aphrodite-killed-me

[aphrodite-killed-me]

My man. Finnick.

15 minutes - f.o x fem!reader

posted august 28th, 7:05 pm

countdown for mans best friend, only two more hoursss

very brief use of y/n

sns masterlist

wc: 1.7k

The clock is tickin' lately, I guess that means I'm doin' somethin' right

Been here a long time, baby. Oh gosh, I hope I make it through the night

The first time you met Finnick Odair he was 15 years old, you were 14, and starstruck. Your grandfather had thought it appropriate to invite the last year’s winner of the games before celebrating the beginning of the 66th. He had smiled at you, and shook your hand like you meant something. 

He had also sat next to you at the long dinner table, leaning closer to you every once and a while to whisper-mock or tease whatever important person was talking loudest in that moment. You had stifled your laugh with a sip of your drink or bite of your food, but Finnick had just smiled.

It's fleetin' like my battery life

Hard to hold on to, like every guy

When you're hot, it's just a matter of time

The next time you had met Finnick was at a party for the Capitol, almost a full year later, thrown in your family’s very own courtyard. The dress your mother had insisted you wore was too tight, you could feel it constricting every breath you took as you wandered down a hall of the main house. 

You honestly hadn’t even known Finnick Odair was invited, though you should’ve assumed every victor had been. Not until you heard a quiet sob, muffled in a hand or a sleeve. 

You gravitated toward the sounds, glancing behind you every few steps before finally speaking. 

“Hello? Are you alright?” 

Turning the corner, you found Finnick on a bench in the rather small dressing room. He coughed, and made quick work of wiping his face before smiling up at you, hands resting sideways on his thighs as you approached. “Finnick.” “Y/n, you look beautiful.” He stood to greet you but you had stopped walking halfway there, a confused and rather concerned twist in your eyebrows. “Thank you, are you alright? I could’ve sworn-” You cut yourself off, watching Finnick shake his head as if asking you to. Soft smile still sitting on his face, not quite meeting his eyes. 

“Rude of me to be hiding” Finnick chuckled, glancing at the floor before looking back at you as if remembering how he had been taught to greet such people. His hand found yours and carefully pressed a kiss into the back of it. You offered a smile in return. 

“That’s okay, I hide all the time.” Your casual shrug got a more genuine look from Finnick, his head tilting. “The parties can be a lot” Finnick wasn’t quite able to tell if you were trying to gauge what had been wrong or if you were being honest.

It was both. 

“Come find me next time.” You smiled, the sudden boldness surprising him more than you had liked. Until he flashed you that toothy grin of his that won over the hearts of the Capitol. “I think I will.”

But I can do a lot with 15 minutes

Lot of pretty boys, lot of funny business

Take a couple bucks, turn 'em into millions

You, you, you know I

And Finnick had kept his silent promise made that night, having just saved you from a godawful conversation with a confused old man. Or so you had originally thought was the intention. 

Saving each other during these events had become a sort of ritual for the two of you, sneaking off to steal a few left out desserts and discuss the latest crazies you had encountered throughout the night before reemerging into the crowd and parting ways until next time.

“Finnick,  I missed you, I’ve been dying to tell you about-” You stopped, seeing the glassiness in his eyes, he hadn’t cried to you since that night, having made a valiant effort not to. But Finnick smiled anyway, voice sounding breathless and just a touch raspier than usual. “You missed me?” “What’s wrong?”

His smile wavered, lip quivering at the question as he shook his head and looked down. “I won’t tell anyone, Finnick, my best kept secret, swear.” 

And of course, Finnick had known you wouldn’t. You were quite special compared to everyone else he had come into contact with, a sense of innocent loyalty and need about you. A need for anyone who wasn’t apart of that god forsaken family. 

As disheartening as it once was for Finnick, his comfort lied with the eldest granddaughter of the President.

And so did every horrible thing he felt and did. 

I can do a lot with 15 minutes

Only gonna take two to make you finish

Piss some people off, show 'em what they're missin'

You, you, you know I can

Finnick had gotten into another fight, not physical but it had gotten close enough. It wasn’t with anyone important enough for anyone to care, but that guilt didn't help.

Finnick’s reputation had never been one of his voluntary doing, always coming around to bite him where it hurts. And now with you in the picture, he couldn’t be more irritable.

Where did all these parties come from?

When did all you bitches get so nice?

Runnin' out of the woodwork

And hopin' there's no brain between my eyes (my-my)

“Do you realize what we could get done with that kind of intel? What do you think she knows-” 

“Nothing, she knows nothing that could possibly help us.” Finnick had mistakenly let it slip to Johanna the name of his paramour, who didn’t want to waste a second longer at this victors gala without discussing a gameplan to use her for information.

Finnick was having none of it, his eyes were already frantically searching for your face in the crowd to apologize in advance in case she tried to talk to you herself, warn you to not trust her with an answer to anything Johanna would ask. 

“Finnick, you can’t know that-” “It’s not up for discussion.” 

Finnick finally looked back at the girl, who was grinning as if she just solved every problem they’ve ever had. He glared. “I would survive the games ten times over if it meant she kept that small sense of innocence, you leave her out of this.”

Well, it's fleetin' like we're all gonna die (we're all gonna die)

Hard to hold, like conversations when high (conversations when high)

When you're hot, they're gonna eat you alive (alive, alive, alive), yeah

You laughed when you were suddenly pulled into a room off to the side, a specific hidden away spot that you had shown Finnick a long time ago. He shushed you, despite the chuckle falling from his lips as he held you against the wall, waiting for whoever was walking past to be far enough kissing you. Gentle enough to show love but needy enough to show how he had missed you. 

You smiled into it, pushing at his shoulders so he’d pull away. Finnick leaned his forehead against yours, his eyes boring into you as if memorizing your soul. 

“Took you long enough.” He teased, smiling finally and sucking in a breath of your air. “Sorry” You murmured back, hands moving to rest on either side of his neck. 

“That’s okay, honey.” Finnick pressed a kiss into your temple, before fixing your blouse. 

Your smile softened at the gesture, “Wish we didn’t have to sneak off, constantly, wanna see you more often.” 

Finnick tilted his head at your words, eyes fluttering over your face a few times before responding. “I can’t let my image affect you, sweetheart.” 

“I’m more worried about what mine would do to yours”

But I can do a lot with 15 minutes (I can)

Lot of pretty boys, lot of funny business (can you tell me one more?)

Take a couple bucks, turn 'em into millions

You (you), you (you), you know I

Finnick was grateful when he reemerged into the party and saw familiar faces. You had left the little hideaway first to find a family friend so as to not look suspicious. So he knew he was left ultimately alone to mingle unless he found his equals. 

But then he saw you, in the middle of a conversation with none other than Annie Cresta and Johanna Mason. 

Finnick couldn’t tell if you had been cornered if they had, everyone seemed to be having a fine time as he moved toward the group of three, making his presence known by clearing his throat. 

“Finnick!” three Finnicks were said all at the same time, with no tone or connotation like the last.

He greeted everyone properly, keeping one hand on his glass and the other in his pocket. doing his best to not act like he was preparing to drag you away from the two girls.

While actively doing exactly that.

“We were just talking about the games” Johanna tilted her head in your direction. Both you and Annie giving Finnick rather uncomfortable smiles. 

He nodded at Annie, who sighed and smiled before speaking, “I need a refill, Johanna do-” “I’m alright” Her eyes were on you as she responded to the redhead. 

“Your grandfather was looking for you, sweetheart, heard him asking someone.” Finnick leaned in to you as he murmured around the rim of his glass. 

You stood up straighter, looking around as you asked, “Did you hear why?” 

“No, sorry.” “That’s fine, I’m sorry Johanna, it was nice to talking to you” 

Mid-sentence you were already walking away, leaving two.

When my time's up (when my time's up, baby), baby

I'll leak some pictures, maybe

Say somethin' batshit crazy

“When I came to find you, I wasn’t aware I’d be walking into an argument” You crossed your arms, staring at your grandfather who was sitting in his office chair behind his obnoxious desk. 

“This isn’t an argument, tell me if you really are having an affair with Finnick Odair.” 

Rumors had gotten around, you weren’t sure how, but soon enough you’d find out. You’d hunt them down on your damn own if you had to. 

You squinted, tilting your head before scoffing, “Is it true you enjoy watching children die at the hands of other children, President Snow?”

I'll do it, don't you make me, yeah, oh

[aphrodite-killed-me]

Hehehehe

Beyond Shadows and Secrets

Summary: Bucky Barnes is trying to move forward, living a new life away from the Winter Soldier's dark past. But a shadow persists: the death of a mysterious woman taken from him by his other identity.

Warnings: Psychological triggers: post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), recurring nightmares, traumatic memories, mental manipulation and brainwashing (HYDRA). IF IT CAUSES DISCOMFORT, STOP READING!!!!⚠️⚠️⚠️

Guilt - The Weight of Us - On the other side of the shield - Increased Risk

[aphrodite-killed-me]

Need that

might i request super soft, needy sex w/ tfatws!bucky? think "lovemaking" + prone (😩)

i've made some requests in the past and you absolutely blew my mind every time. love your fics

bucky my beloved i miss u

-

The night feels different before it even begins.

You know it in the way Bucky touches you on the couch, absently stroking your knuckles while the movie plays, thumb dragging back and forth over the ridge of your finger like he’s memorizing you again. His eyes are on the screen, but not really. You can feel it: the hum beneath his skin, the restlessness, the wanting.

When the credits roll, you stretch, ready to start cleaning up the popcorn bowl, but he catches your wrist.

“Stay,” he says softly. His blue eyes flick up to yours, uncertain even though he doesn’t need to be. “Don’t… don’t move just yet.”

So you don’t.

You shift closer instead, and that’s all it takes for him to tug you into his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs, chest to chest. His hands settle tentatively on your waist, as though you might spook. You cup his jaw, brushing your thumb along the roughness of stubble, and watch his lashes flutter when you lean in to kiss him.

The first kiss is slow, lips brushing, breath mingling. Then another, and another, each one deeper, hungrier. He exhales hard through his nose like he’s been holding his breath for hours. His arms tighten around you, pulling you in closer until there’s no space left at all.

“Been thinkin’ about you all day,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough. His nose nudges yours, and he kisses you again, sweeter this time, like he’s sorry for admitting it out loud.

You smile into it. “You’ve been with me all day.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he whispers. “Still missed you.”

The words sink straight into your chest. You answer him by tilting your head, deepening the kiss until it drags a groan out of him. His hands wander, up your back, into your hair, down to squeeze at your thighs. He’s restless, needy in a way that makes your heart ache.

By the time he pulls back, you’re both breathless. His pupils are blown, his lips pink and damp. He looks at you like he’s not sure you’re real.

“Come to bed,” he says, almost a plea.

You lace your fingers through his and lead him there.

-

In the dim light of the bedroom, he’s careful again. Always careful. His hands move slowly over your clothes, tugging your shirt over your head with reverence, lips following the path he reveals, collarbone, sternum, the curve of your breast. His metal hand stays at your waist, warm even through your jeans, anchoring you while his mouth worships.

You thread your fingers through his hair, sighing as he trails kisses lower, over your stomach. He kneels at the edge of the bed to undress you, one piece at a time. When he peels your jeans down your legs, he presses his lips to the inside of your knee, then the other, like he’s paying tribute.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, almost too quiet. He won’t meet your eyes when he says it, like the truth might undo him.

You tug him up gently, kissing him until he’s the one gasping. You help him undress, sliding off his Henley, tugging at his sweats until he’s bare and trembling under your touch. His body is solid heat and scar and muscle, but it’s the way he looks at you, soft, desperate, that makes you ache.

When you push him back onto the bed, he lets out a shaky laugh. “Bossy tonight, huh?”

“You like it,” you murmur, settling astride him just long enough to kiss him breathless again.

“Yeah,” he admits hoarsely. “I do.”

-

Foreplay with Bucky is never hurried. He takes his time like it’s the only currency he has to spend on you, savoring every moment, every sigh. His hands wander your body like cartographers mapping familiar territory, fingertips tracing the slope of your waist, the dip of your spine, the curve of your ribs as though he’s redrawing a map he already knows by heart but wants to memorize again.

His mouth follows in his hands’ wake. He kisses you until your lips are swollen, until the taste of him lingers on your tongue like honey, until your skin burns with every brush of stubble. He works down your neck in patient strokes, marking your pulse with lips and teeth, leaving behind blooms of warmth that ache sweetly under his devotion. You’re already writhing by the time he trails lower, scattering open-mouthed kisses across your stomach, the scrape of his beard prickling and soothing in the same breath.

When he finally settles between your thighs, you’re half-gone already, your body humming, nerves wound tight. He presses his palms against your skin, holding you open like a gift, and then lowers his mouth to you.

His tongue is soft, deliberate, languid. He moves like he could live here forever, like every stroke is a prayer answered, like every shiver he pulls from you feeds something deep in his chest. The first lick makes you cry out, the sharp, wet sound breaking the silence. His groan follows, deep and guttural, the vibration rattling straight through you.

The air fills with the heady mix of you and him, the faint tang of sweat, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your slick skin. He tastes you like it’s his only purpose, tongue sliding in slow circles, then flattening broad and sure. His hair brushes your inner thighs as you tug at it, and he hums against you in response, the vibration nearly undoing you.

He pins you with his metal hand, unyielding, weight pressing into your hip to keep you grounded, while his flesh hand strokes slow circles on your thigh, tender and reassuring. The contrast makes you gasp, the cold steadiness of steel anchoring you, the heat of skin soothing you through the storm.

“Bucky, please,” you choke out, voice breaking as your fingers curl in his hair.

He groans against you, the sound guttural, desperate. The vibration ripples through your core, pulling another whimper from your throat. He drags his mouth away just far enough to speak, lips slick, chin shining with you. His eyes are dark and blown, fixed on you like you’re the only thing in existence.

“I’ve got you, doll,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and reverent, his breath hot against your trembling skin. “Gonna take care of you.”

And he does.

He doesn’t stop until your hips are bucking, until the sheets are twisted in your fists, until his name spills out of you like a prayer you can’t hold back. The pressure builds, cresting like a wave, and when it crashes, it takes you whole. Your thighs shake, your lungs seize, and still he holds you steady, drinking down every sound, every shiver.

Only when you’re trembling and gasping, half-dazed from the release, does he slow. He trails his mouth over the inside of your thigh, soft kisses against sensitive skin, murmuring into you like each press of his lips is gratitude. His tongue leaves little strokes there, reverent, like a thank-you carved into flesh.

By the time he crawls back up your body, his face is flushed, his mouth glistening with you. His beard shines faintly damp, his lips swollen and pink from how greedily he’s kissed. His breath is hot, ragged against your cheek.

And you kiss him anyway.

Hungrily, messily, with all of it still on his tongue. The taste of yourself mixed with him floods your mouth, earthy and sweet, dizzying in its intimacy. His groan vibrates against your lips as he tilts his head to take you deeper, licking into you until your teeth nearly clash. You grip the back of his neck, pulling him harder against you, and he moans like it’s the first time anyone’s ever wanted him this much.

When he finally pulls back, your lips are raw and tingling, your lungs burning for air. His forehead presses against yours, his eyes glazed, his mouth slick with you, and his shaky laugh says everything words can’t: he could spend forever here and never be satisfied.

-

His kisses trail from your lips to your jaw, to your throat, slow and unhurried. His body is heavy over yours, chest pressing to chest, his weight anchoring you to the bed. You’re still shivering, your thighs twitching from the aftershocks of his mouth on you, when he shifts, nudging you gently onto your stomach.

“C’mere, doll,” he murmurs, voice thick and ragged. His hand smooths down your back, palm wide and warm even through the cool brush of metal along your hip. “Wanna be close. So close.”

You bury your face into the pillow, breath catching as he settles over you, his chest a solid wall of heat pressed along your spine. The mattress dips with his weight, his thighs bracketing yours. You feel him, thick and heavy, sliding against the curve of your ass as he grinds slowly, teasing, not quite pushing inside yet.

The sound he makes is wrecked. “Fuck, you’re so warm. So soft. Been thinkin’ about this all damn day.”

He reaches down, lining himself up with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten. The blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance, and when he sinks into you, the stretch is unbearable in the best way—deep, filling, so much of him you can’t help but moan into the sheets.

“Bucky,” you gasp, fingers clawing at the fabric.

His forehead drops to your shoulder blade, damp hair brushing your skin. His groan rumbles low against your back, vibrating through you. “Oh, doll… god, you feel like heaven. Perfect. Always so perfect for me.”

He bottoms out, hips flush to yours, and for a moment he doesn’t move. He just breathes you in, your sweat, your perfume, the sharp, intimate heat between your bodies. His metal hand threads with yours, pressing your palm into the mattress, while his flesh hand slides under your stomach, holding you close to him as if he could fuse your bodies together.

Then he starts to move.

Slow, deep thrusts that rock you into the bed, each stroke unhurried, drawn out, like he’s memorizing the way you grip around him. The slide of him inside you makes you moan helplessly, the sound muffled against the pillow. He kisses the back of your neck, your shoulder, anywhere his lips can reach, whispering against your skin with every press.

“You’re mine,” he breathes, voice breaking. “All mine. Gonna love you nice and slow, sweetheart. Just like this.”

Every thrust drags against the deepest parts of you, the angle perfect with his weight pinning you down. His chest is slick with sweat where it glides over your back, his breath hot in your ear, his teeth scraping lightly over your skin. The room fills with the soft, obscene sounds of skin against skin, of your muffled whimpers, of his ragged groans.

You squeeze around him, crying his name into the pillow, and he shudders, hips stuttering. “Say it again,” he begs, desperate. “Say my name.”

“Bucky,” you whimper, louder this time, and he nearly sobs at the sound. He thrusts deeper, harder, groaning against your shoulder.

“I love you like this,” he admits, the words tumbling out raw, unpolished. “So close, so deep, never gonna get enough of you.”

Your orgasm builds fast, his steady rhythm and whispered praises driving you higher, tighter. You clutch the sheets, back arching, your body trembling as the pleasure crashes over you in a white-hot wave. You sob his name, broken and breathless, as you come around him.

He follows you there, groaning hoarsely into your skin, his hips stuttering once, twice before he spills inside you. His body shakes against yours, his breath catching as he presses himself as deep as he can, grinding into you like he never wants to leave.

When it’s over, he collapses over you, chest heaving, lips still pressed to the damp skin of your shoulder. He doesn’t pull out, doesn’t roll away. Instead, he kisses the back of your neck, soft and reverent, whispering your name like it’s the only prayer he remembers.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever had,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, trembling. “My girl. Always.”

His weight over you is grounding, safe. He wraps you tighter in his arms, as if he could shield you from the world with his body alone, and the steady thrum of his heart against your back lulls you into quiet, blissful stillness.

[aphrodite-killed-me]

Frothing at the mouth

dirty pictures

── .✦ Clark Kent x fem!reader

synopsis: you send Clark naughty pictures of yourself while he's at work — a drabble

cw: naughty pics, Clark gets hard at work, more insinuation than actual smut

wc: 591

His phone dings just as he's finishing up an article. He's been typing away, writing and rewriting sentences over and over until none of the words make any sense. So when he sees your name in the notification bar, he's relieved. He could use a little break, especially talking to his girl.

He opens up the text, his heart lurching out of his chest when he sees it's a picture of your reflection in a full body mirror, wearing one of his shirts and a pair of his boxers. One of your hands is under the fabric, between your thighs, a wet spot at the front, and you've got this little grin on your lips, smug but also innocent.

Like you don't know what you're doing to him.

He inhales a sharp breath and places his phone upside down, glancing around to make sure no one's seen. Another notification dings and butterflies fill his stomach.

He opens the message with shaky fingers.

I miss you, you've texted, almost sweetly, as if you didn't just get him hard at work.

He glances at the time. 4:17 p.m. Only 43 more minutes. 43 more minutes, and Clark will be free to go to your place and have his way with you.

Until then, he has to keep his mind about him and prevent himself from having a mini heart attack.

I miss you too, he texts back, but I don't send you these kinds of pictures when you're at work.

You send him another picture, his shirt pushed up over your breasts, one of your hands pinching a nipple. God, he wants to bury his face in your tits.

Just hurry back home, you reply.

Clark's heart is racing, his cock getting hard in his pants at the thought of getting home and getting into you.

I can't leave before 5, baby. Especially since I'm always late.

Another picture rolls in, a selfie of you lying face down on the bed, pretty lips pouting, beautiful tits on full display.

I'd make it worth your while, you text.

I can't leave before five, he repeats.

You send one more picture and Clark swallows down a groan.

Displayed on his screen, in all her perfection, is a picture of your cunt, fingers spreading your folds wide open so he can see how wet you are.

His mouth waters and his cock twitches in his pants, now standing at attention. He tries to adjust it as discreetly as possible.

You're mean, he texts.

Because I miss you, you respond.

He rolls his eyes, but an almost goofy smile has taken over his lips. He's never going to get sick of hearing how much you want him.

Please, just behave until 5? Can't get any harder at work or it'll be awkward for me to walk home after, he writes.

Fine, comes back your reply, and he breathes a little easier. Not that your promise of being good solves the tent in his pants, but at least it won't get any worse.

At five o'clock on the dot, Clark's handed in his — hastily finished and messy — article to the editor and is rushing out of the office, counting the minutes until he gets to your place so he can give you the proper attention you've been requesting. And also, maybe, so he can get some payback for your little stunt.

♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing

---

taglist - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk 💛

@booboobear-12 @savvysavsblog13 @donnadiddadog @akkahelenaa @tysukier @animegamerfox @absolutelybloodyhopeless @teenytinylilcrawdaddies @simpingreader @tezooks @justheretoreadmydear @lovexbunny @lahniii @dolleciita @tinawantstobeadoll @preciselyshifts @markiplex @kissmxcheek @buckyisveryhot @rayamaya @fae-dreamer-99 @heynanasposts @lahniu @paddockspookie42 @lilychristine01 @chronic-fangirl-222 @sunnyteume @take-it-on-the-run @ninikrumbs @smzyyx @shamlesslipzz @spn-reader @gettingprettyfvckintired @cherryresidence @mollymal @liebgotts-lovergirl @lowrisemiller @mingyuziiiii @opalesquegirl @hrtsforstrkysblog @inside--her--fantasy @kodzuminx @evie2435 @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @diseasedclitoris @for-smut @soggywhore @snowfall--sunrise @sunmooner @elijahhewsonswifelol 

---

Clark Kent masterlist

[aphrodite-killed-me]

Yes❤️

Animalistic

Summary: you failed a mission... now you're his to give.

Warnings: SMUT!!, rough play, rough sex, dirty talk, oral (male receiving), unprotiective sex, p in v, pwp, cock sucking, fingering, face fucking, deepthroating, manhandling, choking

WC: 924

Pairing: the winter Soldier x Soldier! Female Reader

Read on ao3!

The chamber was colder than you remembered. Concrete walls, exposed steel beams, a floor stained with past failures. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead that were too white, too sterile and burning against your retinas.

But you didn’t blink.

You stood still, exactly as ordered.

Across the room, the Winter Soldier paced like an animal—slow, methodical, his boots thudding heavy against the floor. His hair was damp, curls sticking to the sweat slicking his neck. Blood dried across his jaw in jagged patches. The leather strap of his harness was fraying at the seam, where someone had grabbed him hard enough to tear.

He hadn’t showered since the mission. Neither had you. They said you were too volatile. Too wound up. They said Handle it the way you were trained. Your orders had been clear.

"Decompress. With him."

You didn’t need translation. You’d been through this before.

The Soldier turned to you like he’d heard a sound only the two of you shared. His expression was blank. His eyes, anything but.

He stalked toward you without hesitation. Not a single word. His vibranium arm flexed once—gears shifting under the surface of gunmetal plating—before it snapped out and slammed into the wall beside your head, caging you in.

You didn’t flinch.

He leaned in close. So close you could smell the copper and ash still clinging to his skin. “Asset,” he rasped, voice like cracked glass, “you know what this is.”

You nodded once. The movement crisp. Programmed.

He grabbed you by the collar and shoved you backwards. You stumbled, hit the wall with a grunt, and he was on you instantly—mouth crashing against yours, hard and unforgiving. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim. A punishment. Teeth cut your lip. His tongue shoved between your lips like he meant to bruise you from the inside out.

He pulled back just enough to spit on your lips.

“Open.”

You obeyed.

His spit slid past your tongue. You swallowed.

He smiled—feral, satisfied.

You dropped to your knees without waiting for a command. Your fingers went to his belt, tearing it open, yanking his pants down just enough to free him. He was already hard. Heavy. Veins thick beneath flushed skin. You didn’t hesitate. You took him deep into your throat in one practiced, mechanical motion—gag reflex long since broken.

He hissed, head dropping forward, a snarl curling from his lips. His left hand—metal, freezing—curled tight in your hair, holding your head in place as he rocked his hips forward. The sound of wet suction and low groans filled the air.

“Fuck, yes. That’s it.”

You let him use your mouth, let him thrust deep, again and again, saliva running down your chin in messy ropes as he grunted above you.

Then he yanked you back by the hair. You gasped for air. He didn’t give you long. He spun you around and bent you over the nearest bench—shoving your chest flat against the cold metal surface. Your breath fogged against it. You didn’t speak. You didn’t move.

You waited.

His fingers hooked in your tactical pants and ripped them down, fast and brutal, elastic snapping. You felt the cool air kiss the wet heat between your thighs—and then his hand.

He spread you open with two fingers, chuckling low in his throat.

“So wet already. Whose cunt is this?”

You breathed, "Yours."

He didn’t need more. He slammed into you with one vicious thrust—no prep, no softness—just raw force that split you wide, dragging a shocked cry from your throat. His hand clamped over your mouth before it even left your lips.

“You know better than to scream.”

Your nails scraped the metal beneath you as he began to fuck you in hard, punishing strokes—his cock driving deep with bruising rhythm. Every thrust rocked the bench, sent jarring shocks through your spine. Your thighs trembled from the pressure, your knees burning against the ground.

“Tight little hole,” he growled, panting against your ear. “Fucking trained for this, weren’t you?”

He yanked your hair, pulled your head back so you arched, exposed, ruined. Spit hit your cheek. You moaned.

“You like that. Fucking whore. Can’t even pretend you don’t.”

His metal hand slid from your mouth to your throat—wrapping around it, squeezing just enough to make the edges of your vision shimmer.

You clawed at the bench again as his hips slapped against your ass, filthy and fast and relentless. He groaned, deeper now. His pace faltered. You clenched hard around him on instinct, and his grip on your throat tightened in response.

“Say it,” he barked, chest heaving. “Say you’re mine.”

You choked out the words on broken breaths: "Yours—yours—yours—"

He slammed in once more and came with a guttural, animal sound, burying himself so deep you could feel the twitch and pulse of him inside you.

You collapsed against the bench, gasping, ruined, his come dripping down your thighs. He didn’t pull out right away. He just held you there—panting against your spine, hand still fisted in your hair like he wasn’t done with you yet.

When he finally did let go, you fell to your knees again on instinct. He looked down at you naked, used, eyes glassy and swiped a thumb over your bottom lip.

“On standby.”

You nodded, dazed, obedient.

He turned and walked toward the decontamination door, not bothering to redress himself. And you waited, kneeling in the blood-warm air, ready for the next order.

[aphrodite-killed-me]

I need him it’s crazy

terra incognita: the meeting (part i.)- bucky barnes

nerdy!bucky barnes x cheerleader!reader

summary. how does a nerd catch the eye of one of the cheerleaders? easy. don't bat an eye at her. 16k words.

cw. lowkey obsessed!reader, um bullying?? weird nerd... papal edicts.. and stuff. nothing is established in this (what's readers major? who knows. why is bucky taking STEM electives? who knows.) i don't even remember what happens in this part anymore.. no smut but honestly very cute.

a/n. this was sl hard to write?? ive never written a cutesy romcom inspired fic before??? literally kicked me in the butt everyday more than the hare did. how many times did i crash out to james and erin over this?? too much. and it's not even done yet. of all 65k words.. this is the only part i'm confident posting. side eyes self... i hate this.

dt. @54nboo thanks for proofreading and listening to me crash out over this almost everyday! @jamesb444 who i based nerdy!bucky off of. @/plumtartt who unfortunately deactivated but is the reason why i started writing college bucky (which led me to nerdy!bucky) in the first place, thank you plumtartt, i think of you a lot. and @buckyspup the best pup ever!!!

special mentions for my nerdy bucky lovers. @flockoff-featherface @herejustforbuckybarnes @mrgrungusthefrog @s4ge-gre3ns @neechan88 @onlineanyway @blowingbarnes @kiatjuddae @fleurbies @pinksplace @sergeantbarnessdoll @luvyoupxmimi

taglist. @demiebarnes @kararchives @1dluver13xx @devililithh @iownguns @loki-licious-945ad @ruexj283 @henrywinterreincarnate @biggestfangirl @buckybuckybuckysstuff @mrsalexstan @pretty-girl-rock-3 @riot-sounds @ambervanth @hiraethmae @btwbaureidrc @overwintering-soldier @fluorjscent @sweetserendipity65 @icwallittrashmagic @user27386 @buckysbaker @kittieboo @pixviee @moonyxxbarnes @rhythmnobleus @barnesonly @avgdestitute @star-yawnznn @thenedicouncil

masterlist | series masterlist | next part (in progress)

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

the answer to mrs. petrovsky's question in forensics, is simple: water. moving water, specifically.

it disrupts lividity, carries away trace evidence, speeds decomposition, feeds the ecosystem. a weighted body in a deep, fast river?

statistically, it might never surface, or if it does, miles downstream, bloated and unrecognizable, just another piece of driftwood tragedy. the textbook had stated. adipocere formation possible... insect activity differs significantly...

"how do you hide a dead body?" the question hung. the intricate puzzle of it. the logistics. the chemical ballet of decay versus concealment.

you imagined cold, dark water, the silent journey downstream, the efficient recycling by catfish and bacteria. a clean disappearance. almost elegant in its finality. bury it wrong, lividity gives you away. leave it shallow, scavengers scatter the evidence. fire? ash retains secrets.

but water... water swallows. water forgets. you were mentally calculating river depths versus body mass, the ideal current speed, the decomposition timeline factoring in water temperature and dissolved oxygen levels, the sheer, practical efficiency of oblivion by drowning, long after the actual drowning occurred...

"HOLY SHIT, DID YOU SEE THAT?!"

that sentence brings you here, snapping you back to reality.

under the arms of one tyler jones. the name tastes like stale air. golden boy. star... something. quarterback? running back? it doesn't stick. not that it matters.

all that registers is the sheen of his perfectly styled hair catching the awful overhead glare, and his smile – a permanent, practiced accessory, as fixed and meaningless as the plastic trophies lining the display case you shuffle past.

his arm slung casually over your shoulders like you're another trophy. his voice is a stupid confident drone, talking parties, talking about himself.

it's... fine. predictable. like chewing flavourless gum.

his arm isn’t affection; it’s ownership. like a claim staked, anchoring you to his orbit like a moon trapped by a gaudy, self-absorbed planet.

you’re just another thing to display alongside his letterman jacket, the cut of his jaw, the effortless persona that makes the hallway part for him.

his voice washes over you again, yet you barely hear it – parties, scouts, completion percentages, his sixty-yard bomb, his precision, his inevitable glory. words flow like a river you’ve long learned to float upon, detached, numb. you don't swim; you barely drift.

your eyes skim the blur of passing faces – the performative laughter of cliques, the couples fused at the lips, the ghosts hugging the lockers, eyes vacant. it’s all just background noise painted in shades of institutional a beige, exhausting mural.

tyler’s monologue about coach’s drills, his throwing arm, the drooling state scouts… it might as well be static. white noise.

you focus instead on the squeak-squeak of sneakers, the clang of a locker door kicked shut. your mind drifts, a desperate escape pod launching towards the half-finished sketch in your notebook, the haunting melody fragment looping in your head, the vague, persistent ache of being… elsewhere. anywhere but here, pinned under this arm, drowning in the echo chamber of his ego.

"...so coach is running the triple option drill again," tyler's saying, his fingers tap an absent rhythm against your upper arm. "like, we nailed it tuesday. but no, gotta grind it into the ground, right? my throwing arm's gonna fall off before saturday." he chuckles. "not that it matters. state scouts are already practically drooling. saw them talking to coach yesterday after practice. my completion percentage last game? insane. it's pure precision. you saw it, right? that sixty-yard bomb? textbook."

you hum a low vibration in your throat.

tyler's vocabulary includes nothing but scouts, completion percentage, precision. they might as well be in another language.

"...and then after the game, steve's throwing that party at his lake house," tyler continues, oblivious. "gonna be huge. kegs, music, the works. you're coming, obviously. wear that blue dress, the one that– hey." his voice sharpens. the tapping on your arm stops. "you listening?"

the hallway noise seems to recede in your ears. you blink, pulling yourself back from the edge of wherever your mind had wandered. "hmm? yeah, tyler. lake house. sounds... big."

he frowns, a slight crease appearing between his perfect brows. he doesn't like being ignored. not even passively. his hand lifts from your shoulder. for a second, you think he's going to drop the arm entirely. relief is a tiny, fleeting spark.

but then, quick and jarring, he snaps his fingers right in front of your face.

snap.

the sound is intrusive, cutting through the ambient noise like a physical prod. disrespectful. dismissive. like summoning a distracted pet.

"hello?" tyler demands, his voice losing some of its easy charm, gaining impatience. "i'm talking about the party of the semester. pay attention."

you flinch. not embarrassment, exactly. more like irritation simmering under a layer of practiced tolerance.

you force your eyes fully onto his face, meeting his expectant, and annoyed gaze. "sorry," you hum, the word tasting bland. "got lost in thought for a sec. yeah, party. blue dress. i heard."

the tension in his expression eases, replaced by that familiar smile. the arm snakes back around your shoulders. "good. just making sure you're with me. wouldn't want you spacing out when i'm telling you important stuff." he resumes walking, steering you. "anyway, like i was saying, the scouts..."

and then you see him.

tucked against the tide of students surging the other way, a boy with dark hair falling into his eyes like a shield, a physics textbook clutched against his chest. he moves with a strange urgency, head down, shoulders hunched. not slouching, exactly, but... contained. a tightly wound spring compared to tyler's sprawling confidence. unlike the noisy chaos of the hallway, he radiates a quietness, shyness that makes everything around him seem suddenly two-dimensional and flat. his gaze is fixed on the scuffed floor, utterly oblivious to the currents of students, to tyler, to you clinging to him. intriguing.

"...and coach says if i nail that throw saturday, scouts from state are practically guaranteed to offer on the spot–" tyler's voice fades, a distant radio signal lost to static, as you watch the boy.

he's scrambling, weaving through gaps that barely exist between the other students, like he's invisible.

intelligence doesn't just show on him: he reeks of it. you see the worn spine of the textbook – advanced theoretical physics? – the smudges of ink staining his hands, his eyes, visible for a second as he glances up to navigate through the halls. the library ghost. the scholarship kid. the genius, supposedly. or trouble, some whispered.

he doesn't look up. he doesn't register tyler's presence, and he absolutely does not register yours. his world is the dense text and the clearest path ahead. and that path, in his focused haste, is about to intersect yours and tyler's dead-on at a congested locker bay bottleneck.

"whoa, watch it, man!" tyler says, louder than usual, his arm tightening around you.

he collides hard with tyler's shoulder, a solid impact that sends a shockwave through you, making you stumble side against tyler. tyler lurches.

the physics textbook hits the floor with a thwump, pages scattering open like they have wings. pens and pencils spread, rolling in every direction like startled insects.

your breath stops for a moment. this is it. the moment. you brace for that awkward pause, the mumbled pleasantries, tyler's laugh and good-natured clap on the back that would establish his dominance and diffuse the tension.

that doesn't happen.

the boy doesn't even glance at tyler. he doesn't flicker his eyes towards you, standing right there, your shoulder still pressed awkwardly into tyler's side. his entire focus crashes down onto the fallen book, his face draining of color, jaw clenched tight.

he drops to his knees with startling, panicked speed, long, fingers scrabbling across the floor to gather the scattered pens, to scoop up the splayed textbook and snap it shut with a decisive thud. his movements are frantic, efficient, and filled with the desperate need to vanish.

"sorry," his voice is hollow, devoid of inflection. it's not aimed at tyler. not aimed at you. just thrown into the air in the hallway, a meaningless sound to fill the space before escape. his voice is low and rougher than you expected, unused.

tyler regains his footing, the momentary shock replaced by amused condescension. "eyes up next time, yeah?" he chuckles, designed to draw attention. "wouldn't want you calculating the trajectory of your face into a locker. might mess up that big brain of yours."

he flinches. it's almost invisible – just a tiny tightening around his eyes, a fractional stiffening of his shoulders as he crouches. he grabs the last stray pencil, shoves it roughly into the spiral binding of his closed book, and pushes himself up in one motion. he keeps his head resolutely down, the dark hair falling forward as a perfect curtain shielding his eyes.

"sorry," he repeats. but it's emptier than the last time he said it. and he just... walks away with shoulders close together and eyes fixed on the floor. then he melts into the stream of students, like a ripple absorbed by the current.

he doesn't glance back, doesn't acknowledge tyler. he doesn't even spare the silent observer clinging to the quarterback.

not even a single flicker of attention.

nothing. absolute zero.

"fuckin' weirdo," tyler mutters, shaking his head with a mix of annoyance and superiority. his arm settles heavily back around your shoulders again. "always got his head in the clouds or buried in some equation. total space cadet. c'mon, we're gonna be late."

you let tyler steer you forward, but your head stays turned, your eyes tracking the dark head until it disappears around the corner. the predictable drone of tyler's voice – already back to scouts and throws – washes over you like a meaningless static.

but all you hear is the echo of that clipped, hollow sorry. all you see is that world-consuming focus that saw straight through you, the frantic scramble, the utter, complete lack of regard.

tyler's arm feels like dead weight, suffocating. the hallway is loud, drilling into your skull. and the quiet boy who paid you absolutely no attention just carved a strange, unexpected hole right in the center of your predictable, flavorless afternoon.

why? the question hums louder than the people, louder than tyler's ego.

why did that feel... different? why did nothing feel like... something?

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

the relentless drone of other students seems louder in this sterile communications classroom that smells of dust, and the chemical tang of dry erase markers.

tyler's heavy arm isn't around you here – thank god – he's business admin, considers anything beyond basic composition a waste of his valuable time.

you're slumped near the back, idly sketching spirals in the margin of your notebook while professor richards, a man whose enthusiasm for grammar borders on the pathological, drones on.

"...and so, the semicolon," professor richards declares, tapping the whiteboard where the punctuation mark sits, lonely and misunderstood. "not a comma, not a period. a bridge. a delicate connector of independent yet related clauses. who can give me an example of its correct usage? come now, don't go shy on me."

silence. the usual suspects – the english majors who usually jump at any chance to showcase their vocabulary – shift uncomfortably. a pen clicks. nobody volunteers.

professor richards sighs, pushing his glasses up his nose. "seriously? no one? think about it. two complete thoughts. linked by theme or contrast. the semicolon is your friend!"

a hushed debate two rows ahead fizzles out. you glance towards the front left corner, almost reflexively now. him. the boy from the hallway. the one who bumped tyler and barely muttered sorry. the one who sliced through communication theory like butter. hunched over his notebook, same as always. dark hair a curtain. pen moving. not notes on fucking semicolons, you'd bet. probably differential equations or the chemical composition of stardust. the nerdy boy. the one who doesn't see me.

your pencil hovers over a half-finished spiral. you watch the scratch of his pen, the tension in his shoulders as he concentrates.

professor richards paces. "alright, let's try this. imagine: 'the rain fell relentlessly; the streets became rivers.' independent clauses? check. related? absolutely! the semicolon elegantly links cause and effect. now, someone give me another original example. please?"

more crickets. punctuated only by the frantic scratching from the front left. professor richards runs a hand through his hair. "this is foundational, people! how do you expect to write compelling arguments if you can't master basic sentence structure?"

you almost feel sorry for him. almost.

your eyes are glued to that dark head, the brown cardigan stretched across his shoulders. he hasn't flinched or looked up. lost. predictably lost. you start to turn back to your spirals, a disappointment you can't quite name pricking you. maybe the communication theory thing was a fluke.

then, movement. not a frantic scramble like in the hallway. his left hand lifts from the notebook, rising just high enough to be visible. no flourish, no eagerness.

professor richards spots it. immediately. "mr. barnes! thank goodness. enlighten us."

barnes.

barnes doesn't stand. he doesn't even fully look up. he just speaks silently, calm as a matter-of-fact. "the experiment yielded unexpected results; further analysis is required before publication." he pauses, his pen still hovering over whatever complex universe he's mapping. "or, for contrast: 'she loved the chaos of the city; he craved the silence of the mountains.'"

the silence changes. not stunned this time, but... relieved. impressed. professor richards beams, clasping his hands together. "perfect! precisely, mr. barnes. elegant, clear, demonstrates the linking function beautifully. both examples. excellent." he turns back to the board, energized. "you see? independent clauses, intimately related..."

but you're frozen again. pencil forgotten. your head tilts, studying his spine, the way his hand returns immediately to his notebook, resuming its work without pause. no pride. no glance around to see if anyone noticed. he just... knew. instantly. conjured two perfect, contrasting examples off the top of his head while clearly being light-years away in his own thoughts.

tyler's voice echoes, bragging about some meaningless touchdown: 'pure instinct, darling.'

this... this was different. a different kind of instinct. quiet intelligence radiating from that hunched figure.

how does he do that? why doesn't he care that he just saved professor richards lesson?

you stare at the stubborn fall of his dark hair, the set of his jaw just visible in profile.

the frantic, embarrassed boy who dropped his physics book is a distant memory. replaced by this... unsettling competence. this ability to surface, deliver perfection, and submerge again without a ripple. completely self-contained. utterly indifferent.

"hey!"

the sharp poke in your ribs jolts you. it's amelia, leaning so far over the shared desk she's practically in your lap. "seriously? again? are you, like, hypnotized by the nerd's cardigan or something? professor richards is gonna call on you!"

you blink, tearing your gaze away. professor richards is scanning the room, his gaze landing on the back rows. specifically, on you, caught mid-stare. heat floods your cheeks.

his voice calls your name. "since you seem... attentive. perhaps you can build on mr. barnes's excellent examples? give us another sentence demonstrating the semicolon linking two clauses expressing contrast? something original?"

your mouth goes desert-dry. your mind, a perfect, echoing blank. all you hear is that low, rough voice: 'she loved the chaos of the city; he craved the silence of the mountains.' poetry hidden in grammar. your own thoughts feel like sludge. "uh..." you stammer, scrambling. "contrast... right. um... 'the cake looked delicious; it tasted like cardboard?'" it comes out more as a question than a statement.

professor richards sighs, the sound heavy with disappointment. "well, it is contrast. albeit... culinary. and technically correct, if uninspired. please try to engage with the elegance of the construction." he turns back, muttering about foundational skills.

amelia collapses back into her chair, stifling a giggle. "cardboard cake?" she hisses, kicking your ankle lightly under the desk. "what is wrong with you today? you were practically dissecting the back of that nerd's head with your eyeballs. again! seriously. since when does the library ghost get this kind of real estate in your mind?"

"nothing's wrong," you mutter, ducking your head. but your eyes flick up, irresistibly drawn back to the front left corner. to barnes. he hasn't moved a muscle. hasn't shifted. hasn't so much as twitched at your lame attempt. he's still hunched, pen scratching steadily across his paper, absorbed. completely unaware of your burning cheeks, your answer, your stare. completely unaware of you.

the heat in your face is embarrassment and something else, something hotter and more confusing.

he's everywhere. the quiet boy. the nerdy boy. the one who bumped tyler and barely muttered sorry. the one who answers impossible questions like they're nothing.

and he pays you no attention. absolutely none.

the question isn't just humming now; it's a drumbeat in your skull, louder than professor richards, louder than amelia, perfectly timed to the relentless scratch-scratch-scratch of his pen: why him? why does nothing feel like the loudest thing in the room?

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

the library is quiet, broken by the occasional rustle of pages, the tap of keyboards, and the low whispers.

it reeks of old books and dust motes dance in the afternoon sun through windows. you're tucked into an armchair, a history textbook open but mostly ignored on your lap.

your gaze, however, isn't on gothic architecture. it's fixed across the central aisle, near the math and science reference section.

him.

barnes.

perched on a chair at a study table, surrounded by a fortress of towering books. calculus, advanced physics, organic chemistry – spines are thick, you'd never pick up a textbook like that, the titles screaming complexity.

and he's wearing glasses. thin, wire-framed ones that somehow sharpen the focus already etched onto his face. they make him look... older. more serious. unbearably and undeniably smart.

he's leaning forward, elbows resting on the tabletop, explaining something to two nervous-looking freshmen hunched across from him. one points frantically at a page in a massive calculus tome.

"no, see," barnes's voice is quiet and somehow carries without disturbing the library hush. patient. utterly fucking patient.

"you're overcomplicating the substitution. look." his finger, ink-stained, traces a line on the page. "ignore the trig identity for a second. just let u equal the inside of the radical. then du is...?"

the struggling freshman blinks. "uh... the derivative?"

"exactly." a slight nod. no smile, but his tone isn't harsh. "so then the integral simplifies to...?" he waits, letting the kid think. the other freshman scribbles furiously, trying to keep up.

you watch, almot mesmerized. the tension from the hallway is still there in his shoulders, but channeled now. focused entirely on the problem, on guiding these lost kids through the mathematical maze. the embarrassment? gone. replaced by this quiet competence. you steal glances: the way his hair falls over his forehead, just brushing the top rim of his glasses. the leather strap of his overloaded messenger bag slung over the back of the stool. the movements of his hands as he flips pages in another reference book without even looking, finding the exact spot he needs.

how does he do that? he's not just smart; he's... present. completely immersed in helping them understand.

your pencil is forgotten in your hand. you trace the line of his jaw, the concentration in his eyes behind the lenses.

he pushes the glasses up his nose with a knuckle. it's a small, unconscious gesture. interesting.

the sunlight catches the wire frames, glinting for a second. he doesn't fidget, doesn't look around. his world is the table, the books, the two students hanging on his every word. he pays the rest of the library, pays you watching from the shadows of the armchair, absolutely no attention. because he's just so fucking sure of himself.

"so then you integrate that," he continues, "and plug back in. see? the trig identity resolves itself naturally after the substitution. it's cleaner." one freshman lets out a relieved sigh. barnes just nods again, already scanning the next problem. "try the next one. same approach."

the fascination is a physical pull. you lean slightly forward in the armchair, the history text slipping slightly yet you don't even notice.

all you see is the focused curve of his back, the way his brow furrows slightly as he anticipates the students' next stumbling block. the authority. the complete lack of fucking ego. why is he even doing this? tutoring? for money? or just... because he can?

suddenly, the world explodes.

big, warm hands slam over your eyes from behind, plunging you into darkness.

a familiar, overpowering cloud of musky cologne envelops you – axe body spray and disgusting sweat. "guess who, beautiful?" tyler jones's voice booms, shattering the library hush.

laughter follows, not just his, but a couple of his football buddies lurking behind him.

you jerk, a gasp escaping you. your textbook tumbles from your lap, scattering pencils.

panic and intense irritation flood your system. "tyler!" you hiss, wrenching your head, trying to pry his hands away. "let go! what the hell?"

he chuckles as he leans over the chair. he doesn't remove his hands. "aw, missed me that much? knew you'd be hiding out in this dusty old place. c'mon, we're headin' to the quad. steve brought his new speakers, gonna blast some tunes. way better than this tomb." he gives your shoulders a rough shake. "my favorite distraction shouldn't be buried in books."

across the aisle, the low murmur has stopped dead.

you freeze, humiliation burning your neck and ears. you can feel eyes. the two freshmen are staring. and barnes. he's looked up. finally. his gaze, magnified slightly by the glasses are focused now – but not on you. directly at tyler's hands on your shoulders.

his expression is neutral. completely still. no anger, no surprise. just... observation. analytical observation. like you're another problem set.

"tyler, seriously," you grit out, finally managing to shove his hands away from you. you scramble to pick up your fallen textbook, avoiding looking directly at barnes's table but feeling the weight of it anyway. "i'm studying. go away."

tyler straightens, ignoring your protest. his eyes scanning the room dismissively until they land on the study table across the aisle. his smirk widens.

"well, well. look who it is. barnes!" his voice is deliberately loud in the dead silence of the library. "still buried in nerd books, huh? tutoring the fresh meat? hope they're paying you in pocket lint." only his buddies snicker.

barnes doesn't flinch. he just holds tyler's gaze for a beat, his own eyes behind the glasses assessing. then, without a word, he looks back down at the calculus book open in front of one of the freshmen. his finger taps the page. "equation three," he says, utterly unchanged. "apply the same substitution. now." he completely dismisses tyler. erases him.

the freshman jumps, startled back to work. tyler's grin falters for a nanosecond, replaced by a flicker of irritation at being ignored.

he recovers quickly, slinging a heavy arm around your shoulders, pulling you tight against him before you can react. "c'mon," he says, too loud, too close for your liking. "enough hiding. time for some real fun. you look way too hot to waste in here." he starts pulling you bodily out of the armchair.

you stumble, trying to find your feet, your textbook clutched awkwardly to your chest. "tyler, stop. i'm not–"

"nah, you're coming," he insists, steering you firmly away from the armchair. "my treat. maybe get a smoothie after. keep her energized."

as tyler moves you towards the library doors, his arm like an iron bar across your back.

you twist your head, one desperate glance back over your shoulder. barnes is still at the table. head bent over the book again, pointing something out. he hasn't looked up. he hasn't watched tyler drag you away.

his world has already narrowed back down to the integral on the page. the interruption, the spectacle, you... already erased. already forgotten.

the heavy library doors swing shut behind you, cutting off the quiet, the smell of books, the sight of the wire-rimmed glasses catching the light. tyler's loud voice fills the hallway, talking about speakers and smoothies and other shit you don't care about.

but all you feel is the ghost of that analytical gaze. the utter indifference. the way nothing from him felt louder than tyler's entire performance.

the question screams inside your skull, drowning out everything: why does being invisible to him feel like the only thing worth seeing?

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

the next time you see barnes is on a friday afternoon. the sun beats down, like a spotlight on an empty stage. you're propped against the sun-warmed brick of the student union. your lukewarm smoothie's condensation slicks your fingers – tyler's obligatory offering, thrust into your hand twenty minutes ago before he'd peeled off towards the makeshift weightlifting pit near the gym entrance. predictable.

amelia chatters beside you. her voice a buzzing fly around your head, complaining about her bio prof's impossible grading, the unfairness of the lab report deadline. her words register as sounds, shapes, devoid of meaning. "...and then he had the nerve to say my methodology was 'lacking rigor'! lacking rigor? i spent hours on those slides..."

your eyes drift over the quad's frantic energy. a pickup soccer game churns near the oak trees, shouts echoing – "here!" "man on!" a group sprawls on the grass nearby, filled with laughter at something unseen. the sound is grating, and hollow. it all feels... distant. like watching a noisy movie through thick glass.

tyler's loud whoop cuts across the space as he slaps steve's back, muscles flexing under his sleeveless tee. performative. empty. the smoothie tastes like chalky fruit and melting ice. you take another sip, the cold liquid doing nothing to thaw the numb boredom in you.

this is it. the peak of your friday.

leaning against a wall, waiting for tyler to remember you exist so he can parade you around like a shiny accessory at whatever loud, pointless gathering comes next. the brick scrapes your skin again. you shift, feeling lethargic.

why does everything feel so... beige?

amelia elbows you. "are you even listening? this is, like, academic sabotage, i swear..." she trails off, noticing your vacant stare. "hello? earth to... wait, what's that?"

you follow her gaze, something other than apathy finally sparking.

across the sun-drenched quad, near the shadowed entrance to the old science building–a monstrosity of dark red brick and big windows. a small figure, hunched, glasses askew on a pale face.

the kid from the library, the one barnes was tutoring.

he's clutching the physics textbook to his chest. towering over him, filling the narrow space between the wall and a stone planter, is carter mullins. defensive line. tyler's occasional enforcer. built like a fridge stuffed into a too-small tee.

a sneer twists his face as he jabs a thick finger towards the textbook.

"think you're real smart, don'tcha, shrimp?" mullins's voice is a physical blow. "actin' all high and mighty with your fancy tutor?" he shoves the kid's shoulder, not hard enough to topple him, but enough to make him stagger back, his spine hitting the brick.

the textbook slips, thumping to the pavement. "heard you squealed to dr. peterson about the 'disruption' in the library. that true, maggot?"

the kid flinches violently, shrinking in on himself. "n-no, i didn't—" he stammers. "mr. barnes, he just—"

"barnes?" mullins spits the name like it's rancid milk. he barks a harsh laugh. "that freak? figures you'd be sucking up to the library ghost. what'd he teach you? how to be a bigger loser?" he shoves the kid again with a harder push that slams his shoulders against the brick. "pick it up. maybe eat it, might put some meat on those chicken bones." he nudges the fallen book with his sneaker.

amelia gasps beside you. "oh crap," she breathes, her bio woes forgotten. "mullins being a total dick again. seriously, someone should—"

but before she finishes, before the flicker of 'should you do something?' can even fully ignite into action (would you? could you?), he steps into the frame.

barnes.

he materializes from the darkness of the science building's archway, not running, but moving with that same contained urgency you've seen before, only now it's honed. no hesitation. no dramatic entrance. he walks straight up, inserting himself directly between mullins's bulk and the trembling kid pressed against the brick. not aggressively, not puffing up. just... occupying the space. a sudden, immovable wall built of quiet intent.

mullins, startled by the sudden presence, takes an involuntary half-step back, then immediately puffs up, his face flushing an even deeper red.

"well, well," he sneers, recovering. "look what crawled out of the stacks. come to rescue your little nerdling, freak?"

barnes ignores him. completely. utterly. as if mullins were a gnat buzzing near his ear. he bends at the knees, and picks up the fallen physics textbook. he brushes the grit and a stray blade of grass off the cover with a single swipe of his hand.

he turns, not towards mullins, but towards the kid, holding out the book. "go," he says, calm. not a suggestion. a command delivered with finality. "lab starts in five minutes."

the kid scrambles, snatching the book, his eyes wide behind his glasses, darting one last terrified glance at mullins before practically tripping over his own feet to vanish into the dark maw of the science building doorway.

mullins stares, dumbfounded by the sheer audacity of being ignored. then the anger erupts. "hey! i was talkin' to you, barnes!" he steps closer, deliberately invading barnes's personal space, his shadow swallowing the smaller figure.

he's almost a taller, twice as wide of pure muscle. "you think you're tough now? hiding behind books? your little pet squealed, and you're gonna answer for it!" spittle flies from his lips.

barnes finally looks at him. really looks. he doesn't crane his neck; he just levels his gaze, meeting mullins's furious glare head-on.

his hands hang loosely at his sides, but you see the faint, clench of his knuckles, the shift in his stance – not bracing, but grounding.

his voice, when he speaks, is low, but it cuts through mullins.

"he didn't report anything." a simple, factual statement. no embellishment. "you were loud. disruptive. security heard you. not him. leave him alone."

mullins blinks, momentarily thrown by the calm, by the absolute lack of fear, by the directness."or what?" he scoffs, trying to regain the upper hand, shoving barnes's shoulder. hard. "you gonna cry to the librarians? write me a strongly worded equation?"

barnes absorbs the shove. he doesn't stumble. barely rocks back. he doesn't retaliate nor does he doesn't flinch.

his expression remains unchanged. it's the same look he uses on a complex differential equation, dissecting the problem.

mullins isn't a person; he's an obstacle. a variable requiring resolution.

"or," barnes says, "i'll report the harassment. formally. with witnesses." his gaze flicks, just for a fraction of a second, towards your group by the union wall, towards amelia frozen beside you, towards the cluster of students who've stopped their soccer game, watching. then back to mullins, pinning him. "coach riley likes his starting lineup clean. doesn't he? zero tolerance policy. especially for... repeat offenders."

silence. the sneer melts off mullins's face like wax, replaced by shock, then pure, impotent fury with cold, dawning fear. the threat isn't physical bravado. it's precise. barnes knows the rules. he knows the leverage and he knows exactly where to apply pressure. he stands there, quiet, a stillness that feels infinitely more dangerous than anything else.

mullins's fists clench at his sides. he glares, his chest heaves, the veins in his neck standing out. he looks like a bull about to charge, wanting nothing more than to obliterate this presence.

but he hesitates. trapped by the logic, by the witnesses, by the utterly unreadable and calculating look in barnes's eyes. mullins lets out a frustrated, guttural growl, low and animalistic.

"you're dead, freak," he spits. "you and your little nerd squad. dead." needing the last word, needing to assert dominance, he shoves past barnes, slamming his shoulder hard against him, and stalks off, shoving through the small crowd that had gathered.

barnes watches him go for a single second. his expression stays stoic. then, as if flipping a switch, the tension eases, banked and stored away.

he adjusts the strap of his backpack. he doesn't look at the gathered students. he doesn't seek the approval, reassurance, or even acknowledgment. he doesn't offer a nod to anyone.

he just turns. his eyes sweep the pavement near where the kid had been, as if checking for a dropped pen or forgotten paperclip or anything at all. finding nothing, he walks towards the science building entrance. like he'd just finished a particularly satisfying tutoring session, not stared down a human wrecking ball.

you realize you've stopped breathing. the lukewarm smoothie is crushed and leaking cold, sticky liquid over your fingers. you don't feel it.

amelia is staring, open-mouthed, her bio prof woes are forgotten. "holy shit, did... did barnes just...?"

but you're not listening. your heart is a frantic against your ribs. you watch him disappear into the dark archway, swallowed by the shadows of the old building, just like he vanished down the crowded hallway, just like he submerged back into the depths of his notebook.

the quiet boy. the nerdy boy. the one who mumbled a hollow 'sorry' and walked away. the one who answered impossible questions with effortless precision. the one who tutored with unnerving patience.

and now... this. protective, intelligent, utterly fearless, wielding logic like a weapon.

and still... he never looked around. never scanned the quad for reactions beyond that one brief assessment of potential witnesses. never saw you. standing frozen against the sun-warmed brick, watching him with your pulse loud in your ears. your expression caught somewhere between awe and something close to fear.

the sun is hot on your skin. the pop music thumps mindlessly. the group on the grass shrieks again. but you feel cold. deeply shaken.

the image of barnes, standing so still and certain against mullins's towering rage, burns behind your eyes, brighter than the afternoon sun.

the wall of indifference is still there, vast and impenetrable. but behind it... what terrifying depths? what reserves of strength, what razor-sharp focus, what unexpected courage? the fascination isn't just a siren song anymore; it's a seismic shift, cracking open the numb, beige boredom of your existence, pulling you relentlessly towards a mystery wrapped in silence, cardigan and wire-rimmed glasses.

why him?

the question isn't a scream now; it's the only sound left in the hollow silence of your world.

why does the boy who sees nothing make you feel like you're standing on the edge of an abyss, finally seeing something real?

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

sweat rivers carve itchy paths through the grime on your neck, plastering your practice top to your back. your legs feel like overcooked noodles after the fifteenth pyramid run-through. the final pose leaves your arms trembling, the fixed cheer-smile aching on your face like a bad fucking joke.

it reeks with the smell of hot grass, sunscreen, and exhausted bodies. around you, the squad collapses in a groaning heap.

"i swear coach is trying to kill us before homecoming," jenna whines, sprawling face-down on the scratchy turf. "my ankles feel like they're made of glass."

"try being a base," maria retorts, tipping her water bottle over her head, the water mostly missing her mouth and soaking her collar. "samantha, you were leaning so far left i thought you were gonna take us all down. launch up, not sideways."

"i was going up." samantha fires back, wiping sweat from her eyes with the back of her hand. "maybe if you guys actually pushed straight. felt like i was being shoved off a cliff."

"enough!" sarah's captain-voice slices through. she claps her hands. "water. stretch. breathe. we go again in three. save the drama for the judges, not me."

you sink onto the bleached grass beside jenna, pulling your knees up, resting your forehead on them.

the familiar soundtrack plays: maria and samantha's banter fading to grumbles, jenna's complaints about her homework, the thud of football pads from the adjacent field.

predictable. boring.

your mind, seeking escape, flickers back to the image that won't leave: barnes. not big, not imposing, just... there. standing firm against the mullins, then just... walking away. the question nagged, a loose thread in the tapestry of his weirdness.

amelia plops down beside you. she unwraps gum with a crinkle. "earth to space cadet," she chirps, blowing a small bubble. it pops. "still mentally dissecting barnes's thrilling lecture on semicolon usage? riveting stuff." she nudges you with her elbow.

you lift your head. "shut up, ames. just dying. slowly."

"uh huh," amelia is unconvinced. her eyes, perpetually scanning for gossip, dart across the field, past the bleachers, towards the chain-link fence bordering the main walkway.

suddenly, she freezes. her eyes widen, her jaw drops mid-chew. she grabs your arm, nails digging in. "ohmygod," she says. "don't. look. now. seriously. play it cool. but your super-secret nerd crush is doing a perimeter check. like, right now."

you blink, confused. "my... crush? tyler's over there," you gesture vaguely towards the distant football huddle where tyler's hair gleams under a helmet.

"not tyler, you oblivious disaster!" amelia hisses, leaning so close her minty breath hits your ear. she gives the most obvious jerk of her chin towards the walkway. "barnes. your resident library ghost. marching past!"

your head whips around.

and there he is. barnes.

trudging along the paved path outside the chain-link fence, maybe thirty feet away. head down, as always, eyes probably fixed on the cracked concrete. not tall, not broad like the football guys. his overloaded backpack, hangs low, making him seem even more stooped, like he's trying to fold into himself. he's wearing a faded, slightly-too-big maroon t-shirt, and dark pants. his glasses perch precariously on his nose.

he moves silently, utterly oblivious to the cheer squad sprawled nearby.

"huh," jenna murmurs, following your gaze. she squints. "who's the guy with the tragic backpack? looks like he's carrying bricks."

"that's barnes," you murmur. your eyes track his progress. he adjusts his slipping glasses with a push of his knuckle, his head dipping further.

"barnes?" maria wrinkles her nose, taking a swig of water. "that the guy everyone's whispering about? the one who mouthed off to mullins? doesn't look like much."

natasha romanoff, who'd been silently, impossibly holding a stretch nearby – one leg extended perfectly front, the other back, forehead resting calmly on her forward knee – lets out a soft snort. she doesn't lift her head. "that's bucky."

you freeze.

bucky?

the name feels... small. ordinary. completely mismatched with what you witnessed.

natasha slowly, fluidly unfolds herself from the stretch. she brushes invisible dust from her black shorts, her green eyes tracking bucky's hunched figure with an expression of pure, detached amusement.

"bucky barnes. yeah," she confirms. "he walks like that." she gestures vaguely, dismissively – the stooped shoulders, the gait, the backpack. "genius, apparently. full ride scholarship. perfect scores on everything, blah blah."

"genius?" jenna echoes, skepticism heavy in her voice. "doing what? inventing new ways to look stressed?"

"history," natasha says. a small, almost pitying smirk touches her lips.

"history?" you blurt out, the confusion mirroring everyone else’s. "but… the physics book? the tutoring? the equations?"

natasha shrugs. "yep. medieval european history, or something. something about… crusade logistics? treaty negotiations?" she waves a dismissive hand. "point is, he’s got the brain for rocket science but writes papers about, i dunno, grain shipments in the 12th century."

she pushes herself up smoothly from her stretch, brushing grass off her shorts. "and don’t let the whole ‘silent force of nature’ thing fool you." she meets your eyes directly, a knowing glint in hers.

"catch him off guard, actually try to talk to him about something besides decay rates or feudal obligations?" a small, almost pitying smile touches her lips. "kid turns into a total disaster zone. stammers. blushes. trips over his own feet. forgets how to form complete sentences. it’s kind of painful, actually."

you stare at her, then back at barnes – bucky – who’s almost reached the end of the fence line, about to disappear around the corner towards the library.

history? stammers? blushes?

it clashes violently with the image seared into your mind: the calm, logical force facing down mullins; the patient tutor; the boy who answered complex questions without blinking.

"no way," amelia breathes, fascinated. "he looks like he wouldn’t break a sweat defusing a bomb."

"appearances," natasha says simply, grabbing her water bottle. "he’s all sharp edges until you get close. then it’s just… awkward. really, really awkward." she takes a long drink, her gaze following bucky until he rounds the corner and vanishes. "smartest guy on campus, probably. socially? total train wreck. weird combo." she shrugs again, like she’s stated a simple fact about the weather.

"ew," maria makes a face. "seriously? blushes? no thanks. looks like he'd break out in hives if you smiled at him."

"exactly," natasha says, like it's obvious. "all that brainpower and zero chill. zero. weirdest combo." she shrugs again, finality in the gesture. "alright, cap. ready."

sarah blows her whistle. "basket toss sequence! positions! now! look alive, people!"

the squad groans, pushing stiffly to their feet.

you stand slowly, your eyes glued to the spot where bucky barnes had just shuffled around the corner, disappearing from view.

history. genius. scholarship. stammers. blushes. trips over air. the image of him facing mullins – smaller, hunched, but utterly still and certain – clashes violently with natasha's description of a flustered, tongue-tied mess.

the numbness is obliterated, replaced by a mix of confusion and a terrifying curiosity.

why history? why the disconnect?

and the most dangerous question, igniting like a spark in dry grass: what would happen if you tried? the thought sends a shiver through you, unrelated to the whistle or the impending toss. the field, the groans, the heat – fade.

all you see is the ghost of his hunched shoulders vanishing, and natasha's words echoing: human disaster. total nerd.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

you're tucked into your corner armchair, back safely against shelves of ancient philosophy texts. your textbook lies open before you, but the pages remain untouched. your pen rests idle beside it. because you're not studying. not even pretending very hard.

you're watching him.

bucky barnes. sitting at his table – exactly twenty-seven paces diagonally across the main aisle from you.

you've counted. repeatedly.

he's hunched so far over his book his nose is practically touching the page. glasses perched so low, his hair is a messy curtain, partially obscuring his face. a finger traces a line slowly back and forth.

his entire world is contained within the margins of that massive, leather-bound tome. probably something about medieval irrigation systems or the diplomatic nuances of a 13th-century truce.

history. the word still feels dissonant, wrong, when applied to the boy who dissected communication theory like a surgeon and faced down mullins.

he hasn't moved in forty-five minutes. not even a sigh. just that laser-focused stillness that you couldn't find anywhere else. the kind of focus that erases everything else. including you. especially you.

you shift slightly in your chair. he doesn't flinch. you clear your throat, barely a whisper. nothing. you drop your pen. it clatters on the floor, not even budging his attention. his finger pauses for a second, hovers over the word it was tracing, then continues its path.

utterly absorbed. completely oblivious.

why him? the question pounds in your skull, syncopated with the quiet ticking of the library clock.

why is he the only person on this entire campus who seems immune?

tyler sees you as arm candy. the squad sees you as part of the group. random guys see you as an object to stare at. but bucky barnes? you might as well be one of the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam beside him.

invisible. it's infuriating. it's the only interesting puzzle in your entire beige existence right now.

you trace the line of his hunched shoulders under the stupid cardigan. what's going on in that genius head? logistics? treaties? or maybe he's just thinking about how to make himself even smaller, fold further into the book, vanish entirely?

"earth to stalker. come in, stalker."

the voice, startlingly close, slices through your hyper-focused daze. you jump, your seat scraping loudly on the floor. heat floods your cheeks instantly.

natasha romanoff stands beside your sear, one hip cocked, a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched impossibly high. she holds two steaming paper cups of coffee. she doesn't look amused. she looks... knowing. terrifyingly. her sharp green eyes flick from your burning face to bucky's hunched form across the aisle, then back to you.

"jeez, nat!" you hiss, scrambling to look busy, grabbing your pen and staring blindly at your untouched history notes. "don't sneak up on people! and i'm not stalking!"

"uh huh," natasha drawls, setting one coffee cup down in front of you with a soft thunk. she slides into the chair opposite. she takes a slow sip from her own cup, her gaze never leaving yours. "because sitting perfectly still for an hour, staring holes into the back of barnes's cardigan while your textbook gathers dust is definitely 'studying'. fascinating methodology. very... intense." she gestures vaguely with her cup towards your notes.

you slump, the fight draining out of you under her scrutiny. "i... was taking a mental break," you mutter, picking up the coffee cup just to have something to do with your hands. "observing the... library fauna."

natasha snorts. "library fauna. right." she leans forward slightly, lowering her voice even though the only other person within earshot is barnes, and he's clearly on another planet. "so, barnes. again. what is it this time? trying to decode the secret of his perpetual stoop? charting the frequency of his glasses-pushing? or just mesmerized by the sheer gravitational pull of his nerd vortex?"

you take a gulp of hot coffee, wincing as it hits your tongue. "no! i just..." you flounder, gesturing helplessly towards his table. "look at him! how does he do that? it's been an hour, nat. an hour. he hasn't blinked, i swear. he hasn't moved. he's like... like a statue. a really focused, slightly crumpled statue."

"he's reading," natasha states flatly, taking another sip. "deeply. it's what he does. apparently, papal edicts from 1247 require intense concentration. who knew?"

"but why?" the question bursts out of you, louder than you mean to. "why history? he's got the brain for quantum physics. he tutors calc, nat! he took down mullins with words and a look.. and now he's..." you gesture again, frustration leaking into your whisper, "...immersed in the thrilling world of 13th-century tax law?"

natasha watches you, that small smile playing on her lips again. "still stuck on that, huh? the great bucky barnes contradiction." she sets her cup down, folding her arms on the table. "maybe he just likes old stuff. maybe he finds dead people less annoying than live ones. maybe," she leans in conspiratorially, "it's all a cover. maybe the history degree is just a front for his real work as a time-traveling spy."

you groan, giving her an unamused look. "oh because you'd know so much about spy work?"

"and you," natasha counters smoothly, "are transparent. you're fascinated. by the mystery. by the..." she searches for the word, her eyes flicking back to bucky, "...the disconnect. the guy who can verbally dismantle a linebacker but apparently turns into a puddle if a girl says 'hi'." she shrugs. "it's a puzzle. i get it."

"it's not that!" you protest, with your voice a little too loud. you glance nervously across the aisle. bucky hasn't moved. "i just... i don't get why he doesn't... see anything. anyone."

natasha's gaze softens just a fraction, a flicker of understanding. "some people," she says quietly, "live very deep inside their own heads. the outside world... it's noisy. complicated. messy. maybe books are simpler. maybe equations are cleaner. maybe history is... predictable." she taps a fingernail on your untouched textbook. "unlike people."

you follow her gaze back to bucky. he finally moves. not much. he pushes his glasses up his nose with a familiar knuckle-shove, his brow furrowing slightly. he doesn't look around. he doesn't even stretch. he doesn't notice natasha sitting opposite you, doesn't notice your stare.

the world outside his book simply... doesn't register.

"messy," you echo softly, watching him. the frustration is still there, but it's mixed with something else now. a strange sort of empathy? a deeper curiosity? what's it like in there?

natasha sighs, pushing her chair back with a soft scrape. "well, fascinating as this live dissection of socially awkward geniuses is, i have actual studying to do. for a class that involves, you know, this century." she stands, grabbing her coffee. "try not to accidentally set him on fire, yeah? he might spontaneously combust." she throws you a final look as she walks away, leaving you alone with your coffee and your thoughts.

you turn back to your own book. the words still blur. something about numbers, words whatever. the one coherent thought is: bucky barnes.

you take another sip of coffee. your eyes drift back across the aisle, inevitably, because your eyes are traitorous. he's hunched, still focused, still utterly fucking unaware. a puzzle wrapped in a cardigans, hidden behind glasses and history books. and the quiet, persistent question in your chest asks, louder than before: what would it take to make him look up?

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

you're sprawled face-down on your rumpled sheets, staring unseeingly at the textbook lying beside your pillow. the words bleed together—some dance of power you couldn't care less about right now.

your mind is a tangled knot, miles away, entirely consumed by the enigma of one, bucky barnes.

why? why was he the only one who didn't see you?

it wasn't a lack of attention; it was a total negation.

tyler saw you as arm candy, the football team saw you as an object. random guys in the dining hall tracked your movements, eyes following the curve of your hip, the swing of your hair.

but bucky? nothing. less than nothing. not a flicker of recognition, not a sideways glance. in his presence, you felt like air. like the worn carpet in the library aisle, something to be stepped over without a thought. you could've been shouting, waving sparklers, and he'd still be buried in his 13th-century grain ledger. oblivious. invisible.

you roll onto your back with a frustrated groan, pressing the heels of your hands hard against your closed eyes until coloured spots bloom in the darkness.

what was wrong with you? were you truly that forgettable? that insignificant? or was he just... locked away?

natasha's words echo around your skull: some people live very deep inside their own heads. but what did that fortress look like? was history his moat? were equations his drawbridge? was he simply... uninterested?

an impatient knock on your door – more a pounding than a knock – jolts you violently out of your thoughts.

"yo! you decent? we gotta roll!" tyler's voice, tinged with annoyance, cuts through your room.

tyler.

your stomach plunges like a stone. cold dread washes over you. you'd completely, utterly forgotten. the party. steve's stupid party. you were supposed to be tyler's dazzling accessory tonight, draped on his arm while he held court in your stupid blue dress.

you hadn't texted, called, or given it a single thought past the initial reluctant agreement days ago. every neuron had been hijacked, obsessed with the boy who rendered you invisible.

shit.

panic surges.

you scramble upright, heart hammering against your ribs. a glance in the mirror above your cluttered dresser confirms the perfect sick-day aesthetic: hair, face bare and probably pale from dwelling in the light, wearing an ancient, oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts.

perfect.

you dive back onto the bed, yanking the rumpled duvet up to your chin just as the door swings open without waiting for an answer.

"hey—whoa. jesus." tyler freezes in the doorway, his perfectly sculpted stupid golden brows knitting together in pure distaste. he recoils slightly, as if the air in your room might be contaminated. stupid. "you look like hell took over. the fuck happened?"

you summon every ounce of pathetic energy you possess. a weak, shuddering cough rattles your chest. you press the back of your hand dramatically to your forehead, letting it tremble slightly.

"feel worse," you croak. "fever. chills all day. throat feels like i swallowed glass. think... think i caught that stomach thing going around?" you add another pitiful cough for good measure, turning your face weakly into the pillow. "might be contagious."

tyler takes a step further back into the hallway, staying firmly on the threshold. he's dressed to kill – tight, designer black tee showing off his gym-honed arms, pristine white sneakers that probably cost more than your textbooks. his frown deepens into a scowl.

"seriously? you're sick? now?" he runs a frustrated hand through his hair, messing the careful styling. "steve's gonna be majorly pissed. this party's kinda a big deal, babe. you were supposed to be my plus-one." his tone is accusatory, like your sudden illness is an inconvenience solely aimed at him.

another cough, deeper this time, wracking your shoulders. you let your eyes water slightly for effect.

"sorry," you gasp out, sounding genuinely miserable, which, honestly, you kinda are, just not for the reasons he thinks. "really sorry, ty. wouldn't... wouldn't wanna get anyone else sick. especially not... scouts." you inject a note of self-sacrificing concern.

"yeah, no, totally," tyler agrees quickly, visibly relieved at the out. he glances down the hall, clearly already thinking about the party.

you shake your head weakly against the pillow, keeping your face half-buried. "just... need.. sleep. gallons of sleep. maybe... maybe just text me later?"

"right. sleep." he nods, already shifting his weight towards escape. then he pauses, a thought striking him. his expression clears, replaced by a look of practical solution. "hey, actually... since you're out... you think amelia would wanna go? as my plus-one instead? she's always up for a party, right?"

the question lands like a small pebble in your gut. can he bring amelia? like you're a faulty accessory to be swapped out for a functional one.

you force your muscles to relax, your voice to stay weak and flat. "uh... yeah. sure. ask her. she'd probably love it." the words taste like ash.

"perfect!" tyler's grin is instant, relieved, dazzling. "cool. thanks, babe. feel better, yeah? try not to, like, die or anything." he gives a careless wave, already turning away. "later!" the door clicks shut firmly behind him before you can even muster another cough.

silence crashes back into the room. you wait, counting the frantic beats of your own heart echoing in your ears until his loud footsteps fade completely down the hall. then you bolt upright, kicking the suffocating duvet off with a frustrated scowl.

that was... efficient. cold. transactional.

he hadn't offered to get medicine, hadn't felt your forehead (not that you wanted him to), hadn't even pretended concern beyond the minimum required to absolve himself of guilt.

you were a cancelled plan, easily replaced. amelia was next on the roster. the simplicity of it, the sheer lack of depth, was almost breathtaking.

you flop back against your pillows, staring blankly at the ceiling tiles. tyler's world was so surface-level. predictable. shallow. but bucky..

you squeeze your eyes shut, conjuring him instantly: the intense hunch over his book, the glasses slipping down his nose, the way his entire being seemed focused inward.

why couldn't he see you? was his world so rich, so complex inside his own head, that the outside truly didn't register? or was there something else? the question burned hotter than tyler's indifference.

your phone buzzes violently on the nightstand, shattering the heavy silence. you fumble for it. a text notification from amelia:

okay spill. did u fake a dramatic terminal illness to escape tyler's bro-fest tonight or what? because i just got the weirdest text from him

you groan, giggling and typing back with thumbs that felt clumsy:

yep. full plague performance. complete with death rattle cough. he bought it wholesale. then asked if he could bring you instead. like swapping out a faulty phone charger.

amelia's reply is almost instantaneous, a cascade of texts:

LMAO OMG

ofc he did. tyler's emotional depth is a puddle after a light drizzle

swapping out his accessory! classic!

well, too bad for him i have a hot date with my econ textbook and a pint of ben & jerry's. told him i was 'washing my hair' (code for: not being your stand-in)

but speaking of weird sightings...

guess who i just passed walking into the library. ALONE. at like, 9 pm on a friday night. like a total nerd.

your breath catches in your throat, your heart giving a sudden, hard thump against your ribs. you didn't need to ask. the answer was written in the sudden stillness of your room, in the way your eyes flew back to the shadows dancing on your ceiling.

bucky. at the library. alone. on a friday night.

the numbness, the sting of tyler's dismissal, evaporated. replaced by a surge of something terrifying, and impossibly compelling.

the invisible boy was within reach. and the question wasn't just why anymore. it was how. how to make him see.

your mind is a tangled knot, miles away, entirely consumed by the enigma of bucky barnes.

the library. of course. where else would bucky barnes be on a friday night? buried in papal decrees or lombard league logistics while the rest of campus pulsed with music and cheap beer.

a reckless idea sparks through you, fizzing through the numbness left by tyler's indifference. you shouldn't do it. you know damn well you shoupdn't.

go. there. right now.

catch him off guard. see what happens.

make him see you.

the dare natasha unknowingly issued days ago screams in your head: what would happen if you tried?

you push yourself upright, heart suddenly hammering against your ribs.

it's insane. impulsive. terrifying.

but the alternative – lying here, dissecting your own invisibility while bucky decoded 13th-century tax law – feels infinitely worse.

you scramble off the bed, shedding the oversized sleep shirt like old skin. what do you wear to ambush a library ghost? something... normal.

not tyler-date-night flashy. not cheer-practice casual. you yank on whatever outfit you can that doesn't scream for attention. something that helps you blend in.

you pause at the door, hand on the knob.

what are you doing? this is borderline stalker-ish. he'll probably just ignore you, buried in his book. or worse, stammer and flee like natasha predicted.

but the image of him facing mullins pushes you forward. you need to know which version is real.

that's when you found yourself walking across campus and into the library. it's nearly deserted inside. a lone student near the periodicals, a librarian quietly at the far desk.

and then, there he is.. twenty-seven paces diagonally across the main aisle from your usual fortress, you spot him. bucky.

he's already ensconced at his usual table by himself. head buried so deep it's a wonder he can breathe in that book. the backpack rests on the floor beside him, straps slack.

he's muttering softly, finger tracing a line on the page with concentration. completely absorbed. utterly unaware of the vast and quiet space around him. the sight tugs an absolutely involuntary smile to your lips.

human disaster, natasha called him. yet... there was that... something. which bucky would you meet?

taking a deep, silent breath, you walk towards your usual corner table. not directly to him. that would be too much. you slide into your familiar seat, back to the shelves, facing the main aisle – and him. your own untouched book feels like a flimsy prop.

you open it, stare blankly at feudalism, but your entire focus is locked on the hunched figure across the way.

he hasn't moved, hasn't sensed your presence. he's a world or two away.

minutes tick by, measured by the slow sweep of the second hand on the large wall clock. you pretend to scribble a note. you rub your eyes. you stifle a fake yawn.

he remains a statue, only the slight movement of his tracing finger indicating life. how to start? just walk over? "hey, remember me, the invisible girl you bumped into and ignored?" panic starts to prickle. maybe this was a terrible idea.

then, as if sensing your internal crisis, he moves. not much. he carefully marks his place with a leather bookmark, closes the massive book with a thump, and pushes his chair back. he stands, stretching slightly, his back giving a soft pop. he adjusts his slipping glasses with a familiar knuckle-shove.

and then, instead of heading for the exit or the stacks, he turns. shuffling steps carry him down the main aisle, his head already tilting down, eyes seeking the next book in his hands.

he's heading... straight towards your table. towards the empty chair opposite yours. lost in whatever logistical nightmare of the 12th century demands his immediate attention.

he doesn't look up. not at the tables, not at the lone student, certainly not at you. his trajectory is unerring.

your heart does a funny little flip-flop, lodging itself somewhere in your throat.

this is it. the moment natasha unknowingly prophesied. what would happen if you tried? no more planning. just... reaction.

he bumps the edge of your table with his hip. not hard, but enough to jolt him back to this world. the massive book in his hands slips. it doesn't just fall; it seems to leap, hitting the worn carpet with a thump that sounds like a gunshot in the hush.

bucky freezes.

pure, unadulterated panic floods his face, draining the color only to replace it instantly with a scorching red wave.

his head snaps up, eyes wide and startled behind the skewed glasses, scanning the disaster zone – the fallen book, the table, the legs of the chair he'd bumped.

his gaze finally skitters upwards, landing somewhere near your shoulder, then darts away instantly, fixing on the fallen book like it's personally betrayed him.

"oh god. sorry. so sorry. clumsy. really sorry," he stammers out, the words tumbling over each other in frantic rush, and breathless.

he drops to his knees beside the table, movements jerky with nerves. "didn't see... the table. the book..." he fumbles, fingers suddenly clumsy, trying to gather the pages he'd dropped. "stupid... just... sorry."

you watch him, the frantic, blazing blush climbing past his ears now, the way he refuses to make eye contact, focusing desperately on the leather cover as if it holds the secret to vanishing.

it's not just awkward; it's... painfully, endearingly adorable.

the protector of the quad, reduced to a flustered, stammering mess by a bump into a library table. the contrast is irresistible, dissolving your own nervousness into warm amusement.

natasha, you were absolutely fucking right.

leaning forward slightly, resting your chin on your hand. "hey," you say, cutting through his muttered apologies. "it's okay. really. the table's survived worse, i promise. it's practically battle-scarred."

he flinches slightly at your voice, his head snapping up again. this time, his gaze actually meets yours – startled, blue eyes magnified behind the lenses. filled with pure, undiluted terror.

he looks utterly trapped, like a bunny in headlights. he swallows hard.

"i... uh..." he starts, then stops. he pushes his glasses up his nose with a knuckle, a nervous tic you're already cataloging as endearing. "still. sorry. shouldn't... walk and read. obvious hazard." he gestures vaguely at the book, then winces, biting his lip in nervousness as if the gesture itself was too much.

you chuckle softly. "hazardous reading? sounds like my kind of history." you nod towards the volume he's now clutching protectively to his chest. "that looks... intense. what's sucking you in so hard you forgot tables existed? siege engine maintenance? tax collection disputes?" you raise an eyebrow, leaning into the absurdity natasha had described.

he blinks, surprise momentarily cutting through the panic. he looks down at the book in his arms, then back at you.

"uh... no. not... not siege engines. this time." he takes a shaky breath, but the stammer eases by a fraction as he talks about the book – his safe harbour. "it's... uh... it's about the administrative correspondence between the papacy and the lombard league. mid-13th century. specifically, the logistical challenges of..." he trails off, his blush flaring when he realizes he's rambling about something utterly obscure to someone who probably doesn't care. "it's... boring. probably." he finishes, looking down.

"logistical challenges?" you echo, tilting your head. "like, how many carts of turnips you need to feed an army of diplomats? or how to stop your messenger pigeons from getting eaten by hawks?" you wiggle your eyebrows slightly, pushing the absurdity further, trying to coax out that dry wit.

a strangled sound escapes him. the flush deepens – disbelief? reluctant amusement? "turnips?" he repeats. he pushes his glasses up again, the nervous habit returning. "uh... more like... securing safe passage guarantees across contested alpine passes. and... and ensuring the fidelity of notaries carrying sensitive documents." he pauses.

then, glances down at another quick look at your face, searching for mockery but finding only curiosity, "pigeon theft... was... was actually a documented concern, though."

you grin, delighted. he'd taken the bait. sort of. not really a bait.

"see? not boring. dangerous pigeons and treacherous mountain passes. sounds way more exciting than my feudalism notes." you tap your own much thinner, neglected textbook. "so, bucky barnes, guardian of library aisles and defender against rogue birds..." you pause for effect, enjoying the way his eyes widened slightly at the use of his name. "...are you gonna stand there, or are you gonna sit down? that chair was aiming for you before you assaulted the table."

his eyes widen comically. he stares at you, then at the empty chair, then back at you. the red on his face is now a full-blown crimson from his neck to the tips of his ears. "you... you know my name?" he breathes, sounding utterly bewildered, like the concept of someone knowing his name was alien.

"small campus," you shrug, though your own pulse is doing a salsa. "names get around. especially when someone stands up to carter mullins like it's no big deal." you hold his gaze, letting him see the genuine respect in your eyes. "sit. before you drop the lombard league again. that carpet can only take so much."

he hesitates, looking genuinely torn between running away and the terrifying, scary prospect of sitting. he glances towards the escape route down the aisle, then back at the chair, then at your face – your teasing, the lack of pity, the challenge.

he takes another shaky breath, the book still clutched tightly. slowly, and very awkwardly, he unfolds himself and sinks into the chair opposite you, perching on the very edge like it might eject him.

he carefully places the heavy book on the table, aligning it precisely with the edge, a meticulous act that you immediately pick up.

"uh... thanks," he mumbles, staring fixedly at the book's cover. "for... not minding the... the book assault." he risks another glance at you, then away. "and... you are...?" the question hangs with his palpable nervousness.

"me?" you smile, leaning back slightly in your chair, enjoying the flustered intensity radiating off him, the crack you'd made in his fortress of focus. it was exhilarating. "oh, i'm just the person whose table you almost destroyed with papal politics. you know, trouble." you let the smile turn mischievous.

fuck. fuck. fuck. that was a terrible joke. you almost wince inwardly, letting it all spill and scaring him away but you say, "seems fitting, considering the chaos i seem to cause." that was even worse.

bucky barnes stares at you, his mouth slightly open, painting his entire face a spectacular shade of red. he looks utterly, adorably wrecked. terrified. the silence stretches. the invisible girl had landed. and the quiet boy was finally, and gloriously, looking.

bucky barnes stares at you across the scarred oak table, his mouth still slightly agape. wrecked. like you'd just told him the library was on fire and his precious lombard league correspondence was the kindling.

he seems incapable of speech, of movement, of anything except radiating pure, undiluted panic mixed.

you bite the inside of your cheek to stop the delighted laugh bubbling up again. it's almost too much. the quiet boy who faced down mullins, reduced to a trembling, flustered mess by a little teasing.

natasha's words echo: human disaster. she wasn't wrong. but seeing it firsthand? it's strangely... exhilarating. adorable in its intensity.

he finally manages to snap his mouth shut, swallowing hard enough that you see his adam's apple bob. his gaze finally settles somewhere near your left shoulder, unable to meet your eyes directly. "t-trouble?" he echoes, it's barely above a whisper, cracking on the second syllable. he clears his throat. "that's... uh... that's not... i mean... your actual name? or...?" he trails off, looking mortified he even asked.

you grin, leaning your elbows on the table. "depends who you ask. tyler jones probably has a few choice names for me right about now." you watch his reaction carefully.

his brow furrows slightly behind the glasses. "tyler jones?" he repeats, the name seeming unfamiliar on his tongue. "the... football kid?" there's no recognition in his tone regarding you and tyler, just a vague awareness of the campus golden boy.

he genuinely doesn't know. the invisibility wasn't an act; he simply hadn't registered your existence in tyler's orbit at all.

"the very one," you confirm, your smile turning wry. "stood him up tonight. hence the plague act." you gesture vaguely at your own decidedly non-sick appearance – the complete lack of plague symptoms. "barely glanced my way before asking if he could bring amelia mccann instead."

bucky blinks. "amelia... natasha's friend?" he asks, connecting dots in a way that clearly doesn't involve you. then his eyes widen slightly, as if realizing the implication of tyler swapping dates. "oh. that's... uh... inefficient." he states it plainly, like commenting on a poorly designed logistics route. then he seems to realize how that might sound. "i mean... not that you're... inefficient... just... his method was..." he flounders.

you burst out laughing, a soft, genuine sound that seems too loud in the quiet corner. "inefficient? that's one word for it. 'shallow', 'predictable', 'kind of a jerk' also spring to mind." you shake your head. "don't worry, barnes. i'm not offended. mostly relieved i don't have to pretend to enjoy steve's terrible punch while tyler talks about his throwing arm."

a tiny flicker of... something... crosses his face at your casual use of his last name. amusement? surprise? it's gone too quickly to decipher.

he focuses intently on aligning the corner of his massive history tome perfectly with the wood grain. "steve rogers's punch is notoriously diluted," he murmurs, almost to himself. "statistically likely to contain more fruit flies than actual fruit juice." he risks another glance at you. "so... you... came here? instead? to... study?" his gaze sweeps your conspicuously empty notebook and textbook.

"well," you drawl, tapping your pen against the blank page of your own history book, the one about feudalism that suddenly seems incredibly dull. "i intended to study. truly. crusades. treaties. all that riveting stuff." you sigh dramatically. "but then... papal politics and treacherous pigeons proved far more distracting." you nod pointedly at his book.

he stares at you. blinks. then, incredibly, a small smile touches the corners of his mouth. gone almost before it fully forms, replaced by another blush, but you saw it. a crack in the panic fortress.

"the pigeons were a significant variable," he concedes,

a hint of dry humor warming his voice. "carrier reliability impacted message transmission times by an estimated seventeen percent during the lombard-papal disputes of 1248." he pushes his glasses up again, a gesture that's becoming endearing. "it... uh... complicated the peace negotiations."

you lean forward, resting your chin back on your hands, your own smile wide and genuine. "see? fascinating. way better than my baron so-and-so oppressed his serfs chapter. tell me more about these unreliable pigeons, bucky barnes. did they have favorites? were there rogue hawk factions? pigeon espionage?"

he stares at you, but the sheer terror in his eyes is receding, replaced by a dazed sort of bewilderment.

she's... interested? in lombard league carrier pigeons? she's smiling? at me? he takes a slow, breath, his gaze dropping to his book, then flicking back to your face.

the silence stretches, but it's different now. not with panic, but with something fragile, and incredibly new.

the invisible not-so-invisible girl had not only made the quiet boy see her; she'd made him smile. and maybe, just maybe, she'd found something infinitely more interesting than tyler jones could ever be.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

saturday morning sunlight streams through the large windows of the campus diner, the 'golden griddle,' casting warm stripes across sticky vinyl booths and the lingering scent of maple syrup and frying bacon.

there's the lazy weekend chatter of students nursing hangovers or fueling up for game day.

you're squeezed into a booth with amelia, jenna, and maria, picking listlessly at a stack of slightly-too-soggy pancakes.

your mind, however, is worlds away, replaying last night's library encounter on a loop: bucky's startled eyes behind his glasses, the blushing, the sound he made when you teased him about pigeons, the way he'd finally, hesitantly, sat down...

amelia kicks your shin under the table. "hello? pancake planet to space cadet. you just stare at those like they hold the secrets of the universe or something?" she chuckles, drowning her own waffles in a lake of syrup.

"huh? oh. yeah. sorry." you spear a piece of pancake, forcing it into your mouth. it tastes like cardboard. all you can taste is the memory of bucky's flustered voice.

jenna sighs dramatically, scrolling through her phone. "tyler posted like, twenty stories from steve's last night. looks like it was actually decent for once. steve must've sprung for the good jungle juice this time. pity you missed it, sickie." she glances at you, not unkindly, just stating a fact.

"yeah," you mumble, pushing syrup around your plate with a fork. "pity."

the thought of tyler's loud party, the sticky floors, the performative energy... it feels like a different lifetime compared to the hushed intensity of the library corner.

the bell over the diner door jingles. natasha slides into the booth beside amelia, effortlessly displacing air. she's wearing dark jeans, a simple black tank top, and an expression that could curdle milk. she doesn't bother with greetings, her sharp green eyes locking onto you like lasers.

"so," natasha says. her voice deceptively calm, the kind that makes you think oh no. "the plague. fascinating recovery. miraculous, even." she flags down a passing waitress. "black coffee. strong."

you freeze, the fork halfway to your mouth. "uh... yeah. lots of sleep. did the trick." you try for a weak smile.

natasha accepts the coffee mug the waitress slams down, takes a slow sip, her gaze never leaving yours. "lots of sleep. right." she sets the mug down with a click.

"see, here's the thing. tyler texted me last night, all pissy because his best shiny accessory was malfunctioning. said you were 'deathly ill'. practically on your deathbed." her tone is flat. "being the concerned friend i am," she lays heavy sarcasm on the word, "i swung by your dorm around... oh, ten? maybe ten-thirty? figured i'd drop off some actual meds, maybe make sure you hadn't actually kicked the bucket tyler was so worried about."

your blood runs cold. you stare at her, the pancake suddenly a lead weight in your stomach. ten-thirty. right around the time you were sitting across from a blushing, stammering bucky barnes in the library.

"imagine my surprise," natasha continues, "when i knocked. no answer. i figured, maybe passed out. so i used my key." she raises an eyebrow. "your room. empty. bed made. no sign of plague victim zero. just... gone. vanished." she leans forward slightly, her eyes narrowing.

"so. care to explain the miraculous resurrection? or the spontaneous dorm-room evaporation act? because the timeline's a little... messy."

amelia's eyes widen over her waffle. jenna and maria stop eating, forks hovering, staring between you and natasha. the diner noise seems to fade.

you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "i... uh..." you flounder, your mind racing.

lie? make up an emergency? but natasha's gaze is like an x-ray. she'd see right through it. nobody can lie to her.

"i felt... better. suddenly. needed air. went for a walk." the words sound feeble even to your own ears.

"a walk." natasha deadpans. "at ten-thirty pm. while supposedly dying of the plague. fascinating choice of convalescence." she takes another slow sip of coffee. "where'd this... invigorating walk take you? the quad? the river path? maybe..." she pauses, letting the silence stretch, "...the library?"

you feel the heat creeping up your neck, mirroring bucky's infamous blush. you stare down at your plate, unable to meet her knowing gaze. "maybe," you mutter, pushing a piece of pancake around.

"the library?" maria echoes. "on a friday night? while faking sick to ditch tyler? what the hell for?"

"oh, i think we all know what for," natasha says smoothly, a triumphant smirk plays on her lips. she leans back, crossing her arms. "trouble. details. now. did the library ghost materialize? did he stutter? did he spontaneously combust when you spoke? i need data points."

the nickname 'trouble', the name you'd given bucky last night, hits you. physically. jesus christ.

amelia gasps, slamming her hand on the table. "no way! barnes? you went to the library to stalk barnes?!" her voice is loud enough that a few heads turn towards them.

"shhh!" you say, mortified, shrinking into the vinyl booth. "it wasn't stalking! i just... went to study! and he happened to be there!" the lie is pathetic. even to you.

"study," natasha scoffs. "with your pristine textbook? please. try again. what happened?" her voice is sharp, and demanding.

under the combined weight of their stares, your defenses crumble. you take a breath, the memory flooding back, washing away the panic.

"he... walked into my table," you admit. "dropped his massive history brick. he.. looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole, and blushed so hard i thought his ears might catch fire. he stuttered. a lot. like crazy and apologized about a million times."

"oh my god," amelia chuckles, leaning forward. "classic barnes disaster mode. then what?"

"i... talked to him," you say, "teased him a little. about his book. about papal politics and... messenger pigeons."

natasha's smirk solidifies into a genuine, if slightly predatory, grin. "did he engage? or just short-circuit?"

"he... he did. well he did both. at first," you say, a note of wonder creeping into your voice. "he actually talked back. about alpine passes and... notary fidelity? and pigeon theft being a real historical problem. he even... almost smiled. once."

jenna wrinkles her nose. "pigeon theft? notary fidelity? god, that sounds painfully boring. why would you even—"

"shut up, jenna," natasha cuts her off without looking away from you. "then what? did he run screaming?"

you shake your head, meeting natasha's gaze. "no. i... i told him to sit down. he did. eventually. perched on the edge of the chair like it was electrified." you pause. "he asked who i was. he had no idea. like... genuinely no clue who i was, even though we've bumped into each other, like, a dozen times."

natasha nods, understanding dawning. "the invisibility shield finally dropped. and?"

"and... i told him he could call me trouble. as a joke.. i, um, panicked." you feel your own cheeks warming now. "then he just... stared. like i'd grown a second head. then blushed even harder. and... that was kind of it. we just sat there for a minute. it was... quiet." you shrug, feeling suddenly shy. "then i left. he was still sitting there, looking shell-shocked, when i walked away."

the table is silent.

amelia looks like christmas came early. jenna and maria exchange bewildered glances, clearly unable to comprehend the appeal. natasha just studies you silently, at first. then she lets out a soft huff, almost a laugh.

"trouble," she repeats, shaking her head slightly. "fitting." she takes a final sip of her coffee. "so. the mysterious plague victim wasn't dying. she was launching a covert op on the library cryptid. and apparently," her gaze sharpens again, "it was successful. you cracked the shell. very minimally."

"was it worth ditching tyler and giving me a minor heart attack when i found your room empty?" natasha asks, her tone dry without malice.

you think of bucky's wide, startled eyes, his laugh, the way he'd carefully placed his book on the table. a small, genuine smile spreads across your face, pushing aside the embarrassment.

"yeah," you say, not meeting any of their gaze and playing with your pancakes. "it was worth it." finally taking a real bite of pancake. it still tastes like shit, but you don't care.

your mind is already drifting back to the library, to the empty chair opposite yours, wondering if bucky barnes, history nerd and pigeon theft expert, was lying in his bed right now, thinking about trouble too.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

you fall into step beside natasha. the late morning sun is warm on your shoulders as you head back towards the dorm quad.

the campus walks are quieter now. the usual weekday is energy replaced by a lazy saturday hum.

groups lounge on the grass, frisbees sail through the air, the distant thump of music drifts from an open window. the awkward interrogation at the diner hangs in the air between you, softened by syrup and natasha's surprising lack of further grilling.

for a few blocks, you walk in comfortable silence, the rhythm of your footsteps syncing on the pavement.

natasha seems content, observing the campus scene with her usual detached amusement. you steal glances at her profile – an absolute mystery. the question has been burning since she dropped that nickname like a grenade in the booth.

"so," you start, trying to sound casual, kicking a loose pebble. it skitters ahead on the path. "the library cryptid. barnes."

natasha doesn't look at you, but a faint smirk touches her lips. "mm. the blushing disaster. what about him?"

"just..." you hesitate, choosing your words carefully. "back at the diner. you called me 'trouble'. that's... that's what i told him to call me. last night. when he asked my name." you glance at her, searching her expression. "how'd you know that before i even told you?"

natasha keeps walking, casually. too casual. "lucky guess? seemed fitting. you caused enough chaos last night, vanishing like a phantom from your deathbed." her tone is teasing.

"come on, nat," you press, a little more insistently this time. "it was really specific. 'trouble'. i literally just made it up on the spot when he looked like he was about to bolt. how could you possibly guess that?"

she shrugs. "maybe i have a sixth sense for the kind of nonsense you'd pull. 'trouble' suits the whole... for reckless library ambush spy." she finally glances at you. "or maybe barnes isn't as tight-lipped as he seems. maybe he talks in his sleep. to his textbooks."

you snort. "highly doubt that. he looked like he'd rather swallow his own tongue than tell anyone about... well, about anything involving another human being, honestly." you pause, remembering his panic. "especially about some random girl accosting him in the library."

"accosting?" natasha raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "strong word. sounded more like you rescued him from a rogue history book and a table."

"semantics," you wave a hand dismissively. the suspicion is coils tighter. "but seriously. how? did you... talk to him? after? did he say something?" the thought of bucky recounting the encounter to anyone, let alone natasha, seems wildly statistically improbable.

natasha laughs a dry sound. "talk to him? about feelings? or social interactions? please." she shakes her head. "bucky barnes communicates in footnotes and historical primary sources. actual conversation? especially about something that probably short-circuited his entire nervous system?" she gives you a sidelong look. "doubtful."

"then how?" you stop walking, forcing her to stop too. you face her on the sun-dappled path. "nat. it's bugging me. it was too spot-on. it felt like... like you knew."

she meets your gaze, her expression unreadable for a long moment. the playful mask is still there. she doesn't look away, but she doesn't offer an explanation either.

"maybe," she says slowly, gaining a touch of something almost... nostalgic? "maybe i just know him better than most people realize. known him a long time. long enough to predict the kind of thing that would leave him stammering and blushing like a schoolboy who just saw his first... well." she catches herself, the nostalgic hint vanishing, replaced by her usual dry wit. "let's just say i've witnessed the barnes disaster protocol in action more times than i care to count. 'trouble' causing him to malfunction? classic barnes reaction. predictable, really." she starts walking again, forcing you to follow.

"known him a long time?" you prompt, falling back into step beside her. longer than college? high school? childhood? "like... how long?"

"long enough," natasha deflects smoothly. "there's a guy who gets flustered way too easily. who trips over air when surprised. who probably spent half the night replaying that library encounter in his head, analyzing every word you said like it was a treaty clause."

the image makes your own cheeks warm slightly. "you make him sound like a lab specimen."

"observational data," natasha corrects breezily. "years of it. lets me make... educated guesses. like 'trouble' being exactly the kind of playful grenade you'd lob into his meticulously ordered world." she glances at you, her smirk widening. "and judging by the ridiculous grin you've been trying to hide all morning, it landed perfectly."

you can't help but smile back. your suspicion still sticks there, but softened by natasha's explanation. it almost made sense.

her observation, her history with him... whatever that history was. she hadn't denied knowing him well. very well. well enough to predict his reactions with unnerving accuracy. well enough to know nicknames given in a private, flustered moment. maybe she'd spoken to him?

"so," you say as your dorm building comes into view, "this 'long time'... does it involve knowing if he actually likes pigeons? or was that just historical fact regurgitation?"

natasha laughs. "oh, he definitely finds carrier pigeons fascinating. logistical marvels, apparently. efficient, for their time. whether he likes them personally?" she shrugs, pushing open the main dorm door.

"doubt he's given it much thought. he probably categorizes them under 'historical transportation assets'." she holds the door for you – a secret knowledge she wasn't quite ready to share. "but ask him yourself, trouble. see if you can get a straight answer out of the walking encyclopedia."

she heads down the hall towards her room, leaving you standing in the lobby, the echo of her laugh and the unspoken weight of that 'long time' hanging in the air.

you knew she knew bucky. intimately. the how and the how long were still locked away, but the suspicion was solid now: natasha romanoff and bucky barnes had a past. a deep one. and it explained everything, and nothing, all at once.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

the late afternoon sun beats down on the practice field. it's wednesday and sweat stings your eyes as you hit the apex of a basket toss, maria and jenna's hands solid under your boots.

the descent is usually smooth and automatic, but today... your focus snags.

a flash of dark hair glimpsed near the science building fence? a trick of the light, probably.

but the distraction costs you.

your left foot lands slightly off-center on the base's interlaced hands, your ankle twisting inwards with a sickening, sharp pop.

pain, white-hot and immediate, lances up your leg. you bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, swallowing the gasp that wants to escape.

don't show it. don't stop.

you force your landing smile wider, locking your knee, absorbing the impact through sheer willpower.

you hit the turf, stumbling only slightly before throwing your arms up in the final pose. "alright!" sarah calls, oblivious. "good height, samantha! bases, solid catch! reset in two!"

you limp-step back to the starting position, trying to make it look like a casual adjustment. the pain throbs with every heartbeat. jenna frowns. "you okay? landed kinda funny."

"fine," you grit out. "just caught my heel weird. no biggie." you bounce lightly on the balls of your feet, testing the ankle. it screams in protest. you ignore it.

you manage the next few runs through adrenaline and pure stubbornness, masking the limp, channeling the pain into sharper motions.

by the time sarah blows the final whistle, your ankle is a swollen, an angry knot inside your sneaker, sweat dripping on your forehead from the effort of hiding it.

and the blessed coolness of your dorm room feels like sanctuary. you've barely collapsed onto your bed, wrestling with the laces of your sneaker as you finally pry it off, when the door swings open without a knock. natasha.

"heard you took a tumble," she states, her eyes zeroing on your propped-up leg, the sock already damp with sweat, the ankle visibly swollen even through the fabric.

she carries a plastic bag from the campus store – ice packs peeking out the top. "jenna said you 'landed funny'. looked more like you face-planted into awkwardville from where i was watching."

you flinch, both from her sudden appearance and the observation. "watching? since when do you watch cheer practice?" the question comes out sharper than intended, laced with the suspicion that's been simmering since the talk after diner – the 'trouble' nickname, the 'long time' she knew bucky. was she watching him? did she know he sometimes cut through the field perimeter?

natasha drops the bag on your desk. "since i was heading back from the lab and saw a certain someone attempting to defy gravity with a distinct lack of grace." she pulls out a flexible blue ice pack and a thin kitchen towel. "scoot over. let me see the damage you're pretending doesn't exist." her tone is quick, no-nonsense, but there's an underlying thread of... concern? or maybe just clinical interest.

you hesitate, the suspicion warring with the throbbing pain. "it's fine, nat. really. just twisted it a little. i'll ice it." you make a move to take the ice pack.

"don't be an idiot," she snaps, gently but firmly pushing your hand away. "you're favouring it like you've got a peg leg. let me." she doesn't wait for permission. sitting on the edge of the bed, she carefully peels your sock down. you suck in a breath as the air hits the swollen skin. the ankle is already purpling, puffy around the bone.

"yikes," the redhead says, her fingers surprisingly gentle. "definitely sprained. you need to stay off this for a bit, ice it twenty minutes every hour, elevate it." she wraps the ice pack in the thin towel, her movements efficient, practiced. "hold this." she places the cold bundle against the worst of the swelling, your hand instinctively pressing it down as the cold bites through the towel, a welcome counterpoint to the heat.

"thanks," you mumble, leaning back against your pillows, closing your eyes for a second as the cold begins to numb the edges of the pain.

"you need to be more careful," natasha says, she's not looking at you; she's meticulously adjusting the towel around the ice pack. "distracted much? thinking about papal politics and treacherous alpine passes?"

your eyes fly open. she's teasing, but it feels loaded.

is she referencing bucky? implying you were distracted by him?

you watch her profile, focused on her task. absolutely impossible to read. like always. "just... off my game today," you deflect, looking up , studying the cracks in your ceiling plaster.

natasha shifts slightly. "saw tyler earlier," she says casually, changing the subject. "over by the student union."

you grunt. "shocker. tyler exists."

"mm," natasha hums. "existed with a very blonde, very giggly sophomore art history major practically glued to his side. emma, i think? looked like they were sharing a very large, very sugary smoothie." she glances at you sideways, gauging your reaction. "arm candy duties officially reassigned, i see. efficient."

a wave of... nothing washes over you. no jealousy, no anger, not even mild irritation. just a faint sense of relief, like shedding a too-tight jacket.

"good for them," you say, your voice flat. "hope emma enjoys the thrilling discourse on completion percentages and scout evaluations."

natasha raises an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine surprise in her eyes this time. "that's it? no righteous indignation? no lamenting the fickleness of jocks?"

you shrug, wincing slightly as the movement jostles your ankle. "why? he was using me. i was tolerating him. it was... predictable. boring. zero sum game." you adjust the ice pack. "emma's welcome to it. hope she likes being an accessory."

natasha studies you for a long moment. you could never guess what's going on in that big redheaded brain, behind those green eyes.

the suspicion about her and bucky coils in your gut again, making you hyper-aware of her proximity, the efficiency of her movements that felt too practiced for just basic first aid.

was this how she took care of him? did he trip over his own feet often enough for her to become an expert in sprains?

"interesting," natasha finally says. "the great tyler jones, relegated to 'predictable' and 'boring'. quite the downgrade from golden boy status." she leans back slightly. "so, what's upgraded? what's suddenly so... captivating?"

you meet her eyes. the challenge is there. the question hangs in the space bridged by one bucky barnes between you two.

is she asking about your feelings? or fishing for information about bucky?

your own suspicion flares. maybe you're getting defensive. "maybe i just realized there are more interesting things to focus on than inflated egos and cheap cologne," you say, keeping your tone light but firm. "like not destroying my ankle before homecoming."

natasha holds your gaze for a beat longer. not triumphant, not mocking. almost... approving?

"priorities shift," she concedes, standing up smoothly. "keep the ice on. elevate. no heroics tomorrow." she heads for the door. "and trouble?" she throws the nickname over her shoulder, making your heart skip. "try not to let your new 'interesting things' make you quite so clumsy next time. some of us have better things to do than play field medic to lovestruck cheerleaders."

the door clicks shut behind her. you stare at it, the cold from the ice pack seeping deep into your ankle, but it's nothing compared to the chill of uncertainty spreading through you.

lovestruck? did she know? suspect? and that parting shot... was it a dismissal, a warning, or just natasha being natasha?

the mystery of her connection to bucky barnes felt deeper, more tangled, than the ligaments throbbing under the ice. and the only thing more painful than your ankle was not knowing where you stood with either of them.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

sunday afternoon sunlight streams through the high windows of 'freshmart'.

the only noise is quiet chatter of weekend shoppers, the squeak of cart wheels, the muffled thump of produce being bagged.

you're hovering by the apples, trying to decide between gala and honeycrisp. your mind is blissfully blank for the first time in days. your ankle throbs dully under the supportive brace natasha insisted you wear, a reminder of yesterday's cheer-induced stupidity. you reach for a honeycrisp, testing its firmness.

then you feel it. a prickle on the back of your neck. the distinct, unnerving sensation of being watched. not tyler's possessive stare, not the casual glances of strangers. this feels... focused.

you slowly turn your head.

across the wide aisle, by the towering pyramid of oranges, stands bucky barnes.

he's frozen mid-reach, one long hand suspended over a navel orange.

but he's not looking at the fruit. he's looking straight at you. his glasses catch the light, but behind them, his blue eyes are wide, fixed on yours with an unnerving directness. no book shield. no backpack hunch. just... him. seeing you. truly seeing you. that focus he usually gives to equations or lombard league treaties is now entirely trained on you.

the honeycrisp almost slips from your fingers. you clutch it tighter.

he saw you first. he initiated the eye contact.

the invisible girl was... visible.

an involuntary smile spreads across your face. the nervous flutter in your chest isn't fear; it's pure, giddy anticipation.

game on, barnes.

you don't look away. you hold his gaze, letting your smile widen just a fraction.

you see the exact moment the intensity flips. the observation shatters. pure, unadulterated panic floods his expression. his eyes widen impossibly further behind the lenses. he snatches his hand back from the oranges like they've burned him. the flush starts instantly, a creeping tide of red rising from his neck, staining his cheeks.

he looks like he's been caught defusing a bomb, not selecting citrus.

he tears his gaze away, staring fixedly at the pyramid of oranges as if their perfect spherical geometry holds the secret to his escape.

his hand flexes at his side, and takes a jerky half-step back, bumping his cart. it rattles loudly.

you can't help it. you chuckle softly. pushing your own cart, you steer it towards him, closing the distance. the squeak of the wheels makes him flinch.

"fancy meeting you here, pigeon police," you say, teasing, stopping your cart parallel to his near the oranges. you lean casually against the handlebar, the honeycrisp still in your hand. "researching the agricultural exports of the mediterranean circa 1250? or just stocking up on vitamin c for the next siege?" you raise the apple slightly, giving it a little wiggle.

his head snaps towards you, then away, then back, his gaze skittering like a startled bird. he pushes his glasses up his nose that usual frantic knuckle-shove. "i... uh... no siege. just... oranges." the blush deepens. "vitamin c. important. for... cellular function."

"cellular function," you echo, nodding solemnly as you fight another smile. "crucial stuff. wouldn't want your historical analysis hampered by scurvy." you tilt your head. the way he's practically vibrating with nervous energy. it's adorable. painfully so. "though, you look a little... flushed, barnes. sure you're not coming down with something? maybe caught a draft in the archives?"

he flinches, his hand flexing again. "no! i'm... fine. just... warm. the store is... very... illuminated." he gestures vaguely upwards at the buzzing, bright lights, avoiding your eyes. "bright. lots of... photons."

"photons," you repeat, unable to suppress the grin now. "definitely hazardous. almost as bad as rogue pigeons." you take a small step closer. "speaking of hazards... how's the lombard league holding up? recovered from its close encounter with the library floor?"

he stares at you, momentarily thrown by the shift in topic. "the... the book? it's... structurally sound. minor... page displacement. negligible." he swallows hard, his gaze flickering down to your cart, then to your face, then quickly away.

"you... you're..." he gestures vaguely towards your ankle brace, peeking out below your pants. "injured?"

you glance down, surprised he noticed. "oh. this? cheerleading mishap. tried to defy gravity without proper clearance from the physics department." you shrug. "just a sprain. natasha's playing field medic." you watch his face carefully as you drop natasha's name.

a flicker of something complex crosses his features – recognition, maybe a hint of something old returning, quickly buried under another wave of flustered panic. "natasha? she's... efficient. medically." he pushes his glasses up again, a nervous tic in overdrive. "good. that's... good."

"efficient is one word for her," you agree dryly, still watching him. the way he reacted to natasha's name... the suspicion coils tighter. you decide to push, just a little. "she seems to know you pretty well. predicted you'd be flustered by... well, by trouble."

bucky barnes freezes. completely. the blush doesn't just deepen; it goes supernova. his eyes lock onto yours, wide with sheer, unadulterated terror. "she... she said that?" his voice is a strangled whisper. "she... called you... that?"

"mmhmm," you nod, popping the honeycrisp into your own cart. "right before she accused me of being lovestruck and clumsy." you lean back against your cart handle, enjoying the sheer spectacle of his panic. "seems she has a pretty good read on you. and on me, apparently."

he looks like he's short-circuiting. his mouth opens, closes. he stares at you, then at the oranges, then back at you. "i... uh... natasha... she..." he stammers, utterly lost. "she knows... things. observes. too much. sometimes." he takes a shaky breath, forcing words out. "trouble... it... it fits." the admission comes out in a haste. he looks like he wants to crawl under the orange pyramid.

your heart does a little flip.

he said it. trouble.

the nickname you gave yourself that still makes you want to wince inward, now spoken in his flustered voice. it sounds different. better.

"fits, huh?" you echo. "glad you approve, pigeon police. though, between the two of us, you seem to be generating most of the heat in this particular aisle." you gesture playfully at his crimson face.

a strangled sound escapes him – a nervous laughter. he ducks his head, running a hand through his already messy dark hair, making it stick up wildly. "photons," he mutters again, almost to himself, a desperate grasp at scientific explanation. any other explanation. "and... inefficient air circulation."

you laugh. "right. photons and poor hvac. definitely the culprit." you push your cart forward slightly, stopping right next to his. "so, bucky barnes, expert on citrus, photons, and lombard league logistics..." you pause, meeting his gaze, holding it despite his instinct to look away. "...what other essential supplies does a scholar need? because frankly, watching you panic over oranges is way more entertaining than my grocery list."

he stares at you. terrified. exhilarated. that intensity is gone, replaced by pure, adorable social chaos.

but beneath the panic, in the way his eyes stay locked on yours for that fraction of a second longer, you see it again – that spark. the one from the library. the one that makes the risk, the teasing, the absurdity of flustering bucky barnes in the produce section, completely, utterly worth it.

[aphrodite-killed-me]

He’s so cute

can you pls write about asking nerdy bucky to dom reader? like hair pulling, dirty talk, spanking, marking, all that? i’d love to see his reaction to being asked for that

rough it up a little bit

a/n: hope you like it! as i said, the nerdy bucky x reader are not linked except for the bucky this, bucky that series. so every story is a standalone

Bucky was hunched over his desk again, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he scribbled furiously into a battered notebook. His tongue poked out between his lips when he concentrated like that, and you knew he didn’t even realize it. You were sprawled across his bed, watching the way his shirt stretched across his wide shoulders every time he leaned forward. It was ridiculous how much he got to you without even trying. Chubby and broad, all that strength hidden under hoodies and flannels, his dark hair messy from running his hands through it while he studied. God, he had no idea what he did to you. You rolled onto your stomach, chin propped in your palms. “Bucky.” He hummed, eyes still locked on his notes. “Can I ask you something?” He paused, pen freezing mid-stroke before he turned in his chair. “Of course, doll. Everything okay?” Your stomach flipped. Heat crept up your neck, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze. “Have you ever thought about… being more dominant with me?” Bucky blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Dominant?” You nodded, chewing your lip. “Yeah. I mean… I love how gentle you are. I do. But sometimes I just-” you shifted on the bed, thighs pressing together, “-sometimes I want you to tell me what to do. To take it from me. To… rough me up.”

The silence that followed was deafening. His jaw flexed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “Rough you up,” he repeated slowly, standing from the chair. He crossed the room in three deliberate steps until he was looming over you. “You mean you want me to fuck you like you’re my little slut?” The bluntness of his words punched the air out of your lungs. You nodded, breath shaky. “Yes.” “I don't know if i can, doll… I'm not the right guy for that-” he told you, looking at the floor. “Bucky fuck me like I want!” Your voice, a command. Something dark flickered in his eyes, something you’d never seen before. His hand shot out, tangling in your hair and yanking your head back until your mouth fell open in a gasp. “Then say it like you mean it.” Your body jolted at the command. “I-I want you to fuck me like your slut, Bucky. Use me like your slut. Make me come so many times I'll beg you to stop…” His lips curled in a dangerous smirk. “Good girl.” You swore your whole body heated at those two little words. He leaned down, mouth grazing your ear. “You have no fucking idea what you just started, doll.”

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t the careful, sweet kiss you were used to. It was hungry, bruising, teeth clashing with yours. His other hand cupped your jaw hard, forcing your mouth open so he could shove his tongue past your lips. He kissed you like he wanted to devour you, like he’d been starving and finally let himself eat. When he pulled back, you were dizzy, clinging to his shirt. “You want me to be in charge?” he asked, voice a low growl. “Then you do exactly as I say. You understand?” “Yes, sir,” you whispered before you even thought about it.

The sound that rumbled out of his chest was pure approval. He tugged your hair tighter, forcing your head back to bare your throat. His teeth sank into the soft skin just below your ear, sharp enough to make you whine. “Mine,” he muttered against your skin, biting harder until you gasped. “I’m gonna mark you up so bad tomorrow no one’s gonna doubt who you belong to.” “Please,” you whined, hips shifting against the bed. He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against your neck. “Look at you. Already fucking dripping, aren’t you? Just from me pulling your hair and calling you mine. Pathetic little slut.” Your whole body jolted at the degradation, slick pooling between your thighs. He noticed instantly, of course he did. “God, you love it.” He shoved you back onto the bed, crawling over you like a predator. His weight pinned you easily, broad chest pressing you down into the mattress. He kissed you again, biting your bottom lip before pulling back to look at you eyes blown wide, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. “Take your shirt off,” he ordered. Your hands scrambled to obey, tugging your top over your head. The way he looked at you hungry, greedy, owning, made you shiver. “Bra too.” You unclipped it, tossing it aside. His hand came down suddenly on your breast, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. He smirked at the sound, pinching your nipple until your back arched. “Fuck, I’m gonna ruin you,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

His mouth trailed down your chest, biting, sucking, leaving purple marks in his wake. You whimpered, tugging at his hair, but he caught your wrist and slammed it down against the mattress. “Ah, ah,” he scolded. “You don’t touch me unless I say you can. Hands stay here.” He pinned both wrists above your head with one big hand, the other sliding down your stomach. “Bucky-sir-” you gasped as his fingers slipped under the waistband of your shorts. “Shut up and take it,” he growled. When his hand cupped your soaked panties, he groaned like he’d just won the lottery. “Fuck. You’re already soaked. From what? From me calling you a slut? From me treating you like the little toy you are?” “Yes, sir,” you whimpered, hips jerking against his hand. He slapped your pussy through your panties hard enough to make you yelp. “Beg for it properly.” Your whole body trembled. “Please, sir. Please, I want you. I need your cock.” He grinned, cruel and dark. “That’s my girl.” Bucky’s grin only grew darker as he watched you writhe under him, wrists pinned, chest heaving.

“You begged so sweet, doll,” he muttered, hand sliding down into your shorts. His fingers brushed your soaked folds through the thin cotton, and he actually laughed. “Goddamn. You really are my little slut. Dripping already and I haven’t even given you cock yet.” “Please, sir,” you whimpered, trying to grind into his touch. He yanked his hand away instantly, giving your cheek a sharp slap that made you gasp. Not painful, but shocking. “You don’t fucking move unless I tell you to.” His voice was harsh now, commanding. “You stay still and you take what I give you. Got it?” Your thighs trembled. “Yes, sir.” Satisfied, he shoved your shorts and panties down in one rough motion, tossing them carelessly aside. His eyes devoured the sight of your bare pussy, already glistening for him. “Fuck me,” he muttered under his breath, dragging the head of his cock out from his sweats, already thick and leaking. He stroked himself slowly, deliberately, right above you, making you watch. “See what you do to me, doll? This big cock’s hard as a fucking rock just from hearing you beg.” Your mouth watered. You tried to reach for him instinctively, but his grip on your wrists tightened until you whimpered. “Didn’t I tell you? No touching.” His eyes burned into yours. “Hands stay put. Or I’ll tie them there.”

“Yes, sir,” you breathed, every nerve ending alive under his control. “Good girl.” He rubbed the head of his cock against your pussy, smearing precum through your slick folds. The sensation made you moan, hips jerking up, but he immediately slapped your thigh hard. “Did I say you could move?” “N-no, sir.” “Then fucking behave.” He lined himself up, pressing just the tip inside, stretching you deliciously. Your back arched, a choked moan ripping from your throat. “Shit,” Bucky grunted, pushing deeper, inch by inch until he bottomed out inside you. “So fucking tight. Always so tight for me. You were made for this cock, weren’t you?” “Yes, sir,” you sobbed, already overwhelmed by the fullness. He smirked, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back into you hard enough to make the bed creak. “Say it louder.” “I was made for your cock, sir!”

“That’s right.” His thrusts grew brutal, relentless, slamming into you over and over until the headboard rattled against the wall. He fucked you like he was trying to split you in two, his stomach pressing against yours with every deep, punishing thrust. “Look at you,” he groaned, eyes fixed on your fucked-out expression. “Taking me like a good little whore. Bet you love it when I use you like this, huh?” “Yes-fuck, yes, sir!” He shifted suddenly, letting go of your wrists only to grab a fistful of your hair and yank your head back, baring your throat to him. His teeth sank into your skin again, biting hard enough to leave marks. “Gonna cover you in bruises,” he growled against your throat. “So every time you look in the mirror, you’ll see exactly who you belong to.” “Yours,” you gasped, tears pricking your eyes. “I’m yours, sir.” “Damn right you are.” He spanked your ass sharply, the sting making your walls clench around him. His hips stuttered, a guttural moan tearing from his chest. “Fuck, you feel so good when you squeeze me like that. You trying to milk my cock already?” “I can’t help it!” you cried, body trembling under the force of his thrusts. “You better fucking hold it,” he snarled. “You don’t come until I say. You come without my permission, and I’ll make you regret it.” The threat sent another rush of heat through your body. You clawed at the sheets, desperate for something to hold onto, your wrists aching with the need to touch him. “Please, sir,” you begged, voice breaking. “Please let me come.” He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “Not yet, slut. Not until I’ve had my fill of this pussy.” He drove into you harder, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the room. Your cries grew louder, broken sobs spilling out as his cock hit that perfect spot inside you again and again. “Bucky-sir-I can’t-” “Yes, you can,” he snarled, dragging your hair back so you had to look up at him. Sweat dripped down his temple, his jaw tight. “You’ll take what I give you. You’ll take this cock until you forget your own fucking name.” Your vision blurred with tears, pleasure overwhelming every nerve. “Please!” “Now,” he growled suddenly. “Come for me. Show me who owns this pussy.” The command snapped the last thread of your control. You screamed, body convulsing as your orgasm tore through you, clenching around his cock so hard he cursed. “Fuck-” His hips slammed into yours one final time before he buried himself deep, groaning as he spilled inside you. “Take it. Take every fucking drop.”

You sobbed through the aftershocks, body shaking, pinned beneath him as he kept thrusting lazily, grinding the cum deeper inside you. Bucky finally slowed, breathing ragged, but his grip on your hair didn’t loosen. He smirked down at you, filthy and smug. “Don’t think we’re done, doll,” he muttered, pulling out slowly, watching his cum leak from your swollen pussy. “That was just round one.” His hand gripped your jaw suddenly, forcing your bleary eyes to meet his. His hair stuck to his forehead, his pupils blown wide with hunger. “What did I tell you, slut?” “That-that it was only round one,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “Good girl.” He kissed you hard, biting your lip until you cried out. “You think I’m done after one little orgasm? You think you get to fall apart that easy?” “Please…” you whimpered, already sensitive.  “You can.” His tone was steel. “And you fucking will.” Before you could catch your breath, he flipped you onto your stomach, yanking your hips up until you were on your knees. His hand smacked your ass hard, the sting making you jolt. “Ass up, face down. Present that pussy to me like the needy whore you are.” You obeyed instantly, forehead pressed to the sheets, ass in the air. Your body screamed from the stretch, still tender from the first round, but the way his voice cut into you had you dripping again anyway. “Look at you,” he groaned, spreading your cheeks to see your swollen, wet hole. His cum was still leaking out of you, and he smirked at the sight. “Messy little thing. Can’t even hold it all in, can you?” “N-no, sir.” “Don’t worry.” He slapped your ass again, harder this time, leaving a handprint. “I’ll just fill you again.”

He shoved back inside in one brutal thrust, making you scream into the mattress. The sudden stretch had you crying instantly, walls clenching tight around him. “Too much?” he asked mockingly, already grinding deeper. “Yes, sir-please-” “Too bad.” His hips slammed into yours, fucking you even harder than before. The sound of his cock driving into your soaked pussy was obscene, echoing through the room with every thrust. “God, you’re still so fucking tight,” he groaned, fisting your hair and yanking your head back so your spine arched. “Even after I just filled you. Your greedy cunt just keeps sucking me in. Like you were made to be used.” “Yes, sir,” you sobbed, tears spilling as the pleasure blurred into pain. “I’m yours. Use me.” “That’s right.” He bit down on your shoulder, growling. “Mine. My slut. My cock sleeve.” You screamed when his hand smacked your clit suddenly, sharp and cruel. The overstimulation made your legs shake, your body struggling to hold itself up. “Stay the fuck up,” he ordered, yanking your hair again when your arms buckled. “You don’t collapse until I tell you.” Your body trembled violently, but you forced yourself to stay on your knees as he pounded into you. Every thrust knocked the breath out of your lungs, your vision swimming. “I want you cockdrunk,” he hissed. “I want you so used you can’t even say your own name.” “I’m-I’m close, sir,” you cried, voice breaking. He snarled, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing merciless circles. “Come. Right now. Squeeze my cock like the desperate whore you are.”

Your scream tore from your throat as your body gave in again, another orgasm ripping through you so violently your arms finally gave out. You collapsed onto the mattress, sobbing as you convulsed around him. Bucky didn’t stop. He dragged you back by your hips, still buried deep inside, still thrusting. “Get the fuck up.” Your legs were jelly, your body weak, but his grip forced you upright. He pulled out suddenly, and you gasped at the loss, but before you could breathe he dragged you off the bed entirely.

“On the floor,” he ordered, shoving you down onto your knees beside the mattress. Your chest pressed against the edge of the bed, ass raised. His hand tangled in your hair again, forcing your cheek to the sheets. “This is where you belong,” he muttered darkly. “On your knees. Getting fucked like a toy.” You whined, trembling, but spread your legs obediently. “Good girl.” His cock slammed back into you in one harsh thrust, forcing another scream from your lips. He didn’t give you a second to adjust. He set a brutal pace immediately, slamming into you from behind so hard the bed rattled against the wall. “Fuck, look at this,” he snarled, pulling your hair to force you to watch your reflection in the mirror across the room. “See how wrecked you are? Drooling, crying, begging for cock? You’re pathetic.” Your mouth hung open, tears streaming down your face, but the sight of yourself being ruined by him only made your walls tighten around him again. “You love it,” he grunted, spanking you again and again until your ass burned. “You fucking love being my slut.” “Yes, sir!” you screamed, voice breaking. “I love it-I love being your slut!” He leaned over your back, teeth sinking into your shoulder hard enough to bruise. His hips never slowed, punishing thrusts driving into you until you were sobbing into the sheets. Your body shook violently, another orgasm clawing up from deep inside. “Sir-I can’t-I can’t-” “You will,” he growled, hand slamming against your clit again. “You’ll fucking take it. You’ll come for me again, and again, and again, until I decide you’re done.”

Your body broke. The orgasm hit so hard you screamed, legs collapsing, but his grip on your hair held you upright while your pussy convulsed around him. “Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, rutting harder, his cock twitching inside you. “I’m gonna fill this slutty cunt again. You ready for it?” “Yes, sir! Please-fill me-” With a guttural moan, he slammed deep, spilling inside you again. His hips ground against yours as he fucked every drop into you, not letting you move an inch. When he finally pulled out, his cum spilled down your thighs, but his hand immediately shoved it back in, two thick fingers pumping roughly. “Not wasting a fucking drop,” he growled, smirking at your wrecked face. “You’re gonna be dripping with me all night.”

You were shaking so hard your knees nearly buckled, forehead pressed to the sheets as your body trembled from the wreckage of your last orgasm. Your pussy was raw, swollen, dripping with his cum, but Bucky hadn’t let you fall yet. His hand tangled in your hair again, forcing your head up. You blinked blearily, vision swimming with tears, but his smug grin was crystal clear. Your muffled whimper only made him chuckle. He pulled you up by your hair, dragging your wrecked body onto the bed until he was sitting against the headboard, sweat glistening on his chest. His cock was still hard, thick and angry, glistening with your slick and his cum. “Climb on.” His tone was final. “Ride me.” Your legs trembled as you straddled him, nails digging into his shoulders for balance. The stretch was brutal when he lined you up and forced you down onto his cock again, your walls clenching so tight you sobbed into his chest. “Fuck, you’re choking me,” he groaned, head falling back. “Even ruined like this, you’re still so fucking greedy.” You whimpered, trying to move, but he gripped your hips and forced you to grind against him. “Not good enough,” he snarled. His hand cracked across your ass, the sting making you jolt. “Ride it like you mean it. Show me how bad you need my cock.” “I can’t-” “You can.” His eyes blazed, his fist tightening in your hair again as he yanked your head back. “You’ll bounce on this cock until I’m satisfied, or I’ll bend you back over and fuck you into the floor again. Which do you want?” Your whole body convulsed. “Ride-ride you, sir!” “That’s my girl.” He slapped your ass again, then guided your hips up and down, setting a brutal pace. Every time you sank back down, his cock punched deep, hitting the spot that made you scream. “That’s it,” he growled, watching your tits bounce in his face. “Look at you. Crying on my cock, soaking me, milking me like a desperate little whore. Pathetic. And you fucking love it.” “Yes, sir!” you sobbed, tears streaming freely. “I love it-I love being your whore!” Your walls clamped down hard, the overstimulation tipping you to the edge again despite the burn, despite your body’s exhaustion. “Sir-I’m gonna-” “Don’t hold back,” he ordered, gripping your ass to slam you down harder. “Come on this cock. Show me who owns you.”

Your scream ripped from your throat as another orgasm shattered through you, your body convulsing violently as you clenched around him. Bucky groaned, head snapping forward to sink his teeth into your breast, biting hard enough to bruise as he fucked up into you from below. “Take it,” he snarled against your skin. “Take my cum like a good little slut.” With a guttural moan, he buried himself deep, spilling inside you again, his cock twitching as he ground you down against his lap.

You collapsed against his chest, body limp, trembling and broken. Your pussy pulsed around him, stuffed full and leaking, your mind fogged with nothing but his name.

The room was still thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the sheets damp, your body limp and trembling against him. For a long moment, Bucky just held you, chest rising and falling under your cheek, his heartbeat slowing from a wild gallop to its usual steady rhythm. Then he glanced around the dorm room, realizing suddenly how raw the air was. His cheeks flushed. “Uh-hang on, doll. I’ll… I’ll fix you up.” He gently eased you off his chest, making sure you were cushioned against his pillow. You watched through heavy eyes as he padded across the tiny room, rummaging through his cluttered desk. He came back with a half-full bottle of water and an old towel, the corners of his mouth tugging in a sheepish grin. “No fancy shower here,” he muttered, kneeling at the side of the bed. “But this’ll do.” He unscrewed the cap, dampened the towel carefully, and then wiped you down with the gentlest touch.

His fingers lingered where his roughness had left bruises, guilt flashing in his eyes even though you’d begged for every mark. “Sorry if I got… carried away,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your knee as he cleaned between your thighs. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.” You smiled sleepily, reaching down to stroke his hair. “You didn’t. I wanted it. Every second.” His ears went pink. He ducked his head, hiding his face as he finished wiping you clean, then set the towel aside. “Still…” he murmured, voice quiet, “…I don’t like leaving you a mess.”

Once you were tucked back against the pillow, he crawled onto the mattress beside you again, pulling a small tin from his nightstand. You blinked at it. “Massage balm,” he explained shyly. “My ma always said it helps after soreness. Thought… maybe it’d help after, uh, this.” Your heart swelled as he rubbed the balm into his palms, then began massaging your thighs, your hips, your back with slow, careful pressure. His thumbs worked out the tension he’d put there, and you couldn’t hold back the soft moan of relief. “Feels good?” he asked quickly, almost nervous. “Feels amazing,” you sighed, turning your face into the pillow. He smiled, pressing another kiss to your shoulder. “Good. You deserve it.” When he finally finished, he pulled open the drawer of his nightstand again and handed you a little wrapped bar. “A granola bar?” you asked, amused. He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly bashful again. “Yeah, uh-I keep ‘em there for late-night studying. Figured… after all that, you should eat something.” Your chest warmed, tears threatening to prick at the corners of your eyes. Only Bucky Barnes could rail you into oblivion, call you his slut, and then shyly hand you a granola bar five minutes later. “Thank you,” you whispered, tearing the wrapper with shaky hands. He smiled, cheeks pink, pulling you against his chest again. “Anything for you, doll. Always.” This time, when you drifted off, it wasn’t from exhaustion, it was from the warmth of being completely cared for.

The first light of morning crept into Bucky’s dorm, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets where you were curled up against him. Your body still trembled from last night, hips sore, thighs weak, every muscle buzzing and trembling in protest. You opened your eyes slowly, blinking against the sunlight. A groan escaped as you tried to swing your legs over the side of the bed. Immediately, your knees wobbled, hips threatening to buckle. You let out a frustrated squeak, collapsing sideways onto the mattress. “Uh… Bucky…” you whispered. He stirred beside you, messy hair falling over his forehead, glasses crooked. When he saw your precarious attempt at standing, his eyes widened. “Whoa—hey, careful!” He scrambled closer, hands reaching for your waist. “Don’t fall over, doll.” “I can’t… my legs won’t listen,” you admitted, shifting uncomfortably as they quivered under you.

He exhaled, flustered, but gentle, slipping an arm around your waist and helping you prop upright against the bed. “Okay… okay, we’ll take it slow. Lean on me. I got you.” Your head rested against his shoulder, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath you. “You’re so shy,” you teased softly, smirking at the way his ears pinked and his lips tugged into a small, awkward smile. “I-uh… yeah,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed. “I don’t… normally… wake up like this. With a girl in my bed… legs like noodles.” “You’re adorable,” you whispered, nudging his chest with your nose. “Even after last night.” He chuckled softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “You think so?” “I know so,” you teased, eyes soft. “You’re shy, even if you fucked me raw on that floor.” His lips twitched in a shy grin, and he pressed a careful kiss to your forehead. “Yeah… maybe. I just… wanted to make sure you were okay. Safe.” Your legs gave another shuddering wobble, and you clutched his shirt for support. “I’m okay. Just… can’t stand yet.”

After some minutes, you began to feel your legs again. “Feeling… a little stronger,” you admitted, voice still a little shaky. He grinned, cheeks pink, eyes soft with concern and pride. “Good. That’s my girl. No more falling over, okay?” “I’ll try,” you whispered, leaning against him as he helped you stand fully upright. Your legs wobbled a little, but this time you managed to stay balanced, knees trembling but holding. “You’re perfect,” he said softly, sliding an arm around your waist. “C’mon, let’s get some breakfast. You need real food after last night.” Your heart warmed. Even after everything, he still wanted to care for you, in the shy, nerdy, sweet way only Bucky could. He led you slowly across the dorm, hand securely around your waist whenever your legs threatened to buckle. You giggled when he adjusted his glasses nervously, muttering, “Don’t fall, don’t fall…” like it was his sole responsibility to keep you upright.

Outside, the sun felt good against your skin, and the crisp morning air was a gentle contrast to the heat still lingering between you. Bucky guided you carefully to the campus café, his hand never leaving yours once you stepped inside. “Seat?” he asked, pointing to a cozy corner. “Yes, please,” you whispered, still feeling a little dizzy, and he helped you settle into the chair like a careful, doting boyfriend. When the waitress brought over your breakfast; pancakes, eggs, fresh fruit, and a steaming mug of coffee. Bucky’s eyes lit up. “All for you,” he said, voice shy but proud. “I made sure it’s… uh… everything you like.” “Bucky…” you murmured, touched. He blushed furiously, setting the plate carefully in front of you. “Just… wanted to take care of my girl. You… you deserve it.” You smiled, picking up your fork. “You already did, last night.”

He groaned softly, hiding his face in his hands for a second, embarrassed at the memory, then peeked at you shyly. “Yeah… okay, but this is… you know, normal breakfast care.” You giggled, biting into a pancake, letting your legs relax as they finally regained their strength. Every now and then, his hand brushed yours across the table, soft, reassuring, grounding. “You’re really good at this,” you whispered, smiling at him. “Doing what?” he asked, confused. “Being… gentle after… being… everything else.” He looked down at you, eyes soft and warm. “Only for you, doll. Always.” You reached across, taking his hand in both of yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I know.” The café hummed around you, but for a moment, it was just the two of you. Legs steadying, hearts full, full plates in front of you and the quiet, shy, tender Bucky who couldn’t stop himself from doting on you. You leaned back in your chair, sipping coffee, legs finally feeling like they belonged to you again. And Bucky? He just watched you, shy grin on his face, secretly thrilled he got to take care of you in every way possible.

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[aphrodite-killed-me]

Nerd Bucky can get it

What if cheerleader!reader is the one who’s begging?👀 like she’s begging him to bend her over something and fuck her like he owns her (which he does😏)

copy pasted from notes again but i went 😛😛😛 writing this. yum. i actuallt cannot believe this is nerdy bucky ok wow

bucky moved above you in a slow and deep rhythm, it was filled with agonizing tenderness.

his forehead against yours. his glasses, slightly fogged at the edges, magnifying the overwhelmed wonder in his deep blue eyes.

"y-you feel... s-so good," he breathed. "s-so perfect, baby. god, you're... you're perfect." his fingers, where they gripped your hip, had barely contained emotion. his touch there was light.. like he was scared of hurting you.

his hips rolled carefully, focused entirely on the slow burn, the connection, and the absolute miracle of being inside you.

it was achingly sweet. unbearably tender. and suddenly, violently, it just wasn't enough.

a desperate need tightened in your stomach, hotter than the gentle warmth he was stoking.

you arched up sharply, nipping kiss that startled him. "baby…" you breathed against his mouth, foreign even to your own ears, filled with a hunger that surprised you.

bucky froze mid-thrust, his entire body locked up. he blinked down at you, instantly replaced by wide-eyed panic.

"w-what?" he stammered with instant fear. "d-did i— did i hurt you? too deep? oh god, i'm sorry— did i—" he started to pull back.

"no, jamie!" you interrupted urgently, your hands sliding from back to cup his face. your thumbs smoothened over his jaw, forcing his eyes to lock with yours. your eyes were pleading and dark, swallowing the color.

"you feel amazing. so, so good." you rocked your hips up, urging him deeper, drawing a gasp mixed with a moan from him. "but i need…" you swallowed. "i need more."

he swallowed hard, confusion and concern etched on his beautiful, innocent, flushed face even when he was balls deep inside you. "m-more?" he repeated, genuinely bewildered. he glanced down at where you were taking his cock, then back at your face. "i… i am… aren't i…? i'm trying to—"

you shook your head, your nails scraped over his stubble. "harder, jamie. please." you emphasized the word with unfiltered want, contrasting his gentle murmurs. "need you to fuck me. hard. like… like you own me."

bucky's eyes widened behind the lenses. he stammered through his words, completely thrown as his cheeks turned beet red. "o-own you?" he choked out, shaking his head slightly. "i… i wouldn't… i don't want to own you, baby, i just… i want to make you feel good, i want to— to cherish you, i—"

"you do make me feel good," you insisted fiercely, rocking against him again. you clenched your cunt tightly around his cock, making him shudder as he continued thrusting into you.

"so fucking good. but right now, i need you to use me. use this pussy, james. please." you punctuated the plea with another roll of your hips. "fuck it the way you want to. stop thinkin' so much. stop being so careful." you locked eyes with him. "just… take it. take me."

you batted your lashes with deceptive innocence that contradicted the words tumbling from your kiss-swollen lips.

you pouted, your lower lip trembling slightly in a practiced, devastating plea designed to shatter his control. "please, baby? for me? fuck me like you mean it. like you can't hold back."

bucky stared at you, his brain visibly short-circuiting. the earnest, flustered nerd, the careful lover who worshipped every inch of you, confronted with his gorgeous girlfriend begging, absolutely begging, to be used by him.

his cock twitched hard inside you at the filthy words, betraying his response. "i… i don't…" he whispered. "i don't want to hurt you."

"you won't," you promised,m. you guided one of his trembling hands from your face down over the curve of your hip, sliding it firmly over your ass. "show me, james. show me how bad you want it. how bad you want me."

something snapped deep within him.

a sound tore from bucky’s throat – not like his usual rambles or gentle sighs.

it was rough, purely possessive. in one motion fueled by pure instinct, his hands clamped onto your hips and yanked. the world felt like it tilted violently.

one second you were beneath him, the next you were face down, ass up, knees shoved wide apart. the comforter was rough against your cheek. his weight settled heavily over you, pressing you down into the mattress with his cock still buried deep.

"oh! james—" your surprised gasp was instantly cut off by the first thrust. no more careful rocking. no more reverence. this was deep, hard, driving into you with a force. "f-fuck! yes!"

he set a punishing pace, hips pistoning with a possessiveness you hadn't known he had. the slap of his skin against yours echoed loudly in the room, obliterating any memory of his gentle murmurs just a few seconds before.

his hands gripped your hips hard, holding you immobile for his thrusts. "g-god… you feel… fuck…" he groaned. "so tight… takin' it… takin' me so fucking good… just like you wanted…"

the shock of the flip, the roughness, the force of james bucky barnes in you … was exactly the hunger you’d craved.

you pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts with a litany of filthy encouragement spilling from your lips. "yes! yes! please! harder, bucky! use it! use me! fuck, yes! just like that!"

driven wild by your words, by the way your body yielded so perfectly, bucky pulled back slightly and his hand left your hip.

before you could register the movement, it came down – a stinging smack right on the curve of your ass.

the sound was loud, cracking through the room. you cried out "ah!" of surprise more than pain. the sting bloomed instantly, bright and unexpected, searing across your skin.

bucky froze instantly. the thrusts stopped dead. his hand hovered over the reddening skin, shaking, but now with horror. panic flooded his voice, shattered by an instant and gut-wrenching regret. "oh god! oh fuck! i'm sorry.. i'm so sorry, baby. are you okay? did i hurt you? i didn't mean— it just— i— i lost control, i—" he started to pull out.

"no!" you gasped, twisting your head to look back at him over your shoulder. your eyes were wide but not with tears. you bit your bottom lip, trapping the moan that wanted to follow the sting.

"don't stop." you commanded. "i'm… i'm okay. more than okay." you pushed your ass back against his hand, hovering just above where he slapped your ass. "do it again."

bucky stared down at you, at the flush spreading over your shoulders and down your back. you were unafraid, at the way you bit your lip not in pain, but in pleasure. the panic in his eyes was carried away by realization. a slow disbelieving smile touched his lips. he adjusted his glasses with his free hand. "you…" he started, laced with a thrilling discovery. "you likedthat?"

you nodded, pushing your ass back against his still-present, hard cock inside you. "yes. please, jamie."

the hesitantation was gone just like that, vanished like the fog from his lenses.

in his place was a man looking at his girlfriend like he was seeing her – and a hidden part of himself – for the very first time. his hand settled firmly back on your ass. not to soothe you, no, but to claim. he leaned down, his lips brushing near your spine.

"my good girl," he rumbled. "takin' exactly what she needs." his hips snapped forward. it was hard, and ruthless, reclaiming his place deep inside you. "gonna give it to you. gonna fuck this sweet pussy just like you begged for. just like you deserve."

as he drove into you, his palm connected with your ass. another perfectly placed smack that drew a moan of pleasure from you. one thought echoed in both your minds, a revelation through the gasps and the pounding sounds filling the dorm room:

who the hell are you?

[aphrodite-killed-me]

and they were roommates! | clark kent ✿

MDNI - 18+ | navigation - m.list - taglist 𝜗୧ | REQUEST OPEN ! (𝐦𝐲 ‘𝟐𝟓 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 !)

summary: after clark suggested you moved after you told him about the insane increase of your rent you got way closer. like wet dreams and sex scenario closer?

paring: roommate!clark x fem!reader

wc: 1.7k

warnings: horrible summary, clark as a wet dream about the reader, co-workers turned roommates but still co-workers, implied smut, friends to fwb? not proofread suggestive

a/n: this was going to be smut but i gave up because it was going horribly and i hated it, but maybe ill change my mind…

SMUT UNDER THE CUT | 18+ MINORS DNI </3

One of the biggest treasures that came from working at the Daily Planet was meeting your very close friend Clark Kent. You’d swear that you probably would have lost your mind if he hadn't been right there by your side—you two were practically attached by the hip.

You’d always update him on the meaning gossip that tends to float around the office, go out or stay in for lunch depending on the day, you told him your dreams, aspirations, goals and he would do the same with you, he was more than just a work buddie.

A sigh slipped past her lips as her recent and very urgent matter was on her mind. You tried to get your work done but you genuinely had no idea what the next step was going to be when it came to housing situation. Earlier that morning, you had the displeasure of reading an email from your landlord. Stating that your rent was about to go up when the rent before was a struggle to pay, and the other apartments near your job weren’t any better.

You turned around and you felt Clark’s presence behind you, you tried to muster up a smile and pretend like everything was okay. Even though you told him everything, you didn’t want to working him with your housing problems. But he could see right through the mask. “Hey, are you okay?” he asked softly but you could hear and see that he was concerned. “Yes, I’m great,” you lied with the fakest enthusiasm ever, and obviously he knew that you were fibbing.

“C’mon, Y/n. I know when your lying, Tell me what’s wrong” He was right, he had some type of super power when it came to your lies, even the small amount of times when hey’re absolutely amazing. You let out another sigh and decide not to lie to your friend again.

“Okay…Earlier today I got an email that said my rent is going to shoot up a number that will burn a hole through my pocket, and I'd probably starve because I won't even be able to buy food. And I won't be able to get to work because I have to pay for the damn taxi.” you rushed, but luckily he understood you perfectly.

“Why don’t you just move in with me”

“What?”

“Yea, I have a spare room and It's fun to hang out more. Plus it’ll cut the cost of cabs and rent,” he smiled, budgeting your shoulder with his fist. You loved the idea yea, but a few concerns came to mind.

No. 1: The possibility of someone finding out and thinking that you’re both a couple and take a hit to your careers

No. 2: This may sound silly but even though you loved Clark—as a friend—you didn’t want him to see you in embarrassing situations or make a complete fool out of yourself. He was a very cute guy.

But the pros did outweigh the cons and it would be nice to spend more time with each other outside of work. So you agreed. You and Clark were officially roommates.

—

The process was easier than you thought. You packed up all of your important things, you got rid of your furniture and paid off the stupid fine you got for breaking the lease that you knew you shouldn’t have renewed and got settled in Clark’s very nice apartment. He gave you a tour and told you everything you needed to know. It did get to the point where he tried to explain to you how to use a toaster but you just knew he was excited that you two were now roomies.

The longer you lived there the more comfortable you got. Before when you’d lounge around in a t-shirt and sweat pants you’d change into something that you wore around in your place. Tiny shorts, crop tops, your body was always on display. Clark could help but to stare at the way your little shorts would cling onto your ass so perfectly. His favorite were the red ones obviously, it’s his favorite color. He knew it was wrong to stare down your shirt or ogle your ass when you were occupied with something else, you were his friend and that line was drawn thick. He couldn't pass it, and he didn’t want to. But he’d be a bold-faced liar if he said he didn’t think you were absolutely beautiful.

Little did he know you were doing the same thing to him. Many times you’ve caught yourself staring at the happy trail that would peek out when he would stretch his hands up above his head. The sight was so sext you wanted to die.

Sometimes you guys had such intimate conversations. You talk to each other about secrets you didn’t think you’d ever tell anyone else. It gets borderline sexual, basically pillow-talk when it got later into the night. One of you will ask about a certain situation or scenario and you'd subconsciously—or consciously—push towards to answers that will get Clark to tell you his little fantasies.

—

“Imagine this, you’re at a club or a bar—not that you go out—and you lay your eyes on one of the most beautiful girl you had ever laid your eyes on, what would you do?”

“Ever? Like my whole life?”

“Yes. Your whole life.”

“And what about my confidence level..”

“It’s 100, answer the question, please”

“Hm, I’d go up to her and introduce myself,”

“That’s it? You don’t want to bring her home or get her number or anything?”

“If we’re both drunk enough then yeah, maybe i’d bring her home, but i’m respectful, what if this is the woman im going to marry”

“Okay okay, say you weren’t a respectful man and you weren’t going to marry her and you took her back to your place what would you do then?”

“What would I do once we’re at my place…like sexually?”

“I mean, if you want it to be”

“Well…”

He’d go on and on until the good stuff, but then you call him loser and say it’s time for both to go to sleep and afterwards you’d curse yourself for being stupid and trying bait your friend into telling you how’d he’d fuck this fictitious woman you created. Clark had already known exactly what he would’ve done to this woman in full, and he thought about it until he fell asleep. She may or may not have had your beautiful face and body.

—

Clark had turned and tousled throughout his eventful dream, his brain was blessed with the most lewd and explicit images he had seen in a very long time. You were rocking back and forth on his painfully hard cock, nails digging through his chest as your pretty whimpers slipped past your lips. Hickies all over your thighs and chest. Sweat dripped down your hairline as you bit your swollen lip and tried to keep in your loud moans. His hips slowly rutting into his wrinkled sheets, he let out soft moans in his lips, ears red and his whole body was so warm.

When he felt the wet spot in his boxers, a wave of shame and embarrassment washed over him.

Later that whole day he could not face you. Avoiding you, cutting conversations short, he didn’t even look you in the eye. And when you asked him what was wrong, he just said he wasn’t feeling the best and that it was all good, you knew that wasn’t the truth because even though sickness or health, he could still make eye contact with. You were confused.

It was now midnight, the full moon was right outside your window being a natural night light. You tried to fall asleep but you couldn’t help but to think about the way Clark was behaving for the whole day. You laid flat on your back trying to think back on what you did. You didn’t think it was about your scenarios or maybe you said something that went a bit too far, but none of the things would make him truly upset. This was really bothering you.

You slightly jumped at the sound of knocking from outside your door. “Who is it!” you shouted, you knew exactly who it was. “It’s Clark,” you were surprised you didn’t back a cheeky reply but from today’s track record, it shouldn’t have. “Come in!”

There Clark was with a pitiful look on his face, it made you so sad because you truly wanted to know what happened. “What’s up?” you asked softly as you watched him walk over and lay down in his side of the bed, you never said it was his but he claimed it. “Can I talk to you about something?” he asked. He sounded worried. You flipped to your side so you could see him better. The light from the moon graced his features so beautifully, you got distracted for a second.

“Yea Clark, you know you can tell me anything.”

He cleared his throat before he started talking, His voice started off shaky, “I have a confession to make..”

“I’m listening,”

He sighs, “Before I say anything, if you are completely uncomfortable and hate me i fully understand and i’m sorry for avoid you all day, i’ve just been so-“

“It’s okay, Clark. Now the confession?”

“Well, last night- I had a dream that I- We were together,”

“Together? In what way? Like dating?”

“No…we were having sex,”

“You had a dream we were having sex?” you said with a little too much excitement “How explicit was it..?” He let out a shaky laugh, more out of anxiousness instead of humor. “Do you want details??”

“Do you want to have sex?”

You could not believe you said that, you didn’t know if it was the idea of Clark fantasizing about making love to you in his sleep or the tiredness talking but it could be the fact that you’ve been wanting to sink your teeth into him but you could never deal with that fact.

“What?” he blurted, eyes wide. Your words come out of your with regret all over them “You know what, forget I said that. I’m just tired and I think I’m wine drunk”

“No- no, no. Let’s do it.” he stammered. You propped yourself on your arms, you didn’t mean to sound surprised, but you two made it very clear as soon as you moved in together that there was a line, but it was practically non-existent. “Really? You wanna do this?”

“Yes- I do…please”

“Tell me, what exactly happened in your dream..”

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[aphrodite-killed-me]

Need that

fucky barnes and he has a HUGE SIZE KINK

don’t you know it.

maybe you don’t live together yet, but you’re over there more often nowadays

so maybe he comes home after running some errands/a short day at work to find you still in his bed, napping and lounging

and you look so small. and you’re wearing one of his shirts. he’s so fucked.

so he crawls in bed behind you, scooping up your sleepy figure into his arms. and he’s soooooo much taller than you (6’4 in the comics everyone. can’t beat that) and so he feels so big compared to you. and he loves it

“hey, baby,” you whisper to him. “home already?”

“yeah,” he responds, kissing the top of your head. “been resting, huh?”

“yeah…” you say, wiggling your hips and grinding against him in the process. he groans, obviously, already worked up from seeing you in his bed and thinking about how small you look on his cock

“tempting me?” he questions, leaning to bite gently on your neck.

“didn’t mean to, but…” you tell him honestly and grind against him more purposefully this time

and he’s not wasting another second before reaching his fingers to drag over the fabric of your panties between your legs

“been thinking about this? me coming home and fucking you through my bed?” his voice is in your ear

“always, Bucky.”

you’re so small and tight, no matter how many times he fucks you open, he has to take his time to stretch you open. barely able to take more than one finger at a time, and he thinks it’s the most endearing thing ever

“it’s okay, baby… can take what you want from me, I’ll be okay…” you say, because you know. and you don’t want him to get impatient, get sick of having to deal with you — in your defense, you haven’t been together that long, you’re still waiting for the other show to drop when he gets sick of how needy you are and how much effort it takes for him before he can fuck you

“nuh-uh. love feeling you on my fingers, you know that,” he reminds you for the millionth time. “‘s my pleasure to touch you like this.”

and then his finger crooks, and you whine out, reaching for him behind you

he grabs your hand with his vibranium one to help ground you. and fuck, your hand is so small in his. fuck.

“Bucky—”

“feel good?”

“yes, but—”

“no buts,” he tells you. “relax. I love you like this, more than you know.”

it’s true. he fucking adores the reminder every time you sleep together that you’re so small you rely on him for this.

quickies are out of the picture indefinitely, but he could care less. as long as he gets to put his hands on you, covering so much of your skin with just the palm of his hand.

“Bucky, I’m fine,” you argue with him.

“the more you protest, the longer I spend with my fingers up here, hmm? maybe you ought to get comfortable, fall back asleep until you’re ready for my cock.”

“no…”

“then be good and hand me the lube from the drawer.”

you whine, but he doesn’t play around. he’s delicate, but determined, and he’s gonna make sure and touch you proper

[aphrodite-killed-me]

Chat this was so cute

“𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝙼𝚢 𝙶𝚒𝚛𝚕?”

✦ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader ✦ Genre: Fluff, Humor, Soft!Clingy Bucky, Established Relationship ✦ Word Count: 1,811 ✦ Summary: Bucky Barnes always knows where you are. It’s a running joke in the Tower. You're his person, his center of gravity and the second he can’t see you? He spirals. You leave for coffee without telling him, and by the time you’re back, he’s practically pacing. Your phone? 10 missed calls. 7 texts. 1 very dramatic voicemail. He’s so gone for you, and honestly? You kinda love it.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ✦✦ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ✦✦ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“Where’s my girl?”

The words echo through the Tower lounge like a thunderclap.

Sam looks up from his cereal. “Uh oh.”

Nat leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee with an amused smirk. “She’s only been gone for twenty minutes.”

“Twenty-three,” Bucky corrects grimly, walking into the room like a man on a mission. “And she didn’t tell me where she was going.”

Steve glances up from the paper. “Did she always used to announce her location to you?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Sam counters. “She absolutely did not.”

“She should.”

The running joke is simple.

Bucky Barnes has two settings:

Broody and murderous.

Soft, clingy, and annoyingly in love.

The second setting is reserved solely for you. He’s not shy about it.

If you walk into a room? His eyes are on you. If someone else sits next to you? He finds a reason to interrupt. If you leave the Tower without saying anything?

You get approximately seven minutes before panic Bucky kicks in. You return from your coffee run to find your phone blowing up.

[Bucky 🧸]: where’d you go [Bucky 🧸]: why didn’t you tell me [Bucky 🧸]: are you okay? [Bucky 🧸]: i will start a search party [Bucky 🧸]: do NOT flirt with the barista again [Bucky 🧸]: you think i’m joking. i’m not.

And then, the cherry on top:

Voicemail (1) You press play, smiling.

“Hey, doll. It’s me. Again. Look, I know you’re probably just out grabbing coffee or whatever, but you didn’t say where and now I’ve checked the gym, your room, the kitchen, my room, and the roof. You’re not on the roof. You always go to the roof when you’re mad, so you’re not mad. Right? Are you mad? Did I do something? Anyway. Call me back. Or just walk in the door right now. Please. Okay. I miss you. That’s all. Love you.”

You walk into the lounge with a grin, holding two coffees “Hi.”

Bucky spins on his heel like a bloodhound catching a scent “There she is!”

He crosses the room in three quick strides, takes your coffee with one hand and your waist with the other, and kisses your cheek like he hasn't seen you in years.

You giggle. “It was literally a Starbucks run.”

“You disappeared,” he mutters against your hair.

“I was gone for twenty minutes.”

“Twenty-three.”

You both sit, and Bucky immediately drapes himself over you like a weighted blanket. Nat eyes him dryly “You act like she got snapped again.”

Bucky glares at her. “Too soon.”

You lean into his side. “You’re ridiculous.”

He hums. “You love it.”

You do.

Later, in the gym, Sam brings it up again “Y’know what’s wild? I used to think Barnes would be the cold, distant type.”

Bucky snorts, holding the punching bag for you. “I am cold and distant.”

You throw a punch and grin. “Sure, Mr. I make her share location.”

Sam raises a brow. “Wait. Seriously?”

Bucky shrugs. “Just in case.”

“You won’t even update your phone OS but you downloaded Life360?”

Bucky smirks. “For her? Yeah.”

That night, while tangled together in bed your head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your arm you bring it up again.

“You really get that worried when I’m not around?”

He pauses. Then sighs.

“It’s not about the coffee run,” he admits quietly. “It’s just… ever since I found peace again, you’ve been the center of it.”

Your heart melts.

“You don’t have to always be next to me, but when you’re not, I feel it. Like gravity’s off.”

You shift to face him, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Bucky…”

“I know it’s clingy. I know it’s annoying—”

“It’s sweet.”

He looks at you, eyes soft. “Yeah?”

You nod. “You’re allowed to love loudly.”

He smiles. And kisses you like a promise.

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

💌 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 💌

@nerdreader @starstruckfirecat @baguwagu @sunday-bug @murnsondock @7batsinatrenchcoat @overwintering-soldier @surebutwhy @embervelour @bananaminn @butterflies-on-my-ashes @thiscornerofmyfanficbrain @okaytrashpanda @xamapolax @aceofheartsssss @the-real-kellymonster @mars-in-a-cup @doilooklikeagiveafrack @maifics @cjand10 @aesthetic0cherryblossom @rosemary-beach-babe @pattiemac1 @chriszgirl92 @heyrosh @morphoportis @sugamilkey @dreammiiee @riah1606 @suri-de-city @ordelixx @galaxygoddess30 @magnificentreviewdreamer @flowstatefic @prk-hoon @multifandomrandomgirl @sashaiz01 @kodzuminx @sarapolare @sinistersnakey @greatenthusiasttidalwave @najdjjfjjdid @thelastbluecookie @squishyfruitloop @cammiwu @livia087 @ang0320 🤍🌻

wanna be tagged in all upcoming theories + emotional damage + forehead kisses? ➝ reply or send me an ask and i’ll add you ♡

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

[aphrodite-killed-me]

Need more of that fr

routine || clark kent x reader || 18+ MDNI

clark never fails to make you feel loved. he listens to you talk about your day and fills you in on every detail of his with an enthusiasm that makes you glow - he makes the effort to make sure you know that he wants to experience all of life with you. when he brings that habit into bed, though, you couldn't be more than pleased, if a bit confused to start.

18+ content. MDNI. fingering. oral, m!recieving. sweet clark. domestic, pre-established relationship. they're so in love with each other it makes me sick. fem!reader.

“So, I caught the mutant, before it could grab the cat, of course, and handed it back to the woman. She was really kind,” Clark is cut off by you, sighing out his name. 

“Please?” You ask, hips tilting up.

“Oh, yeah,” he twists his wrist, pressing into you and leaning forward on his other arm to press a sweet kiss to your mouth, lingering at your taste, and pulling back to press several short kisses across the bridge of your nose. “She bought me a pierogi. It tasted awful, but it was a nice gesture.”

“Clark,” you say again. It comes out breathy as his fingers pad against the spongy spot inside of you that makes your nose crinkle and toes curl. 

Clark, delighted at the reaction on your face, nips the tip of your nose and skims his free hand along the outside of your thigh. 

“Yes, sweetheart?” He asks, head tilting to the side, curls falling over his forehead, just slightly coated in a thin layer of sweat, sticking to his face. 

You reach up, grab his chin then his cheek. Your other hand slides into his hair at the base of his neck, tugging him down to kiss you again. 

He does so, happily, greedily. Clark kisses like a man on fire – hot, insistent, impatient. Teeth and tongue and smiles pressing against you, tipping forward to urge you to open your mouth for him. He’s doing the silly thing that makes you shiver where he runs his tongue along the roof of your mouth, light enough to tickle but firm enough to make you pant, before he’s pulling back, pressing warm kisses against the hinge of your jaw. 

“Ugh, then there was Jimmy today, absolutely tearing apart my new piece. I don’t even know why he bothers, we’re not even in the same department!” He leans back so you can see his eyes roll, hand skating from where it was firmly holding your thigh open for him to press softly against your clit – little taps that spread warmth up your belly and into your throat. 

You’re properly panting now as a chuckle breaks past your honeyed heart, “Do you want to stop?” You ask him, sliding your hands down his chest to rest on the bed, pushing yourself up slightly on one elbow. 

“What?” Clark asks, hands hesitating. He looks confused, a little more than lost, kneeling on the bed in between your legs. “Why?”

“Do you want to talk?” You ask, rephrasing and reaching up to touch him in response to his hesitation. He almost looks like he’s done something wrong – guilty in the eyes, little frown appearing at the corner of his lip. You want to kiss it better so you do, short and sweet and firm. 

“We are talking. Do you want to stop?” He rushes through the question, hands moving from your cunt to grab your hips and sit you up further. “I didn’t mean to bombard you honey, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, you haven’t bombarded me,” you say, suddenly cold from the lack of his hands, his mouth, his heat pressing down onto, into, you.”I just, I don’t know, I didn’t want to distract you. I want to keep going, I do,” you say, voice almost whining in your insistence. 

Clark has never denied you before, always more than eager to please, taking a gentle but firm role in guiding you into bed at your slightest insistence. He’s a pro at taking off your pants and grinning up at you between your knees, asking ‘you alright up there, sweetheart?’ before he steals any sense right out of your head with his mouth. 

That’s why the sudden halt in the rubbing and pressing and pushing has left you more than a little flustered. You’ve never really had to convince Clark, but you can see it’ll take some doing now. 

“If you wanna talk, I’m here to talk. If you wanna make me feel good – or I can make you feel good,” you offer, hand snaking around his waist to untuck his shirt, “I wanna do that.”

“I want both,” Clark says, like it’s simple. Like everyone comes home from work, lifts their happy girlfriend up off of the couch, throws them on the bed, and begins blabbering about their day while taking all but two minutes to have her hurtling toward orgasm. 

But, you think, maybe it is normal for him. This is Clark, in magnifying detail, in front of you. He’s written all day – you can smell the pen ink on him from his notebook – and spent the past few hours helping around Smallville as Superman. Now, he’s come home to you, loving and adoring and arms open, to lavish and ravish you. To share every mundane detail of his day while getting you off – more than once, you’d gather, if the way he’d simply cooed at you and kissed your forehead while continuing his minstrations is any clue. 

“Okay,” you say, smiling up at Clark and pressing a kiss against his open mouth with as much love, as much I-adore-you-so-much-I-feel-like-my-seams-are-bursting, as much gentle heat, as you can manage. “Let’s get some of these clothes off, hm? And you tell me about your article?”

Clark smiles, settling back, thighs against heels, as you begin taking off his belt. 

“It wasn’t even a massive article – I hadn’t interviewed myself. Just something about the projection of Meta-Human’s birth rates on the rise, and he felt the need to sit there and question it all.”

You hum, ridding him of his shirt before unbuttoning his pants. 

“I was pretty proud of it – I think it was one of the ones you read over for me, too, the other night,” Clark is saying as you take him out of his pants. 

You stroke him slowly, and he gives you a grin, wavering with pleasure, for it. Then, you bend and Clark’s monolouge halts. 

“Hey, hey, you don’t have to do that,” he insists, like he always does. You don’t miss the way his voice catches when you kiss him, though, followed by a short and sweet kitten lick at his tip. 

“I wanna,” you say, voice soft and sincere. “Keep telling me about your day.”

“Okay,” Clark says, “okay, yeah, thank you, baby, um,” he stumbles, flustered and caught off guard by your sudden focus on him. 

You smile, listening to him slowly try and put himself back on track, focusing on making him feel good and listening to his day. 

When you’re done, you want to make him proud by having follow-up questions to ask, too.

if you liked, please consider reblogging! reblogs keep my fics alive <3 I am also enthusiastically asking you to come talk to me about this man plsss I have so many thoughts and feelings.

[aphrodite-killed-me]

ITS OVER??? WHAT??? NOO

A Hand in the Dark (#8)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Hurt/Comfort. Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Canon-Typical Violence. Fluff.

Summary: In a brief moment of lucidity, Soldat makes a choice. And some choices echo across time, shaping the future in ways no one could predict.

Word Count: 5.8k.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

It had been three weeks since the secondhand shop.

Three weeks of him writing in those notebooks, filling page after page with careful handwriting that grew clearer each day. Three weeks of him rearranging his room in small increments, moving the lamp here, the chair there, like he was trying to solve a puzzle only he could see.

She'd noticed, of course. The way he lingered in the doorframe sometimes, looking at the empty space where the boxes used to be. How he'd started leaving his door open more often, not hiding away like those first months.

She was folding laundry on the couch when he appeared in the living room, near the coffee table, with a body language that meant he wanted to say something but wasn't sure how.

"Everything alright?" she asked, not looking up from the shirt in her hands.

He shifted his weight. Cleared his throat. "I was thinking..."

She waited, continuing to fold. She'd learned that pushing him to finish his thoughts usually made them scatter.

"About what you said. Before. The table." His voice was careful, measured. "For writing."

Her hands stilled on the fabric. She looked at him, trying to keep her expression neutral even though something warm bloomed in her chest. This was huge: he was asking for something, thinking about comfort instead of just survival.

"Yeah?"

"I think... I'd like that. Something small." He rubbed the back of his neck with his flesh hand. "Something functional."

She set down the shirt and turned to face him properly. "That's great, Bucky. Really."

He nodded once, sharply, like he was checking an item off a mental list. "I can pay for it, you don't need to-"

"I know," she said gently. "I wasn't worried about that."

A pause stretched between them. She could see him working through something, jaw tight with concentration.

"I don't really know- Shopping these kinds of things, I mean." He gestured vaguely toward the window. "Everything feels different."

Of course it does. The world he'd left behind didn't have the commodities or the casual interactions that most people took for granted. She tilted her head, considering how to make this easier for him.

"Well, we could go look at furniture stores, but honestly? For something small and used, you'd probably have better luck online, and you’d stress less."

His eyebrows pulled together. "Online?"

She caught the slight tension in his shoulders. Technology still made him wary, which made sense. After being controlled by handlers and organizations with too much power, the idea of putting himself on the internet probably felt like painting a target on his back. Also, he had access to advanced devices in his Winter Soldier days, but it was military-focused knowledge.

"Like... a website where people sell their old stuff. Facebook Marketplace, for example. "But I know you're not a big fan of some technological things."

That was putting it mildly. The clamshell phone she'd helped him get still sat charging on his nightstand, barely used except for the few times she'd texted him about being late from work.

"Facebook," he repeated slowly, like he was tasting the word. "That's... people put their whole lives on there, right? Pictures and... personal information?"

"Some people do," she admitted. "But the marketplace part is just for buying and selling. You don't have to share anything about yourself."

He considered this, metal fingers drumming silently against his thigh. "Can they... track you through it?"

The question came out casual, but she caught the edge underneath. The way his shoulders had tensed slightly.

"Not really," she said. "I mean, not unless you're doing something to draw attention. And it's all local stuff anyway, people in the city selling furniture, electronics, whatever they don't need anymore."

Another long pause. She could practically see him weighing risks, calculating.

"You could use my account," she offered. "Just to look around, see what's available. No pressure to buy anything."

Something in his posture relaxed. "Your account?"

"Yeah. I'm logged in on my laptop already. We could just... browse together. See if anything catches your eye."

Together. She'd learned that word worked magic with him.

He nodded slowly. "That... that might work."

She stood up, folding the last shirt and setting the pile aside. "Want to look now? I've got time."

"Now?" The word came out a little strangled.

"Or later. Whenever you want." She kept her voice light, casual. "It's not going anywhere."

But he was already moving toward the kitchen table where her laptop sat closed. "Now's fine."

She followed, sitting in the chair beside his as she opened the laptop and waited for it to wake up.

"Okay," she said, turning the screen slightly so they could both see. "So this is how it works. You can search for specific things, filter by distance, price, that kind of stuff."

Bucky leaned forward, studying the screen with the same intensity he brought to everything else. "There's... a lot of things."

She kept her movements slow and deliberate as she navigated the site. Everything overwhelmed him at first, but then he focused and adapted. Always.

"Yeah, people sell stuff constantly. We can narrow it down, though. What were you thinking? Wood? Metal? How small is small?"

His eyes scanned the listings, taking in prices that made him frown. "$200 for that?" He pointed at a basic IKEA desk.

"Some people overprice their stuff," she said with a shrug. "But look, here's one for $40."

She clicked on the listing, and a larger photo appeared. A simple wooden desk, scratched but sturdy-looking, with a single drawer on the right side.

"That's more reasonable," he muttered.

She watched the way his eyes moved over every detail of the photo. Not just looking: assessing. Quality, durability, and whether it would last. Everything was a tactical decision for him, even furniture.

"And this person is only fifteen minutes away." She scrolled down to show him the description. "Says it's been in their spare room for two years, barely used."

He was quiet for a moment, studying every detail of the photo. "It looks... solid."

"Want to see what else is out there first, or does this one interest you?"

"Show me a few more," he said. "I want to... compare."

She scrolled through several more listings, a metal desk that was too modern and industrial, an antique secretary that was too ornate, and another wooden desk that was too big for his room.

"This one," he said suddenly, pointing at a listing that had just loaded.

It was smaller than the others, painted white but worn down to the wood in places. The legs were simple, straight lines. The surface looked just big enough for his notebooks and maybe a lamp. $35.

"Good eye," she said, clicking on it. "Look at the location, though."

His face fell slightly. "Forty minutes. By car."

She could see the wheels turning, the mental calculations of risk versus reward, logistics versus desire. He wanted it, but the distance was making him recalculate everything.

"We could ask if they'd be willing to meet somewhere closer."

He was quiet again, chewing on his lower lip. She could see him working through logistics and variables.

"How do you... contact them?"

This was where it got hard for him. The actual human interaction. The unpredictability of dealing with strangers.

"You send a message through the platform." She showed him the button. "Just something simple like 'Hi, is this still available?'"

"And then?"

"Then they usually respond pretty quickly. You can ask questions, arrange when and where to meet up." She glanced at him. "You'd want to meet in public, obviously. Most people do it in parking lots, coffee shops, that kind of thing."

The muscle in his jaw twitched. Public meetings with strangers. She could see him cataloging potential threats.

She recognized the look, the way his shoulders tensed. His mind was running scenarios now, every possible way this could go wrong.

"I could come with you," she said quietly. "If you want. Or you could handle it yourself. Whatever feels right."

He stared at the screen for a long moment, at the small white desk that looked like it had stories to tell.

"What would I say? In the message?"

She leaned back in her chair slightly, giving him space to think. "Whatever feels natural. 'Hi, is the desk still available? I'm interested in buying it.' Something like that."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

He nodded slowly, more to himself than to her. "And they'll just... respond? To a stranger?"

"Most of the time, yeah. It's how it works. People want to sell their stuff, and buyers want to buy it. It’s a simple transaction."

Simple for most people, anyway. For him, she knew it represented something much bigger, another step away from the shadows, another small claim on a normal life.

She saw the determination in his face. He was scared, but he was going to do it anyway.

"Okay," he said finally. "I want to try."

----

The seller responded within an hour. Still available! Can meet at Riverside Park, near the playground. Would $38 work?

Bucky stared at the message for a long time before showing it to her.

"Three dollars more for the convenience," she said with a shrug. "Not bad. That park's only a ten-minute walk from here."

He nodded, but something had changed in his posture. The confidence from browsing the listings was gone, replaced by that familiar tension she recognized: the hypervigilance creeping back in.

"You sure you want to do this?" she asked gently.

The reality had hit him. It was one thing to browse online in the safety of their kitchen. It was another thing entirely to meet a stranger in a public place. To be seen, to interact, to be vulnerable.

"Yeah," he said, too quickly. "Yeah, it's fine."

But it wasn't fine, and they both knew it.

----

The next morning, he was up before dawn. She found him in the kitchen at 6:00 am, already dressed, drumming his metal fingers against the counter in an anxious rhythm.

"Meeting's not until eleven," she reminded him.

"I know." He didn't look at her. "I just... wanted to be ready."

Ready. Like he was preparing for a mission instead of buying a used desk from a college student.

She made coffee without a comment, watching him from the corner of her eye. The way he kept checking the time. How his eyes flicked toward the window every few minutes, scanning the street below. The tension in his shoulders meant his mind was running through scenarios, contingencies, escape routes.

She couldn't read his thoughts, but she'd learned to read his body language. The way he touched the knife in his pocket, making sure it was still there. How he memorized the street layout on her phone, noting every alley, every exit.

Part of him knew it was paranoia. Had to be. A nineteen-year-old selling furniture to buy textbooks wasn't Hydra.

But the other part -the part that had kept him alive for decades- whispered that he was being reckless. That stepping into the open, meeting strangers, and making himself visible was exactly the kind of mistake that got assets terminated.

At 10:45, they walked to the park.

----

She kept the conversation light, pointing out neighbors' gardens, a new shop that had opened down the block. Normal things. Everyday things. But she could feel the tension in his body with every step they took.

The seller was exactly what he'd seemed in the messages: a kid with messy hair and paint-stained jeans, sitting on a bench with the desk beside him. Young. Harmless. Everything Bucky's paranoid mind had insisted he wouldn't be.

"Hey," the student called out, waving them over. "You're here for the desk, right?"

She did most of the talking, as usual. Asked about the crack running down one side that hadn't been visible in the photos, negotiated it down to thirty-seven dollars with the confidence of someone who'd done this before. Let herself handle the social part while Bucky just existed. Proved to himself that he could be in public without anything terrible happening.

He stood slightly behind her, scanning the park, cataloging every jogger, every parent pushing a stroller, every potential threat that never materialized.

The transaction took less than ten minutes.

"Thanks, man," the student said, pocketing the cash. "Hope it serves you well."

Bucky hoisted the desk onto his shoulder like it weighed nothing, which it probably didn't to him. The guy's eyes widened slightly at the casual display of strength, but he just shrugged and walked away.

----

They were halfway home before Bucky spoke.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

She glanced at him. The desk balanced perfectly on his shoulder, his free hand relaxed at his side. The tension had finally started to bleed out of him.

"For what?"

"For..." He paused, searching for words. "For helping me with this. But not making me do it alone."

She smiled, bumping his elbow gently with hers. "That's what friends do."

The word hung in the air between them. Friends. Not roommates.

He didn't correct her.

He just kept walking, carrying his desk home.

----

Back at the apartment, she left him alone to set up the desk however he wanted. She could hear him moving around in his room, the soft scrape of wood against the floor as he tried different positions, different angles.

She busied herself in the kitchen, pulling out ingredients with more energy than usual. The meat she left defrosting last night. Potatoes. Carrots.

"What are you doing?" His voice came from the doorway, cautious.

"Making lunch," she said, not looking up from where she was seasoning the meat. "Roast beef. Figured we should celebrate."

"Celebrate what?"

She glanced over her shoulder at him. "You bought furniture, Bucky. You contacted a stranger, negotiated a deal, and carried it home. That's huge."

His face scrunched up, uncomfortable. "It's just a desk."

"It's not just a desk." She turned back to the roast, rubbing salt and rosemary into the surface. "It's you building a life. Making a space that's yours. Taking another step forward."

"You don't need to make a big deal out of it," he muttered.

"Too late," she said cheerfully, sliding the pan into the oven. "Big deal's already being made. Roast'll be ready in two hours."

He stood there for a moment, watching her move around the kitchen, humming under her breath like this was just another Tuesday instead of what she was treating it like: a milestone.

Maybe it was a milestone. Maybe that was the problem.

She'd been doing this for months. Feeding him, housing him, celebrating his tiny victories like they mattered. Like he mattered. And what had he given her in return? Grocery money. Clean dishes. The constant worry that he might snap, might break, might bring danger to her door.

She deserved more than that.

She deserved something that showed her he saw what she was doing. That he was grateful. That somewhere underneath all the broken pieces, he was still a man who knew how to appreciate a good woman.

"I'm going out for a bit," he said suddenly.

She paused in wiping down the counter. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, just... need some air. Won't be long."

"Okay." She didn't push, didn't ask where or why. Just smiled at him.

----

The secondhand shop smelled the same as it had days ago, old fabric and wood polish and that faint mustiness of things that had lived other lives. The same clerk looked up when the bell chimed, recognition flickering across her face. How could she not recognize him after all the things they sold there?

"Back again?"

"Yeah," Bucky said, heading straight for the back room where he'd seen the jewelry tray.

It was still there, he found it after rummaging a little. The silvery chrome brooch with its delicate vine pattern, the tiny blue stones catching the light. It looked even prettier than he remembered, more elegant somehow.

He picked it up carefully, turning it over in his palm. The pin mechanism was solid, well-made. The kind of piece that would last.

The kind of thing a man gave a woman when he wanted her to know she was special.

"How much for this?"

The clerk squinted at it. "The brooch? Let's see..." She consulted a handwritten price list. "Twelve dollars."

Twelve dollars. He had a couple of hundred in his pocket, cash pulled from accounts Hydra would never think to monitor. Twelve dollars was nothing.

Twelve dollars was everything.

"I'll take it."

----

He didn't head straight back. Instead, he cut down a side street, his boots scraping faintly on the grit, and slipped into the shadow of an alley between a shuttered bakery and a closed tailor's. The air was cooler here, stale with dust and faintly sweet from the bakery's vents.

He sank onto an upturned crate and fished out the brooch from inside his jacket. He held it for a moment in his gloved hands, dragging his thumb over its surface. It caught a stripe of weak afternoon light filtering between buildings, the tiny glass stones glowing delicately, beautiful in a way that seemed impossibly fragile.

A good gift. The kind people keep. The kind that meant something.

Too good for someone like him to give.

The thought came sharp and familiar, carving his gut like old poison. What did he know about giving gifts? Everything he'd touched for years had been weapons, targets, blood. His hands had been made for taking, not giving.

But he'd seen the way her fingers had caressed it the day she sold her old stuff, the soft expression that had crossed her face before she'd put it back.

She bought him things. Small things. Thoughtful things. Extra batteries for the flashlight he kept on his nightstand, snacks she knew he enjoyed, and always asking him if he remembered some brand of something he would like to try. She never made it seem like charity, never drew attention to it. Just gave him kindness that accumulated like snowfall, transforming the landscape of his days one flake at a time.

When was the last time he'd given anyone anything that wasn't death?

His jaw flexed. He slipped the brooch back into his pocket and pushed himself up from the crate. The metal of his left hand clinked faintly against the brick wall as he steadied himself. A sound that used to make him flinch, now barely noticed. Progress, she'd probably call it. Another small victory to celebrate.

Maybe this could be one too.

The first shop he tried -stationery and novelty trinkets crammed into a space barely bigger than a closet- was too bright, with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like trapped insects. Too crowded, his gaze snapped to every shifting shadow, every customer who moved too quickly or stood too close.

The familiar itch between his shoulder blades started up, every part of his brain cataloguing exits, threats, variables. He left before the elderly shopkeeper could finish asking if he needed help, her confused voice following him onto the sidewalk.

The second place was smaller, quieter. A narrow shop between a dry cleaner and a phone repair store, the kind of place that sold greeting cards and last-minute gifts.

A shelf of gift bags stood against the wall, printed with simple patterns: flowers, stripes, geometric designs that wouldn't draw attention. He studied them with the same focus he once brought to surveillance photos, looking for something that felt... right.

Not too fancy. Not too cheap. Not trying too hard.

He finally picked one, pale cream with a faint pressed-leaf design. Then a ribbon to match: dark green, simple, nothing that screamed gift from a man who doesn't know what he's doing.

The woman at the counter smiled, a pleasant expression of someone used to customers buying small tokens of affection. "Someone special?" she asked, and for a moment his brain froze.

He nodded once, dropping the cash without counting it, and left without another word.

----

The smell hit him one floor down, rich and warm. Rosemary. Garlic. The scent of slow-cooking meat made his steps quicken despite himself. She was still there. Still... safe.

The thought came automatically now, that constant mental check his mind performed every time he returned. Safe. Unharmed. Exactly where she should be.

The apartment door came into view, and his heart rate spiked for reasons that had nothing to do with physical exertion. The bag crinkled softly under his grip, and he forced himself to loosen his hold before he crushed it entirely.

This was stupid. This was-

He could hear her moving around the kitchen through the door, the soft clink of dishes, water running, the familiar sounds of her presence that had become the soundtrack to his sanity.

He stood there for a full minute, key halfway to the lock, paralyzed by the weight of what he was about to do.

What if she thought it was too much, too personal, too weird? What if she realized what it meant, that he'd been watching her, cataloguing her reactions, memorizing the things that made her face soften in that particular way?

What if she understood that she wasn't just his roommate or even his friend, but something more essential? The voice that called him back when his mind tried to drift into the dark spaces where Hydra still whispered. The rock that kept him grounded to this reality instead of the blood-soaked one that lived behind his eyelids.

What if she knew how desperately he needed her?

His titanium fingers clenched reflexively, and he had to concentrate on not bending the brooch out of shape. Control. She'd taught him that now he could apply it to himself. You have control, Bucky. You get to choose.

Choose to turn the key. Choose to walk inside. Choose to act like a person instead.

Choose to give instead of take, for once in his goddamn life.

The lock clicked open.

"Hey," her voice called from the kitchen as soon as he stepped inside, bright and warm as always. "How was your walk?"

"Fine," he managed, voice rougher than it should be. The little bag felt like it weighed a hundred pounds in his hand. "Smells… good."

"Twenty more minutes," she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "I made too much again, obviously. We'll be eating leftovers tonight."

He loved it when she said things like that. We.

"That's..." He cleared his throat, hung up his jacket, and carefully removed his gloves. "That's good. I like your leftovers."

"Flatterer." There was that laugh, the one that did something strange to his heart. "Come keep me company while I finish up?"

It wasn't really a question. She had this way of making suggestions that felt like gentle commands, giving him direction when his own mind got too tangled up to choose.

He walked toward the kitchen, hiding the little bag against his thigh. She was at the stove, stirring some sauce that steamed fragrant clouds into the air, hair pulled back and sleeves pushed up in that casual way that meant she was in her element. Home. Comfortable.

Safe.

"You okay?" She glanced over her shoulder, and those eyes -too perceptive, always seeing more than he wanted them to- caught his expression. "You look a little-"

"I'm fine." The words came out too fast, too defensive. He forced his shoulders to relax, made his voice softer. "I just... I have something. For you."

She noticed the defensive tone in his voice, the way he was standing just inside the kitchen doorway like he might bolt at any second. But there was something else too, a nervous energy that was different from his usual shyness or hypervigilance.

She turned fully then, wooden spoon still in hand, lifting her brows with curiosity rather than suspicion.

Because, of course she wouldn't be suspicious. She trusted him, for reasons he still couldn't decipher.

"Something for me?"

The bag appeared before her like magic, though he didn't remember consciously deciding to pull it out. "I saw you," he said, then stopped, and started over. "When we were at the secondhand shop. You looked at it, and I thought-"

Words failed him. They always did when it mattered. Decades of languages beaten into his head, and he couldn't string together a simple sentence about why he wanted to give her something nice.

She set down the spoon, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and approached him with that careful way she had, always giving him space to retreat if he needed it. The consideration in that simple gesture made his throat tight.

"Bucky," she said softly, "You didn't have to-"

"I wanted to." The words came out fierce, more intense than he'd meant them. He saw her blink, saw the moment she registered the weight behind his voice. "I wanted to give you something. You're always- you do so much. For me. And I never..."

He trailed off, jaw working soundlessly, frustrated by his own inadequacy. How could he explain? How could he tell her what she meant to him?

"Hey." Her voice was gentler now. "It's okay. Whatever it is, I'm sure I'll love it."

The reassurance came automatically, but she meant every word. Whatever had driven him out into the world to buy her something, whatever internal battle had led to this moment, she already treasured it.

Her fingers brushed his as she took the bag.

"The brooch," she breathed, lifting it like it were made of spun glass. "Bucky, this is- why did you...?"

"You liked it," he said plainly.

The simplicity of his answer made her heart flutter. No elaborate explanation, no justification. Just the observation that she'd liked something, and his decision that that was reason enough to get it.

She was quiet for a long moment, turning the piece over in her palm, watching the light catch on the tiny stones cradled by vines. When she looked up at him, her eyes were bright with something that made his heart kick again.

"It’s beautiful," she murmured. "But again, really, you didn't have to-"

"Yes, I did." The words came out tinged with something desperate that he couldn't quite hide. "I did have to. You… you don't understand what you-"

He stopped himself before he could say too much. Before he could tell her that she was the only thing keeping him sane. Or at least the most sane he could be.

Instead, he just stood there, watching her hold his offering, and hoped it would be enough to show her what he couldn't say.

She understood that this wasn't just about the brooch, it wasn't just about returning a favor or showing appreciation. This was him trying to say I see you, I value you.

She looked up at him then, and without a word, she lifted the brooch to her sweater, pinning it carefully just above her heart. Her fingers smoothed over it once, twice, like she was making sure it was secure.

Then she did something that nearly undid him completely.

She stepped back just a little, smoothing down her sweater, and gave a small, playful sway from side to side, showing it off. The tiny gesture was so normal, so unconsciously feminine and pleased, that for a moment he forgot how to breathe. The piece caught the kitchen light as she moved, and she looked down at it with genuine delight.

"Perfect," she murmured, more to herself than to him, touching it again with reverent fingers.

Something warm, terrifying, and desperate cracked in his chest. Before he could think, before he could stop himself or catalog all the reasons this was a mistake, his arms were moving.

The embrace was tentative, careful. One arm sliding around her shoulders while the other hovered uncertainly at her waist, like he wasn't sure he was allowed. His movements were clumsy, the muscle memory of affection buried under decades of violence. But she didn't pull away. She didn't stiffen or make him feel like the broken thing he knew he was.

Instead, she relaxed against him, circling his waist with her arms, splaying her fingers gently across his back. The touch was light, careful not to overwhelm him, but unmistakably welcoming.

He took that as permission to draw her barely closer, resting his forehead against her temple and brushing his nose against the soft skin just near her ear. She tilted her head slightly, just enough to press her cheek against his, and he breathed her in like it was the only clean air left in the world.

For a moment, all narrowed to this: her warmth against his chest, the rhythm of her heartbeat, the way she smelled like home and safety and everything he'd thought he'd lost forever. She’d become the constant his fractured mind needed to orient itself, his safe handler, safe harbor, both at once. It was stabilizing and terrifying in equal measure; to trust this much was dangerous. But he couldn’t stop.

His eyes closed, and for once, the ever-watchful part of his mind went quiet. No scanning for exits. No cataloging threats. Just this. Just her, wearing his gift, letting him hold her like he was something worth holding.

When he finally pulled back -too soon, but before it could get awkward, before he could cling to her, her eyes were bright and knowing. She reached up, tracing her fingers along his jaw in the briefest of touches.

"Thank you," she said simply.

He nodded, unable to form words, and stepped back to give her space.

But the brooch stayed where she'd pinned it, catching the light with every movement, and when she turned back to the stove to check on dinner, he watched as her fingers drifted up to the brooch without conscious thought. Not just a quick touch this time, but a gentle trace over the delicate metalwork, brushing her thumb across the tiny flower like it were something precious.

A soft smile curved her lips -private, content- and she glanced down at it with a warm expression.

The fierce and primal need to preserve her came back as he watched the scene, with a certainty that cut through every doubt and fragment of his broken mind. This. This moment, this woman, this small piece of happiness he'd somehow been allowed to give her. It was worth everything. Worth protecting. Worth preserving.

He would do anything -anything- to keep her safe, to keep this fragile peace he had found. To ensure she could continue touching that brooch with the same gentle smile, keep moving through their home, and keep trusting him enough to let him be with her.

The thought of losing her wasn’t just painful, it was unacceptable. It twisted inside him, sharp and cold, until it felt like a threat had already been made.

Part of him knew that intensity should frighten him. That the depth of his need for her wasn't entirely healthy, wasn't entirely safe. But it didn't.

He didn’t decide to move, he was already doing it. Closing the space between them without sound, without thought, the same way a shadow lengthens with the sun. His hand lifted before he even thought about it, brushing the side of her arm in a gesture that looked gentle but carried the weight of a claim.

She looked up to him, and he tipped his head toward the couch, more and order than his tentative requests. Somewhere in the part of his mind that still gave commands sometimes, this was one: stay close, where I can watch you.

She glanced at the stove, then back at him, reading his gesture the way she always did, as his quiet way of asking for comfort. Her expression softened with the same gentle patience she showed when he couldn't find the words for what he needed.

"Dinner can wait a little longer," she said softly, turning off the heat of the sauce. She’d pour it over the meat when the oven rang its bell.

There was something satisfying about being needed this way, about being the person he turned to when his emotions overwhelmed him.

It felt like progress, him reaching out instead of withdrawing, asking for comfort instead of isolating himself. She followed him to the living room without question, sitting in the corner of the couch.

He sank beside her, then lower, until his head found its place against her thighs. The position felt like a sanctuary, her warmth beneath him, while her gentle fingers began their work through his hair.

She couldn't know what those touches meant to him, how they silenced decades of conditioning with every gentle stroke, how her fingers threading through his dark strands felt like salvation, choosing tenderness over control.

For her, it was simply offering comfort freely. For him, it was proof she was there, real and safe beneath him, while the careful movement of her fingers quieted the chaos in his head.

She settled more comfortably into the cushions, letting her other hand rest lightly on his shoulder. The brooch caught the light from the window, and she glanced down at it with renewed warmth. Such a thoughtful gift, so perfectly chosen.

As she began the familiar pattern of gentle touches, moving through his hair with that patient care he'd come to crave, he felt the sharp edges of his earlier ferocity soften into something more manageable.

What she couldn't see was the way his eyes had sharpened in the moments before he'd moved to her, or how his breathing became more controlled, more focused.

She didn't notice that his hand on her arm had lingered a beat too long, or that his request hadn't been a request at all. That those primitive instincts he'd worked so hard to control had surged back to the surface. Sharp, focused, and ready.

To her, it was just Bucky needing comfort after gathering the courage to give her something beautiful.

He let himself sink further into her touch, as his breathing gradually evened out under the caress of her fingers. The faint rhythm of her pulse reached him where his cheek rested against her thigh, a beat that soothed him in a way nothing else could.

There were still so many pieces of himself to figure out, so many choices to make about who he wanted to be.

But right now… this was enough.

Right now, he could let the questions wait and just exist, knowing that whatever else might change, whatever terrors lurked in the fractured landscape of his mind, she would be here. Safe. And for now, that was the only certainty he needed.

Fin (for now).

Taglist: @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @escapefromrealitylol @bodhisattva11 @kittieboo @iyskgd @stell404 @lil-riddle-kiddle @maryevm @yindoesstuff @shaheea @maladaptive0romantic @cricket-reader @nynxtea @justalittlebitbored @icefox8155 @gloriousvariant @hiraethmae @ixopod@moth-mortuary @belladonnadarksshade @infinitepersuasion @frog-fans-unite @littlesuniee @sebastians-love @icantblink @stillnotsatisfied-blog @shameless-klutz @hangingmooncloud @47chickens @wintrsoldrluvr

dividers by @/strangergraphics

[aphrodite-killed-me]

This is so cute what if I cried

hi emm!!! it's phee!! for today i have pickedddddd 🎂!!

wondering if i could get beefy bucky where we celebrate his birthday with him while he's on the run in bucharest? like pre-cacw maybe?

i'm not too picky because everything you write is absolutely amazing but maybe reader has made him a plum cake and they're in his apartment heheh

congrats on 1k AND happy birthday to you and seb!!! love you lots 🤍🫧

Smoke & Sugar

a/n: PHEEE! HAI ML <333 this is suchhh a good and unique idea , hope you love it! Thank you so much for joining my party! You can join or send more if you haven’t yet right here! 🏷️ @opheliabbarnes

-

The gray Bucharest afternoon was bleeding into evening by the time you climbed the crooked metal stairwell , grocery bags cutting into your palms.

The building’s walls still smelled faintly of old plaster dust and boiled cabbage from a neighbor’s lunch.

Down the hall , your apartment door was shut as always , paint peeling at the frame , a place that didn’t look like home to anyone but the two of you.

You nudged it open with your hip, gripping the bags harder as you calling softly into the apartment, “Bucky? It’s me.”

No answer at first — just the low hum of traffic outside the window. Then, a slow rustle, the creak of the old chair near the table. You set the bag down and looked over.

He was there, exactly where you’d left him this morning, only now the light from the single bulb above cast his shoulders in shadow.

His hair hung in loose strands, the kind that caught the faintest dark gold in the dim light. His strong forearms rested heavy on his knees, flesh and metal both, his fingers curled around the edges of a small, battered red notebook.

The journal.

His thumb stroked absently over the frayed cover, eyes tracing the page as if the words there were fragile things he might break by looking too hard.

When you stepped closer, you caught the low murmur under his breath as he repeated the same sentence over and over again.

“It’s my birthday.”

You froze mid-step, your heart kicking up. “W-what?”

He didn’t look up at first, just gave a half-shrug, as if just stating the weather. “It says here. March 10th” His voice was quiet, rough-edged. “Guess that’s today.”

Your jaw dropped. “Bucky... you didn’t think to tell me that earlier?”

A ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t think it mattered.”

You set your hands on your hips, shaking your head. “Didn’t think it—” You stopped yourself, biting back the exasperated laugh bubbling in your chest. “Oh, it matters. You just wait here.”

He leaned back in the chair, eyes following you as you swept into the tiny kitchen space.

The groceries spilled out in a clatter of glass jars and fruit rolling around. You dug past potatoes , onions , a loaf of white bread— until your fingers closed around the deep purple skin of the plums you’d bought at the market. They weren’t planned for tonight. But now? They were perfect.

“Okay” you called over your shoulder, “you’re getting a cake.”

He made a low sound of disbelief. “Don’t need a cake.”

“Tough. You’re getting one anyway.”

The oven clanked reluctantly to life, filling the kitchen with its dry, dusty heat. You sliced the plums, their dark juice staining your fingertips, the scent sweet and tart.

Bucky rose and came to lean in the doorway, his figure filling the narrow space. He was all broad shoulders and solid muscle, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hand dusted with flour you hadn’t seen him touch.

“Need help?”

“Sit,” you told him firmly, nudging him back toward the table. “Birthday boys don’t work.”

He gave you a faint, amused huff but obeyed, watching with that intent, almost wary gaze he had whenever you were doing something just for him.

The batter came together quick — sugar, eggs, flour, the softened butter you’d left out by accident this morning. You layered the plums across the top, their skin curling at the edges.

The smell from the oven filled the flat in minutes. Warm fruit and sugar, something golden and soft in the air that felt almost… safe.

When you pulled the cake from the oven, you realized your mistake. “Oh, hell...”

Bucky tilted his head. “What?”

“I don’t have candles.”

He raised an eyebrow. “We don’t need—”

“Shh.” You were already rummaging in the drawer by the sink. No candles, no matches… and then your fingers brushed a paper box. A half-empty pack of cigarettes, left behind by some previous tenant and shoved out of sight months ago.

You turned, holding one up triumphantly. “This’ll do.”

His brow furrowed, but his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

You stuck the cigarette right in the center of the cake, lit it with the cheap lighter from the same drawer. The smoke curled lazily upward, smelling sharp and foreign against the cake’s sweetness.

“Make a wish,” you said.

Bucky stared at it for a beat too long, then leaned forward. His breath was shallow and cautious as he blew it out — the ember dying in a soft glow.

Without missing a beat, he plucked the cigarette from the frosting, rolled it between his fingers, and tucked it into the corner of his mouth.

You leaned in before he could take a drag, your lips brushing his in a kiss that was warm and slow and edged with something dangerous.

The taste of him hit you instantly — sweet from the cake, smoky from the tobacco, something undeniably him threading through it all.

When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I love you.”

His eyes softened in that way they only did when you were alone. “I know.”

He kissed you again, and the smoke lingered between you, tangled with sugar and heat, in the air of that tiny Bucharest apartment where no one in the world knew it was his birthday but you.

[aphrodite-killed-me]

Come Home, Solider - 𖦹⭒✺

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Rating: Explicit Word Count: ~4.3k Genre: Angst • Hurt/Comfort • Smut Trope: Second Chance • Grovelling • You Thought He Was Dead • Desperate Reunion

Summary: You thought he was dead. He thought he didn't deserve you. Now he's at your door- soaked, bleeding, and on his knees.

Author's Note: This is my first official fic solaceinruin, and it's everything I love writing and reading - angst that cuts deep, grovelling that aches, and intimacy that is just as much about healing as it is about the spice.

Content Warnings (please read before continuing):

Mentions of injury & blood

Descriptions of rain & storm conditions

PTSD/trauma references

Abandonment & emotional neglect themes

Strong language

Semi-public emotional scene

Explicit sexual content (unprotected PIV, oral f!receiving, praise kink, desperation sex)

Power imbalance in emotional state

Gentle manhandling

You'd told yourself that you were done waiting. Done hoping. Done thinking about Bucky Barnes.

It had been six months since that mission in Bucharest - six months since the last time you saw him disappearing into a quinjet, his blood smeared across his temple, his gaze locked on yours through the narrowing gap in the hatch.

Six months since you learned to live with the idea that he hadn't made it back.

You'd grieved. Quietly. The kind of grief that turns into a background hum, the constant weight of absence in every corner of your life.

And then, just as you'd finally learned how to stop checking the door every time someone knocked, there was a knock.

The sound was heavy. Not the brisk rap of a delivery driver or the short, impatient tap of a neighbor. This was slower. Hesitant.

Your book slipped from your lap as you rose. You told yourself to ignore it. But your hand was already reaching for the lock.

When the door swung open, the world didn't just tilt, it fractured.

Bucky stood there, framed in the doorway like something half-real, half-nightmare. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead. His jacket was dark with water, sleeves clinging to his arms. His right hand, the flesh one, was split at the knuckles, a sluggish trickle of blood mingling with the raindrops.

His eyes were what hit you the hardest. Storm blue and rimmed red.

"Hi," he rasped. His voice sounded like it had been scraped raw.

You gripped at the doorframe. "You're supposed to be dead."

"I know." His throat bobbed. "I'm sorry."

It was the wrong thing to say.

A bitter laugh ripped from you, sharp and ugly. "That's it? That's all you have to say after six months?"

"I have more to say." His gaze flickered to the floor. "I just....I don't think you want to hear it."

"You don't get to decide what I want to hear."

He winced. "I thought it'd be easier for you-"

"Don't." The word cracked out before you could stop it. "Don't you dare tell me what's easier for me."

Bucky's jaw tightened, rain still sliding down his face. "I didn't deserve to come back."

"Bullshit."

"I didn't deserve you," he said quietly, and that broke something in his voice. "Not after the things I've done. Not after-" He stopped, his breath shuddering. "I thought if I stayed away, I'd be doing you a favor."

You stared at him.

"But I couldn't do it anymore," he said, and then - before you could process the words, he dropped to his knees.

The sound of it, the wet thud of him hitting the porch, punched straight through your chest.

His hands hovered at your waist like he wasn't sure he had the right to touch you. His forehead pressed to your stomach, his breath hot even through the rain-soaked fabric of your shirt.

"Please," he whispered. "Please tell me I didn't lose you, too."

Your hands hovered uselessly before they found his cheeks, cupping the cold skin there. "You're an idiot."

"I know."

When you kissed him, it wasn't gentle. It was months of grief and anger and wanting, teeth and tongue and salt. He kissed back like a drowning man, like your mouth was the only thing anchoring.

You didn't remember pulling him inside, but suddenly the door was shut behind you, and he was pressing you against it, dripping water onto the hardwood. His hands slid over your sides like he was trying to memorize the shape of you all over again.

"Bedroom," you breathed.

His jaw clenched. "I don't deserve-"

"Shut up and come with me."

The rest was heat and chaos - clothes stripped with shaking hands, gasps swallowed into kisses, the solid weight of him pressing you into the mattress. He worshiped every inch of you like it might vanish if he didn't touch it right now.

When he sank into you, it was slow at first, forehead pressed to yours, a soft curse slipping from his lips. Then it turned desperate - hips snapping, his mouth spilling praise and apologies in the same breath.

"Miss you- god, miss you so much - so fucking beautiful- never should've left-"

You pulled him down until his mouth was on yours again, until every thought dissolved into heat and skin and the rhythm of him inside you.

He didn't stop until you were both wrecked and shaking, until you collapsed together, breathless and tangled.

Later, with the storm still whispering against the window, he traced his fingers over your arm like he was trying to ground himself in the fact that you were real.

"Not leaving again," he murmured.

"You better not."

[aphrodite-killed-me]

That was actually so cute I’m gonna be sick

┈┈ where you are ✮⋆˙

Pairing — Civil War!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Summary — Bucky, hiding out in a Bucharest safehouse with you, becomes quietly fixated on the warmth and steady heartbeat he clings to for comfort, finding the peace and safety he thought he’d lost forever in you.

Warnings — SFW, post-trauma coping, pre-established relationship, physical touch, comfort, mild emotional vulnerability.

Author’s Note: I was originally going to write something like this for Bob, which I honestly still might do, but I feel like Bucky kind of suits this a little more. I hope you guys enjoy this! Love ya’ll lots xxx

Bucharest at night was all car horns, murmured arguments in a language you didn’t speak, and the occasional rumble of the tram a few streets over. Through the cracked-open window of the safehouse, the air smelt faintly of rain on concrete and exhaust fumes.

Bucky hadn’t said much since you’d come in. He never really did after dark, not unless Steve was around, not unless something urgent forced him to speak. Now, sitting at the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, he just… watched you.

You were used to it.

Not in a creepy way, not in a way that made you want to pull away. There was something in his eyes when he looked at you like that, something raw and unguarded. Bucky Barnes could stare down a room full of Hydra agents without flinching, but when he looked at you, it was like he was memorising you, piece by piece, in case you vanished when he blinked.

“You’re doing it again,” you murmured, leaning against the doorframe with a small smile.

His mouth quirked, almost a smile back. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I’m a puzzle you’re trying to solve.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Not a puzzle.”

“Then what?”

Bucky’s shoulders shifted, the leather of his jacket creaking. He hadn’t even taken it off yet; you knew he slept better without it, but sometimes he didn’t have it in him to peel away the layers. Not until you were close enough to help.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, eyes roaming over you like he couldn’t help himself. Not in the way men sometimes looked, but slower, softer. Like he was searching for something familiar in your shape.

“You… calm me down,” he finally said, almost under his breath.

You crossed the small room, bare feet silent against the uneven wood floor. “How?”

His jaw worked like he wasn’t sure he should tell you. Then, as you stopped in front of him, his flesh hand lifted, tentative, slow enough to let you move away if you wanted, and settled at your hip. His fingers pressed lightly into the fabric of your shirt, just enough to feel the warmth beneath.

“You’re warm,” he said simply. “You’re soft.”

Your lips curved. “You make me sound like a blanket.”

“Better than a blanket,” he muttered, and his metal hand came up to rest on your thigh, gentle despite its weight. “Blankets don’t breathe. Don’t…” He paused, looking down for a beat. “Don’t make me feel like I’m here.”

You understood more than he probably thought you did.

With no more than a quiet hum, you eased between his knees, your hands finding the back of his neck. He exhaled, slow and shaky, like he’d been holding it in for hours.

The next few moments passed in silence, except for the soft hum of the radiator and the faint noise from the street below. His hands, one warm, one cool, anchored you in place as his forehead came to rest against your sternum.

It was the same every time. He would hold still at first, almost rigid, until his breathing began to match yours. Then his grip would tighten, just enough that you knew he was there, grounded. His hair brushed your chest, a little too long and curling at the ends, smelling faintly of the soap you’d given him days ago.

You threaded your fingers through it, slow and careful, and felt him melt.

“Better than a blanket,” you teased again, softer now.

He didn’t look up. “Better than anything.”

You thought that would be the end of it, but Bucky didn’t let go. His hands slid slowly, deliberately, around your waist, pulling you forward until you were perched on his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. He didn’t kiss you; he didn’t even try. He just held you there, like your presence alone was something he couldn’t get enough of.

You’d noticed it before, how he gravitated toward you when he was tired or overwhelmed. His fingers brushing your sleeve, his shoulder leaning into yours, the subtle way he’d place himself close enough to catch your warmth.

Now, his head tilted so his cheek rested against your chest. “Your heartbeat”, he murmured, voice muffled by your shirt.

“What about it?” you asked quietly, running your nails lightly through his hair.

“It’s steady. Doesn’t change when I touch you.” His arm tightened around your back. “That’s… not how it usually is. People get nervous.”

You blinked, heart aching just a little. “I’m not nervous with you, Buck.”

He didn’t answer, but you felt him sink further against you, like those words had weight and warmth of their own.

When you finally coaxed him to lie down, he didn’t give you space, not that you wanted it. His flesh hand tangled with yours immediately, thumb tracing the lines of your palm over and over like he was memorising them.

“You have tiny hands,” he murmured into the dark.

“They’re not that small.”

“They are,” he insisted, lacing his fingers between yours, then bringing your joined hands to his chest. “See? Barely cover anything.”

“That’s because you’re built like a wall.”

He huffed out something close to a laugh but kept holding your hand there, over the steady thump of his own heartbeat. Then his metal fingers found your hair, combing through it with a surprising gentleness.

“Your hair’s different in the dark,” he said, sounding almost thoughtful.

You smiled into his shoulder. “Different how?”

“Feels softer. Or maybe my head’s just making that up because I like it.”

You didn’t think it was his imagination. The way his voice had dropped, softer than the low hum of the radiator, made your chest ache with something warm and unshakeable.

Minutes bled into each other, the city sounds fading, his breathing evening out. But every now and then you’d feel it – the subtle squeeze of his arm around your waist, the way his fingers would flex like he was checking to make sure you were still there.

When sleep finally pulled at you, Bucky’s voice came again, barely a whisper.

“I used to think the safest place I could be was where no one could find me.”

“And now?” you murmured.

His nose brushed your hairline, breath warm. “Now it’s wherever you are.”

You squeezed his hand. “Then you’re already safe.”

He didn’t answer. Just pressed himself closer, as though he could breathe you in, and finally, finally, let go of the tension he carried like armour.

join my тαgℓιѕт -

@avgdestitute, @xoxo-moonlight, @spring-soldier, @vyviiennestar, @avengemepercy, @wickedfun9, @floweradroble1123, @overwintering-soldier

[aphrodite-killed-me]

RAAAAA ITS SO CUTE

i've got a crush on you

by Ella Fitzgerald

pairing: shy!Clark Kent x reader ~ 2.2k

warnings: mild cussing, Clark being foolishly in love with reader

summary: oblivious to your coworker, Clark Kent's, obvious feelings towards you, you spiral in self-pity when he brings you flowers and you chalk it up to him being a good friend

"Where is he?" Jimmy moaned, reclining limply in his chair as if he were on the verge of expiring. You rolled your eyes.

"Why don't you go and get yourself coffee for once? Clark is nearly late every morning and this act of yours is getting old." Replied Lois distractedly, fingers typing swiftly over her keyboard. You had always admired her ability to multi-task.

"I agree," you chimed in, laughing when Jimmy sent you a scowl. Just last week he had lamented about how he had too many women clambering after him and he had 'no time' for his hobbies.

He sat up, pointing an accusing finger at you. "You're supposed to be on my side. Lois can hold her own just fine."

You only shrugged, a corner of your mouth kicked up in a soft smirk. While, yes, Jimmy was oftentimes dramatic as hell, you enjoyed it. It made sitting at your desk for nearly twelve hours a day entertaining. Well...that and the fact that you sat across from one of the most attractive men you'd ever laid eyes on.

Thick raven hair usually mussed from running around Metropolis, warm blue eyes, muscles for days, and astonishing manners that would make your grandmother swoon...yeah, he was a rarity among his species. And yet, he didn't even recognize his own beauty. There had been times that you would witness new, bold interns attempting to make passes at him and he would only blush and mutter nonsense until they walked away, confused.

You had been admiring Clark Kent for three years now, subjected to be in close proximity and do nothing but make up fake scenarios in your head that would probably never come true. It didn't help your crush that he would bring you coffee every morning and a shy smile with it. Oh brother. You were in deep.

"You should call him up and tell him to get his tight ass over here," Jimmy said to you, breaking you from your reverie.

"Hmm?"

Jimmy tossed a wadded paper ball and you narrowly dodged it. "I said," he gave you a pointed look, "that you should tell your boyfriend to hurry up."

The laugh that tore from your throat was loud and completely unintentional. The room fell silent, fingers clacking at computers halted and eyes voices quieted. You clamped a hand over your mouth. "I'm so sorry," you muffled, embarrassed at your boisterous display.

Thankfully everyone went back to their business, a few of your coworkers grousing about how they weren't paid enough or wished they had taken that other job. Jimmy and Lois were the only ones watching you now, all amused smiles and twinkling eyes. You glared at them. "What?"

"You don't know?" Lois inquired, a hint of laughter in her tone. What was so funny?"

"What don't I know?" you demanded softly.

Jimmy began, "That Clark has like the biggest, fattest cru—"

"So sorry I'm late," interrupted a baritone voice from across the room. You were quick to look towards the sound and the man it belonged to. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach and you tamped down the smile that pulled at your lips.

Clark wore his usual slacks and white-button up, jacket draped over one large forearm and a cup-holder of coffee in his hand. In his other hand was a—your stomach dropped. Flowers. For some lucky girl, you supposed.

He rushed towards the three of you, panting softly. "I had another interview with Superman this morning," he explained, handing his caffeinated goods to Jimmy and Lois, "and I think this next story is going to be very insightful. He's a funny guy." Clark smiled crookedly and it made the circuits in your brain malfunction.

He then stopped in front of you, giving you your cup. "Your hair looks pretty today," he complimented softly, a soft tinge of pink on his cheeks.

He turned away to go to his desk, no doubt, before stopping and looking back at you. "Umm, these are for you." He softly laid the small bouquet of roses next to your computer. "The street vendor badgered me to purchase them and he told me that there must be some special wom—umm, well I looked at them and they reminded me of that one shirt you wore last week, you know the sweater, and...yeah. I thought you'd like them? Beautiful flowers for a beautiful girl, right?"

You nodded absently, unable to take your eyes off of the ruby-red petals. Clark cleared his throat awkwardly and swept away to his own corner.

It took you five minutes of rifling through your thoughts, computing what in the hell just happened, when you finally came to your senses. Everyone was minding their own business now and you were sitting there like an idiot. Had Clark truly brought these for you? They reminded him of your sweater? He remembered your sweater?

Clark is always nice to me, you reminded yourself. He was nice to everyone. Just because he brought you a gift today didn't mean he wasn't going to bring Lois one tomorrow or Jimmy something the next day. That was the kind of person Clark Kent was. The epitome of human kindness.

"Psst," you started. When did Jimmy sidle up to you?

He subtly nodded to Clark who was reviewing his hand-written notes, one long-fingered hand buried in his hair. Then, in a low enough voice for only you to hear, Jimmy said, "He thinks you hate the flowers."

You furrowed your brow. You had said thank you, didn't you? "I didn't say anything?"

"If you call you sitting there looking flabbergasted and Clark twiddling his thumbs nervously, then yes, you did say something."

You pinched the bridge of your nose. He probably did feel like an idiot then, giving a sweet gesture to his coworker who didn't even have the brain capacity to thank him.

You shooed Jimmy back to his space, growing peeved at his delighted expression. You were going to set him up with a dozen clingy girls this weekend.

Rallying your courage, you called out to Clark who abruptly turned up from his papers. He looked...hopeful?

"Thank you for the roses," you offered a smile, "they are, indeed, similar in color to my sweater."

He chuckled softly, the visible tightness ebbing from his broad shoulders. Seriously, who had shoulders like those? "You're welcome, I double checked that they were free of any thorns."

"That was very thoughtful of you." Very, very thoughtful.

You held eyes for a moment, the space between you charged with an intoxicating tension. Clark opened his mouth to say something, anything, when Perry appeared, calling Clark to meet with him for a moment. Whatever had been building between you both shattered at the disturbance.

As they walked towards Perry's office, you couldn't help but admire Clark's confident stride. Despite being freakishly tall and built like a damn tank, he was agile on his feet, aware of his space. With your ogling, you were able to watch the shifting of his back muscles. How much weight could he press, you wondered? Probably three or four times your own. You shivered in delight.

Throughout the next hour, your attention wandered back to the roses and you would stroke the soft petals or bring it to your nose to inhale the sweet scent. In your romanticizing and goo-goo eyeing, it must have slipped your mind that you were allergic to them. It wasn't until you registered the unnatural wateriness of your eyes and uncomfortable itch in your throat that you realized something was off.

You rummaged through your purse, intent on finding Benadryl or something you kept on hand for seasonal allergies. Alas, you found nothing but an old receipt from the grocery store and takeout menu for the newest Thai restaurant that opened up across from your apartment. Shit.

"Hey Lois, do you have any—achoo! Any Bendryl?"

Lois sent you an apologetic glance. "I don't but there might be some in the break room?"

You took her advice and went searching through the medicine cabinets in there and found the pink carton. "Yes!" you opened it up and gaped. Some jackass had used it all and put the empty box back.

You considered going on your break early to pick some up but decided against it, seeing as you lost a bet to Jimmy who, in turn, wanted you to pay for his lunch. Screw Jimmy and his unhealthy obsession with Taco Bell.

You ambled back to your desk to find that Clark was back from his impromptu meeting. You dabbed at your eyes with a crumpled tissue, hoping he wouldn't see how miserable you were feeling. It would only make you feel worse having him know that the flowers he gave you triggered your allergies.

You discreetly sniffled into your elbow but weren't so fortunate in remaining unknown because Clark looked up, once again, from his work, a look of concern creasing his forehead. "You alright?"

"Mhm," you avoided catching his eyes, knowing he would be able to see the tears at your waterline. And if he did, you would just tell him that you saw a sad animal video.

To your relief, he didn't say anything, instead opting to study you as if you were a puzzle he was curious in putting together. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat.

Then, "She's allergic to your flowers."

You shot a glare at Lois who still had her back turned to you both, editing the words on her screen. How was she able to intrude on a personal conversation while putting together a story? It baffled you.

Clark's gaze volleyed between your face and the flowers next to your hand. "I can put it away if that would help." He reached out to take them but you stopped him with your hand on his. He pulled back immediately, as if burned.

You shook your head, sneezing again into your sleeve. Man, this was depressing. But you liked—wanted—the roses. "No, no. I'm fine. My immune system is just being a baby."

He watched you pityingly. "Can I at least get you something to help? Tea or medicine? Anything?"

A big hug from you...or maybe a kiss? you thought, but said, instead, "I'm fine, really. But thank you." You said the last part quickly, not wanting to seem ungrateful. Again.

Clark looked uneasy for the next few minutes before he shot out of his chair, causing you to jump. He staggered out of his area, which surprised you because he was usually more coordinated, and excused himself to the bathroom. You blinked and went back to work, wiping your eyes and nose periodically.

When he came back, a few minutes later, he was carrying a plastic bag. He took out the content and you couldn't believe your eyes.

"Don't tell me you just bought me medicine..."

He shrugged indifferently, as if he hadn't gone out of his way to go to the nearest drugstore, which was a couple of blocks away, only to buy you Benadryl. Some deep, untouched corner of your heart wrenched at his thought and consideration.

"I'm the idiot who brought you flowers, not knowing it would make you sick." He explained, handing you a pill.

You frowned softly. Of course. You should have realized. Apparently, when you had liked someone as much as you liked Clark, all rational thoughts went out the window. Any decent person would do what he did. Right?

You took the pill with a large swallow of water from a cup Clark provided. "It'll take some time to kick in," you clarified as he watched you intently.

He only nodded. "I—" he shook his head.

"You want to apologize for nearly killing me?" you took a gander at teasingly.

Clark's eyes pulled wide, his cheeks flaming a bright red. "No! Never! If I had known you were—"

"Clark," you laughed softly, "I'm only pulling your leg."

A whoosh of air fell from his lips. "You shouldn't do that. I'm already beating myself up enough as it is."

"Why?"

A pregnant pause and then, "Because I-I like you."

Every thought fled from your mind. Of all the things you thought he would say, that wasn't one. Maybe, 'I don't like any of my friends being sick' or 'Perry would hate having to get someone to replace you'. And yet he just admitted that he liked you. "Like a friend?" you inquired softly, everyone else in the room disappearing. Now, it was only you and Clark, the only two people in the Daily Planet, in Metropolis, in the world.

He smiled, that dimple pulling at the corner of his mouth. "More than a friend."

You thought you would have panicked at this point. Locked yourself in the copy room for a good few hours to nitpick at this conversation. Instead, you felt light. Happy.

"I like you too. More than a friend." You found yourself saying back, returning his grin.

Who knew how much time passed as you watched each other? It wasn't until someone prodded your shoulder and Jimmy's voice said, "Time for lunch. On you."

You rolled your eyes, picked up your purse and logged out of your computer. Clark held out a hand and you took it, feeling a sense of completion as your fingers intertwined. Lois and Jimmy looked anything but surprised.

And, as all four of you walked out of the building, Jimmy declared, in that self-important tone of his, "I told you Clark had the biggest, fattest crush on you."

author's note: that was just a little drabble and i didn't know how to close it so...ta-da! anywayyyy, i want to write some more for Clark so be on the lookout for those ☺