erina00 - Tumblr blog

erina00 · 6 days ago

Note

I saw your post asking for requests and thought I'd throw one in!

I was thinking a Bucky x Reader hurt/comfort where they do skin-to-skin cuddling for the first time? Nothing smutty obviously, just Bucky, curled up on his partner's chest and re-learning how to accept love and safety and comfort again. Gender Neutral! Reader is preferred, but if you’re not comfortable writing that Fem!Reader is also fine. Thank you kn advance! 💕💕

AN: thank you for sending in your request! You asked and I shall deliver <3 im referencing tfatws bucky here, hope thats ok! And I’m sooo sorry for writing this late omg…life has been annoying lately 💔😭 extremely sorry for the delay and I hope you like this! @the-kestrels-feather 🫂

also, let’s assume they’ve been dating for 5 months and taking it slow, intimacy wise, as I imagine Bucky to be someone who wouldn’t appreciate a fast paced relationship after all the shit he’s been through.

Pairing: Tfatws!Bucky Barnes x GN!Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes experiences what it feels like to be loved and cherished by, for the first time since he went under the ice.

Warnings: Some angst as reader is upset with Bucky for listening to Zemo, LOTS of fluff, cuddles and intimacy, skin to skin contact, Zemo being an asshole, Madripoor club scene is referenced so that means Bucky has to act brainwashed, Bucky cries, Reader loves Bucky so much that he feels overwhelmed, Bucky is self deprecating and sad.

That’s all I think! Might not be my best work as im having writers block 💔

[ divider by @saradika-graphics ]

It was a bad idea. You knew it was a bad idea. You should’ve tried harder to shut Zemo up and come up with something else. Something that didn’t come at the cost of Bucky’s emotional and mental well being.

But it’s not like you didn’t try. It’s just your luck that your boyfriend was a stubborn man who insisted that he was going to do it anyway.

“He’s not doing that”, you had shut Zemo down immediately, Sam was luckily on your side. Bucky, the one person you’d expect to support you, was suddenly on the same page as Helmut fucking Zemo.

“Sweetheart…. just hear me out. This is the only way we can get in”, he had pulled you away from Zemo, his flesh hand gently curled around your elbow to pull your agitated figure back into his warm embrace.

“You’re-why are you supporting this, Bucky? He’s asking you to “act” brainwashed. In a club full of criminals. Like it’s some kind of a fucking play. Does he know how much this shit affects you? Have you forgotten who he is and what happened the last time?”, you cried out, clearly worried yet annoyed about his willingness to go ahead with this plan.

“Man, just listen to them. They’re not wrong. You just recovered from all that, Buck, are you sure this is a good idea?”, Sam added in your support, his own fear and concern melting into his words.

Bucky didn’t listen. He flashed those annoying puppy dog eyes in your direction and prepared to act as a weapon again.

You refused to watch the whole thing, the mere thought of it made you sick to your stomach. So you did the only thing you could think of: stay back. Sam tried to convince you, Bucky’s face was dimmed into the most pitiful frown you’ve ever seen, but you stood firm on your words.

You chose to stay back at the suspiciously luxurious place that Zemo had somehow managed to get for your group. How did that man have places in every corner of the world, including the most shadiest place you’ve been to in a while, you didn’t know.

But you were glad for it now as the disagreement between you and Bucky had drained your energy fully, so you simply changed the clothes that you were supposed to wear in the club, took a long shower, and opted to lounge around in a bathrobe before falling back into the bed with a huff.

You probably shouldn’t have been so harsh towards Bucky. But the first mistake he did was freeing Zemo from the jail. The second one was agreeing to everything that criminal asked. Even Sam was against this whole act. Because he knew just as well, that Bucky would regret it later. There was an odd ache in your chest-whether it was from the fight, the distance between you two or the worry you felt towards Bucky, you weren’t sure.

All of a sudden, the room felt quieter and your thoughts got louder. The stillness was getting to you, so you decided to open your laptop and opened two tabs simultaneously—one that kept an eye on the boys’ location, the other had the Netflix app opened to finish the series you’ve been meaning to.

Yet, you kept going back and forth between the two.

As the night stretched on, your stomach turned into a pit of worry. The two of them hadn’t made any contact yet and their location was suddenly untraceable. You tried calling Sam but the phone kept going to voicemail. You were about to put on some clothes and get them yourself when there was a knock on the door.

You straightened up, a hand reaching towards the side table to grab your gun, when a quiet voice rang out from the other side.

“It’s me.”

Bucky. Of course.

Putting the gun away, you schooled your face into a neutral expression, as if your stomach wasn’t flipping around with nerves and worry at the same time. What if something had gone wrong? What if he’d decided to pull back and go back into the shadows?

It had taken you 3 whole months to coax him out of the isolation and self destructive behaviour. Not that it was fully gone now, but he’d made progress. He’d come around and share whatever was hurting him with a day of quiet and restrained silence.

You opened the door with sweaty palms, expecting to see his bloodied face, but they fell on his vacant eyes, that perpetual dent between in his eyebrows was somehow more pronounced as his frowned, his pale eyes flickering around the room and your eyes. Stepping back, you let him enter the room, looking around in confusion at the absence of Sam and Zemo behind him.

“Where’s the others?”

He chuckled humourlessly. “Got caught in a crossfire when we were leaving the club. Sam accidentally blew our cover. Somehow, Sharon saved our asses and asked us to join her at her place.”

Your eyes widened with surprise. “Sharon? Sharon Carter? What is she doing here?”

He ran a hand through his cropped hair, “On the run. Works as an auctioneer here. Got a fancy place and all.”

You nodded before closing the door and moving towards the bedroom again, wanting to escape the awkward tension in the room. “You didn’t go with them?”

“I wasn’t gonna leave you alone here”, he croaked out. You felt your heart squeeze. He was too sweet for his own good. You couldn’t even pretend to be mad at him for long.

Turning around, you took a good look at him for a moment, eyes lingering on his fidgety hands and tight shoulders, his entire body on fight or flight mode.

Just as you’d expected.

A heavy sigh left your lips, legs taking you to where he was standing before your soft hands rested on his shoulders, lightly massaging them to relieve the tension.

His breath hitched at your touch, the look on his face so pitiful that you almost cooed in sympathy.

“Mind if we crash here for sometime?”, you asked him in a gentle murmur, looking up at his pouty lips and dimmed down gaze as he swallowed thickly before nodding.

You dragged him to the bedroom, hands deftly undoing his kevlar vest and pulling at the hem of his black t-shirt, tossing it to the side. Once he was shirtless, you let your hands caress his chest gently, fingers fiddling with his dog tags before your right hand lifted to cradle his face, your expression open and full of apology as he continued to look lost and nervous, a sheen of unshed tears clouding his eyes.

“Talk to me, Buck. What happened?”, you asked him carefully, not wanting to freak him out by raising your voice or disturbing the quiet air around you.

Both of his arms hovered next to your waist before they tenderly rested against it, thumbing against the belt that held the robe together. He ran his tongue over his lips, hesitating to speak his mind and chose to close his eyes, bracing himself as he quietly muttered the words.

“You were right.”

You frowned, thumb tracing his cheekbone in soothing arcs. “What?”

He opened his eyes slowly, gazing at you with guilt and regret mixed in one. “It didn’t feel good. He was-he was enjoying it too much. People were recording me as if I was a zoo pet. I hated it”, he confessed in a broken whisper.

Your face softened with sympathy. “Buck…”

He shook his head against your hand, the hands around your waist squeezing and pulling you close at the same time, your chests brushing against each other due to the proximity.

“No, no. I’m sorry. I should’ve listened to you. I just- I thought it’d be the right move. In the end, it didn’t even matter. Now I feel-”, he paused to swallow against the tears, his soft voice cracked as he tried to control his emotions.

“Now I feel dirty. I can feel him. In my head and-and on my skin. I don’t like it.”

“Baby”, you whispered sadly, heart clenching painfully at the way he described himself. He always used the same word to describe his brainwashed self. Dirty. And it never failed to stump you into silence, torn between getting over your own pain of hearing your love describe himself like that and comforting him against his own demons.

You removed the hand from his face and buried it in the hair behind his head, the hand tangled with his dog tags massaging the nape of his neck to get rid of the tightness.

“Please, don’t say that. You’ve come so far, Buck. You’re not dirty. You’re a survivor. You’re so brave and inspite of the world failing you time and time again, you rise up and help people. You’re good. I’m so proud to call you mine.”

A stray tear escaped his eye, his eyebrows scrunched up in distress as you showered him with praise and love. He never knew how to take in your kind words— always shied away or laughed it off, choosing to shower you with love instead. The process of accepting your love and softness wasn’t easy for him. He’d always pull back in the beginning, his body taut with pain and restraint as he found it difficult to believe that someone like you would want to be with someone like him. Someone who was broken beyond repair, hopeless, brooding, and had blood on his hands.

And yet, you smiled at him like he hung the moon and stars, your gentle words and even gentler arms a soothing balm against all of his wounds. Even now, after he’d embarrassed you by not heeding your warnings, you were looking at him with those kind eyes and your hands pressing against his body oh so lovingly.

He didn’t deserve this, he thought, as your hand wiped his tear streaked cheek with so much care, as if he was a fragile piece of glass. His throat tightened up again.

“You deserve better. I’m sorry”, the pained words left his mouth in a hoarse voice, his eyes closing in shame once again as his hands bunched up the fabric of the robe around your waist.

You suddenly stepped out of his embrace, his heart stuttering to a stop as he snapped his eyes open. This was it. You were going to leave him. He deserved it anyways but the whiplash of the moment and the overwhelming heartbreak was making him dizzy.

His spiral was broken when you suddenly laid down on the bed, your arms extended in front of you, a gentle smile stretched onto your face. Bucky watched with his mouth open like a fish out of water, confused and nervous. He looked like a toddler who was caught stealing and the thought almost made you giggle. This giant hunk of a man looking all sad and forlorn was enough to make your heart melt.

“C’mere, sweetheart.”

He paused, his fingers rubbing against each other as he assessed your face for any signs of anger or disappointment.

To his relief, he found none. Not that he was surprised about it. You’ve always been like this to him, even after a fight or disagreement between the two of you. Always so kind and loving and tender.

He slowly approached the bedside, his knees bending to cage your own legs before he carefully lowered his body to rest on yours, his head coming up to rest on your robe-clad chest, arms resting on either sides of your body in a lax manner. Your arms automatically wound around his broad back, where his skin was delightfully warm yet incredibly tensed. Your head was angled to the side to get a close look at his face.

A huge sigh left his pink lips, eyes closed in content as he felt all the voices in his head quieten the moment your arms touched him, the safe embrace of them a welcome feeling that he’d been craving all night. His jaw automatically unlocked, his head feeling heavier as the combination of your soft hands rubbing his back and the soft fabric of your robe almost lulled him to sleep.

“Better?”, you whispered, bringing him closer to you as you felt him nuzzle into the lapels of your bathrobe like a cat asking for pets.

He nosed at the fabric even more, a low whine stuck behind his throat as he tried to look for more warmth, in search of your soft skin and the sound of your heartbeat beneath his ears.

Your eyebrows furrowed in concern, a hand coming up to brush his hair back from his forehead. “What’s wrong?”

He paused his movements, a slight blush creeping up his neck as you noticed his neediness to get closer. He hesitated to voice his thoughts, hands coming around your hips to anchor him and the ache he felt in his chest. He was always left feeling unworthy of your attention and touch whenever the darkness clouded his mind. Not that he was great with touch in general, but he’d gotten better at it now, 5 months into your relationship. All thanks to your patience. You always told him that you weren’t in a rush, and that you’d wait for however long he wanted to, putting emphasis on how important it was for you that he felt comfortable first.

He’d cried the first time you told him that.

He managed to pull you into a hug now, one that he’d initiate himself. If not that, then a hand was always resting on your waist or holding your own in public. He’d even started using his vibranium arm more, quickly learning that you loved how cold it felt against your skin, always pressing it to the back of your neck or stomach whenever you were feeling uneasy or sick.

Now? Now he wasn’t too sure he deserved to initiate that. He’d dismissed your concern and risked everyone’s safety once again while also fighting his own demons. Why should he get to touch you like that?

And as if you could read his mind, you carefully removed a hand from his hair, using your free hand to hold his head against you while pushing the robe over your shoulders to expose your bare chest. The fabric bunched around your mid back as you sat up for a moment before laying back down, pushing his head onto your chest.

Bucky’s senses were filled with the scent of your floral body wash, the feeling of your soft skin a welcome sensation against his heated face, the scratch from his stubble making you sigh in content as you drew him closer.

He breathed out against you, lips brushing against your collarbone as he turned his head slightly. Strong arms snaked around your back, the movement causing your robe to expose your entire torso as he needily pressed closer to your body, his own bare skin resting over you like a warm, soft blanket.

It was overwhelming. This intimacy was a foreign concept to him. He’s never felt so loved, safe and comfortable in his life before. He couldn’t help the tears that escaped his eyes, pooling against your clavicle as his heart beat synced with yours, the dull thud of it sounded like music to his ears.

You frowned as you felt dampness against your chest, heart clenching in pain and guilt as you remembered the way you’d acted towards him. Obviously he was stressed about all of this. But you’d reacted like this because you already knew, that this was going to be the outcome. He’d end up hurting, and blaming, himself.

You couldn’t bear to see that. He was always so harsh with himself.

“I’m sorry for being upset with you earlier, baby. That wasn’t very nice of me. But I only did it because I worry for you. I want to protect you, too.”

He sniffled, shaking his head in disagreement. “No. You were right. I should’ve listened to you. I risked Sam’s safety as well. I-”

You shushed him, a thumb rubbing over his shuddering lips in soothing motions. “You’re okay now. We’re all okay. Don’t worry about all that, hm?”

He caressed your back, the motion soothing him and you as well. “You’re too kind to me. I don’t know what’d I do to deserve you.”

You smiled sadly into his hair, a hand slinking up his back to rub his ear lobe gently. “Because I love you. You’re stuck with me forever, Barnes.”

He cracked a tiny smile, cheeks reddening at your praise once again. He never got tired of hearing those three words from you.

“You deserve the whole world and more. Wish I could give you the whole universe because you deserve it all. And I promise you, you’ve always got me. I’ll do anything for you”, you pressed a kiss to his head. He hugged you closer, his whole being was alight with warmth and love for you.

“…Except stopping Sam or Joaquin from annoying you too much. That’s too entertaining to miss”, you joked, a breathy chuckle leaving Bucky’s mouth before he pressed gentle, open mouthed kisses from your collarbones to breastbone, as if he wanted to paint your skin with his appreciation.

“You’re everything to me. I love you so much, sweetheart”, he breathed those sugary soft words into your neck as he travelled up to bury his head into the dip of your throat, a pleased smile stretching at your lips as you hugged him back just as passionately, wanting to feel every inch of his body just as badly as he did.

He tangled his legs with yours and closed his eyes in content, the feeling of your hearts synching and bodies touching each other in a gentle and loving embrace, was a feeling he could get used to. He was more than happy to exist in this small, peaceful bubble that you two shared, as he felt more confident that what you two had, was special. Come what may, you’d always have his back. And he’d make sure to honour your loyalty just as fiercely, promising himself to return that love and devotion with the same fervour and passion.

Because Bucky Barnes was finally safe, and he was completely and utterly yours—today, tomorrow, always.

thank you for reading! please like and reblog and comment!

159 notes · View notes

erina00 · 7 days ago

Text

thinking about kissing bucky’s metal hand

can i?

gn!reader (let me know if it’s not!), 1.8k WARNINGS/TAGS: attempt at writing emotional/sexual tension, reader is a new avenger, mentions of past injury, intimacy

The two of you are in the Tower’s common room when you finally ask about it.

2AM on an uneventful Monday. Yelena, Ava, and John are somewhere in Eastern Europe on a cursed sequence of back-to-back recon missions. Bob is asleep in his room. Alexei is nowhere to be found.

Which leaves you and Bucky alone, and not in the way that you’re used to.

You’re used to being alone with Bucky in a corridor of a dilapidated power plant, shadows entwined and guns raised. In a black SUV, him at the passenger seat and you behind the wheel, sharing stale air as a stakeout bleeds through the hours. On a training mat while your feet and his trace watchful circles, patiently waiting for the first pounce.

This kind of alone is different.

No context to hide behind. Just two complicated people in simple silence, doing the little dance of strangers in a grocery store aisle. The unspoken, delicate measures of am I taking up too much space, are you passing me by, are we reaching out for the same thing?

A dance you’ve been doing for far too long.

You’re past the “can’t sleep?” conversation. It died seconds after it started—the two of you cross paths like this way too many times to the point where asking feels like a pointless formality. So many nights where his bedroom feels like a cage. As many as the ones where your bloodstream pronounces your thoughts out loud.

He’s always there first.

Always standing by the window, looking down at the city that’s just as awake as he is, as if staring at it long enough will reveal some kind of answer. Always looking at you when you walk in.

Tonight is the same.

You make tea—the flowery one Yelena bought for you. She claims it’s calming.

“Want some?” you ask, pouring boiling water into a cup with a teabag. Steam begins to waft, and so does a faint chamomile scent, the softness of it almost out of place against minimalist concrete curves.

“It doesn’t work,” he replies.

“I’m not drinking it because it does.”

A beat. Then, whispered quietly, “yeah, sure.”

That’s how you end up hanging around the kitchen island with him, sipping floral tea past midnight while exchanging sentences that barely count as small talk.

Like grieving mothers. Not knowing the words, yet understanding so fully what it feels like.

In the dimly lit room, you catch the glint of his metal arm, fully exposed thanks to his standard issue black t-shirt. Gold markings on sleek Wakandan vibranium ripple and glow when he rests his arm on the counter, plates shifting quietly.

Despite the many times you’ve seen it, it’s still mesmerizing. Especially tonight.

Maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s your lucidity, or lack thereof.

It must be a heavy thing, the arm, literally and figuratively. How it carries his past.

You’ve seen Ava lug it like a pipe. Seen him wind it up when it reattaches. Heard the sound it makes. Learned how it affects his gait and reveals vulnerabilities on his right side—the side you always cover when you’re assigned to him. The side you prefer to stand on.

But more than that, you’ve felt it. Not just brush of his fingers when he returned a dagger he borrowed from you—but on your forehead, firm and real. The weight of it reassuring, the coolness of it almost soothing.

“Remember Brunei?”

You say it so soft, like you don’t mean to say it out loud to him. He looks at you, standing almost right in front of you across the island. The room seems to shrink.

“The paralytic agent?”

You nod as you replay the way that mission went sideways just two weeks ago.

The two of you and Yelena, John at the jet. An illicit research facility deep within a rainforest. How you caught a microdose of something potent through a hollow-tip dart to the neck while extracting yourself from the scene. How the hundred-degree fever hit one minute after, too fast to be harmless.

Walker had his hands full piloting the take off, rocky and bullet-riddled. Bucky noticed the signs first: your thousand yard stare and the flush on your cheeks.

“What is it?” Yelena asked, eyes darting.

His vibranium hand was on your forehead in an instant. Flesh hand on your pulse. A status check.

“You’re burning up,” he whispered, scrambling to strap you in your seat before barking all military-like at Walker—something about going faster.

You blacked out after that.

In the kitchen, you nod with your chin towards the metal arm.

“You can feel temperature?” you ask behind the rim of your mug, all casual, like you haven’t thought about it for the past fourteen days.

He glances down. The plates flex, as if they don’t appreciate the attention.

“And other indicators,” he answers quietly. “Nano-receptors. I can feel if something so much as hovers over it.”

There’s a pause before he continues. “Helps with reflexes.”

You put down your drink, not taking your eyes off dark metallic fingers against the smooth marble countertop.

“Can I touch it?”

The air is sucked out of the room into a cold vacuum. You realize what you just let escape from your mouth.

Your eyes snap to his. They’re blue and just a fraction wider than usual. Your lips part, eyelids fluttering as you avert your gaze to everywhere except him, unsure of how you’re going to glue back the moment you just shattered into pieces on the floor. How will he ever trust you again?

“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking—”

“You can.”

It takes a second for his words to register. Two. Three.

Even after they do, the world is still stopped on its axis.

Your eyes find his again, searching in them the balm to your mortification, and it’s there. A look. Soft and wavering, as if he doesn’t quite believe what he’s saying, just like you.

But his palm is still upturned. Open. For you.

And then your hand moves, a motion so subtle you swear it’s not your own, like it got pulled by a gravitational force emanating from where his hand sits. Your fingertips stop above his, an inch apart, and you feel it.

The electricity. A kind of energy that’s not just alchemical reaction of two warm bodies, but a spark elusive enough to be craved, too real to be hallucinated.

You realize it has always been right there, in the space between your existence and his.

In every furtive post-mission glance, cataloging each other’s wounds from afar, how looking away feels as difficult as a ten-step containment protocol.

It’s there in the circles you draw around each other on the training mat, prolonging a tightrope tension that was never just about sparring.

It’s in the look on his face when you woke up in the med bay, the first thing you saw after tilted Bruneian skies. Steel blue silencing a brand of suffering you recognized as his. Like his sanity was tested while you slept.

You’ve ignored this for so long, it can only be blamed on negligence. A conscious carelessness towards your own feelings—and his—just so you can move on through life with a false sense of security.

Tenderness means both sweetness and an ache. If avoiding it means not hurting, then that’s what you’ll do.

That was your intention, and you have a feeling it was his, too. But you can’t run, not now.

You’re not sure you want to anymore.

Your fingers brush against his before you slide them down to hold his knuckles in your palm. Bucky breathes out like he hasn’t for the past minute. You sigh. He’s cold and hot at the same time, foreign but familiar.

The air crackles with heat, condensed to a fine point that coalesces in your point of contact. Your thumb brushes slowly down the back of his index finger, tracing cybernetic knuckles.

His eyes follow your movement.

Bucky tries to even out his breathing, he really does, but there’s not enough and too much air in his lungs. Box-breathing doesn’t work when you’re touching him like this.

You caress his hand like it’s made of glass and not a thousand crimes, touch so featherlight he almost thinks you’re testing its sensitivity. Like you want to find out the softest thing he can feel.

The answer is you. You are.

Bucky feels goosebumps forming on his other arm instead.

You study him like you’ll never get the chance to again, running your fingers down his with the lightest of touches—did he just shiver?—until you’re left with his pinky. You gently grab the pad of it between your thumb and index, tugging.

Like a child who wants to play, a lover who begs to stay.

He breathes your name. You look at him, lips suddenly dry. His pupils are dilated.

“Tell me to stop,” you whisper, walking round the island to stand next to him.

The thought of stopping makes him ache.

He doesn’t say anything. Just shifts, his body aligning with yours like a magnet finding its match.

The metal arm moves to your face, gently guiding your chin up to meet his gaze. Your knees are close to buckling. Intoxicated by a single look.

Bucky brushes his thumb across your lower lip, taking his turn to study you. The motion is both patient and indulgent, slow and sensual, betraying a deeper want in the way the metal pad of his finger catches against the plush of your lip.

The pronounced ‘thump’ behind his ribs cracks the facade. He camouflages as a silent observer, a shadow in the corner of the room, a colleague who only looks at your six for threats—when between God and himself, he’s stared at your lips like he’s memorizing the shape of them to feed his dreams at night.

And he has dreamed of them. Just never as dangerous as this.

His thumb parts your bottom lip slightly. Your breath hitches.

Then you turn your head just enough to kiss his palm.

A quiet groan escapes him, one that sends rushing warmth through every nerve in your body. You stand there, hand gently keeping his in place as your mouth traces reverently across precise indentations, down to the inside of his wrist.

Your lips are supplicant against gold veins, slow and light like a private prayer.

There’s fire in his body, a holy purge or hellish torment, he’s not sure. He just knows he wants more. His heart is overwhelmed with feeling. Thanksgiving to the Wakandans who allowed this to happen. Disbelief at the sweet, sweet way you twist his hand. Salvation for every sin he’s ever drowned in.

You kiss the back of his hand first—three trailing up—then his knuckles last. One by one, your mouth closes around each protrusion with affection so pure it’s nearly erotic.

He’ll worship every part of you like that, too, if you’ll let him.

In a moment of impatience, he cradles your face again, forcing you to look at him. This time his flesh hand is on your other cheek.

You’ve never seen Bucky look so lost.

“How does it feel?” you whisper. Earnest.

Then he leans down, breathing the same air as you. He’s so close—broad chest brushing against yours—you swear you can count his eyelashes from here.

He exhales and you grow dizzy.

“Like I’m losing my mind,” he rasps, thumb swiping your bottom lip again.

Your hands move to his chest, compensating for the sudden weakness in your legs, painfully aware of the inches between your lips and his—almost zero.

“You didn’t ask me to stop.”

His eyes contemplate yours with a look that barely barricades a flood. Waves of silent secrets and denied desire thrash beneath blue rings, waiting to be let out, to be known. They scream I want you and you’re the most precious thing I don’t deserve to have in the same silence.

“I’d be stupid to,” he replies, voice low.

The electricity sparks. You can’t take it anymore.

“Bucky…”

Half-lidded eyes stare up into his, voicelessly spelling out the five letters that make the word please, the eight that make I need you, the very many that tell him there’s no going back from this.

He seems to understand.

Time stands still.

Then he kisses you—slow and deep—and the world spins.

1K notes · View notes