#and i'm not gonna stop and fix myself so...

[someone-writing]

Today's menu:⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ Chapter V. 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

St. Paul told her that beetles cannot find peace fem!reader x S.R.

Ingredients: Spencer Reid x fem!reader, slow-burn, doomed prodigies, ex- BAU!reader (currently consultant), reader is a bit older than Spencer but not much, genius!reader, past trauma, father figure!David Rossi, okay it slowly crystallised to around season 7 Spencer, timeline… what timeline?, lore is recommended but not requested -> bit sidelined from the original but not much, Rossi is yet again fathering in this one, Reid being a confused man, reader being a profiling menace Warning, may contain: strong language, mention of blood, mention of past trauma in the cornfield, motives of insect and being an insect Underline note for the recipe: I'm not a native speaker, 'pardon my French' and any mistakes, but we're cooking in freestyle here, reader's eye colour is not specified (I'm not counting her as a stable part of the team in that paragraph) Previous meal: 𝜗𝜚 <- chapter IV. // chapter VI. -> 𝜗𝜚

"She froze up."

"Technically, she wasn't even supposed to be there. By the ideal protocol, you were supposed to be the one who would take care of it all, and she would maybe help."

"Yeah, I... I know, but I'm..." He takes in a soft breath and exhales slowly. "Methodically, this was all wrong. She could have gotten hurt. Both her and the victim."

"I do know that too."

"What are we gonna do?" A question that was gravitating around their lives on a daily basis.

"I don't know. Honestly, I do not know. We need her. And that's a fact. You've seen it yourself. If we want to finally get down that pest of an unsub, she... needs to stay."

“But what if she does get hurt? What then?”

Silence falls over the small office room as the two men look at each other. It surprised him that he came first to him and didn't report any of it yet. Not in official ways.

"I already lost her once. You can be damn sure that I won't lose her again. That's the most basic thing I owe her."

A few more beats of silence pass in the quiet office. Clock quietly ticking on the wall and rain drumming against the window. It was still raining, for the third day in a row at that time. Will it ever stop? Or were the grey clouds gonna suffocate the earth like a heavy hand pressing against a screaming mouth?

"What really happened that day?" he asks as he plays with a loose string on his cardigan.

He will need to fix it later so it won't unravel more.

"I-I of course read the reports from the case, but they really didn't say that much—as it is usually typical for cases like those. A-and I read the later investigation files that estimated that she couldn't have stopped it."

Rossi sighs softly.

Damn you, kid. You think that I would be sitting here if I had those answers? I'm asking myself this damn question for over 8 years now, and you expect that I will have an answer?

He was there.

Well, technically... he wasn't, but he found her. He was the first one to whom the tragedy of the day came.

He found both of them. Both of the young souls lying on that cold, wet ground under the heavy night skies. Stars blinking back at them like they were giving their last goodbye.

Just by one look, he knew that the other girl was gone. Too much blood and mess to even bother to reach to check the pulse point.

He knew he wouldn't find any.

So he focused on the second woman choking on her own blood while her face was coated with the blood of the first woman. Her shaky hand trying to get the blood out of her eyes. Just to make it even worse.

He still has that handkerchief he used to wipe her face with that day.

It was his own barrow that held her name on it. Reminder of the things that can happen when pride shines too brightly to see the reality. That hides the shadows that can warn you that you are reaching places too dark to go alone. On your own.

But he wasn't alone when they got her out of the field. At least he didn’t make that mistake.

He and Hotch were the ones who carried her out of that cornfield. Dried, dead plants crunching and ruffling around them with every move. Like they were mockingly whispering to them, "You failed, you failed, you failed."

They shouldn't have... ever sent her alone. Someone should have gone with her. He should have listened to the gut feeling that was telling him that the kidnappings were too smooth for just one unsub. And the look in Jason's eyes told him that he felt the same way.

Sometimes... you can try to read in the darkness, not knowing that the pit has a double bottom you will find only at the moment you fall into it.

And they almost fell several times, as the ground was constantly giving way to small hollows and pits that made them wobble on their feet like they were the girl now shaking in their arms. The only way they could make the walk was when the flashlights shone with the red-blue light that gave them at least a small idea of which hellhole they were gonna fall into this time.

The same flashing lights of the ambulance were glistening on the layers of blood still on her face, making her glow with... almost twisted eternal light.

"You are okay. Everything is okay now." He doesn't even know who said that awful thing. Because they all knew that it was a lie that shone in the darkness around them like a lighthouse.

The look in her eyes and the way her hand was gripping his when the ambulance started to shake its way through the darkness between the dust paths and cornfields were telling him that she died in that field.

That he doomed the soul of the young girl who was too bright for her own good. If the world was fair, she would have been the perfect profiler.

Now they all will need to wait and hope that she won’t become the perfect killer.

They will need to hope that the path that happened for her won’t lead her to the ways of rot and decay.

They will need to hope that she will only start to run. And that she will keep on running from everyone and everything. That she won’t stop in one place for too long—to not succumb to the allure of taking the easiest path.

Hoping that she won’t ever come back.

"We underestimated the unsub. The profile itself was correct. But we never counted on the possibility that he had an accomplice."

Spencer sighs softly over those words. He wants new information.

"I do know that. Again, I read the file. I mean... you know... what really happened that day?"

"I don't know. She never spoke about it. 

Not fully. Neither me, Gideon, nor Hotch ever managed to get out of her even a single thing beyond what you can find in the files." Rossi knew that for the young profiler it wouldn't be enough.

That if it were possible, he would dig a whole mine to get to the answers he wants to know so much.

"Then how are we supposed to know what her triggers are? What situations can make her spiral or shut down?" he argues back, while his fingers drum against his thighs with unset energy. His fingers need physical contact when his mind is trying to grab a lifeline from thin air.

What am I supposed to do if it happens again? I can't leave her in it. She can become a liability and endanger the rest of the team. But also, something can happen to her... this is not acceptable. From both moral and practical standpoint.

He knows that crawling feeling. All too well.

"You’re starting to care for her."

He bristles a bit over those words. "I care for her about as much as I care about all the members of this team," he snaps back almost immediately. "But to stop you assuming anything—yes, I do find her interesting. Happy?"

It was always fascinating how quickly the logical man reaches for snappy defense.

"I will look into it. I promise. No one wants to let her get hurt, you can trust me on this, kid. And I will speak with Hotch." Rossi nods his head after a moment. He can already read him. He knows that the genius's logical shield is under observation—he’s trying to find a way to repair it and fix his defence against the newcomer woman.

A nod. Soft whine of the light metal against the hard floor as he pushes the chair back from the desk. Sneakers silently tapping against the same floor of the small office.

"And kid?" That makes him turn to look back at the older profiler.

"Thanks for coming to me about this first."

One more nod. But it’s less about agreement now, and more about understanding.

The door closed with a soft click.

He still has cards he needs to count today.

The walls bounced back sound similar to... a cavalry. 

Cavalry of tiny, little legs scratching the hard, cold concrete floor as they were pushing the body ahead. 

Body that was too big and yet too small for... everything. Created from hard shell and yet so squishy and squeezable insides.

So easy to destroy. 

The cavalry of legs was making its way through the vast hallways that were endless and finite at the same time, walls reaching for the heights where they were kissing the dark skies that were full of buzzing lights. Maybe they were transmitting messages she couldn't understand yet. 

Or... ones she won’t ever understand. 

Those little legs were moving hastily, and yet she felt like she was staying in place. Like she was running in place and the doors of the room she wanted to get into were mocking her like an ancient sentinel in the distance. 

It was a wild dash and calm walk at the same time, and she finally arrived at the door. The deformed beetle leg clumsily fighting with door handles that were made out of lead and arsenic. Leaving behind soft kisses of death that were cutting the string of her life shorter and shorter every day. 

The door slowly opened and the beetle crawled in. 

"Oh, hey... I-I was looking at the new evidence that Garcia sent us. But don't worry, I tried to not mess with anything... that—that much." 

She was her own Gregor Samsa. But she hadn’t woken up — she’d walked herself into the transformation, step by step. She just couldn't influence the last push. 

But he... saw the woman. 

Not the beetle that she was...

Or he at least knew how to pretend not to see the beetle for now.

Hard to say how long it will take before he throws that apple at her. Will he mean it? Or will it just happen, as it all happened in the past? 

She nods her head silently and drops her bag on one of the chairs in the office rooms. She moves to open the blinds at the window to let in at least a bit of natural greyish light so she doesn't feel like she is planning to play a game of blackjack at the Devil's casino. 

The Devil wasn't real, but the man in front of her was as present as one would be. And the casino was the bureau room wrapped in report papers and redlines. And she needed to handle her cards correctly; otherwise, she will lose. 

And she is not sure if there is much more she can bet on and not regret losing it later. 

"Plus Garcia left you some... sticky note on one of the case files. I—I promise that I didn't read it... well, I—I didn’t read it intentionally," he adds gingerly as he pushes the manila folder towards her with the powder-pink paper on it. She nodded her head softly, a signal that she is not gonna make a deal out of it.

"It was on the outside of the desk. It wasn’t a state secret, so don’t worry about it." 

He let out a soft breath and nodded back. 

He still wasn’t sure how to even call her at this point. She was a myth, and the name she held felt like something forbidden to say aloud. Calling her just Doctor felt too impersonal as they worked too closely with each other. Doctor Y/N wasn’t that bad, but he wasn’t sure if she even wanted to be called by that title. Some people hated that. 

And there was that stupid nickname Morgan found for her. Taciturn. Short version... Tac. 

He noticed that Garcia used that short version on that sticky note too. It was slowly starting to stick around. 

"How... how do you feel about that nickname that Morgan gave you...? I—I, I don't want to pry, of course... I just wanted to ask because Garcia used it on the sticky note, and I don't want to use it in case it makes you uncomfortable or you don't like it. 

It’s your own personal decision, of course, and we are working with each other only for a short time and I'm not sure if I should call you Doctor Y/N or n-not, because statistically a big number of PhD holders don’t like to..." He was over-explaining himself again. His own mind and tongue were sticking their feet out to make him trip and crumble as usual. 

He wasn’t even sure if he was trying to make her more comfortable — or if he was just trying to stop being so terrified of her silence. 

She sighs softly again, but there is a softness in her face. She is trying to at least push in the microexpressions that she won’t rip his head off. “Tac... is okay.” 

If it helps you to have at least the fake feeling that you don't expect me to snap and crumble like the Babylon tower in front of you... I can survive it. 

His mouth moves a few times before it shuts closed, and he nods softly. Okay, he can work with that.

And it means that he doesn’t need to use her name. 

Which is a win. 

Because he feels like he is not... worth it? No, maybe it’s more about the fact that he still doesn’t understand who is even supposed to be the woman that holds that name?

That the name itself is just a mush of sounds that leave his vocal cords, slide across his tongue, brush against his teeth, and kiss his lips — but he doesn’t know the real meaning behind that word that is born into the world every time he says it aloud.

That name was still lost in translation. She was... lost in translation for him. 

“Okay... okay.” He mumbles to himself more than giving her a real answer to her reaction.

Wheels up in fifteen.

They all were waiting for the next murder at this point.

Because the unsub had been radio silent for almost 3 weeks and 6 days, which was atypical. When considering the current body count of 26 — it was a change in the timeline. 

Around 3 bodies per month through the 7 months since they started to work on the case, but now... he was 2 bodies behind. It almost felt like he was regrouping. Maybe planning something...

But definitely not reconsidering his life decisions and putting their career on a peg out of the ‘goodness’ of his soul.

And with her on board — both literally and figuratively — their current situation felt more... crowded. 

Her eyes were skimming over the current case file while she was listening to the things that were happening around the jet.

Hotch and Emily bouncing around theories about why the unsub took so long this time, Rossi grumbling something about a possible ego jerk, and Reid chiming in about the statistical chance of the unsub being a narcissist based on the power play that was shown by this.

They were waiting for the unsub's next move, sadly waiting for the next victim as the case went cold not so long after the body was found.

It was a blind chase where they were hoping for bread crumbs. 

And Morgan had cracked another joke at Reid’s expense over the fact that the man remembers the exact number of diners around the Cincinnati outskirts and yet had never considered using that knowledge for something social and not just case-related.

She watched how Spencer tried to hide his frown behind his hand.

Grumbling something about running into a serial killer as a possible date being higher than he thinks and that he is not gonna risk that.

There was something comforting about the rhythm of it.

Like they were characters in a play she’d seen a dozen times but never acted in. She turned back to her folder, not ready to step on stage just yet.

"Uh, hey... can I ask a quick question about something?" She looked up and met with the only bright eyes of the whole unit. 

It was fascinating that all the other team members were sitting somewhere around the deep brown to hazel brown eye spectrum.

Jennifer Jareau was the only one with eyes beyond hazel.

"Sure." A few beats of silence—chat between the rest of the team filling it for them—as she tucks the case file closer to her so the other woman can take her seat opposite her. "How... can I help?"

The words felt strange—old and heavy, like something sealed away for years and now uncorked again. They weren't rotten but... different. Heavy, and yet they hadn't lost the taste they used to have in the far past when they were bottled for the last time. 

And she was now opening them again. 

"I just wanted to ask about the card symbolism because the press is constantly after us because of it. I tried to ask Spencer but he..."

"Lost you after about 2 minutes?" she finished for her.

There was shock, schooled to surprise, on the other woman's face.

But not the negative type. Or at least she hoped so...

"Yeah... yeah," JJ nodded, a small smile flickering onto her face. "I see that you noticed that. Spence doesn't usually mean it but he has a tendency to lose us on the way. I think I got the basics but... just to be sure."

She nodded softly back and reached into her bag—dug through it for a short moment before she found the card box. The known cards were kept on the top of the deck with names of the victims written on top of them.

"Okay..." she mumbled as she put the most important cards in front of the woman. "It's important to understand that all the symbols hold their own role. Not just the face cards. All of them matter."

Her fingers take the Queen of Diamonds. "Michelle Scott was given the Queen of Diamonds because of her social status — symbolised by diamonds. She was a businesswoman, big fish but not dirty job, had her own support fund for kids and students from lower-income families who were into science research. That's our interpretation of why she was given the Queen. Ruler of the 'kingdom'." She hands the card to the woman so she can study it for a moment. 

"Next one, King of Hearts. Mr. Boose was an urgent care doctor — symbolised by hearts." A new card appeared on the desk.

The beetle wanted to reach for its antennas but... the human hand moved the loose hair from her eyes. 

That tiny leg, for once, took the shape of a hand.

She closed the door behind her as she moved silently through the old diner. It was only about a 10-minute walk from the crime scene, for once the location being convenient.

She needed a caffeine fix as it was almost 10 p.m., and the night would be long, as they all knew that the unsub was around the city only for a few hours. It was a chase before the new card would be dropped — signalling that the unsub was yet again... gone.

The floor was covered by faded hardwood, the glass was milky with age, the plaster was peeling, and the wallpaper was faded. An old Christmas wreath hung at the door to the kitchen and Christmas lights around the windows, as the staff didn't have enough money, nor motivation, to bother to take them off for several years now — based on the layers of dust and cobwebs.

She dismissed the first two tables because the top coat was melted by age, and she didn’t want to even touch the surface voluntarily. The other table was still being cleaned, and the rest of them were at the window.

She didn’t want to be perched at it like she would be in case of a cinematic shot that would belong to an amateur version of Fargo.

Gloomy traumatised ex-FBI profiler, working on a string of murders happening across the north part of the United States with a mysterious killer that has a thing for game cards...

Hell, they were even a state away from Minnesota.

She chuckled sourly to herself and sat behind the only table that wasn't offending her for any peculiar or particular reason with its position. Right next to the counter.

The only thing she would complain about was the awful smell of coffee.

She rubbed her face in disgust right after she nodded to the waitress a soft thank you when she brought the small pot to her. The mug was white and cheaply looking, the pot looked like it had definitely seen better days.

And she definitely should have expected that the plastic top of it may fall off, and the dark liquid would spill over the table before she got the pot back to an upright position.

She cursed underneath her breath, and her hand reached for that packed-up mountain of white paper wipes—here goes being more sustainable and 'saving the planet'. She took a handful and threw it haphazardly at the spill with a sigh, her eye watching the coffee... not soaking into the material the way she expected?

There was a difference in material porosity... her fingers dug themselves into the layers, and they wrapped around something paper... but not thin.

Her breath stops for a moment, and the noises of the half-empty diner step into the background. There is no longer the buzzing of the lights above her head, the hissing of grease from the kitchen, or the draggy voice of the waitress behind the counter as she is complaining about someone called Jerry to her... most likely sister.

She shoots out from the table she was sitting at, and her fingers shakily rip apart the soggy envelope. She shakes it to get out the thing she is dreading to see...

Ace.

She doesn’t really even have time to think about the whole thing before someone bumps into her and pushes her against the table. She must have completely zoned out...

She caught a whiff of something — disinfection? Cologne? Smoke?

She wants to turn and say sorry — but by the time she turns, the bell above the door is the only thing still moving. A small sigh almost escapes her lips before she chokes on it at the last moment when she notices the thing on the ground.

Crispy white, mockingly visible on the wooden floor.

She leans down for it, and only moments later shoots up from the table haphazardly. The Ace crumpled in her hand.

The bell on the door was still swaying when she turned — spun, really — trying to follow a ghost she hadn’t even seen.

She is turning around her own axis. Trying to see if she can catch that... man somewhere around, she is already up to start to run somewhere. Anywhere in the blinding illusion that she may catch that ghost, but a hand on her shoulder stops her.

"Hey, missy. I don't know who raised ya, but in this diner we pay for our coffee." That draggy voice gets a squeaky edge, and she turns to the other woman.

She should definitely leave that man. Bite down harder to keep the smoking at bay, and she should also try to tone down the blue eyeshadow — she won't feel younger that way anyway.

"That man who just left. Where was he sitting? What was he wearing? How did he look like?" She starts to shoot the questions immediately, and she can see the other woman getting almost startled over that line of questions.

She automatically reaches for her coat to... right, she doesn't have an official badge. Great.

"I'm with the FBI. And you think that I'm currently lying to you. But trust me, why would I need to lie to a woman with a mediocre job, a shitty partner, and a feeling that she is still not that old — even though she just came from the second funeral of her high school classmate in the past 3 years."

The waitress only blinks in shock and silently points at one of the tables. The one which... was getting cleaned when she came in.

"Where is the mug? Silverware?"

"Already in the kitchen. Dishwasher."

Fuck.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." She seethes through her teeth and blindly reaches into her other pocket to pull out a mushed 5-dollar bill. "Keep the rest."

The other woman just nods yet again in shock, takes the bill, and shakily — almost mechanically — marches back to the diner.

She runs her hand through her hair roughly and looks at the envelope in her hand. Her left hand is shaking, her right hand moves from her hair to rub her forehead for a moment in methodical, almost meditative, gestures. Then it slides to her mouth and chin for a moment.

She blinks hard once. And then quickly once, and twice.

Restart.

She rips the envelope open.

Tiny beetle leg holding the card.

Joker.

She stared.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Long enough for the card to mean something more than ink.

Long enough to feel like a target.

Her hand reached to her pocket to pull out her phone. Fingers were shaking as she was scrolling to ‘Rossi – Do not pick up.’

"We really should not send you alone." Rossi sighed softly when the cavalry arrived.

They were ready to sweep the place from floor to ceiling if it would help. And they were ready to confiscate the whole kitchen if it would be needed. Because they needed... something.

Anything.

"Ace..." Hotch mused aloud as he looked at the card that was passed around the group like a hot potato. "Reid...?"

"We spoke about it with..." Eyes land for a moment on her. "Tac. And we are trying to establish the take the unsub would give to this specific card because if we estimate the value of the card, it has double meaning. In case of Blackjack, to be more specific, it can be both the lowest and highest card of the game..."

She knew that he was speaking, but she felt like someone stuffed cotton in her ears. Like her head was held forcefully underwater. But by whom?

"Let's hope that if there will be a next card... we will get a manual to it." Morgan adds with a sigh as he watches the local police department take from the kitchen a box full of silverware and a few cups.

She felt how the card was slowly burning its way from the inside pocket of her coat.

In a similar way how the plesiosaur burned when she met with Penelope. But this burning was more... painful. Sinister.

Because this one was right above her heart.

She opens her mouth... "Yeah, this one will most likely need it." She mumbles sourly, biting down the rest.

The beetle inside her shrank smaller. Waiting for the final blow.

But no one was swinging yet.

Except—

Reid turned slightly, gaze ticking over her like he was picking up on something misaligned. Like a rhythm out of sync.

He didn’t say anything. His eyes landing on the woman with beetle features for the last time.

He didn’t see the woman as previously. He saw the hints of the beetle for the first time.

He frowned — a subtle crease forming between his brows — before turning his attention back to the card in Hotch’s hand.

As if nothing was wrong.

As if she hadn’t just cracked at the edges.

I do not know what I'm doing. I'm suffering... but I'm also enjoying this? Can I ask you all something? Are you capable to read the reader as you? I'm aware that I'm dragging you all through many things but I'm really hoping that you can jump in and at least enjoy the ride for a bit as the viewers of this storm... Anyways, that would be all for today, we are finally kicking this thing off! (After six chapters... great) Word count: 4,6k In case I don't see ya, good morning, good afternoon, good evening, and good night!

[moonlight0934]

Atsushi stands in front of the police station, racking his brain for any reason that Dazai would lock Akutagawa up. He finds himself storming back to the ADA's office. Dazai is sitting in the office, at his desk with his feet propped up.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he demands, knocking his feet off.

Dazai sits up, looking annoyed, but mostly blank still. "You're making an awfully big deal out of this. He's not going to be convicted or anything, I just needed Chuuya's attention. There's a mission I need him, and the Black Lizard for. They worked with a group a while back that we're trying to hunt down, but the mafia has a code about giving out information about coworkers."

"What does that have to do with Akutagawa?"

"I'm gonna tell all of his secrets if Chuuya and the Black Lizard don't give me the information I want. Or I’m going to tell their secrets and make it seem like Akutagawa did. After all, everyone else would believe me if I said I told him to.”

“What in the hell? What’s wrong with you?”

“They already said no, and I need this information. People’s lives are on the line. You need to understand that this gang needs to come down.”

“Yeah, we are talking about people’s lives, but that includes Akutagawa! He’s a person too, and we need to think of him. What if they say no again? Will you really tell everyone that he snitched? Just cause Chuuya and Gin wouldn’t believe it doesn’t mean that he wouldn’t be killed for a rumor like that!”

Dazai rolls his eyes. “You’re being dramatic. Nothing is going to happen to him, and I’m going to get Chuuya on my side. You know how much he loves his pet projects.”

Atsushi can feel his blood begin to boil, hearing Dazai call Akutagawa a pet project. Probably because he knows that’s all Akutagawa was to Dazai, and here Dazai is accusing someone who really cares of using Akutagawa the same way he did. The way he still does.

"I'm not risking it. I'll take down the gang myself, and then you and I are going to get Akutagawa out of there. Your plan is insane, and they might not even know what you want them to. Do you realize the risks you're putting Akutagawa in?"

"I don't care, and I'm not really sure why you do either."

"Because he's a person, one who's doing better. Who hasn't even been killing people, and has helped us save the world on multiple occasions. He doesn't deserve for us to treat him like that, even though he does still try to stab me every once in a while," Atsushi adds absentmindedly.

"It's just Akutagawa, you're making a big deal. Nothing is going to happen, and he'll be fine. He's not even mad about it. I spoke with the officer watching him, he's fine."

"You didn't see the look in his eyes. Not that you would have cared if you did. You know what, forget it. I'm going to talk to Chuuya and the Black Lizard myself. I'm going to figure this out without your help, and I'm not going to let you hurt him anymore."

Dazai rolls his eyes, attempting to say something else, but Atsushi storms away before he can. He doesn't even stop to consider what he's doing until he reaches the mafia's headquarters. It's not as though it was hard for him to find, he already knew where it was. Dazai had taken Atsushi to pester Akutagawa and the Black Lizard at work a few times until they agreed to whatever Dazai wanted. Atsushi hadn't thought much of it, just lingering in the background, thinking that the end goal justified the means it took to get there. Now he's not so sure, not after seeing Akutagawa's mask drop. Not after seeing just how defeated and tired he was, worn down by everything that had happened to him. The guards don't try to stop him, instead Gin is the first one to reach him. She's glaring, her face set into hard stone.

"What did you do?"

"Dazai got him arrested. I need your help to fix it. He's going to blackmail you and Chuuya about some gang you worked with. I figured you would know which one since the Black Lizard and an executive working together can't be that long of a list."

Gin's eyes soften, just by a fraction, but her fists unclench a little, and she nods. "Walk with me," she says, waving off the security guards still hanging around behind her.

Atsushi complies immediately, sticking close to her, but not close enough for her to stab him before he has a chance to move. He learned the hard way that the Akutagawa's could be faster than his enhanced speed.

"I'm pretty sure I know what gang it is. It's one the mafia cut off a few months ago, the only one we all worked with. Chuuya figured out that they were dealing drugs to minors, and almost killed them all. Mori stopped him, didn't want to insight a gang war."

"What do you want to do? All I need is the name, and I can figure everything else out on my own."

Gin laughs, sounding genuinely surprised. "Really?"

Atsushi nods, earnest and confused about her reaction.

"Of course you would. Anyway, that won't be necessary. We'll be helping you if that's what it takes for Dazai to back off, and then we're going to get Ryuu. Hirotsu is calling Chuuya now. It's his day off, so he might be a bit whiny about it, but he'll deal with the jailbreak itself. We'll take care of them, and then you'll tell Dazai to back off."

Atsushi nods, honestly ready to fight Dazai over this if it comes to that. "Will Akutagawa be ok? This doesn't really fix the root of the problem," Atsushi adds tentatively.

"He'll be fine. This isn't the first time something like this has happened. He's always had odd ways of punishing Ryuu."

She opens the door, leading him into the room where the rest of the Black Lizard are gathered around a round wooden table.

"What is he doing here?" Higuchi demands, standing fast enough to shake her chair.

"He's going to help us with Dazai. He knows what Dazai wants, and he's going to arrest them after we gather them up. That way when Chuuya breaks Akutagawa out, we don't have to worry about Dazai going after him."

Higuchi looks angry, but she doesn't say anything else, dropping back into her chair. Her eyes stay on Atsushi, hateful and intense. Gin opens her mouth to say something else, but Chuuya walks in before she can. He looks like he might have just woken up though his outfit is still pressed, and he has his hat clutched in his right hand.

"Ok, what's so important that you called me on my day off?" he asks, barely giving Atsushi a single glance before turning back to Gin.

"Akutagawa was put in jail while working for Dazai on Mori's orders. We need you to break him out while we deal with the reason."

Chuuya raises one eyebrow before pinching the bridge of his nose in between his thumb and forefinger. "Ok, I can do that. Are we meeting back here afterwards?"

Gin nods, and he hums. "Ok, I'm going to get the schematics of the high security place in town."

After he's left, Gin turns to the people around the table. "Who here as a problem with the weretiger being here?"

Tachihara and Higuchi both raise their hands.

"Ok, you're both dismissed."

It's quiet for a few minutes before Higuchi says, "I am your superior. You can't dismiss me!"

"We all know you're only here cause you want to impress Akutagawa, and that's not going to help. Neither is both of you acting like children cause you don't want him here. Leave. You can either go take it up with the boss, or you can go home, and wait for us to be done. I don't want to make you leave."

Tachihara pauses. "I want to help."

"Can you behave?"

He nods.

"Then you can stay. Higuchi, either you leave, or I'll escort you out."

Higuchi stands, and storms out.

"Now, I'm going to research what tabs we still have on them, and then we're going to leave. You all can start on mission prep, weretiger, you're with me."

Atsushi nods, wringing his hands. He follows Gin back out, and through a few winding hallways. He knows that he should probably be paying attention to where they're going in case he needs to leave quickly, but he's too anxious to care. Gin doesn't say anything as she goes through their records and files, though she does make sure he doesn't see them. He turns to look at his feet, standing by the corner.

"Alright, will you have any problem doing what I tell you to?" Gin asks, turning her hard look back to Atsushi after a few minutes.

He shakes his head. "I know my biggest role is arresting them, and dealing with Dazai. How we get there, I can leave that up to you. I'll do what you need me to."

Gin nods, and then takes him straight out to a car. "Get in, I texted the others, and they'll be taking a different car. They feel more comfortable that way."

Atsushi nods, and climbs into the passenger's seat. Gin makes a phone call before climbing in behind him. "Chuuya said he'll have Akutagawa out and back home in an hour and a half. We have till then for you to deal with Dazai."

Atsushi nods, his jaw set. It's a fifteen minute drive to the main base for this gang, and Gin climbs out immediately.

"I'm going to scout, and you'll wait for the others. Follow Hirotsu's orders, and send Tachihara in after me."

"Ok."

She jogs off towards the building, disappearing into the shadows of the building next door. Atsushi stays crouched behind the car as he watches people mill around the building, clearly on watch. Another car drives up after a few minutes, and Tachihara and Hirotsu climb out.

"Gin wanted you to meet her inside, and for me to go with you," Atsushi says addressing Tachihara first, then Hirotsu.

Tachihara nods, and makes his way towards the building.

"Come on, son. We're going through the front door," Hirotsu says, putting a gloved hand on Atsushi's shoulder.

Atsushi blinks, surprised. "Oh, alright."

The fight lasts longer than Atsushi thought it would, a few skilled ability users inside. Though he can see why the Black Lizard are some of the mafia's best. They always seemed subpar with the things they were up against, but watching them work in their natural mission type is astounding. They're efficient, and while it took some time, that's because they were careful to make sure no one got killed, and none of them got hurt. Gin wipes the blood from her hands, her head cocked to the side as she surveys the pile of unconscious bodies.

"You can call the police now. We'll be taking our leave, but I trust you'll deal with Dazai."

Atsushi nods, his phone already in his hand. It takes almost an hour for the police to fully process them, and all the evidence in the warehouse, but Atsushi already has seven missed calls from Dazai by then.

He finally picks up once everything is taken care of, "Hey."

"You really dealt with them yourself?"

"Yep, and you're going to leave Akutagawa alone. I don't want to hear anything about it, and you don't want to know the chaos I will cause if you make any more problems before I've mentally worked through this one, and figured out what to do. Are we clear?"

Dazai laughs. "Yeah, I guess. You'll get used to my way of doing this eventually, and you'll realize that the methods are far less important than the results."

He hangs up, and Atsushi finds himself walking back to Akutagawa's apartment. He doesn't even know that he'll be there, but he remembers Dazai taking him one time. Akutagawa's haunted eyes play through his mind over and over again. He knocks; once, then twice. Right before he's about to knock for the third time, Akutagawa opens the door. He's dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, dark circles under his eyes. He looks surprised to see Atsushi, his arms coming up to wrap around himself.

"What are you doing here, Jinko?"

"I wanted to check on you, and apologize for my part in all of this."

"There's no need for that. My sister told me what you did... and I greatly appreciate it."

"Can I come in?" Atsushi asks, straightening up.

Akutagawa looks surprised again, but nods. "Gin was just making tea. We were going to turn something on the TV. You're free to join us if you want."

Atsushi nods, and Akutagawa leads him to his living room. It's cozy, and Atsushi settles on the comfortable couch while Akutagawa flips through TV shows. For the first time since he left the police station that morning, the nausea in his stomach goes away, and he's able to relax, sitting next to Akutagawa and letting his muscles untense.

Wrongfully Arrested

Atsushi and Akutagawa walk down the sidewalk together, not trying to kill each other for once. Instead just walking to a mission like normal partners.

“What did Dazai tell you about this mission?” Akutagawa asks, sounding tense.

“Not a whole lot. He said that it was really important that we catch the ability user. Said that they have a hallucination type ability, but he didn’t give me anything else. Why?”

“The only thing he said to me was that he wasn’t asking me to kill an ally of the mafia. As vague as he normally is, it’s not usually this bad. Something feels wrong, but he hung up before I could ask any questions.”

“If it felt wrong, why did you even come?”

“That is a stupid question, Jinko. You know why I’m here.”

“Yeah, I guess I do. Anyway, what’s our game plan? If they have an illusion ability, then anything can be fake as soon as we get into range. I don’t know how large that is, but how do we go about that?”

“Easy, I cut the air right before actually hitting the target. Rashomon cuts abilities, so that close, it should disappear. If not, I can just go for a non-lethal cut. A small one just to make sure that whatever it is is real.”

“Like a paper cut? Do you have the precision for that?”

“Yes, of course I do, you fool.”

“Stop being so persnickety. I was just making sure. I don’t want you to accidentally take off any of my limbs again.”

“Oh, believe me, if I do that, it’s on purpose.”

“You are so mean for literally no reason.”

Akutagawa smirks, showing off his teeth.

“Yeah, no reason at all.”

Atsushi makes a face.

“Please never smile like that again.”

“Can you please shut up?”

“Aw, you asked so politely.”

Akutagawa glares at him as they come up on the district that Dazai said their perp would be hiding in. Atsushi’s phone rings, causing him to pause.

“Do you want me to stop?” Akutagawa asks.

He glances at his phone.

“Nah, you can keep going. It’s Dazai, so I shouldn’t be long. Text me if you find him, but don’t engage by yourself.”

Akutagawa nods, tucking his hands in his pockets as he continues on.

Atsushi answers his phone with a cheerful, “Hey, Dazai, what’s up?”

“Are you with Akutagawa, or did you send him on without you?”

“I sent him forward. Do you need me to get him?”

“No, I wanted him gone. I needed to talk to you alone.”

“What did you want to talk about?”

“The perp. I wanted to tell you a little bit more.”

“Why wouldn’t Akutagawa be here for that?”

A weird suspicious feeling starts to take root the longer the conversation goes on. He looks around to see if Akutagawa is still in view, but he’s not.

“I just think that Akutagawa wouldn’t be able to be impartial.”

“Impartial?”

“Yes, I know that he hasn’t killed anyone because of your deal. However, I don’t trust his temper to hold forever.”

“What did this guy do? Can you get the point already? I have to get going.”

“Right, I can do that. He attacked an orphanage in a specific town. Got them to kill each other. That happens to be where Akutagawa grew up before I took him in. That’s why I don’t trust him. He can be very rash.”

“You think he’d really care about that? Anyone he knew wouldn’t be there anymore. He doesn’t seem like the sentimental value type.”

“I know, but he can be. I’ve known him a long time. Trust me on this. I’m only letting you know in case he figures out. Just to make sure that you’re ready in case he attacks you too.”

“Are you stalling?”

“No, but you should be prepared.”

Atsushi hangs up before Dazai can convince him to stay on the phone. He runs in the direction that Akutagawa walked in.

“Akutagawa!” he yells, even though he knows that there could be dangerous people lurking around.

Then he sees them, a group of police men outside of a nearby building. He runs over, trying to see what’s happening.

“Who are you?” one of them demands.

“I work with the Armed Detective Agency. What’s happening over here?”

“We just arrested one of the members of the Port Mafia. He was here to kill someone. We were too late to save them, but we were able to apprehend him with few injuries. Were you sent down on the same mission?”

“No, I was down here looking for a different perp . They weren’t part of the mafia.”

“Do you need help?”

“No, I don’t think he’ll have stuck around after this. I’ll just call my superior.”

The officer nods, and Atsushi rushes off to the side to call Dazai.

“What is wrong with you?!” he demands in a hushed whisper.

“I have a reason.”

“What do you mean? You led him to get arrested! Did he even actually kill the guy?”

“I can’t tell you anything, Atsushi.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. This is not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, and this is how things had to happen. I had to handle it this way. You’ll understand someday.”

“How long are you going to leave him there?”

“Oh, I’m not getting him out at all. I’ll leave that to someone else. The reason why this had to happen in the first place.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m going to do something about this if I have the power.”

“You don’t. Don’t start making trouble where you don’t have any. Leave him alone, and stay out of this.”

“No. I’m not doing that. He’s my partner. That’s your doing too.”

Atsushi hangs up, but most of the police have already left. So, he heads to the nearest police station. He shows them his ID and asks if they had processed any criminals in the last half hour. The man at the front desk looks at his ID closely before proudly telling him that they caught one of the Port Mafia’s top enforcers. They even had fingerprint and DNA evidence pinning him to the murder.

“I want to talk to him.”

“He’s not talking to anyone. We already tried.”

“I don’t care. He’ll talk to me.”

“If you say so. He’s still in the interrogation room anyway.”

He leads Atsushi to the interrogation room where Akutagawa is sitting. Akutagawa has his arms folded, leaning back in his chair with a bored look.

“Akutagawa.”

He frowns deeper as he turns to look at Atsushi.

“What do you want, Jinko?”

“I’m not sure yet. What happened?”

“I showed up at the warehouse that the perp was allegedly last seen at, and there was a body instead. Then the police arrived, and said that I murdered him. I assume that Dazai set me up. They said that they had fingerprints and DNA though I hadn’t touched anything yet. Also, the man was torn up, which I certainly could have done. Not that I leave fingerprints, cause this isn’t amateur hour.”

“Yeah, I talked to him. Why didn’t you just leave?”

“Cause the police were already there, and they were there in droves. I couldn’t just leave without killing at least half a dozen people.”

Atsushi drops back against his chair, his brain fuzzing out for a moment.

“He used me to get you arrested.”

Akutagawa laughs mirthlessly.

“First time? He’ll use you till there’s nothing left of you, or until you die. Both in my case.”

Atsushi looks up to see Akutagawa’s eyes cast downward. They’re dark, his jaw set, and his body tense.

“I’ll figure this out.”

“No you won’t. Not if he doesn’t want you to.”

“There has to be something I can do.”

Akutagawa doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at him. Atsushi stands up, rushing back out of the room. He can’t take Akutagawa’s silence anymore, can’t take his lack of anger, and his acceptance of the situation. He barely gets outside before he’s throwing up in the grass. Despite everything, there isn’t a single thing he can do in the long run.

[silverwings920]

i just reread the nel arc again, now that it's officially over, and slursagi really elevates his game here, but my favorite crazy off-the-wall slursagi moment (besides all the clown lines) has to be him telling kaiser, "kneel to me, you shitty clown."

Entirely.

Unprompted.

remember: when kaiser told the bllkers to get on their knees, he said it in german, and before any of them got the mikage translators; isagi never understood what he was saying.

so... unless he specifically wasted his precious analyzing time in the viewing room to rewatch this moment (which, dgmw, that's a hilarious mental image: like, imagine isagi, off-the-field btw, muttering furiously to himself 'what did he say back there? what did he fucking say? it was an insult. i just know it. i gotta figure out what it was just so that i can throw it back in his face later on on the pitch to traumatize him and pretend that it was just an in-the-heat-of-the-moment thing i said during a match.' if that was the case, i'd love isagi so much more because, like, you gotta respect the dedication to the bit 🤣🤣🤣) that was just slursagi having the most insane sixth sense for insults ever.)

and right after we got kaiser's backstory, too… (literally the same f-ing chapter)

[gingermintpepper]

I have finished the book. It was not a very good book at all. My preliminary thoughts are as follows:

Prose is the best part about it but also one of the worst. Evocative and lovely language was used for what I can only describe as manipulating the reader. In a different book by a different writer, perhaps that would be the mark of a good unreliable narrator but this is not that kind of book and the writer, I fear, is not clever enough for that kind of narrative.

The characters - I do not think of them. Trapped as we are in Alcestis' head, she is a passive, dull thing who I do not know any better at the end of the book than I did at the start. I couldn't distinguish where her voice ended and where the author's began and it is through that haziness that all other characters are observed. Admetus is an objectively phenomenal husband but his kindness and regard is made bitter because he loves Apollo not her. Apollo is no more than a ghost haunting them both. Hippothoe and Phylomache exist as images of what Alcestis could be - a woman who dies of illness or children - and Heracles is awkward and small, quiet and passive in the way everything is in this book. Persephone and Hades are perhaps the only characters of some interest in here, but Persephone is a volatile mess of power masquerading as empowerment while Hades, like all the men in this book really, is small and passive and really only becomes worth something when out of Persephone's massive shadow.

The romance - What romance? There is no romance in this book. Alcestis imagines that what occurs between Admetus and Apollo is a romance but we do not get to see that story. The obvious regard and kindness Admetus holds for Alcestis would be romance in any other book - but in this it is described with so much apathy and loathing so as to make Admetus' actions seem unremarkable and lacking. As for Persephone and Alcestis; Alcestis wants nothing to do with her until Persephone forces her. She assaults her, like Hades assaulted her, while speaking the words of that tale into Alcestis' flesh while Alcestis rejects her and somehow this becomes the catalyst of their 'love'. There is no romance in this book.

The queer themes - I am not sure how one makes a story so easily given to a queer imagining biphobic, lesbophobic and not poly but it sure did that. Alcestis' ideas about love and sexuality and how it might possibly have different forms and fashions is unchanged from start to finish and homosexuality, for all that it is what she blames her ruined marriage on, is never explored past a few fleeting, derogatory descriptions and quickly brushed over allusions.

The Apollo Thing - Listen to me so carefully. Apollo is only in a single scene of this book. One single scene and it is the wedding scene where Admetus calls upon him to save them from the poisonouse snakes. Every other mention of him in this book is in passing, an offhanded mention of a person praying to a god, or with the underlying scorn and anger of a wife thinking of her husband's mistress. Apollo is not even there when Alcestis dies. He wasn't even responsible for Heracles eventually going down to the Underworld to retrieve her. If the author could've erased him from the wedding scene too, I'm sure she would've invented a way to do it. Apollo has no relationship with Alcestis, we do not get to see the nature of his relationship with Admetus and every other opportunity which existed to show him on their side was neatly and entirely erased. Thanatos, naturally, is completely absent from this novel.

In short, this was entirely unpleasant from essentially start to finish. I was very excited when I started this book and saw the quality of the prose and also the ambivalent character sketched of its gods but things went so rapidly and extremely downhill that I am left wondering how it was possibly flubbed that badly.

Regarding this book's feminism, I will dedicate a separate post to that entirely. To this book's credit, it did not have the superficial girlboss feminism that many of its contemporaries tend to champion but to its complete and utter detriment, the feminism it champions is perhaps the most insidious kind. The sort that excludes the disenfranchised, the impoverished and the normal woman. This book's feminism is for the privileged and the powerful and it is a deeply upsetting thing.

Lastly, I would like to thank @superkooku , @konu-d and @waterlinkedgirl for cheering me on through this absolute torment. I would not have finished this without them. Take that as you will.

If you are interested in the tale of Admetus and Alcestis or just want to read a retelling, I urge you to just read @reawakened-revenant (CiCiRose on ao3)'s God of the Golden Bow series. It is captivating, enthralling, impeccably researched and so utterly submersed in passion, love and care that it is breathtaking to read. It is a personal favourite of mine and the standard to which I hold all other Admetus and Alcestis retellings.

With all that done, I am going to stare at a wall and contemplate the horrors now. ✌🏾

[valiantwolf]

it is honestly a crime that i have to do my laundry every week for the rest of my life

[mjrdm]

.

[sheyshen]

fixed the oven today (the things i do for pizza), dusted and vacuumed, sent out a couple more applications, did some laundry and emailed my idhs contact to see if i can use the PTO that was listed on my last paycheck. now to kick back and game all weekend!

[cathalbravecog]

Assortment of Cogs Only member doodles from today - I was gonna draw all of the Club Cats also but I (family guy death pose)

don't mind the ex wife inside joke meme I had to draw it eventually

[angelbaby-fics]

rubbing my hands together with glee hehehe i'm (finally) (im sorry) working on the requests in my inbox & since i've spent so much of this unexpected mental health hiatus reading (i love to read but my focus & brain fog has been so bad i haven't finished a book in about a year) and the more i read the more i can feel my writing improve before my very eyes 😳 like i suppose it makes sense that words are coming more naturally to me now when i'm surrounding myself with words all day

[fatelcved]

sometimes i think about offering up oc ideas based in dorverold for people to snatch up if they so choose but i feel like that'd actually be asking a lot bc there's a lot to read about and the lore is expanding and there's still stuff i haven't talked about bc i need to get it on paper and organize it properly :' )

[izzy-b-hands]

i cannot wait for the next few days off of work so i can try and unfuck my sleep schedule even a little

[booksnbolts]

Sometimes streamers have to cut certain game genres out of their stream roster for their mental health, no matter how much they enjoy the genre.

[autistic-shaiapouf]

Gonna have to get really weird to save myself

[thehealingsystem]

i wish someone would just tell me they love me

[marvelstoriesepic]

Different, this time

Pairing: Fuck buddy!Bucky x Reader

Summary: After the hospital visit and the doctor’s diagnosis, Bucky is plagued with guilt. He won’t touch you again until he is absolutely sure that you’re okay. Once you manage to reassure him, you both discover what it truly means to make love, rather than just fucking with suppressed feelings. And it’s overwhelming in the best way.

Word Count: 10.3k

Warnings: (18+) explicit sexual content, mdni; sickly sweet smut; oral (f receiving); fingering; soft aftercare; mentions of physical pain during sex (past); mentions of cervical bruising; slight mentions of medical scenes; panic attacks (graphic and mentioned); guilt; emotional distress; crying; themes of healing and emotional vulnerability; sad!Bucky; panicked!Bucky; sweetheart!Bucky; lots and lots of worried!Bucky

Author’s Note: Help, I might have ruined myself for any other real man with this. Y’all, this is my first time writing smut, so please be kind!! But I'm not gonna lie, I genuinely loved writing this. Soo I guess, this won’t be the last time you'll have me sharing some smut!! To make things clear, this is the second part to In too deep!! Btw, I was a bit nervous about whether I’d be able to get back into writing longer fics so smoothly, after the 2k drabble challenge, but I’d say I’ve managed lmao. I hope you enjoy ♡

Part One

Masterlist

The car is too quiet.

Outside, the streetlights flicker as if they’re forgetting how to glow.

You are in the passenger seat, watching the world blur past in smudges of gold and grey, your hands folded in your lap, afraid of what they might do if left unsupervised.

The car makes a soft and steady sound beneath you but everything inside feels tight. Too tight.

Like a breath, you haven’t taken.

Bucky hasn’t said a word since you left the hospital.

His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. White like fear. White like bone. White like guilt.

You glance over at him.

He’s staring straight ahead, eyes fixed, unmoving. His jaw is locked so tightly it looks like pain. There is a muscle twitching beneath the skin. Just beneath the hinge of his jaw, like something trying to break free.

The dashboard casts its pale light against his side profile. The soft stutter of passing streetlamps blink shadows across his hardened face.

You try to speak softly. “Bucky-”

“You sure you’re okay?” he interrupts, fast. Too fast. His voice is low but cracked, words splintering on their way out.

You nod before you realize he’s not looking. “Yes,” you say, slower. “I’m sure.” He’s asked about fifteen times in the last twenty minutes. But you think it actually should be you asking him.

The doctor told you that it was a cervical contusion in that although soft but clipped and clinical tone. Said that the bleeding would stop, that the pain would ease, that you were going to be fine - physically.

And the way Bucky flinched after that suggested he was perhaps doing worse than you.

He’s asked a few questions, asked how to treat it, asked what you might need, asked what he can do, but his voice was rough and close to giving out. He sat beside you in that too-white room, hands clenched in his lap, jaw locked as though he could grind down the guilt if he just kept his teeth pressed hard enough. He kept looking at your legs, at the blanket they gave you, as though he was waiting for the blood to start flowing again. As though he’d never trust your body not to break under him.

He listened when your doctor explained that it was moderate, but healing and there would be no lasting damage. You should just give it time and be gentle.

But Bucky didn’t hear healing.

He only heard damage.

He hadn’t said anything after that anymore. Just nodded, once. Swallowed hard. Signed the papers with a hand that shook so violently you had to cover it with yours.

You watch him now, his breath thinning.

“Buck,” you ease softly. “I’m okay. She said it’s healing, alright? I’ll be fine.”

Bucky shakes his head once. Sharp. A slice through the silence. “She said it could’ve been worse. That it could’ve-” He swallows loud, and doesn’t finish the sentence.

“But it’s not,” you remind him gently, almost wanting to reach out but not knowing if he needs that right now.

But Bucky doesn’t answer.

Then, you do reach for his arm, tenderly. Fingers brushing over his sleeve. But he flinches. Not from you. From himself. From the memory.

“Buck-”

“I should’ve noticed,” he snaps, and his voice breaks. Just a little. A fracture, clean through. “You said yes. You always say yes, and I- I should’ve seen it- I should’ve fucking known-”

His foot slips heavier on the gas.

The lane lines start to blur.

“Bucky,” you say again, firmer.

But he doesn’t answer.

His eyes dart from the windshield to the mirrors, unfocused. His shoulders have hiked up around his ears. His left hand twitches, his right one follows, tapping the wheel with restless, erratic beats.

His breathing is shallow. Too fast.

You can feel the swell of something too big inside him, pressing against his ribs, rising like floodwater. His grip on the wheel has gone rigid, too stiff for control. His shoulders are locking up.

“Bucky-”

His chest heaves harshly.

He blinks - once, twice - too slow.

His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle fluttering beneath his skin. His breath is sharp, teeth grinding as he sucks in through his nose and lets it out in gasps through his mouth.

“I hurt you,” he croaks, voice undone, shredded. “I fucking hurt you- I was inside you- I didn’t even see-”

The wheel jerks. Just for a second. Enough to drift too close to the lane line.

You shoot forward in your seat. Alarm ringing in your ears.

“I-” he gasps, blinking fast. “Y/n, I can’t- I can’t- I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean to-”

Reaching over to grab the wheel, you wrap your hands about Bucky’s, forcing it steady.

“Okay, okay, I got it. I’ve got you, baby. But we have to pull over.”

Bucky is trembling now. Hands frozen. Breath ragged. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face, catching the glow of a red traffic light.

You guide the car gently to the side, one hand over his as you steer, the other flicking on the hazards, keeping your voice and your movements calm for the sake of Bucky’s rising panic attack even as your heart thunders in your chest.

Bucky brakes too hard and too fast, the tires stuttering on the asphalt as though they are afraid of where he’ll go if they don’t stop him. The moment the engine falls quiet, the silence screams.

And Bucky falls apart.

His head drops forward. Hands over his eyes. Whole body shaking.

He’s still in the driver’s seat but he’s not in his body. His breathing is wild. His chest is heaving in sharp and panicked pulls and you realize he’s trying to get in air but can’t. His left hand is rashly fumbling for the door handle to keep himself tethered.

“Bucky,” you whisper, already unbuckling your seat belt. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

But he doesn’t hear you. He is stuck in some dark, echoing place inside himself and it won’t let him out.

Without hesitation, you move over the console and climb into his lap, settling gently on his thighs, facing him, your knees pressed into the edges of the seat.

Your hands come to his face, cradling it carefully - thumbs brushing over the hollow beneath his eyes, the flushed heat of his cheeks. His skin is clammy, cold.

He still can’t breathe.

You press your forehead to his. Anchor him.

His eyes squeeze together tightly.

“Hey, hey. Look at me, Buck. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

He shakes his head, choking out words you can’t make out because they all end up in a sob.

“James,” you start, and this time your voice is different. This is the sound you make when you’re scared and concerned and you need him to come back. “James. Breathe with me. You’re here with me. We’re okay.”

He shakes his head again, but it’s jerky, frantic.

“I hurt you,” he whimpers. “I hurt you. I should’ve known. I should’ve stopped-”

“No, no. Stop. Listen to me,” you whisper, voice low, brushing his tear-damp hair back from his face. “You checked in on me and I told you I was okay. I said I was fine. You trusted me, Bucky. That’s not your fault.”

He’s still trembling. Still trying to outrun the guilt in his lungs.

But you don’t move. You stroke his hair back, kiss his temples, his forehead, his nose.

His eyes finally meet yours. They are wide and wet and red, brimming with horror. He looks as though he wants to disappear inside himself.

You keep hold of his face, brushing tears away so tenderly. “It was my body. My voice. You didn’t know, and I didn’t tell you. That’s not on you. You never hurt me on purpose. I need you to hear that, Bucky.”

His chest heaves once, twice, then breaks apart with a cry. He pulls you closer, buries his face in your neck. His arms wrap around you like a man drowning.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffs again and again. “I’m so sorry.”

You close your eyes and run your fingers through his hair, slow and grounding.

“I know,” you whisper back. “I know you are. But you don’t have to be. I just need you here with me. Right now. Just breathe, Buck.”

And you guide him through it. Deep breathes. In and out. He follows.

And you hold him. As though he’s the one who’s breakable now.

****

You’ve never known silence like this.

Not the kind that’s empty. Not the kind that comes after slamming doors and burnt-out candles and sharp things unsaid. No, this silence is soft. Living. It seeps into your lungs and expands with each inhale, as though it wants to make space for something new.

Bucky is in the kitchen, stirring a spoon through a mug of tea as though it’s the most important thing in the world.

You’re sitting on his couch, knees tucked to your chest, wrapped in one of his henleys that hangs too big on you in all the right places. It’s quiet in your head for the first time in what feels like weeks.

The sky outside has folded into a kind of blue that feels more like velvet than color. The windows are cracked open, the summer breeze floating in, lazy and gold-edged, breathing over your skin like a whisper of someone who never learned to shout.

You’ve been here since late afternoon.

And everything smells like home at his place. Like Bucky. Cedar and cotton and chamomile. There’s a ticking of the wall clock he always pretends not to hate. Next to you lay the neatly folded blanket Bucky always pulls onto your lap when the AC kicks in too high.

Bucky brings you the tea like he always does and doesn’t let go of the mug until he’s sure your fingers are steady around it.

Then he sits down beside you, careful and close. His arm brushes yours and then he pulls back as though even that was too much. His eyes search yours. They always do now. As if he’s checking the weather behind your gaze before he says anything.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice rough. He probably hasn’t spoken all day before you came over.

You nod, and it’s mostly true. “I’m okay,” you say softly. “I promise.”

The TV is playing something you’re only half-watching, some indie movie with subtitles and sad music.

Bucky lets his arm drape behind your shoulders, over the back of the couch and you hear his fingers tracing the stitches in the seam of the couch. His gaze drifts to the TV but you know he’s not really watching. His eyes flick across the screen but his mind is somewhere else still. You don’t have to guess where.

That weight, that guilt, hasn’t let up.

And it’s not just the incident itself - it’s the panic he spiraled into afterward, the way you had to calm him down when you were the one who had been in pain. That’s what sits the heaviest on him, you think. That you comforted him, wrapped your arms around his trembling frame, and whispered soothing reassurances while your body was still in fresh pain.

You watch the line of his profile, the glimmer of the screen painting shadows beneath his cheekbone. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and there is a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there when you were only fuck buddies.

You’ve talked a lot. About everything. The incident. The aftermath. Your relationship. About what it all means and what it doesn’t, about what you both want and what you both fear. The hard words are behind you now, sorted and softened. And you’re not just his maybe anymore. You’re his. Official. Quietly, fully.

And still, he treats you as though you might not be. As though you’re a snowflake he caught in his hands and he’s afraid to close his fingers.

He’s still scared. Scared of doing something wrong. Scared of missing something again. Scared of hurting you again. You feel it in the way he touches you now - fingertips like feathers on your skin, always asking with and without words if you’re okay. Always watching, always listening.

He treats you like glass now. But glass that’s already cracked.

And you’ve tried to tell him again and again that you’re fine.

But Bucky has always been hard on himself. Especially when it comes to you and your well-being.

His fingers brush your shin slightly and the contact strikes, heat blooming low in your stomach.

You shift closer and Bucky’s attention snaps to you. He watches you move, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips and then darting back up, catching himself. You’re not sure if it’s nerves or habit, that reflex to hesitate.

But he’s been hesitating for weeks.

Weeks of healing. Weeks of slow walks and softer kisses and quieter touches.

You haven’t had sex since.

You wanted to. You were ready. But Bucky wanted to wait. To be sure. To be careful. To do it right this time.

And you let him. You let him wrap you in all that caution and care. Let him fuss and hover and bring you your favorite snacks, let him hold you through the night without reaching for anything more than the sound of your breathing against his chest. You let him because it’s what he needed.

But you are fine now.

Your body doesn’t ache anymore. You’ve healed. Fully. You know this because you’ve checked. Alone. With your fingers and your breath and the soft test of space. And you’ve told him, more than once. But Bucky is stubborn with his guilt, protective.

So you’ve waited. Because you love him.

But you notice the way Bucky keeps glancing at you, his eyes catching on your thighs, the shape of your mouth, the way his shirt hangs loose on your frame every time you wear it.

You notice it right now.

Moving your feet, you place them right on Bucky’s lap and feel the shift in his thigh muscle beneath you. The way his hand on your shin stills, the way the hand behind your shoulders drifts closer, then stops, fingers curling as though they’ve touched a flame.

“Movie’s boring,” you murmur, leaning your head on his shoulder, voice lazy with comfort.

He chuckles, a little breathless, a little nervous, low in his chest. “Didn’t even know what it was.”

His eyes catch yours. He’s looking at you as though you’ve said something profound.

Your hand slips up to cup his cheek, your thumb sweeping gently across the faint stubble there. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, as though your touch still startles him, still humbles him.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He swallows. Opens his eyes. Immediately, they drop to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. And again.

“Hi,” he breathes.

You lean in first.

The kiss is gentle. Familiar. Something well-loved.

He tastes of cinnamon and hesitation. He kisses you with a kind of slowness that seems almost like another apology, another question if you’re okay.

His hand finds your waist, the other brushes the back of your neck, and they hold you so carefully you want to cry. You press closer. Push into the kiss. Let it deepen.

And for a moment, with a soft groan, he lets go.

His grip tightens. His mouth opens. His body leans into yours, chest brushing chest, thighs pressing close.

His mouth moves with yours as though it remembers exactly where it left off. Deep. Thoughtful.

You sigh against him. The movie flickers behind your closed eyelids.

Your name escapes him in a breath, his hands tighten a fraction, shaking slightly. His breath stutters, the kiss deepens, and suddenly he’s pulling away.

His brows are furrowed and he looks at you slightly panting. “What are you doing?” he asks, cautious, worried.

You blink, lips swollen, a little dazed. You answer with a small, amused tilt of your head. “I’m kissing my boyfriend.”

He flushes visibly, face burning red, but he doesn’t smile, and that line between his brows doesn’t ease. His jaw flexes. “I just- I know we’ve talked,” he starts, voice hushed, breathy. “And you say you’re okay, but I just don’t wanna rush this. You know? I don’t want to push you. Or hurt you. Or do this just because I’m-”

He shifts slightly, adjusting himself. The movement reveals the hardening outline of him in his sweatpants.

“I’m not rushing, Buck. We-”

“I am though. I didn’t mean to- but it got kinda- fast, and-” He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. His voice is tight now. “I just need to be sure, doll. I need to know you’re okay. Completely.”

You press your forehead to his, arms slipping around his neck. Your voice is a soft brush. “I am okay. Really. It’s been weeks, Bucky. Everything’s healed. The doctor said it. I said it. And I’m telling you again.”

He swallows. You feel it. That pulse in his throat working hard to steady itself. He looks at you, hard. Searching. Maybe trying to see inside you.

“I just… I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything.” A rough tremor runs through his voice.

“I don’t,” you ease quickly, shaking your head. “I want this, Bucky. And I’ve been listening to my body. I’m okay.” Leaning down, you kiss his jaw, just below his ear. He shivers. “And I trust you.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. His voice is thick, strained. “Still. I don’t wanna rush you. Not if there’s even a part of you that’s unsure. I mean- hell, what if- what if something hurts again? I couldn’t-”

You stop him gently with a hand to his chest. “Then we stop. Just like that. And we talk. Just like we’ve been doing.”

He stares at you for a moment. And you can see how words pool behind his eyes but don’t make it to his lips.

“Okay,” he whispers then, voice coarse. “Okay. Just… don’t want you to ever feel like you have to fix me by doing this. Don’t wanna take something from you just because I’ve got issues.”

“Hey.” You shake your head, fingers in his hair now. “That’s not what this is. I want this. I want you.”

He groans, quiet and exposed, tilting his head back against the cushion. His hands grip your hips. He’s flushed, already half-hard against your thigh and visibly trying to hide it.

You smirk a little. “Let me help with that.”

His eyes widen. “Doll-”

“I feel fine, baby,” you repeat, patient, but smiling. “I promise.”

“I’m not gonna let you do something just for me.” A rasp in his voice makes his words sound slightly scratchy.

You tilt your head. “Then maybe it’s for me. Ever think of that?”

He groans softly, hands squeezing you. “I’m trying to do the right thing-”

“Then let me show you I’m okay,” you state warmly.

His eyes close. A beat. Two. Three. He breathes out, slow.

You grin, your hands tracing circles over his chest. “I’m healed. I’m ready. You’re my boyfriend. What’s the problem here?”

He laughs something broken, something between admiration and disbelief. Then he sighs, eyes soft.

“You’re really okay?”

“I am.”

Pressing a tender kiss to your temple, he whispers into your ear, voice gravel. “We’ll go slow, yeah? Real slow. And you tell me if anything hurts, or if you’re uncomfortable.”

You nod immediately and brush his cheek lovingly and soothingly at the pain that’s still lingering in the corners of his voice. “I promise.”

****

He doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t dare.

Bucky lays you down as though you’re something he’s never been allowed to hold before - as if someone plucked the stars from the sky, wrapped them in silk, and gave them to him with a whispered don’t drop this.

It’s not rushed. It’s not eager. It’s not even lustful, not exactly.

It’s love. In slow motion. In devotion. In the way he arranges your body like a painting.

The cotton sheets are warm beneath you. Bucky kneels beside you, hovering, breathing slow and tight through his nose.

His hand cups your face. And he’s looking at you as though you are light. A glowing and living thing that he’s afraid to reach for too fast, he’s afraid of casting shadows on.

His gaze is soft and dark and unblinking. You can feel how full it is, how heavy. And it warms you. Like honey across your skin. Like sunrise slowly coming alive.

You smile up at him. “Bucky.” His name sounds like an invitation. Open. Safe. As though it belongs between your lips.

“I’m here,” he says, hardly a whisper. “You sure?” he asks, his voice low. Throaty. Careful. His thumb strokes your cheek as though it’s still asking.

You nod. But it’s not enough, so you pull him closer. Whisper against his mouth. “I want you.” A breath. “I trust you.”

He exhales all at once, and it comes out as a shiver.

After a pause, he leans down, kisses your forehead first. Then the top of your nose. Then, back to your mouth - and it’s gentle. It’s so gentle. As though he’s practicing reverence. Reminding himself you’re real.

“Tell me everything,” he murmurs. His hand on your cheek, your waist, your thigh. “I wanna know what feels good. What doesn’t. I want to hear every sound you make. I want to see your face every second. I wanna be right here with you, baby. Every second. You don’t gotta be quiet with me. Not ever.”

You nod, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Because this is love in a language that isn’t words.

And he’s fluent in it. Fluent in you.

His fingers slide up the hem of the shirt you’re wearing - his shirt. And he pauses again.

“Can I take this off?” His voice is low. Strained. Still asking. Still making space.

You nod again. “Please.”

He swallows. You feel the tremble in his hands as he lifts the fabric slowly, cautiously, peeling away something important. He watches your face the whole time. Checks for flinches. For hesitation. For any sign that you might change your mind.

You lift your arms for him, and he helps you out of it without ever breaking eye contact.

And suddenly your chest is bare.

And Bucky hasn’t looked away from your face.

You almost laugh. Maybe you even almost cry. He’s so careful. As though he genuinely wants to memorize your expression with every inch of skin he reveals.

Only after a beat - when you don’t hide, don’t shift away - do his eyes begin to travel downward.

You watch him watching you. And it’s not hunger you see. It’s awe.

He seems to see you in full color and it makes your skin prickle with pleasurable heat.

His fingers trail down your sides, featherlight. Your ribs. Your hips. He touches you as though he’s learning you all over again.

Then his thumb glides up to brush the underside of your breast. You feel him exhale through his nose, shaky.

“God,” he whispers, rolling the words out with care. “You’re so beautiful.”

You don’t say anything. Just reach up, tangle your fingers in his hair. Pull him down to kiss you again, slow and long and open.

And he melts.

He moves over you, between your legs, still careful, still holding most of his weight off you. And he takes his time kissing you, your lips, until his mouth follows the path of his hands. Trailing across your collarbone, down to the softest parts of you. Every kiss is a question. Every breath against your skin is a vow.

When he reaches your stomach, he pauses again. Resting his forehead there like a man at prayer.

He takes another shaky breath and you soothe your hands over his dark locks, treading your fingers into his hair. Your thumb traces the back of his neck, bringing him back to the present.

He exhales. It sounds like surrender. “You gotta know how much I love you, baby.”

You do. You’ve known it since that day those few weeks ago. You know it by the way he moves. By the way he treats you. By the way he touches you. By the way he doesn’t rush.

“I love you too, Buck,” you whisper sweetly and his breath is broken against your skin.

He presses a kiss to your hipbone. Then lower.

His hands are back at your thighs now - sliding under, lifting gently. He kisses the inside of your knee, then the soft skin just above it, his breath trembling.

“You’ll tell me if anything doesn’t feel right,” he says, looking up but not taking his lips off your skin.

“I will,” you promise, getting breathless already.

“And if you want to stop-”

“I’ll tell you,” you assure him, softly, firmly.

He nods.

Then he leans forward and lays a kiss over your pubic bone. So worshipful. So loving.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until his fingers ghost over the waistband of your underwear - and stop there.

“Still okay?” he breathes, so quiet, it almost doesn’t make it out of his mouth. But it carries so much. Every syllable wrapped in worry, wrapped in memory. He’s still afraid something will crack open inside you if he touches the wrong place, the wrong way.

You nod.

But that’s not enough.

“Say it,” he whispers, and there’s a tremor in his voice again. “I need to hear you say it.”

You reach for him. Take his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over the apples of his cheeks. His skin is warm, flushed. His eyes are already glassy.

“I’m okay, baby,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure. “I want you to do this.”

With a pained exhaled sound and fluttering lashes, he nods and goes to kiss your thigh again. Then the dip of your hip. Then right beside the soft curve of your center. You feel the warm puff of his breath against the fabric and it makes your hips twitch.

And then he hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and pulls them down. Slowly. Unwrapping something too precious to tear.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t let his gaze wander greedily. He watches your face, every second of it - watching for hesitation, for discomfort, for pain. But all you give him is anticipation.

When the fabric slips down your thighs, past your knees, and finally off the ends of your toes, he sets it aside so carefully it almost makes you laugh. As though it’s something important.

Then he settles between your legs again. And he just looks.

He drinks in the sight of you, as though he’s parched. As though you’re the first drop of water he’s seen in weeks. His tongue darts out, barely wetting his lips. His hands spread your thighs wider, gently. Tenderly. As though he’s parting pages in a sacred text.

“You’re so-” he swallows. “Jesus, you’re-”

But he doesn’t finish.

He lowers his mouth to you instead.

The first kiss between your legs is featherlight. Half a breath. But it makes your whole body arch, your breath stutter.

Bucky groans softly into you - a sound of both restraint and desperate, helpless desire.

“Sorry,” you pant, chest rising too fast. “I didn’t-”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he rasps, voice dark with awe. “God, that was- do it again.”

And you do. You can’t help it.

He licks you again - slower this time. Broader. Firmer. His lips move with practice, but not routine. There’s nothing careless about the way he touches you. Every movement is deliberate. As though he’s re-learning you. Learning how you feel like being his. Utterly and completely. Studying the way your body blooms beneath his mouth.

And he keeps checking in.

He doesn’t ask again with words. He does it with his eyes, every time he lifts his gaze to yours. He does it with his hand, the way he curls his fingers around your hip but doesn’t grip, the way he strokes his thumb along your skin in circles, grounding you. The way he takes hold of your hand with his other, encouraging you to squeeze him in your pleasure.

You moan. Soft and breathy.

And Bucky’s whole body reacts - you can see it in the way his hips shift against the mattress, the way he groans into you as though your pleasure is his own.

And he’s holding himself back, still. You can see it in the tight line of his shoulders, the way his hand shakes a little as it holds your thighs open. He’s painfully hard. You can feel the heat of it, see the outline pressing into the sheets, but he doesn’t move to relieve it.

Because this moment is for you.

This is your healing, your pleasure, your gift.

And god, does he worship you.

He takes his time.

He kisses you between licks, soft and open-mouthed, as though he can’t decide whether he wants to devour you or just memorize you. His tongue moves in slow, perfect circles. Then strokes up. Down. Gentle flicks, patient and watchful. Never too much, never too fast.

He listens. Learns.

Every time your breath catches, every time your hips twitch and your fingers tighten against his hand and the sheets, he adjusts. Builds on it. Builds you.

“Tell me what feels good,” he breathes against you.

“Everything,” you gasp, struggling to take in air.

“Yeah?” He kisses your clit once, then again, light and tender. “Right here?”

You nod, too dizzy to speak, sighing softly.

He hums into you. “So good, baby. You’re doing so good.”

Your hands reach down, weaving through his hair and he groans when you pull just slightly.

He’s hard and leaking and untouched, but he still doesn’t seem to care. You’re shaking beneath his mouth and that’s all he needs.

“Bucky,” you whimper, high and trembling. “I’m- close-”

“I’ve got you,” he utters, fingers tightening just slightly on your hips. “I’ve got you, baby. Let go for me.”

And you do. You let yourself fall.

Gasping, shaking, your thighs clenching around his head and Bucky holds you through it. He stays there, mouth softening against you, kissing you through every aftershock. You don’t see him watching you. Slowing his movements. Letting you come down in your own time.

And when he finally comes up, his lips are wet and his eyes wild with wonder.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod. Voice gone. Words gone. Heart full.

And all he does is smile. The softest smile in the world.

You continue trembling when he climbs up your body again.

His hands frame your ribs, then your face, then your hair - as if he can’t decide which part of you he wants to hold first. His mouth is damp from you. His pupils are blown. But even with the flush of his skin, the pulse in his throat, the strain pressing hard against his boxers - he doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t even reach for himself yet.

He’s just looking at you. As though you’re art. His. And he’s still trying to build sense around that.

You lift a hand to his face. Trace his cheekbone, his brow, and he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering.

“Your turn,” you whisper.

Uncertainty flashes through his eyes. “Only if you’re sure. We can stop here, baby.”

You smile warmly. “I’m aching for you, Barnes. Can’t leave me hanging here.”

His throat bobs. His cheeks burn deeper, as though you’ve spoken something too tender, too vulnerable.

But he nods.

And slowly, Bucky rises to his knees.

His fingers go to the hem of his shirt and you watch the fabric lift over his stomach, up his ribs, his chest, and then finally over his head.

And it never gets easier seeing him like this.

He’s stunning.

He is solid and sculptured and beautiful. His shoulders broad and corded with muscle, his waist lean, his skin golden in the soft bedroom light.

And still, he looks at you as if you are the masterpiece.

He hisses softly, when he frees himself out of his boxers, hard and heavy and flushed dark at the tip. He’s leaking, aching, but even now he doesn’t let that take over.

He braces above you, forehead pressed to yours, one hand sliding down to cup your face again.

“You’ll tell me,” he insists lowly, “if anything feels wrong.”

“I promise,” you respond quietly.

“And you’re sure you’re-”

“I feel perfect,” you interrupt gently. “Because of you.”

His breath hitches. You feel his body tense.

And still, he hesitates. He glances down your body, past your hot skin and the slick heat still dripping between your thighs. His fingers hover just below your navel.

“Let me- just one-” he murmurs, already sliding a hand between your legs. “Just want to make sure-”

But the moment his fingers glide through your folds, and he feels how wet you still are from his mouth, he lets out a deep, strangled groan.

His gaze jerks up to yours. Wide. Disbelieving.

“Oh,” you tease softly. “Surprised?”

He reddens deeply. Face and neck and chest. Even the tips of his ears turn pink. He twitches against your thigh.

“You really didn’t know what you were doing to me?” you whisper.

His eyes dart away for half a second - bashful. Then back to yours.

He leans in. Presses his lips to your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. A trail of kisses.

“I just wanted to take care of you,” he breathes thickly. “Didn’t even think about- fuck, baby.”

You giggle softly, stroking the back of his neck. He groans again, burying his face in your neck and staying there for a few heartbeats, clinging to you.

But his hand stays between your legs. He doesn’t dive in. Just lingers. “Still have to make sure, yeah, baby?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod, soft. “Okay.”

And then he moves. Slowly. Carefully. He pulls his head back and his eyes fall between your legs. Then back to watch you. Watch your mouth, your eye, your breath.

His fingers dip lower, about to touch you in a way that means everything. You see his throat work around a swallow.

He sinks one finger in, soothingly and dragging it out. His other hand braces beside your hip as though he needs the ground. He stops at the first knuckle.

Watching your face. Searching. Always looking for a sign of pain.

You sigh, your mouth parting on a soft moan. Not from discomfort.

From relief. From the feel of him.

Bucky’s gaze flares.

“Okay?” he whispers.

You nod. “Yeah,” you breathe out.

He pushes in a little deeper. Then again. Until the full length of his finger is buried inside you.

You whimper. Arch, just slightly. His name slips out.

And Bucky stills. Blinks. As though the sound alone managed to take his breath away.

“Oh, fuck,” he exhales in a sigh. His gaze is so focused on you. He is all you can think about.

You bite your lip, watching him with stars in your eyes.

His fingers curl a little inside you and your breath catches again, back arching. And that has him groaning under his breath, leaning forward as though he just needs to be closer, deeper.

He kisses your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

And with his eyes on yours, he gently and ever so cautiously slips in another finger beside the first. This time even slower.

Your body shifts to accommodate him and he feels it. Feels the way you welcome him, wrap around him. How warm you are. How soft.

His breathing stutters.

You moan again.

And still, he stops. Right at the knuckle. Eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he rasps, halfway there to lose his voice.

“Yes,” you manage to get out, voice almost pleading. “More, Bucky, please-”

And he gives you more. Goes deeper. Until both fingers are sheathed inside you and he’s filling you just enough to make your toes curl, just enough for his name to fall off your tongue again in a way that almost leaves Bucky gasping.

He watches you. He doesn’t blink.

He curls his fingers gently, once, and when your hips lift off the mattress just a little, when your mouth falls open and your eyes flutter shut in pleasure, he groans again. Buries his face in your shoulder. Just like before.

“Jesus Christ,” he exclaims roughly.

You stroke the back of his neck.

His hands still inside you, as though he needs a second to breathe.

And after a few shaky breaths, he starts moving again. Fingers stroking that spot deep inside you, slow and perfect and gentle. His lips brush your shoulder. Your collarbone. He kisses your heart, trying to memorize how it beats.

And even though you feel his swollen member against your thigh, red and ready, he doesn’t move to use it.

Because you’re not ready until he is sure you are.

Not just wet. Not just eager. Ready.

So he watches you. Watches every moan. Every gasp. Every quiver of your thighs, every arch of your spine.

Until you fall apart on his fingers.

And it’s the way you come undone under the gentlest version of his touch, that truly seems to make him need you.

He slides his fingers out slowly after he guides you through your high, like an apology, like a thank you.

And meets your eyes. They are full. His voice is low when he speaks. Hoarse.

“Okay,” he starts. “Okay. I’m gonna start slow.”

You nod, biting your lip.

And he reaches down to line himself up.

There is a pause. A beat of stillness.

You feel the head of him pressing just barely against you. His breath catches. Your breath catches.

His eyes snap to yours. “Tell me if-”

“I will,” you promise, eagerness in your tone. “Just get in, honey.”

He pushes in. The stretch is slow. So, so slow.

You feel every inch of him, and he feels it, too. His mouth falls open, eyes wide, as though the sensation shocks him. As though it’s different now to be inside you, to be with you like this, now that you wholly belong to each other.

He groans - soft, drawn-out. The sound is being dragged from deep in his chest.

You clench instinctively, and he curses under his breath, forehead dropping to yours, eyes staying on you.

“Shit, baby- fuck-”

You hold onto his shoulders. His waist. Anything you can reach. You’re both shaking.

But he doesn’t push in all the way. Not yet. He pauses halfway in, breathing ragged, eyes continuing to search your face.

You talk before he can ask. “You can keep going.”

“Promise me.”

You kiss him. Sweet and slow and sure.

“I promise.”

And so he moves - just a little more - and the moan that rips out of him is wounded, as though pleasure hurts. As though being this close to you is almost too much.

But he doesn’t let himself close his eyes. Doesn’t let them move away from your face.

And when he’s finally seated fully inside you, his hips flush against yours, you both just breathe.

Still. Connected.

He doesn’t move at first. Just holds himself there - deep inside you. Anchoring himself to the moment, to your body, to the fact that you’re okay. That you want this. That you’re here.

And he’s trying not to cry.

You can see it in the way his lashes flutter, in the glassy sheen on his cheeks that catches the light.

His forehead leans against yours, breath hot over your mouth.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers. One word. As though it contains a hundred.

“It’s okay,” you whisper back. “You’re okay.”

His eyes stay open. You don’t think he’s blinked since he pushed in.

They are pinned to yours like if he looks away for even a second something might go wrong. He’s watching your eyes for any sign of pain. And you know he won’t close his own until he knows you’re safe.

“I can feel how hard you’re holding back,” you start quietly, gently, fingers brushing the sweat-damp strands from his forehead. “You can move, Buck.”

He doesn’t. His throat bobs. Jaw flexing.

“God,” he breathes. “You feel so good- too good- but I don’t want to- fuck, baby, I don’t want to hurt you again-”

“You won’t. You say it firmly, but still with a sweet voice. Your thumb strokes the dimple in his chin. “You didn’t before. It wasn’t your fault. And it’s not going to happen again.”

He breathes in as though your words might soothe something broken in him. But still, he doesn’t move. Not until you speak again.

“I need you, Bucky.”

And something in him crumbles. Slowly, painstakingly, he pulls his hips back just an inch, then slides forward again, keeping his eyes on yours the whole time. He’s watching, reading, studying every twitch of your mouth, your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every breath you take.

“Is that-” he breathes, “-was that okay?”

You nod, voice thick. “Yes. Yes, Buck, it’s perfect.”

And he moves again.

Tiny, tender thrusts. Gentle. Devoted.

It’s not even about pleasure, it’s about closeness. About the feeling of him. The heat of his skin. The tremble in his arms as he holds himself up above you. The way he groans, low and broken, every time he slides a little deeper.

His eyes won’t leave you.

Not even when his lashes are heavy with heat and he has to force them to stay open. Not even when his mouth opens and he exhales a shaky, stuttering breath that tells you he’s feeling everything. But he fights to keep them open. To see you.

You run your fingers through his hair, trying to get him to let go. “I feel good, baby. I’m okay.”

But he just shakes his head. Leans down and kisses you. Slow. Melting. Deep.

“I want to watch you feel good,” he says huskily. “Need it. Need to make sure.”

And then he thrusts a little deeper.

It’s so painfully careful but still enough to steal your breath. You gasp, clutching his shoulders, hips rising to meet his.

His eyes roll back. His whole body shudders. “Fuck,” he groans. “Don’t do that. God, sweetheart, you’re ruining me.”

You smile through the moan that slips past your lips. “That’s kind of the point.”

He laughs, a real and broken little laugh, but it cracks at the edges. He is overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by you.

He rocks into you again. A little deeper. A little more sure. Still slow, still soft - but he’s feeling it now, letting his hips follow the rhythm you’re building together.

You cling to him.

He is panting. Tiny tremors running through his arms. His left hand slides beneath your back, holding your closer, lifting your chest to his so your hearts are touching - so he can feel every beat of you against him.

His voice is low and trembling. “Tell me again,” he pleads, strained. “Please, tell me it’s okay-”

“It’s better than okay,” you gasp, nails dragging down his back. “I’m perfect. You’re perfect. Don’t stop.”

He kisses you. Desperate now. His rhythm falters for a second, too lost in the way your mouth tastes.

Then he pulls back, just far enough to look at you. His gaze is devastated. Open. Admiring.

“I love you,” he sighs.

And your heart bursts.

You take his face in your hands, voice breaking with feeling.

“I love you too.”

And it happens slowly. Then all at once.

He watches you fall apart as though he’s never seen anything more beautiful. As though your pleasure is a sunrise he never thought he’d survive long enough to see. As though every sigh, every gasp, every whisper of his name is another stitch holding his broken heart together.

You feel him shaking. Hear him whisper things he doesn’t seem to know he’s saying. “Shit, baby, look at you- so perfect- so good- fuck, baby-”

One of his hands grips beneath your thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles into your skin. The other tangles in your hair, holding your forehead to his as though he needs the connection to stay whole.

He’s watching your face as if it’s a map. Tracing every change in expression, every whimper and moan, every flicker of ecstasy that breaks across your features.

And you can feel it building. Low and hot, coiling tight in your belly. Your body trembling, hips lifting to meet his in soft, desperate little movements. Your breaths coming fast, faster. His name spilling from your mouth, making him shudder.

“Buck- Bucky- I’m- don’t stop.”

He falters. Just once. Just enough for him to whisper. “You’re close.”

You nod, gasping.

And that’s all it takes for him to shift slightly. Just enough to hit the angle he knows drives you insane. He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, lips at your ear. “Let go for me, my sweetheart. Please. I’ve got you. Always got you.”

And your whole body locks around him, your voice breaking into something wild and soft, pleasure cursing through your veins, hot and blinding and complete.

You come with his name on your tongue.

His eyes snap shut.

That’s all it takes.

He gasps, chokes on a breath, and then he’s gone - spilling into you with a groan that sounds like heartbreak and heaven all at once. His whole body arches, hands gripping you tight, holding on for dear life, burying himself in you. As though he wants to pour every ounce of his love into you and never come back.

His mouth meets your shoulder, kissing your skin as though he has all the time in the world.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “I’ve never- fuck- never felt anything like that.”

Neither have you.

Because this wasn’t just fucking. This wasn’t the kind of sex you’ve been having for so long.

This was something else.

This was love, laid bare. No games. No fear. No walls. Just skin and breath and heartbeats and truth.

He stays inside you. Doesn’t dare move. Not yet.

His face is tucked into your neck, breath hot and trembling.

You card your fingers through his hair, kissing the shell of his ear, the slope of his shoulder. “You okay?”

He nods. A slow, solemn little nod. Then pulls back just enough to look at you.

And the look in his eyes is too much.

As though he’s never going to recover from this. He doesn’t want to.

He brushes his fingers down your cheek and kisses you leisurely.

“I love you,” he says again, still searching for air. “More than anything.”

You whisper it back. Because you do.

Bucky keeps hovering above you even though he already brought you home. The way he presses his lips to your temple and cradles your jaw in his palm as though you’re the last delicate thing in the world.

You breathe him in. He breathes you in. His forehead rests against yours, sticky with sweat, the kind of closeness that makes time irrelevant.

“You okay?” he whispers quietly. His voice cracks right down the middle.

You nod, throat too tight for words, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t take the nod as final. His eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read between the lines of skin and breath and silence.

“I’m serious, doll,” he murmurs, a little firmer now. “You tell me if something feels off. Anything. If you’re sore, or-” he pauses, swallows a cough, “or if it hurt. Even just a little.”

Your hand finds the curve of his jaw, thumb brushing over the edge of his cheekbone, damp with sweat and tenderness. “I’m okay,” you reassure him sweetly. “I promise, baby. I feel good.”

His brows twitch. He wants to believe you.

“I mean it,” you add, lips brushing against his. “I feel more than good. I feel amazing.”

That finally does something to him. His shoulders drop. His hands tremble a little less. But even still, his gaze keeps drifting downward - to where your bodies meet, joined in the slowest, softest way you ever have. Searching for signs of pain that your mouth hasn’t admitted yet.

And then, quietly, with a softness you’re still surprised at - he slides out of you and down the bed. Down your body.

You blink. “Buck?”

“I just wanna check,” he says, already reaching for a soft towel. “Not tryna be weird, just-” his throat bobs. “Just need to know you didn’t start bleeding again.”

You open your mouth, not able to say anything.

Taking hold of your hand, he kisses the back of it before continuing. Every movement is careful, tender, hands working as though he’s handling silk. He wipes you down with warm water, his brow furrowed with a worry so profound it makes your chest ache. He doesn’t rush, not once. His eyes move up to yours every few seconds, silently asking for consent all over again.

“Still okay?” he inquires quietly as he folds the towel, already looking like he wants to run a warm bath and wrap you in a blanket of cloud and honey and safety.

“Still okay,” you nod, voice thick with emotion.

“Good.” He exhales for the first time in what feels like minutes. “Good. You tell me the second that changes. I mean it. I’ll pull the moon out of the damn sky if it hurts you again.”

You smile watery. He kisses your thigh.

And then he lifts you, scoops you into his arms with a care that feels so incredibly intimate. Carrying you to the bathroom, he is holding you so close that your heart forgets what it’s like to feel anything but safe.

With a kiss to your shoulder and your forehead, he sets you down on the edge of the tub.

He draws the bath. He adds your favorite bubbles. Lavender and eucalyptus steam curling through the air, filled with comfort.

He tests the temperature and while it fills, he kneels between your legs, rests his cheek on your thigh, and places more kisses into the bend of your knee, your hip, your ribs.

“D’you feel it?” he asks then, quietly. Almost nervous. Voice low and hoarse.

You run your fingers through his hair. He melts under your touch.

You think you know what he’s talking about.

Because all those times you slept with each other before, it was fast, frantic, bodies tangled and pressed into stolen hours, trying to pretend it didn’t matter.

It never felt like being held in a way that spoke louder than words. Never felt like being chosen in the silence after the fact. Never felt like someone saying I love you without needing to say it.

But tonight, it did.

“Yeah,” you answer, just as silent. “It never felt like that before.”

He lifts his head. Eyes soft. “That a good thing?”

“A very good thing,” you answer, almost teasingly, grinning.

And Bucky’s smile comes wide and real. His hands move up and down your shins. He leans in. Kisses your knee. Eyes on yours.

And when he guides you into the water, hands warm at your waist, his eyes track you constantly, scanning your face, your body. Watching. Worry never leaving, but love, too - love stretched wide across every inch of his face.

He joins you once you’re settled, pulling you into his lap, your back to his chest, water lapping around your waists. His arms wind around you, tightening comfortably, his heartbeat thudding against your back.

He kisses your shoulder. Rests his head in the crook of your neck.

The bath water cradles you as though it knows how hard your body worked tonight, how loved it was, how careful the man at your side has been, every moment before and after.

Your knees are tucked to your chest, curled in his lap, spine pressed to his sternum. His arms are heavy around your waist, long fingers spread wide and warm beneath the surface of the water. One palm pressed flat over your stomach, the other stroking a gentle line up and down your thigh, so painstaking, as though he never wants to stop touching you. He holds you as though you are his heart made tangible.

You breathe together. Quiet. Slow.

The ache between your legs is not painful. It’s soft. A memory of something beautiful.

You feel Bucky’s heartbeat thump against your spine. He kisses your neck. Again and again.

Then - so quiet, so gentle, almost afraid - he asks again. “Are you still okay?”

And it shouldn’t be much. It’s just a check-in. One of a hundred he’s made tonight. The softness in his voice, the worry gathered beneath his breath - it should feel comforting.

But instead, your chest caves in.

Your throat locks up.

You blink once, twice, and suddenly you can’t see. Everything blurs.

Because he means it. He really, truly means it.

Because he loves you. So goddamn much. And he’s holding you as if you matter more than air and he touches you as if you are a living poem and you can still feel him inside you, loving you - and your heart can’t hold all of it. It’s too much. It spills over.

Because he’s been so careful. His hands were so tender and his mouth so full of praise and his eyes tracked you the way the earth tracks the sun. Because even now, when it’s over, when the candle he lit up before getting into the tub flickers low, and the air smells of eucalyptus and his thighs are soaked through with warm water, he still won’t stop caring.

And it hits you. All of it. Everything. The past weeks. The pain. The panic when you tried to scrub away the evidence alone in the very same bathroom you’re in right now and bolt out of his apartment. The way he broke through the door just to get to you, how he wiped you off with hands that trembled but never once let you go.

The guilt he carried. The way he flinched for days when you touched him back. The softness he offered even when he had none for himself.

And now this.

This perfect, intimate thing you just shared. This feeling of being held in a way no one ever held you before. It’s all too much. The bath, his arms, the way he holds your ribcage as though he’s matching your breath. The most amazing sex you’ve ever had. The way he whispered into your shoulder as he moved inside you with so much care.

You want to answer him. Want to tell him you’re okay. But nothing comes out.

You can only inhale sharply, the sound catching in your throat.

And Bucky stills. Goes completely stiff.

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your overflowing heart won’t let you.

Bucky shifts behind you. “Baby?” His voice is quiet. But not calm. Never calm, when it comes to your silence.

And you stay silent. Turning your head away.

His arms tighten and you feel him trying to look around at your face. “Hey, hey. Honey. What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Are you- did I- did something hurt again? Are you hurting? Something feel wrong?”

You shake your head, but his voice is shaking harder.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he croaks in a whisper, his fingers coming to cup your jaw, about to tilt your head, but you don’t want him to see the tears forming, don’t want him to panic. He is frantic, not sure what he��s afraid of more - your pain or your silence. “C’mon, baby, please talk to me. I- did I do something? Did I hurt you and you didn’t wanna say? Are you bleedin’?”

You can feel him check the water for any signs of red and you hate yourself for not getting your voice out of your throat. But the only thing coming up is a choked breath.

“Talk to me.” He talks fast, swallowing words, swallowing breaths. “Please, baby. You have to tell me. You’re scaring me.”

He can’t see you like this. Not with your face turned away, not with your chest shaking in silence. So he moves, carefully but with uncoordinated and frantic hands, guiding you to turn in his arms until you’re straddling him in the water, your body trembling with the force of emotion you hadn’t braced yourself for.

You try to speak, but all that comes out is a wet hiccup of a breath and a soft, unsteady sob - not from pain, not from fear, just from everything. Your chest stings with it. Tears fall. Two, three, falling down your cheeks.

And Bucky panics. “No, baby, no, please don’t cry. Fuck, I don’t-”

He’s sitting up straighter now, water sloshing around you both, almost lapping over the tub. His face crumbles. His hands scramble, checking your sides, your arms, trying to study every inch of you, to figure out what’s wrong here, where it hurts, what he missed.

“Shit, shit, I knew it! Baby I knew we should’ve waited. I shouldn’t have- fuck- I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry- please talk to me-”

“No,” you finally manage, voice cracking, catching his hands and trying to squeeze the quiver out of them. “No, no, Bucky- I’m okay, I’m okay.”

But his eyes are wide, a glossy sheen already there and you would like to kick yourself. The guilt is already spinning in those pretty blue depths, the fear and dread all bubbling and building and ready to crescendo into another panic attack.

You press your forehead to his. You breathe in, slow. You breathe out. Your hands move to cup his cheeks. “It’s not that,” you breathe, and your voice is wet and cracked and soaked in love. “It’s not- Baby, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

His breath is uneven, hectic. He doesn’t blink.

You kiss his lips. A soft, barely-there brush. “I’m just overwhelmed.”

His brow furrows. His hands pull you closer to his chest, but his eyes stay locked on yours.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “I’m not in pain. I promise. It’s just-” You break off with another hiccup of a laugh-sob. “You’re being so wonderful. And it’s been so much. In the best way.”

Bucky stills. Eyes blinking fast, jaw tight with the restraint of a man trying not to fall apart.

You pull back to look at him clearly. “I just-” you try to laugh, but it’s mostly just a breath shivering on the edge of something enormous. “I love you. So much. And it just- hit me. How much. I’ve never felt like this before. And it was just a lot, all at once.”

Bucky stares at you as though you split the earth open beneath him.

And then his hands are everywhere. On your cheeks. On your back. In your hair. Holding your face, trying to keep you in this moment with him. As though this is the most important moment in his life.

“God.” He chokes on a breath, and his lips land on your forehead, your nose, your eyelids, kissing your tears away. “You- you’re crying because you love me?”

You nod against him, laugh through your tears.

He exhales and his whole body sags with it.

“Shit,” he breathes, voice wavering. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

He presses you even tighter into his chest, cradling the back of your head. “Fuck, you scared me. I thought I hurt you again. I thought- thought I messed it all up again.”

“You didn’t,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You didn’t. Not even close.”

He is breathing harder than before, but the panic is softening now, bleeding out into the warmth of your body against his.

“I just love you so much,” you repeat, voice just a small breath. “And I didn’t expect it to feel like this. This… intense.”

He nods against you. Kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your wet lashes. “Yeah,” he exhales and there is a sheen to his voice, as though it passed through his own unspilled tears on the way out. “I know what you mean.”

You bury yourself against him, cheek to his chest, and his arms curl tight around your back. He rocks you just slightly, water lapping quietly against the porcelain, even now wanting to soothe you, hold you through it, make sense of all the things your tears said before your voice could.

His touch never stops. Always checking. Always there. One hand rubbing soft circles into your hip. The other brushing your damp hair back behind your ear.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you apologize eventually, brushing your nose against his cheek.

His laugh is soft and shattered, something frail, but there’s relief in it. Adoration. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You tilt your face up. Find his lips. It’s not a kiss that needs anything. It’s not even a kiss that asks. It’s just gentle. Soothing. Comforting. Sweet. Home.

“I’m more than okay,” you whisper softly.

And his eyes are shining.

He presses a kiss into your hair, then another. Then three more in a row because he can’t help himself. And he tells you he loves you, because he can’t help himself.

And he doesn’t let go. Not for a long time.

He won’t let you move. Not until the water cools. Not until the stars settle outside the bathroom window.

He won’t let you reach for a cloth or dry yourself off or even think about standing without him.

He refuses to let you go through one more thing alone.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable.”

- C. S. Lewis

[sl33py-g4m3r]

sleep is dumb... maybe i was on the computer a bit too long before bed, maybe it was watching tv that did it.... or looking at my watch idk

i was laying in bed trying to get to sleep from like 23:00 to 01:00, getting up to watch late night local programs cause hopefully it would make me tired.

try to sleep again from 01:00... check watch later, and it says 04:17... get up at 11:00

what is a consistent sleeping schedule?? I wanna be normal and not screw myself up again...... I wanna stay consistent w long term sleeping schedules and not screw myself up month to month.....

I know it's a normal routine of me at that point that started when i was a teenager; and I haven't broke out of it.

but holy crap is it so much easier to do things when your visually impaired ass can get a ride and go to the store, appointments, etc... that's easier in the daytime~~

I mean i like the night cause that's the peaceful time where there are no people but it makes it really hard to do things... brain come on.....

*oh you were on the computer for a minute before trying to sleep? no sleep for you*

*oh you were on your phone/ipad a bit before bed? no sleep for you*

*oh you got used to having the lights off and now they're on again and blindingly bright now? It woke you up more... no sleep for you*

I'd assume this is what's happening last night......

I'm sorry for constantly feeling like I'm ranting btw.... It surely can't be fun to any of my followers so I deeply apologize... I'm just so annoyed.