dragontearsandunicornfears

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

Ok so this is a weird one but I'm curious. My friend and I both experience this phenomena when we go to the dentist where the second we walk into the office we get stomach rumbles that indicate we're about to shit our pants. It doesn't matter what time of day the appointment is or what we've eaten. She's very fearful of medical appointments and I'm not at all. We go to different dentists. But no matter what, we walk in and BOOM, grumbles. So I would like to see if we're alone.

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

This healed something in me

woah woah woah

"Hey kid, what are you trying to do?"

Cowboys do what cowboy are meant to do, like clean the stables and shit. however, getting into a reactive and agitated killer stallion's stable isn't one of them, and Carter's about to do just that.

Colby grabbed the collar of his shirt to prevent him from going in.

"I was just going to give him some water"

"No, just no. next time go and ask someone for help. that horse is nowhere near friendly enough to not get you killed"

"okay, sorry"

Colby let go of his hold on him and slightly pushed him towards the door. He let it a sigh of relief.

"Go to Rip and ask him if there's anything else for you to do"

"thanks."

Carter walked out of the door, leaving him alone.

he couldn't imagine what would've happened if he didn't go inside. Rip would've teared him to pieces if something happens to that boy on his watch, and Beth would've killed him for sure.

a sigh might've left his mouth, but a smile starts to form from his lips as he remembers his call with Teeter. god, he's so fucked. he's fucked when she's here and he's fucked when she's not. and the heavens would laugh at him if he said he wasn't excited for her to come back.

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

This is so cute and like...cozy.

In the Mood

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: He tells himself it’s fine. 

Gotta keep moving—bigger things to do, too many items on his list.  His libido doesn’t even crack the top ten. 

Until he met… you.

warnings: angst. aka the tortured mind™ of james buchanan barnes. sexual frustration, internalized guilt. mention of erectile dysfunction/anxiety around intimacy. eventual fluff.

word count: 1.5k

Bucky’s got… a list. 

Steve’s the one who planted the idea in his head—ways to keep his feet moving, even when his mind couldn’t. Granted, Bucky’s list isn’t tucked into a literal pocket-sized notebook, but it's there.

Some parts are harder than others—debts, loose ends, reparations.

Others, more straightforward. Try sushi. Learn how to download that album Sam won’t shut up about. Figure out the whole ‘zodiac sign compatibility’ thing.

And then there’s the… in-between. Somewhere between the boring and the impossible.

Pieces of normalcy that don’t sit quite right. Loose shrapnel from the fallout of who he once was. 

Like learning how to smile at strangers without feeling like he’s giving something away. Or making small talk that doesn’t spiral into awkward silence.  

Some things feel closer to second nature, though he still needs the safety net of familiarity and trust, like that time he flirted with Sarah just to rile Sam.  

But then again, the prospect of anything with real stakes, like when that blonde barista slipped him her number, sends him running for the hills. 

And between all the tiger photos on Tinder and—again, what the fuck was the deal with all the zodiac signs?—he’s quickly discovered that ‘dating’ in the 21st-century isn’t quite like it used to be. 

You ever hook up with a girl?   

He had just stared at Sam, then, with a slow lift of his metal arm like it was explanation enough.

Of course, there was the whole other issue of… mechanics. 

Something so unspoken and personal he’s barely admitted it to himself.

And he’s tried just about everything short of pills to fix it.

Articles, advice columns. Porn. Even dug out an old magazine or two for nostalgia’s sake, half-hoping it’d jog something loose. 

But most nights he’d come up limp, staring down a bottle of cheap whiskey as restlessness swallowed him whole.

And he tells himself it’s fine. 

Gotta keep moving—bigger things to do, too many items on his list. 

His libido doesn’t even crack the top ten. 

Until he met… you.

Caught him off-guard one night, in the produce aisle of some corner bodega, when he was busy frowning at a peach that didn’t look like a peach.

Donut peaches. Crazy, right?

Cocked him an easy smile, a basket full of groceries by your hip as you plucked a different fruit off the stand, its skin leathery smooth and blush pink. 

They’re out of season, though. Might wanna try these nectarines. 

Your smile stayed with him longer than it should’ve. 

So did the sound of your laugh, bright and untroubled, when you apologized for what he could only assume was an irresistibly charming grimace on his part. 

Shoot, sorry, occupational hazard. 

I like your jacket, by the way. 

And just like that, you had him.

The next few weeks were a blur of excuses to visit your small bakery, down by 22nd street. Setting up his laptop like he actually had work to do, just so he’d feel less like a creep when you’d step out from behind the register and spark up easy conversation. 

And somehow, between testing all your newest bakes and staying back till closing to walk you home, he’s missed that fragile window where it felt appropriate to tell you who he is—was. Whatever.

That the gloves weren't some quirky fashion choice, or because he’s got poor circulation. 

But then again, maybe it wasn’t all that accidental.

Because you’re virtually the only person alive who knows him as Bucky—only Bucky—and he thought offering up the truth would change things.

The way you smile, call him handsome. Tug him closer by the lapels of his jacket. 

Kissed him outside that wine bar in Brooklyn, then fixed his hair and the corner of his mouth where your strawberry lip gloss smudged. 

Grabbed his hand and draped it deliberately over your thigh, that one time he took you to see a picture about aliens and space wars—though he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember a single plot point afterward. 

That memory is a warm thing that turns cold fast. A flicker of heat curling low in his stomach, his hand twitching instinctively toward the space between his legs. 

Then, the spark would fizzle out, like a bucket of ice water dumped over his thoughts.  

And that’s when the spiral would start, the endless rabbit hole that is sex advice by strangers on the internet. Hunched over a dim screen, browser history stacked a mile high with unanswered questions about modern dating, with one particular query searing into his thoughts:

How long should you wait before having sex with someone for the first time?

Because, supposedly, the internet says three dates. To see if you’re really compatible. 

After that point, why even bother? 

And he had to lean back and hold his breath at that, because, shit—tomorrow was date #3. 

So when he showed up to the jazz bar you’d been wanting to try, at exactly ten minutes to 8, the bouquet in his gloved hand was quivering. Like the time he asked out Lucy Ann from the 7th grade.

He'd sought temporary reprieve in the way you gasped, delighted, branding a smile on his cheek with a chaste kiss. Just like you had for the flowers on the first date, then again at the second.

(Because, apparently, no one does this kind of thing anymore, and he had scoffed because—jesus, did guys make it this easy to impress a date nowadays?)

Later, you’d pulled him close under the neon glow of a sidewalk marquee, kissing him soft and slow like you had all night.  

Taste of merlot and something sweeter on your lips when you'd muttered: my place?

And that brings him here, in the narrow hallway of your apartment, just a couple steps from the door because you couldn’t wait for the couch.  

He’s got you pressed against the wall, lost in the plush yield of your lips, the smooth curve of your cheek under his thumb. Because he loves this part, he really does—the way you arch into him, slide your hands under his jacket. Your breaths, shallow and sweet, mixed in with the heady scent of your perfume.

How you smile, for no apparent reason other than the fact that kissing him seems to make you happy. 

But then there’s that quiet thought, again.

And he desperately wishes he was holding your hips for a different reason than to pull away. 

“Maybe,” he pants, swallowing hard because your eyes were making it hard to focus, “maybe we shouldn't…”

Your gaze settles on him for a brief moment, hazy and heavy-lidded. From the wine or from something else, he’s not sure he wants to know. 

Then, you pull back promptly, slipping under his arm and disappearing somewhere behind him. 

Now, he’s blinking, staring at an empty wall. 

Convinced that he’s fucked this all up, heart leaping to his throat, something pounding in his head—

Until he realizes that the vibration drumming against his ears is music. 

The soft croon of a clarinet, the brassy blare of trumpets—a familiar melody sweeps over him, and it makes his brows pinch because he knows this one.

A tune he can recognize, for once, wedged somewhere between humid nights on Coney Island and crowded USO dance halls. 

“C’mon!”

Your high pitched laugh against his ear, a gentle tug at his wrist. 

It hits like whiplash, then, the realization of what you’re asking him to do.  

And he feels like an assuming jerk for all the scenarios he’s been playing through his mind since last night—because while he was busy coming up with excuses for why he couldn’t get hard, or why he’s got a metal arm, or why he wakes up in the middle of the night hearing screams that might be his own—you had wanted to… dance. 

He lets himself be drawn by your radiant smile, into the tiny pocket of space where your kitchen meets your living room.

His heart stutters when your hand slides to his back, the other lacing around his gloved fingers. He’s supposed to lead, isn’t he?

Yet, his steps flow in tune with yours, falling into place like they never strayed in the first place.

“Not too bad,” you tease, eyes sparkling, body swaying. 

“…I gotta be honest, I—oh!” A high, happy sound tickles your throat when he spins you, arms arching high over your head. “—didn’t peg you for a dancer!”

His fingers itch to hold you closer. Adoration humming under his skin, threaded with disbelief, because how the hell did he manage to find this? To find you?         

“Guess I’ve got a few surprises left.”

You hum, tilting your head. “Mm, I like that. I’ll have to see what else I can get out of you.”

And the way you say it—all innocent and just a hint too sweet—sends a sudden rush of heat through him.

His breaths halt, feet frozen to the floor.

Shit, is that…?

Heat licks at his nerves, sparks jumping under his skin, and before he can stop to question it, it’s there. 

And instead of running, he leans in. 

The next twirl is deliberate, his hand steady against your waist as you come spinning back to him. 

He grins, the thrill of something new rising to the top of his list.

“Just try to keep up, huh?”

a/n: my first bucky fic! was a bit nerve-wracking branching out into other characters, but this was a lot of fun :) lemme know what u think!

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

This is just gorgeously written.

all the stars are closer | c.b.

summary: mark watney wasn’t the only one left behind on mars, and as you struggle to survive on the desert planet, hidden feelings come to light between you and your best friend, dr. chris beck.

WARNINGS: fluff, angst, pining, confessed feelings, probably terrible space jargon but i tried :^), swearing, movie-level injuries pairing: chris beck x fem!reader word count: 7.9k

a/n: written for @baezen​​​. my prompt was have you ever wanted to hate someone? with chris beck :D inspired by say something by a great big world. i wrote this from 12-5am this morning and i’ve perused for mistakes but excuse me if there are still some left!

SOL 18

The sol you’re left behind is… unexpected to say the least.

The winds pick up the sand so heavily your headlights barely pierce through the thick gusts as you push yourself against the current. Small clumps of sand brush against your helmet as you turn to close the door to the Hab behind you. It locks with a groan and you give it a small push to make sure before you turn around again, your eyes focus on Watney’s suit in front of you, desperate not to lose sight of him.

The wind whips at your body, slams into you like a hundred punches all over your suit. It’s as if claws dig into your legs and drag you back. Each step is agonizingly slow.

Keep reading

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

Ao3 does not need an algorithm, you're just lazy

Ao3 does not need a 1-5 star rating system, you just want to bring down authors writing for FREE

Ao3 does not need automatic censorship, it is an archive, therefore anything can be posted

Writing or reading about something illegal does not mean the author nor the reader condones it, if that were true, you could never read a story involving anything negative

Purity culture is ruining fan culture and you all are fucking annoying

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

Shout out to all the Black ppl that can no longer participate directly in the fandom they love because of the stresses of racism 👍🏾 you contain multitudes of value and I'm sorry that the color of your skin and the power of your voice makes people not want to acknowledge that.

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

Smitten

Summary : Sam finally meets Bucky’s girlfriend, though you’re not who he thinks you are. 

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x hero!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Fluff fluff FLUFF! Joaquin and Sam are in this. Introverted! Reader. Brief mentions of violence. Cursing. 

Requested by : anon (based on this request)

Word count : 2.3k

Note : This satisfies my need to stay at home all day haha! Enjoy!

Sam had never met Bucky’s girlfriend.

But he had heard of you.

A lot about you, actually.

Nine months ago, Bucky had started mentioning you after you met at a bookshop. You were this hero, who, by all accounts, should have been the most intimidating woman on the planet. You were skilled and ruthless when necessary, even Hydra handlers would probably admire your work. Joaquin had read the files— how you tracked down an entire weapons trafficking ring by yourself, left every single one of the enemy in various states of agony, and managed to leave without any fatalities.

“Have you seen the mission reports? She’s so precise it’s actually terrifying,” Joaquin had said on the way to Bucky’s apartment, telling every legendary story he had heard about you. “I heard they took down a whole warehouse of mercenaries with a pair of batons. Not even a gun! She sounds mean.”

Sam chuckled, adjusting the bag of soda in his hands. “No way anyone is meaner than Bucky, though.”

“We’ll see, man.” Joaquin grinned. “Maybe she makes him look nice.”

Sam snorted. If that were the case, he was dying to meet you.

But the thing was, as terrifying as you apparently were on the field, Bucky talked about you like you were… fragile.

It started six months ago, when you officially became a couple.

Sam started noticing the way Bucky’s face changed when he mentioned you. He’d have a slight smile that softened the hard lines of his forehead. His voice would lose that slightly gruff tone, growing softer the more he mentioned you. 

And fuck knows he talked about you all the damn time.

Not just about how skilled you were, though Sam had gotten enough secondhand mission briefings to wonder if Bucky was keeping a shrine somewhere. No, he often talked about the little things. Like how you stole the blankets in your sleep. Or how you tried (and failed) to teach Bucky how to use a bo staff. Or how you sent Bucky the stupidest memes at 3 AM, knowing full well you’d have to explain half of them in person. 

And God help them all if you did something impressive— Bucky would pretend to be all casual about it, but then five minutes later, he’d be bringing it up again saying how proud he was of his girlfriend capturing four cops illegally dealing rifles to civilians.

“You’re not subtle,” Sam had pointed out once, after Bucky spent a debrief clearly distracted.

Bucky shrugged, though he was mentally counting down the minutes to when he’d see you again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You got that look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I’m thinking about my girlfriend’ look.” Sam smirked. “It’s gross, by the way.”

Bucky had just scoffed something under his breath and rolled his eyes. 

So yeah, Sam had never met you. Between your missions and his, the opportunity just never aligned.

But by now, he felt like he already knew you.

And tonight, after months of hearing Bucky talk about you like a hopelessly lovesick super soldier—he and Joaquin were finally going to meet the Winter Soldier’s girlfriend.

—

They had expected you to be brutal. Brash. Maybe even a little cold, given your reputation.

Instead, when Bucky opened the door, the first words out of his mouth were, “Hey, uh—just so you guys know, my girlfriend’s a little nervous about meeting you.”

Sam paused mid-step. What?

Bucky shifted, scratching the back of his neck. “She’s, uh… not really the social type.”

Joaquin raised an eyebrow, shooting Sam a look. Sam could tell he was just as confused. “Your girlfriend?”

“Yes, my girlfriend,” Bucky deadpanned, crossing his arms.

Before Sam could respond, a small blur of white streaked past Bucky’s feet making a beeline for Joaquin, weaving between his legs and rubbing against his boots. It took a second for his brain to catch up, but then— oh. It was the kitten. Alpine. Bucky adopted her a couple weeks ago. Sam had received no less than five photos a day from Bucky over the last two weeks, each one featuring the cat in a different pose, with captions like—

"Look at her lil’ paws." "She fell asleep on my chest." "She just sneezed."

Before Sam could make a funny remark, he heard a voice come from  inside the apartment.

“Alpine, no. Come here, baby,” you said gently.

Sam blinked. That was his girlfriend?

You appeared, peeking out from the kitchen doorway. You looked… normal. Cozy, even. Dressed in comfortable clothes, eyes wide, fingers fidgeting at your sides.

The gears in Sam’s felt like they needed oiling for a second.

This was you? The you?

The same person who had infiltrated high-security facilities without breaking a sweat? The same person who single-handedly takes down crime syndicates left and right? The same woman he read about in news articles and mission reports?

You gave them both a hesitant smile and a small wave. “Um. Hi.”

Joaquin, bless him, recovered from the initial shock first. “Hey!” he said, “We’ve heard so much about you.”

Your smile widened. Your shoulders started to relax. “All good things, I hope.”

Before Sam could even wrap his head around how soft-spoken you were, Bucky stepped closer to you. Gone was the battle-hardened soldier, and in his place was a man so ridiculously in love that it almost made Sam uncomfortable to witness. But no, he was just happy that his friend was happy. In shock, but happy nonetheless.

Bucky reached for you carefully, like you were made of the most fragile glass. His hand found the small of your back, thumb rubbing soothing circles.

“Darlin’, you wanna come say hi properly?” he asked, his voice so different from the barks Sam was used to hearing in the field.

You nodded, stepping fully into view.

And then—because apparently, this wasn’t enough of a shock to Sam’s system—Bucky tucked you against his side protectively and pressed a kiss to your temple.

Oh?

Who the hell was this man, and what the hell had you done to Bucky Barnes?

—

Dinner was homemade.

More specifically, dinner was homemade by Bucky.

Sam had to find a place to sit down when you told him that. He blinked at the plate in front of him, wondering why the hell it looked so… appetising.

“Bucky can’t cook,” he whispered to himself, utterly baffled.

Joaquin shrugged.

“He can now,” you said in a small but proud voice, giving Bucky a playful nudge. “He wanted to impress me.”

Bucky huffed, but even as he rolled his eyes, his hand found your knee under the table, rubbing absentminded circles just because. “Did it work?”

You tapped your chin, pretending to think it over. “Mmmmm. Maybe.”

The usually grumpy super soldier actually grinned from ear to ear.

Sam had to rub his damn eyes.

This wasn’t real. This had to be an illusion. Maybe he’d fallen asleep on the couch, and this was some bizarre fever dream where Bucky was, for lack of a better word, domesticated.

Meanwhile, Joaquin had already taken a bite. His eyes went wide. “Damn, Buck.” He shoveled another spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth and made a pleased noise. “You’ve been hiding this skill from us?”

Bucky shrugged, “Wasn’t for you.”

You turned to him. “It’s very good, my love.”

My love.

Since when was Bucky alright with pet names?

Instead of scowling or brushing it off, Bucky just squeezed your hand with his metal fingers, his thumb stroking over your knuckles.

This was Bucky Barnes. Bucky “I’m not exactly a people person” Barnes. Bucky “respect my personal space or I’ll kill you” Barnes.

And here he was, letting you call him ‘my love.’

Sam needed another minute. Maybe even a drink. Anything to help process whatever the hell was happening in front of him.

Joaquin, already on his third bite, didn’t seem as concerned. He waved his fork in the air, nodding approvingly. “I’m impressed. If this is what love does to you, maybe I need to find someone, too.”

“Don’t worry,” Bucky said, “I’m sure someone, somewhere, is into birds.”

Joaquin groaned. 

You giggled, but nudged Bucky’s shoulder anyway. “Be nice.”

Bucky just grumbled under his breath as you leaned in and pressed gentle kisses to his metal knuckles.

And that was it. That was the moment Sam lost all grip on reality.

Because Bucky Barnes—the man who used to flinch at the idea of being touched—literally melted.

He let out a pleased hum as he leaned into you, eyes closing for just a second like he was soaking in the moment. And when he opened them again Sam could’ve sworn they were actual heart eyes.

—

Over dinner, Joaquin—ever the eager one—started asking about your fieldwork.

“So, that human trafficking bust you pulled off last month,” he said, buzzing with admiration. “That was insane. I mean, the level of planning—”

You flushed, ducking your head slightly. “Oh, um. It wasn’t that impressive.”

Joaquin shook his head. “Are you kidding? You dismantled their operation without any collateral damage!”

You let out a small, almost embarrassed laugh, “I just… I try my best.”

Sam set down his fork, “How many did you have to fight?”

You hesitated for a beat. “Seven,” you admitted, pulling down your sleeves as casually as you could manage. Your knuckles were still scarred, bruises blooming beneath. “It would’ve just been five, but the two younger ones—I told them to stand down but I guess they thought they could take me.”

Bet they underestimated you, Sam thought. 

“How old were they?” Sam asked.

“Probably barely out of their teens,” You shrugged. “They were involved, but… they were scared. Probably in too deep to see another way out. I had to put them down, but I pulled my punches. You know the drill.”

Sam tilted his head, knowing firsthand what it’s like. “That can’t be easy.”

You looked at him and shrugged. “It’s not.”

Joaquin, on the other hand, was still practically vibrating in his seat. “I just don’t get how you’re so effective without even being—” He gestured vaguely. “You know. Mean.”

You blinked. “Mean?”

“Yeah, like… I kinda thought you’d be scarier.”

Bucky snorted into his drink. “She is scary.”

Joaquin shot him a skeptical look. “Dude. She just apologised for taking the last bread roll.”

Bucky didn’t even hesitate. “She’s polite. That doesn’t mean she won’t put you in the ground.”

Joaquin turned to you. “Would you?”

You tilted your head, considering. “If you threatened Bucky, maybe.”

Sam let out a laugh, then shook his head. “I just don’t get it.” He said, “How do you go from that”— he made a concerning stabby gesture— “to this?”

He wasn’t wrong. Sometimes, even Bucky had to admit that the contrast was ridiculous.

You sighed, picking at your food. “Because after all that I just wanna go home.”

Joaquin raised a brow. “And do what? Train?”

“No, I wanna be a gremlin,” you said, amused. “I wanna wear my pajamas, turn off my phone, and pretend I don’t know what daylight is.”

Bucky grinned, nudging your foot under the table. “Tell ‘em about the crafts, sweetheart.”

You shot him a look, but Bucky just smirked.

Joaquin looked up. “Crafts?”

You let out a deep breath, feeling your face heat up. “I, um. I like making things.”

Sam’s brows furrowed. “Like… what?”

Sam had no idea he was about to sit through a thirty-minute lecture on yarn selection.

Strangely, he kind of enjoyed it.

—

By the end of the night, you had warmed up to them both.

Sam had never seen anything like it—you were quiet, sure, but once you got comfortable, you were easy to talk to. It felt… so at odds with the stories he’d heard about you.

And when Joaquin offhandedly mentioned that he’d always wanted to learn how to crochet, your eyes lit up.

“Oh! I could teach you,” you said, eyes jumping to your feet. “It’s actually very relaxing after sending seven human traffickers to a hospital.”

Joaquin choked on his drink, but had a delighted grin on his face. “Yeah?”

“I’ll give you the basics now.” You turned, holding out a hand. “Jamie, can you pass me the yarn?”

Sam could’ve sworn he heard the record scratch in real-time.

Jamie?

The only two people who had ever called Bucky by any variety of his first name were his therapist and Zemo, and Bucky hated both.

But when you said it, Bucky just… melted.

No grumbling. No don’t call me thats.

Just a look of hopeless adoration as he grabbed the yarn and handed it over like a man under a spell.

And so, with Alpine curled up on Bucky’s lap, you spent the next twenty minutes patiently teaching Joaquin how to crochet.

“Okay, so start by making a slipknot,” you instructed.

Joaquin followed your movements, tongue out like it would help his concentration. “Like this?”

“Just tighten it a little.”

Bucky watched with his chin propped on his fist, looking so ridiculously in love that Sam actually had to look away for a second.

“Dude,” Joaquin said, still focused on his stitches. “Your girlfriend is my new best friend.”

Bucky shrugged. “Get in line.”

Joaquin grinned at you. “Hey, if I can’t do it myself, will you make me a glove or something’?”

Before you could answer, Bucky cut in, “No.”

You looked at your boyfriend. “No?”

Bucky crossed his arms. “I had to earn my sweater. Torres doesn’t get free stuff.”

Sam stared at him. “I can’t believe you own a handmade sweater.”

Bucky shrugged. “Several, actually.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

Bucky just smiled, reaching for your hand, tracing slow circles against your palm.

“Yeah, you do.”

And Sam, watching the way Bucky looked at you, like you were the best thing to ever happen to him, had to admit—

Yeah.

He did.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

God you are just such a fucking good writer

Change your mind

Pairing: College!Athlete!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: Natasha drags you to an NYU baseball game. And despite yourself, one player catches your attention.

Word Count: 6.5k

Warnings: Bucky’s charm; Bucky being flirty; Bucky showing off; Reader checking out baseball players lol; Reader not being interested in baseball (at first)

Author’s Note: I've been craving some flirty college Bucky after all the angst I've been writing. So that’s what I came up with. It is also meant as a little celebration fic because I've got over 1500 followers and that’s so amazing! Thank you so much!! Hope you enjoy! ♡

Divider by @thecutestgrotto ♡

Masterlist

You haven’t been to a single game since the semester started - since any semester started, to be real. And honestly, you have been content with that. Satisfyingly so.

Your time is better spent attending to assignments, slogging through your part-time job at the library, or doing literally anything else besides sitting in the stands and watching a bunch of guys chase a ball around a field, or whatever the hell this sport even is about.

Baseball isn’t your thing, it never has been and it never will be.

You’ve been complaining about it the whole way here. Dramatically so, but you didn’t care. Your best friend can handle you and your antics.

“You know, I can think of at least a dozen things I should be doing right now instead of this,” you grumble, trailing behind her as she weaves through the crowd in search of seats.

Natasha sighs sharply and throws you a glare over her shoulder. “God, would you quit whining? This is good for you.”

“I fail to see how,” you shoot back, adjusting the strap of your bag as you begrudgingly follow her.

But Natasha just smirks. That dangerous little smirk that means she’s about to say something you won’t have a comeback for. “You know,” she muses, eyes darting playfully in your direction. “I didn’t think I’d have to twist your arm to come watch a bunch of hot guys running around out there.”

A brow of yours lifts. “Alright, hold on-” you jab a finger in her direction “-I never said I was against that part.”

She scoffs, clearly pleased with herself, and you grin, nudging her with your elbow as the two of you settle into your seats.

“Besides,” you continue, voice dripping with amusement. “I don’t think you should be making comments like that when we both know you’re here for one guy in particular.”

Natasha only shrugs, all nonchalant, but the corner of her mouth tugs lightly upward. “So what if I am?”

You snicker. “I mean, nothing. I just think it’s cute how whipped you are.”

She rolls her eyes, but her lip is still twitching. Natasha and Steve have only been dating for a few weeks, but you see the way she looks at him. And as much as you complain about being dragged here, you suppose watching your best friend fall stupidly in love is kind of entertaining.

Even if you have to suffer through a baseball game to witness it.

You lean back against the hard metal bleachers, arms crossed as your gaze falls across the field.

It’s a decent night, warm with just enough of a breeze to keep the air from feeling stifling. And even though you’d rather be anywhere else right now, you can’t deny that seeing Natasha like this - light in her eyes, a weird softness in her expression - makes the whole ordeal slightly less painful.

Steve is out on the field, stretching with his team, and Natasha is watching him with this reserved kind of smile. The kind that sneaks up on a person when they don’t realize they’re doing it. You smirk to yourself. Yeah, she’s got it bad. But honestly, you are happy for her. They look good together, and she certainly deserves someone who looks at her the way Steve does.

Natasha must catch you watching her because she suddenly turns, an all-too-knowing glint in her eye. You don’t like that look.

“And who knows,” she says, spreading her legs out in front of her, voice hinting at humor, “maybe your future husband’s down there right now.”

You snort, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “Oh, yeah, sure. He’s just waiting for me to sweep him off his feet in the middle of a stretch.”

She smirks. “Could happen.”

You shake your head. “Yeah, no thanks. I'm all for watching a bunch of hot guys get all sweaty and run around in tight pants, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” You gesture vaguely toward the field. “That’s just spectating. Everything else is a hard pass.”

Natasha quirks a brow, tilting her head at you. “Oh, come on, Y/n. It’s not that bad.”

You shoot her a look. “Nat, the last guy I went out with, Peter Quill, you remember?-” You don’t wait for her nod “-he told me, verbatim, that he doesn’t believe in seasoning his food. And the guy before that showed up to our date in cargo shorts and a fedora and spent two hours explaining why The Wolf of Wall Street is the peak of cinema.”

She winces. “Oof.”

“Yeah. So forgive me if I’m not that eager to throw myself back into the trenches.” You pause. “Also, I’m super busy.”

Natasha laughs, shaking her head as she turns back toward the field. “Well, if you ever change your mind, I’ll be sure to put in a good word with one of Steve’s teammates.”

You scoff. “Wow, generous and delusional. I’m so lucky to have you as a friend.”

She nudges you with her shoulder, smirking. “The luckiest.”

Huffing, you sink deeper into your seat. Well, at least there is one upside to all of this. If nothing else, you can at least appreciate the view.

Your eyes wander over the team as they move across the field, warming up, adjusting their gloves, casually tossing a ball back and forth.

And yeah, you can admit it - objectively speaking, they look good. Athletic builds, toned arms, legs that fill out those pants just right. It’s a nice view, even if you’re not about to go throwing yourself into the dating pool again, so soon.

Your gaze drifts back to Steve, mostly because he’s the only one you actually know - if only a little. But before you can really focus on him, someone steps into your line of sight, half-blocking the blonde from view.

The number 17 fills out your vision.

Your head tilts instinctively, curiosity sparking before you know it. The guy in front of Steve is tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy stance that suggests he’s completely at home out there on the field.

His uniform fits him in a way that makes you annoyingly aware of just how well built he is - jersey stretched firm across his upper back, the sleeves tight around his biceps, pants snug in all the right places. His chestnut hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck underneath the baseball cap he is wearing, and he stands so casually confident that it makes it impossible to not look at him.

Have you maybe seen him around campus before? You should have, right? Someone like him doesn’t just blend into the background. Maybe in the halls, in one of those massive lecture rooms, passing by in the library, maybe when you're on shift. But you are sure, that if you saw that guy, you would have remembered him.

“See something you like?”

Natasha’s smug voice snaps you out of your thoughts and you catch the smirk she is throwing your way.

Scoffing, you tighten your arms around yourself and glance back at the field. Number 17 is still standing there, talking with Steve, completely unaware of the fact that you’ve just spent the past minute analyzing every inch of his backside.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you deny, keeping your tone even.

Natasha snorts, bumping her knee against yours. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For what?”

She nods her head to the field. “For dragging you here. For the eye candy. For giving you the opportunity to meet your future ex-husband.”

You huff out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll see.”

Inevitably, your eyes move back to number 17, and you can’t help but think that if you haven’t seen him before, why it feels like you should have.

He’s turning.

Wait, he’s turning.

Your breath hitches and stays stuck in your throat uncomfortably, and suddenly he’s looking at you. Did he feel your eyes on him? Does he somehow know that you eyed him up like a complete creep? But just as the heat of panic can spark in your chest, you realize he’s not even looking at you.

He’s looking at Natasha.

Your shoulders loosen slightly. Steve also has turned his gaze toward the stands, his affective smile directed at your friend as well. He probably told the brunette that she’s here.

Number 17 lifts a hand in a casual wave, movement smooth, and even that simple gesture kind of looks way hotter than you want to feel right now.

Natasha only gives a small, lazy nod in return.

You expect the brunette to turn back around after that, to go back to whatever pre-game thing they were doing. But he doesn’t.

His attention shifts. To you.

Your stomach makes a flip before your brain can decide how to handle it.

His eyes are sharp, the exact color lost to the distance, but it seems to be something blueish. His expression is unreadable, his head tilting slightly as if assessing you. The stadium lights cast a glow over his features, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, and the way his mouth seems to settle into something just shy of a smirk.

Immediately, you whip your head around to Natasha, eyes wide.

“Do you know that guy?” you ask, trying to sound more casual than you feel.

Natasha doesn’t even bother looking at you. She’s still watching Steve, her lips curving higher as if knowing what she’s doing.

“He’s Steve’s best friend.”

You blink. “Steve’s best friend?”

Your gaze falls back to the field against your better judgment but Number 17 has already turned back to Steve, talking to the blonde who now is sporting a smirk just like Natasha’s.

“You never mentioned him before,” you comment, though it comes out a little too measured.

Natasha of course picks up on it immediately.

“Should I have?” she counters, dragging the words out just a little.

You narrow your eyes at her but she only continues smirking.

And again, your gaze falls back to Number 17. God, why can’t you stop checking him out. The white baseball pants of his do absolutely nothing to hide the strength in his legs. His hair at his nape is slightly messy from running around and you wonder if it would feel soft if you put your hands on it.

You shake that thought right off again.

It’s not like it matters.

Still, you shift in your seat, arms tightening. “I just think it’s interesting that you never brought him up before when he’s his best friend.”

Natasha exhales a laugh through her nose, finally glancing over at you, her eyes glinting with something mischievous. “I mean, I could have.”

“And you didn’t because…?”

“Because,” she says sultry, shrugging one shoulder. “I figured you’d meet him eventually.”

There is something pointed in the way she says it, something deliberate, and you don’t like that it sends a small tingle of anticipation through you.

“So, what’s his deal, then?” you keep going, not even knowing why.

Natasha hums, stretching her limbs languidly. Her voice is sly. “His deal?”

“You know,” you press, trying not to sound too interested, although, fucking hell, you are. “Like, what’s his major? Have you seen him around before?”

She turns to you again, and oh, that look on her face is entirely too smug. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You huff. “Nat.”

Her smirk only deepens. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Before you can answer, she looks past you, over your shoulder, down the steps.

Her expression doesn’t change but her smirk gets a little too satisfied, a little too wicked.

You quickly follow her gaze and, oh shit.

A heavy beat thuds against your ribs before your heart remembers how to move properly as your eyes follow the unmistakable figure making his way up the stairs.

Number 17.

And he is coming right toward you.

You inhale sharply, sitting up a little straighter, trying to act like this isn’t throwing you off balance. His steps are easy and unhurried as if giving you the time to check him out some more. And even though you should know better, you do.

His uniform is wrinkled from warm-ups, the fabric clinging in ways that are frankly unfair, and his dark hair curls enough to look annoyingly good.

He reaches your row. And despite the fact that Natasha should logically be the person he came up for, he isn’t looking at her when he speaks.

His eyes land directly on you.

“Steve sent me up,” he says, voice low and smooth, a pleased drawl rolling through his words. “Said he forgot his water bottle or somethin’.”

You blink and try to shake off what his voice does to your body. Crossing one leg over the other, you feign indifference.

“Yeah,” Natasha says, sounding way too delighted. “She’s got it.” She slaps your arm lightly with her hand.

You turn to her confused. “Huh?”

“I asked you to put it in your bag since mine’s smaller.” She raises an eyebrow.

“Didn’t know it’s Steve’s,” you mutter, then glare at her for a second before reaching down to retrieve the damn thing.

Natasha looks triumphant.

When you pull the bottle free and hold it out to the guy standing in front of you, he takes it with his fingers brushing against yours in a way that feels very intentional.

“Thanks, doll.”

His tone is silk spun into sound and hell, it glides over your skin, making it prickle underneath your sweater.

He has the bottle now but doesn’t step away yet. His eyes linger on you.

“Never seen you ‘round here before,” he remarks, studying you with open interest. His lips tug a little as if he is holding back a full grin. As if he is pleased.

You meet his gaze and swallow, keeping your expression open but neutral even as something sparks under your skin. “Yeah, it’s my first game.”

His lips press together like he’s trying not to fully smirk. “No kiddin’.” There is something about the way he says it that you can’t place.

You lift a brow and tilt your head slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “Just figured I woulda noticed you before, is all.”

Oh.

Oh, damn.

You know flirting when you hear it. And that was flirting.

You clear your throat, but a smile is trying to makes its way over your mouth. “Do you say that to all the girls in the stands?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Nah. Just you.”

Heat winds through your stomach. Because there is an easy, matter-of-fact kind of confidence in his voice.

Biting his lip, he studies you some more. Eyes intensely on you. “So you ain’t much of a baseball fan, then,” he hums. His voice is a low timbre.

You scoff, but can’t help the amused smile lifting your lips. “Not quite my thing.”

“Maybe I can change that.”

You almost choke on your next breath, because oh. He’s good. And hell, that came fast.

Natasha cackles. You ignore her.

Your fingers play with the fabric of your jeans. “Smooth,” you assess, unable to help the wry lilt in your voice.

He grins. Lopsided. Charming. Devastatingly handsome, oh god so help me. “Yeah? That workin’ for me?”

You roll your eyes, but it’s all for show. “Debatable.”

Natasha snorts.

His smirk is deep. There is a twinkle in his blue eyes. He stares at you like that for a second.

“I’m Bucky.” His voice is softened a fraction. His tone is genuine.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

His head moves to the side a little, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And you are?”

You tell him your name and his gaze lingers, his smirk edging into something thoughtful.

“Huh,” he muses.

You frown slightly. “What?”

He shrugs, still watching you, maybe even looking a little bashful. “Dunno. Just- I like it. Suits you.”

That somehow feels worse than the flirting.

You feel your face heat and you hate that Natasha can probably see it.

There is a shout coming from the dugout. “Barnes, get your ass down here, now!”

That must be their trainer Fury.

But Bucky stays standing there, looking at you for a beat longer, biting his lip and scratching the back of his neck. Then he takes a step back, spinning the water bottle once in his hand. “Guess I’ll see ya next game, doll,” he charms.

You blink, eyebrows up. “That’s a bold assumption.”

He just grins, throwing you a wink. “Nah. I got a feelin’.”

And just like that, he turns, heading back down toward the field, leaving you sitting there slightly dazed.

It takes a moment for your brain to start working again.

You feel Natasha leaning in but are not ready to meet that sly expression.

“We both know you’ll be here next time.”

Infuriatingly, you know she is right.

“I hate you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The game kicks off, but you are not watching it the way you thought you would.

Because he’s on the field.

And, well damn.

You tell yourself you’re just curious. That’s all it is. You’re not actually watching him. You’re just keeping an eye on him. Casual observation. A purely academic interest in how the game works.

Except, the longer you watch, the more you have to admit that he is good.

Really good.

His movements are seamless. It’s like an unbroken flow of precision and control as if the game is merely responding to him, not the other way around. He’s so natural, seems so at ease, and yet he moves so fast and sharp.

You can see the innate understanding he has, of how the game breathes. It’s impressive.

When he’s at bat, his stance is balanced to perfection, knees bent just enough, shoulders loose but poised. The pitcher winds up, releases, and before you can even register it fully, Bucky crushes that ball.

The sound of it is sharp, a crack that echoes through the field.

You track the ball as it soars high, way over the outfield. And then he’s running. He’s a cloud of white and navy as he rounds first base, feet hitting the dirt hard.

Natasha whistles low beside you. “Not bad, huh?” She doesn’t hide her smirk.

You press your lips together, determined to be neutral. “Yeah, well. Maybe I was just expecting less.”

Your best friend lets out a half-amused, half-exaggerated breath through her nose. “You weren’t.”

You want to throw her a glare but that would mean you’d have to take your eyes off Bucky and somehow you can’t manage that.

So you only huff and lean further into your seat.

But even as he plays, you can’t shake the feeling that perhaps he somehow tries a little more than necessary.

There are subtle indications. The way he lingers just a bit longer when he looks up toward the stands, the slight, extra flourish in the way he moves. The exaggerated ease of it all.

Oh, hell.

As he rounds third base, his gaze snaps up.

Right at you.

And he winks.

Your stomach plummets. Heat boils along your spine, and you freeze for half a second, caught completely fucking off guard.

The grin he shoots you is smug and holds a knowing edge, seeing the way your eyes are already on him, seeing your reaction, and thriving on it.

Natasha grasps your arm, gasping. “Oh my God.”

She is overly dramatic on purpose and you hate it.

You tear your gaze away from him and glare at her. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I'm starting,” she laughs, delighted. “That guy’s showing off for you.”

“He is not,” you hiss, trying and failing to ignore the warmth along your neck. Spreading and spreading up to your cheeks.

“That was textbook showing off, babe.”

You bite your lip, refusing to give her the satisfaction of the reaction she wants to see.

But maybe she’s not wrong.

The game continues, and despite your best efforts, your eyes keep finding him.

The more you watch, the more obvious it becomes.

The smooth way he catches the ball in the outfield, hardly needing to look before launching it straight to second base. The way he moves just a little bit slower after a play like he knows there are eyes on him. The way his grin sharpens when he hears the cheers, the teasing comments from his teammates.

And apparently, Steve notices, too.

Because after a particularly showy throw - one that was definitely more dramatic than necessary - Steve jogs past him and smacks him on the back of the head.

You faintly hear Bucky’s startled grunt from the bleachers.

Natasha snickers beside you.

Steve is muttering something to him, but the brunette only grins, backing away with his arms outstretched and shoulders pulled up in an unbothered shrug. And his eyes immediately find you. You look away hastily.

Your best friend leans in, voice low and teasing. “Change your mind about dating yet?”

Sinking lower in your seat, you move your hand through your hair. “This is ridiculous.”

But even as you say it, you glance back at Bucky.

And he’s still looking at you.

This time, you don’t look away.

Another smack lands across the back of his head and he is forced to drag his eyes away from you to grumble at the guy who is grinning from ear to ear, enjoying whatever the hell this is between Bucky and you.

“You’re actin’ real thirsty right now, Barnes,” the voice of the other player sounds out, loud enough for you to make out some words. “Hey, I mean, I get it. She’s cute. But can you focus, man?”

Flustered, you shove your hands between your thighs and curl a little bit inward.

“Shut up, Sam,” Bucky warns, rolling his shoulders and throwing a hard look at his teammate before jogging back to his position.

You don’t miss the way he shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair after lifting the cap for a moment as if he is trying to gather himself.

Your heart is beating in a weird rhythm. Your hands are a little sweaty and you hate that Natasha notices.

“Well, well,” she teases, watching Bucky get into position. “Looks like you’re a motivator.”

“Do you ever stop?”

“Not when it’s this much fun,” she grins, eyes swimming in mischief. “And clearly not when my best friend’s about to have my boyfriend's buddy ask for her number.”

It’s your time to smirk. “Boyfriend?” you chirp. “I'm sure Steve would like to know you calling him that behind his ba-”

“There’s no turning this around, babe. I’m the one with the power here,” she chides, but she is suppressing a smile. “No go ahead and continue to watch your future boyfriend.” She turns your shoulder forward to the field.

“He’s not-”

“Watch.”

You do.

And the longer the game goes on, you try to keep telling yourself that you’re going to stop watching him. But no matter how much you try to focus on anything else - the scoreboard, the crowd, even the actual game - your eyes don’t listen.

They keep wandering back to him. To the way he moves, his effortless command of the field.

It’s the way he seems to own every second he’s out there like he is meant to be on the field. And he seems to love it. His body moves with an instinctive kind of grace, muscles shifting under the snug fit of his uniform, every motion thought through but natural.

When he takes his spot at shortstop, you admire the confidence of his stance. He’s completely at home. He stands relaxed but his eyes are sharp and focused, scanning the field.

And when the ball comes his way, his gloved hand snatches it mid-air before his arm whips it across the diamond in a clean throw.

It’s irritatingly impressive.

You try to convince yourself that he plays like this all the time - that this isn’t for you at all - but there is something nagging at the back of your mind. Something in the way he carries himself, the extra little flair in the way he moves.

He really seems to be putting on a small show and you can’t shake the feeling that you might be the only one in the audience that actually matters to him. You don’t know how to feel about that.

Natasha catches you watching again. “Mhm,” she hums, knowingly. Not at all subtle about it.

You throw her a burning look. “Shut up, Nat.”

She smirks and tilts her head. “You want to be the one he’s showing off for.”

You release a sharp breath, looking at the darkened sky faintly lit by the stadium lights. “If I did, I’d be enjoying it, wouldn’t I? I just think he’s- trying a little hard. Like he’s-”

You don’t get to finish that sentence because the crowd erupts again. The score is tied. This is the final inning.

Your throat constricts as Bucky walks up to plate, adjusting his cap like he’s been waiting for this moment. He taps the bat against the plate once, twice, and tilts his head at the pitcher. You watch the way Bucky’s muscles coil, the readiness, the concentration.

The pitcher winds up. The stadium is silent.

The ball is pitched.

Bucky swings.

Crack.

The sound echoes across the field as Bucky swings and connects perfectly, the entire stadium staring with bated breath. The ball rockets up into the night sky, impossibly high, soaring straight over the center field fence.

It’s gone. A home run.

The crowd erupts, students leaping to their feet, fists pumping, voices carrying through the air. Natasha is already up, grabbing your wrist and yanking you up beside her.

“That’s your man,” Natasha yells over the noise, pointing at the field. “That’s your home run, babe!”

“Oh my god, Nat, he’s not-” you start, but you are cut off by the thunder of feet around you, students leaping onto the bleachers, fists raised, chanting his name.

Just like the others, you are watching Bucky jog around the bases at a confident pace, brushing a hand through his sweaty hair again.

You’re honestly a little overwhelmed with this whole thing. Trying to catch up to the way Bucky moves as if it’s the easiest thing in the world for him, like sending a ball out of the park is just something he does on a casual Tuesday.

And then, just as he crosses home plate, the team swarming him, he turns his head up.

Right to you.

The whole world seems to slow for just a second. Your breath is lost in your throat when your eyes lock. There is a heat in his gaze, but it shifts from exhilaration to something softer. He beams up at you for that special moment, blue eyes shining under the stadium lights, his grin wide.

Your pulse hammers in a way you really don’t want to acknowledge.

You are clapping, like all the others.

And there is something changing in his expression. The corner of his mouth curls in a way as if he can’t believe what he is seeing. His confidence falters for a brief second, replaced by something almost sheepish. His hand scrubs over his face, attention caught by his teammates, but there definitely is a hint of pink dusting his cheeks at your small cheers.

The other players pull him into a rough embrace and for a moment you don’t see him at all, the rest jumps around him in celebration.

“Alright, come on, let’s get down there,” Natasha says, grabbing your wrist again.

“Wait, what?” you sputter as she pulls you toward the railing, making her way down the steps, dragging you with her.

“You are not going to be the only one still sitting while your boyfriend-”

“Stop that-”

“-just won the damn game,” she finishes, waving you off as you scowl at her.

Before you know it, you’re at the very front of the stands, your hands coming together as the roar of the crowd vibrates through your bones.

You see Bucky looking over the chaos, his arms slung around his teammates, his chest rising and falling from exertion, when suddenly, his gaze catches you again.

That bright, wide grin now definitely softens. In a shit, you really were watching kind of way. His blue eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read every single thought rushing through your head right now.

Natasha is practically jumping beside you, cheering happily, so you don’t want to be a bummer and start clapping again. Looking at him.

His smile tries to widen, but Bucky bites his lip. And then, he actually looks bashful.

He dips his head just slightly, running another hand down his face, and this time it’s him looking away first.

But not before you catch that tiny flicker of something almost shy. For all his confidence, for all the easy charm he’s been throwing at you, all the flirtatious lines, something about your reaction to him is what makes him falter that little bit.

And oh how it does something to you. You don’t even fight the little smile on your lips as Natasha bumps her shoulder into yours.

“Shut up,” you murmur, but it sounds too light.

Natasha smirks. “I didn’t say anything.”

You roll your eyes and fold your arms over your chest to hide the way your hands are still itching to continue clapping.

The roar of the crowd slowly begins to settle, the energy of the game remaining charged in the air. The bleachers empty languidly, students pouring onto the field or shuffling toward the exits, their excitement buzzing in hurried conversations and triumphant chants.

The players begin filtering off the field, disappearing into the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. Some of them are still exchanging shoves and laughs, adrenaline still pumping through their veins.

Bucky walks alongside Steve, his uniform tightly handing off his frame.

But before he disappears with the rest of them he glances behind one last time. And, of course, it’s at you again. You shiver.

His glance is just a flicker of blue under the harsh stadium lights but it’s just a beat longer than you would expect. As if he is making sure you’re still here. As if he is worried you won’t be when he comes back out.

Then he’s gone.

“You see that?” Natasha assesses, leaning her weight into one hip, arms crossed.

“See what?” you ask, obviously annoyed.

She’s unbothered. “That boy just looked at you like a man checking to see if his car’s still parked outside.”

You groan. “God, shut up.”

“That never worked on me. You should know better.”

With an impish grin, she tugs at your wrist and guides you away from the bleachers.

“Come on, we’re waiting for them,” she says, already pulling you toward the tunnel exit.

“What? Nat-”

“Well, I’m waiting for Steve,” she says, “and you, my dear, have been eyefucking his best friend all night, so don’t even try to act like you don’t want to see him again.”

“Okay, come on,” you defend. “I have not-”

“-been staring at him, sure,” she interrupts, her smirk widening. “But only every time he wasn’t looking. Which, by the way, wasn’t often.”

You groan again but follow her anyway, because, at this point, you’re not even sure if you’re protesting for show or out of actual resistance.

Minutes go by as more people slowly tickle away, leaving only a few clusters of them lingering around, chatting under the lights.

The air is still warm, but the breeze carries enough of a chill to make you shift on your feet, arms folding over your chest as you wait.

And then, Steve and Bucky emerge from the locker room, side by side.

Steve’s blond hair is still damp from the shower, his team jacket slung over one shoulder. The moment he spots Natasha, his whole face softens. His stride quickens as he reaches her and he pulls her in for a kiss that is far sweeter than you expected from someone fresh out of a game.

Your best friend, for all her teasing confidence tonight, melts against him, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket.

You feel happiness for her but you look away, feeling like you’re intruding on something intimate.

And before you can prepare yourself, Bucky is standing right in front of you.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he says, voice lower, less playful than before.

His hair is damp too, looking darker like that. He doesn’t wear his cap anymore, short brown tendrils resting on his forehead. His uniform is gone, replaced by a dark hoodie and jeans. And yet, he still looks every bit like the man who just stole the game with a home run. He looks handsome. You can even admit that.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll leave with Nat,” you answer, voice a little quieter than you would have liked it to be.

Bucky smiles. He shifts his weight, hands slipping into his pockets.

“Well, had to make sure you actually enjoyed yourself,” he says, tipping his head to the side, smirk slowly appearing. “Didn’t want you to suffer through it since you’ve already been dragged out here.”

You huff out a small laugh, looking at the ground before up at him again. “It wasn’t terrible.”

“Not terrible?” he echoes, feigning offense. “Sweetheart, I won the damn game. You were cheerin’ for me.”

It’s as if he needed to say it out loud. As if he’s been telling that to himself the whole time.

You bite your lip. Those nicknames will send you tumbling to the floor if you’re not careful. “Yes, well. You put on a good show.”

He grins something slow and smug. “And here I was thinkin’ you weren’t much of a baseball fan.”

You shift, laughing softly. “Still not, really.”

He hums, studying you so deeply. In a gentle way. But he takes his sweet time and it’s making you nervous. “I’ll change your mind.”

Your stomach does something weird - something that has everything to do with the way his voice dips slightly, the way it rumbles out so smoothly.

You narrow your eyes, trying to keep your cool. “I’d like to see you try.”

Bucky chuckles softly, rocking on the balls of his feet. He can’t stop watching you, moving his eyes around your features, your whole frame, as if wondering where you have been the whole time. He looks like he is trying to read every little thing written across your face.

Your chest feels a little too tight, and your pulse picks up the longer you look at him, the longer he looks at you.

The air is cooler now that the game is over, the heat from the crowd dissipating into the open night, and although you feel plenty heated up by his gaze and presence, you instinctively rub your arms, shifting on your feet.

“You cold?” Bucky’s voice is lower, and there is a soft gentleness to his tone, that sounds so sincere, you feel your knees grow weak.

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

“I’ve got an extra jersey in my bad,” he offers as if he didn’t even hear you, already moving. “Or you can take this one-” He seems about to shrug off his hoodie instead.

You quickly hold up a hand to stop him. “No, really. I’m okay.”

Bucky pauses, squinting at you, mouth quirking as he eyes you a second longer. Then, as if he’s figured something out, his lips form a real smirk again.

“Alright,” he concedes easily, his weight tipping slightly to one side, then back again. “Guess I’ll just give it to you next time, then.”

You freeze just slightly, blinking up at him.

Next time.

You don’t quite know what to do with that.

You clear your throat, forcing words out. “Yeah. Next time.”

Bucky beams.

It’s a full-on, dazzling grin, cheeks high and rosy, eyes bright in a way that makes something overturn in your stomach.

He looks way too pleased with himself now. And you are way too aware of how warm your face feels.

You try to push yourself past the sudden rush of flustered energy. “Well, I guess I will see you around campus, then.”

Bucky hums, considering, still not taking his eyes off you. “Maybe,” his head turns to the side, making a pause. “Or I could just make sure.”

“Make sure?”

He pulls his hands from his hoodie pocket, adjusting his footing and running a hand through his hair, messing with the damp strands a little. He might just seem the slightest bit nervous.

Flipping his palm up expectantly, he looks at you with a glint of hope in his eyes. “Your phone.”

Your stomach does that turning-over thing again as you realize what he’s going on about. “Oh.”

You are fumbling to grab your phone out of your bag, fingers perhaps wavering a little and you are glad that Natasha is preoccupied at the moment to see this. Unlocking it, you hand it over to him.

Bucky takes it gently, fingers brushing yours. Again, it feels intentional.

The glow of the screen illuminates his face as he punches in his number, and presses to call himself so he’ll have your number as well before handing your phone back to you.

You glance down.

A new contact. Bucky Barnes.

Bucky watches you with a soft smile.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve calls, still standing with Natasha. You don’t see the triumphant smile those lovebirds share, busy trying not to show your disappointment of the night coming to an end. “We heading out?”

Bucky sighs, but he doesn’t break eye contact with you just yet.

“Guess that’s my cue,” he murmurs.

“Guess so.”

His feet shuffle against the floor. He seems not quite ready to end this conversation, taking a slow step backward, not turning away from you.

“See you next game, doll,” he says, words landing softer, quieter in a way. He speaks as if it matters.

You fidget with the sleeve of your sweater and let out an almost shy laugh. “Sure.”

Bucky smirks, holding up his phone and waving with it when walking further backward to Steve. “I’ll remind you.”

You watch him walk off with his best friend, watch him throw another grin over his shoulder at you, still feeling the heat that won’t stop tingling along your skin.

Your own best friend throws her arm around your shoulders.

This time, she keeps her mouth shut. She knows she doesn’t have to say anything anymore. There is no denying it any longer and you are well aware.

Because yeah, you might not be into baseball.

But you might be into Number 17.

“Flirting is a promise of something more.”

- Milan Kundera

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

Yo I believed this documentary BECAUSE my mom believed this documentary. Crazy af. Now I rematch it all the time 🤣

What was the point in animal planet airing those incredibly convincing fake documentaries about dragons and mermaids

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

"You enjoy sitting on your throne?"

That's the hottest line I've ever read in my life.

But then you just...

In Situ

[He’s Hazardous To My Health Series]

Paramedic!Bucky Barnes x Resident!Fem!Reader

< < PART 8 | Series Masterlist

In Situ - meaning in the natural position (ie. Bucky’s place next to you)

Summary: You ask Bucky to accompany you to the hospital's fundraising gala.

Warnings: strictly 18+, unprotected soft loving sex, creampie, graphic depiction of gunshot wounds & significant bleeding to a major character, a bit of angst as they struggle to reveal their feelings, will we finally get an ‘I love you’??, certain ex-fling of Bucky’s makes an appearance, this part has a bit of everything, fluff, angst, smut all rolled into one; I will apologise in advance you have every right to hate me given the ending of this

Word count: a whopping 10.3k (buckle up)

A/N: this part is dedicated to the wonderful @treatbuckywkisses and @yenzys-lucky-charm, I haven’t updated this series in so long and I genuinely thought no one would care about it being incomplete but you both have left such sweet comments on the other parts that inspired me to continue with my vision for paramedic!bucky, so I hope you both enjoy my darling friends 🩵 banners by @vase-of-lilies

Main Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Taglist | Library

It’s the start of a very long shift when the person you least want to encounter, Dr Thor Odinson, approaches you with a glowering expression which looks like the most accurate embodiment of ‘I would rather be anywhere else’.

You would rather quite literally be in any other room of the hospital than in trauma room 2 right now, but as your direct superior, you have to constantly take direction from the same man who tried to compete with Bucky for your affection, and then blacklisted you at work after you turned him down.

“Before you say no to this, I need you to know this is a requirement of your employment here and you cannot get out of it, no matter how much you might want to.” Thor states with the same amount of joy as if he were inviting you to a funeral. His hands fidget almost unconsciously with a sealed envelope as he speaks, before offering it to you with a firm, outstretched hand. “Believe me, I’ve already tried.”

You consider him for a moment, his eyes not quite meeting your examining gaze and nervously grinding his back teeth. Taking the envelope, you notice your name written in messy, scrawled handwriting on the front.

“Not sure why I wouldn’t want to, whatever you’re inviting me to sounds like the absolute time of my life.” You jest in an effort to diffuse the tension between you. Thor, however, doesn’t seem to find it funny as rather than a chuckle, you elicit the most forced eye roll you’ve seen in a while.

“It’s a fundraising gala, mostly for the research labs associated with the hospital, but part of the proceeds go to supporting patients without healthcare who otherwise would not afford our help.”

Though the thought of contributing to those of the community who are less fortunate, and find themselves in the unfortunately common situation of being in debt to a healthcare system which was designed to further cripple the already vulnerable, the lack of enthusiasm Thor is conveying during the conversation makes you wary of what important information you’re likely missing about the event.

“You’re allowed to bring a plus one.” He adds with a rising inflection, almost as if it’s a question rather than a statement.

Silence falls between you two, and for a moment you fully believe Thor is waiting for you to confirm whether you will be bringing Bucky as your date, which would just make this uncomfortable encounter even more awkward, but thankfully he speaks again before you need to say anything.

“You’ll be representing the ED, and more importantly the hospital, at this event. You and whomever you bring better be on your best behaviour, I don’t want to have to write you up again.” A smirk curves on your face as he walks away. Although there is a finality to his voice in which you know you won’t get out of this work event, Thor has reminded you of the very public display of affection Bucky showed you in the emergency room which had earned you an official warning from hospital HR.

A formal gala, with Bucky dressed up in a suit and you in the most alluring dress in your closet, could be the perfect place to earn a second warning.

* * *

The night of the Gala, Bucky knocks on your front door, feeling rather uncomfortable in this taut suit with the unnatural feeling of the shoulder pads compressing against his already broad shoulders.

He tries adjusting them as he waits, he wants to look his absolute best for you, to rival even a fraction of the radiance he’s sure you will exude tonight. But they feel even more out of place now he’s fiddled with them and regrets the decision until he hears the pattering of your footsteps behind the door.

“You have to close your eyes before you come in.” You call out to him in a playful voice, without opening the door. “I’m not ready yet.”

Bucky’s positive that in any state of undress or stage in the process of getting ready you are the most beautiful girl in the entire world, but a warmth spreads through his chest at the notion you’re wanting to look your best for him.

“Okay darling, they’re closed.” He plays along, knowing that when it comes down to it, he would do anything you ask him without contest because it’s for you.

Bucky hears the lock click as it opens and a small giggle, before the light pressure of a pair of lips on his.

“No peeking.” You request as you take his hand and lead him inside. Bucky knows your place like the back of his hand already and doesn’t need his eyes open to know that you take him towards the couch. “I’ll be right back, don’t you go anywhere.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” With each beat of Bucky’s heart his anticipation of seeing you only grows. He’s seen you in every way imaginable, naked and writhing for him, vulnerable with sickness, beaming with pride and joy, and yet every time he sees you he is continually flawed by how stunning you are in every scenario.

“Buck, you can open them.”

Bucky is simply lost for words. Never in all his life has he been in the presence of someone so utterly breathtaking. Looking at you now, practically radiating golden light, a brilliant smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, and your body looking downright heavenly in a form fitting dress which compliments the colour of your eyes, Bucky believes angels do actually exist.

“You are so beautiful.” He manages to stammer out once he’s picked his jaw up off the floor.

“Not as handsome as you in this suit.” You grip the lapels of his jacket to pull him even closer to you, straightening his tie in an action that overwhelms Bucky with a need to kiss you.

“What, this old thing?” He attempts to brush off your flattery, because next to you, there is positively no way anyone could compete with your beauty.

Bucky gulps the excessive saliva pooling in his mouth as his eyes roam your frame once again, because he can’t help but literally drool over how stunning you look - can’t believe that he gets to be the one who walks into the gala tonight with you on his arm.

The only other time he has felt this utterly floored by someone’s appearance was the first time he laid eyes on you as you strolled across the ER on that now historic day when he could not believe someone in scrubs and a lab coat could look so breathtakingly beautiful.

“You are genuinely the most gorgeous woman I have ever laid eyes on.”

Bucky’s fearful that you won’t actually believe his statement, even though they are perhaps the most honest words that have ever left his lips. It’s no secret that before he met you, Bucky had enjoyed sleeping around - had entertained more than his fair share of attractive women in his bed, but after just one month officially as your boyfriend, becoming intimately familiar with your beautiful soul, he has zero doubts that you are the only woman he wants in that position for the remainder of his life.

You kiss him in the breath after he finishes speaking, in that luscious, sensual way that no one else has ever kissed him and evokes a warm, fuzzy, almost life-ruining devotion, dare he say love, in his chest.

“Let’s just stay here tonight.” Bucky mumbles against your lips, his hands finding the zipper on the back of your dress and slowly unzips to let the fabric fall from your décolletage.

He can feel you smile against his lips but then you bruise his heart by pulling away and saying “As much as I would prefer to spend the whole night naked here with you, I’ve already been told I cannot miss this event.”

However, they aren’t words which scare Bucky away from a challenge, he dives back into the kiss, the tip of his tongue tangling with yours. He thinks he has you convinced when your hands start playing with the hair at the nape of his neck - you know how much he likes it and do it constantly to turn him on, but then you pull back and Bucky sighs.

“You’re insatiable, aren’t you?”

“Only when it comes to you.” He responds with a chuckle. You’re the only woman who’s ever had him whipped before, and Bucky’s not sure you realise how powerful the hold you have over him is.

“I promise, all we have to do is last an hour at this thing, and then you can take me home and have your way with me.”

* * *

You walk into the Gala, which is already packed with hospital staff dressed to the nines, hand in hand with Bucky who, in your opinion, looks magnitudes more handsome than any of the other men all dressed in black suits.

You turn to him and he’s already looking at you with that sparkle in his eye, like you’re absolutely perfect, just as you are, and there is nothing about you he would ever dream of changing.

“What?” You ask when those twinkling eyes don’t look away, but instead study your features as if there’s words left unsaid on the tip of his tongue.

“Just imagining pulling you into one of the on-call rooms, tearing this dress off you and tasting every inch of you.” Bucky shifts his hand to rest on the small of your back, his breath warm against your ear sending a shiver down your spine.

“Well, we have done some of our best work in there.” Bucky hums in agreement, both of you taking a second to remember the first of many visits to the on-call room which left you with shaking legs, but was also the first time either of you acknowledged that your feelings were deeper than simply hooking up. “I think you need to grab us both a drink to quench that thirst of yours, James.”

You playfully slap his chest, giving him a kiss on the cheek, and then proceeding to rub your lipstick stain off, before pushing him along to get you a drink. He looks back at you as he walks away, almost bumping into the Chief of Surgery, apologising profusely with a guilty glance to you, before he shuffles off towards the bar.

While Bucky is busy with that task, you instead make your way over to the other side of the atrium to take a look at the items available for the hospital's silent auction. You have to chuckle to yourself looking at the prices listed on the bidding sheets - as if anyone with medical school debt could afford to pay for even one of the allusive holidays or artefacts they had obtained for the fundraiser.

But you suppose your job tonight isn’t to bid on the items themselves, but to shmooze the wealthy guests in attendance into bidding with their spare millions.

Searching out one of the items at the lower end of asking prices, you decide to put an almost embarrassing low bid on an all expenses paid weekend to Mexico, that you know someone will outbid you on, just to say you participated in the night without needing to lie through your teeth.

You stroll through the busy hall, keeping your eyes peeled for Bucky near the bar but it seems you’ve lost him in the packed crowd. It’s usually fairly easy to spot your tall, broad boyfriend, and your heart sinks a little that you’re forced to walk aimlessly around the event as everyone else is wrapped in conversation.

“Doctor, lovely to run into you like this.” You hear a voice you’ve heard before but cannot place from behind you. And though you can’t actually see their face, the tone of their voice contradicts their words - they don’t seem pleased to see you at all.

Turning around, a face that evokes prickly apprehension in your chest comes into view. She’s hauntingly beautiful, the type of beauty which artists spend hours trying to commit to canvas and which is just not attainable for regular people like yourself. She holds herself like she’s closing out a Victoria Secret fashion show and is fully aware of the enchanting effect she has on any man who sets eyes upon her.

“Jacqui… I didn’t know pharmacy staff were invited to this thing.” Even with her disagreeable inflection, you do your best to sound pleasant.

“Oh well you are when you’re heading up the department.” She boasts, with a little wobble of her head which you mostly think is to draw attention to her shiny, voluminous blonde hair.

So is she just here to rub her new job title in your face?

“Congratulations, I didn’t know you got promoted.” You try to sound genuine even though you really couldn’t give a shit.

“I saw you walk in with Barnes. Where did he scamper off to?” You are now actually very glad to not have found Bucky in the crowd earlier. Something about the way she is trying to control the curiosity in her voice, and that she was actively watching the two of you together, makes you cautious of her intentions.

“Not sure, I was just looking for him.”

There’s a long pause where both of you refuse to be the next one to speak. You just want this conversation to be over. But you aren’t that lucky.

“How long have you two been together now?” The inquiry is almost punctuated with sharp spite, and though you don’t want to indulge her line of questioning, there’s a voice in the back of your head that’s telling you you need to defend your Bucky from whatever she is implying.

“A couple months.” Is the defensive response you retort - it’s technically correct, though you’ve only been official for a month of that.

“Months… how much can someone really change in a couple of months? There’s so many of us around the hospital he’s fucked. You really think he’s loyal to you?” You recoil at her words, not having expected the conversation to turn into whatever this was becoming, nor so soon into your small talk.

Where the fuck was this coming from?

“I trust him implicitly.” You attempt to control the absolute bewildered facial expression that’s trying it’s very best to overtake your features.

“Oh you poor, naive thing.” She says with a tone you use when delivering bad news to patients' families. “Men don’t change, they just hide their true nature from you. Wait a few months, he’ll be back to his fuckboy ways, guys like him can’t resist cheating. I guarantee it.”

Most men are like that, at least in your experience. But Bucky has never given you any cause to believe he would treat you like that. Just because he had a reputation of casually sleeping around before meeting you, doesn’t mean once he’s in a relationship he’ll be unfaithful.

You can’t imagine the sweet man who walked into your place tonight with his eyes closed, waiting for your consent to see you fully dolled up in your gown and then proceed to call you the most beautiful woman he has ever laid eyes on, would ever cheat on you.

“You don’t know him like I do and have no right to speak about him like that.” You state firmly with a small humph. If you weren’t at an event packed with your colleagues, you’d slap her.

The look in her eyes appears like you’ve challenged her, but you don’t want to think about the connotations of that right now. Without saying goodbye, you turn on your heel, needing to get as far away from her as quickly as possible.

Rippling anxiety bubbles in your chest that in your experience only Bucky’s touch can soothe. You frantically search for him in the sea of black suits, trying to also keep half an eye out for Jacqui so you don’t accidentally run into her, but he is again nowhere to be found.

Where the hell is Bucky? Your mind practically screams as you bump into a strapping chest, but this one unfortunately belongs to the one and only Thor Odinson.

God, could he have worse timing?

You plaster on your best smile, trying your best to keep a calm facade as he introduces you to two older gentlemen he appears to be chaperoning for the night.

As wealthy and influential as they are, having made their billions from a tech empire started with a little trust fund from their families' generational wealth, you can’t find it in you to care at the minute. You just want to find Bucky. Need him to hold you until the tornado of anxiety dissipates in your chest.

But Thor doesn’t allow you to slip away unnoticed, instead he prompts you to talk up the work the team does in the emergency room, speaking about the people you save from all walks of life, from those without health insurance to the affluent who can afford the life saving medical procedures others fail to receive.

Knowing their donations tonight could mean the difference between many getting life saving medicine and not, you summon the will to engage in conversation, trying to push down the acidic bile bubbling in your stomach that had risen as result of your interaction with Jacqui.

The sharp taste remains on your tongue as you’re now caught in philanthropic discussion, silently cursing Thor who stands beside you for ever inviting you to this damn gala in the first place.

It’s at least fifteen minutes later when you finally excuse yourself from their presence, the two men having pulled out their cheque books, much to Thor’s delight, preparing to make generous contributions that would have the hospital naming wards after them.

You hate to think what trouble Jacqui could get up to in that time frame. But you don’t have to wait long to find out.

Finally, after searching near the whole hall for Bucky you find him. Goddess like Jacqui by his side.

She stands there, supermodel tall, blonde bouncy hair, beautiful, toned legs on display through the slit in her dress, a flirty smirk curving on her face, tucking strands of loose hair behind her ears like a schoolgirl with a crush.

The nerve of her, approaching Bucky at all, but especially after the words spoken between you earlier.

Just seeing them together, the most exquisitely gorgeous woman flirting with the man whom you love and confirmed less than half an hour ago to her you are in a relationship with, makes your insides tightly twist with jealousy, as if someone were wringing out a wet towel.

Half of your mind is telling you to stalk over there and possessively claim your man in front of everybody, but the other half, the insecure side which believes Bucky could do so much better than you, who would want someone as beautiful as Jacqui by his side, and which is currently winning the battle in your mind, wants to run off crying into the furthest corner of the hospital.

Coming to a compromise, your brain instead decides that being frozen in place, unable to look away like an impending car crash, is the best place for you to be. But that is also pure torture.

Bucky smiles, not quite his signature cocky smirk that never leaves his face when the two of you are together, but it’s definitely a smile nonetheless and your heart sinks through the pit of your stomach.

Men don’t change. He’ll be back to his fuckboy ways.

You’re not sure why you’re letting Jacqui’s words penetrate your mind, burrow into the deepest crevices and allow them to make a home there. You suspect it’s because at one point in time Bucky thought she was desirable enough to take home and do unexplainably filthy things with. Does he still have that same attraction for her?

What if you are just Bucky’s practice run at being in a relationship, the one who fixes him up, teaches him all the valuable lessons, only for him to leave you and be the perfect partner to someone else?

Practically paralysed in place as you watch their interaction, it feels like your heart has stopped beating all together when Jacqui strokes his arm. But buoyant relief comes near milliseconds later when Bucky brushes her off. That’s your man.

You can’t hear what they’re saying, but you distinctly see him mouth the words ‘I have a girlfriend’, which relieves some of the tension in your tightly wound heart.

Bucky frantically searches around the room, and appears to have found what he is looking for as his eyes settle on your face.

There’s a split second where the whole world stands still, everyone at the gala other than the two of you disappear and it’s like you’re standing right in front of him, regardless of the space separating you.

But when your mind catches up to all the drowning emotions swirling in your chest, an uncontrollable sob bubbles up your throat and tears sting your eyes. You’re not even upset with him, but the fear of what Jacqui had been planning on trying with him still manifests as a choking lump in your throat.

The physical distance between you throughout tonight has let doubt and hesitancy creep into the only small space in your heart Bucky’s affection has not yet touched. Jacqui planted the seed and it’s already bloomed into a large tree, branches crowding space in your tightening chest.

The last thing you remember seeing is Bucky taking a large stride towards you, before your hands fly to cover your mouth and you take off, walking as quickly as you can in your heels, to where you know the nearest on-call room is.

* * *

Prickling panic fills Bucky’s lungs.

Has he inadvertently just ruined the best thing in his life?

Jacqueline’s voice calls his name as he chases after you, watching as you weave between guests and make your way to the nearest exit, which only takes you deeper into the hospital.

He was naive enough to think Jacqueline’s intentions were innocent when she approached him for conversation, just two colleagues catching up at an event that neither of them were fully participating in, but he was sadly mistaken.

He’ll never make that blunder again.

Watching you shuffle into the nearest on-call room, Bucky takes it as a positive sign that he’s not the one you’re upset with, at least not completely, when you don’t slam the door in his face but instead leave it open knowing he’ll follow you inside.

Bucky stays by the doorframe for a split second, watching as you work to steady your breathing, hands wiping the corners of your eyes, but the overwhelming urge and the need to comfort you wins out and he can’t help but hastily rush to your side.

“Darling…” He starts to say but when you look at him with big, wide eyes that are filled with tears, his mind goes blank and all he can think about is holding you.

You turn into his chest, face nuzzled into his lapel, and his arms instinctively close around you.

It’s the little sob which escapes your lips that does Bucky in completely. He hates to see you upset, but never in the months of knowing you has he been privy to this amount of genuine distress. He’s seen some not so great days, shaking frustration, even teary eyed with sadness, but never breaking down weeping.

He would move heaven and earth to ensure you never feel this way again.

He places a feather light kiss to your hairline whispering, “I’m right here. Nothing can hurt you.”

Though it was not his intention, his words provoke more sobs to escape your throat and Bucky pulls you ever closer. He’s practically holding up your entire body weight, and decides you’ll probably be much more comfortable on the bed this on-call room provides.

Even seated, you cling to him like he’s your lifeline, and Bucky can’t ever imagine letting go. He’d drown if it meant holding you safely out of the rough, relentless rapids currently flooding your mind.

As a paramedic, he’s so used to taking action, launching into a crisis with the equipment to be able to provide aid, to prevent further suffering. But right now all you need is his presence, to be the anchor grounding you to this world as a reminder that you have someone in your corner fighting for your happiness.

He hates not being able to do more for you.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Bucky asks after minutes of comforting you without words.

God, you feel so stupid. Crying at a work function because one of your boyfriend's ex-flings decided to flirt with him.

But it’s more than that - it’s the disrespect, the fact that she seems so entitled to Bucky’s affection simply because at some point in his history he slept with her, regardless of if she hurts you along the way to get to him. Do all the women at the hospital look at you like you’re an inconsequential ant they can step on to get what they want?

It doesn’t help that she's also the most stunning, physical personification of a man’s wet dream you’ve ever seen.

“It’s not you Buck, it’s her.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, just continues rubbing his large hand up and down your back, which tells you he’s confused by your statement. Perhaps you’re not making any sense in this outburst of emotion, you can barely keep your thoughts in a logical stream let alone expressing them eloquently.

“Jacqui, she… I told her we were together, she knew I was your girlfriend, and she still had the nerve to flirt with you.”

“I didn’t flirt back.” Bucky says defensively, and as much as you adore him, it’s making you frustrated having to spell it out for him how her actions have made you feel when your throat is aching from pure emotion.

You take a deep breath, allowing oxygen to diffuse into the deepest alveoli of your lungs, calming the constant stream of anxious thoughts, and letting you regain control of the tears falling from your eyes.

You lean your head on Bucky’s shoulder as he continues to rub your back. Why can’t the world just exist like this? Just the two of you in peaceful, quiet, solace. He kisses the top of your head and in that moment you know he’ll wait patiently, all night if that’s how long it takes, for you to explain how you’re feeling.

“I don’t know if it’s jealousy or insecurity. I genuinely don’t care how many women you were with before me Buck, it’s just a number, it doesn’t matter.” You sit up and look him in the eye, needing to convey just how vigorously you believe your statement. “It’s just… it's a soul crushing feeling that people in the hospital, people I have to work with every day, use the fact that you’ve slept with them to make me feel uncomfortable. That somehow because they know what you look like naked it diminishes our relationship and then they feel entitled to flirt with you and try and fuck you even though they know you’re dating me.”

The misery in Bucky’s eyes is almost tangible, and maybe it’s just an illusion from tears in your own, but seeing you hurting makes him start to cry too. His large hands engulf both of yours and his thumb strokes the backs of your hands resting comfortingly in your lap.

Previous partners have always brushed you off, gaslit you or raised their voice and called you crazy when you expressed an ounce of self-doubt or insecurity, but Bucky listens to each of your words with a determined focus, taking the weight of them on himself, as if they have just as much significance to him as they do to you.

“Darling, I’m so sorry Jaqueline made you feel that way. She had no right. But you need to know there is not a single woman on the face of this earth that could tempt me away from you, no matter how hard they try. No one has ever had me like you do.”

The panic beating of your heart starts to calm when Bucky places gentle kisses to your knuckles. His eyes brim with trepidation, as if he’s just realised how fragile relationships can be and he’s desperately trying to hold onto you, preventing you from ever letting go again.

“I can’t change my past, as much as I might want to, but all I know is you’re my future.” Tears trickle out of the corners of your eyes, but now the reason being due to happiness at Bucky’s sweet confession.

What did you ever do to deserve him?

“My life before I met you was dull, black and white reruns of the same shit each day. Since I met you, everything is in vivid colour. If I could go back in time and wait for you, I would. If I knew you were around the corner, there wouldn’t be any other women. But to me, you’re the only woman that matters. It’s so profoundly better with you because I-, because I care about you beyond comprehension. There were never any feelings with anyone else. You are the only person I have ever felt this way for. You have nothing to be insecure about or anyone to be jealous of, you’re the only woman in my eyes, and I-, you’re my everything.” For someone who constantly says he isn’t very good with words, Bucky always seems to know exactly what to say to make you fall even more in love with him. They are perfect words. Precisely what you need to hear from the man who has quickly become the reason for your being.

There’s a buoyancy in your chest as those familiar eyes, so blue you could drown in, examine your face for any non verbal cues of how you’ll react to his words.

“You really feel that way James?” You ready yourself, inadvertently grinding your teeth, waiting, hoping, wishing for him to say those three little words that will take your relationship to the next level.

But that hope pops like a bubble floating in the wind.

“Darling, I would never lie to you.” He punctuates with a kiss to your lips, slow and fervent, full of meaning. The look in his eye tells you he wants to reveal more, but it passes in a blink. “C’mon, let me take you home, and I’ll show you just how much I care.”

Bucky’s firm hold on your hand never leaves yours as he leads you back through the gala. You notice some glance at you, but all you’re focussed on is your boyfriend, his head held proudly high, not giving a damn what other hospital staff are whispering under their breaths.

* * *

Bucky slowly unzips the back of your dress, the material slowly falling away from your shoulders. A shiver runs down your spine as his lips kiss down the path of the zipper, starting between your shoulder blades, careful not to miss a single inch of skin as your dress bunches around your stomach and hips.

“You were the most beautiful woman there tonight. You’re the most beautiful woman in the whole world.” He whispers against your skin, in such a sure tone you can’t help but believe him. His hands roaming over the base of your spine before gently pulling your dress over your hips. “Can’t believe I got to be the man who walked in with you as my partner.”

Bucky turns you around to kiss you once you’re bare for him. The passion, zealousness of his lips feels like you’re drowning in a tender devotion he could not articulate with just words themselves.

You don’t need to break away from the kiss to push his jacket off, unbutton his shirt, nor unbuckle his belt. He’s as hard as a rock, standing at attention ready for you as soon as his trousers hit the floor.

“My darling girl…” He practically growls in your ear when you cup his balls with one hand as the other starts stroking him, using your thumb to spread the pearly bead of precum over his tip whilst placing kisses to his chest. “This will be a very short, one act play if you keep doing that.”

“I’ve barely touched you Buck.”

“Mmm, I know. That’s just how much you turn me on.” The signature smirk he shoots you turns your stomach to mush, and makes you feel like you’re the dazzling sun at the centre of his universe.

Bucky’s large hands pull you down on the bed, on top of him. He sits you on his thick thighs, tongue sweeping into your mouth, hands exploring your every curve.

You wish you could live in this moment forever, relishing in how much care Bucky holds you with, but still manages to make you feel like you’re the sexiest woman in the solar system.

It hits you square in the chest when his soothing, wide blue eyes look up at you with a familiar tenderness that gives life to butterflies in your stomach, that you would do anything for the man underneath you, the man you love.

“What do you want, darling?” Bucky asks between breaths as he sucks on your hard nipple, his tongue swirling, doing magical things that could make you cum just like this. “What do you need?” He adds, switching to your other breast, which makes it hard to control your stream of thoughts - but there is one thing at the forefront of your mind that you don’t have to consider to know you need desperately.

“You.”

He lets out a groan around your nipple and you suspect thrusts his hips up involuntarily, just to feel closer to you.

“I need you Buck.” You repeat, tucking your finger under his chin and bringing his lips up to tenderly touch yours, as the urge to kiss him overcomes you. If it were up to you, the remainder of your life would be spent with your lips locked with his.

“How?” His stubble scratches the tips of your fingers as you cup his face. The desire brimming in his eyes, the hunger to ravish every part of you, the yearning to have you so close to him you can’t tell where you end and he begins, leaves you breathless.

“Just like this, please.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but your imploring tone inspires Bucky on, not wanting to waste a single second more where the two of you are not joined.

Your forehead rests against his, his eyes boring into yours as he simultaneously uses one hand to assist you lifting yourself to hover over him, and the other to line his tip up to your dripping entrance.

An obscene sound from the back of your throat topples from your lips as you sink down on Bucky's cock. He doesn’t take his adoration filled eyes off you for a single second, even to blink, as he fills you up completely. A whine escapes his lips once you’re seated on his thighs, appreciating how your pussy is swallowing his entire, impressive length.

“You enjoy sitting on your throne?” You can tell he’s trying to tease, a mischievous twinkle in those deep blue eyes, but his voice quivers slightly, almost as if it’s strained, which you know him too well to realise is a dead giveaway for just how aroused he is.

How aroused he is by you.

That fact alone is enough for you to start grinding against him, hips moving back and forth, working up a rhythm that has you seeing stars and him groaning your name.

Both of his large, calloused hands are resting on your hips, helping you keep the tempo, making sure each rock of your hips results in your clit being stimulated against his pelvis. His lips find your collarbone, teeth scraping your delicate skin, the sensation of which clears your mind of any coherent teasing response you could have come up with.

“Fuck, look at you fucking yourself on me. You’re a fucking dream.” Bucky’s mouth is one of the most arousing parts of him, not only for what his lips and tongue can do to your body but also for the salacious words he speaks in that gravelly tone which turns you on just as much as his body does. “That’s it, fuck me darling, this cock is all yours.”

“Buck you’re so deep.” Is all you can think, all you can feel is how his length is nestled within you, how much he fills you up. You’re bursting because of how satiated you feel with him inside you, but Bucky’s musky, woody scent, as well as his warm, tender touch surrounds you from the outside, you feel like he’s everywhere all at once, and it brings you right to the brink of coming undone.

“Be a good girl and cum for me.” In this moment you want to give him everything you have, give him everything he’s asking for and more. His voice is gentle the next time he speaks, a murmur just for you, and matches the softness in his gaze. “It’s okay, I got you. Let go for me.”

Bucky sucks the pulse point on the side of your throat and it’s the complete end of you. You shudder, feeling safe caged in his arms as ecstasy fires up from the base of your spine through every neuron in your body, your toes curling, fingers scratching down Bucky's back - you can even taste it on the tip of your tongue as you scream his name.

Your legs shake uncontrollably, unable to continue your pattern of movement grinding down against him, but Bucky takes matters into his own hands by wrapping his arms around your waist and fucking up into you to prolong your high.

Once you’ve finally stopped seeing stars, your vision coming back into focus, all you can see is the adoration, pure captivation as he looks up at your sweaty form trying to catch your breath.

“That’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.”

No one’s ever looked at you like this before, as if you’re the only girl in the world, the only person that matters to them, the one who holds their fragile heart in the palm of your hands and trusts you not to break it.

A dangerous thought flashes through your mind - do you dare tell Bucky that you love him for the first time right now, in the middle of the throes of passion. You have always wanted to let him set the pace of the relationship - he was the one who wanted to take it slow, not rushing into anything, but you can tell by the blooming warmth spreading through your chest, you have never loved someone more than you love him right now.

Bucky reaches up and affectionately brushes his thumb over the apple of your cheek, and before you can think twice about if you truly want to confess your devotion in this moment, he’s kissing you again.

Before you can even recognise what he’s doing, his toned arms have engulfed you in a tight embrace, and without pulling out of you, he flips you onto your back, making sure your head rests gently on one of your pillows. His body weight presses you deliciously into the mattress, it feels like being tucked in securely with a weighted blanket that just so happens to look like a Greek god.

“Need to feel you cum on my cock again, it’s so fucking addicting.” Bucky practically growls in your ear, his breathing heavy. His long chestnut hair falls into his eyes, but it doesn’t prevent him from gazing at you with a tangible combination of awe and lust.

The thrust of his hips is downright sinful. You feel the longing absence of each inch of him as he pulls out, only for him to split you apart again as his hips snap forward. Bucky starts out slow, his fingers intertwine with yours, forcing your hands above your head, but when he starts placing open mouthed kisses on the underside of your jaw, his strokes pick up momentum.

James Barnes has you in a trance, caged in by the sheer size of him, each languid, sensual thrust into you tightens the knot twisting into shape at the bottom of your belly.

He’s so breathtakingly beautiful, the most gorgeous person you’ve ever laid eyes on. As his shining pupils fixate on the pleasure contorting your face you ponder if he is possibly thinking the exact same way about you.

The moans dripping from his lips, mixed with grunted curses, along with the telltale crease in his forehead, and the fact that his teasing mouth can’t come up with anything coherent is evidence of how close he is. But you know Bucky’s generous heart better than anyone, perhaps even himself, and you are sure he’ll be determined not to cum before you.

One of his large hands continues to pin your wrists down as the other moves to wrap your legs tighter around his waist. Then he has the fucking audacity to rub the pads of his fingers over your clit in tight circles. You’re so done for.

“Bucky, oh fuck… yes, just like that.” You manage to stammer out, barely able to move with his weight pinning you beneath him, knowing your body is hurtling towards an inescapable, forceful orgasm, and all you can do is feel as Bucky plays your body like a fiddle.

“Please, need you to… I can’t last like this.” You can feel the desperate, animalistic timbre of his deep voice in your chest and his hot breath against your neck. “Darling please.”

And then you shatter.

Fracture into a million pieces, the fabric of reality tearing apart at the seams around you as euphoria flows through you like wind on the surface of water. Every single cell in your body feels like it’s been lit on fire, burning bright like a shooting star soaring through a galaxy assembled by your love for him.

Bucky speaks your name as a prayer, a vow, a promise. Over and over again. A reminder that you are who he is coming apart for.

It almost makes you dizzy how lost he is in the feel of you, how his hands spread you open as far as your legs will flex, but then you hear the wanton whimper as he spills his orgasm inside you and it’s almost enough to make you cum again.

As your heart rates slowly return to normal, Bucky lays down beside you, cupping your face tenderly as his tongue slips once again into your mouth. You would have thought given the display of passion just produced he’d have had his fill of physical affection, but he continues to surprise you.

Who would have guessed that Bucky ‘doesn’t go on second dates’ Barnes would now be clinging to you like a koala, not being able to get enough of your touch.

* * *

“Sweet dreams Buck.” You whisper in that tired, yet sickly sweet tone that Bucky associates with the contentment of falling asleep beside you.

”They’ll all be about you.” He responds with a delicate kiss to your forehead, fingers tracing gentle lines up and down the expanse of your back.

“Then I wish you nothing but dirty dreams.”

He rarely dreams of anything else nowadays, but it makes him smile nevertheless that your minds think in such similar ways.

You really are the girl of his dreams.

Even more than that, if there was an expression which captured just how significant you had become intertwined in his life after a relatively short period of time. His brain could not have concocted someone as perfect as you, even in his wildest fantasies.

He holds you close to him in the total darkness as your breathing slows, but there are too many thoughts racing through Bucky’s brain for him to fall asleep.

Tonight was perfect. Complete, utter perfection. Not that he expects any less of a night spent with you.

So why, even after building the courage all week ahead of the gala, (and if he was honest with himself, since the week he swapped to be on the night shift with you), had he yet to utter those three magic words?

Steve would say there was one final wall around Bucky’s heart he had yet to pull down for you, to reveal his deepest darkest vulnerability that he could barely admit to himself, let alone the flawless woman who consumed his every waking thought.

The insecurity he had been plagued with since he was fourteen years old and his father had wished death upon him.

The fear that he is innately unloveable.

Just because he loves you in a way that influences his every decision, impacts every aspect of his existence, and alters the chemistry of his brain, doesn’t mean you are as hauntingly consumed by devotion as he is.

And even though the rational part of his brain tries reminding him you would not have shown such patience and stuck around as he clumsily attempted to manoeuvre being in a relationship for the first time if you truly did not want to be with him, that nagging insecurity is always at the back of his mind like a fog that won’t clear, doubting whether after everything he has endured, if he is deserving of being loved the same way he adores you.

But at some point Bucky knows he needs to find the bravery to take that leap, even if your possible rejection would be his ultimate downfall.

“Darling?” Bucky whispers as quietly as he can into the still night air. You don’t stir, nor do you respond, which is exactly what he’s hoping for. “Darling, are you awake?” He questions slightly louder so that you couldn’t help but hear him considering his proximity.

You continue to rest peacefully, lips slightly parted and breathing steadily, which is precisely how you always appear when sleeping beside him, but given the gravity of what he is about to reveal to you, Bucky has to be absolutely positive you’re in a deep slumber.

“Chicken butt.” He says randomly, hoping that if you are feigning sleep this will cause a crack in your rather convincing facade. But to his delight, your expression doesn’t change in the slightest, no muscle in your face so much as flinches, and Bucky is finally convinced.

He takes a deep breath, readying himself even though he knows you’re unable to hear him.

“I love you.” Bucky confesses with a shaky breath, even though he is assured in his affection. Though you’re not conscious to receive his words, something about disclosing his most closely guarded secret to your beautiful face, finally admitting his profound feelings aloud, feels like an enormous step for him. Never in a million years did he think he could open his heart up far enough to allow space for these types of feelings to nestle within. “You are the most precious thing in my life. I’m never going to compromise what we have, never going to take you for granted. I’m going to love you and only you for every day I have left in this life and even when I’m no longer here, my soul will forever be yours.”

You provide no response, features stay perfectly still, breathing rate doesn’t change. Which is of course exactly the reaction he’s hoping for while you rest, but he can’t stop his mind from wondering what your reply might be if you were awake; if you’d profess the words back to him, or if instead you’d recoil, shying away possibly because Bucky was moving too quickly.

Nevertheless, Bucky knows better than most that life can be painfully short, everyone has their expiration date, and you need to tell the people in your life how much you care about them before it’s too late.

“I love you.” He repeats with a smile and a kiss to your bare shoulder. Though he is navigating the all consuming, anxiety riddled, life ruining feeling of falling in love for the first time, Bucky knows with absolute certainty that he would go through it all again, one hundred times over, if it meant getting to spend his life with you.

But now for the difficult part - he has to say those three life changing words when you’re actually awake to hear them.

* * *

When the irritating ringing of your alarm wakes you up the following morning, a wave of disappointment washes over you. The night before with Bucky had been nothing short of memorable; complete with overflowing emotion, devotion, and no hint of apprehension from the man who had previously told you himself he wanted to take the relationship slow.

It was the most tangible display of pure love you have ever beheld.

But now, you lay alone in a web of cold sheets, Bucky’s place beside you unnaturally empty. When he has an early shift, typically he wakes you before he leaves, and at the very least gives you a kiss on the forehead, if not a much more intimate show of affection. But today, you have no recollection of being woken, no memory of his pillow soft lips on yours.

You find it takes a much more determined effort to get out of bed without an energising kiss from your Bucky.

The gala is the talk of the hospital, those who did not receive an invite interrogating everyone who attended for all the latest gossip. You hear your and Bucky’s names dropped a couple times in passing conversation, but all that does is remind you of the night before, and Bucky proclaiming his devotion to you while extracting a pleasure from your body no one else has been able to produce.

Tonight, you promise yourself, those three small words that have been tugging at your mind for the last month, tonight you’ll tell Bucky.

His declaration of wanting to take your relationship slowly was all the way back before your second date, before you officially became his girlfriend, before you held him as his mother underwent life saving surgery, before you knew of his traumatic past, before he switched to the night shift just so he could see you more often, before last night where he told you you are his everything.

Regardless of if he says the words back, you need to tell him. Need him to know that he is the love of your life, that synapses in your brain have reformed so your train of thought always comes back to him, that he has rewritten the molecular code inscribed in your cells so that they crave him like water, drawing him in like osmosis.

Your thoughts are interrupted by your pager going off, calling an all hands on deck emergency.

The ER is a frenzy of nurses clearing trauma rooms, doctors discharging patients who have already been seen to and Dr Strange shouting at surgical staff to prepare the operating rooms.

“There was a shooting at the mall. Police and paramedics are on scene, but it sounds bad.” Wanda fills you in as you both wash your hands and put gloves on, getting ready for the volume of blood and carnage that comes with gunshot wounds.

Dr Strange gathers the emergency medicine team together to brief you all on what you’re about to face. His face is stoic, having treated too many disasters to even seem phased by the decimation of so many lives.

You have not mastered that, but you also like having your humanity, caring about people is what you do best.

“So far we know of eight victims being routed here. There will most likely be more. All G.S.Ws, five women, two men and a child, about eight. One of the men was a paramedic on scene.” The last sentence out of his mouth gives you pause.

A male paramedic was shot.

“A paramedic? Did they say who? Give a description?” All eyes turn to you and no one needs to say it aloud to know exactly what you’re thinking.

“No, that’s all the information we have at this time. They should only be a few minutes out.” You’ve never known Dr Strange to be very sympathetic, but the look he shoots at you is what you assume to be the most compassion he is capable of.

The nagging part of your brain that always finds a route to the most devastating scenario, no matter how unlikely, is screaming so loudly you cannot ignore it.

What if that paramedic is Bucky?

There would have to be thousands of paramedics in a city of this size, what would the chances actually be that Bucky is the one paramedic in critical danger at this very moment.

But the universe has always found a way to be cruel to you, with the exception of when it brought devilishly handsome Bucky Barnes into your life. But what could be more cruel than introducing you to unconditional love and then destroying your heart by taking it away just as swiftly?

Wanda, sensing your paralysing worry beside her, comfortingly strokes her hand up and down your upper arm. “He was working the morning shift today, his shift will be well and truly over. He shouldn’t have been working when the shooting happened.”

“Yeah… he was on morning shift today.” Reminding yourself how you woke up in bed alone. Your lips tremble as you attempt to talk yourself down from the ledge of sheer panic. But your best friend can tell this fact doesn’t convince you.

“Call him.” Wanda instructs with a level voice, only a small glisten in her pupils gives away that she too is worried for his safety.

Your hands are shaking uncontrollably as you locate his contact in your favourites, accidentally dialling your mum first before you see the picture you have of the two of you together set as his contact pop up as it starts ringing.

Time stands perfectly still, the bustling hospital which is always full of movement, the constant beeping of patients pulse oximeters, announcements sounding over the PA, it all goes dead silent and all you hear is the ring tone of a phone call which Bucky isn’t answering.

Pick up. Pick up. Pick up.

It goes to voicemail, his voice filling your ears but it’s of no relief because it’s only a recording.

You press his contact again.

And again.

And again.

The fourth time you’re forced to listen to his infuriating voicemail, you leave a panicked message. “Bucky I’m so worried about you, please ring me back as soon as you get this. There’s been a shooting. Please, I need to hear your voice, hear that you’re alright. Please.”

You thought he’d pick up the phone and relieve you from this torment, but now knowing he hasn’t answered after multiple calls, you’re more convinced than ever it’s him that’s been shot.

“Wanda if it’s-”

“You can’t think like that.” But that's all you can think about. Your job, the duty you have to these patients who are en route to the hospital, none of that comes close to the need to know Bucky is unharmed.

The world starts moving in slow motion as the first of the patients arrives. Time runs like molasses, but the anxiety in your chest turns up one hundred fold, as if flashes of lightning strike your chest one after another.

A woman gets pushed in on a gurney, light brown hair stained with blood, and even from the sight of how the paramedic needs to hold her skull flap to her head to prevent her brain being exposed, you know she won’t make it as much as the surgeons will try to save her.

There’s a child, not much bigger than Sasha who you treated the day you first met Bucky, that gets pushed through next. In complete juxtaposition, she’s sitting up talking to paramedics, arm in a sling, but mostly looks unharmed.

And then you see it. The thing that flatlines your heart.

Chestnut hair and an EMT uniform.

You’d know those thick, wavy locks anywhere.

“Bucky!” You don’t even recognise your own voice with how much terror it is consumed with. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.

In a flash you’re by his side, keeping pace as they wheel him deeper into the hospital, your lungs and throat scorching with distress.

You try not to break down seeing the sheer amount of blood, Bucky’s blood, soaking the gauze they are pressing into his shoulder wound, how pale and fragile he looks strapped down to the gurney. You’re an emergency medicine doctor, you’ve treated wounds like this before, confronted much more blood than this from a patient. But nothing in your training prepares you for observing your soulmate barely clinging to life, their claret staining your gloved fingers as you help maintain pressure, how cold his skin is to the touch, how his face looks almost serene even though these could be his final moments on earth, that he could be abandoning you for the warm embrace of death.

Not your Bucky. They can’t take your Bucky.

“Buck, can you hear me?” Your hand cups his cheek, and he’s as cold as ice. His eyes are shut so he can’t even look at you to give you one last chance to memorise the astonishingly blue irises which have been your source of solace since meeting him.

A mask covers his mouth and nose, delivering rescue breaths. You try to place a block in your mind to stop it from retrieving the medical knowledge you have spent years memorising - you don’t want to know how catastrophic a situation his body must be in to be needing rescue breaths.

“I love you, James. You hear me? I love you!” It almost ends your existence when he doesn’t answer, doesn’t even so much as flinch at your confession. You hope any part of him that is still alive inside the casing of his cold body manages to hear those words.

Dr Strange and Wanda have to physically restrain you from following the team treating Bucky and prevent you entering the operating theatre.

Dr Strange’s voice sounds like a hum, too far away to make sense of even though he’s pushing you away from the OR. All you’re focussed on is keeping your eyes on Bucky for as long as you can.

Is this the last time you will ever see him alive?

It’s only once he is out of sight, that your brain starts to catch up to the realisation of what has actually happened.

Bucky was shot. A bullet ripped through his skin, tearing muscle and fascia, lacerating his organs, possibly fatally wounding him.

Bullets are designed to kill. To end the life of the organism the gun barrel is aimed at. There is no mercy from a gunshot wound, you had seen too many to believe better.

A guttural cry forces its way out of your parched windpipe without you being able to prevent it, your kneecaps sting as you fall to the ground. Hot, large tears cascade onto your cheeks as Wanda’s arms engulf you.

Any second now, James Buchanan Barnes’ heart could be taking its final beat and you wouldn’t be any wiser. His lungs would stop breathing, preventing oxygen from binding to hemoglobin in his blood and reaching his brain. Everything else would shut down quickly from there.

One second he’d be here and the next he wouldn’t.

James Barnes simply wouldn’t exist anymore.

You had seen it too often, heard from bereaved family members time and time again how quickly it had all happened, but it wasn’t until this very moment that you understood the magnitude of that sentiment.

How could he go from telling you yesterday night that you were the most beautiful sight he had ever laid eyes on to now possibly his cold, lifeless body laying on an operating table with his soul having crossed over to the afterlife?

You’d never hear his voice again. Or his laugh.

Never see his dazzling sapphire eyes as they regard you with overwhelming affection.

Never feel that warm rapture blooming in your chest when he’d proclaim himself as yours and kiss you in the same breath.

He’ll never get to know you love him.

It feels as though you are tumbling wildly down into an abyss, waiting for the inevitable crash at the bottom that would either end this eternal suffering or that sudden jerk, the lurch as you wake up from this cruel nightmare.

Neither comes. You are fated to live in excruciating limbo, your lungs burning, as if you can’t take a breath until Bucky’s destiny has been sealed.

Oxygen would be the gift you’d allow yourself once your love was awake and talking again; cracking stupid jokes with his signature cocky smirk and flirting with you like you were on your first date again.

And if he were to pass into the next life, taking your heart with him, then you would simply refuse to take another breath until you were reunited with him once again.

Part 10 coming soon

Be added to the series taglist here

He’s Hazardous To My Health [Paramedic!Bucky Barnes] Taglist: @lavenderpenumbra @crazyunsexycool @eralen @buckbuckyoongs @blackwidownat2814 @crayongirl-linz @ozwriterchick @desert-fern @misshale21 @chalesleclerc164 @rookthorne @janineb86 @emmabarnes @scarletbich @princezzjasmine @thebuckybarnesvault @doasyoudesireandlive @solitarioslilium @iamfandomwasted @tanyaspartak @pop-rocks-818 @Dumdidditydumdoo @missvelvetsstuff @kayden666 @amiimar @katheryn1 @safew0rd @kentokaze @thewackywriter @lady-loki-barnes-djarin @badasswlthafatass @loveoldmenlikelana @00cmh @pointless-girl @honeyglee @nerdxacid @ashhsage @prettylittlepluviophile @otomefromtheheart @sjsmith56 @mandijo17 @lokidokieokie @oceansandblackhearts @rebeccapineapple @soorwellystan @excusememrbarnes @lofaewrites @snapcapquartet @wishingwell-2 @aya-fay @lowkeysebby @redbarn1995 @lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

I've been in a weird ass headspace for the past week but literally every day I've found one fic that is so fucking good that it pulls me out of my funk for a moment. Today this is that fic.

In too deep

Pairing: Fuck buddy!Bucky x Reader

Summary: After Bucky calls, and you come running, you end up locked in his bathroom, trying to get rid of the evidence that something hasn’t gone well this time.

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings: 18+ (mdni) blood; descriptions of sex; feeling pain during sex and not saying anything; friends with benefits; mentions of periods; mutual pining; miscommunication; self-doubt; self-loathing; worried!Bucky

Author’s Note: This is my first time writing something more suggestive. It is not outright smut, but there’s lots of talk about sex, so if you are a minor, please stay away. And if you are not, then I hope you enjoy and I'd be happy to know what you think ♡

Masterlist

You are bleeding.

The sting between your legs is sharp. Like a wound still weeping after the blade has been pulled away.

The yellow light above the mirror of Bucky’s bathroom hums and flickers slightly, ghostly shapes of shadows draping against the walls.

Your breath is shallow.

The bleeding won’t stop.

With toilet paper in your hands, you press your trembling fingers against the inside of your thigh. It soaks, leaving your skin warm and sticky. The scent of iron is in your nose.

You know your body. You know how it shifts and bends beneath pleasure, how it aches in the aftermath and you know that this is different. It’s wrong.

A breath shudders out of you at the pulsing pain.

Bucky is still in his bedroom.

Probably waiting for you to come out and leave.

That’s how it’s always been.

He calls, you come, you make him feel good, then go.

He never asks you to stay. Not really. He asks you to come over, to press your lips against his, to carve his pleasure into your skin, but he never asks you to stay thereafter.

But you still keep running. Every time.

The sting flares up again and you clench your fists against your thighs, your body curling inward on instinct.

You don’t know how long you usually take to freshen up, but it certainly takes too much time right now.

You don’t want to be a burden. You want to be something simple, something easy.

But fuck, it hurts.

You glance down again, lifting the hem of your shirt you pulled over quickly before retreating to the bathroom. Crimson smears against your skin, staining the inside of your thighs and you curse under your breath.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you exhale slowly.

You need to get up. You need to clean yourself up, put on your clothes, and walk out of his apartment like nothing happened. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter.

The thought is a sour taste on your tongue.

Bucky had a bad day. That’s why he called. That’s why you came. That’s why you let him take and take, why you let yourself pretend it was more than just relief and release.

And now, you are bleeding in his bathroom, barely able to stand, barely able to breathe without wincing.

Your fingers grip the edge of the sink as you haul yourself up. The room tilts for a moment, and you grip it tighter, knuckles whitening.

You look in the mirror. You look ruined - cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, lips swollen from kisses.

You press your hands to the cool porcelain.

One more breath.

Then another.

Then you reach for the toilet paper again, dabbing at the blood, pretending you don’t see the way it just keeps coming. Pretending it’s not seeping through the white thin fibers. Pretending it doesn’t matter.

Because if you want to keep coming back, it can’t.

It’s not like he hasn’t been nice to you.

Bucky is always nice.

You were friends first, after all.

Before the weight of need, before his hands started lingering a little longer, before the heat and the fleeting contact.

Things had been easy, light, and simple.

You had inside jokes, late-night conversations that bled into mornings, you even cooked together - well, you cooked, while he hovered, occasionally stealing a bite, occasionally setting the table with that soft little smirk. It was comfortable. Safe.

Until he kissed you one day. So many weeks ago.

It was an accident. Or maybe it was inevitable.

You were both drunk. You were both in a good mood. There is not much you remember about that night. All you remember is how close you two were and that all your friends from the party were gone already.

You remember the way his knee had brushed yours, sitting on his couch, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you. And then you remember that he did. He kissed you. And your heart stuttered, his breath caught, he hesitated for a second, giving you a chance to pull away. You didn’t. You should have.

Because there was no stopping from then on.

You left the moment you woke up in his bed to him snoring in your ear and leaving drool in your hair.

But you keep coming back when he calls.

He is careful with you, always. Slow and attentive. He never lets you leave without asking if you are okay, without pressing a bottle of water into your hands, without brushing his fingers against your wrist as if needing something. Maybe a reminder that this is real. Maybe something that’ll hold him back from saying something.

But today was different.

He didn’t ask you how your day was when you walked through his door. Didn’t wait for you to slip off your shoes, to drop your bag onto its usual spot by the couch. Didn’t even give you a chance to breathe before his hands were on you.

He had you pressed up against the wall next to his door and claimed your mouth in a searing kiss that almost tasted desperate.

His fingers curled around your waist and pulled you to him so tightly, you felt every single one of his ragged breaths against your chest, the tension thrumming beneath his skin.

Then he lifted you, carried you over to his bedroom, and basically tossed you onto his bed, his body following. He pressed you down, caging you in, his weight and scent and whole behavior dizzying you.

There was no hesitation. No slow unraveling. No playful touches and teases meant to draw things out. It was pure and unfiltered need.

His hands gripped your hips so firmly, not enough to leave bruises, but hard enough to tell you that he needed this.

He fucked you like you were the only thing on his mind.

He fucked you like you were the only thing keeping him here.

He fucked you like it’s you he craved.

He fucked you like it was making him blind.

It did.

Because he didn’t see the way you gritted your teeth, the way your nails dug into the sheets beneath you, the way the dull pain at the beginning began to sharpen, spreading with every of his hard thrusts.

His face was buried in the crook of your neck, lips tracing the curve of your skin, his breath warm and heavy against your pulse.

He was lost in it, consumed by the feel of you, the way you were wrapped around him, the way your body clenched.

Normally; his weight, his deep groans, the heat of him, his sheer presence pressing you into the mattress would be grounding, would be something good. Something addicting.

But it wasn’t today.

Because the pain only grew.

The stretch felt wrong - too much, too sudden. He gave you time to adjust, asked if you were ready with that husky tone of his, and you only nodded. You lied.

You thought you were able to push through the pain and that it would soon turn to pleasure. But that wasn’t the case, and every snap of his hips only had you fighting to keep from flinching.

Your breath stuttered as he shifted, angling deeper, hitting something that made you gasp. It must have sounded like pleasure to him because he then groaned into your hair, but it was a sound stemming from startled pain.

You felt that deep, bruising pressure that shot up your spine, making you bite down hard on your lip to refuse a cry to slip out that would surely make him stop out of concern.

You only squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will it away. But it didn’t.

It kept spreading, kept tearing, kept building with every thrust.

You know you should have said something.

You know you should have told him to stop, to slow down, to give you a second to breathe.

But then he panted against your neck, breathing into your skin how good you feel, whispering praises and words that sounded a little too affectionate for the kind of arrangement you are having and you felt him let go of whatever was plaguing him.

So when he checked in again, asking if you were alright, you nodded once more. Forcing your lips into a shape that could resemble a yes, and you felt him shudder, felt his grip on your waist tighten as he dived into you again, lost in the feel of your walls.

And you let him.

Because you didn’t want to ruin this.

Because this is what he needed, what he asked for, and if you had told him to stop, what if it changed something? What if it broke that thing between you? What if he would have ended up being disappointed? Unpleased? What if he stopped calling?

So you swallowed the pain. You kept biting your lip and tried to focus on his breathing, the warmth of his skin, anything but the way your body protested, the way the ache morphed into something unmanageable.

You still don’t stop bleeding.

It’s not your period.

You had your period last week. It’s what kept you away from him, what had you say no when he asked you to come over. The thought of bleeding on his sheets, on him, was enough to make heat run along your neck, mortified at the very idea.

But Bucky had just shrugged, voice low and unbothered when he told you he didn’t mind.

But you did, so you declined. And when he asked you, soft and caring, if there was anything he could do for you, you declined as well.

There is a limit to his affections you can take. A limit to the sweetest things he can tell you, the lovelies things he can do for you, and the softest ways he can touch you because you believe none of them mean as much to him as they do to you.

So you stayed home, curled in your bed with a heating pad, ignoring the way you ached for something that had nothing to do with cramps.

And now, here you are, bleeding anyway.

God, you hate this.

Thankfully, the blood started coming when you already sat down on the toilet. When your thighs pressed together and you felt the wetness along the sharp sting that made your breath catch.

But you tell yourself it will stop soon. It has to.

You just need a few minutes - just long enough for your body to calm, for the pain to fade into something tolerable. Long enough to clean yourself up and pretend like everything is fine.

You take another breath, pressing your palm against the cool porcelain of the sink. Your time is running out. You can’t stay here too long or Bucky will notice. You never take this long. And you certainly can’t let him see this. Can’t let him know. Can’t let him ask questions you don’t want to answer.

A knock comes. Soft and firm, rapping against the wood of the bathroom door. Once, twice, before his voice follows, rough but laced with something gentle. Careful.

“Hey, you alright in there?”

Your stomach drops. Shit, you took too long.

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling sharply, trying to keep yourself from spiraling. You force your voice to steady, to keep the waver out, to sound normal.

“Yeah,” you call back, trying to make it sound light, breezy, unbothered. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Silence. Just for a second. Then, another knock, a little firmer this time, a little more insistent.

“You sure?” Bucky’s voice carries through the door, and there is something new in it now. A crease in his tone.

You can practically hear the way his brows furrow, the way his jaw ticks, that little frown tugging at his lips and deepening the line between his eyes.

Normally, you would think it’s cute. Normally, you would have to suppress the urge to press your finger to that little divot and smooth it out like your touch could unravel the tension in him.

But right now, thinking about it only makes your pulse halt, makes you feel like there is something thick and choking in your throat.

Bucky shifts on the other side of the door, his voice lower, softer when he speaks again. “Do you need-”

Panic flares in you. “I’ll leave as soon as I’m done,” you blurt out, too fast, too sharp. “Just- just give me a minute.”

There is a beat of silence.

The air in this small bathroom seems to be thinning out. You stare at your own reflection in the mirror, at the wide eyes, the parted lips, the tension in your shoulders that pulls them up.

“You don’t gotta leave, doll.”

It’s quieter. His words are careful, almost hesitant, but there is something insistent in them too. Him trying to piece something together.

“I just-” He exhales, and you hear the way he scrubs a hand down his face, the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot, like he is trying to keep himself still, trying to keep himself from pushing open the door and looking at you. “Is everything alright?”

It’s the way he asks, the way he lingers on the words, like he already suspects the answer but is hoping - praying - you will say or do something to prove him wrong.

And you want to. You want to smooth it over, to push away his worry before it sinks too deep, before it turns to annoyance or impatience. But before you can get a single word out, he keeps going.

His voice turns tighter. Faster. His knuckles still seem to rest on the door.

“Are you hurt?”

Your breath stays caught in your throat.

“Did I-” He stops. Starts again. “Did I hurt you?” The words rush out of him, like he can’t stop them. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You open your mouth, but he still continues talking.

“Shit,” he exclaims, as if it hits him square in the chest. His voice dips lower, rawer, tinged with something like guilt, something thick and pressing. “Doll, was I too rough?”

You can hear it all in his voice - the worry, the guilt, the panic, that desperate need to fix something before it even fully breaks. And there is no impatience, no annoyance, none of the things you were afraid of.

You should have known, but somehow you keep lying.

“No, Bucky,” you say, and you hate the way your voice wavers, the way it doesn’t sound that much convincing. “Don’t worry.”

The door handle rattles.

“Doll.” Bucky’s voice is closer, pressed right up against the other side of the door, low and urgent. The knob jerks in his grip, testing it, trying to keep his touch gentle but unable to stop himself. “Can you let me in?”

You swear you can hear your own heartbeat, a dull, thrumming thing pounding in your ears.

“I’m fine, Bucky.” The lie stumbles out too fast, but you don’t know what else to say.

The knob shakes again, this time harder. “C’mon,” he breathes out, and you hear the strain in his voice, the way his words come tighter. “Please, doll. Just open the door.”

You don’t move. Your knees are weak.

“Fuck.” He is frantic. His breath is ragged and sharp. You hear him shift, pressing more of his weight against the door as if he is fighting the urge to force it open. “Y/n, I didn’t mean-” he stops himself, and you can almost picture his hand running through his hair, his jaw clenched tight, his brows pinched together so deeply. “I didn’t mean to be rough with you. Fuck, I- I swear, I-” His voice falters, cracking on something heavy.

You swallow hard, but your throat is closed up and it can’t pass through cleanly. “You weren’t rough, Bucky,” you try to assure him.

But he only lets out a troubled sound. “Yeah?” His voice turns gravelly. His tone turns desperate. “Then why the hell won’t you open the door?”

You can’t answer that. You can barely stand, gripping the sink so hard you feel your fingers might start to cramp. The pain flares up again and you grimace.

“Doll,” he tries again, his voice frenetic. “Please, let me see you.”

The door handle tugs again.

“I need to see you.”

You blink rapidly, trying to keep the frustrated tears from welling up your eyes.

“Bucky-”

“Please.”

That word is laced with a plea so deep, you feel it in your bones.

“Buck, I need a second, okay?”

You force a slow inhale through your nose as you rip off another wad of toilet paper and press it between your legs. The crimson smears against the white. You do it again. Again. Until there is nothing left to wipe away and nothing more is coming. For now.

Your thighs sting where you rub at the dried streaks, the skin tender, hypersensitive. You force yourself to ignore it. You just have to get out. That’s all. If you can get out of his apartment before it starts bleeding again and without crumbling to the floor in pain, there is nothing to worry about.

“You’re scarin’ me here, baby. Please. I need to see you. Need to make sure-” His voice catches.

You toss the balled-up paper into the toilet, reaching blindly for the handle, flushing it down, and cutting Bucky’s desperate words off for a moment.

The pain gets worse, dragging along your nerves and making you lose your balance slightly. You grip the sink again. Your vision goes dark for a short second. The floor is cold beneath your bare feet.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to be rough with you. Y/n! I- I needed you, and I got lost in it, and fuck- I didn’t-” he chokes out, not able to continue. His words sound like a confession.

You grit your teeth, twisting the faucet of the sink too hard, too fast. Water rushes out, scalding against your skin as you scrub your hands, scrubbing at the blood, scrubbing at the proof, as if that will make it disappear.

Your lungs feel too tight, too small to hold enough air. Your heart beats against your ribs like it wants out.

You don’t know if it’s because he went too deep, or too hard, or if something inside you just wasn’t ready for him, but it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you don’t let it show.

On the other side of the door, Bucky exhales vehemently.

His fist knocks twice again before curling around the door handle. “Baby, please let me in.”

“I’m fine,” you call out, but it doesn’t sound right.

Bucky’s breath shudders out.

You try to straighten, try to compose yourself, and open that door to pretend you are fine, but a sharp, searing pain rips through your lower abdomen and you gasp. Your vision swims and the ground beneath your feet feels wobbly, shifting like it might fall out from under your feet.

Bucky’s breath is rough and broken through the crack beneath the door. His palm presses flat against the wood, a low thud that makes your stomach churn.

“Y/n,” he warns, voice low, but so incredibly distressed. So incredibly worried. “If you don’t open this door, I swear to God-”

Your legs give out.

It’s not a full collapse, but it’s enough. Your knee buckles and you stumble, hip knocking hard into the edge of the sink before you pitch sideways, shoulder crashing into the shelf beside you.

The impact rattles the whole thing.

A bottle of cologne topples over, then a razor, then something heavier - a glass jar filled with cotton pads - shattering on the tiled floor with a violent crack.

“Alright, I'm coming in.”

Bucky doesn’t wait for permission.

The door bursts open with a bang, the hinges groaning under the force of his shove. He is on you in an instant, all broad shoulders and frantic energy, filling the small space with his presence before you even have time to react.

Bucky’s hands find you - not grabbing, not pulling, just there, at your back, your arm, holding you together, holding you up before you can fully meet the ground.

His breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling too fast, and the sight of him nearly knocks you off your feet once more.

His eyes are wide, pupils blown, that storm of worry you have heard in his voice through the door now a full-blown hurricane.

“What’s goin’ on? Doll, what is it?”

You don’t answer. Instead, your own gaze shifts to the glass jar at your feet, fractured lines spiderwebbing through the surface from the fall.

Your chest tightens. Your throat locks.

“Shit, Bucky, I’m so sorry.”

You barely recognize your own voice - thin, trembling, too damn weak. You grip onto him, the shirt he must have pulled over when you disappeared into the bathroom, and you hate it. You hate how bad of a burden you are to him right now, when all he wanted was to let off some stress of the day.

But Bucky doesn’t even seem to hear you.

He doesn’t seem to see anything else than you. Doesn’t look at the glass, doesn’t blink at the mess.

His eyes are on you.

And the way he is looking at you makes something inside you crack even deeper than the broken jar at your feet.

His eyes are sharp and they trace over you, cataloging everything.

He doesn’t just look at you, he dissects you. His gaze maps every inch of your body, searching, calculating, reading between the lines of what you’re not saying.

The way your shoulders are drawn tight. The way your chest stutters on each inhale, as if even breathing is too much right now. The way you clutch at him, your knuckles white, not even trusting your own legs to hold you up.

You swallow hard, shifting your weight in his hold, and the pain flares again, enough to make your body involuntarily tremble. You clamp down on a wince, but he notices.

Bucky’s jaw is tight.

You tug at the hem of your shirt, yanking it lower, bunching the fabric between your fingers as if that will do anything.

Bucky’s gaze snap to your movements. He narrows his eyes, drinking you in with an intensity that makes you want to shrink.

“Doll,” he lets out, voice hoarse and rough, like the single word is punched out of him.

His hands skim over your arms, your waist, searching.

Then he stills.

His fingers twitch against your hip. His shoulders stiffen.

His gaze drops.

The storm behind his eyes turns feral.

You know what he is seeing.

You feel it before you even look down - the slow, unwelcome warmth trailing down your inner thigh.

The blood.

A single, thin ribbon of red against your soft skin.

For a second there is nothing. No sound. No breath. Just his stare.

“Jesus Christ.”

His voice comes in a way you’ve never heard before. It’s rather a harsh croak of sound than his normal voice.

You try to move, do anything to shift his focus, to stop the way his grip on you tightens as if he’s afraid, in pain himself.

But the second you move, another sharp pang shoots up your core, stealing what little breath you have left and you gasp.

Strong arms wind around you tightly, pulling you into his chest firmly.

“Bucky-”

“Hush.”

It’s not an order. It’s not a demand. It’s a plea, soft and urgent and broken, whispered against your hair as he holds you like you might break. No, like he might break.

“You’re hurt.” There is an aching note of guilt hanging between each syllable. It’s so thick and pronounced, you wince. “Fuck- I hurt you.”

You shake your head against him, trying to swallow past the lump in your throat. “No, Bucky, you didn’t-”

“Don’t.” His voice breaks on the word. His grip tightens, his fingers pressing into your skin. “I hurt you. God, fucking hell, I hurt you.”

His grip on you is firm, but not rough.

His arms cage around you, holding you as if you might slip right through the cracks of his fingers if he lets go.

Large fingers press into your hip, your thigh with a feverish desperation, enough for you to feel the slight tremble in them.

His breathing is so ragged, like he’s been running. Chasing something he’s already lost.

He is shaking.

A whisper of his lips presses to the side of your temple, lingering. A contrast to the way he has been claiming your mouth moments before.

It feels like he is pressing his regret into your skin, hoping you’ll absorb it.

“I'm so sorry,” he breathes. It’s hoarse. Nearly choking.

You hear the fracture in his voice, something splitting open inside him.

Another kiss, this time on your forehead. Another apology, spoken in the warmth of his mouth against your heated skin. Another kiss, soft, like he’s praying to you, trying to breathe the apology into you.

“Shit- I'm so sorry, baby.” The words rasp out of him, broken, spilling into your hair, against your forehead, over your cheek.

His hands won’t stop moving. You feel them everywhere - gliding over your back, skating down your arms, searching. For what, though you are not sure. A sign that you’re okay? Proof that he hasn’t broken you?

But perhaps he has. Just not in the way he fears right now. Not in a way that bruises or cracks like a bone, but in the way that has you swallowing down the shame rising thick in your throat.

You don’t want him to see you like this.

It’s humiliating. It’s too much. The way he is looking at you is making you lose control over your limbs and you really can’t afford that right now.

Heat pools beneath your skin, then it vanishes, leaving you cold, your body not able to decide whether to fight or flee.

He gathers you and lifts you in the air, pulling you to his chest. He does it slow. Careful. Looking at your face for any indication that he hurt you some more.

With that, he walks you out of his bathroom.

You should fight him, tell him you can walk, but you’re not sure you can. Your legs are trembling in his hold, unsteady, and the deep throb of pain is still biting at your insides.

And Bucky is holding you like you are the most important thing he ever carried.

You whimper in pain and his hold tightens instinctively. His hands shake against you.

You hate the way your stomach spins in on itself at the thought of staining him. At leaving blood on his clothes, on his skin, on his belongings.

But Bucky does not seem to care at all. He does not seem to think about that at all.

None of it seems to matter.

Only you.

He sits you down carefully, on the edge of his bed. The very same one he just fucked you raw in. His hands hover even after he lets go, still gripping at your waist, brushing along your arms, your knee.

Then he takes off.

You can hear the frantic rustling - the opening and shutting of drawers, cabinets, his movements fast and panicked.

And when he returns to you, he is kneeling in front of you with a damp cloth.

He doesn’t speak at first.

Just opens your legs slightly, with gentle hands, for better access and begins to swipe. Soft, slow drags over your sensitive skin, barely any pressure at all, afraid even the slightest touch might make this worse for you.

But the thing is, he is already making this worse.

Not in the way he thinks.

Not in the way that physically aches in your body but in a way that fills you with something barely manageable.

Bucky is not annoyed, or exasperated at this turn of events. He is not disgusted. Not even a little.

He is not wincing at the blood smearing on your thighs, isn’t hesitating when it stains the cloth, and also might stain his hand, the sheets on his bed. He just keeps wiping. Keeps caring. Keeps frowning with that expression of utter concern and remorse.

And this hurts so much more.

It would have been easier if he had been an asshole about it. If he had sighed in annoyance, rubbed a frustrated hand over his face, and told you to just go if you were gonna act weird. Maybe you would have been able to handle that.

But Bucky Barnes is anything but an asshole.

He is kneeling before you, hands still cautiously wiping at your skin. Each motion is so slow, painstaking, like an artist restoring a ruined masterpiece, knowing no stroke of his hand can undo the damage.

His touch is soft, but his body is anything but.

His spine is a pillar of strain, each muscle wound so tightly, even the act of breathing seems like an effort to him, like something he must force past the knot in his chest.

His jaw is hard, teeth pressed together in a pressure you can almost hear.

Rigid shoulders don’t really move with his breaths, as if the guilt inside of him has turned to iron and settled deep in his bones.

Every inch of him seems to be screaming with the need to undo something that has already been done.

His blue eyes are flooded with regret. With something heavier than guilt, something closer to self-loathing.

It feels like he is bleeding grief.

And it would have been easier if he didn’t care so much.

Because if he was indifferent, if he brushed it off, if he let you go, then at least you could pretend this didn’t mean anything. At least you could convince yourself that this arrangement was just that - an arrangement. A convenient thing. A way to feel wanted without asking for more.

But this makes it impossible to lie to yourself.

This makes it impossible to stop falling for him over and over again.

And that is what really hurts, what dives deep into your insides to carve out a room and stays there.

His fingers brush over your knee as he cleans.

And then, after a long, silent moment, he speaks.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His voice is rough. Not accusing. Not angry. Just wounded. Pained.

He lets out a sharp breath, his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. He looks away for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut as if blocking out what he did to you.

His gaze flicks back up to yours and the way he looks at you nearly takes you apart.

“Why didn’t you stop me, doll?” His voice breaks, as if it physically pains him to say it. “I- Jesus, I- why didn’t you tell me?”

You shake your head, your throat tight, trying to find the words. Trying to explain. But the shame, the embarrassment make it hard to pull in a full breath, making it impossible to speak.

Bucky waits.

And again, that makes it worse.

Because he is patient with you, even now. Even when he desperately searches you for something, when he looks like he wants to rip himself apart with his bare hands.

He is still waiting for you, waiting for you to think about your answer.

You push past the lump in your throat and force up something. “I didn’t want to ruin it,” you admit quietly.

His brows pull further together, face twisting. His hand stays on your knee. “Ruin what?”

You exhale shakily, your fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “For you,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to ruin it for you. I just- I wanted you to feel good.”

Bucky might have stopped breathing in front of you. Might have just died and come back in the same second.

A sound leaves him. You can’t make out if it is a word or something else, but it is deep and gravelly and it slams into your chest like a fist.

His head dips forward, his hands flexing into fists on his thighs before he drags them over his face. The stained cloth lay discarded.

He shakes his head, not believing what he is hearing. Not even knowing what to do with himself.

He looks at you again. His eyes are darker now. So full of pain.

“Doll,” he breathes, and the way he says it - like it hurts him, like it breaks him - have you staring at him helplessly. “You think I’d rather you suffer through it? That I’d rather have you- have you just take it? That I’d rather get off than-” He stops. He has to stop. His breath hitches in a gasp. His fists shake. “Fuck.”

You can’t look at him.

You want to. But you can’t.

Because he is too much.

Because he is everything.

Because he is making it impossible to pretend like this isn’t something more than what it is.

There is a deep, pulling sensation in your stomach, a hand reaching inside and twisting and turning everything around.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out. Your bottom lip trembles and you fight against tears welling up in your eyes.

Bucky moves instantly.

He is on you in a heartbeat, as close as he can possibly get, as if he could crawl into your skin if it meant keeping you from hurting.

His head shakes, frantic, desperate. “No, hey- no.”His voice sounds like it has been dragged over broken glass. Fractured.

“Don’t apologize, baby. Please, don’t.” He cups your face, his palms warm against your skin. He forces your eyes to his, refuses to let you look away, refuses to let you hide in your shame.

His brows are pulled together, his jaw is tight. His entire body vibrates with something fierce.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who is. I’m the one who needs to apologize.”

His thumb catches a tear.

His hands tighten, like he can physically hold all of you.

“God, I gotta apologize, baby,” he breathes, and the sheer pain in his voice has your heart pounding. “I shouldn’t have- I should’ve never let you think this was all it was.” His fingers flex against your face and he drags in a breath that seems to hurt him.

His forehead almost touches yours.

“I should’ve told you,” he croaks out, words something like a confession. “That first night. That next morning. Should’ve told you then. Should’ve never let you leave thinkin’-” He stops himself, his eyes so blue, so damn intense, burning into yours with something so vulnerable it has your ribs crack open.

He regains a firmness in his voice when he speaks next.

“I should’ve never let you walk out thinkin’ you were just some good time to me.”

You choke on your next breath.

Your mind blanks.

He shakes his head, like he hates himself.

“I thought-” He exhales and rubs a hand over his jaw, his stubble rasping against his palm. “You were gone so fast that first time, baby. So fast. And I- I thought maybe that’s how you wanted it. Maybe that’s all it was for you. It broke my heart, but hell, I thought that’s all I was gonna get. And I didn’t wanna risk it. Risk losin’ that with you.”

You didn’t feel your lips part. You just know that they are gaping.

Words are lost on you.

Bucky’s hands slide down your arms, squeeze at your elbows, needing to ground himself, needing to feel you solid beneath his fingers. His thumb brushes over your pulse point, as if trying to memorize the beat of it.

His voice lowers. Softens.

“But I can’t do this anymore.”

His fingers tighten.

“Not- not like this.” He swallows hard. “Not when it’s hurtin’ you. Not when I-” His throat tries to work around the words, his gaze searching. “Not when I’m hurtin’ you, and giving you the impression you’d just have to take it. That you couldn’t tell me to stop when you need me to.”

His voice splinters.

You stare into the glossy sheen of his eyes and only see sincerity and the utter despair he is in.

Something pushes against your ribs, trying to carve out space where none existed before. A deep heat blooms low, not the kind that you knew to ignite in the dark between tangled sheets and intertwined limbs, but something slower, something deeper.

“I left that morning because I thought it’s what you wanted, Bucky.” Your voice wavers, but you hold his gaze, watching the way his entire body tenses, the way his brows draw together.

Your hands move to his shirt, nails pressing into it, eyes moving away from his, but he keeps them on you so firmly.

“I was scared,” you admit quietly. “I was scared you would wake up, look at me, and regret it. That you’d think it was a mistake. And then, you never asked me to stay-” You swallow hard, blinking rapidly to slow the tears. “And I thought that meant I was right. That you didn’t want me to.”

Bucky’s eyes go wide.

He looks broken.

His body jerks forward as if you hit him. His mouth is parted and his lips are trembling. His throat works words up.

You watch as something dark and agonizing moves through him. He blinks fast, breathes in sharp, and exhales even sharper.

Then he shakes his head, over and over again, lips moving to a curse he doesn’t speak out loudly. His hands adjust themselves on your skin.

“You thought I wanted you to leave?”

The sheer disbelief, the sheer devastation in his voice makes your chest cave in on itself.

“I-” You try to answer, try to explain, but he continues.

“No. No, sweetheart, no.” His hands slide down, gripping your arms, your hands, begging you to listen. “I never- Fuck. I never wanted you to leave.”

His eyes are wild, urgent, stormy.

“I wanted you to stay. Every damn time. But I thought it’s what you wanted.” His voice hitches, his shoulders rigid with tension. “You were gone so fast, doll, you didn’t even-” He swallows, his expression shattering. “I figured you didn’t wanna wake up next to me.”

You feel everything crack open inside you.

Your pulse hammers in your throat, in your wrists, in your ears, in the very tips of your fingers, both in a wild and certain way.

“You never told me to stay,” you whisper.

Bucky’s face contorts in pain.

“I was terrified,” he breathes, his forehead pressing against yours. “Terrified that if I asked, you’d tell me no. And I- I couldn’t-” He exhales a profound breath, shaking his head. “I couldn’t stand hearin’ that, doll. I couldn’t stand losing even the little of you I had.”

Something harsh tugs at your chest, making it hard to breathe.

You had it all wrong.

And so did he.

You want to laugh, maybe, or cry, or press your hands to his face just to make sure this moment is real, to make sure he won’t take back what he just told you.

You let out a shaky breath. A finger lifts gradually and brushes against his jaw. He leans into your touch like he is starving for it.

“I always wanted to stay,” you whisper, voice breaking.

Bucky’s breath stutters, his fingers twitching against you. His lips are parted.

With a long and drawn-out breath he moves to cup the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair, holding you to him.

His lips press against your forehead, once, twice, a third time, his breath warm and unsteady against your skin.

“I fucked up,” he mutters, voice thick with regret.

You shake your head, but he won’t have it.

“No, baby. I shoulda told you from the start. I should’ve never let you walk out that door.” Another kiss. Another released breath. “But you ain’t walkin’ out now. Not this time. Not ever. M’ not gonna let you.”

His voice is low and rough, filled with something sore.

“You’re stayin’ right here.”

You pull him in, needing him closer, needing his arms around you and his warmth against you.

And Bucky melts.

Completely, he folds into you. His arms wrap around your body, pressing against the small of your back, fingers digging in like he needs to feel you.

He buries his face into your hair, leaving kisses there, his breath strained against your scalp. He smells like soap, like something faintly sweet, like safety.

His hand smoothes over your back, tracing slow and grounding patterns, memorizing every inch of you, needing you to be okay.

“How do you feel, baby? You still hurtin’?” he whispers against your temple.

Your stomach flips at the care in his voice. How much he wants to know. How much he needs to know.

You hesitate for a second, words sticking to your tongue.

Bucky pulls back slightly, enough to look at you. His eyes sweep over your face, over every tiny micro-expression, over every little glimmer of pain you can’t quite hide.

His gaze drops lower, assessing you, thoroughly. The bleeding seems to have stopped and relief washes over his features. But it’s fleeting.

“I’m okay,” you assure, even though the soreness still lingers, the ache still exists beneath your skin.

Bucky gives you a warning look.

“It only hurts a little.”

Bucky closes his eyes for a beat, and when he looks at you again, you get uneasy. It seems he wasn’t quite done with confessing things.

“Please don’t do that again, baby. Don’t ever put me before you like that. Don’t ever let me hurt you just ‘cause you think it’s what I want. I could never feel good at the cost of your hurtin’.”

His face is twisted with pain, the idea of you suffering in silence unbearable to him.

He is looking at you like you are everything.

“I promise, Buck,” you tell him reverently. Softly. “But I really am okay.”

“Doll.” His voice is low, firm. “We need to get you checked out. We ain’t just sittin’ on this and hopin’ it’s fine. We’re going to the ER.”

You sigh.

“Bucky-”

“Not up for discussion,” he retorts, shaking his head. There is tension around his mouth, pulling it taut. “We’ll let a doc check you over, and gonna let ‘em tell us you’re okay. And if you’re not, we’re gonna figure out what to do. But we won’t ignore this, sweetheart. Not when it’s you. Not when you’re in pain and bleedin’.”

Your chest is filling with something warm, something fond, something that hurts and heals all at once.

Still, you try. “It’s better now, Buck-”

He doesn’t even let you finish.

He is already moving, already reaching for clothes. He grabs a new pair of his boxers for you to pull on, seemingly not caring about the remnants of blood that will stain them, along with sweats and one of his hoodies.

And before you can argue, or can even fully process what he is doing, he dresses you in those clothes and immediately lifts you into his arms when he is done.

His hands are strong, gentle, so cautious, one cradling your back, the other under your knees. He holds you like you weigh nothing, but also like you are the most precious thing in the world.

You let out a startled noise, but Bucky shushes you tenderly, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple.

“I got you, baby,” he soothes, voice so warm and full of something so achingly deep you don’t know how to hold it.

But you try to.

Because you want to.

“Real love doesn’t meet you at your best. It meets you in your mess.”

- J.S. Park

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

Hey, take it from someone creeping towards 40:

Ignore the fun police.

If you like it, order your steak well done. Get your bagel toasted with jam and butter. Put ice in your scotch and ketchup on your hotdog. Get red wine with fish and white with steak. Who cares?

If you want to, listen to pop music. Watch blockbuster popcorn flicks. Read dime store novels. Enjoy them.

Dye your hair or cut it off. Paint your fingernails blue. Wear whatever the fuck you want on your own time (ie, when not at a job or school or whatever where you can get penalized for breaking rules) as long as you aren’t like welding or shoveling snow.

Anyone who tries to tell you you’re wrong? Say “okay” and go back to what you were doing. You’re not hurting them by enjoying yourself or having things the way you like them.

There are no caveats or addendums to this. No “but what about x?” Nah. You’re allowed the things you like. You don’t have to justify your taste or apologize for it if it’s not hurting anyone.

And likewise, let other people live their lives. We’re all dead in the long run, so tend your own garden before you become fertilizer in it.

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

Bridging realities

ℑ𝔛. 𝔅𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔤....𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔡𝔤𝔢

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Word count:2.6k

Warnings: unedited, slow burn, eventual smut/ spicy scenes, some angst or none at all but happy ending, playful banter

A/n: jajsjksksjsjsksks, y'all probably know what happens next after this.....

⏮️                ⏸️                  ⏭️

The morning air of London was crisp, the kind of coolness that lingered after a storm, as though the world had not yet decided whether to embrace the warmth of spring or remain in the chill of winter. The streets, bathed in soft morning light, looked different today.

Perhaps it was because you felt different.

You had not meant to wander so far from the drawing room, but after arriving with Penelope, you found yourself hesitating before following her inside. She had come to visit Eloise, and while you were more than welcome in the Bridgerton home, something inside you made you stop at the threshold.

It was strange being in the Bridgerton home as you were partly– most of the reason, about why they weren’t making arrangements for a wedding right now.

You ran a hand along the carved wooden railing of the terrace, inhaling deeply, willing yourself to steel your nerves. It was foolish, really. You had nothing to fear, nothing to be ashamed of. And yet, the weight of unspoken words lingered in the air, suffocating you.

“You ran.”

You exhaled sharply, already rolling your eyes before you even turned around. “Why does everyone keep saying that? I did not—” But the words died on your lips the moment you saw him.

Anthony Bridgerton stood a few steps away, his presence just as commanding as ever. His dark eyes were unreadable, his posture stiff—guarded. He was dressed impeccably as always, but there was something weary about him, something frayed at the edges. You swallowed, heart thudding in your chest.Neither of you spoke at first.

Then, finally, he broke the silence. “You left before I could say anything,” he said carefully, as though measuring each word before it left his lips.

Your fingers curled at your sides. “There was nothing left to say, my lord.”

His jaw tensed. “Do not call me that.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Would you prefer Viscount Bridgerton, then?”

Anthony sighed, running a hand down his face. “Must we do this?”

“Do what?”

“Pretend as though none of it happened?”

You hesitated.

“That is not what I am doing,” you said, softer this time.

“Then tell me,” Anthony took a step forward, searching your face, “why are you here?”

You swallowed. “Penelope—”

“Penelope?” he echoed, incredulous.

“She came to see Eloise,” you explained, standing your ground, “and I… I had no choice but to accompany her.”

Anthony scoffed. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Believe what you want,” you bit out. “It makes no difference to me.”

Silence stretched between you once more, heavy and suffocating. Then—

“You know I cannot pursue this,” Anthony said, his voice clipped.

Your breath caught. He did not have to clarify what this was. You looked away, schooling your features. “Of course you cannot.”

“It would cause a scandal.”

“Naturally.”

“The ton—”

“Would revel in it,” you finished, a bitter smile playing on your lips. Anthony stared at you, his expression unreadable.

“You were the reason I did not propose to Edwina,” he said, his words slow and deliberate. “It was your fault.” The accusation sliced through the air like a knife.

You felt your stomach drop. A sharp laugh escaped you—short and disbelieving. “My fault?”

Anthony did not waver. “You—” he exhaled harshly, shaking his head. “You distracted me. You made me question everything I had spent my entire life working towards.” You clenched your jaw, feeling something deep inside you crack.

“Do you think I wanted this?” you snapped, voice shaking. “Do you think I asked for any of this, Anthony?”

“You—”

“I was fine before you,” you cut him off, stepping forward. “I had a life, a future – well maybe not a well planned future but still!. And then you came along, and suddenly, I was drowning in feelings I never wanted in the first place.”

His nostrils flared. "And yet, you still let it happen.”

“You cannot blame me for your choices,” you hissed. “If you did not want me, you would have proposed to her regardless. But you didn’t.”

Anthony’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“You think this is easy for me?” he demanded.

“I think you have always been a coward,” you shot back.

His entire body tensed. “And you,” he said, voice dangerously quiet, “have always been reckless.”

“You do things without thinking,” Anthony continued, each word like a dagger. “You do not consider the consequences. You never have.”

Something inside you snapped. “And you,” you spat, “are incapable of feeling anything at all.” The words were out before you could stop them. For a moment, Anthony just stared at you. Then, his expression turned to one of pure anger.

He took a step forward, towering over you. “You truly believe that?”

You did not back down. “I know it.”

Anthony’s jaw tightened. “Then you are a fool.”

“Then we both are.”

Silence. Your breath came in sharp, uneven gasps.

You could feel the weight of his stare, the heat of his fury. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. And then, without another word, you turned on your heel—

"You're running again!"

Anthony’s voice rang out across the terrace, sharp and desperate, freezing you in place just as you reached the steps leading back to the house.Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you willed yourself to keep walking. To not turn around.But you did.

You turned, eyes burning with fury, with frustration—with something else that you refused to name. "And what if I am?" you challenged.

Anthony strode towards you, his entire frame tense, the fire in his eyes matching the one inside you. "I’m starting to see a pattern," he said, voice tight with restraint. "Every single time things become difficult, you run."

Your eyes flashed. "And what of you, my lord? You push people away before they even have the chance to hurt you. That is not strength, Anthony. That is cowardice."

Anthony flinched as though you had struck him.For a moment, you thought he would lash out, that he would throw more cruel words your way just to wound you in return.But he didn’t.

Instead, he exhaled harshly, running a hand down his face before taking another step closer, reducing the already small distance between you.

"You think I do not feel?" he asked, voice low but charged with emotion. "That I do not feel everything when it comes to you?"

Your breath hitched.

"Do you know what it is like?" he continued, his tone almost accusatory, as though you had done something to him. "To see you in a crowded ballroom and only see you? To dance with another woman and only wish that it was you I was dancing with instead?"

Your heart pounded against your ribs.

"Do you know what it is like to wake up every morning and wish—pray—that I had the strength to be selfish? That I could throw away everything I have worked for, everything I have ever been, just to be with you?" Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

Anthony took another step forward."Do you think I do not want to touch you?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. "That every time I look at you, I do not ache to pull you close? That I do not dream of threading my fingers through this damn hair of yours and kissing you until you cannot breathe?"

Your breath came fast and uneven, your body burning under his words. He was too close now. Too close, too much. Anthony’s hand twitched at his side, as if resisting the urge to reach for you, to grab you, to claim you.

But he didn’t.Because if he touched you, if he gave in—he knew there would be no going back.

"You were never a mistake," he said, voice shaking. "You were never something I regretted."

"But I am afraid," he admitted. "I am afraid of what I become when I am with you. Afraid that you are the one thing I cannot control, the one thing that could ruin me."

You swallowed thickly, staring at him. "And yet," he continued, his voice softer now, gentler, "I am more afraid of what I am without you."

Silence.

The world felt unbearably still.

Anthony stood before you, stripped of all pretense, all composure. There was no Viscount Bridgerton here—no noble duty, no careful restraint.

Just a man. A man who had never wanted anything as much as he wanted you.

Your chest ached.Because this—this—was the Anthony Bridgerton no one else got to see.

And God help you, but you loved him.

"Say something," he pleaded, his voice raw.Your lips parted, but the words refused to come.

How could they, when every part of you—every fiber of your being—was caught in the tempest of Anthony Bridgerton?

He was too close, his breath mingling with yours, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim morning light. He was a storm waiting to break, and yet, for once, he was not running from it. He stood there, open, exposed, the weight of his confession hanging between you like something sacred.

You should walk away. You should. It would be the proper thing, the safe thing. It would be the logical choice, the rational choice—

But when had anything between you and Anthony Bridgerton ever been rational?

His gaze flickered down to your lips. And that was when you knew. It was inevitable.

Anthony had been fighting it for so long, had been clawing his way through the rules and expectations and all the things that told him no, no, no—but the moment he saw your lips part, the moment he saw the way you swayed ever so slightly toward him, he snapped.

His hand shot out, grasping the side of your face, fingers threading into your hair. A low, tortured sound escaped him, somewhere between a groan and a sigh, as if he had been holding his breath for months, years—his entire life.

And then he kissed you.

It was not gentle. It was not careful. It was desperate.

His lips crashed against yours, hot and insistent, stealing the very air from your lungs. He kissed you like a man starved, like someone who had been denied this moment too many times, who had spent too long pretending he did not want it.

You gasped against his mouth, but he did not relent.

His other hand found your waist, pulling you closer, closer, as if he could not bear a single inch of space between you. Your fingers clutched at the lapels of his coat, anchoring yourself, your knees threatening to give out beneath you. The kiss deepened, and it was ruinous.

It was not the kiss of a man who intended to let go. It was the kiss of a man who knew he was already damned. And, you let yourself fall with him.

You melted against him, into him, as though you had been made to fit there all along. His hands roamed your back, pressing, grasping, like he needed to memorize you, like he feared you would disappear the moment he let go.

And for the first time in weeks—no, months—you let yourself forget. You forgot the whispers, the scrutiny, the unspoken thoughts that declared you unworthy of a man like him. But you were a hypocrite, saying you’re unworthy but wanted to snatch him away either way. You admit it. You’re selfish

He pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, his chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven breaths. His hands remained on you, unwilling to let go.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice raw.

You swallowed, heart hammering in your chest. You should. You should tell him to stop, should tell him this was a mistake, should remind him of the consequences. But you didn’t, instead, you lifted a hand to his cheek, fingers trembling as they traced the sharp edge of his jaw.

“You do not want me to say that,” you whispered.

A pained sound left him, and then he was kissing you again, softer this time, but just as hungry.

His voice was hoarse, desperate. His fingers dug into your waist, gripping you as though you were the only thing tethering him to this world. His forehead remained pressed against yours, his breath ragged and uneven, his entire body taut with restraint.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured again, though this time it was not a plea, but a warning. His lips hovered just above yours, his nose brushing against your cheek, his fingers curling ever so slightly into the fabric of your dress. “Because if you don’t… I will have you. And I won’t stop.”

You should have been afraid. Not of him, never of him—but of what this meant. Of what you were about to do. But you weren’t. Because this was inevitable.

The tension that had simmered for days, months even, was finally at its breaking point, and you wanted it to break. You wanted to shatter alongside him.

Your fingers curled around the lapels of his coat, tugging him closer, your breaths mingling in the space between you.

“Then don’t stop,” you whispered.

Anthony’s restraint snapped.

He growled, low and deep in his throat, before his lips crashed against yours, harder than before, more urgent, more needy. His hands slid down your waist, gripping your hips, pulling you against him in a way that made heat coil low in your belly.

You gasped into his mouth, and he took advantage of the sound, his tongue sweeping inside, tasting you, claiming you. It was dizzying, the way he kissed you—like he had been starving for you, like he had been deprived of this for far too long.

One of his hands tangled into your hair, tilting your head just the way he wanted, deepening the kiss until you were completely at his mercy. You moaned into his mouth, your fingers twisting in his coat, your body pressing against his, desperate for more.

“You have no idea,” he murmured between kisses, his lips trailing down the column of your throat, his voice rough and unsteady. “How long I have wanted this. How long I have ached for you.”

You whimpered as his teeth grazed your pulse point, your head falling back as his mouth continued its descent, lips and tongue and teeth mapping out every inch of exposed skin.

“Anthony—”

He groaned at the sound of his name on your lips, his hands tightening on your waist before he lifted you, backing you up against the terrace railing. His hips slotted between your legs, the movement making you gasp, making you feel the unmistakable proof of his desire pressing against your thigh.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured again, but this time, his voice was almost taunting, as if he already knew the answer.

Your fingers curled into his hair, tugging slightly, and he groaned, his hips pressing even closer, making you keen.

“Don’t you dare,” you whispered, breathless.

A dark chuckle rumbled in his chest. “My reckless girl,” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice thick with want. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

His hands slid lower, gathering the fabric of your dress, fingertips grazing bare skin. Every inch of you burned where he touched, where he kissed, where he pressed against you.

You were losing yourself, unraveling beneath him, and you didn’t care.

Because for the first time in a long, long time—

You weren’t running.

And neither was he.

A/n: with that being said, there'll be like one or two chapters left since I don't know what else to write anymore to make it more interesting 😭😭

@talkativecarnation

@imafangirlofeverything

@stopeatread

@smartiepants217

@magical-spit

@ifilwtmfc

@kitkat27

@electronicexpertshark

@annareidprofiler

@zestygingergirl

@noirrose21-blog

@ericityyy

@neenieweenie

@syraxnyra

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

Man I was so grumpy about being awake at 6am on my day off but if I hadn't been awake I might have missed this complete work of art.

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending

Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

I am rendered speechless by the beauty of this fic.

Fake fic title

You're my Heaven

Title: You're my heaven

Summary: The only Heaven I'll be sent to is when I'm alone with you.

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Warnings: Minors DNI, smut

A/N written on my phone

----

Some might call it an obsession, and he couldn't disagree.

He is obsessed, unashamedly so.

Bucky needs you, your happiness is what guides him through it all.

You're the good in his life. The best parts of him belong to you, the worst parts of him fading away.

He never believed in much after everything that happened, but you believe in him. And for once he knows there's more to life than despair and pain.

------

You should feel vulnerable, open, exposed.

Laid bare on the living room floor, the thick duvet beneath you. Arms above your head, knees bent, spread wide.

Instead you feel safe, loved and coveted.

Bucky looks down at you, his face partially obscured by the camera, a flash of light followed by a soft whirring. He tosses it on the couch.

Soft quiet breathes break the silence. His eyes blaze with a ferocity reserved only for you, love , devotion, craving swirled in those blue eyes.

You forget how to breathe, the simple act so hard under his gaze.

When he kneels before you, his head bowed, his eyes roaming over your body, you dont need air.

You only need him.

Bucky takes your foot, kissing your arch, soft lips find your ankle. He hums to himself, a melody long forgotten, brought to the surface by you.

A slow drag up your calf, hands touching every inch of your skin. Warm and cool, soft and firm hands graze, rub, touching all of you.

Thumbs trace the inside of your thighs, small deep circles into soft flesh. His lips never far behind, a quiet worship of his tongue through your folds. Taking you apart with his mouth until you sing his praises.

He drags his body over yours, sinking into you. He holds your head in his hands, your fingers tangled in his hair.

His nose bumping into the tip of yours. Those blue eyes gazing down, his lips barely touch your, you feel them moving against yours, I love you . You don't hear the words, but you feel them.

His lips part. He inhales you, his eyes flutter close, lips descend over yours. Tender, hesitant kisses, as if he's memorizing how you taste. The soft push of his warm, wet tongue into your mouth, the quick acceptance makes him melt into you, pushing you further into the ground.

His control slips, his lips move furiously over yours, his hands tighten around your face, please don't leave

You push your nails into his scalp. I wont.

He breaks away, resting his forehead on you. Your hands move down his firm back, rubbing the muscles beneath his skin. Tracing over the scars that adorn him, each one a story that only you know.

He tilts your head, those lips find your ear lobe, nipping it. You arch up into him. Dont tease

He kisses your neck, another bite, firmer, followed by his tongue.You love it.

Bites, kisses along your collarbone, another set of marks you'll proudly display in the morning.

His artwork on your body.

His claim matching your own.

He lifts up on his forearm, looking down at your bodies. You reach down between you taking his cock in your hands, smiling slightly at his soft gasp. He moves his leg helping you guide him into you.

Your body stretching around him, the tight heat enclosing around him. He could stay this way forever, live here in this moment, in you.

He moves, his hips pushing into yours, the sight of him disappearing into your body seared into his memories.

He pulls out, inch by inch, moving over your entrance until you grasp his ass in your hands. Stop teasing me.

He chuckles, his hips snapping forward, his thrust moving you over the blanket. I'll do whatever you want.

His limbs tangle with yours, lips find their way home, swallowing your moans, the soft, sharp slapping of hips slamming into yours, his favorite sound. Second only to the desperate, breathy pleas you send up, your head thrown back, nails leaving scratches down his back.

God, fuck, don't stop Bucky. As if he could, his controlled shattered the second you sobbed his name, he needs you to say it again. Needs more of you begging for him to stay right there, just like that, please, please baby.

His hand sweeps under your leg, shifting you under him. He can feel you squeezing him, your walls clinging to him with each thrust.

His eyes on your face, he's so close to giving you that relase you crave, the he moves again. You tremble under him

"Thats its baby, is that it right there, thats what you want", he meant to tease you one last time, but his words betray him coming out hoarse, frantic. Like his hips pushing him deeper into you until you keen beneath him.

So close, so close. Tears spill from your eyes, its to much, too good. You can only writhe, his body unrelenting, driving towards the edge of bliss.

His hand moves between your slick bodies, finding that little bud. His thumb circles over it, tracing his name into you.

His lips by your ear, grunting "Give it to me, cum for me". He wants its so bad.

The pleasure, your release bursts through you, white hot heat engulfing you, coursing through your veins. It almost hurts its so good.

Bucky watches you shatter, your nails raking down him, his name a filthy chant on your lips. When you clench down, gripping him tighter than before, he groans your name. A soothing warmth filling your body.

He collapses on you, his heaving chest sliding over your tender breasts. The world spins, you vaguely recognize you're on top now, resting your head over his heart.

Bucky closes his eyes, breathing you in. Nothing will convince that anything could be better than you. A slice of heaven he never expected.

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

I have no words. These ⬆️ words are more than perfect.

Please make a post about the story of the RMS Carpathia, because it's something that's almost beyond belief and more people should know about it.

Carpathia received Titanic’s distress signal at 12:20am, April 15th, 1912. She was 58 miles away, a distance that absolutely could not be covered in less than four hours.

(Californian’s exact position at the time is…controversial. She was close enough to have helped. By all accounts she was close enough to see Titanic’s distress rockets. It’s uncertain to this day why her crew did not respond, or how many might not have been lost if she had been there. This is not the place for what-ifs. This is about what was done.)

Carpathia’s Captain Rostron had, yes, rolled out of bed instantly when woken by his radio operator, ordered his ship to Titanic’s aid and confirmed the signal before he was fully dressed. The man had never in his life responded to an emergency call. His goal tonight was to make sure nobody who heard that fact would ever believe it.

All of Carpathia’s lifeboats were swung out ready for deployment. Oil was set up to be poured off the side of the ship in case the sea turned choppy; oil would coat and calm the water near Carpathia if that happened, making it safer for lifeboats to draw up alongside her. He ordered lights to be rigged along the side of the ship so survivors could see it better, and had nets and ladders rigged along her sides ready to be dropped when they arrived, in order to let as many survivors as possible climb aboard at once.

I don’t know if his making provisions for there still being survivors in the water was optimism or not. I think he knew they were never going to get there in time for that. I think he did it anyway because, god, you have to hope.

Carpathia had three dining rooms, which were immediately converted into triage and first aid stations. Each had a doctor assigned to it. Hot soup, coffee, and tea were prepared in bulk in each dining room, and blankets and warm clothes were collected to be ready to hand out. By this time, many of the passengers were awake–prepping a ship for disaster relief isn’t quiet–and all of them stepped up to help, many donating their own clothes and blankets.

And then he did something I tend to refer to as diverting all power from life support.

Here’s the thing about steamships: They run on steam. Shocking, I know; but that steam powers everything on the ship, and right now, Carpathia needed power. So Rostron turned off hot water and central heating, which bled valuable steam power, to everywhere but the dining rooms–which, of course, were being used to make hot drinks and receive survivors. He woke up all the engineers, all the stokers and firemen, diverted all that steam back into the engines, and asked his ship to go as fast as she possibly could. And when she’d done that, he asked her to go faster.

I need you to understand that you simply can’t push a ship very far past its top speed. Pushing that much sheer tonnage through the water becomes harder with each extra knot past the speed it was designed for. Pushing a ship past its rated speed is not only reckless–it’s difficult to maneuver–but it puts an incredible amount of strain on the engines. Ships are not designed to exceed their top speed by even one knot. They can’t do it. It can’t be done.

Carpathia’s absolute do-or-die, the-engines-can’t-take-this-forever top speed was fourteen knots. Dodging icebergs, in the dark and the cold, surrounded by mist, she sustained a speed of almost seventeen and a half.

No one would have asked this of them. It wasn’t expected. They were almost sixty miles away, with icebergs in their path. They had a responsibility to respond; they did not have a responsibility to do the impossible and do it well. No one would have faulted them for taking more time to confirm the severity of the issue. No one would have blamed them for a slow and cautious approach. No one but themselves.

They damn near broke the laws of physics, galloping north headlong into the dark in the desperate hope that if they could shave an hour, half an hour, five minutes off their arrival time, maybe for one more person those five minutes would make the difference. I say: three people had died by the time they were lifted from the lifeboats. For all we know, in another hour it might have been more. I say they made all the difference in the world.

This ship and her crew received a message from a location they could not hope to reach in under four hours. Just barely over three hours later, they arrived at Titanic’s last known coordinates. Half an hour after that, at 4am, they would finally find the first of the lifeboats. it would take until 8:30 in the morning for the last survivor to be brought onboard. Passengers from Carpathia universally gave up their berths, staterooms, and clothing to the survivors, assisting the crew at every turn and sitting with the sobbing rescuees to offer whatever comfort they could.

In total, 705 people of Titanic’s original 2208 were brought onto Carpathia alive. No other ship would find survivors.

At 12:20am April 15th, 1912, there was a miracle on the North Atlantic. And it happened because a group of humans, some of them strangers, many of them only passengers on a small and unimpressive steam liner, looked at each other and decided: I cannot live with myself if I do anything less.

I think the least we can do is remember them for it.