas is Cas. He just wants to be nice to me.
It doesn’t mean anything. He doesn’t sleep that night.
The next night, he’s in bed with Cas from the beginning. He
almost doesn’t dare to move but he’s tired, so tired,
and when he falls asleep he finds himself drifting closer to Cas;
almost but not quite touching. They don’t talk about it afterwards.
The third night it all goes down. Of course he’s lying in Cas’
bed and of course he’s trying to keep his hands to himself but
after talking for three hours and Cas’ eyes falling shut every few
seconds now he just can’t help himself; he raises his hand and
brushes a few stray hairs from Cas’ face.
When Cas opens his eyes almost immediately, he stills. “Sorry,”
he says and puts his hand back, expecting – whatever, a shout, a
‘what the fuck are you doing you pervert’, a ‘leave my bed and
don’t come back’.
Certainly not this. Cas takes Dean’s hand, putting it in his
hair again. “It’s okay,” he says quietly. Hesitantly, Dean
starts to caress Cas’ hair, watching with fascination when Cas
shuffles closer, burying his nose in Dean’s neck. Far too soon his
breath starts to even and he falls asleep completely; he doesn’t
have any nightmares that night.
There’s no going back from this, and somehow Dean doesn’t want
to. Soft touches turn into warm embraces turn into slow kisses turn
into eager movements. He doesn’t look back; they don’t talk about
it because, well, there’s nothing to talk about.
Except one thing, a few weeks later. “You know,” Cas
starts quietly when Dean is running his fingers through his hair
again. “I vowed to always watch over you,” he continues. “And then
you said you would do the same.” There’s a short pause, then,
very quiet, almost like an exhale. “Thank you.”
Cas doesn’t have nightmares again, but they still share a bed.
Thought I’d start off @vldangstweek with something that turns from angsty to fluffy, just because, based on the rest of this weeks prompts, it’s gonna get waaayyyy angstier (knowing me, anyway). Everything will be tagged with vldangstweek and any of my usual angst tags (angst, langst, klangst, etc)
Let my children go home, they’re stressed and tired (under a cut for length).
“Come on Lance, one more time! You
need to defeat this gladiator before I can allow anyone to go to dinner!”
Allura shouted down from the observation deck.
The quiet groans of his teammates
filled his head and Lance winced, stepping back to stand his ground against the
bot attacking him. His vision wavered over his helmet and his fingers trembled
against his bayard, unable to form it because of the close range combat style.
He grunted, rolling as the bot dove for him, sweeping it’s legs out from under
it and sending it to the ground. Briefly, he heard Hunk’s cheer of
encouragement in his comms, and then the bot was back up again, charging at
Lance sighed, side stepping the bot
and pressing his shaking hands to his head, trying to stop the swimming feeling
in his brain, the burn at the back of his throat and eyes, the tightness in his
chest. He took a hit, hard, and fell backwards onto his ass, teeth clacking
“Dude, seriously, we’re starving!”
Pidge called out. “You need to beat this!”
Lance took a shaky breath, shooting
a glare at the deck. “You want me to beat it? Fine. I’ll beat it.”
Before the bot could get any
closer, Lance whipped out his bayard, transforming it in the process and
ignoring Allura’s shouts of this being a hand to hand fight. Within seconds,
the bot was in a smoking heap on the floor and Lance was shaking, sweat curling
down his forehead. Allura stormed out of the observation deck and onto the main
floor, eyebrows furrowed. “That was not the
assignment, Lance. You’ll have to do it again.”
Lance ripped off his helmet and
chucked it to the ground. When he looked up, Allura took a step back at the
ferocity in his face, the tears in his eyes. “I said, no. I’m not doing this bull shit anymore. They’re
not either,” he snapped, pointing towards the deck. “You don’t get to treat us
this way, we’re the only reason
you’re not dead or still in those
stupid pods. You called us family, Allura.”
His voice broke and his lip
quivered as he stumbled back, shaking his head. “You don’t get to treat family
like this. Not when we’re doing all of this for you.”
He swallowed and spun on his heel,
storming from the room. Allura hesitated, glancing back at the deck only to
find the rest of the paladins and Coran standing behind her. She studied the
group, noted the lines on their faces and the bags under their eyes, and
frowned. “Do you all agree with him?”
They remained silent for a moment,
glancing at each other. Hunk spoke up first, his voice gentle. “Yeah. I do, at
“Me too,” Pidge piped up, staring
at the floor and fiddling with her bayard.
Keith nodded silently, rubbing a
hand up and down one arm and looking off to the side. Hunk huffed. “Allura,
we…I would say we’re homesick, but I don’t know if that covers all of us.”
“We’re Earth sick,” Keith offered.
Shiro spoke for the first time.
“Lance has the most family to miss out of the five of us.”
“And honestly?” Hunk muttered. “You
yelling all the time, you pushing him, and us, all the time? No breaks, no
relaxation time at all? I’m amazed he
didn’t snap before this.”
Allura swallowed. “I’m…”
“It’s okay,” Hunk promised. “We
understand, you want to stop the Galra, stop Zarkon.”
“But you have to remember that
we’re all volunteering to do this,” Pidge said, fidgeting from foot to foot.
“There’s nothing keeping anyone here other than empathy. Don’t give Lance a
reason to stop caring, or he will leave.”
Allura bit her lip and glanced over
her shoulder. “I should go-”
“No,” Keith said firmly, stepping
forwards and resting a hand on Allura’s arm. “We got this. You two go get
She and Coran studied the paladins
for a moment before nodding in agreement and leaving the training deck.
If someone thought i wouldn’t draw the dance scene from Tale as Old as Time fic. I honestly sorry bC HERE I AM XDD Animation movies AU’s are my new adiction and @vixenfur and @mikaisatop are the ones I blame for this one U_U
(The bg wasnt draw by me, it was taken from the original movie ;) )
HAVING A CRUSH ON A TEACHER IS NOT FUN. When he leans over your shoulder or the desk to check your answers. And you can hear him breathing softly and see his chest rise up and down. So you start sweating and shaking just a little bit. Thinking of all the things you have in common and his stupid jokes that make you laugh uncontrollably. And you do something right in class and he praises you. But you get so upset internally when you get a question wrong. Because you want him to like you, but when you get something wrong it’s just one more thing he rejects.
Summary: you’re the personal trainer for American Assassin and grow close to one of the stars. (Verrrrry close)
Word Count: 8.3k
Warnings: this spirals into smut! I also have a filthy mouth so beware of multiple curses throughout.
A/N: Dylan mentioned needing a trainer for American Assassin and my first thought was ‘hot sexy Dylan sweating over a punching bag’ and so this baby was born lmao. I’ve not had the opportunity to see the film, so I’ve sort of made up what I assume the types of things are that they did. I also have no idea what order they shot the film in, so just went along with the natural progression of this plot!
PSA !!! This mentions nothing of his accident on The Death Cure. I don’t feel it’s right to write about or romanticise Dylan’s trauma, so you’ll never find it featured in my pieces!
**In case it isn’t obvious, every time there’s a line break, that indicates a small time skip. During that time, Y/N and Dylan grow a little closer.**
Happy reading! :)
“Harder!” You called out, watching Dylan’s shoulders shake. A sheen of sweat covered his upper arms, accentuating the powerful movements of his biceps.
Hearing your words, he groaned loudly. “Oh, c’mon, Y/N. I’ve been at it for,” he paused, face screwing into a grimace, “at least an hour. Please give me a break,” he whined. Despite the complaints, he continued his actions.
Rolling your eyes, you stepped forward and grabbed the punching bag, stopping his workout abruptly. “It’s been barely ten minutes,” you deadpanned, “and you’re still doing it wrong! May I?”
Dylan nodded so you moved forwards. Grabbing his bandaged hands, you worked quickly to adjust his balance in a way that redistributed his weight. “You need to engage your core more. Without it, you’re losing a lot of power.”
“Okay,” He replied, standing up a little straighter. He pushed some of the hair from his face, gazing at the bag determinedly.
“It’s all yours,” you said, giving him the go-ahead.
so my results are supposed to appear soon the thing is i really hope i get to pass this year but according to my results in the first semester it’s really difficult to pass this year cause my results are added together and i really did a hard work in the second semester and because of that i am really afraid that it won’t be enough and if i didn’t pass…..no more animating for me……
i am shaking and sweating and my stomach hurts so much because of this i really want to pass this year….
Tiana once asked Naveen to share his fondest memories of music, from a time before he knew the music of Jazz and New Orleans.
For a moment, Naveen thought back to his youth. Back to when he first heard the Royal Maldonian Choir in the grand halls of the castle, or when he danced to the bands that played in the annual parades that marched passed the royal gardens beneath his tower.
But it was a recent memory that he mentioned first, from one of his earlier tours of the Americas in the spring of 1921. His parents had sent him to Mexico, and in one of the busiest cities, he remembered two musicians on a brightly lit stage. The singer in his blinding white suit had a voice that could hold the masses enraptured. But it was the guitar player that had held Naveen’s attention, his fingers a blur against the guitar strings, shinned shoes tapping out a beat against the wooden stage. The man had been a literal embodiment of energy in constant movement, the sounds of the guitar lifting Naveen’s spirits higher than he thought possible. Naveen had jumped onto the stage without hesitation. He had needed to be a part of that music! The singer had glared and his voice had faltered, but the second man, the one with the guitar, had grinned and tapped out a fast beat, quirking an eyebrow–a challenge.
Naveen didn’t remember every moment on the stage. But he remembered dancing to a song about being driven crazy, trying to follow the guitarist’s quick steps, and learning the absolute joy of a grito.
“I think his name was Héctor,” Naveen said, thinking back to the brief trading of names after the duo’s performance behind the stage. Héctor had been sweating, shaking Naveen’s hand, before his angry friend had dragged him away. “Ah, Tiana, I wish you could have heard them play. We must travel there some day!”
“That would be nice,” Tiana said, and Naveen wondered if they could find the two friends again. Something about the singer seemed familiar to him–had he run into him since that day?–but he never had seen or heard the guitarist again during his last days in Mexico. Wherever he was, whoever he was, Naveen hoped he was still playing.
So… as if the actually episode wasn’t painful enough, I went ahead and wrote a coda for it - enjoy :)
It was dark in Dean’s room. The lights had long since been dimmed, the bed sheets pulled up to the hunter’s shoulders, and empty bottles scattered across the floor.
Dean’s doesn’t remember going to bed, but everything is how it should be. His door is closed, the room utterly silent with nothing to hear but the sound of his breathing; slow, tired, and heavy. He can’t remember why his room was littered with discarded glass, all he knew is that their reflective surfaces glinted back at him, watching with a pitiful glow through their clear eyes.
Dean closed his eyes, turning away from their stares, but the glow still shone through his lids — it was too bright, too painful. He rolled over onto his side, forcing his face against the pillow.
Still too bright.
Fine. He would ignore it.
But he couldn’t fall asleep, everything was right but, something was wrong, something was… missing. What was it? Feathers, a coat, a tie…
Aw yes. He remembered now.
Dean buried himself further into the sheets, his brow furrowing as he forced himself not to think. He didn’t need this — he didn’t need any of this. He just needed one thing, and he could never have it.
Stop. Go to sleep.
Sleep came painfully slow, his mind fading in small increments until the dark finally enveloped him, pulled him into the lulling void.
Then felt it, a dip in his bed.
“Dean.” The voice made him freeze, the soft gravel tone pinning him to his bed. “Dean,” the voice moved closer, brushing the sheets and leaning over him.
Dean kept his eyes shut, breathing deeply — in and out, as was his routine. “You’re not real…” he murmured.
“Dean,” it was quiet this time, a warmth creeping up the back of his neck, dangerously close. A hand touched his face, “Dean, please look at me.”
“No, you’re not real.” The hand moved to stroke his cheek. Dean tensed at the sensation, gritting his teeth and willing it to go away.
“You’re not real!”
Hands grabbed his wrists and Dean instinctively fought against them.
“But Dean I need to tell you!”
“No!!!” Dean could feel the tears burning behind his closed eyelids. “Stop!!” He shouted, he screamed, but the hands wouldn’t let go.
He wanted to open his eyes, wanted to see Cas kneeling over him, but he knew he couldn’t.
“Dean —” the hands tightened painfully.
“CAS STOP!” The light brightened, blinding him even without seeing. He opened his eyes.
Dean was shaking, his body covered in sweat as he took heavy breaths. He blinked. The hands were still wrapped around his wrists, white at the knuckles and stronger than should be humanly possible. Dean looked up.
Jack stared at Dean in the darkness, unblinking golden eyes set upon him. Dean didn’t breathe, staying stock still like a deer staring down a lion. He flinched when the nephilim moved, slowly releasing his grip.
Dean straightened abruptly, climbing up and away from the half angel. When he realized the wetness on his cheeks he hastily wiped them away.
Dean managed to calm down enough to stare back at the nephilim, who had settled on the bed, a safe distance away from him. Jack wore the same expression that had been plastered on his face since the day he was born; a furrowed brow, knit with confusion, and wonder. Dean just stared.
The nephilim looked down at his hands, flexing his still new fingers, watching the skin stretch and retract; a cat examining its claws.
“I heard you,” he said, the room echoing with his words. “You seem distressed, I thought I could help.”
Dean swallowed, words still unwilling to aid him. Jack’s face hardened, the set line of his mouth sliding downward. “You called my father’s name. Why?”
Dean scanned his face, the genuine curiosity suggesting no ill will. But how could he trust the son of a snake, a killer waiting to discover its true nature? He tried to open his mouth, but it felt like sandpaper.
At Dean’s silence, the nephilim spoke again, “Did you — care for my father?”
Dean wet his lips. “Yes,” he managed to squeeze out the word.
“Did you — love him?”
“What?” the automatic reply sounded natural, but Dean could feel his stomach churn.
“Sam has told me about love, that it is the reason I am here,” the nephilim continued to examine his fingers. “My mother loved me, and so did my father. They died for me,” Jack paused, “But Sam also said that love can be very painful, that’s why I feel sad — why I feel… guilty. I am the reason my parents are dead.” Jack’s face fell, looking up at Dean with wide eyes.
“Is that what you feel?”
Dean opened his mouth, swallowing past the lump in his throat, “It’s not the same,” he said, watching the nephilim carefully.
“It’s not?” Jack tilted his head, sending a painful pang through Dean’s heart.
“I — I still feel those things… but,” Dean turned away, “but, pain is different. There’s many types of pain.”
“Sam has not told me of this.”
“Because we’re going through it. It’d be like putting salt in an open wounds,” Dean mumbled into his palms, letting his face rest in his hands.
“That sounds rather unpleasant.”
Dean couldn’t help but chuckle, a soft, dry laugh that shook his frame, “Yeah, yeah it is.”
They were both silent for a while, Jack awkwardly examining the blanket while Dean’s eyes stared blankly at the wall. Dean sighed.
“Yes,” Dean’s gruff words rolled smoothly now.
“Yes what?” Jack asked.
“Yes, I loved your… father.”
Dean could hear the smile that spread on the nephilim’s face. Dean frowned at him.
“Father loved you too,” he said with excitement, “His thoughts were very clear, it makes me… happy to know that you felt the same. I’m sure he would be too.” Jack stood up, his smile fading as he looked back at Dean. “I hope you sleep better now, I myself need some rest,” Jack reached for the door, almost touching the handle when he stopped, “I’m sorry.” He sounded uncertain.
“For what?” Dean asked, the sudden change taking him by surprise.
Jack turned around, sadness and guilt softening his features, “For killing the man you loved.”
Dean stared in shock as Jack walked out of the room, closing the door noiselessly and leaving the hunter once again with his company of glass. Dean sat in silence, the strange conversation replaying in his mind.
Jack’s words clung to his brain like honey to a hive, settling deeper and deeper until it finally stuck.
The man you loved.
Dean’s mouth was dry, his eyes suddenly wet. No, no more. Please, he begged.
“You loved him,” Dean grit through his bitter tears, the mess streaming down his face, “You loved him, you fucking coward.” He tried to swallow it down, accept the consequence of his idiocy and move on.
But a voice whispered in his ear, breath hot on his face, a phantom kiss, “You loved me.”
“I loved you,” Dean agreed.
Dean lay back down on his bed, burying his head once again in the pillows, letting his sleep drown him in fantasy. When the dreams returned and he felt Cas’s hands on him, he let himself be touched, let the dream say the words he so desperately needed to hear. But he kept his eyes closed, he kept himself in the dark. It was still too painful, too close to what could’ve been — and always would be.
Genre: Light angst, fluff if you squint, mostly a filler Words: 2,250 Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Injuries, mentions of an aggressive stalker Summary: Soulmate AU in which one’s heartbeat becomes perfectly in sync with their soulmate’s once they meet.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
The words were out of his lips the moment the door had shut behind Peter. They were sharp, and his tongue stressed the curse word, caressing it in a way that drew your attention to his anger. It was obvious in his tone, in the tension of his jaw…
But his eyes told a whole different story. The blue in them, normally sparkling like seawater inspiring you to dive in, looked so dull. They had a panicked look to them now, but they also looked emotionally exhausted, as if behind his eyes, deep down in the core of his being, he didn’t have much left to give. He looked so tired, and the dark circles under his eyes proved him to be.
His shoulders were slumped forward, and he looked as if he were about to fall at any second. But as your eyes traveled toward his hands, you felt guilty, because they were trembling by his sides.
You knew he must have seen you notice because in the next second, his hands were balled into fists to stop the shaking and he was looking away from you.