soliloquality

[soliloquality]

You will freeze in place if you remain this way. You must not, dear. You have to move.

Rainer Maria Rilke, in a letter to Sidonie Nádherná, dated 1 August 1913

[soliloquality]

Let Me Love You (A.H.)

How do you love someone who won't let you?

Or: You're in the same city as Aaron, trying to keep it cool. Maybe catching lunch with him wasn't your best idea though.

word count: 2.5k

warnings: unspecified age gap (i think? in my mind reader's in her early thirties), suggestive content/mdni (no smut)

A/N: reader is strauss' daughter, it's not really a plot point but technically maybe 'forbidden' love, Aaron is divorced and very much emotionally unavailable, angst, fluff, lots of pining and thinking about that one time because we love to see it(!), also this is part one of a three parter that's already fully written yay

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

Summer is around the corner, you can feel it in the evening warmth, the happy couples strolling around Washington Avenue Park and in the ever prettier-growing sunsets. Everyone’s excited, buzzing to leave this rainy excuse of a spring behind.

You’re buzzing too, although maybe it’s less because of the weather and more because of Aaron—SSA Aaron Hotchner—who’s here, in Philadelphia, just like you are.

Your mother mentioned it on the phone this morning, all nonchalant and offhandedly, like the mangled bodies of two young women found in Navy Yard just a couple miles south from your hotel isn’t much of a point in her life, or yours, for that matter.

And admittedly, it’s not. As the daughter of BAU section chief Erin Strauss, you've heard about too many gruesome murders and human abysses to classify this case as anything other than the ordinary.

But Aaron, here, right now?

That’s a plot twist if you’ve ever seen one. 

I believe they’re staying at the Rittenhouse hotel, just give him a call if you want

You’re not sure why she let you know, and she probably shouldn’t have. This is a work trip, strictly work, and now all you’ve been able to think about is... not the client meeting for a five hundred plus attendees wedding next June or the workshop you’re hosting this Friday. Not even the damned email about your upcoming VAT declarations.

No, it’s dark hair and blue eyes and stupid micro expressions that have taken up your whole day—even here, now, as you sit on a park bench with the sun about to go down. On the river, no less. A sight for sore eyes.

And yet.

You clasp your phone tightly, trying to refrain from texting Aaron. Although, maybe, you could check the GPS, just in case.

And well. It’s a seven-minute walk to Rittenhouse hotel from here—four hundred and twenty short seconds separating you from Aaron’s hotel room.

But…no. You stuff the phone into your purse.

He’s working. For all you know, he’s probably still at the local PD, trying to put the puzzle pieces together, to perfect the profile of whoever has those two poor souls on their conscience.

And even if he’s not, what are you holding out for, really?

A stifled conversation in the hotel lobby, having to explain to his team why you’re there, at their hotel, knowing you have no chance at getting what, or who you really want? 

No thank you. You’ll stick to take-out sushi and watching Shark Tank in your hotel. You have an early morning tomorrow anyways.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

It’s barely midday when you get a call the next day—from a Quantico landline number, the Quantico landline, perhaps.

“Mayor Stevens asked for a proposal from me, specifically?”

“Well yes,” Lucy, the Mayor’s assistant and an old high school old friend of yours says from the other end. “You left a great impression at the Deputy’s reception.”

“That’s—“ you pause, not quite sure you heard her right, but you are smiling stupidly. “That’s amazing! How fast do you need it?”

Lucy seems pleased. “I’ll email you the details as of now. How about the end of next week?”

Her tone sets something off inside you, and finally you cave, sending a text:

Hi, you’ll never guess who just offered me a job!

Okay—the chance for a proposal, but who’s counting? 

You feel elated, like the exhausting years of suffering through gastro work hours and taking the leap to start your own catering service are finally paying off. And now you have the Mayor of all people, asking you to cater for the annual City Council Gala?

What a revelation.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

POTUS?

Ha. Close.

Just tell me, please.

I will. Are you by any chance available for lunch?

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

Aaron is, in fact—and he looks good, unfairly good in a perfectly fitted dark grey suit and a red tie that brings out his honey-colored eyes like it’s an olympic sport. Prettiest Eyes gold-medalist, you think, right as he slides into the opposite side of your booth. 

“You’re early,” he says in greeting, already busying himself with the menu. It’s piddling, really—because this is an Italian place and you both know what he’s going to order. You may have even checked the website beforehand, to make sure that they have it.

Fool that you are.

“Maybe you’re just late,” you counter, scanning him while he scans the menu. There’s a sense of exhaustion hidden behind his handsome features, the deep line between his brows, faint bags beneath his eyes, tiredness oozing from every pore of his face.

You wonder how the case is going. But, do you even want to know?

“The porcini pasta, please,” Aaron tells the waitress, and you bite back a smile.

Some things truly don’t change. 

You follow up with the ricotta cannelloni and a water for two, since Aaron didn’t get a drink for himself, thanking the waitress as she turns to leave. 

Then it’s just you and Aaron. 

Aaron and you, like moths to a flame that is threatening to burn you both.

“So,” you say timidly, meeting the older man’s eyes. “It’s been a while, huh?”

About two months, you’d say, since the last time you’ve seen him at Jack’s birthday party. Images of a Spiderman cake and dance challenges flood your mind, followed by Aaron thanking you later that day in his kitchen, with a flushed expression from all the excitement. You’d wanted nothing more than to cross the threshold then—to hold him, touch him, feel him.

Just like New York, eight long months ago.

“Yeah, how have you been?”

The question is unassuming, impersonal, like you don’t text at the speed of teenagers some days. 

Laughable, really.

“Good. Perfect.” If you ignore all the long nights spent alone, letting your mind wander. 

Aaron nods, his eyes anchored on yours. Heat rises in your chest from the intensity.

“You’re really keeping up the suspense here, you know.”

Oh. Right. A face-splitting grin appears on your lips. 

“Mayor Stevens wants my proposal for the City Council Gala.”

Aaron blinks, then his lips pull into a bright smile, one that actually reaches his eyes—and for anyone else, it would have been a rare sight.

But not for you.

Not when you used to babysit Jack for two years, and stayed late to clean up after dinner more days than not, with the conversations straying from Jack’s wellbeing to…other topics.

Innocent things really, like your best friend's birthday party and what you should get her. Or that new Brad Pitt movie you couldn’t wait to see or—most frequently, your dreaded law degree and how desperately you wanted to get it over with.

Which usually got him talking about his law degree, and how much he loved working as a persecutor.

Big help there, Aaron. Thanks.

Until—well, you didn’t just talk anymore.

But that’s irrelevant now, right?

Right now, you’re friends. Acquaintances meeting up in Mario's diner at lunchtime in Philly, because it’s what you do, apparently, when you love someone who won’t let you. 

“That’s amazing,” Aaron says, and it sounds sincere—proud even, which warms your chest in the sweetest, most delicious way. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” you reply, trying to focus on the current moment, on his kind, earnest smile and the crinkles around his eyes caused by it, the way he’s leaning towards the table, towards you, like he’s being pulled in.

It’s hard though, nearly impossible not to get caught up in all of the stickling, red hot want flowing in your veins, even when he’s lectured you about the Don’ts a million times. 

We can’t do this. Your mother—

Please, Aaron. Don’t talk about her right now.

Okay—and then he kissed you, like his life depended on it, and walked you backwards until the back of your knees hit the hotel bed and every New York City street light and siren faded into the distance.

You were lost that night, but found yourself in the feeling of him. In his careful touches, in the way he held your hand, skimmed the side of your chest, grazing your skin like you were the most precious thing in the world while he spelled out every single thing he loves about you, every thought he’s had, and made it all happen.

God.

How are you supposed to just—not want that again?

“Do you think—” you say, but your voice is rough, embarrassingly so, and you stop short. Your hands clench into fists beneath the table, feeling your face heat. As if sitting across from Aaron isn’t already torture enough, your brain just had to pull one over on you like that?

Thanks for the memory. And fucking thank you, Aaron Hotchner. For giving you the greatest night of your life, and then forcing you to forget it. 

You cough a little, mostly to cover up the trepidation in your voice and lean back into the booth.

“Do you think she likes seabass?”

He doesn’t know.

“Mhm,” your lips purse, letting your gaze drift across the restaurant before it lands back on Aaron. “Maybe butternut squash risotto then? Something like I made for Thanksgiving last year?” 

“That was good,” Aaron agrees with a nod, smiling just enough for your stomach to flutter. “Whatever you come up with, I know it will be perfect. It always is.”

Your eyes close for a moment, trying to appease the voices in your head. Because that gentle tone of his and the kind eyes are a trap, working against you, luring you deeper into the abyss of Aaron Hotchner and his immanent, unwavering patience that drives you so, so mad.

It’s frustrating. How he can give you all of him, let you see him, feel him in ways that irreversibly changed you, and then just—let you go.

Like nothing happened.

“Thanks, that means a lot,” you say, although it comes out a little strangled. You clear your throat and to your luck, that’s just when the waitress beelines for your table. 

A bottle of water and two glasses, placed neatly on the table in between you.

This time it’s harder to ignore Aaron’s gaze on the side of your face.

You suppose you shouldn’t dwell on the past. He’s told you over and again—New York stays in New York. We should just move on. Focus on our jobs. But hey, are you free this weekend? Jack and I are going to the Nationals game. We’d love for you to come. 

If Aaron wasn’t so obviously in love with you too, it would be easier to hate him. 

“Anyways,” you say pointedly, pouring two glasses of water and acting very nonchalant. “How are you? Any progress on the case?”

Aaron squints slightly but seems to let it go. He takes one of the glasses and shrugs vaguely. 

“We have a few leads, but I think we’re staying for a while,” he eyes you carefully, “How long are you—?”

Your brows raise, chin tilts. You take a sip of water, dragging it out. 

“My hotel’s booked till Sunday.”

Your eyes scream innocent, but the liquid heat in your stomach, the ache between your legs beg to differ. Desire clouds your every sense, furthered by how similar this is to New York—you and Aaron in another city, no Jack wants you to come to fall back on as an excuse, no overly critical boss and mother to hide from, just you and Aaron and the memories of we shouldn’t do this, but you feel so good, so good for me honey, where do you want me?

Your breath stutters, and when your gaze meets Aaron’s, you know. You know he’s thinking about it too. Live and in color. 4K. Remastered.

His weight on top of you, hands entwined in yours, kissing you all the way through, like he couldn’t help himself. 

“That’s not—” he shakes his head, breaking eye-contact, and you can barely suppress a scoff.

“I know,” you nod instead. I know my place, is what you mean. What he means. "You've told me enough times."

He has the audacity to flinch—a fact that shoots hot rage straight up your spine, as if he wasn’t the one who put you in this place, eight months ago.

You huff a breath, angry, frustrated. Because why can’t he just give in already? Let you be his, completely and irrevocably?

You burn for him, every second of every day. And he just takes it in stride, like he doesn’t trust his son’s life with you, like he doesn’t call you just to hear your voice during a rough case, like he doesn’t feel this too.

It’s riveting, to keep you at an arm’s length, giving you just enough to make you hold on, to hope he’ll claim you one day in a desperate attempt to make things right. To make sure you’re not going to leave.

But at this rate—what else are you supposed to do?

“Yes,” Aaron says then, pretending—and failing to stay neutral. It’s more of a grit, the word pressed out through teeth, his voice strained, hoarse, because even if it’s not what he meant, it is what he thought. What you thought.

You stay silent as he takes a gulp of water, watching the way his hand clenches around the glass, how his throat moves as he swallows. Then, “How are you spending your time until the workshop?”

You let the words settle for a moment, before telling him about the client you’re meeting after lunch, and the flexible tickets you have for the current art exhibition at the Barnes Foundation tomorrow.

“Is she the one who carved her silhouette into the earth?”

Yes, she is. Ana Mendieta.

As if nothing happened between you two. 

Nothing at all.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

[soliloquality]

End Up Together - A.H.

You love Aaron, Aaron loves you. But you don't talk about it. Oh, you'd never. Until your mom says a thing, and feelings finally tide over.

A/N: a whole lot of unspoken/suppressed feelings, years of restraint culminating into...something, Aaron taking a chance, reader feeling conflicted, angst, so much pining.

Word count: 3.5k

The steering wheel is warm beneath your fingers, sticky even, from sweat and sunscreen and general car-grime that has accumulated in your old Nissan Altima over the years, complemented by faded, worn-out seat covers and the stubborn Black Vanilla Little Tree hanging from the rearview mirror. It’s pointless, really—its scent has faded into oblivion by now—but it clings there like a badge of honor, a relic from the past. This car has stood the test of time—your first car and you’re preferential to firsts, even if they’re a little stuffy inside.

First taste of ice cream (Jo’s Caramel Cookie Crumble), first time out of state (Sarasota, 1992) and your first ever love letter—to Craig Sullivan, devastatingly. 

However lyrically—? A work of art.

“I can’t believe she said that, you know.”

Aaron’s crammed in the passenger seat, knees squished against the glove department and nightly shadows swallowed by jet black hair, but if you looked at him, really looked, you know you’d see the street lights reflecting in his eyes—bright, sparkling, taunting.

If.

You’re not sure you can ever look at him again.

___________

Such a beautiful ring, my dear.

It’s funny though, how life works. I always thought you two would—

___________

“She didn’t mean it.”

Right. Of course not.

Your jaw ticks, eyes drifting from the barely visible road to your phone. 0.3 miles until the next turn, left on Hill Drive, then another left and you’ll be straight on the I-95 to Washington.

ETA: 00:06 AM. 37 minutes to go.

“I don’t care if she meant it,” you say through your teeth, gripping the steering wheel tightly. “She can’t just—“

Say what you’ve never had the courage to say? What you never dared to even think about?

Aaron and you. You and Aaron. Like a pendulum, two poles forever divided, but always connected. By something.

You remember being small, innocent, playing fetch with your neighbors’ son—Sean, not Aaron—because Aaron was always busy fixing your mother’s house or mowing the lawn for some extra cash—to get the fuck out of Manassas—and when he did, he left you, too.

You were only eight, but still. Sean was four, and practically lived at your house instead of next door. You never thought of it as particularly neglectful on anyone’s part—you just liked having a little brother to torment.

And before you were old enough to even grasp the meaning of love, Aaron was head over heels for Haley, blushing furiously whenever your mother mentioned the theatre club, when she teased him about being the worst fourth pirate in The Pirates of Penzance to date, and yet—and yet, maybe you liked Haley even more than Aaron. 

She was the big sister you never had, but always wanted—and while Aaron threatened to punch Craig Sullivan for cheating on you with a girl from Eastwood High, in a god-darn tree of all places, Haley was the one who actually helped you through senior year.

Checking in on you from GWU campus, revising countless applications essays—she even took you dress shopping for prom, which you attended with Craig’s best friend.

Better to go out with a bang, right?

And it’s not like you thought about Aaron in any sort of way—ever—at least not until you really grew up and started to subconsciously compare any guy you met to Aaron and any of your relationships to his marriage. 

A marriage that is now over—your once so highly esteemed picture-perfect image of partnership, of love, festered into something else entirely by the force of responsibility, by careless negligence and scathing loneliness.

Priorities, for short.

But it’s weird, right?

The man who chose his job over his own wife and son countless times—which you condemn, of course—flies in from Wisconsin the moment your mother calls from the hospital?

It makes you wonder, would he do the same for you? You know you would. Any day, even at three in the morning, without hesitation.

“I’ve been engaged for two months,” you point out finally, the words grating on your throat, “even as a joke, it’s not fair to Nathan.”

And although it’s not your truth per say, somewhere in this universe, in a dimension where you’re more worried about your fiancé than your ever emotionally unavailable childhood best friend, it’s a truth, at least.

You thought your mom liked Nathan; his happy-go-luckiness, the quirky glasses, always coming through with some sort of historical fact or grammatical pun. 

He’s a teacher—a fun teacher. Reliable. Nice.

A real sweetheart.

Everything you should ever want. Everything you do want.

“You keep saying that like it’s already over.”

From the corner of your eye, you catch Aaron’s hand landing on his thigh, the way he shifts in the passenger seat—and your chest constricts.

“It’s always ‘I’ve been engaged’ or ‘I got engaged’. Past tense, like you’re detaching yourself from the reality of ‘I am engaged’ or ‘I’m getting married’.” Aaron’s voice is quiet, a low, steady rumble that is void of any real affliction, like he’s solving a case. 

Like he’s solving you. 

“Really, Aaron?" you ask, unimpressed, but there's a subdued sharpness to your tone. "My mom just had a heart attack and you’re profiling me?”

Aaron mumbles, “Costochondritis,” as if that matters at all—as if you didn’t get a phone call sixteen hours ago and drove 180 miles to D.C. under the impression that your mother did have a heart attack. 

And you haven’t been able to get it out of your head; the image of your mother, the strongest woman you know, in a hospital gown, talking with a slight voice and shaky fingers, her face pale and drained in a moment she thought could have been her last—and the one thing she chooses to tell you isn’t I love you, kid or I’m proud of you. No, it’s:

I always thought you two would end up together.

It makes sense, the both of you.

Like that’s at all an okay thing to say to your engaged daughter and in-the-midst-of-his-divorce surrogate son. And Haley, god, she loves your mom. She and Aaron chose you as Jack’s godmother—that way you’re officially part of our family, isn’t that beautiful?—and if it wasn’t for her being the second half to in-the-midst-of-Aaron’s-divorce, you would’ve asked her to be your maid of honor. Hell, you still might. 

“Why does it bother you so much?”

You cast a squinting look at Aaron in the passenger seat, just for a moment.

Is he being serious?

“For a plethora of reasons,” you reply gravelly, trying to keep your voice level, “Nate. Haley. The fact that it’s absolutely absurd.”

You scoff sharply, fingers tightening around the steering wheel as you relive the scene. 

Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? The way Aaron didn’t flinch when she said it—not even the bat of an eye. No surprise on his features, no denial. 

As if he’s had the thought before, maybe even the conversation.

And that, the simple idea of it slowly ships away at your resolve, clawing straight into your chest, where a quiet, stickling truth resides, always there, hiding, lingering—the one you’ve never wanted to face—and never had the chance to.

“The question is,” you continue, signaling left to turn on Hill Drive, although it’s not like there’s any other vehicle around at this time of night, “why doesn’t it bother you?” 

The moment it’s out, you regret it. Deflection means there’s more to the truth.

You remember the first time he said that to you, in his brand new prosecutor’s office, back when the USAO building was just a couple blocks from the National Gallery on 6th street, and you had just come back from taking a stroll to enjoy the architecture—or, more accurately: call Craig Sullivan from a payphone down the street.

You were sixteen, for god’s sake.

“Maybe because she’s not entirely wrong.”

Something in you snaps, shatters—and the world turns upside down. Your world, carefully constructed to hold everything together, to reconcile this feeling with that feeling, to keep everything neatly compartmentalized, safe, unchallenged.

Aaron and Haley. Haley and Aaron.

You and…someone else.

That’s how it’s always been.

Craig from high school, Jordan from college, then no one for a while—and now Nate, anchoring you to a reality where things are clear-cut, where your engagement means certainty, where Aaron is just Aaron, the brother-like figure, the best friend who has always been there although for you, at times, it’s not been quite enough.

But you never thought—

—yet here you are now, in your first car with the signature Black Vanilla Little Tree, and Aaron isn’t denying your mother’s words. He isn’t scrambling to explain them away. He’s just… accepting them, as though they’re not absurd at all.

“You’re joking,” you balk, but it’s not as sharp as you intended. Your voice wavers, thoughts whirring, desperately trying to keep this, whatever it is, at bay. 

Aaron exhales slowly, hands pressing into his thigh. And yet, he doesn’t say a thing. He just has this look on his face, tired, weary, like he has had this conversation before—but not with you. Never with you.

With who, then? Your own mother? Sean? Haley?

Betrayal weighs on your chest, leaving a bitter taste on your tongue.

“This is a joke.” You don’t mean to sound defensive, but you are. Defending everything you’ve ever thought to understand about him, about yourself. About boundaries, unspoken, but always there. 

Heat sizzles beneath your skin, anger bubbling in your veins. From his words. His silence. Your right foot steps on the throttle as Hill Drive stretches ahead, empty and dark, giving you nothing to distract yourself from the growing heaviness in your chest. 

“Please Aaron, enlighten me,” you snap, wondering if this is him finally reacting to Haley filing for divorce. Maybe he’s overcompensating, prodding at the stability of your relationship, testing the vigor of your choices because he regrets his own. 

Maybe it’s the broken home he’s from—alcoholic father, a passive mother—and he just can’t bear to be happy, to see anyone else happy.

You know that’s unfair. But he isn’t being exactly fair either.

“Why do you think Nate’s wrong for me?”

And then, finally—

“I don’t think he is,” Aaron says quickly, decisively. “I think he’s good for you. But maybe different things can be true at the same time.”

You blink in confusion, frozen as your chest slowly fills with dread. Your eyes drop to the TomTom, the new-tech navigation device Aaron got you for Christmas three years ago.

Philadelphia’s a big city. I don’t want you to get lost.

But isn’t that exactly what you are?

Living somewhere between a fantasy and a delusion, balancing it out with careful calculations to not feel too out of control. Because what you do is what you feel, right? 

Daily runs equals 10,000 steps equals feeling healthy. A busy calendar equals productivity equals feeling purposeful. And Nate checking a lot of your boxes? A steady foundation equals a happy relationship.

It’s a logic you thought Aaron, of all people, could appreciate.

31 minutes to go.

You hum quietly, carefully, like you’re bracing yourself for impact, a revelation, perhaps. A tipping point.

“What…are you saying?” 

Your eyes stay on the road, grip tight around the steering wheel as your pulse kicks up. This isn’t happening. This conversation isn’t happening.

“That it’s…crossed my mind,” Aaron’s voice is gentle, the familiar rumble of syllables and words, hushed, like he’s running out of time, always. But for you, he makes time, he makes room. It’s music to your ears on any given day, and right now, if it weren’t for the adrenaline coursing through your body, you probably would have asked him to tell you again and again and again.

Because he says it so simply, like it’s just another fact about the world—as if it doesn’t unravel something buried deep inside you, something you’ve never had the nerve to examine or admit, not even to yourself. A threat to the foundation you’ve so carefully laid.

“Aaron—” you choke out, pleading, asking him to stop, to repeat. You don’t even know.

The time on the TomTom drops from 31 to 30 minutes, and it’s the longest sixty seconds you’ve ever endured.

Waiting for Aaron to say something, to do something, laugh it off, tell you it was just a joke, a test, anything that doesn’t mean what you think it means. But he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t take it back. And for a moment, just one second, you allow yourself to imagine it—

Coming home from a long day at work, tired and exhausted, to a wall of warmth and Aaron’s favorite freshly cooked pasta—the one your mom always makes with lentils—and he’d greet you with a hug and a smile. Then you’d have dinner, talking about work and how Jack’s doing, maybe you’d be thinking about buying a house, about building a life together.

You’d drive to Manassas on the weekend to visit your mom and she’d finally have something nice to say about your partner.

You’d bicker about something stupid on the way home, like you always do, and he’d kiss it better later in the night, knowing just how much you could take, how much you wanted it, needed him—

“No.” 

It’s sharp, panicked, cutting through the air like a blade, like a door slamming shut before something dangerous can slip through. Something you’ve kept under lock and key for a long part of your life. 

The road blurs on front of you, but you blink a few times, force yourself to focus. And then the anger comes back, red hot in your veins. 

“No,” you repeat, lower now, and your head shakes, “you don’t get to do this.” Your voice is thick with emotion, uneven, like the ground is shifting beneath you and you’re trying to stay upright. “Haley’s my friend. I’m getting married.”

“I know,” Aaron nods once, like it’s another fact he’s just…accepted. But his voice is strained, frayed at the edges, like he’s at war with himself, and he knows he’s losing.

Frustration rises in your throat, edging into something akin to fear—maybe a dooming realization that Aaron feels it too, that you might not be alone in this, maybe haven’t been for a while.

It makes everything worse.

“This isn’t fair,” you say, voice clipped. It’s not fair to Haley or Nathan or you, after all these years of keeping your mouth shut, after all the times you bit your tongue, forced a smile, tucked emotions away like secrets. When you sat across from your boyfriends and thought—Aaron wouldn’t say it like that. Aaron would know better. Aaron would understand.

Every moment you had to remind herself that wanting more would never be an option.

“I know,” he says again. “I’m just trying to be honest.”

Now that—

That does it.

There’s a beat of silence—deafening, devastating silence. You glance at the rearview mirror, and before you can think about it, you slam the brakes. Aaron jerks forward in the passenger seat, caught by the seat belt. His right hand snaps to the dashboard to steady himself.

“What are you—” Aaron starts, but you don’t let him.

The moment the car stills, you stare at him, eyes wide, streetlights flashing through the windshield, casting fractured streaks of gold and shadow across his face, and for once—Aaron Hotchner looks caught off guard. But you’re too angry to revel in it. 

“You want honesty?”

The heat behind your words builds fast, sharp and unforgiving, spilling out before you can stop it. “I have been watching from the sidelines for years, Aaron. I was happy for you, for Haley and I never said a thing because it would have ruined the life of everyone I love.”

Your voice is rough, edged with something close to regret—not for holding back, but for never getting the chance not to. You shake your head slightly, swallowing hard, forcing down the ache rising in your throat before locking your gaze on him.

“And you throw this at me now? When it’s finally my turn? When I finally found someone who—”

You stop short, words catching like a lump in your throat.

Someone who ticks all the boxes? Someone so opposite that you couldn’t possibly compare him to Aaron?

This is a farce. A cruel joke you’ve played on yourself for years—pretending you don’t care, convincing yourself that holding back was a choice and not survival. That your careful decisions, your curated relationships, your picture-perfect stability meant you’d won.

But the truth is, you’ve been fighting against this from the very beginning—against him, against whatever this is. And what’s worse?

It makes sense, the both of you. 

Ultimately, it’s the truth. You know it is. 

Aaron’s jaw shifts, slow, deliberate. His gaze flickers toward you, unreadable—but not indifferent. Never indifferent.

“Your turn?” There’s something careful in his voice. The weight of his words settle between you, thick and suffocating, pressing into the space where something shouldn’t be—but is.

Always has been, maybe.

“Are you getting married to prove something?”

Your stomach twists, brows pulling together in something that feels like being caught, ensnared in your own web of divisions and self-preserving lies, and for what?

A sense of control? A lifeline for something simpler, something less...impossible?

“That’s not—” you exhale sharply, leaning back in the seat, your head falling against the headrest as you try to keep it together, scrambling to hold onto the reality you’ve built over the last three years, the one that was supposed to protect you, to help you move on.

Because you had to, after Haley announced that she was pregnant. It was the last straw, undeniable proof that Aaron belonged somewhere else—that there was no space for whatever you had convinced yourself wasn’t real. 

So you did what anyone desperate to move on would do.

You left Washington. You packed up your life, relocated to Philadelphia, took on a different job, met new people—built something from scratch, far enough away that you wouldn’t accidentally run into old ghosts. You filled your days with work, routine, order. When you met Nathan, cheerful, fun, shining bright like the sun, it was like two jigsaw puzzle pieces entwining, factoring into a bigger picture.

It was supposed to be enough. 

“I love Nate,” you force out, the words scraping against your throat, raw, uneven, too fragile to feel real. You stare straight ahead, refusing to meet Aaron’s gaze, because if you do, if you see whatever’s sitting in his expression, you might not be able to hold back.

He studies you, and for once, you let him, assuming—accepting—that you will not get out of this conversation unscathed.

“Because you choose to, yes.”

Your breath falters, letting out a hollow laugh, sharp, bitter—because isn’t that the truth?

A person chooses actions, feelings choose a person. It’s a cycle you’ve been trying to escape for years, by making calculated decisions, the kind that leave no room for recklessness.

Because recklessness is what led you here, on the side of a road with Aaron, unraveling years of restraint with just a few sentences.

“What else was I supposed to do?” The question is desperate, your tone reproachful. “Did you want me to put myself on hold while you were married with a kid? Always at your disposal when it’s convenient? That’s selfish, even for you.”

Aaron’s jaw tightens slightly. His gaze flickers toward the windshield, toward the empty road ahead, like the words have landed somewhere he isn’t sure he wants to explore. 

“I didn’t know you felt like that,” Aaron says, his voice quiet, pondering.

De-escalating.

You let out a breath, shaking your head as something pulls at your chest—something heavy, similar to grief.

“You weren’t supposed to.” Your gaze softens in the dim lighting. It’s been a long day, and his hair is messier than usual. Unkempt in a way that makes him look younger, less intense, more approachable. “I guess you’re not the only one with a good poker face.”

It’s a try at lightness, at easing the blow of this conversation. But your momentum ends as soon as Aaron’s eyes meet yours.

“I’m sorry,” he says, murmurs, and it sounds sincere. “I never wanted you to feel that way.”

Suddenly you’re twenty-four again, sprawled across your tiny apartment floor, notes scattered and cradling a half-empty coffee cup in your hands, complaining to Aaron about legal terms like prudent person and quid pro quo.

He used to revel in it, you—a trained nurse, taking after him, fighting for patient’s causes, for justice. 

It’s addicting, right?

And it was, just like him.

When you finally got that certificate, he was so, so proud of you. And you loved every second of it, loved it in a way you shouldn’t have.

That’s when you knew, six years ago.  

Your eyes close, just for a second, but the weight of it doesn’t lessen. If anything, shutting out the world only makes it louder. The memories, the choices, the things you told yourself you were better off leaving behind.

None of it has worked.

So you open them again, the world settling back into place—but it doesn’t feel any steadier.

“What do you want then?” The words spill out of you before you can stop them. Sharper than you meant, but there’s no taking them back.

Silence stretches between you, long enough to feel unbearable, to make you second-guess, wishing you never had this conversation.

Because this might be the end of it all—the end of you and Aaron, Aaron and you, two poles forever divided by time and place and the weight of your choices.

Then, softly—too softly, like he’s had the same realization—, “I don’t know.”

[soliloquality]

People who are meant for you, hear you differently. Stop explaining yourself.

[soliloquality]

The archetypal Ancient Greek colony

[soliloquality]

“Don’t think about what can happen in a month. Don’t think about what can happen in a year. Just focus on the 24 hours in front of you and do what you can to get closer to where you want to be.”

— Eric Thomas

[soliloquality]

“Don’t think about what can happen in a month. Don’t think about what can happen in a year. Just focus on the 24 hours in front of you and do what you can to get closer to where you want to be.”

— Eric Thomas

[soliloquality]

The Massage (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Summary: Despite the ache in his thigh, Bucky has been avoiding the new massage therapist for quite some time now.

Note: Okay, so due to an unnecessarily hot gif (and I mean unnecessarily hot), the original post with this story was unfortunately put in tumblr jail last night. This is a repost of that story. Please help me by spreading this fic even if you've already reblogged the original. I'd appreciate it immensely ❤️

Warnings: Smut, smut, and purely smut - with a plot! Pining, teasing, edging, Bucky is highly stimulated from his massage. Slight age kink and with a fluffy ending.

Words: 6.1K

For five months, Bucky has avoided coming here like the plague. He has made up excuses, hid in his bedroom, tried ordering all sorts of remedies online, and has even resorted to massaging the aching thigh himself, but of course Sam - the rat - had eventually had enough of his moaning and complaining, and had told on Bucky first chance he got.

Bucky knows that his annoyance towards Sam is uncalled for - that his thigh has become a nuisance, a reliability that is keeping him from performing as well in the field as he used to, but even though he has long since realised that the strain in the muscle will feel a lot better after just a few rounds of professional massage, he's still been praying every night for it to go away on its own just to avoid finding himself in exactly the situation he's in now: visiting the in-house massage therapist who also happens to have his heart beating a little faster every time she smiles at him. You.

He knows there's no way out, that he eventually has to knock on the door in front of him and step inside your office, but his heart is racing like crazy in his chest and the jump from the window right next to him might not result in a particularly comfortable landing but it will definitely be more comfortable than the hell he surely will release upon himself when he feels your touch. It's a professional setting and the things he wants to do to you are fucking far from professional! He shouldn't even be having these thoughts; you're friends - colleagues even - and he's so much older than you. It's... creepy.

"It's just an hour, it's just an hour," he closes his eyes and breathes hard, hopes it's enough to calm himself down and forget about all the wonderful self-relief sessions he's had with you painted on the back of his eyelids. "- you can behave yourself for one hour..." he sighs and reluctantly releases the tense muscles of his right arm so the closed fist falls forwards and hits the door in front of him with a bang much louder than intended.

For a second, everything goes quiet.

He hopes it's because you have forgotten all about the appointment Sam fixed between you a few days prior, but then he hears shuffling on the other side of the wall, and it doesn't take long before the door with your name written on it swings open and reveals your bright smile that immediately warms up his abdomen.

"Bucky!" you exclaim happily and make room for him in the doorway, "come on in!"

"Thanks..." he mumbles more grumpily than intended and steps inside the dimly lit room that smells like flowers, warm citrus and that massage oil that has made your fingers more softer-looking than anything he's ever set his eyes on before. It's a setup for failure.

"I'm so happy you're here! I was wondering when you'd finally stop by," you chirp happily from behind him and even though he can hear the question in your voice, he's not about to answer why he hasn't sought your help sooner. "Sam tells me you pulled a muscle in your groin a couple of months back."

"Yeah," he clears his throat and avoids looking you directly in the eye, "it's no big deal, it'll heal..."

"I kinda figured you'd say something like that," you happily tilt your head to the side and search his face, "why don't you strip down to your underwear and I'll take a look at what I can do to help you."

Oh doll, you can do so much to help me! He clears his throat and bites back the unwelcome thought as he quickly pulls off his shirt and jeans.

"Okay, so tell me," you smile at him when he sits down on the massage bed and spreads his legs out to the sides so you have easier access to the affected area. "- exactly where is the pain located?"

Ready to get this whole ordeal done and over with, he quickly points to the area on his inner thigh that feels as if someone's plunging a knife deep into the tissue every time he takes a step forwards. "Right here - but it's really not a big deal. You don't have to do this."

"It's my job," you chuckle sweetly before you direct your gaze down to the area surrounding his groin.

Immediately, Bucky can feel his face grow hot as your beautiful eyes visually inspect the skin right below the hem of his boxer shorts, and he has to keep himself from instinctively closing his legs shut in silent embarrassment.

"Hmm, you do look a bit tense..." you scrunch up your nose in concentration and the warmth in his stomach deepens. You're way too cute for your own good. " - I think I'd like to start off by loosing up the muscles around your hipbone. Could you turn around and lie down on your stomach please?" you ask and look up into his eyes with a cute little gaze. He's never had you this up close before and it's definitely doing something bad to him.

"Yep," he croaks and immediately turns around so his burning face meets the hole in the mattress below him.

He can hear you squeeze out a gentle amount of massage oil from a tube next to the bed and you heat it up by rubbing it between your hands while he with closed fists and hypervigilant senses braces himself for the inevitable touch.

"Alright, Barnes. I'm gonna start touching you gently now," you say in a soft, professional tone and he cannot help but squeeze his eyes shut. "- don't worry, it'll feel good."

"Yeah," he clears his throat and desperately focuses on his jumping nerves to try and get them under control. Your words of comfort are not exactly reassuring when 'feeling good' is exactly what he's worried about...

"Here we go," you conclude in a quiet sing-song voice right before you gently put your hands on his upper thigh and start running your fingers over the tight bundle of painful muscles. It hurts at first but after just a few seconds of your fingers on his skin, he can feel the tightness slowly disappearing.

Professionally, you massage the aching tissue deeper and deeper, and Bucky feels how his jaw slowly eases up in time with the tension of his thigh. Your fingers are dancing over his lower half, squeezing the tight muscles and caressing his skin, and it doesn't take long before your warm fingers and the citrus in the air send his protective parades crumbling. Suddenly, his thigh doesn't really hurt anymore and he's so relaxed that he let's go of the tension in his shoulders too and his eyes automatically close shut without warning. A slow song is playing soothingly from somewhere in the room and while your fingers are working magic on his tissue, he feels himself disappear into it.

Your hands are slowly moving from the middle of his leg to the area right underneath the hem of his boxers, and your oily fingers suddenly slip down to his inner thigh where they warmly start kneading the skin.

You move his leg a little out to the side and briefly press in on a point near his crotch that has him soaring! Sweetheart, it feels so good, he almost groans and melts into the mattress when he suddenly feels a stray finger touch an even more sensitive area on his already burning skin. Ah fuck! He has to stop himself from whimpering as your warm palms soothe his sore muscles while the soft pad from your stray finger gently rubs and touches the sensitive spot on his gracilis muscle right where it attaches to the back of his pelvis. Shit, he feels amazing! He just wants your soft, oily hands to stay on him forever! Just wants them to rub and tug and slip further and further down between his thighs until they eventually slip inside his boxers and feel the warm, pulsing area where he really wants your touch! And if he's lucky, you might just ask him to flip around onto his back so you can climb on top of him in your cute little uniform and pull back the skin at the tip of his cock with your hands. Or your mouth. Or your glistening, tight, wet pussy. Fuck!

He hisses.

Involuntarily, and because he's so relaxed, he's accidentally managed to excite himself a little too much and now there's nothing he can do to stop it! He wants to - but oh God he can't! So when he feels the blood rush from his stomach and down to the only region he does not want it right now, he can only lie there and panic in silence.

He feels himself grow hard in time with his blurring vision and he wants to tell you to stop your motions, to let go of him and leave the room pronto, but how the hell is he supposed to do that without giving himself and his treacherous dick away? You can never know the effect you have on him! You're so sweet, and so young and innocent, and he's almost fucking forty! Fuck, he's sweating like crazy!

Blissfully unaware of the inner battle going on inside Bucky's head, you keep massaging his thigh heavenly, and even though he tries so hard to think of something else - anything else! - he can only think of the soft touch you're providing... Your hands are so warm and so oily and he's growing harder and harder by the second while your innocent fingers dance only mere inches away from his not so innocent erection.

Fuck, fuck, fuck what the fuck is he supposed to do now?

"Barnes, are you okay?" You ask him gently and slow down your movements so your hands almost come to a halt when you feel him tensing up, "- do you want me to ease up a little?"

"No, no, it's fine," he breathes and feels a fresh surge of blood streaming down to his crotch when your fingers stroke his thigh affectionately to get him to relax. As long as he stays on his front, it shouldn't be an issue. He has time to make the raging boner go away before you ask him to turn around.

"Okay, good. Let me know if you need a break," you hum and touch him gently while he thinks of baseball, of cold cups of coffee and stale crackers, of Sam's oldie slippers and the stain on the floor below him - anything to try and control the relentless erection that is pulsing and screaming and begging to be touched!

But no matter how hard he tries, his erection won't calm down. Not when you're touching him so sweetly.

"Alright Barnes," you say after a few of his panicked minutes and slowly take a step backwards. "Could you turn around for me please?"

Fuck...

He opens his eyes and fixates his gaze on the stain below him as his face heats up. "T-turn around?" he gulps and feels how his entire body suddenly seems to be impatiently pulsing along with the prominent erection.

"Yeah, I'd like to take a look at your groin now that we've loosened your muscles up a bit."

Jesus fucking Christ, he's sweating balls! How's he ever going to recover from this?

"You know what? It already feels better thanks!" he tries and hopes he sounds convincing and not too panicked.

"Yes, well you've been lying down for twenty minutes," you chuckle, "- it'll come back as soon as you start moving, trust me."

"I can always come back tomorrow if it acts up again."

"We both know you won't..."

"No, I promise. It already feels so much better!"

"Barnes, what's wrong?"

Fuck, there's truly no way out...

"Sweetheart," he clenches his eyes shut and prepares himself for your terrible reaction to what he's about to confess, "I have a bit of a - uh - a... problem..."

"A problem? What kind of problem?" you sound concerned, and if it hadn't been for the horrible situation he's in, his chest would've probably swelled with pride that you care for him.

"It's a - uhm, shit - it's a... guy's problem."

"Oh?" You become quiet for half a second and he can practically hear how the gears in your head turn until the penny suddenly drops. "Oh!" you let go of him as if you've been scorched by fire and he suddenly feels so much worse. Poor woman.

"Yep," his voice is thick and awkward, and he wishes he had jumped out the window when he still had the chance. Now he's gonna scare you away for good and it's all Sam's fault!

"Hey - hey, it's okay," you reassure him softly and put a hand down between his shoulder blades when his entire body goes rigid with shame. "Barnes, it's a perfectly normal reaction to a massage in that area! Please don't feel embarrassed about it - you're not the first client in here who's been experiencing a problem. Sometimes it just happens."

He feels a weird pang of jealousy when he thinks about how your sweet, innocent hands have made some of his male friends at the compound as raging horny as he is right now. He doesn't have the heart to tell you that it doesn't have anything to do with the massage itself and everything to do with the person who's giving it.

"Come on, just turn around for me, okay? I won't hold it against you. I know it's nothing personal."

But it is, he thinks to himself before he with a tight-lipped smile and clenched jaw turns around on the massage table. He knows you well enough to know that you won't let him go before you've looked at his thigh.

He gulps when he sees how tightly his boxers are draped over his hips and the massive erection is standing like a fucking pole vaulter in the air between you. "Jesus fuck, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," you smile professionally while looking anywhere than directly at his embarrassing vulnerability. "Maybe it's better if you sit?"

"Yeah, yeah maybe," he sighs in defeat and swings his legs over the side of the mattress as he pathetically tries to readjust himself so the erection tucked inside his grey boxers does not look as prominent as it did while lying down.

"You good?" you ask when he stops shuffling and he quickly nods in return. "Good - you wanna continue?"

Not really. "Yeah, whatever."

"Alright," you step over to him and professionally fix your gaze on his thigh, "could you spread your legs apart a little?"

"Sure," he does as he's told while clearing his throat, pretty sure that his entire face is currently a mixture between plum- and beet-coloured.

"Let me know if it's too much, okay?" you smile reassuringly and slowly reach your hands forwards.

"Mm-hmm," he clenches his jaw shut to avoid involuntary sounds when your small fingers finally touch his thigh again and you quickly resume your massage with a professional expression slapped across your face.

Carefully, you move the hem of his boxers a little upwards and squeeze out a gentle amount of massage oil into the palm of your hand before you make the mistake of looking him deep in the eye as your fingers find his skin again. The look you're sending him is giving him goosebumps and you gulp and briefly look away when he involuntarily hisses at the touch.

"Barnes, you - uh - you want a towel or something?" You ask and he can practically hear the discomfort in your voice.

More embarrassed than he's ever been, he looks down at himself and notices how the entire front of his boxers is now soaked in pre-cum. "Oh god!" He instinctively pulls his hand over to cover up the huge wet stain and feels how his ears grow impossibly warm. "Fuck, I am so, so sorry."

"It's okay," you hand him a small white towel to cover himself with.

"God, I'm so fucking embarrassed," he drops the cloth down into his groin and wishes he could disappear down into the mattress instead of facing this absolute hellish nightmare! "You must think I'm such a creep..."

"No it's alright," you smile sheepishly and start working on his thigh again, clearly feigning a professional attitude.

He sighs. He cannot believe he's doing this to you.

"Barnes don't worry, okay? I know you're a nice guy."

"Still..." he clenches his eyes shut as your small fingers find one of the sensitive spots on his inner thigh underneath the hem of his boxers and has to lock his jaw to avoid giving out a groan.

He can hear how you chuckle lightly from behind the stars that are blinking on the back of his eyelids.

"I'm glad you're amused."

"Sorry, sorry," you snigger softly, "I've just never seen you this discomposed before. I'll be quick so we can get you back to your room to take care of it," you joke to diffuse the tension.

"Yeah, thanks," he gulps and feels how yet another drop of precum leaves his leaking head when you press in on the spot again. He's so turned on he can feel his nostrils dilating, his thighs shaking, and he just wants to fucking reach inside his underwear and fuck his fist until he comes! God, this is so much worse than anything he could've ever imagined! He's going to kill Sam for this!

"Wow, you're really having a hard time," you smile a little to yourself as you steal a glance up at his pained expression.

"Give me a break, sweetheart," he groans with eyes snapped shut in embarrassment, "Your lubed-up hands are basically on my crotch and let's be honest," he gulps and slowly opens his eyes again, "- you're not exactly displeasing to look at."

Your eyes widen slightly at his confession before a proud smile tugs the corners of your mouth upwards. "What Barnes?" you chuckle proudly to yourself, "- you like the way I look?"

"Come on, don't pretend you don't notice half the guys here staring at you."

"Okay you got me there," you laugh sweetly and direct your attention back to your steady working hands, "I have noticed a few stray glances here and there - I just haven't noticed any from you, so yeah, I'm a bit surprised."

"Well, you can take this as confirmation that I like looking at you too," he awkwardly points to the throbbing erection between you. He figures it's better to discuss the elephant in the room instead of ignoring it. Maybe you can have a laugh about it later...

God, he hopes so.

"Hey, come on," you tilt your head to the side when you see his pained expression, "stop beating yourself up. It's a relaxed atmosphere in here and with the aromas and the music, I understand that some guys let go. It's completely normal."

"No, sweetheart, it's not," he sighs. "I don't know. At least not for me."

"It's not?" You chuckle while still working on his thigh.

"This has never happened before, I swear."

"So the fear of getting an accidental erection isn't the reason why you've avoided coming here?"

"No, sweetheart," he sighs and adjusts himself on the mattress, "it's not."

"So -" you bite your lower lip and fix your gaze on an undefined spot on his thigh to avoid his eye. "- if I understand you correctly; what you're basically saying is that you're hard because of, well, me?"

"Yep," he sucks in a breath of air when he feels your movements still and he braces himself for the angry rejection before he looks over at you. You're staring at him wide-eyed and doe-like with your mouth hanging a little open, not sure how to respond to his confession.

"I'm sorry," he croaks, "you must think I'm a total asshole..."

"No, no, no, not at all..."  you shake your head and clear your throat while sending him a nervous glance. "I think you're quite cute, actually..."

His mind goes completely blank. He's been called many things in his life, but never that.

"...cute?"

"Yeah," you nod quietly. "I - uhm - I guess I've been having this teensy tiny crush on you so - uhm - yeah," you smile, all flustered, "- you know."

"You have a crush on me?"

"Yeah," you scrunch up your nose and lick your lips. "I mean... look at you," you gesture to nothing in particular, and he can feel his chest go all warm with pride as you look him over.

"So you're not freaked out?"

"No, no not at all," you admit with a shake of your head. "You've been driving me up the wall for ages, you know."

"I - I have?"

"Yeah..." you nod, "I've actually been hoping you'd stop by here so I'd have an excuse to, you know, touch you," you admit and now it's your turn to look embarrassed. "It's wildly unprofessional, I know."

"No, no you're good. You're being very professional about... this," he nods while pointing to his crotch. "I swear, if I wasn't so insanely attracted to you, I wouldn't be so... bothered."

"Yeah, you do look a bit flushed," you give him a crooked smile.

"I know..."

"So..." you bite your lower lip again and move in close enough for him to hear your heartbeat, to suddenly smell that you're aroused too and it's driving him absolutely insane! "...I have a crush on you," you stroke his thigh affectionately, "- and you have a crush on me."

He nods and scoots a little closer to you, careful not to scare your hand away from its close proximity to his crotch. "What are we gonna do about that?" he pants and puts a hand to your face, stroking your cheek and hoping to dear God that you'll let him kiss you.

"I don't know," you whisper and lean in close, stopping with your lips mere inches from his and with huge doe eyes staring straight at him.

"My god," he groans and runs his thumb over your cheek again, "you are beautiful," he whispers and slowly moves his face until his lips finally come into contact with yours.

The kiss starts off slowly. Bucky is careful not to pressure you into anything and simply just concentrates on the feeling of your impossibly soft lips on top of his. It's pillowy and wet, sensual and sexy and he's strung along, never wanting to let go of you.

"Peach," he whispers when your mouth strays away from his and starts moving down his jaw and throat. "Peach, you don't have to do this. Please don't feel pressured into anything just because I'm excited okay?"

"I'm excited too," you whisper and carefully place your hand on the tight bulge at the apex of his thighs so a bolt of lightening shocks through him. "- my excitement is just not as visible as yours," you place a wet kiss on top of his jugular. "You don't have to go back to your room to take care of this, you know," you bite back a smile as you stroke over his tight balls so his Adam's apple bounces uncomfortably in his throat.

"Sweetheart," he pants, not sure if this is really happening or if the sudden rush of blood to his crotch has him imagining things.

"I can help you..." you say quietly and move your palm over him so he gives out an involuntary groan.

"Doll," he sucks in some air and stutters his hips upwards, silently begging for more.

You understand his cue, and you lean in close so you can lick the shell of his ear as your fingers find their way underneath his waistband. As soon as your oily fingers come into contact with his burning skin, he can no longer hold back the moan that's been sitting on the edge of his throat for a good half hour now and he once again stutters his hips upwards when you close your fist around him and start stroking him slowly.

"Sweetheart," he groans against your skin and you give out a noticeable shudder when his hands snake under your shirt so he can caress the soft skin of your stomach. "Oh my God!" he whines and runs his nails over your waist, pulling you closer to him.

"You like this?" you whisper and tug his earlobe between your teeth.

"Fuck yes! I've been thinking about touching you since the first time I saw you."

"Yeah?" You pant against him and reach down to cup his balls with one hand while the other continuously strokes up and down his veiny shaft. "Been thinking of me all wet and naked for you?"

"Fuck," he whimpers and finds your pebbled nipples underneath your shirt and roll them between his fingers. "Yes."

"What have you been thinking about?"

"Your mouth," he breathes and pinches your nipples between his fingertips, "your slutty little mouth. All wet and tight for me."

"My mouth?" you giggle against him and gently bite down on his earlobe so he gasps loudly, "want me to make your little fantasy come true?"

"Oh god, yes doll! Please," he whimpers and you immediately drop to the floor between his open thighs, sitting on your knees and strutting your ass as you grab him by the root, rubbing his cock over your cheek and lips as he whines above you.

"Is this what you wanted?" you send him a wide-eyed look while your pink tongue finally pushes past your plump lips and lick the underside of his almost purple head.

"Fuck! Yes, yes doll! Please suck me" He hisses and feels his toes buzz when your tongue slowly runs over the slit at the tip, "ah baby!" he groans and watches how you flatten your tongue and wetly licks him all over his leaking head. "Please put me in your mouth, please!"

"I like you begging," you pant and lick him from root to tip, ending the long lap by closing your lips fully around him.

"Oh god, oh fuck," he shoots his head backwards, never looking away from the angel between his legs. Spit and precum is running down the side of his shaft and he swears, he's never felt this amazing before. He's about to explode just looking at you!

"Mmh," you hum around him, sending beautiful vibrations through his cock and all the way down to his balls.

"Look at you," he groans sinfully and notices how you clench your thighs together when he reaches forwards and strokes your cheek, "such a good girl for me, sweetheart. Are you getting all wet as you suck my cock?"

"Mmh," you nod with a muffled confirmation as your plump lips slide from base to tip and back down again.

"Ah - shit doll," he hisses while completely giving himself into you as he grabs your chin and strokes you affectionately.

"Mmh, Bucky," you whisper his name so sweetly and move your face so you can lap at his balls.

He throws his head backwards as your tongue stroke over the tight skin while your hand pumps him slowly. "Jesus fuck sweetheart," he moans and puts a finger under your chin forcing you to look back up at him. "Get up here. Now!"

Excitedly, you give him a hard suck before your let go of him with a soft pop and obediently oblige his command by climbing up on the mattress next to him.

"Mmh, look at what you're doing to me," he chuckles and leans in close so he can finally taste your lips again. Immediately, your tongue is inside his mouth and it's so wet and so warm that he grows even harder even though he didn't think it possible.

His hand snakes under your shirt again and you give out a small whine when he pulls it over your head.

"You have no idea how much I've wanted this," he pushes your breasts out of your bra and starts toying with your nipples. "It's crazy," he mumbles as he lies you down on the mattress and sucks your perky nipples between his lips, swirling his tongue around the bud.

Immediately, you arch your back and give out a sinful moan that reverberates through the dimly lit room and vibrates around his tighter than ever balls.

"Tell me what you want," he whispers against your skin and moves to the other nipple while his hand finds your panties underneath your white skirt. "God, you're already so wet for me," he whimpers and pushes his fingers underneath the hem of the soaked fabric so he can touch your warm skin.

"All for you," you arch your back and moan when he pushes two fingers inside of you, moving them rhythmically so they squelch and squeeze around your g-spot. You whimper and close your eyes, enjoying the sensations he's sending through your body, the tingle of warm flames that lick at the bottom of your spine.

"Tell me what you want, sweetheart," he repeats and licks your neck, "You deserve it."

"I want you inside of me," you moan and tug at his hair, the sensation deliciously toeing the line between pleasure and pain.

"You want me to fuck you?" He whispers and drags his teeth over your collarbone while his fingers pulsate inside of you.

"Yes!" You whine and pull at his hair again as a particularly loud moan escapes you.

"Oh sweetheart," he groans when his fingers slide out of you to the tune of a disappointed little whimper falling from your open mouth. "Don't worry, I'll fill you up," he kisses your collarbone and looks down between your sweating bodies as he lines himself up with your entrance and pushes himself half inside, giving himself a second to get used to the tightness that you provide. "Oh god," he whispers and pushes himself a little further inside, "fuck you're so sexy!"

"Fuck me, Bucky," you reach up and caress his chin as you wrap your legs around his waist, digging your heels into his ass and pushing him closer to you.

Suddenly, he's buried to the hilt. "Fuck me," he whispers and starts moving rhythmically to the sound of you squelching around him. "You are so fucking sexy!" He bites your nipples again, moving his hips slowly, sensually. "It's been so goddamn frustrating pretending that I'm not attracted to you when all I've been wanting to do is fuck you in every possible position around the compound."

"Yeah, think of what the others would say if they knew about this."

He gives out a whimper and can feel himself twitching inside of you at the thought before he starts rutting his hips faster, his hips snapping relentlessly into yours.

"You like that?" You smile naughtily and grab his ass, "you like that you're not supposed to fuck me?"

"Yes," he admits with a grunt and rolls his hips sensually, desperate for more friction.

"You like that I'm so young?" You clench tightly around him. "Wow, imagine what Sam would say! He would be so angry, you know that!"

"Fuck!" He gasps and falls forwards so his metal hand lands beside your head. He's close now, he can feel how every muscle of his body tenses up and he knows he just needs a few more snaps of his hips and he's coming - so he pulls out.

Panting relentlessly, he looks down at his throbbing dick, concentrating hard on not cumming all over the beautiful woman in front of him who's still whining and begging for his touch. "Not yet, not yet, not yet," he pants to himself and takes a deep breath before looking back at you. "Shit, you are so beautiful," he licks his lips and fixates his glance on your tiny fingers disappearing inside yourself.

Without thinking, he immediately falls to his knees on the floor beside the mattress and starts planting small, peppery kisses to the insides of your legs. You're soaking wet, moist all the way down your thighs, and he scratches his beard along the soft skin as he pushes your small fingers away, instead introducing his own digits and tongue to your swollen clit. "Mmh, baby," he mumbles against your wet skin and licks you all the way from hole to clit, giving the latter a hard suck that have you trembling above him.

You're tugging at his hair with one hand, pinching your nipples with the other as you arch your back and moan his name in time with the fingers he's thrusting in and out of you while lapping at your sex.

"Bucky, I'm so close," you whimper with eyes closed, your chest rising and falling in steady beats underneath your soaked nipples.

"Come for me," he whispers against your skin and ruts his hips into nothing while his fingers and tongue are working you expertly.

Your moans are rising in pitch and he can feel how you clench more and more around his fingers until it's so tight he's almost pushed out of you. "Bucky!" You half-moan,  half-scream as you fall over the edge burying your fingers in his hair and - oh God, he's cumming too!

Without even being touched, cum is shooting out of him and pattering all over the linoleum flooring below his knees while his fingers and tongue are buried inside of you, and you pull so sweetly at his hair in desperation.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" He grunts and ruts his hips into thin air as he keeps cumming even after you've released your hard grip around his hair. "Oh my god," he shoots back his head and can feel a drop of sweat trickling down his temple when he finally comes down from his high again. "Oh shit, oh fuck! Sweetheart, I - I just came all over your floor."

"It's okay," you smile blissfully and remove your fingers from his scalp, "I'll clean it up before... shit, SAM!" your sit up straight, eyes wide with horror. "Shit!" you hiss again and immediately scramble to the floor, looking at your watch and collecting your clothes from all over the room. "I have Sam coming for a massage in three minutes!"

"Not the kind of massage I just had, I hope" Bucky sniggers and quickly wipes up his cum with the towel he'd used to cover his erection.

"Don't worry, those are reserved just for you," you chuckle and pull your shirt over your head.

"I sure hope so," Bucky smiles boyishly and dresses quickly, stealing several glances over at you as you fix your makeup in the mirror in the corner. "Does - does Sam get erections when he's here?" he asks. He cannot help himself, he has to know. The thought alone has his guts squeeze uncomfortably at his insides.

"Are you kidding me? Sam sees me as a little sister, he would never!"

"Yeah, true," Bucky chuckles in relief and pulls on his shoes, "...Hey, uh, I don't know about you, but I really enjoyed this."

"Me too," you turn around and smile blissfully at him, "very much."

"You wanna - you wanna do it again?"

"Yeah," you snigger and lean your hip against the table he had you naked upon no more than a couple of minutes ago, "yeah, I wanna do this again! I think maybe fixing your thigh is gonna be a long process!"

"Yeah?" He smiles broadly at the joking expression you're wearing, "Same time tomorrow then?"

"God, yes! Can't wait," you laugh and give out a happy sigh as you cutely bite your lower lip. "Now run along before Sam comes barging in!" you chuckle, "I thought you wanted to keep this secret."

"Yeah... at least for a little while," he shrugs and feels his head go dizzy when you smile broadly at him.

"See you later, Barnes."

"See you sweetheart," he chuckles and winks at you before he's out the door.

As soon as he steps into the cold hallway, he's met by a sour looking Sam who's occupying one of the chairs outside your office, his arms crossed firmly around his chest as he angrily stares at Bucky. "How long have you been here?"

"I came ten minutes early," Sam hisses through gritted teeth and Bucky can almost see the angry fumes radiating from his friend's scalp. "- what the hell was that?"

"What?"

"Bucky, you better not be doing what I think you just did in there!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Man, what the hell is the matter with you?" Sam stands up, his angry vein already popping threateningly above his temple.

"What? You're the one who said I should go see her!"

"Yeah! For a massage!"

"I did get a massage!"

"Jesus Christ, Bucky! You're old enough to be her granddad!"

Weirdly enough, it just turns him on even more.

Tagging: @natbarnes1917 @summerofsnowflakes @randomfandompenguin @goldylions @anxietyandtacos @maggiebuchanan @justsebstan @eddiestrash @crushedbyhyperbole @buckysdollforlife @getofffmydick @fromfoolishpeopletodeadpeople @wermoewe

[soliloquality]

from ml.books

[soliloquality]

Romanticizing your own loneliness and turning it into a cool girl thing only works for like a few months and then it just becomes a throbbing black hole i think. Not that ive ever experienced anything like that

[soliloquality]

“Life is not a having and a getting, but a being and a becoming.”

— Matthew Arnold (b. 24 December 1822)

[soliloquality]

Nothing Has To Change Part 2

Nothing Has To Change Part 2

Respectfully. You may not use my work, but you are welcome to share it. 💙

Masterlist

Summary: Your head is reeling, your body is betraying you, and JJ is clouding your judgment. (This is going to be a little series, so some of the parts are going to be build up for other things, just so you know. I hope you guys like it though.)

Pairing: JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, angst. (lill fluff) Semi-smut (Again (if you can call it that)) I think that’s it.. 

Word Count: 5.0K

A/N: Hello Lovelies 💙 So I want to let you guys know, this is going to be a several part series, so bear with me. I hope you guys enjoy it, and if you would like to be added to the tag list, just let me know. XOXO

Weiterlesen

[soliloquality]

Wait for it.

[soliloquality]

Major confusion

(via)

[soliloquality]

Five Moments in Time

Pairing: 40s!Bucky x Nurse!Reader

Summary: All of the moments in which Sergeant Barnes let the nurse on his unit know he’s not gonna stop trying to win her over. Even from beyond the grave.

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings: Minor injury, angst (the big kind)

a/n: I rewatched tfa and fell in love with Bucky all over again! So I had to write some 40s angst of course. Also I think might’ve made myself cry. 

I discontinued my taglist, but you can follow my library blog @pellucid-library​ for notifications 🤍

Masterlist

“And just who are you?” 

The medical tent was overrun with white-clad bodies in a flurry. Aprons were stained and gauze was clenched tightly between overworked fingers. The war hadn’t been kind, but at least Captain Rogers had been able to save all these men. 

And amongst the men was the flirty, ever charming, Bucky Barnes. 

“I’ve told you, Sergeant Barnes, I’m your nurse. Now please sit back so I can properly stitch your arm.” 

He didn’t listen to you, sitting up further to prop his hand on his chin and take you in. You’d asked him about four times now, each one fruitless. 

Weiterlesen

[soliloquality]

Pretty green tones. ♡

[soliloquality]

Hug Me.

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader Summary: You and Bucky are friends. Good friends. Great friends. You hang out all the time, he's always around yours, but you're friends. He worries, like he's your friend; you look after him, like he's your friend. The two of you keep saying you're friends, but why does it feel like something more. No Warnings, Just Fluff. Word Count: 6.3k ------------------------------------------------

“How’d your date go?”

His groan is enough of an answer as you move to your fridge, grabbing things out instinctively before pulling for the bread.

“You know, you don’t have to go on the dates.”

Groaning, he rolls his head and you smirk, beginning his sandwich. The one he never wants.

He dislikes you making them to begin with and yet you still do. Even if you explain it, he never understands how you need something to do when he’s like this; when his annoyance or low mood is bouncing around your apartment. It unsettles you, and your hands need something to focus on to stop yourself from overstepping. Because Bucky doesn’t like comfort. Not in the way you know how to give. You cuddle, you hug, and if anything Bucky prefers low touch and far distance, and you respect that.

You do.

The emotional part of you doesn’t, but the rest of you does. It wants to heal, to comfort. To smother his pain or grievance with love and care. Especially after he shares his version of all the awful things he’s been through over the adapted version the media tells.

“Ham or cheese?”

He groans again, his face burying into his hands as you smile, choosing cheese. You prefer cheese—especially if you’re going to eat it in an hour. Like you usually have to do.

He mumbles something, and you cast a glance mid-cut.

“What’s that?”

Lifting his head, the bags under his eyes are a giveaway that he’s not sleeping again. He does this sometimes, even if he’s dealt with nightmares, finds himself awake. He texts you sometimes, usually commenting on a show he's begun watching with you that he says he hates only to keep watching it when you’re not around.

“I don’t know why you bother.” You roll your eyes, turning back to cut the bread. “You know I’m not gonna eat it, that’s not why I come.”

Throwing the knife in the sink, you lick the butter from your fingers. “I know, you tell me this every time, Bucky.”

“So, at this point, I still don’t know why you bother.”

Placing things back in the fridge, you cast him an irritated look. “Because, as we’ve discussed before, when you come to my apartment—in a mood—I need to do something to take care of you. I can’t help it. The same as you can’t help, but be self-destructive; or how you can’t help but shout at Michael downstairs when he gets too familiar with me when I get my post. It’s who we are.”

He runs a hand over his face as you take the sandwich to him, placing it down as you smile.

“Plus, have you ever thought of just… eating it? I mean, you’ve been on your late-evening, non-food date for… what? Thirty minutes, so I know you’ve not eaten.”

You move from the kitchen, heading to the sofa close by to where he’s sat. Least there you can pretend to read, to watch tv, to do anything but stare at him and wish he’d eat.

It’s weird to think a year ago he wasn’t in your life, and now he’s a permanent fixture. He doesn’t care that you hated going out, doesn’t hate that you had odd quirks like picking the pepperoni from the pizza to eat first. He also doesn’t care that sometimes you are bubbly and other times you’re an anxious mess who worries about nothing.

“Maybe I don’t want you to think I’m using you.”

Slumping down, you meet his eye. “Bucky, I made you a sandwich, I’m not giving you my kidney. I could never think you’re using me, especially since I like you being here. But, I can’t turn off my… y’know—caring nature. And, you know, you have expressed a huge amount of distaste for me being overly caring—“

“—I don’t think they’re the exact words I used—“

“So, if I can’t hug you, I’m gonna make you a sandwich. And if you don’t let me do either of those things, then I’m going to have to go back to making you hot drinks—which you actually hated more.”

He snorted, and you were sure there was a smile poking through. A small one, but one all the same.

“Bucky… talk to me.”

He shrugs, like a child. He does that after some of them. Already getting in his head before he goes, and then finds himself more annoyed he went when they weren’t at all how they seemed.

“-ug me.”

“What?”

His jaw tightens as he glares. “Just… Hug me.”

“Hug… you?”

He sighs. “You don't have to sound so disgusted.”

Rising from your seat, you blink. “You sure?”

“The more you question it, the more I’m beginning to change my mind.”

You go over, timidly, like an injured animal approaching a predator. Bucky doesn’t scare you, he never has.

The friendship which grew between the two of you came from nowhere, just two people living in the same building. Then you saw him outside your favourite coffee shop and soon enough, he smiled and you smiled. One minute you had barely said more than a hello to him, and the next he was walking past his apartment to yours, with your groceries muttering about how he used to eat meat from a tin. Soon after, he’d be outside your door when you finished work, sometimes with food in hand and sometimes bringing you a bottle of wine he knew you liked when you were having a bad day. The two of you hung out, ordered food and he stayed until you were yawning.

In some ways, you wondered if it was odd. You had male friends, but none like him. None who made your home feel a bit more homely when he was in it; none who you wanted to throw hands for if someone bothered him.

Wiping your hands on your jeans, you moved closer to him.

“Jesus. I have been hugged before, I’m not going to break because you touch me.”

“Sorry, I’m nervous.”

He cocks a brow. “You… nervous? Doll, I never.”

You shrug, fighting the blush from his nickname. A name he knows you hate, but calls you anyway. He never asks why, but laughs when you shift awkwardly when he calls it you. You’re not sure how to put it to him that it seems affectionate, a step over the threshold of friends—even if the two of you are so over the line already.

Because, regardless of whether you want to admit it, you do like him. He’s funny in a serious way; he’s handsome, but in a way he doesn’t even realise. He’s caring, even if he thinks he isn’t.

But, you can’t ruin this. You don’t want him to look at you with those blue eyes and tell you, ‘Doll, I don’t feel the same’. Because you’re not sure you can come back from that. You’re also not sure you can be without him now he’s here.

This gift which has been sent to you which you didn’t know you needed, but now it’s here it’s like it was always supposed to be here. Like a piece of art, made for the wall it hung on, bringing the entire place together.

Worst of all, Bucky fits into your world. Almost too well. As if there has always been a Bucky-shaped-hole until he stepped into it.

“This is a big deal.”

“It is?”

You punch him lightly as he laughs. “Look, just let me prepare for this huge moment. It’s like winning an award.”

He smirks, and you find yourself grinning at the sight of it. Just like the first time when he cracked it over his usually stoic face. You’d made too much food, not measuring was your downfall, and when you knocked and asked if he wanted any, you’d expect the door in your face.

Thankfully, he accepted.

Thankfully he visited more from then, sometimes invited, and more often not.

Slowly, you move closer as he parts his thighs on your kitchen stool, letting you move towards him. When it dawns on you how close you’d be to him. It was strange, you knew it wasn’t normal how the two of you were. But, it was a normal that matched how un-normal you both were. Now, the closer you become, the more your heart hammers. The more you feel your throat go dry, as your arms move around him, and you feel his arms wrap around you.

At first, it’s awkward. Forced, even.

Then a second passes and muscles relax, bones shifting to more natural places, and you find a place for your head and he adjusts so he fits around you. Going together, fitting like you’re suddenly supposed to.

You count, aiming for five seconds before you loosen your arms, finding he doesn’t move. His arms firmly around you, aftershave tickling your nose as you turn, looking at his side profile.

“Buck…”

“You should have hugged me before.”

Smiling, you curl into him more as he gives you another squeeze before the two of you let go. His head tilts, and you remain still between his legs.

“Was… was that your first hug since the 40s?”

Smirking, Bucky rolls his eyes as he turns to the sandwich. “Shut up.”

***************************

Bucky is used to texting you.

You’re one of the few people he has in his phone, and the most common person he texts. It started with thanks for last night, and then became something he did more regularly. Did you get to work okay? Are you busy later? What does ‘lol’ mean?

You’re the person who shows him how to update his phone properly, that he doesn’t need to send each sentence separately. He likes it, when he feels it vibrate in his pocket knowing it can only be you. When he’s in Louisiana, visiting Sam, he feels more insistent on knowing when you get home and when you’ve got to work.

He blames his work.

He blames the things he’s seen.

But really, truthfully, he knows it’s because he cares. He likes knowing you’re safe, and it’s the closest he can get without being there himself.

Who’s the girl? I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re a liar, Buck.

It’s not that he’s hiding you from Sam, but he doesn’t want it ruined. He doesn’t want to bring the two sides of his world together and watch one swallow the other, tainting it, pushing you away. He hates to admit it, but you’re the first person he’s met in decades who makes him feel as at peace as he did in Wakanda. You don’t ask for too much, don’t expect him to be anyone but him. Metal hand out or not, you don’t treat him any differently, and you don’t look at him with too much pity, even if he’s being self-destructive or an asshole.

When he gets back to Brooklyn, he texts you. He expects a sea of little images like you usually send, ones he pretends to understand even if you’ve explained them all to him.

Usually, you’re quick. Your replies to him within the hour at the least, and he’d become used to it—accustomed, so to speak. He even smiles when you text him out of the blue, caught off guard at how you want to speak to him. Something he wasn’t entirely aware of until Sam pointed it out.

You’re smiling. Faces do that, Sam. Some faces do, yours doesn’t.

Now, though, you hadn’t replied.

Not in two hours.

It shouldn’t cause him this amount of worry. You were likely busy at work or misplaced your phone, because sometimes you did that. Sometimes it was surgically attached to you and other times it was placed somewhere in one of your worry-trains. But, even when the latter happens, you eventually reply.

You knew it made him feel better, you’d told him as much once when you were busy writing a report for work. It rolled off your tongue, not even looking up to see how his face broke into a grin at how considerate you were, how much it meant to him.

He couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was about you that made him feel the way he did. One day you were someone getting your mail and then next he was at your kitchen counter trying some rice dish you’d made. You crept up on him, sneaked your way into his life, and he didn’t hate it—not even a little bit. He liked that you were far-removed from the other aspects of his life; you were shielded from the horrors, even if you knew what he’d done—what he did as a job.

I have eyes, Bucky, I’ve seen the news.

He’d expected you to grill him, be scared of him, when he confirmed he was who you knew he was. Instead, you made him a hot drink, and talked to him about anything but his past until it went cold.

Now, though, you weren’t replying, even if he’s sent another text. He tries to put his mind at ease, reminding himself you have a job, and a whole other side of your life he isn’t involved in. And, it’s safe too. You don’t hang around bad people, barely seeing anyone but a few friends you mention here and there, and well, him. You have family, but not local, and for the most part, you don’t seem to shout about your friendship with him.

So you had to be safe.

But it didn’t stop him from climbing the stairs to your apartment when he knew you should have finished work, listening at the door, hearing only silence. He paces, trying to tell himself you are fine—busy, even. But he can’t wrestle the worry away, even with all the tips and tricks handed to him by his therapist.

Raynor likes you, and she’s never met you.

She says how good you must be, how solid you are. A guiding light in all the darkness, and Bucky felt compelled to tell her to shut up, but never did. Even when he finished the book, leaving her a thank you card, he added he’d make sure to look after you.

Now he can’t help but feel he’s failed you. Imagining something terrible happening to you, all because he wasn’t here.

“Oh…”

Your voice cuts through his worries like a knife, and he turns on his heels to face you as you blink at him with curiosity while he feels nothing but relief.

“Hey… did we… Did we make plans? Did I forget again? Bucky, I’m so sorry...”

Bucky’s head shakes before he can think, just so relieved to see you. To see all of your limbs attached in the right places; not a hair on your head out of place.

Your features begin to crease, and he wants to place his hands either side of your arms to stop them from spreading any further.

“Buck… are you okay?—”

He hugs you. Voluntarily.

His arms wrap around you, and it brings him so much peace, he isn’t sure why he didn’t let you hug him until recently.

He isn’t sure why he doesn’t do this often, because as soon as he does, calm spreads over him like a mist. It’s nice, enjoyable even, and he even likes how the cold of your jacket presses against his neck and hand.

“Oh... “ you say again. “This is… not that I’m not glad… you know… we’re doing this, but—“

His arms move, letting you step back, as he notices the blush on your cheeks as it dawns on him what he’s just done. How he just felt you against him, and now how cold he is without you against him.

“Y-You didn’t text me back.”

Adjusting your bag, he watches as your eyes soften and your keys jingle in your hand. He sighs, pinching his nose as you raise your brow, waiting and he isn’t sure what to say. How to explain how he got himself here.

“Buck… I’m so sorry, I just… I got up late, and I was having a bad day.”

He buries his hand in his jacket pocket, avoiding your eyes. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not. I’m… I’m so sorry. I’ve barely looked at my phone all day, really. But, I—”

“It’s fine, honestly, Doll. I just got worried.”

You nod, and he suspects it’s because you can tell he feels awkward. It must roll from him, drowning you in waves, and he shuffles near your door, unsure what to do as you jingle your keys again.

”You want to come in?”

He nods, trying to look as nonchalant as possible, but truly it’s all he wants. He needs to be around you, because even if he’s stemmed most of his worry, some remains. Prickling his skin, dancing over his bones as he keeps taking side-glances, checking every bit of you is as it should be.

You don’t say anything else as you place your key in. “I cannot believe this,” you begin, “you care about me.”

“You are almost as annoying as Raynor.”

Smiling, you move towards him and he moves against the wall, rolling on the wall so he faces your side as you unlock your door. He sees it now, what Sam has been talking about. How he lights up, how his heart seems to speed up when he’s around you.

How in all of the time he’s been ‘free’ he has disliked people, especially those he doesn’t know invading his life. But you are an exception.

Twisting the key, you meet his eyes. “I can’t believe you care and worry about me,” your voice lowering as you grin at him, “and you let me hug you—and now you’ve just hugged me. I should be more shocked if you actually know how to do it.”

“You’re awful. You know that?”

He follows you, trailing behind you as he watches you remove your bag, dropping the keys into the bowl. His back meets the door as it closes gently, softer than he usually shuts it as you shimmy from your jacket.

Bucky usually does this.

He always does this.

Waits for you to properly invite him to his usual spot as he lets you change or make a drink or anything. But now, he’s stood, flexing his fingers as he watches you, weirdly wanting you to wrap your arms around him again. He needs to feel your heart thump against him, and he’s aware he’s just watching you, just waiting for something which doesn’t need to come.

Now, he’s standing, shifting awkwardly as you turn to face him. And he feels himself drowning in realisation, wanting to open the door behind him and leave.

“Buck…”

“I do.”

Frowning, you fold your arms. “What?”

“Worry. I do worry about you.”

He thinks about moving towards you, and for some reason his throat goes dry as he feels his expression soften.

“Okay.”

Nodding, he smiles. “Okay.”

“You fancy a sandwich?”

Shaking his head, he snorts. “How about we just order something?”

“You really don’t like my sandwiches, do you?”

Laughing, he kicks off from the door as you head to your bedroom. “No. No, I don’t. Stop making me your sandwiches,” he says as you laugh, and he heads to his usual spot.

“Only if you hug me again.”

“Deal,” he says.

Not knowing if you realise how much he’s beginning to like them too.

***************************

You rarely go to Bucky’s place.

He has very little furniture and one cactus—that you gave him—which you’re pretty sure has died from lack of water. Something you weren't even sure was possible. You are also sure he is still sleeping on the floor, even if he tries to deny it. Even if you went mattress shopping with him to buy something firmer because last time you peeked into his room, it looks the same as when you made it for him weeks ago.

You wondered if it’s the reason he’s always around yours, because you have decor and more than one seat. You don’t mind, when you moved in all you wanted was to have people over, and you did sometimes. More so now Bucky was in your life.

He didn’t hang out when you had friends over, but he did pop in, usually not realising you had them there. They’d raise their brow at you after he left, because how can you not be sleeping with him. You could only shrug, because you didn’t really have an answer.

You’d thought of it. You’d dreamt of it actually.

But had no answer.

Adjusting your blouse, you tried to steady your breathing. You’re fine with people, good even. But, it feels weird to be meeting a friend of Bucky’s—someone who is adamant on meeting you. You tried to hide how nervous you were, how much it panicked you. You’d tried to steady your breathing and not sweat through your grey t-shirt as he sat at your counter. We could do a bar or something? He’s waiting for an answer, eyes pinning  you into place, and you could feel the walls coming in because crowds and people and—

And then he was in front of you, his hand on your shoulder and you stared into his blue eyes.

I don’t like crowds. I don't like people. What I mean is… I really don’t like crowds. I… I’m fine with work, and… like two people, if that. But more than that, and meeting people. Bucky, I’m really awkward. Like, I will just keep talking and talking. How is that any different to normal? Bucky… Okay. You’ll come to mine, and if you’re not feeling it. We’ll cancel, okay? And then, if you decide to go, we’ll go. Together. Together? Together. You care about me… Shut up.

He reminded you in the run up to the evening that he didn’t care if you lasted five minutes with Sam or an hour. All he wanted was Sam off his back. Because apparently he talks about you too much; he smiles conspicuously because of you.

Which is why you agree. It’s the only reason you even let your friend tell you what to wear, because even if it’s casual, you don’t want to disappoint him or his friend.

You also make Bucky promise to get you a bottle of wine, and that he has to pay for your drinks.

Running a hand over your hair, you go to hover your hand over his door, but it doesn’t even reach the wood before it’s pulled open.

He’s gorgeous. So ridiculously handsome, you can hear your friend in your head again, ‘Why aren’t you sleeping with him?’ And how he’s currently dressed, a blue shirt open over a t-shirt and dark jeans, you aren’t sure why.

You can’t even stop yourself from grinning as he stares at you, letting his eyes wander up and down you.

“Wow.”

“Hey to you too.”

“You look…”

Averting your eyes, you laugh. “Better than sweat pants and a t-shirt, right?”

His eyes remain wide as a smile begins to spread over his face, and you hate how it makes your chest and ears burn with warmth. When he slides out the way, you enter his place.

You try to hide your nerves, turning to face him as he closes the door as you’re pretty sure you smell cleaning supplies and a candle burning.

“Bucky, have you lit a candle?”

He snorts as you find him offering you a glass of wine. “I’m beginning to feel offended you’re so surprised by things I can do.”

Taking the wine, you arch your brow. “I mean, you were born in a time before Google.”

“I didn’t 'cheap out' as you would say. So, drink up.”

He follows you to sit down, and you look around, noticing a new plant and another candle. Your finger sliding over the top of the glass, suddenly feeling nervous all over again—like you had done when you got ready.

“You feeling alright?”

Nodding, you look at your glass. “Is he going to ask me a lot of questions?”

Bucky rolls his head from side to side. “Probably. He’s very invasive. Bothersome, actually.”

“Great.”

His hand touches your shoulder, brows furrowing as you meet his eye line. “At any point, you say the word and we will leave.”

“What word—a safe word, just for us?”

You watch him frown, all his features scrunching up before he smirks.

“Is that your thinking face—”

“—Shut up—”

“You look like you’re trying to shit out a brick, Bucky,” you laugh, and the corners of his mouth turn up as you do.

Taking a sip of your drink, you feel your face warming up as you hold his stare.

“You have nothing to worry about. Sam’s gonna love you,” he reassures, his thumb drawing circles on your shoulder as you sigh. “And, hug me.”

“What?”

Smirking wider, he sips more of his beer. “If either of us want to go, we’ll ask for a hug?”

“Our safe word is hug me?”

“Exactly.”

You shrug, drinking some of the wine, not aware of his growing smile or how his eyes are firmly on you.

><><>

Bucky knew it would go well.

Even if he’d been worrying about the two of you meeting the moment Sam asked who he was texting. You’d been nervous, practically vibrating with nerves as he opened the bar door letting you go in first. The whole walk over his finger occasionally brushed yours, and it took all of him not to reach out and take it. To make you feel better, that’s all.

He’d been sure at several points on the quiet walk to it that you’d ask to go home.

He knows how you hate crowds, how situations such as these are hard; you’d told him in a few words and he’d stitched the rest together himself.

There wasn’t a way for him to explain to you he got it. How he hated his mind too, how it twisted things that made sense and made them a nightmare. One day, he’d try to find the words to tell you, even if you had put your own pieces together.

He watches as you slide from the stool to the bathroom, thankful you’ve nibbled at your chips and drank some of your water. He knew when you were really worked up, you didn’t eat, he’d noticed it when you ordered food with him after a bad day, and left it untouched.

“You like her.”

“Well, I don’t usually hang out with people I don’t, Sam.”

Smirking, Sam tips his beer towards him. “No, idiot. You like her, like her.”

He didn’t want to deny it, he didn’t really have the energy or desire to. Because of course he did. He wouldn’t see as much of you, wouldn’t think about you when he did mundane things like grocery shop and notice your favourite sauces or coffee beans if he didn’t.

Bucky also hadn’t been on a date in weeks, not that he really ever wanted to go on them before. He only did because you’d been seeing that asshole from your office and he thought he’d give it a go.

Then there was the time you fell asleep on him, and he didn’t hate it. He liked how you’d curled into him under the ridiculous yellow blanket on your sofa. How you breathed softly, your hand resting on his chest and he could study each lash and each curve of your face.

“Alright, Sam.”

“Wait, you’re not denying it.”

Shooting him a glare, he glances back, checking you’re not on your way to him. “No.”

“No, you’re not denying it? Or no, you don’t—“

“She’s good, Sam. Genuinely good. She works a normal job and does normal things. She bought me a cactus and made me soup once; when I’m down she makes me sandwiches or hot drinks, even if I protest,” he says, picking at the label on his bottle as he looks up to see you emerging from the bathroom and pointing at the bar.

He just nods and you smile so wide and beautifully, he’s not sure he’s ever going to recover. Regardless of how put together you are right now, how stunning you look, he finds you just as beautiful as when you’re in your sweats, berating him about sleeping on the floor.

“She’s also my friend,” Bucky continues, meeting Sam’s eyes. “And, since one of my friends knows I murdered their son, another decided to go back in time and remain in the past and you don’t live here, I’ve got very few of them going round.”

“So, you’re going to ignore your feelings?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Sam—“

“No, you are,” he continues, and Bucky glares at him with all he has, “Because you don’t seem to see that she’s as crazy about you, as you are about her.”

He wants to argue, but he also wants to believe.

For a second, he wants to imagine a world in which you want him to. Where instead of there being a time where you don’t curl into him and stop, he places his fingers under your chin and kisses you. A world where you tell him you love him, and he lets it wash over him because if someone like you can love him knowing all of him, then he’s doing okay.

“She likes you back, idiot,” Sam adds as you walk back to the table, holding a tray with drinks on as he smiles.

“Hug me,” he mutters under his breath.

"What?"

Bucky brings his drink to his lips. "I said fuck me."

***************************

You don’t see each other for a week after the bar.

Bucky does text you, even calls you, but he’s away—doing work with Sam he won’t tell you about. And you won’t ever ask. You think he likes that, keeping you at arm’s length with that side of his life.

The thing is, you know he’d tell you if you did ask. But you’re not sure you want to know. You know enough; you watch the news.

You already worry about him at the best of times, because even with a metal arm he’s still a person who can bleed and be hurt. You’ve seen faint bruises before, and cuts on his cheeks, so you could only imagine what marks have been under his clothes. He’s never seemed hurt, not acted like it even when he carries your shopping or lifts a box down from the top of your wardrobe.

If he doesn’t want to tell you, you’ll make it easier by not asking.

You talk about anything but what he’s doing. Even if you hate talking on the phone. Hating how you can’t see him or read his expression; hating how he could be hiding sadness behind sarcasm, something he’s prone to doing.

You only answer the phone because you try to push through because you think it helps him.

When he returns, he brings you a candle and while you have so many questions, you don’t ask them. You just let him in, as he agrees to a movie night as long as you’ll order food.

Lighting the candle, you’re thankful he’s switched the scent up. At one stage, vanilla was all your apartment smelt like. Not even sure why he began buying you candles when he came over uninvited.

I was raised to bring something when I’m invited round. But you’re not invited. So, I bring you a candle. Why a candle? You hate flowers. Bucky... How’d you even know that? I listen.

He lets you pick the movie, groaning when it’s one the two of you have already watched. Moaning about how there’s a sea of movies he’s never seen, but you always put him through the same few. You slump next to him on the sofa, studying him as he focuses on the menu in his hand. Letting your eyes wash over him, checking his hairline and his brows; trying to see if there’s marks or bruises indicating to you how bad his time away has been.

“Your eyes are burning me.”

“Sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

Smirking, you snatch the menu back. “No. No I’m not.”

He shifts on the sofa next to you, and you’re thankful he’s here and not on his stool. Sometimes he does sit beside you, occasionally. Usually he sits at the counter, sipping on beer you purposefully buy him but you know has little to no effect on him. When he sits next to you, it feels different, the vibe in the apartment feels different.

Before, when he’s come back from being away, he’s a bit needier in terms of hours he spends with you, but he’s never wanted to be closer.

“I’m ordering my favourite.”

“Not mine?”

Stopping mid-order, you smirk. “Are you buying?”

He shrugs, standing up as you hear him head to the fridge, the lid of a beer cracking open as you smile.

You’re not sure if you should feel this content with someone who was just a friend. You’d briefly lived with an ex, finding them uncomfortable to be around and not all that sad when things fell apart. You’d dated people, but none who made you smile the way Bucky does.

Not that you like to compare. Not that you have even been on dates recently to compare adequately.

Not that you ever want too.

You bounce on the sofa as he sits, throwing his arm around the back as he sighs. “You going to fall asleep on me again?”

Rolling your eyes you grab the remote. “I will do my utmost to stay away and not use you as a cushion.”

“You can use me however you want.” Your face burns as you hide it behind a surprised look and a smirk, watching as his face turns red, and he turns his eyes from you. “You know what I mean.”

He meets your gaze, and the way his eyes soften and how his lips part do something to you that you keep trying to bury. Each time you’re close to him, this close in fact, it’s harder to not let your eyes wander over each angle of his face. Not to let yourself linger, wondering whether his lips are as soft as they look; whether his stubble will hurt against your soft cheeks or feel nice, grazing your palms and various other places.

“I just mean… if you want to use me as a pillow, be prepared for me to carry you to your room.”

You try to focus on the television, hiding your sudden embarrassment with a smile watching the opening credits. And not on the idea of him carrying you. Or how his thigh is against yours and his aftershave is darker, more wooden and keeps making you go light-headed from wishing it was on your skin.

“As friends, of course.”

Smirking, you glance at him. “Of course.”

He watches you, his arm moves around the back of the sofa as he shifts, finding you even closer, and you wonder if it’s purposeful or accidental. A smile growing over your face.

“Hug me,” he mutters. “What?”

He swallows, staring at you, the light from the television flickering over his features.

“Did you… did you just use the safe word on me?”

Bucky is staring.

Not scarily, not horribly, just full of panic.

You’re sure you’ve never seen this look on his face before; you’re sure he’s never looked so uncertain about anything.

“Bucky…”

“Yeah?”

You pause the film, sitting up straighter as you stare at him. “Are you okay?”

He nods, and then he shakes his head. His arm retracting, the room going cold as you watch him. He shifts, tensing, and you find yourself moving back towards the arm of the sofa, far away from him.

“I’m going to ask you again—”

“I have to go.”

“Oh…”

He’s on his feet before you can speak another word, his hand grabbing for his jacket from the countertop as you follow him.

Bucky’s never done this. He’s never just left, just shut down. Not since the first few weeks of the two of you knowing one another. He did it when you got close to his past, when you toed-the-line over his old persona, the person he hates he ever was.

Now though, you’re confused. Replaying the events backwards, unsure if there’s something you said or if there’s something you’re missing when he turns on his heel to face you.

“I’ll see you soon.”

“Sure,” you manage to say, just as the door of your apartment closes, the scent of him being all that’s left.

You stare, for a stupid amount of seconds at where he has just been. You blink, letting your eyes drop to the floor, trying to steady the way your heart beats as it dawns on you, you may have just lost him. He may have just left, finally reached his peak.

Maybe you were too close, maybe you’d been too much.

Nipping at your bottom lip, you try to stop yourself from unravelling. A little mad at him for doing this, for leaving so abruptly when he knows you’re only going to worry.

You’re about to charge after him, to give him a piece of your mind when the door of your apartment flies open, him walking through it as he throws his jacket over your side table.

You barely have time to brace, to do anything as he towards you his skin brushing your cheek as fingers slide into your hair.

And he kisses you.

His other hand holding your waist gently, likely giving you enough room in case you didn’t want this.

You did.

You really did.

Which is why you began kissing him back.

[Hope you like, (: I loved writing this]