bbarnesbck

[bbarnesbck]

݁˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚ dozy's stack of books • main account - @feelingdozy

she/her | reblogs and recs ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈‧༉‧₊˚.

> prompt event / marvel masterlist <

݁˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚ fic rec list:

Marvel:

❀ bucky Barnes ~ fan art ~ pics/gifs

fluff • hurt/comfort • smut

❀ Bob Reynolds ~ fan art ~ pics/gifs

fluff • angst • smut

❀ Joaquin Torres

fluff • angst • smut

Miscellaneous:

❀ Bob floyd

fluff • angst • smut

❀ Rhett abott

[bbarnesbck]

Hii!! I love ur writing so much!! I was wondering if you could write a hurt/comfort smut with bob floyd with a insecure reader? No problem if you can’t!!

POV (Bob Floyd x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: When a stressful week sends you into a spiral, you’re overwhelmed by everything you see in the mirror. When you finally break down while trying to get dressed, Bob is there. He sees the fear and frustration, and loves you through all of it. WORD COUNT: 3k WARNINGS: Angst that includes disordered eating, mentions of recovery of an eating disorder, insecurity. Established relationship. Smut. Praise/Body worship. Oral F! Receiving. Bobs Glasses 👀 Bob is a green flag <3 NOTES:  I took my own experience and put it in. I offer my love and solidarity to anyone going through an ED or in active recovery. (Active recovery is kicking my ass right now) MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3

It’d been a rough week. Work had Y/n feeling new levels of stress. And nutritionally, it was horrible- she had been on the go all week, meaning she could only eat what was available at work or what was quick to whip up at home. She spent the week essentially eating pastries and microwave mac n cheese. To some people, this didn’t seem remotely close to hellish, but by the end of the week, she was bloated and exhausted. Her skin was breaking out. Her jeans didn’t fit quite right. And she felt… like a failure. 

Her boyfriend Bob knew of her struggles. The eating struggles that caused her to go into therapy. He watched her go from the lowest lows to her current semi-recovered state. At least now she wasn’t having a panic attack every time she tried to eat something more than a sandwich. 

He never saw a difference physically. Of course, there was weight involved, but she didn’t look any different to him. Maybe he was just ignorant, but he only saw his girl. His girl, who worked so hard and was so kind to everybody… except sometimes herself. He saw the woman he wanted to grow old with. The woman he wanted to have his last name at some point. But she didn’t understand this. 

She often stood in front of the mirror, frustrated as she got ready. And Bob would just gently calm her down, insisting on how gorgeous she was.

This week, it wouldn’t be that easy. 

The whole day, Y/n was anxious. On her planner was a dinner scheduled with Bob, Phoenix, and Rooster. And this made her not want to eat. Which then made her want to eat the whole pantry. Which then made her not want to eat again. It was a relentless cycle. 

At work, she fidgeted at her desk, trying not to go crazy as they brought in pastries into the office. They had already brought in some the days prior, and when she looked up the nutrition info after eating almost purely scones throughout the week, she nearly passed out. 

DING. A text from Bob. She looked down at her phone, grateful for the distraction.

Bob: Do you want me to dress up tonight? Unsure of the dress code.

She smiled a little at how thoughtful he was. He wasn’t the type of guy to just show up to an event in basketball shorts- unless it called for it. She looked up the restaurant quickly on her laptop before replying.

Y: Yeah, dress up. Nothing crazy though. Wear the blue polo or the button-up. Should be nice enough.

Bob: Alrighty <3 I’ll swing by at 5.

She smiled a little, but her heart fell to her stomach as she realized she’d have to put herself together. It wasn’t a night where she could lounge in Bob’s oversized shirt and boxers (per her therapist's suggestion). She had to fully realize what she looked like.

4:45 came around, and Y/n had practically her whole closet on the bedroom floor. Her chest tightened as she looked at herself in the mirror. Everything about her just seemed… worse today. She tried to remind herself that it was her brain. That she didn’t really know what her body looked like at all. But it was difficult to do while also trying on clothes. She was forced to try and reason what looked good and bad. And everything looked the latter on her. 

It felt like everything fit wrong today. Either too tight or too loose. Combinations weren’t working like they used to. Every dress had a reason to be thrown in the ever-growing pile on the floor. Every nice top and skirt fit her proportions awkwardly. Sweat glistened on her forehead from the chaos of trying on so many things so fast.

She stood in her underwear and just let out a frustrated yell. She ran her hands down her face as tears brinked her eyes-

“Honey? You alright?” Bob called out from the living room. Shit. He must’ve used his key. 

Her head whipped over to the time- he was fifteen minutes early. She ran to the bedroom door and shut it. 

“I’m fine! I’m just- I’m just not ready!” She called out, but her voice wavered. Squeezing her eyes shut, she stayed by the door, holding onto the door handle. It started to wiggle in her grasp as Bob tried to open the door on the other side.

“Y/n, you’re scaring me a little. Everything all good?” He asked muffled.

“I’m fine.” She said again, but her wavering voice gave her away. “I’m just naked.”

His little chuckle could be heard through the door. “It isn’t anything I haven’t already seen.” There was silence between them, and she stood holding the door handle. “Do you need help choosing a dress? I can help.” 

God. Why’d he have to be so sweet? He was impossible not to let in. She slowly opened the door and looked up at him with quivering lips. Standing there in his blue polo and slacks was her loving and worried boyfriend. He looked at her face through his glasses, not even caring that she was in nothing but her underwear. 

“I just wanna help.” He offered softly.

She opened the door a little more, and he gently hugged her. She took the opportunity to bury her face in his chest. Tears started to fall down, wetting his shirt slightly. 

“Whoa whoa whoa-” His hand came around to hold the back of her head. “Sweetheart, what’s going on?”

She let out her cries as she hiccupped into his chest. “This week sucked. I was so bad. I did too much. And- and I didn’t realize how dense scones were and now- now I look like this.” 

He gently shushed her and scratched her scalp. He was familiar with these kinds of moments. Being with her for so long meant that he had dealt with this before. 

“You weren’t bad.” He reminded softly, “Remember, no good or bad foods. Just energy.” He knew the coping skills that her therapist had been teaching her. Watching her get better meant that he had learned what helped and what didn’t.

She shook her head a little stubbornly. “I don’t look good in anything.” She hiccuped.

“Now I know that’s not true,” Bob said softly into her hair. He kissed her forehead. “Let’s sit down, baby, okay?” 

He led her to the bed and sat her down. Her teary eyes looked up at him, and he moved some strands of hair out of her face. Cupping her face, his thumbs swiped her cheeks, clearing away the fallen tears.

“Do you wanna get in some pajamas?” He offered

“I gotta get changed anyway.” She said, defeated.

“We’ve still got a while till dinner… How about we get you in some pajamas and we relax in bed? We can take a nap. Or watch some TV.” He suggested.

She wiped her eyes, unsure. “I just- I feel like I worked so hard, then I just destroyed my progress.”

He shook his head, gently moving her so they laid back against the pillows and headboard now. “It’s the opposite. You’re working hard right now and getting better.” He reassured. “What will it take to get you to understand that you’re the most beautiful girl in the world to me?” 

She looked up at him, sniffling. She shrugged, unsure. 

He kissed her forehead. “How about this?” He asked. 

She laid confused until he propped himself up on his elbow and leaned down to kiss her apple cheeks. “Or this?” 

A small smile appeared on her face. He continued to kiss her nose. “Or this.” He kissed her lips, and she tried to kiss back, but he quickly pulled away, making her giggle. “How about that? Will that work?” 

She was in a fit of giggles as he kissed down her jawline, then down her neck. Now her breathing was getting a little heavier. She looked down to see him kissing her cleavage, and his dazed cobalt blue eyes gazing up at her. He came back up.

“Is it okay if I show you?” He leaned down to put his forehead to hers

“Show me what?”

“How gorgeous you are?”

Her breath hitched. She brought her hand to his cheek. She nodded eagerly, and Bob took that as permission to kiss her. It was firm but gentle as his lips pressed against hers, and she smiled a little at how he was minty fresh. He pulled away and looked into her eyes.

“You are everything.” He whispered, “I can’t get enough of you.”

He gently started leaving sloppy kisses down her jawline. Staying for just a moment to suck on a spot beneath her ear. She gasped, and he chuckled, the vibrations sending through her skin. 

“I love this spot on your neck. So sensitive.” He murmured before moving down.

Slowly but surely, he made his way down to her chest. She was already a whiny mess. 

“Patience, baby. I’m taking my time. I wanna appreciate every inch of you.” He reassured as he reached her cleavage again. Moving his hands, he cupped her breasts in her bra, and he let out a low groan. “I think of you in your bra all the time,” He admitted.

“Really?” She asked 

He nodded. “Far too much. Distracting me in the air.” 

“Can’t have that. Maybe I should stop wearing them.” She teased a little more confident now.

He let out a groan, and he kissed the inside of her right breast. On a mission, he reached up and unclipped her bra in the front, freeing her breasts. “You want me to think of you like this instead?” He asked before kissing her nipple. His other hand came up and rubbed his thumb over the other.

A yelp escaped her. He sighed at the sound and came off of her to go to the other side. 

“Bobby-” She whined.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” He rasped out, looking up at her, making sure she was okay.

“Just s-sensitive.” She breathed

He smirked a little. “Oh, honey, if you can’t handle me at your tits, I don’t know if you can handle the rest.” 

She smiled and leaned her head back, and he returned his mouth to the peak of her breast. He sucked and bit it softly, making her giggle. 

After a few moments, he moved down from her breast and kissed her diaphragm. Getting lower, her breathing got heavier… More hesitative. She suddenly grabbed his face and looked down at him, flushed and panicked.

He looked up at her through his glasses. “What’s wrong, baby? Want me to stop?”

She didn’t know how to answer. “I-I’m just so bloated-” 

He reached over and held her hand. He squeezed her palm. “You’re beautiful no matter what. Now, if you want, I can avoid there, or if you want me to stop, we can.” He said gently, his other hand tracing her thigh. 

How did she get so lucky? She looked down at him and saw the loving gaze in his eyes. She trusted him. She trusted him more than anybody in the world. 

“You can keep going.” She whispered out, almost in disbelief, she was saying it.

Oh, the grin on this man's face. He immediately moved from her diaphragm down to her stomach. Kissing all over it. Fast and obsessed, Bob surprised her. And honestly, it made her laugh.

“Bobby! What are you doing?” She asked, giggling.

“Oh, baby, I’m so glad you let me do this. I love your body.” He practically whined. He dug his fingers into her waist. “So pretty.”

Her eyes widened, and she let just the feeling of him take over her. Lower and lower he went. Down to her belly button. He ran his hands all up and down her torso. 

Then he ventured lower, right above the line of her underwear. Now, she couldn’t help the little whines and moans coming out of her. She was desperate. And he was moving too slowly and teasing now. 

Instead of moving to where she needed him, he moved down and started kissing her inner thighs. She gasped. They both knew she was always incredibly sensitive there. And when he moved over to the other side, he sucked so hard on her inner thigh, she was bound to have a dark hickey. Her legs tried to close, but his wide palm spread the leg he wasn’t on. 

“Shhh shhh-” He groaned into her thigh. “Lemme mark you up, baby. No one’s gonna see it but me.”

She smiled and let out a relieved sigh as she let him continue. Then he finally FINALLY moved over to her middle. He swiped his thumb over her underwear and felt how absolutely soaked she was. He closed his eyes and let out a satisfied groan. 

His fingers hooked under the bands of her underwear and pulled them down. She whined as the cool air hit her, but it was almost immediately solved as Bob kissed the top of her mound. His breath was a whisper over where she actually needed him.

“Lower- please-” She begged.

He chuckled. This man knew what he was doing. He knew he was driving her crazy. “Yeah? Like-” He kissed lower down to her clit and ran his tongue over it.

The moan she let out was music to his ears. Loud and surprised. Raw. 

“There? Right there?” He asked teasingly, his cheek pressing against her thigh.

“Mmmhm!” She nodded. 

Normally, he’d be cheeky and make her speak words, but today, he decided to let her have a break. He dove back in and flicked his tongue up and down her button. He suddenly moved down and licked all the way up her slit before landing on and sucking on her clit again. 

Oh dear god, she was in heaven. Her eyes shut tight, and if Bob wasn’t prying her legs open, she’d be clamping her legs around his head. He continued to suck on her, using his fingers to spread the slick and drool that was collecting. 

Two of his thick and calloused fingers started to prod her entrance. So his head came up to kiss her thigh; he didn’t want to miss this. He entered the two fingers and watched her jaw drop. Her open eyes stared into his as she moaned. They slipped inside so easily.

“I love seeing your pretty face. And hearing the noises I can get from you.” He gently moved his fingers, watching her face contort. He kissed her thigh in support. “That’s my girl. Doing so good.”

She felt like she was melting into the bed. The stretch was warm, and it got easier as he kept whispering praises and kissing closer and closer a pathway back to her clit. His fingers moved faster. The wet sounds that came from between her legs made her chest heave. 

She looked down at him, wanting to at least show how appreciative she was. That’s when she noticed his glasses fogging up against her. An idea sprang to life. She slowly reached down and took his glasses off his face. He paused, a little confused and concerned that she didn’t want him to see her.

“Baby, don’t do that. I wanna see my girl clearly-”

“You’re near-sighted, right?” 

He nodded, and she put the glasses on. Now she looked down at him with wild, messy hair, kiss swollen lips, and his wire frames. Bob’s face turned red, and he immediately started to continue with fervor, not taking his eyes off her. 

She moaned loudly and couldn’t help but grind her hips up. One of his strong forearms came over her stomach and held her in place, and that made her clench around his fingers. He chuckled into her, and she could feel the vibrations spread. He came up just slightly for air to murmur, “Love it when she clenches me like that.” Did he just call it a-? But before she could question it, he was already back to eating her like she was his last meal. 

He hit his fingers in just the right spot, and her back arched. The glasses sat crooked on her face. Bob had never seen a more beautiful sight in his life. She was fulfilling a fantasy he didn’t even know he had. 

He kept going. Sucking on the same spot. Hitting the same spot within. And every time they hit at the same time, she was propelled closer and closer. The band in her stomach was building to snap.

“Oh god- oh my god- I’m-” She whined.

He hummed against her happily, and that’s what did it. Looking right in his eyes, her jaw dropped in a silent scream. Then, as the first wave hit, her head fell back and she let out a series of whimpers as Bob continued to help her ride through it. He eagerly lapped at everything she had to give. His fingers continued their in and out motion.

Slowing down, she grabbed his hair and pulled him off of her, a little overstimulated. He wiped his mouth and went up to kiss her. She sighed, relaxed. 

“Jesus Christ, I’m gonna be thinking about you in my glasses forever.” He whined against her lips. And when he pulled away, he put his forehead to hers. “You feeling better, honey?”

She nodded and gave a small, “Yeah.”

“I’m glad…” He said softly, “Now, sweetheart, we might need to get ready a little earlier because I think you might’ve… stained my shirt.”

She looked down at his shirt and gasped, covering her mouth. He was certainly stained with her. Her cheeks flushed a bright pink, but he immediately started kissing her cheeks. “Don’t worry about it. I love it.” He reassured her with a chuckle, and luckily, that made her feel like she could laugh, too.

“I’ll get ready.” She said, kissing him, his glasses fogging up on her face. And for a moment, she felt like how Bob saw her. The most beautiful girl in the world. She still had a lot of progress to make, but she knew she’d be okay with Bob supporting her. 

[bbarnesbck]

Debacles & Debriefings

content warnings: suggestive themes; soft domestic moments; making out in public; establish relationship

The morning after a mission never felt quite as rough when Joaquin brought her coffee.

“One oat milk, one no-bullshit espresso shot, just the way you like it,” he said, nudging the mug into her hand while his lips brushed her temple. He smelled like clean soap and jet fuel—somehow always a little airborne, even when he was grounded.

She murmured a sleepy thanks, flopping into the folding chair next to their shared desk in the temporary ops base they were using out in Georgia. The mission last night had been a mess—hydra remnant base, heat sensors, a brief moment where she thought Joaquin was about to get shot out of the sky—but it ended with a win.

And later, back at the motel? Another win. A much sweatier one.

She was halfway through sipping her coffee when Sam strolled by and gave her a sideways smirk.

“Y’all sleep okay?” Sam asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

Her spine went rigid and she sputtered out “fine” in a suspicious tone.

“Yeah?” Sam drawled, arms crossed as he leaned back against the table across from them. He was clearly enjoying himself. “Joaquin sounded like he was working overtime.”

Joaquin, suddenly very interested in his tablet, muttered, “Just doing my part, sir.”

She narrowed her eyes on both of them. “What are you—”

“Next time?” Sam started and leaned in conspiratorially, grinning. “Maybe close the window. Or at least try to keep the decibels down.”

Her mouth dropped open. Her motel room window—the one facing the parking lot, right near Sam’s—had been open? Sam stepped away, cackling like a bat out of hell at her expression. Joaquin glanced up at her, eyes wide with mock innocence, then leaned in just close enough so that only she could hear him.

“Do you realize how loud you were moaning my name last night?” Joaquin murmured.

Her cheeks flared hot, fingers tightening around the coffee mug like it might save her from spontaneous combustion. 

“You were louder,” she grumbled, her ears flaming red.

“I really don’t think I was,” he said cheerfully, smirking now. “But I’ll take the compliment.”

She hissed his name in warning and kicked his shin lightly under the desk. He bit back a grin, rubbing the spot with exaggerated drama.

Across the room, Sam let out a low whistle.

“New rule,” he called, “No fraternizing in motels with paper-thin walls.”

“I thought that was already the rule,” she muttered, burying her face in her hands. Joaquin chuckled softly while rubbing her back sympathetically.

Sam shrugged. “Yeah, but y’all weren’t even trying to be subtle. You were out here performing like it was Broadway.”

“I do have stage presence,” Joaquin chuckled.

“You’re lucky I love you,” she hissed, glaring at him while still managing to blush furiously.

“I really am,” he murmured, expression softening. “And hey—you started it.”

She gave him a look that promised both retribution and reward. Probably in that order.

After a tense but successful briefing, she caught Joaquin alone in the hangar, tinkering with his drone. She crossed her arms and leaned against the frame of the open bay doors, watching him work in the golden hour light.

“Any more plans to destroy my reputation today?” she asked, teasingly.

“I’m innocent, babe,” Joaquin laughed. He looked up, smirking. “You’re the one who kept screaming my name like I was pulling you out of a burning building.”

“You're Falcon, not a firefighter, Quino…”

Joaquin stood, wiping grease off his hands, then stepped into her space with a grin that was equal parts cocky and affectionate.

“Still saved you, didn’t I?”

She raised a brow. “From what?”

He brushed his thumb along her jaw and whispered, “From going another night without being reminded how in love I am with you.”

Her breath caught a little—just for a second—then she looped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

“I do love your obnoxious ass,” she murmured against his lips.

“And you love yelling my name.”

“Shut up, Quino!”

He grinned into the kiss. “That’s what I thought.”

She looped her arms tighter around his neck, walking him backward a few steps until his back hit the cool metal of the hangar wall. The kiss deepened quickly—months of working side-by-side, barely-contained attraction, and a relationship built on a year of loyalty, chemistry, and soft morning glances igniting all at once.

Joaquin let out a low hum as her fingers slid into his hair. His hands gripped her waist, then curved lower, pressing her against him. They didn’t get moments like this often. Quiet, private—well, semi-private—and entirely theirs.

“You know,” he murmured between kisses, “we could just—lock the hangar door for, like … ten minutes.”

She laughed softly against his lips. “You want to get court-martialed for making out next to your jetpack?”

“I mean, it wouldn’t be the worst reason to go down in SHIELD history…”

He leaned in again, lips capturing hers with more insistence this time. Their bodies molded together with a tension they usually reserved for the battlefield. He groaned when her nails scraped lightly at the back of his neck. His hips pressed forward, involuntarily. She moaned wantonly and bit his lip. 

And that’s when the door creaked open behind them. They froze like two teenagers caught under the bleachers. 

“I swear to God, if I walk in on you two dry-humping next to my jet, I'm installing cameras.”

Sam’s voice echoed across the space, casual and too damn knowing. They sprang apart.

“Nothing happened!” she yelped, wiping her lips with the sleeve of her jacket.

Joaquin coughed, trying to look like he hadn't just been halfway to second base with his partner in a government hangar. 

“Totally professional, Cap,” he replied. “Just, uh … checking the wall insulation.”

“Yeah, well check it less passionately next time,” Sam teased, clearly amused as he strolled past without looking.

The second he disappeared into the control booth, she turned and shoved Joaquin in the chest. 

“I hate you,” she teased. “This is your fault!”

“You don’t hate me, mi amor,” he grinned, holding his hands up in surrender. “But if we’re being real, you did start it this time.”

“Me?!” she hissed. “You kissed me!”

“I kissed you after you looked at me like that.”

“I always look at you like that!”

“Exactly!”

They both started laughing—quiet, breathless, stupid laughter as the tension melted into something warmer and familiar. She stepped back into his space again, this time resting her forehead against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, chin settling on top of her head like they’d done this a hundred times before. Because they had.

“You know what’s wild?” Joaquin asked softly after a minute.

“What?”

“I used to think all I wanted was the wings and the mission, but turns out…” He kissed the top of her head. “All I really want is this—you … us.”

Her heart squeezed. She tilted her head up and cupped his cheek. 

“You already have me, Quino,” she murmured. “All of me, forever…”

He smiled. “Then I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

She leaned in and kissed him again—slower this time, gentler. The kind of kiss that said we’re safe, we’re steady, we’re real. And maybe it didn’t erase the day’s chaos, or Sam’s teasing, or the awkwardly-timed hangar interruption—but it did make her feel grounded. Like no matter how loud things got outside, this thing between them was solid.

They lingered there a moment longer, wrapped in a hush; neither of them felt like breaking, until Joaquin finally let out a quiet sigh and said, “C’mon. Let’s go before Sam finds a reason to make us wash the jet.”

She huffs a laugh and grabs his hand, twining their fingers together as they walk toward the exit.

The motel room is dim and quiet, lit only by the flicker of a streetlamp slipping through the curtains. This time, the window’s definitely shut—and locked—and double-checked. They’re tangled together beneath the covers, limbs overlapping like they’d always belonged that way. No urgency. No rush. Just that soft, steady rhythm that only comes from trust built over time.

Joaquin runs his thumb across the back of her hand where it rests on his chest. His heartbeat is steady under her palm, anchoring her there.

“Today was ... a lot,” she murmurs, her voice muffled slightly against his skin.

“Yeah,” he says, “but it wasn’t bad—not with you.”

She shifts to look at him, her brow softening. “Even with the window incident? And Sam’s ongoing trauma?”

“Especially because of that,” he snorts. “I can handle teasing like that tenfold as long as I’ve got you … besides, it gives us a good story to tell when we’re old.”

Her smile turns wistful. “You think we’ll make it that far?”

Joaquin doesn’t hesitate to say: “Yeah. I do.”

The answer sits between them like something sacred, earnest, and undeniable. And maybe it’s not the kind of romantic declaration that movies are made of—but it’s theirs. Quiet. Constant. Real.

He brushes a kiss to her temple, tucks her closer, and murmurs, “Sleep, cariño. I’ll keep watch.”

“You always do,” she hums, already half gone. And as the night settles around them, warm and still and wrapped in the sound of breathing and peace, Joaquin realizes something: for all the jetpacks and combat training and chaos of this life—they’d built something even more powerful than all of it. Home. Right here, in this borrowed bed, in her arms, in the quiet between battles. And nothing—teasing teammates, open windows, or mission stress—was ever going to shake that.

[bbarnesbck]

From New York To D.C.

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x Thunderbolts!Reader

Summary:

“Joaquin Torres,” he says smoothly, offering a handshake. His voice is warm, confident, and you can't lie, it makes you feel a little tingly. The Falcon. You weren’t living under a rock; you knew exactly who he was. You’d seen him on TV, soaring through the sky beside Captain America, pulling off impossible saves like it was just another Tuesday. What you weren’t expecting was to see him up close. And of course, he was even hotter in person. And now you were supposed to keep your cool? Life’s unfair.  You hesitate only a moment before taking his hand. “I know,” you say, your voice a touch too honest. That earns you a small laugh, which you mentally pat yourself on the back for.  “Fan?” he asks, eyebrow lifting in amusement. You try to play it cool, despite the fact that your brain is short-circuiting. “Something like that.” Or You're both on different Avengers teams, but when you hit it off at a gala, you start sneaking around.

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, making out, implied smut but no smut, late night phone calls, teasing, mutual pining, sneaking around, getting together, love confessions, getting caught, rooftop date, texts from the new avengers group chat, reader breaking and entering for Joaquin...twice

WC: 6.7k

A/N: Might be obsessed with Joaquin Torres right now. The crush I have on Danny Ramirez is actually driving me to madness. Enjoy the product of said madness.

***

Galas were the worst. Stiff suits, fake smiles, and enough small talk to make your brain melt. But the whole team had to show up to these things. Public events, fundraisers, whatever would help. The New Avengers’ reputation was still… rocky, and good PR was something your squad desperately needed.

You’re at a charity gala in D.C., standing near the hors d'oeuvres table, staring down a plate of shrimp like they’ve personally betrayed you. Everyone had disappeared off somewhere, so you were left on your own with nothing but time.

You’re so lost in your own misery that you don’t even notice someone reaching past you to grab one. Your eyes follow the hand up the arm, to the shoulder, and finally to a face. A very handsome face. He doesn’t look at you at first, too focused on choosing between the shrimp and some kind of crostini. 

But then his gaze flicks to you, and stays. You’re so happy it does, even if you’re halfway to melting by the time he’s opening his mouth.  

“Joaquin Torres,” he says smoothly, offering a handshake. His voice is warm, confident, and you can't lie, it makes you feel a little tingly.

The Falcon. You weren’t living under a rock; you knew exactly who he was. You’d seen him on TV, soaring through the sky beside Captain America, pulling off impossible saves like it was just another Tuesday.

What you weren’t expecting was to see him up close. And of course, he was even hotter in person. And now you were supposed to keep your cool? Life’s unfair. 

You hesitate only a moment before taking his hand.

“I know,” you say, your voice a touch too honest. That earns you a small laugh, which you mentally pat yourself on the back for. 

“Fan?” he asks, eyebrow lifting in amusement.

You try to play it cool, despite the fact that your brain is short-circuiting. “Something like that.”

You collect yourself, ready to give an introduction.  “I’m—”

“I know who you are too,” he interrupts, a glint of something teasing in his eyes.

You smirk. “Keeping tabs on the competition?”

“Competition? Not quite.”

“Oh really?” You step in just a little closer, just enough to make it obvious. Your eyes meet his, and there’s a flicker of tension. But you invite it, a little tension never hurt anyone.

He grins, cocky and unbothered. “Yeah… because we’re the actual Avengers.”

You roll your eyes, scoffing playfully. “I don’t know about that, Torres.”

He laughs, and you feel it in your chest, a warm ripple that makes this whole awful gala suddenly seem a lot more tolerable.

“I know we’re on opposite sides of this lawsuit,” he says, a playful lilt in his voice, “but… do you want to dance?”

He nods toward the dance floor, offering you his hand. You know you probably shouldn’t take it; there are rules, professional boundaries, and logic, but there’s no saying no to those pretty brown eyes of his.

“Just don’t drop me on my ass,” you mutter, slipping your hand into his.

His hand is bigger than yours, warm and steady. It makes you feel… safe. Which is ridiculous and borderline embarrassing considering you’ve known him for all of five seconds. But that’s just the Joaquin Torres effect.

As the music wraps around you and your bodies move together, close enough to blur lines, you tilt your head up and smile. “You’re not a bad dancer.”

He chuckles, effortlessly keeping in rhythm. “I’ve got some moves.”

You raise a brow. “Just on the dance floor?”

He looks at you like he already knows you’re trouble, and before long, the smirk he tried to hold back finally wins.

“In some other places too.”

He spins you with ease, pulling you back into him in one smooth, practised motion. He was too good. 

“You might’ve just made my night, Torres.”

He glances at you, arching a brow. “Is that right?”

You lean in, voice soft against his ear, “Between the mindless small talk and repetitive conversations, it’s nice to talk to someone that actually interests me.”

His breath catches, heart hammering, but he doesn’t back away. A burst of confidence then makes you guide his hand lower, to the small of your back, and feel his fingers press in a little more firmly, holding you there.

“You interest me too,” he says, casually.

You have no idea if you’re doing a good job of being super hot and super mysterious or if you’re playing right into his hands but either way you interest him. 

That’s a good thing, right?

When the song ends, the room's energy shifts, but neither of you moves right away. Joaquin's thinking, you don't know what about, but you swear in that moment you’d never wanted to know anything so bad. 

“Want to go to the balcony?” he asks.

You blink, surprised but smiling. “What?”

“What do you mean what?” he teases, tugging you gently toward the nearest door. You walk with him, weaving through the crowd, but your gaze stays locked on his. He moves smoothly, like he knows just where to step. Meanwhile, you’re trying your best not to trip over your feet; you feel completely lost in him. 

Is this what love at first sight is? Turning into a mindless idiot?

You get out to the balcony being able to see all the night lights flickering in the distance, the stars out in full force tonight.

Letting out a sigh of contentment, you notice Joaquin staring at you and only you, the view from the balcony couldn’t concern him less. You were the main attraction. 

“You’re looking at me a certain type of way…,” you murmur.

“Can you blame me?” he says softly, opening the door and guiding you outside, into the night.

He leans casually against the railing, eyes still locked on you like he couldn’t dream of looking anywhere else.

“I was just thinking,” Joaquin says, voice low and sincere, “I’ve seen some pretty incredible views flying over the Grand Canyon, New York at sunset…”

You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “And?”

He tilts his head, grin softening into something more earnest. “None of them made my heart race the way you do.”

You should’ve known something like that was coming. But still you bite your lip, fighting the smile tugging at your cheeks. “God, you’re smooth.”

“Only when I mean it, and I mean every word.”

“You’re going to make me do something I regret,” you admit. 

It wasn’t a lie. If he kept looking at you with those pretty eyes and talking to you with that voice of his, you’d pounce on him right here, right now. Important senators, dignitaries and politicians be damned. 

“If you keep looking at me like that, I might too,” Joaquin says. You swear he can read your mind, or maybe you were drooling right in front of him and just didn’t realise.

“So, you wanna go somewhere more private?” he suggests, and you’re a little surprised he beat you to it. 

Somehow, those words are enough to make something inside you give way. A dam breaking. A match struck.

As soon as he said that, you briskly made your way to the nearest empty hallway and started trying to devour each other. 

You press him back against the wall, the distant hum of gala music barely registering anymore. His breath catches, hands hovering at your waist like he’s not sure if this is real, or if he should hold back.

“You wanna— are we doing this?” he asks, still not quite believing that he’s gotten himself into this situation. 

“Yeah, we’re doing this.”

You loosen his tie a little, not even trying to tease him and pull him for a sloppy kiss.  You needed him now, fuck being mysterious. You find yourself smiling against his lips when you feel him grip the fabric of your clothes to press your body against his. The kiss grows messier, hotter, as if the two of you are trying to make up for every second you spent not trying to eat each other's faces. 

Your breath is shaky when you finally look up at him, his eyes are blown wide, hair messier, lips parted so beautifully. He might just be the death of you. You might just drop dead right now, in the middle of this gala, and your biggest regret would be that you never got to have sex with him. 

“You…,” he breathes out, forehead pressed to yours. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

What did he think he did to you?

You tilt your head slightly, smirking. This was doing wonders for your ego. All this from him, and after one dance, was insane, but the chemistry was undeniable.

“I could say the same about you,” you murmur, your fingers brushing along his jaw. “One dance and you’ve got me sneaking around like a teenager.”

You slip your hands beneath the hem of his shirt, palms against warm skin. “I want you to show me just how much you want me.”

Joaquin crashes his lips back onto yours, determined to make sure you never forget how good he could make you feel. 

You pull back to breathe again, now wishing you didn’t have to put space between you. Oxygen was secondary; Joaquin was the only thing you needed right now.

“Fuck,” you whisper, eyes raking over him, “you’re perfect.”

Your fingers trace along his jawline, and before you know it, you’re both pressed close, the hallway closing in around you, knowing full well anyone could walk by at any second.

You nearly lose your balance when he starts kissing your neck. It’s feather-soft, barely there but devastating all the same, making you feel like you’re floating. The heat of his lips on your skin, his cologne, warm and comforting, drifting in and making you weak. 

“Damn,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and rough.

You feel a buzz against your thigh and pull back confused. 

“You’re uh… vibrating.”

“Oh, it’s my phone,” Joaquin says, now a little sheepish as if he wasn’t just turning your brain to soup. He sighs and fishes it out of his pocket, his eyes widening when he sees who’s calling, “It’s Sam, I kinda disappeared on him, I should…”

“Oh yeah, of course,” you reply, still slightly out of breath. Before you completely detangle from each other. As you walk away, you can’t find it in yourself to stop smiling, heart still racing from the encounter. You wish you’d gotten his number, but you had your ways. You weren’t exactly the giving-up type.

“See you soon, Falcon,” you mutter to yourself as you watch him stumble out of the hallway, trying to fix his hair and tie. And you’re totally not looking at his butt… it’s a cute butt, though.

***

Morning hit Joaquin like a ton of bricks. He’s normally on his best behaviour, but the unexpected happened. So maybe you actually hit him with a ton of bricks.  There was something about you he couldn’t shake, and it wasn’t just the way you pushed him up against a wall and kissed him like your life depended on it.

There’s a distinct, irritating buzzing coming from his nightstand. It was too early to be receiving calls in his world.

He groans, slapping at the desk trying to pick it up when his phone vibrates again.

“Hello,” he grunts as he finally answers, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, still sprawled out on his stomach.

“Torres?” The voice on the other end is familiar to him, but he can’t quite place it. Whoever it is, it made his heart skip a beat, that’s for sure. It was sweet and gentle, with a hint of something hopeful that caught him off guard.

He sits up, now a tiny bit more awake, “Who is this?”

“The girl you were dancing with last night…the one you made out with,” you tease.

He chuckles, amused even though he sounds half-asleep. “Ah, the fake Avenger.”

“Ha ha, very funny.”

“How did you get my number?” he asks, a note of curiosity slipping in. He’s 99% sure he didn’t give you his number, only because he was kicking himself on the way home for not doing so.

There’s a brief pause, then a soft shuffling sound, “Hello?”

“Yeah, I’m still here…” you say, voice a little shaky.

On the other side of the line, you’re hesitating, knowing you might’ve crossed a line. Maybe even been a little sneaky and broken a few laws. But when a guy like him sweeps you off your feet, you do what you have to do. “I have my ways.”

He laughs again, warm and genuine, and you can’t help but feel relieved. At least you’re not officially a stalker in his eyes.

“So, to what do I owe the honour?" he asks, voice still thick with sleep but curious.

“I’m in D.C. for another day and a bit, so… I was wondering if you could show me around the city.”

“You want me to take you out?” Joaquin asks, a playful glint in his eyes. A date? With you? He’s definitely completely awake now.

“If you want to continue what happened last night, before we were so rudely interrupted… maybe have a coffee or two, eat a whole bakery.”

He chuckles, and you swear you’ve never heard anything so sweet. Turns out the Joaquin Torres effect works over the phone too. 

“We’ll have to be careful, with the press and all that.”

“I’m pretty good at disguises…” 

Joaquin grins, probably a little too wide, but he can’t help it. There’s just something about you. 

***

You’re waiting in the park, hat pulled low over your eyes, trying to look casual despite the nerves buzzing in your stomach. Considering you’d tried to climb him literally just last night, you thought you’d be a little less jittery by now. Still…

There’s the sound of footsteps behind you, then a hand suddenly lands on your shoulder. Before you can even think, you spin around and, without warning, flip whoever it is onto the ground.

Groans escape the guy beneath you, and your heart skips a beat when you hear a familiar voice.

“Torres?” you ask, eyes wide as you stare down at the very cute superhero sprawled on the grass.

He laughs weakly, rubbing his back. “Is this how you say hello? Judo moves?”

You cover your mouth in shock. Talk about making a bad impression. He stands up, dusting himself off casually. 

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt out, still frozen in your position.

“It’s alright, I can take a hit, or well, a flip.”

He chuckles, smiling at you, and you feel yourself relax. You look him over, he’s also dressed down, trying to look as inconspicuous as you are. But there’s no disguising that handsome face of his. If you weren’t careful with these kinds of thoughts, you’d be climbing him again in no time.

“You miss me? Just kidding, I know you missed me.”

“You wish,” you bite back, as if you weren’t the one that invited him here.

“You’re right, I do wish you missed me. It’s not every day that I meet someone like you.”

You roll your eyes, but he’s charming. You’ll give him that.

“So, where to first?”

Joaquin grins, “Anywhere you want, but after I can take you on a fly around the city if you want to.”

“Is that your secret weapon, Falcon? I bet that has all the girls swooning.”

“You have no idea,” he jokes, flashing that easy smile.

The date that wasn’t officially a date went surprisingly well. You both tried not to draw attention as he bought you gelato, then spent a solid hour trying (and mostly failing) to beat the top score on the DDR machine, the two of you laughing breathlessly as Joaquin missed another arrow and nearly tripped. Then came the dramatic groans and determined squints as Joaquin tried to win you a toy from the claw machine, insisting, “One more try. I’ve got the angle this time.” 

Sitting on the roof of his apartment building afterwards, you lean against each other as you hold onto the duck plushie he eventually won you. You’re close, and it feels comfortable, like you’ve known him much longer than just an evening and a day. 

“Will I see you again?” you ask softly. You hope you don’t sound desperate, but you can’t remember the last time it felt so easy to be with someone like this.

“If you want to.”

He looks at you, a small smile tugging at his lips, but says nothing.

“Plus, you have my number,” you remind him with a teasing grin, “You know, the one you hacked to get because you like me so much—”

You cut him off with a playful nudge, “You’re so annoying.”

***

It’s been over a month, and things have been going well between the two of you. Video calls were all that kept you going, sharing movies, teasing each other when one started to nod off on screen. You weren’t expecting to fall for him like this, but here you were, completely hooked.

You call him late at night, after a long day filled with missions, training sessions and meetings. All you need is your daily dose of Joaquin Torres.

The call rings through, and when he finally answers on video, you quickly adjust your hair and straighten your shirt, making sure you look okay before he comes into view. His hair’s a tousled mess of curls, eyes a little tired from working too hard, but still, he smiles at you like you’re giving him energy. 

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite Avenger,” he grins. “Is that Quino?” he asks, nodding toward the duck plushie you’re clutching under your arm.

“Yeah, he misses you almost as much as I do,” you say, waving it at him with a smile, making him chuckle.

All you wish is that he were right there beside you, so you could curl up on his chest and just breathe him in.

“I saw you on TV…” he says, and you’re a little surprised. 

“You did?” You perk up, eyes brightening.

He nods, voice sincere. “You looked really heroic…”

“You really mean that?” you ask, your voice suddenly smaller, softer. The praise meant a lot to you, knowing that what you were doing was actually worthwhile, that you were making a difference and that he noticed that. 

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you grin, tucking your chin into your pillow. “You have the biggest heart. Brave, superhero, and boy—” You pause, catching yourself before you expose yourself. He wasn’t your boyfriend, was he? “...um claw machine extraordinaire.”

“Is that so?” he laughs. Looks like you got away with it. 

“Who else would suffer through that experimental synth-folk concert I dragged you to?”

“It was… experimental and definitely... an experience.”

“Still trying to save my feelings.”

You laugh, warmth blooming in your chest as he mirrors your smile.

“What are we watching tonight?” he asks, adjusting his camera and settling back against his headboard.

You both scroll through options and finally settle on a movie. As the movie plays, you listen to his running commentary, the comfort of his voice softening the distance between you. Even through a screen, it feels like he’s right by you.

At the halfway point, you feel your eyes starting to get heavy. “You falling asleep on me?” Joaquin asks, his voice soft and teasing. This happens more often than you’d like to admit. Something about Joaquin made it impossible for you to have a sleepless night. 

“No…,” you say, but you’re obviously nodding off.

“You sure about that?” he chuckles, watching you blink slowly like each one takes an incredible amount of effort. “Because you just answered with your eyes closed.”

“I’m… just resting them,” you mumble, voice slurring slightly as your head lolls to the side.

Joaquin smiles, soft and fond. “Uh huh. Just resting them. Should I keep talking so you can pretend you’re still awake?”

You don’t answer. Or maybe you do, but it’s a sleepy murmur he can’t quite catch. He watches as you fully drift off, your breathing evening out, face relaxed in the glow of the screen.

“Goodnight,” he whispers. 

And even though you can’t hear him, you smile in your sleep anyway.

***

You can't eat, you can't sleep, what else could it be?

You’re in love.

Which is why you’re currently half-delirious, jet-lagged, and sneaking into his apartment like some lovesick burglar. You tiptoe through the place, heart pounding with excitement and nerves, when you see him. He’s standing in the kitchen, shirt slightly wrinkled, hips moving to whatever beat is pumping through his headphones. He hums along, completely lost in it as he washes the dishes. 

You smile, watching him for a second too long before deciding to sneak up behind him.

Just as you're about to tap his shoulder—

In one swift, fluid motion, he grabs your wrist and flips you over his shoulder. You land on the floor with a thud, him pinning you down before you can even blink.

So this is how he felt that day.

“Joaquin, it’s me!” you gasp, wide-eyed.

“Oh shit,” he mutters, instantly pulling back when he sees your face. He rips his headphones off as muffled music spills into the room.

“Surprise?” you groan, winded but trying to smile. 

“Why on earth did you break into my apartment?” he says, half-scolding, half-amused. He helps you to a sitting position, and you groan again, rubbing your back soothingly. 

“I wanted to surprise you.”

He shakes his head, that crooked grin tugging at his lips. “You’re insane.”

“And yet, here I am.”

He helps you up, laughing under his breath. “You could’ve just knocked.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

You hold your arms up, and he doesn’t miss a beat, hosting you into his arms and taking you to his bedroom. 

He places you on the bed, and you snuggle against the sheets, surrounded by Joaquin's scent, something you has been missing a little too much.

"Straight to bed? How did you know I didn't want to go to the living room, hm?" You say as you take off your jacket.

Joaquin's about to give you a snarky answer when he sees it.

The shirt you had on was unmistakable, bright red with a stylised graphic of his wings spread, and “Team Falcon” printed boldly across the chest.

"Are you serious?"

He can't contain the smile that works its way into his face.

“I wanted to show my support,” you say innocently, flopping back on the bed with a grin. “How do I look?”

He stares at you, trying not to smile too widely, eyes dragging over the sight of you.

“Very sexy.”

He’s leaning down, about to kiss the ever-living hell out of you, when you suddenly spot in the corner of the room a small corkboard filled with photos, and one catches your eye. You walk over, squinting a little. “Is that you in high school?”

Joaquin looks up from where he is. “Oh no,” he groans, “I forgot those were still up.”

You practically teleport over there and look at his pictures with glee.

“Your hair was so long,” you say, smiling as you take in the photo of a much younger, slightly awkward but still undeniably cute version of him. “I love it!”

He groans louder, burying his face in his hands. “Please don’t say that.”

You move on to another photo, one of him in the Air Force, his smile wide beneath a pair of aviators, arm slung around a fellow pilot, wind whipping through his hair.

“Oh…” you breathe, fingers pausing on the screen. “Now this is a whole different kind of adorable.”

Joaquin leans over to look, a bit embarrassed. “That was before I knew what I was getting into. I thought flying meant clear skies and cool jackets.”

You glance at him, grinning. “And now look at you, still flying, just more likely to encounter an alien or Hulk or something.”

You study the picture for a second longer, then softly say, “You look proud. Like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”

He quiets, voice softer now. “That day was… big for me. First solo flight. My abuela cried when I sent her the photo.”

You turn to him, warmth blooming in your chest. “She should be proud. I know I am.”

He blinks at you, a little stunned, he wasn’t expecting to get like this with you so soon. “You’re gonna make me emotional over an old picture.”

“Just trying to balance out all the teasing,” you wink. “Can’t have you thinking I’m only here to have sex with you.”

“You’re here to have sex with me?” he says, his voice dipping when his arms wrap around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. He had you, and you didn’t mind one bit.

“Of course, that’s all you heard,” you mutter, putting the picture down as he grins smugly against your neck.

“You said it,” he murmurs, voice low, smug. “Not my fault, I have a gift for selective hearing.”

You huff out a laugh, twisting in his arms to face him. “You are impossible.”

“Oh?” he arches a brow, clearly enjoying the challenge. “You wanna say that again?”

Without warning, you shove him back toward the bed. He stumbles with a surprised laugh and lets himself fall dramatically onto the mattress. “Attacking me now?”

“I prefer the term ‘light sparring,’” you say, crawling onto the bed after him. “What? Afraid to lose, Falcon?”

He tries to roll away, but you straddle his waist before he can escape. “Okay, wow, this took a turn,” he grins, hands hovering in mock surrender.

You lean down, playful but close enough to feel his breath. “Looks like I win.”

"Just wait until I start playing dirty."

He starts tickling you which sends you into a laughing fit, nearly falling onto him. He uses the moment to flip you over, pinning you to the bed with a triumphant grin. “Don’t start a fight you can’t win.”

You pant, giggling, squirming under him. “Not fair. You used the element of surprise.”

“Also known as tactics.” He dips down to kiss you, it’s soft and warm. The kind of kiss you wanna get every day. When he pulls back, his voice is soft. “You’re not just here to sleep with me, huh?”

You look up at him, brushing a thumb across his cheek with a hand you pull free. “No, Joaquin. I’m here because I like you. A lot.”

“Good. Because I like you too. A lot.”

You’re not sure if either of you had admitted it before, but it felt too good to ignore. 

You tug him down beside you, both of you still catching your breath, tangled up on the bed. The teasing fades into quiet comfort, laughter still lingering in the air.

Brushing your stray eyelash off your cheek, he pauses, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only person in the world. Then he kisses you, it’s deep and slow yet intense. His hands cup your face like you’re something important, something precious, and his mouth moves over yours like he’s trying to devour you, trying to pull you into him until you can’t think of being anywhere else. 

When he finally pulls back for air, his gaze drops to the Falcon shirt you’re wearing. He smirks, voice low and teasing. “As much as I love the merch…”

He trails off, fingers ghosting over the hem, and you get the hint. You raise your arms, heart pounding, letting him take it off.

One after another, articles of clothing form a pile on the floor until you’re both naked, your bodies moulding together perfectly against one another. And you must admit you’ve been dreaming about this moment since the first time you kissed. The curve of his shoulders, the tension in his strong biceps as he held himself over you, he was perfection, sculpted even.

His warm lips make their way down your body, slow and deliberate, like he’s savouring every inch of you. Each kiss sends a shiver through you. You’re not sure how you’re going to survive the night. 

“What are you gonna do with me, Joaquin?” you whisper, breath hitching.

He looks up at you, a smile on his lips, eyes dark with emotion. “Whatever you want me to.”

***

“Something’s going on,” Alexei says, “She’s been flying around like a butterfly, no?”

For the past few weeks, you were practically floating around the tower with a grin that wouldn’t quit and a twinkle in your eye. Baking cookies at odd hours, humming to yourself, and sighing contentedly at your phone every time you get a text from someone. Like nothing could get you down, and it’s been weird. 

“We should leave her to it,” Bob says with a smirk, clearly enjoying the cookies a little too much.

You're all busy prepping for a mission. Maps open, gear scattered, energy high, when Yelena approaches with a question, brows knit in mild frustration.

“Don’t worry, I got the schematics on my phone,” you say, handing it to her without looking up.

“It timed out,” she mutters, before turning it back on. But both Yelena and Ava suddenly go quiet.

You’re barely paying attention to the murmurs around the room, eyes fixed on your laptop, until you hear something that makes you want to retreat into yourself like a turtle into its shell.

“Why is Falcon your lockscreen?” Ava teases, and you stop typing instantly. Your head turns, a nervous smile plastered on your face. 

“I—”

You glance around the room. Everyone is looking at you now.

You just had to have him as your lockscreen. 

“I admire his heroics. Is that a crime?” you say, trying to keep your tone light.

“So much so that he’s your lockscreen?” Yelena adds, “This picture isn’t even of him in his suit, he's holding a puppy...”

John looks at the picture and nods in agreement, "Yeah, this seems way more intimate."

You can feel the questions rising in the air, and you’re sure you don’t have a good answer to any of them. 

“I’m a fan, okay? But, I don’t have to explain myself to any of you.”

They exchange knowing looks but drop it, more amused than judgmental. You stare down at your laptop, pretending to be focused again, but your heart’s still racing.

***

You’re waiting on top of Avengers Tower, the wind tugging at your clothes as you hug your arms around yourself. The city glitters below, but your eyes are fixed on the sky. After being teased relentlessly by practically the whole team interchangeably for the past few days, you needed your Joaquin time.

Then you hear it, the familiar sound of metal wings slicing through the air, followed by the soft thud of boots hitting the rooftop. You turn just in time to see him land, wings retracting, that helmet still on and that perfect smile already tugging at his lips.

Without thinking, you rush forward and jump into his arms, laughing as he swings you around. 

“How was the flight?” you ask, breathless, as he laughs and pulls off his helmet.

“Not too bad,” he grins, setting it aside. 

“I love this,” Joaquin says, looking over the modest feast you’ve put together with a genuine smile.

Setting up the movie, you both settle in, cuddling up next to each other. Already feeling more connected than when you’re forced to video call, this was different. Nothing could compare to feeling the warmth of his body vibrating against your side when he talks and laughs.

The movie hits a lull in the action, and you both fall into a comfortable silence.

“Do you think we’ll ever be able to go public?” you ask softly, the city’s quiet hum blending with the flickering screen.

“Absolutely. This is only temporary,” Joaquin replies, cupping your face gently, his thumb brushing your cheek like a promise.

You smile, leaning into his touch. “So in other words, you wanna show me off?”

He grins, eyes sparkling. “You bet. Can’t wait for everyone to know you’re mine and I’m yours.”

Your heart skips a beat, as it often does when you’re with him. “We’ve been handling the distance well so far…”

“Yeah,” he nods, eyes locked on yours. “But I’m ready for the part where I don’t have to secretly fly across states just to kiss you goodnight.”

A slow smile spreads across your face, and you reach for his hand, squeezing it gently.

“Me too, Joaquin. Me too.”

***

The day was like most others, busy, a blur of tasks and distractions, but you froze when you saw it. On your phone, a breaking news report flashed: Joaquin, hurtling toward the ground, one wing damaged and useless. The sickening thud as he hit the earth echoed in your mind like a nightmare you couldn’t wake from.

At that moment, the world stopped spinning. Time slowed to a crawl.

There was no hesitation. You were up, grabbing your things, and moments later, you were on a Quinjet bound for D.C. You knew he was being treated at the Avengers Compound, but you didn’t care; if it meant breaking in, you would.

Fear clutched at your chest, terror gnawing at your bones. The thought that your life could never be the same without him was unbearable. No more late-night calls, no more spontaneous flights through the sky, no more drifting off to sleep to the sound of his voice. It would all be over.

And you weren’t ready to let that happen.

***

The fall was brutal, but it could have been far worse. He had experienced worse, but right now, he was still in a world of pain. The only thing he could think of as he was falling was all the regrets, all the things he’d left undone, left unsaid.

He never got to tell you he…

His eyes flutter open when he hears the unmistakable sound of someone breaking in through the window.

There’s a clumsy rustle as the intruder fumbles with the curtains.

“Fucking… stupid curtains…”

Another muffled thud echoes in the quiet room as the figure trips.

He knew that voice anywhere. He whispers your name, and you look up from the floor. You look like you’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar. But instead of fear, your expression melts into a complex mix of emotions. You’re happy to see him alive, terrified, and overwhelmed all at once.

You rush to his side, barely able to hold yourself together, 

He whispers your name again, soft and hoarse, and somehow it eases a fraction of the pain twisting inside you. But he’s still injured, bandaged, bruised, fragile in ways you’ve never seen.

“Joaquin…” you breathe, voice cracking as you lean in and hug him gently, careful not to press on any wounds.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he needs you to survive. Like you’re the anchor that brought him back.

“You scared the crap out of me,” you whisper against his skin, your voice trembling.

His arms wrap around you weakly, but surely. “I’m here,” he murmurs, like a promise he plans to keep. “Not dead.”

Suddenly, the chaos of your joint situation comes to mind…

“The media, our teams—” he begins, voice strained.

“None of that matters!” you shout, the words ripping from your throat. “Not when you’re hurt.”

Your eyes rake over his injured form, bandages stark against his skin, a gash on his side still seeping faintly beneath the gauze.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he offers, trying to sound reassuring.

You step closer, giving him a sharp, disbelieving look. “Are you kidding me?”

He gives a small, sheepish laugh, but it quickly turns into a wince as the movement pulls at his side. “I mean it. I’ve literally shot out of the sky before. This is nothing, I’m actually kind of an expert now.”

You know he’s joking around for your benefit, but you still can’t help but worry. “Don’t downplay it. You almost died.”

His grip tightens slightly around yours. “Yeah, but I didn’t. And you’re here.”

The exhaustion was obvious; he needed you here more than he knew how to express but struggled to find the words.

“Were you stealthy getting in here?” he asks, half amused, half amazed, unable to figure out how you managed it. You had come through the window decked out in tactical gear, which was mildly concerning, so he bets it’s an interesting story.

“Well?” he teases.

You bite your lip, looking just a little guilty. “I scaled the building, and at least ten people saw me come in here. I knocked out a few security guards, and the Quinjet may or may not be parked like... right outside the front door?”

Your list of crimes and bold moves was impressive, and Joaquin couldn’t be more proud. The fact that you did all that for him was overwhelming.

“You didn’t.”

You shrug. “I don’t care. Nothing was going to keep me from you. I…”

“I love you,” Joaquin says, taking the words right out of your mouth. It’s raw and comes straight from the heart. He thinks he’s known this for a while, but never said it aloud.

“I love you too,” you reply, it leaves your lips so easily you wonder why it took you so long to say it. 

For a moment, the chaos of the world fades. It’s just the two of you, in the hush of a hospital room, holding on like it's all that matters. Then you notice your phone flash, you’d put it on silent to do your little sneaky break-in, and you’ve never been more glad you did. 

You glance at the screen to see a flurry of missed calls and texts from the Avengers group chat.

Bucky: Hey. 12:01 PM Bucky: Did you steal the Quinjet? 12:01 PM Bucky: Come back right now, and we might not kill you. 12:03 PM Yelena: You flew to D.C.?!?! 12:07 PM

You scroll down a little further, not liking the nervous feeling that's bubbling in your stomach.

Bucky: HEY.  12:20 PM Bucky: TEXT BACK. 12:20 PM Bucky: ANSWER YOUR PHONE. 12:27 PM

Well, something judging by the texts you can tell there's been an escalation of sorts. The word, 'HEY,' has never been so intimidating and you've now discovered that you don't like it when Bucky types in capital letters.

Ava: 🙃 12:45 PM John: 🙃 12:50 PM

You have no idea what this means.

Bucky: ON OUR WAY. 1:00 PM

You're fucked.

You rest your head on his chest, letting out a long, frustrated groan.

“What’s wrong?” Joaquin asks, voice low and laced with concern.

“There’s a tracker on the jet I stole, and they're coming here,” you mumble into the sheets, muffled by the fabric and your own regret. You sigh, rolling onto your back with a dramatic flop. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Too focused on me?” Joaquin chuckles, warm and amused, and runs his fingers gently through your hair. The gesture is soothing, comforting in a way that only he can manage.

“Always.” You look up at him, with a little pout, “They’re gonna kill me.”

“Nah,” he smirks, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “They’ll just make you do recon missions in Siberia for a month.”

You groan again, burying your face in his side.

“You’re worth it, though,” you mumble, voice soft but certain. “I’d steal ten more Quinjets, if it meant I could be with you.”

Of course, you would. 

Then he smiles, that warm, crooked grin you’ve come to crave, and he leans in to kiss you.

It’s slow, reverent, like all of your kisses. When you never know when you’re going to see one another, it makes it all the more important to cherish each one. You can feel his heartbeat under your palm, his hand slipping into your hair as your lips move together. It’s everything, relief, longing, love. 

You’re careful not to press on his side, mindful of the bandages, but even that doesn’t stop your body from curling instinctively closer. You’re so absorbed in each other that you almost don’t hear the very distinct sound of someone clearing their throat.

You break apart and turn around slowly, only to find Sam standing in the doorway. Getting caught making out with Falcon by Captain America just secured a place on your top ten most embarrassing moments ever, just behind running into a stop sign in front of your whole school. 

Sam doesn’t look mad, but he does look monumentally confused. He’d just walked past the Quinjet parked out front, noticed guards slumped over unconscious, and now finds you two tangled up inside.

He raises an eyebrow, arms crossed. “Is someone going to explain this to me?”

“...Meet my girlfriend?” Joaquin squeaks.

Masterlist || Marvel Masterlist

[bbarnesbck]

happy birthday ; joaquín torres

fandom: marvel

pairing: joaquín x reader

summary: joaquín forgets your birthday while he's away on a mission, so he flies home to beg for your forgiveness (friends to lovers)

notes: i'm not going to say this sucks (even though i don't love it) because it is a miracle it's even written! i've struggled so much these past two weeks, after the events of everything, and i'm so, so happy to be able to post again (even if i'm kind of nervous about it)! also i'm sorry if the smut gets a bit repetitive... i really struggled with it, and i ran out of creative ways to describe sex... but anyway! as always, please let me know what you think!

warnings: swearing, some angst, spiralling thoughts (?), italics, a lot of crying, potentially incorrect time zone math (?), begging, (spanish) pet names, SMUT (making out, dirty talk, fingering, shower sex (ish), f oral receiving, unprotected p in v) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 12295

You don’t wake up to your alarm—you wake up before it. The sun is barely creeping over the horizon, but your body is too wired to fall back asleep. So you throw the covers off and pull on your gym gear, hoping to burn off some of the restless energy.

You spend an hour at the gym with your phone propped in front of you—resting in the treadmill’s cup holder while you run, balanced on your thigh during leg presses, leaning against a medicine ball while you stretch. Messages trickle in throughout your workout. Not hundreds, but enough to make you smile. Family, friends, a couple of people from work.

Happy Birthday!

Hope you get spoilt rotten today!

Best wishes!

You’re not the type to go around announcing your birthday all month, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like a little attention on the day. It makes you feel loved. Reminds you that people still care—still think about you. And it gives you a reason to talk to family and friends, to feel just a little bit special.

It’s always nice to feel important—especially to those who mean the most to you.

On your way out of the gym, you swipe your access key at the gates and head for the exit.

“Happy birthday!” the woman behind the front desk calls out.

You almost do a double take, pausing mid-step toward the doors.

She laughs softly. “It pops up on our computer when you swipe your access key.”

“Oh,” you say, laughing too. “That makes sense. Thanks.”

She smiles. “Have a lovely day.”

You nod, flashing her an appreciative smile before slipping out the doors.

Even a simple interaction with a woman you’re pretty sure you’ve never spoken to before leaves you feeling warm. Some years, your birthday just feels good—and this year is one of those.

You head home, shower, and change into something soft and comfortable. You don’t always take your birthday off work, but this year you did. You’ve got big plans for rotting on the couch, baking yourself a cake, and eventually facetiming Joaquín—the only person you’re really waiting to hear from today.

You moved to D.C. with him not long after Sam officially made Joaquín the Falcon—not into the same apartment, but close. He helped you land a decent-paying job in a lower-level government office and, over time, started looping you in on all things Captain America.

You’ve been best friends since freshman year of high school... and in love with him since junior year—when the hormones kicked in and you started wishing your vibrator was him instead.

The years between high school and moving to D.C. sucked whenever he was deployed—but the second he came home, everything felt right again. You tried dating, tried moving on—but nothing ever really worked out, and eventually, you accepted your fate. You made peace with the fact that you were doomed to live out your days as a semi-tragic spinster hopelessly in love with her best friend.

It’s honestly not as depressing as it sounds, because having Joaquín in your life, in any capacity, has always been enough. You love him regardless. He doesn’t need to know just how much—only that you’re always here for him.

And the rhythm you’ve found together is perfect. There’s no point risking it just because he happens to be the single most beautiful man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

You’re perfectly content with fantasising about him in the dark, missing him when he’s off on missions, and enjoying your perfectly platonic Friday night 'date nights' whenever he’s got time between Falcon duties.

You’re happy. Truly.

Perfectly satisfied with the life you’re living—if you ignore the way your chest aches whenever you think about it a little too hard.

By one p.m., your cake is in the oven, the sun is bathing your studio apartment in warm golden hues, and you’re curled up on the couch watching one of your favourite 90s romcoms. It might seem a little sad to someone on the outside, but honestly, you couldn’t be happier.

Moving to D.C. meant leaving most of your family and friends behind, but being near Joaquín has meant you’ve never really been lonely—unless he’s off on missions, of course. And even then, he texts you, calls you, checks in—even if he’s halfway across the world in a completely different time zone.

This time, he’s in Hawaii. You’re not exactly sure where, but you know he’s about six hours behind. Which means…

You grab your phone off the couch beside you and check your notifications. There are a couple more messages from extended family, a few happy birthday promotional emails, and a single response from a friend you replied to earlier.

Huh. Weird.

It’d be at least seven a.m. for him by now—he should definitely be awake.

Maybe he’s just got stuff to deal with. Maybe he’s getting himself sorted for the day before he calls or messages. You can understand that—sometimes you just need a shower or a coffee before facing the world.

You drop your phone back on the couch, face down, and try to will your pulse to settle.

It’s fine. There’s no need to be dramatic.

It’s Joaquín.

You’ll hear from him soon.

Once the movie finishes, you start another—one you often watch when you need a little comfort. You keep yourself busy by decorating your cake, planning what you’ll order for dinner, and doing a little online shopping you’ve decided you’re absolutely entitled to today.

By the time that movie ends, you let yourself check your phone again. And—

Nothing.

Okay. Very weird.

It’s at least nine a.m. in Hawaii. He usually messages you by now.

You scroll back and reread the first message from yesterday.

12:02PM: Good morning, cariño! How did you sleep? I miss your face and I miss my bed. I’m convinced this motel bed is filled with nails.

That would have been six a.m. for him. A little early—but not unusual for him to text at that time. Still, it doesn’t mean he’s forgotten. He’s probably just busy. Maybe he slept in and had to rush around this morning. You wouldn’t put it past him.

For him, the day is still young. And he’s on a mission.

There’s no need to cry. Pull it together.

You blink quickly, swallow the lump in your throat, and toss your phone aside again.

For the next couple of hours, you do everything you can not to think about Joaquín. You do a face mask, a hair mask, take an extra-long shower, spend way too long moisturising every inch of your body, and then sit down to paint your nails. You smudge them several times and start over with a new colour—twice—before giving up entirely.

Then you decide to make yourself some tea, cut a piece of cake, and settle on the couch for yet another movie.

You check your phone a couple of times, unable to stop yourself now, and your stomach sinks lower with every disappointing flash of your lock screen.

Now you’re starting to panic.

Is he hurt? Missing? Bleeding out in some alley while you’re sitting here waiting for a text?

Could he have been kidnapped? Detained somewhere? Or worse—

No. You can’t think like that. This is Joaquín you’re talking about. He’s the Falcon. Ex-military. Strong. Capable. And this mission isn’t even dangerous—just recon and a little training for some of Sam’s new field operatives.

Joaquín is fine. He’s just busy.

Maybe he’s out in the field today and doesn’t have reception.

There are a million possible explanations for his lack of communication—and none of them include him being dead.

But still, you feel sick. It’s past six p.m. now, which means just after noon for him. It’s unusual not to hear from him by now, but maybe he’s just waiting until he can call you.

Yeah. That’s probably it.

He’s going to call later, and he wants to save everything he has to say for then.

You take a deep breath and try to focus on ordering dinner. You pick your favourite restaurant, order more food than you usually would, and hit submit.

Then you turn your attention back to the TV and pick a movie with an actor in it that kind of reminds you of Joaquín—a small slice of comfort that makes you feel just a little less alone. On the one day you were sure you wouldn’t feel as lonely as you have all week while he’s been away... somehow, you feel worse than ever.

After dinner, a couple of phone calls from family, and a glass of wine, the tears come.

You try to hold them back, but it’s no use.

You’re halfway through what feels like your twentieth movie of the day when you suddenly break. One minute you’re fine—numb, maybe—and the next, you’re sobbing. Full-body, can’t-catch-your-breath crying. Your chest is tight. Your head aches. Your breathing turns shallow and quick until your toes go numb, but none of it matters.

Because right now? You’re absolutely wrecked.

You don’t know whether to be angry or worried. You haven’t heard from Sam either—not that you expected to—but his silence only makes the panic worse. Joaquín could be hurt. He could be caught up in something. But deep down, one explanation cuts sharper than all the rest.

He just forgot.

You know it happens. You know he’s a superhero with bigger things to worry about than your goddamn birthday, but still—it hurts.

Because you would never forget his. Not even if you were on the other side of the planet. Not even if you were in another time zone, or fighting for your life. You would still find the time to send a text. Just something simple.

‘Happy birthday! Sorry I’m super busy today, but I’ll call you later. Love you!’

How hard is that? Just a quick message. Twenty seconds. One tap.

It’s not hard at all—and that’s what guts you the most.

Because if he really cared—if he cared about you the way you care about him—he would have done something by now. Anything. And maybe you’re being dramatic. Maybe you’re blowing it out of proportion, making the situation worse than it really is. But maybe you’re not.

Because this isn’t just silence. It’s a reminder. A reminder that you love him more. That you care more. That you’ve always been the one waiting, hoping, holding out for something he was never going to give.

You’ve always known you love him differently—in a way he doesn’t reciprocate—but you’ve always believed that you mattered to him. That he still loved you in his own way. That you were still important.

But apparently not.

Apparently, you don’t even make the list today—of all days.

And that’s why you’re sobbing into your couch cushion—shoulders shaking, face hot, heart splintering under the weight of it all—feeling like you should just pack up your whole apartment and move back home. Back to the people who at least care enough to send a goddamn birthday text.

It takes almost an hour for you to calm down enough to breathe properly—long, full breaths that actually get oxygen into your bloodstream. When you can finally feel your limbs again, you start to move. You turn off the TV, pack away the leftovers, and make your way to the bathroom.

You brush your teeth, wash your face, stare at your puffy, swollen eyes in the mirror, then head into your room and collapse into bed. You curl up beneath the covers and check your phone one last time.

And your heart nearly stops when you see his name on the screen.

You blink hard and rub your eyes to clear your vision, then tap on the message.

Hi, mi amor. Sorry I’ve been MIA today, I was training some of the new recruits for Sam and had to focus. I’m exhausted now. Want to call tomorrow night? I still miss your face.

You choke on your breath, your pulse thundering in your ears as the truth pulls at you like undertow, dragging you under before you can catch your breath.

Yeah. He forgot.

Tears rise again, quick and hot, spilling sideways onto your pillow as you stare at the message and wonder if you should even reply. You could send him a thumbs-up, or a simple k—but you’re not even sure he deserves that.

Then your phone buzzes with another message—this time from Sam.

Happy Birthday! Sorry I couldn’t message you earlier. I was stuck in meetings all day. I hope you had a great day, and I’m sorry for stealing your best friend, but I’m sure he’ll make it up to you when we get back. Only three more days. I promise not to extend it this time! xx – S

Normally, you’d laugh at the fact that Sam signs off all his texts, even though you have his number saved in your contacts—but not today. Today, it’s not funny.

With tear-blurred vision, you type out three red heart emojis and hit send—the only thing you can think of to reply with. Then you put your phone on Do Not Disturb, drop it face down on the bedside table, and cry yourself to sleep.

-

Your alarm wakes you up, and you turn it off without even glancing at the notifications on your screen. Every part of you wants to stay in bed, to disappear into the blankets and pretend the day doesn’t exist—but you force yourself upright and start moving through the motions of getting ready for work.

You still feel heavy—sad and a little hollow—but you know yourself well enough to understand that going into the office is better than wallowing in self-pity all day.

By nine a.m., you’re seated at your desk beneath the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, trying not to think about anything at all. Your email inbox isn’t too bad, which is a small mercy—because you truly don’t have it in you to do much today. In fact, you’re already planning to leave early, feigning a doctor’s appointment so you can crawl back into bed and pretend the world outside doesn’t exist.

That’s the plan for the entire weekend, too. Even once Joaquín gets back. Even when he inevitably tries to see you—after you’ve ignored every call and text for the next few days. Whether he shows up at your apartment or, worse, your office, it doesn’t matter. You won’t be talking to him.

Still, a small and anxious part of you wonders if he’ll even try.

What if he doesn’t? What if your silence is all he needs to walk away? Maybe this is easier for him. Maybe he’s relieved. Maybe this was the plan all along—to forget your birthday, to push you away, to finally cut the tie without having to say the words.

What if he asked Sam to schedule the mission on purpose? What if it was deliberate, calculated, something he’s been building toward for months—just waiting for a clean excuse to let you go?

The thoughts hit you hard and fast, spiralling tight in your chest until it feels like you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but sit there beneath the buzz of the lights, nausea churning in your empty stomach as you try to hold yourself together.

“Hey.”

Your manager’s voice startles you, and your eyes snap up to where she’s standing beside your desk.

“You alright, hon? You look ill.”

She’s always been kind—warm in her own way, if a little distant—and you’ve never minded that management style. You like being trusted to work independently.

You clear your throat. “Yeah—um—well, actually, not really. I’m feeling a bit nauseous.”

Her brows pinch together, and she leans in slightly. “Go home if you need to.”

You take a deep breath and offer her a watery smile, blinking back the sting of fresh tears. “I might just clear some emails and head home in a couple of hours. Is that alright?”

She nods. “Of course. Just let me know when you’re heading out.”

“I will. Thank you.”

She gives you a small, thoughtful smile, her dark eyes lingering for a moment—quietly curious—but she doesn’t press.

Once she walks away, you turn back to your screen and try to focus. You manage to lose yourself in the rhythm of work, the comfort of something familiar. One hour turns into two, then three, and before you know it, four hours have passed. You’re numb now—too empty to feel anything—but your empty inbox quickly invites back the swirling thoughts from before, and your eyes stray toward your untouched phone. The little device you’ve been ignoring since last night. Still on Do Not Disturb. Still sitting lifeless on your desk, exactly where you put it when you arrived this morning.

You take a deep breath and reach for it, feeling how unusually cool it is beneath your fingertips. Your heart pounds in your throat as you tap the screen and watch it light up. You flick off Do Not Disturb and slowly start scrolling through the notifications.

There are seven missed calls from Joaquín—some rapid-fire earlier this morning, the rest spaced further apart, and the last one only two minutes ago. Then there are his texts, too many to count, stacking one after another as you open the thread and begin to scroll.

Shit. I messed up. I’m so sorry. Please pick up, or call me back. I’m so sorry, cariño.

I’m an idiot. I didn’t mean to forget. I don’t have an excuse, but I need to talk to you. Please.

I don’t blame you for being angry, but I need you to answer me, cariño.

Please answer. Just let me know you’re okay.

I need to know you’re okay. Just one reply, please.

I can fix this, okay? I can make it up to you. I promise.

I need you to say something. I’m going insane over here.

I don’t blame you if you hate me, but I swear I’m going to spend the rest of my life making it up to you.

Baby. Please.

You read until your vision is too blurred by tears to make out the words. Then your phone starts buzzing in your hand, and you flinch. Sam’s name flashes on the screen—but you know it’s Joaquín.

You quickly decline the call, wipe the tears off your cheeks, and begin packing up your desk. Thankfully, the office isn’t too busy today, and no one seems to notice your breakdown—or if they do, they don’t seem to care.

By the time you’re ready to leave, your manager is still in a meeting, so you send her a quick text to let her know you’re heading home. Then you all but fall into the elevator and sob into your hands, trying to pull yourself together before you reach the ground floor.

You walk across the lobby with your head down, doing everything you can to avoid drawing attention.

Once outside, you hail a cab—desperate to get home as fast as possible—and cry quietly in the backseat while the driver glances curiously at you in the rearview mirror.

When you finally stumble into your apartment, there are two more missed calls and three new texts—one of them from Sam, asking if you’re okay. You don’t know if it’s really him or if Joaquín is using his phone still. Either way, you don’t care. You’re not replying.

Still crying, still gasping for a proper breath, you strip out of your work clothes, wash the makeup off your face, and collapse into bed. Then you cry harder. You sob. You spend the next hour—maybe more—howling into your pillow like a newly widowed wife.

You feel ridiculous, of course, but you can’t help it. Your heart hurts. Everything hurts. He seems sorry—he seems genuinely distressed—but you still can’t shake that awful weight from yesterday. The realisation that the person you love most in the world doesn’t love you back. Not the way you love him.

Maybe that’s why it hurts so much. Because deep down, you were still holding out hope—despite all the times you told yourself you’d made peace with it. Despite swearing up and down that you were happy just being his friend.

Maybe the truth is… you’re not.

You’re not happy. Or satisfied. Or content at all.

You’re lonely and aching and hopelessly in love with a man who has everything he needs without you. And that’s what guts you most. Because you know—deep in your chest, in the hollowed-out place where his absence lives—that Joaquín is okay without you.

But you without him? You’re unravelling. You’re not okay. You’re falling apart at the seams and he doesn’t even know it. You haven’t even truly lost him—not yet—but you feel like you have. And maybe you will. Because you don’t know if you can keep being his friend, not after this. Not now that you’ve seen the truth so clearly.

That you’ll never mean as much to him as he means to you.

Eventually, you fall asleep.

And you don’t wake up until midnight, when the world outside is dark and quiet and your body aches from the way you’ve been lying for hours—tangled in blankets, face swollen, head pounding from crying and dehydration. You feel dull all over. Empty. Like your emotions are swinging on a pendulum that just won’t stop—pulling you from the depths of heartbreak to a hollow, numb nothingness that makes your skin itch and your chest feel too tight.

You hate this. You hate how small you feel, and the fact that you still want him. Still want to hear his voice, feel his arms around you, have him whisper that everything’s going to be okay. That it was just an accident. That it didn’t mean anything.

But you can’t have that. Not now. Maybe not ever again.

So instead, you drag yourself out of bed and into the bathroom, hoping that a hot shower might help ease the ache in your limbs and loosen whatever vice is still wrapped around your chest.

After showering, brushing your teeth, and drinking at least a litre of water, you collapse onto the couch and pull out your phone. You take a deep breath and tap the screen, watching it light up with a ridiculous number of new missed calls and texts.

It’s chaos.

Please, please answer me, cariño. I’m begging you.

I know I messed up. I’m so sorry. I’m trying to fix it.

I’m getting a flight back tonight.

Your breath catches when you read that, your pulse pounding in your ears.

Sam is trying to hook me up. I’m not doing a layover, I’m coming straight home.

You don’t have to forgive me, but please hear me out. I know I’m an idiot, but I can’t lose you.

Your chest rises and falls too fast, breath coming in shallow gasps as you keep reading.

I think I have something. I’ll be home when you wake up tomorrow.

I hate how far away I am from you.

Your chest aches. Fresh tears sting your eyes.

Flight booked. I’m leaving soon. I love you so much and I can’t wait to see you.

I’m getting on the plane now. See you soon, baby.

Your hands are shaking. Your whole body feels tingly—nauseous, anxious, strung-out. You’ve never had such a physical reaction to anything in your life, but right now? You might actually throw up.

Because as much as you want to see him… you also really, really don’t. You know it’ll hurt too much. You don’t even know what you could possibly say.

With trembling fingers, you type the only thing you can think of—a weak attempt to stop him before he gets to you.

Don’t. I need space.

You don’t wait to see if he reads it. You don’t wait to regret it. You just power the phone off entirely and shove it beneath the couch cushions like that will somehow bury everything you’re feeling along with it.

Then you get up and start pacing. Back and forth. Over and over. Breathing hard. Thinking too fast.

What are you supposed to do when he shows up? What the hell are you supposed to say?

Could you ignore him? Pretend not to be home? Would he knock until the neighbours complained? Would he wait outside all day, refusing to leave until you answered?

God. You feel sick all over again.

And the worst part? You only have nine hours before he lands.

Nine hours to somehow piece yourself back together—before he walks through your door and tears you apart all over again.

-

You go back to bed at two a.m., but you can't sleep. You toss and turn, checking your phone for another message—just like yesterday, waiting for that birthday text that never arrived—but now for something else. Something worse. Something real. But of course, there’s nothing. He’s on a goddamn plane. On his way home. And in about seven hours, he’ll probably be standing at your front door.

By three a.m., you give up entirely. You throw the covers off, change into your gym clothes, make your bed with precision, and then start deep cleaning your apartment. All four hundred square feet of it—already spotless, already organised—because what else are you supposed to do?

You empty every cabinet, clear every shelf, strip the couch cushions, and move every piece of furniture. You dust, polish, vacuum, and mop until sunlight begins creeping through the curtains and your muscles throb from overuse. And when everything is finally back in place—looking exactly the same as it did before, just a little shinier—you’re exhausted.

So you drag yourself into the bathroom, peel off your sweaty clothes, step into the shower, and stand beneath the hot spray for far longer than necessary. You don’t even hear your phone ring while you’re in there, too focused on scrubbing every inch of your body, as if you can wash away the anxiety prickling beneath your skin.

When you finally step out, you dry yourself off, change into an oversized old shirt and a pair of comfortable panties, and text your manager to let her know you’re taking the rest of the week off. Then you collapse onto the couch and reach for the remote.

You’re just about to click on Netflix when—

Knock, knock, knock.

You freeze. Your breath catches, your fingers still on the remote, hands starting to tremble.

Then a few seconds later—

Knock, knock, knock.

“Cariño, it’s me.”

His voice is muffled but unmistakable—low, thick, and painfully familiar.

“Please open up.”

Tears sting your eyes. Your pulse pounds in your ears.

“Please, baby,” he says, voice breaking. “I know I fucked up, but I need to talk to you.”

For a second, it almost sounds like he could be your boyfriend—pleading with you after a stupid fight. Maybe he stayed out too late. Maybe you saw him with his arms around another girl.

But he’s not your boyfriend.

He never was. Never will be.

“I—” he hesitates, then clears his throat. “I have a key, but I don’t want to use it. I want you to let me in.”

Your stomach drops.

Fuck.

You forgot about the spare key—the one you gave him when you first moved in.

You take a deep breath and push off the couch, your legs unsteady beneath you as you cross the floor.

Either way, he’s getting in. But maybe—just maybe—you can stop him before he steps inside. If you can keep your voice steady. If you can make him believe you mean it.

You blink a few times—fighting back tears—and take a deep breath.

Then open the door.

Joaquín is standing there in the hallway—eyes wide, mouth slightly parted like he’s just forgotten how to speak. His curls are messy, flattened on one side like he tried—and failed—to nap on the plane. He looks exhausted. Worn thin. But the worst part is the look in his eyes. That soft, aching guilt that tells you he knows exactly how badly he hurt you.

“What?” you say, surprised by the steadiness of your own voice.

He blinks, clearly taken aback by your icy exterior. “Hey, I—I’m sorry, I—”

“I get it,” you cut in. “You’re sorry. I got all the messages. Is that it?”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again—swallowing hard. “I didn’t mean to forget—”

“But you did.” You hold his gaze, arms crossing over your chest like a shield. “You forgot me. Not a meeting. Not a dentist appointment. Me.”

His brows draw tight, hurt threading through his features. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you ask, voice steady—too calm. “It’s one day, Joaquín. One day in the whole year, and it didn’t even cross your mind.”

He steps forward, and you step back.

“I—I’ve never felt worse about anything,” he says, voice catching. “I’ve never hated myself like this.”

Your heart twists, but you don’t let it show. “Good.”

His eyes shine now—big, brown, and filled with unshed tears.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did,” you snap, a tear slipping down your cheek.

Fuck. You thought you were keeping it together.

“Baby,” he murmurs, stepping forward again.

“I’m not your baby, Joaquín.” There’s barely a few inches between you now, the zipper of his hoodie brushing your wrist where your arms are still crossed tight. “Stop calling me that.”

He looks down at you—not angry, just wrecked. So incredibly fucking sad. You’ve never seen him like this, and it’s finding every weak spot in your armour.

“How can I make it up to you?”

You scoff, tears still falling. “You can’t. You forgot. You did something I could never do to you, and—and you just proved what I’ve always known.”

His expression tightens. “Proved what?”

“That you don’t love me the way I love you,” you blurt, louder than you mean to. “That you don’t care as much. Because I could never forget your birthday. Not if I was in a different time zone, or—or trapped at the bottom of the ocean in a fucking submarine. I’d still find a way to talk to you. To tell you that I love you. To say happy birthday. But you—”

“I do love you,” he says, a tear tracking down his cheek. “I love you so much. And I don’t have an excuse, except that I’m a fucking idiot who forgot what day it was.”

You tip your head back and laugh—dry and bitter. “Yeah. Same shit, Joaquín. You forgot me.”

“No.” His voice cracks. “It’s not. You’re not just a date on a calendar. You’re—you’re everything. I think about you constantly. I talk to you in my head when I’m halfway across the world. I land in a new time zone and I want to tell you what the sky looked like when we touched down. I see something dumb and want to send it to you because I know you’d laugh. I—” He falters, breath shaking. “I’m in love with you. And I still forgot. What kind of person does that?”

Something in you breaks—a rib, a wall, your resolve—something.

You’ve been waiting to hear those words for years. Dreaming of them. Replaying fake versions in your head just to see how they might sound coming from his mouth.

But now that he’s actually said it—now that he’s standing in front of you, broken and trembling and saying he’s in love with you—your mind just blanks.

It doesn’t compute.

It hits you like a punch to the chest, and for a second, you genuinely forget how to breathe.

Because he can’t mean it. He just can’t.

If he did, he never would’ve forgotten. He never would’ve let you cry yourself to sleep or spiral or feel so completely fucking invisible on the one day of the year you’re supposed to feel special—loved.

You swallow hard, staring through the blur of your tears. “The kind of person who doesn’t love me enough.”

“No,” he says, suddenly too close—his hands hovering near your waist, not quite touching. “The kind who loves you too much and keeps fucking it up anyway.”

He’s shaking now. Visibly. Tears clinging to his lashes. Jaw tight like he’s holding himself together by a fraying thread.

“I thought I’d have time,” he says, voice breaking. “I thought I could stay close, keep loving you from the sidelines, and you’d never have to know how goddamn ruined I am for you. I thought if I kept it quiet, I could keep you in my life—because that was better than losing you completely. And for a while, it was enough. Just being near you. Just pretending.” He breathes in hard, like it physically hurts. “But it stopped being enough. And I was too fucking slow to say anything. I waited too long. I thought maybe—maybe one day you’d look at me the way I’ve always looked at you. But now you can’t even—”

You don’t know who moves first.

You don’t know if it’s you or him or both at once.

But his mouth crashes into yours, and you don’t stop it.

You gasp into the kiss like you’ve been underwater for days, like you’ve been holding your breath since the moment he forgot you—and this is the only way you’ll survive. Your hands find his chest, his shoulders, his face, gripping him like he might vanish if you don’t hold on tight enough. He kisses you like he’s unravelling, like he’s been waiting for permission to fall apart and this—this—is the moment he breaks.

It’s heat and ache and urgency, all tangled into one. He groans into your mouth, something low and wounded, and you feel his hands trembling where they’ve come to rest at your waist—thumbs pressing into your sides like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you.

You whimper when he deepens it, and it tears something out of him. His breath stutters, hitching against your lips, and then he’s murmuring into the kiss—“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry”—his voice cracking on every word.

Your fingers thread into the curls at the nape of his neck, anchoring him there, pulling him closer even though your chests are already flush. You don’t care that you’re both crying. You don’t care that you’re still angry or that this should be harder than it is.

All you know is that his mouth on yours feels like home.

Every kiss is an apology. Every touch is a confession. Every tear sliding between your cheeks is a year of aching, unanswered want.

When he finally pulls back just enough to breathe, your lips are red, your faces damp, and his hands are still shaking where they cradle your ribs like he can’t quite believe that you’re real.

“I love you,” he whispers, breathless. “I don’t know how to stop.”

You shake your head, voice wavering. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

His lips crash against yours again, desperate, trembling with soft sobs that mix pain and need. Like he’s unravelling in the moment, and you’re the only thing holding him together.

“I—I need to make it up to you,” he pants against your mouth. “Baby, you gotta let me—”

His breath catches when your hands slip under his shirt, fingers trailing over the firm planes of his stomach before dipping lower, brushing the waistband of his jeans.

“How’re you gonna make it up to me?” you murmur, voice thick with heat.

Your fingers hook behind his jeans, tugging him closer until his hips press flush against yours—and you can feel how hard he already is. Just from kissing you.

His lips curl into a slow smile against yours, his voice dropping lower, rougher—raw with promise. “I’m gonna make you come undone, cariño. Over and over. So many times, you won’t be able to walk by the time I’m done showing you how sorry I am.”

Heat coils deep inside of you, a rush of fire and ice that burns all the way down, settling behind your hipbones—pulsing with every quickened breath.

Before you can think of something to say, before you can even draw a full breath, he’s kissing you again. He moves forward, and you step back, his lips never leaving yours—even as the door clicks shut behind him.

Then his hands are on your hips, firm and warm, fingers slipping beneath your shirt, and you’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you never put on pants. A small part of you is impressed he managed to keep eye contact earlier. But another part—a more insistent, very aware part—registers the way he smells.

It’s not bad. Just not him. He smells like sweat and stale air. Like stress and adrenaline and a man who’s been trapped on a plane for nine hours.

You pull back just enough to breathe, just enough to look at him properly—his hair flattened on one side, shirt rumpled, jaw dark with day-old scruff.

“I think you need a shower,” you whisper, voice shaky with half a laugh.

His lips twitch, eyes still glassy. “Only if you’re coming with me.”

You take him in for a second longer—the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the familiar shape of a face you know too well. And then his eyes catch yours—still a little bloodshot, but so full of love it makes your whole body pulse with the need to stay wrapped around him forever.

“Okay,” you mutter, sliding your hand into his.

You bite down on your bottom lip to keep from smiling—he hasn’t earned that yet—and turn to lead him through the apartment. He knows the way, but he follows close, like he’s scared you might disappear.

You step into the bathroom first, let go of his hand, and reach into the shower to crank the hot water. Then you turn back—and your breath catches.

Because holy shit.

He’s so beautiful.

Even now—sweaty and tired and a little rough around the edges—he’s breathtaking.

And you’re about to see him. Each other. Naked. For the first time. Ever.

He steps closer, eyes locked on yours as he shrugs his hoodie off his shoulders. The zipper clicks against the tile as it hits the floor, but neither of you look—you just keep watching each other.

Then his hands move to the hem of his shirt, fingers hesitating for half a second before he pulls it over his head. The fabric lifts to reveal warm, golden skin and the sculpted lines of his chest and stomach, a soft trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband.

Your breath catches as you drink him in, eyes trailing over every inch with a quiet hunger that pulses low in your belly. Your thighs press together instinctively, heat blooming between them like a fuse catching fire.

“I can’t believe you came back early,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the sound of the running shower.

His gaze softens, a small, uneven smile tugging at his lips. “I couldn’t be away from you any longer.”

The shirt joins his hoodie on the floor, and his hands drop to his jeans. He starts to unbutton them, but you step forward quickly, your fingers brushing his to stop him.

“Wait.”

He freezes, eyes wide. “What’s wrong?”

You swallow. “Everything changes if we do this.”

His expression melts as his hands find your jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “I know. I want it to. But we don’t have to rush. I just want to be here—with you.”

And just like that, your ribs crack open, and your heart falls right into his hands. Not that he didn’t already have it—but now, it’s his completely. You exist only for him. And there isn’t a sliver of hesitation in you. You don’t want anything else. Not now. Not ever.

You already knew this, of course. But right now, standing in front of him, memorising a face that’s already burned into the backs of your eyelids, you feel it settle into something bone-deep and permanent. He’s all you’ll ever need. As closely as possible. As deeply as possible. In every way he’ll let you have him.

“I want to,” you say softly, stepping closer until your bodies almost touch. “God, I’ve wanted you for so long, I don’t even know how to not want you anymore.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, but it catches on something else—something tender and breaking and real.

His smile is crooked, lips kiss-bruised and pink. “So we’re both idiots, huh?”

You nod, heat blooming in your cheeks. “Yeah. The biggest.”

Then your eyes drop to where your hand rests over his, right at the waistband of his jeans. You gently pull his hands away and begin to unbutton them yourself—fingers trembling, but sure. His breath hitches the moment your knuckles brush over the length of him, already hard and burning through the soft cotton of his briefs.

Your eyes flick up to his face, only to find him already looking down—watching every slow, deliberate movement as you drag the zipper down and start working the denim down his hips. He moves with you, grabbing the back of his jeans and shoving them down until they fall around his ankles.

You step back just a little, giving him room to step out of them—and to look.

Because God. Now he’s standing in nothing but those briefs, cock straining against the fabric, chest rising and falling like he can barely catch his breath. And it’s doing something to you.

He’s barely touched you, and you’re soaked. Just from looking at him.

“Think you need to catch up, mi amor,” he murmurs, voice low and thick.

His eyes drag up your bare legs and pause where the hem of your shirt brushes your thighs. He knows you’re not wearing anything underneath.

And now you’re trembling for an entirely different reason.

Your cheeks burn as you reach for the hem of your shirt and hesitate—but only for a second.

Then you quickly pull it over your head and let drop to the floor.

“Fuck,” he whispers, low and shaky.

And then he’s on you.

His hands are hot and urgent as they wrap around your waist, dragging you in until your bare chest presses flush to his. You gasp at the sudden rasp of his skin against your nipples—sensitive and aching—and he groans, deep in his chest, as his mouth crashes into yours.

The kiss is devastating. Open, messy, a little too much and nowhere near enough. He kisses you like he’s branding you—like the taste of your mouth belongs to him and he’s never letting you forget it.

You melt into it, into him, arms looped around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. His hips rock forward, cock grinding against your hip, and the friction makes you gasp again, makes your fingers tighten in his curls.

He groans into your mouth, deep and desperate, and the sound shoots straight through you.

You gasp against his lips as his hands slide lower, skimming the curve of your spine, tracing the waistband of your panties. He palms your ass, squeezing once—firm, possessive—before slipping his fingers beneath the fabric.

You whimper against his lips, knees almost buckling as he tugs your panties down in one swift movement. They fall to the floor, pooling around your ankles, and you step out of them blindly—too consumed by the way his mouth is moving over yours, by the feel of his skin against yours, to think of anything else.

Your hands find his hips, fingers curling beneath the elastic of his briefs. He groans as you drag them down slowly, the cotton catching on his hard cock before it springs free and the fabric falls to the floor. You suck in a shaky breath as you feel the full weight of him against your lower belly—then step back again just enough to look.

And fuck.

He’s so beautiful.

Chest heaving. Lips kiss-bitten and red. Eyes burning as they drag over your naked body like you’re the most breathtaking thing he’s ever seen.

You take his hand in yours and step backward, pulling him toward the shower. The steam curls around you as you move, warm and thick in the air, and when you step beneath the warm spray of water, he crowds in again—bare skin pressed to bare skin, heat radiating between you like a second heartbeat.

He reaches for the body wash with one hand, the other trailing softly over your wet skin, and then lathers it between his palms before bringing them both to your body. He starts at your shoulders, working his way down your arms with steady pressure and soft murmurs.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice low and rough in your ear. “If I could take it back, I would. I love you so much, mi amor. I need you to feel it.”

You close your eyes and let him touch you, let his words wrap around you like the heat curling through the shower steam. His fingers glide over your ribs, your stomach, the undersides of your breasts. He’s gentle but thorough, brushing against the softest parts of you, the most vulnerable—never rushing, never greedy. Just present. Devoted.

“I missed you,” he says. “I miss you every second I’m not with you.”

Your breath shudders, and your hands move to return the gesture, trailing soap over the broad planes of his chest, down the ridges of his abs, over the sharp cut of his hips. He’s watching you—always watching you—with eyes that look like they might spill over at any second.

The quiet between you hums, heavy with want. Your fingers dip lower, following the lines of muscle that lead to his cock, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

But you don’t touch. Not yet.

“You’re killing me,” he says softly, forehead tipping forward to rest against yours.

You smile faintly, cheeks flushed from the steam—or maybe from the way you can feel him, hot and hard between you, aching to be touched.

“I’m gonna make it up to you, cariño,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your temple. “I promise. You’re gonna feel how sorry I am.”

He kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then dips lower—mouth dragging lazy, open kisses along your neck, over your collarbone, across your shoulder—each one slower than the last, like he’s trying to memorise every inch of your skin.

You can feel your pulse between your legs—heavy and insistent. Every breath makes you more aware of how slick you are, how achingly empty, thighs pressing together in search of friction that doesn’t come close to enough.

“Need a hand?” Joaquín mutters against your skin.

You whimper, fingers digging into his back as you wrap your arms around his neck and hold on tight.

He shifts closer, letting out a broken sigh when his cock brushes against your skin. “Gonna need to hear you say it, baby.”

He starts guiding you back until your spine meets the cool tile, his body boxing you in, all heat and muscle and sinful promise. His mouth keeps moving—hot, wet kisses trailing down your chest, leaving pink and purple marks in their wake—and you whine again, breath catching on the edge of a moan.

“Tell me you want me,” he murmurs, lips brushing even lower. “Tell me, and I’m yours.”

Then his mouth finds your nipple—warm, wet, perfect—and his tongue swirls over the sensitive bud until you're gasping.

“Need you, Joaquín,” you breathe. “Need you to touch me. I—I want you inside me.”

You feel his mouth twitch against your skin—still sucking, still relentless—but smiling

And then—

Oh, God

His fingers slip between your thighs and find your entrance with no effort at all—wet and ready for him.

He groans, guttural and low. “You’re so fucking wet, mi amor.”

You tip your head back with a breathless laugh. “Well, duh. We’re in the shower.”

He nips at your nipple in retaliation—just enough to make you yelp—then soothes it with his tongue before kissing across your chest to the other. The first brush of his mouth makes your back arch off the tile, heat flaring deep in your core.

His fingers dip lower—sliding easily through the wet heat between your thighs, and he groans again, like the feel of you is frying his goddamn brain.

"Fuck, baby," he mutters, voice ragged against your skin. "You’re so ready for me."

You whimper, thighs twitching as his fingers trace lazy circles around your entrance. Teasing. Testing. Making you shiver.

“Joaquín—"

He shushes you with a kiss, his free hand cupping the side of your face as the other finally slips one thick finger inside you. You gasp, nails scraping down his back as your hips stutter forward, chasing the stretch.

“So tight,” he breathes. “So warm.”

He starts to move—slow and steady—curling his finger just right as he watches your face from barely an inch away. And when your eyes flutter shut, breath hitching, he adds another.

Your moan echoes off the tile, high and broken.

“That’s it,” he whispers, breath brushing your lips. “Let me feel you.”

Your head drops back against the wall again, chest heaving, one leg lifting instinctively to hook around his hip and open yourself wider for him. He groans again—like he’s losing his sanity.

“Look at me,” he says softly, fingers working deeper now. “Wanna see you fall apart.”

You force your eyes open, blinking through the haze, and the second your gaze meets his—intense, reverent, absolutely wrecked—you clench around him hard enough to make his jaw snap tight.

“Fuck,” he growls, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel so good, baby. Gonna make you come just like this—just my fingers.”

Your breath comes out in shaky, desperate gasps, your hips rolling helplessly against his hand as he works his fingers inside you. Each curl brushes that perfect, aching spot, and your thighs are trembling now, barely holding you up.

Then his thumb finds your clit.

You cry out—sharp and breathless—as he rubs slow, deliberate circles that make your whole body tighten.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. “Feel so fucking good like this. Can’t believe I’ve never touched you here before.”

His mouth is everywhere—your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth—before he finds your lips again and kisses you hard. Not sweet, not gentle. It’s filthy. Wet. Starving. His tongue curls into your mouth just as his fingers thrust deeper, his thumb grinding harder against your clit, and the moan you let out is swallowed by his kiss.

You’re panting into him now, legs shaking, nails raking across his shoulders. His cock is hard between you—thick and hot where it presses against your belly, and he shifts his hips just enough to drag it over your skin. Slow, firm pressure that makes your breath stutter and your knees nearly give out.

“You feel that?” he groans, rocking against you again. “Been hard for you since the second you opened that fucking door. Can’t stop thinking about how good it’s gonna feel when I’m inside you.”

Your head spins. The rhythm of his fingers, the pressure of his thumb, the weight of his cock grinding into your skin—it’s too much and not enough and you’re falling apart under it.

You gasp against his mouth, clinging to his shoulders. “Joaquín—oh my god—please—”

“I know, mi amor,” he pants, lips brushing your cheek as he fucks you with his fingers a little harder now, more insistent. “Almost there. Let me feel you come, baby. Just for me.”

Your whole body tightens. Heat coils low in your belly, fast and frantic now, about to burst—

And then he’s gone. Fingers, warmth, everything—gone.

Your eyes snap open just in time to see him drop to his knees, and the sight of him there—lips kiss-swollen, eyes dark with desperation—knocks you breathless.

“Let me taste you,” he says, voice rough and a little broken. “Please.”

You nod before you can even think—and then his mouth is on you.

He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder and drags his tongue through your soaked folds with a low groan that vibrates through your entire body. You cry out, the sound ricocheting off the tile, and one of your hands flies to his hair—gripping hard, grounding yourself.

“Joaquín—oh, fuck—”

He eats you like a man starved. Like this is the apology. The penance. Like your pleasure is the only thing in the world he gives a damn about. His tongue swirls around your clit, then flattens and flicks with just enough pressure to make your eyes roll back.

He moans into you like you taste better than anything he’s ever had, and when he slides two fingers back inside, curling deep, it’s like your body just stops thinking and lets go.

Your legs quake. Your hips roll. You’re panting his name, over and over, thighs tightening around his head—and he just groans and keeps going. Keeps sucking. Licking. Fucking you with his fingers like he’s trying to chase your orgasm down and wring every last tremor out of it.

And then it hits.

White-hot and all-consuming

Your back bows, your voice breaks, and your climax rips through you—violent and endless and overwhelming—until your legs give out completely and you slump against the wall, heart hammering, chest heaving, Joaquin still between your thighs.

When the wave finally starts to ebb, you glance down—and he looks up at you like you’re a miracle.

“Still mad at me?” he asks, lips slick and smirking.

You want to roll your eyes, but you don’t even have the energy for that, so you just look at him. You watch him rise to full height and gently press his forehead to yours, letting the water run over both of you—warm and steady. Now he smells like coconut and sex and something so unmistakably him it makes your knees weak.

“I’m gonna spend the rest of my life between your thighs making it up to you,” he whispers, voice thick with promise.

You huff out a breathless laugh and bring one hand up to the back of his neck. “I might think about forgiving you,” you murmur, your other hand sliding lower, tracing the ridges of his stomach, “if you make me come with this.”

Your fingers wrap around his cock and he chokes—actually chokes—on a groan like he was punched square in the chest. You can’t help but giggle, slowly stroking him as his eyes flutter shut and his hips jerk desperately into your hand.

“Such a tease, baby,” he mutters, letting his head fall back.

You give him two more deliberate strokes—just to hear that little catch in his breath—before planting both palms on his chest. “Let’s get out before my water bill bankrupts me.”

His eyes snap open, and he hesitates for a moment but doesn’t argue. You both rinse off quickly, steam curling between your bodies in lazy spirals, the tension still crackling like static. Then he turns off the water and steps out, handing you a towel before grabbing his own, and the two of you start drying off in silence.

But there are more heated glances than actual drying, your eyes drawn to each other like magnets, and before you’re even halfway dry, he’s back on you—towel forgotten, curls still dripping, hands cradling your face as he kisses you like it might kill him not to.

“Can I show you how sorry I am now?” he murmurs, lips brushing yours.

You pull back just enough to raise a brow. “That wasn’t what you just did?”

He flashes that devastating smile—the one that would melt your panties if you had any on.

“Not even fucking close,” he growls.

Then his hands slide to the backs of your thighs and he lifts you in one swift motion. You gasp, arms flying around his neck and legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. His cock presses hot and hard against you as he carries you—bare, dripping, aching—out of the bathroom and straight into to your bedroom.

He stops at the edge of your bed and drops you with a playful ease. You land with a soft squeal, the mattress dipping beneath you as he follows, crawling over you like he can’t stand even a breath of distance. His body hovers over yours for just a second—wet curls dripping onto your chest, breath hot against your cheek—before he sinks down, skin to skin, his weight settling perfectly between your thighs.

His cock is already so hard, heavy and leaking, dragging against your slick folds as he grinds into you slowly—like he needs to prove, with every aching touch, that you’re his. You gasp when the head catches just barely on your entrance, too close to be nothing, not close enough to be everything.

“‘M still sorry,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, lips brushing the curve of your breast. “Still not done making it up to you.”

Then his mouth closes around your nipple and you keen, back arching, thighs tightening around his hips. He groans as he sucks, teeth grazing gently—just enough to make your whole body burn. One of his hands comes up to cup your other breast, thumb circling lazily until your breath turns shallow and your fingers claw at his back.

“Joaquín—” your voice breaks into a gasp as his hips roll again, dragging the thick, sensitive length of him over your clit.

“Say it again,” he whispers, switching to your other nipple, mouthing at it like it’s the only thing that will keep him sane. “Say my name again, baby.”

You do. Over and over. Between panting breaths and needy little whines, your body grinding up against his as the heat builds all over again.

“I’m gonna be so good to you,” he groans, moving lower, teeth grazing your sternum before he kisses back up your throat. “You have no idea how good I’m gonna be.”

His cock presses flush against your entrance again, thick and hot and teasing, and you let out a breathless, broken sound.

“P—Please,” you whisper, breath catching. “I need you.”

Joaquín exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment you opened the front door. His forehead drops to yours, noses brushing, lips just barely touching. You feel the tremble in his arms as he shifts his hips, lining himself up properly—his tip nudging at your entrance.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice breaking against your mouth. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby…”

You whimper, hips tilting up instinctively, but he doesn’t push in—not yet. He just keeps kissing you, slow and messy and reverent, while his cock slides through your folds again and again, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your clit with the swollen head until you’re nearly shaking.

“Joaquín,” you plead, voice thin and wrecked, “I need you inside me now.”

That does it.

He drags his cock down, barely notching at your entrance—and then pushes in slowly. Excruciatingly slowly. Stretching you inch by inch like he’s afraid to hurt you, like he’s trying to savour the way you take him in. His breath hitches as you tighten around him, and he groans, deep and guttural, forehead still pressed to yours.

“Fuck,” he pants. “You feel—God—you feel so good.”

You clutch at his back, nails dragging, legs tightening around his hips to pull him closer. He slides in a little deeper, then stills, chest heaving against yours, giving you both a second to breathe. To feel everything.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers. “You’re everything. I’m never gonna stop being sorry for hurting you, but I swear—this, right now—I’m yours.”

He kisses you again, a soft sound caught between your mouths, and then pushes in the rest of the way—slow, steady, until he’s fully seated inside you and both of you are left shaking from the overwhelming relief of finally being whole.

For one breathless moment, you just cling to each other, suspended in it.

Then, with a low, strangled sigh, he starts to move.

Slow at first. Deep. Every thrust measured and deliberate, like he’s trying to say sorry with every inch of him. Like he’s trying to rewrite the last forty-eight hours with the press of his hips and the reverent way he touches you.

You hold on to him, hands grasping at every inch of skin you can reach, your mouth brushing his jaw as you gasp into the space between you.

“God, Joaquín—”

He groans low in his throat, the sound desperate and aching as he drags almost all the way out and pushes back in with a little more force. The drag of his cock inside you makes your toes curl, pressure building deep and steady, a fire licking up your spine.

“Feels so good,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing. “You feel so good, cariño. I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

You squeeze your legs around his waist and roll your hips to meet his next thrust. “Don’t stop,” you whisper. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He laughs—a soft, breathless thing—and kisses you again, slow and messy, tongues tangling, your breath stuttering between moans as he begins to pick up the pace. Each stroke grinds deep, just enough to make your breath hitch and your thighs tremble.

You can feel every inch of him, the thick press of his cock dragging over that sweet spot inside of you, over and over. And the tension between you—emotional and physical—is like a live wire sparking in the dark.

“You’re mine,” he breathes into your mouth. “All mine. Gonna keep you like this forever—wrapped around me, panting my name. Gonna make it up to you, baby, ‘til you can’t walk.”

And then it hits you—like a lightning strike—right in the middle of him moving inside you, skin sliding against skin. The boy who’s lived in your heart for so long. The one you thought might never feel the same...

He loves you.

No hesitation. No pretending.

Just raw, desperate, breathless love.

Right here, right now, with him fucking you like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

Your chest tightens, breath catching as the whole world narrows to the heat of him, the slick rhythm of your bodies, and the impossible truth that he’s yours.

He’s finally yours.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice breaking as his thrusts slow. “Baby, what is it?”

His lips press to your temple, then your jaw, trailing wet, fevered kisses as he holds himself above you—arms trembling, hands braced on either side of your head.

You glance up, meeting his eyes, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs.

“I love you, Joaquín,” you whisper.

His expression softens instantly, breaking into the kind of smile that could ruin you—gentle, wide, boyish—and then he’s leaning in, nuzzling your nose like the lovesick fool he is.

“I love you too, cariño.”

“And I forgive you.”

His smile shifts, curling into something smug—something wicked. “You do?”

You nod, barely, fingers toying with the curls at the nape of his neck.

He rolls his hips back slowly—deliberately—watching your mouth fall open.

Then he shakes his head, grin turning feral. “No, you don’t. Not yet.” He kisses you deep, then draws back just enough to growl, “I’m not done making it up to you yet.”

And with that, he sits up, still buried to the hilt—and his next thrust hits a new angle that makes your vision blur.

He grabs your thigh and lifts it over his shoulder, holding you open without hesitation. The new position has him even deeper, his thick cock dragging against every sensitive part of you, and it’s all you can do not to scream.

He thrusts harder now—rough, fast, relentless—finding spots inside you that you didn’t even know existed. Your body tightens, your lungs burn, and your eyes lock onto his, wide and wild and desperate.

“You gonna take my apology like a good girl?” he pants. “Gonna let me say sorry with every fucking inch?”

You moan something garbled, hands flying into your hair as your back arches off the mattress. His name spills from your lips in broken syllables, again and again, like prayer.

And it only spurs him on.

“That’s it, cariño,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Feel me. Let me make it up to you.”

You don’t even know what sound comes out of you next—some ruined, hungry thing—and your hand moves to your chest, fingers tugging lightly at one nipple.

His rhythm falters. He groans—loud and helpless—the sight of you clearly undoing him.

“Fuck—look at you,” he gasps, eyes locked on your chest. “You gonna come like that? Gonna squeeze me so tight just from playing with those perfect tits?”

He adjusts his grip and thrusts deeper, harder, one hand anchoring your hip, the other pressing your leg back even farther as he drives into you like he can’t get close enough. Like the only way to be forgiven is to fuck you until the memory of anything else burns away.

Every thrust is devastating now—deep, punishing, perfect. The wet slap of skin against skin echoes in the room, nearly drowned out by the choked sounds spilling from both of you.

Your leg trembles where he’s holding it, thigh stretched wide over his shoulder, but you can’t even think about it—can’t focus on anything but the pressure building low in your belly, coiling tighter with every filthy grind of his hips. Your hand is still on your breast, tugging at your nipple, needy and impatient—like you can pull another orgasm out of yourself if you just try hard enough.

“Joaquín—” you gasp, voice cracking. “I’m—fuck—I’m getting close.”

“I know, baby,” he grits, sweat dripping from his temples, curls soaked, eyes fixed on where his cock disappears into you. “I can feel it. You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”

His pace stutters, then steadies, grinding deep with a low groan that sounds like it’s been torn straight from his chest. He leans in just enough for your foreheads to touch, his breath hot against your cheek, and you can feel how close he is too—barely hanging on, every muscle in his body straining to hold back.

“You’re doing so good,” he pants, mouth brushing yours. “Taking it so good. You gonna let me keep saying sorry? Let me fuck you through every single thing I never should’ve done?”

You whimper, nodding, lips brushing against his, unable to speak as the pressure builds and builds. His cock drags against the sweet spot inside you that makes your legs shake and your eyes roll back, again and again, his pelvis grinding against your clit on every downstroke, drawing you tighter, higher, closer.

Your fingers scramble across his back, nails digging into his shoulder blades as your other hand slips down, desperate for more friction, for anything. But before you can touch yourself, his hand is there—slapping yours away and replacing it with his own. His thumb circles your clit, slow and slick and fucking perfect.

“Let me,” he growls. “Let me take care of you, cariño. Let me make you come.”

Your whole body arches, breath caught in your throat, every muscle drawn tight as the pressure builds, sharp and consuming. His thumb doesn’t let up—circling, pressing, teasing—until it’s too much, not enough, and everything in between.

“Come on, baby,” he pants, his voice thick, ragged. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

And then you do.

It slams into you like a tidal wave—your orgasm ripping through every inch of you, hot and sharp and blinding. You cry out, legs trembling as your thigh slips from his shoulder, fingers clawing at his arms while your body clenches around him, slick and pulsing and endless.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, still moving inside you, slower now but deeper—like he’s trying to feel every last pulse of you coming around him. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

But you don’t have time to catch your breath—because he’s unravelling too.

His hips jerk, rhythm faltering, and he lets out a strangled noise—somewhere between a gasp and a moan—as he fucks into you hard one last time, spilling deep inside with a broken, breathless, “Fuck, I love you.”

You cling to him as he shudders through it, both of you shaking, bodies pressed tight and hearts pounding like they’re trying to break free from your chests.

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing. Laboured. Tangled. Shared.

And then he kisses you again, slow and tender this time, mouth soft and sweet against yours like he’s still trying to say sorry—only now with love, not desperation.

“I think,” you murmur, voice distant—breathless, “we might need to shower again.”

Joaquín chuckles, his chest rumbling against yours as he barely holds himself up on his forearms. “I don’t think there’s any point, cariño.” He flashes you a cocky grin. “I’m just gonna ruin you again.”

Your cheeks heat—despite everything you just did with him—and you giggle. “That so?”

He nods, then leans in to press a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Yep. But first—” He pushes himself up, muscles flexing— “I have something for you.”

The loss of his heat makes you shiver. The loss of his cock makes you whine.

He laughs again. “I’ll be back in a second, baby. Then I’ll be right back inside—I promise.”

He shuffles off the bed and throws a wink over his shoulder as he turns toward the door. You lie there, flushed and wrecked and floating, shamelessly ogling his ass as he walks away.

You can feel your pulse still thrumming through your whole body while you wait, anticipation building like static beneath your skin.

And when he returns, it’s hard not to stare—slick, still half-hard, still perfect. Holy shit. You’ll never get used to seeing him naked.

“Eyes up here,” he teases, smirking as he settles beside you on the bed.

You roll your eyes and sit up, dragging a pillow into your lap. Joaquín eyes it, clearly displeased with the coverage, but he lets it slide. For now.

“Here,” he says, offering you a little black box.

You frown but take it, confused—until you see the flush on his cheeks and the nerves written across his face.

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs.

Your heart skips and you look down at the box, fingers trembling just a little as you open the lid.

Inside is a necklace—a delicate chain with a small bird charm in flight, wings spread wide.

Tears prick your eyes. “Joaquín…”

He looks so sweet—so fucking boyish—it knocks the air right out of you. This soft, thoughtful man just gave you the most perfect gift... after absolutely rearranging your guts.

“I didn’t forget forget,” he says quickly. “I just—” He stops, swallowing hard. “I just love you so much.”

Your throat tightens as you blink hard, tears slipping free. “I love you too.”

You set the box on your bedside table, toss the pillow aside, and crawl into his lap. His grin blooms wide as his arms come around you, brown eyes lit up like you just handed him the whole goddamn universe.

“Think you’ve got another apology in you?” you whisper, rolling your hips against him, feeling his cock swell beneath you.

“Baby,” he groans, gripping your hips, “I plan on apologising all fucking night.”

And he does.

He kisses you like it’s the first time. Fucks you like it might be the last. He moves with something holy in his hands, something feral in his mouth. He whispers I’m sorry, I love you, again and again, breaking you open with every thrust. And you forgive him—again and again—until the words don’t even matter anymore. Until there’s nothing left between you but sweat and breath and the way your bodies fit together like they were always meant to.

He doesn’t stop until you’re both boneless. Breathless. Too wrecked to move.

And then, finally—he pulls you into his arms, kisses your hair, and tells you he loves you until the only thing left is sleep.

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

[bbarnesbck]

i see the light (bucky barnes x female reader)

the gif is not mine!

summary: tony stark decides to throw a valentine’s day party, but the invitation comes with one rule: no date, no entry. when reader shows up to the party with no one by her side and tony doesn’t let her in, it’s up to bucky to find her and make everything better.

a/n: for the hopeless romantics that fear they’re unlovable….

masterlist

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y/n’s pov:

you’re looking at him from across the room. he is so goddamn beautiful you want to punch yourself. or like, kiss him senseless.

“you’re staring again.” natasha tells you. you turn to her and see her smirking.

“i was not- fine i was, but can you blame me?” you admit after she gives you a look with raised eyebrows.

“yeah, i can.” she teases.

“shut up.”

he’s talking to steve, and a small smile is placed on his lips because that’s his best friend. you’re also his best friend, a newer one. he lets out a laugh and you wonder if someone like him would ever even consider something romantic with someone like you. you hate that he does that. that he makes you doubt yourself.

natasha calls your name and you look at her, dazed.

“it’s getting creepy now.”

“what’s getting creepy?” bucky’s voice rings out before you can say something witty to the redhead. you realize he has gotten up from the couch and is now in front of you, with crossed arms. god those arms. you just want him to wrap you up in them forever.

“t-the… the tv show we’re watching.” you stumble over your own words. bucky raises his eyebrows. he knows you’re lying, but thank the gods above, he doesn’t comment on it.

“yeah so… i have to ask steve something about a mission report…” natasha tells you both before she slowly retreats towards where steve is sitting on the couch.

you look at her as she walks, suddenly nervous to be left alone with him. you and your big mouth will spill everything.

“you alright there?” you turn to bucky.

“yeah! peachy.” he tilts his head with a smirk on his lips.

“you’re being weird. weirder than usual.” he jokes. you narrow your eyes.

“alright barnes, watch it.” he grins.

“or what?”

“i will force you to listen to electronic music until the end of time.” he raises his eyebrows.

“you wouldn’t.”

“oh, i would.” he narrows his eyes. you narrow yours. then he breaks out into a breathtaking grin.

“you wouldn’t.” you roll your eyes.

“whatever.”

“so, what are you doing right now?”

“talking to you, unfortunately.” you say dramatically. it’s his turn to roll his eyes.

“hm,” he hums, “and i was just about to ask you if you wanted to rewatch tangled with me. guess i’ll ask romanoff.”

“no!” he smirks. “i mean, like right now i’m not doing anything and nat is talking to steve so…”

“uh huh.”

“whatever james.” you tell him and he sighs playfully. you’re the only one who can call him that. not even steve has that privilege. “your room or my room?”

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you end up in bucky’s room. something about the tv being bigger. you don’t mind, his room might actually be your favorite place in the whole compound. it’s so full of him.

you’re sitting on his bed and he’s right next to you, a few short inches away from bumping your shoulders together, and you’re very aware of that distance.

he presses a few buttons on the control and the movie starts playing.

“you know, i don’t think i’ve ever met someone who’s constantly rewatching a children’s movie.”

“it’s my comfort movie, old man.” he huffs. “now, shut up. it’s starting.”

the first scene appears on the big screen of bucky’s tv and you both turn towards it.

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“everyone, gather around. yes, you too capsicle!”

“what is it tony?” steve asks, exasperated, putting the last plates of dinner in the dishwasher.

“as you all know, in four days it’s the day of love. and so, since i am a romantic -peppers words not mine- i’m throwing a party.” tony does a dramatic hand gesture as if anyone in the room would be surprised that he found a new reason to gather people to gawk at him and get drunk.

most team members in the room look excited, but not you. you despise parties in general, but if there was a type of party you hated the most, it was a party thrown by tony stark himself. they were way too loud, way too crazy and there were way too many people you did not know and did not care to anyways. normally you would spend them with bucky, who, right now, was looking at tony unimpressed.

“but, before you all decide what tailored outfit you’ll be wearing…”

“what tony…?” you ask, sighing heavily. nat and clint snort, knowing very well your stance on these celebrations. you feel bucky’s eyes on you.

“everyone has to bring a date. no date, no entry.”

that’s when everybody’s excitement turns to groans of annoyance.

“can’t. laura’s visiting her parents out of town.” clint tells the group. “unless someone wants to use me to get out of finding a date…“

you are about to raise your hand when nat speaks up, beating you to it.

“i’ll be your date!”

fucking hell.

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for the next couple of days, you try to gather the courage to find a date. or really to very subtly see if bucky has a date and if not- please god, don’t let him have a date- maybe ask if he would be interested in going to the party with you. as friends who are avoiding potential awkward encounters with potential romantic partners, of course.

you had hope until thursday morning.

you are about to enter the gym when you hear steve tell sam that he’s going with bucky as a ~date~, since tony always teases their bromance, and so they wouldn’t really need to find a real date. freaking captain jerk stealing your man. maybe you can ask sam-

“you’re both idiots. you could’ve actually encouraged cyborg to ask you know who and you could’ve finally asked out nancy from HR.” you know who? did bucky like someone?

“but anyways, aside from your dumbassery, im actually quite excited for the party.” oh no. “i’m going with ryan.” oh no no no.

you feel kind of bad for not getting excited for sam, you know he’s been crushing on one of the pretty lab techs for a while now and they’re finally going out. yay! the only problem is that now that sam has a date, you don’t know who else to ask. would it be so bad if you didn’t find a date? tony was probably kidding about the no entry thing, right?

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wrong.

very, very wrong.

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friday night comes around and you find yourself doing the finishing touches on your make up. you decided on a bit of an on theme outfit, tiny red hearts littering the white fabric of the dress you’re wearing.

once you decide that you’re done and ready to go, you head for the door of your room in the compound. before you open it to step out into the hallway, you take a deep breath and square your shoulders. you can do it. it’s just a party. it’s just a party.

the more the elevator descends, the louder the noise gets. you take in a shaky breath and blink quickly.

the doors open and you step out. you’re surprised to find tony at the main entrance, welcoming every single person who enters. everyone’s arms linked with someone else’s. your stomach churns a little, but you keep walking.

“hey tony.”

“kid,” he greets you with a grin, but it quickly starts fading in confusion. “where’s your date?”

“uh, no date.” he raises his eyebrows.

“if i do recall correctly-“

“yeah, i know. i didn’t think you were serious-“

“dead serious.” he cuts you off. you stare at him, dreading his next words. “so, i’m sorry y/n. no date, no entry.”

crack. your heart shatters. and if the shattering of your heart isn’t enough, the burning shame you feel is enough to make you feel like you’re suffocating. you need to go. you can’t break in front of people.

mustering all the strength you can, you roll your eyes and smirk.

“whatever tony, i heard there’s a better party happening not that far from here. and the hosts aren’t assholes.” he gasps in fake offense as you turn to leave. your hands are shaking and there are probably marks on your palm from how hard you’re clenching your fists.

“what party?” he asks your retreating figure.

“bye tony!” you say over your shoulder, as playful as you can.

once you’re out of sight in the elevator, you sniffle. very quickly those sniffles turn to choked sobs. you feel so embarrassed and so sad. the thoughts you normally buried come back up to the surface. you will never find love. you’re not one of those people, you don’t get that life. you live alone and you die alone. forever.

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bucky’s pov:

he hates these parties. and he hates that he’s such a coward he’s here with steve instead of you. he should’ve asked you. but he was too scared; of rejection, of ruining what you two had, of letting himself have something good, something perfect.

he’s at the bar, half listening to what sam, thor and wanda are talking about, and half searching for you. okay, who is he kidding? he is fully searching for you, his teammates’ conversation background noise, like the rest of the party.

after like half an hour, his usual frown deepens. where the hell are you?

he pushes his back off the bar and walks towards nat and steve, who seem to be engrossed in a very competitive game of pool.

“hey, have you seen y/n?”

they both look up.

“um, no. i assumed she would be with you in a corner.” natasha says while steve shakes his head.

“i haven’t seen her yet. i thought maybe you knew where she was.” bucky tells them.

“who is this she we’re talking about?” tony enters the conversation in his dramatic fashion.

“y/n.” the three of them say in unison.

“oh, i didn’t let her in.”

“what?” nat asks. stark rolls his eyes. bucky’s eyes narrow.

“she showed up without a date. you know the rule, no date, no entry.”

“are you fucking kidding me?” his jaw clenches and steve takes a step forward seeing the murderous gaze he’s directing at the nonchalant billionaire.

“nope.”

“you’re an asshole.” nat tells him angrily while steve shakes his head disapprovingly.

“how did she take it?” he asks after.

“like a champ. she laughed and told me there was a better party not far from here where the host is not an asshole.” oh no. you were probably hurt and acted overtly playful to hide it. tony shakes his head in amusement and bucky takes a deep breath so as to not choke the life out of him with his metal arm. he then looks at steve and a silent conversation passes through them. he’s gonna go look for you.

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y/n’s pov:

after allowing yourself a moment to cry it all out— or as much as you could— while laying in the fetal position on your bed, you decide to get up and change out of your fancy clothes. the idea of ruining the effort you put into your appearance makes another wave of shame and sadness wash over you. you’re so pathetic, you groan to yourself while you furiously try to wipe your tear stained cheeks.

it’s not until you’re in your pajamas and have mostly gotten rid of all your make up that you hear a knock on your door. you stop in your tracks and stand very still. maybe if you don’t answer, they’ll go away.

“y/n?” you freeze. its the only person who could make this better. its bucky. your mouth opens almost involuntarily, about to answer, but you quickly shut it. looking in the mirror, you see that while the make up is gone and your skin is shiny and clean due to the skin care you did moments ago, your eyes are still red rimmed and swollen. he can’t see you like this. “y/n?” he calls again. you’re still staring at your reflection when you hear another set of hurried knocks on the door. “doll, open up. please.”

“pull yourself together,” you mumble to yourself. then, you raise your voice so he can hear you. “one second buck! i’m not wearing pants!”

quickly, you wipe your eyes with freezing cold water and grab some eye drops for the redness. then, you hurry to your bed and sit down, casually. perhaps too casually.

“come in!”

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bucky’s pov:

“come in!” he does and when he sees you on the bed, safe and sound, he breathes in relief.

“what took you so long?”

“sorry,” you laugh breathily, lightly, “i was watching tv and i wasn’t decent.”

he walks over to the other side of your bed and sits down next to you. he notices the tv is off and narrows his eyes, but before he can reach any conclusions, you speak again.

“what are you doing here? shouldn’t you be at the party?”

“i’m here because i heard about what stark did.” he spits out the name with a clenched jaw. “wanted to see if you were okay.”

you tilt your head and smile so brightly it makes him feel uneasy.

“of course i am. it’s just tony being tony.”

“he was a jerk, doll. don’t let him off the hook.” he tells you. he doesn’t know exactly what, but something is wrong. there’s almost an electricity in the air, the kind that comes before a storm.

“i promise i won’t. tomorrow i’ll kick his ass in training.” you say, chuckling. he opens his mouth to speak but you cut him off without realizing it. you seem to be somewhere far off, even though you are actively participating in the conversation. “i’m thirsty, i’ll go to the kitchen to get a water bottle. you want anything?” you say as you stand up and start walking towards the door.

“i’ll go with you.” you stop your pace and turn around.

“don’t be silly, i’ll be back in less than five.”

and then, in a voice to sing-songey and cheery, you tell him: “don’t miss me too much!”

and then you’re gone, closing the door on your way out.

bucky’s now on high alert, looking around the room for any anomalies. anything out of the ordinary. he looks at the entrance of the bedroom, thinks of you laying comfortably on the bed while watching tv- wait, why is the remote on your couch that’s on the other side of your room? he narrows his eyes, trying to put the pieces together. you said you were watching tv, but when he came in the screen was black. he initially assumed you just turned it off to give him your full attention, but why would you turn off the tv, get up from your comfortable spot on the bed to put the remote on the couch and then resume your position over your comforter like you never even moved? that’s when he sees it. bucky turns his head to the right and looks at the spot you had been occupying before you left. everything seems normal, except… is that smudged make up?

he breathes in deeply. you had been crying. you laid on your side and cried onto your pillow. he was going to kill tony stark.

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y/n’s pov:

when you open the door to your room, you don’t expect to see bucky holding your pillow almost as if cradling a new born baby.

“buck…?”

he looks up. and you can’t decipher his expression. he seems almost… angry.

“you cried.”

“bucky-“

“he made you cry.” you blink, frozen in place with the door half open. “give me one good reason not to strangle him.” bucky puts down the pillow and gets up. then, slowly, he walks towards you. once he’s arms reach from your frame, his eyes turn pleading. “why did you pretend you were okay?”

your chin wobbles, and you clench your jaw trying to stop it. he notices, of course he does. he always does. and his right arm reaches up to reach you, but you take a step back. the crestfallen expression on his face makes your insides twist. taking a deep breath, you declare:

“i am okay.”

he huffs out a laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“i’m okay.” you say again, harsher this time. upset at his response.

“you’re not. you were crying onto your pillow. i saw the smudged make up.”

“that’s from-“

“don’t lie to me.” he cuts you off. you look at him and open your mouth to spit out another retort but you stop yourself before you can, feeling the warmth of fresh tears on the back of your skull. your eyes find his and your chin starts wobbling again. god, you love him so much. and that’s the problem. he disarms you. you can’t lie to him for long, it’s too painful.

taking a deep breath before speaking, you wipe the one tear that’s already running down your cheek.

“i just… just needed to have a moment. not make a big deal out of it. cause it’s not.”

“it’s a big deal if it’s making you sad.”

“bucky, please. i’m fine now, i already cried. it’s done. just go back to the party and have fun.”

“it’s not done to me.” he tells you, finally moving closer to you and cradling your cheek with his flesh hand. “do you really think i could have fun knowing that my best girl is upset?”

warmth spreads through your chest, to your back, to your arms and hands and the tips of your toes.

“what happened?” he tries again, softly encouraging you to open up with his gentle tone. you swallow.

“didn’t bring a date.” you shrug while more tears begin falling down your face. “it’s so… stupid.” your voice breaks on that word. bucky wipes your tears with both his thumbs now, holding your face in his hands like something fragile, something sacred.

“it’s not-“

“it is.” you insist. “but i still felt so embarrassed.”

“why would you feel embarrassed, sweetheart?”

you shrug again, looking down.

“talk to me, honey…”

“it’s just that… i know that it’s not the center of the universe, that there’s more to life, and i say these things to myself all the time while pretending that i don’t want it, but i do.” your face twists with pain. “and it hurts to know that i’ll never have it.”

“have what? a date?” a sob breaks through your throat.

“no. someone like that. someone that loves you like that.” bucky’s frown turns deeper.

“why wouldn’t you have it?”

“cause i won’t. i’m not- i don’t get that life bucky. no one,” a hiccup cuts you off, “i won’t be loved like that. who would want to spend their life with me?” you ask him, still crying.

you close your eyes and try to breathe deeply. you can’t believe you’ve told him this. this was the one thing you swore you’d take to your grave.

“i would.” your eyes open, wide.

“what?”

“i want to.” he corrects himself.

“you-“

“i want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“bucky,” you sniffle and smile softly, “you don’t need to say that. i know you’re trying to be a good friend-“

“i’m not. i’m trying to not be a friend.” you look at him, blinking softly.

“i don’t understand.” you say. bucky takes a deep breath. then, he looks at you, his eyes shining with adoration. he’s still holding your face between his hands and his warmth is starting to seep into your bones.

“i’m telling you that i care for you, as more than a friend. i’m telling you that i’ve been trying to find the right time to say it but that’s actually just been an excuse to be a coward and not do anything about it. i’m telling you that seeing you cry breaks my heart, because i love you, and i want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

silence. your heart cracks open.

“bucky.” you almost whimper.

“sweetheart.”

you look at him. really look. this man has been here for you since you met. he has made you laugh til you cried happy tears, he has held you while watching sad movies, he has watched and rewatched tangled with you even though he knows it line by line just because it makes you happy. he makes you love a sometimes unlovable world. and you love him. god, you love him with everything that you are.

before you can overthink it, you lean in and press your lips to his. it’s soft, and quick, and unsure, but its also warm and real and bright. when you pull away, he chases your lips and kisses you properly, more confident, sure, steady.

when you pull away, you don’t go too far, foreheads touching, breathing each other in.

“i love you too bucky barnes. more than anything.” you say breathily and full of tenderness. he grins, full of pride and love.

“i figured, baby.” you let out a laugh.

“you’re impossible.” you tell him, amused.

“but i’m yours.”

“you’re mine.” you nod and kiss him again. and again. and again. forever.

[bbarnesbck]

Midnight Cream

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warning: Canon-typical trauma, emotional vulnerability, fluff, soft domestic love, food mentions, healing themes

----------

You’d heard all the theories.

Tony thought it was newspapers—the good ones, thick and smudgy, folded under one arm as he strolled into diners in wool coats and cuffed trousers.

Natasha had guessed it was jazz clubs. The kind that pulsed with slow brass and bourbon, filled with smoke and secrets and women in crimson lipstick.

Steve, bless his golden heart, had been sure it was family dinners. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, someone setting out salt and pepper shakers shaped like little roosters.

Everyone had an idea about what Bucky missed most from before. The thing he’d talk about, or cry over, or claw his way back to when the ghosts grew loud.

But none of them got it right.

Not even close.

You found out by accident.

It was past midnight, and Bucky couldn’t sleep again.

He never asked, not with words. Just showed up at your apartment looking like a stormcloud—hood up, eyes dim, voice gravel in his throat. You let him in without question.

You were both halfway through a silent movie you didn’t care about, bundled on your tiny secondhand couch, when you caught him staring at the TV—but not really watching. His fingers were twitching in the blanket, like they were holding something that wasn’t there.

So you said it. Quiet, like if you were too loud it would break him:

“What do you miss the most?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just blinked, and for a minute, you thought he wouldn’t say anything at all.

Then, he shrugged. A beat. Another.

“…Ice cream.”

You blinked. “What?”

He shifted beside you. “I mean, sure, I miss my family. Dancing. Sunday dinners. But those are big things. Too big. I can’t even touch them without hurting.”

You listened.

He looked down at the blanket, eyes distant. “But ice cream? That’s small. Simple. When we were kids, me and Becca would save our pennies all week. Walk five blocks to this little corner place. Tin cups. Real scoops. I’d always get chocolate. No matter what.”

Your heart ached.

“I haven’t had it since.”

Not since… you didn’t ask.

Instead, you whispered, “That’s fixable.”

He huffed a half-smile. “Yeah?”

You reached for your keys.

The first tub was from the bodega down the block.

They only had two flavors: mint chip and vanilla.

Bucky wrinkled his nose at the green, but ate two entire bowls of the vanilla in a silence that was soft, not sad. He licked the spoon clean and leaned back into the cushions with a sigh that sounded almost like peace.

“Good?” you asked.

His eyes were closed.

“It’s not chocolate,” he muttered, and you thought that was the end of it—

But then he added, “It’s perfect.”

After that, it became a mission.

An actual mission.

Every week, you brought home a different pint.

Double fudge brownie. Peanut butter swirl. Something called “Moose Tracks” that made Bucky raise an eyebrow and mutter “Where the hell’s the moose?” before devouring the whole thing in two sittings.

You started keeping a little notebook.

Bucky’s Ice Cream Ratings:

Vanilla (first night): 9/10 — “Nothing fancy. I liked that.”

Rocky Road: 7/10 — “Marshmallows are weird. Would still eat.”

Pistachio: 2/10 — “Why would anyone do this.”

Cherry Garcia: 10/10 — “Didn’t expect to like it. Can we get more?”

Classic Chocolate: 11/10 — “That’s it. That’s the one.”

You tried gelato. Sorbet. Cones with chocolate-dipped edges.

Every tub was an offering, a soft little miracle.

And slowly, the man in your kitchen—the one with haunted eyes and metal nightmares—started smiling again.

You’d find him in the middle of the night, standing at the freezer with the door wide open, barefoot, spoon in mouth, like some sleepy raccoon.

He’d glance over his shoulder like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and mutter, “Didn’t want to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you’d always say.

He always did.

But you never minded.

One night, months into your ritual, you sat side by side on your stoop with two bowls in your laps. The cicadas were loud. The summer air hung thick with heat and the sweet sting of pavement.

Bucky scooped a bite into his mouth and sighed.

“Best one yet,” he said, gesturing toward the carton between you.

It was some local creamery blend called Brooklyn Brownstone. Cinnamon, chocolate chunks, caramel ribbons.

You smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He was quiet for a while after that.

The street was still. An empty taxi rolled by. A cat darted across the curb and vanished into shadow.

Then he said, soft as dusk:

“I think this is the first time I’ve had something I missed... and it didn’t hurt.”

You looked over.

He was staring at his spoon like it held history.

“I thought remembering would break me,” he said. “But this… it’s just a good thing. From a good time. And it’s still good now.”

You didn’t say anything.

Just scooped a bite into your mouth, let it melt on your tongue, and leaned your shoulder into his.

He started helping with the search after that.

You’d find tabs open on his phone: Best ice cream shops NYC. How to make your own. Wartime frozen desserts.

Once, he showed up at your door holding a waffle cone wrapped in a napkin, grinning.

“Banana fudge,” he said, like it was sacred.

You took a bite. It dripped down your hand.

He licked it off, kissed your knuckle.

“Perfect,” he murmured.

You weren’t sure if he meant the ice cream or you.

Maybe both.

You made your own on your six-month anniversary.

No churn. Chocolate base. Topped with broken pretzels and chunks of dark truffle.

You wore his henley, stained your cheek with cocoa powder, and nearly dropped the whole tub taking it out of the freezer.

He caught you. Then kissed you, soft and slow, right there against the counter.

“Best dessert I ever had,” he murmured, before either of you had even tasted it.

It was never about the ice cream, not really.

It was about choosing joy. Choosing something sweet in a world that had only ever been sharp. About remembering without pain. About allowing softness, again and again.

It was about trust.

And one summer night, after an evening of blueberry cobbler swirl and lazy kisses on the porch swing, Bucky leaned into your neck and whispered:

“You brought me back.”

You laughed. “Pretty sure it was the Häagen-Dazs.”

He huffed a laugh against your skin.

“No,” he said. “It was you. But the ice cream helped.”

He kept a tub in the freezer labeled “In Case of Existential Crisis.”

It made you both laugh every time.

And sometimes, when the world spun too fast or the nightmares came too close, he’d sit beside you, spoon in hand, eating straight from that tub while you rubbed circles into his back and let him be quiet.

It was his favorite ritual.

Yours, too.

On your one-year anniversary, you gifted him a tiny silver pendant for his keychain.

Stamped into the metal: 🍦

He blinked, thumb brushing the charm. “Seriously?”

You shrugged. “Well. It brought you back, didn’t it?”

He looked at you, eyes soft and ocean-deep.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “It did.”

Then he kissed you—sweet and slow and chocolate-smooth.

And later that night, he whispered into your neck:

“I love you more than ice cream.”

You didn’t believe him.

But you kissed him anyway.

[bbarnesbck]

Make me Juno ; B. Barnes

Pairing: Husband!Bucky x F!Wife!Reader 

Synopsis: Bucky never thought he’d get married. But, then he did. He never thought he’d have kids. Never knew he even wanted them. Until he saw you with one. Now, it’s all he can think about. 

Warnings: Fluff, ft. the wilson’s, bucky’s a yearner, no use of y/n, SMUT, MDNI, kids loving bucky (and you), baby fever, ovulation kink?, kissing, cursing, all consensual, lots of terms of endearment, oral (f. rec), unprotected sex (do not), vocal & yapper buck, crying, overstimulation, porn with no plot, multiple rounds, creampies, cockwarming, breeding kink, rough sex, praise kink, spanking (once), marking, pussy worshipping, pregnancy, aftercare / WC: 5.6K

A/N: Ahh, thank you, anon, for indulging in baby-fever Bucky with me! I think I might be ovulating, tbh. But anyways! I love baby-fever ridden Bucky Barnes. Comments & Reblogs appreciated!

The late afternoon light bled gold through the windows of your shared apartment, catching in soft patterns across the wooden floorboards. You stood by the hallway mirror, twisting your earrings in with careful fingers, humming faintly under your breath. That sundress—the pale blue one with delicate little straps—fit you like a whisper. 

Bucky leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you run your fingers through your hair. His heart squeezed. A year into the marriage and he still couldn’t believe it some days. You looked so calm, so beautiful, so easy in your movements and skin. The way the afternoon sun painted you golden made him ache. 

You caught his eyes in the mirror and smiled, a knowing little curve of your mouth. “You keep staring at me like that, we’re going to be late,” you said, adjusting the neckline of your dress.

He pushed off the doorway and came to stand behind you, metal hand resting lightly at your waist. “I’m not staring,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder. “I’m admiring.”

“You’re trying to get us out of going.”

“Can you blame me?” he asked, turning you around slowly until you were facing him. His eyes swept over you like a man starved. “You in this dress… Jesus. I didn’t know you were gonna wear this. You could’ve warned me.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “Bucky—”

“Just five minutes,” he said, leaning in, kissing your jaw. “Let me take this off you. I’ll be fast, promise.”

You giggled, brushing your nose against his. “You’re never fast.”

“That’s not true,” he mumbled into your neck, already pushing the hem of your skirt up.

You grabbed his face in your hands and kissed him once—slow, deep, enough to make his knees buckle. Then you pulled away. “You’re going to behave at Sam’s. There’s kids there. Food. Community.”

Bucky groaned, head tipping back. “You’re cruel.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I can be crueller.” 

He blinked and stepped back, smiled and grabbed your purse. “No need. I’m moving. Practically in the car.” 

You snorted, shaking your head at his antics. You followed after him, shutting and locking the door behind you. 

He slipped his hand in yours. 

The Wilson house was already alive when you pulled up. Music floated from the backyard, mingled with laughter and the high, excited squeals of children. 

The scent of something grilled and delicious hung in the air. Bucky leaned over to open your door, hand immediately on your lower back as you both stepped out. 

“Ready?” you asked. 

“No,” he answered, eyes lingering on your legs. “But I’ll survive.” 

You patted his chest in mock sympathy. “You can do it, Buck. I believe in you.” 

Sarah greeted you both with warm hugs and lemonade. A shout from one of her kids pulled her away and you waved her off, told her to go check on them and you’d find her in a bit. Sam, already one beer in, sauntered over. 

“Took you long enough,” Sam said, clapping Buck on the back. “Lemme guess. You were trying to talk her out of coming?” 

You laughed as Sam hugged you, soft, like an older brother might. 

“Something like that,” Bucky muttered, eyes scanning the crowd. You laid a hand on his arm and he relaxed slightly, eyes crinkling softly at you as Sam handed him a beer. 

Cass and AJ were mid-sword fight in the yard and immediately hollered when they spotted Bucky. 

“UNCLE BUCKY!”

“Oh no,” Bucky sighed as they charged. He gave you one last look, smirk tugging at his lips as AJ grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the grass. You and Sam laughed as Cass hugged you hello before darting after them. 

You caught Bucky’s eye just as he slowly fell on his back, exaggeration bleeding out of him as he beamed at the kid’s laughter. 

Pray for me, he mouthed. 

I love you, you mouthed back, turning before you could see his eyes turn into hearts. 

Pulled into a conversation, Sam walked away after squeezing your shoulder and you wandered off to find Sarah and help her in the kitchen. 

It was good, easy. Everything always felt so light here, like the weight of the world drifted into the harbour and all that was left was softness and laughter. 

Later, Sarah brought out one of her friends—a woman named Candace. She’d just moved into the neighborhood with her husband and their baby girl. 

“Oh, you have to meet her,” Sarah told you, dragging you toward the couch. “She’s an angel. And I have a feeling she’ll love you.” 

You’d always liked kids. Talked about them in soft, tentative tones late at night with Bucky—some day, not now.

But when Candace placed her daughter in your arms, something inside you settled. Something ancient and quiet. You shifted her gently, feeling the sweet weight of her body, and you were a goner. She had the chubbiest cheeks and the softest fuzz of dark curls on her head. You chatted and cooed, drawn to the little one like it was instinct.

Sarah and Candance looked at each, a look of knowing passing between them. A look only a mother could understand, could decipher. They slowly moved away, like they knew how important this was for you—how life changing it could be. 

Bucky looked up from the grass where he’d been tackling Cass to the ground in a mock wrestling move. He caught your laugh first. That soft, fluttering giggle you always gave when something melted you. He turned from where Aj was trying to tie his metal arm behind his back like a superhero cape—and he froze. 

You were holding a baby. 

Your arms curled around her like you were made to carry her. You rocked her gently, one finger tracing her tiny cheek as you spoke to her in that quiet voice that did things to him. There was a smile on your face that Bucky hadn’t seen before. You were glowing, soft, peaceful, the kind of beauty that wasn’t just physical—but something else, something foreign and familiar all the same. 

And Bucky—something shifted. He felt it deep in his chest. A low, unfamiliar ache. An instinct he’d never let himself entertain. Not in this life. Not with his past. 

He felt like something in him snapped. 

He didn’t want to want kids. He never thought he would. He never thought it was even possible for him to live a life that normal, that good. He already had you—had something so pure and good that he constantly pinched himself to make sure it was real. 

But now he couldn’t unsee it. Couldn’t unfeel the way his chest pulled and clenched with a sudden need, a new type of longing. You were his wife, his beautiful, perfect wife, and now he wanted to make you a mother. 

Sam walked by, caught him frozen mid-step, his nephews giggling on the grass. 

“You alright there, Buck?” Sam came up beside him, grinning.

Bucky blinked. “Huh?” 

Sam followed his gaze and nodded, grinning wider. “Ah, I see.”

“Shut up,” Bucky grumbled, mindful of the kids around him. 

Sam raised a brow. “You got it bad.” 

“Don’t—” Bucky started, but Sam just laughed, bumped his shoulder. 

“Relax. I’ve seen that look before. You’re gonna be insufferable the rest of the night, aren’t you?” 

Bucky didn’t answer—couldn’t. Because you were looking up at him now, smiling that sweet, private smile, and the baby was still curled against you like she belonged there—and Bucky felt his cock twitch in his jeans. A primal and unwarranted reaction, but a natural and unstoppable one, nonetheless. 

Jesus Christ, it was going to be a long day.

Later, near sunset, the kids were winding down and the adults were camped on the porch. You sat on a rocking bench with the baby girl in your arms again, after Sam had gently given her to you when Sarah called him, now sleepy and burbling as you gently hummed a lullaby. Bucky came to sit beside you, his thigh brushing yours, his fingers itching to touch. 

“Tired?” you asked, quietly. 

Bucky hummed, shifting closer to you. “Yeah, a bit. Those boys sure know how to play.” 

You laughed, fond. He pressed his shoulder into yours. “What about you?” he asked, just as quiet. “Had fun?” 

You looked down at the baby in your arms and nodded, briefly overcome with feeling. “She’s so good,” you whispered. “Just look at her, Buck.” 

He did—couldn’t look away. “You’re so good with her.”

Your eyes found his, something soft and fragile between you. She grabbed his metal finger, tiny fist curling tight, and Bucky swore his heart cracked right open. 

You watched him carefully, watching as the tension in his body melted and how his breath hitched. His eyes were wide, filled with curiosity and hesitation. You felt your heart swell, the ache in your stomach grow,

You swallowed, trying to reel in the flutter between your legs, in your gut. “I never thought it’d hit me like this.” 

Bucky didn’t look at you, eyes on the tiny, flesh hand wrapped around his metal one. “Like what?”

You looked down. “Wanting one. Our own.”

Bucky looked up and stared at you. 

You didn’t see the way his throat bobbed, the tension in his jaw. But Sarah did, from across the porch. She elbowed Sam with a grin, and he barely stifled a laugh.

The car ride home was silent. 

Thick with heat and want and emotions and need. 

Bucky’s hand was on your thigh the entire time, thumb rubbing circles just below the hem of your dress. You shifted, breath catching. He pressed harder and you clenched your thighs together. 

There were no kids, no Sam or other other adults to behave around. Just you and Bucky—alone, driving home. It was different today, the air in the car. Usually, Bucky would be mumbling about something; the food or the people or Sam or simply how he missed touching you, but there was none of that. 

Just silence—heavy and warm, wrapping around you both like it knew, knew that the ache inside you both would only grow in the quiet comfort of each other. 

Bucky could smell it—the shift in your hormones. Your body calling him. He didn’t know much about ovulation, but he knew you. Knew your scent, your taste, the pulse of want that beat through you when you were aroused. His senses weren’t that enhanced but he knew your body, completely in-tune with you. 

You were ovulating. It explained how you jumped him last night in bed and it sort of explained the situation now—how you were turned towards him, clenching your thighs together with a far away look in your eyes. It leaked out of you—out of your pores and your cunt, probably pooling in your panties and soaking his seats.

Bucky was losing his mind. His thumb pressed into your skin and you sighed. His cock twitched and he almost groaned out. All he wanted was to sink into you but he had to drive, had to get home and take care of you properly.

The door barely shut behind you before Bucky had you pinned against it, breath hot and heavy against your cheek. His hands gripped your hips, rough and desperate, as if grounding himself—like if he didn’t hold on, he might float away. 

You barely had time to gasp before he kissed you. 

It was brutal in the way only love could be—all tongue, all teeth, all reverence. Bucky kissed like he was starving—like every second spent not inside you was one wasted. His metal hand slid up your spine, fingers fisting in the back of your sundress, dragging the fabric up your thighs as he pressed his body flush to yours. 

“You don’t know,” he rasped against your lips. “You don't know what you did to me today, baby.” 

You blinked up at him, lips plump and dazed. “What…what did I do?” 

He groaned, forehead dropping to yours as he pressed his hips against yours. “You holding that baby,” he said, voice breaking. “You smiled and I saw it—saw you glowing, glowing like you were meant to be someone’s mama. Like you were meant to carry my baby.” 

Your breath caught, eyes fluttering. 

“I couldn’t think straight,” he admitted, lips brushing your jaw, your cheekbone, the shell of your ear. “Sam caught me starin’. Said I looked like a lovesick idiot but I didn’t care. All I could think was—fuck, she’d be the most beautiful mama.” 

He nibbled the skin under your ear. “I want you full of me, sweetheart. Want you round and glowing and pregnant.” 

Your knees buckled at his words, at the heat in his voice, at the trembling in his hands. You clutched at his shirt, dragging him closer, whimpering when his thigh slotted between yours. 

“Bucky—” 

“I know we haven't had a proper conversation," he murmured, kissing down your neck. “But I saw how badly you wanted it. And I want it too, want you. Tell me to stop and I will but I want this.” 

You swallowed thickly, your heart pounding so hard it hurt. You looked into his eyes, blue and black, filled with love and affection. 

“I want a baby, Bucky,” you whispered. “I want a baby with you—yours.” 

He was right, you hadn’t had a proper conversation, just that you’d wait a bit, but it wasn’t like you weren’t ready. You knew you wanted a future with him after your first date and he knew long before he’d even asked you on that date. 

Besides, you knew this wasn’t something you wanted to plan. You wanted it to happen for you and him naturally, and what’s more natural than immense lust and want. 

Bucky froze—just for a second—and he snapped, letting go of the reins completely. 

His mouth crushed yours again, more desperate than ever. Tilting his head, he deepened the kiss and slipped his tongue into your mouth. Tongues, teeth, and lips crashed together in perfect harmony. 

Bucky lifted you into his arms with ease, your legs wrapping around his waist as he stumbled down the hall, barely making it to the bedroom before throwing you onto the bed. You laughed as your back hit the mattress, legs immediately parting. 

“Keep the dress on,” he growled, crawling over you, yanking your panties down your thighs. “Fuck—this fucking dress.” He shoved the hem up to your waist, staring down at your glistening cunt like it was holy. 

“You’re so wet,” he groaned. “God, baby, you’re dripping.” 

“For you,” you breathed, pussy fluttering as the cold air brushed against it. “Always for you.”

He smiled, something wicked and promising. He surged forward, lips on your neck and you arched into him, giving him more access to your neck. He kissed down your body, shifting himself as he kissed down your clothed breasts, sucking and biting through the flimsy material. 

You whimpered when his tongue poked and prodded your sensitive nipples, hot tongue against your skin. He unbuttoned your dress and kissed your exposed breasts, tongue swirling against your hardened nipples. 

He kissed down your stomach, gentle as he continued to unbutton your dress. “So fucking pretty,” he mumbled, staring down at you with heated eyes. 

“Buck” you practically whined, needing him, anything. 

“I know,” he mumbled, and he did. He needed this as badly as you did, if not more. But he was a dutiful husband, and he’d take care of you, satisfy you. All you had to do was be patient. 

Bucky laid on his stomach and looked up at you. Head propped up on a pillow, you stared down at him and smiled, nodding slightly to his non-verbal question. 

Gently, Bucky lifted each of your legs and placed them over his shoulders, forcing you to open yourself for him completely. He leaned in and pressed his nose against your cunt, your hips jerking upwards at the feeling of him nosing your clit but he held them down. 

“So wet, baby,” he breathed out, rubbing his nose further into you. “Naughty little wife,” he grinned as he brought his metal hand to your pussy and rubbed your arousal all over clit. 

“Getting so wet while holding someone else’s baby girl.” You whimpered when he kissed your slit. “You want your own, don’t you? I’ll give you one.” 

Before you could say anything, he planted a hot, wet, open-mouthed kiss on your clit and he moaned as his tongue slipped inside your pussy. Crying out, you arch your back in response as his nose nudged against your swollen folds. A low hum reverberates through him as he licks, sending delicious shivers down your spine.

Bucky moaned when you tugged on his hair, his name slipping quietly from your lips. He licks one long stripe up your slit and you nearly screamed as he pushed his nose further into you, his tongue fucking in and out of your sopping hole. 

His hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, spreading you wide, holding your still as he devoured you. Tongue thrusting inside, slurping and sucking, groaning like he was the one being touched. 

“Fuck, Bucky—oh my god—”

He sucked your clit, flicked it with the tip of his tongue in tight little circles, your body shaking as heat coiled deep in your belly. 

“Gonna make you come like this,” he growled against your cunt. “Gotta make you fall apart on my tongue before I fuck a baby into you.” 

The pressure of your pleasure built and snapped inside you as he wrapped his lips around your cunt and pressed his thumb to your clit. You sobbed out his name, clenched your eyes shut as your nerves lit on fire and your vision went white. 

Bucky moaned, drinking you down, licking through your orgasm like he needed it more than life. “That’s it,” he panted. “Cum all over my face.” The bottom half of his face, his beard, was shiny with your cum and slick as he continued to lick at you, his tongue working its way from your entrance all the way to your clit. 

When you collapsed, boneless and gasping, he pulled away from your cunt and looked at you like you were made of starlight, something magnificent and out of this world. 

You were breathing hard, fucked out. Bucky watched you carefully as he stripped—sweater, pants, briefs—all gone in a blur. 

You opened your eyes to the sight of him staring at you, a predatory look in his eyes. His cock was leaking, flushed and hard and thick, precum leaking from his swollen tip. He knelt between your legs, stroked himself with one hand while the other cupped your jaw.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he murmured, all gentle. “You sure about this?” 

You nodded, eyes glassy. “Yeah, I want it.” You curled your finger around the chain of one of his dogtags, pulled him flush against you. Pressing your lips against his, you mumbled into his mouth. “Make me a mama, Buck.” 

Bucky groaned against your mouth, tongue teasing your bottom lip as he pressed his cockhead to your entrance, swallowing your moan when your hips tilted up. You held your breath as he pushed inside, moaning out his name as your pussy sucked him in. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Gonna cum so deep in you it’ll have no choice but to stick. You’ll be so full of me—my come, my baby.” He kissed your forehead. “My pretty girl.” 

You moaned at the stretch, arching your back so your ass pressed flush against his hips. Bucky bit your shoulder, slowly rocked his hips against yours, sliding his dick in and out of you at the most delicious pace. He bottomed out slowly, burning himself to the hilt. 

He stayed there, forehead to yours, panting. 

“You’re so tight,” he choked. “So fucking perfect.” 

You whimpered, nails digging into his back as he pressed into you, thick and pulsing inside you. 

Pressing a kiss to your nose, he lifted his hips and started fucking you—deep, slow, intentional. Every thrust was heavy, hot, full of claim. His hand slid under your neck, cradling it. The other gripped your hip, grounding himself as he slammed into you, muttering against your mouth.

“Take it, baby, take all of me. Gonna fill you up so good. You’re gonna be such a good mama.”

You were crying now—overwhelmed, wrecked, unraveling from the intensity of it all. 

“I love you,” you sobbed, babbling. “I love you so much, Buck.” It all felt like too much—his cock, the intentions of the way he pressed into you. 

He kissed your tears away, hips stuttering as your nails raked down his back. “I love you too, baby. So fucking much. You’re my everything.” 

Your cries echoed through the room as the pressure inside you snapped and you climaxed, your cum coating his cock. Your body convulsed uncontrollably, your walls tightening around him. Bucky’s own moaning mingled with yours as he bit down on your neck, cumming inside you. 

With a strangled growl, Bucky shoved as deep as he could and spilled inside you—hot, thick ropes of cum flooding your cunt as he trembled over you, gasping your name like a prayer. He continued to thrust, filling you completely, his gaze transfixed on the sight of his cock disappearing into your white, creamy warmth. 

Amidst your incoherent babbling, Bucky was lost in the depths of your pussy. His movements were relentless, driven by an urge he couldn’t deny. Tears streamed down your cheeks, a mixture of overstimulation and raw emotion overwhelming your senses. 

As the final drops of his cum dripped into your core, Bucky gradually slowed his pace, pressing tender kisses to your neck and shoulders. He wrapped his arms around you, smiling against your skin when your limp legs wrapped loosely around him. 

He kissed you, gentle and soft, cock softening  a bit inside you as you both caught your breath. Slowly, gently, he pulled out and your pussy fluttered around nothing, clenching at the loss. His cum dripped out of your cunt, dripping down your thighs and Bucky watched, mesmerized. 

He groaned as he spread your thighs wider, fingers dragging through the mess he left inside you, gliding over swollen folds, watching them glisten. 

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped. “You’re leaking all over the bed. Think I’m losing my mind.” 

You blinked, breath catching. “Mhm.” You were fucked out, mind hazy, but the emptiness between your legs was evident. 

“I got you, sweetheart,” he murmured, thumb circling your clit. “Just lay back. I know what you need. Let me fuck it back in.”

And he does—pushes two fingers into you, slow and deep, and you gasp, hips twitching. You're sore but your cunt clenched around him like you needed more, wanted more—and you do.

“You feel that?” he panted. “That’s all mine. You’re fuckin’ full of me, baby.” 

“Need more,” you whimper. “Please, Buck.” 

“I know.” His mouth is against your belly now, kissing, worshipping. He whispered praises against your skin. “Feelin’ empty, aren’t you?” 

He kissed your mound and then licked a slow, wet stripe from your hole to your clit. You jolted, breath stuttering. He hands pinned your thighs open as he pushed his tongue inside you, moaning into your cunt at the taste of his cum mixed with yours. 

Shameless, he devoured you. His beard scratched at your sensitive thighs, tongue curling deep inside until you’re begging.

“Bucky, fuck—s’too much—”

“Take it, sweetheart,” he growled, voice slurred with lust. “You taste so fuckin’ good. Gimme that pussy, come on, I need it—” 

You cry out when he slapped your thigh, rough and sweet at the same time. He pulled back, eyes fluttering open. “Sit on my fuckin’ face.” 

“What?” you breathed out, dazed and on the verge of tears again. 

“You heard me,” he grinned, licking his lips. “Ride my face, pretty girl. Wanna feel you grind all over me.” 

You let him flip you over, straddled his face as his hands guided you down until your pussy was flush against his mouth. He moaned like he’s been depraved. His tongue lapped into you greedily, fucking into you as you rocked on him, thighs trembling. 

Bucky knows he’s on a high right now, pussy drunk, completely lost in it—gripped your thighs tight, pulled you down like he wants nothing more than to drown in you. 

Your thighs burned as you gripped the headboard for dear life. The pleasure is too great, it snapped too quickly and you screamed, cumming all over his face. 

Bucky licked and sucked even as you tried to pull away. “Can’t,” you sobbed. “Bucky, I—” 

Bucky whined and flipped you again, settling between your legs. He’s ripped the dress off you, threw it somewhere unimportant. His cock is hard again, thick and red and he pushed the leaking head of his cock to your entrance again, slapped it against your folds and grunted. 

He pushed in—slow and so fucking deep, and you cry out at the stretch, at the burn, the fullness. 

“That’s it,” his eyes are squeezed shut. “Such a good fuckin’ girl, taking my cock again.” 

You moaned, legs wrapping around his waist. He thrusted, dragging every inch of his veiny cock against your plush walls. He leaned down, kissed you hard—tongue in your mouth. 

“Bucky—!” It’s all you're left capable of saying, just his name, over and over again. 

“Gotta fuck my cum into you, baby,” he reasoned with you, sweat glistening his chest. “You want that, don’t you? Want me to fill you again? Want me to fuck a baby into like I promised?” 

“Yes—please, Bucky.” you were panting. “I need it—” 

“Say it,” he growled, slamming into you, his fingers bruising your hips. “Tell me you want it.” 

“I want it,” you sobbed, clawing at the sheets. “Want your baby—don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

He’s rabid—tongue dragging down your neck as his teeth grazed your skin, biting as he pounded into you. The lewd slap of skin against skin is filthy, mixed with your wet cries as his broken grains. He slapped your cunt with his metal hand—hard—and you screamed into his mouth. 

“Fuck, good fuckin’ girl. Look at you—so fuckin’ needy. All this ‘cause you wanna be bred.” 

He pulled your hips higher, flush against his pelvis. You’re full on sobbing now, begging for it. You pussy fluttered and clenched around him with every thrust and he hissed, pressed into you deeper. 

His hand pressed into your skin and slid down your body until it reached your pussy. His thumb circled your clit, pressed into it as he drove his cock deep, hips slammed into yours again and again until—

Your vision goes white completely, stars dancing as you cummed. Your whole body trembled, legs giving out as your pussy milked his cock. Bucky gritted his teeth and slammed into you one more time and groaned—deep and broken—in his chest as he cummed inside you, cock throbbing. 

“Fuck—fuck, baby, take it—take it all,” he moaned, buried himself deeper, grinding into you. “So good for me. So fuckin’ perfect.” 

He pressed into you, panting, before he pulled out just a little. Your thighs are soaked, your cunt swollen and leaking all over his thighs and the sheets. “Shit,” Bucky whispered, dazed, drooling. 

“Look what I did to you.” 

You blinked up at him, smiling dumbly. He leaned down, kissed your trembling lips. Tender and slow, one hand brushed the hair off your sweaty face. 

“Think we just made a baby,” he whispered with a grin, voice warm and low. 

You laughed, breathless, fucked-out, completely wrecked.

You were barely conscious—just boneless warmth draped over him, your thighs trembling, lips swollen and bruised, and still, still he hadn’t pulled out. 

Bucky stayed buried deep inside you, both arms wrapped tight around your back, your cheek pressed against his chest where his heart was still pounding like a war drum. 

His cum was thick inside you, heat pooled low, locked in place by the gentle grind of his hips, cock twitching every time you shifted in your sleep. His hand stroked up your back, across your spine, then curled under your ass, squeezing softly. 

He couldn’t bear to let go. Didn’t want to risk a single drop slipping out. 

“Doin’ so good for me, baby,” he whispered, kissing your eyelids. “Gonna keep it all inside, yeah? Gotta keep you full.” 

You mumbled something unintelligible against his skin, barely more than a sigh, and he felt you melt even more—his cock twitched again. 

He wanted you pregnant—needed it in his bones. And it wasn’t just the thought of breeding you—of cumming inside you so deep it took—but the life of it. Of you and him expanding your family. He could see it as clear as day; you holding their baby at your hip, glowing with that softness only he got to see, wrapped up in something warm and soft. 

“I’m gonna be good,” he whispered into your hair, voice cracking. “I’ll be so good for you. Gonna take care of both of you. You’ll never lift a damn finger, sweetheart. I swear.” 

He stayed inside you for as long as your body would let him—until your breath evened out completely, and your hand went limp over his chest. 

Only then, carefully, slowly, did he slip out of you, hissing as his cock left that warm, soaked haven. He cupped his hand over your cunt instantly, thumb brushing the slick mess between your thighs, murmuring, “That’s it, baby, hold it in for me.” 

He kissed your temple, then your shoulder, then finally eased away from the bed—just long enough to wet a warm cloth and come back to clean you up, gentle as anything. 

You didn’t even stir—too fucked out and too loved. 

Bucky smiled as he tucked the blanket around your waist, crawled back into bed, and curled around your body like a shield. His cock was already hardening again where it pressed between your thighs, but he didn’t move—just held you. 

“I love you,” he whispered, kissing the shell of your ear. “So much. You’re my heart.” 

You made a soft, sleepy noise, and he smiled into your hair. 

“You’ll see,” he promised, already picturing it—tiny baby fingers curling around yours, soft coos in the middle of the night. “I’ll be the best dad. The best husband. I’ll be good.” 

And he meant it. More than he meant anything else.

You stared at the little plastic stick in your hand like it was a live wire. The bathroom was quiet except for the soft hum of the fan and the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. 

Three minutes. 

You hadn’t told him you were late yet—not until this morning, when you’d woken up with your face buried in his neck and an unease in your stomach and whispered, “Buck? I think I might be pregnant.”

His eyes had shot open instantly. No sleepy blink, just a rush of warmth and wonder in this blue eyes—filled with excitement and caution. 

You sat on the closed toilet lid, test in hand, and he crouched in front of you, both of his huge hands wrapped around your knees. You could feel him vibrating with nerves, with hope. You hadn’t even looked yet. 

“Baby,” he said, quiet and so fond. 

You looked up at him. “Mm?” 

He smiled, gentle and promising. “Whatever the test says, it’ll be okay. If you’re not pregnant, I don’t want you to worry. It’ll be okay.” 

You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded, love and anxiety swimming down your throat. It would be okay, but you wanted this so bad. 

“You ready?” he asked, softly. 

You nodded once. 

Then, you slowly turned the stick. 

Pregnant. 

The word stared up at you in tiny digital letters—so simple, so final.

You barely had a second to process it before Bucky exhaled a shaky breath and grabbed you, arms winding around your waist so fast and tight you dropped the test and laughed into his shoulder. 

“Oh my god,” he whispered into your neck, kissing you, eyes wet. “You’re pregnant. Baby. Baby—we did it. You did it.” 

You smiled so wide your cheeks hurt, threading your fingers through his hair as he pulled back just enough to look at you. 

“You’re really happy?” you asked, voice thick. 

Bucky let outa breathless, wet laugh—then dropped to his knees on the tiled floor, lifting your shirt with shaking fingers. 

“Happy?” he whispered. “Sweetheart, I’ve never been this happy in my whole damn life.” 

That wasn’t all that true, since the day he married you would always be the happiest day of his life, but this was such a close second. 

He kissed your belly—soft and reverent. Once, then again. He pressed his forehead to your stomach like he was praying. 

He looked up at you, eyes shiny. “Are you happy, baby?” 

You blinked and then your lips wobbled and Bucky stood instantly, catching you just as you collapsed in his arms. He cooed in your ear softly, encouraging you to cry, to let it out. 

“I’m so happy,” you mumbled through tears. You looked up at him, beautiful and glowing he was undone. “I’m gonna be a mama, Bucky.” 

“You are,” he choked, nose brushing against yours. “You’re going to be such an amazing mama,” he said, voice wrecked with love and emotion. “Luckiest kid in the world.” 

You stroked your fingers through his hair as tears slipped down your cheeks. His arms wound tighter around your waist, like he couldn’t get close enough. “We’re gonna be parents.” 

You nodded, choking out a laugh. “Yeah, Buck. We are.” You kissed his cheek. “You’re gonna be such a good dad.” 

He leaned down and kissed you—slow, deep, trembling with joy—and in that tiny bathroom, hearts pressed together, everything in the world felt right. 

[bbarnesbck]

when i’m in a beauty competition and my opponent is lewis pullman crying

[bbarnesbck]

A break during the road trip

[bbarnesbck]

Just Competitive  

Title: Just Competitive  

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary:  Sam’s new gf keeps waking you up

Word Count: 2.5k  

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, Established relationship Light possessiveness / dominance, Noise kink elements, Bucky gets competitive, fingering, unprotected sex

A/N:  Ok so the other night I woke up at 2:30am and this is what happens when you ask the group chat what to do. @azriona This was your idea! (also sorry for everyone else who got edged in the chat)

Bucky rolled over, eyes still heavy with sleep, only to find you already wide awake- eyes on the ceiling, brows pinched in irritation.

“What’s wrong- ”

He didn’t even finish the sentence before he heard it.

Moaning. Loud, exaggerated, and frankly theatrical moaning. The kind that bounced off the thin apartment walls with no shame.

From the other side of the wall, Sam’s room.

Sam’s new girlfriend.

Bucky blinked at the ceiling, then turned toward the wall with a mix of annoyance and reluctant admiration. “Jesus,” he muttered. “She’s still going?”

You groaned, rubbing your face. “Twenty-five minutes. She’s been going off like a broken wind-up toy for twenty-five minutes, Bucky.” It was all too much right now.  “It's 3 a.m.,” you whined, dragging a pillow over your face. “Why does everyone have to be loud now?”

Bucky chuckled, soft and gravelly, then pulled you into his chest, spooning you close. One arm wrapped around your waist, petting gently over your stomach.

“We knew it was gonna be an adjustment moving in with Sam,” he said, trying to soothe you.

You nuzzled in, only to freeze when the sound of the headboard started thumping against the wall.

Again.

“Oh come on,” you hissed. “What’s she trying to prove? She always gets like this when she knows I’m home.” A beat. “Tell me I don’t sound like that.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just started kissing the side of your neck, slow and deliberate, his hand sneaking a little lower under the sheets.

“No, doll,” he murmured against your skin. “You sound so much better.” Another kiss, hotter now. “Prettier. Real.” His hand gripped your thigh and pulled it over his hip.

You squirmed, suddenly more awake, heat creeping up your cheeks.

He smirked. “Wanna put on a show of our own?”

You were about to swat him away, really, you were, but Bucky’s fingers were already sliding lower, finding that soft, puffy spot between your thighs, circling your clit with lazy precision. It wasn’t fair how practiced he was at this. How well he knew your body.

Your breath hitched, hips twitching back into him before you could stop yourself.

He snorted softly into your hair. “That’s it, sweetheart. Knew you’d warm up to the idea.”

You tried to sound annoyed. “I’m not trying to compete with her- ”

But your words dissolved into a soft gasp as one thick finger slipped inside you. The stretch made your back arch into him, thighs instinctively squeezing together around his hand.

“Oh, come on, beautiful,” Bucky drawled with a grin you could hear in his voice, “we can get you to do better than that.”

Your hand grabbed the edge of the blanket, already flushed with heat, trying not to give him the satisfaction. But then his thumb started stroking again, gentle, taunting circles on your clit, and your body betrayed you with a whimper.

“That’s better,” he cooed, finger curling just right. “Thought you said you don’t sound like her.” Another stroke. “But this? Baby, this is music.”

“Bucky- ” you tried to whisper a warning, but it broke apart halfway through, breath catching in your throat as he added a second finger, his arm tightening around your waist to hold you still while he played your body like a favorite song.

“Y’know,” he murmured into your neck, lips brushing your skin, “if she wants to perform, she should hear what a real show sounds like.”

His fingers plunged deeper, curling just so. You moaned, louder this time and Bucky groaned behind you, rutting his cock against your ass through his boxers, hard and throbbing.

“Fuck, that’s it. There’s my girl.”

He bit softly at your shoulder, then licked the spot to soothe it. “Think I could make you cry for me before she hits round four?”

You turned your head slightly, breathless and hot all over. “You’re awful.”

He grinned, kissing your cheek. “M’just competitive.”

“I think someone’s holding back…” Bucky murmured, voice all sweet mockery, hips grinding slow and deliberate into your ass while his fingers pumped inside you, unhurried but ruthless.

You whimpered, clutching the sheet with one hand and his metal wrist with the other, thighs trembling as he twisted just right, making your muscles clamp tight around his fingers.

“Ohh,” he laughed softly, low and warm in your neck. “There it is. That little clench- mm, yeah, you’re gettin’ close, huh?”

His thumb rolled over your clit in a tighter circle and your whole body jerked, a desperate moan catching in your throat.

You squeezed his wrist hard, but it wasn’t enough.

“Bucky- Buck, wait- no- ”

He knew what that meant. Knew you didn’t really want him to stop. That you were right on the edge. Which is exactly why he did.

He pulled his fingers out slow, wet and glistening, and you made a pitiful noise of protest that only made him smile wider.

“Aw, c’mon, sweetheart,” he said, already rolling you onto your back like you weighed nothing. “Don’t look at me like that.” He slotted himself between your thighs, pushing his boxers off. “You know I’m just tryin’ to help you live up to your potential.”

You glared up at him, flushed and needy, hips trying to chase his even before he lined himself up. But he didn’t push in right away. No, Bucky had to tease.

He ran his cock through your slick folds, tip dragging lazily up and down, tapping against your clit until your whole body twitched.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled, voice suddenly tight. “You’re already soaked. It didn’t take much- never does with you.”

He held your hips still, teasing the head of his cock along your slick folds again before finally giving in, slow, steady, thick. The tip nudged at your entrance before gliding up and down to smear your wetness, until your hips arched up in silent plea.

Then, finally, he pressed in just the tip, thick, hot, stretching you just enough to make your breath leave your chest in a broken gasp.

You arched, clutching his bicep. “auhh- ”

Bucky grinned.

“Better.”

He pushed in another inch, then another, groaning at how tight you were around him, your body pulling him deeper with every inch.

“You gonna give me those pretty sounds now, doll?” he whispered, rolling his hips just so. “Or do I gotta work for ‘em?”

You didn’t even get the chance to answer.

Because that was when the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of Sam’s headboard started agai Harder this time. His girl’s voice climbed an octave, all high-pitched gasps and theatrical moaning, just shy of pornographic.

And then- fuck- you heard Sam.

A low groan, unmistakable.

You buried your face in Bucky’s shoulder with a miserable whine.

You were screwed now.

Even in the near-darkness of the room, you could feel Bucky’s expression change, could sense his tongue poke into his cheek, his jaw flexing as he stared at the wall like he was personally offended.

“Oh, hell no,” he growled, pulling his hips back and snapping them forward, burying his cock deep, all the way in, dragging a sudden, guttural cry out of you before you could stop it.

“Bucky- !”

“That’s better,” he grunted, hand sliding under your thigh, hitching your leg up so he could angle himself deeper. “You let them have their noise. You’re gonna sing for me now.”

He started to move, slow but powerful thrusts that punched little gasps from your throat with every roll of his hips. You clung to his shoulders, eyes wide, trying to hold back, but it was useless. Every thrust forced a sound from you, each one a little louder than the last, your body unraveling beneath his.

You were already soaked, already there, and the feeling of him dragging along every nerve-ending inside you made you tremble. He was so deep, so heavy inside you, his hips grinding with purpose, like he was sculpting those sounds out of you.

“Not gonna let ‘em win, baby,” he whispered, breath hot against your lips. “Gonna fuck you so good you forget your own name. Let her try to moan louder than you- I dare her.”

His metal hand gripped the headboard behind you for leverage, and you swore it was about to start banging against the wall too. The creak of the bed and slap of skin echoed through the room.

“Bucky, fuck- ”

“There we go,” he praised, fucking into you harder, rougher now, each thrust rocking you up the bed. “That’s my girl. Soundin’ so pretty for me.”

You moaned helplessly, arching into him, fingers digging into his skin, and he was relentless, devoted to making you cry out louder than whatever was happening on the other side of that wall.

“You feel that, sweetheart?” he groaned, dragging his cock out slowly before slamming it back in, harder than before. “That’s it, let them know how good we fit. Let them know who’s makin’ you feel like this.”

You tried to answer, tried to form anything like a thought but it all shattered as he slammed into you again, grinding deep, and your breath hitched into a needy, helpless cry.

Your fingers clutched the pillow beside your head. Your legs trembled. You could barely keep your eyes open.

“Bucky- ”

He growled low, loving the way you moaned, loving the way your body trembled under his. Every sound you made spurred him on, every breathless whimper, every little hitch of your hips. He was drinking you in like he’d starved for it, worshipping every flutter and squeeze you gave him.

The girl next door let out another dramatic scream, the headboard knocking rhythmically against the wall, but all you could focus on was the way Bucky filled you, every inch of him, thick and hot and perfect inside you. The pressure of his cock dragged against that spot that made your spine bow, your thighs clenching around his hips instinctively.

Bucky grinned into your neck, not slowing. He fucked you through it- deliberate and deep, his hand sliding between you to circle your clit just to hear you sob again. The world was narrowed down to just the heat of your bodies and the slick slide of him inside you.

Nothing else mattered. Not the noise. Not the neighbors. Just the man above you, within you, around you, driving you out of your mind.

“That’s it, baby,” he panted, mouth against your throat. “Don’t hold back. Let me hear you. Let her hear you.”

You did.

You couldn’t not.

He was grinding into your spot now with every thrust, dragging his cock against it until your toes curled and your nails scraped his back. Your moans started coming louder, broken, desperate, real. It wasn’t a performance. It was a surrender.

“Ohh, fuck, you feel good,” you sobbed, voice high and shaky.

Bucky’s head dropped, his breath stuttering. “God, you sound so good.”

His voice cracked slightly as he rutted into you, deeper and harder, his grip tightening on your hip. "Fuck, baby... you’re squeezin’ me so tight- keep that up and I’m not gonna last."

His mouth found yours, messy, hungry, claiming you completely as his hips snapped faster, harder, losing the rhythm as he chased both of your releases like he needed them to win. Like it was a goddamn competition now.

And maybe it was.

His chest was heaving, breath ragged, as he braced himself above you, each thrust more urgent, more desperate than the last. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss, swallowing each other's whimpers and gasps as he fucked you through the mounting tension building between you.

You cried out into his mouth when he hit just right, your back arching off the mattress, thighs shaking around his waist. Your whole body tensed, every muscle winding tight like a wire ready to snap.

“There. There- fuck, baby, I’ve got you- let go,” he rasped, holding you tight, grinding deeper, determined to take you with him.

And then you broke.

Your orgasm ripped through you with devastating force, your mouth falling open as a high, raw moan spilled out, his name dragged from your throat again and again. Your walls fluttered around him, soaking him as your thighs quivered, toes curling tight.

Bucky wasn’t far behind.

“Shit- fuck,” he gasped, hips stuttering as your body milked him. “Gonna fill you up, baby- fuck- take it- ”

With a shuddering groan, he buried himself to the hilt, cock twitching deep inside you as he spilled, filling you with hot pulses. His muscles tensed, arms locked tight around you, and he stayed there, shaking against your chest while your bodies trembled together.

The bedframe finally banged once- twice- against the wall, a perfect echo of your cries, before stillness settled over you both. Bucky sagged against you, chest heaving, lips brushing your jaw as he caught his breath, his body pressed so close it felt like you were still one- joined and molten and weightless in the aftermath.

Both of you were drenched in sweat, your skin sticking where it touched, the heat of your bodies radiating between tangled limbs. Your heart pounded against his chest, and his matched it beat for beat, steady and grounding as your fingers lazily traced the back of his neck.

You clung to him, dazed and utterly spent, your body still humming with the ghost of your climax, little shudders twitching through your thighs. You let your cheek rest against his shoulder, eyelids fluttering shut, the silence around you ringing like an echo chamber of the storm you'd just ridden together.

You were both loud, breathless, fucked-out messes in the dark- hair mussed, voices hoarse, sheets soaked beneath you.

And you didn’t care.

You didn’t care if they heard.

Hell, you hoped they did. Let Sam and his girlfriend have their act.

You had something better. Something real.

Bucky was still inside you, his cock softening but not leaving you, like even his body refused to let go. He nuzzled your cheek, one arm wrapping more tightly around your back, the other brushing his fingers gently through your hair. A tender kiss pressed against your temple as the muffled sounds from next door finally gave way to silence.

“Think we won that one,” he murmured, smug and sleepy.

You let out a breathless laugh, still shaking a little. “Think we both lost our minds.”

His arms tightened around you, possessive and soft all at once. “Worth it.”

You tilted your head up, eyes meeting his in the dark. “Think we woke Alpine?”

He snorted, mouth curving into a tired grin. “Probably." 

You both chuckled quietly, your legs still wrapped around his hips, unwilling to break the closeness.

And then, in the stillness that followed, came the faintest sound, soft little wails starting up from the hallway. Mournful, high-pitched, and thoroughly dramatic.

“Speak of the devil...” you murmured against his shoulder.

Bucky huffed a laugh, burying his face in your hair. “Alpine’s filing a noise complaint.”

Neither of you said anything else after that. You didn’t need to. Not until you both heard the telltale noise of the little queen scratching at the door. 

[bbarnesbck]

Drown Me Gently

pairing | new!avenger!bucky x siren!reader

word count | 6.6k words

summary | a half-siren joins the new avengers, hiding centuries of shame beneath skin that was never yours to begin with. but when bucky barnes sees past the danger to the devastating loneliness underneath, the monster you fear you are finally begins to unravel.

tags | THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS, (kind of ig) unprotected sex, comfort sex, emotional intimacy, hurt/comfort, emotional angst, identity crisis, soft!bucky, dark past, trust issues, body horror (light), self-hatred, non-accurate siren mythology, mutual pining, reader backstory, deep emotional healing, sensual tension, dark past, post-trauma connection

a/n | chat, I've literally had this fic in my drafts for almost a month. I lowkey don't know if I like this or not, anyway tell me what you think about it, because I'm second guessing. also based on this request

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

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

You barely had a chance to take a seat before the interrogation began.

“Do you have gills?” Yelena asked, leaning forward like she was inspecting a specimen. “Or do they only show up when you're wet?”

You blinked. “Um—”

“Wait, hold on.” Ava cut in, arms crossed. “Do you eat people? Like, in a sexy way? Or like… teeth and blood?”

“Neither?”

Bob’s eyes lit up. “But hypothetically, if you were shipwrecked, would you rather lure sailors to their deaths or just vibe on a rock singing Adele?”

“I don’t—”

“Also,” Alexei boomed, squinting at you. “How do you have babies with tail? Is it like seahorses? Or salmon?”

“Why would it be like salmon?” Ava muttered.

“Maybe she lays eggs,” Bob said thoughtfully. “Do you lay eggs?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. This had to be a test. Some kind of extremely unorthodox hazing ritual.

“I’m sorry,” you finally managed. “Are these actual questions or did you all just watch The Little Mermaid before I got here?”

Walker, inexplicably sipping a protein shake at 8am, nodded solemnly. “So... do you explode if you drink salt water?”

You stared. “I'm from the ocean.”

“And what about chlorinated water,” he asked, completely serious.

Yelena snorted.

Before the next round of nonsense could begin, a voice cut through the chaos.

“Alright, that’s enough.”

You turned. Bucky stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His eyes settled on you for a beat too long.

“Give her a second to breathe before you start asking about mating rituals.”

“Thank you,” you breathed.

He moved past the others, walking toward you with measured steps. You hadn’t realized how tense your shoulders were until he got close enough that the rest of the room seemed to dim around him.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, but couldn’t help the tiny smile tugging at your lips. “Do you ask all the new recruits about their reproductive methods, or just me?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Only the ones who are rumored to eat people.”

────────────────────────

A Few Days Later

You sat on the edge of the couch like a guest who wasn’t sure if they were invited or accidentally wandered in. Your posture was perfect, hands folded neatly in your lap, gaze fixed somewhere safe—like the TV that no one had turned on.

Yelena flopped down beside you with the grace of a feral cat. “You don’t talk much,” she observed bluntly. “Which is fine. Some of us overshare to make up for our emotional repression.”

“That’s just you,” Ava said from the kitchen, balancing a tray of chips and something that might’ve been experimental dip.

“Correct.”

Alexei hovered behind you, inexplicably trying to angle a photo of his dog toward your face. “This is Misha. He was trained to kill before he was housebroken. You would get along.”

“I’m… sure he’s lovely,” you replied politely, offering a tight smile.

Bob sat cross-legged on the floor like a camp counselor. “Okay, but seriously. Do you want anything to eat? We’ve got empanadas. And tofu stuff. And I think someone tried to make brownies.”

You shook your head. “Thank you. I’m not hungry.”

“No fish?” Walker smirked. “Or is it just... men on the menu?”

The room went dead quiet for half a second. Ava groaned.

“Really?” Yelena muttered.

“I’m a vegetarian,” you said quietly.

Walker blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Yes.”

“That’s even more terrifying,” Bob said thoughtfully. “You choose not to eat meat. Yet you still eat men. For sport, right?”

“I do not eat men.”

“Sure,” Ava said with a shrug. “But if you did, it’d be poetic justice. Like, ‘Oops, your ship tried to colonize my homeland, now you're lunch.’”

You gave a tight-lipped smile again, but the joke didn’t quite sit right. They didn’t notice the way your gaze dropped or how your fingers fidgeted slightly at the hem of your sleeve.

Except Bucky.

He leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes on you in that quiet, unreadable way of his. Watching. Not judging. Just… observing. Carefully.

“You always like this?” Ava asked, circling to sit nearby. “Polite. Mysterious. Quiet. Like a goth librarian who also knows how to drown people with her mind?”

You hesitated. “I try not to make people uncomfortable.”

“You don’t,” Yelena said, popping a chip into her mouth. “We’re uncomfortable by default. It’s a trauma response.”

“You’re basically the least weird person in this room,” Bob added. “Which is suspicious in itself.”

That earned a small laugh from you—surprising even yourself. Heads turned, and you flushed faintly under the sudden attention.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you said.

It wasn’t much. But it was something. A sliver of trust cracked open just enough for light to slip through.

And across the room, Bucky eyes softened.

It had started with snacks and sarcasm. Someone had turned on a movie. Bob was quoting every line with annoying precision. Ava kept tossing popcorn into Walker’s protein shake. For a while, you had almost forgotten to be cautious.

Almost.

“Okay but seriously,” Yelena said, elbowing you gently, “you’ve got to let us see it sometime. The thing. With your voice.”

You hesitated. “It’s not something I do for fun.”

“But it’s, like... mind control, right?” Walker asked, overly casual. “Like Jedi mind tricks, but with falsetto?”

You glanced around. Ava watching with narrowed eyes, trying to read you. Bob leaned forward, too curious. Yelena still too close. Even Alexei had stopped mid-story. And Bucky—still across the room, still silent.

“It’s not mind control,” you said slowly. “It’s... influence.”

The air shifted.

“My voice can influence people. Not just emotion. Thought. Action.”

The joking stopped.

“And I can sense... intention. Urgency. Fear. Hunger. The things people hide.”

Then softly you added. “It’s not always... voluntary.”

There was something fragile in your voice then. Not a confession, but a warning.

Your gaze dropped to your hands, fingers curling in your lap. You could already feel it. The subtle recoil in their posture. Not loud, but enough. Enough for your pulse to tick faster, warning you.

“Damn,” John muttered. “So you just walk into a room and feel everyone’s business?”

“I try not to,” you replied, softly.

That landed harder than you meant it to.

The silence that followed was heavier than any you'd felt all day. Thick with the kind of unease you’d learned to recognize long before you joined this team. Not fear. Not rejection. Just... awareness. The realization that your power wasn’t theoretical anymore. It was here. With them. Listening.

You felt the wall go up in them before they even realized they were building it.

So you did what you always did. What you were best at.

You retreated.

Your shoulders folded in. Your body went still. Not dramatically. Not enough to cause a scene. Just... quieter. Smaller. Like someone sinking slowly beneath the surface of the sea.

No one said anything.

But from across the room, Bucky watched you carefully—jaw set, brow furrowed—not at you, but at the room. At the shift. At how fast they’d gone from teasing to tiptoeing.

And you?

You didn’t need to read anyone’s mind to feel how far away you suddenly were.

────────────────────────

Later That Night

The wind was soft out here. Almost warm, brushing past your bare arms with the gentleness of something that wasn’t trying to take anything from you. You sat curled on a narrow bench, knees pulled to your chest, chin resting lightly on them.

You hadn’t meant to be found. That was kind of the point.

So when the door behind you slid open, your heart sank just a little. Until you heard his footsteps. Quiet. Measured. Familiar now.

Bucky didn’t say anything at first. Just moved beside you slowly and sat down, leaving a respectful distance between you.

“I figured you might be out here,” he said, voice low. Like he didn’t want to scare you off.

You didn’t look at him. “Why?”

“You didn’t say anything.”

The corners of your mouth turned up, barely. “Didn’t know I was supposed to.”

“You’re not. Just... noticed.”

For a while, you both sat in silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward. Just... open. A space you didn’t have to fill.

“I didn’t mean to make them uncomfortable,” you said finally. Voice soft. Still watching the stars.

“You didn’t,” he said automatically.

You turned your head, just a little. “You felt it.”

He paused. “I felt them realizing they don’t understand you yet. That’s different.”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

His eyes flicked to you. You didn’t see the way they narrowed.

“I know what I am,” you continued. “People don’t have to say it. I can feel it. The moment it shifts. That little breath of fear when they realize I can reach inside their heads without asking. It’s not wrong. I am what they think I am.”

You looked at him then, just briefly. Enough for him to see the resignation. The calm acceptance that only comes from long practice.

“A monster,” you said quietly.

His jaw clenched, barely. You saw it, even if he tried to hide it.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s not.” He turned toward you fully now. “You think you’re the only person on this team who’s scared of what they’ve done? What they’re capable of?”

You didn’t answer.

“You think any of us have clean hands?” His voice stayed even, but there was a tightness to it now. Not anger. Something closer to frustration. Or pained. “Ava’s killed for hire. Yelena was trained to be a weapon since she could walk. Walker…” He paused. “You saw the headlines.”

He let the silence hang for a beat.

“I spent seventy years hurting people with no choice. With no soul. If anyone here knows what it means to be used, to be feared—it’s me.”

You blinked. “That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because you're human.”

He stared at you. Then, quietly, “And you're not?”

You didn’t respond.

The wind picked up. You turned your head back toward the night.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

Then, softly, “You scare them a little. Yeah. But not because you’re a monster.”

You glanced at him.

“They just don’t know you yet. And people fear what they don’t understand. But that doesn’t mean they won’t try.”

You looked down at your hands, where your fingers were laced tight together. Like you were holding something in.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“I know,” he said.

And you believed him.

Not because his words were kind, but because they were quiet. Steady. Because they didn’t ask anything of you.

Because he didn’t look away.

And for the first time since you joined this mess of a team, you didn’t feel like a weapon waiting to be triggered.

You just felt... seen.

────────────────────────

Abandoned Shipping Yard

It was supposed to be a clean extraction. In and out. Minimal resistance. Ava had scoped the perimeter, Yelena laid out the breach pattern, Walker was already ten paces ahead being Walker, and Bucky had given you a nod just before the comms went live.

You were ready. Or you thought you were.

The cold air clung to your skin as you moved through the corridor of rusted containers. You kept to the shadows, as always, listening more than speaking, watching more than acting. A quiet presence, there when needed—never more.

The first wave of hostiles came fast—mercs, jittery and underpaid. Nothing the team couldn’t handle. You barely had to use your voice.

But something changed.

Second floor. A new group. More organized. You didn’t see them until they’d already flanked Alexei. You reacted before you thought—instinct firing faster than strategy.

They raised weapons.

And you hummed.

Not loud. Not full. Just enough to stop them.

A sound low in your throat, rich with warning and pressure and pull. It rolled over the air like a tide, a siren note pitched directly into their nerves.

They froze.

Then they turned.

Not toward Alexei.

Toward each other.

Guns half-raised. Hands twitching.

Confusion swelled, slow and dangerous. One man dropped his rifle. Another started crying. A third turned to face you like he couldn’t remember why he was holding a weapon at all.

Then Walker’s voice shouted through comms: “What the hell was that?!”

A sharp click—a trigger cocked.

Bucky got there first.

He shoved the last merc down before he could swing his weapon back around, snapping a zip tie around his wrists with clinical precision.

“Clear!” Yelena called from above.

“Room’s secure,” Ava confirmed, quieter, voice tinged with something more cautious.

You stood in the center of the room, throat tight, breath short. The air still trembled faintly with the residue of your voice.

Everyone was looking at you.

No one said anything.

Until Walker.

“Was that you?” he asked, not angry—just stunned. Like he’d seen lightning strike too close. “What even—what was that?”

“I didn’t mean to—” you started, but your voice wavered.

“That wasn’t just noise. That was... influence, right? You turned them on each other?”

“No.” You swallowed. “I didn’t mean to. It just happened. They were going to shoot Alexei, I—”

“But it wasn’t controlled,” Walker said sharply. Not cruel, just assessing. Calculating risk. “What if they’d turned on us?”

That stung. More than it should have.

“I wouldn’t,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“She said it was involuntary,” Bucky cut in, stepping forward. His voice didn’t rise, but it carried weight. “She stopped them. That’s what matters.”

“She also almost made a guy kill himself,” Walker muttered.

“She saved Alexei,” Bucky said firmly, turning toward the others. “We’ve all lost control before. Don’t pretend we haven’t.”

You stood silent, heart pounding, the aftermath of your own power still vibrating under your skin. The others started moving again—resetting, clearing the area, checking gear. But they gave you space now.

Too much space.

You barely heard the rest of the debrief. Your voice was gone, locked behind clenched teeth. Guilt wrapped around your chest like a vice.

You walked ahead in silence.

No one stopped you.

────────────────────────

You hadn’t even taken off your boots. You sat on the floor, back against the wall, arms wrapped tightly around your knees like they might keep you from slipping any further into yourself.

The door creaked open softly.

You didn’t look up.

But you knew the sound of his steps.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Bucky said gently.

You didn’t respond.

He came closer but didn’t sit. Just leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed loosely. Watching. Waiting.

“I lost control,” you said after a long moment. “They’re right to be wary.”

“They’re wrong,” he said simply.

“You didn’t see their faces.”

“I saw yours.”

You glanced up, surprised.

“You looked like you were trying to tear yourself in half,” he said. “Because you cared more about hurting them than saving yourself.”

You looked away again.

“They don’t understand what it feels like,” you said quietly. “To have something inside you that people fear. That you can’t always lock down. That might one day hurt someone—even if you don’t want it to.”

His expression shifted. Pain, recognition, something deeper.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

The softness in his face, the tension in his shoulders—he knew. He knew.

And still, he was here.

Not afraid. Not flinching. Just... here.

You exhaled shakily.

“I think I made a mistake joining this team.”

“No,” he said. “You didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve been watching you,” he admitted. “And not because I’m waiting for you to snap. I watch because I see you trying. Every damn day. Even when they don’t notice.”

Your throat tightened.

“You don’t scare me,” he added. “None of this does. You do more to hold yourself back than most of us ever have to.”

Silence.

Then, softly: “You belong here. Even if it takes them time to see it.”

────────────────────────

The Next Night

Bucky wasn’t looking for you.

That’s what he told himself.

He told himself he was going for a walk. That his muscles ached. That the silence in his room was too sharp around the edges tonight.

But when he passed the door to the training pool and saw it slightly ajar, lights off, humid air curling into the hallway like a whisper—he knew.

Of course it was you.

He stepped inside quietly, the heavy door hissing shut behind him. The sound echoed across the still water.

“Hey,” he called out softly, scanning the dark. “You left the lights off.”

He moved toward the control panel instinctively, fingers brushing the switch.

“Don’t,” came your voice.

Not a shout. Not even stern. Just quiet. Low.

Carried like a ripple across the water, echoing from somewhere deep in the pool.

He froze.

“…You okay?” he asked, softer now.

A pause.

Then, “Yes.”

But there was something in the way you said it—like you were holding your breath inside the word.

The pool was a long, Olympic cut of black glass. He could barely make out your shape beneath the surface—a flicker of motion in the far end, a slow shift of shadow.

“You’re in the water.”

“Yes.”

The silence stretched again, heavy but not uncomfortable. He stepped forward, letting the heat of the pool air wrap around him.

“I thought maybe you’d gone,” he admitted. “After yesterday.”

There was a sound, something like a soft splash. A flick of fin, maybe. Movement, not retreat.

“No,” you said. “I just needed to be… this. For a while.”

He squinted toward you, his eyes adjusting to the dark. It took a moment, but then he saw it—just barely. The curve of your back breaking the surface. The subtle gleam of something slick and scaled beneath the low ambient light.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t stare. Just stayed still.

You exhaled slowly, the sound barely above the waterline. “I’m not hiding.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I just don't want to be seen like this. Not… yet.”

He nodded, even though you probably couldn’t see it. “Alright. Then I won’t look.”

And to his credit, he didn’t.

He turned away slightly, gave you space, let you move without watching. But he still stayed. Because you hadn’t told him to go.

Because, maybe, you wanted someone to stay.

“I’m not human the way you are,” you said after a while. “Not just physically. Sometimes I feel like I’m wearing skin that doesn’t belong to me.”

He breathed in slow. “I know that feeling.”

“Do you?” you asked, not unkindly. Just tired.

Bucky shifted his weight. “I’ve worn a lot of masks. But yeah. There are days where I look in the mirror and don’t see someone who belongs anywhere.”

The water rippled quietly.

“Then you understand why I needed to be in the dark tonight.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

A pause.

“You ever wish you could just… stay like that?” he asked gently. “Who you are in here. Not the version you have to show everyone else?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Then, “Sometimes I think the version they see is the monster. And this—the water, the dark, the scales—that this is the real me.”

“And is she the monster?”

“No.”

Then you added, softer, “She’s worse.“

The words sank like stones.

You waited for him to back away. To excuse himself. To do what most people did when they saw behind the illusion.

But he didn’t.

“You’re not a monster,” he said, steady as stone. “Not in any form.”

You let out a breath—half bitter, half broken. “You should be afraid of me.”

“I’m not.”

“You should be.” A sharp breath. “Especially you. After what you’ve been through. After what it’s like to have your mind twisted, your will taken—I could do that to you. Without even trying.”

Silence.

You expected him to leave. You preferred him to leave.

Then a soft rustle.

You heard it before you saw it—fabric sliding off. The quiet thud of boots meeting concrete. A belt unhooking. Then another sound: the shift of weight, the hiss of disturbed water.

Your head turned sharply in the dark. “What are you doing?”

Bucky’s voice came low and calm. “Showing you I’m not afraid.”

His bare feet met the water first, then his legs. He stepped slowly into the pool, each movement careful, deliberate—like he was approaching a wounded animal. Like he knew you might vanish if he moved too fast.

You froze.

The lights stayed off.

The water rippled gently around him, catching faint echoes of motion from where you were submerged.

“You can’t even see me,” you said.

“I don’t need to.”

Your voice trembled. “You don’t know what I look like like this.”

“I know what I feel,” he said. “I know it’s you.”

He moved further in, the water reaching his ribs, his breath slow, steady.

You stared across the dark, at the shape of him—a silhouette against nothing. Vulnerable. Unarmed. Open.

You whispered, “Why?”

He paused, standing still in the middle of the water.

“Because you’ve spent your whole life trying not to scare people,” he said. “Trying to keep yourself small, quiet, contained. And no one’s ever just... let you be.”

You blinked.

Something deep inside you shifted.

“I’ve been used too,” he said softly. “Controlled. Hurt. Turned into something I didn’t recognize. And I’m still here. Still fighting to believe I’m not what they made me.”

The ripples between you both softened. Fewer waves. Less space.

You whispered, “You’re not.”

“Neither are you.”

For the first time in a long time, you felt like you could breathe.

Not in the way you did above water—but in the way that didn’t hurt.

“You shouldn’t trust me this much,” you said, a final warning. One last barrier.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “But I do”

The water between you held its breath.

You didn’t move at first—didn’t trust the trembling in your limbs or the sharp edge of your pulse. But Bucky stood still, waist-deep, facing the other side of the pool, like he wasn’t waiting for danger—just for you.

So you moved.

Slowly. Silently. The water embraced your form the way it always had—your real shape, the one you kept hidden beneath flesh and clothes and fear. You glided like breath, like tide, like instinct. Your tail made no sound. Your scales caught no light. You were the shadow beneath the surface, and he didn’t flinch.

Not even when you came close.

Close enough to touch.

You hovered at his back, watching the curve of his spine rise and fall with every breath. Water clung to his skin, catching faint glints of motion—your motion—as you lifted a hand above the surface.

And touched him.

His shoulders tensed at first, just barely, but he didn’t pull away.

Your fingers were cool against his skin—webbed, slick, foreign. The pads of them brushed along the ridge of his shoulder blade, then down the line of his arm.

Still, he didn’t turn.

So you did it again.

This time, both hands—light and deliberate—placed just above his hips, fingertips resting at the base of his spine, gently urging.

He let out a slow breath.

And turned.

The water shifted as he faced you.

He still couldn’t see all of you—darkness and depth obscured your form—but he could feel you there. Close. Solid. Real.

His hands came to your waist, cautious, reverent. His thumbs brushed faint ridges along your sides—faint scales you hadn’t hidden, soft flesh beneath them. He could feel the texture of you, alien and familiar all at once.

You let him look.

Not completely. Not yet.

But enough.

You tilted your head up, and he bent just slightly toward you. His face a breath away, eyes searching yours in the dark.

“I see you,” he whispered.

And he did.

Not a siren. Not a monster. Not an aberration.

Just you.

The water lapped quietly around you, the two of you suspended in the dark.

Bucky was so close now. Close enough for the heat of his body to ghost across your skin despite the coolness of the water. Close enough that the contrast between you—his warmth, your chill—felt like static between touching wires.

He looked at you then, fully. His eyes locked on yours, no hesitation. Just slow awe.

You saw the flicker of realization behind his gaze.

Your eyes—icy and deep, nearly luminescent in the dark—weren’t human anymore. The pupils too sharp, the color too unnatural. You didn’t try to hide it.

And still, he whispered, breath brushing your mouth,

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Your lips parted, not to speak, but just to feel that warmth.

Then he leaned in—deliberate, drawn, inevitable—and kissed you.

The first touch was slow, hesitant only in reverence, like he was afraid of breaking something sacred. His lips were warm—so warm—pressing softly against yours, testing.

You didn’t hesitate.

You kissed him back, and the pull was instant. A current dragging you both under.

His hands rose, one settling against the back of your neck, the other at your waist, anchoring you to him. You opened your mouth against his—slowly—and his tongue slipped inside with a soft groan that vibrated low in his throat. You tasted him: salt, metal, heat, something earthy and real.

He tasted you: cool and mineral, like sea-salt and secrets, ancient and raw.

His tongue tangled with yours in deliberate strokes, slow and deep. It wasn’t frantic. It was exploration, mouth against mouth, breath mingling, like he was learning you piece by piece.

Then he felt them.

The faint edge of your fangs—barely exposed as your body stirred with instinct and desire.

He didn’t pull away.

He kissed you harder.

And you let him.

Your webbed fingers curled into his hair, claws grazing his scalp just enough to make him shiver. His hand slipped lower, across the slick curve of your back, dragging you flush against him in the water. Your tail brushed his legs—he felt the ripple of it, powerful and sinuous—and instead of flinching, he leaned into it.

He deepened the kiss with a quiet groan, tilting your head just enough to taste more of you, to chase the sharp edge of your teeth and the soft gasp you gave him when he sucked on your bottom lip.

He wanted more. You wanted.

But the kiss said it all: this wasn’t hunger.

It was surrender.

And when he pulled back—only slightly, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting, breath fogging between mouths—his voice dropped again, rough and reverent.

“You’re not a monster.”

You trembled in his arms, not from cold.

And for the first time, you let someone hold you without fear of what they’d find in the dark.

The kisses evolved—mouths moving in rhythm, breathless and hungry, like they’d been holding back for far too long. The water around you rippled with every shift of your bodies, your bare skin slick against his, every nerve alive.

Bucky’s hands slid lower, smoothing over the firm plane of your back where slick, textured scales had shimmered moments ago. But now—he felt it.

They were fading.

His lips broke from yours just enough to murmur, breath hitched, “You’re changing…”

Your forehead pressed to his as your hands threaded through his wet hair. “I can’t stop it,” you whispered. “When I feel—”

He kissed you again, cutting the words off with a gentleness that said you don’t have to explain.

The transformation was slow, intimate.

You felt it first in your hands—your fingers unwebbing, reshaping. Human again. Your claws softened, becoming skin. You ran them down his chest, gasping softly at the warmth, the roughness of him against the new smoothness of you.

Bucky’s hands wrapped around your waist as you shifted again, the powerful muscles of your tail twitching, tensing—then separating.

Legs.

Human.

Bare.

You wrapped them around his hips instinctively, pulling him closer, water lapping between your bodies, heat blooming between where his skin met yours.

His breath caught, hard, sharp.

You were soft and solid and real in his arms, human now but still you—something wild and full of want beneath the surface. He kissed down your jaw, tasting salt and skin and a thrill he hadn’t felt in years.

His voice, low and rough, ghosted along your throat: “You don’t have to be afraid.”

You shivered in his hold, lips brushing his ear as you whispered back, “I’m not.”

And for once, you weren’t.

Not of what he’d think. Not of what you were. Not even of what you wanted.

Just the sound of your shared breath, the gentle churn of the water, the beat of two hearts finally in rhythm.

Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist as he held you against him, his hands roaming—slow, reverent, learning every curve and shape as if memorizing what it meant to have you.

Not to claim.

But to be allowed.

The warmth of him bled into you, his mouth trailing over the column of your throat, lips parting around your skin as he kissed lower—slowly, like he wanted to taste every shiver.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders as his mouth returned to yours—hungrier this time. Tongues sliding together with unspoken urgency. He groaned into you, low and rough, when you rolled your hips into him beneath the water.

The sound you made—half gasp, half moan—hit him like a shot to the spine.

His hands cupped the back of your thighs, holding you up, keeping you close, guiding your body so you fit around him perfectly. The heat between you sharpened, pressed tight through soaked fabric and wet skin, every movement stoking something deeper.

There was nothing frantic.

Only build.

Only the slow, sacred pull of yes.

The kiss deepened until there was no air between you. His chest pressed to yours, heat meeting the coolness of your skin, fingers curling along your ribs, tracing the path where scales had once been.

You tilted your head back as he kissed his way down—jaw, neck, collarbone—tongue flicking against the hollow of your throat. Each touch lit up something low in your belly, and when you whispered his name, he froze just long enough to look at you.

Eyes dark, lips parted, hands still reverent.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice hoarse, wet strands of hair clinging to his brow.

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

Bucky’s mouth returned to yours with hunger barely tempered now, his kiss pulling sounds from your throat you didn’t know you could make—not songs, not power. Just want.

He guided you back through the water, hands steady at your waist, until your spine met the edge of the pool wall. The tile was cool against your back; he was warm and solid against your front.

His fingers brushed along the curve of your ribs, then up—slowly—tracing the faint shimmer where scales had retreated. He explored each new inch of you with careful reverence, like he was learning you with his hands, like every discovery mattered.

Your breath hitched as he slid one palm beneath the water, low across your hip, then between your thighs—fingers ghosting over the softest part of you with a touch so achingly gentle you shivered.

He swallowed the moan that left your mouth as his other hand found your jaw, tilting your face up so he could kiss you again—deeper now, tongue claiming, teeth grazing your lip.

You gasped, fingers curling around the back of his neck as your legs tightened around his hips, urging him closer.

He groaned, low and wrecked, as he pressed his body into yours fully—his arousal hard against you, his mouth dragging kisses down your throat as you arched into him.

“God, you feel like…” he murmured, unfinished, overwhelmed, pressing his forehead against yours.

Your hand found his chest, feeling the steady, pounding rhythm beneath the scars. “I feel like what?”

He looked at you like you were unreal. “Like something I’ve never deserved. But I’m not letting go.”

He reached down again, guiding himself into you with aching care.

When he pressed into you—slow, stretching, deep—your mouth parted in a soundless gasp, nails sinking into his back as your body opened for him.

The sensation was molten. Your body slick and ready, still half-wrapped in water, and every movement felt amplified—rippled and weightless, like being made and unmade in slow motion.

He held still inside you for a beat—his breath stalling, eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek.

You nodded, voice caught in your throat. “Don’t stop.”

So he moved.

Rhythmic. Deep. Rolling his hips into you with intense precision, like he wanted every thrust to be a memory etched into your bones.

You clung to him as you rocked together, lips never far, gasps exchanged like prayer. The water splashed gently around you with every movement, hiding and revealing, sheltering and exposing.

And when you came apart in his arms—body shaking, breath hitching, fingers tangled in his hair—he followed seconds after, groaning into your skin as he buried himself in you one last time.

Afterward, he didn’t let go.

He just held you, still wrapped in warmth and water, as if grounding himself in the shape of you—your real form, your chosen form.

And you stayed there, arms around him, mind quiet for the first time in days.

────────────────────────

You lay together outside the pool, still dripping, the tiled floor beneath you warmed by residual heat from the water and each other.

Bucky’s body was solid and relaxed beneath yours, your head resting on his chest, your arm draped across his ribs. His breathing was slow now, steady, one hand lazily tracing your back—his fingers brushing the faint outlines of where your scales had shimmered.

He didn’t speak for a while. Just let his fingers explore you softly, as if mapping something sacred.

Then, voice low, “So… the other you. The form in the water. Is that the real you?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Your breath pushed gently against his skin, your eyes half-lidded with calm.

Then softly, “Both are the real me.”

He didn’t move, but you felt the weight of his silence.

You lifted your head slightly, just enough to brush your lips against his—light, unhurried, a kiss not driven by need but by quiet affection.

A moment passed before you added, “I’m half-human. Half-siren.”

His eyes opened, and he tilted his head to meet your gaze, brows furrowed—curious, but not skeptical.

You sighed, a faint smile ghosting your lips. “Tale as old as time. Sailor meets siren. Siren gets curious. Doesn’t immediately murder him.”

That made him huff a quiet breath against your temple.

“Sometimes… they mate. Rarely. Just to understand. Or because something stirs in them they don’t expect. The sailors rarely survive the interaction. Then they return to the sea.”

His fingers paused at your spine.

You shifted your weight slightly, eyes locked on his, and said quieter still:

“This time, the siren left with a baby.”

His breath caught, just barely.

You looked down.

“And that baby got left behind on land. Half-breed. Too human for the ocean, too strange for the shore.”

He said nothing.

But his hand moved again—this time higher, threading through your hair, cupping the back of your head gently as if trying to hold that pain, that truth, without crowding it.

You exhaled slowly, resting your forehead against his collarbone.

“A monster on land. An abomination in the sea.”

The words hung between you like steam, curling and vanishing before they hit the air.

Bucky didn’t try to correct you. Didn’t rush to wrap those words in comfort. He just moved—his hand smoothing up your back, across your hair, anchoring you to his chest. Holding you like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

His hand never left you.

Now, it moved with a new purpose—his touch slower, more intentional, tracing the skin between your shoulder blades.

You stiffened slightly.

He’d found them.

The scars.

Faint, old, but still jagged—slashing diagonally across your back in places that seemed more symbolic than accidental. He ran a thumb along the longest one, slow and careful.

“They match,” he murmured.

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

“Your claws,” he said. “From before. In the pool. The shape of them.” He traced another line. “These look like what they’d leave.”

You were quiet for a long moment.

Then you whispered, “They did.”

“You mean—?”

“The sirens,” you said softly.

He froze. “Jesus.”

You pushed your face gently against his shoulder, hiding from the look you couldn’t bear to see on his face—pity, horror, heartbreak, you didn’t know which would be worse.

“I didn’t belong here,” you murmured. “On land. Never really fit. So I thought—maybe the ocean would feel like home. Maybe they would understand.”

His hand stilled on your back.

You swallowed. “They didn’t.”

You pulled in a shaking breath, voice tight but steady. “They said I was soft. Weak. That I smelled too human. Felt too much. That I’d taint their species if I stayed.”

A beat.

“They tried to tear the human out of me.”

Bucky closed his eyes. His jaw tensed beneath your hand where it rested on his chest.

You whispered, almost bitterly now, “All the myths are true. They are monsters. They don’t love. They don’t feel. They don’t keep anything they can’t control.”

Silence.

Bucky’s fingers paused again, still tracing the old scars like they were something sacred. “You survived them,” he said quietly. “That says more about you than them.”

Your breath hitched, then came slow and shallow.

“I didn’t just survive them,” you murmured. “I tried to be like them.”

He stilled.

“I thought if I let go of everything human in me, they’d let me stay. If I stopped feeling… stopped flinching when they hunted. When they—”

You stopped, your throat tightening.

Bucky’s eyes were open now, watching you with more than concern. With something like dread.

“I tried,” you said, barely above a whisper. “To become what they were. To be unfeeling. A real monster.”

Your fingers curled slightly against his chest. “I even did it. Their way. Took ships off course with my voice. Lured them close. And I fed.”

His hand faltered.

“I ate humans,” you said, the words fractured, sharp. “So they’d accept me.”

Silence.

The worst kind.

Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t breathe, but you felt his body tense underneath you—hurt, not at you, but for you.

You turned your face further into his shoulder, shame crawling up your spine like ice.

“But it never worked,” you whispered. “I was still too soft. I felt everything. Even when I tried to bury it.”

His arms wrapped tighter around you—gently, but with purpose.

“I couldn’t keep it down,” you continued. “The guilt. The screaming. The way they laughed at me for choking on blood.”

Your voice cracked. “Meat makes me sick now. Just the smell of it.”

He breathed then, long and broken.

You could feel his heartbeat under your cheek. Steady. Solid. And somehow still here.

The silence between you became thick. Not with judgment, but with something worse—your own shame.

You whispered, barely audible, “I became something I hate. I wanted so badly to stop being an outcast, I turned myself into a real monster. And they still didn’t want me.”

You closed your eyes. “They didn’t need to kill me. I did that myself.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, his hand sliding up from your back to cup the back of your head again. He didn’t say it’s okay. He didn’t say you’re forgiven. He didn’t try to rewrite your past.

He just held you.

Because there are wounds too deep for words.

Because you had already condemned yourself, and he knew the last thing you needed was someone else trying to absolve what you hadn’t even survived emotionally.

Still, his voice reached you, low and rough and real,

“I hope someday you'll understand that you were never the monster in that story.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t believe it. But you didn’t pull away, either.

And for now—that meant something.

our girlie:

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@Ruexj283 @muchwita @fayeatheart @Leathynn @thealloveru2 @person-005 @princeescalus @lilac13 @solana-jpeg @jeongiegram @winchestert101 @s-sh-ne @n3ptoonz @avgdestitute @xamapolax @Finnickodairslut @honeyhera29 @macbaetwo @rafespeach @bythecloset @ashpeace888 @buckmybarnes @c-grace56 @ozwriterchick @slutforsr @novaslov @xamapolax @theoraekenslover @user911224 @Tafuller @luminousvenomvagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @yvespecially @snake-in-a-flower-crown @mencantaleer @shellsbae00 @theewiselionessss @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @avivarougestan @xoxoloverb @superlegend216 @lori19 @sired4urmama @writing-for-marvel @thriving-n-jiving @ogoc-19 @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @its-in-the-woods @barnesonly

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

[bbarnesbck]

Congrats on 1k!!! Would you be willing to do a soulmate au with Bob (with miscommunication?)? ^^

tysm!!! this got a bit long and a little angsty whoops

The Mark You Left

bob reynolds x reader; soulmate au; 18+; mdni

c/w: drug addiction mention, angst, hurt/comfort, smut

Bob Reynolds was the kind of person you didn’t mean to fall in love with.

It just happened—quietly, over time. Like sunlight staining your skin after sitting near a window too long. Like sleep blooming behind your eyes before you can fight it. He slipped past your defenses without trying, without knowing, maybe without wanting to. And you let him.

Back then, you told yourself it was just friendship. Just care. Just someone who needed someone—and you had enough hope for two.

You were there the first time he overdosed.

You held his hand in the ER, your fingers curled tight around his while he shook and sweated through withdrawal, lips cracked, eyes swollen from vomiting, voice nothing but hoarse apologies he couldn’t stop choking on. The doctors thought you were his girlfriend. You didn’t correct them. Not that night. Not when you caught him murmuring your name like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

You learned to love him in the quiet places—when he was strung out and too raw to meet your eyes, or when he was clean and shaking and holding onto sobriety with both hands like it might slip through his fingers again. You loved him when he avoided your gaze. When he told you he’d been dreaming in gold and black again. When he curled up on your couch and fell asleep mid-sentence. When he forgot to eat. When he couldn’t sleep unless you were in the room.

You never asked for anything in return. You knew he didn’t have much to give.

But you loved him anyway.

And that mark on your arm—it didn’t mean anything.

Not at first.

You didn’t let it.

It showed up when you were twenty-one, faint at first. A ghost of ink, like the suggestion of a bruise blooming in reverse. You found it one morning in the mirror, rubbing sleep from your eyes, and thought it was smudged eyeliner or the memory of a dream. But it didn’t wash off. It didn’t fade. By the end of the week, it had darkened into permanence—thin black script etched into the sensitive skin on the inside of your upper arm, just beneath the curve of your bicep.

The phrase was short. Vague. Barely a sentence.

Just a single line:

“…you don’t even see it, do you?”

That was it. No name. No context. No date, no time, no neon arrow pointing to the person it belonged to. It could’ve been anyone. Could’ve meant anything. A comment from a stranger. A confrontation on a street corner. Something whispered in frustration or awe or heartbreak.

You waited for it. For the moment it would click. The burn of recognition. The mirror-mark. The match. But it never came.

So you buried it.

You kept it tucked under sweaters and sleeves, concealed in long-sleeved tees and chunky cardigans even in the warmer months. You didn’t bring it up. Soulmate marks weren’t rare exactly, but they were delicate—personal. You only ever heard about them in stories that ended in tears or tattoos. People didn’t ask. People didn’t show.

You told yourself you’d recognize it when it happened. You’d just know.

Somehow.

And maybe that’s why you didn’t think about it the night Bob walked in on you.

It was late—2am or close to it. You were half-undressed, changing into sleep clothes in the hallway between the bathroom and your bedroom. You had one arm out of your sweater, the other still tangled in the sleeve, a tank top clinging to your skin from the heat of the shower. You were humming under your breath, soft and off-key, when his bedroom door creaked open behind you.

He must’ve been looking for water. Or maybe you. Sometimes he couldn’t sleep unless he knew where you were.

The light from the bathroom caught him in silhouette—long limbs, sleepy posture, curls falling in front of his eyes. He blinked blearily at first, still hovering in the doorway like a man half-formed in a dream. Then his gaze dropped—slowly—to your arm. Your bare upper arm.

Your mark.

You turned just as he stilled.

Not scandalized. Not awkward. Just… stunned. Paralyzed.

The kind of silence that came from the wrong kind of recognition.

“Jesus, Bob, knock next time,” you said, tugging your sweater up over your shoulder, voice playful and dry. “Or at least buy me dinner first.”

But he didn’t move. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t return the teasing look you gave him.

He looked different.

Paler somehow, even in the gold wash of light. His mouth parted, but no sound came out.

Not like a man seeing skin—

No.

Like a man seeing something that hurt.

You brushed past it. Too tired to make it a thing. Just Bob being weird. Just late-night haze.

He didn’t say anything.

And you didn’t ask.

Because if you asked… maybe it would mean something. And you weren’t sure you were ready for that.

And then—

Things started to fall apart.

The drinking got worse again.

He started pacing more. Talking less. Waking up drenched in sweat and hiding it behind that exhausted half-smile like you wouldn’t notice. You tried to push through. You always did. Tried to believe it would pass. That maybe it was just a spiral, not a freefall.

Then came the Malaysia trip.

“I need to do this,” he said, shoving clothes into a duffel bag without looking at you. “It’s real treatment. It’s not just rehab. It’s something new—something that works.”

You asked if he’d keep in touch.

He nodded. He kissed your temple. Said he’d write. Said he’d call.

And then…

He didn’t.

Emails slowed. Messages thinned. Weeks turned to months.

You sat with your phone in your lap at night, staring at his contact name like it would light up on its own. You scrolled your camera roll until the images blurred into colorless static. You reread his last message so many times you knew it by heart.

Nothing after that.

Just the hum of a screen.

Just silence. And that mark on your arm. Still there. Still sharp. Still waiting. Like a scar that never got the memo it was allowed to fade.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

But God—

God, it never stopped hurting.

No obituary. No confirmation. Just silence. You told yourself maybe the treatment had worked. Maybe he was living a quiet life somewhere, off the grid. Maybe he was happy.

But grief doesn’t care about maybes. It comes in waves anyway.

So you moved on—sort of. You got a new apartment. Worked. Went on a few dates. No one ever stayed. No one could compete with a ghost.

The mark on your arm stayed sharp. No fading. No burning. No mirror match. Just you, still waiting, even when you told yourself you weren’t.

And then—

“The world welcomes its newest line of defense—”

You didn’t mean to look up.

It was background noise. Some live press feed. You were in the middle of microwaving leftovers, shuffling across your apartment in a pair of socks with holes in them, your phone buzzing uselessly on the counter.

“—under the leadership of Contessa Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, this ‘new age Avengers’ initiative—”

And there.

In the background. Behind the woman in black, past the former Widow, past John Walker—

A man. Slouched posture. Brown hair curling over his ears. Shoulders hunched like the world had done nothing but weigh him down since the day he was born. A blue sweatshirt. Corduroy pants.

Bob.

You stared. Your heart didn’t beat for four seconds. Five. Six. Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

He wasn’t smiling. He looked older. Gaunter. Haunted. But he was alive.

The microwave beeped. Your breath left your lungs.

You walked forward like the TV might lie if you blinked. You didn’t sit. You didn’t speak.

And then the rage hit you—burning hot, from somewhere deep and long-abandoned.

He left you. He let you mourn. He let you think he was dead. He never called. Never wrote. Never said a goddamn word.

And now he was standing beside the new Avengers, wearing that same fucking sweater, like none of it ever happened?

Like you never happened?

The mark on your arm pulsed once—warm, dull. You ignored it.

You were already grabbing your jacket.

Bob Reynolds was alive.

And he was going to answer for every scar he left behind.

-

The ride to the compound is a blur.

You don’t remember what you threw into your bag. You barely remember changing out of your sleep clothes, though your shoes are damp from the sidewalk and your sweater is on inside-out. Doesn’t matter. The adrenaline is louder than your heartbeat. Louder than logic. Louder than the voice in your head screaming what are you doing?

The cab driver says something about the rain. You don’t answer.

Your fingers are tight around your phone.

Your jaw aches from clenching.

You don’t blink.

The gates appear like a mirage—stark white against the night, towering and unfamiliar. Not the old Avengers Tower. Not the Compound you saw in grainy footage after the Blip. This one’s newer. Sleeker. Cold. A freshly scrubbed monument to second chances and plausible deniability.

There’s a guard at the gate.

You don’t wait for protocol.

“I need to speak to Bob Reynolds,” you say.

The guard looks at you like you’ve asked for a unicorn. “Excuse me?”

Your hands curl at your sides. “He’s here. I saw him. On TV. I don’t care what you call him now—The Sentry, Robert, Goldie fucking Locks—I need to see him. Now.”

Something shifts in the air behind the guard. You glance past him and see a tall woman in black tactical gear step into view. Dark eyes. Blonde short hair. She sizes you up in half a second, like she’s already imagined twenty ways to kill you with a spoon.

Yelena Belova. Great.

“I don’t know who you are,” she says coolly, “but if you keep yelling, I’m going to break your nose.”

“I’d like to see you try,” you snap, before you can stop yourself. “I’m not here for you.”

The tension spikes.

Another figure joins her—Ava Starr, maybe? Silent and flickering faintly at the edges like she’s not fully solid. The air hums with restrained power. You should be afraid. You’re not.

Then—

A third voice. Low. Careful. Warm like a tremor underfoot.

“Let her through.”

The crowd parts.

There he is.

Bob stands just inside the compound’s wide, sterile entryway, looking every bit like a man who’s been summoned from another lifetime. His hair is longer now, curled around his ears and the edge of his jaw. His sweatshirt hangs looser than you remember, like he’s thinner than he was the last time you saw him, like he’s been folded up too long in a space not built for living things.

His eyes—those eyes—are rimmed with violet exhaustion. And they’re locked on you like he’s not sure you’re real.

Your breath catches in your chest.

“Hi,” you say. Quiet. Flat. The word tastes like rust. “So. You’re alive.”

He blinks. His mouth opens. Then closes.

No words come out.

“You know,” you continue, voice trembling, “you could’ve mentioned that before disappearing for three years.”

“Y/N—”

“No. Don’t.” You raise a hand. “You don’t get to say my name like that. You don’t get to look at me like you haven’t been radio silent since Malaysia. Like you didn’t let me think you were dead.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw.

You don’t stop.

“Do you have any idea what that was like?” Your voice rises, your chest heaving with it. “Do you know what it’s like to wake up in the middle of the night, reaching for someone who isn’t there, who never even said goodbye? To see a headline about a body found overseas and wonder—and not know—because you didn’t fucking call?”

“Y/N, I couldn’t—”

“You could have. You just didn’t. You chose not to. You—” Your voice breaks suddenly, unwillingly. The heat in your throat flares into something colder, wetter. “You let me grieve you. For years. You let me think I was crazy for missing you that much.”

He flinches. “I’m sorry.”

“Fuck your sorry.”

Your fist lands against his chest—not hard, not violent, but enough to feel the solidity of him. To remind yourself he’s not just a fever dream or a memory with teeth.

He doesn’t react. He just takes it.

You shove him again. “Say something that matters.”

The others are silent behind you, watching. You don’t care.

Bob takes a slow breath. Then another. His hands are at his sides, fingers twitching.

“I thought staying away was the kindest thing I could do,” he says finally, voice like gravel soaked in rain. “I thought you’d be better off not knowing what I was becoming.”

“What you were—? Jesus, Bob, I didn’t need you to be perfect. I just needed you to fucking stay.”

That does it.

He breaks.

Not visibly. Not loudly. But something shifts in his posture—his spine bends, his eyes flick down and away like he can’t look at you anymore.

You shake your head, fury collapsing into something sharp and raw.

“I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

He doesn’t reply.

You turn and walk. Away. Anywhere. Somewhere inside the compound. The place is a maze of white and steel and quiet corners, but you find a door with a keypad that isn’t locked and shove it open without thinking.

The room is dim. Maybe a lounge. Maybe a private quarters. Doesn’t matter. You lean against the nearest wall and press your forehead to the cool plaster, breathing hard, fists clenched at your sides.

Then—

Footsteps. Soft. Familiar.

You don’t turn.

“You don’t get to ghost me and then follow me down a hallway like you deserve an explanation,” you say without looking.

“I know.”

Your jaw tightens.

“You have five seconds to explain why you left before I scream the whole place down.”

Silence.

Then, quietly, he speaks. “I saw it.”

You blink. “What?”

His voice is smaller now. Threadbare. “Your mark. On your arm. I saw it… before I left.”

The world tilts. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t mean to. I walked in while you were changing. You were in that gray tank top. I saw it. I—I knew what it meant. I knew that it matched mine.”

You turn slowly.

He’s standing in the doorway. Backlit and broken. Shoulders hunched. Eyes impossibly soft.

“You knew?” Your voice is a whisper now. “You knew we were soulmates and you didn’t tell me?”

Bob nods once. His hands are shaking. “I didn’t think I deserved it. I wasn’t clean. I wasn’t stable. I didn’t want… I didn’t want you to have me. Not like that.”

You don’t speak.

“I thought I’d go, get better, come back and maybe… maybe I’d be someone worthy of the mark. Of you.” He swallows hard. “But I never got better. I just got stronger. More dangerous.”

You take a step toward him.

He doesn’t move.

“Then why are you here?” you ask, voice trembling. “Why let me find you now?”

He looks up.

“I didn’t let you.” His eyes shine with something raw and human and agonizing. “You always find me anyway.”

You don’t speak right away.

The words sit like glass in your throat—too jagged to swallow, too painful to spit out. The silence stretches between you like a wire, taut and trembling. Bob doesn’t move. He just watches you like he’s bracing for impact. Like he thinks you might run.

And maybe… maybe you should.

Because now that you’re standing here, staring at the man who walked away, the man who let you mourn him for years, the man who knew—fucking knew—that your soulmarks matched and still left…

You don’t know whether to scream or cry.

“You saw it,” you say finally, voice barely audible. “And you didn’t say anything.”

Bob nods. Slow. Like it hurts to move. “I thought… I thought it was a mistake.”

“A mistake,” you repeat, hollow.

He looks up then. Really looks at you. “There’s no universe where I should’ve been your soulmate.”

Something cracks open in your chest.

“Bob—”

“I was using,” he says quietly. “Not every day, not then, but I was still… in it. I was still falling. I was halfway gone already. And then I saw it. That mark. On your arm. I knew what it was. I’ve read about them. I’ve seen the way people talk about it like it’s supposed to be fate. Salvation. And I just…”

He drags a hand over his face. His voice breaks at the edges.

“I couldn’t let you believe I was something safe. Something you could hold onto. Because I wasn’t. I’m still not. I’ve done things—things that don’t wash off just because I put on a cape and let them call me a hero.”

You’re shaking now. Not with rage anymore. With something deeper. Something colder. Like your body can’t decide what to feel first.

You reach for your sleeve slowly.

And this time—this time, you let him see.

You pull the fabric up, baring your arm fully in the dim light of the compound room. The mark is still there. That same strange phrase etched into your skin in ink that never fades:

“…you don’t even see it, do you?”

The silence between you thickens. Bob’s lips part, but no sound comes out.

And then—

He lifts the hem of his sweatshirt.

Your breath leaves you.

The same phrase. Same size. Same exact script. Burned into the skin just below his ribs, left side. Like a secret carved into bone.

Your eyes sting.

He’s had it the whole time.

You take a slow, shaky step toward him.

“Why there?” you whisper.

He shrugs one shoulder. “I think the marks show up where they’ll hurt the most.”

God.

Your hand trembles as you reach out, fingers hovering just over the ink on his ribs. He’s not breathing. Neither are you. When you finally touch it—brush your thumb over the words like they might disappear—he shudders under your palm.

“I thought it would fade,” he says, voice barely there. “When I left. When I tried to move on. But it didn’t. It never did.”

You look up at him. “You should’ve told me.”

“I know.”

“I would’ve—God, Bob, I would’ve stayed. I would’ve fought for you.”

“I didn’t want you to have to.”

“But I wanted to.” You press your palm flat to his chest now, over his heart. “That’s what a soulmate is. Not a savior. Not a fucking cure. Just someone who stays.”

His hands come up slowly, ghosting over your waist like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you.

“Are you staying now?” he asks, voice soft, almost broken.

You search his face—those tired eyes, the hair curling behind his ears, the way he’s watching you like you might vanish.

And then—

“Yes,” you whisper.

And when he exhales—long and ragged—it sounds like a man finally breathing after holding it for years.

He leans down, forehead touching yours, and his hands are on your waist now, warm and trembling. You grip the hem of his sweatshirt, fingers curling in the fabric like an anchor.

When he kisses you, it’s not practiced. It’s not perfect.

It’s desperate.

It’s years of silence collapsing in on itself. It’s rage and relief and pain and hope—all of it pressed into the trembling seam of his mouth.

Your mark burns under your skin.

His does too.

Matching.

Alive.

Your mouths part slowly.

The kiss ends, but the gravity between you doesn’t ease. His forehead stays pressed to yours, breath ragged and warm, his fingers twitching at your waist like they don’t know whether to hold you tighter or let you go.

He doesn’t step back.

Neither do you.

The room is quiet except for the shared sound of your breathing. Close. Close enough that you feel every exhale fan across your lips. His hair brushes your temple. His hands are still resting lightly against you, just above your hips, thumbs ghosting over the fabric of your shirt like he’s learning the texture of permission.

And when he speaks—it’s barely a whisper.

“I thought I forgot how to feel like this.”

You swallow hard, chest tight. “Feel like what?”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something smaller. Sadder. “Human.”

You exhale through your nose, just short of a laugh. “That makes two of us.”

You step closer. Just an inch.

His hands tighten, almost involuntarily. His eyes flutter shut like he’s trying to memorize this. You can feel the thud of his pulse under your palm, still resting over his heart. It’s fast. Wild. Like he’s overwhelmed and trying not to drown in it.

“Look at me,” you say softly.

He does.

And God—those eyes. Still tired, still storm-shadowed, but clearer now. Awake. Here.

“I’m not asking you to be perfect,” you murmur. “I just want you to be here. With me.”

He doesn’t speak. He just nods, once, like anything more would make him fall apart.

You raise your hand and cup the side of his jaw. He leans into it like a man starved. His scruff is coarse against your palm. His skin is warm. And when your thumb traces along the edge of his cheekbone, his lashes flutter, and he exhales like the breath’s been trapped in his lungs for years.

Your hand drops to his ribs again. To the mark.

The ink there is warm. Not physically. But you feel it. The burn of recognition. The pull of whatever ancient magic stitched you together before either of you ever understood it. He watches as you trace it again, gentle as a kiss.

“You thought this made you dangerous,” you whisper, “but it doesn’t.”

He’s quiet.

“It makes you mine.”

Something breaks in his eyes.

“I’ve thought about you,” he says, voice cracking. “Every day. When I was… the void. I saw me leaving you. Over and over again. I can’t stop thinking about you, even when I was trying to pretend I didn’t.”

You nod, fingers slipping under the hem of his sweatshirt again. “Me too.”

You tug the fabric up slowly—inch by inch—until he lets you pull it over his head.

Bob doesn’t stop you. He raises his arms, and the fabric peels away like it’s never fit right in the first place.

Now it’s just him. Bare-chested, soft at the edges, pale with scars and sleeplessness and grief, but real. His mark exposed. His ribs rising and falling, breath shallow. His hands still tremble.

You step closer until your chest brushes his.

He makes a noise at that—something low and involuntary in the back of his throat, like he can’t help it. Like the feel of your body against his is too much after so long not feeling anything at all.

You reach up again and slip your hands into his hair.

The curls are soft. Messy. Your fingers thread through them gently, and he shudders. You swear he leans down a little—just so he can rest against your touch, forehead dipping toward your collarbone.

His voice is muffled when he speaks next. “Do you want this?”

You pull back just enough to look him in the eye.

“I always have.”

And that—that—does something to him. His breath hitches. His hands rise slowly, reverently, and splay across your lower back. One hand—warm and callused—slides beneath your shirt, finding the curve of your spine. The other trails upward to your shoulder, tentative at first, like he’s still not sure this is real.

He peels your shirt upward slowly. Pauses.

You nod.

He keeps going.

The fabric leaves your skin with a whisper. Goosebumps bloom in its absence. Bob swallows hard as he looks at you—eyes flicking down your body, up again, catching on your mark. His fingers hover above it, not quite touching.

“May I?”

You nod.

His thumb brushes the mark on your arm. It glows faintly.

So does his.

And neither of you say anything for a long, long time.

Because there’s nothing left to say. Just this.

The air between you buzzes. Not with noise. With meaning. With the gravity of finally seeing each other, fully, and not flinching.

His hands return to your waist.

And when he kisses you again—slower this time, deeper—you melt into it like you were always meant to. Like this is what it’s been building to all along.

You don’t rush.

Even as your bodies press closer, even as his breath catches when your bare chest brushes his, you don’t push. You feel the hesitation in him, flickering beneath the surface like a dying star—small, but dense enough to crush him if he lets it.

So you slow down.

You kiss him softly, again and again, until the tension bleeds from his shoulders. You touch him like he’s precious. Like every scar is a syllable in a language only you can read. You run your fingers over the mark on his ribs—the same one etched into your arm—and watch the way his jaw trembles when you do.

He breathes your name like a confession.

His hands stay gentle, always. Splayed across your back, tentative at your waist. He could manhandle you, easily. You know that. You’ve read the files. You’ve seen what he can do when the Void is close. But with you—now—he’s all restraint. All reverence. Like you’re something sacred and he doesn’t dare bruise it.

You guide him backward until the backs of his knees hit the bed.

He sits.

You stand between his legs, his gaze tilted up at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Your fingers slip to the button of your jeans, but before you can finish, his hand catches yours.

“Let me.”

Your breath hitches.

Bob unbuttons your jeans slowly, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. He lowers the zipper and watches the fabric ease apart, revealing soft skin beneath. Then he looks up, eyes meeting yours.

You nod.

He slips his hands into the waistband and tugs—slow, careful—easing them down your hips, past your thighs, until they pool at your ankles. You step out of them and watch his throat bob with a swallow as his eyes trail up your legs, over your hips, lingering on your bare thighs like they’ve haunted his dreams.

He whispers something then—so soft you almost miss it.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

You climb onto his lap, straddling him.

His hands instinctively catch your hips to steady you, but he’s still holding back, like he thinks you might vanish if he touches you too firmly. You guide one of his hands to your thigh and press it there.

“I’m not glass,” you murmur.

He looks up. “But I am.”

Your chest tightens. “Not with me.”

You kiss him again, and this time when he kisses back, it’s deeper. More certain. You feel the shift. The surrender. He melts into you, mouth warm and hungry, hands finally gripping your thighs, pulling you just a little closer.

You rock your hips slowly, grinding against the heat of him through his pants.

He moans—quiet, like he’s trying not to be heard—and it shoots straight through you. His hands tremble as they skim beneath your thighs, cupping you, guiding your body flush against his.

“You feel…” He trails off, eyes fluttering shut. “Too good.”

You lean in, lips brushing the edge of his ear. “Then let me have you.”

You slip your hand between you, fingers tracing the waistband of his pants. His breath stutters.

“May I?” you whisper.

He nods, eyes wide. “Please.”

You work his pants down just enough to free him. He’s already hard, flushed and thick and trembling. You wrap your hand around him, and he gasps—head tipping back, jaw tight, hips flexing toward you like instinct.

You stroke him slowly. Reverently. Watching him unravel.

“Does this feel real?” you murmur.

He nods, but it’s shaky. “Too real.”

You guide him to your entrance, the tip of him catching, slick and warm.

You pause.

His hands tighten on your hips.

“You don’t have to—”

You kiss him quiet.

And then—you sink down.

He groans—loud and broken—and buries his face in your neck, like the weight of it, the rightness of it, is too much to bear. His arms wrap around you, pulling you tight against his chest, and he breathes you in like you’re oxygen.

“God,” he chokes. “I’m inside you.”

You nod against his hair. “You’re here. You stayed.”

You rock your hips slowly, moving with him—not fucking, not riding, just holding him with your whole body. Letting him feel it. Letting it soak in.

He murmurs against your skin, “I don’t deserve this.”

You cup his face in both hands, lift his head, make him look at you.

“You do.”

He swallows hard. “Say it again.”

“You deserve this,” you whisper. “You deserve me. You deserve love.”

Something inside him breaks—softly, finally—and he kisses you like a man reborn.

You move together in slow, shallow thrusts, hips rocking lazily. His forehead rests against yours. His hand drifts to your mark, stroking over it with the pad of his thumb as he presses up into you.

Your body tightens, pleasure curling low and deep.

“Can you feel it?” he whispers.

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

You’re close. You can feel him holding back, feel the shudder in his thighs, the restraint in his grip.

You brush your lips over his. “Let go, Bob.”

He groans, and his hips snap up once—twice—deeper this time, and then he’s gasping, spilling into you, arms locked around your back, breath ragged and desperate against your shoulder.

You hold him through it.

Cradling him.

Loving him.

Even as your own release follows—tight, pulsing, perfect—you keep your eyes on his, and you don’t look away.

Not once.

-

You wake to warmth.

Not sunlight—though that’s there, too, golden and soft as it filters through the curtain slats. But no, the warmth you feel first is him. Wrapped around you like a second skin, breathing slow and steady against the back of your neck, one arm slung across your waist, the other curled under your head.

You don’t open your eyes right away.

You just… feel.

The rise and fall of his chest against your spine. The rough brush of his stubble at your shoulder. The steady beat of his heart against your back, like your body remembers it even after all this time apart.

For a moment, you let yourself believe this is normal.

Then he shifts.

Just slightly.

You feel his breath stutter as he wakes—just the tiniest change in rhythm. Then his arm around your waist tightens, almost imperceptibly, like his body clocks the loss of sleep and panics before his mind does.

He doesn’t move right away.

Instead, he buries his face just beneath your shoulder blade, nose brushing your skin. You hear the faintest sound—something between a sigh and a whispered curse.

Then his hand moves.

Slow.

Careful.

It drifts from your waist, up your arm, until his fingertips find the mark again—the one he first saw all those years ago, half-concealed beneath your tank top, the one he ran from.

He traces it now like a prayer.

“…you don’t even see it, do you?” He whispers the words aloud—barely a breath.

You keep your eyes closed, listening.

“I thought I’d ruin you,” he murmurs. “I thought the mark was some kind of mistake. That I’d break you just by being near.”

You turn your face slightly, still not quite looking at him, but enough that your lips are near his wrist where it rests.

“You didn’t.”

He freezes.

You open your eyes. The room is washed in soft light, quiet and golden. He looks down at you like he’s afraid to blink.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” you repeat, voice low. “You’re here. We came back.”

His throat works around a sound. He presses his forehead to your shoulder again.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says. “How to stay. I’ve spent so long learning how to disappear, I don’t know if I remember how to stay real.”

“You don’t have to know yet,” you say. “You just have to try this time.”

His arm curls tighter around you, pulling you in like a lifeline.

“You’re everything I was afraid I didn’t deserve,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “And all I’ve ever wanted.”

You finally turn fully in his arms, face to face. His curls are a little wild, mussed from sleep. His eyes are red-rimmed, tired in a way that feels older than he is—but they’re clear. No shadows lurking. No walls up. Just Bob.

Just your Bob.

You lift your hand and trace his mark now, just under his ribs. He flinches slightly—not from pain, but from reverence.

“I see it,” you whisper. “I see you.”

He kisses you slow.

Not like last night. Not desperate, not hungry. Just there. Gentle. Patient. Like he’s still learning what it means to be kissed by someone who stayed.

You curl into him, his arm draped over you, your mark pressed against his, and for the first time in years… he sleeps again.

Not because he’s exhausted. Not because he’s escaping.

Because he’s safe.

With you.

[bbarnesbck]

Animal Nitrate

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Fem!Reader

Summary: You are having a little bit of trouble finishing, but Bob is determined to get you there no matter how long it takes.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Reader and Bob are in an established relationship.

Smut Warnings: Oral Sex (fem receiving), Fingering, Dirty Talk, Spitting (brief), Squirting, Bob gets off on giving 🤷🏻‍♀️ what can I say? Grinding against the sheets.

Author’s Note: I thought I’d do this little request because I’m working on the Todd Stevens one-shot and I’m absolutely swept up in that. I’m currently working on some big things for Bob and I’m trying to manage those while also keeping up with regular updates (cause I like feeding y’all! Stay with me lol :))

Word Count: 3,526

Bob was always determined to make you finish at least once before the two of you had sex. That was just one of his unspoken rules–it was a non-negotiable that was quietly enforced with all the quiet conviction of a man who was determined and always followed through.

He was a giver. A pleaser. A man who could be halfway to orgasm himself and still stop everything if he hadn’t wrung one from you first–gently, slowly, and hungrily, like he’d be failing himself if he didn’t otherwise. It wasn’t about ego. It was never about performance. Because Bob got off on giving–on the way your body heated up against his mouth, the clench of your thighs around his head which sometimes cut off his air, the sounds you made when he was between them and stayed there until you shattered, and the movements your hips made when you were chasing his tongue.

But tonight…You couldn’t seem to get there.

Not for lack of trying of course–especially not on his part. He was doing everything right, pulling out all the tricks that usually worked for you. He was buried between your thighs like a man with nowhere else to be. Mouth open, tongue flattened and dragging slow, deliberate strokes through your soaked core–each one met with a throaty moan that vibrated against your clit. His focus was razor-sharp, even as your slick coated his lips, his chin, even his nose as he buried himself deeper, chasing your pleasure with aching devotion.

His fingers dug gently into the soft flesh of your thigh, squeezing them like he needed to feel the muscles clench against his palms. You could feel the tremble in his forearms from holding himself there for so long, the flex and twitch of his biceps as he shifted, adjusting his angle–not because he was tired, but because he was trying. Determined to find whatever it was you needed.

At one point, he pulled back just enough to draw in a shaky breath, his cheeks glistening with a mix of your arousal and his spurt. His lips were swollen and glossy, flushed from friction, from the way he had been sucking on your clit like it was a mission from god himself. His chest was heaving, but his eyes were dark with want–focused entirely on you. His lips were damp when he pressed them gently to the inside of your thigh, the kiss soft and lingering–like he wanted to leave his devotion to you in the shape of his mouth. His breath was hot against your skin, and even though your body hadn’t tipped into release, it still ached in the places he had touched, still pulsing from the effort he was pouring into you.

You hesitated, breath shaky as you spoke, “Bob…I don’t think I’m going to get there tonight…I’m sorry.” His head lifted slightly, and when he looked at you, his expression didn’t flicker with even a trace of frustration. Not disappointment. Not defeat. Only pure concern. And that quiet, steady love that always softened the lines around his mouth when he looked at you like this. He shook his head, hair damp and tousled, a strand of hair sticking to his cheek, as his hand gently squeezed your thighs.

“Y/N…I can do this all ni-night…I don’t care. I want to get you there. Don’t apologize for it taking a little bit.” Your hand found its way down to him instinctively, pushing the damp strands away from his soaked face. Your fingertips skimming against the heat of his cheeks–flushed from the effort. You cradled it for a moment, thumb brushing just under his eye, and sighed.

”I know Bob, But I’m just in my head right now…I don’t know what’s going on.” You murmured. He nodded slowly, nuzzling his cheek into your hands before turning his head to kiss your palm, then moving to the other side to place a wet kiss to your inner thigh, peppering them all over the place, leaving little saliva marks in their wake, a slow trail of tender patience.

“It happens sometimes. You’ve seen it happen with me…Remember when it took me an hour and forty five mi-minutes to cum the first time we had sex because I was thinking I wasn’t doing good?” You let out a huff of a breath, laughing a bit.

”Yeah but we were both getting pleasure out of that.” His lips curved against your thigh in a smile before he gave you another kiss, nipping at the skin there gently.

”And you think I’m not getting pleasure from this?” Your fingers found his hair again, sinking into the soft strands, ruffling it before tugging a bit, your chest still tight but loosening around the edges.

“Well…It’s been forty-five minutes. Aren’t you getting bored down there?” Bob let out a low laugh. Then–before you could take another breath–he nipped a little harder at the inside of your thigh, just sharp enough to make you gasp and giggle a bit. It wasn’t to hurt you, but it was to punctuate the absolute absurdity of your question.

”Nope, I’ve told you before I co-could stay down here forever. And it’s one hundred percent true.” You rolled your eyes, but your body had softened more than you realized–your hips less tense, your shoulders not quite so hunched. It wasn’t gone, the weight in your head. But it was quieter now. You let your fingers keep stroking through his hair, slower this time, gentler.

His lips lingered at the inside of your thigh, plush and soaked and reverent, as he whispered, “Just let me keep going… Please?” The words were soft but sure, delivered with that slow-burning sincerity only Bob could manage–like every syllable came straight from the center of his chest.

His eyes–those warm, stormy blue eyes–lifted to yours again, his breath ghosting over the slick that coated your skin, clinging to the arousal smeared from his cheeks to your thighs. You nodded.

”Okay…” You replied. And the smile he gave you in return–wide, boyish, wrecked–made your heart flutter so hard it almost knocked the breath out of you.

“I’ll get you th-there,” He murmured, pressing a kiss to the tender spot just above your pubic bone. “I promise.” And then his hands were under your thighs, lifting–careful, strong, sure–as he gently folded your legs upward, knees pressing toward your stomach. The shift left you fully exposed, open to the low light, to the humid air, to the way his eyes drank you in. The stretch made your breath hitch, your body automatically twitching with the instinct to hide–but Bob only moaned softly.

”Go-God…Look at you,” He breathed, voice like velvet dragging over hot skin, “So beautiful like this…I love when you let me see you in this position.” You whimpered as his hands slid up your legs, strong fingers pressing into your thighs to hold you open while his mouth dipped again. But he didn’t rush. He kissed your inner thigh, then the crease of your hip, then the spot just beside your pelvis–like he was making out with your skin, like he was tasting every part of you for the first time all over again before earning your core again. Each kiss came with a warm exhale, each pause a beat of restraint. Bob stayed there a moment longer, hovering just above your center like he was caught in worship, his breath fanning out against the glistening heat of your skin. And then–slowly, deliberately–he opened his mouth and let a thick strand of spit fall from his tongue.

It landed with a warm, slick drip right onto your folds, merging with the mess already slicking your skin. You twitched at the sensation, and Bob smiled. Not smug. Not teasing. Just soft. Sweet. That wrecked little grin that said he was right where he wanted to be.

“Jesus…” You breathed, voice catching, hands curling around his forearms. But the words fell off your tongue the moment he leaned forward again and kissed your clit–plush and slow and intimate–never looking away from you as he did. His eyes locked with yours, a flush crawling up his neck and across his cheeks. He kissed you there again, open-mouthed, letting his tongue press soft and wet against the swollen bundle of nerves. You gasped, thighs twitching again under his hands. He paused, mouth still against you, then lifted his head just enough to speak–his voice low and trembling but steady, his breath humid and soaked in your scent.

“Fo-Focus on how my tongue feels,” He whispered, gaze flicking up beneath his lashes, locking with yours like it was the only thing tethering him to earth. “Just think about the sensations. Breathe slowly…Try not to think about an-anything else.” You nodded faintly, lips parted, your hands still squeezing gently around his forearms like you needed to ground yourself. His biceps twitched slightly. “I love being down here,” He added, voice full of softness. “I want to be here. And I want you to feel all of my love, exactly where you need it most.” He leaned in so close you could feel the whisper of his lips before he touched you.

“Now let’s try this again, hm?” You nodded immediately. And then his tongue pressed against you again—hot, steady, and slow. He started with long, lazy licks, dragging up through your folds like he had all the time in the world. And he meant it. Every movement was patient. Sensual. Like he wasn’t just pleasuring you–he was worshipping you. Every twitch of your hips. Every flutter in your breath. Every time your fingers squeezed his arms or your thighs clenched against his cheeks. He felt it all. Took it in like it was gospel.

With a low, shuddering moan, he dragged his tongue in a long, reverent stroke through your folds, then shifted to suck gently on them, warm and wet and so slow it made your entire body pulse. He kept his face pressed deep into you, lips plush and parted, nose nestled against your mound as he inhaled like you were air, like just breathing you in was enough to keep him alive.

“God…” He groaned into you, voice muffled but wrecked, the vibrations traveling through your clit and down your spine like lightning. His moan caught in his throat as he shoved himself deeper, tongue exploring you with a kind of aching hunger that bordered on frantic–but never rushed. Never messy.

Just desperate.

He was moaning, softly, shamelessly, the heat of his breath trapped between your legs and warming every part of you. His hips rocked into the mattress beneath him, grinding slow and needy, chasing friction as if pleasuring you was the only thing tethering him to the earth. His fingers flexed on your thighs, not to hold you still–but to feel you, to keep you there, grounded and open and safe beneath his mouth. You squirmed a bit, pulling in a few sharp breaths. His eyes flicked up to meet yours–dilated, utterly wrecked–and he whispered, voice low and dirty, laced with awe:

“I need to dr-drown in you…I need to be down here until I suffocate.” A whimper caught in your throat–your hips jerking slightly, your nails digging into the skin of his arms, drawing out a little gasp of surprise from him before he dived back in. He flattened his tongue again, moaning as he pressed deeper–licking, tasting, worshipping like he was starved. He moved like he meant it. Like he didn’t care about anything else in the world but the way your hips rolled into his face, the way your breath caught, the way your thighs trembled around his head.

“Bob…Jesus Christ.” You moaned, your back arching slightly, legs twitching in his grip. He hummed in response, grinding against the sheets harder now, needy, hips rolling involuntarily–getting off just from the feel of you on his tongue, from the sounds you were making. His nose nudged against your clit, and then he shifted just enough to wrap his lips around it–sucking slow and steady, tongue flicking in time with the rise and fall of your chest. You were melting. Spiraling. Your thighs clenched, your hands flew to his hair and tugged, and he groaned into you like the pain was pleasure.

One of Bob’s hands shifted, sliding up from your thigh, warm and steady as it traveled between your legs. You barely had time to brace yourself before he slipped two fingers inside you–slow at first, but deep, curling immediately as they found that spot like they’d been searching for it all night. His knuckles pressed against your folds, his palm flush against your core as the angle shifted just right, and–

“Fuck!” You gasped, the arch of your back sharp, your thighs clenching tighter around his head.

But Bob didn’t flinch. He adjusted.

He moaned at the feel of you clenching around his fingers, slick and soaked and pulsing, gripping him like you didn’t want to let go. His lips stayed locked around your clit, sucking slow and steady while his fingers curled again–deeper, firmer, like he knew exactly what would unmake you.

“Jesus Christ, Bob–” Your voice cracked.

The sounds echoing off the walls were obscene: wet, slurping, filthy. The slick of your arousal meeting the push of his fingers, the way his tongue flicked wetly over your clit, the low moans vibrating up your body as he grinded his hips into the mattress below–he was getting off on this, rutting slowly into the sheets like he couldn’t not.

He was breathing hard, through his nose, through his mouth, through you. Each exhale was soaked in arousal, in need, in love. His jaw moved in tandem with his fingers–tongue flicking faster now, his palm rubbing just right as he pressed up into that soft, spongy spot again and again.

Your legs were twitching. Your hips were grinding down against his face, chasing the rhythm, chasing that build.

“You’re…Fuck…You’re making me–” You choked, voice half-lost in the heat of it.

Bob didn’t slow. His eyes fluttered open, locking on yours from beneath the messy fan of his lashes, and that look of devotion sent you spiraling. His fingers sped up. Pressing hard. Rubbing right where it made you squirm.

Your thighs began to shake, trembling around his head, your hips jerking in tight, erratic thrusts like you were trying to get away but couldn’t stop chasing the high.

“Bob…Bo-Bob, it’s too much…Holy shit it’s too much.” He groaned low in his throat, grinding into the bed beneath him harder–he was so close, you could feel it, hear it, in the rasp of his breathing, in the low, aching noises he made as he lapped at you like he was losing his mind.

“You can take it,” He growled, voice muffled against your skin. “You’re doing so good for me. Just a little more. Let me have it. I want it.”

His fingers curled again–harder–right into that sweet, aching spot inside you.

And you snapped.

With a broken sob and a gasp of his name, your thighs clamped around his head, your spine arched clean off the mattress, and the orgasm tore through you like a wave of heat and static. Your body seized–and then, with a sharp, helpless cry–you squirted all over his face, gushing around his fingers, wrist and chin.

He moaned–loud and filthy–rutting into the mattress again as you soaked him, and he didn’t move, didn’t stop, just kept licking and sucking and feeling you pulse around his fingers like he couldn’t get enough of the taste of you coming apart.

Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling hard, and he groaned in response, face slick and wet and drenched, lips red, chin shiny, cheeks glistening.

Your entire body trembled. Twitched. And finally collapsed, boneless beneath him.

Only then did he lift his head, lips parted, face a mess, eyes blown wide with awe. A grin broke slowly across Bob’s face–lazy, wide, wrecked–and without hesitation, he ducked down and pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then another. And another. Smearing your release along your skin with the drag of his mouth, his very light stubble, the lingering heat of his breath.

“Told you I’d get you th-there,” He murmured, lips still grazing your leg, his voice hoarse but proud. There was something reverent in the way he said it. Like he’d just completed a sacred task. You could only blink at him, dazed and still trying to catch your breath as your thighs twitched in the aftermath.

“Fuck…Remind me never to tell you to give up.” You whispered under your little gasps for air. He huffed out a breath, almost a laugh, and the smugness in it made your stomach flutter. Still, it was warm. Affectionate. He wasn’t gloating–he was glowing.

“Or do,” He replied, voice teasing as he carefully lowered your trembling legs from where he’d had them folded high, letting them drape over his broad shoulders like they were the softest pillows in the world. His big hands rubbed gently over your knees, thumbs pressing in slow circles. “And maybe I’ll give you this kind of tr-treatment all the time.” You let out a groggy, breathless laugh, your fingers weakly combing through the sweat-dampened mess of hair at his temples.

“I’d lose my mind if you gave me those kinds of orgasms all the time…” You murmured, the words coming out as a hoarse sigh. “Don’t get me wrong–they’re fucking mind-blowing–but…It takes a lot out of me.” Bob’s smile deepened, and he leaned forward again to kiss the swell of your thigh, right near the softest, shakiest part of you, then pulled back just enough to sit up on his knees between your legs. That’s when you noticed it.

The wet spot.

Your eyes dipped, catching the dark patch that had bloomed across the front of his boxers–wide, damp, and unmistakable. His hips were still slightly arched forward, his erection twitching faintly beneath the thin fabric still–experiencing his own version of aftershocks–the cotton clinging to him with a telltale sheen.

You stared.

Bob noticed. His gaze followed yours, then trailed down to where your eyes were locked. His cheeks flushed instantly, a deep pink rising over the apples and up to his ears, but he didn’t move to cover it. Instead, he gave you a shy, sheepish smile and gently palmed over the stain–almost like he was proud of it.

“Evidence that I lo-love being between those thighs of yours,” He boasted, voice low and wrecked, “Didn’t even…Di-Didn’t even touch myself.” Your mouth parted slightly, your eyes glanced up at him in disbelief, heart pounding. He ducked his head a little, blushing harder, grinning like a man who had absolutely no shame left.

“I meant it when I told you the first time I went down on you that it just…Does it for me.” You reached out, palm cupping his cheek again, thumb stroking along the flushed skin just under his eye.

“You really proved that one.” He leaned into your touch, nuzzling slightly, his eyes soft and liquid blue. His lips were still slick. His face was still a mess. But he looked so fucking happy and satisfied with himself.

“Wh-What can I say? You sounded so good, and I got lost in you.” You could feel your thighs clench at the comment, and you sighed.

”God I love you so much.” You whispered, because there was no other response that felt right in your mouth. Bob’s eyes flicked back to yours immediately, blown wide and glowing. He leaned down over you, bracing one forearm beside your head as he pressed his forehead gently to yours.

“I love you too.” He whispered back, “Always and forever…” And when he kissed you–slow, reverent, deep–you tasted yourself on his tongue, thick and heady and honest. His hand cupped your cheek, calloused thumb brushing tenderly under your jaw, his other arm steady beside your head, holding himself over you like a shelter. When he finally drew back, it was only by a breath, his forehead still pressed to yours, his voice so soft it felt like it drifted straight into your bloodstream.

“Gonna be ready for another round in five minutes?” And immediately you started laughing, shaking your head.

”Give me an hour and I think you’ve got yourself a deal.”

[bbarnesbck]

letters of devotion [one-shot]

marvel band au drummer!bucky x waitress! reader

you sent filthy, anonymous letters and nudes to the drummer of your favourite band, never expecting he’d read them. never expecting he’d keep them. never expecting he’d show up at your diner one night, more than eager to fulfil your fantasies.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, multiple orgasms, forced orgasm (consentual), oral (f receiving), fingering, p n v, unprotected sex, praise kink, explicit consent, aftercare, reader is horny lol, daydreaming smut scenarios, beefy bucky, band au, diner au, love letters, fangirl/obsession, lowkey depressed/sad reader, bucky is a menace, bucky matches reader's freak levels, use of the petname sweetheart, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 6.4k

A/N: hi, thank you for 5k followers! as a treat, have this absolute filth. i think this is the closest you'll ever get to smut w no plot from me lmao, i went through every stage of grief writing this. inspired by dinner in america + spun my prompt wheel and got band au / beefy - not proof read.

main masterlist

You were starting to think your obsession with the Winter Soldier wasn’t just unhealthy, it was pathological.

Two hours into your shift at Sal’s Diner, buried in the itch of your polyester uniform and the reek of burnt coffee, you’d already drifted off into fantasy more times than you could count on both hands. Daydreams clawed at the edge of your attention like static, buzzing louder with every second you spent beneath the flickering fluorescents. You’d nearly poured hot coffee straight into a trucker’s lap. His barked ‘watch it!’ still rang in your ears as you’d scrambled with a rag, your hands shaking as liquid pooled across the table. You’d forgotten table four’s extra side of bacon, missed table six’s banana smoothie with extra whip.

You hated this place. Hated the chipped pink tiles, the dusty jukebox that hadn’t worked in years, the scent of grease that soaked into your skin no matter how many showers you took. But more than anything, you hated the sameness of it all, the way this town never changed, never grew. How every face that passed through the diner was one you recognised, and worse, how they all recognised you.

You were twenty-something, with nothing to show for it except a minimum-wage job and a slowly decaying sense of purpose. Your apartment was a shoebox with paper-thin walls and a view of a brick wall. Every night, like clockwork, the baby next door shrieked, the couple upstairs screamed and stomped, and the couple across the hall fucked like they were being paid for it. You’d eat something microwaved and vaguely beige, drink cold coffee you forgot you poured, and zone out to reality TV you weren’t really watching. Housewives screamed through muffled speakers while your brain quietly rotted.

Everyone else’s lives were in motion—marriages, babies, master’s degrees, weekend getaways with friends and Instagram sunsets. Yours was stuck on pause, the buffer wheel spinning endlessly. You kept saying yes when Sal asked you to cover a double, because what else did you have to do? You had no plans. No passions. No clue what you even wanted.

You had tried. God, you had tried. College ended in a quiet breakdown and a withdrawal form. Relationships fizzled before they even warmed. Nothing stuck. You felt like you were wading through a fog that everyone else seemed immune to, like they all had a compass pointing to some clear, shining future, and you were just circling in the dark.

If anything still lit you up, it was music.

It was the only thing that made you feel. You were always listening, earbuds in as soon as you left work, blasting bass-heavy playlists on your way home, tapping your fingers to invisible rhythms behind the counter. You hummed under your breath while restocking napkin holders and scrubbing dishes to the beat of crashing drums. Music drowned out the ache, the boredom, of everything you didn’t want to think about. It was the closest you got to peace.

And your salvation came in the form of one band: The Howling Commandos.

They were everything you weren’t—loud, chaotic, unapologetic. All raw vocals and snarling guitars, like rebellion captured in sound. You clung to their music like a lifeline. Their songs made you feel invincible, if only for three minutes and forty-two seconds at a time. You stalked their socials like a religion, hoping they'd announce a show in your town. Underground gigs, secret venues, cryptic posts…the mystery only made you want them more.

And they were hot. Unbelievably so. You didn’t even know what they looked like. They performed in ski masks, their identities always hidden, but that just added to the appeal. They were anonymous, untouchable. A fantasy you could project anything onto. Big, muscled silhouettes thrashing under stage lights, voices full of rage and sorrow. 

And the Winter Soldier, the drummer—he was your favourite delusion of all.

He was the biggest, a towering shadow behind the drum kit, all brute force and brooding stillness. Maybe it was just the size of him that drove you wild, the thick bands of muscle in his arms, the way his thighs flexed as he worked the bass pedal. His hands were massive, wrapped tight around his drumsticks like they could break bones just by holding on too hard. You’d close your eyes when one of their songs hit its peak, feel the rhythm pounding in your chest, and imagine those hands wrapped around your waist. Pressing down your hips. Spreading your thighs. Keeping you still while he—

The shrill clang of the service bell sliced through your fantasy.

“Oi, girl!” Sal’s voice barked from the kitchen, all gravel and phlegm. “Plates for table three! Move it!”

You blinked hard, swallowing the heat that had risen to your cheeks. “Sorry, Sal,” you muttered, forcing your legs to move, dragging yourself away from the milkshake machine with the weight of a thousand unmet fantasies.

Because the truth was... yeah, you were obsessed.

Not just a fangirl. Not just a casual listener with a couple of favourite tracks. You were consumed by the Winter Soldier. The mystery, the sound, the brutal power behind the drum kit. You had no musical talent yourself, no rhythm in your bones, no dreams of making it big. But still, music was your only lifeline. And him? He was the rope you clung to when it felt like you might finally let go.

So, you found your own way to contribute. Your own warped form of expression. Your own art.

Love letters.

It had started innocently enough. Just a few pages of breathless admiration, scrawled out after long shifts while your brain buzzed from caffeine and exhaustion. You confessed your devotion to the band, to the music, to him. You wrote about how their songs made the world feel bearable. You poured out thoughts like they were diary entries, lyrics from a girl whose life was anything but lyrical. You didn’t expect a reply, you weren’t stupid. You imagined he probably received plenty of letters from fans. But the act of writing? It helped, it made the loneliness less loud.

But the longer you went without hearing back, the longer you worked the closing shift in a sweatbox diner and watched your life go nowhere, the more unhinged the letters became.

Passion turned to desire. Pages and pages of filthy, desperate confessions. You wrote about how you wanted him to bend you over your shitty couch, how you’d beg if he made you. You described exactly how his hands would feel gripping your hair, how his voice would sound in your ear as he pushed into you. You stopped holding back. The words poured out of you like something exorcised.

And then came the photos.

You’d found an old thrift-store polaroid camera, the kind that spat out little grainy prints with bad lighting. On your braver days—the lonely, horny, bored out of your fucking mind days—you’d strip down in your bedroom, the blinds barely tilted shut. You never showed your face. That wouldn’t be on brand, you gave him anonymity right back.

Your body became the message. Lace underwear clinging to your hips, the curved lines of your thighs spread wide. Some days you kept it tasteful, just the bare suggestion of skin. Other times, when the ache got too strong and the fantasy too vivid, you’d pose with your fingers between your legs, soaked and aching, back arched.

You’d kiss the pages with bright red lipstick, spray your favourite perfume, and seal them tight in mismatched envelopes.

You called them Letters of Devotion.

And maybe, deep down, beneath the layers of lust and delusion, you still hoped he’d reply. That he’d see your letters—your alias, your handwriting, your stories—and feel something. Anything.

Maybe you were a little crazy.

Or maybe it was the only thing keeping you sane.

—

It was late.

The kind of late where the world outside the diner windows had gone completely black, where the parking lot was empty save for a few tired trucks and one lone streetlamp flickering. Your feet ached in your shoes, cheap sneakers with soles worn thin from double shifts and the way you dragged yourself around this place like a ghost. You’d been on your feet for nearly eleven hours, fueled by lukewarm coffee and pure spite. Even the radio had given up playing its same old loops and was spitting static.

The bell above the door jingled, and you glanced up from the counter, expecting maybe the regular who came in late for grilled cheese and three cups of black coffee. But instead, four men walked in.

You blinked. Then blinked again.

They didn’t look like locals. Not the usual crowd of truckers or farmers passing through. No, these guys were something else. All broad shoulders and heavy steps, tattoos trailing up their forearms and necks, worn boots and dark jackets dusted with road dirt. One of them had a scar splitting through his eyebrow. Another had arms so thick he barely fit into the booth. 

Your gaze snagged on one in particular.

He slid into the booth facing you, his leather jacket creaking as he settled in, and you swore the breath stalled in your lungs for a beat too long. He was massive. Broad through the chest and shoulders, thighs spread wide like he didn’t know how to sit small. His jaw was covered in dark stubble, his mouth pulled into a neutral line—neither a frown nor a smile. Serious. Watchful. His hair was dark and thick, ruffled like he had dragged his hand through it a few too many times. 

You forced yourself to move, grabbing your notepad and approaching with a practised smile that felt barely glued to your face.

“Welcome to Sal’s,” you said, as cheerily as you could force. “Kitchen’s closing soon, so if you want something hot, order now.”

One of them, the one with the scar, grinned and cracked a joke about ‘always liking it hot’, but you barely registered it. You were still stealing glances at him. He didn’t say anything, just looked up at you with those cool eyes, and nodded toward the menu. 

“Burger and fries. Black coffee.”

“Sure thing,” you managed. You scribbled it down, turned before they could see the way your cheeks flushed.

Behind the counter, you leaned against the milkshake machine, heart still thudding, mind absolutely not on the order. You watched them from the corner of your eye. They spoke in low voices, murmuring to each other, intense and focused

And all you could think about was him.

You didn’t know why. Maybe it was the size of him, the stoic vibe, the fact that his shape reminded you of The Winter Soldier. Maybe it was the way he didn’t talk unless he needed to, the way he moved like his body was too powerful to be casual. Or maybe you were just so sleep-deprived that your brain was automatically generating pornographic content to keep itself entertained. You could imagine him behind the drum kit, imagine his face behind the ski mask. Maybe you would hold onto this memory, think of his stormy blue eyes when your core was hot and wet, fingers already scrabbling for your polaroid, ready for another Letter of Devotion as you came and came again at your own hand—

Your eyes drifted back to the booth. 

You imagined what it would feel like to be pressed against that chest, what it would sound like if he whispered in your ear with that voice. What it would feel like to have his hand sliding up your thigh beneath your diner uniform. You imagined him fisting your hair, guiding your head as he fucked your mouth slow and deep, until the cheap linoleum beneath your knees squeaked—

You were so deep in the fantasy that when you blinked, he was looking at you.

Direct. Curious. Like he knew.

Your heart skipped. You jerked your gaze away so fast you nearly knocked over the salt shaker. You busied yourself behind the counter, wiping an already clean surface, trying not to combust.

—

Eventually, the guys finished eating. Paid in cash, left a decent tip. One of them winked at you on the way out. He just gave you one last lingering glance as the bell over the door jingled again, then disappeared into the night.

You exhaled, a little dazed. Tried not to think about the heat still curling in your stomach.

And then you noticed it.

In the booth, the one they’d just vacated, sat a black backpack. Left behind, half-tucked beneath the table like someone forgot it in a rush.

You looked out the window. Their taillights were already gone.

Somehow…it felt like a sign. 

You rounded the counter on instinct, hands moving on autopilot as you stacked plates and wiped down the booth, the backpack heavy in your peripheral vision. You slipped into the kitchen, scraping leftovers into one of the giant bins, trying to look busy while Sal shouted down the phone near the walk-in freezer. Something about plumbing. Something about the hot water. You weren’t really listening. Not with your thoughts spinning like a carousel.

Your fingers twitched with anticipation.

Had he left it behind on purpose?

Maybe it was nothing, an honest mistake. Just a man in a hurry, too focused on the road ahead to notice what he’d forgotten. Or maybe, just maybe, he had been distracted. By you. Had you gotten into his head the same way he’d buried himself in yours? Had he been sneaking glances the way you had? Imagining things?

God, the possibilities curled hot between your legs.

You were elbow-deep in soapy water when Sal came stomping back in, muttering curses. 

“Dahla’s moanin’ that the hot water ain’t workin’,” he barked, grabbing his keys off the hook. “I gotta run. You good to lock up?”

You nodded, barely looking up. “No problem.”

He grunted in the barest minimum of thanks and was gone within the minute. You waited, counting the seconds until the crunch of his boots on gravel faded, until the cough of his truck engine roared and peeled off down the road.

You all but bolted to the front of the diner, heart hammering in your throat. You hadn’t even locked the front door. The open sign still glowed in the window like a forgotten thought. You didn’t care. Your hands were still damp from the sink as you reached for the bag, tugging it up onto the counter with a soft thud.

It sat there, plain and unassuming. Black canvas, one shoulder strap fraying. Just a backpack.

You stared for a second.

You weren’t sure what you expected. A note? An ID with a name you could finally put to that face? A number scrawled on a napkin meant only for you?

Your lip caught between your teeth as you slowly tugged the zipper down.

The contents were disappointing at first. A couple of old t-shirts, faded and smelling faintly of smoke and sweat. Crumpled food wrappers. A phone charger. Some receipts. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing romantic. Your heart dipped—

Then froze.

Nestled at the bottom, slightly bent at the corners, was a thick bundle of envelopes. Cream-colored. Handwritten. Lightly smudged ink. It wouldn’t have been that strange if it weren’t for the fact that you recognised them. 

It was the smell of the perfumed paper that hit you immediately. You knew that smell. The faint trail of your favourite perfume, sweet and smoky. The red lipstick stain pressed into the corner, your shade. That was your kiss. Your handwriting.

Your fingers moved with nervous urgency, fumbling as you grabbed the stack and rifled through it.

Your letters.

At least a dozen of them. All opened. 

You seized one at random, and your hand trembled as you pulled the page free. A small clatter followed as a polaroid slipped loose and hit the countertop face-up.

You felt the heat rush to your face like a punch.

You. 

It was you. 

One of the more explicit ones. Black lace panties, expensive, a splurge from when you were still clinging to the idea of romance. Your thighs spread wide. Your hand, barely hidden behind delicate fabric, buried between your folds, caught mid-motion. Your other hand was out of frame, probably holding the camera. You remembered that night vividly. Remembered how worked up you'd been, how starved. You hadn’t just been horny, you’d been aching, lonely.

Your pulse roared in your ears as you slowly unfolded the letter, the edges soft from wear. Like it had been regularly reread. Your cursive spilt across the page, desperate and messy. A confession. A fantasy—

I had a dream about you last night.

Or maybe it wasn’t a dream. Maybe it was a memory from some other life. One where you knew me, touched me, ruined me like you were meant to.

You bent me over the arm of my couch. One hand flat on my back, keeping me down, keeping me still. The other between my legs. You didn’t tease. Didn’t waste time. You slid your fingers through my pussy and hummed like you liked what you felt. Then you pressed two fingers inside me, slow at first, then rougher, curling them just right until my legs shook and I moaned like I’d break apart.

You didn’t stop. Not when I came. Not even when I begged. You made me take it, over and over, until I was soaked and shaking, face pressed to the cushion, drooling into the fabric while you watched. While you owned me.

And only then did you unzip your jeans.

You didn’t say anything. Just dragged the tip of your cock through the mess you’d made of me and pushed in, inch by inch, nice and slow. I remember crying out, legs spreading wider like my body already knew what to do, like it wanted to be ruined by you. You fucked me deep. Kept me bent over. Kept that hand wrapped around my throat when I tried to lift my head.

And when I finally looked back at you, barely able to keep my eyes open, you grabbed my jaw and made me say it.

‘Tell me who you belong to.’

And I did. Over and over. 

I woke up soaked through my sheets, hand still between my thighs, still aching. I’ve been thinking about it all day. I can’t stop imagining this. Wanting this. Needing it—

“Why are you going through my stuff?” A deep, gravelly voice jolted you back to reality. The letter slipped from your fingers and fluttered back onto the counter

You hadn’t heard the bell.

Hadn’t heard the door open.

Hadn’t realised the man you’d spent the last hour wet and restless for was standing just a few feet away. Arms crossed over his broad chest, head tilted, expression somewhere between amused and dangerous.

You pressed a hand to your chest, trying to breathe through the thick, electric panic that was blooming behind your ribs.

“I—” 

You fumbled for words, your voice catching and unravelling as heat rushed up your neck. “You left it behind. I thought maybe I could find ID or a name or—I wasn’t trying to—”

Your voice faded as he took a single step forward. Just one. He was already towering above you. You stood frozen behind the counter, gripping the edge. You weren’t sure if you wanted to run or drop to your knees.

And then, against all your better judgment, the words tumbled out.

“Why do you—how do you have these?! I didn’t write them for you, I wrote them for—”

You cut yourself off. Because you were watching it happen in real time, the slow curl of understanding at the edge of his mouth, the glint of something unholy blooming in those stormy eyes. A smile pulled at his lips, knowing and wicked.

Your voice dropped to a whisper, half-horrified, half-aroused. “Unless… unless you’re him. The Winter Soldier—”

He stepped closer, until the edge of the counter was the only thing between you and the solid heat of his body. His gaze dragged down your face, your throat, like he was memorising you.

Then he leaned in, just slightly, and spoke, low and lethal.

“I read every single one.”

Your entire body flushed hot.

Every. Single. One.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out, just the soft stutter of your breath as your brain struggled to catch up. You were painfully aware of your appearance. The grease-slicked apron, your hair pulled back in a lazy bun, the sweat still drying at your temples from a long shift. You were supposed to be invisible here. 

But now he was here. Standing over you. Real. Breathing the same air. And he’d read it. All of it. All the filthy, aching, needy things you’d never even said out loud.

“You…” you rasped. “You read them?”

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “You think I just collect random strangers’ letters full of desperate, pretty little fantasies?”

His voice was quieter now, just above a whisper. It curled around your throat like a hand.

“I started reading the first one on tour,” he went on. “Thought it’d be funny, another obsessed fan. But then I kept reading…kept waiting for more to arrive.” His eyes dropped to your lips. “You don’t hold back, sweetheart. Not even a little.”

You swallowed thickly. “I didn’t think—I never thought anyone would actually—”

“—read it?” he finished, one brow raising. “Come on. You write shit like that and don’t expect it to crawl into someone’s brain? The way you describe it, how you want it… fuck.” He leaned closer, his mouth nearly brushing your ear. “You got no idea what you’ve been doing to me. You’re like some kinda genius, some kinda fuckin’ succubus. Do you know how many songs I’ve tried to write about you, about those fuckin’ photos?”

Your knees went weak, pulse thudding behind your ribs like a warning bell.

“Which one was your favourite?” you asked before you could stop yourself, breathless and reckless. 

His grin returned, dark, indulgent. “The one where I make you cum over and over again,” he murmured. “And you beg for it, like a good girl. And you beg until you're so fucked out you can’t even speak, just moan and take every last inch of me.”

Your breath hitched.

He studied your face, then slowly, very slowly, reached out and picked up the polaroid you’d dropped. He held it between two fingers, glancing down at it with a hum of approval.

“You still have these panties?” he asked casually, like he was asking for a drink recommendation.

You blinked. “What?”

He looked up from the photo, and his expression turned serious in a way that made your stomach flip.

“What’s your address, sweetheart?” He asked.

You stared at him. Speechless.

“I’ll come by after you close up,” he added, voice low, fingers tapping on the counter. “You let me in and I’ll do everything you wrote about, hell, I’m ready to beg for it just lookin’ at you.”

—

You weren’t sure how you made it home without crashing your car.

Your hands shook the whole drive, knuckles white around the wheel, still sticky from the milkshake syrup you’d forgotten to wash off. The radio played something mindless, but you couldn’t hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat thudding behind your ribs like a fist.

You didn’t even turn the lights on when you burst through your apartment door. Just kicked it shut behind you, peeled off your apron, and headed straight for the shower. The water was too hot, scalding your skin, but you welcomed it. You scrubbed with your nicest soap, dragging the loofah hard over your flesh. Like you could wash off the diner grease, the lingering smell of cheap coffee. 

You towelled off in a hurry, slipping on lotion while your skin was still damp.

The panties were easy, the black lace ones from the photo. No bra. Just a thin cotton tank top, the kind that clung to every curve.

You paced your apartment like a storm was coming.

Checked your reflection.

Then checked it again.

Clean sheets. Dim light. The curtain pulled just enough. You caught yourself reaching to tidy the bookshelf, then stopped. What the fuck were you doing?

He didn’t care if your books were alphabetised. He was going to ruin you.

The knock came just after midnight.

You froze.

Your feet carried you to the door before your mind could catch up. You stared through the peephole, breath caught.

Still in that worn leather jacket, shoulders broad enough to fill the frame. His eyes were darker in the hallway light, but they still found the peephole like he knew you were watching.

Your fingers curled around the doorknob and tugged it open. 

He looked at you, eyes dragging down your bare legs, the hem of your tank top, the curve of your breasts beneath it. His jaw tensed like he was trying not to say something filthy right there in the hallway.

“You wore them,” he said at last, voice rough.

You swallowed. “You said you liked them.”

He stepped inside without another word, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. You stood barefoot on the rug, heart hammering in your chest as you looked up at him, your fingers twitching at your sides.

You parted your lips to speak, to say something, but you never got the chance.

Because he was on you in a second.

He crossed the room in two steps, grabbed you by the waist, and lifted you clean off the ground. You gasped, legs instinctively wrapping around his hips as he shoved you against the wall. His mouth crashed down on yours, tongue sliding past your lips. 

You melted into him instantly, fingers curling into the collar of his jacket, back arching to press yourself closer. When he finally pulled back, you were panting, dazed, lips wet and parted.

He carried you to the bedroom without asking and dropped you onto the bed, stepping back just enough to shrug off his jacket.

You whimpered. You didn’t mean to. It slipped out, needy and desperate, before you could stop it.

“Take off your shirt.”

Your hands trembled as you obeyed. You pulled the tank top over your head, exposing your bare chest to the warm lamplight. He watched you like a man starved, his eyes dragging slowly from your flushed face down to the curve of your breasts. You could feel the heat pooling between your thighs already, the lace of your panties damp and sticking to you.

He stripped his own shirt next.  “Lie down.”

You sank into the sheets, heart pounding, legs already falling open.

He crawled over you, his face right above yours. His fingers brushed your cheek, your jaw, then slid down to wrap gently around your throat.

“You want this, sweetheart?” he murmured. 

You whimpered again, nodding, thighs instinctively rubbing together.

“Words,” he growled. “Say it.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please, I want this.”

He smirked, and then he dropped his mouth to your chest, biting softly at your nipple, soothing the sting with his tongue before moving lower. He kissed your ribs, your stomach, licking and dragging his teeth along every inch of skin until he reached your panties.

He hooked a finger under the waistband, met your gaze, and then ripped them off.

“Still my favourite pair,” he muttered, tossing the ruined lace aside. 

And then his mouth was on you.

Tongue hot, thorough, relentless, he licked into you like a man on a mission. His hands gripped your thighs hard, spreading you wide, keeping you in place as you writhed beneath him. You sobbed, fingers digging into the sheets, your hips lifting off the mattress before his hand came down hard and held you still.

Your first orgasm crashed into you fast, so fast it stole your breath, tore the sound from your throat. You choked on it, body arching, tears prickling at your lashes.

But he didn’t stop.

Not even when you whimpered, not even when you trembled.

“I said over and over again,” he reminded you, dragging his tongue up your slit with obscene precision. “Beg for the next one.”

“Please—fuck, please—” you sobbed.

“That’s better, good girl.” The praise scraped low from his throat, barely audible over the wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy.

You were already shaking, thighs trembling against his shoulders, your hands fisted in the sheets. But he didn’t slow, didn’t let up. His tongue worked you ruthlessly, slow when you needed fast, fast when you couldn’t take it. He read your body like a song he’d memorised, like he was playing you just to see how many ways he could make you fall apart.

He licked deep, flat and hard, then flicked his tongue tight against your clit until your hips jerked. Every time you gasped or moaned or bucked against his mouth, he made a low, satisfied sound in the back of his throat.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he muttered between strokes, his voice ragged.

You choked on a moan, your back arching off the mattress, but his hands clamped down and held you there.

“I can feel it,” he said, breath hot against you. “You’re close again, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you sobbed. “Fuck—please—”

“Not yet.”

He pulled back just enough to slide two fingers into you, thick and unforgiving. Your whole body snapped. He hooked them expertly, rubbing against that perfect spot deep inside, his mouth still latched to your clit, and your orgasm hit so violently you couldn’t even speak. Your cry caught in your throat, your thighs shook uncontrollably, and your eyes rolled back as white-hot pleasure splintered through you.

You collapsed against the bed, panting, twitching, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause.

He licked through the aftershocks, fingers still curling inside you like he was searching for more.

“Please—please, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled. “You said you wanted this. Said you wanted me to ruin you. That I could fuck you until you couldn’t speak.”

“I did—I do—fuck—I do!”

“Then take it.”

He leant back on his knees just enough to watch what he was doing, his fingers fucking in and out of you, soaked to the knuckle. Your juices dripped down the insides of your thighs, your pussy glistening in the warm light, flushed and swollen. He looked wrecked watching you, his cock straining hard against his pants.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he muttered, sliding his fingers out with a slow, slick pull that made you whimper. “Look at this fucking mess. You’re dripping, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, a sob tearing loose from your throat.

“I want it,” you gasped. “I want you. Please. I need you inside me—please—”

He moved fast.

One hand on his belt, jerking the buckle loose. The clink of metal echoed through the room, followed by the sound of fabric hitting the floor.

He stood at the edge of the bed, fully naked now. His cock was thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip, the veins along the shaft standing out as he wrapped his fist around it and stroked once with a tight grunt.

You couldn’t look away.

“I’ve been hard since the diner,” he said hoarsely, eyes locked on your wrecked body sprawled across the sheets. “Sat in the truck reading that last letter again, just thinking about how wet you’d be for me. How sweet you’d sound when you begged. How I’m gonna write that fuckin’ song about you, how I’ll write a whole fuckin’ album about you—”

You mewled again, tears slipping down your cheeks now, your thighs twitching open wider on instinct. 

“Please,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I’ll say it. I’ll say anything. Just give it to me.”

He climbed over you slowly, bracing himself on his elbows as he lined up at your entrance.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice dark with hunger. “You’re gonna take every inch.”

And then he pushed in.

You cried out as the head of his cock stretched you open. Your back arched off the bed, fingers scrambling at the sheets, your body twitching from overstimulation. Your pussy clenched tight around him on instinct.

“Shhh,” He murmured, his voice ragged as he held himself still. “You can take it. I know you can.”

He slid in another inch, slow, dragging, splitting you open around him.

You keened, helpless. The stretch burned, but the pressure—the way he filled you so deeply, so perfectly—made your toes curl. Your walls clamped down around him, greedy, desperate, already milking him without meaning to.

“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth, head dropping to your shoulder. “You’re tight. So fuckin’ tight, sweetheart.”

Your hands flew to his back, clawing at his skin, dragging down his spine. He was heavy and solid, his cock thick and pulsing as he fed you more inch by inch.

“Please,” you gasped, legs trembling on either side of his hips. “Please, fuck me—just do it—”

He let out a rough groan.

And then he sank the rest of the way in, bottoming out with a hard, final thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.

Your body spasmed beneath his as he filled you to the hilt. 

He moaned above you, one arm sliding under your back, pulling you tighter against him, locking your bodies together.

“You feel that?” he whispered, voice shaking. “How perfect you take me?”

You nodded frantically, tears slipping free, your hips rolling up to meet him before you even realised.

And then he started to move. Each thrust dragged the full length of him through your soaked pussy, grinding against that perfect spot inside you with unrelenting precision. You cried, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, trying to keep him as deep as possible.

“You’re already squeezing me,” he groaned, fucking into you harder now. “Already so fucked out, sweetheart. Look at you.”

You couldn’t. Your eyes were glassy, lips parted, hands slipping uselessly across his slick back as he took you. His pace built, thrusts snapping forward faster, harder, making the headboard bang softly against the wall. 

“Beg for it again,” he panted against your throat, teeth grazing your skin. “Let me hear you say it.”

“Fuck—please—don’t stop—need it—need you—”

“That’s it.”

He shifted, changing the angle, sliding one hand beneath your ass and lifting you to meet his thrusts. The new position had you screaming, your body jerking, clenching tight as your orgasm slammed into you so hard it felt like falling. You convulsed around him, sobbing, your nails digging into his shoulders, your whole body begging without words.

But he didn’t stop.

He fucked you through it, through your crying, through the way your body trembled and tried to curl in on itself. He held you open, held you down, every thrust bruising and perfect.

Your vision blurred. Your voice broke.

And still he kept going.

“You said you’d let me,” he growled. “Said I could fuck you until you couldn’t think straight.”

“You can,” you cried. “Please—just don’t stop—please—”

His mouth crashed down on yours, swallowing your scream as he finally lost his rhythm, his thrusts turning sloppy, urgent, his cock twitching inside you.

And then he came.

Hot and relentless, spilling inside you with a groan so wrecked it made you see god. He buried himself, grinding in as he filled you, a string of curses a rough whisper in your ear. 

You didn’t even realise you were crying again until he brushed the tears from your cheek.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You took it all. Just like I knew you would.”

You didn’t know how long you lay there, trembling and spent, your body still flushed and twitching in the aftermath. You couldn’t move. Could barely think. You were splayed across the mattress, your skin slick with sweat, your thighs sticky and sore, your pussy still aching from the stretch of him.

A large hand brushed damp strands of hair away from your forehead, gentle fingers stroking through your hair with surprising care. “There she is,” he murmured.

You blinked up at him, bleary-eyed, lips parted but no words came. You were too fucked out to string together a thought, let alone a sentence. Your body was heavy, bones turned to syrup, and you felt the flutter of tears threaten again.

He leant over you, his skin warm where it pressed against yours, and kissed the side of your temple. A lingering kiss, soft and steady. One that said, I’m not in a hurry.

“You did so well,” he murmured against your skin.

You exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering closed. “You know, I never even asked your name.” Your voice was hoarse, practically gravel from all the screaming and moaning.

You felt him smirk softly. “It’s James, but all my friends call me Bucky.”

“Bucky…” you sighed, almost dreamily. “Suits you.”

Silence fell over both of you as you nuzzled his shoulder, dazed.

He stayed close, his hand never leaving your body, sliding down your arm, over your hip, then back up again. A slow, idle rhythm that kept you tethered to reality.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I read every word you wrote.” He finally whispered, enough to jolt you back to full consciousness. 

Your breath caught, eyes opening, but he kept going.

“I tried to write back, wanted to...” His thumb swept over your cheekbone. “I’m just no good with words, not in the way you are. Different from writing songs, I don’t know why. Was scared I’d fuck it up somehow, scare you off.”

He watched your face, his tone softening even more.

“I think I’ve spent this last year looking for you, whether I realised it or not. Like I knew I’d find you.”

Your chest ached. Your lips moved, trying to speak, but you only managed a faint, broken sound, a gasp, a sob, maybe a laugh. You weren’t sure. You were too far gone, too full of him, too unravelled.

“And now that I’ve found you?” he said, voice dropping low. “I’m not letting you go.”

With a shaking hand, you brushed a few fingers across his forehead, down his temple to the stubble of his jaw. His breath caught at the motion. “Yeah? You’ll take me away from this place? Make me happy like in my letters?”

A huff of laughter escaped his nose. “If that’s what you want, sweetheart.”

---

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[bbarnesbck]

Oxygen

Pairing: The Void/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Fem!Reader!

Summary: Your period has come, and you’re feeling extremely moody and down, mix that in with intense cramping and you’re absolutely miserable. But when Bob lets out The Void for the night, he has a solution for all your troubles.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angsty (kind of), Would I say this is Hurt/Comfort? I mean…Kind of? In the literal sense lol. Reader is in pain and The Void is comforting her…So yeah. Reader has an established relationship with Bob. Void is a bit soft here

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Period Sex (it’s going to get messy), Descriptions/Mentions of Period Blood (it kind of gets everywhere…Do with that information what you will), Oral Sex (Void being a certified munch…Wheew), Fingering, Void gets a little rough, Scratches, Love Bites (that borders on painful while receiving them, but like…A good kind of pain?), Little bit of hair pulling, Nipple/Breast Play, Reader is Hypersensitive so Overstimulation is a thing, Praise Kink, Body Worship, Dirty Talk, A Bloody Good Time (the request asked for filth…I shall deliver as much as I possibly can.), Aftercare (because hell yeah!)

Author’s Note: Wheeeewww….Wowie. This request was a mood and I thought I would oblige. I love writing Soft Void so much that it’s taken over my life, Jesus Christ! Anyways, I know this may not be everyone’s cup of tea, so hopefully I can make it up to y’all tomorrow with some cavity inducing Fluff? RAF is tomorrow too. However! I hope you guys enjoy <3

Word Count: 11,756

When Bob arrived at your apartment, the front door was already unlocked–just like you’d told him in the text you sent thirty minutes ago, when the cramps had gotten so bad that even reaching for your heating pad felt like too much. It wasn’t that you were being reckless or forgetful. It was just that you had finally managed to contort your body into the one exact position on your couch where the stabbing pain in your lower abdomen dulled to a tolerable throb, and there was no force on Earth–nor in your aching uterus–that could convince you to ruin that hard-earned victory just to answer the door.

You were curled into the deepest corner of your couch, half-wrapped in a fuzzy navy throw blanket that clung to your overheated skin with static. One leg was tucked beneath you while the other dangled over the side like a limp vine, toes grazing the edge of the coffee table. A heating pad was crammed against your lower stomach tucked under the waistband of your oldest pair of sweatpants–gray, baggy, and speckled with faded bleach stains from an old laundry mishap. Your hoodie was black, and your socks were mismatched. You were also surrounded by tear stained tissues, half-finished tea, and two little individual Tylenol blister packs you couldn’t summon the strength to throw away.

You had messaged Bob earlier, before the cramps got really bad—“Door is open”—and he’d replied quickly, sweetly, with “Okay :)” like the smiley face might soften the guilt you were already wallowing in.

Because truthfully, you had tried to cancel the whole night.

Your period had come four days early, and you were completely caught off guard by the sudden flush of hormones and ferality, the fatigue that hit like a train, and the emotional fog that crept in as if someone had quietly dimmed all the lights inside you. Within the span of a few hours you had gone from feeling excited for your night with Bob–featuring blanket, popcorn, movies, him sleeping over, and of course the subsequent sex that came from it–to being curled up on your couch in a haze of discomfort and self-loathing, texting him “actually I think I have to cancel, I feel really gross, and disgusting” with trembling fingers and wet lashes.

But Bob didn’t hesitate at all in his response.

”I still want to come over. Period or not. You know how much I want to be around you, and I’ll be happy to take care of you.” You stared at that message for a full minute before replying, chest aching. You’d always made it a point to schedule your hangouts around your cycle. You didn’t want him to see you like this–emotional, bloated, sensitive to the point of irrationality. It wasn’t just about the pain. It was the unpredictability of your own mood. The way everything felt heavier. The way you got clingy and quiet and sometimes cried over the dumbest things, and how much you hated being perceived when you weren’t at your best.

This would be the first time seeing you like this and nervous didn’t even begin to cover how you were feeling about that situation.

You flinched at the sound of the front door opening with a soft click. You didn’t move. Just held your breath and stared at the ceiling, heart thudding as you heard the unmistakable rustle of a grocery bag, followed by the quiet shuffle of Bob’s sneakers on the entryway mat. His presence was always warm, always calm. Even now, as he shut the door behind him and moved towards your kitchen counter, you could feel the atmosphere of the apartment shift–like someone had finally cracked a window in a too-stuffy room.

”Y/N? You here?” He called out. Not loud or overly careful. Just softness…As if he already knew you didn’t have the energy for more than that. You groaned and closed your eyes.

”Couch,” You croaked, raising your hand up like a flag, your voice dry and almost pitiful. You could hear him let out a little laugh as the rustling of bags followed his movements. He took your outstretched hand gently,–warm, careful fingers curling around yours as he brought it to his lips and pressed a few soft kisses to your knuckles. Each one was slow and featherlight, like he was afraid of overwhelming you with too much affection all at once.

”Hey, hun,” He murmured, his voice low and sweet, vibrating through your fingertips, “How’re you feeling?” You let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but it died halfway in your throat and turned into more of a wheeze. Your eyes stayed closed.

”Like garbage,” You croaked, “And…Gross.” Bob let go of your hand with a soft squeeze and circled around the couch until he was crouched in front of you. He set down the grocery bags on the coffee table, the softest rustling of plastic being heard. You could see that there were an array of chips; plain, sour cream, salt and vinegar, all dressed, and if you looked even closer you noticed there were a few bags of candy and chocolate. The other bag seemed a little less full, but you couldn't tell what was in it from the angle you were lying in.

He shrugged off his jacket, and draped it over the back of the couch, before turning his attention back to you with that familiar crease of concern between his brows and his blue irises studying you, scanning over the expression that was plastered on your face–one that he would probably describe as anguish more than anything. You watched him through heavy lashes as he reached out, fingertips brushing against the apple of your cheek.

The touch sent a fresh wave of heat blooming beneath your skin, and you hissed involuntarily, recoiling slightly from the contact. He jerked his hand back immediately in surprise.

”Crap…Sorry. I didn’t mean to–“ You shook your head faintly.

”It’s okay…It wasn’t you. I run super hot when I’m on my person and I literally feel like a raw nerve. You had no idea.” Bob gave a small, guilty sigh and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, his light brown hair a little mussed from where the wind had caught it outside. He looked sheepish, lips parted like he might say something else–like another apology–but instead his gaze flicked toward the grocery bags.

”Well,” He started, clearing his throat, “I-I got you some of your favourite snacks. And some painkillers. And another heating pad in case this one gives out.” His voice wobbled on the last bit like he wasn’t sure it was the right thing to say. Your eyes fluttered open just enough to squint at him.

”You did?” He gave a small, proud nod.

”Of course I did.” You stared at him and felt your throat tighten, something warm and tight rising in your chest like a balloon that was being blown too fast. He leaned forward, took your hand again, and brought it back to his mouth. Another soft kiss, right at the center of your palm this time, “That’s what I would want someone to do for me if I was in pa-pain.” He added softly. You squeezed his hand gently, a tired little grin tugging at the corner of your mouth despite how miserable you felt.

”You’re too sweet, Bob.” His pale cheeks flushed immediately–the tell-tale pink blooming across his face and up the tips of his ears–and he ducked his head just a little, shying away from the compliment slightly.

”It’s the least I can do…” He stated, brushing his thumb along your knuckles, adding in a quieter voice, “I can also help with the heat issue too…If you’d li-like of course.” You raised a brow.

”Oh yeah? And how do you plan on doing that?” He looked up, shrugging slightly, though his fingers twitched slightly in your grip.

”I can call in the re-reinforcements…” You squinted at him, wary.

”Please don’t tell me you’re gonna let Sentry come out…He almost burned a hole through my sheets the last time you let him take over.” Bob let out a short laugh, rubbing his free hand on the top of his thigh, getting rid of the sweat that was building up along his palm.

”No., no. Definitely not him. He’ll make your situation way worse than it already is. You don’t need a sentient sun snuggling you right now.” You snorted softly, even though the vibration slightly disturbed the position you were in, a slight cramp tingling in your abdomen.

”I was actually thinking…” He hesitated, eyes flicking to yours, watching for your expression, “Y’know…The ot-other guy.” Your brows knit for a second before the connection clicked–and your expression shifted, eyes widening just slightly.

”Oh…” Bob gave a faint, awkward little smile like he wasn’t sure how you’d take the offer, but your response was quiet and calm.

“Well…I mean…I’d be okay with that,” You replied, your voice laced with surprising honesty, “He’s an ice cube so that’ll definitely help…And he’s pretty easy to be around.” Bob huffed a soft, disbelieving laugh, squeezing your hand a little tighter

“You know…You still haven’t told me how you made him get all mushy fo-for you,” He muttered, “He gets so angry at the compound when people talk to him, but for some reason he’s a bumbling mess with you, it’s ridiculous.” You shrugged, letting your head tip lazily to the side.

”He’s tethered to you, so technically…He’s just emulating your feelings. Just in a different form. You’re always soft with me and you’re also just…Madly in love with me. So he is too.” You teased, Bob raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, but you weren’t done. “And it’s also probably because I constantly feed him. He practically eats me out of house and home when he’s around.” That made Bob smirk.

”I guess food really is the fastest way to a…Dark entity’s heart.” You both let out tired little laughs, quiet and breathy, the kind that fizzled out gently into a soft silence. There was something tender about it–how even in the middle of your worst pain, you could still laugh with Bob. Still feel the warmth in his presence, the subtle rhythm of comfort his voice offered, like your own nervous system was finally allowed to let go.

Your thumb traced absentminded circles into his palm as the moment stretched, quiet and calm. His fingers were still wrapped around yours, warm despite the cool edge now lingering faintly in the air–residue, no doubt, from the Void’s hovering nearness. Your gaze lingered on him for a beat longer than intended–soft, fond, aching just a little.

Then, leaning forward slowly, careful not to upset the careful position of your heating pad or spark another cramp, you brushed your lips to his.

Just once. A soft, grateful kiss. Chaste, almost–more a gesture of affection than desire. Still, it lingered.

When you pulled back, Bob’s eyes blinked open slowly. The familiar, oceanic blue of his irises struck you all over again, even in the dim light. They were that rare kind of blue–pure and soft, but startling in their deepness and intensity. Almost unreal in a sense, like you’d expect to find this kind of blue painted across the sky on the clearest day of the year. Right now, though, they were a little darker, a little stormier, pupils dilating then constricting ever so slightly as he tried to refocus.

And in the very center of each pupil, you saw it–a pinprick of shifting white. That tiny speck of starlight you’d come to recognize as The Void’s slow, and creeping awareness. You brushed your thumb lightly over the back of Bob’s hand.

“I do want you to stay for a bit though,” You whispered, voice quieter now. “Before you let the ice cube out.” He nodded once, his eyes fluttering shut–hard, purposeful. You could see the tension in his jaw as he exhaled slowly through his nose, steadying his breath, pushing the shadow back down beneath the surface. For now.

“That I can do…” He murmured, his voice a little raspier than before. Then, softer still, “Wa-Want me to hold you? I promise I won’t touch your face again.”

You smiled, heart tugging at the awkward little stammer and the genuine warmth behind his offer. “I’d really like that.”

He didn’t waste time. Just moved slowly, carefully, like you were made of glass. He stood just long enough to toe off his sneakers and ease himself onto the couch beside you. Then, without asking again, he opened his arms.

You curled into his side, rearranging yourself gingerly to avoid jostling your heating pad. Your head settled against his shoulder, your cheek pressing into the soft, worn cotton of his shirt. His arm wrapped around you securely, palm splayed warm and steady across your upper back.

The relief that came from being held like that was immediate. Like a switch being flipped. Not because the pain vanished, but because the isolation of it lifted. You weren’t suffering alone anymore. You were here, in the arms of someone who didn’t flinch from your discomfort or try to fix it with empty words. Someone who wanted to be here, in this quiet, messy moment with you.

You leaned forward again just a little, brushing your lips to his cheek. A brief kiss. Gentle. Grateful.

If it were any other night–if your body wasn’t at war with itself–you knew you’d be all over him by now. He smelled good, like wind and clean cotton and whatever fabric softener he always used that clung to your sheets for days after he left. And he was so close, warm and pliant beneath your hands. There was always something about Bob that pulled at your skin like gravity.

But tonight…Tonight was different.

You felt a familiar ache of desire tug somewhere deep in your core, curling low and hot beneath the cramping you were experiencing still. You knew sex could help–that it might actually alleviate some of the pain. But still, the words stuck in your throat. This was the first time he was seeing you like this, and you didn’t want to risk turning tenderness into tension. Didn’t want him to think you were asking for more than he was ready to give under these conditions.

So instead, you let yourself rest. Let your fingers trace lightly over the stitching on his shirt, your breathing slowly syncing with his. You wondered, idly, if he knew–if he had any idea about the things that could help you feel better. If he’d ever read that article or heard someone say it out loud in passing. But if he did, he wasn’t mentioning it. And you weren’t brave enough to ask.

Not now at least.

You shifted even closer to him with a soft, involuntary hum, the smallest sound of contentment escaping your lips as your body registered the warmth of his side and clung to it. Bob didn’t move, didn’t speak–just tightened his arm around you ever so slightly, his hand resting securely on your back like he was anchoring you to the present, to safety.

You closed your eyes, and breathed him in again. The cramping hadn’t gone away, not completely. But it no longer ruled you. It lingered like a distant storm, rumbling at the edges, while the quiet beat of Bob’s heart offered something steadier to focus on.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

You let the sound cradle you, like a drumbeat in your chest that wasn’t yours but still somehow belonged to you, bringing your leg over his slowly, your hips shifting with the movement. Bob responded immediately to the new position, his own leg adjusting instinctively beneath yours to make a little space for you to settle into.

Your face pressed deeper into the hollow of his shoulder, the heat in your cheeks now less about fever and more about quiet intimacy. You stayed there like that, enveloped in the low murmur of his breath and the steady pulse beneath your ear.

Every now and then, he’d shift slightly to get more comfortable, and the subtle motion–his chest rising, his ribs flexing, his fingertips dragging lightly through the fabric at your back–would draw you back from the edge of sleep, until it finally overtook you.

—————————

The first thing you noticed when you stirred awake was the absence of warmth, and the pressure of arms and hands touching you.

Instinctively you reached for Bob, thinking that maybe in the midst of your nap you had untangled yourself from him, only to find the indentation he’d left in the couch and a faint lingering trace of his fabric softener. The fuzzy navy blanket had slipped down your hip, and the heating pad, long since gone cold, pressed heavy and useless against your lower stomach. You sighed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as your ears registered the low, distant whir of the bathroom fan humming from down the hall.

Slowly, your eyes trailed over toward the clock on the wall.

9:25 p.m.

Somehow it felt later and earlier than that all at once, like time had folded in on itself and it was just an odd loop. You sat up with a soft groan, hands bracing against the couch cushions as you shifted. The cramps had dulled–less a serrated edge now, more a muted throb radiating into your lower back like a tired engine. Still there. Still annoying. But tolerable.

You peeled the cooled heating pad from your skin and dropped it beside the grocery bags on the coffee table, your eyes skimming over them with a faint smile, though you had noticed they weren’t as full anymore.

The all-dressed chips were gone, so were the sour cream ones, meaning Bob must’ve eaten them all on his own. You let out a quiet, amused hum and pushed yourself to your feet, stretching just enough to feel the pull in your shoulders, your hoodie exposing your midriff with the movement.

As you padded across the room, you grabbed the unopened bottle of Advil from the second grocery bag, cracked the seal, and shook out two liquid capsules into your palm, tossing them back and swallowing them dry, wincing slightly at the way they briefly got stuck in your throat.

Then you stood there for a beat, letting everything settle around you.

The apartment was quiet, but not silent. Dim, but warm.

A few lamps cast soft pools of light across the space–one near the couch still glowing amber, another by the kitchen left on at half brightness. The curtains over the windows were drawn tight, muting the outside world to a soft shadowplay of headlights passing every so often. On the kitchen counter, Bob’s keys were resting beside a crumpled receipt and the half-empty bag of gummy worms he had clearly dipped into while you were asleep.

You shuffled down the hallway, arms folded loosely across your chest, each step deliberate and soft. A few hours ago you probably wouldn’t have been able to move like this, so evidently whatever you did had helped.

The further down the hall you went, the cooler the air became–less from the apartment’s thermostat and more from him. That telltale prickle at the base of your neck. Not sinister. Not unwelcome. Just a quiet alertness in the atmosphere. The kind of cold that carried intention.

The bathroom door was mostly shut, but the light bled out beneath it in a thin golden strip across the floorboards. The fan buzzed faintly above it, soothing and constant, and you could hear the quiet sound of water–either running or having just stopped.

You lifted your hand, hesitating only for a moment before gently knocking on the door with the soft part of your knuckles.

“Bob?” You called out, your voice scratchy with sleep. There was a brief pause, and then the fan cut off with a quiet click, and for a moment, all you could hear was the dripping of water and your own breath echoing through your nose.

Then the door opened, and standing in the center of the soft bathroom lighting was The Void. He was unmistakable–tall and defined in that way Bob always was, but rendered in silhouette so precise it looked carved from shadow itself. Smooth and obsidian from head to toe, his features unreadable save for the faint glint of white where his eyes should be–those signature star-pupils glowing dimly in the low light–and the suggestion of a mouth that moved only when he chose it to.

He wore nothing but a towel, slung low around his hips, and the fact that he’d just gotten out of the shower was made abundantly clear by the way water still clung to him in languid droplets, trailing down the lines of his chest and abdomen in slow, shimmering arcs. Each drop disappeared into the dark surface of his skin like ink being swallowed by midnight.

His silky black hair was damp and heavy, hanging over his forehead and temples in wet, tousled clumps. It framed the curve of his jaw, you could see it from the way it flowed out a bit and hung slightly. Somehow, even in his wordless presence, he radiated a kind of calm–but it pulsed with tension just beneath the surface. As if the moment could shift at any second, if he let it.

You blinked, eyebrows lifting, “Oh. I didn’t know you were here.”

He nodded, voice lower and smoother than Bob’s but carrying the same gentle breathiness. “Yeah. Bob fell asleep, so I just…Decided to take over during that.” He paused, tilting his head faintly, water dripping onto the tile from his hair. “Was feeling a bit sweaty though, so I wanted to freshen up a bit. Hope that’s okay.” You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing lightly over your hoodie, a smirk pulling at your lips.

”Well, what’s mine is yours,” You stated casually, “So…Have at it.” You caught a flash of his teeth–just the slightest curve of a grin in that shadowy mouth.

“You have quite the array of soaps,” He replied, tilting his head with mock gravity, “So I certainly had at it.” You let out a little laugh, stepping into the bathroom a bit further, heat curling low in your stomach just from the sheer sight of him in basically nothing but the towel itself.

”I’m sure you did.” You commented, before raising onto your toes and giving him a soft, lingering peck at the corner of his cold mouth.”Hello, by the way,” You added, with a little smirk on your face. He hummed, low and pleased, the sound vibrating in his chest. Then he wrapped his arms around your waist in a slow, measured motion–cool to the touch, but not unwelcoming. In fact, he felt like relief. Like stepping into shade after being in the sun for too long. His hands slid along your back, fingers dipping under the hem of your hoodie where your warm skin met his coolness.

“Hello to you too,” He murmured–and before you could answer, he leaned forward and kissed you properly this time, and it certainly wasn’t the same type of greeting you had given him. It was slower. Deeper. His mouth was cool but somehow still pliant against yours, parting just enough for his tongue to tease the seam of your lips before he gently sucked on your bottom lip, drawing it between his own like he had all the time in the world. You let out a faint, breathy sound against him, your hands gripping the towel at his hips for balance. You could feel the heat in your stomach ignite almost instantly, curling low and sharp, like a spark catching dry kindling. Every glide of his mouth against yours pulled you closer to the edge of forgetting–forgetting your cramps, your exhaustion, your discomfort. Forgetting yourself entirely.

Which was exactly why you had to stop.

With reluctant fingers still curled around the soft edge of the towel at his waist, you pulled away from his lips, your breath catching as your forehead gently rested against his.

“Void…” You whispered, voice barely above a murmur, “I’m on my period.”Your hands lifted, sliding up to press gently against the cool, velvet-smooth skin of his chest–broad and unyielding beneath your palms. His body stilled for a breath, but not with hesitation. He let out a soft, breathy laugh, his white pupils glinting like distant stars as he gazed at you.

“I know,” He murmured, without shame or judgment. “I’m able to smell the blood.” You opened your mouth to respond, but he leaned in before you could, placing a kiss to your cheek, then another just below your jaw. His lips were cool and reverent, trailing slowly down to your neck. One kiss. Another. Then another.

Each one was featherlight and deliberate, lips barely brushing against your overheated skin–and yet your pulse fluttered, your breath hitched, and your head tilted almost instinctively to the side to give him more room. The contrast between your warm skin and his chilled mouth made your toes curl, a tingling shiver running down your spine like lightning.

Your eyes fluttered closed as he pressed a kiss just beneath your ear, and you exhaled softly.

“You sound like a vampire…” You mumbled, trying to keep your voice steady. Void let out a low, indulgent laugh, the sound vibrating against the hollow of your throat like the roll of distant thunder. Then–without warning–he nipped at your pulse point, sharp enough to make you jump slightly, but not enough to hurt.

“I could be one,” He said slyly, voice curling like smoke. “If you’d allow me to. I already have super senses, so…I’m halfway there…Only thing that’s missing is drinking blood.” The suggestiveness in his tone made your stomach twist into tight, unbearable knots. You were just about to say something back–some equally flirtatious quip to match his vampire fantasy–when he added, entirely too casually:

“Also, with those super senses, I can literally hear your uterus contracting right now. Did I mention that?” You froze. Your head pulling back immediately, brows knitting together in horror as your face twisted into the most incredulous expression humanly possible.

“Jesus,” You groaned, pushing against his chest–not hard, just enough to make him take a step back. “You really know how to ruin a sexy moment.” Void’s mouth curled into a smug smile, the white glow of his pupils sharpening with delight as a low laugh rumbled from his chest.

“Don’t worry,” He murmured, unbothered. “It doesn’t sound weird.”

You stared at him.

“I thought it would be like…Leather gloves squishing together or something–”

“Oh my God–”

“–But it actually registers more like a second pulse of sorts. Slow. Steady. Very, very calming to listen to.” You covered your face with both hands, letting out a muffled sound of despair.

“You have to learn how to keep things to yourself, Void.” You groaned through your palms. He tilted his head, completely unashamed, the way only an immortal void-being could be.

“I find it to be beautiful,” He said earnestly. “It seems like you’re the one who’s embarrassed by a normal bodily function.” You lowered your hands slowly, one brow arched so high it might’ve shot off your forehead.

“Me?” You asked, pointing to yourself.

”Yes. You,” He replied, pressing a cold fingertip to your nose without missing a beat, “I can practically hear the hum of your sexual frustration in your bones–“

”Void–“ You tried to cut in, though he trampled your attempt.

”–But you’re too reluctant to ask me to take care of you because you’re embarrassed about it.” Your mouth dropped open slightly, almost shocked by the forwardness of his statement. He was staring at you, completely composed and unbothered. You gulped loudly, feeling your heart rate pick up under his steady, unblinking gaze. It felt like he was staring through you–like he could peel back each layer of your composure with just a tilt of his head. Void watched the fluttering of your pulse with mild fascination, his eyes gleaming.

”Am I right or am I wrong?” He murmured. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your lips just parted on a soft exhale, throat working as if your body had forgotten how to form a sentence. Your mouth had gone dry–parched like desert heat–and so you broke eye contact, glanced away from him, ashamed at the burn of arousal coiling through your body in tight, low spirals.

“Void…Listen, I–” He reached up, cold fingers brushing along your jaw until his hand cradled the side of your face. He tilted your chin gently, guiding your gaze back up to his. His touch was soft but steady, almost bordering on firm.

“I asked if I was right or if I was wrong,” He repeated, his voice laced with that subtle, grounding dominance. Calm and unshakeable. “Can you answer me, please?” You stared at him, throat bobbing with another nervous swallow. Your pulse thrummed in your ears. His thumb brushed over your cheek, like he was soothing something only he could sense.

“…Of course I’m reluctant to ask,” You whispered, your voice almost hoarse. “Who wouldn’t be?” He exhaled slowly, a little sigh escaping him–less disappointment, more knowing. He shook his head faintly, and the shadowed strands of his wet hair shifted with the movement.

“Someone who isn’t embarrassed of what they want,” He replied simply, and the smirk that followed was sharp–knowing, dark, fond. You could feel your palms getting sweaty. There was a heat building inside you that had nothing to do with your cramps. It was a different kind of ache now–deep and thick and pressing down on every nerve in your body like it had weight.

“I’m not embarrassed,” You muttered, eyes darting to the floor between you like you were hoping for an escape hatch to open beneath your feet. “I’m just…”

The Void didn’t move nor did he blink. He just waited, and watched you closely.

You glanced up to meet his gaze again, but before the rest of the sentence could fully form, he cut you off–quietly, confidently, like he’d been waiting for the moment to fall apart in your throat.

“Reluctant to indulge in something you want?” He finished your sentence for you, letting the words drop like stones between you.

He leaned forward just slightly, not enough to touch–but enough for the chill of his breath to ghost over your cheeks like frost crawling up a windowpane. You felt it like a current–sharp and soothing at the same time–cutting clean through the haze of your heat-flushed skin. It pulled a shiver from you, involuntary, delicate as a blade of grass bending in the wind. The stars in his pupils shimmered faintly, twin glints of something eternal, patient, and entirely undisturbed.

“…Reluctant to put you in an uncomfortable position,” You corrected quietly, the words trembling slightly as they left your lips. They felt too honest, too exposed–but true all the same. “It’s not that I don’t want to–I do. God, I do. But I’m not gonna beg for something if there’s even a chance it’s gonna make you uncomfortable or…Cross a boundary for you. That’s not who I am. And it’s not fair to you.”

There was a pause–soft and heavy.

Then, he let out a quiet, amused sound. A low, warm chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest and unfurled like black velvet across your skin.

“Y/N,” He started gently, shaking his head. The stars in his eyes brightened slightly. “A little bit of blood would never make me feel uncomfortable.” He dipped closer, the line of his shoulder brushing yours, his mouth nearly at your ear now as he murmured, “You should know that by now.”

Your breath hitched.

His words weren’t mocking or pitying–they were gentle. Certain. Like the idea of your bleeding body repulsing him was so laughably impossible that it didn’t even deserve serious consideration.

He drew back just enough to meet your gaze again, but he didn’t move away entirely. One of his hands trailed down slowly to rest just above the waistband of your sweatpants. The tips of his cool fingers brushed your warm skin where your hoodie had ridden up. The contrast made your stomach twitch.

“All I want is to take care of you…And it would be great if you’d let me.” His voice was low and soft, coiling through air like smoke–cool and deliberate. His fingertips slipped under the waistband of your sweatpants and just rested there, grounding you. You bit the inside of your cheek, pulse quickening. His hand wasn’t moving, wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t trying to talk you out of your nerves, wasn’t seducing you in the typical way–but it still felt seductive, still soothing, the way only Void could be. Your throat worked around the ache in your chest, and your voice came out quieter than you meant it to.

“…You really want to do this?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Of course I do.”

No sarcasm. No smirk. Just certainty.

You brought your hands up slowly to press against his chest–cool, slick, still faintly damp from the shower. The sensation sent a little jolt through your fingers. You closed your eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.

“…Okay,” You whispered. “Just give me a few minutes to get ready at least.” His mouth quirked–barely a smile, but filled with something like affection.

“No problem,” He said, brushing a kiss against your cheek with a softness that made your knees weaken. “I’ll meet you in your bedroom.” And just like that, he slipped past you.

The cool absence he left in his wake was almost startling–the door clicking softly shut behind him as he went. You stood there in the bathroom for a beat, heart hammering, your reflection catching your eye in the mirror.

You looked like a storm had passed through you. Hoodie riding up, eyes sleepy and a bit glossy. Lips kiss-bitten and puffy. You could even feel the shape of his mouth on your neck still. You stared at yourself for a long second, then exhaled hard through your nose and mumbled–

“…What the hell do I do?” Panic flickered just beneath the surface, stuttering hot against your nerves. It wasn’t that you didn’t want this. You did. Badly. Desperately. But then the logistics came crashing in—blood. mess. cleanup. embarrassment. the way your stomach might cramp mid-orgasm. the way you might sob afterward because your hormones were deranged.

You could already feel your anxiety building.

Your gaze darted toward the bottom cabinet beneath the sink, and your body moved before your brain could catch up.

You crouched down and yanked it open, fingers wrapping around a half-used pack of wipes from the last time you’d needed a quick clean-up post-sex. You tossed them onto the counter, then paused.

Okay. Okay. Quick solutions. You’re okay.

You pulled down your sweatpants and underwear, removed your tampon with swift, practiced ease–wrapping it tightly in toilet paper before tucking it deep beneath the mountain of used tissues in the bin. You washed your hands quickly, your fingers trembling slightly beneath the rush of warm water. The stream was too hot on your already overheated skin, but you didn’t care. You needed the sting. Needed the reset.

You paused in front of the mirror again and pushed your hair out of your face, taking a deep breath. You decided to keep your sweatpants off just so they didn’t stain, but your underwear remained on, just for insurance. You tucked the pack of wipes under your arm, before padding back into the hallway, making your way across the hall to your bedroom.

You opened the door to your bedroom slowly, the hinges barely creaking as the light from the hallway spilled across the floorboards in a soft ribbon of gold. But inside–it was all dark.

The only illumination came from the moonlight, cool and silvery, filtering through the slats in your curtains and painting faint stripes across the walls. It caught on the curve of his shoulders first. He was seated at the foot of the bed like a statue carved from night itself, all sharp lines and slick, smooth skin that shimmered faintly under the light.

The towel was still slung low around his hips, just barely clinging to his frame. His posture was relaxed, almost regal, arms resting on his thighs. But the moment he saw you–standing in the doorway, hoodie hanging loose over your body, your legs bare beneath the hem–his head lifted.

Those star-pupiled eyes dragged slowly up your body, deliberate and unhurried. From the tips of your toes, up the line of your calves, your thighs–he lingered there, lips parting ever so slightly–then continued, drinking in every inch of you until his gaze reached your face. The faintest smile curved across his mouth.

“Come here.” His voice was soft, velvety, but there was weight behind it. Command hidden inside kindness. He extended a hand to you, fingers curling ever so slightly, beckoning. You swallowed. Then stepped forward. Your heart beated faster with each movement across the floor, the cool air curling around your exposed legs, your fingertips gripping the edge of the wipe pack a little too tightly. You stopped just in front of him and dropped the pack beside his thigh. He didn’t even glance at it.

He only looked at you.

Your fingers met, and the moment your hand slid into his, his other arm was already reaching to wrap around the backs of your thighs. He pulled you into the cradle of his body gently, slowly, until you stood fully between his knees, the heat of your skin brushing against the coolness of his chest. His hands moved to your ass, slow and possessive–broad palms splaying there with intent. Not squeezing yet. Just holding.

Then he leaned forward.

And kissed you.

Hard.

His mouth was cooler than yours, but it only made the friction sweeter–the contrast sharper. It started with pressure, then parted into hunger. His lips moved with an urgency that surprised you, tongue flicking against yours with teasing precision before deepening the kiss into something that made your knees tremble. He sucked on your bottom lip just enough to draw a gasp from you, one hand slipping higher to squeeze your hip.

You whimpered faintly into his mouth, your fingers finding the slick skin of his shoulders, clinging.

“Void—” You breathed between kisses.

But he just hummed, a low sound of satisfaction, and pulled you forward with firm hands until you had no choice but to straddle his lap. You climbed up instinctively, knees bracketing his thighs, arms looping around his neck. The towel bunched between you, but barely registered. He groaned softly when your weight settled into him, his hands roaming again–palming your ass, your hips, dragging you flush against the line of his abdomen.

“You’re so hot,” He murmured against your mouth, voice dark with awe. “I think I’m going to have to cool you down.” He stood in one fluid, seamless motion–not a jerk or a lift, just a smooth ascension, as if gravity bowed to him. You barely had time to gasp before your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, arms tightening around his shoulders, breath catching in your throat. His hands supported you easily, one cradling beneath your thighs, the other anchoring your lower back.

And then, without warning, he turned.

Your back hit the mattress with a soft thump, the air catching in your chest in surprise before it dissolved into a giggle. A real one. Light and unguarded. The kind that cracked through the last of your tension and made your head tip back for a second, even as he hovered above you.

He loomed, dark and cold and beautiful in a way that never stopped stealing your breath. Still damp, water beading faintly across his shadow-black skin, the remnants of his shower gleaming like stardust scattered across him. His hair clung to his temples, longer pieces curling at his jaw, giving him an almost feral softness. His glowing white eyes skimmed over your face, then down your body, before flicking back up, his mouth quirking into a sly, knowing smile as he straightened up above you, his fingers ghosting over the towel on his hips. He held your gaze with that impossible, infinite stillness–like the stars themselves had gone quiet to witness this moment–before slowly tugging the towel free.

“Y’know,” He said, the corner of his mouth lifting, “You really should’ve gotten those black sheets you mentioned seeing at the store the other day…” You raised a brow at him from beneath your lashes, still breathless from the kiss, heart drumming against your ribs, “Because now we’re going to ruin this towel.” He added, lifting it in his hand and motioning to it. You let out a soft, startled laugh despite yourself, rolling your eyes as you lifted your hips ever so slightly.

“Then I wouldn’t be able to find you,” You teased, adjusting just enough for him to slip the towel beneath you, “You’d camouflage into the sheets.” That earned a genuine laugh–a low, smoky exhale that brushed against your throat as he lowered himself over you, his shadowed skin cool against the fire of your thighs.

“Mmm,” He mused, his mouth hovering just above yours, “I’m sure you would manage it.” And then he kissed you again.

Slower this time. Deeper. His weight settled between your thighs with deliberate care, the blanket of cold that clung to him seeping into your overheated skin like an offering. It made you shudder, your fingers curling in reflex around his arms as your thighs instinctively tightened around his waist. The contrast was maddening–your warmth against his chill, his steady hands anchoring you while your body throbbed with need and ache beneath him.

His lips moved with worship, with reverence. Not frantic. Not rushed. Just sure–like every press of his mouth had a purpose. You whimpered softly into him, and the sound made him groan low in his throat, his hands sliding up your sides with slow, dragging strokes.

And then one hand rose to the zipper of your hoodie.

You gasped faintly as he tugged it down, tooth by tooth, the faint sound of the zipper somehow deafening in the quiet. His lips never left your skin as he worked, kissing the underside of your jaw, then lower, nipping gently at the curve of your neck until you squirmed beneath him. The zipper reached the bottom. He opened your hoodie slowly, like parting the petals of a flower. You were in your old, soft sleep bra–barely supportive, thin and stretched from too many wash cycles–but he didn’t seem to care. If anything, the sight of you–barely dressed, and so open to him–made his pupils pulse brighter with starlight.

He leaned back for just a second, letting his eyes devour the view of you laid out for him. You saw the moment it hit him–his breath caught. His gaze dragged across your chest, where your breasts rose and fell with each shallow inhale, visibly heavy with heat and swelling from your cycle, from the hormones that rushed throughout your bloodstream.

“Oh, Jesus…” His voice broke over the words, a rasp of awe and hunger curling low in his throat. His cold palms slid up from your ribs, “You’re burning up so much,” He whispered, his hands cupping the underside of your breasts through the thin fabric. The contact made you gasp, hips twitching beneath him. His thumbs brushed softly over your nipples and you arched faintly into the touch, breath hitching as the friction sent sparks skittering down your spine. He hummed low in his throat, the sound curling like smoke between your ribs.

“Sensitive little thing,” He murmured, his voice velvety and warm despite the chill of his body. “I haven’t even touched you properly yet, and already you’re squirming.”

You let out a soft whimper, and he took that as permission–slipping the straps of your bra off your shoulders, letting the cups fall away slowly, exposing the full swell of your breasts to the coolness of his body and the room. The moan that slid out of him was low and long, almost involuntary.

“Look at you,” He breathed, “You look so fucking soft.” He ducked his head without hesitation, brushing his mouth over the top of one breast–just a featherlight kiss at first, then another, then another. His lips were cold but plush, the contrast against your overheated skin making your back arch reflexively off the bed.

Then he sucked.

Not gentle.

Not harsh.

Just deep and slow and possessive, like he was savoring the taste of you, mapping you with his mouth. His tongue flicked at your nipple, then flattened and dragged across it, teasing it into a peak before he latched on and sucked again–deeper this time.

“F-fuck–” You gasped, writhing slightly beneath him. Your thighs twitched, heat pooling low in your stomach like a slow, molten tide. He groaned against your skin, the sound reverberating through your chest.

“You like that?” He asked, pulling back just enough to blow cool air over the wet peak, making you cry out softly. “You’re so fucking sensitive. It’s gorgeous.” His mouth returned to your other breast, lavishing it with the same treatment–licking and sucking, nipping lightly, dragging the flat of his tongue over your nipples until they ached in the most delicious way. He marked you there–soft bruises blooming under the suction of his mouth, kisses that would fade slowly over the next few days. Proof that you were his. That you had been worshipped like something holy.

“You taste like a fucking fever,” He muttered between kisses, “And you make the prettiest little sounds when I suck on your nipples, do you know that?” Your fingers tangled in his damp hair, tugging gently, breathless and whining as your hips rocked against his abs. You could feel the damp patch at the crotch of your underwear growing wetter by the second–not just from your menstrual blood, but from arousal now as well.

“You’re driving me fucking crazy,” You whispered. “Please…Please–”

“Shh,” He soothed, dragging his mouth down your sternum, licking a path down your belly, “I know. I know, little flame.”

He kissed your stomach next, slow and warmly. You felt the points of his teeth graze your skin as he bit lightly–just enough to make you twitch. Each kiss was possessive and deliberate. Your flesh tingled under every scrape his mouth provided, the tension in your core building to an unbearable level.

“You’re beautiful,” He said between kisses. “All of you. Especially like this.” He nuzzled into your navel, then kissed just below it. “Soft. Swollen. Needy.” Your thighs trembled beneath him as he reached the waistband of your underwear. He paused, lifting his head to meet your eyes.

“Lift your hips for me.”

You obeyed without question, breath catching as your muscles clenched and your hips tilted up. His hands gripped the sides of your underwear, and he peeled them down slowly–dragging the fabric over your thighs, your knees, and finally your ankles before tossing them somewhere behind him without ceremony.

Then he stilled, crouched between your legs, and inhaled deeply.

His eyes flickered open–bright white star-pupils pulsing softly with what could only be described as hunger.

“You smell delicious,” He praised, voice dark and rich with awe. His nostrils flared faintly as he leaned closer, dipping his face down toward the apex of your thighs. “I’m going to get so fucking drunk off you.” You whimpered, thighs pressing together slightly at the praise–but he immediately placed his hands on your knees and coaxed them open again, eyes glowing brighter as he gazed down at your slick, glistening core. You knew there was definitely more blood there, mixing with your arousal, but Void didn’t flinch, nor did he hesitate. If anything it seemed like he locked in even more, and his hunger only grew.

His fingers dug gently into your thighs as he leaned closer, his breath skating over your swollen folds.

”Mmm fuck.” He moaned, before leaning in and licking.

A long, deliberate drag of his tongue–flat and firm–starting at your entrance and pulling all the way up through your folds to your clit, where he flicked the tip against the sensitive nub with precise, teasing pressure. The moment his tongue touched you, your entire body jolted, a breathless gasp tearing from your throat as your hips bucked off the bed.

“F-Fuck…Void…”

“Oh, I know,” He purred, already moving back in, his breath cold and steady against your dripping heat. “You’re so fucking sensitive. I can feel it…The way your thighs twitch…The way your heartbeat stutters under your skin…” He buried his mouth back between your legs, licking again–this time slower, messier, his tongue circling your clit before sucking it into his mouth gently. Your hands flew to his hair, gripping tightly as you cried out. The sound that left him in response was somewhere between a growl and a moan, vibrating against you like thunder under your skin.

He didn’t stop.

He licked through the blood and slick like it was nectar–like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. He groaned again, louder this time, tongue plunging deeper, swirling around your entrance before dragging back up to flick over your clit with maddening precision.

”Tastes so fucking good, I wish I could have you this way all the time.” He rasped, pulling back only to speak for those brief seconds. In the moonlight you could see the way his chin was slick. You whimpered, thighs trembling around his head, the pleasure already cresting far too fast. Your body was so sensitive it felt like every flick of his tongue set fire to your nerves. You could feel every nuance of it–every swipe, every suck, every teasing swirl of his tongue through the slick mess between your thighs.

Then he moaned into you again and shoved his face deeper–pressing his mouth hard against your aching core, his tongue working fast and filthy as he wrapped his arms under your thighs and held you still, forcing you to ride his face. You cried out, hips trying to squirm, but he growled–deep and warning–and tightened his grip.

“Don’t run from it,” He grunted against your clit, the vibration making your whole body twitch. “I want you to fall apart on my tongue. Let it happen. Don’t fight it.” One hand pulled free from your thigh and slid beneath him. Two fingers pressed to your dripping entrance, circling once–slick with blood and arousal–before slowly sinking inside you.

You sobbed. The stretch was gentle, but intense–your body already sheened with sweat and tight and overwhelmed. His fingers curled deep, slow at first, dragging against that aching spot inside you with precision only something inhuman could have. Your walls clenched around him instantly.

”Fuck, Y/N,” He muttered, voice dark and rumbling, “You’re so hot inside…Clutching my fingers like you don’t wanna let go.” Then his free hand rose and pressed flat against your lower stomach, right over the ache. Right over the source of your cramps. And it grounded you instantly.

“You feel that?” He whispered, licking your clit with long, slow strokes while his fingers began to pump inside you. “That pressure? That’s me. Right there, where it hurts. Let me fix it, let me fuck it out of you with my mouth.” You choked on a sob, gasping as your hips arched off the bed, the hand on your belly the only thing anchoring you.

His mouth moved faster. His fingers did too–curling, pumping, coaxing the tension in your core into something unbearable. The obscene, wet sound of it all–his tongue working your clit, his fingers squelching inside your soaked cunt, the wet slap of his chin against your blood-slick thighs–it should’ve embarrassed you.

But it didn’t.

It made you dizzy.

It made you cry out his name again, loud and needy and utterly desperate.

“Void…Void, I…Oh my god—”

“That’s it, little flame,” He growled, lips dragging across your clit again, “Give it to me. Let me taste it. All of it. Don’t hold back.” You couldn’t. You were shaking. Gasping. Your thighs clenched around his head as your back arched sharply off the bed, your body locking up like a livewire.

You came.

Hard.

A sob tore from your throat as your body seized with pleasure, tears springing to your eyes unbidden as the orgasm ripped through you. The combination of his fingers pressing deep, the steady weight of his hand against your stomach, and his mouth–cold, slick, merciless–on your clit was too much. You didn’t even realize you were crying until his tongue slowed, and his fingers gentled inside you. He licked you through the aftershocks, slow and soft now, lapping up the mess he’d made of you like it was holy.

And when he finally looked up, his mouth slick, chin gleaming, star-pupils glowing brighter than ever, he whispered–

“Jesus Christ…That was fucking amazing.” He slipped his fingers out of you, before crawling up your body slowly–like a shadow, like a storm, like something that could devour you whole and still beg for more. His mouth brushed your hipbone first, then your stomach, pausing to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss just above your navel, right where your muscles still fluttered from the orgasm he’d wrung out of you. His breath was cool and steady, his lips slick with blood and arousal. He didn’t bother to wipe them.

He didn’t need to.

He wanted you to taste it.

You could see it in the way his glowing eyes dragged up your body, lingering at every mark, every quiver, every trembling inch of your skin as if committing it to memory. As if this was a prayer, and your ruined body beneath him was a sacred altar.

He reached your chest again, kissing a slow trail up your sternum. You could still feel the faint ache in your nipples from earlier, already hypersensitive again as his mouth brushed them, one after the other. His tongue flicked lazily over one, and he smiled when your breath caught.

“Still so reactive,” He murmured, his voice thick with affection and heat. “You always are. Especially when you’re messy like this.”

He finally reached your throat and hovered there for a moment–just close enough that you could feel the wetness of his mouth against your skin, the blood and spit and come-slick humidity of him.

You were still panting, your cheeks flushed, your limbs limp and boneless beneath him.

“You okay?” He murmured, his voice like velvet smoke. “Still with me?”

You nodded faintly, whispering, “Yeah.”

He smiled against your throat and then dragged his lips up your jawline, slow and savoring, until he reached your mouth.

His tongue was cool. His kiss was filthy.

The moment your lips parted for him, he pushed inside–slow and deliberate–letting you taste the blood and slick and heat still coating his tongue. You whimpered at the taste, hips twitching faintly beneath him, even though your body was wrung out and raw.

“There it is,” He breathed, voice breaking as he kissed you deeper. “Taste that? That’s you. All of you. Sweet and bitter and so fucking perfect.”

You groaned into his mouth, hands sliding into his hair, and he moaned like he could live in this–like your kiss, your taste, your breath were oxygen.

His mouth was greedy, slick and open and unrelenting as he pressed closer, slotting his body against yours like he could mold himself into your skin. You could feel the length of him pressing hard between your thighs, his cock thick and pulsing. You grounded up against him lazily, still slick and hot and sore, but wanting.

He pulled back a little bit and looked down at you, letting out a husky laugh against your mouth.

”You’ve got some blood on your face.” He commented. You blinked, dazed and panting, and he grinned—sharp, glowing, haloed in moonlight. He reached behind him with one hand, retrieving the pack of wipes you’d tossed earlier. With a practiced flick, he tore one free and dragged it slowly across his own chin first, wiping away the glistening blood and slick that still coated his mouth. The red stain smeared faintly along the wipe like paint across linen. Then, with the same slow reverence, he leaned in and gently swiped it along your cheek, cleaning where your own blood had transferred to his mouth, then your skin.

He dropped the used wipe off the side of the bed without a glance, not caring where it landed.

Then his hand was back at your cheek, cupping it as he leaned in to kiss you again.

It was softer this time—but no less intense. If anything, the tenderness of it made the heat in your stomach roar back to life. Because there was nothing gentle about the way his cock throbbed between your thighs, brushing hot and heavy against your slit. You felt it, solid and insistent, grinding lazily along your folds as he kissed you deep enough to make your eyes roll back.

Then his hand moved between you.

You gasped as you felt his fingers curl around the base of his cock, the head nudging against your clit in a slick, teasing drag. His mouth pulled away from yours with a quiet, wet sound.

“You okay for us to have sex still?” he asked, his voice low and steady, but his pupils flaring bright with hunger. You didn’t hesitate. Your whole body arched into him, your nails curling into the damp skin of his shoulders.

“Fuck, please,” you breathed, desperate and hoarse.

That got a smile out of him. A real one. Dangerous and soft, his teeth faintly visible in the moonlight, a haze of red still staining the tips. His cock dragged through your folds again, and he let out a slow, pleased groan, hips twitching at the feel of your slick, swollen cunt parting for him.

“You’re soaked,” He murmured, dragging the blunt head of his cock over your clit once before sliding it down to your entrance, “Bleeding, dripping, fucking throbbing for me. You need to be filled, don’t you?” His voice was velvet filth, low and coaxing, and you nodded frantically.

“Yes…Yes, fuck, I need you, Void…”

“Then take me…” He whispered, and with one slow, brutal push, he sank inside you. Your mouth dropped open on a silent scream.

The stretch burned–hot and overwhelming–your walls clenching around him so tight he groaned deep in his chest, closing his eyes tightly as he continued. He didn’t stop until he was all the way in–buried to the hilt, his cock pulsing inside you, dragging against the sensitive, swollen walls of your still-sensitive body.

“F-fuck, baby…” Ge rasped, voice fraying. “You’re squeezing me so tight–I can feel every flutter, every pulse.” His hips jerked slightly, an involuntary grind, just enough to drag the thick head of his cock against your most sensitive spot. You gasped, back arching.

“God, Void–” You choked out, your hands clutching his shoulders like you needed him to hold you down before you came apart again.

He dipped his head to your neck, tongue dragging slowly along the column of your throat before he sank his teeth into the skin–not enough to break it, but enough to make your entire body jerk. He sucked there, slow and hard, until the blood surged beneath your skin, and your breath hitched in a broken moan.

“I love how fucking warm you are inside,” He growled against your neck, licking over the bite to soothe it, “You’re so soft, so slick…I could stay buried inside you forever.” You whimpered under him, grinding your hips upward as best you could, desperate for more friction.

“Please,” You begged, breathless and raw. “Move. Fuck me, please–” That shattered his restraint.

He pulled back slowly, just a few inches, letting you feel the full drag of his cock against your swollen, aching walls–and then he drove back in with a filthy, wet sound, his hips smacking against your thighs. You gasped–loud and helpless–and he did it again. And again.

And again.

Each thrust was a perfectly measured, brutal stroke. Deep. Sure. Possessive. Like he was carving himself into your body with every push of his hips.

“That’s it,” He grunted, fucking you harder now. “Let me hear those little noises–God, you make the sweetest sounds when you’re getting fucked…” You were incoherent beneath him, crying out with every stroke, nails digging into his back, legs trembling.

“Y-you’re so deep,” You sobbed, voice breaking, “I can feel you everywhere…Oh my fucking god.” His mouth found yours again, kissing you like he was starving for you—like your breath was his only tether to reality. He moaned into you as he fucked you, his pace relentless now,.

“I want it messy,” He hissed against your lips. “I want to ruin this bed with you–ruin this whole fucking night with how good I fuck you through the pain.” You sobbed again, overwhelmed by the pressure, the stretch, the heat–and the devotion in his voice that made it all unbearable in the best way.

“You want that?” He demanded, snapping his hips into you, making your breath hitch. “Want me to fuck you through the cramps? Want me to use this cock to fix what your body’s doing to you?”

“Yes…Yes, please, Void…”

“Say it,” He growled. “Say you need it.”

“I need it,” You gasped. “I need your cock, I need you to fuck it out of me–fuck the pain out, please, I’m yours, I’m fucking yours…” A sound ripped from his throat. Feral. Wrecked.

His thrusts got messier, harder. The bed creaked beneath you. His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles, your thighs twitching against him instantly.

“Then cum for me again,” He ordered, voice dark silk. “Cum around my cock while I fill this pretty little pussy…Let me feel you tighten around me.” And just like that–you shattered.

You screamed. Loud. Broken. Beautiful.

Your walls clamped down on him so violently it dragged a curse from his lips, and he snapped his hips into you once, twice, three more times–before groaning like a dying man and spilling into you with a stuttered cry. You felt the warmth of his release, thick and hot, flooding your already filled core, dripping out around his cock.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t even move.

Just stayed there, trembling above you, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking between parted lips.

“Holy fuck…” He whispered. “You…You’re fucking perfect as usual.”

Your body was trembling, your thighs were sticky and our mouth was kissed raw.

But when you opened your eyes, all you saw was him looking at you like you were the center of the goddamn universe.

And in his orbit–you believed it.

The only sound was the slow, ragged rhythm of your breathing–and the way his heart thundered against your chest. Your arms stayed around his neck, fingers tangled in the sweat-damp curls at his nape. His weight settled over you like a blanket, anchoring you, keeping the ache of emptiness at bay while your body slowly came down.

He nuzzled into your jaw with something almost shy in the way he breathed you in–soft, slow, like he was memorizing the smell of your sweat and your blood and your orgasm. You felt the chill of his skin even through your shared heat, the contrast making you shiver just a little beneath him.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, slowly, with a dazed little smile curling on your lips. “You definitely fucked the pain away… because all I feel is absolute… euphoria.”

His mouth quirked into a knowing smirk, not cocky—just deeply pleased. His voice dropped low and smooth as he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “I’m gonna pull out,” he murmured against your mouth, his voice quiet, reverent.

You nodded again, whispering, “Okay.”

He moved slowly, carefully, the way you might handle something precious and fragile. And when he finally slid out of you, the heat of his length dragging against your walls one last time, all you felt was a thick, wet rush between your thighs. A flood of warmth and slick, dripping out in slow, messy streams.

You gasped softly at the sensation, and he let out a quiet, breathy laugh as he looked down between your bodies.

“My god,” He muttered, raking a hand through his damp hair. “We really did make a mess…”

You turned your head slightly and followed his gaze. The towel beneath you was utterly ruined–soaked through in deep streaks of red, streaks of slick and cum painting every fold of the fabric. You groaned, embarrassed but not really.

“I don’t think you’ll be able to use this towel ever again,” He added with a smirk, sitting back on his heels.

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could, he reached over to the side of the bed, grabbed the pack of wipes, and got to work–without a word, without hesitation. His touch was clinical, but gentle, as if he were caring for a wound he revered more than feared. He wiped between your thighs first, slow and careful, murmuring a quiet “Sorry” whenever you twitched from overstimulation. It took five wipes to get most of it–blood and slick and his cum smeared everywhere.

Then he shifted lower, taking his time with the mess on your stomach, dragging a clean wipe across the smeared trails of red that had bloomed beneath your breasts and along your hipbones. His thumb brushed over one of the kiss-marks he’d left–dark, blooming like a rosebud beneath your skin–and sighed.

“These ones might take some elbow grease,” He teased softly.

You let out a little wheeze of a laugh, your voice still hazy with afterglow.

Once you were clean, he finally turned to himself, wiping himself off gently. He bundled all the used wipes in one hand and walked across the room to toss them into the little trash bin near your dresser.

Then he opened your top drawer, rifled carefully through your neatly folded underwear, and selected a soft cotton pair with tiny stars on them–one of your comfiest ones. He smiled faintly at the print, then turned and opened the second drawer–his drawer. The one you had made for him months ago. He pulled out a pair of his black boxer shorts, slid them on, and returned to your side.

“Alright, little flame,” He murmured, scooping you up again with ease, one hand beneath your thighs, the other steady against your back. “Bathroom time.”

You didn’t protest. You let yourself be carried, sleepy and raw and warm in the cradle of his arms. He padded down the hall with you, silent and sure. When you reached the bathroom, he set you gently down on the toilet seat, then opened up the cabinet under the sink and handed you a pad. You blinked at him, slow and grateful, while adjusting it onto the underwear he’d brought.

He leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you with the satisfied look of a man who just cured a century-long affliction with his tongue. The white in his pupils pulsed softly, his expression pure mischief.

“I guess now,” He began, tilting his head, “you won’t be so embarrassed to ask to have period sex, hmm?”

You snorted, letting your head fall forward briefly before looking back up at him with a tired grin.

“I think I’m going to want it until it’s done.”

He pushed off the counter with a pleased little hum, leaned down, and kissed your forehead–soft and cold and grounding.

“Now that’s what I like to hear.”

He lingered there for a second, his lips pressed against your skin like a promise, his hand bracing gently on your knee. Then he straightened up again, reaching for the plush hand towel on the rack beside you.

“Let’s brush your teeth next,” He said softly, that calm authority slipping back into his tone. “Then I’m putting you to bed.” You laughed, wobbly and fond.

“And after that?” You murmured, blinking up at him.

He grinned.

“Then I’ll hold you all night,” He said, matter-of-fact. “And if your cramps come back…” He leaned down again, voice low and filthy, “…I’ll go down on you until you forget how to spell the word pain.”

Your legs trembled just hearing it.

“Deal,” you whispered.

And he smiled–glowing, content, and entirely yours.

[bbarnesbck]

hey pookie 😼

how to we feel about bob x reader who has low self esteem ? like when bob compliments her she’s just like “no that’s not true” or even like “you’re such a flirt” and can never seem to accept any compliments or sweet words he offers. but then one day bob just kinda snaps and decides it’s time to show her how incredible she is… if u catch my drift 😈

I love this sm 😭💙

-

You don’t even realize you’re doing it anymore.

Bob hands you a coffee the way he always does—fingers brushing yours a second too long, his gaze soft and warm and so stupidly pretty—and tells you, “You look nice today.”

You smile, all automatic deflection. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Because you’re nice,” you shrug, sipping. “And a flirt.”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not really.

“And you never believe me,” he says quietly.

You glance up. He’s watching you with that look again—like you’re something holy and breakable. Something he’s not quite allowed to touch.

“I just—” You fumble. “It’s not like… I mean, I know what I look like.”

“And what do you think I see when I look at you?” he asks, voice still soft. Dangerous now.

You blink. A little breathless.

“Bob…”

He moves closer.

“You think I just hand out compliments to be polite? You think I’ve been holding myself back around you all this time because I like flirting?”

You shift your weight. Your heart picks up speed.

“Look,” you say, a little shaky, “I just… don’t like being humored, okay? I’d rather you just—”

“Humored?” His voice sharpens.

He steps forward—right into your space—and you freeze. Because it’s not like Bob to crowd you. It’s not like Bob to loom.

But he does now.

All six foot six of him. Brown curls, soft sweatshirt, and his usual relaxed form is now tense. Something powerful simmering just beneath his skin. Like the Sentry wants out. Or the Void. Like he’s had enough.

“You really don’t see it, do you?” he murmurs. “You don’t see what you do to me.”

His hand lifts—gentle, reverent—as he cups your face. “You think I stare at you because I’m being friendly?”

Your breath catches.

“You think I dream about touching you—about worshiping every inch of you—because I want to be nice?”

His voice is low now. Rough. “You think I don’t notice the way you flinch when I say you’re beautiful? Or how you never believe it when I tell you you’re all I think about?”

You tremble. Your coffee’s forgotten.

“Bob—”

“I’m done,” he growls. “I’m done pretending I don’t want to keep you for myself.”

You make a sound—small, broken—and he takes your wrist. Guides you gently, firmly, back until your thighs hit the edge of the bed.

“You don’t think you’re incredible?” he says. “Then I’ll prove it.”

He pushes you down.

And when he drops to his knees in front of you—when his big, calloused hands slide under your thighs and his lips brush the inside of your knee—you realize:

You are so fucked.

“Let me show you,” he breathes. “Let me make you feel what I see.”

You whisper his name.

He looks up—eyes dark with something beyond hunger. It’s awe. Obsession. Love. Worship.

“Tonight, pretty girl,” he says, voice wrecked, “you don’t get to argue. You don’t get to hide. You’re gonna take every compliment I give you and feel them until you believe me.”

You nod, dazed. Shaking.

His shoulders keep your thighs spread wide—strong, unmovable, warm with the steady pulse of heat that always radiates from him when he gets worked up. Your knees shake around his broad frame, your palms gripping the sheets behind you, fingers curled tight.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

Bob’s tongue drags slow and deep through your folds, savoring every drop, every twitch, every gasp. He moans against your cunt like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Maybe it is.

You try to hide it—how wet you are already—but he knows. Of course he knows. The moment his mouth touched you, your body surrendered. So now he’s taking his time. Soft licks at first. Nuzzling. Kissing. Worshipping.

Then?

He pulls back—just a little.

You whine. Squirm.

“No,” he murmurs, lips wet. “Not yet.”

“Bob—”

He strokes his thumb across your inner thigh. Big hands. Gentle pressure. A tremble moves through you.

“You want more?” he asks, voice low. “Then say it.”

“Say what?”

He grins—boyish, but dark with purpose. “Repeat after me,” he says, voice rough and loving and commanding. “Say: I’m beautiful.”

You blink at him. Your breath stutters.

“I—”

He raises his brows. Waits.

You swallow. Face hot. “I’m… beautiful.”

His mouth returns. One long, firm stroke of his tongue right against your clit. Your hips jerk.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Say: I’m worth loving.”

You hesitate. He stops again.

The air’s too still. Your heart’s pounding.

“Say it,” Bob whispers.

You bite your lip. Look down at him. His golden hair tousled, lips flushed, chin slick with you. Eyes lit up like he’s seeing the divine.

“I’m worth loving,” you whisper.

His tongue fucks into you this time—slow, deep, patient. One hand cups your hip while the other strokes your stomach.

“Again,” he growls, voice muffled against your cunt.

“I’m—fuck—I’m worth loving.”

“That’s my girl.”

You’re trembling now. Writhing. Every time you say something sweet, he gives you more. Faster. Rougher. Wetter.

“Say: I deserve this.”

You sob.

“Say it, baby,” he says, voice like thunder and silk. “Say you deserve this.”

“I—I deserve this—fuck—Bob, I’m gonna—”

“Not yet. One more.”

You’re shaking. So close.

He brings his thumb up and presses it right where you need him, tongue lapping beneath it. Relentless.

“Say: I’m yours.”

“I’m yours,” you cry, broken. “I’m yours—I’m—”

You come undone.

Your legs clamp around his head, and Bob moans like he’s the one coming, hands pinning your hips as you ride his face through it. He doesn’t stop. Not until you’re gasping, twitching, flooded with heat, your vision blinking white.

He pulls back only when you’re limp.

Kisses your thigh. Your hip. Your belly. Climbs up your body like you’re precious cargo.

And when he presses his forehead to yours, breathless and warm, he says—

“Still think I’m just flirting?”

You laugh through the tears and kiss him like you’ll never doubt it again.

Your breath is still hitching in your chest when he presses soft kisses to your lips. Gentle. Worshipful. Like he’s apologizing for how good he just made you feel.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice rasped raw from moaning against you, his big palm resting low over your belly.

You nod, dazed. “More than okay.”

A tiny smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Good.”

Because he’s not done.

Not even close.

You feel it when he shifts—feel the heavy press of him against your thigh. He’s so hard, flushed and aching, thick and needy. When you reach down to touch him, he groans—bites down on it, his hips twitching forward.

“Baby,” he pants. “You’re everything to me.”

He lines himself up slowly, deliberately. His gaze locked on yours. There’s something reverent in the way he watches your face as he begins to push in—like he’s studying the way you take him, the way your lips part, the way your breath catches, how your eyes flutter shut for a second when he starts to stretch you open.

And then—

“Eyes on me, okay pretty girl?” He whispers.

You obey.

The stretch is intense. Deep. The kind that leaves your legs trembling and your voice gone. But Bob moves slow, steady, easing in inch by inch until he’s fully seated, his chest flush to yours, his forehead pressed to yours again.

You feel full. Claimed.

“Oh my god,” you breathe.

“No,” he murmurs. “Just me. Just your Bob.”

He pulls out halfway and rolls his hips forward again—long, deep, luxurious. The kind of thrust that feels like it’s dragging your soul out of you.

He does it again. And again. Smooth. Controlled.

Like he’s savoring you.

“Look at how well you take me,” he breathes. “Fuck, baby… you’re perfect.”

Your hands curl around his thick arms, digging into him.

“You’re so good,” he pants. “So warm… so sweet. Say it again.”

You blink up at him, lips parted, already shaking. “W-what?”

“What you said before. Say it now—while I’m inside you.”

You swallow hard. “I’m yours.”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours.”

His thrusts speed up.

“I’m yours—Bob—I’m—”

He growls and drops his head to your neck, kissing, mouthing, sucking like he needs it.

“You deserve this,” he grits. “Deserve to be fucked like you’re loved. You are loved. By me. By every inch of me.”

You sob, the words hitting harder than anything else.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whisper. “Bob—please—”

“Then cum. Cum on me. Let me feel how pretty you sound when you fall apart.”

You do.

You shatter again, back arching, arms tight around his neck, your body gripping him like it never wants to let go. Bob gasps and thrusts one final time, cock pulsing deep as he spills inside you, whispering—

“Mine. Mine. Mine.”