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danysdaughter · 1 hour ago

Text

Forever Mine

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 21.2k words

summary | you were the best thing that ever happened to him — and that was exactly what you wanted him to believe.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, rough sex, oral sex (f!receiving), two smut scenes, stalker!reader, obsessive!reader, manipulative!reader, gaslighting, psychological manipulation, soft control, emotional dependency, baby trapping, breeding kink, fluff, smut, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort (manipulative), dark romance, power dynamics, emotional possession, flipped stalker trope, strategic relationship building, marriage, parenthood, bucky barnes is whipped, found family (manufactured), groomed attachment, soft!dad bucky

a/n | me if I was in the MCU (jk)

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @uzmacchiato

April 2024 First Meeting

Bucky wasn’t a fan of spring in the city.

Too many people. Too much noise. The air too warm for layers, but he wore them anyway — hood up, gloves on, jacket zipped — because it was easier to feel overheated than exposed.

He kept his head down as he moved through the crowd on West 47th, letting the noise of traffic drown out the chatter in his own skull. Morning rush hour meant no one looked too closely. Perfect.

Or it should have been.

He spotted you only in passing at first — standing near the edge of the sidewalk, angled toward a shop window, holding a small hand mirror. You were brushing your fingers along your cheekbone, touching up lipstick maybe. Hair catching the morning light, coffee in the other hand. The kind of ordinary picture he was used to glancing past.

Only, as he stepped closer, you turned. Quick — almost too quick.

And then the coffee hit.

It was hot, sharp against his jacket sleeve before he even registered you stumbling back. The paper cup dropped from your fingers, liquid soaking in fast, blooming across the front of your white blouse.

“Shit—” The word came out before anything else, his hands coming up uselessly, hovering between your shoulders and your arm like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you. “I’m— I’m sorry. I wasn’t—”

You glanced down at the spreading stain, jaw tightening like you were holding something in. “I— I have a meeting,” you muttered, like you were talking to yourself more than to him. “Of course this happens now…”

Bucky winced. “Here—” He was already shrugging out of his jacket, the air hitting his sleeves like a reminder he’d regret this later. “Take this. Just to cover it up until you can—”

You shook your head immediately, taking a step back. “No. It’s fine. Accidents happen. Don’t worry about it.”

“Let me at least buy you another coffee,” he said quickly, still holding the jacket out like maybe you just hadn’t heard him. “And a shirt or something—there’s a shop right around—”

“I’m fine,” you cut in again, softer this time, almost apologetic, like you didn’t want to make him feel bad but also really needed to get away. Your voice had that rushed edge to it, but not frantic. “Seriously. I just need to go.”

Bucky glanced at your blouse again, the dark coffee already drying in jagged edges. He could practically hear Sam in his head telling him to stop letting people walk off with problems he’d caused. “I really don’t mind—”

“It’s fine,” you repeated, stepping sideways into the flow of the crowd. “Water under the bridge. Totally fine.”

You gave him one more faint smile — not dismissive, but final. Then you turned and slipped into the moving stream of pedestrians, your pace quick, almost purposeful.

He hesitated, jacket still in his hand.

For a second, he thought about following — just enough to press the jacket into your hands whether you wanted it or not. But the crowd had already swallowed you up. And it wasn’t like he could shout after you without drawing attention.

Still, he stood there for another beat, scanning the faces ahead as if you might turn back.

You didn’t.

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One Month Later Second Meeting

Bucky wasn’t really paying attention to much of anything when he pushed his cart down the produce aisle. Just the quiet hum of the refrigeration units and the low music overhead, some ’80s pop song playing like it was trying too hard to cheer people up.

He stopped at the fruits section, scanning the shelves for plums. He didn’t even know when they’d become a habit — something about the taste, the simplicity of them, the fact it helped him remember things.

That’s when he saw a woman.

Standing by the stacked baskets of peaches and plums, head tilted as you inspected one like you were weighing the worth of it. The aisle was empty except for you, which meant there was no mistaking it.

It was you.

The woman from the street. The one he’d dumped a cup of coffee on last month.

Most people would’ve turned around right there. Pretended they needed something from the other end of the store, avoided the potential awkwardness.

But for reasons he couldn’t explain — maybe guilt, maybe curiosity — Bucky kept walking forward.

“Plums,” he said when he reached you, his voice coming out rougher than he meant.

You glanced up, brows pulling together in a faint, confused crease. “Sorry?”

Bucky cleared his throat, tried for a faint smirk that probably looked nothing like one. “They’re good this time of year.”

It sounded stupid the second it left his mouth.

Your confusion didn’t fade.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Uh— I’m… the guy who spilled coffee all over you. Downtown. About a month ago.”

For a beat, you just stared at him like you were searching your memory. Then your expression shifted — the small widening of your eyes, the slight downturn of your lips in recognition. “Oh… right,” you said slowly, almost hesitant.

“Yeah,” he muttered, suddenly hyper-aware of how ridiculous this was. “That was me.”

“Hi,” you said, the word soft, polite.

“Hey.”

It hung there between you for a second, both of you standing in front of the plums like neither quite knew what to do next.

Bucky cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Listen, about that coffee—”

You were still holding the plum in your hand, looking at him like you weren’t sure if he was about to apologize or confess to some bigger crime.

“I, uh…” His mouth twisted like the words physically hurt to get out. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been paying more attention. I just—”

He trailed off, realizing he was rambling to someone who probably hadn’t thought twice about it since.

You hadn’t said anything, just stood there, watching him with that polite, unreadable expression.

Bucky let out a quiet sigh, trying again. “I’m James,” he said finally, sticking to something simple.

Your mouth curved into the faintest smile, like you were both amused and maybe a little charmed by how bad he was at this. You told him your name, and it sat warm in his mind the second you said it.

“Right.” He nodded, a little too fast, and then… nothing. Just the hum of the cooler and the faint sound of some kid whining two aisles over. You both stood there, staring in this weird not-uncomfortable but definitely awkward silence.

Yet you didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. Not in the way most people in the city were — always glancing at their phones, shifting toward the exit. You stood there, weight relaxed, like you were giving him the space to figure out whatever the hell this was.

“Hey,” he said after a beat, surprising even himself. “Do you… wanna grab a cup of coffee? You know, for the one I spilled on you.”

Your brows lifted just slightly, your smile curling into something softer, almost confused, like you couldn’t quite tell if he was serious. “It’s ten p.m. on a Tuesday.”

“Decaf, then,” he said, not missing a beat.

The corner of your mouth twitched like you were trying not to laugh. “You don't look like you drink decaf.”

“Not usually,” he admitted, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “But I figured… you know. Fair’s fair.”

It came out gruffer than he intended, like an apology and an invitation wrapped into one. He could feel that familiar, awkward heat creeping into the back of his neck, but he kept his gaze on you, waiting.

You tilted your head, letting the silence stretch just enough to make it look like you were actually weighing the offer. Your eyes dropped briefly to the plums in your hand, then back to him, like maybe this was a coin toss in your mind.

Bucky stayed still, watching you — and maybe that was why it felt like a bigger deal when you finally let out a small, almost reluctant breath and said, “Okay, James.”

You said his name slowly, like you were trying it on for size. No flicker of recognition, no double take, no oh-you’re-that-guy-from-the-news. Just James.

And that… did something to him. Most people knew who he was now, or at least thought they did. You didn’t seem to care — or maybe you didn’t know — and somehow, that made your answer feel more genuine.

Bucky’s mouth pulled into the faintest smile, one corner higher than the other. “Alright then.”

────────────────────────

He ended up picking a small café a few blocks from the grocery store. One of those places with low lighting, scratched wooden tables, and the faint smell of burnt espresso that clung to the walls. It was quiet enough for conversation, but not so empty that it felt like an interrogation.

They got their coffees — his black, yours decaf — and a couple of glazed donuts because it felt like the kind of thing you were supposed to get with coffee. You took a seat by the window, the city lights outside casting a warm reflection across your face.

You were the one to break the silence. Leaning back in your chair, coffee cupped loosely in your hands, you asked, “So, James… what’s your deal?”

He blinked. “My deal?”

You nodded, casual, like you weren’t digging for anything too deep. “Yeah. You just… I dunno. Seem like you’ve got a story.”

That threw him a little. Most people either knew the story or thought they did. You didn’t seem to. And maybe that was why he stumbled over his answer. “Uh… nothing special. I keep to myself. Do my thing.”

You arched a brow, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “That’s vague as hell.”

“It’s the truth,” he said, shifting in his seat.

You just smiled knowingly, like you could see through him, but didn’t press. Instead, you glanced at the donut on your plate, tore off a piece, and popped it into your mouth. You chewed, swallowed, then said flatly, “These donuts are terrible.”

Bucky’s head jerked slightly at the bluntness, and before he could help it, a huff escaped him. It was quiet but real — the kind that crept up unexpectedly. “Guess I’ve had better,” he admitted.

“I work in a bakery,” you said simply, sipping your coffee. “So I have the authority to say that.”

“Maybe I’ll have to come by,” he said without thinking. “Try some of your desserts.”

You looked at him, eyes glinting, head tilting just a fraction. “Is that some kind of innuendo?”

“What? No—” He almost choked on his coffee, sputtering a little. “No, I was being serious. Actual bakery stuff.”

You bit back a laugh, but the way your lips twitched gave you away. “Relax, James. I’m just messing with you.”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Yeah, I’m starting to figure that out.”

It was strange, how easy it was to talk to you. Bucky wasn’t great at… this. Conversations usually felt like work — too much effort to keep up, too many pauses he didn’t know how to fill. But with you, he didn’t notice the time passing.

You’d sip your coffee, tilt your head, say something that made him laugh without meaning to, and it all just… happened.

And you smiled a lot. Not the fake kind either. The real ones that crinkled the corners of your eyes, that made him wonder what you looked like when you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe.

He caught himself staring more than once, and when he realized how long they’d been sitting there, the barista was already hovering. “Sorry, guys. We’re closing up.” Her tone was polite, but it was still the gentle shove toward the door.

Outside, the air was cool, city sounds echoing off the buildings. You both stood there for a second, neither really sure what came next.

You were the one to break it. “Well, thanks for the coffee,” you said softly, giving him that same easy smile, “I’ll see you around, James.”

You turned slightly, like you were about to go — and maybe that’s what made him do it.

“Wait—” He shifted his weight, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I mean… we should… uh…” He frowned, trying again. “Go out. Sometime. You and me.”

It came out more like an order than a question, and his jaw tensed like he was annoyed at himself for it.

You looked at him, eyebrows lifting just a little, like you were amused but not in a mean way. “Are you asking me, or telling me?”

Bucky’s mouth twitched in a half-smile. “Guess I’m not good at either.”

“Guess not,” you said — and then, without missing a beat, “Alright. When and where?”

That made him freeze for half a second, eyes narrowing like he had to replay your words in his head. “Uh—”

You just stood there, patient, still smiling like you had all the time in the world.

“Tomorrow,” he blurted. “Uh… that diner on 8th. Six o’clock?”

“Okay,” you said easily, like you hadn’t just completely hijacked the momentum of the conversation.

And just like that, you turned, walking away into the night — leaving him standing there with the ridiculous thought that he already wanted to see you again.

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The Next Day First Date

Bucky didn’t remember agreeing to the date so much as the fact that it had just… happened. You’d looked at him with that easy smile and said, “When and where?” — like it was nothing. And somehow, without thinking, he’d said tomorrow and six o’clock.

Now it was tomorrow. Six hours away. And he was pacing his apartment like a caged animal.

It had been decades since his last real date — and if he didn’t count that mess with that waitress last month (which he didn’t), then this was his first since 1942.

Leah had been kind. Pretty. She’d said yes when he asked her out, and for a moment he thought maybe he could do this, maybe he could be… normal. Then she’d mentioned Yori’s son, and the bottom had dropped out. That wasn’t a date. That was guilt with beer.

This though? This felt like something else. And maybe that was the problem.

Because you were just… a pretty girl. That should’ve made this easier. But it didn’t. You had a way of looking at him that knocked him off balance, like you could see right through him without making him feel exposed. You laughed easily. You spoke without hesitation. You weren’t awkward — hell, you probably didn’t even know what awkward felt like.

Meanwhile, he felt like a guy trying to speak a language he hadn’t practiced in eighty years.

He stopped pacing long enough to glance at the jacket draped over the back of his chair. Too formal? Too casual? In the forties, you wore a suit and tie. In 2024, people wore jeans to weddings. The idea of showing up underdressed made his stomach tighten — but overdressed felt just as bad.

He sat, bounced his knee. Stood up again. Every time he thought about the way you’d smiled at him, that slow curve of your mouth, he felt something coil in his chest. It wasn’t nerves exactly — more like… anticipation.

Not that he’d admit that. To himself or anyone else.

By the time the clock ticked past five, he’d changed shirts twice, Googled “first date small talk” (and immediately slammed the laptop shut), and muttered a few possible openers under his breath. None of them sounded right.

Catching himself in the mirror, he tugged at his collar and smoothed his hair back. He looked… fine. Not good, not bad. Just fine.

He told himself it was just dinner. Just a date. Just you. But that didn’t explain why his chest was tight, or why his palms felt damp.

You were just a pretty girl. And he was just a guy trying to keep up.

At least, that’s what he thought as he grabbed his keys and stepped out into the warm May evening.

────────────────────────

Bucky had been sitting in the booth for five minutes already — too early to be casual, but late enough that he hoped it didn’t look like he’d been waiting all day.

The place wasn’t fancy, but it was clean, warm, with a faint hum of conversation that made it feel… safe. Neutral ground. He’d picked it for that reason.

The flowers sat in front of him, wrapped in brown paper — not a big bouquet, just enough to look thoughtful without overdoing it.

At least, that’s what he hoped.

He’d stood in the florist shop for ten whole minutes debating whether flowers were still something you did in 2024, or if they’d come across as… desperate.

Maybe he was desperate.

His gloved hands tapped against the table as his eyes flicked to the door every time it opened. He ran through a hundred worst-case scenarios in his head — the conversation dying after two minutes, you looking bored, him saying something that made you leave.

And underneath it all, that other thought.

The one that never quite left him.

You didn’t know who he was. Not really.

You didn’t know you were about to have dinner with someone who’d been a murderer, a weapon, a name whispered in fear for decades. You didn’t know the blood on his hands.

A part of him felt relief at that — maybe you’d just see him as a guy named James, nothing more. But the guilt hit just as fast. It wasn’t fair. You didn’t get the choice to decide if you wanted to sit across from someone like him.

His knee bounced under the table. His hand curled around the flowers again, like the rough paper could ground him.

The door opened. And everything went quiet.

You stepped in like you weren’t even aware the whole world could tilt toward you without trying. Black dress, simple but clean lines, fitting you just enough to make his chest tighten. His first thought was that he’d underdressed. His second thought was that he couldn’t look away.

Your eyes found him in the corner, and that small, slow smile broke across your face.

It wasn’t wide or showy. Just… soft. The kind of smile that made the noise in his head fade, made his shoulders lose a fraction of their tension.

For the first time all day, he wasn’t thinking about what he was going to say, or if he’d mess this up. He just knew you were walking toward him.

And that, somehow, felt like enough.

You slid into the booth across from him, the faint scent of your perfume slipping into the air between you. Up close, that black dress looked even better — understated, but it clung just enough in the right places to make his throat tighten.

His hand went to the bouquet almost on instinct, pushing it toward you like he was afraid if he didn’t do it immediately, he’d chicken out.

“Uh… these are for you,” he said, voice low, awkward, almost apologetic. “Figured it… y’know. Might be a nice thing.”

You blinked down at them, and he had no idea if you were surprised, amused, or trying to decide if you even liked flowers. That hesitation stretched for a beat too long, and his stomach tightened. Maybe this was too much. Maybe—

Then you looked up at him, smiling in that slow, deliberate way again. “Not many guys bring flowers anymore,” you said, taking the bouquet. “Guess I’ll have to forgive you for being old-fashioned.”

Something about the way you said it made him huff out a laugh — but he still shifted in his seat, the tips of his ears warming.

“Old habits,” he muttered, full on knowing you wouldn't catch the double meaning.

You brushed your fingers over the petals like you were committing the flowers to memory before setting them gently beside you on the seat. “They’re beautiful,” you added, and for a second, he felt like maybe he hadn’t already messed this up.

When the waiter came to take your orders, you didn’t look at the menu for long. Confident, decisive — nothing like him, who kept second-guessing whether the steak here was even good.

As soon as the waiter left, you leaned in just slightly, elbows resting on the table. “So, James… was this place your first choice? Or did you have, like, a list of approved restaurants for a random Wednesday night?”

He smirked — or at least tried to. “I’m not that bad.”

“You seem like the type who thinks about these things,” you teased.

If you only knew, he thought.

You twirled the straw in your water glass, glancing at him over the rim. “So… you said last time you just keep to yourself. Do your thing.”

He nodded, keeping his posture casual even though he could feel every muscle in his shoulders locked tight. “Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

You leaned in just a little, chin resting on your palm. “Okay, but… what’s your thing? Like, what’s the long-term goals?”

Bucky blinked. “The what?”

Your lips curved and you tilted your head, almost amused. “Your goals… long-term.”

It was such a simple question, but his mind went blank. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, trying to come up with something that sounded halfway decent. “I dunno. I, uh… haven’t really thought about it.”

The corner of your mouth lifted. “So you’re just floating through life, huh?”

He frowned, but there was no edge to it. “Guess so.”

“Not the worst thing,” you said, sitting back and taking a sip of your drink. “Some people like the drift.”

He studied you for a moment. You didn’t ask it like you were judging him, or trying to dig too deep. It was just… curiosity. Pure, easy curiosity. And yet somehow it made him feel like you could see right through him.

“What about you?” he asked, deflecting.

You shrugged. “Work. Pay my bills. Try not to lose my mind in the process. I’ve got smaller goals — learn how to make a croissant that doesn’t deflate, try every cocktail on the menu at O’Malley’s, maybe get a dog one day.”

A laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it. “That’s your big plan? Pastries, alcohol, and a dog?”

“Pretty solid life, if you ask me.”

He shook his head, smiling to himself. He’d expected this to be awkward, expected to feel the way he always did around new people — like he was under a microscope, like every move was being analyzed. But with you… it was just talking.

The waiter came back with your plates, setting a steaming plate of pasta in front of you and a medium-rare steak in front of him. You thanked the waiter without breaking eye contact with Bucky, like you didn’t want the conversation to slip away.

“So no dreams of retiring on a beach? No cabin in the woods?” you asked as you picked up your fork.

He thought about it for a beat. “Cabin sounds nice.”

“There you go.” You pointed your fork at him. “Long-term goal: cabin. Look at you making progress.”

Bucky huffed a laugh and shook his head, but inside, he was already picturing it — and, to his own surprise, you were in that picture too.

The conversation didn’t slow down after that. It wasn’t forced, either — just one topic folding into the next, your questions pulling him along, your little comments sparking thoughts he didn’t even realize he had.

Every time you smiled, his chest felt like it loosened a little. Every time you laughed, it felt like something in him woke up just to listen.

And before he knew it, the plates were cleared, the check was paid, and you were both standing at the door, the cool night air rushing in.

“You, uh…” He scratched at the back of his neck. “You headed home?”

You gave him that small, easy smile that made him feel ten years younger. “Yeah.”

“Can I… walk you?” He tried to sound casual, but it came out tentative, like he wasn’t sure if it was overstepping.

You tilted your head in that way you did when you were thinking, then nodded. “Sure.”

Something about that word — the way it rolled off your tongue, unhurried and warm — made his pulse skip. He held the door for you, falling into step at your side as you stepped onto the quiet street.

The city was winding down, streetlights casting halos on the pavement. Your heels clicked softly against the sidewalk while his boots fell into a slower rhythm to match yours.

For a while, you didn’t speak, and that was fine with him. He found himself just… watching you out of the corner of his eye. The way the breeze tugged at your hair. The way you tucked your hands into your coat pockets but kept your shoulders loose, like you weren’t afraid of anything.

“You live far?” he asked finally.

“Couple blocks,” you said. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna make you walk across the city.”

He smiled at that, but didn’t say anything else, afraid he might break whatever this was — this quiet, this ease.

When you finally stopped in front of a brownstone, you turned to him, your eyes catching in the streetlight. “This is me.”

Bucky nodded, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “Right. Uh… thank you for asking me to walk you.”

That earned him a soft laugh. “Pretty sure it was your idea, James.”

He blinked, thrown for a second, then nodded again, sheepish. “Yeah… yeah, right.”

And then… nothing. His mind blanked. If this had been back in the ’30s, the polite thing would’ve been to kiss your cheek, tip his hat, say goodnight like a gentleman. But it wasn’t the ’30s anymore. People had boundaries. And he had no idea if crossing that invisible line would ruin everything.

Still, the urge was there — humming beneath his ribs, pooling low in his chest. You looked so damn pretty in that black dress, the flowers he’d given you cradled in your hands. He could smell your perfume, faint and warm, and it was killing him not to close the distance.

You caught it. The way his eyes lingered, the faint crease between his brows. That tiny flicker of indecision.

Your teeth caught your bottom lip like you were thinking about it and that was when you stepped forward — deliberate, slow, your heels clicking against the pavement.

You didn’t just close the gap — you took control of it. One hand lifted, your fingers curling lightly along the line of his jaw, your thumb brushing over the scruff on his cheek. His breath caught instantly, eyes locking on yours, the flicker of surprise almost boyish in his expression.

And then you leaned in.

The kiss was soft but unflinching, holding him there for a few long, head-spinning seconds. His brain stalled completely — no wariness, no hesitation now, just you, the faint press of your body, the taste of your lipstick, the warmth of your palm against his face.

By the time you pulled back, his lips were still parted like he hadn’t realized it was over.

“Thank you for the date,” you murmured, giving him that small, sweet smile again, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Goodnight, James.”

And just like that, you stepped past him and slipped into the building, leaving him standing there on the sidewalk — still feeling the ghost of your touch on his cheek, still trying to remember how to breathe.

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Three Days Later Second Date

You didn’t expect him to ask you on another date so soon.

But here you were — only three days after your first date, and Bucky Barnes was already inviting you out again. Saturday evening. A picnic date in Central Park, of all things.

Not some busy lawn where people tossed frisbees or jogged past, but one of those quiet corners where the trees closed in enough to give you privacy, the sound of the city tucked far behind the green.

It was… old-fashioned. Which made sense, given who he was.

You sat across from him on a checkered blanket, a wicker basket between you — the whole thing looked like it had been pulled straight out of some black-and-white film. He’d even brought sandwiches wrapped in brown paper, a couple of glass bottles of soda, and what you were willing to bet were store-bought cookies.

And like before, you kept the conversation going. Asking him about the park, about what kind of food he liked, about what he did when he wasn’t… well, whatever it was he actually did now. He’d answer, but never with much detail — pausing often, like he was trying to figure out the right words, like he was still deciding how much of himself to give away.

That was fine. You didn’t need him to hand over his life story.

You already knew that.

It wasn’t hard to smile, nod, and throw in the right laugh at the right time. You leaned into his pauses, let the silences hang just long enough to make him want to fill them. He’d shift a little when you tilted your head at him, his eyes flicking to your mouth like he wasn’t sure if he should be looking there.

If he thought you didn’t notice, he was wrong.

And all throughout the date, between bites of sandwich and sips of soda, you couldn’t help but wonder when he’d actually confess who he really was.

You’d already known from the moment he bumped into you — hell, from before that. But you wanted to hear him say it.

So, you decided to give him a little push.

You let your gaze drift away from him mid-conversation, scanning the trees, the open green beyond.

Slowly, your brows drew together, the faintest frown pulling at your lips. You didn’t speak at first — just kept glancing around, your expression tightening like you were trying to puzzle something out.

Finally, you said it. Soft. Almost embarrassed. “James… people are starting to stare. I don’t… I don’t know why.”

The shift in him was immediate. His shoulders, relaxed a moment ago, pulled tight. His jaw clenched. His eyes darted past you, scanning the edges of the park.

You tilted your head at him, feigning confusion. “It’s fine,” you added quickly, like you were trying to brush it off, “I just… thought maybe I had something on my face or—”

“No.” His voice was quiet, but it had that weight to it, the one that made people shut up and listen. “It’s not you.”

You blinked at him, all innocence. “Then what—?”

“Maybe I should walk you home,” he cut in, already beginning to gather up the blanket and basket. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

You kept your face neutral — maybe just a little uncertain — but inside, you could feel the hook sinking deeper.

“Okay,” you murmured, and let him help you up, his hand firm but careful at your elbow.

It was sweet, how gentle he was. It was even sweeter knowing you’d planned this moment from the start.

The walk back was quiet at first. The city sounds filled the gaps between you — the low hum of traffic, a siren somewhere blocks away, the occasional rush of wind that made you hold your skirt down.

You noticed he kept glancing at you like he was trying to time something, trying to figure out the right moment.

Finally, a few blocks from your place, he let out a sigh. “So… my name isn’t just James.”

You looked at him, brows raised, a faint smile tugging your lips. “Okay…?”

“It’s James Barnes,” he said, watching your face for any flicker of recognition.

You tilted your head slightly, the smile still there. “Barnes. Got it.” Like you were just making a mental note, nothing more.

Bucky let out a slow breath, then shook his head faintly. “No. James Buchanan Barnes.”

The name landed like a weight between you. You stopped walking without meaning to, staring at him as the pieces “clicked” together.

“Oh.” Your voice was soft, your eyes a little wider now. You brought a hand up, half-covering your mouth. “Oh my god—wait. I’m… I’m an idiot.”

He frowned immediately. “What? No—”

“I knew I recognized you from somewhere,” you rushed out, shaking your head at yourself. “And here I’ve just been—God, I’m so—”

“Hey,” he cut in, his tone sharper now, trying to pull you out of it. “Don’t do that. Don’t—don’t make it a thing about you being stupid.”

You bit your lip, looking away, embarrassed. “I just… I feel like I should’ve known—”

“I liked that you didn’t,” he said, and there was an odd softness to it. “I kind of liked you not knowing who I was. It was… nice. Normal.”

You looked back at him then, letting your gaze linger, like his words had just made you see him differently.

“Normal’s good,” you said softly.

You took a couple more steps, the sound of your shoes clicking against the pavement, before glancing over at him. “So… why do things have to change?”

That stopped him in his tracks. He looked down at you — really looked — eyes scanning your face like he was searching for something underneath your words.

“You’re really okay with that?” he asked finally, voice low. “Going out with… someone like me?”

Your brow furrowed, your lips pressing into a faint, almost thoughtful purse.

“Are you?” you countered gently.

He blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Are you okay with it?” you repeated, tilting your head a little. “Because… it seems like you’re the one who’s more hesitant about this than I am.”

He exhaled sharply, his gaze sliding away like the weight of his own history was tugging it down.

“I mean,” you continued, your voice even, not pushing but not backing away either, “I get it. Because of… yeah.” You let the word trail off, letting the unsaid things hang in the air — the things you knew he thought about himself every day.

His jaw tightened, and for a moment you swore you could almost hear the gears in his head turning. He looked back at you, his blue eyes clouded but intent.

“Yeah,” he murmured finally. “Because of… yeah.”

You studied him for a second, watching the way his jaw shifted like he was still carrying the weight of that confession.

“So…” you tilted your head, voice easy but deliberate, “what do you want me to call you? James… or Bucky?”

He didn’t answer right away. His brows drew together, really thinking about it, like the question was heavier than you meant it to be.

Finally, he exhaled, gaze settling back on you. “James,” he said quietly. “I… I like being James with you. I’m trying to get used to being Bucky Barnes again, but…” he hesitated, the corner of his mouth twitching almost sheepishly, “James feels… easier. Lighter. With you.”

A slow smile spread across your face, soft but deliberate. Without breaking eye contact, you slipped your arm through his, your hand looping into the crook of his elbow like it belonged there.

Leaning in just enough for your lips to brush against his cheek, you murmured, “Good ’cause I like being with James.”

It was quick, simple — but you felt the way his stride faltered for just a fraction of a second, his breath catching like he didn’t know what to do with the way those words landed.

────────────────────────

One Week Later Third Date

The first date was to hook him.

The second was to soften him — to show him you were safe, someone he could trust without even realizing it. Someone who’d never push too hard, never pry… but who’d listen to every word like it mattered. You knew exactly what that would do to a man like James Barnes.

And the third? The third was to turn trust into something else entirely.

The kind of connection you couldn’t just walk away from without feeling the absence like a phantom limb.

You’d kept the night light — a small jazz club tucked in the quieter part of the city, a little whiskey, easy conversation, nothing too loud or overstimulating. You let him set the pace, let him laugh more than you talked, let him think he was the one leading.

By the time you were back at your building, he was looking at you like you were gravity itself — and you didn’t let him look for too long before you moved in.

You barely had the key out before his hand was on your hip, the other bracing against the doorframe, his breath warm against your mouth. The kiss hit fast — a low, almost desperate press of lips that made you smile into it. You could taste the whiskey on his tongue, feel the tension in the way his body pressed into yours.

Your back hit the cool metal of the door, and you let out the kind of quiet sound that made his fingers flex against your side. His mouth dragged from yours to your jaw, his stubble catching on your skin as you tilted your head, giving him space, giving him permission.

His metal hand skimmed down your waist, and you could feel the restraint in him — the way he wanted more but was holding back, trying not to push too far too fast.

You, on the other hand, had no such reservations. Your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer until there was no space left between you. You caught his mouth again, deeper this time, teeth catching his lower lip before your tongue traced against his. He made a low sound in his throat, one you filed away instantly — a tell, a weakness you could pull from later.

Then, suddenly, he broke the kiss — just enough to breathe, just enough to murmur against your mouth, “We should… probably slow this down.”

You blinked up at him, lips still parted, feeling his breath ghost over them. “Yeah… yeah,” you said, though your fingers were still hooked in his shirt like you had no plans to actually let go.

There was a beat — that awkward, suspended moment where neither of you knew what to do with all that tension — and then, completely straight-faced, you asked, “So… you got any hobbies?”

The question caught him off guard so hard you could see it in his face. His brow furrowed, mouth opening like he wasn't sure if you were joking. “Uh…” He blinked a few times, like he was flipping through a mental list that was embarrassingly short. “I like to… read?”

You nodded, like you were genuinely considering this while still catching your breath. “What have you read?”

There was a stumble in his answer, his gaze flicking briefly away as though embarrassed. “Uh… The Hobbit.”

You pulled back half an inch, your brows lifting. “The Hobbit? You read The Hobbit?”

He shifted his weight, defensive but sheepish at the same time. “…Yeah?”

And without missing a beat, you grinned and said, “That’s kinda hot.”

The corner of his mouth tugged up, almost disbelieving. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed, your voice low enough to make him swallow.

And then you were both leaning in at the same time, the kiss reigniting instantly, just as heated as before — maybe more. His hand slid up your side, the other finding the back of your neck, and you could taste the faint trace of a smile against your mouth before it turned hungry again.

You didn’t break the kiss when you pulled him through the building’s front door, not even when you started walking him backwards toward the stairs. His hand stayed locked at your hip, your mouth moving against his in hot, deliberate bursts between breaths.

The elevator ride was a blur of glances and unspoken tension — his chest rising and falling, your lips still tingling from where his teeth had grazed them. You could feel the battle in him, that rigid line between wanting and restraint.

By the time you reached your apartment, you had no trouble coaxing him inside. You guided him straight to the couch, giving him a gentle push until he sat, his legs spread slightly, hands resting awkwardly on his knees like he wasn’t sure what to do next.

You took care of that.

Climbing into his lap felt natural — slow, unthreatening, like you were still playing. You straddled him, your knees pressing into the cushions on either side, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

Bucky’s eyes darted to yours, and then down to your mouth. You could see it again — that hesitation, the restraint. So you leaned in, brushing your lips over his once, twice, before deepening the kiss just enough to coax him into leaning forward, his hands finally settling on your hips.

You were just getting lost in him again, the warmth of his mouth, the press of his hands, when Bucky pulled back suddenly. His breathing was uneven, his forehead resting briefly against yours before he leaned back enough to meet your eyes.

“I, uh—” He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I haven’t… done this. Not since… 1942.”

You blinked, tilting your head, the corner of your mouth tugging upward. “You mean—”

He gave a small, almost sheepish nod, his cheeks heating.

A slow grin spread across your face. “So… this’ll be like your first time again?”

“Don’t say it like that,” he muttered, but the flush in his face deepened.

You bit back a laugh, leaning forward to kiss him again — softer this time, deliberate — your hand coming up to cup the side of his face. When you pulled back just enough to whisper, your tone was almost teasing. “Don’t worry… I’ll be gentle.”

His jaw flexed, his blue eyes flicking away for a moment before coming back to yours. “I’m just… worried I won’t last.”

You gave him a small, knowing smile. “That’s fine,” you murmured, your lips brushing his as you spoke. “We have the whole night.”

And before he could answer, you kissed him again — slow, coaxing, until you felt him melt back into it.

You rolled your hips against him, slow at first, then harder, letting the friction build until you could feel the hard line of him beneath you.

“Fuck—” he groaned, low and almost pained, his head tipping back for a second before you dragged his mouth back to yours.

His metal hand slid up your back, cold even through your dress, the contrast making you shiver as his flesh hand gripped your ass, pulling you against him in a way that made you gasp. You rocked on him harder, and the sound he made — somewhere between a groan and a curse — went straight to your core.

“Jesus, doll…” he muttered against your mouth, his voice wrecked, his hips twitching upward involuntarily to meet your movements.

You grinned against his lips, rolling your hips just right, grinding down until he was cursing under his breath. “You like that, James?”

His response was a rough, desperate kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting you like he couldn’t get enough.

The rhythm between you grew messier, hotter — all friction and panting and little sounds that filled the quiet apartment. Your dress had ridden up around your hips, and his grip had turned bruising, like he was fighting not to lose control completely.

Your lips broke from his just long enough to whisper against his ear, “Take a breath, James.”

His grip loosened a fraction, and you leaned back, still straddling him, your hands sliding to the straps of your dress. His eyes followed every movement like he couldn’t look away.

You let the straps fall slowly down your shoulders, holding his gaze the whole time before sliding the dress up and over your head, then tossing it aside.

The way he looked at you — hungry, reverent, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed — made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t expect. You reached behind you, unhooked your bra, and let it fall.

Bucky’s breath caught, his jaw flexing like he was holding something back. His gaze raked over you, lingering in places that made your skin feel like it was burning, but he didn’t reach out — almost like he thought touching would break the spell.

You smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to his mouth before murmuring, “Your turn.”

He hesitated, and you knew why. You could feel the tension in him, the way his body stiffened when your fingers brushed the hem of his shirt.

“You can,” you said softly, but with an edge of certainty that left no room for doubt. “I want to see you, James.”

For a moment, he looked like he might refuse. Then, almost reluctantly, he grabbed the back of his collar and pulled the shirt over his head.

You didn’t let your gaze flick away from the scars that marred his skin, or the gleam of metal that caught the low light of your apartment. You let your eyes take in every detail, slow and deliberate, until his breath started to quicken under your stare.

“God, you’re beautiful,” you said, and meant it in a way that made him swallow hard.

You leaned in, pressing your mouth to his neck, tasting the salt of his skin. You let your lips travel to the edge of his jaw, down to his collarbone, over a scar that looked like it had been there for decades. Your fingers traced the seam where flesh met vibranium, and you kissed it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He shuddered beneath you, and you felt some of the tightness in his body begin to melt.

“See?” you murmured against his skin. “Nothing here I can’t handle.”

His hands found your hips again, steadier now, and when you kissed him this time, he kissed you back without hesitation, pulling you closer, letting you feel every inch of him.

Your fingers slid into his hair, keeping him close, and you could feel the last traces of tension bleeding out of him. That guarded, wary edge he carried like armor was slipping — and you were the one peeling it away.

When your lips left his neck, his mouth moved lower without you even asking. His head dipped, and his lips brushed over the swell of your breast. You let out a low sound, arching into him, and that was all it took — he wrapped an arm around your waist and took your nipple into his mouth like he’d been starving for it.

“James—” your voice cracked, your nails digging into his shoulder.

He groaned against your skin, the vibration shooting straight through you, and you swore you could feel him getting harder beneath you. His tongue circled, teasing, before he sucked hard enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand came up, fingers rolling and squeezing your other nipple until you were practically squirming in his lap.

“Fuck—” you gasped, heat pooling low in your belly, “—you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, lips slick, eyes dark with something feral.

You didn’t even try to play it cool. “I need you,” you said, the words spilling out rough and desperate. “I need you in me right now or I’m gonna fucking die.”

For a split second, he froze — like the full force of your want for him had short-circuited his brain. Then his jaw set, and his hands gripped your hips tighter, almost bruising.

“…You sure?” he asked, voice low and gravelly, like it physically hurt him to wait for your answer.

“James,” you whispered, leaning in until your lips brushed his, “if you don’t fuck me right now—” you bit his lower lip, hard enough to make him groan, “—you’re gonna regret it.”

That was it. Whatever was left of his guard shattered. And you didn’t wait for permission — you didn’t need it. Not when you could feel him, hard and heavy against you, straining against the denim.

Your hands moved between you, fumbling for the button of his jeans before dragging the zipper down in one smooth, determined motion. Bucky’s breath stuttered, his hips jerking involuntarily when your fingers slipped inside, brushing over him through the thin cotton of his boxers.

“Fuck—” he hissed, his metal hand gripping the couch cushion like he was afraid to touch you too hard.

You looked him right in the eye, daring him to stop you, and then you shoved his jeans down just far enough to free him. His cock sprang out, thick and flushed, and you wrapped your hand around him, stroking once just to feel the way he twitched in your palm.

His head fell back, a low groan rumbling from his chest. “Baby—”

“Shhh,” you murmured, shifting just enough to hook your fingers into your panties and drag them aside. “I can’t wait.”

Before he could even process it, you lined him up and sank down in one slow, deliberate motion.

Bucky’s entire body jolted beneath you. His hands flew to your hips like he was going to push you away — but instead, his fingers dug in, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes were wide, mouth parted, chest heaving.

“Holy—fuck—” The word came out broken, almost like a whimper, and that alone made you clench around him.

You leaned forward, your breasts brushing his chest, your lips grazing his ear. “Told you I’d be gentle,” you whispered, rocking your hips just enough to make him groan again. “But right now? I’m gonna make you lose your mind.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you started to move — slow at first, letting him feel every inch of you clench around him, before you shifted your weight and began to ride him in earnest.

Bucky’s head dropped back against the couch, a ragged moan tearing from his throat. His flesh hand slid up your thigh, gripping hard, while his metal hand stayed fixed at your hip like he was terrified you’d pull away.

You set the pace — hard, fast, bouncing on him until his thighs flexed beneath you, until his hips started to jerk upward in time with yours.

The moment he began thrusting into you, the sound that left him was almost pained — years of restraint breaking all at once. “Ohhh, fuck—baby—”

You leaned in close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, your breath hot as you whispered, “That’s it, James… just like that… give it to me.”

He groaned again, a shiver running through him at the sound of his name on your lips.

“You feel so good inside me,” you breathed, grinding down between bounces so he could feel how wet you were for him. “God, you’re so deep—”

His hips snapped up harder, faster, chasing that rhythm. You rewarded him by dragging your lips along the line of his jaw, sucking at his neck until you knew you’d leave marks there — marks he’d have to think about later, maybe even hide.

“Fuck, I’m—” His voice broke, his metal hand clutching you tighter, forcing you down onto him as he drove up into you with desperate, uneven thrusts.

You kissed his ear, biting lightly before murmuring, “Don’t hold back, baby… I want it all.”

That did it — his eyes screwed shut, a choked noise spilling out as he slammed up into you like he was trying to get even deeper, every thrust shaking through both of you.

“Shit—” he hissed, forehead pressing to your collarbone like he needed the contact to ground himself. But it didn’t last.

With a sudden growl, Bucky shifted beneath you, his hands gripping your waist like you weighed nothing. Before you could react, he twisted the two of you, rolling you onto your back without ever slipping out of you.

Your gasp turned into a moan when he settled above you, caging you in with his broad shoulders, bracing himself with his metal arm against the couch. His flesh hand slid under your thigh, pushing your leg higher, deeper, until the angle made you see stars.

Then he started moving — really moving — and the couch creaked in protest under the pace. Deep, filthy thrusts that had you gasping his name, every snap of his hips forcing you further into the cushions.

“Jesus, James—” you panted, nails digging into his back.

He groaned against your neck, his breath hot and ragged. “Can’t—stop—” he managed between thrusts, like he was talking to himself as much as to you.

Your head tilted back, mouth falling open as you pulled him down for a desperate kiss, swallowing the sounds he made. You felt the tension in him, the way each movement was turning rougher, more unrestrained.

“That’s it,” you murmured against his lips, pulling his metal hand from the couch and pressing it to your throat — not enough to choke, just enough for him to feel how hard your pulse was racing. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me.”

He groaned like the words burned through him, his hips slamming into you harder, faster. His eyes locked on yours, glassy and wild, and you knew right then he was gone — lost completely in you.

Your hands clung to him, nails dragging down the scars of his back as his pace grew erratic — that telltale stumble of rhythm that told you he was teetering right on the edge.

His forehead pressed against yours, breath ragged, eyes squeezing shut like he was fighting it, trying to hold on.

“Don’t—” he started, but you cut him off, voice low and sweet against his ear.

“James… I want you to finish in me.”

He froze for a fraction of a second, hips buried deep inside you, his entire body trembling. “You— you don’t—”

“I want it,” you whispered again, cupping his jaw so he had to look at you. “I want you. All of you. Don’t hold back from me.”

Whatever control he’d been clinging to shattered.

A deep, guttural sound ripped from his chest as he slammed into you harder, desperate, chasing the inevitable. His metal hand drifted to your thigh, holding you open for him, while his flesh hand fisted the couch cushion beside your head like he was trying to keep himself from completely falling apart.

Your own release crept up fast — too fast — his thrusts hitting that perfect spot over and over until your legs were shaking around his waist.

“James—” you gasped, pulling his mouth to yours, kissing him deep as you clenched tight around him.

The sound he made against your mouth was half a groan, half your name, and then he broke. His hips stuttered, buried as deep as they could go as he spilled into you, the heat of it pushing you right over the edge with him.

You cried out into his mouth, your nails sinking into his shoulders, your entire body arching into his as the two of you came together — messy, unrestrained, yours.

When it was over, he collapsed against you, chest heaving, his face tucked into the crook of your neck like he couldn’t bear to let you go. You could feel the rapid thud of his heart, the way his breath still came hard and uneven.

Your fingers threaded lazily through his hair, still a little damp with sweat, your other hand tracing soft circles along the line of his spine. His weight was heavy on you, solid, grounding — and you didn’t push him to move.

“Hey…” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, like you were afraid to disturb whatever fragile peace had settled over him. “You alright?”

There was a long pause. You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against yours, the subtle shift of his breath against your collarbone.

And then, without lifting his head from where it was tucked into the warm crook of your neck, he spoke — low, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it.

“I’m more than alright,” he said. “I’m… perfect.”

The word sounded foreign on his tongue, like it had been years — decades — since he’d felt it.

You smiled, not the teasing kind you’d given him earlier, but something softer. Your hand cupped the back of his head, holding him there like you were keeping the world away from him for just a little longer.

“That’s good,” you whispered. “That’s just how I want you.”

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a hum, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer. You could feel how reluctant he was to let the moment pass, how badly he needed this — to be held, to be wanted without condition.

You didn’t press for words. You didn’t need them. Every small shift of his body against yours, every quiet breath into your skin, told you what you needed to know.

And somewhere in the quiet hum of the moment, you felt it — the shift.

The wall he kept between himself and the world? You’d just stepped inside it.

────────────────────────

Three Months Later

The quinjet hummed around them, the steady vibration of the engines filling the space. Sam sat across from Bucky, leaning back with that look on his face — the one that meant he was bored enough to start prying into someone else’s business.

“So,” Sam started casually, “you gonna tell me about her, or do I have to drag it outta you?”

Bucky didn’t even look up from checking the mag on his sidearm. “About who?”

Sam gave him a flat look. “Don’t play dumb with me, man. The mystery girl you’ve been seein’. The one that’s got you walking around like you’re… I dunno, not completely miserable.”

Bucky clicked the mag back in place and set the gun down. “You’re imagining things.”

Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Oh, am I? Because last time I called you, you sounded—” He put on an exaggerated, low imitation of Bucky’s voice — “‘busy.’”

Bucky’s lips twitched, but he stayed silent.

“C’mon,” Sam pressed. “What’s she like? What’s her name?”

Bucky stared at the floor for a long moment, jaw tight. “None of your business, Sam.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Translation: you really like her and you’re afraid I’ll scare her off.”

Bucky shot him a look. “No.” A pause. “…Maybe.”

That got Sam grinning. “Uh-huh. So what’s she like?”

Bucky hesitated. He could’ve brushed it off. He could’ve just said “normal” and left it at that. But Sam was his friend. His only friend, really. “She’s… different,” he admitted reluctantly. “Smart. Funny. Knows how to make me shut up without even trying.”

Sam chuckled. “Sounds like a saint.”

Bucky looked away, fingers flexing against his knee. “…I really like her.” The words felt heavier than he expected. “Like… more than I should.”

Sam tilted his head. “Yeah? That’s good, right?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Sam leaned forward a little. “You know her well?”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean—where’s she from? Family? Friends? What’s she do, besides makin’ you act all—” Sam gestured vaguely at him—“less grumpy?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Why are you asking me this?”

Sam held up a hand. “I’m just sayin’, Buck… after everything you’ve been through, maybe make sure you know who you’re lettin’ in.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “I do know.”

“Do you?” Sam’s tone wasn’t accusing, but it was steady. “Look, I’m not tryin’ to mess with you. I want you happy, man. I just don’t wanna see you blindsided.”

Bucky sat back, arms crossed, irritation creeping in. “…You done?”

Sam gave a small shrug. “Yeah. I’m done.”

But Bucky could still feel the words sticking in the back of his mind, even as the quinjet kept on toward their mission.

────────────────────────

Five months.

If someone had told Bucky Barnes back in Wakanda that he’d be here now — in a steady relationship, with someone who actually wanted him around — he’d have laughed in their face.

And yet… here you were.

Perfect. Too perfect.

You were all the things he didn’t think he could ever have — kind without being condescending, patient without pitying him, sweet in ways that didn’t feel fake. You listened when he talked. You didn’t push when he didn’t. You gave him space when he needed it, and held him close when he didn’t know he needed that, too.

And God, you were genuine. Or at least, you seemed to be.

That was the problem.

Bucky had lived long enough to know that perfect didn’t really exist. Not for him. And that little voice in the back of his head — the one that kept him alive through decades of torture and conditioning — kept whispering that nothing this good could be real.

At first, it was just little thoughts. Harmless. Easy to shove aside. But lately it was growing. Festering. Like a splinter buried too deep to pull out.

He’d watch you laughing at something stupid on TV, hair falling in your face as you leaned against him, and his chest would tighten — not from love, though he did love the moment — but from the sharp, nagging fear that there was something he wasn’t seeing.

He told himself it was paranoia. That Sam’s questions months ago had just gotten under his skin. That you’d given him no reason not to trust you.

Still…

He now noticed when you’d change the subject after certain questions. He noticed when you’d smile just a bit too easily in moments that should’ve felt vulnerable.

He noticed because he couldn’t not notice. It was wired into him to see the things other people didn’t.

And the worst part?

The more that doubt grew, the more he hated himself for having it. Because if he lost you over nothing — over his issues — Bucky knew he’d never forgive himself.

────────────────────────

It was supposed to be an easy night. Movie, takeout, you curled up against him — the kind of thing he’d learned to look forward to.

But his head wouldn’t shut up.

You were leaning into his side, hand absently tracing the seam of his Henley, your attention on the movie — and Bucky could feel himself pulling away. Not physically, but somewhere deeper.

He hated it. Hated that he couldn’t just enjoy the damn moment.

Still, the words came out before he could stop them. “So… what was it like growing up in Chicago?”

You glanced at him, a little surprised at the question, but answered. Simple, vague. He pressed again, asking about your family, your friends, places you used to hang out.

After the third or fourth question, your brows knit together. “Why are you asking me all this?”

Bucky tried to keep his voice even. “I just realized I don’t know that much about you.”

You tilted your head, confused. “You know plenty.”

He shook his head slightly, the frustration prickling under his skin. “No, I don’t. You know everything about me — hell, the world knows everything about me — but I…” he trailed off, jaw tightening. “I know next to nothing about you.”

Your eyes narrowed a little, your nose scrunching the way it did when something rubbed you the wrong way. “The whole world doesn’t know everything about you, James. But sure, they know more about you than most. That’s not my fault.”

You shifted, pulling away from his arm and standing up, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. “Why are you acting like this?”

And that was it. The dam broke.

“Because I don’t know if I can trust something that feels this… perfect,” he snapped before he could rein it in. “Every time I ask something real, you dodge it. Every time I try to get to know you — really know you — you smile and change the subject. And maybe that works for other people, but not for me. Not after everything I’ve been through.”

You just stared at him, your expression unreadable.

Bucky raked a hand through his hair, his voice low but hard now. “If we’re gonna be together, I need to know you’re not hiding something from me. I can’t— I won’t— go through another situation where I don’t see it coming until it’s too late.”

You didn’t answer him at first.

You just stared down at the blanket bunched on the couch, jaw tight, like you were holding something in.

Bucky’s chest was already tight, heart thudding harder than he wanted it to. He waited.

And then, finally, you spoke. Your voice was quiet. Flat at first. “It was true when I said I didn’t have family in Chicago.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed. He stayed still, watching you.

You took a breath, still not looking at him. “My mom died when I was six. Home invasion.”

He blinked, the words hitting him sharper than he expected.

You swallowed, your voice dipping even lower. “Thing is… I didn’t even know she was dead at the time.”

Bucky’s stomach knotted.

“I remember brushing her hair that morning. Talking to her. Asking why she was still sleeping in the afternoon.” You let out the smallest, bitter laugh. “I fell asleep on her chest that night. The next day too.”

A shaky breath escaped you as you reached up and wiped a stray tear with the back of your hand.

“It wasn’t until the police came… three days later… because the neighbors noticed the window was broken…” Your voice cracked, and you pressed your lips together for a second before finishing. “…Three days. I spent three days with her body, thinking she was just… asleep.”

Bucky’s hands curled into fists against his knees, the weight of your words sitting like lead in his gut. He felt sick. Guilty. Ashamed for even pushing.

Finally, you lifted your head — slowly. Your eyes were glassy, rimmed red. You met his gaze, and your voice was barely above a whisper.

“Do you feel better now?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Do you feel closer to me now?” you asked, your lips pursed, like you were holding yourself together by a thread.

And all he could do was stare at you, feeling that ache in his chest grow heavier, every ounce of irritation he’d felt earlier dissolving into raw shame.

You stared at him for a long, long second. His face, his expression, his guilt — all of it. And then you scoffed. Soft, sharp, bitter.

Your gaze dropped, breaking away from him like it hurt to look. “You know what…” You shook your head, your voice low but cutting. “I think I’m gonna go home.”

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened. “What?”

“I just—” You exhaled hard through your nose, the sound almost like a laugh but with no humor in it. “I don’t wanna be here right now.”

Something in his chest lurched. It was like you’d just reached in and yanked him out of whatever fog he’d been sitting in. His whole body went tense.

“Wait, no—” He shot up from the couch so fast the blanket slid off his lap and onto the floor. “Sweetheart, please… don’t—”

You were already stepping toward the door, grabbing your bag from where it hung on the chair.

“Just—listen, okay? I didn’t mean—” He was moving around the coffee table to get to you, words tumbling over themselves, his voice rushed, almost frantic. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve pushed, I— I’m an idiot, I don’t think sometimes—”

You didn’t slow down, didn’t look at him.

“Please,” he said again, softer now but still desperate, his metal hand twitching at his side like he didn’t know if he could touch you without making it worse. “Don’t walk out like this. Not like this.”

Your fingers wrapped around the doorknob—only for it not to turn. You froze, looking up. Bucky’s metal hand was braced flat against the door, holding it shut. His knuckles were tight around the edges of the plates, his arm locked like he was physically anchoring you there.

“Please,” he said, his voice low, strained. “Don’t go.”

You didn’t look at him. Your eyes stayed fixed forward, shoulders tight. “Let go of the door, James.”

He didn’t move. “I’m sorry,” he rushed out, voice breaking at the edges. “I didn’t mean it like that. Please don’t leave like this.”

Your head tilted slightly, your breath sharp through your nose. Then, slowly, you turned to face him.

“I can understand,” you said quietly, “where all your doubt and mistrust comes from. God knows you’ve had enough reasons to feel that way.”

His eyes flickered, guilt written in every line of his face.

“But what you said to me tonight—” You shook your head. “It wasn’t fair.”

“Baby, I—”

“No.” You cut him off, your voice soft but final. “Maybe we’ve been spending too much time together. Maybe… we should take a little time apart.”

His chest rose and fell hard, panic tightening every word. “No. No, I don’t want that. We can— we can fix this. I just—”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” you said, stepping back from him and the door. “When I feel better.”

The look in his eyes nearly stopped you—but you turned away before it could.

You opened the door and stepped into the hall, leaving him standing there, still holding the doorframe like he needed the support, the silence in his apartment pressing in around him until it was deafening.

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The next morning, sunlight bled through your blinds in soft, dusty lines, warming the sheets around you. You stayed in bed longer than usual, lazily tracing your fingers over the fabric, listening to the faint hum of traffic outside.

Your phone was on the nightstand, face down. You knew it would already be buzzing.

This was part of your next move. And, maybe, just a little bit of punishment for going off script.

Your past was your past — jagged, bloody edges smoothed down by time, but still yours. Messy, ugly, yes — but more than twenty years behind you. He had no right to dig it up like that. No right to look at you like you were some puzzle he needed to solve to make you safe.

And last night, when you’d told him, I’ll call you tomorrow, you already knew you wouldn’t.

Almost like clockwork, it started.

The first text came before nine.

Morning. I’m sorry about last night.

Then another, a few minutes later.

Can we talk? Please?

By noon, there were six more, all variations of I didn’t mean it, please call me, I just need to see you.

By mid-afternoon, the messages tripled. The tone shifted — still apologetic, but heavier now, more desperate.

And then the calls began.

The first time his name lit up your screen, you let it ring until it died out. The second time, you silenced it before the first ring finished. The third, you just let it buzz in your hand, your thumb hovering over accept, knowing you wouldn’t press it.

You read every message. You didn’t respond to a single one.

By early evening, you could almost see him — pacing his apartment, jaw tight, thumb running over the edge of his phone like it was a trigger. Telling himself to stop. Telling himself to give you space. Failing miserably.

That gnawing, hollow feeling would be sinking in now. The weight in his chest. The restlessness in his hands. The way he’d keep thinking of the sound of your voice, the feel of your touch, the way your smile hooked him without effort.

The withdrawal was starting to take hold. And the best part? You didn’t need to lift a finger. He’d come to you.

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You had given him four days. Four, maybe five, before the silence became unbearable and he caved. Before he came knocking at your door like a stray, looking for warmth, for you.

But he surprised you. He lasted a week. Seven whole days without seeing you. Without hearing your voice. Without touching you.

When the knock came, it was almost quiet enough to miss. Three soft raps against the wood, tentative, like even his hand was unsure whether it should be there. You paused in your kitchen, head tilting slightly toward the sound, the smallest flicker of a smile tugging at your lips before you schooled it away.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Which meant there was only one person who could be standing on the other side of that door.

You took your time crossing the room, letting your bare feet make soft thuds against the hardwood, your expression carefully shifting into something neutral. Concerned, maybe. Curious. Certainly not expectant.

The lock clicked, and you opened the door slowly. And there he was.

God, he looked miserable. Pale, like the color had been drained out of him. Dark, heavy bags carved into the skin beneath his eyes, shadowing them, making the blue seem even more raw. His hair was a little disheveled, his jaw unshaven, like he’d been too busy — or too restless — to care.

For a moment, he just stood there, his broad shoulders rising and falling as if the walk to your place had been exhausting. His eyes moved over you like he was memorizing you all over again, as though a week apart had been months.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft — hoarse, like he’d been swallowing too many words before they could escape.

“Can I come in… please?”

The “please” was quiet, almost fragile, carrying the weight of the days you’d kept yourself from him. The kind of please that made you want to pull him inside and fix every inch of him.

But you didn’t move right away. You let the moment stretch — just long enough for him to shift uneasily on his feet, his hand tightening around the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder, his gaze darting from your eyes to the floor and back.

You pursed your lips, your hand still resting lightly on the edge of the door, like you were actually considering telling him no.

Your eyes held his for a long moment. He didn’t look away. He looked like a man ready to take whatever you decided to give him — even if that meant shutting the door in his face.

You let the pause drag just long enough for his shoulders to sink, for his jaw to tighten in that quiet, bracing way that told you he was preparing for rejection.

Then you shifted. Your head tilted slightly, and your lips softened into the faintest, unreadable smile. Without a word, you stepped back, swinging the door open wider.

He moved past you immediately, the tension in his frame palpable — like stepping over your threshold was the first deep breath he’d taken in a week. You caught the faint scent of his cologne as he brushed past, that worn, familiar mix of cedar and soap and something faintly metallic.

He stopped just inside your living room, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides. He didn’t sit. Didn’t touch anything. Just stood there, taking you in like he wasn’t sure where to start.

You closed the door quietly behind him, leaning against it for a second, letting him feel your eyes on his back.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your voice soft but even.

He turned halfway toward you, his mouth opening like he wanted to say no, but what came out instead was, “I… couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Your brows rose slightly, but you didn’t move closer. You stayed where you were, making him bridge the space.

And of course, he did. Slowly, he crossed the room toward you — every step careful, like he was afraid to spook you. His gaze searched your face, looking for some sign, some opening.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice low and thick. “For what I said. For… all of it. I just—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I messed up. I know I did.”

You let your silence hang in the air between you, your expression unreadable, forcing him to keep going.

“I just… I don’t wanna lose you,” he admitted, and that raw edge in his voice almost made you smile. Almost.

You didn’t answer right away.

You just stood there, your arms loosely crossed, studying him like you were trying to decide if the man in front of you was worth the trouble. Your silence stretched long enough that he shifted his weight, his shoulders tensing like he was bracing for you to tell him to leave.

“You really hurt me, James,” you said at last, your voice quiet but heavy. No anger. Just disappointment. You watched the way his jaw tightened at the sound of his name, the way his eyes dropped for half a second before finding yours again.

“I know,” he said immediately, almost desperately. “And I hate myself for it. I was—” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “—stupid. I was scared, and I… I let it get in my head.”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze run over him — the pale face, the dark circles under his eyes, the slight slump in his frame. “And what happens next time you get scared?” you asked softly. “Do I get accused again?”

He flinched. It was subtle, but you caught it.

“I’m not gonna make that mistake again,” he said, his voice firm in that way that meant he was trying to convince himself as much as you. “I swear, sweetheart, I’ll do better. I just… I need you to give me that chance.”

You let your lips press together in a thin line, then slowly exhaled, glancing toward the floor like you were weighing his words. “I don’t know, James,” you murmured. “I don’t know if I can trust that yet.”

The panic that flickered in his eyes was quick, but it was there. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Please. Just—don’t shut me out. I can’t…” He stopped himself, swallowing whatever words were about to come out, but the meaning was clear.

You let the silence hang between you again, long enough for him to start fidgeting with his gloves. Then, finally, you gave a small sigh, softening your expression just enough.

“Alright,” you said quietly, as though you’d just made a reluctant decision. “One more chance.”

His relief was almost palpable — his shoulders loosening, his exhale shaky.

You gave him a faint, almost weary smile, then stepped aside toward the couch, letting him follow you deeper into your space. He trailed after you like a man starved, grateful just to be let close again — exactly where you wanted him.

Then, with a slow exhale, you stepped toward him. He straightened a little as you closed the space between you, his hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare.

“James,” you said quietly, your eyes locked on his, “you hurt me.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

You studied him for a beat longer… then finally lifted your hand to his jaw, your thumb brushing over the rough edge of his stubble. He leaned into your touch like it was the first bit of warmth he’d felt in days.

And then you kissed him.

Not forgiving, not yet — but slow and deep enough to make his knees go weak. You felt the way his breath caught against your lips, how his hands finally came up to your waist, pulling you in like he was afraid you’d vanish again.

He melted into you, completely. His shoulders dropped, his tension bleeding out as his mouth moved against yours with quiet desperation. It wasn’t just a kiss to him — it was an anchor, proof you were still here.

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against his lips, “Please don't make me regret this.”

“I won’t,” he breathed, already leaning back in for more.

This time, the kiss turned hungrier. You tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head, your fingers splaying over the warm muscle of his chest. His breath hitched when you pressed your body against his, and when you guided him backward toward your bedroom, he didn’t resist for a second.

By the time you pushed him down onto your bed and straddled his lap, his hands were everywhere — his flesh hand gripping your thigh, his metal one sliding up your spine like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold you closer or never let you go again.

“God, I missed you,” he murmured against your mouth, the words almost a groan.

You smiled faintly, brushing your lips along his jaw. “Show me,” you whispered.

And he did — with a kiss that turned into something far rougher, far more desperate. The kind of sex that blurred the lines between apology and need, that left him gasping your name like a prayer.

By the time it was over, he was sprawled against you, damp with sweat, his face buried in your neck, muttering quiet promises you knew he’d keep — because now, after this, he’d be even more afraid to lose you.

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Six Months Later May 2025

You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the rich red fabric over your hips, letting your gaze linger on your reflection. The dress clung perfectly — a slow curve from shoulder to waist, from waist to the flare just above your ankles. Your lipstick matched it exactly, and you’d taken extra care with your makeup, the soft glow on your skin catching the warm light of the room.

You tilted your head slightly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, checking the angle again. Every detail was deliberate. Every choice calculated.

You didn’t hear him at first — not until the familiar weight of his hands slid around your waist from behind, his chest fitting flush to your back like it had always belonged there.

“Mm,” Bucky’s voice was low, already warm with something heavier than words. His head dipped, the scrape of faint stubble brushing against your neck as his lips found the spot just below your ear. He kissed once, slow, then again — lingering, like he needed the taste of you before anything else tonight.

You felt his breath as he murmured, “We could skip dinner.” Another kiss. “Stay in instead.”

The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the heat of him pressed against you, his nose grazing along your jaw as if he was memorizing it. His hands splayed wider over your stomach, pulling you closer, and you caught his reflection in the mirror — eyes half-lidded, locked entirely on you.

“It’s our anniversary,” you reminded softly, though your voice didn’t carry much protest.

“Exactly,” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin again. “I want you to myself tonight.”

You turned slowly in his arms, the soft fabric of your dress brushing against his shirt as you faced him. His hands didn’t leave your waist, thumbs stroking absent circles over the curve of your hips.

You smiled, slow and knowing, letting your hands slide up from his shoulders, fingers curling into the hair at the back of his head. You felt the way his breath deepened under your touch, his body leaning into you like it was instinct.

“Dinner first,” you murmured, your tone soft but edged with promise. Your nails scraped lightly against his scalp, just enough to make him shiver. “And then…” You tilted your head, brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth without giving him the kiss he was angling for, “…you can have me for as long as you want.”

His eyes darkened immediately, the muscles in his jaw flexing as if he was weighing whether to argue. His hands slid lower on your waist, pulling you that fraction of an inch closer until your bodies were flush, the heat of him pressing through your dress.

“You’re killing me,” he muttered, his voice a low rasp. His mouth found your neck again, one slow, hot kiss just under your ear.

“That’s the idea,” you teased, still stroking the back of his head, guiding him without force, letting him think he was the one choosing to stop.

For a moment, he just breathed you in, his lips lingering against your skin like he was storing it away for later. Then, with a quiet groan, he finally leaned back enough to look at you — frustration and hunger warring in his eyes.

“You’d better eat fast,” he warned, but his grip didn’t loosen, his thumbs still brushing over your hips like he needed the contact to keep steady.

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The restaurant glowed in warm, golden light, the kind that softened everything it touched — the gleam of the silverware, the deep reds of the wine in your glass, the way James’ eyes caught the low light like they were lit from within.

A year.

It felt strange, thinking back to that first coffee after the grocery store — how awkward he’d been, how carefully you’d drawn him out. Every step, every move since then, deliberate on your part. And yet, sitting across from him now, you knew it wasn’t all calculation.

You’d worked for this. Planned for it. But somewhere along the way, it had stopped being just strategy.

Because you did love him. You just needed him to love you more.

Your lips curved softly as you looked at him, letting your gaze linger in a way that you knew would make his pulse skip. He was watching you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing, his elbows resting loosely on the table, wine glass untouched in front of him.

It was still startling sometimes — the intensity in his eyes when he looked at you. Like he was memorizing you, every time. Like he was afraid if he blinked, you’d be gone.

“You’re quiet,” you said, your voice light, teasing just enough.

“Just… taking you in,” he replied, and there was no hesitation, no attempt to disguise it.

You tilted your head, letting a slow smile bloom across your face. “After a year, you’d think you’d have me memorized by now.”

“I do,” he said without missing a beat. “But I still like looking.”

The corner of your mouth lifted, a warmth settling in your chest that you didn’t have to fake. You reached across the table, your fingers brushing over his hand, the contact grounding him. You could feel the subtle shift in his posture, the way his shoulders eased as soon as you touched him.

The waiter came and went, dropping off plates you barely noticed. The whole time, his attention never strayed from you. It was the kind of focus you’d nurtured, protected — and now, it was yours entirely.

And as you sipped your wine, your thumb idly stroking over the back of his hand, you thought about how far you’d brought him from that guarded, skeptical man you’d met.

He’d come to love you exactly as much as you’d wanted. Now you just had to make sure he never stopped.

And now… now you just needed to secure it.

Preferably with the ring you’d seen carefully hidden in his drawer — the one where he kept his dog tags and those other small, weathered pieces of his life he couldn’t let go of. You’d found it weeks ago, tucked inside a worn leather pouch. Platinum band, simple but heavy. Not new. Not flashy. The kind of thing James would choose for forever.

You hadn’t let on that you knew. You’d just been waiting for the moment.

So when he ordered the soufflé for you—“her favorite,” he told the waiter—you sat up straighter, gaze fixed on the dessert menu as though you weren’t paying attention, feigning complete ignorance.

By the time the warm, delicate dish was set in front of you, you’d already pictured it. The glint of the band as your fork broke the surface. His hand reaching across the table, his voice low and a little nervous. The quiet satisfaction of knowing you’d planned every step to this moment.

You took your first bite, light and airy, the sweet steam curling up toward your face. Your heart was steady—your smile soft, practiced—as your fork dipped again, searching.

And then… nothing. Just chocolate. Just a normal soufflé.

You blinked once, twice, forcing your expression to stay exactly the same. You made yourself hum softly in appreciation, licking a smear of chocolate from your spoon as though you hadn’t expected anything else.

James was smiling at you, leaning back in his chair with that relaxed warmth you’d learned to draw out of him. Completely unaware of the tiny shift in your chest, the cool note under the sugar on your tongue.

“Good?” he asked.

You smiled, perfect and easy. “Perfect.”

And you let the conversation move on, your face never betraying the faint, careful recalibration already happening in the back of your mind.

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You weren’t even a full step into the apartment before he was on you — hands gripping, mouth crashing into yours like he’d been holding himself back all through dinner and was done pretending now.

His lips were hot, desperate, devouring yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. You felt your back hit the wall, the cool plaster stark against the heat of his body pressed flush to yours. His metal hand braced beside your head, caging you in, while his flesh hand roamed — down your waist, over your hip, gripping hard like he needed to feel every curve at once.

You gasped into his mouth when his thigh pushed between yours, the friction already enough to send sparks straight through your core. He swallowed the sound greedily, his tongue sliding against yours, his kiss rough and claiming.

“God, this dress…” he growled against your lips, his fingers dragging the hem up your thigh without hesitation. “Been thinkin’ about gettin’ you out of it all night.”

You arched into him, grinding against the thigh wedged between yours, your hands threading into his hair and tugging hard enough to make him groan. He bit your bottom lip in return, one hand cupping your ass and pulling you harder into him until you could feel exactly how hard he was through his pants.

“Bucky—” you breathed, but it came out more like a moan when his mouth trailed hot, wet kisses down your jaw to your neck. His teeth scraped over your pulse before his tongue soothed the sting, his breath coming rough and fast against your skin.

Your dress was bunched high now, his fingers already finding the edge of your panties, dragging along the lace just to feel you shiver.

“Tell me you want me,” he rasped against your throat, his voice low and filthy, more command than request. “Say it.”

“I want you,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. “I want you now.”

That was all it took. His mouth crashed back to yours, kissing you hard as his hand slipped under the lace, fingers teasing you until your knees nearly buckled.

When you broke the kiss suddenly, your palms pressing against his chest to push him back just enough to catch his confused, darkened stare.

“Wait here,” you breathed, lips still swollen from his mouth. “I have a surprise for you.”

His brows knit, suspicion and curiosity mixing in his expression. “What kind of surprise?”

You just smirked, stepping out of his reach and smoothing your dress back down over your hips as you started toward the bedroom.

“Hey—” he started, pushing off the wall to follow you, but you turned, holding up a hand.

“Nope,” you said firmly, your tone light but edged with finality. “You can’t come in.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, a half-smile tugging at his lips despite the heat still written all over his face. “Why not?”

“Because,” you said simply, already stepping inside, “it’ll ruin the surprise.”

And before he could take another step, you closed the door and turned the lock with a decisive click.

On the other side, you heard him let out a low, frustrated groan, the sound deep in his chest. “You’re killin’ me, baby,” he muttered through the wood.

You just smiled to yourself, leaning back against the door for a second before moving toward the closet, already planning exactly how you’d make him wait — and exactly how you’d reward him for it.

So you took your time with the zipper, letting the red dress pool at your feet before stepping out of it and draping it neatly over the chair. The silk lingerie you’d chosen for tonight was new — deep black, sheer in just the right places, the lace framing your curves in a way you knew would undo him the second he saw you.

You ran your palms slowly over your hips, adjusting the straps, smoothing the garter into place. The mirror caught the way the fabric clung to your skin, the way your hair fell loose over your shoulders. You looked like a secret — one meant to be unwrapped slowly, savored, and remembered.

And all the while, you let him wait outside the door, pacing, restless, already half-gone with anticipation.

If Bucky was too scared to take the next step — to slide that ring from his drawer onto your finger — then you’d take the step for both of you.

Marriage was fine. Marriage was symbolic. But it wasn’t permanent. What would keep you and James together forever was obvious.

A baby.

Your reflection smiled back at you, slow and knowing. You’d stopped taking your birth control a week ago, carefully tracking your cycle. Tonight fell just before ovulation — the point when your body was primed, when the odds were stacked in your favor.

You adjusted the bra’s clasp and smoothed your hands down your stomach, picturing his expression when you stepped out there. The way he’d grip you, lose himself in you, be far too lost to think about anything but the moment.

And afterward… well. By then, the future would already be in motion.

You reached for the door, letting the anticipation hang for just another heartbeat before unlocking it. The lock clicked, and you turned the handle slowly, letting the door creak open just enough for the light from the bedroom to spill into the hall.

Bucky was right there. He’d been pacing — you could tell by the restless way his weight shifted from one foot to the other, the faint flex of his jaw.

And then his eyes landed on you.

The change was instant.

Every ounce of tension in him coiled tighter, his pupils blowing wide, his gaze dragging over every inch of you with sharp, hungry precision. You saw the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking like he was holding himself back by the thinnest thread.

“Jesus Christ…” he muttered, almost under his breath — not reverent, not even surprised, but like the sight of you had just punched the air out of his lungs.

You leaned lightly against the doorframe, letting the strap of your bra slide just enough against your shoulder to make his eyes follow the movement. “You like?” you asked, voice slow, sultry.

His answer wasn’t words.

In two steps, he was on you, his hands already at your waist, pulling you into him hard enough that your back hit the doorframe. His mouth crashed onto yours, hot and rough, teeth catching your lower lip before his tongue swept in, claiming you with an almost desperate urgency.

You felt the hard line of him through his pants, pressed firmly against your stomach, and the way his hands roamed like he couldn’t decide what part of you to touch first. His metal hand gripped your ass with possessive force, while his flesh one dragged up your side, fingers brushing the edge of your bra, curling like he was about to tear it off.

He broke the kiss just enough to breathe against your mouth, his voice ragged, almost animal. “You’re fuckin’ killin’ me.”

Then his lips were back on you, trailing down your jaw to your throat, biting just enough to make you gasp before sucking hard enough to mark you. You could feel his restraint fraying — every touch growing rougher, more urgent, the kind of need that burned through thought entirely.

The door to the bedroom was still open behind you, and he was already walking you backward through it without breaking from your mouth.

You barely had time to register the way his arms shifted before he bent, gripping you under your thighs.

“Bucky—!” you gasped, the sudden lift catching you off guard, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

He carried you like you weighed nothing, his mouth never slowing — moving from your neck to your collarbone, kissing, biting, sucking with the kind of hunger that had your back arching into him.

You laughed breathlessly, the sound breaking into a moan when his head dipped lower, his mouth closing over your nipple through the thin lace. His teeth caught the peak, his tongue flicking against it, the heat of his mouth soaking through the fabric until it was damp.

“Fuck—James—” you panted, gripping at his hair, your nails scraping against his scalp.

He growled low against you, the sound vibrating into your skin, and then you were being dropped onto the bed — not carelessly, but with the controlled force of someone who needed you exactly where he wanted you.

You bounced once against the mattress, the lingerie strap sliding further down your shoulder, before he was over you, caging you in with his arms. His hair had fallen loose from where you’d been gripping it, his breath rough and fast, eyes fixed on you like prey he was about to devour.

He didn’t wait for permission.

His hands were already roaming, pulling at straps, pushing lace aside, his mouth finding every inch of newly exposed skin like he’d been starved for it. The kiss he dragged back to your mouth was hot, messy, almost uncoordinated in its urgency, and you felt his hips pressing hard into yours, grinding as though the friction alone might undo him.

“Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ night,” he rasped against your lips, his voice almost shaking from how badly he wanted it.

His mouth left yours suddenly, his breathing heavy, eyes blown wide and fixed low like he’d just made a decision he couldn’t come back from.

“Lay back,” he growled, already moving down your body.

You barely had time to register it before his hands hooked behind your knees, spreading them wide. The cool drag of his metal fingers along your inner thighs made you shiver, while his flesh hand gripped firmly, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

Then he was kneeling between your legs, lowering himself until his broad shoulders pressed against your thighs. He dragged you closer in one rough pull, your ass right to the edge of the bed, before hiking your legs up and over his shoulders.

The lace of your panties didn’t last long — he pushed them aside with a flick of his thumb, the air hitting you for a second before his mouth was on you.

You gasped sharply, your fingers fisting in the sheets as his tongue slid through your folds, slow at first, then firmer, more deliberate. He groaned low when he tasted you, the vibration making your hips twitch.

“Fuck, baby…” he muttered against you, already diving back in like a man starved, his tongue circling your clit before sucking it into his mouth with filthy precision.

Your back arched, a breathless moan spilling out as your hands flew to his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan again — and the sound went straight through you. His grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you open, keeping you his.

Every movement was hungry, urgent, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. He alternated between deep, slow licks and fast, sharp flicks of his tongue, never giving you a chance to settle, keeping you right at that dangerous edge.

“James—” you gasped, your thighs trembling against his shoulders.

He pulled back just enough to look up at you from between your legs, his mouth glistening, eyes dark and wild. “Not stoppin’ ‘til you fall apart for me.”

And then his mouth was back on you, more relentless than before, his need to taste you completely taking over.

He didn’t let up — not even a little.

Every stroke of his tongue was purposeful, calculated in that chaotic, desperate way only Bucky could manage — half control, half raw instinct. His flesh hand gripped your thigh hard, fingers digging in, while his metal hand pressed flat against your hip, holding you down when you tried to buck up into him.

The room was filled with the wet, obscene sounds of him eating you out, the low hum of his groans vibrating against your most sensitive spot. You could feel every flick, every pull of his mouth, like it was designed to unravel you completely.

“Fuck, James—” Your voice was breaking now, your grip in his hair tightening until your knuckles ached.

He only groaned in response, the sound deep and rough, like the taste of you was driving him half mad. His tongue changed pace — slow circles, then sudden, precise flicks — keeping you from finding any kind of rhythm, keeping you teetering.

Your breathing quickened, legs twitching against his shoulders, your thighs trying to close on instinct, but his hands were unyielding. He knew exactly where you were, exactly how close.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured against you, his lips brushing your soaked skin before sucking your clit back into his mouth. “Come for me.”

That command — the sheer gravel of his voice — tipped you over.

It hit you hard, your body arching off the bed, a sharp cry leaving your lips as the orgasm rolled through you. Your thighs clenched around his head, your fingers pulling hard at his hair as you rode the waves, every nerve ending singing with him between your legs.

But Bucky didn’t stop. He kept working you through it, licking and sucking until you were trembling, breathless, your hips twitching at the overstimulation. Only when you whimpered his name in that needy, almost pleading tone did he finally lift his head.

His mouth was glistening, his lips red and swollen, his eyes so dark they were nearly black.

“Not done with you yet,” he rasped, crawling up your body without breaking eye contact.

You barely had time to breathe before his mouth was on yours — hot, messy, and deep — and you tasted yourself on his tongue. His hands were already pushing your knees wider, lining himself up without ceremony, his cock heavy and hard against your entrance.

“Gonna fuck you with your taste still on my mouth,” he growled into the kiss, and then he was sliding into you, deep and slow at first, groaning low as your walls clenched around him.

The stretch had you gasping, still sensitive from his mouth, your nails raking down his back as he pressed all the way in, his hips flush to yours.

“Fuck… you feel perfect,” he panted, his forehead dropping to yours for a moment — before pulling back and thrusting into you again, harder this time, setting a pace that told you he was about to fuck you until neither of you could breathe.

The first few thrusts were deep and heavy, knocking the air from your lungs, the kind that made your body jolt and your nails sink deeper into his skin. Bucky’s breath was already ragged, his mouth hovering over yours, stealing your gasps with every push.

Then something in him snapped.

His pace shifted — no more measured control, just raw, driving force. He fucked into you like his body was working on instinct alone, hips slamming into yours hard enough to make the bed creak beneath you. The sounds between you were filthy — wet, sharp, every thrust punctuated by the slap of skin and the low, guttural groans tearing from his chest.

“James—” you moaned, your voice cracking as his cock hit that perfect spot over and over, each thrust deeper than the last.

“Can’t… fuckin’ stop,” he ground out, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you’d be marked in the morning. His metal hand slid up to hold your thigh high, opening you up even wider so he could drive into you with everything he had.

Your back arched, breasts brushing against his chest, and he ducked his head to mouth at your throat — biting, sucking, marking you like he needed the world to see who you belonged to. Every movement screamed possession, his body claiming yours in the most primal way.

The way he was fucking you — it was the definition of breeding, even if he didn’t know it. Every thrust was deep, purposeful, like he was trying to get as far inside you as possible, to make sure you’d feel him long after he was gone.

And you let him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him in, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a single inch of space left between you. “Don’t stop,” you gasped in his ear, your voice low and urgent. “I want it all, James. Every drop.”

That broke what little restraint he had left.

He growled — an actual, raw sound from deep in his chest — and slammed into you faster, harder, the bed frame thudding against the wall in rhythm with his thrusts. His head was buried in your neck, his breath hot and frantic, his hips driving like he was chasing something buried deep inside you.

You could feel him getting closer — the tension in his thighs, the way his thrusts grew rougher, more erratic. His teeth scraped your skin as he gasped, “Fuck—gonna—”

“Yes,” you cut in, your nails dragging down his back. “Inside me. I want it inside me.”

That was it.

With a guttural curse, his hips slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you. The heat flooded you in thick pulses, and he stayed there, grinding into you through it, his breath breaking, every muscle locked as if his body refused to pull away.

You tightened your legs around him, keeping him there, your hand stroking through his hair while you whispered soft, breathless praise into his ear — feeding the moment, cementing it.

By the time his weight finally slumped over you, his cock still buried deep, you could feel his heartbeat pounding against your chest.

And you knew. If this worked—if tonight went exactly as you’d planned—he'd be yours forever.

────────────────────────

One Month Later

It had been exactly a month since that night. The night you’d set everything into motion.

Now you sat on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows on your knees, staring down at the small plastic stick in your hands. Two pink lines. Clear as day.

The satisfaction that curled low in your stomach was warm, steady — not giddy, not frantic. This was what you’d planned for. What you’d worked toward. You let yourself sit in it for a moment longer, letting that small, satisfied smile pull at your lips.

Now came the real work — finding the perfect way to tell him.

And James? He was right where you’d left him. Sitting on the couch, watching some old movie, waiting for you without any idea how much his life was about to change.

You rose slowly, placing the test gently on the edge of the sink for a moment as you composed yourself. The smile softened, the corners of your mouth pulling down just slightly. You practiced the look in the mirror — worried, almost sad, like you weren’t sure what to think.

Perfect.

When you finally opened the bathroom door, you moved slowly, your bare feet making soft sounds on the floor. Bucky glanced over from the couch immediately — and the moment his eyes caught your face, you saw it. His posture changed, that quiet alertness switching on like a flicker of electricity.

“What’s wrong, baby?” His voice was low, careful, already tinged with concern.

You stopped just a few feet from the couch, chewing your lip like you didn’t quite know how to start. Then, without a word, you held the test out toward him.

He frowned slightly, reaching for it — and then froze when he saw.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. His eyes stayed on the little stick in his hand, his brows furrowing like the two pink lines were in a language he couldn’t quite read.

Then it hit him.

His gaze flicked up to you — wide, uncertain — then back to the test again. His fingers tightened slightly around it, his jaw working like he was trying to form words and finding none.

“I… I thought…” he finally managed, his voice rough, unsteady. “I thought we were keeping it safe.”

You blinked at him, letting your eyes go wide, your bottom lip trembling just enough. “We were,” you said quietly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself. “I mean… I thought we were.”

His hand went through his hair, dragging hard, the motion jerky and restless. “I—” He stopped, his breath catching. “I just… I don’t understand. This wasn’t—”

He cut himself off again, and you let the silence stretch, watching him wrestle with the storm behind his eyes. His chest rose and fell faster, his grip on the test loosening until it rested in his palm like it was fragile.

You stepped closer, your arms wrapping lightly around yourself, shoulders curling inward as though you were smaller somehow. “James…” Your voice was so soft it was almost a whisper. “What are we gonna do?”

His head lifted at that, his eyes searching your face — and finding what you wanted him to see. The uncertainty. The fear. The quiet plea for him to take control, to protect you.

“I—” He swallowed hard, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t know yet. I just… I need to think. But we’ll figure it out. We’ll… we’ll figure it out.”

He reached for you then, pulling you down onto the couch beside him, his arm curling protectively around you even as his mind clearly spun. You let yourself lean into him, your cheek against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.

Inside, you were calm. Because he’d just said we’ll figure it out. That was all you needed to hear.

────────────────────────

Two Months Later

The morning light spilled across your bedroom, soft and golden, catching on the band of platinum wrapped snug around your left hand.

You turned it slowly, admiring the way it glittered in the mirror. Simple. Heavy. Perfect.

Your eyes shifted lower, to the faint swell beneath your tank — the tiniest curve of your belly, only just beginning to show. Three months.

You ran your palm over it absently, your reflection looking back at you with a knowing smile.

It had been a month since James proposed. You could still see the scene perfectly when you closed your eyes.

He’d cooked for you that night — your favorite meal. You remembered the smell of garlic and herbs filling the air, the low hum of old music coming from the speaker, the way he kept glancing over at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

At the time, you’d thought he was just a little more fidgety than usual. Later, you’d realize he’d been working up the nerve.

After dinner, he’d reached into his pocket—slow, careful—and set a small box on the table between you.

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he’d said, voice just shy of steady, blue eyes fixed on yours.

You’d blinked, keeping your tone careful, hesitant. “James… are you sure this isn’t just because of…?” You’d glanced down toward your stomach without finishing the sentence.

His face had shifted instantly, that stubborn line setting into his jaw. “No,” he’d said firmly. “This isn’t about obligation. I love you. I don’t want to be with anyone else. And I’m in this for the long game, sweetheart. Always have been.”

You’d let the silence linger just long enough for him to reach across the table, his hand covering yours, his thumb brushing your ring finger like it already belonged there.

“Say yes,” he’d murmured. “Please.”

And, of course, you had.

Now, standing in front of the mirror, the ring catching the light and the small curve of your belly just beneath it, you couldn’t help the small, satisfied smile that spread across your face.

Everything was falling right into place.

────────────────────────

Eleven Months Later July 2026

The door shut behind him with a dull click, the sound of the lock sliding into place almost drowned out by the faint hum of music drifting from the kitchen. Something warm and rich was in the air — garlic, maybe rosemary — and for the first time all day, Bucky felt his shoulders start to loosen.

He let out a slow breath, setting his briefcase down and dropping his keys onto the entryway table. They landed with a soft clink against the wood, right beside the silver picture frame that had been there since the move.

His gaze found it immediately, like it always did.

You, in your wedding dress, smiling down at the tiny bundle in your arms — your daughter, barely two months old, swaddled in ivory silk to match you. She was sleeping in the picture, her face soft and serene, her little fists tucked against her chest.

And there he was beside you, in the fancy tux he’d married you in, looking straight ahead at the camera. But even in the photo, it was obvious — his eyes weren’t on the lens.

They were on you. Like they always were.

The tiredness in his bones eased just a little as he stood there, taking it in for a few seconds longer before he made himself move, the smell of dinner pulling him down the hall toward the kitchen.

From the doorway, he could see you — hair pulled back, one of his old t-shirts hanging loose over your frame, swaying your hips gently to the rhythm of whatever old song was playing as you stirred something on the stove.

You didn’t even hear him come in—not until his arms slid around your waist from behind, the heat of his body pressing into your back. You startled just slightly, then relaxed immediately into the familiar weight of him.

“Something smells good,” Bucky murmured against your neck, his voice low and rough from the day.

A smile tugged at your lips as you tilted your head, giving him room when his mouth brushed your skin in a slow, lingering kiss. You turned in his arms, hands resting on his chest as you leaned up to give him a proper kiss — warm, unhurried, the kind that felt like a homecoming all on its own.

“I’m making beef stew and roasted vegetables,” you said when you pulled back, watching the faint flicker of relief cross his features. “Your favorite. Should be ready in a few minutes.”

His shoulders seemed to ease instantly, the tension melting from him as his thumb traced the edge of your hip.

“So you can go get undressed,” you added with a little smile, “and greet a special someone.”

That got the faintest, tired laugh out of him. “Yeah?”

You nodded toward the living room, where the faint sound of a baby’s cooing could just be heard over the music. “She’s been waiting for you.”

His face softened instantly, his lips curving into the kind of smile that was only for her—and for you. Without another word, he kissed your forehead and slipped out of the kitchen, already tugging at his tie as he headed toward the sound.

Bucky rounded the corner into the living room, the exhaustion of his day already fading as his eyes landed on the little playmat spread out across the floor.

There she was.

Shelly — four months old, dressed in a soft pink onesie, kicking her legs and swatting at the dangling toys above her with all the chaotic energy of someone discovering the world one grab at a time.

“Hey… Seashell,” he said softly, and the moment she heard his voice, her head turned toward him like it was instinct. Her little face lit up, her mouth curling into that wide, gummy smile that made his chest ache in the best way.

“Oh, there’s my princess. My pretty girl,” he murmured as he crouched down beside her, his voice low and warm just for her.

Her legs kicked faster, arms flailing as if she could launch herself into him by sheer willpower.

“You waitin’ for me, huh?” he asked, leaning in to press a kiss to one chubby cheek, then the other, then back again, his scruff making her squeal and squirm in delight.

She answered him with a long string of babbles — high and excited, her tiny hands reaching for his face like she had something very important to tell him.

“Oh yeah? You talkin’ to me, Shell?” he grinned, catching one of her hands gently in his and pretending to listen with the gravity of a serious conversation. “Uh-huh. No kidding. That so?”

Her blue eyes — his blue eyes — locked on him, bright and full of life, while every other feature was you. And he loved that. Loved that she was the perfect blend of both of you, but in all the ways that mattered, she was entirely her own little person.

“You’ve been keepin’ your ma company while I’ve been gone?” he asked, pressing another kiss to her cheek just because he couldn’t help himself. “Good girl.”

She rewarded him with another loud squeal, her tiny fingers curling around his thumb like she never wanted to let go.

From the kitchen doorway, you watched them for a moment — Bucky still crouched on the playmat, talking to Shelly like she was giving him a detailed report, his big hands so gentle as he scooped her up and pressed her close.

By the time you set the table, she was tucked in her highchair, the soft click of the tray locking into place as Bucky adjusted it. She babbled happily, smacking her palms against the surface while he set a small bowl of mashed sweet potato in front of her.

“Alright, Seashell,” he murmured, scooping up a little on the tiny spoon. “Open wide.”

She did, but halfway through the bite, her blue eyes flicked toward you. When she saw you setting down the stew, her legs started kicking again, and she let out a happy squeal.

Bucky grinned, glancing over his shoulder at you. “See? She’s a mama’s girl,” he teased.

“Only because I feed her the good stuff,” you shot back, sliding into your seat.

Dinner was easy. Domestic. Bucky took a bite of his stew, then scooped up another spoonful for Shelly, making exaggerated faces until she giggled and leaned forward to take it. He kept his left hand on the table, fingers brushing yours every so often as if he couldn’t stop reaching for you.

You caught him stealing glances between bites — that same soft, almost disbelieving look like he still couldn’t believe this was his life. His wife. His daughter. The warmth of this apartment.

Shelly babbled between spoonfuls, her little voice filling the air with nonsense words that Bucky responded to like she was telling the best story he’d ever heard.

“Oh yeah? You don’t say,” he told her seriously before looking at you. “She’s tellin’ me all about her day.”

“Sounds like she’s got a lot to say,” you said, smiling.

“She gets it from you,” he teased, but the way his eyes lingered on you for a second longer told you exactly where his heart was.

It was easy. Simple. Exactly the picture you’d worked for — and now, it was your reality.

You watched him from across the table, the way his big hands looked almost comically careful as he held that tiny spoon, coaxing Shelly into another bite. He talked to her the whole time, his voice low and soft, filled with a patience that seemed endless when it came to her.

“Good girl,” he murmured when she swallowed, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek before scooping up the next spoonful. She giggled, kicking her little feet, babbling something that made him grin like she just told the best joke in the world.

And your heart… God, your heart felt so full you almost didn't know what to do with it.

Every step. Every careful choice. Every word, every moment, every move you made — it was all for this.

James Buchanan Barnes, sitting at your table in your home, feeding your daughter with that kind of quiet devotion that didn't need to be spoken to be felt. Completely, entirely yours.

And Shelly… your perfect little girl, with his eyes and your smile, the living proof of everything you worked for.

You didn't feel smug. You didn't feel victorious. Not right now. What you felt is love. Pure, unfiltered, bone-deep love for the man across from you and the baby between you.

And as you watched them together, Shelly reaching for him with those tiny hands while he laughed and kissed her again, you felt it — a burst of true happiness so strong it stole your breath for a second.

Your husband. Your daughter. Your family.

Exactly as you planned. Exactly where they belong.

Forever yours.

a/n — I had to cut a bunch of gaslighting scenes, as well as reader's backstory scene. and a fluff scene where bucky talks about the wedding and baby ☹️. and I still had a whole thunderbolts arc, and more manipulation where she includes Shelly in it, sigh.

General Bucky Barnes Masterlist:

@xamapolax @gilwm @shereadzzz @princeescalus @Onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @Ashpeace888 @Bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @herejustforbuckybarnes @deedzreads @novaslov @LuminousVenomVagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @Excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @Millercontracting @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @Lilac13 @Fayeatheart @c3liaaaaa @Ozwriterchick @miaspaperplanes @EspressoPatronum454 @melsunshine @slutforsr @thousandsplendidsunss @c-grace56 @barnesonly @theoraekenslover

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fluff #james buchanan barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes smut

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 day ago

Text

A Touch of Sweetness 11

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Loki Laufeyson

Sister series to mob!Thor

Summary: you make a new friend, but that’s not all. (short reader)

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“Are you unwell?” Loki’s voice cuts through your trance.

You’re staring. At him. Well, you hadn’t really been seeing him. Your mind is haunted with all the worst scenes. What did he do to Jada?

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

“You look peaky.” He insists and touches your forehead. You hold back a wince. Your brows arch.

“I said... I’m fine,” you eke out.

He grins and shifts his hand. He curls his fingers and brushes them down your cheek. You’re caught in his green irises. You gulp.

“You do understand that is all I want. To keep you well.” He extends his thumb to trace your lower lip. “Safe.”

You blink. What can you say to that?

“You must be close if I’m to do so,” his gaze follows his thumb as he plays with your lip.

You take a breath and cautiously lean away. “You can’t ever do it again.”

He squints and meets your eyes. His dark brows draw low. “Do what?”

“Hurt Jada. Or anyone.”

He chuckles and cups your chin. He leans in slowly. “Darling, hurting people is what I do. What I must do to keep a darling such as yourself comfortable. Though, I suppose, I can make a promise. I will not hurt Jada...” he slithers. “So long as she does not hurt you.”

You frown.

“I am a wealthy man,” he runs his finger down your neck. “I’m respected. Why do you pout?”

“I... I...” You shrug. “I’m scared of you, Loki.”

“Yes. Many people are, but you needn’t be.” He touches the top of your blouse and his lips curve. “You said you liked me. Before.”

“I do but... we are friends.” You say.

He stills as his eyes fixate on the top of your shirt. He toys with the fabric. He looks you in the face.

“That was never my intention. I don’t have friends,” he intones.

You stare at him. “Oh.”

“You are pleasant to be around. So, I intend to have you close.” He continues. “And you will not get nothing out of the association. Ask it and you will have it.”

“And if I asked you to let me go home? To leave me alone?” You breathe.

He scoffs. “You are clever when you try.” He sits back in his chair and sighs. He retracts his hand reluctantly. “That, I cannot do. That house is no longer your home. It never was. It is your parents’ and you are an adult.” He angles his head until his neck cracks. “You will have cinnamon bun lattes and fresh berries every day. Is that so bad?”

“No, I guess not, but...”

“And you may see Queenie. You do get on, don’t you?”

“Yes, but--”

“Only one condition, darling.” He looks at you and his eyes flash. “That you are mine. That you do as I bid.”

You stare at him. Your insides stir. You wring your hands and look down at them.

“I know I don’t have a choice,” you murmur. “I’m a nice person, not stupid.”

“Aah, darling,” he reaches to you again and pets your cheek. “I never would say you are. Nor would I have interest if you were.”

🐍

You feel like you’re sinking even though you’re sitting still. The motion of the tires rolls through you and the scenery blurs by you. There’s a buzz in your ears that won’t go away. Jada always said you were too nice for your own good. You thought she was just being mean but maybe she was trying to help.

It isn’t until the car stops that the world comes into focus. Your eyes flick up at the sharp peak of the black roof. The structure looks old, Victorian or something. You could never say the difference.

The windows are tall and narrow and arched, with separate panes set into the iron frames. Curtains loom behind the glass like ghosts watching from within. The grey brick swallows up the shadows cast by nearby trees. It’s beautiful despite the context.

Loki’s touch startles you as he runs his fingertips down your arm. You look at him and nod. You can’t find a single word and you don’t think you could even choke out your voice.

He gets out as you undo your seat belt. He comes around and opens your door. He offers his hand. It’s strange how his propriety directly conflicts with that other part of him. That dangerous part.

Your heart aches as you think of Queenie. How you were so blind to her pain. Now you know that Thor is the same as Loki. They say nice things but do the worst.

He slips his hand down to yours and snares you with his long fingers. He’s so much taller than you. You didn’t think about it before but he seems so much bigger. He takes you toward the house.

“Well,” he stops you at the front steps as you admire the ivy curtain across the brick. “What do you think?”

“Pretty,” you utter.

“As I said, I prefer modesty,” he preens and brings you up the stone steps.

He unlocks the front door; a wide arched door with the keyhole right in the middle. He pushes it inward and guides you inside. He squeezes your hand as he shuts it behind you. He twists a switch on the wall and a chandelier-style light blooms above.

The entry way is as immaculate as the exterior. Dark wood panels under and expanse of vintage wallpaper. Everything matches, even the wood of the curling banister. The doormat is tassled around the edges and the oval mirror that reflects you from the wall is trimmed in gold.

“You might brighten the space up. You’ve an eye for colour,” Loki praises as he gently lets you go, dragging his touch up your arm. “Whatever you like.”

What you would like is to go home. To your real home. You can’t help but chide yourself over and over. Why did you ever have to talk to Thor? Why did you try to be kind to people who refused to do the same?

You pass him and sit on the upholstered seat of the bench against the other wall. You hang your head. You can’t do this. You’re weak. That much is clear.

Loki approaches. You don’t look up. You just want to be left alone.

He kneels down and slips your shoes off. You flinch. He sets them aside.

He stays as he is. You stare at your lap. He grabs your hands and his thumbs stroke your skin. He brings them up and kisses your knuckles.

“As I said, I will not be cruel to you,” he avows.

You sniffle. You think of Jada and the way she looked at you. You can’t go home anyway. Not knowing that it was your fault. That it could happen again. Your sister has never been kind but she was never his to hurt.

“I’m tired,” you say at last.

“Yes, you would be,” he cooes. “Well, I shall lay you down with a cup of tea. Does that sound nice?”

You nod and let him draw you to your feet. He turns you toward the staircase and snakes his arm around your shoulders. He has you in his coil now.

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #series #a touch of sweetness #drabble #au #mob au #mcu #marvel #thor #avengers

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lucidlonging · 13 hours ago

Text

therapy for the endless ¹ ✩｡⋆⸜ dream of the endless

summary: you’re a therapist who’s used to listening to everyone else’s problems, not untangling the mysteries of your own subconscious. but one night your dream changes, what begins as a slow dance with your office crush abruptly transforms into a therapy session with a man who feels far too real to be your imagination. he’s dramatic, distant, and a little too convinced he doesn’t need your help, but he keeps talking. and you keep listening, even as the lines between dream and reality start to blur.

word count: 5.1k || PART TWO ( tba )

˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞

Desire leans back on their throne like a cat in a sunbeam, nails tracing the curve of their own throat with languid amusement. “You are so predictable, brother,” they purr. “Always sulking, always brooding, always convinced no one understands you. Perhaps what you need…” they pause, smiling wickedly, “…is a therapist.”

Dream’s jaw clenches and he does not grace them with a reply at first. He is still, a tower of shadow and pale flesh, but Desire has known him too long not to notice the flicker in his dark eyes.

“You mock,” he says finally, voice low and rolling like distant thunder, “as though my realm is not built upon understanding the minds of mortals.”

“Oh, darling, I mock because you are utterly terrible at it when it comes to your own,” Desire says, sitting forward, voice syrup-sweet. “All that power, and yet you cannot fix your own problems. You sulk instead. You avoid. You…” their tongue darts against their teeth, “…fail. Maybe a mortal could do better.”

Dream narrows his eyes. He knows they want a reaction, but even knowing this, he feels it bite deeper than it should. He turns sharply and leaves, the gallery whispering shut behind him, Desire’s laughter echoing in his ears long after the doors seal.

Later, back in the quiet of the Dreaming, he finds himself unable to focus. He stares at the strands of dreamstuff that coil and twist in his hands and imagines what Desire meant. The idea is insulting, absurd, yet… a ‘therapist’. The word hangs in his mind like a thorn.

It is not as though he does not know of you. He has brushed against your dreams many times before. You are a mortal therapist, dedicated to your work, compassionate even when weary. He has watched the shape of your dreamscape bloom into ballrooms, bookstores, winding city streets, whatever space your subconscious desires.

And you… listen. That is what draws him. Even when alone in your dreams, your patience is evident in the way you move, the way you tend to each character your mind invents. That night, he decides to test Desire’s taunt.

You dream of a dance. It begins softly, music curling through the air like candlelight, warm and muted. The ballroom glitters, all marble and chandeliers, and your work crush, why is it always him, is there, tall and smiling, spinning you gently in circles. Your head is tipped back, the motion dizzying, the faint smell of his cologne filling the air. “Not bad,” you murmur as he twirls you again.

Then, suddenly, the music skips. A hush spreads through the room like ink in water. The lights dim, the chandeliers gutter out, and the dancers around you vanish one by one until only you remain in the vast, echoing space. The ballroom shudders and reshapes, the walls folding inward, the marble floor rippling into soft carpet beneath your feet.

You blink rapidly as the world steadies. You are seated now and there is a desk between you and the man who has appeared across from you, tall and impossibly pale, dressed in black so stark it seems to drink the light. His hair falls in disordered waves, shadows clinging to his shoulders like reluctant companions.

He is… breathtaking. That’s your first coherent thought, quickly followed by the realization that this isn’t where your dream was headed at all. “Where… am I?” you ask, glancing around.

The space is familiar now. Your office, down to the mug of lukewarm tea on the desk and the faintly peeling paint by the window. “Your dream has… shifted,” the man says, voice deep and soft, every word deliberate. He does not smile.

You squint at him. “Okay. And who exactly are you? I don’t usually cast such… attractive leading men in my therapy room.” His lips twitch. “I am here,” he says, “because I was told I require… assistance. From one such as yourself.”

You laugh once, incredulous. “Wait. You’re here for… therapy? In my dream?”

“Yes,” he says simply. He folds his hands in his lap, watching you with an intensity that borders on unnerving. “You will listen. That is what you do.” This is not how your dreams usually go. Still, you take a breath, channel the automatic professional instinct that has carried you through countless sessions in the waking world.

“Alright,” you say, settling back in your chair. “Then I guess we should start at the beginning. Tell me why you’re here.” He does not look away. “Because my siblings believe I am… incapable of solving my own troubles.”

“Uh-huh.” You raise a brow, penning the air like you’re holding a clipboard. “And are you?” His jaw tightens. “I am not.”

“Sure,” you murmur, half amused, half fascinated. Whoever this man is, he carries himself like he’s carved from pride and brittle edges. You can feel it. And for some reason, you don’t think he’s entirely aware of how much he’s revealing already. “Alright,” you say softly, leaning forward. “Then let’s talk about those troubles of yours.”

The man across from you leans back in his chair as if he owns not only the office but the entire dream you’re in. Which, okay, technically he might. He laces long, pale fingers together and rests them against his chin, his posture so regal you half-expect a crown to materialize.

“I suppose,” he says at last, voice low and reverberating, “we should speak of my family. That is where all… difficulties begin.” You blink. “Your family?”

“Yes,” he intones. He doesn’t blink. You swear you can hear the capital letter on the word. “They are… persistent, interfering. They’re unable to comprehend that I act not out of cruelty, but necessity.” You tilt your head. “Right. And they told you to see a therapist?”

A shadow flickers across his face. “My sibling, Desire,” he says, the name dripping like venom, “suggested I might require one. They were… mocking.” Your lips twitch despite yourself. “So you decided to prove them wrong by… coming to therapy. In my dream.”

His eyes narrow slightly, as if you’ve just challenged the integrity of the universe. “I am here,” he says, “because they believe I cannot change. That I am incapable of self-reflection. They are mistaken.”

“Sure,” you murmur, folding your arms. “You seem like the very definition of open-minded.” Something in his jaw tightens, and for one thrilling second you think he might stand up and storm out of your own dream. Instead, he straightens further, spine a line of unbending steel.

“I have ruled my realm for eons,” he says, dramatic enough to make your eyebrows shoot up. “I understand more of the mortal psyche than any… therapist could hope to. But you will listen. That is… what you do.”

The way he says it, like he’s handing you a royal decree, makes you bite back a laugh. You shouldn’t mock a patient, even an imaginary one. But it’s a dream, right? And he’s so… “Okay, your majesty,” you say before you can stop yourself.

His head snaps toward you, eyes blazing. “I am not your king,” he says, every word like a warning. You lift your hands in surrender. “Figure of speech! You’re just… a little intense, is all. Most people don’t loom when they talk about their siblings.”

“I do not loom,” he says immediately, which is absolutely something only a person who looms would say. “Right,” you say, barely holding back a grin. “So. Family drama. Sounds complicated. Tell me what’s going on.”

For a moment he just stares at you, silent, unreadable. Then, with a soft rustle like the shift of a thousand pages, he leans forward.

“They do not understand the burden I carry,” he says, voice softer now, though no less dramatic. “They call me cold and arrogant. But they do not see what I see. The weight of my responsibility. The consequences of even the smallest error. I have made mistakes, yes, but… always with reason. Always with purpose.”

You nod slowly, therapist mode fully kicking in despite your confusion. “And do you think they’re wrong? That there’s no truth to what they’re saying?” He hesitates. It’s tiny, but it’s there.

“I…” He clears his throat, gaze sliding away for the first time. “I do what must be done. I am… necessary. My role is necessary. They cannot understand that because they are… frivolous. Impulsive. They do not see the bigger picture.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot on your shoulders,” you say gently. “And maybe you feel like no one’s really listening to you about it.” His eyes snap back to yours. There’s something raw in them now, a flicker beneath all that pride and drama.

“Yes,” he says, almost too quietly. You soften. “That’s why we’re here. So I can listen. And maybe help you figure out why you’re feeling this way.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s fighting the idea of actually needing help. “You presume much,” he says finally, voice back to its measured grandeur. “And you deflect much,” you shoot back.

He blinks at you, no one ever talks to him like that, you can tell. “I like this,” you continue, leaning forward with a little smile. “You’re all drama and doom, but you’ve got feelings under there. We can work with that.”

“I do not… possess feelings,” he says stiffly. “Uh-huh.” You can’t stop the smirk now. “Tell me more about how you don’t have feelings.” He sits there, silent and visibly offended, and for one insane second you think he might actually dissolve into mist out of pure indignation.

He’s still glaring at you, but it feels different now. Less like he wants to obliterate you from existence and more like he’s… unsettled. Which is funny, considering this is your dream.

“You do realize,” he says finally, voice low, “that I do not require this. That this,” he gestures broadly, the air itself seeming to ripple at the motion “…is nothing but an exercise in futility.”

You rest your chin in your hand, pretending to consider. “Mm, that’s usually what people say when they’re secretly afraid therapy might actually help.” His eyes narrow. “I am afraid of nothing.”

“Right,” you say dryly. “You’re completely fearless, totally flawless, and definitely don’t have feelings. Did I miss anything?” For a second, you swear the corner of his mouth twitches. Not in a smile, exactly, but something close.

“Mock me if you wish,” he says, leaning forward, voice dipping lower. “But you cannot begin to comprehend the scope of my existence. You would crumble beneath it.”

You blink at him, trying not to be distracted by how close he’s gotten. His presence seems to fill the room, a weightless pressure that makes the air taste different.

“Wow,” you say after a beat, forcing a lightness you don’t quite feel. “Do you rehearse lines like that, or are you just naturally this dramatic?” This time, you catch it. The tiniest flicker of a smirk before his expression shutters again.

“Tell me,” you continue, leaning back in your chair, “do you ever just… relax? Or is everything always about responsibility and cosmic burdens?” His gaze sharpens. “I have no time for… leisure.”

“Sounds exhausting,” you say softly, without teasing this time. He blinks, the tiniest hitch in his breath. The office feels smaller suddenly, the air warmer, and you realize the lighting has changed, dimmed slightly, the glow soft and amber like sunset.

You glance around. “Did you… change something?” He looks faintly startled, like you’ve caught him doing something unintentional. “No,” he says quickly, too quickly.

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, hiding a smile. There’s a silence then, not awkward but weighted, and you’re suddenly aware of the way he’s studying you. His gaze isn’t harsh or condescending now. It’s… curious. Like he’s cataloging the shape of your mouth, the tilt of your head, the way you chew absently on your pen as you think.

You clear your throat, trying to shake off the weird flutter in your chest. “So,” you say, leaning forward again. “You’ve told me your siblings don’t understand you. What would you want them to understand, if they could?”

He exhales slowly, and the sound feels like the wind moving through empty halls. “That I am not… cruel. That I have not chosen this role out of some hunger for power. That I… care. Even when I must be distant.”

You nod, softer this time. “That makes sense. But do you ever tell them that? Or do you just… assume they’ll figure it out while you stand in the corner looking all mysterious and moody?” The look he gives you is almost affronted. “I do not… stand in corners.”

You laugh, and it’s warm enough that for the briefest moment his shoulders loosen. “You’re doing it now,” you tease, and gesture vaguely to his posture, all shadowy elegance and intensity.

“I am seated,” he says flatly, which just makes you laugh harder.

But under the humor, there’s that same stillness in his gaze. He doesn’t look away when you meet his eyes, and you’re struck by how much it feels like he’s… listening. Like no one else in the world exists for him but you. It’s a dream, you remind yourself firmly. Just a dream.

“Alright,” you say, breaking the silence because you suddenly need to. “Let’s try something different. What’s one thing you wish you could change about yourself?” He freezes, every muscle going taut. You’ve hit something tender, you can feel it.

“I…” He stops, clears his throat, and the air shifts again, cooler now, like a breeze from nowhere. You wait, patient, the way you always are with clients who need space.

At last, he says quietly, “I would wish… to be less alone.” Your chest squeezes, unexpected sympathy rushing in. You open your mouth to say something: something kind, maybe, something real but before you can, the office flickers. The walls ripple like water and then solidify again, and you realize he’s the one doing it, whether he knows it or not.

“Okay,” you say gently. “That’s a good place to start. We can work on that.” His head tilts, black hair falling forward like ink, and there’s something in his expression now you can’t name.

“You would… help me?” he asks, as if the idea is incomprehensible. You shrug lightly. “It’s literally my job.” He stares at you for a long moment. Then, almost too soft to hear, “You are… different.”

The words linger, warm and strange, and you feel the dream shift again: smaller this time, the distance between you shrinking, as if the world itself wants to draw you closer together.

You let his words hang between you for a beat, feeling their weight settle like dust motes in the warm glow of the room. “Different, huh?” you say finally, tilting your head. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was not intended as one,” he says, too quickly. You smirk. “Oh, I think it was.” He bristles, and you catch the faintest spark in his eyes. “You presume far too much.”

“Probably,” you admit with a shrug. “But you’re sitting here in my office in my dream, which kind of makes me the boss. So I get to presume all I want.”

The corner of his mouth twitches again, that almost-smile you’ve seen flash and vanish. “You are… insufferable.”

“Thanks,” you say sweetly. This time the smirk doesn’t vanish quite as fast. He leans back, still regal, still brooding, but there’s a subtle shift in the way he looks at you now. Less disdain, more… intrigue.

“Tell me,” he says suddenly, voice smooth as velvet. “Do you mock all who seek your counsel, or am I the exception?” You arch a brow. “Only the ones who act like they’re auditioning for the role of ‘tortured immortal prince’ in a gothic drama.”

The dream flickers at your words, the walls momentarily stretching taller, the windows narrowing into pointed arches. You blink and the office is normal again, but your pulse is thrumming.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studies you with that same too-intense focus, like he’s dissecting every expression on your face. “Why do you… persist?” he asks finally. “Most mortals would have woken by now. Or fled.”

You shrug, though the truth is your heart’s beating too fast. “Because I care about my patients. Even the dramatic ones.”

“Dramatic,” he repeats flatly. “Extremely,” you say, trying not to smile. He leans forward slowly, forearms resting on his knees. The room seems to tilt with the motion, the air growing warmer, heavier. “You… do not fear me.”

The way he says it makes something flutter low in your stomach. You force a light tone. “Should I?” His gaze drops briefly to your lips before rising to meet your eyes again. “Most do.”

“Well,” you say, voice softer now, “maybe that’s your problem. You’re used to people being afraid of you, so you don’t know how to connect with them.” He goes very still, like you’ve brushed against a wound he doesn’t want you to see.

“That is… untrue,” he says eventually, though it lacks conviction. “Sure,” you murmur. “And I definitely believe you.”

His mouth opens like he wants to argue, but then the room flickers again, the walls drawing closer by inches. You glance around and realize your chairs aren’t as far apart as they were.

“Did you just move us closer?” you ask and his brow furrows faintly. “No.” You point at the space between your knees and his. “Because we’re definitely closer.”

He looks down and, for the briefest second, you think he might actually blush. “It is… the nature of dreams,” he says stiffly. “Uh-huh,” you say, biting back a grin.

He ignores you, straightening with all the dignity of a man determined to pretend he hasn’t been caught. “You believe I cannot connect with others,” he says, his tone deliberately measured now. “And yet here you are, still speaking to me.”

You blink at the shift, the sudden edge to his voice. “You think you’re proving a point right now, don’t you?”

“Am I not?” You laugh, leaning back and folding your arms. “You’re unbelievable. You can’t just… force people to care by glaring at them until they do.”

“I do not glare,” he says as you snort. “You absolutely do. You’re doing it right now.” He exhales, long and slow, like he’s reining himself in. “You are… infuriating,” he says, but it sounds less like an insult and more like an observation he finds oddly fascinating.

“Funny,” you say softly. “I was about to say the same about you.” His gaze lingers on yours then, something softer creeping in, and you feel the shift again, the office walls fading slightly at the edges, the air charged like a storm is about to break.

“Tell me,” he says, voice quieter now, “do you always speak so… freely?” You blink at the unexpected question. “You mean… honestly?”

“Yes,” he says simply. You hesitate, then nod. “I try. I figure dreams are one of the few places I can really say what I mean without worrying about hurting someone.”

Something unreadable flickers in his eyes, and the dream pulls tighter around you, like the universe itself is holding its breath. “I see,” he says finally, though it sounds like there’s more behind the words.

You watch him carefully, feeling that subtle weight in the air again, the way the dream seems to hum between the two of you. “Okay,” you say softly. “So you don’t think you can connect with people because you… can’t be honest with them. That makes sense.”

His head snaps up, sharp as a blade. “I did not say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” you say, gentle but firm. “I think you build walls because you’re scared they’ll see the parts of you you’re not proud of. It’s a defense mechanism. Pretty common, actually.” He goes still in that way that makes the hairs on your arms lift.

“I am not,” he says slowly, “afraid.” You hold his gaze. “You are. And that’s okay.”

The air tightens like a storm front closing in. “You presume much,” he says, his voice quieter now, dangerous in the way a shadow is dangerous when it grows too long. “I’m just trying to help,” you say softly.

He leans forward abruptly, and the dream responds, your chair scraping minutely closer to his. You can feel his presence like a hand on your chest.

“You think you understand me,” he says, voice low and cutting. “But you do not. You cannot. You are a mortal, fleeting and fragile, and you believe your small insights can untangle what is infinite.” Your breath catches, the words hit harder than you want to admit.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” you whisper. “Is it not?” he presses, and for a moment you catch a flicker of something raw in his eyes. “You dig and prod and demand, as though my soul is a puzzle you can solve in a single session. You think yourself brave, but you know nothing of true isolation. Of the weight that never ends.”

You flinch despite yourself. “That was uncalled for.” He freezes and it’s so quiet now, the office holding its breath. He looks at you and you can see it: the regret that flashes across his features, too fast for him to hide.

“I…” he begins, but stops, the word crumbling in his throat. You swallow, willing your voice not to shake. “You don’t have to lash out at me just because I’m asking questions you don’t like.”

“I did not…” He stops again, fists curling in his lap. “It was not my intent to…”

“Yeah, well, it hurt,” you say bluntly. His jaw tightens, like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. He just looks at you, and the silence stretches long enough for you to hear the faint hum of the dream shifting again. The space between you feels heavier now, more fragile.

“I am…” He swallows hard, the word foreign on his tongue. “Sorry.” The apology takes you by surprise. You blink at him, trying to gauge whether he means it. He does. You can see it in the way his shoulders have drawn inward, the way his eyes won’t quite meet yours.

You take a slow breath, softening. “It’s okay,” you say after a beat. “I… probably pushed too hard.”

He shakes his head sharply. “No. You were… correct.” That admission stuns you more than the apology. He lifts his gaze then, and for once, there’s no barrier in it. Just quiet, unguarded sorrow.

“I do not wish to be…” He searches for the word. “Alone. But I do not know how to be otherwise.” The dream seems to soften with the words. The light dims to a warmer hue, the walls edging closer almost imperceptibly, as if the world itself wants to comfort him.

You lean forward slightly, careful this time. “That’s something we can work on. If you let me.” He stares at you like you’ve just offered him a map out of a labyrinth he’s wandered for centuries.

The words hang there, fragile but steady, and you feel the dream settle into a quieter rhythm. The distance between you hasn’t shrunk much, but it doesn’t feel as wide anymore. You lean back slowly, studying him. “That was… progress,” you say gently. He blinks. “Progress?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “You owned up to what you were feeling instead of deflecting. That’s not easy.” His gaze drops to his hands, the faintest crease between his brows. “I am… unaccustomed to such things.”

You smile a little, unable to help it. “I can tell. But you did it anyway. That means something.”

He looks at you then, and there’s something soft and searching in his eyes, like he’s trying to figure out why you’d even bother. It makes your chest ache in a way you don’t entirely understand.

“Don’t overthink it,” you add, your tone lighter now. “You might sprain something.” The corner of his mouth twitches, a reluctant ghost of a smile, and you feel the tension in the room ease just a little.

You let the silence stretch a little, giving him space, before you lean forward again, resting your elbows on your knees. “You know,” you say casually, “for someone who swore they didn’t need therapy, you’re doing surprisingly well at it.” His head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “I am not… enjoying this.”

“You sure?” you ask, grinning. “Because I think you just almost smiled.”

“I did no such thing,” he says flatly. “Right,” you say, still grinning. “And that wasn’t an apology earlier either, I must have imagined it.” His jaw tightens. “I… do not apologize.”

“Mm-hm,” you hum, leaning back. “Of course you don’t. I guess that’s why I’m imagining the warmth in your voice when you said sorry.”

“I was not warm,” he says sharply, though you catch the faintest flush high on his cheekbones. “You totally were,” you tease.

He exhales through his nose, long and slow, as if he’s debating whether to vanish into a puff of dignified mist. Instead, he settles deeper into his chair, glaring at the floor like it personally offended him. “You are… vexing,” he mutters.

“I get that a lot,” you say lightly. Then, softer, “But I’m glad you didn’t walk out.” That gets his attention. He glances at you, and there’s something hesitant in his gaze now. “Why?”

You blink at him. “Because… I like talking to you. Even when you’re being a diva about it.” The word makes him stiffen. “I am not a… diva,” he says, clearly unfamiliar with the term.

“Oh, you definitely are,” you say, biting back a laugh. “You’ve got the whole brooding-and-doom monologue thing down pat. If you start sighing about how hopeless the world is, I might have to get you a velvet cape.”

His mouth opens, closes, and then, miraculously, he huffs out a single quiet laugh. You blink, startled by the sound. “Wait. Did you just…?”

“No,” he says immediately. “You did,” you whisper, delighted. “You laughed.”

“It was not laughter,” he insists, though his eyes have softened in a way you can’t ignore. You lean in, lowering your voice. “I think you might actually like me.”

He leans forward too, slow and deliberate, closing just enough distance to make your breath catch. “You presume too much,” he murmurs, voice dark silk, but he doesn’t move away.

You feel the dream tilt slightly, the office folding closer again, but it’s so subtle you’re not sure if it’s the room shifting or just your own heartbeat thrumming louder.

“Maybe,” you say softly, holding his gaze, “I’m not wrong this time.” For a moment, he just watches you, silent and unreadable. Then, finally, he leans back, retreating just enough to make the air between you feel too wide again.

“We should… continue,” he says, the words feeling like a shield he’s pulling up. You swallow, trying not to show how disappointed you are at the loss of his closeness. “Right. Okay. Let’s get back to it.”

But you can feel the change lingering between you: the warmth of his laugh, the way he didn’t deny it quite as quickly as before, the way the dream feels different now.

You settle back into your chair, letting the quiet hold for a few seconds. “Alright,” you say softly, “let’s keep going. But this time… I want you to tell me something real. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

His gaze snaps to yours, sharp and suspicious. “Why?”

“Because we’re making progress,” you say, calm but steady. “And because I think you want to.”

“I do not,” he says automatically. You tilt your head. “You sure about that?” He hesitates.

The office feels heavier now, quieter, the warm lamplight dimming just a little as if the dream itself is waiting.

Finally, Dream leans forward, his hands clasped so tightly in his lap his knuckles are pale. “There was a time,” he begins, voice low, “when I believed my purpose was all that mattered. That the work I did was more important than any bond I might form. I thought I could not falter, could not… care, because to do so would be a weakness.”

You stay silent, letting him find his own pace. He exhales slowly. “But I was wrong. My refusal to… soften… has cost me much. Those I loved have left. Some are lost forever because I would not bend. I have built walls so high they cage even myself.”

Your throat tightens. You want to say something, but you know instinctively that if you do, he’ll stop. “I have stood alone for so long,” he whispers, and this time there’s no grandeur in it, no theatrical weight. Just raw truth. “I do not know how to be anything else. But I do not wish to be… this. Not anymore.”

Your heart aches at the admission, at the flicker of pain in his eyes. You lean forward slowly, careful not to break the fragile space you’ve built. “That was… incredible,” you say softly. “Thank you for trusting me with it.”

He looks at you like the words don’t make sense. “You… do not recoil.”

“Why would I?” you ask, confused. “Because,” he says, voice catching slightly, “when I show myself, most do.” You shake your head. “Not me.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. The dream feels hushed and golden, like the world has narrowed to just the two of you. He’s looking at you with a tenderness you didn’t think he was capable of, and you have to fight the sudden, ridiculous urge to reach out and touch him.

Then the air shifts. His eyes darken, and you see it, realization flashing like a shadow across his features. “You are waking,” he says quietly and your breath catches. “What?”

“The dream is ending,” he says, and there’s something in his voice you’ve never heard before. “You will return to your world. You will forget me.”

The words make something in your chest twist painfully. “I… I don’t want to,” you admit, surprising yourself with how much you mean it.

His jaw tightens, and for a second you swear he’s about to reach for you but he doesn’t. He just watches you, that same soft, searching look in his eyes.

“Goodbye,” he says softly, and then the dream begins to unravel. You feel the office dissolve around you, the floor falling away, the golden light scattering into nothing. You try to hold on to the sound of his voice, the shape of his face, but it’s slipping, slipping, until there’s only waking.

And the strange, hollow ache of missing someone you’re not even sure was real.

ꨄ: @kpopgirlbtssvt

#Dream x Therapy #He needs it #self indulgent #character study #x reader #dream imagine #dream of the endless #dream x reader #dream x you #fanfic #morpheus x reader #morpheus x you #sandman imagines #sandman x reader #the sandman #dream of the endless x reader #morpheus #dream #sandman

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eremikayearner · 23 hours ago

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can u write a jealous sex fic with bachira except ur like lowkey dumb when it comes to guys flirting with u and u think they just wanna be friends?

hi ! hope i wrote this okay :3 i’m so incredibly sorry i took so long, i hope this makes up for it even a little bit :<

sweet dumb girl ♡ྀི bachira meguru

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ in which, you’re oblivious to your own beauty and the effects of it on the people around you such as your boyfriend’s teammates. your happy-go-lucky boyfriend bachira meguru, suddenly isn’t so happy anymore. in fact, he’s rather jealous.

╰┈➤ p in v (lol), light bondage, edging, breeding (lowkey), slight degradation (??), you’d think bachira’s the naïve one but this time you got him beat icl, wc : 2k

banner cred : @kimimocha on pinterest :3

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ bachira just can’t handle having a sweet ‘n pretty girlfriend who just can’t fucking comprehend the effect she has on the guys around her.

so he's got your wrists bound tight by a little silk ribbon and tied to the bed frame, your thighs, tits and throat marked with pretty hues of plum and dark mauve, and his hands wrapped around your waist hard enough to bruise.

and of course, he's pounding into your sweet pussy like he's trying to fucking split you open.

sex with bachira is always chaotic, unexpected, exhilarating and above all, special. he's always one to make you feel good, safe, beautiful and treasured, no matter how soft, rough or unpredictable he can be. but tonight ; something's different.

something's got him fucking riled up.

he's panting hard, his bangs damp with sweat and falling in his eyes, his biceps straining with how hard he's gripping you, his muscled chest and abs glistening with sweat, his canines flashing as he nips down on his lower lip to keep those pretty little noises from escaping — shit, he's never been quite like this.

“i’m still your favourite, yeah?” the words fall from his lips, harsh, almost needy. and something unfamiliar.

his thumbs rub soothing circles on your hips as he pound into you, his cock repeatedly slamming into your sweet spot and causing your whole entire body to tremble with bliss.

you tug against your binds, the silk digging into your wrists as your trembling thighs draw together around his waist. and oh, god. the moans he rips from you are so fucking filthy ; high-pitched, cute 'n sweet as saccharine.

his words are breathless, a hint of desperation and anger within them, lashes low over his hazy honey gaze. “c’mon, pretty, you know i am.”

you're too fucked-out to even properly formulate reasons for his tone, or even begin to decipher why, just that he's hitting all the right fucking spots and making you feel like you're in heaven.

but bachira's relentless.

“say it, pretty." he rasps out, nails digging into your hips, the harsh sound of his hips snapping into you echoed off the walls. his tip kisses your cervix, and you nearly pass out.

he’s in you so fucking deep, so fast, so hard, so needy, so mean ; fucking you like he’s got something to prove. something he wants to rip from you and imprint in you all at once.

your cunt clamps tightly around his cock, pleasure coursing through you — threatening to ruin you. your back arches off the bed with a sweet moan, his thick cock sliding in and out of your messy little cunt that’s just struggling to take him in. shit, he nearly fucking whimpers at the sight.

"say i’m your favourite.” he demands, his once bubbly voice now low and quiet.

the words are tumbling out of your wobbly glossed lips before you can even understand what you’re saying. “you’re my favourite, meg!”

oh, there it is. he’s gonna make you cum just like this. hardly even played with your needy pussy like he always did. you want to feel embarrassed for cumming too quick, but bachira always just makes you his sweet little dumb mess.

you cry out as your orgasm approaches you much too fast — too much for you to handle.

“yeah?” and then something changes. his voice is rough. rougher than it’s ever been with you. his pace and thrusts are punishing now, too fucking much, and nearly painful. you can’t even help the helpless moan that escapes your mouth, and somehow this only seems to darken his mood. then he says it. “even when you let my teammates eye-fuck you and flirt with you like some little slut?”

then he rips your orgasm away from you, almost cruel in the way he pulls out of you almost entirely for a moment — and oh, god. the whine of pure desperation and panic in your voice twists his heart.

“n-no!” you gasped out, tugging against your binds.

but he doesn’t slide back in. no, he waits for a moment, just to hold off your orgasm, then he slams his cock into your needy cunt once more, ripping the breath from your lungs.

"is that what this is?" his thrusts are mean, too fast for you, too hard, but fuck, your messy little cunt only got wetter — sucked him in tighter. and bachira notices this. he grins at the sight, huffing out a breathless chuckle. "you wanted to get fucked like this?"

his mind flashes to the way you’d been with his teammates. laughter and jokes quick on your tongue, smiling at their compliments and clearly obvious attempts at flirting with you — as if you couldn’t tell they were flirting at all. the way you’d been playing with the hem of your skirt — as if you couldn’t see the fucking way they’d been devouring you with their eyes like animals.

"were you trying to make me jealous?" his voice is almost incredulous, in disbelief that his girlfriend could have possibly made him jealous on purpose.

but your immediate whine of ‘no’ has his brain short circuiting. thinking. searching your desperate, needy and frightened eyes. could you really be that naïve?

"i-i didn't know!" your voice trembles, a mess of whimpered words broken by the harsh rhythm of his dick pounding into your cunt. “jus’ wanted to m-make friends!”

you whined his name, eyes falling shut as you arched up against him, tugging at your binds, pleasure and pain colliding deliciously through your body.

he looks down at you, and there’s a flicker of fascination in that gorgeous golden gaze. you’re a mewling, whiney, desperate mess under him, beautiful in all your vulnerability and desire and he thinks to himself ; how can someone so breathtaking not realize their effect on people around them?

it’s ridiculous. you’re lying.

"yeah, is that right?" his voice is rough, a drag through his throat as he holds back a groan. a rough hand slides from your waist, roams over your soft body till he reaches your tit. he brushes his thumb over a deep mauve-violet mark just above your nipple. almost hisses at the way you whine and arch into his touch, a sob on your lips. his tone is ever mocking. "sweet girl didn't know? sweet dumb girl didn't know how beautiful and fuckable she looked in that little skirt her boyfriend bought her?"

he’s never been like this before. never so angry. so condescending. so mean.

"p-promise!” you whine out, a pretty moan escaping your mouth as you felt the thick head of his cock reach even deeper into you. it was maddening. the way he talked to you, the way he fucked you, the way he held you, the way he marked you; like you were really were some sweet dumb girl that had forgotten who she belonged to. “don't be m-mad, please!"

then you feel pleasure ebb away into a dull buzz in your body when he slows his thrusts till he’s got his cock buried in your needy little cunt to the fucking hilt. his new form of torturing you.

you can’t help the whine that bubbles to your lips that sounds almost like a sob.

"m'not mad, honey." he says, his voice so soft and tender, revelling in your sweetness, neediness and naivety. you whimpered as he pressed gentle kisses to your neck, lips kissing over every harsh and dark mark he’d imprinted on your skin. you whined as his lips pressed to yours, so innocently, so innocently that it almost seems like he’s forgotten how his cock is nestled and throbbing inside you. but you take his sudden sweetness hungrily, melting into him, losing yourself in his softness, just as you feel the ribbon slipping from your wrist. bachira had untied your binds in one swift motion.

"you like this though, don't you?" warm calloused hands you know better than your own come to cradle your face. you gasp when you feel his cock begin to slide in and out of your messy pussy, in and out, little by little, more and more. with each tantalizing and purposeful thrust inside you, he presses sweet little kisses to your face, fucking you and loving you all at once.

it’s intoxicating. this push and pull. this unexpected chaos. the thrill of angering him, confusing him, and amusing him.

he rasps out the words, a knowing smile on his lips. "you like knowing i'm a fucking jealous wreck, right?"

bliss numbs your mind as it finally begins to overwhelm you rapidly. your sensitivity and need are being pushed to their limits and being drawn out to their fullest by your boy. and all you can do is lift your trembling arms and wrap them around his neck, pulling him closer to you.

"i know you love this." he’s looking down at you adoringly, and that’s when he starts to pick up his pace.

bachira’s nearly at his limit, and he wants to get you there now. he wants you to fucking cum and fall apart around his cock so hard that it’ll be the only thing you’ll be able to think about when another man ever tries to flirt with you again.

his head drops to the crook of your neck, groaning as he catches a glimpse of the way your pussy sucks him in, coating his cock in your sweet juices and milking him like you’re trying to fucking suck him dry. a broken moan leaves his mouth at the sight.

the sounds you’re making are fucking filthy. from the sloppy wet sounds of your cunt being pounded, to the pretty moans and whines of his name from your mouth.

"yeah, shit, so pretty. so fucking pretty, y/n." his voice is rough, needy and possessive. his eyes are on your pretty face, watching every fucked out and ruined expression — and it’s sick. it’s absolutely sickening how he delights in how fucking ruined you are for him. ruined because of him.

he mutters under his breath, ‘no man deserves this’, losing himself in the addictive and perfect feeling of your slippery tight walls, going faster, harder, rougher, needier.

“you’re only mine. my pretty girl.” with every thrust of his dick and with every sound from his mouth brings heaven closer to you. fuck, he’s desperate to bring it to you. “isn’t that right? c’mon, say it.”

your fingers slip into his hair, fisting in the chocolate brown locks, ecstasy blurring your vision and your thoughts. the words are tumbling from your lips dumbly. “m’yours, meg!”

“that’s right. good girl. you’re all mine. my y/n.” your fingers claw at his back, clutching him to you harder, your voice high-pitched and broken — your sweet cries and pretty face buried against his neck. he can feel your cunt squeezing around his length with every wet and filthy pound into your pussy — and shit, now he knows he’s got you. he grins now, cocky almost, panting against your skin and rutting into you like he’s trying to create a deeper space for himself inside you. a space only he can ever reach. a space only he can fucking fill. his voice is a warning and a promise all at once. "make sure you remember who you fucking belong to."

with a sob that almost sounds like a moan, pleasure turns your vision white, crashing over you and ripping through you. you tremble, whine and gasp under him, clutching him tighter as you pull him into heaven with you.

he groans loudly into your skin, spilling thick white ropes of his cum inside you. he shudders apart, your warm wet walls milking every fucking drop he’s got left in him — whimpering as he felt his balls empty into you.

it’s nothing but your gasps for air, the sweat slick and sliding against your skin, the dull throb of his cock inside you and the soft flutter of your cunt around him that slowly draw you back down to earth.

"next time you talk to them, i want 'em to see these marks, yeah? know who your favourite friend is." he presses a loving kiss to the top of your head. his voice is ragged in his throat, but back to being full of affection and whimsy. your sweet happy bee returned. “wear that skirt again, honey. you look beautiful in it.”

#ᡣ𐭩₊˚.⋆⁺₊ eremikayearner #bachira my baby #bachira meguru #meguru bachira #bachira meguru x reader #meguru bachira x reader #meguru bachira x you #bachira meguru x you #bachira x reader #bachira x you #bachira bllk #bllk bachira #bachira smut #bachira meguru smut #meguru bachira smut

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vigilantekisser · 4 hours ago

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soft serve

pairing: matt murdock x reader

summary: pure fluff. the city’s asleep, the heat’s unrelenting, and your husband’s letting you lead him to ice cream at midnight.

a/n: “we want smut” *shoves and locks everybody politely in a nice, clean, spacious locker* we will be having Summer Fluff until the damn HEATWAVE in my country stops cooking and MELTING MY BRAIN (or til i watch enough matt thirst traps) please do not walk barefoot on dirty pavement!!!!!

The fridge door slams shut, and your muffled voice calls from the kitchen:

“There’s nothing in here!”

Matt’s sprawled on the couch like he’s surrendered himself to the heat. The fan by the window hums at full throttle, whirring like it’s trying to lift the whole building off its bones. In any other circumstance, you’d be crawling all over Matt shamelessly given he’s in nothing but his boxers—long legs thrown wide, stomach bare, jaw slack with exhaustion—but the air is so thick with August it presses down on everything like a stifling blanket. Even at midnight, the walls feel like they’re sweating, every surface just a little tacky to the touch.

It’d been so bad you’d even managed the unthinkable: you’d convinced Matt to skip patrol. Admittedly, your argument was in no way airtight—really, Matt, who wants to stay out and rob people in this heat?—but somehow, by a miracle of his own weariness perhaps, he’d conceded without much friction.

Sighing, you make your way back to him, flopping down on the cushions. He makes a show of grimacing at the press of your clammy, sticky thighs against his, but even still, his fingers find the hollow of your knee, idly, instinctively. A casual sort of affection he likely isn’t even aware of. Drawing lazy arcs there with his thumb, he says, “I got those yogurt things you like.”

“Already ate them. I ate everything.” You groan, throwing your head back. “It’s like a wasteland in there.”

He hums in amusement. “What are you even craving?”

You squint up at the ceiling like an answer might materialize in the water stain by the fan.

“Uhh… Something cold. Something sweet.” Your nose wrinkles, mouth already watering at the thought. “I’d kill for soft serve right now. Like legitimately kill.”

Matt tilts his head, a hint of a smile already on his mouth. “You threatening my life?”

“That’s usually how I get you to do things, haven’t you noticed?” You’re already sitting up, kicking off his lap and off the couch. “Come on. Up. Let’s go.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. We’ll walk.”

“It’s past twelve.”

“Exactly,” you say, reaching for his hand and tugging him to his feet. “No line. And it’s still ninety degrees out. Come on, city boy. Walk with me.”

Matt sighs like you’re killing him, but he’s already reaching for real clothes, to his credit. You slip into a pair of sandals and a breezy dress, skip the purse—just your phone, your keys, and your husband’s hand in yours as you head out into the night.

The city never sleeps, but at this hour, there’s at least a hush. The streetlights are low and golden, casting the sidewalks in amber. Cars roll past in no particular hurry, and there are people still out—late-shift nurses, kids smoking on corners, couples like you, aimless and walking because the night is too balmy and beautiful not to.

You’re two blocks from your apartment when you swear under your breath and kick off your sandals, sticking them in your tote. The pavement, cooled by the dark and delectably scratchy underfoot, is a gift for your aching feet.

Matt pauses beside you. His mouth’s slanted in that deeply incredulous, judgmental way unique to only him. “Seriously? You’re gonna get ringworm like that.”

“It’s cool,” you say, already walking. “Feels nice. You don’t get it.”

“I really don’t. New York is disgusting. Put your shoes back on.”

You wave him off. “It’s great, Matt. Trust me.”

He does, of course. He always does, even when it flies in the face of all reason. Matt sighs, shakes his head like he can’t believe he’s married to a barefoot heathen, and keeps pace beside you anyway, fingers brushing yours.

You find the ice cream spot a block later, wedged between a laundromat and a closed deli. A hole-in-the-wall storefront barely wider than a hallway, open past midnight, and you can thank Matt’s God (and the miracles of weather-dependent capitalism) for that.

Matt gets chocolate with crushed almonds and starts on it like it’s a competition. Because you’re a purist, you get strawberry with rainbow sprinkles. He pays, and you press a kiss to his cheek just to see him smile.

To Matt’s relief, you do eventually put your shoes back on.

After a few more blocks of aimless walking, you find yourselves outside a church. It isn’t Matt’s. It’s one of the others near DeWitt, with weathered stone steps and a tiny, mostly-decorative fountain off to the side. No one’s around, so you sit.

Matt settles beside you, setting his cane across his lap, ice cream in one hand. He works at it carefully, attentively, like every lick and bite is a study in patience and grip, but still, somehow—

“You’re lopsided,” you say, watching the slope of his cone.

“I’m what?”

“Your cone. You’ve got a lean going. There’s a tower on one side, it’s gonna fall.”

“...Well, I can’t see it.”

“Yeah, but you can feel it, right?”

“I was hoping for some benefit of the doubt,” Matt says, aggrieved. “Maybe I like it this way.”

Laughing, you take the cone gently from his hand, rotate it with an expert twist, then scoop a fingerful of runaway chocolate and almond from the edge. Before you can reach for a napkin, Matt leans in and licks the smear right from your thumb.

You blink. Your silence and the little skip in your pulse, they’re all the confirmation he needs to clue him in to how flustered you suddenly are, his dark brows rising playfully. “What?”

“You did that on purpose.”

“What, I can’t enjoy my dessert?”

“Stupid,” you mutter. “So stupid.”

“Aw, c’mon. Tell me you didn’t like it.”

He grins when you don’t answer.

Sandals back off, the fountain’s misting your ankles now, your feet half-submerged in the shallow lip of it. The stone of the steps under you is still warm from the day. Matt’s kicked off his shoes too, at last, socks tucked away neatly and his legs stretched out next to yours.

You lean back. He nudges your knee with his.

“...Not a bad date overall,” you murmur finally, after a long lull.

“Yeah, better than last week,” Matt agrees. “You fell asleep watching Seven Samurai. I was lost the rest of it.”

“I didn’t ‘fall asleep’,” you supplicate with air quotes, “I was blinking real slow.”

“You were snoring.”

You huff—“I’m never narrating shit to you again, Murdock,”—blow him the biggest raspberry you can manage, and bite into your cone.

From far off, the streets are still buzzing, but the noise stays soft. The city feels almost… generous, like it’s looking the other way, like it’s granting this hour just to the two of you. The lights don’t glare and the air doesn’t choke or overwhelm. There’s a bit of a breeze going too, finally, seeming like everything’s been dialed down just enough to your level.

You glance over at Matt, and you can’t help but giggle: he’s got chocolate on the corner of his mouth. You wipe it off without saying anything, and he catches your wrist before you can pull it back, pressing a kiss to the inside, right where your pulse ticks soft against his lips.

“You really wanted ice cream that bad?” he asks.

You shrug. “Dunno. Just felt like something sweet tonight.”

He leans back on his elbows, tilting his face to the starry sky. “Well, you got it.”

“Yeah, I did.” You watch a line of his ice cream slowly make its way toward the gold band around his finger. “You always let me drag you into things.”

“Let you?” He smiles faintly. “I married you, didn’t I?”

You don’t dignify him with a response, knowing he can decipher your silence by the familiar heat that’s crept into your face. You rest your head on his shoulder. He smells like salt and cool spring, like soap and his sweat and summer heat. Matt shifts, sliding an arm around your waist, pulling you into the strong curve of him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Bare feet. Lopsided cones. Ice cream down his hand.

A midnight like a cold kiss, breaking through the heatwave.

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock imagine #matt murdock x you #matt murdock #daredevil #daredevil born again #ddba #🖋️#matt murdock fluff

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samarosina · 1 day ago

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After too many incidents involving Emperor's Smile, Lan Qiren writes to Jiang Fengmian pleading that he cut off Wei Wuxian's weekly allowance. Jiang Fengmian does (he hadn't even known the boys were getting an allowance!) but he warns Lan Qiren that it's not going to be enough to deter him.

And Wei Wuxian is, of course, not deterred. Stealing worked back in Yunmeng so why shouldn't it work in Caiyi? He'll steal the wine, drink it, and in the morning the Jiang sect will pay in arrears.

Except, in the morning, once the thrill of looting several jars of wine and dodging angry storeowners has worn off, Wei Wuxian wakes up to find that the Jiang Sect have refused to pay. The Lan sect refused to pay. And the Nie sect, because while Huaisang was drunk he was never actually implicated in the act of thievery itself, also refused to pay.

Which leaves Wei Wuxian at the mercy of the angry storeowners.

"They'll cut off my hands!" Wei Wuxian cries. "My hands are so nice! They'll put my fingers on a stick and tanghulu them! Jiang Cheng, you can't let them. You like my hands, don't you?"

Jiang Cheng pointedly does not answer that. "Don't be so dramatic. They'll probably just make you work until you pay it off."

"There has to be a quicker way. What if we sold something?" Wei Wuxian looks around their pathetically empty room. Between the peanut shells, clumps of hair on the floor, and their swords, there's little else, and little that could actually be sold for monetary gain. Then his eyes land on their dresser. "Jiang Cheng, your robes! The fancy ones with dancing frogs!"

"You mean the singular set of robes I brought with me?" Jiang Cheng scoffs. "Do you want me to travel home naked? I'm not taking these Lan robes with me!"

"An even better idea! We could sell your body! You're, what, fifth on that silly list? I know a few people who'd pay handsomely for drawings of your thighs. If we commissioned Huaisang..."

"Sell your own body!" Jiang Cheng snaps. "You're ranked higher than me so you must be worth more than me, right?"

"Exactly!" Wei Wuxian grins. Blinded as he is by the sheer genius of it all, he fails to see how Jiang Cheng recoils at his exclamation. "But why stop there? Let's aim higher. All in the name of efficiency and profit making, of course. After me, there's... who?"

"Jin Zixuan," Jiang Cheng grinds out.

"Well, nobody's paying for that," Wei Wuxian says, and Jiang Cheng allows himself a quiet snort. "Then there's... Lan Zhan." Wei Wuxian blinks. "Oh. Jiang Cheng, it's perfect. Almost too perfect."

And as quick as it left, the irritation comes flooding back. "We're not selling Lan Wangji," Jiang Cheng says.

"It doesn't have to be his body, it just be parts of it. Clumps of hair he left in his comb? The handkerchief he used to mop up his sweat after drills? Actually, I don't think he sweats..."

"You're forgetting that everyone here is broke," Jiang Cheng sighs. "If you're pricing Lan Wangji accurately, we shouldn't be selling rare items. They'll be too expensive and too difficult to actually obtain. It should be something abundant but marketable."

"Abundant... Something we could resupply every day." Wei Wuxian's eyes widen.” Jiang Cheng, I've got it. It would be enough to pay off the stolen wine. More than enough. We could probably buy out every brewery in Caiyi!"

Jiang Cheng doesn't want to ask. He doesn't. Because, whatever idea has just struck Wei Wuxian, selling Lan Wangji might actually be the better option, just to get the poor man away from Wei Wuxian and to safety.

But even if Jiang Cheng says nothing, Wei Wuxian will still somehow find a way to make him complicit. So, Jiang Cheng gives in.

"You better not expect me to help you," he says, just to be difficult.

But Wei Wuxian just smiles at him anyway.

"Jiang Cheng, let's sell Lan Zhan's bath water!"

#tea writing #jiang cheng #wei wuxian #yunmeng shuangjie #i'll write the full thing on ao3 when i am not *__* tired #mdzs #cql #the untamed #the bath water in question ends up being cold spring water #and jiang cheng is sent down by wwx to pot it 👀 where he stumbles upon a bathing lwj….

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sadclownkisses · 1 day ago

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smut under the cut

This is a nsfw blog for lesbians, men and minors DNI

I have been DROOLING over butches for the past month I went down this whole lesbian history rabbit hole and discovered some really old photography of butches and just really learned about what butches and femmes do for the community (i can do a separate post on this) and to say I’m obsessed is an understatement. I need a butch to my femme RIGHT NOW.

———————————————————————————

butch gf who’s love language is acts of service

Butch gf who doesn’t care if I already know how to do something, just kisses my forehead and tells me to sit and look pretty while she takes care of me

Butch gf that’s super clingy and needs to be near me all the time. Complaining every time I get out of bed early in the morning, following me around like a lost puppy as i make her lunch for work. Gym dates and she wants to spot me so she can be close by.

Butch gf that LOVES to eat and appreciates my cooking :/ I love cooking and baking for people it’s such a big part of my day to day life I just can’t be with someone picky or who doesn’t eat “that much” like no I’m going to make u gain 20 pounds im sorry but all the more reason for us to go on gym dates so I can drool over how beefy ur getting

Butch gf that babies me and lets me do the same I don’t believe in that “ur masculine don’t cry” bs like omg no come lay on my chest and tell me what’s on ur mind :( god I’d be so sweet and loving to my butch fingernails drawing lazy circles on her back as she rants about her day at work

Butch gf that isn’t dismissive of my feelings

Butch gf that pays attention to things i absentmindedly mention , coming home to something i said was cute a week ago or waking up to breakfast in bed after she seen it on one of my Pinterest boards,

Butch gf that understands my femininity is deeply rooted in my identity as a lesbian and as a tall girl who was forcibly de-feminized by everyone around her as if my height and strength made me less of a woman. all I want is for my identity to be accepted regardless of how tall I am and regardless of hobbies I enjoy or things I’m good at like putting together furniture or lifting heavy stuff ugh at the end of the day I’m still a hyper femme who likes to do her nails and wear full beats to do mundane tasks. And ofc I’d do the same however my butch identifies I’ll back it up wholeheartedly as a femme it’s our job to speak up for the less recognized people in our community <3

Butch gf that even after a long day of working will come home and still be so eager to please ^o^ AHHH being so needy after waiting for her to get home all day but she’s so beat she just pulls my panties off and tells me to use her face, lazily sticking her tongue in my hole and bumping her nose against my clit.

Butch gf that lets me top :o ppl always assume id be a pillow princess but god im such a freak and I just need a loser butch gf that’ll let me use her like my own personal toy sometimes IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK

Butch gf that lets me ride her just to make me work for what I’ve been so needy for mocking me as she leans back arms behind her head “you wanted it so bad baby, ride it or you can’t cum” nd once i get tired , tears prickling at the corners of my eyes , hands latched onto her shoulder as i feverishly ride her strap she’ll finally put her hands on my waist , gripping tightly as she thrusts into me “this what ya wanted baby? Stop that crying gonna give you a proper fuckin’”

Butch gf who whimpers in my ear about how well I’m taking her cock and how pretty I look bouncing on her putting her cowboy hat on my head as her thrusts try to match my pace something something abt “saving a horse riding a cowbutch”

Butch gf that ties me up and fucks me until I’m a drooling babbling mess seen smth about cowbutches being able to chase u on their horse and tie you up and all I have to say is I can run fast so I need my butch to be faster :p

Butch gf that is soooo sweet but gets so mean when she’s pounding into me “god, look at this pussy such a filthy little hole” groaning as she cups my tits pulling me further onto her strap bottoming out as she bites my neck “greedy little slut doing so well you like that princess? You like when daddy fucks into you like this?” Pinching and teasing me as she calls me a pathetic mess 😵‍💫

Butch gf that gets pussy drunk so fast , comes inside and sees me baking and bends me right over the counter digging her face into my cunt lapping at my juices like i haven’t been bringing her water and sweet tea all day. Babbling about how i taste so good sweeter than any thing she’s ever tasted, wants to put a baby in me and be soaked in my juices everyday. Completely feral and never turns down an opportunity to be between my legs.

BUTCH GF THAT WHIMPERS. Thinking abt having a steamy make out sesh both of us fighting for dominance as our tongues slip into each others mouths and our hands grope each others warm bodies ^o^ I’d straddle her lap nd leave hot wet kissing against her neck, breath shuddering and quiet moans and grunts fall from her lips as she grows needier “Please princess no more teasin’ touch me more?” Bonus points if she has big needy doe eyes 🥹 need a butch whimpering and crying beneath me begging for me to fuck them right

A/n: idk guys i think she might want a butch not sure tho LOL.

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starlightshadowsworld · 2 days ago

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You know I don’t talk about Yosano even she’s one of my favourite characters.

So here’s just a Yosano ramble/ appreciation post whatever you wanna call it.

Bones does not do her justice

Like at all.

I love the entire concept of her ability so much. I mean a doctor who has to hurt her patients in order to save them. It’s cool as hell on its own but then you add in her backstory.

And it becomes something incredible.

The way that her life has been defined by saving others and that the worth of human life is what she still believes in so strongly.

Even after all she’s been through that value for life has never wavered.

I love that Yosano’s most defining characteristic is her kindness. That she holds people so tightly because she’s afraid not that they’ll break. But what could happen if she fixes them.

It’s an interesting path for a character especially one with her ability to carry.

Not to mention that with Fukuzawa and Ranpo as the founders, Yosano is the first member of the Armed Detective Agency. She joined a year after it was founded and as such has played a vital part in what the Agency has become.

I love how much Yosano delights in the chaos around her. How she always seems like the voice of reason when in actuality she makes things 10X worse before fixing the problem.

It’s true to her ability and it’s true to her.

She’s such a menace. I love seeing a healing character just go off the rails. I love the way Yosano doesn’t shy away from bloodshed but actively enjoys it.

How utterly unhinged she can be like Bones changed the scene but when that guy at the train station (chapter 7) tried to slap her she crushed his hand.

And said “well a thousand pardons sir. Would it be more womanly for me to crush your puny XXX under my heel like my heel perhaps?”

Queen.

Ah the days when everything could be fixed by Yosano scaring a guy into defeat.

Good times.

And I love putting her with characters that I feel can match her energy but also balance her out.

Unfortunately for me I don’t ship what I believe is her most popular pairing. No hate to Kousano shippers I just don’t vibe with it personally.

Folk I ship with Yosano are:

Kajii because I just like the idea of a mad scientist obsessed with defeating death with a doctor who wants nothing more than to save others.

That they’d start as rivals but they’d start to see why the other feels the way that they do. And maybe it would draw them closer to each other.

Margaret because they’re both people who will do whatever it takes to protect their loved ones. No matter what the personal cost may be.

They’re very intimidating people with a strong and noble heart. I think Yosano would ruffle her feathers and reveal a more playful side to Margaret. And that Margaret would respect Yosano’s drive and resolve.

Chuuya because their fight to me sounded like they were flirting. Like I see them going out to get drunk together, match each others freak and go out on the town.

But most importantly I think they just have a lot in common. Both of them have a history of being viewed as tools for their abilities. They have had to deal with the hatred and almost worship others give their abilities.

In a way that undermines and erases their humanity. They’ve grappled with their own identities and the deaths that follow them for it.

Kunikida because they’re very opposite personality wise and yet hold a lot of respect for one another. He trusts her with his life and she trusts in him.

They’ve both known each other for years and presumably have often fought alongside each other. I think they’d balance each other out with Yosano getting him to unwind and Kunikida looking out for her too.

Also you can’t convince me he wasn’t the reason she started carrying the chainsaw.

As far as friendships go I love her and Ranpo’s friendship. The way she looked out for Atsushi on the train. That Fukuzawa tried to spare her from Mori’s grasp. I have a headcanon that she trained Kenji and it’s sweet seeing the bonds she has with others.

I also had an AU called Moonlit Butterfly that centred around Yosano and Atsushi participating in the Great War. With Yosano as a medic as she is in canon and Atsushi bought in (a year younger then her in this btw) as a soilder.

And how the two navigate that with Shunzen Tachihara.

I may be bringing it back at some point in the form of a collection of one-shots with other AYs. But I thought I’d give it a mention here because I do go in lto my version of Yosano within that.

And yeah I just think that Yosano is a great character and that she deserves more love.

#if this seems random I started it before the new chapter was released #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd yosano #yosano akiko #bsd ada #bsd armed detective agency

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daedalusdavinci · 23 hours ago

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16. a kiss on the back of the neck and 19. on the side of the neck with superbat pls? 🙏

send me a spot to kiss! for this one i just picked right up where the last one i wrote left off, so you should probably read that first if you havent already!

Clark did, actually, have his own work to do. He may not have been the world's greatest detective, but as far as investigative journalism went, Clark liked to think his work wasn't anything to sneeze at. He could sort through the papers and crime scene reports and bank statements with the best of them, and so he did, reclined in his armchair with his glasses perched on his nose, frowning at the thick sheathe of papers on his lap.

Bruce ruled over the JLA's database with an iron fist, so all of the organization and labeling had him written all over it. He did not manage the organization because he was good at it, but because he was too obsessive to let anyone else do it. Even their best had to fold in the face of his stubbornness. His organization system was the sort that happened only when you over-organized, where files became mazes and duplicates started to sneak in, and half of the headache was just making sure you'd pulled all the files you needed. Clark prided himself on knowing Bruce well, but Bruce's organization system was an investigation all its own.

It was precisely this filing system that Clark was preoccupied with when the door opened. Somewhere, entirely on accident, the mystery he was puzzling out stopped being the strange bank withdrawals and deposits and started being why on earth Bruce would have five separate files for Lex Luthor under five entirely different labels. He hadn't noticed the door had opened at all until Bruce was looming over the back of his chair, his cape falling over his shoulder as his hand touched where Clark's arm rested on the arm of the chair. "You think Luthor is involved?"

Only the sheer familiarity kept Clark from jumping. Bruce's voice was low and quiet, neither the tight rumble of Batman nor the airy brightness of Bruce Wayne's, and his heartbeat was steady and reassuring. Clark knew him in a moment, and his shoulders fell with a sigh. "With my luck, he always weasels in."

"Hm. Doesn't hurt to check." It almost sounded like approval. But then, Bruce's head turned, leaning in close enough that Clark's breath caught just before his lips touched the side of his neck. "The three hours are up."

"You're making me take a break?" Clark asked, amused. He didn't shuffle his papers together just yet, enjoying the irony of Bruce leaving his work alone for this. Of course Bruce had. Of course this would be the way to get him to take a break.

"You wanted me to." Bruce knew, of course. But he still let Clark trap him, still stood in his room, leaning over the back of his chair to kiss the back of his neck as his hands smoothed down his shoulders.

Now, it was just the two of them. Bruce, with his cowl down and his soft blue eyes, and Clark, in his suit with his glasses on his nose, alone in Clark's room with the door shut. Now, Clark reached for Bruce, drawing him in as he admitted, "I did."

Yes, Bruce was definitely most comfortable in his space.

#superbat #superman #batman #clark kent #kal el #bruce wayne #asks #tumblr drabbles #ty for the ask!#happy i managed to work both of them into the one prompt whew #if its bad no it isnt im tired skldjnfsdf

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to-the-beginning--the-end-waits · 1 day ago

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EXTRA DELIVERY: Crown and Crumbs

An Unexpected Delivery Drabble

A/N: Haii I came bearing gifts ^ - ～♡ I don't really write pt.2's to my fics cuz I want them to be as vague as possible (so that reader's can include their own headcanons as much as they want) But a little drabble here and there wouldn't hurt anybody, right?

====================================

Six months after everything has changed, you still wake up some mornings convinced this is all an elaborate dream. The morning light filters through the silk curtains of what is now your chambers (officially upgraded from “temporary assistant quarters” to “the Crown Prince’s beloved’s rooms”) after Seonghwa’s spectacularly public declaration of love during the Harvest celebration. A soft knock interrupts your musings, followed by a familiar voice.

“Are you decent? I came bearing gifts.”

You laugh, pulling on a robe. “Define gifts.”

Seonghwa slips through the door with a conspiratorial grin, carrying a covered basket that smells suspiciously like heaven. He’s already dressed for the day in deep blue velvet, but his hair is endearingly mussed and there’s flour on his collar.

“Did you break into the kitchens again?”

“I prefer ‘creatively borrowed access.’” He sets the basket on your small dining table with obvious pride. “I may have convinced the head baker to teach me your family’s cinnamon roll recipe.”

Your heart does that familiar flutter. Even after all this time, he finds new ways to surprise you.

“Seonghwa, you didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to.” He lifts the cloth to reveal perfectly golden pastries, only slightly lopsided. “I know you’ve been homesick. And I thought… well, maybe I could bring a piece of home to you.”

The gesture is so thoughtful, so perfectly him*, that you feel tears prick your eyes. “They’re beautiful.”

“They’re disasters,” he says pitifully, “but they’re disasters made with love.”

You break off a piece, still warm and fragrant with cinnamon and affection. It tastes like childhood mornings and new beginnings all at once.

“Perfect,” you murmur.

When you look up, Seonghwa is watching you with such soft adoration that your breath catches. Even now, months into this beautiful impossibility, he still looks at you like you hung the stars.

“What?” you ask.

“Just… this.” He gestures between you, at the morning light and the imperfect pastries and the quiet intimacy of it all. “I used to think happiness was something other people had. Something I could observe from a distance but never quite reach.”

You set down the pastry and cross to him, reaching up to brush the flour from his collar. “And now?”

“Now I wake up every morning amazed that I get to love you.” His hands settle on your waist, drawing you closer. “That you chose this complicated, ridiculous life. That you chose me.”

“Easy choice,” you whisper against his lips. “You came with the crown, but I fell for the man underneath it.”

His kiss tastes like cinnamon and promises, sweet with the possibility of ordinary mornings and extraordinary love.

When you break apart, he rests his forehead against yours. “The Council meeting isn’t for another hour,” he murmurs hopefully.

You smile, already reaching for the ties of his perfectly pressed jacket. “Then we have time for a proper breakfast.”

====================================

#ateez fic #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #kpop fic #ateez scenarios #kpop x reader #ateez imagines #kpop imagines #ateez fluff #park seonghwa x reader #seonghwa x reader #ateez fanfiction #kpop scenarios #kpop fanfic

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inquisimer · 3 days ago

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compass points you anywhere (closer to me)

Some gay panic pining for @dragonagekissweek day 2 - the prompt didn't speak to me, but I've been meaning to write rosanthi practice kissing for a hot minute, inspired by this post, so! here it is (:

Rosamund is a Mourn Watch OC who belongs to @rosella-writes - thank you beloved, for letting me play with our toys 💜💚

Female Elf Ingellvar/OFC | T | 1447 words | No CW | read on AO3 here

(divider credit)

“What are you so worried about, anyway?” Rosamund asks, lifting and twisting a section of Vanthi’s hair to begin the plait. In the looking glass, Vanthi scrunches her nose.

“Who says I’m worried about anything?”

Humming, Rosamund shifts a section of hair between her lips so that one hand is free to drag lightly across the tense muscles between Vanthi’s shoulder blades. She draws a bit of mana to her fingertips as she does and the coiled up tension relaxes. Taking the hair from her mouth, she raises a brow at Vanthi’s reflection.

“Okay, okay, point taken. It’s—well, I just—“ the elf huffs, a blush coloring the line of her cheekbones up to her ears “—I haven’t done this before. What if I’m bad at it?”

“You’ve been on dates before.”

“Yeah, in a group.” Vanthi twists her fingers together. “What if we don’t have anything to talk about? What if I can’t stop talking and I’m annoying? What if we get food and I discover life-threatening allergy I didn’t even know I had? What if I step in a puddle and mess up the spell to dry my socks and set them on fire instead?”

The worries flood out of her like a dam, broken, washing over Rosamund who just nods, working the plait to its end and tying it off with a little leather cord. Vanthi runs a hand down the finished braid and bites her lip.

“What if he kisses me, and I’m bad at it?”

“Well, I know you’ve done that before.” Rosamund smirks. Her fingers drum against Vanthi’s shoulders, light and fast like a hummingbird’s wings, and she rests her chin on top of her head, dark eyes laughing when Vanthi sticks her tongue out at their reflections.

“Drunk on a camp out does not count. And that femur was totally pointing at Lisa, and I’m just a good friend for not saying it and forcing her to makeout with her ex.”

“Well,” Rosamund says, tenuously nonchalant. Her throat vibrates against Vanthi’s scalp. “You know what Professor Biedermann says.”

“What, practice makes perfect?” Vanthi snorts. “Bit late for that now, isn’t it?”

“No, not particularly.” Rosamund doesn’t move, but her gaze slides sideways, away from Vanthi’s in the mirror. “I could—I could help with that, before you go. If you want.”

There’s a beat where she regrets the offer. Where Vanthi’s lips part, just slightly, and she blinks. A beat before realization hits her like a druffalo and her eyes go wide. But just as Rosamund opens her mouth to laugh it off as a joke, Vanthi whirls around and grips her elbows.

“Truly? Would you? That would make me feel so much better, Rosa, if you don’t need to be anywhere else? I mean if you do, that’s okay, but if you don’t—?”

“No, no I don’t.” Her voice sounds distant, even to her own ears, the pounding of her heart in her throat too present, too loud. “I offered, didn’t I?”

“You are the best.” Vanthi catches Rosamund by the wrists and tugs her over to the bed—the bed—but once they’re both sat, thighs pressed together, she hesitates. Rosamund is still catching up, still biting her tongue because this is happening.

Well. Sort of happening. This is happening, but not this, and—

“Do we just—“ Vanthi makes an aborted gesture between them, an awkward laugh twisting her lips, red and worry-bitten. “It shouldn’t be so—I mean—“

“I know,” Rosamund huffs. Even sitting down she has half a head on Vanthi, so it’s with a slightly shaking hand that she cups the elf’s cheek and tilts her head back. Her thumb passes over the splotches of Vanthi’s birthmark like a ghost. “I can just—can I—?”

“Yes,” Vanthi breathes, still smiling right up until Rosamund slants her lips over hers.

It’s something, how well they slot together for a first kiss. They know each other well and it translates, the shape of their mouths already familiar before their lips have ever touched. Rosamund cups Vanthi’s jaw properly, with both hands, and a giddy energy surges in her gut when the elf makes a surprised noise against her mouth.

Somewhere, distantly, the sensible part of her brain is thinking that it’s just practice. That it doesn’t mean anything, that it’ll never mean anything, because they’re just friends, and Vanthi doesn’t see her like that and she doesn’t even—

Their noses brush together as they part, just to breathe. Rosamund’s hands stay on Vanthi’s face; she wishes she’d kept her eyes shut a moment longer, too, so that she wouldn’t have the image of Vanthi, eyes closed and lips chasing the kiss she’s just ended, burned in her mind forever.

But she didn’t, and now she does. In a terrible, beautiful hell of her own making.

“Was that… okay?” There’s a tremor in Vanthi’s voice that might have been uncertainty, but her blue-green eyes are blown out, and a little unfocused. “I wasn’t, um. Wasn’t sure what to do with my hands?”

Rosamund licks her lips, tasting the lingering transfer of Vanthi’s lemon lip gloss, and almost forgetting that she needs to say something. Clearing her throat, she drops one hand to Vanthi’s wrist.

“Here,” she murmurs, bringing the elf’s hand to her neck. The other follows, on instinct, until they’re linked together at the nape of Rosamund’s neck. A shiver snakes down her spine and she disguises it by kissing Vanthi again.

This time, she slides the hand still on Vanthi’s face up, into her hair. Her long, slender fingers curl against Vanthi’s scalp and when the elf gasps into the kiss, Rosamund slips her tongue between her lips. And it’s her turn to make what would otherwise be an embarrassing noise as Vanthi’s fingers curl against her neck, nails scraping over her delicate skin. Beyond the lemon she tastes like honey, and oversteeped tea, and the sweet softness of a familiar memory.

It is, perhaps, the longest thirty seconds of Rosamund’s life. The movement of Vanthi’s lips against hers, soft, except in the little ridged places where her teeth have dug into the flesh. The slide of their tongues, together, the tangle of silver hair in her fingers, the press of knuckles at the base of her neck—

Oh, she thinks, or realizes, maybe, because thinking is a bit much to ask of her right now, but she could stay here forever, she thinks. And her fingers curl in the loose fabric of Vanthi’s tunic, pulling her closer, holding her there, holding onto this as long as she can.

Except— somewhere in the distance, past halls filled with bedchambers, a bell tolls, steady and low. And Vanthi jerks back, eyes hazy, blinking rapidly, lips still parted and spit-slick with Rosamund’s affection.

“Shit,” she breathes, tilting her head as the bell’s ringing thrums through the stone around them, low and steady and reliable. It rings out across the Necropolis, one, two, seven times. “Shit, I’m going to be late!”

She tears off the bed, leaving a terrible chill at Rosamund’s side in her place. Her fingers, thrumming with the feeling of hair slipping through them, come to her lips and trace the lingering sensation there. She stares at the spot where Vanthi sat only a moment prior as the elf swipes a fresh coat of gloss over her lips and smooths a hand down the flyaway hairs fluttering around her ears.

“How do I look?” she asks, tugging at her tunic and giving a little spin. Rosamund manages a smile that probably looks genuine enough, as distracted as her friend tends to be.

Perfect, she thinks. Beautiful, lovely, transcendent—

“If he’s not thinking about testing those kissing skills right off, he’s not the one,” is all she says, lips quirking in a smile. A mask. A safe place to hide from things that cannot be. Vanthi’s answers her in kind, but earnest and warm. She wraps an arm around Rosamund’s shoulders, squeezes, and presses a fleeting kiss to her cheek.

Like it’s nothing. Nothing at all. And maybe that’s all it is.

“Don’t stay up too late,” she calls over her shoulder, already halfway out the door. “Even you need a decent night’s sleep now and then.”

And then she’s gone, and Rosamund is alone, lip gloss on her cheek. She wipes it away, and brings those fingers to her lips—presses against them like they have even half a chance of feeling like the ones that just walked out the door.

Lemon. But no honey, and no oversteeped tea. A strangled cry tangles in her throat and she falls back onto the bed.

Maker, help her.

#my writing #oc: evanthia ingellvar #rosanthi #rosamund ingellvar #<- not an ingellvar in this verse but #dragon age #dragon age fanfic #dakiss25 #da4 #ingellvar #they are AWKWARD and CUTE your honor #in which vanthi is Peak oblivious sunshine girl #and rosamund is having a Gay Panic #datv #rook ingellvar

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hobiesgeorg · 3 days ago

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Pinky Promise

Why Are We Like This - Ch. 14

Looking for Ch 13? It's here!

Hobie Brown / Spiderpunk x Transmasc!Reader

Word count: 5.1k

Tags: SMUT, No use of Y/N, no physical description of Y/N, Y/N implied to be transmasculine, established friends with benefits relationship, mutual pining, slowburn fic, teasing, kisses, praise kink, P in V, Reader has a vulva, fingering, "General Dumbassery" <- (Suggested by my Beta reader.)

A/N: Genuinely curious if you like the shorter or longer chapters. Please lmk!

"'s quiet." Hobie says, literally twiddling his thumbs.

You glance up from your sketchbook. G!d how you want the interruption to have annoyed you. You don't raise your head, a last ditch attempt to hide your smile. Even when you look back at your work, you're thinking about how bright his eyes look in contrast to the green leaves behind him. You stretch your leg out, letting dirt cake the heel of your shoe.

"You didn't have to come with." Your voice breaks through the chirping of birds and soft buzz of insects.

You can hear him frown at you in the same way you can hear him scoot across the brush to be closer to you. "I wanted to come with you."

"Then enjoy it. Listen to the birds. Take a nap. Let me draw."

He huffs and flops back onto the dirt. You hear a twig snap beneath him. Needless concern pangs in you and you look at him again. His already stupid grin grows larger when you meet his eyes.

"Take a break and come lay with me? The sky's pretty."

Concern turns to guilt. You twist the pen in your hand as you look into his eyes. The request is tempting. You'd say yes in a heartbeat on any other day.

"I'm on a time crunch, 'bie..." you frown.

"C'mon. I'll give you an extension on your deadline, handsome. It's good for you to give your hand a break, anyway. You've been at it forever."

He holds his hand out toward you, making a grabbing gesture at you. You place your sketchbook in your lap to take his hand. You give it a gentle squeeze.

"First, you're not in charge of me, dumbass. I finish things when I finish them. Second, Riri's going to want to know why I'm working so much slower. And what am I going to tell her?"

Hobie isn't subtle in pulling on your arm, like a little tug will get you to cave. "You can tell her that I'm irresistble and you just can't keep your hands off me."

You raise an eyebrow, "'s that what you told her when you played like shit last night?"

You're laughing when Hobie drops your hand, bringing his own to his chest with an offended gasp. At this point you're already distracted, so you set your pen aside and lean over him.

"Like you could play better!" He argues.

"Like I'm the one who can't keep his hands to himself." You grab the hand still on his chest, taking it in your own.

"You have your moments, love"

"Uhhuh." You press a kiss to his knuckles.

"It's okay that you're obsessed with me. Really. I mean it."

"Noted." You say over a pointed eyeroll.

Hobie doesn't respond or quip back. He's smiling again, pupils focused on you, eyes ever so slightly glossed over. The image of him sends a familiar shock through you. A part of you is sent backwards in time, bringing forward a whisper to be so incredibly cautious. You run your thumb over his hand and marvel at how soft his skin is. The sound of wind brushing through leaves reinforces it in your mind. This, all of this, is so fragile. Your breath feels caught again, but you keep on breathing despite the struggle. You have to be so careful to keep things this way. To keep him here with you, looking perfect. Looking at you like you're perfect.

"Love?"

His voice doesn't feel like an interruption to the quiet. It never does anymore. It washes over you like sunshine. Something distant and ethereal, but so central to the good things in life. You soak it in with every inch of your skin. It feels warmest where your hands meet.

"Whatcha thinking about?" he asks.

"Nothing," you can't tell what face you've been making, so you make an effort to smile now, "I'm just... being careful."

He nods like he understands. You want to believe he does. He reaches out and brushes his thumb across your cheek. It's such a gentle touch that you really do start to believe he gets it. Whether or not that's comforting is another question.

"Tell me about what you're workin' on?"

"You'll see it when I'm done."

You can see him studying your face. Both of you are trying to capture the moment and neither of you would dare admit it.

"I didn't say I wanted to see it," he says, "I wanna hear you talk about it."

"Why?"

You relieve the building cramp in your leg by settling fully over Hobie, one knee digging into the forest floor on either side of him. You don't miss the corner of his mouth twitching, or the subtle red tint to his cheeks. He loses track of your face for a moment, tracing down the rest of your body to where you rest above him.

"Because, people are hot when they're talking about shit they're passionate about. " He doesn't bother to make eye contact again until he's finished talking.

"People?"

"Did you stop being a person?"

You take a breath before you respond. If you're going to say what you want to say, you'll have to gather some strength. From the way Hobie smirks, you're sure he thinks he's got you flustered.

"It's okay that you're obsessed with me. Really. I mean it." You shoot back in your best imitation of him.

He snorts and squeezes your hand. "So what if I am?"

"Well, being obsessed with me doesn't get you access to such privileged information."

"Why not?" He frowns.

"Because then if I change my mind about what I'm doing you might be disappointed!"

"I promise I won't!"

"Too bad. Gotta wait."

He grumbles under his breath and his eyes leave yours. You follow his gaze off into the distance. He turns his head as he looks to the side. It leaves his cheek and neck exposed, practically begging you to lean down and give him a kiss.

You're still fighting the urge to do so when his head snaps back to look at you. He holds his hand out between his body and yours, pinky extended.

"I pinky promise I won't?" he tries.

It's your turn to laugh. "Fucking hell..." You bypass his hand entirely and cup his jaw. The moment you kiss him you feel his tongue against your lips. You don't need to be convinced to open your mouth for him. He grabs your shoulder as you press closer to each other and melt into the kiss. You whine, stomach in knots. He laughs into the kiss. You're about to pull away to protest when he bites down on your lip. You jolt backward and frown at him. Your face burns and it takes work not to have a stupid, lovesick grin.

"Hey! Ow!"

His face is scrunched up in laughter. His thumb rests on the spot where he bit you and rubs it gently. Despite the fire across your cheeks and the fading tingling feeling on your lip, your sole focus is his joy. He can bite you all he wants if he looks like this afterwards.

"'m sorry!" he cackles, "We've just been here for hours and I'm so hungry!"

The smile has broken through to the surface of your face. You're sure you look pathetic with how you gaze at him.

"I'm never kissing you again," you say.

"No!" he whines, "Just make sure I've had lunch first."

"Okay, fuck, let's go. I'll buy you lunch on the way home."

You're shaking your head as you get up and gather your things. Within the birds, the bugs, and the wind, is the sound of Hobie's residual laughter.

---

"Okay, one second, I'm gunna do it." Hobie fishes the van keys out of his pocket after shoving his last piece of gas station sushi in his mouth.

"This is a terrible idea, and if you throw up I won't feel bad for you."

He swallows just as he picks up his can of Monster and readies a key, "Psh, yeah you would, you love me."

"Nope." You ready your hand to open the back door of the van, just in case.

"Well, that's fine. I've got this."

You cringe as Monster fizzes out of the gash in the can faster than Hobie can bring it to his mouth. Though, to be honest, this is the least horrifying answer you can think of for how sticky the floor of the van always is. He tips his head back chugging the drink at a speed that makes you sick to your stomach. You pull a stale cookie out of the 7/11 bag between the two of you and take a bite.

As always, Hobie is committed to his endeavor. It's almost admirable. He finishes off the can in a matter of seconds, coughing as he crushes it.

"Looked cooler in my head..." he sputters.

"Who're you trying to impress anyways, freak?"

He nods in your direction and reaches out for the cookie you're halfway through. You hand it over without thinking twice. Something about sharing the space only with Hobie takes a weight off your shoulders.

"Thanks for coming with me today. It's been fun." You tap your shoe against his. It's the best form of contact you can manage while facing each other from opposite sides of the van.

It's hard to tell how much of Hobie's grin is for you, and how much is 16 ounces of Monster hitting him all at once. "'nd here I was about to thank you for not murdering me in the woods."

"Whatever," you grumble, smiling like an idiot.

You're staring out the back window, but you can feel him watching you. It doesn't feel instrusive or overwhelming, you know that it's what he likes to do with his time.

"You never accepted my pinky promise." His voice is soft. You've started to notice how often he sounds this gentle when it's the two of you alone.

"...and I'm not going to."

"I just wanna know what you're working on!"

"No," you counter, "You're being a creepy gooner, Hobie."

You look over to see him pouting at you.

"Can you blame me?" He asks.

"Yes."

"But you're so..." His 'so' drags on for long enough that your face is red before the end of it.

"No."

"Well you've gotta give me somethin'!" He's careful to shift his tone and make it clear that he's only teasing.

"Last time I tried, you bit me!"

"Shit, good point."

You nod and watch him chew on his lower lip, fighting to find a path forward. He doesn't need to convince you, really. All he has to do is ask and you'll do what you can to trust him.

"Pinky promise I won't bite you again?" he tries.

You sigh and hold your pinky out towards him, "Fine."

"Unless you ask." He returns your shoe tap.

With his natural finesse, Hobie slides his hand across yours, grasping it and pulling himself forward. You reach for him, your hand finds his neck.

"Good deal?" he confirms.

"Good deal." You nod.

You could argue that you won't ask and that the stipulation is offputting. You only don't because at this point what you will and won't do for Hobie is a mystery to you.

"Good." He closes the distance.

The sickeningly sweet taste of Pink Monster is overwhelming. But it's better than the alternative of week old california rolls. There's a part of you that would tolerate any taste from Hobie's mouth. It's the same part of you that holds tight to the idea that you're breathing the same air right now.

You try to follow when he breaks the kiss, not wanting to leave him even for a moment. He holds you back with a chuckle.

"'m not going anywhere, lovie."

"I know." You can't fully see him, your eyes are too out of focus, your brain too set on feeling.

"Good."

He kisses your temple. You tilt your head to offer him more room. You hum when he grabs your chin and turns your face back towards him. You could melt when he looks at you. You nearly do when he leans in towards you. It takes effort not to squirm in anticipation of the kiss to come.

If you hadn't been with him so long, if you didn't know how to read what he wants, you would jump to him when his lips brush yours. You're ready for the deep end. Ready to feel, and grab, and take. You do know him, though. So you sit patiently, breath short and shaking.

"So," the feeling of Hobie talking against your lips is earth shattering, a perfect painting of his softness turned on its head to ruin you, "You're workin' on the new shirts, right?"

You blink and breathe. You have to play it back in your head to make sure you've heard what you think you have. Is he really still asking about this? A feeling of irritation toward him and his antics finds its way into your chest before you can quell it. You really have become so soft for him. Tension creeps up to your jaw.

"Not telling you." you say.

"Oh," he frowns, "My bad, thought you wanted another kiss."

He pulls back from you, hand dropping from your chin. It's easily 80 degrees out, there is no cold air in the van, but what fills the gap between you feels like the arctic on your skin. You whine and only begin to care that you've done it when you see how satistfied Hobie looks. He doesn't have the decency to sit fully back on his side of the van. Instead he stays crouched, ready to come closer to you the moment you agree to play on his terms. Reminding you that all it takes is a few words to get what you want.

You tilt your head back and stare at the ceiling. Being horny sucks, actually. When you remove the promise that you'll get off, you're anxious and sore and overheated and disoriented for no reason. It's like a bad high. The payoff is the only thing to make it worth it and it's maddening when that payoff seems out of reach. Hobie's eyes on you don't help. Neither does the fact that you've had nothing past third base for close to a month. Everything new has been so exciting that you'd both been forgetting to actually have sex.

You'd scratch at the hole he's burning in your skin with his eyes, but that would be giving him too much. You try humming to yourself to soothe the knots in your stomach and the aching between your legs. It does nothing except help you track how much time is passing. Unfortunately, the answer is basically no time at all.

"If it comes out right, it'll work for shirts, totes, and back patches," you cave.

"Wow, efficient," he praises.

You grab the back of his head when he kisses you, too afraid to let him make too much distance again. His hands hover over you, a clear sign that your desperate grip is justified. The first time he puts a hand fully on you is when he grabs your wrist, breaking away from you again.

"What's goin' on it?"

"It's a surprise!"

"C'mon," his thumb traces circles on your wrist, "Tell me about it."

There are zero circumstances whatsoever under which you can tell him about it. Least of all these circumstances. You're already close to tears for him. You have to be willing to give this up for the sake of keeping quiet, because telling him would be worse. It doesn't matter that you could just about cum in your pants right now and that your clit is throbbing so hard that it's not even fun, just uncomfortable. You will keep your mouth shut.

"Hey," he nudges your nose with his own, "look here, love."

Not. A. Word. The breath you breathe, though, is almost worse than the truth. It's strained and shaky and almost a whimper.

"...Not going to tell you..." Your voice comes out in a whisper. You might be telling yourself more than him. Your head is where he wants it, but your eyes avoid his face at all costs. The ceiling is your only respite from the pressure he's putting you under. You know that the look of sheer delight on his face will have you unravelling if you catch it.

"Yeah you are." He kisses the corners of your mouth, "Just a question of the easy way or the hard way, lovie."

You bring the hand he doesn't have hold of up to your lips to make a zipping motion. The space you left him was a mistake. The instant your arm no longer protects your side his hand finds your waist. His fingers brush across your skin.

"Hobie, please," you whine.

"Of course, handsome, whatever you want."

He squeezes at the flesh of your hip and for a split second it seems like this could all work out. You're beginning to accept the fact that you will cry, that you'll say his name as many times as your voice will allow because he's here and he's perfect and he's touching you. Then, he keeps talking.

"...Just gotta tell me about what you're working on."

You choke on your own saliva. It makes a pitiful sound. You're embarrassed enough to meet his eyes for a moment. You catch the brief hesitation. If you could have kept your leg from twitching you would have. If you could have summoned real tears you would have. But you do twitch and your effort to cry turns to a pathetic whine and Hobie Brown is more sure than ever that he's playing you like a mother-fucking fiddle.

"G-d fuck, Hobie! I'm drawing you, for fucks sake!" It tumbles out of your mouth like the sobs you'd been trying to muster and the whines you'd been trying to supress. It comes in perfect syncronicity with his hand brushing your waistband.

"That's my good boy," he coos. He doesn't delay in kissing you again. You're tasting him again while the words ring in your ears.

My good boy. It's just another reason you are so unbelievably relieved when he presses his knee between your legs. You roll your hips into his leg like you've earned it, because you have. You let yourself moan as the friction runs through your nerves because for the first time in ages the two of you are actually alone. You count twice that he tries to break the kiss, but you're relentless, because this is yours. It's not a secret that you only win because he lets you press for more, but you'll take the illusion of control for now.

You're saying his name before he fully separates his mouth from yours. He has to abandon his work unbuttoning his pants to hold you back by your shoulder. It's the only way to give himself a moment to breathe.

"I won't stop, love, it's okay. I need some air, is all."

You look at him with tears in your eyes and not a thought behind them. The only thing you can bring to mind that isn't what's here and now is the dozens of sketches of his hands that sit in your book. The handful of pictures on your phone of him playing. A few done professionally, some you took, all stashed away for reference purposes.

"You do, too, love," he taps his thumb against your lower lip.

Your lips are parted, but he's right that you aren't breathing. You'd forgotten. Too busy trying to survive the moments between one kiss and the next. He probably won't keep his promise not to stop if you aren't breathing, so you force yourself to take in some air. He looks so genuinely proud of you.

"There you go," he says.

You yelp in surprise when the pad of his finger presses against your clit. His eyes haven't left yours, but his gaze sharpens as a silent check-in. You nod in response. He's stopped trying to get his own pants off. Apparently, he's deemed you so desperate that there's an urgent need for him to have his hand down yours. Despite how hard you're trying to be normal about everything, you tuck the thought away as a thing to be embarrassed about later. For now, you can bask in the gentle circles he's rubbing on your clit. This is what you're supposed to be doing.

Hobie tries looking anywhere that isn't your face before giving up on the possibility of exercising self-control and tucking his head into the crook of your neck. Soft moans fall from your mouth while his breath warms your already burning skin. "You sound so pretty, love." His voice is so hushed that you're lucky to have caught it. He kisses a trail up your neck until he can whisper into your ear.

"Ready for more?" he asks.

It takes you a moment to arrange the words in your mind. Then, another to realize he's asking you a question. Eventually, you manage a "Yes". His thumb stays to work your clit as his middle finger eases its way inside you. Even this little bit of him is a breathtaking relief.

"So, you're drawin' the band?" He curls his finger inside of you before adding another.

"Shit," you hiss, "Um, no. 'm not."

His hand freezes, all movement ceasing as he raises an eyebrow. "Just me?" he asks.

You're furious, and rightfully so. He said all you had to do was tell him and here you are telling him, and he has the gall to stop with his fingers inside of you? Right when you finally felt like you were getting somewhere?

"Hobie!" You buck your hips at him, trying to get any sort of friction you can.

It takes a full blink for him to catch up. "Sorry! I'm sorry, love. That's my bad." He presses a kiss to both sides of your face as his hand resumes its work.

"G-d, fuck, thank you," you sigh.

You let your head fall back and your eyes close. Hobie's working on adding a third finger and you're thinking about his hands. His beautiful, soft, agile hands. The ones that play like a god and hold onto you like you'll float away; then brush over your skin like you're made of glass and warm you down to the bone.

"What part of me are you drawing?"

You seriously wish this man had an attention span. He asks the question like you're chatting while setting up for a show together. Entertaining himself by getting you flustered while he works on something mindless, rather than knuckle deep inside of you.

"Am I accidentally helping you with anatomy study, or whatever?" he asks.

It's a struggle to form words. Every time you find them he brushes a spot inside of you that sends them into the abyss. The building tension in your stomach is its own distraction. You refuse to let him tease you unopposed, though.

"If you--fuck-- if you wanted to help you'd let me actually draw."

"I can stop if you want to draw instead."

A wave of panic surges through you. "Please don't stop--"

Hobie chuckles and kisses you. His free hand combs through your hair. It's another thing making you feel like there is nothing in the world to worry about as long as you're in Hobie's arms. You feel yourself clench around his fingers just before he breaks the kiss. "Don't." he warns. He lets off your clit, keeping up slow, shallow thrusts with his fingers to ease you through as he tugs his jeans off.

You grumble your protest when he pulls his hand out of your pants. It's only a few moments before you feel bad for having done so, mesmorized by the sight of him licking his hand clean. "C'mere," he motions you towards him, "Need help?"

It seems genuine enough. He's not flustered by anything ever, as far as you've seen. He wouldn't know why you feel like a ghost inside your body right now. You sure as hell don't need help getting your own pants off, though. Nor are you about to put up with the teasing that would go with accepting help. You tug fabric down your body with an energy that sways between desperation and frustration. You're working on muscle memory alone. The functional part of your brain is too clouded.

"Got it?" He asks when you're done with your struggle.

"Yes." You snap.

He frowns at you and reaches for your hand. "You okay?"

You take stock of yourself before answering. "Yeah, sorry." You nod.

His thumb brushes across your knuckles, "'s okay. Get over here."

You make the awkward shuffle across the van and settle over Hobie's lap, grateful for the high ceiling. Your legs wobble even when you aren't moving anyore. You only steady when Hobie helps you to.

You forget about the aching and the pressure and the need when you meet his gaze. He looks up at you like you are his first ray of sun. His eyes are full of wonder and contentment and you wonder if this version of this look is reserved for you after all. The thought of it makes the pressure in your abdomen come back to mind. You can see the moment he registers the look in your eyes. You lean down to kiss the bridge of his nose.

"You're so perfect," he whispers.

You pull back, "Nah, not really."

He hums. His hand leaves your waist and you're disappointed until the head of his cock is pressed up to your entrance.

"Jus' relax and I'll take care of it?"

His hand is already back to your hip, ready to guide you. You nod and press your nose to his. Your gasps match when he presses inside of you. His arm is twisted at what must be an uncomfortable angle in exchange for you being comfortable and stable. You can't stand the thought of him being uncomfortable while you feel like this. You let go of his hand and slip yours behind his head. He follows suit and you continue like that, holding each other nose to nose until he bottoms out inside of you.

"Fuck," he presses against your neck with the heel of his hand, bringing you forward for a kiss. His breath is heavy when he breaks away from your mouth, "You're such a good boy." He's gentle in guiding you up the length of his cock. You do your part in following his lead. "Everything I could ever ask for, yknow that, right?"

Bullshit, but how on earth can you bring yourself to care right now? You soak up the praise and answer him with an "Uhhuh". He rolls his hips into you, guiding you back down, slowly establishing a pace.

He says something else to you, you're sure of it. You're too far gone to understand or remember it, though. Every inch of him has you melting deeper into his skin. You're so glad he's doing the work of holding you. If it weren't for the hours spent pressed close to each other these past few weeks, you'd have to admit that you can't hold yourself up.

Hobie hardly pauses when your first orgasm washes over you. You're only certain you'd warned him because the hand he had on your neck drifted down your back to soothe the nerves firing across your skin. Otherwise, he keeps going like nothing has happened.

"You still doin' okay?" he whispers against your lips, fighting his own body to force words out.

"So good," you reply.

"Good." He brings you in for another kiss, swallowing up your breath and your voice like it sustains him.

Hobie notices the strain on your legs before you can voice it. He whispers reassurances in your ear while his hands rest on the back of your thighs, helping to lift you through your shaking muscles. Your voice grows louder and less coherent with each second that passes.

"I know, I know," Hobie squeezes your leg, "'m really close. You okay to keep going?"

You whine into his neck when you first process the question. Words. You need words. Guilt blooms in your chest when he slows his pace. "I'm fine!" you force out. He doesn't speed up.

"I'm glad you're fine," he stops talking only to take a strained breath, "Where do you want me to--"

"Anywhere you want." You answer with certainty.

You would be fine if this never ended. Even with your legs aching and your body thrumming with overstimulation. For so long it was good enough to feel Hobie inside of you that you'd been willing to put aside the obvious risk of the relationship. Lately it's been good enough to be in his arms that sex was an afterthought. Now you have it all right here. He's holding you, helping you, and the head of his cock keeps brushing your G-spot and you can feel a second orgasm building. How did you find yourself like this? What did you do to deserve this? It's so, so good. He is so, so good.

Hobie doesn't warn you when he's going to cum. Instead, he kisses you as he pulls out, moaning into your mouth while he finishes into his hand. He presses deeper into the kiss until you both tumble backward. You find yourself laughing while you catch your breath.

"Hobie!"

"What!" he fishes a stray roll of paper towels from somewhere amongst the abandoned tour gear and uses one to wipe his hand clean.

You're grinning up at him, body still reeling from everything. "Thank you."

He has that look of wonder in his eyes again when he turns back to you. "You look like you need a nap."

You yawn with unfortunate timing. "I'm okay. You drove here, I should drive home."

"On these legs?" he rests a hand on your thigh. You'd been ignoring the way it's been continuing to twitch.

You frown at him, "Are you sure you don't mind?"

"Don't look sad," he pulls at the corner of your mouth with his thumb, "I don't mind. And I won't be far. You can hop into the passenger seat if ya change your mind."

You let your body relax. The promise of a rest sounds nice. Hobie's reassurance that he'll still be close sounds even better. "If you say so."

"I do."

You watch Hobie pull his jeans back on, too comfortable to be embarrassed about staring. He won't be far, is what you tell yourself each time you want to reach toward him. It's nice to know. You feel safe. That is, if you ignore the gnawing feeling in your gut that both his reassurance and your need for it are bad signs. The exact things you've spent this whole time trying to avoid.

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