#(I RISE FROM THE DEAD LETS GO)

[robertaaron]

you ever think about how grief is just love with nowhere to go and how aaron’s grief on losing robert was so encompassing that he had no choice but to bury it lest all that love for robert would destroy him and everyone around him. and now think about how much of that grief is just bubbling under the surface now oh so suddenly that love has somewhere to go again. danny miller is going to kill us

[smartzelda]

Sometimes it's frustrating having worked in video game retail and knowing anything about game/console prices and deals watching people just. Say things online

"Look at this nintendo add for the SNES you could get the console and super mario world for like $100! Companies never do that anymore they're so greedy hahaha"

Yes, companies still bundle consoles with games. And yes, often this means the games come at a reduced price. (Mario Kart World for Switch 2 is $50 in the bundle versus the $80 for physical. When Gamestop was bundling games and controllers with new ps5s to keep away scalpers in like 2022, the games included often would be discounted between $10 and $20 for that bundle.)

Don't get me wrong. Of course less than $200 for a console and a first party game would be swell these days BUT. When you decided to get up in arms over prices these days, did you adjust for inflation? (Because like. It's one thing if the new console you're doing comparisons with the old one is much more expensive even when factoring in inflation. But also like some of those old consoles adjusted for inflation are worth about the same if not more than a switch 2, then it's like...okay? At that point the prices aren't the problem. The root issue is the companies not paying you in accordance with rising inflation.)

Believe it or not YES. Nintendo still does console deals where you can buy their most recent home console with a first party game added in for free! (Listen to me. Listen. In 2021 and 2022 for Christmas it was possible to walk into a video game store and buy a $300 switch bundle that included Mario Kart 8 deluxe and like 3 months free Nintendo Online. In like 2022/2023 for Christmas they also did $350 switch oled bundles that included Mario Kart 8 deluxe and 3 months nintendo online for free. The price of a console for a $60 video game and 3 months of the online service. This isn't some mythic business practice that stopped happening in like 2005 or something. I promise.)

Yes obviously the companies are greedy. They use deals to pull you in to get you to spend more than you expected. They also often have more sales than you're even aware of because they benefit more from people paying full price. They underpay people and they use whatever excuses needed oftentimes to raise prices to keep that profit rising. But it does no one any real good other than allow people to get pissed off to lie or assume things which aren't true. There are so many reasons to dislike companies (esp. Nintendo), you don't need to rely on acting like things used to be so much better in cases that they're not, or treating things that are industry wide standards/issues as something one company is the sole perpetrator of.

Moral of the story, maybe perhaps like do a bit a research instead of assuming whatever thing that pisses you off greatly is 100% true, and direct your ire in the right direction. Ground yourself emotionally and mentally, know what's going on. Be pissed at corporations. You're allowed to be fuckin pissed at corporations. Just please know what tf you're talking about and what exactly the root issue is

[mooningningg]

notes, I think I just opened opportunities for yall's horny ass.

genre. smut, MINORS DNI!

★ Roommate!Sukuna the end of the beginning.

The apartment was dark when Sukuna walked in.

Only the soft flicker of the TV lit the living room, casting sleepy colors across your face as you dozed on the couch. Legs tucked under a blanket, big old t-shirt hanging off your shoulder — his shirt, actually. You didn’t even notice it still had the faint bleach stains near the hem.

But he did.

He was halfway through kicking off his boots when he saw it — the way the oversized collar drooped, how your bra strap had slipped down, barely hanging on your shoulder. The neckline was so wide it might as well not exist. Just skin. Bare skin. Your chest rising and falling under soft cotton that definitely wasn’t doing shit to hide anything.

He scoffed under his breath, jaw tightening.

You had no idea what you were doing to him. Or maybe you did. That was worse.

You stirred, blinking blearily as you sat up. “Oh. You’re home?”

He dropped his keys. “Obviously.”

You yawned, stretching. One arm above your head. The shirt lifted. That tiny glimpse of skin above your shorts made something inside him go dead quiet.

“You gonna keep dressing like that,” he muttered, stepping closer, “or are you just fuckin’ with me now?”

You blinked, confused, still half-asleep. “Huh?”

Sukuna tilted his head, voice sharp. “You think I haven’t noticed?”

You sat up straighter, cheeks warm. “I wasn’t—”

He laughed once, bitter. “Yeah, you were.”

He was standing in front of you now, towering, eyes dark. His voice dropped lower.

“You’ve been doing this for months.”

You swallowed. The air was too hot. “...And?”

He didn’t answer with words. Just reached out, slowly, fingers slipping under your jaw, tilting your face up to him.

Then he kissed you.

Hard.

Messy.

All that tension — the near-touches, the stolen glances, the biting insults that never really meant go away — it poured out through his mouth on yours. Tongues sliding, breath catching, hands gripping. His teeth tugged your bottom lip just to hear you whimper.

He pulled back, eyes heavy.

“Get on your knees.”

Your breath hitched.

You slid off the couch and dropped to the floor in front of him, hands already tugging his sweatpants down. He was already hard — thick, heavy, leaking — and shit, you couldn’t help but lick your lips.

Sukuna spread his legs slightly, slouching into the cushions like he owned the whole damn world. “Go on,” he rasped. “Been teasing for months. Show me what that mouth’s good for.”

You wrapped your lips around him, slowly, tongue circling the tip as your hand stroked what you couldn’t take right away. Sukuna hissed above you, hand sliding into your hair, not pushing — just holding. Anchoring.

“Fuck,” he muttered when you hollowed your cheeks. “Knew you’d be good at this.”

You moaned around him, and he twitched in your mouth.

His hips flexed, shallow thrusts into your throat as you found a rhythm, spit dripping down your chin, eyes glassy from the stretch. He watched you like a starving animal, thumb brushing over your cheekbone every time you looked up.

“You like this?” he growled. “Like being on your knees for me?”

You nodded, mouth still full of him.

When he came, it was with a sharp groan, hips stuttering, his grip tightening in your hair. You swallowed every drop, breathing hard when he finally let go.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, still kneeling. He looked down at you — flushed, chest rising, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Then he leaned forward, brushing your hair back gently, and pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

A single, quiet peck.

Then he stood, pulling his sweats back up.

“You know what this is now,” he said, voice low but final.

And just before he walked to his room, he smirked over his shoulder.

“Try not to fall in love, princess.”

Door shut.

Your heart didn’t.

Welcome to roommates with benefits.

Taglist, @humeysaga @williamafton26 @aranisbaee @probablynotleahhhh @probablynotleahhhh. @beaniesayshi @levifiance @rinofcike @fushiguroooozzz @gojoscumslut @bellsoftheball @kunascutie. @after-laughter-come-tears. @minasuniverse, @chewiebee @ilovebeansya @drowsysausagedog

[fromdove]

THINGS YOU DO THAT THE BATBOYS FIND ATTRACTIVE ! batboys x reader

“God, you’re impossible. And I’m so screwed, because I think I’d let you ruin me.”

— fem!reader, suggestive thoughts in jasons & bruces part (maybe dick too??)

© fromdove— All rights reserved. Reposting, translation, or modification of these works is strictly prohibited, regardless of whether credit is given.

∿　 　 . `💭` ㆍ

JASON TODD

the way you hold eye contact when you're angry

It started as a slow simmer—your voice, low and clipped, each word deliberate, sharp enough to slice through the heavy Gotham air. Jason wasn’t even sure what the hell you were mad about anymore. The way your eyes were locked on his, unwavering, lit from within by something electric—it drowned out everything else.

You stood across the room, spine straight, chest rising with each measured breath. Not yelling. Not crying. Just...burning. And looking at him.

There was something about that. The way you didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Like you could take every jagged, bloodstained part of him and still meet him dead-on, like you’d never blink first. It made his heart twist in his chest, something old and animal uncoiling inside him. He’d faced down murderers, monsters, lowlife scumbags—but the fury in your gaze made his throat go dry. Not because he feared it. Because he wanted to touch it. touch you.

You took a step forward, the kind that didn’t echo but reverberated, and that subtle movement—how your hands stayed relaxed at your sides, how your mouth didn’t tremble when you spoke—undid him.

“Don’t try to bullshit me, Jason.”

There was a beat. One taut, blistering moment where the only thing louder than your breath was the pounding in his ears.

And then he laughed. Just a breath of it, almost involuntary. The kind of laugh you get when something hurts and turns you on at the same time. He didn’t even mean to. It just escaped him.

You frowned, and that only made it worse. He wanted to bite your lip just to see if your mouth would still taste like fire when it was pressed against his. He wanted to grab your face and kiss you so hard it left bruises.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful when you’re pissed,” he murmured, voice low and hoarse, almost reverent.

You blinked at that—but didn’t back down. And the way your stare softened just a fraction, that flicker of confusion folding into resolve again... yeah. That did it. That almost ended him right then and there.

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, like approaching a lit fuse. His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to touch, to pull, to anchor.

“You gonna hit me?” he asked, tone dark and dangerous and barely hanging on.

You tilted your chin up. “Wouldn’t waste the energy.”

God. That. That right there. The grit in your voice. He could live off that kind of defiance. He wanted to.

Jason had never been good at softness. He didn’t know what to do with people who crumbled. But you—? You held his gaze like a storm, like a girl who could kill him with her silence, and suddenly, all he wanted to do was beg for a second chance to make you smile again.

Not because he deserved it. Because he’d die trying to.

DICK GRAYSON

the way you reach for him in your sleep

It starts small. Always does. You shift once, twice—barely there. Then your hand moves, unthinking. Across sheets warm with your shared heat, it searches.

You don’t know you're doing it. That’s what makes it criminal. You’re not asking to be loved in that moment. You’re assuming it. Trusting the world to place him where he belongs: next to you.

And Dick—poor, cursed Dick—is already awake.

He lies still, pretending. Letting you find him. Every nerve is alight, tuned to the sound of your breath, the whisper of cotton as your wrist brushes the inside of his arm. Then—finally—your hand finds his chest, right over the scar where a blade once tried to make him quiet forever.

Your fingers twitch. Then still. Then curl.

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

He’s not thinking about villains or masks or the weight of his last name. He’s not worried about who’s watching, or whether he’s enough. He’s just a man now.

A man undone by the way you, unconscious and vulnerable, reach for him like he’s home. Like your body knows him, wants him, chooses him—without performance, without pride.

And it’s just so fucking sweet. The sweetness that life had never thought him deserving of—never bothered to offer, as if the universe had forgotten him in some quiet corner—was suddenly there, in you. And only then did he realize what he had been starved of.

There’s something maddening about your vulnerability—how you press against him in sleep, skin warm and scent-heavy, mouth parted just slightly. Innocent, yes. But not harmless.

Not to him.

He could write an entire religion based on the way your breath hitches when his hand covers yours. He could burn entire cities if someone tried to pull you away while you sleep.

Because this—this secret, sacred moment where you choose him without knowing— is the kind of thing he’s never let himself want.

But now that he’s had it, he knows.

He’ll want it forever.

BRUCE WAYNE

the way you tilt your chin when you're defiant

It is the tiniest gesture—a tilt of the chin, so slight it might pass for nothing at all. But to him? It is semaphore, a flare in the dusk, a gauntlet tossed with exquisite subtlety.

You do it when you disagree. Not with loud words or theatrics. No. You just raise your chin. Barely. As if your body is saying, “I’m not afraid of you.”“I’ll meet you there, if you push.”

And God help him, he wants to push.

You do this thing where your jaw tightens just slightly, where your eyes go sharp and patient at the same time—like you’ve already calculated the cost of standing your ground and decided to pay it anyway.

You look… royal. As though Gotham’s grime never dared graze your skin. Like tragedy tried and failed. Like you’d walk into fire if it meant protecting what’s yours.

And that infuriates him.

Because Bruce—Bruce—knows what defiance costs. He’s worn it like armor. Bled for it. Buried people because of it.

But when you do it?

It doesn’t look like self-destruction. It looks like purpose. Power. Something beautiful he was never allowed to have.

He wants to touch your face when you tilt your chin like that. Wants to grab your wrist and pull you into him—not to overpower, but to understand. To memorize the blueprint of that defiance. To feel it against his mouth.

You make silence feel like war. And he’s losing.

Because there is something deeply, dangerously erotic about a woman who doesn’t flinch when she should. Who doesn’t soften to make him comfortable. Who looks at the darkest thing in him—and doesn’t look away.

He’s not used to being watched like that. He’s not used to wanting to be watched like that.

And every time you lift that chin, he’s reminded of exactly how easy it would be to give up the act, the mask, the fiction of the untouchable man—

—all for one person who sees him and doesn't look away.

[apatheticsunday]

Dead Tired Stalker AU

AKA "Tim Drake is a little obsessive, possessive, and really, really likes his new boyfriend (Danny)" prompt idea!! No non-con, violence, or dead doves. Brief reference to human experimentation.

Inspired by this one post where Tim kept a methodical journal of Danny's resting pulse, body temperature, weaknesses, tracked him literally all the time, and Danny was like *heart-eyes*

I like the idea of Tim's idea of love being completely a bit skewed. He was neglected as a kid and craved attention, affection, being wanted; so, understandably, he assumes that's what other people want, too. He'd only had one boyfriend before. Kon was sarcastic, funny, and sweet, but even he couldn't handle Tim's... staring. The unblinking intensity in those eyes, the hundreds of pictures of himself on Tim's phone, somehow Tim knowing about Kon's conversations and experiences without having been there.

Needless to say, Tim and Kon's relationship ended with a harsh reiteration that most people need boundaries.

So, when Tim meets this very cute messy-haired boy at Gotham-U, he shoves down the instinctive urge to know everything. Mentally captures moments, memorizes them, instead of taking pictures. Shoves earbuds in to avoid listening in on Danny's conversations (oh, his name's Danny, which he overheard when the boy was speaking with the TA).

It's so hard not to obsess, though. Danny is... well, he's haunting. His crystalline eyes make Tim's heart stutter in his chest, chills rising along his arms; he swears there's this aura around Danny that's just utterly compelling. (Stop it, Tim, you'll scare him off.) But Tim can actually be a person sometimes, so he just asks, "Do you want to go out for coffee with me sometime?" And he's psyched when Danny says yes!! (He tries really, really hard not to memorize the fact that Danny likes hot oatmilk chai lattes, uses his left hand to hold his drink, and prefers not to use a coffee sleeve. Does Danny always hold his cups by the lid? Does he prefer- Tim stops himself.)

And Tim is a great boyfriend!! They go on dates (he doesn't avidly stare at the way Danny's eyes sparkle while at Gotham-U's planetarium). Tim learns Danny's favorite music the normal way (he doesn't hack into Danny's Spotify... although he's suddenly found himself listening to an artist named Ember). And Tim has a totally normal album of pictures of his boyfriend on his phone (his burner phone is a different matter entirely, but not even Batman himself could get it unlocked. Tim's got that phone sealed up tighter than the Fortress of Solitude).

Except Tim notices Danny becoming more withdrawn. More tired, dark bags under his eyes and stealing Tim's double espresso (he never does that, it's too bitter for him, why isn't he drinking his oatmilk latte?). Leaning his head on Tim's shoulder during lectures to take naps. And Tim's becoming more frantic the more lethargic Danny becomes.

Maybe he's more like Bruce "Contingency Plan" Wayne than he's willing to admit. Tim sets a hard boundary for himself: I'm just going to Google his symptoms. That's it.

He spends the next 42 hours obsessively researching Danny: hacks into his phone, downloads all his previous location history, texts, calls, background checks everybody Danny's been in contact with. Re-traces his steps down to the minute, finds all his Google searches, activates Danny's laptop webcam. He's determined to find out what's wrong with his boyfriend.

And because Tim is Red Robin, who literally became part of the Batfam because of his stalking tendencies and is one of the greatest detectives since Batman, he finds out. He finds out that Danny Fenton is one Phantom, a vigilante from Amity; finds obscure clips of newspapers mentioning a young boy's tragic death, discovers the GIW, uncovers classified information containing metahuman experimentation (let's say he doesn't quite know about Ghosts, but Metas are close enough).

Somehow, he makes a connection between ectoplasm and the Lazarus Pit (maybe not necessarily the right connection, but something-adjacent). After all, Jason was resurrected via "Evil Baja Blast" and Ra's al Ghul used it to make himself immortal. It would make sense that the GIW could sample Lazarus Pit water and use it to experiment on metahumans. So... Does Danny just need more Lazarus Pit water?

Cue Tim making use of the Drake and Wayne family wealth to literally overnight mason jars full of Lazarus water. Ra's al Ghul has no idea how it happened. He tests the reaction of Danny's DNA and the Lazarus water only to realize he was right. (Lazarus Pit waters are just excessively concentrated ambient ectoplasm, I guess?)

Tim does what any good boyfriend would do and spikes Danny's oatmilk lattes with Lazarus Pit water. And it helps. Danny is suddenly so much more energetic, there's that glittering shine to his eyes, and he looks so much healthier. Happier. Tim can't stop staring at him. If anything, he stares more, tries to memorize every angle of his boyfriend's face; he collects more candid pictures than before, always catching the gentle curl of Danny's lips when he's distracted; doesn't disengage the tracking apps or phone mirroring software.

He's just happy that his boyfriend is feeling better, more like himself. It's just a perk that Danny doesn't know about Tim's minor stalking tendencies.

(Danny absolutely knows.)

[meowdei]

morning routine — ft. sylus

before you read: established relationships ; gender neutral reader ; sleepy clingy sylus ; banter ; fluff and cheesiness i apologize in advance

“Here we go,” you hum to yourself, rolling your eyes with a knowing smile curled loosely on your lips as soon as Sylus starts to shift in his sleep. “Like a hermit crab,” you tease to his unconscious figure, “no wonder you’re so pale. Do you even remember what the sun looks like?”

“Do you always talk to sleeping people?”

You still at the sound of his voice, hand freezing in the middle of stroking through his hair. He doesn’t like that, either—his head presses up into your fingertips, a silent demand for more.

“You should be sleeping,” you scold gently, fingers returning to their earlier movements. You scratch lightly at his scalp and he shivers, humming in content. Like a cat, you think fondly, purring in your arms at the slightest show of affection.

Your morning routine starts with the same valiant effort every day: protecting Sylus from the sun. It’s honest work: he already doesn’t sleep very much through the night, and if he doesn’t sleep through the day because of a mild setback either, you think a number of poor victims would suffer the consequences of his tired, grouchy attitude.

So, you protect him as he falls asleep while the sun rises, beams of light slipping through the cracks of the blinds a little more with every minute. You watch him—with equal parts amusement and equal parts fondness, you watch every morning as he slowly shifts in his sleep. It starts with him inching closer and closer towards you, and ends with his head buried into your chest and his body curled around you like you’re a shield for the cruel light that disturbs him.

You like this routine, though. It’s the perfect chance to admire him, to bring a hand to trace over his relaxed features—the slightly crooked slant of his nose, the sharp angle of his cheekbones, the defined edge of his jawline. And, of course, your favorite part: the soft, plump curves of his lips. He never does anything to indicate he’s awake, either. Nothing to even hint that he feels you, breathing slow and soft puffs of air peacefully nestled against you.

He looks delicate in slumber. Vulnerable. So agonizingly soft and fragile in a way he normally doesn’t look. (Oh, but does he feel soft, you always think. Sylus always feels so inexplicably soft.)

“I would be sleeping,” he finally grumbles, but it’s playful as he shifts to hide his face deeper into your chest while his nose presses against your collarbone. “But someone disrupted my efforts.”

“No, I protect you,” you huff, “with the way you avoid the sun in your sleep, you’d think the vitamin D would poison you.”

“If it was poisonous, then I’d be dead,” he sighs dramatically, cracking a crimson eye open and looking at you like he’s wounded. “You do a terrible job at keeping me shielded.”

“Maybe I’m trying to kill you in your sleep,” you wink, “ever think of that?”

He chuckles, voice low and still laced with the evidence of sleep from the raspiness of it. You smile softly at the sound, pressing a chaste kiss to his head while he moves to bury it into the crook of your neck. There’s something oddly comforting about it—holding him like this. Holding him while he hides into your body, melts against your skin, sinks weight onto you because you take it and he can.

“Go back to sleep,” you murmur sweetly, rubbing a slow, soothing hand up and down his bare back and tracing his spine. “I’ll make sure the sun knows not to bother my big, sleepy, vitamin D deficient baby.”

“I’m not vitamin D deficient,” he huffs.

“So you agree you’re a big, sleepy baby?”

He snores dramatically, pulling a giggle from your lips. A kiss presses to the skin of your neck, and they come from a pair of lips that feel suspiciously curled—like they’re smiling. You wrap your arms around him a little tighter, because close just doesn’t feel close enough when it’s him.

“Let’s hope I wake up without being poisoned,” he hums, half-asleep once more as you trace a finger along the sharp, muscled curves of his back.

You press one more kiss to his head before murmuring, “I’ll see what I can do.”

He lets out a gentle snore again, real this time. He’s sound asleep with his body molded against yours, routine like it is every morning—you protecting him from the sun, and him falling into your arms.

I just want to hold him while he peacefully rests and hide him away from the sun so he can sleep well like he deserves because he’s a BABY

To me he’s a baby :(

[danysdaughter]

i need some absolute heart shattering angst about bucky "dying" and then a few years later he suddenly shows up at the door

AND YOUR WRITING IS SOOOOK CHEFS KISS 🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

lmao babe, I'm not gonna lie, this was soooo vague so I went off the rails with this one a bit, lol, which means I accidentally wrote a mini 15k fanfic

Come Home To Me

pairing | 40s!bucky x fem!reader & platonic!steve x reader

word count | 14.7k words (lowkey this is like a three part story put together)

summary I during the rise and ruin of the second world war, a sharp-tongued brooklyn girl falls for james buchanan barnes—only to lose him to the battlefield, a presumed death, and the silence that follows.

but almost two years later, when the war is long over and the wounds have scarred over, he comes back through her door, proving that some promises do survive the fire.

tags | (18+) brief smut, canon divergence, slow burn, friends to lovers, soft!bucky barnes, strong female character, angst with a happy ending, angst and feels, domestic fluff, pregnancy, bucky barnes needs a hug, period-typical attitudes, racially ambiguous reader, no use of y/n

a/n | I hope this satisfies you guys for the rest of the week, because I will be working unfortunately. lowkey have no idea where this idea even came from, but I'm actually in love with this. for context, they're all the same age so, 1936 - 18, 1941 - 23, 1944 - 26, 1946 - 28

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ — ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2

divider by @cafekitsune

Brooklyn, Summer of 1936

Bay Ridge streets smelled like hot pavement, coal smoke, and fresh bread — if you were lucky. If you weren’t, it was just piss and heat and someone hollering three blocks away.

You were leaning against the iron railing outside your building, arms crossed, one scuffed boot propped up behind you. Hair pinned up in a rush, streak of grease on your cheek from helping your mother with the busted fan in the window. You didn’t hear them so much as feel them coming — like a ripple in the rhythm of the block.

“Morning, boys,” you said without looking, voice dry as kindling.

“Sun’s barely up and she’s already packin’ attitude,” Bucky Barnes replied, that usual drawl in his voice like he thought he was the second coming of James Cagney.

You gave him a sideways glance. “And you’re packin’ delusions. Must be somethin’ in the water on your end of the street.”

Steve gave a tired chuckle, already wedged between the two of you in spirit if not in body. He had a half-eaten apple in one hand and worry in his eyes — like always. “Can we go one day without a brawl before lunch?”

You raised a brow. “You think this counts as a brawl? Stevie, this is foreplay.”

Bucky damn near choked. Steve went red all the way to the tips of his ears.

You let the silence sit for just a second too long before snorting, then pushed off the railing. “Relax, Rogers. I wouldn’t flirt with this guy if he was the last swing dancer in Manhattan.”

Bucky smirked. “Don’t flatter yourself, trouble. You’d miss me if I dropped dead.”

“Only thing I’d miss is the peace and quiet.”

But he knew, and you knew, that wasn’t exactly true. You butted heads with Bucky like it was your second job, but there was something magnetic about him — the kind of boy who knew the weight of every girl’s stare but still acted like the world owed him one more.

He dressed like he owned the sidewalk — suspenders slung loose over a plain white tee, sleeves pushed up to show the muscle he never stopped bragging about. Hair slicked back, grin sharp enough to cut a streetcar in half.

You hated that he could smile like that and get away with murder.

Steve, sweet and lean, kept his shoulders tight like he was always bracing for something. He didn’t speak unless he meant it, and when he did, people listened — not because he was loud, but because he was honest. If Bucky was a firecracker, Steve was the matchbook — quiet, flammable, and always trying to keep things from going up in flames.

“Where we headin’?” you asked, pulling a cigarette from your purse. You didn’t light it — just liked the feel of something between your fingers when you talked. “We going to that theater again?”

“Nickel matinee starts in twenty,” Steve said, tossing the apple core into the gutter. “Double feature — G-Men and something with Myrna Loy.”

“Ugh,” you groaned. “Another damn fed movie? They’re just propaganda with prettier faces.”

Bucky gave you a lopsided grin. “You just don’t like cops ‘cause they keep catchin’ you runnin’ your mouth.”

You stepped in close enough that he blinked, caught off guard by how quickly you cut the distance. “I don’t like cops ‘cause they don’t care about girls like me unless we’re dead or useful. Big difference, soldier boy.”

His grin faltered — just a flicker — and Steve, ever the peacemaker, cleared his throat and gently nudged his way between you both.

“She’s not wrong,” Steve said quietly, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Cops only come to our side of the block when someone’s bleeding. Or brown.”

Bucky glanced between you two, then dropped the grin altogether. His voice went soft — maybe even respectful. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just tucked the cigarette behind your ear and started walking. “You never do, Barnes. That’s the problem.”

But still — still — when your shoulder brushed his as you passed, you didn’t pull away.

And he didn’t move either.

After the movie, the three of you settled along the edge of the promenade overlooking the East River, legs swinging above water that glinted dull and gray under the setting sun.

You were mid-rant. Again.

“And don’t even get me started on the benches,” you said, jabbing a thumb behind you like the injustice was sitting right there. “I mean, really? A freakin’ bench? Can’t share a place to sit ‘cause someone’s skin looks different? What kind of country invents trains and planes and peanut butter and still can’t figure out where a person should be allowed to sit?”

Steve nodded slowly, elbows resting on his knees, listening like he always did — not with judgment, not with pity. Just taking it in, quiet and steady.

Bucky popped the cap off a soda bottle with his belt buckle, because of course he did, and took a long sip before muttering, “You sure you don’t wanna run for office? You talk enough for three senators.”

You shot him a glare. “If I ran for office, I’d be dead before I made it to the first speech. They don’t like girls who say what they mean — especially ones who don’t smile while doin’ it.”

Steve winced. “She’s got a point.”

You gestured at him. “Thank you. Steve gets it.”

Bucky held up both hands, defensive but grinning. “I didn’t say you were wrong. I’m just sayin’, maybe the bench thing ain’t our fight. Not really.”

You stared at him. “See? That right there. That’s the problem.”

He blinked. “What is?”

“You thinking just because it doesn’t hurt you means it ain’t your fight.”

Steve looked over at Bucky, brows raised slightly. “You walked into that one.”

Bucky sighed and leaned back on his palms, looking up at the sky like it might hold some kind of answer. “I’m not tryin’ to be the bad guy, alright? I know the country’s busted. I know some people got it worse than me. I just—” He shook his head. “It’s not like I can do anything about it.”

You snorted. “That’s what they all say. ‘Ain’t my place,’ or ‘it’s just the way it is.’ Then you blink, and it’s been seventy years since slavery ended and we’re still out here arguing about who gets to use a water fountain.”

Bucky looked over at you — really looked. You were staring at the river like it had betrayed you personally, eyes hard, jaw set, that fire in your belly burning so bright it practically radiated off you.

“I just think,” you said, softer now but still fierce, “if you’re not mad, you’re not paying attention.”

Steve nodded again, quiet and firm. “You’re right about that.”

Bucky was silent for a beat. Then he said, quieter than either of you expected, “I am payin’ attention.”

You didn’t say anything back. You just sighed.

────────────────────────

One Week Later

It was too damn hot for anything. The kind of sticky, breathless heat that made the whole neighborhood move slow. You were sitting on the curb outside the corner store, nursing a warm soda and fanning yourself with a folded-up newspaper when Bucky came jogging around the corner, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Oh no,” you muttered as soon as you saw his face. “You’ve either done something stupid or something worse.”

He stopped in front of you, grinning and breathless, hands on his hips. “You remember that diner on 10th? The one with the best cherry pies in Brooklyn?”

Your eyes narrowed. “The one with the ‘whites only’ sign in the window?”

“Yeah, that one.”

You stared at him. “Bucky. What did you do?”

He pulled something from his back pocket and held it out — a metal sign, rectangular, scratched and dented, but unmistakable.

The words “WHITES ONLY” had been spray-painted over in red.

“I may or may not’ve borrowed this,” he said, tossing it onto the sidewalk with a loud clank. “And I may or may not’ve told the guy behind the counter he could shove it where the sun don’t shine.”

You stared at him. Blinked. Then burst out laughing — not because it was perfect (it wasn’t), or smart (definitely wasn’t), but because it was so Bucky. Loud, impulsive, dramatic, and maybe even a little dangerous.

He looked proud of himself, then uncertain. “Was that… stupid?”

You stood, brushing your hands on your skirt. “It was loud. It was reckless. And it was probably illegal.”

He winced. “Okay, so yes.”

“But,” you said, stepping closer, eyes locked on his, “you listened.”

Bucky shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “Don’t really like the idea of a place that’d take my money but not someone else's. Doesn’t sit right with me.”

Your throat tightened at that. You hadn’t expected much — just the usual back-and-forth, the teasing and fighting. But this? This was real. Maybe not world-changing, but it was Bucky-changing. And that mattered.

“You know,” you said slowly, “for a guy who runs his mouth like it’s his job, sometimes you say the right thing.”

He gave you that damn grin again. “I’m a man of many talents.”

You rolled your eyes — but this time, you smiled too.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, August 1936

It was late afternoon, and the sun had dipped just enough to turn everything golden. The heat still clung to the brick and concrete like a second skin, but a breeze finally cut through, lifting the hem of your skirt as you stood outside Wilson’s Department Store, eyeing the newest window display.

There it was. The dress.

Soft yellow with a sweetheart neckline, pleated skirt, and delicate white piping along the seams, like something you’d see on the pages of Ladies’ Home Journal if you ever had the spare coins to buy one. It was soft, feminine, ridiculous — and perfect.

And looking like it belonged to a girl who didn’t have to count pennies or scrub floors.

You stood there staring, thumb hooked into your belt loop, brow furrowed. You weren’t wearing anything special — a hand-me-down skirt that was a little too loose at the waist, and a blouse with a stain near the hem you’d tried to cover with a brooch. Your heels were scuffed. Your nails had oil under them from helping patch the neighbor’s busted radio.

You weren’t ashamed, not exactly. You’d worked for every thread on your back. But you still wanted to look nice, sometimes. Wanted to feel like a girl instead of just a fighter.

“Ey,” a voice behind you called. “You gonna rob the place or just stare it down ‘til it surrenders?”

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. That voice had been haunting you since you were thirteen.

“Don’t tempt me,” you muttered.

Bucky chuckled and stepped up beside you, Steve just a step behind with a tired smile already forming.

“What’s the occasion?” Steve asked, looking at the dress too. “Not your usual color.”

You shrugged, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Just lookin’. Ain’t a crime.”

“We were headed to Deluca’s,” Steve offered. “Thought you might wanna come.”

You hesitated — just for a second — then gave a shrug. “Sure. Can’t afford the pie but I’ll steal bites off your plate.”

The three of you fell into step down the sidewalk, the usual rhythm settling in. Bucky tossing a coin up and down in one hand, Steve quietly narrating neighborhood gossip in a tone that suggested he didn’t quite believe half of it, and you walking just a little ahead, tongue sharp and posture tougher than you felt.

“Y’know,” Bucky said after a while, like the thought had only just occurred to him, “never figured you for the dress type. Thought you were more… y’know. Practical.”

You turned to look at him.

“Practical?“

“Yeah,” Bucky said, encouraged by your silence. “Like… you don’t care about all that frilly stuff. You’re not like the other girls. You don’t care about all that stuff. Lipstick and ribbons and whatnot. You’re... different.”

“Different,” you repeated, flat.

Your jaw tensed.

Steve gave Bucky a sharp side-eye, already sensing disaster. “Buck—”

“I mean,” Bucky went on, oblivious, “you’re always talkin’ about politics, and unions, and—hell, you cursed out that priest last week for callin’ Roosevelt a communist—so like you don’t need to be pretty. You’re, y’know... rough around the edges. But in a good way.”

Steve groaned under his breath.

You stopped walking. “Rough around the edges?”

Bucky, to his credit, froze. “No, I meant— Not rough like bad rough. Just— You’ve got character.”

Steve tried. “He’s saying you’re—uh—authentic.”

You turned on Bucky, arms folded. “Let me see if I’ve got this. I’m not like other girls, I don’t care how I look, and I’ve got rough edges and character.”

“No, no—dammit,” Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. “That’s not what I meant. I’m saying you don’t have to put on airs. You’re... you.”

Steve muttered under his breath, “You should stop talking.”

“I meant,” Bucky tried again, hands up, “you’re—different in a good way. You’re smart, and tough, and you don’t need a dress to be beautiful.”

You stared at him, arms folded so tight across your chest you could’ve snapped a rib.

“Oh, so I’m not beautiful now, and I get points for not trying?”

“No! That’s not—Jesus, that’s not what I meant—”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “Buck, for the love of God, please.”

“I meant you are beautiful, but not because you try, just… ‘cause you don’t? Like, you’re not… shallow.”

“So girls who like pretty things are shallow now?”

“No! Not shallow. Just, y’know—less…” He trailed off, realizing he had no end to that sentence that wouldn’t get him killed.

You scoffed. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Barnes, ‘cause your brain’s hangin’ on by a shoestring.”

Steve coughed into his hand to cover a laugh.

Bucky was flustered now — flushed, nervous, trying to backpedal in boots made of wet cement. “All I’m saying is, you don’t gotta change a damn thing. You’re already—you’re already you, and I like you.”

“That’s rich,” you said, backing away him. “Coming from the guy who just said I’m not like other girls. Like being other girls is some kind of disease.”

Steve sighed. “He’s an idiot. He means well—”

“She knows I didn’t mean it like that,” Bucky said to Steve, then looked at you. “C’mon, honey—”

“Don’t patronize me,” you snapped.

His face fell. Just a bit. But enough.

You took a step back, jaw tight. “I do care how I look, Barnes. I just don’t have the luxury of pretending I don’t. I like dresses. I like lipstick. I like feelin’ pretty. But you know what I don’t like?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

“Feelin’ like the only reason a guy’s got anything nice to say about me is because I’m not like the girls he thinks are too much. Like I’m some prize for not askin’ for nothin’.”

Bucky looked stunned, like he hadn’t even considered that angle. Like he’d been trying to give you something and dropped it straight into the gutter.

Steve, quietly, said, “She’s right, Buck.”

You held your stare with Bucky a moment longer, then exhaled — sharp, frustrated, done.

“I’m goin’ home.”

“Wait—hey, hold on—”

You were already turning, fists clenched, eyes burning — not with tears, never that — just anger. Embarrassment. The ache of being seen just enough to sting.

“I said I’m goin’ home,” you called over your shoulder, “before I break somethin’ you can’t sweet-talk your way out of.”

You didn’t stop walking.

And this time, neither of them followed.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, Early September 1936

It had been a month.

Thirty long days of radio silence — no knocking on the stoop, no wisecracks outside the shop where you helped your uncle sort through junked radios, nothing.

Steve had tried. Lord, had he tried — showing up at your stoop like a walking apology letter, rambling about how Bucky was a jackass “but not that kind of jackass,” and half a dozen “he means well” speeches. You’d listened, arms crossed, jaw tight, thanked him politely, and shut the door with the kind of finality that said grudge fully intact.

And honestly? You didn’t miss Bucky Barnes. Not really. Not much.

...Maybe a little.

Now it was a Saturday night. Crickets chirped under the hum of streetlamps and jazz drifted faint from a neighbor’s radio. You were stretched out on the front parlor couch in your slip, your hair pinned halfway, half-heartedly reading a borrowed copy of Gone with the Wind that you’d dog-eared so often you were certain the library’d start charging you.

That was until your Ma called out from the kitchen, voice thick with flour and annoyance.

“Get the door! I’m elbow-deep in potatoes!”

You muttered a few curses under your breath — ones your Ma would swat you for if she heard — and pulled on a robe as you headed for the front door.

You pulled it open, half-ready to bark, “What?” — and then froze.

There he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Hair slicked back like always, but a little messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. No smirk. No swagger. Just Bucky, standing there with his hands shoved into his coat pockets like a schoolboy who’d lost his lunch money.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You blinked at him, arms crossing out of instinct.

“What do you want?”

Bucky shifted on his feet. “Can I... can I talk to you?”

You glanced over your shoulder, then stepped halfway onto the stoop, leaving the door cracked open behind you.

“I’ve been practicin’ this,” he admitted, eyes down. “For, uh. For a while. In my head.”

“Didn’t get a chance to use it on the other girls you insulted this month?”

He winced, hands tightening in his pockets. “No. Just you.”

You said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he began, voice low. “For what I said. For how I said it. I was tryin’ to say you don’t need all that stuff to be beautiful, but it came out like you weren’t allowed to want it. And that’s... that’s not fair. You can want lipstick and dresses and still want to break the whole damn system.”

You arched an eyebrow, still guarded. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Steve,” he muttered. “Well, mostly. And maybe a little from this pamphlet I found at the co-op, but it was all in real small print, and the lady at the desk was real intense.”

That made you almost smile. But not quite.

“I know I talk too much,” he continued. “And I don’t always think before I do. But I’ve been thinkin’ a lot. About how I made you feel. And how I hate the thought that you might’ve thought... you weren’t enough. Or too much. Or whatever the hell it was I made it sound like.”

You sighed quietly, leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t wanna be angry all the time, James. It’s like—people expect me to be. Like the minute I open my mouth, it’s just bark, bark, bark. Sometimes I wish I could just... be. Y’know?”

He looked at you like he understood. Not fully. Not yet. But enough.

“I like your bark,” he said, almost sheepish. “But I like when you’re just you, too.”

You looked down, toes tapping the wooden stoop.

There was a pause — soft, honest, unpressured — before he asked, gently, “Did I blow it? Or... have you forgiven me?”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes like you were calculating the weight of the whole damn thing.

“I’m takin’ one of those quiet moments where I weigh your good qualities against your bad ones,” you said slowly, “to decide if you’re actually worth the trouble.”

He straightened, hands dropping from his pockets like he wanted to prepare for a punch.

You tilted your head. Composed. Narrowed your eyes.

“You made it.”

His grin bloomed across his face — that trademark Bucky Barnes smile, the one he used when he won a game of stickball or caught the last seat on the trolley.

It knocked the breath out of you a little, not that you’d admit it.

“I, uh—” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “I got somethin’. For you.”

He stepped back a bit and pulled something from his coat pocket— a neatly folded bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He held it out.

You looked at him, suspicious. “What is it?”

“Just... open it.”

You frowned, lips already pursed, but your fingers tugged at the twine anyway.

You tugged the string loose and unwrapped the paper — and then you saw it.

Your breath caught.

Soft yellow cotton. Sweetheart neckline. White piping at the seams. The exact dress from the department store window. The one you’d stared at. The one you’d fought about.

Your heart tightened like a fist. “Bucky—this ain’t—this wasn’t cheap.”

“I know.”

You pushed it back into his hands. “Take it back.”

“No.”

“Did you steal this?”

“What? No!” he raised his hands. “I took extra shifts at my pop’s shop. I’m still covered in oil under this shirt. Go ahead, check.”

You gave him a flat look.

He softened. “I remembered you starin’ at it. That’s all.”

You looked down at the dress. Ran your fingers over the hem.

“I’m not takin’ this.”

“You are,” he said firmly. “Because if you give it back, I’ll just sneak it in through your window next time you leave it cracked.”

You stared at the dress. Then him. Then the dress again.

Your lips twitched — damn him — and you rolled your eyes, but you didn’t hand it back.

He noticed the smile threatening to appear on your face.

“Stop lookin’ so pleased with yourself,” you muttered.

“You’re smilin’.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Then, slowly, you held it close, not too obvious, just enough to breathe in the new fabric. Your lips twitched. “Fine.”

He smiled wider. “Fine?”

“Don’t make me repeat it.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Alright.”

Bucky hesitated again, rocking back on his heels. “I should probably head home. Don’t wanna push my luck.”

You looked over your shoulder, then back at him. “Ma’s makin’ shepherd’s pie.”

His brows rose. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “You know it's just me and her, and she always makes too much.”

He cleared his throat. “I mean... if you need help eatin’ it...”

“You comin’ in or what, Barnes?”

His grin turned boyish again — a little crooked, a little sheepish, all charm. “You sure ’cause I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“Oh for God’s sake, Barnes, come in before I change my mind.”

He stepped over the threshold so fast you’d think you’d offered him gold.

And just like that, you shut the door behind him.

Five years Later

Brooklyn, September 1941

The diner smelled like strong coffee, burnt toast, and a little bit of grease — same as it always had. The bell over the door jingled as Steve and Bucky stepped in, the wind from the street trailing in behind them. The place was half-full, same old chipped counter, same tired cook hollering from behind the swinging door.

Bucky slid into a booth near the window, knocking his shoulder against Steve’s as he grinned.

“You’re buyin’. I got grease on my pants for you this morning.”

Steve rolled his eyes, shrugging off his coat. “You volunteered to fix the radiator, Buck.”

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t take effort, punk.” He kicked his boots up under the table and leaned back like he owned the place.

“Always with the dramatics,” Steve muttered.

Just then, the bell on the counter gave a sharp ding, and a voice called over it:

“Well, well. If it ain’t Barnes and Rogers. Lookin’ like you crawled outta a sewer and a church basement, respectively.”

You.

You were in your uniform dress — nothing fancy, blue apron tied at your waist, hair pinned back (mostly), a pencil tucked behind your ear. You had a rag slung over one shoulder and that trademark glint in your eyes.

Steve smiled. “Hey. Didn’t know you were workin’ today.”

“Pulled a double,” you said, striding over. “Mrs. Fratelli called out again. Probably ran off with the meat truck driver like she threatened.”

Bucky’s face lit up the second he saw you.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said smoothly. “Miss me since this mornin’, or you too busy dreamin’ about me in your sleep?”

You gave him a flat look. “I dreamt I ran you over with a trolley. Twice.”

Steve snorted into his water.

Bucky grinned wider. “Still think that’s your love language.”

You leaned in, eyes narrowing as you placed two menus on the table, voice low and teasing. “You keep talkin’, Barnes, and I’ll slip hot sauce in your coffee.”

“I like it when you threaten me,” Bucky said, eyes gleaming. “It means you’re thinkin’ about me.”

You rolled your eyes before bending just a little and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth — soft, familiar, like it wasn’t even a question anymore. Just something you did. His hand instinctively brushed your hip as you pulled away.

Steve groaned and dropped his forehead to the table. “Not in front of me. Please.”

You raised your eyebrows. “I kissed his face, Rogers. Relax.”

“Yeah, but then he’s gonna get all dopey and start sayin’ stuff that makes me wanna drown myself in syrup.”

“Too late,” Bucky said dreamily, eyes still on you. “Already feel like I’m swimmin’ in sugar.”

You grabbed the coffee pot from behind you and poured two cups — sliding one in front of each of them with a pleased smile. “And that’s why I’m rationing how much coffee you get today.”

Bucky raised a hand solemnly. “If lovin’ you means sufferin’ through caffeine withdrawals, I’ll take it.”

“Awful,” Steve mumbled. “You’re both awful.”

You winked at Steve. “You love us.”

“I tolerate you.”

“I’ll take it,” Bucky said.

You were already walking off to the next table, hips swaying, head turned just enough to catch Bucky watching you. You rolled your eyes at him, but there was no bite in it.

He looked across at Steve, still grinning like a damn fool.

Steve sipped his coffee. “You’re pathetic.”

“Maybe,” Bucky said, watching you over the rim of his cup, “but I’m in love with a girl who can verbally eviscerate me and still kiss me like I hung the moon.”

“...Pathetic and doomed.”

Bucky just smiled wider. “Can’t wait.”

The diner’s usual low hum was alive with clinks of silverware and the hiss of coffee pots, but Bucky’s eyes were fixed on only one thing — you.

You were making your rounds like you ran the place, pouring coffee into mugs with an easy flick of your wrist, tossing back quips with regulars who knew better than to get fresh.

Your hair was coming undone in the back, a curl slipping down your neck, and your apron had a grease smudge near the hem — and Bucky swore he’d never seen anything prettier.

Steve followed his line of sight and let out a sigh into his coffee. “You ever blink when she’s in the room?”

Bucky didn’t even look away. “Would you, if that was yours?”

Steve snorted. “She ain’t yours. She lets you hang around.”

“She’s got that look in her eyes today,” Bucky said, head tilting as he watched you swipe a rag across a booth. “Like she’s two seconds away from smashing a sugar jar over someone’s head.”

“That’s just her face, Buck.”

Bucky finally turned to Steve, flashing that familiar smirk. “You remember last fall? That night in Fort Greene, after the street fair? I kissed her—right outta nowhere. Thought she was gonna sock me in the jaw—”

“She probably should’ve.”

“—but instead,” Bucky said, practically glowing, “she grabbed me by the shirt and kissed me back.” He smiled wider, tapping the side of his head. “Swear to God, I thought I’d been knocked out cold. Like I won the damn lottery.”

Steve made a face. “I think I liked you better when you were pining and pathetic.”

Bucky raised his cup in mock toast. “I still am. Just, y’know, happily pathetic now.”

Steve shook his head, a quiet laugh slipping from him. “She keeps you humble.”

“She keeps me honest,” Bucky corrected, and turned back to watch you.

That’s when the radio near the register crackled a little louder than before, catching just enough attention to lower a few voices.

“…German U-boats continue patrolling the Atlantic, with reports of more attacks on British convoys. American destroyer Greer engaged by German submarine in recent weeks. Though no formal declaration has been made, the Roosevelt administration urges continued readiness…”

Your hand slowed on the countertop, just slightly. Conversations across the diner dipped low or stopped altogether. The cook leaned halfway through the window to turn the volume up.

“—and while President Roosevelt affirms America’s stance as non-combatant, whispers out of D.C. suggest it’s only a matter of time. Should Congress act, all eligible men eighteen and up may be called to serve.”

The old man in the booth behind Bucky snorted and muttered, “Guess the boys better enjoy their hot dinners while they can.”

Someone else murmured, “Been coming for a while now.”

And just like that, the warmth in the diner cooled by a few degrees.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just talk. Same as last month. Same as the month before.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still on you as you busied yourself clearing a table, like if you just kept moving, it wouldn’t matter what was on the radio.

That look was on your face again, the one Bucky knew well: that mix of anger and weariness you always wore when the world decided to take something instead of fix it.

Finally, he spoke, voice low. “Nah. It’s real now.”

Steve looked at him. “Buck—”

“I know it’s coming,” Bucky said, trying to sound casual but not quite managing it. “Same way my pop did. He knew in ’17. Signed up before they even came knockin’. Said if it’s gonna come for you anyway, you meet it head-on.”

Steve was quiet. He hated this part — the inevitability of it. Watching people he loved step into something they might never come back from.

Bucky looked down at his hands, fingers running over a small tear in the napkin dispenser. “If I go…”

“You don’t know that you’re going—”

“If I do,” Bucky cut in gently, “look after her.”

Steve blinked. “Me?”

“You’re the only one I trust to,” Bucky said. “She’s got no one left but you and me. Since her Ma passed…”

His voice faltered a little. Just enough for Steve to notice, but not enough to make Bucky admit it.

Steve leaned back, gave a dry laugh. “Buck, she’s more likely to look after me. She’d have me patched up, scolded, and fed before breakfast.”

Bucky smiled faintly. “Then look after each other. Promise me.”

Steve held his gaze. “Alright. I promise.”

They both turned to look at you, now laughing softly with a little girl sitting at the counter, sliding her a cherry from behind the counter when the cook wasn’t looking.

Bucky’s voice was soft, but firm. “She acts tough. Mouth like a sailor. But she’s got this big heart, y’know?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

The radio crackled again.

And in the brief stillness that followed, Bucky looked like he was trying to memorize everything — the sounds, the feel of the place, the curl of your lips and the way your smile came slow but full.

Just in case.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, November 1941 – Atlantic Avenue Train Station

The wind was bitter that morning, the kind that bit through layers and settled into your bones. Steam hissed from the train engine as the platform filled with a quiet hum of voices — families clustered close, trying not to show just how tight they were holding on.

You stood a little behind Steve, arms crossed over your chest, Bucky’s coat wrapped tight around you. The sleeves were a little too long — he always said he liked seeing you swallow up in it. But you kept your chin high, eyes fixed on the tracks like if you didn’t look at him, this whole thing wouldn’t be happening.

Bucky stood a few feet away, saying his goodbyes. He bent to hug his ma first — her face pulled tight and red with holding back tears. His father clapped him on the back with a hand that lingered longer than usual. And Rebecca, red-nosed and blinking back tears, hugged her big brother like she couldn’t believe he was actually leaving.

You shifted your weight, watching the family scene in silence. Steve nudged your shoulder lightly, offering the smallest smile. You didn’t return it, just stared ahead.

Then Bucky turned. Said his final goodbye to his folks, kissed Rebecca's temple and whispered something that made her laugh through her tears.

You watched it all, arms crossed, jaw set.

Steve stood beside you, shoulders hunched, breath curling in the air. He wasn’t saying anything, which you were grateful for.

And then Bucky turned.

He made his way over, bag slung over one shoulder, grin already blooming on his face even though his eyes didn’t match it. He stopped in front of Steve first.

“Well, punk,” Bucky said, trying to keep it light.

“Jerk,” Steve answered, just as steady.

They clasped hands — firm and fast, pulling into one of those hugs that ended with a clap on the back that said all the things they weren’t going to say.

“Stay outta trouble,” Bucky said, forcing a smirk.

Steve gave a small laugh. “How can I? You’re takin’ all the trouble with you.”

Bucky chuckled, low and tired. “Somebody’s gotta stir things up overseas.”

Steve looked at him, jaw flexing. “You’ll be alright.”

“’Course I will.” Bucky bumped his fist against Steve’s arm. “You think I’m gonna let you get taller and better looking than me? Not a chance.”

Steve laughed softly, blinking fast. “Write when you can.”

“I will.”

They lingered a beat longer, then Bucky turned to you.

You didn’t move. Didn’t meet his eyes. Just stared out over his shoulder at the trains, the people, the nothing that didn’t matter.

Bucky stepped toward you, slower than usual. You kept your arms wrapped around yourself, shoulders stiff, almost as if you were protecting yourself.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You’re really gonna make me leave without seein’ those eyes?”

You swallowed, jaw clenched as you pulled your coat tighter. “Train’s gonna leave whether I look at you or not.”

He reached out, gloved fingers brushing your elbow gently. “You’re wearin’ my coat.”

“I was cold,” you said flatly, eyes still fixed on something past him. “Not like I did it for sentimental reasons or anything.”

He smiled. “Course not.”

You didn’t answer. Just shrugged tighter into the coat, blinking fast. Bucky stepped in closer, so close the brim of his cap was nearly brushing your brow.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he said quietly. “Just a little while. You’ll barely notice I’m gone.”

“Don’t lie.”

That made him pause.

You finally looked at him. Really looked. And the moment your eyes locked, something in your face cracked — not broken, but bent under the weight of all the things you weren’t saying. The world behind your eyes was loud, and Bucky could hear every scream of it.

“I’m scared,” you said finally, voice small.

“Me too.”

Another silence. Longer this time.

Bucky’s face softened. “You think I ain’t comin’ back, don’t you?”

“I think a lot of boys say that to their girls before they leave,” you said, voice even but tight. “And not all of ’em get to mean it.”

Bucky reached up, thumb brushing the side of your face, glove rough against your cheek. “I’m not all of ’em. I’m me. And I’m coming back to you.”

You looked down at his chest, fingers curling slightly like you wanted to hold on and didn’t know where to start.

You bit your lip. “If… if something happens—”

“Don’t,” he cut in gently. “Don’t say it.”

“I need to say it, James. I need to—”

“No.” His voice was firmer this time, but not harsh. He leaned in, pressing his forehead lightly to yours. “I’m comin’ home. You hear me? I’m gonna come back and you’re gonna yell at me for leavin’ my boots at your door again, and you’re gonna steal all the covers, and we’re gonna forget this whole goodbye thing ever happened.”

You blinked fast, breathing shaky.

“If you need anything,” Bucky said, “go to my ma. She’ll take care of you.”

You raised your brows, voice dry. “Your ma hates me.”

Bucky blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh. “She doesn’t hate you.”

“She glares at me like I taught Rebecca to swear.”

He paused, then grinned crookedly. “She just doesn’t love you as much as I do.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh — not quite whole, but better than nothing.

He kissed you then. No heat, no show — just steady and sure, like he was trying to anchor the both of you in the moment. Your hands clutched at his coat, pulling him closer for one more second, two, three.

When you pulled back, your voice was quiet.

“Come home to me.”

Bucky rested his forehead against yours. “You’re all I wanna come home to.”

The train let out a loud hiss. Passengers began calling their goodbyes, some already starting to board.

Bucky kissed your forehead, quick and sure. Then stepped back — one step, then two — still looking at you like he didn’t want to turn around.

“You stay warm, alright?” he called, voice louder over the bustle. “Eat something other than burgers and coffee once in a while!”

You scowled faintly. “You’re one to talk!”

He gave you that big, crooked grin, the one that always made your stomach flip.

Then he turned and walked toward the train, duffel slung over one shoulder.

And you stood there in his coat, trying not to let your eyes water in the cold, with Steve silently stepping closer beside you — not saying anything. Just being there.

The train pulled out of the station a few minutes later. And Bucky was gone.

Three years later

Brooklyn, October 1944 – Atlantic Avenue Train Station

The train pulled into the station with a shriek of steel and smoke, hissing to a stop under the gray Brooklyn sky. The platform was packed — families pressed up against the rails, hopeful and desperate, faces turned toward the windows of the arriving train like it might spit out salvation.

You were right at the front, your press badge pinned to your coat as you tapped your heel anxiously against the concrete, not even trying to play it cool. You looked good — hair pinned sharp, lipstick bold, a belted coat cinched over your skirt, the hem just brushing your knees. You always made a point to look good when he came back.

You weren’t just you anymore — not the loudmouthed girl with calloused fingers and second-hand dresses. You were a name in print now. Famous columnist at The Brooklyn Standard, known for stirring the pot and refusing to let anyone — the government, the public, or the boys back home — forget the hypocrisy of this so-called land of the free.

You had a national voice now, but today, that didn’t matter. Today, you were just the girl waiting on her boys to come home.

And then you saw him.

Steve stepped down first, tall and broad and shining like something out of a poster — because, well, he was now. The star-spangled uniform clung to him like it belonged there, a coat trying and failing to hide it, but that open smile on his face? That was all Steve. Your Steve. Brooklyn Steve. The one who carried extra change for the subway because he was sure one day you’d forget.

You didn’t even have time to shout before Bucky followed behind him — slightly thinner than you remembered, bruised under the eyes, but real. Whole. Alive. Still him.

And when he saw you—

“Doll—!”

You didn’t wait. You shoved past a vendor and a couple of sailors, arms already out. You practically launched yourself at him.

Bucky caught you mid-stride, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you clean off the ground. Your legs lifted, and you buried your face in the crook of his neck, arms tight around him like you were afraid he might vanish if you let go. His duffle bag dropped to the ground with a heavy thump as he spun you once, breathless and warm.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your temple. “God, I missed you, baby.”

He held you like he was afraid you weren’t real. Like if he let go too fast, you’d vanish into the smoke and the station noise and all the things he saw out there in the dark.

“I’m not crying,” you muttered against his neck.

You pulled back just enough to kiss his face — everywhere. Cheek, brow, nose, temple. He laughed, a sound somewhere between hysterical and joyful, as you brushed your fingers over the short edge of his hair.

“I’m kissing you so you know it’s me,” you whispered. “So next time you disappear, I’ve got your damn face memorized.”

He grinned, breathless. “Don’t plan on disappearing again.”

You pressed your forehead to his for one more second before turning to Steve, who stood nearby with a patient smile.

“Well, well,” you said, arching a brow and resting your hands on your hips. “Would you look at that. Steve Rogers. Has anyone seen him? Small fella, polite, sketchbook always tucked under his arm? You’re wearin’ his face, stranger.”

Steve laughed — loud and whole and rich. “That’s me, alright. Just with a bit more… calcium.”

Bucky snorted behind you, still clinging to your waist like he hadn’t seen you in a decade. “You mean steroids.”

“Super-serum,” Steve corrected.

“Fancy steroids.”

You grinned, stepping forward to pull Steve into a hug, strong and sure. He hugged you back with those new arms of his, still gentle like he might break you.

You whispered to him as you held tight: “Thank you for bringing him home to me.”

His voice was quiet. “Would’ve brought him back sooner if I could.”

You pulled back and cupped his cheek. “You brought each other back. That’s more than most people get.”

Just then, a kid across the station shouted, “Hey! It’s Captain America!”

Steve flinched slightly, and you rolled your eyes. “Great. They spotted you.”

“You’ve been in the papers too, y’know,” Steve said, tugging his bag higher. “Every time I see your name, someone’s mad about it.”

“Means I’m doing it right.”

Bucky watched you, chin tilted slightly, pride glinting behind tired eyes. “Told the fellas you were raising hell while we were gone.”

“I did more than raise it. I printed it in bold.”

He slid his hand into yours, fingers tight between yours like he hadn’t remembered what it felt like until now.

“We got you for a few days?” you asked, voice softer now.

“Four,” he answered. “Four days, and then they send us back to God knows where.”

You nodded. “Then I’ll make ‘em count.”

He glanced at you, and a little smile flickered on his face.

“You already are.”

────────────────────────

Your Apartment — 2:47 a.m.

The radiator hissed in the corner, clanking loud enough every so often to make you flinch. The warmth it gave off didn’t quite reach the corners of the old apartment. You were used to that — this was the place you’d grown up, after all. The chipped paint, the creaky floors, the faded wallpaper your ma had put up in '28.

Bucky had crashed in your bed as soon as you'd gotten home. You'd followed later, after checking in on Steve — who was passed out in your old room, still fully dressed. Poor guy had barely gotten the boots off before slumping on your old too small twin bed.

Now it was late, maybe two, maybe three in the morning. Outside, the city hummed quiet and cold. Inside, the room was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the streetlamp filtering through the thin curtains. You'd drifted in and out of sleep — curled against Bucky’s side, your head on his shoulder — until the sudden jolt of his body broke the stillness.

He gasped sharp, sucking in air like he’d been drowning, his muscles tensed tight beneath you. You sat up instinctively.

“Bucky?” you whispered, brushing your hand over his chest.

His eyes were wide and wild, not quite seeing. Sweat clung to his brow, and his breath came hard and fast. You gently cupped his face and leaned closer.

“Hey. Baby, it’s me. It’s just me.” You reached up to stroke his hair, fingers tangling through the soft brown strands. “You’re not there. You’re here. You’re home.”

He blinked, chest still heaving as he tried to slow his breathing. Your other hand rubbed soothing circles against his sternum.

“There you go,” you murmured, voice barely a breath. “Breathe with me, okay? You’re safe. You’re with me.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Just breathing. Then he shifted, head pressing into the crook of your neck, his arm curling tight around your middle as if he was trying to burrow into you, as if your body was the only thing tethering him to this world.

The room was quiet save for the sputter of the radiator and the soft rhythm of your fingers in his hair. You didn’t ask too soon. You knew better than to push.

After a long while, his voice emerged — low, ragged.

“They kept us underground,” he murmured finally, voice rough. “No light. Cold. No names. Just numbers. They… they strapped us down, filled us with something. And when the pain started, it didn’t stop. I thought my head was gonna split open. I couldn’t scream after a while. My throat just gave out.”

You didn’t move, just kept your fingers stroking slow, steady lines along his scalp, the other hand curling along the back of his neck.

“I thought…” he swallowed. “I really thought that was it. That I was gonna die in some freezing hellhole in the Alps with no name and no grave.”

“Hey,” you whispered, voice cracking. “But you didn’t. You came back to me.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then, “Sometimes I feel like I left pieces of myself behind. Like I didn’t all make it back.”

Your chest ached at that. You tightened your hold around him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“You’re all here,” you whispered. “And the rest… the rest we’ll find together, yeah?”

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t cry. You didn’t let yourself. Not while he needed you steady.

Silence again. But the kind that wasn’t heavy. Just close. Breathing. Rebuilding.

His head rested over your heart, and you felt him calm as he focused on the steady beat beneath your ribs. Then—

“Marry me,” he said suddenly, muffled against your skin.

You blinked, startled. “What?”

He lifted his head, eyes locked with yours now — clear, steady, fierce in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Let’s get married,” he said again. “Tomorrow. Or today. Whenever you want. Just—let’s do it.”

You sat up a little more, still blinking at him, mind spinning. “James—”

“I don’t want to wait,” he cut in, softer this time. “I’ve been through hell and back, and every time I thought I wasn’t gonna make it, all I wanted was to get to you. Just to be here again. To hear your voice and feel your hands and—”

He grabbed your hand then, pressed it to his chest like he needed you to feel how real he was. “We’ve been through too much. We’re already each other’s, right? So let’s make it real.”

You stared at him — this man you’d grown up with, fought with, fell for. His eyes never left yours.

“I got it all in my head,” he added, quick like he was afraid you’d talk him out of it. “We’ll go down to the courthouse, get the papers. You can wear that yellow dress I got you. I’ll wear that suit Ma made me save for ‘something good.’ Steve and my family can be our witnesses. We’ll get egg creams after and laugh about how fast it all was.”

“You sound like you’ve been planning this,” you muttered, heart thudding.

“I have,” Bucky said, without missing a beat. “Since the day you kissed me instead of sockin’ me in the jaw.”

You looked at him — really looked at him — hair a mess, face a little pale under the moonlight slipping in through the window. He looked tired and strong and so, so sure.

You swallowed. “You know I always wanted more than marriage and housewives and babies, right?”

“I know,” he said gently. “That’s not what I’m askin’ for. I want you, just how you are. Loud and brash and brilliant. I just want to be yours — proper.”

You met his gaze, fierce and full of something too big to name. “I love you. So… yeah. Let’s get married, Bucky.”

Bucky smiled. That slow, boyish, heartstopping smile you hadn’t seen since before the war.

Then you leaned forward, kissed him slow, and pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “You better not change your mind in the morning.”

“Not a chance, doll.”

──────────────────────────────

The Next Evening

The second that Bucky opened the door, he bent low and scooped you clean off the stoop with a dramatic flair that made you yelp and burst into laughter.

“James Buchanan Barnes!” you gasped, arms flailing before looping around his neck. “What the hell are you doin’?”

“I’m carrying my wife across the threshold,” he grinned, eyes bright with mischief as he marched toward the living room like it was a palace. “That’s what a gentleman does, ain’t it?”

You tossed your head back laughing. “This dump is the same place I've been sleeping for years, James—”

“Not the point, sweetheart,” he said, adjusting his grip under your thighs “I’m startin’ traditions here. And one day, when I come home for good, I’m gonna carry you over the threshold of a real house. Big porch. Little garden. No leaky faucets.”

“You’re outta your mind,” you muttered fondly, brushing his hair back from his forehead as he leaned in and kissed you — quick, then long, then quick again.

Your feet finally hit the ground again and your fingers immediately went to the neckline of your dress — the same pale yellow one he’d bought you all those years ago. The satin straps slipped off your shoulders as you took a breath and said, “Can’t believe this thing still fits.”

Bucky tilted his head like a puppy, eyes scanning your body like he hadn’t already memorized every inch of you.

“Why wouldn’t it fit?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you turned toward the mirror. “Bucky, you got me this dress when we were teenagers. I was still livin’ on Ma’s grocery scraps and bad coffee.”

He stepped up behind you, hands curling around your waist as he dipped his head into the crook of your neck. “You look the same to me,” he murmured against your skin. “Just more beautiful.”

You turned toward him at that — letting your forehead rest against his chest. “You always been such a smooth-talker.”

“No,” he whispered, drawing his fingers slowly down your back, “I just speak the truth when it comes to you.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time. His hands slid lower, anchoring you against him. Your fingers reached for the buttons on his shirt with practiced ease.

“You know,” he murmured between kisses, “if you keep smilin’ like that, I’m not gonna make it to the bed.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You got somethin’ against the couch?”

“No,” he laughed, scooping you up again — this time with a little less ceremony — “I just figured the bed deserves the honor tonight.”

You squealed and let your head fall back as he carried you down the short hallway, your yellow dress now barely hanging on. Once in your bedroom, he laid you down gently, reverently, like he was handling something holy.

“You sure you don’t wanna wait till tonight?” you teased as he hovered above you, eyes dark with love and want. “Make it real proper?”

Bucky’s laugh was low and quiet, almost a hum. He leaned down, brushing his lips against your jaw, then your throat. “We’re married. That is proper.”

Your breath hitched as he kissed the hollow of your collarbone.

“You know I love you, right?” he said, suddenly serious — eyes locking with yours. “I’ve loved you since you threatened to throw a shoe at my head for callin’ you mouthy in ‘31.”

You smiled softly and cupped his cheek. “You still talk too much, Barnes.”

“Then maybe I’ll shut up and show you instead.”

And he did.

He kissed you like a promise. He kissed you like you’d never have to say goodbye again.

His kiss deepened slowly, and when his hand slid behind your neck to cradle you closer, you let yourself fall into it. Into him. Into the warmth and security and the slow realization that this was it. You were married. This was your forever.

Bucky kissed like he meant to remember every second.

He tugged gently at the fabric of your dress, fingertips moving with reverence, not rushing, not demanding—just feeling. When you shifted beneath him, he helped you sit up, fingers fumbling a little with the tiny row of buttons down your back.

“Too many of these damn things,” he muttered.

You laughed softly, leaning back into him. “You’ve been wanting to get me out of this dress since the ceremony, admit it.”

His breath ghosted hot against your shoulder as he kissed your skin between each word. “Since before that. Since I saw you this morning and realized I was gonna be lucky enough to call you my wife.”

The dress slipped down your arms, the delicate fabric pooling at your waist, revealing the soft cream of your slip underneath.

Bucky stilled for a second, eyes roaming over you like you were some rare treasure unearthed in candlelight.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, hoarse. “God—look at you.”

You reached up and tugged at his loosened tie, pulling him down into another kiss. “Then look closer, Barnes.”

That broke something in him.

He pressed you back down into the bed, hands everywhere now—still gentle, but needier. His mouth trailed kisses across your collarbone, then lower, tracing the edge of your slip with aching slowness.

“Can I?” he asked, lips brushing the swell of your breast.

You nodded.

He peeled the slip down carefully, like undressing a secret. When your breasts spilled free, he groaned, breath catching like it hurt. His lips closed over your nipple, tongue flicking gently before he began to suck, slow and deep.

You gasped, arching into him.

His hand moved down, smoothing over your stomach, then lower, over the delicate lace of your underwear. He kissed lower still, murmuring against your skin.

“You’re trembling.”

“I’ve wanted this,” you whispered, “for so long.”

“I know,” he said, voice thick. “Me too.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, then dragged your underwear down, baring you completely. You heard the sharp inhale he took as he looked at you—eyes blown wide, filled with awe.

Then he was over you again, chest pressing to yours, and you were tugging at the waistband of his slacks, unfastening the button, the zipper, until he was bare too—hard and flushed and shaking slightly in your hand.

“You sure?” he asked, voice barely steady.

“I married you,” you whispered, guiding him to you. “Of course I’m sure.”

And when he slid into you—slow, deep, stretching you in the most perfect, heart-wrenching way—it was everything. You both gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your legs wrapping around his waist.

He moved slow at first, reverent, lips brushing over yours with every thrust.

“Love you,” he whispered. “So much. Always.”

You held his face as he made love to you, feeling him fill you again and again until your breath came in soft cries and your heart was a song in your chest. The pace built gradually—never rushed, just more. Deeper. Closer.

When you finally came, it was with his name on your lips and his body pressed fully into yours. He followed seconds later, buried deep, gasping your name against your skin like a prayer.

After, you held each other.

Naked. Married. Home.

And when Bucky whispered another love you against your neck, you kissed his temple and whispered back:

“We’ve got forever now.”

────────────────────────

Six Months Later

Austria – Hydra Territory, March 1945 | Before the Assault on Zola’s Train

The snow howled outside the makeshift command tent like a restless animal. A biting wind cut through even the thickest of coats, but inside, by the dull light of a single hanging lantern, Bucky sat hunched over a folded piece of paper — his hands trembling just a little.

He had read it once.

Then twice.

Now a third time.

Each word hit harder than the last, scrawled in your handwriting — slightly rushed, ink smudged near the edge where you’d probably leaned your elbow like you always did.

Steve stepped in, brushing snow off his jacket, eyes narrowing immediately at the look on Bucky’s face.

“Hey,” Steve said gently, careful. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just kept staring at the paper like it held the entire universe.

Steve leaned forward, concern building. “Buck?”

Bucky's gaze stayed fixed on the paper, his thumb rubbing over the last line like it might vanish if he stopped touching it. Then — slowly — he looked up.

And Steve’s heart dropped. Because Bucky Barnes, mouthy ladies’ man, unshakable Sergeant Barnes, had tears in his eyes.

“She’s pregnant,” Bucky whispered, his voice barely there. He blinked, breath catching.

There was a beat of silence — and then Steve's mouth opened in a stunned, breathless laugh.

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve breathed, standing as the words hit him. “You’re gonna be a dad?”

Bucky shook his head, jaw tightening, smile breaking free like light through clouds. “Six months along. She found out just after I left. She didn’t wanna tell me sooner — didn’t wanna distract me.”

Steve stepped forward, gripping Bucky’s shoulder. “Buck…”

Bucky let out a short, shaky laugh and folded the letter up carefully, tucking it back into the inside pocket of his coat, close to his heart. “A kid, Steve. I’m gonna have a baby. With her.”

“She’ll be a hell of a mother,” Steve said softly.

Bucky pulled him into a hug before he even realized what he was doing. The kind of hug men didn’t give each other unless it was earned through blood, war, and years of brotherhood. Steve hugged him back just as tight.

“You gotta come home for this,” Steve said against Bucky’s shoulder. “You hear me?”

“I will,” Bucky said fiercely, pulling back, that old steel in his voice. “We finish this mission. We stop Zola. Then I go home. I’m not missing that. I won’t.”

Steve gave him a firm nod. “One last job.”

“One last,” Bucky echoed, eyes lifting to the mountains beyond the tent wall. “Then I get to hold her. Both of ‘em.”

The snow kept falling. The train would be here soon.

But for a moment, there was warmth in that tent — a pulse of hope beating hard and stubborn against the cold world outside.

And in Bucky’s chest, beneath layers of wool and metal and grief, your letter sat close to his heart — a promise of what was waiting if he could just survive the night.

────────────────────────

One Month Later

Brooklyn, April 1945

Sunlight slanted through the lace curtains, warm and golden on the worn floorboards. Your fingers moved fast across the keys, glasses perched low on your nose, your rounded stomach nudging the edge of the desk.

You were working on an article about women in shipyards. Words came easier when you didn’t think about how long it’d been since the last letter.

You tried not to count the days anymore.

Then — a knock.

Your hands paused over the keys. You glanced at the clock on the wall. Just past four.

With a soft grunt, you pushed yourself up, one hand bracing the small of your back. You crossed the room slowly, brushing crumbs from your sweater, muttering, “If that’s Mrs. Klemanski again askin’ for sugar—”

You opened the door.

And saw Steve.

Your heart jumped up into your throat before you could stop it.

His uniform looked sharper than ever, chest full of medals, that familiar bashful way he stood with his cap held between both hands. Your smile came without permission.

“Steve,” you said, relief threading through your voice. “You’re—wait—where’s Bucky?”

Then your eyes dropped. You saw what he was holding — a folded jacket, a bundle of letters tied in twine, something metal glinting dully between his fingers.

Your smile vanished.

“No,” you whispered, instantly shaking your head. “No—”

Steve’s face cracked. Like something in him broke the second you said it. He didn’t speak. Just stepped forward with trembling hands, like he could soften the blow if he was gentle enough.

You backed away, hand flying to your mouth.

“No, no, no—don’t. Don’t say it.”

“Sweetheart—” he started softly.

“Don’t call me that, Steve—where is he?” Your voice shook, louder now. “Where is he?”

Steve’s eyes welled up. “The train—we were ambushing Hydra. Something went wrong, Buck—he—he fell.”

Your knees buckled a little. You reached for the edge of the wall to steady yourself.

“I don’t understand,” you croaked. “He promised—he said he’d come back. He promised me, Steve.”

“I know,” Steve said, stepping inside, setting Bucky’s things down on the table like they were sacred. “I know. He meant it.”

“No, no—he wouldn’t leave me.” Your voice cracked, nearly childish in disbelief. “He—he was coming home, we were—he was gonna hold the baby, we hadn’t even picked names—”

Steve crossed the space in two strides and caught you just as your legs gave out. He held you tightly against him, like he was trying to keep you from falling apart with just his arms.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, over and over again, into your hair. “I’m so sorry. I tried—I tried to get to him. He was—he was just gone.”

You were shaking. Hands fisting into Steve’s shirt, crying so hard your whole body trembled.

“He was supposed to come home,” you rasped, face buried in his chest. “He promised me, Steve. He swore it. He said—he said after this—he’d come back.”

“I know. I know.” His voice cracked and you felt his tears fall against your hair.

You cried like the world had ended. And for you, it had.

You didn’t even notice the letters scattered across the table, or the chain with the dog tags hanging over the edge. Not yet.

You just held on to Steve like he was the last piece of Bucky left in the world.

And in that moment, maybe he was.

One Year Later

Brooklyn, April 1946, 6:04 PM.

You juggled your bag, house keys, and the folded newspaper under one arm as you pushed open the door to your apartment. It clicked shut behind you with a satisfying clunk — thicker walls, newer locks, good insulation. Worth every penny.

You hadn’t gotten two steps in when the smell hit you.

Garlic, tomatoes, something rich and savory wafting in the air. Your brows furrowed.

You didn’t cook. Not when you’d been running around chasing sources all day.

The quiet babble of a baby's voice reached your ears before you could say anything.

You moved toward the kitchen, already shrugging off your coat.

“Jamie?” you called, more out of instinct and confusion than alarm.

“Hey,” a familiar voice called from the kitchen.

There he was—Steve, of all people—standing at your tiny stove like he owned it, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something in a pot. His cheeks flushed a little as he turned toward you, sheepish.

“I, uh… hope it’s alright. Didn’t mean to intrude,” he said with that boyish, bashful charm.

You leaned your hip against the doorframe, staring. “You're not intruding. Just surprising. Last I heard you were in Marseille.”

“Got back yesterday,” he replied, gently bumping Jamie’s foot with his hand as your son giggled, “And I figured I’d surprise you. Hope you don’t mind.”

You blinked, then shook your head with a soft huff of laughter. “Mind? I’m just surprised Mrs. B let you walk away with Jamie. She told me she was keepin’ him overnight so I could get some rest.“

Steve chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said I could take him. Only because I promised to bring him back with no less than ten fingers and ten toes.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

He grinned. “I counted twice. All still there.”

“I'm just glad Mrs B loves Jamie more than she dislikes me,” you teased lightly, stepping forward.

Steve snorted as he wiped his hands on a towel. “I think she’s finally warming up to you.”

“Only took her a decade and a half,” you said dryly.

Your eyes shifted toward the high chair near the small table.

There he was—your Jamie. James Steven Barnes. Nine months old, dark hair a soft mess on his head, cheeks full and pink, legs kicking in slow, distracted rhythm as he banged a wooden spoon against the tray. He lit up the moment he saw you.

“Hey, baby,” you cooed, crossing the room quickly. You scooped him into your arms with ease, planting soft kisses across his face as he squealed in delight. “Mama missed you somethin’ awful.”

He babbled and reached for your face, hands warm and sticky.

Steve leaned over the counter, watching the two of you with something unspoken in his eyes. Something soft and heavy.

“Thanks,” you murmured without looking up, brushing Jamie’s hair back. “For watchin’ him.”

“Always,” he said quietly.

You glanced at him, then down at the little boy now tucked against your chest. You bounced him gently, kissing the crown of his head.

He looked so much like Bucky.

Jamie’s eyes had his smile in them. That crooked brightness. That same stubborn little crease between his brows when he concentrated. Every day he got older, he looked more like him. Sometimes it ached. Sometimes it made you laugh.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Steve said, breaking the silence. “Nothing fancy. Chicken and potatoes. I followed a recipe from one of those little books Mrs. Barnes keeps in her kitchen. The ones with the oil stains and notes in the margins.”

Your eyes narrowed playfully. “You can read her notes?”

“She writes in cursive. I’m not illiterate.”

You snorted. “I didn’t say it, you said it.”

Jamie giggled, delighted by your laugh.

The apartment had gone soft with golden lamplight. The radio murmured low jazz in the background, and your living room-kitchen hybrid felt, for once, more like home than like memory.

Jamie sat now wriggling in your lap, pudgy fingers smacking the edge of the table as he made soft, happy grunts. You held a spoon in one hand, alternating between your own plate and coaxing tiny, mashed-up bites of potato toward your son’s mouth.

Steve, across from you, ate slower now. The nervous energy that had filled him while cooking seemed to have drained, leaving him thoughtful as he glanced between you and Jamie.

You scraped the spoon along the edge of Jamie’s dish, gently cooing at him, “You’re makin’ more mess than you’re eatin’, baby.”

Jamie shrieked with laughter and kicked his legs against your thigh. You rolled your eyes, smiling, brushing his hair back.

Steve watched, silently fond.

After a moment, you leaned back slightly, sighing. “Steve…”

He looked up.

You hesitated, then spoke, voice gentler than your usual sharpness. “You gotta stop putting your life on pause for us.”

Steve’s brows furrowed. “What’re you talking about?”

“I’m serious,” you said. “You’re here all the time, runnin’ yourself ragged makin’ sure we’re okay. You don’t owe us that.”

“I don’t see it like that,” he said.

“Well, maybe you should,” you said, a bit sharper now. “For God’s sake, Steve… there’s a woman across the damn ocean who’s in love with you. Who you love.”

Steve was quiet, picking at his food. “I do love her,” he admitted softly, after a beat. “I think about her every day.”

You nodded slowly, adjusting Jamie in your lap as he reached for your plate.

“But,” Steve added, eyes lifting to meet yours, steady and sure, “I love you. And I love Jamie. It’s not one or the other. It just… is. And Peggy understands that.”

You looked down at Jamie, brushing your thumb across his cheek as he leaned into you, content. You kissed his temple. “You were here when I needed someone. I’ll never forget that.”

“I wasn’t just here because you needed someone,” Steve said. “I wanted to be here.”

You swallowed thickly.

He cleared his throat, his demeanor shifting. More serious now. “I, uh… I need to tell you something.”

You looked at him. “What is it?”

“I’m going away for a while. Longer this time.”

You froze. “What do you mean?”

“They think Hydra’s back,” he said quietly. “There’s a lead—small, but real. I’ve gotta follow it. Could take a few months. Maybe more.”

Your fingers curled instinctively around Jamie’s waist, holding him tighter.

You were quiet for a long moment. The kind of quiet that stretches over aching bones.

Then you asked, voice tight, “Are you comin’ back?”

He nodded. “I’ll always come back.”

You stared at him, gaze sharp, testing him for truth. “You can’t promise that.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “No. But I’ll try.”

You looked away, blinking hard. “Just… don’t die, Stevie. I can’t lose another man I love.”

You sighed before kissing the top of Jamie’s head and gently passed him across the table. “Take him while I clean up.”

Steve took him easily, and Jamie reached for his face like he always did.

You stood at the sink, your back to both of them, hands trembling as you rinsed plates that suddenly felt too heavy.

Behind you, Jamie giggled.

And Steve said softly, “You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone.”

────────────────────────

Siberia – June 1946

It was colder than Steve had ever felt. The kind of cold that went through bones and memories, through war medals and stitched-up wounds. Snow drifted down in ghost-silent flurries outside the base, the world unnervingly still.

One of the lasts Hydra holdouts. Tucked into a mountain, almost forgotten.

The air inside was sharp with antiseptic and old blood. The hallways were long and shadowed, cracked concrete walls humming under the weight of hidden horrors. The Howling Commandos moved ahead in silence, boots heavy on the ground. Dum Dum took point. Gabe and Morita swept the side halls. But Steve… something had pulled him down this one, this narrow corridor lined with rusted steel doors and buzzing fluorescent lights.

He felt it before he saw it. Something like instinct. Like memory rising from his gut.

Then he saw him.

Encased in thick glass. Wires attached to skin. A cryogenic pod humming low and blue, the frost crawling up from the base, covering the sides in veils of condensation.

Steve froze.

He didn't breathe.

“God…” His voice was barely more than air.

Bucky.

Hair longer, tangled. Face gaunt. But it was him.

Still him.

And his arm…

Steve’s breath shuddered. The left arm was gone. Replaced with cold, glinting steel. Matte black plating layered in Hydra’s signature design, trailing from shoulder to fingertips. Wires snaked from the seams into the pod.

Steve's mouth opened, but no sound came out. It felt like grief all over again—but this time crueler. Because this time, Bucky was here. And Hydra had done this to him. The scars on his shoulder where steel met flesh were jagged and red, raw as if they'd been carved with no thought for healing. His ribs showed under his skin. His hair was matted. There were bruises on his face, half-healed and sunken.

He looked like a ghost.

“Cap?” Dum Dum’s voice came, low and hesitant behind him. “What do we do?”

Steve swallowed hard, eyes locked on Bucky's face. “We don’t touch it. We don’t dare open it. We don’t know what it’s keeping him alive from.”

────────────────────────

Somewhere in Southern England – Allied Base Hospital, One Week Later

It took seven days to move the chamber.

Howard Stark and his team worked around the clock. Peggy Carter coordinated intelligence and security. The best British and American minds worked shoulder-to-shoulder in the converted medical wing of the base. Stark called in every favor he had left. The facility practically vibrated with tension.

And then the pod was opened.

Slowly. Carefully. Oxygen, sedatives, heart monitors. He was intubated, stabilized, removed from cryo. They monitored every breath. Every neural spike.

And then…

Bucky screamed.

Woke like a beast torn from hell.

Hands strapped down immediately. His body thrashed, nearly flipping the bed. He screamed again—no words, just noise. Animal, broken, panicked. One arm flailed wildly—metal catching the edge of a tray, sending it clattering to the floor. A doctor tried to restrain him and got nearly thrown across the room.

Steve rushed in, yelling over the chaos. “Bucky! It’s me—it’s Steve! You’re safe, pal, it’s me!”

But Bucky didn’t hear him.

Didn’t see him.

His eyes—those warm, familiar blue eyes—were wide and glassy. Vacant and terror-stricken. He screamed again and then curled into himself, sobs ripping from his chest. A medic got a sedative in him. Slowly, the tremors faded. His breathing slowed.

Steve stood frozen.

Peggy stepped beside him, placing a hand on his arm. “He doesn’t recognize you.”

Steve didn’t respond. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “They broke him,” he whispered. “They really broke him.”

────────────────────────

Later That Night

The room was dim now. Quiet. Just the steady beep of a monitor and the gentle hiss of the IV.

Steve sat at Bucky’s bedside. His best friend lay still, unconscious again. Shackled loosely—just in case. The metal arm still gleamed under the muted lights. Stark had examined it with thinly veiled horror. “Cut nerves, fused bone, direct-to-brain wiring,” he’d muttered. “Barbaric. Brilliant. Inhuman.”

Bucky’s skin was a mess of faded bruises and whip-thin scars. The tips of electrodes had left circular burns along his chest and temples.

Steve brushed a strand of hair back from Bucky’s forehead, gently. “I should’ve found you sooner.”

He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Bucky or himself.

Behind him, Peggy lingered in the doorway. Watching quietly. “You never stopped believing he was out there.”

Steve didn’t turn around. “I don't what I believed. I just thought that he'd somehow come back.”

Peggy stepped into the room, her voice gentle. “And now he has. It’s just going to take time.”

Steve finally looked up at her, eyes tired. “How do I tell her? How do I go back to Brooklyn, look her in the eye, and say… he’s alive, but not really?”

Peggy didn’t have an answer.

────────────────────────

Southern England – Allied Base Hospital, September, 1946

It had been five months since Steve had last seen you. And it tore at him every time he thought about it. You’d written him faithfully, letters worn with fingerprints and smudged ink by the time he finished rereading them—every one a small, steady light.

You wrote about how Jamie had taken his first steps at the park, how he reached for a pigeon and toppled into the grass with a giggle so loud people turned to look. How his first word, predictably, had been “mama.” How you were trying to wean him off the bottle and that it wasn’t going well.

You’d written with joy—exhaustion sometimes—but joy, nonetheless. You never asked much in return. You never demanded updates. You let Steve share what he could when he could. And he had written back. But he hadn’t told you about Bucky.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he didn’t know how.

What was he supposed to say? “Bucky’s alive, but he doesn’t know he has a son. He wakes up screaming and cries for you like a man who doesn’t know time has moved on.”

You deserved rest. Not more weight.

So Steve kept it in. And he sat with Bucky. Every day.

────────────────────────

Hospital Recovery Wing.

It had been three months since they’d opened the pod.

Bucky was healing—physically, at least. The bruises were fading, and the medical team had finally managed to remove the rusted remnants of Hydra’s control nodes from his scalp. Howard Stark had designed a brace to help ease strain on the shoulder where flesh met steel. There were less screams at night now. Sometimes, there were even full nights of sleep.

But the mind—that was still a maze.

Steve watched from the hallway as Bucky sat near the window, a blanket over his shoulders, hair tucked back behind his ears. He was paler than usual. Leaner. His hands—his real one and the metal one—trembled sometimes when he tried to hold a cup of tea.

But his eyes had life again.

And pain.

And hope.

Steve stepped in. Bucky looked up, and for a second, Steve saw the old grin threatening the corner of his mouth.

“You got news?” Bucky asked, voice still rasped and lower than it used to be, like his throat hadn’t fully recovered from the screaming.

Steve nodded, sitting across from him. “Another lead on Hydra. A nest in the Alps. Small.”

Bucky didn’t care about that. He never did.

His fingers gripped the edge of the blanket. “Steve… just take me home.”

Steve’s heart cracked—again. “You’re not strong enough yet, Buck. You know that.”

Bucky’s eyes were bloodshot, a tremor in his jaw. “I don’t care. I can’t do this anymore, Stevie. I need her. Please—please—just let me see her. She’ll fix me. She always does.”

Steve looked down at his hands, swallowing the knot in his throat.

“She’s pregnant,” Bucky said suddenly. Desperate. “She told me. In the last letter. She’s pregnant and I’m here doing nothing. What if something happens? What if she needs me?”

Steve looked up slowly. He hadn’t told him. Bucky didn’t know.

“No,” Steve said softly. “Buck… she’s not pregnant.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped up in alarm.

Steve stood, pacing. “She was. A year and a half ago. You remember… pieces of it, I know. But it’s been almost two years since the train.”

Bucky looked lost. “But… the dreams. I keep reading her say she’s pregnant.”

“You remember what you needed to. What your heart clung to.”

Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What… what happened?”

Steve pulled a folded photo from his breast pocket. It was worn. The corners curled from too much handling. He handed it to Bucky gently.

It was you.

Holding Jamie.

In your lap, both of you bundled in coats on a bench, smiling at the camera. The baby’s grin was unmistakably Bucky’s.

“That’s your son, Buck,” Steve said quietly. “James Steven Barnes. He’s… he’s beautiful. He just turned one in July.”

Bucky stared at the photo for what felt like forever. His hand trembled as he held it. His lip quivered.

“I missed it.” His voice cracked. “I missed his first breath. First cry. First birthday. His first… everything.”

Steve crouched in front of him. “You survived. That’s what matters now. You get to be there now. And you will. He’s got your hair, you know. Wild as anything. And your laugh. Same crooked smile too, only shows when he’s about to get into trouble.”

Bucky gave a broken, watery laugh. “God. Steve. I gotta see ‘em.”

“I know.”

“I can’t wait ‘til I’m better. I need to see her, Stevie. Please. I need her. She keeps me here—just thinking about her. I hear her voice sometimes, I see her, clear as day. I need—” His voice broke again. “I need to know she’s real. That she’s safe. That she didn’t forget me.”

Steve rested a hand gently on Bucky’s shoulder, firm and steady. “She never forgot you, Buck. Not for a second.”

Bucky looked down, eyes wet. “Do you think she’ll still want me?”

Steve nodded slowly. “She’s never stopped. And Jamie—he’s going to know his father. Just… let’s get you strong enough to hold him first.”

Bucky clutched the photo to his chest and closed his eyes, whispering your name like a prayer.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, October 1946 – Late Afternoon

The apartment was warm and golden with late afternoon light, soft jazz floating low from the radio, and the scent of clean laundry still faint in the air.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, your skirt fanned around your knees, Jamie sprawled across your lap in all his squirmy, wiggly glory. His tiny hands tugged at your necklace with single-minded glee.

“Alright, Jamie bear, time to close those eyes,” you said gently, as Jamie giggled, flopping onto his side in a dramatic act of defiance. “I mean it, Mr. James Steven Barnes—fifteen minutes, that’s all I ask.”

He shrieked in laughter.

“Mama,” he giggled, pointing at you like he’d won something. “Mamaaaaa.”

“Oh, you think I’m funny now?” You leaned in, kissing his cheek noisily. “I’ll remember that when you’re sixteen and I’m threatening to walk you to school in curlers.”

Jamie laughed again, grabbing for your nose this time.

You gave him a side-eye. “Baby, I’m gonna be honest—you’re dangerously close to getting tickled into submission.”

He squealed, thrashing happily as you wiggled your fingers near his sides.

“You little tyrant,” you murmured affectionately, brushing his dark hair back from his forehead. “How can something so small hold me hostage with just a smile? I used to be terrifying, you know. Ask anyone. Your mother used to demand respect.”

He blinked up at you like you were the sun, gurgling some nonsense about “ba-da!” before grabbing his foot and trying to chew it.

You sighed, wrapping your arms around him. “You’re exhausting, and perfect. And I’m already losing this war.”

Just as you rocked him gently, trying to coax him into at least entertaining the idea of sleep, there was a knock at the door.

knock knock knock.

You froze, your hand resting on Jamie’s head. His body went still too, his laughter pausing as he tilted his head in curiosity, those wide, wondering blue eyes staring at the door.

There was nothing ominous about the knock. It was solid. Simple. But something in your bones went cold. Something deep and hidden in your belly clenched the way it had when Steve stood in that doorway a year and a half ago—holding a folded uniform and dog tags, with grief weighing down his eyes like stone.

You swallowed, whispered, “Stay here, baby,” as Jamie stared at you with a questioning look, still quiet.

You padded barefoot to the door slowly, every nerve in your body humming. The familiar creak of the hardwood beneath your feet didn’t comfort you like it usually did. Your hand trembled slightly on the knob, your heart pounding without rhythm.

You opened the door.

Steve stood there, tall and square-shouldered in his uniform, his hat tucked under one arm, and that soft, almost apologetic look in his eyes. You blinked, stunned, still registering the sudden appearance of him. Before you could even form a word—

He shifted.

And behind him stood someone else.

You didn’t breathe.

He was thinner and yet... bigger. Paler. His hair longer, jaw unshaven. The blue of his eyes more haunted. His shoulders stooped, as if the air itself weighed too much. A right hand holding a duffle. The other—

Your eyes dropped involuntarily.

And your breath stopped cold.

A gleam of dull silver. Seamless metal. The joints so real, so smooth, that for a split second, your brain couldn’t compute what you were seeing.

Your gaze snapped back to his face.

Bucky.

You stared.

And so did he.

Your knees almost gave out, hand flying to your mouth.

His eyes found yours—and they filled like floodgates breaking. He didn’t smile. He didn’t say anything.

He looked at you, like he’d been starved and was seeing food for the first time. He took one shaking step forward and whispered your name.

You didn’t think. You didn’t breathe. You just ran.

The tears came fast, blurring your vision, and then your arms were around his neck, and his good arm dropped the bag and wrapped around your waist as you collapsed into him.

You clung to him like your body remembered something your mind was still catching up to. Your fingers brushed the metal at his shoulder for half a second and you froze—staggered, breath caught—but then pressed your face to his throat, choosing his warmth over your confusion.

He was real. Cold metal and warm skin and heartbeat thudding under your hand. He was real.

Bucky buried his face in your neck, inhaling like he didn’t believe you were real, holding you with his one good arm like he’d never let go again.

“I thought—I thought I’d lost you,” you choked out, pressing your face against his cheek. “I thought—I held your dog tags, Bucky—God, I—”

“I know,” he choked. “I know, baby. I’m so sorry.”

Behind you, a little voice called from the living room. “Mama?”

You stilled. Bucky lifted his head.

His eyes were wide.

“That... is that him?” His voice cracked.

You nodded. Gently untangling yourself, you stepped back, reached for his hand, and led him a few steps inside.

You pulled him gently into the apartment, guiding him just far enough for Jamie to come into view—standing wobbly on two legs, gripping the edge of the couch for balance, his gaze locked on the stranger, with big, curious eyes.

“Jamie,” you said softly, crouching beside him, heart pounding, “baby, this is your daddy.”

Bucky’s breath hitched audibly. He dropped into a slow, careful crouch, almost like he was afraid he’d scare the child by existing.

Jamie waddled closer, curious, and unafraid.

Bucky stared, completely still.

Jamie blinked at him. Then his face cracked into a gummy, delighted grin. “Pup!” he declared, mispronouncing it as he pointed at Bucky.

Bucky let out a choked breath of a laugh—half-sob, half-shock. “Hi, buddy,” he whispered, opening his arm slowly, still scared.

Jamie stepped into it without hesitation.

And Bucky wept as he held his son for the first time, cradling that tiny body like porcelain.

You moved beside them, touching his shoulder—his metal shoulder. He flinched slightly, but relaxed when your hand stayed steady.

You leaned in, whispering against the side of his head. “He’s been waiting for you.”

“I missed so much,” Bucky whispered hoarsely. “God... he looks like me. But he’s got your nose. He—he said Mama. He can talk?”

“Just a few words,” you murmured. “He took his first steps this summer.”

Bucky’s face crumpled, and he pulled Jamie closer to his chest. “I’m here now,” he said softly. “I swear. I��m here.”

Jamie reached up, tugging gently at his hair, and Bucky actually laughed—a real one this time.

And for the first time in so long, the ache in your chest loosened—just a little.

Because he came home to you.

And he was real.

And he was yours.

.

[rafesangelita]

♡ dilf!rafe loves to make his pretty bunny squirm..

warnings: use of the name ‘daddy’ (scroll if that’s not your thing), vibrator + overstimulation, fingering, pussy slapping, oral (f. receiving), crying, dumbification (?), multiple orgasms, reader is restrained, praise, soft aftercare, fluff

“no more, no more, no more— r-rafe!” you squealed, your eyes screwing shut as the man between your legs turned up the setting of the pink vibrator currently pressed against your poor, overstimulated clit. “shhh, you could keep going..” he reassured you, using his free hand to stroke your soft skin. the searing pleasure alone made you cry out, the overwhelming feeling building up in the pit of your tummy. moving your hips away from the buzzing device was deemed useless as your restraints kept you in place, your wrists and ankles sore from all of the tension.

rafe watched the way your body trembled beneath him, your eyes basically sparkling up at him as tear drops rollled down your cheeks. “tell daddy what’s going on in that empty fuckin’ head of yours.” he cupped your face, squeezing your cheeks together as you whimpered. he knew you didn’t have a single thought, your ability to think or speak a coherent sentence had since been long gone. “i asked you a question.” his voice reverberated in your ears, your eyebrows pinching together as you struggled to answer him. “w-want your fingers, please!” you sobbed, feeling empty despite having came four times already.

switching off the bunny vibrator, rafe shushed you as you gasped in relief, your chest rising and falling as you fought to catch a full breath. “you’re so pretty like this,” he cupped your tits, rolling the sensitive buds between his fingers, “i love watching you turn into a desperate, brainless slut.” trailing a hand down between your legs, rafe ran a single digit up your folds, his jaw clenching as he felt just how soaked you were. watching your face carefully, rafe waited until he saw your eyelashes flutter closed before delivering a harsh smack to your cunt, a choked sob sounding out from you at the painful yet pleasurable sensation.

you didn’t have time to register what he had done before you felt his head dip between your thighs, his lips pressing open mouthed kisses along your skin. feeling his gentle ministrations allowed you to relax for the first time in an hour, your neck craning as you looked down and met rafe’s dark gaze. watching as he brought his hand up, you melted when you felt the delicious stretch of his digits, your eyes screwing shut once he curled them and hit that soft spot inside of you. clenching around the welcomed intrusion that was his fingers, rafe pressed a kiss to your folds before his tongue delved in between.

he groaned at the taste of you. “you’re so fuckin’ sweet,” rafe contined circling your clit, his cock straining painfully against the material of his pants, “just give me one more, babygirl.” he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his mouth so you couldn’t even attempt to move away from him. “oh, god..” you whimpered, wishing you could reach down and hold onto rafe’s hand while he made you lose yourself once again. you felt pure unadulterated pleasure lick your insides, the jolting euphoric feeling shooting through your body as your heart started beating in your ears.

for rafe nothing was more gratifying than seeing the way you writhed underneath him, your glossy lips pulled tightly between your teeth as you moaned. holding you with a death grip, it wasn’t until he heard you mutter a ‘gentle, please..’ before he let go and rubbed soothing circles into your side. you looked absolutely spent. with your eyes shutting in and out of consciousness and your body still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm, rafe decided to give you one more kiss before undoing your restraints, your limbs falling like dead weight.

taking a seat against the headboard, rafe pulled you between his legs where he started leaving gentle kisses to your wrists, the raw skin already feeling better with his lips there. “hurts..” you whispered, burying your face in his chest as he hummed. “i know,” rafe spoke quietly, “you took it so good, ‘pretty, you know what that calls for?” he pulled your fluffy robe from where it sat on a nearby chair before covering you with it. “your credit card?” rafe laughed, thumbing your chin before pecking your lips.

[helaintoloki]

Hey there! I’ve got a little request for you.

What about a fic where the reader has to go back in time to the 40s (perhaps for an infinity stone? Work it however you want). It’s supposed to be a quick mission. Until they run into a young Bucky.

a/n: hi anon! i hope you don’t mind but i made some tweaks to the request to fit the story i came up with. however, the original idea of reader going to the 40s is still there!

warnings/notes: angst, fluff, sort of an enemies to lovers piece

summary: after accidentally sending yourself back in time, you run into a younger version of the man you loathe only to find yourself questioning your feelings for him

“You’re such a jerk!”

“Oh, so saving your ass makes me a jerk now?” Bucky retorts in annoyed disbelief at your insult. The two of you haven’t exactly been getting along as of late, so it wasn’t a surprise to either of you that your first assignment together was proving to be disastrous.

“Saving me?” You repeat incredulously, halting in your steps to whirl around and angrily point a finger against his chest. The firmness of his muscles has you faltering for a split second, but you’re adamant not to let your stupid little school girl crush on the man stop you from tearing into him.

Sometimes you’re not even sure why you have feelings for someone who constantly pushes your buttons and tests your patience, but it’s hard not to fall for his good looks and charm, especially during the rare moments of pleasantness you experience when he’s not getting on your nerves. You and Bucky rarely see eye-to-eye, and though for the most part you can tolerate each other, your camaraderie doesn’t last long.

“Shoving me out of the way when I had a clear shot isn’t saving me! I had it covered before you decided to play hero and treat me like some damsel in distress!”

“You had a clear shot and so did the sniper sitting on that rooftop,” Bucky points out with an irritated tick of his jaw. “You couldn’t have gotten the hit with a bullet hole in your head.”

You falter momentarily at being presented with your error, face beginning to heat with embarrassment at being in the wrong. However, your stubborn nature takes over and causes you to double down on your anger instead of admitting fault.

“I don’t need your help. In fact, because of your little stunt my inhibitor is broken,” you state indignantly while lifting your wrist to show the damaged metal band, “so now I have no way to safely get us home.”

Bucky blanches at the realization, and now it’s his turn to feel hot with embarrassment and guilt for his mistake. You’re one of the enhanced members on the team, an Avenger with the power to teleport not only from place to place but also through time, but your ability isn’t always the most reliable. It can be unstable when used too often or without proper concentration, which is why Tony had crafted your inhibitor bracelet to ensure you didn’t accidentally teleport yourself or your teammates to the middle of nowhere. You didn’t trust yourself to make the jump back to the compound without it, and now the two of you were stranded.

He curses under his breath and runs an anxious hand through his hair before saying, “We’ll have to call for someone to come get us.”

“No shit,” you retort only to earn an eye roll from him in response. “But that’s going to take hours, and if we stay here we’re dead.”

“Look,” Bucky sighs depreciatively, “we need to figure this out together, so I’d appreciate a little less sarcasm and a little more-“

The sound of gunfire interrupts Bucky’s rant and sends you both ducking for cover. Your arguing had allowed enough time for the enemy to counterattack with an ambush, and now you were cornered with nowhere to go. You find yourself pressed against a metal crate, making yourself as small as possible while trying to form some sort of an exit plan. Your attackers were closing in, and you felt the anxiety beginning to rise in your chest at the fact that you had nowhere left to run.

Bucky calls your name frantically, breaking you out of your panicked daze quickly enough for you to register the woman approaching you with her gun raised. Your eyes widen like a deer caught in headlights, and when she pulls the trigger you feel your powers activate on instinct as you’re teleported out of the line of fire.

You land on the ground with a groan.

Tingles run down your body from the use of your powers, and it takes you a moment to adjust to the new surroundings you find yourself in. The packing warehouse you’d been dodging gunfire fire in is long gone, and instead you find yourself in an alleyway nestled between two apartment buildings. Your mind is frantic as you try to scramble back up onto your feet only to crumple down in pain from your fall. You think you’ve twisted your ankle, and you don’t know where you are or how to get back home.

You attempt to use your powers to jump back to the warehouse to help Bucky, but without the inhibitor bracelet your teleportation has become shoddy. You let your head fall back with a frustrated groan at being completely helpless and try to clear your mind to figure out your next move.

“Excuse me,” an oddly familiar voice calls from the other end of the alleyway, “are you alright, miss?”

You lift your head at the sound of approaching footsteps and are met with a set of kind blue eyes that have your breath catching in your throat. His face is so much younger and full of life, not yet tainted by the trauma he’d endured after the events of the war. He’s beautiful, and you find your heart nearly leaping out of your chest when he makes his way towards you. He reaches out to you with his left hand, and you stare down with uncertainty at the warm flesh that replaces metal.

You’d accidentally sent yourself back in time, and now you found yourself face to face with a Bucky who had yet to become the Winter Soldier.

“I… I’m fine,” you finally manage to get out after willing away your initial shock. You hesitantly accept his hand and are unnerved by the unusual warmth his palm emits against your own. He helps you back onto your feet only for you to stumble as a result of your bad ankle. His strong arms catch you in an instant, holding you upright while you brace yourself against his firm chest.

“Looks like you had quite the fall,” Bucky says with a lighthearted smile while meeting your gaze. You see something shift in his features when he looks into your eyes, an awestruck sense of admiration washing over him as he takes in your disheveled appearance. You begin to fear that he has you figured out, that somehow he knows who you are and that you don’t belong, but instead he merely wipes away a smudge of dirt from your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“You’re a knockout,” he compliments before letting out a sheepish laugh at his own boldness. Your stomach flips at his confession, and you have to stop and remind yourself that this is a completely different Bucky from the one you know. The Bucky you have back at home would sooner call you a pain in his ass than ever call you beautiful.

“Thank you,” you breathe out nervously, flashing him a meek smile while subtly trying to free yourself from his hold. You have no idea what repercussions will come from you interacting with him, and you still need to figure out a way to get back to your own time now that it’s been made clear you sent yourself to the past. You attempt to walk only to wince again at the ache in your leg, something Bucky notices immediately.

“You’re hurt. Let me take you home with me, my Ma can fix you right up and get you something to eat,” he offers only for you to quickly shake your head.

“I couldn’t impose. I’ll be fine, really,” you try to assure him, but your obvious discomfort isn’t very convincing.

“Nonsense. What kind of a man would I be if I left you here in this dingy alleyway to fend for yourself? My mother raised me better than that.”

You can’t help the soft smile that forms on your lips at his kindness. Steve had often mentioned how charming Bucky was in his younger days, how he had swept countless girls off their feet with his chivalrous nature and good looks. Bucky would always grumble about his friend’s need to exaggerate on the details of the past, but you were now seeing firsthand the truth to the Captain’s stories.

You know you shouldn’t, but you can’t stop yourself from finally relenting to Bucky’s request. How can you deny him when he flashes you such an endearing grin and looks upon you with eyes full of tenderness? You expect him to take your hand or give you his arm to steady yourself for the walk home, but he instead surprises you by literally sweeping you off of your feet and carrying you in his arms. You gasp, fingers anxiously clutching at the fabric of his dress shirt while you look to him with wide eyes; his strength is unwavering, and his lips sport a proud grin as he whisks you away to his apartment.

“Don’t worry, honey. I’ve got you.”

Your inner turmoil is almost unbearable as you struggle to comprehend the sweetness of this Bucky in comparison to the brooding nature of your own Bucky. You’re not used to such acts of chivalry or flirtatious remarks, and it certainly doesn’t help alleviate the crush you harbor on your teammate. If anything, you’re even more confused now than you’ve ever been when it comes to your feelings for the Winter Soldier. You’re adamant about not falling into the fantasy, about staying focused on the task at hand, but it’s hard to do so when Bucky is so obviously sweet on you.

“I’ve just realized I don’t know your name,” he notes thoughtfully. “Most guys usually know the name of the girl they plan to bring home to their mother.”

“Y/n,” you reply gently despite the heat that spreads across your face at his jest, not even sure if giving your real name is the right move.

“Y/n,” he repeats sweetly, devoid of the usual tone of annoyance or irritation you’re used to. “I think that suits a pretty girl like you. My name is James, but most people just call me Bucky.”

“I like James,” you admit truthfully while avoiding his burning gaze. “I think it suits a gentleman like you.”

“A gentleman, huh? Mom will proud to hear that.”

You find yourself subtly sneaking a glance at his face while he speaks, unable to resist drinking in the details of a younger, innocent Bucky who has yet to endure the horrors his future has in store for him. He exuded confidence and light, and you could see why girls would throw themselves at his feet just to see his smile. This Bucky was full of hope, and your chest ached at having to keep what you knew about him hidden. You couldn’t risk stirring up trouble in the past by telling him what would take place after being shipped off to England and meddling with a future that had already been set in stone, and you knew he might not even believe you anyway. You had no choice but to keep your mouth shut and maintain your composure until you managed to get back to the present.

You eventually make it to his apartment and find your stomach twisting with nerves as Bucky carefully sets you down so he can unlock the door. You’re not sure how you’re going to handle meeting his mother or setting foot into his childhood home, and the entire situation feels much too intimate for you to bear. You’re an intruder in his life, the one he kept close to his chest away from everyone but Steve, and you wonder how much he’ll hate you for this when you finally get back.

“Let’s get you inside,” James urges, gently guiding you through the doorway while being mindful of your bad leg. He lets you hold onto his arm while escorting you towards the couch. The living room is quaintly decorated with photos and antique furniture, and the floral patterned wallpaper reminds you of the one your grandmother had kept in her home. The smell of a freshly cooked meal wafts through the apartment, and from the distance you can hear the quiet crackle of the kitchen radio playing a tune.

“Wait right here,” he says with a wink before disappearing down the hallway and leaving you to your own devices. You debate making your escape while he’s gone in order to avoid delving deeper into Bucky’s past life, but you know you won’t get far with a twisted ankle. Instead, you choose to quickly comb your fingers through your hair and dust yourself off to make yourself somewhat presentable in the presence of his mother.

“I’m telling you, Ma,” Bucky’s voice echoes through the hallway as he makes his return to the living room, “she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat at his flattery and try to appear as inconspicuous as possible despite your nerves. You can’t help but wonder how you’re supposed to go back to normal after all of this is over, and a part of you is starting to dread returning home.

Bucky walks into the room with an older woman on his arm. She has beautifully curled hair that’s been pinned back neatly to frame her weathered face. Despite the wrinkles under her eyes, they are bright with joy when she gazes upon her son, and her ruby red smile flashes pearly whites your way when she finally rests her attention on your awkward form.

“Mom, this is y/n,” Bucky introduces proudly, “I promised her you could fix her right up.”

“Oh, you poor dear,” his mother croons as she seats herself beside you. “James told me all about your nasty fall, but I don’t want you to worry. You’re in good hands here with me.”

“Thank you so much for your hospitality, Miss,” you express earnestly as you look into her striking blue eyes she shares with her son. “I promise I won’t be in your way long.”

“Nonsense,” she dismisses you with a wave of her hand. “Any friend of my James is welcome in this home. And please, call me Winnifred.”

“Thank you, Winnifred,” you repeat with a grateful smile, the woman’s kindness having alleviated some of your stress. You watch as she begins to scan over your features for any other possible injuries while taking in your disheveled form; her brows furrow slightly when she takes note of your attire.

“What peculiar clothing,” she murmurs while running her fingers along the rip in your tactical suit. You blanch slightly at the realization that you aren’t exactly dressed for the time period you’re in and scramble to come up with a lie.

“It’s my factory uniform,” you quickly fib, grateful for the fact you’d paid attention in your high school history class. “I make munitions for our boys overseas.”

“I love a woman in uniform,” Bucky notes with an innocent smile despite the flirtatious tone of his words.

“How admirable of you! But surely it must not be very comfortable. Why don’t you get cleaned up and changed out of that uniform before I wrap your ankle? I’ll find you something else to wear.”

“I’ll show you to the bathroom,” Bucky offers before assisting you back onto your feet. You wrap an arm around his midsection to keep yourself propped upright while lamely limping down the hallway with his help. “Mom really seemed to like you, not that I’m surprised.”

“I can see where you get your charm,” you tease gently, almost melting at the boyish grin that forms on his lips in response. Would it be wrong of you to wish you could have such an easy rapport with your own Bucky as you do with this one?

You make it to bathroom where James shows you how to work the shower before giving you your privacy. The water pressure isn’t as strong as what you’re used to back at the compound, but it does the job. You’re grateful to finally scrub off the grime and dried blood that had accumulated from the mission, and you feel like you’re in a much clearer headspace now to start planning your next move.

A simple dress is laid out on the dresser for you when you finish your shower, and once you’re decent Winnifred sits you down and wraps your ankle. She insists you keep off your foot and rest for the remainder of the evening in her daughter’s bed seeing as she’s off at a sleepover. You know better than to object to the woman’s demands, and so you find yourself seated on the cushiony mattress with a dinner tray on your lap. You’re absolutely starving, and you’re grateful to finally have the chance to eat considering you need your strength in order to attempt teleporting without the help of your inhibitor.

A gentle knock on the doorway interrupts your ruminative dinner, and you watch curiously as Bucky slowly peeks his head into the door.

“Mind if I keep you company?”

“Of course not,” you hum gently, heart thrumming in your chest when he seats himself on the edge of the bed beside you. The scent of his cologne mixed with his natural musk drowns your senses, causing a longing ache to settle in the pit of your stomach as you’re reminded of the fact that you must leave him behind when this is all over.

“How’s the ankle?”

“Your mom says the swelling should go down in a day or two as long as I keep off of it.”

“Does that mean you’ll be sticking around here a bit longer?” Bucky asks with a hopeful glimmer in his eyes. You smile faintly, but it isn’t very convincing.

“I can’t,” you relent gently, guilt consuming your entire being at the way his features falter in result. “I have to get back home.”

“You have someone waiting for you?” He prompts softly, absently fidgeting with a loose thread from the comforter.

“I do,” you confess quietly. You watch his gaze drop down to hide his disappointment, head shaking slightly as he lets out a soft chuckle.

“I should have known a girl like you would already be spoken for. Is he handsome?”

“Very,” you nod sheepishly, your face growing hot at having to confess such thoughts to the younger version of the man you picture in your head. “His eyes are blue like yours, but his hair’s a bit longer. He doesn’t smile much, but when he does it lights up an entire room.”

“Does he treat you the way you deserve?”

“He can be cold and closed off at times, but I know deep down he cares. He just isn’t very good at showing it, and I certainly don’t make it easy for him. I can be a handful, and we fight a lot, but I think I love him anyway.”

Sighing, Bucky runs his fingers through his perfectly combed hair before meeting your gaze. You watch as he reaches out to gently take hold of your hand in his left one. You can’t remove your eyes from the flesh no matter how hard you try, and you don’t think you’ll ever get over the feeling of being able to touch the arm that has yet to be tainted by Hydra’s touch. You almost want to tell him, but you’re able to bite your tongue.

“There isn’t anything I can do to change your mind?” He asks while giving your hand a gentle squeeze. His eyes are full of hope and admiration for the woman that had spontaneously fallen into his life, and though he’d only known you for a short period of time he knew that something about you was special. You were unlike any woman he’d ever met, and he wanted to spend the rest of his life getting to know you.

“I don’t think so, James,” you comfort softly. You feel so bold as to rest a hand gently upon his cheek, and you’re rewarded by the feeling of him leaning into your touch as he melts into your palm. “You’re a wonderful man, and I have a feeling this won’t be the last time our paths cross.”

Smiling faintly, Bucky cheekily turns his head to press a chaste kiss to your palm. Your breath catches in your throat at the act while your stomach flutters with nervous butterflies, but you don’t make a move to pull your hand away.

“I’ll hold you to that, sweetheart. I’d be a fool to let a girl like you out of my life,” he says with a wink before reluctantly beginning to pull away from you. Before you can stop yourself or think it through, you frantically shoot your hand out to keep him in place.

“Wait!” You exclaim desperately, catching both Bucky and yourself off guard. You know better than to bring the future to the past, and you know in the end that altering the course of his life won’t change the events of your present time, but you owe it to the man who had shown you such kindness to warn him about his fate.

“What is it, y/n?”

“I…,” you begin to say, faltering as you struggle to get the words out. He looks to you patiently for you to finish your sentence, and despite the guilt that consumes you for changing your mind, you continue, “I want you to promise me you’ll be careful in the future. I couldn’t stand anything happening to you, and I just want you to be safe.”

“Oh,” Bucky breathes as if he hadn’t been expecting such a serious profession. After processing your words, the man simply gives you an affirming nod and replies, “of course I will, doll. Anything you ask.”

The turmoil within you at keeping the truth to yourself persists, but you’re unable to say nothing more as Bucky rises from his seat on the bed and takes your empty tray from your lap. “I’ll get this out of your way.”

He leans down to press a tender kiss to your forehead before excusing himself from the room, shutting the door behind him to give you your privacy. You let out a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding and blink back the tears that threaten to spill. You cherish the time you’ve spent with him here in his own time, but you also miss the Bucky you have back at home. You’ve never hated him, you just never understood him or the walls he insisted putting between you, but you can see now just how much Hydra had taken from him. He hadn’t always been the grumpy soldier you knew him as, and your stubborn nature certainly didn’t help him come out of his shell.

You needed to make things right, not only with the Bucky from your timeline but also with the one who had just spent his entire day looking after a complete stranger.

Despite the painful throbbing of your ankle, you will yourself out of bed and desperately rush towards the door. You know that exposing his true fate will not alter the course of your timeline, but perhaps there’s a possibility it can give him the chance to create a new timeline where he never gets the chance to become the Winter Soldier.

“Bucky!” You call out in hopes he’ll come rushing back down the hall. You’re so desperate to reach him that you don’t notice the soft glow of your inhibitor bracelet, and your frantic state of mind creates a lack of control over your teleportation ability.

You reach the doorknob just as your powers activate, and when you step through the doorway you are no longer in the apartment of James Barnes but instead in your own bedroom back at the compound.

You stagger forward in a daze, mind reeling from the use of your powers as you struggle to adjust to your new surroundings. Your heart drops to your chest when you finally come to the realization that you’re back where you belong, and you slowly sink down to your knees in tears over the fact that you’d been too late. Bucky would return to an empty bedroom, and he would go on to live the life that fate had chosen for him.

You couldn’t protect him- you’d failed.

You begin to sob as the amalgamation of emotions from your experience overtakes you, and you’re so consumed in your grief that you fail to hear the sound of your door sliding open behind you.

“Y/n? It’s been three days, where the hell have you been?” A startled voice sounds, causing you to jump in surprise. You turn to find Bucky standing in your doorway, his irritated features morphing into confusion at the sight of your distraught state. Tears steadily stream down your cheeks in time with the trembling of your shoulders, and he slowly makes his approach towards your figure on the floor. “Y/n?”

Bucky cautiously sinks to his knees beside you and places a careful hand on your back. The coolness of his metal arm has you shivering, a stark contract to the warmth you’d felt when he’d held your hand in his Brooklyn apartment. “Are you alright? What happened?”

You don’t think before throwing yourself into his arms and holding tightly onto his frame. Bucky nearly topples over from the impact but is quick to regain his balance so he can hold you both upright. Initially he isn’t sure how to react considering this is the first time you’ve ever willingly gotten this close to him let alone hugged him, but he’s eventually able to reciprocate the act by wrapping his arms around your trembling figure and holding you close to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, fingers tightly clutching at the fabric of his shirt in an attempt to ground yourself. “I’m sorry for always giving you such a hard time, for being so stubborn. You don’t deserve that, and I should have tried to be a better teammate.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Bucky shushes gently, his tone unusually gentle as he carefully pulls away to look you in the face. “I know I’m not exactly the most pleasant person to be around sometimes, and I haven’t always been the nicest to you either. I’m sorry for that.”

“You mean you’re not going to yell at me for disappearing on you? You don’t hate me?” You snivel, prompting his lips to quirk up into a rare smile.

“I’m not going to yell at you for something you can’t control. And I never hated you. I just… never really knew how to be around you. Steve always speaks so highly of you, you’re everyone’s favorite, and I never felt like I had the right to know you so intimately the way they do. I figured keeping my distance would be easier, and I thought you preferred it that way considering our track record.”

“I don’t want you to keep your distance anymore,” you plead softly. “I want to be around you, I want you to feel comfortable around me.”

“That can be arranged,” Bucky notes with a faint smile while carefully brushing away the last of your tears, “but can I ask you what brought this on?”

“It’s a long story,” you admit while guiltily avoiding eye contact with the man. You’re not sure if you should tell him the truth about your venture just yet, but you don’t have it in you to lie to him. You know you’ll have to tell him one day, but for now it can wait. “Being gone these past few days just gave me time to get a new perspective on things.”

“Well, whatever happened, I’m glad it did,” he says truthfully. “Now let’s get you cleaned up so you can let the rest of the team know you made it back safe.”

You allow him to help you up off the ground just as he had in that alleyway, and when he looks down at you with his soft blue eyes you’re able to see his younger self once more. The charming, chivalrous James Barnes who had taken such good care of you still existed within Bucky, it would just take time for him to come out of his shell and open himself up to you the way his past self had done so.

And you would wait all the time in the world for him.

[miley1442111]

someone else- j.abbot

summary: you come back from a shitty weekend to an even shittier monday with rumours of your kind-of-boyfriend being into someone else. it only gets worse when an aggravated patient gets his hands on you, and jack doesn't even know.

pairing: jack abbot x fem! doctor! reader (probs late twenties/ early thrities)

warnings: reader gets hurt, jack is an oblivious arsehole, general hospital things, general Pitt themes, robby and dana are saints, no mohan slander :)

a/n: hey yall...! back from the dead (aka writer's block). I'm in love with the pitt so please send in some requests or just lmk what yall think of this :) banners from my good friend @no-144444 ! gif from ho-ii

Imagine how you felt, walking into that fucking breakroom, exhaustion pulling at your eyelids as you somehow pushed past the tiredness and pain that shot through you with every step, and everyone was talking about Jack and someone else. 

The lounge was a cacophony of “They were totally hitting it off-”  and “Abbot’s sooooo into her-”. For a split second, you thought it was about you, that maybe, just maybe he’d finally had the balls to tell someone other than Robby or Dana or Makay, finally made you feel like something other than a dirty little secret. Then the name Mohan popped up, and your jaw dropped, despite the way you wanted to seem unphased. Of fucking course he moved onto someone else, moved onto another fucking resident. You just rolled your eyes and continued on your way, sugary coffee in your hand that tasted closer to cardboard than vanilla, but you drank it anyway. You needed it, after the weekend you’d had. You’d missed the mass casualty, only because of a funeral of your own. Your sister. 23. Dead. You hadn’t told Jack yet, it still sounded weird in your ears. She was only 5 years younger than you. It made something like bile rise in your throat, but you were already at the nurses station, so you swallowed it back and smiled at Dana, a black eye and a tired expression hanging off her own features. 

“Long weekend?” you asked, setting your coffee down on your desk. Some people forgot emergency medicine was like all other forms of medicine, admin-heavy. She leaned against your shoulder, relieved to see you. 

“The longest,” she admitted, clinging to you like she wasn’t sure you wouldn’t bolt if she let go. Maybe you would if you saw him. “Talked to Jack yet?” She asked, seemingly sensing it. You rolled your eyes and massaged your temples, a migraine already building. She chuckled. “What’d he do this time?” She teased, and you didn’t even know what to say. You didn’t even know what he did, but you already knew you felt like a second choice, and you fucking hated that. You felt unwanted. For fuck’s sake, neither of you had actually admitted you two were dating, just labelling it as ‘fooling around’ like you were carefree teenagers. You knew you should’ve pushed him to admit it, pushed him towards being real with you. But you saw how it disinterested him. So you didn’t. You just walked beside him was you both decompressed from your days of torture in the Pitt, then followed him up ot his apartment, and helped him make dinner or hold him as he sobbed. Or he’d hold you. 

“Just tired,” you shook your head. “Migraine coming in already.” You chuckled like it was funny at all, but you both knew it wasn’t. She patted your shoulder and nodded. 

“Well, people need you,” she sighed. “Even if I need you more,” she whispered that last part, a bright smile on her lips as she took delight in making you smile. You rose up from your desk, gave her a quick but tired smile, and walked into your first patient, a 14 year old boy with abdominal pain, a simple case of appendicitis, you let Whittaker take the lead with the case. God, he looked tired. You’d only met the boy that day, but he looked like he’d already been through the wars. He probably had. Everyone had that week of panic, that week of wondering if any of this is worth it, if the stress and pain is worth the sacrifice of your sanity and wellbeing. Some people, like you, decide it is. Others don’t. You don’t judge either. You could see that Whittaker was a stayer though, and that made you smile, you needed more sensitive people here, people who still have it in them to care. You felt the exam room as an alarm sounded, ready and willing to help, when you saw them. Walking in together. 

Mohan had been around for a while, she was sweet, you really liked her. It had taken some coaxing, but you'd convinced her to go out to drinks with you, and you’d become fast friends, bonding over shared trauma of the Pitt and dead fathers. She was sweet, and she cared. Jack had his bag slung over his shoulder, an easy smile on his lips as he listened to her talk. Dana stared too. Robby’s hand on your back rerouted you to the coding patient, and suddenly the thoughts of Jack and Samira fell away as your shift got more and more hectic, new patients coming in, more complicated cases requiring you specifically. Robby kept his eye on you as you went about your day, and you noticed. Those tiny looks of concern he sent to everyone when he knew they were past their breaking point. 

A case came in. Aggravated man. Some sort of stabbing. He was on something. You didn’t listen, just rushed to help. You had hands around your throat before you knew what was happening. The tarmac hit the back of your head so hard you thought you might’ve vomited, but soon adrenaline rushed through your body as his body pushed against yours, hands around your neck as he cleanly cut off your air supply. The paramedics tried to pull him off, only able to do so when Robby ran out, more fear in his eyes than you’d ever want to see, and you reminded yourself that you’d never want to be one of Robby’s patients. The guy was taken away and sedated. It was Cassie who pulled you off the ground, Robby already busy trying to get back inside to help with something else going wrong, you were sure. You spluttered out a few coughs as the pain bloomed in your throat and neck, and your migraine somehow got worse. 

She offered you a sad smile. “Can I examine you?” she asked tentatively. 

“No beds,” you answered, your voice hoarse and painful. She shook her head. 

“There’s always one for one of us,” she draped one of your shoulders over hers and helped you inside. Everyone started, patients and doctors and nurses alike, everyone was looking. Dana shook her head, and you knew there was rage running through her veins, but neither of you could do anything now. You just wanted to sit, to be in a room that didn’t have bright white lighting, to be alone. Cassie pulled you into an exam room and sat you down, checking everything. She ordered a CT, just to check your head and neck, but everything else was fine. She bandaged up the cut on your elbow, and sent you up to CT. 

You sat there, eyes watering as you just endured. Endured the day, endured the pain, endured everything. You didn’t think he’d be up here, you thought he’d be downstairs, working with patients. Your heart stopped when you heard his voice. 

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed out. It was followed with a chuckle. “Mohan, you scared the shit out of me.” He smiled, that stupidly attractive smile that made you want to run over there and hit him, or maybe kiss him. There they were, outside CT, probably waiting on patients. Their conversation flowed easily, chemistry oozing, flirty comments dropping from Mohan’s mouth like water from a tap. He didn’t shut it down. He just smiled and blushed. He fucking blushed. 

“Dr. Y/n Y/l/n?” One of the nurses called your name out, and you stood, holding your waiver as you readied yourself for your CT. You didn’t look back to see his reaction, hell, you doubted he heard it. She took one look at you, Maria was her name, one of your first colleagues when you worked upstairs in the Paediatrics ward for your first round all those years ago, before you chose the insanity of the Pitt. She frowned. “What happened?” 

You chuckled but it wasn’t funny, and it didn’t sound right. “Patient got upset,” you shrugged. She nodded, understanding exactly what you meant. Everyone had been assaulted, you were sure of it. It was appalling the treatment you all got, like you weren’t risking your own lives and well-being to make others alright. She set you up in the machine and left you to your thoughts for a moment. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” The venom in Robby's voice pulled Jack from his conversation with Yolanda. He turned and stared, confused. 

“You needed me? Why didn’t you call-?” Jack questioned, but Robby cut him off, pulling him into an empty on-call room.

“Y/n needed you. She got fucking choked half to death and you were nowhere to be found,” Robby let out one of those awful, disappointed laughs before continuing. “I mean, fuck’s sake Jack. You talk to me about marrying the girl, and you’re too swept up in Mohan to realise she hit her head off the ground so hard we sent her straight up to CT. Her neck is black and blue.” 

Everything had stopped in Jack’s world. His breathing, his brain, his body, it all just stopped. You were hurt and you’d needed him, he’d missed you in CT somehow, and he hadn’t known. He cursed himself. His eyes watered despite himself, and he swallowed hard. “W-what happened?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“She got attacked by a patient. Out in the ambulance bay. He jumped off the gurney and on top of her and just started squeezing her throat,” the recount was violent and harsh, but he needed to hear it like that, realise how scary it was, and how terrible it was that he wasn’t there. He nodded, a hand coming up to cover his mouth. God, he wanted to sob. He wanted to scream. He hated this fucking place. He hated it. Robby shook his head. “She’s in CT. Go.”

Jack’s feet moved before he registered they were. Dana sent him a scowl as he rushed towards the elevators, his heart beat  much higher than it should’ve been. The doors opened, and there you were. Hand prints on your throat. Papers in your hand. A tired and slightly unreadable expression on your face. Your eyes widened when you saw him. A tear slipped through his lashes when he saw you. One of his hands reached out… but you just walked on. No acknowledgement. No smile. No teasing comment or whispered dirty talk in his ear. Just blank. Just tried. He blinked. He turned, his eyes searching the room for you again. You were at the nurse’s station with Robby and Dana, probably showing them your scan, trying to prove you were well enough to work. Robby shook his head, and you dropped your head to the counter, Dana’s hand slipping between your forehead and the wooden surface just in time to stop yourself from injuring yourself further. He walked over, his eyes glued to the document. 

“I’m fine,” you argued. “I just want to work to keep my mind off it.” You showed them your totally clear CT scan, well, clear other than the tiny skull fracture you’d received from your attacker. 

Robby looked at you, his eyes caring and soft. They hardened when he saw Jack. He cleared his throat. “Good of you to finally join us, Dr. Abbot,” he bit out, that venom from earlier glaringly apparent. He didn’t miss the way you stiffened and he gulped. “Dr. Y/l/n here wants to continue working.” 

“Baby,” he let it out before he knew what he was even saying, and covered it with a cough. “Come on, just let me drive you home and you can come back in tomorrow,” he said it low, and you felt that pang of pain in your chest again, as that voice in your head screamed at you. He’s ashamed, the voice spoke. You pursed your lips. 

“Dana, can you drive me home?” you asked, pleadingly. Jack took in a sharp breath. Dana looked between the two of you. 

“I think you two need to talk.” She said definitively. She and Robby offered you hugs and pitying smiles, and Robby death-glared Jack as he helped you pack up your stuff. 

The car was cold, but that was to be expected in the dead of the Pittsburgh winter. You stared at your own breath as Jack got the car running, your car, but he’d insisted on driving. The slice wasn’t awkward, it was charged, tense. Like you both things you had to say, and not all of it was nice. He chucked your bags in the backseat with a huff, and turned the keys in the ignition. But he didn’t pull away, didn’t pull out of the staff car park, didn’t move, really. He had so much he wanted to say, so many things he had to be sorry for. He didn’t know where to start, but all those sessions with his therapist ran through his mind about conflict resolution, about caring for people, about accountability. He took in a deep breath and blew it back out, then he turned to you. 

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there,” he breathed out, taking your hand in the low-light of the parking lot. “I should’ve been, God, I should’ve been. I just, I don’t know-”

“You were with Mohan,” you nodded, staring straight ahead. Your eyes were wide as he raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been with Mohan all fucking ay,’ you shook your head, a sick looking smile creeping onto your lips. “I guess it was a matter of time, right?” you asked, turning to him. You met his eyes, full of confusion, but you pressed on anyway. “We always had an expiration date, I suppose. Some new resident was always going to be more interesting than me.” You shrugged like you didn’t care, but you did. You hated this, hated not feeling wanted or cared about, or even fucking noticed. 

He stared at you like you’d slapped him with his scarlet letter, his heart stinging as he tried to control the bile in his throat. Him and Mohan? No way. He admired her as a doctor, and yes, he heard the flirty comments, but he didn’t like her, not like that at least. Not in the way he bled and died for you, but he’d always been too scared to admit it, so he didn’t. He nodded when you said you two were casual, just fooling around, like some fucking careless teenagers. He pretended it didn’t bother him when he watched Mateo wink at you, or see the way you looked up to Robby like something more than a mentor, but he trusted you. Fuck, he loved you. His mouth dropped open as his heart stung. “What the fuck does that mean?” His voice was lower than usual, deep and dangerous. Like it was when you’d been teasing him all day and then decided to play a game of cat and mouse for him to find you though the hospital. 

“I mean, I get it, I’m not the shiny new toy anymore,” you crossed your arms. You knew you were lashing out, but you couldn’t do it. He spent all fucking day with her. He was in CT while your name was called. He just didn’t hear, or he didn’t care. “Maybe you’ll actually tell someone other than your most trusted friends about you and her, and she won’t have to feel like such a fucking secret.” You added out of pure spite. You hated sneaking around. You hated feeling like you had to hide the fact that your heart beat for him. 

His face changed. He stiffened. “You’re not a secret,” he shook his head and you laughed, so he cupped your chin and turned you towards him. He had that hardened look in his eyes. You gulped back some tears and listened, so sure he was about to break up with you. Hand you some bullshit about workplace relationships or his trauma that excused him perfectly. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, damn it. I love you, Y/n Y/l/n. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there today, and I’m sorry I’ve made you feel like this, but don’t ever think I want anyone else. You’re it for me. You’re everything,” his voice was harsh and coated in emotion. You searched his eyes for any sense of dishonesty and found none. He meant it. Your breath hitched. He brushed a hand through your hair, moving the hair out of the way. “Love you so much it hurts sometimes,” he admitted, his voice low as the first few tears slipped past his water line. “Can’t believe you're hurt and I wasn’t there.” he shook his head and sniffled, trying to push the emotions back down as he’d trained himself to do.

You reached a hand out and cupped his cheek. “I love you too.” You pushed forward, gently lacing your lips with his, as the energy in the car dissipated. You didn’t give him a second to react, just kissed him as softly as you could. His hand cradled your face like it was the most precious thing in the world. He still had things to make up for, and many more conversations were to be had, but he loved you. You could get through whatever bullshit anyone throws at you once you knew he loved you.

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

What's Left of Me is Yours

Bucky Barnes x Reader (Established Relationship)

Warnings: stalking (non-graphic but escalating), emotional distress, possessiveness, dark Bucky, reference to past Winter Soldier conditioning, implied violence, breakdowns, morally gray themes, reader called baby and is referred as his girl once

Summary: You didn’t want Bucky to know about the stalking. Not just because you were scared but because you knew what it could cost him. What it would pull out of him. But the second he finds out someone’s been watching you… he gives you a truth that chills you deeper than the fear ever could.

You didn’t mean for him to find out. You knew what it would do to him.

You’d worked so hard to hide the anxiety--the notes left under your door; the photos sent from an untraceable number. The feeling of being watched even while brushing your teeth. You didn’t want to be a burden. Didn’t want him to slip.

Because Bucky doesn’t just protect.

Bucky destroys.

So you lied.

For weeks, you lied.

Until tonight.

Until you stepped into your apartment and found the photo on your bed. A picture of you walking to the corner store. Alone. Vulnerable.

Scrawled across the bottom in smudged ink:

“You're even prettier up close.”

Your knees gave out. You don’t remember calling him. But you must’ve, because when you look up, Bucky is crouched in front of you, hands shaking, eyes like ice cracked wide open.

Now Bucky’s been hunted before. He knows the look of prey. And from the way your shoulders twitch. The way your head turns just a bit too often on crowded streets. The phone gripped like a weapon you’ll never use. He knows you’re being someone's prey because he’s seen it in the mirror. That quiet fear. The dread that stalks you even when you’re not being followed.

“Baby,” he whispers. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Your lip trembles. “I-I didn’t want it to be serious, didn't want you to worry. I didn’t want you to go back to… that...that place.” That place. The part of him you never name. But he’s already there. He rises to his feet. Paces once. Twice. Then stops, fists clenched at his sides.

“I need you to understand something,” he says. Voice low. Controlled. Terrifying. “If someone’s watching you, if someone thinks they can follow you, threaten you, touch you. I will find them. I am looking for them. And when I do—” His voice drops to a whisper. “There’s no line I won’t cross.”

Your heart pounds in your throat. “Bucky—”

He turns to you. Not frantic. Not angry. Just… honest.

“I would become him again. Happily,” he says. “I would be the Winter Soldier all over again if that’s what it takes. If that’s what keeps you safe. If that's what keeps you happy and out of harm, I would tear the trigger words out of the earth and let them take me if it meant you’d never be afraid again.”

You stare at him, stunned. Frozen.

“I’d choose it, baby,” he breathes, stepping forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’d lock away everything good left in me, every bit of peace I’ve clawed back, and become the weapon they made me if it meant you’d sleep through one night, if you could go to the store without looking over your shoulder.”

You don’t notice the tears flowing until you hear your voice crack. “You can’t say that.”

“I mean it,” he says. “And I know how fucked up that sounds. But you’re everything. You’re all the good I have. I’d do anything to keep you safe. Even if I’d have to be a monster again. You are mine; nothing can hurt you.”

You collapse into him, fists twisting in his shirt, sobbing into his chest.

And he just holds you. Quiet. Fierce.

“Whoever he is,” Bucky says darkly, “he’s already dead. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

He didn't sleep that night. You don’t notice, he holds you through the dark like always. But the second your breathing slows, and your body goes limp against his, he gets up. Silently, smoothly. Like he was never human to begin with. 

By morning, he has your stalker’s name.

By noon, he knows all his habits, knows where he works, where he goes after work, knows where he lives, hell Bucky now knew where his mother lives.

By evening, Bucky has stood close enough to smell his cologne and imagine how his windpipe would feel like with his metal hand wrapped around it. How it would feel between a metal thumb and forefinger.

But he doesn’t touch him. Not yet. Predators don’t just pounce. They plan. And Bucky had lots of plans for his newest prey.

You don’t notice anything right away, not until the texts stop. Then you realize there were no more gifts. No more photos. No more notes. For the first time in months, you felt your shoulders relax, and your lungs fill with air once again.

However, somewhere in the city, there was a man who was hardly breathing. A man with a bruised throat, a few broken ribs and a lot of broken fingers. That man was told two promises, his body cringed into itself hearing the eerily calm, eerily quiet tone that the soldier that just finished torturing him contained. "If I ever find out that you are scaring my girl again...I will be the last thing you ever see. Honestly if you ever breath near her let alone look in her direction again no one will be able to find what's left of you."

Bucky left the man in a random back alley; he wiped blood off of his knuckles as he walked home to you. A smile creeped onto his face knowing he is keeping you safe once again.

He walks into the apartment and finds it dark and still, the only noise coming from the air conditioner in the window. Bucky eased his way through the small home; he kept himself quiet assuming you were asleep. Once he ends up wrapping himself around you like a barrier, he kisses your head and whispers:

“I’ll never let Hydra take me again. But if it’s for you, fuck baby… I’ll go willingly.”

What he misses is the small smile you fight back from hearing his vow. You know it should terrify you...and it does but it also saves you all at once.

If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open <3

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[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

P☆SSY OBSESSED WOLVES.

paring : wolf!zayne, sylus, caleb and xavier x fem!reader.

synopsis : You got lost in the woods, just trying to find a way out. Instead, you found him—half-wolf, all muscle, and painfully in heat. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. One look, one growl, and you knew exactly what he wanted. And god… you wanted it too

tws : nsfw ／ smut, vaginal (creampie), marking, bitting, cervix kissing, nipple play, spanking, knotting (locked), multiple of rounds,, fingering, breeding kink and size kink.

note : I FINALLY FINISHED THIS, IT FELT LIKE YEARS!! Also didn’t do rafayel since I was too tired and didn’t feel like it. also there might be alot of mistakes since it ain’t proofread. ✌🏼

－ZAYNE ．

You were just trying to find your way out.

A wrong turn, a dead GPS, and an eerie quiet. The deeper into the woods you went, the heavier the air got. The moon hung low—full and yellow—watching.

Then you saw him.

Tall. Bare-chested. Black ears pinned back. Broad shoulders rising with ragged breaths. Zayne.

But not the calm Zayne you knew.

This one had hazel green eyes blown wide, tail twitching like a metronome behind him, body radiating heat like he was burning alive from the inside out.

“Y-you okay?” you asked, barely able to speak with how hard your throat clenched.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared.

Then sniffed.

Hard.

And groaned. Low. Deep. The kind that made your knees wobble.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he said, voice hoarse. “I was trying to be alone.”

“Zayne…” You took a small step closer. “Are you—?”

“In heat.” His jaw clenched. “It’s… hard to fight.”

You swallowed. He looked huge. Wild. His muscles twitched, like he was holding himself back with the last bit of sanity he had left.

He took a shaky breath, ears flattening as he forced out, “You need to leave, sweetheart. I can’t trust myself.”

But you didn’t run.

Because fuck, the way he looked at you—like prey he’d die for—had your panties soaked. Your thighs clenched.

He noticed.

His nostrils flared again. “You’re… turned on.”

You nodded.

That’s all it took.

He was on you—hands gentle but firm, pushing you against a tree. He kissed you like he’d waited years for it, like his tongue could taste the want leaking out of you.

“I’m sorry,” he growled into your mouth, grinding into you. “You smell too good. You’re not safe with me—unless you say yes. Say it now, and I’ll stop. Please. Say it.”

Your body arched to his.

“Zayne,” you gasped, “Please. Fuck me. I want it—I want you.”

His restraint shattered.

He growled, spun you around, yanked your panties down and pressed your back against a tree trunk rough with bark. His cock—thick, hot, leaking—rubbed between your soaked folds.

“Gonna fill you up, baby. Gonna make sure you’re too full to walk. You sure about this?”

“Breed me,” you begged.

And that was it.

He plunged in slow, dragging a moan from your throat. He was massive. You swore you could feel every inch rearranging you, kissing the back of your pussy.

“That’s it… good girl,” he whispered, holding your hips as you trembled. “You’re so fucking tight. Taking me so well.”

Crack!

You yelped when his hand smacked your ass.

“Stay still,” he growled. “Let me fuck this little pussy like it’s mine.”

He slammed in again, deeper, harder. You gasped, arching against the tree, toes curling in your boots.

You couldn’t even speak. Just drooled and cried out while he used your cunt like it was built for him.

Then—he bit.

Teeth sank into your shoulder, not enough to draw blood, but enough to mark. Your pussy clenched around him, fluttering as you came.

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice feral. “Mark you—so everyone knows. You’re mine. Say it.”

“M’yours,” you slurred.

He laughed softly, wrecked and breathless. “God, you’re so pretty when you go dumb for it…”

He grabbed your hair, gently pulled you back so he could watch your face as he shoved deep—so deep his tip pressed right against your cervix.

“Fuck—you feel that? That’s your limit. And I’m still not all the way in.”

You moaned, wrecked, dripping down your thighs.

He kissed your cheek. “One more. Let me knot you.”

His knot—it was swollen at the base, barely able to push in. He grunted, forcing it past your entrance. You screamed, body locking up as it stretched you wide, plugging you.

“Shh… I got you,” he whispered. “Just let it happen. I’ll take care of you.”

Then he came.

Hot, thick ropes shot into your womb, filling you so fast it spilled out around his knot. Your legs gave out. He caught you with both arms, pressing soft kisses to your neck even as he stayed locked inside.

“You’re so full, sweetheart,” he whispered. “So fuckin’ pretty like this. I can feel your cunt milking me—wanting it.”

You were a mess. Barely conscious. Babbling his name.

He held you like glass.

“I’ll carry you back when my knot goes down,” he murmured. “You don’t have to do anything. Just… let me hold you. Let me take care of my mate.”

You whimpered into his chest.

You’d never been claimed like this.

And you’d never wanted anyone else again.

－SYLUS ．

You should’ve never wandered into the woods after dark—but you couldn’t help yourself. The moon was full. The air was thick. Something in your chest had been aching, restless, and now your legs carried you deeper and deeper until the world went quiet.

That’s when you felt it—eyes on you.

Then you saw him.

Standing in a clearing like he belonged to it.

Sylus.

His usual composed, unreadable expression was gone—replaced with a glazed hunger, his red eyes glowing with something ancient. His white hair was tousled, his white ears twitching slightly, that thick, soft white tail low and flicking. His skin glistened, shirt discarded, chest rising and falling with every heavy breath. His cock—already hard—strained against his pants, the bulge obscenely thick, the knot at the base already swelling.

He was trying to control it.

But the moment your scent hit him—your arousal blooming in your panties just from the sight of him—he snapped.

“Kitten,” he said lowly, voice rough and calm, like he was lecturing you. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You’re in heat too, aren’t you?” He stalked closer. You backed into a tree. His hand braced beside your head, body towering over yours. “Look at you. Tits bouncing with every breath. Eyes begging for it. Don’t lie to me.”

He reached between your legs. Two fingers pressed against your soaked underwear and dragged up, slow.

“So wet already…” he murmured. “What were you thinking, wandering this deep, smelling like this?”

“I—I didn’t mean to—” you started, but his fingers pressed harder, right against your clit, drawing a whimper from your lips.

“Yes, you did. You wanted to be found. Wanted someone to take control. Wanted me.”

You couldn’t answer.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“Say it. Say you want my cock.”

“I… want it,” you gasped. “Please, Sylus—want all of you.”

He chuckled softly, then kissed you—slow and deep, tongue sliding in with all the patience of a man about to lose it. One hand slid up under your shirt, cupping your tit, thumbing your nipple until you moaned into his mouth.

“Perfect fucking tits,” he murmured, squeezing it in his palm. “Soft little handfuls—gonna leave bruises on these.”

He shoved your shirt up, mouth latching onto one nipple, sucking it between his teeth while his hand rolled the other. You clawed at his back, trembling.

Then he moved—quick and smooth—pushing you to the forest floor, flipping you onto your back and dragging your shorts off with one hard pull.

“Open up, kitten,” he ordered. “Let me see.”

You spread for him.

He hissed between his teeth. “Fucking gorgeous. And this little pussy—fuck—it’s drooling. You really did come out here for cock.”

Two fingers slid in without warning. Your back arched off the mossy ground, eyes rolling back.

“So tight,” he said, watching your hole stretch around his fingers. “So fucking needy. Bet you’ll milk me dry the second I knot you.”

He curled his fingers up, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit, pumping until you were shaking—until your thighs clamped around his wrist.

“You gonna cum already?” he whispered. “Just from my fingers?”

You nodded helplessly.

“Then cum. Right now. Do it while I watch.”

Your pussy clamped around his fingers, soaking him. He held you through it, still working you as you sobbed into your arm, overwhelmed.

“That’s one,” he said. “We’re not done.”

He stripped off the rest of his clothes, cock slapping heavy against his stomach—long, flushed, throbbing, and veiny. The tip leaked pre-cum in thick drops. And his knot… gods, it looked impossible.

“You’re going to take all of it,” he promised. “Even this.”

He lined up and shoved in.

You screamed.

His cock was massive, stretching you to the edge of pain—but it was perfect. You could feel everything. Every throb. Every vein. He bottomed out, hitting your cervix, and stayed there.”

“Kitten,” he whispered against your cheek, holding still, letting you feel him twitch inside. “You’re already stuffed. But you can take more.”

He started moving—slow, deep strokes that rocked your whole body.

He grabbed your tits again, squeezing and slapping them lightly. Watching them bounce as he thrust.

“Love these. So fucking soft. I could fuck them too. Make you lick the head while I slide between them. Would you like that?”

You moaned, brain melting from how full you felt.

He leaned down and bit your tit—hard. Not enough to break skin, but enough to leave his teeth behind.

Then he grabbed your hair and yanked your head back, biting your neck next—deeper. Harder. Marking you.

“Mine,” he growled. “You hear me, kitten? I’m going to fuck you until your womb knows it. Until you feel me every time you walk.”

His pace grew brutal. No more patience. Just raw, slapping thrusts as his knot started to catch on your entrance.

“You ready?” he panted. “I’m gonna plug you. Gonna fill you up so deep it won’t leave.”

You begged, moaned, cried for it.

And then with a feral grunt—he forced it in.

Your pussy screamed around it, stretched wide, locked.

Then he came.

Hot, thick spurts flooded your womb, each one timed with his cock twitching, his hips jerking involuntarily. There was so much. Too much. It leaked around the knot, smeared down your ass.

You were sobbing, overstimulated, completely ruined.

And he still held your tits like they were his favorite toys, thumbing your nipples even as he emptied himself inside you.

He leaned down, kissing your throat.

“Shhh, kitten. You’re okay,” he whispered. “I know it’s a lot. Just breathe.”

He stayed knotted, holding you close, petting your hair.

“You’re mine now,” he said softly. “And I’m not letting go. Not tonight. Not ever.”

You’re still shaking when he rolls his hips again.

Still spread open beneath him, pinned to the forest floor, his massive cock locked inside you by that thick, swollen knot. Your pussy stretches around it—wet, swollen, twitching. His cum leaks out in warm, milky drips, making a mess of your thighs and the moss beneath.

You’d lost count of how many times you’d cum. How many times he made you cum.

And Sylus? He’s just smiling.

Not that cocky, boyish smirk. No. This one is slow. Quiet. Predatory. His glowing red eyes never leave your face. Not even for a second.

“You look beautiful like this,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your face. “So full. So fucked-out. My perfect little kitten.”

You whimper, barely able to respond. Your arms are limp around his shoulders, your chest heaving as he starts slowly grinding his hips again.

The knot grinds against your inner walls, stretching you just enough to ache—and Sylus watches you fall apart again with quiet satisfaction.

“Sensitive already?” he hums, tilting his head. “But you’re still so tight around me. Squeezing like you want more.”

Your nails scrape his back. “Sylus—nngh—can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” He leans in, nuzzling your neck with his nose. “You will. You’re made to take me, kitten. Look at your poor pussy, still clenching, still drooling for me. You want to be ruined again, don’t you?”

He thrusts—just once. Shallow. Cruel.

You scream.

It hits your cervix, hard, and you feel him throb inside you. The pressure of the knot keeps you stretched, stuffed, plugged, and now he’s moving again—just enough to push you over the edge.

“Cum for me,” he whispers, lips at your ear. “Do it. Let me feel you.”

You don’t even need to try.

Your whole body jerks, pussy spasming around the knot as your eyes roll back. You’re sobbing. Barely even conscious. All you know is Sylus—his heat, his cock, the growl in his throat as he starts to rut into you again.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “There you go. Just like that. Let it all out. Let me feel this greedy little cunt choke on me.”

He pulls out just enough to tease, dragging his cock along your walls, letting you feel every ridge, every vein, every twitch of his swollen tip before forcing the knot back in. You cry out again.

“Shhh,” he murmurs. “I know, kitten. I know it’s too much. But you’re taking it so well. So perfectly. I’m going to keep going until you’re bred so full, it leaks out for days.”

He leans down and bites your neck again, deeper this time—his canines sinking in just hard enough to sting, marking you all over again. You can feel the heat of his breath, the calm in his voice, even as he uses your body like it’s his.

His hand slides down to your chest, cupping your tit and kneading it slowly. He brushes a thumb over your sensitive nipple, then pinches—just to hear you gasp.

“Still so soft,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I could spend hours just playing with these. My hands were made to hold them.”

You moan, incoherent. Everything’s too much.

And Sylus knows it.

He watches your face closely as you writhe under him, your legs spread wide, his tail swishing lazily behind him. Every time you sob, he kisses your cheek. Every time your pussy clenches, he praises you.

“You’re doing so well, kitten. Letting me fill you like this. Taking my knot like a good little bitch in heat.”

He slows down again. Just grinding now. Letting the knot drag against your g-spot while his tip kisses your cervix with every roll of his hips.

It’s devastating.

You’re mewling, twitching, your fingers tangled in his white hair, clutching him like he’s the only thing tethering you to reality.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, lips trembling. “Don’t pull out. Ever.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” he says softly. “This pussy’s mine now.”

You’re drooling. Moaning his name like a prayer. His red eyes glow brighter in the moonlight as he watches you unravel, slowly, completely.

Another orgasm rips through you.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not until your body gives out, limp and twitching beneath him, your pussy still fluttering around the knot like it misses him already.

He holds you there, gently, his hand stroking your thigh while his cock pulses with one more slow, deep release—thick cum flooding your insides again, pushed up against your womb, warm and claiming.

You can barely speak.

You’re ruined.

And Sylus?

Still hard. Still in you.

Still whispering into your ear, calm as ever:

“You’re not going anywhere tonight, kitten. I’m going to keep you like this. Plugged. Bred. Mine.”

— CALEB ．

You should’ve turned back when the sun dipped low—but you didn’t. The woods had grown darker, quieter, and every path looked the same. You’d lost service hours ago, your legs ached, your heartbeat pounded behind your ears, and the air was thick—hotter than it should’ve been.

Then you heard it.

A low, ragged pant. Not like a dog. Deeper. More desperate.

Then—your name. Half-growled, wrecked, hungry.

“…You came.”

You froze.

He stepped out from between the trees, his wolf ears twitching, tail hanging low and stiff behind him. His eyes locked onto yours like he was starving—and you were dinner.

Your breath caught. You didn’t speak. You didn’t move.

He did.

Caleb closed the distance fast—hands grabbing your hips, holding you still, panting against your neck like he’d been chasing you for miles. You felt his whole body trembling. His voice, when he spoke, was guttural, cracked with restraint.

“I tried to wait,” he breathed. “I did. But it hurts.”

You shuddered.

His nose skimmed your neck, dragging in your scent. His groan vibrated against your skin. “Fuck. You’re… perfect. Your smell—you’re ready, too.”

You weren’t sure when your back hit a tree, or when his hand slipped between your thighs—but suddenly your shorts were on the forest floor, and his fingers were dragging slow, wet circles over your clit.

“Already soaked?” he murmured. “You came out here wanting this, didn’t you?”

You whimpered.

Two fingers slid inside—deep, slow, curling in just the right place to make your legs shake. His tail thumped the ground once. He licked his lips.

“Your body knows what it wants. Knows who it belongs to, pipsqueak.”

He dropped to his knees. You nearly screamed when his tongue replaced his fingers, licking deep and slow and messy—like he was starving. Your thighs clamped around his head. He groaned into you.

“You taste like heat,” he growled against your cunt, licking faster. “Fuck—I need to be inside you.”

You were shaking when he stood back up, your slick dripping down your thighs, cunt fluttering from just his mouth and fingers. He turned you around before you could speak—hands bracing you against the tree, fingers digging into your hips.

You felt the heat of him. Thick. Heavy. Pressing against your entrance.

He leaned in, mouth against your ear, breath ragged. “I’m going to ruin you.”

And then he pushed in.

You cried out—stretching wide around his cock, gasping when he bottomed out with one deep thrust. He was huge. You felt everything—his tip nudging your cervix, his shaft pulsing inside you, the obscene drag of his length as he started to move.

“So tight,” he groaned. “So good—fuck, you’re squeezing me like you were made for this.”

His rhythm picked up. Every thrust hit deep. His hips slapped against your ass, hands spanking you when you clenched too hard.

“You like it when gege fills you up like this? Gonna take it all, aren’t you?”

Your answer was a sob.

Then—you felt it. That stretch. That pressure. His knot was swelling.

You shook your head. “Caleb, wait—!”

He growled. “Too late. You said yes with your body.”

His knot forced inside with a wet pop. You screamed as it locked deep in your cunt, locking you together, sealing you around him.

Caleb slammed one last time, hard and deep, groaning as thick waves of cum pulsed from him, filling your womb so full you felt it ache. Your stomach fluttered. Your body trembled. You couldn’t move—only feel.

“You feel that?” he whispered, biting your shoulder just enough to leave a mark. “I’m breeding you, pipsqueak.”

And he didn’t stop.

Even as your legs gave out, even as your cunt fluttered from overstimulation, he held you tight, whispering filth into your ear.

“Round two’s coming. You’re not done. Gotta make sure it takes. Gotta feel you swell with me.”

He fucked you through it, again and again, even as you sobbed and begged—his tail twitching, his ears perked, hands stroking your clit, tugging your nipples, spanking your ass until you were gasping.

You lost count of the orgasms. You lost track of time.

But he didn’t stop until the knot finally deflated—only to build again.

Because once wasn’t enough.

— XAVIER ．

You didn’t mean to wander so far. The sun had been up when you started walking—but now the woods were bathed in silver light, shadows crawling across the underbrush, air thick with something humid, heavy, and strange.

You felt it before you heard him.

A pulse in your chest. A flicker of instinct. Something was watching you.

Then—his voice.

Low. Shaky. Familiar. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You turned—and there he was.

Xavier.

His usual sharp composure was gone. His silver hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat. His shoulders rose and fell with each uneven breath. His tail was stiff behind him, twitching. His wolf ears were flattened, trembling. His eyes were glowing.

You didn’t have to ask. You didn’t need to.

Your legs wobbled. Your heart pounded.

He stepped closer, slow, every movement tense—like he was holding himself back.

“I can smell you.”

Your breath hitched.

“Do you know what that does to me?” His voice cracked. “I haven’t touched anyone in years. I’ve avoided this. But now you’re here. You’re wet. You’re ready.”

You should’ve run.

But your body ached. Every part of you wanted him.

You whispered his name—and he snapped.

He was on you in seconds, shoving you back against a tree, his mouth crashing into yours with a hunger that bordered on feral. His hands tore at your clothes, pulling them off in pieces, until you were bared to the cold air—and his burning skin.

His mouth trailed down—neck, shoulder, breast. He latched onto your nipple, sucking, teeth grazing, tongue flicking. Your moans echoed in the trees. One hand groped your ass while the other slipped between your thighs, fingers sliding in deep.

“So tight,” he growled. “You’ll stretch for me.”

His fingers worked you open—slow at first, then harder, rougher. You cried out, clutching his shoulders. Your body trembled.

“I need to be inside you,” Xavier said, voice broken with need. “But I have to warn you—I’m not human when I’m like this.”

You nodded. You didn’t care.

He turned you around, bending you over a mossy rock, his hands gripping your hips. You felt him press against your entrance—huge, hot, throbbing—and when he finally pushed in, you screamed.

He bottomed out in one slow thrust, hips grinding against yours, cock so thick it kissed your cervix. Your body spasmed. He groaned low, fangs bared.

“Fuck—you’re perfect.”

He started moving—deep, hard strokes, hips smacking against your ass, each thrust rougher than the last. You sobbed his name, your walls clenching. He spanked you when you tightened too much.

“You like being filled like this?” he snarled. “You were made to take my knot.”

You didn’t know how long he fucked you like that. Your thoughts were gone. Everything was heat and pressure and him. His cock throbbed deep in your belly. Your slick dripped down your thighs.

Then—you felt it.

His knot.

Thick. Swollen. Pushing at your entrance with every thrust.

“I’m gonna lock inside you,” he growled. “Gonna fill you. Mark you.”

You begged. You cried. You said yes.

With one brutal thrust, his knot popped inside. You screamed—stretched wide, locked full. He growled as he came, hips grinding as his seed spilled inside you in thick, hot waves.

Your belly ached. Your legs gave out. He held you tight.

Still knotted. Still hard.

“You’re not done,” he whispered into your neck. “You can take more.”

He flipped you over without pulling out, your back pressed to the grass, his knot keeping you locked. His hand slid between your thighs, stroking your clit, making you sob. His lips found your other nipple, sucking deep, marking it with his tongue.

“I want you full,” he growled. “Want it dripping out of both holes.”

You blinked up at him, dazed.

He smirked.

“You didn’t think I’d stop at one, did you?”

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[cheralith]

grocery lists | a blue lock smau (pt ii) — feat. itoshi sae

synopsis — when the empty number you've been using to list your groceries finally gets a recipient, your territory gets disturbed in an unusual way. cw : gn!reader, they/them pronouns used, smau, mentions of food, a sorry attempt at crack, fluff, reader is not good at cooking, writing portion at the end (~1.3k words - i got carried away lol) a/n : i may have not based this on me and my own cooking experiences < PREV NEXT > series taglist

Overhead lights were never one in Sae's favor—his eyes always getting strained at the white that gleamed too brightly off them. They reminded him of the stadium lights, too large and too flashy... distracting him from the main objective during his plays on the field.

Much like how he keeps getting distracted by all the laminated signs scattered all over the grocery store. A simple adjustment of an angle and there's a flash of a light's glare from the corner of his eye glinted from the plastic, making his head turn to see what it was—only to be face-to-face with a neon orange sign yelling, "30% OFF ALL VARIETIES OF BREAD."

If it were most signs, then Sae would've kept walking, as he’s not one to be so tempted by deals too good to be true, but reading the percentage and the food whose price it slashed made him stop dead in tracks, rooting him to the linoleum floor. He pauses, reading the little piece of paper again and squinting in suspicion.

His phone feels a little heavier in his pocket.

Sae sighs, shaking the creeping feel of suspicion off before he has time to fully let it settle and fending off to the refridgeration section to grab his pre-practice kombucha.

The vegetables get their occasional shower mist as he passes, making Sae slightly envious of the water they receive that cools them down from the summer air. It's making him more bitter these days, the heat making his irritation boil a little faster than it usually did, and it doesn't help that he'll be facing the sun's rays out in the open for another three hours at practice for the big showdown with Barcha.

Sae's leg suddenly brushes up against something slick and out rolls a stray head of something green from the shelves. On reflex, he immediately traps what seems to be a head of lettuce with his foot before it can get tainted by the floor, going to pick it up and place it back where it belongs before another sign captures his attention.

There's a curtain of dew that falls over it from the mist, but the text is still rather clear.

"LETTUCE, CABBAGE, ARTICHOKE: BUY ONE, GET ONE FREE!"

Sae feels the weight of his phone once again, shouldering him down. He takes it out with the same intuition rising within him again, eyes scanning over the texts with the mysterious Mango in his contacts.

"two heads of lettuce for the price of one AND 30% off all breads 😸😸"

Sae glances back at the bread... then to the many lettuces. Once is a coincidence... twice is a pattern, they say. But it'll take three turns to really get Sae's attention. He shakes his head—bread and lettuce expire fast, it's only reasonable that this grocery store amongst the many others in the city will mark them up. He's sure that the competitors are also doing the same, especially amidst the summer season.

Still, however. The gut feeling has pinned itself down in Sae's consciousness and he feels himself compelled to the bakery section...

And sure enough, another breadcrumb has been offered to him. A blue sign this time, posted right in front of some desserts with a large number declaring the discount.

"20% OFF SELECTED COOKIES & OTHER BAKED GOODS."

Sae's brows furrow in a meld of frustration and confusion. His attempts at being realistic set into play, with his reasonings trying to justify the truth of what he could possibly be thinking—that Mango is much closer in proximity than he realized.

Admittedly, they shared the same area code, indicating that they were in the same city, but Madrid's metropolitan area is home to nearly seven million people. The chances of him and Mango meeting in this city amongst its many citizens should've been nearly zero, especially given his status. He shouldn't try to find a reasoning that doesn't exist for this.

And most importantly, he shouldn't feel this skittish at the thought of that small chance actually happening.

Sae grits it down—he's known this mysterious Mango for less than two weeks. He was only talking to them out of boredom, really, Spain not faring much to offer for him after all these years. For him to feel this capricious about meeting a stranger is a feat he left behind years ago when he moved here all those years ago.

So this feeling to be rising up again for someone so seemingly insignificant makes him almost apprehensive.

Sae shakes it off when he glances at his watch and the reality of his situation sets in. It's not like he had time to dawdle anyway, practice is set to start in nearly thirty minutes. He can't be preoccupied with his thoughts... for now at least.

He shuffles up to the cash register, determined to get out of this grocery store and back into his reality.

In front of him is not too long of a line, only one person behind from the register itself, and the person in front of them only holds a basket of menial items when Sae eyes them when they place them onto the conveyer belt—it's only composed of a sack of flour, a sprig of what looks to be basil, a carton of six eggs, three tomatoes... a box of corn flakes... a wet bag of frozen onion rings...

"Ah! I forgot the chocolate chips!" they exclaim to the cashier, the last item on their list planting Sae's feet back onto the ground. "So sorry, let me get those really quickly!"

They dash out of line quickly, their baseball cap blurring their face from his point of view before Sae can try and seek out what they look like. Sae's breath hitches. When his foot unroot from the floor and he looks back, he only sees the person's backside running off.

"Sir, is that your only item?"

The cashier's voice breaks him from the trance, making Sae look back forward again.

"Huh?"

The cashier points to the lone glass of kombucha in his hand. "If that's it for you, I can ring you up, if you'd like. I can just put their stuff on hold until they come back," she offers.

Sae looks back to where the person in front of him dashed off to, but there's not a baseball cap in sight in the field of other customers.

"Sir?"

The line behind him grows longer and he feels the stares of others burning into him, a quiet urge to get going. Sae swallows dryly, moving up and despondently handing over his kombucha for the cashier to ring up.

He almost hates how quickly she scans it.

The cashier sticks on a red PAID sticker onto it. "That'll be €2.98, sir."

He has an urge to stall, for whatever reason. Use cash, purposefully swipe his card wrong, maybe even fish out some coins—something to eat up his time just until the person comes back.

A gruff voice disrupts his thoughts.

"Hey man, we don't got all day," a middle-aged man grunts, a few other slightly scorned faces from behind him nodding.

Sae coughs out a stiff apology, hands swiping his card a little too fast for his liking. The cashier hands him his receipt and his supposedly-menial pre-practice ritual is done.

The kombucha feels a lot colder in his hands as he grips it when he heads toward the exit. Sae turns back one more time to see if a baseball cap comes into view again, but as he stands amidst the framing of the sliding doors, in the fifteen seconds he waits between them, it never does.

He turns back once more when he's out of the store, viewing in from the window for another thirty seconds. But all he sees is the annoyed faces of the customers behind him, frustrated at the absence of the beholder of the plethora of items on the conveyor belt.

He glances at his watch again. Twenty minutes to go. And it's still a ten-minute train ride to Re Al's facility.

Sae mutters a swear, his kombucha hissing when he opens it as he saunters away from the store.

He takes a sip of it in an attempt to refresh himself, but it only leaves his tongue bitter.

< PREV NEXT >

a/n: i've got good news and bad news. good news is that initially i was only going to make this a three part series, but i think i'm gonna have to extend it to around five parts given the current outline? so yayyy more content <3

the bad news is that i dropped my morning coffee on the sidewalk today and it splattered over my pants boooo....

anyways... thank you so much for reading and i hope you enjoyed (╹ڡ╹ ) ! reblogs and comments are always appreciated and never unnoticed <3!

taglist (link to join is above) : @rashouugue @shironagi @hinanhi @4yyx2 @sinsxo @appalost @shittyclarineted @itoshiholic @highandalive @i-eve-i @nocaffeineallowedtome @dontmindtheevie @jeonwiixard @erzys @puprdou @7leo7 @alana2007 @bubybubsters @littlebugs @oko11n @lunacoll @vayahatesu @leilakaro @chilichopsticks @tacharie @touyasvoid @leonskenn @enamyloveer @ksuckz682 @cloooudmilk @shalnarksantenna @h1sllvr @tetsuhanabi @sloaneki @sus0daddy @yulzsii @stfo4va @/whose-lozer @lorisheaven @estrnrea @burekforsatoru (those with a /, make sure you turn on the ability to be tagged in settings)

[suliigwp]

MY WOMAN

Max Verstappen x Reader

@tammyfortis commenting on... MY WOMAN

Other versions: Lando Norris , Carlos Sainz, Oscar Piastri, Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton

SULI: Hi thank you so much for requesting! The same gazz, short bit sweet! God he's so cute I love him so much

Warnings: Men.

It started with a canceled meeting.

A polite, clipped email. A changed schedule. No explanation.

She stared at her screen, rereading the words that didn’t say what they meant.

“Due to an internal realignment of panel priorities, we will be shifting today’s roundtable to a closed-door session. Thank you for your understanding.”

She hadn’t misread it. They were shutting her out.

She’d spent a week preparing—building arguments, threading together lines of thought, staying up too late fact-checking herself because she wanted to show up as more than just someone’s girlfriend. She was good at what she did. She deserved that seat.

And they took it from her.

The hotel suite was silent, the kind of silence that made your breath feel too loud. She sat back, laptop screen fading to a dim glow, and closed her eyes just as she heard the door click open.

Max was back.

He moved with that quiet restraint he only used when something was wrong—shoulders tense, jaw set, steps deliberate.

She turned her head as he walked in, setting his jacket down more carefully than necessary. He wasn’t saying anything. That was the first sign.

“You hungry?” she asked gently, watching him.

He shook his head. No eye contact. Just a low, “No.”

She frowned. “Did something happen?”

His back was to her now, hands gripping the edge of the dresser like he needed something to hold him still.

“I talked to someone,” he said finally.

She straightened. “About?”

He looked over his shoulder. And the look in his eyes—tight, muted, burning behind the quiet—made her stomach twist.

“They pulled you from the panel,” he said. “Said your background didn’t align with the ‘focus’ of the event.”

Her brows drew in. “That doesn’t even make sense. I literally—what else did they say?”

Max hesitated. His jaw ticked.

“They said your presence might distract from the ‘core messaging’—that there were concerns you’d make things uncomfortable. Too sharp. Too critical. And that your relationship with me would… complicate the optics.”

That was it. The moment her blood went cold.

“Are you serious?” she breathed.

He nodded. “Dead serious.”

“And what did you say?” she asked, standing now, voice tight.

He turned fully. Calm. Too calm.

“I said they should be ashamed. That if they were threatened by a woman who knew her facts better than they did, they didn’t deserve to be on a panel at all. I told them they were cowards hiding behind corporate jargon. I told them—”

“Max.” Her voice cut through his.

He stopped.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

His face didn’t change. “I wasn’t going to let them talk about you like that.”

“I could’ve fought back. I could’ve handled it—”

“You didn’t even know yet.”

“That doesn’t matter!” Her voice broke a little, frustrated. “It’s not about what you said—it’s that you didn’t even tell me. You handled it behind my back.”

Now he stepped forward. Not angry. Steady. Firm.

“I didn’t tell you because I knew it would hurt. And I didn’t want you sitting here thinking you weren’t good enough because some spineless men couldn’t handle your voice in the room.”

She stared at him, chest rising and falling.

“I don’t need you to defend me because I’m a woman,” she said. Her voice wasn’t cold—it was quiet. Bruised.

Max didn’t flinch.

“I’m not defending you because you’re a woman.”

He stepped closer, voice dropping low, warm like a slow flame.

“I’m doing it because you’re my woman.”

That silence between them grew thick. Tangled with emotion.

“You think I can stand in the paddock and watch them reduce you to a plus-one? Watch them act like you don’t belong? You think I’m going to stay quiet when they erase the hours you put in to be taken seriously?”

She didn’t know what to say.

Max’s voice softened even more. “I know you can fight your own battles. You’ve done it your whole life. But you shouldn’t have to. Not when I’m here. Not when it’s us.”

Something in her gave way. Not anger. Not surrender. Just the weight of it all, the exhaustion of always having to prove herself.

She stepped into him without another word, her forehead pressing into his chest. Max’s arms came around her instantly, anchoring her to something steady. Something safe.

He held her like she wasn’t a burden to carry. Like she was worth protecting. Like he saw her.

“I’m tired,” she whispered.

“I know,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head. “I know.”

They stood there in the quiet, the sun fading outside the window.

And then he said, almost like a promise:

“Next time, we fight them together.”

[snail-day]

You know that trend where you convince your S.O. that a ribbon is your new bikini top?

You thought it’d be funny, walking into the living room of the hotel suite in nothing but a silky pink bow tied across your chest. You had plans to head to the beach, hang out by the resort pool, soak up the sun. But now, well, the air feels a little warmer and it's not from the Caribbean.

Satoru’s halfway through a popsicle when he sees you.

It slips from his fingers. Hits the floor with a dull splat. His jaw goes slack, eyes locked dead center on your chest. There might be a little drool at the corner of his lips. Gawking would be one word for it. Worship might be another.

“Is that…” he starts, voice thin, then trails off completely. His snowy lashes flutter, as they flick back and forth between your face and the ribbon straining across your chest. “Is that the whole thing?”

You nod, biting your lip to keep from giggling, pressing your thighs together as you lean against the door frame.

He picks up the matching ribbon you left on the table, still convinced it was from some fancy item you bought earlier when the three of you were shopping around town. He turns it over, lets it flow between his fingers as he tries to process whatever the hell is going on. You have to be pranking him, right? But his sweet girl wouldn't do that. “Okay, so… this part goes around the - wait. No. This can’t even fit - ”

“Toruuu,” you coo sweetly, “it’s just a bikini.”

He whips his head toward you, lips parted, fluster written across every inch of his too-pretty face. “That’s not a bikini. That’s a felony. And not for public nudity - for homicide. Are you trying to send me to jail, baby?” He goes back to playing with the ribbon, staring at it, muttering under his breath, What the fuck.

It’s honestly hurting his brain. “I mean - sunshine, my love - obviously I know how it works. Duh. I just want to make sure you know how it works. For the safety of… others.”

You’re still grinning when Suguru rounds the corner, towel draped over his shoulders, drying his damp hair. His dark strands are loose, curling slightly where they brush his jaw. His half-lidded violet eyes flick toward you and then down. To the bow. To the skin below it. To the other pink ribbon pinched between Satoru’s fingers.

There’s a quirk at the corner of his mouth.

“…What is this, baby?” he asks slowly, indulging in your little prank.

“She said it’s her new bikini,” Satoru mutters, lifting the ribbon higher, waving it a little.

Suguru walks over, slow and predatory, dragging his hand along his jaw as his eyes rake you head to toe. His stare lingers on your chest. Then your hips. Then the barely-there ribbon bottoms in Satoru’s grasp.

“Oh, she’s fucking with us,” he says, flat and unimpressed. “What happened to the bikini I bought you? The one that matched ours.”

“Mmm. Left it at home,” you say, all faux innocence and no real regret.

Suguru doesn’t even blink. He takes the ribbon from Satoru without asking. His fingers graze yours before wrapping the rippob around your waist. He attempts at any form of bikini bottom, twice, expression blank, except for the subtle twitch of his brow.

“This wouldn’t cover anything,” he murmurs, voice barely above a hum. “Is this what you want? To get stared at? Or were you just trying to get a rise out of us?”

He lifts his eyes, gaze sharpening like a blade.

“You think it’s funny?” he asks, and this time there’s something dangerous in his voice, something just beneath the surface. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Not even close. He steps in, close enough for his cologne to sink into your lungs - dark and spiced, all heat and warning.

Satoru fidgets beside him, playing with the ends of the ribbon top “Like, seriously baby, just - explain how this is supposed to stay on. Because I’m not trying to sound mean, but… wind exists. Movement exists. You breathe wrong and you're gonna be trending on Twitter.”

Suguru tilts his head, like he’s trying to figure out what kind of punishment fits the crime. “Maybe she wants to be seen,” he murmurs. “Hm? Want someone to film our pretty girl?”

You swallow. Suddenly the joke doesn’t feel quite so in control anymore.

“…Maybe we should just, y’know, test it out at home first,” Satoru says, voice light, but his fingers are already tugging at the bow on your chest. The knot loosens in one pull. Your breath hitches as the fabric falls, baring you completely to the cool breeze of the hotel room.

Suguru doesn’t move for a moment. Just watches. Watches the way your shoulders twitch, the way your thighs shift together. Then his mouth curls into a sharp, knowing smirk as he steps forward, crowding you back toward the bed.

“Got the attention you wanted, baby?” he coos, dark lashes low over gleaming eyes while Satoru turns to quietly lock the door. “Good. Because we’re going to be cooped up in here for a while… just to make sure you don’t get any more silly ideas.”

[talaok]

How it was

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: After Abby's attempt at Joel's life, he's in the hospital, and while you try to navigate through the difficult feelings having almost lost him bring up, his mind seems to be on a much different, inappropriate, thing.

Warnings: talk of Joel almost dying, mentions of blood. Smut| oral sex (m receiving), attempt at fingering (lol), talk of f receiving oral, and Joel's dirty mouth.

a/n: i haven't watched the new episode yet bc im tired of crying but what i can tell you for sure is that did not happen, my baby is fine and ellie has never been happier.

"Well good mornin' to me"

You were bent over the armchair tidying what had transformed into your bed for the past ten days when you heard him.

His raspy morning voice had you turning around with a smile.

You let go of the blanket in your hand as you walked closer to his bed.

The rising sun was filtering through the windows of the hospital, illuminating his upper body with a golden light.

His face was still bruised and swollen and they hadn't yet taken his stitches out.

A bittersweet feeling filled your heart every time you looked at him, every time he winced as he sat up, every time you watched him struggle to walk for more than ten steps... it hurt, and yet it filled you with joy.

He was alive- he'd come so very close, the closest he'd ever come to the end of it all, and he had survived- he was still here, with you.

"Good morning" you beamed, taking his hand in yours as you sat on his bed "How're you feeling?"

He smirked, but you felt him squeeze your hand tenderly "Would feel a lot better if you turned around and showed me that view again"

You could only roll your eyes, chuckling softly.

"Really baby, you feeling any pain? You need something?"

His lips formed a soft small smile as he brought your hand to his mouth to leave a kiss on it.

"'M great babygirl, dontcha worry"

You very much doubted he was great, but you nodded nonetheless.

He never wanted you to worry, which was silly, because there was nothing else you did these days besides worrying.

"Now c'mon, give me some sugar"

"Joel" you protested immediately "I don't wanna hurt you, let's at least wait to see what the nurse says about the stitches"

You talked as if your protests had ever been anything but futile, as if the moment he gave you those sweet puppy eyes and his honeyed voice called your name you weren't already leaning closer.

"I don't care if it kills me darlin', just give me a kiss"

You stopped dead in your tracks, your mouth an inch from his, your breathing one with his.

"don't joke about that"

You knew it was just a stupid joke. But nothing was really a joke anymore, not since you witnessed him being carried into Jackson unconscious, his bloody face beaten to a pulp, his body so close to being lifeless... you knew that image would haunt you for the rest of your life.

"'m sorry, doll" he apologized, his eyes looking into yours with all the care and love inside him "'m here" he promised, squeezing your hand.

You closed your eyes for a moment, holding back the tears threatening to spill.

"Don't scare me like that ever again"

Your tone was serious, matter of factly, because it all was true. You knew, with terrifying certainty, that if anything like that were to ever happen again, you wouldn't survive it.

"I won't" he murmured, your hand in his the only thing grounding you "I promise you, darlin'"

There were so many more things to say, so many things you had to talk about, so many feelings, fears, and hopes bubbling inside you, and yet all you could do at that very moment was press your lips to his, kissing the man you'd feared losing forever, just to lose yourself in him.

The kiss was sweet, soft, tender even.

You didn't wanna hurt him, his lips were still cut and his cheeks were still bruised.

But despite it all, the feeling of kissing him was exactly the same. If there was one thing that hadn't changed, it was the way he made everything else disappear, every hurt, scare, and sadness dissipated into thin air when his lips were on yours- when his stubble grazed your face, his hands held you, his scent hugged you tight...

It always became just you and him.

And then Joel groaned in pleasure, and in what you knew from experience to be frustration.

Your mouths were still connected, just as your hands, only his tongue was now sloppily tasting you deeper, as his other hand, his injured, tired hand, found your thigh, slowly traveling up and up until two of his fingers infiltrated between your thighs, rubbing your cunt through your jeans.

You couldn't help but huff a laugh.

There he was, bedridden and barely alive, and he was still trying to get in your pants... quite literally.

"Joel" you chuckled.

He didn't answer, instead, he only compelled his head to lean forward to deepen your kiss as his hands started fighting with the button holding your jeans together.

The angle was uncomfortable and he was very clearly struggling, but you just sighed into his mouth, silencing your amusement.

It took about a full minute for him to unbutton your pants, but once he finally did, he slid two of his fingers beneath the fabric as quickly as he could, which wasn't a lot given the position.

You obeyed his silent command to spread your legs, but even as his fingers reached your clothed slit, he couldn't do much more than try to caress your pussy.

"Baby" you murmured with a smile as he desperately tried to pleasure you "do you really think now's the time?"

"yeah," he breathed without missing a beat.

Just then his fingers drew higher and came in contact with your clit, making you stifle a soft moan.

But the jeans were too damn tight, and he really had no space to work with.

"take 'em off"

You couldn't help but grin.

He had not changed. Not one bit.

"Joel I can't exactly take my pants off in here right now"

He groaned, his big brown eyes pleading you.

"why not?"

You laughed as you took his wrist in your hand and started leading his fingers off of you, to which he protested with a frustrated noise deep in his chest.

"Because baby... not only is the door open" you said, glancing at it " but anyone could come in at any moment"

He groaned, his hand on your thigh now.

"That never stopped us before"

He earned himself a pointed glare with that one.

You weren't gonna be caught pantsless as your barely alive husband fingered you. No way in hell.

"Then put a sock on the handle or somethin'"

An amused snort left you at that.

"This is hospital baby, not a frathouse"

Those deep brown, expressive eyes of his were completely shadowed with lust- the man was desperate.

Ten days of no sex and he was already looking like a deprived, starved man... not to mention the fact that he had begun to touch you inappropriately on day two.

He almost died, and instead of wishing to watch the sun rise again or listen to birds chirp in the morning, all the man seemed to think of was pussy... yours specifically.

"please sugar"

Goddamn, those damned puppy eyes.

Those two words were all you needed before you got up and started towards the door.

You heard him groan behind you.

"You're gonna leave your man layin' here blueballed?"

You laughed softly as you closed the door, hoping to god that the nurses would get the hint and not come in.

You didn't answer, you just walked back to him, watching his eyes sparkle with excitement once you took the blanket off of him.

How the man still looked hot in a hospital gown was something that needed to be studied.

His left leg, where he'd been shot, was bandaged completely, while the naked right one showed off his hairy thighs, which made warmth spread low in your belly... yeah maybe you'd missed sex too.

Silently, your hand went to the skin that was covered by the very hem of his gown, slowly trailing up and up and up until you cupped his hardening manhood through his boxers.

"fuck" he breathed, struggling to prop himself further up on the bed to get a better view.

You raised your eyebrow, shooting him a look- the last thing you wanted was for him to hurt himself.

"You've got to listen to hear if anyone's coming and warn me if that's the case, ok?"

He nodded mindlessly, his sole focus on your hand stroking his dick.

"yeah- sure" he murmured, urgency and need straining his voice.

Yeah, you were fucked.

Nonetheless, you hiked his gown up and pulled his underwear down- his cock was hard as a rock and you hadn't even done anything more than put your hand on it.

You bent over, looking to the side at him as you slowly, oh so slowly, started kissing his tip.

He twitched in your hand as your tongue darted out to kitty lick him, precum leaking from him just in time for you to taste it.

You were looking at him with those godforsaken sexy eyes you'd get as you finally wrapped your mouth around him, and Joel... Joel was in another universe already.

He groaned, shifting his hips up with a painful grunt as you hummed around him, starting to bob your head as you fit more and more of him inside your mouth.

"Fuck me-" he couldn't help but moan "fuck that feels good darlin'"

He strained his neck as his head fell back against the cushions, his eyes shutting close as his tip hit the back of your throat, making you gag.

He was fisting the blanket so hard his knuckles were white as chalk, and his breathing was so erratic that he was half sure the doctors would run in at any moment because the monitor would pick up him having a heart attack.

"Jesus Christ" he groaned.

Your mouth felt better than anything on this earth at the moment. You were sucking him so tight and god but you had him so deep inside you.

"Just like that" he breathed, watching your eyes water as you forced almost all of him down your throat.

It had been four years and you still couldn't get all of him in- at this point you'd given up trying- He was just too damn big.

"so good for me sweetheart" he grunted, observing his cock go in and out of you "Such a good girl-fuck"

Your hand had found his balls, massaging them tenderly- which meant Joel was pretty much done for.

"Goddamnit-- I'm gonna- I-"

He erupted, filling your mouth with his spent before he could even finish the sentence- and you were more than happy to swallow it all up.

He was breathing heavily, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you smiled up at him, before tucking him back in his boxers and putting the blanket back on top of him.

All sounds from outside suddenly filled the room again, reminding you of where you were... and what you'd just done.

"What did I do to deserve you?" he asked, smiling as you reached his side again.

"beats me" you teased, leaving a quick kiss on his lips.

He groaned from deep in his chest, his hand coming up to stroke your cheek.

"We still need to take care 'f ya darlin'"

"no, we don't" you immediately shook your head.

A side of his lips twisted into a smirk as he got an idea.

You didn't wanna take off your pants, and it's not like he could much to change position given his state, so that meant only one thing...

"Sit on my face"

And yes that idea made you hornier than you already fucking were, but unlike your husband, you still had some sense of decency left in you.

"I'm scared to hurt you when I kiss you and you think I'm gonna sit on your face?"

He looked at you for a moment, trying to figure out if there was any way he could convince you- unfortunately, the results came back negative.

"A man can dream" he sighed as he guided you down for another kiss.

"Let me get a taste at least"

Your lips parted in stunner- he really was desperate today.

"Jesus baby" you huffed, your mouth betraying you with a smile "H-how am I even supposed to do that, you really shouldn't force your hands to struggle too much, it could be bad for-"

His eyes sparked with mischief as he murmured "There ain't nothing wrong with yours though, ain't that right sugar?"

Heat crept up your face as you understood, but seeing the unadulterated need in his iris, the strain in his voice as he whispered 'Just a taste'... in seconds your own hand was in your panties.

"This is dirty..." you murmured, eyeing the door as your fingers delved between your folds, gathering up your slick.

"we've done worse" he breathed, his eyes only on what was happening beneath your jeans.

The worst part was that you actually had.

You swallowed thickly as you pulled your hand out of your pants, guiding your glistening fingers to Joel's mouth.

He wasted no time opening his lips, sucking greedily on your digits, a groan rumbling from deep in his throat at the taste.

You bit your lip, watching the scene unfold as you pressed your thighs together to relieve some of the burning pressure.

He would have probably gone on for god knows how long if you hadn't pulled your fingers out of his mouth.

His cock was hard again and he was goddamn tired of being in this hospital bed.

He wanted to go back to his old life. To his house, his wife, his daughter.

He wanted to get back to waking you up in the morning with his tongue between your thighs- not... this.

So he brought your head down, guiding you for yet another kiss that overflowed with all the hopes and dreams he had about it all going back to how it was.

"fuck me-" he groaned in between desperate kisses "I miss our life- I miss... shit babygirl, I your pussy"

You laughed softly into his mouth before leaning away, a devious spark in your eyes.

"Tell you what...I'll wear a skirt tomorrow" you murmured, ghosting his lips "and I think the weather might be a bit too hot for panties"

The groan he let out at that caused a nurse to worriedly rush in.