insertsparkleshere - Tumblr blog

insertsparkleshere · 6 days ago

Text

(YOU DRIVE ME) CRAZY

mechanic!Jason x ditzy/girly!fem!Reader NSFW!!

tags: pwp, kinda bimbo!reader, manhandling, fingering, spit, thigh riding, light slapping, nicknames (doll/bunny),semi-public? (in a garage)

a/n: This came idea to me while listening to my 2000’s playlist (thank u Britney Spears)

wc: 3.4K | masterlist

You honestly don’t know where you’d be without your favourite mechanic! Taken off of the road, girl be serious.

It’s not like you do it on purpose, yknow? Seriously, there’s nobody on this planet who enjoys that feeling of existential dread when you back up against the curb a little too hard.

So, like any rational person, you blame the state of your car on bad luck, or the world around you - like, how were you supposed to know that there was gonna be a curb there?

The first time, you just slapped a bumper sticker over the scuff mark, and then another one, and then another, until ultimately your precious Impala looks less like a muscle car and more like an arts and crafts project. Especially since the second you got it, you immediately handed it over to the garage and all but begged to get the original dusty pink colour restored.

You’ve mastered the skill of batting your eyelashes out of speeding tickets, flirting your way out of parking fines, the whole lot.

But the same can’t be said about the fact you’ve got a knocked-off mirror and a busted-up tail-lights, which you can’t stress enough is simply just rotten luck, never-mind your bumper hanging on by a mess of pink washi tape of all things.

But the silver lining? Him.

——————————— ☆ ———————————

“We’re closed,” Jason calls out from under a car, cursing under his breath when he hears the door to the garage creaking.

He’s a busy guy, he just hasn’t had time to get around to the damn thing. Especially not now, not with the fact he’s got a never-ending list of customers coming to him every three seconds and his gloves are dripping in engine oil.

Yes, gloves. Only cause Dick laughed at him and said Jason looks like he’s been in the mines all day with his bare hands stained black.

His brother is in no position to tease him about anything. He can’t tell his ass from his elbow when it comes to cars. All he does is the accounts.

At the sound of footsteps coming closer, Jason’s expression hardens as he starts to roll himself out from under the car. For fucks sake, he literally just called out the fact they’re is closed and there just has to be some stubborn fucker who thinks they’re more important than everyone else.

The sound isn’t just footsteps, it’s heels. Loud, clicky heels.

With a slightly amused sigh, his head comes into view, his hair a tousled mess like always with his grease-stained vest clinging to his body.

You’re not exactly sure why he became a mechanic, he could easily be a fucking model or something.

“Hi, Barbie.” He hums, crossing his arms over his chest, making absolutely zero effort to get up.

Fidgeting with the charms on your nails, you blink. How creative of him to definitely be the first person to ever tease you with that.

“You think you’re funny?”

He just shrugs as he peels off his gloves, now graciously deciding to stand up.

“I think I’m adorable.”

Staring at your bumper, and then at you, Jason has to hold back a cackle, he knows you’re a menace on the road but even for you, the state of the hood of your car is impressive. Sheer damage on that thing has his mouth hanging open for a moment. Wheres the rest of it? Where's the rest of your skirt? Surely you got that for 50% off.

“Less of the horrified stares and more car fixing, please?” You blink, tapping your nails against the side of your thigh.

You do that a lot, he’s noticed. You’re kinda fidgety.

“Don’t rush me. You come in here for my skills or my charm?”

Before you can even answer, he’s brushing past you to take the keys dangling from your manicured fingers, his large hand brushing against yours.

“My bad, Dolly. I know it’s my pretty face you come here for.”

He can’t hold back a small huff when he glances at the keys in his hand. Well, it’s more a tangled up mess of pink and sparkly key chains, no surprise you need a massive purse to drag all that around.

Glancing over his shoulder as he walks out to the car, he twirls the keys around on his finger, scoffing a little at the rhinestone Playboy bunny charm.

“M’gonna go get this beauty up on a ramp, you jus’ sit there and look pretty, alright?”

Yeah. Unlike your driving skills, you’re good at that, sitting there all dolled up.

Pretty, he called you pretty.

Is it stupid that you feel almost giddy when he says that?

——————————— ☆ ———————————

You’re sat up on the workbench now, dangling your heels off of your feet as you swing your legs, the soft click of your nails against the phone screen filling the room along with a confused grumble every couple minutes from Jason, internally wondering how the fuck you managed to get a car as formidable as a Chevy impala run down like this.

He’s stood over the hood of your car with his hands on his hips, shaking his head. He looks more like he’s trying to start a barbecue and not checking your engine.

“Dolly?” He pipes up suddenly, scratching the back of his neck.

“Mhm?” You tilt your head up tossing your phone back into your purse before hopping off of the counter again, the click of your heels hitting the concrete soon following.

“You got your logbook anywhere?”

Silence.

You blink, tilting your head to the side like he’s just asked you to solve some kind of mystery.

“The blue book, I filled it out the last time you had your car serviced here.” He explains.

“Oh,” You let out a sheepish chuckle, your hands instinctively going to smooth over the pockets on your skirt. Yeah, as if you’d have a whole logbook in your fucking pocket. As if it would even fit in a skirt that short.

“It’s in there.. somewhere?” You offer with an awkward gesture of your hand, your charm bracket slinking against your watch.

“Yeah, I’d hope so.” Jason sighs, reaching an arm up to close the hood.

“I’ll check your glovebox, you check in the back, yeah?”

——————————— ☆ ———————————

“Shit,” You’re now rooting through every pocket, every single possible compartment, tossing your empty shopping bags to the side in search of it.

It’s one stupid little book, how hard can it be?

His brows arch in amusement as he digs through your glovebox. It’s all so stupidly you. Rifling through piles of CDs in hopes of it somehow being sandwiched between Britney Spears - Greatest Hits and Lady Gaga -The Fame.

To his dismay, it ain’t. It’s just bubblegum wrappers and a bizarre amount of sunglasses and mismatched earrings as far as the eye can see.

“Any luck back there, Barbie?” He mumbles, ready to crawl into the back with you to help you try find it.

When you shake your head, he sighs, leaning his hand against the console with the other gripping the passenger side headrest to get in the back.

- - CLICK - -

You blink, staring at Jason for a moment as he lands himself beside you.

His eyes aren’t on you though, he’s staring at the window, more focused on the fact he just accidentally locked you two inside your car.

“Where’s the key?” Jason sits up slightly, glancing at you with his eyebrows furrowed expectantly.

You’re staring back at him like a deer in headlights, trying not to focus on the fact that your car just lacks AC and his abs are looking a little too good under that vest for your liking.

“My purse?” you’re not entirely sure, but it’s the only place you can imagine they’d be.

Okay, just one small issue.

Your purse is currently out on the workbench, hung up somewhere between a carjack and a set of screwdrivers.

You begin your internal panic, death by a hot car with an even hotter guy inside? Yeah, you’re cooked, you’re done. You want a pink casket at your funeral and-

“Hey,” Jason snaps you out of it after a moment, his hand tentatively moving to rest on your knee, his thumb pressing little circles into your skin.

“We’re fine, okay? Just focus on finding me the book and I’ll sort this out later.”

You nod a little shakily, but you can’t help glancing out the window. Fuck, you can literally see your purse right there. How could you be so stupid?

“Dolly, c’mon.” He sighs, noticing how you’re gnawing at your acrylics with a small grimace.

He leans back in his seat a little, letting his head thump against the window, he’s doing that stupid man-spread thing they always tend to do, his thighs taking up almost the entirety of your backseat.

“Look, we’ll be okay. Dick’s coming here in about an hour or something, cause I need him to sort my taxes. We’ll tell him the keys are in your purse, alright?”

He may have the emotional intelligence of a teaspoon, but he can tell you’re thinking the worst-case scenario, as ridiculous as it may be. You don’t like enclosed spaces, that’s fine.

A small tug at your hand prompts you to land in his lap, facing him as his fingers drum against the leather by his sides.

“Have you checked your pockets?”

“What?” You blink.

“For the logbook,”

You figure he’s just trying to make you laugh, trying to distract you from the thoughts of impending doom. It’s silly, but part of you likes that he’s trying. You like that he cares.

“How do you expect me to keep it in a skirt like this?” You scoff, glancing down at the denim skirt clinging to your hips. It barely fits your phone in your pocket without your ass basically hanging out.

“Dunno,” he hums, his fingers now tapping lightly against your thighs.

“I should check, maybe it’s in there.”

When you roll your eyes, he offers a small smirk, his hands crawling up your hips to slip into your back pockets, giving your ass a squeeze.

He’s about as subtle as a punch to the face.

“Jason!” You sputter, your first giving his chest a half-assed little punch.

“What?” He shrugs, his hands still very much resting atop your ass, squeezing again just to see how you react.

“M’just checking, Dolly, don’t get your panties in a twist.”

The smirk just doesn’t leave his face, he likes to see how your cheeks heat up, about as pink as your silly little nails.

“My panties are not in a twist, Jason.”

Except, they are.

They have been since he pulled you into his lap like you weigh absolutely nothing. They have been since you saw him roll out from under that car. They have been since you were on your phone, pretending to text someone whilst you were actually staring at the muscles rippling in under his skin.

“Hello?” He coos, giving your forehead a little poke when he notices you zone out, his hand slowly moving back down to your skirt to hook his fingers into your belt loops, pulling your hips down against his a little more.

“Y’still with me?” He mumbles, his lips gently brushing against your jaw.

You blink, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to ignore both the heat in your cheeks and the one between your thighs.

“Hm?”

“I asked if you’re still with me,” Jason grins, his gaze following your necklace down to the little diamond pendant with the first letter of your name (if Regina George has one, so do you), and then a little lower to your cleavage.

“You’re not very subtle,” You mumble, fidgeting with your charm bracelet as you tilt your head to glance out the window once more, berating yourself mentally about those keys.

“And you’re not very focused,” He counters, giving the pendant on your necklace a little tug to pull your attention back towards him.

What the fuck are you even supposed to be focused on? Searching for the logbook? The sweltering heat inside your car? The fact you can feel his hand literally crawling up under your skirt? The fact he’s rubbing his thumb in little circles against your panties?

You open your mouth to say something snarky, only to be cut off by a small chuckle coming from the back of his throat.

“Don’t think too hard, you’ll hurt your head.”

“Shuddup,” you mumble sheepishly, staring at him through your falsies with a slightly forced laugh, trying to ignore his wandering hand.

“I’m not doing anything.” Jason shrugs like it’s nothing, keeping one hand between your legs as the other slides up under your shirt, gently stroking your back as if to ease you.

You don’t give a fuck about the stuck-in-the-car situation anymore, your brain is mostly occupied by the stuck-with-Jason situation.

“You’re not looking at me,”

Thank you Jason, for that astute observation.

“Why?” He presses on, his hand sliding out from under your shirt to tilt your face up to his, raising his eyebrows as if you’re overreacting.

His grip is a little tight, but not painful. Why would he wanna put a frown on your pretty face, after all?

Your pout at his teasing makes him chuckle slightly, offering a nonchalant shrug as his eyes roam over your face, still lazily rubbing his thumb against your underwear.

“Pretty lashes,” He points out, acting like this is a completely normal conversation to be having.

Still, you’re flattered. A compliment is a compliment, yeah?

“They’re fake.” You mumble sheepishly, staring down at your lap.

That earns a tiny scoff, you feel his hand tilting your chin up again, tilting his head to the side.

“So? They’re cute.”

You force out a small chuckle, feeling his eyes scanning every detail of your face. You can’t even hide the flush on your cheeks.

“These are cute too.” He continues, his large hand gently wrapping around your wrist, glancing down at the pink charms on your nails.

He lets go after a moment, pushing your skirt up your hips a little, his fingers hooked into the belt loops.

“Can’t forget these,” Jason mumbles, a small smirk gracing his features when he hears the slight hitch in your breath, watching the subtle shift of your hips.

“Now these are cute.” His hands wander further up your thighs, lightly hooking his fingers into the hem of your lacy underwear to give it a small tug, his smirk unwavering.

“Shuddup,” you mutter under your breath, reaching a hand up to gently adjust your lashes, trying to ignore his hand between your thighs.

“That ain’t nice, Dolly.” He mumbles into your neck, his teeth gently dragging over your smooth skin before nipping at it slightly, his breath hot against your flesh.

He’s been condescending, pretty much mocking you in subtle little ways ever since you marched your pretty ass into his garage.

If everything about you is so cute and pretty, he’d bet his whole life savings that your sounds are too.

And he’s all too happy to test that theory.

His hand slips away from your panties for a moment, giving the side of your thigh a little smack, his strong hands pressing into your thighs as he flips you around.

He was right. He knew he would be.

You shift your legs awkwardly when he basically tosses you around however he sees fit, acting like that shit doesn’t turn you on.

Glancing down at how you’re pressing your knees together again, he smacks your other thigh, just a tiny bit harder, pulling your back against his chest, grinning into your neck at the little squeak you unintentionally let out.

“You squeal like a fuckin’ bunny, you know that?”

Your skirt is now bunched up around your midsection, your breathing a little shaky as you feel his fingers tracing over your panties again, lightly circling his thumb against your clit through the thin lace.

“Jason, shuddup.” You repeat for like the tenth time, only to be met with a smirk against the back of your neck.

“Is that all you’re able to say to me now, bunny? shuddup, shuddup, shuddup?” He’s mocking you now, putting on a squeaky little voice and everything, paired with an exaggerated pout into your neck before he lightly bites again.

“You’re mean.”

“Oh, am I? Poor you,” He mumbles into your jaw, his other hand going to your neck, gently tilting your head up while his fingers hook into the lace, pulling it down your thighs.

His eyes remain locked on your face in the rearview mirror, watching how your lips part slightly.

“Open your mouth f’me, Dolly.”

“Huh?” You mumble a little breathlessly, your expression a little dazed in the small mirror.

“Y’heard me, open your mouth.” He repeats, his middle and ring fingers gently prodding at your chin.

With a shaky sigh, you part your lips, your lashes fluttering slightly.

“Atta girl,” Jason mumbles in slight amusement, almost impressed with how easily you listen to him. It’s not like you usually tend to have much going on in that little head of yours, anyway.

His fingers press down on your tongue, just resting there for a moment as he feels you trying your push yourself down against his lap a bit harder, leaving a little wet patch on his jeans.

He presses a small kiss to the back of your neck before resting his chin on your shoulder, his fingers pushing a little further into your mouth, pressing your tongue down.

It’s useless for him to try to stifle a huff of amusement when you gag, slowly pulling his fingers back, covered in your spit.

“You’re real pretty, yknow that?” His voice is a soft rasp against your neck, lightly rubbing his fingers against your clit, pressing a little kiss to his jaw.

“Uh-huh,” you manage a weak nod, tilting your head back against him with a shaky sigh, your teeth pressing into your bottom lip.

“Good.”

He’d burn a fucking CD full of your little sighs and dumb little squeaks if he could.

It’s so obvious he’s doing this on purpose too, his fingers moving against you at an almost agonisingly slow pace. It’s partly cause he doesn’t wanna rush things.

But mostly cause he wants to hear you whine a little more. He lives for that stupid little pout on your glossy lips.

“Jason..” Your words come out as an almost silent plea, your hips lifting to try to push against his hand a little harder, only to be met with another smack to your thigh.

“M’not gonna let you rush me - sorry, Dolly.” He tilts your head to the side, admiring your flushed face in the mirror once more - it’s hard for him to take his eyes off of it, actually.

When he’s had enough fun making you pant, he finally decides to be decent enough to actually give you something, slowly thrusting his fingers in and out of your sopping cunt, kissing behind your ear as if his strong arm is wrapped around your torso like a vice, bouncing his thigh a little bit every now and then, just to mess with you even more.

“Y’still with me, bunny?” He’s holding your neck now, his thumb rubbing over your kiss-swollen lips, lightly pushing it between them.

“Mhm,”

You’re not sure whether to nod or shake your head, and before you can even answer he’s grinding you down into his thigh again, gripping your hips hard in whatever way he wants, his fingers likely to leave little bruises on your hip-bones.

He should kiss those better later, he thinks.

“Yeah, pretty girl?” His hands slide up your hips to your torso, his fingers pressing into your ribs as he moves you around to lie down on the backseat, his thigh slotting between your legs as he fumbles with his belt, grinding himself against you slightly.

And that’s when you see it.

Your car keys are right there, in his fucking front pocket.

And you never even thought to question him.

a/n: I have the feminine urge to gnaw at his arms like a rabid dog.

Asks/requests currently open

137 notes · View notes

insertsparkleshere · 26 days ago

Text

well this is fucking beautiful

Pathetic Fallacy

Tags: Hurt and comfort, Fluff, Jason Todd X GN Reader, slight OOC Jason

— — —

The city breathes beneath you, slow and indifferent. Lights blink in windows like tired eyes. Somewhere, far away, someone laughs. Someone is loved. It’s a noise you can’t reach.

You sit with your arms wrapped tight around your knees, a blanket draped over your shoulders like armor. Not for the cold. You aren’t sure what for.

Jason does not speak when he sits. He is quiet the way storms are before they break. Still, but watching. You feel him before you hear him. Like gravity, quietly insisting.

Minutes pass. The silence between you stretches, soft as thread.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

You don’t look at him. “Fine.”

He doesn’t press. Of course he doesn’t.

But something loosens in your chest. Enough that when the words come, you don’t stop them.

“It’s stupid,” you say. “I just… sometimes it feels like everyone else has it figured out. Love. Belonging. Like it’s something handed to other people and withheld from me. Like the universe decided I wouldn’t need it.”

He’s silent. But not distant.

And then, gently: “It’s not stupid.”

You glance at him.

He’s not looking at you, not fully. His gaze is somewhere just beyond, on the horizon, the lights, a thought he hasn’t named. His hands are braced on his knees, still, and tight-fisted.

“I used to think that too,” he says. “That it was for other people. That maybe I was born wrong. Too rough. Too much.”

Your throat aches. You don’t know what to say.

“Do you think it’s selfish,” you whisper, “to want someone who chooses you and stays?”

“No,” he says. “I think it’s the most human thing there is.”

There is a long, trembling pause.

The brush of his knuckles is not quite a touch. Not quite nothing.

It is the smallest thing he can give you, and it is everything.

You lower your eyes to the place where your hands almost meet.

“I hope,” he says, low like a prayer, “that when it comes, it doesn’t ask you to shrink to be loved. That it sees you as you are and calls you home.”

You don’t respond.

You can’t.

But you let your pinky curl against his. Just for a moment. Just enough.

And in that breath of closeness, something in him shatters quietly. Not loud enough for you to hear. But you feel the echo of it in your bones.

—

The days after that moment pass like pages turned in a book you cannot put down and yet cannot bear to read too quickly.

Nothing is said about the night on the fire escape. No grand confessions. No declarations. But something has shifted.

You feel it in the way he watches you now—more deliberate. As if he is memorizing the shape of you each time you turn away.

He walks with you in silence more often than he speaks. He lingers in doorways longer than necessary. His presence is not loud, it’s loyal. Steady. Like a shadow that never leaves, no matter how bright the light.

You think: if I turned around quickly enough, I’d catch him looking.

You never do. He is careful.

One evening, it rains. Not the kind of rain that lashes the windows or floods the streets, but the soft kind. The kind that feels like sorrow with no name. You are both caught in it, too far from shelter to outrun it. So you walk side by side, soaked to the bone.

Jason doesn’t offer his jacket. He simply moves closer—not touching, never touching—but you feel his warmth like a hearthfire beside you.

When thunder rolls distantly, you flinch, just slightly. It’s nothing, really. A reflex from some older hurt. But he notices.

He always notices.

His voice cuts gently through the rain. “You alright?”

You nod too quickly.

A beat. Then his hand hovers at your back, uncertain.

You stop walking.

And that’s when he looks at you. Fully, this time. No veiled glances, no glancing away. His eyes are storm-heavy. Unspoken things crash behind them like waves.

“I don’t want to overstep,” he says quietly, hoarsely, “but I need you to know… I see you.”

And you can’t answer.

Instead, you shift just enough that your shoulder brushes his. That’s all. The smallest of acknowledgments.

But for Jason, it is everything.

Because in this slow, fragile orbit you’ve built between each other, that small touch feels like a vow.

—

It doesn’t happen on a rooftop.

Not in the aftermath of a fight, or in the haze of pain, or while bleeding under a city that doesn’t know how to stop demanding things from him.

It happens on a morning so still it feels like a held breath.

You’re both in the kitchen. The sun is just beginning to pour through the windows, soft and golden, catching on the steam from the kettle. You’re barefoot. He’s wearing a threadbare shirt you think might once have belonged to someone else. It smells like smoke and soap and him.

The quiet between you is easy. You’re stirring honey into your tea when he says it.

Not loudly.

Not even while looking at you.

“I’m in love with you.”

The spoon pauses in your cup. Just for a second.

And when you glance up, he’s still watching the window. His shoulders tense, bracing for the world to break beneath his feet.

You don’t speak. You watch the light spill across his face.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says. “Didn’t plan it. I tried not to.” A soft laugh escapes him, bitter and breathless. “God, I really tried.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

“And I know it’s not fair. I know I don’t have the right to ask for anything. I’ve got blood on my hands and too many ghosts behind me. I’m not clean. I’m not… safe. But every time I’m near you, I feel like… like maybe I was wrong about the kind of life I’m allowed to have.”

You set the spoon down.

He’s quiet again. The confession spent. Like he’s given away a part of himself he’ll never get back.

And still, he doesn’t ask.

He doesn’t beg for an answer.

Just stands there, the silence around him thick with a love too old for his years.

You move slowly. One step, then another, until you’re close enough to touch him. You don’t.

Instead, you say with a reverence of a truth you’ve only just discovered, “You always make the tea just the way I like it. Even when you pretend not to remember.”

His mouth quirks into something that might be a smile. But his eyes are cautious, searching. Like he’s trying not to hope.

You reach for him.

Your fingers graze his own, tender, open. And his hand turns toward yours like he’s been waiting for it.

“I love you too,” you whisper. “Quietly. Carefully. Probably longer than I realized.”

And something in him breaks. Like a window thrown wide to let the spring air in.

He doesn’t pull you into his arms.

He doesn’t need to.

He just stands there, breathing the same air as you, his eyes soft and stunned and full of something that finally��finally—doesn’t look like grief.

This is the moment the world tilts with its stillness. The ache in your chest does not vanish, but it shifts, it becomes something golden-edged, something you can hold.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe: perhaps this is the beginning. Perhaps you are allowed to want.

80 notes · View notes

insertsparkleshere · 1 month ago

Text

Sanctuary

Summary : Bucky needs to vent, and you’re there to listen. One day, you both try a powerful sex magic ritual that blurs the line between healing and love.

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

Warnings/tags : Reader has Retroactive Clairvoyance (you can touch an object and see its past), cursing, mutual pining, friends to lovers, sex ritual magic (more suggestive and emotional than outright explicit), therapy, mentions of masturbation, past trauma, cursing, initial friends-with-benefits arrangement. Let me know if I miss anything!

Word count : 10k

Note : Purely self indulgent stuff lol. Hopefully this makes sense, since I’m trying a lot of new concepts in this. I have three stories coming in the next week or two, including new parts of Spoils of War, Super Soldier Support Group, and a short story of Bucky's day to day life as an amputee. Meanwhile, Enjoy!

Bucky left another therapy session feeling like a failure. Again.

He sat in that same sterile office, hands curled into fists, his lips feeling useless. He wanted to open up, but the moment he even considered talking about his past, his chest tightened, his mind locking up like a steel trap.

His third therapist in two months sat across from him.

“I’m sorry, but… if you don’t open up,” she said after another long silence, “I can’t help.”

She was giving him a lifeline, he couldn’t reach for it.

Instead, he just nodded, stood up, and walked out.

By the time he made it home, the dam inside him finally broke.

He sank to the floor of his apartment, his back pressed against the couch, his hands gripping at his face as if he could physically hold himself together. His body ached, but his mind ached more.

For fuck’s sake! Why can’t he just say it? Why can’t he just talk about his past?

Maybe he needed a telepath. Or—hell—maybe a magician.

Wait.

An idea manifested in his mind.

Doctor Strange.

That guy did weird shit all the time. Maybe he could fix this. Maybe he could make it easier.

Bucky didn’t even wait for morning. He grabbed his jacket and made a beeline for the New York Sanctum.

—

Strange opened the door in his robes, looking mildly irritated until he saw who was standing there. Bucky Barnes.

They weren’t friends, not really, but they crossed paths here and there and ran similar circles. They knew each other enough to say hi and exchanged nods at brief encounters. But Bucky knew one thing: when conventional medicine failed, Strange had turned to magic.

And that was exactly what Bucky was doing now.

Strange hesitated. “Sergeant Barnes—”

“I need you to read my mind,” Bucky interrupted desperately. His hands were shaking.

Strange blinked. “I—what?”

“You deal with this kind of thing, right?” Bucky’s breath was coming in ragged gasped, as if he had run all the way here. Perhaps he did. “I need to get it out.”

Strange did not have to ask what it was— he had enough trauma of his own to know.

“I can’t do that,” Strange frowned, still half-blocking the door. “What do you think I am, a witch?”

Bucky shook his head, frustrated. “Then erase my memories of Hydra, Just—just make them gone.”

Strange looked at him like he was going insane. “No.”

Bucky clenched his teeth. “Why not?”

“Because that’s you,” Strange said firmly. “Whether you like it or not.” His lips pressed together. “Besides, the last time I tampered with a memory spell, it had some… unintended consequences.”

Bucky tapped his foot, brainstorming for more ideas, “Then can you—”

“No.” Strange sighed, already sounding exhausted, like he could see exactly where this conversation was going. “Go to therapy, Barnes.”

“I tried.” Bucky’s voice was strained, his breath uneven. His fists clenched, metal whining under the force. “I can’t do this,” he choked. “I can’t—” His throat locked up as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force himself to calm down .

“I can’t say it out loud.” His voice trembled. It sounded almost… broken. “Please.”

Ah, fuck.

Strange didn’t have it in him to turn Bucky away—not when the Ancient One had taken him in when he was lost. And sure, Bucky wasn’t physically impaired. He was an amputee, yes, but with a state-of-the-art prosthetic that made him stronger than most.

But his mind was a wound no technology could fix.

Then it clicked.

His arm. Not the one Shuri had made for him—the other one. That held the solution.

“Fine,” Strange sighed, rubbing his temple. “I know someone who might be able to help.”

Bucky swallowed hard, “Who?”

Instead of answering him, Strange studied him. “Do you still have your old Hydra arm?”

Bucky’s stomach twisted, a sick feeling in his stomach. What did that have to do with anything? “…Yeah.”

“Good,” Strange nodded. “You’re going to need it.”

—

The next day, Strange led Bucky through the New York Sanctum’s entrance, stepping seamlessly from one world into another.

Bucky had seen some shit in his time, but magic still floored him. The shift between the doorways was jarring —one second, he could feel the familiar bite of the city, the next, he was enveloped in a humid, warm air that smelled like incense and aged parchment.

His fingers flexed around the strap of his duffel bag as he followed Strange through the winding halls of Kamar Taj. The students and sorcerers alike passed them, clad in robes of deep crimson and gold.

Bucky wasn’t sure what he’d signed up to. A mind-reader? A magical therapist? Someone who could just reach in and rip the words from his skull?

“Where are we going?” Bucky broke the silence.

Strange didn’t stop. “To see one of the kindest souls I know.”

Bucky gave him a skeptical look. “That’s… vague.”

Strange didn’t elaborate.

Finally, they stopped in the historical wing, outside a quiet study. The moment Strange stepped inside, his shoulders relaxed.

“You’re back early,” you said.

Bucky turned just as you rose from where you sat cross-legged at a low wooden table, an ancient tome open before you. The navy and gold of your robes pooled slightly at your wrists as you smoothed them down.

Without hesitation, you walked over wrapped your arms around Strange in a sisterly embrace.

Strange chuckled, patting your back once. “Miss me that much?”

“You never visit just for fun anymore,” you smile, pulling back. “It’s always something.”

Strange sighed. “Well, you’re right about that.”

Then your eyes looked over his shoulder.

To him.

Bucky felt your eyes on him, not in the way most people did. You were not wary, not cautious, not even fearful. You were assessing.

Strange cleared his throat, gesturing between you. “Sergeant Barnes.” He introduced, then turned to Bucky, “She’s a historian-sorceress. One of my oldest friends here.”

Bucky offered a small nod. “Just Bucky’s fine.”

You smiled the sweetest smile Bucky has ever seen.

“Nice to meet you, just Bucky.” You extended a hand.

He hesitated, just for a second, before shaking it with his human one.

“She was born with a rare gift, even among sorcerers,” Strange leaned against the table, arms crossed. “Retroactive clairvoyance. She can see the past of objects she touches.”

Bucky’s fingers thrummed against yours before he let go. You sat back down, inviting the two men to do the same across from you.

“You can just…” he swallowed. “Touch something and see what’s happened to it?”

“More or less,” you explained. “It’s like a ripple effect. Objects, unlike people, start off as empty vessels. They absorb the energy and information around them— the people who held them, the emotions they carried. I can tap into that.”

Bucky turned to Strange, voice hoarse. “So she can see—”

“Your past?” Strange shook his head. “Not quite. It doesn’t work on living things.”

Bucky froze.

He felt it like a gut punch. The tension in his chest coiled tight enough to snap. Then why the hell am I here?

He was so close. He thought this was it. That someone could finally see the things he couldn’t say.

Strange must’ve seen it in his face because, for once, he looked sympathetic.

Strange let out a slow breath, folding his arms. The lines on his forehead were softer—more measured. More doctor than sorcerer.

“He needs help,” he said.

You glanced at Bucky. He was stiff, his fingers twitching slightly. He wasn’t meeting your eyes.

Strange continued. “He’s tried putting in the work in therapy, but… there’s a psychological barrier.” He hesitated, searching for the right wording. “Something is preventing him from verbalising what he needs to.”

Your brow furrowed. “Something?”

Strange nodded. “His autonomic nervous system is overriding his intent. A trauma response, maybe even conditioning. The moment he tries, his body shuts him down.” His eyes went to Bucky. “And he needs… an outlet.”

Your throat tightened.

Strange turned back to you. “I wouldn’t have brought him here if I didn’t think you could help.”

You hesitated, then looked at Bucky again. His teeth were clenched so tight waiting for a definitive answer, it looked painful.

Gently, you asked, “Is that… true?”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, his throat bobbed. Barely above a whisper, almost ashamed, he confirmed. “I can’t say it.”

Oh.

“I want to help,” you said gently. “But I can’t just… reach into your mind. That’s not how my magic works. You know that, Strange.”

“I do,” Strange admitted. Then, he glanced at Bucky. Then, to his bag.

Right. He still had one thing.

Without a word, he reached inside, he hesitated.

Then, he pulled it out.

The glint of metal caught the candle light as he set it down on the table between you.

Bucky forced himself to meet your eyes. His heartbeat roared in his ears. “Can you read that?”

Your lips parted slightly. Slowly, you reached out—but stopped just short of touching it.

Your fingers hovered over the metal.

“This,” you said. “I can work with.”

—

So you got to work immediately.

For the next fifteen minutes, you rolled up your sleeves and cleared a space on the low wooden table. Your fingers moved with practiced ease, lighting incense and summoning runes— not because they were necessary, but because grounding objects helped stabilise the energy.

Strange, of course, loitered like an overbearing older brother.

“Do you mind?” you asked, rolling your eyes.

“What?” He asked.

“This is private, Stephen,” you nudged him toward the door. “Go hover somewhere else. You’re throwing off my vibe.”

“I don’t hover—”

You took him by the shoulders and physically turned him toward the door.

Strange sighed dramatically but didn’t fight it. He gave one last look at Bucky before stepping out. “Barnes, if she sets you on fire, that’s on you.”

“Out, Strange.”

—

After Strange left, the air shifted.

You turned to Bucky.

He sat by the table, stiff as stone, his arms locked at his sides like he didn’t trust them to move. His eyes flicked to you, then away, then back again, as if expecting something from you but not sure he could accept it.

“Let me be clear,” you started. “I’m not your therapist.”

His wrist flexed. “I know.”

“I’m not here to fix you.” Your voice softened as you explained. “I’m just here to listen. To let you show me what you can’t say. In the hopes that one day, you can say it.”

It felt embarrassing, seeking magical help just to vent, but he nodded anyway.

Your heart broke at the sight of him, muscles wound tight, trying so hard to be unreadable, but even without magic, you could see the exhaustion carved into his bones. He’d been carrying these memories for so long he probably didn’t remember what it felt like to be without it.

You lifted a hand toward the metal, hovering just above the arm.

“You ready?” you asked.

He gave a single nod.

With your free hand, you conjured a swirl of golden light, curling like smoke between your fingers. The magic settled on your wrist. “Hold my hand,” you said. “It’ll link us. You’ll see what I see.”

Carefully, he took your hand.

His flesh palm was solid and rough with callouses. But there was pause when he touched you, like he wasn’t used to being gentle. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be.

Slowly you pressed your other palm to cold metal and truly focused.

After a few minutes, the room dissolved, and the past bled into view.

At first, there was nothing but darkness.

Through the arm, you saw it, tucked away in the back of a closet, hidden like a shameful part of him that didn’t really ever belong to him.

You willed your clairvoyance to go back further.

You saw the impact— Stark’s repulsor beam colliding with the hand. Then you felt the sudden absence, the severing. It was the moment Bucky had learned, all over again, that pieces of him could be taken.

You went back a bit further, to Romania.

You saw the cramped apartment. You felt the deafening silence in his days, you felt his loneliness. You saw his day to day routine of trying to stitch together a life with hands that had only ever been taught to destroy, saw him writing in a journal to remember things that never stayed in his mind.

He avoided mirrors. He avoided people. He avoided himself.

Bucky said nothing, but you felt the tension rolling off.

You were naturally curious, but you started slow.

“Did you ever have a moment of peace in Romania?” You asked.

He said nothing for a moment, until hoarsely, he said, “No.”

“Not once?”

There was another long pause. “Maybe.” He whispered. “But I don’t think it was real.”

Your chest tightened, but continued the session.

More fragments revealed itself—memories bleeding into one another, looping and circling. He never stopped moving. He never stopped running.

He hadn’t been safe. Someone, somewhere, was always hunting him.

You didn’t push. Instead, you just let him sit with it, helping him wade through the waters of the things he had never dared to say out loud.

And he let you.

By the time the session ended, Bucky’s hands were shaking.

So were yours.

Bucky stared at the arm, amazed that this object that he had always seen as a weapon had told his story. His fingers twitch against your palm, like he was reminding himself that you were still there.

You squeezed his hand.

He flinched, but then relaxed.

His shoulders didn’t fully let go of tension, but at least he looked more… open.

“I don’t want to overwhelm you,” you said quietly. “Come back next week.”

—

Bucky showed up without Strange next time, though Wong let him in without a word. He looked tired but he was more relaxed than last week, his shoulders weren’t braced like he expected an attack at any moment. Perhaps he was relieved he had a person to vent to— perhaps he felt like he wasn’t carrying it alone anymore.

You had the room set up before he arrived. The incense curled in steady ribbons toward the ceiling. The runes shimmered in a careful circle. And on the table, the old metal arm sat where it did last week.

When the session started, you pushed further back.

Fifteen, maybe twenty five years.

You saw Washington, D.C, the helicarrier plummeting from the sky.

Then you saw Steve.

Then, you pushed further back.

You saw a Hydra bunker with concrete walls. You saw a prisoner cornered by the Winter Soldier.

“Compliance will be rewarded,” his handler said.

The soldier took a clean shot.

You pulled yourself away from the memory. Across from you, Bucky sat rigid.

Softly, you asked him, “Did you know him?”

Bucky shook his head, “No. I—” He swallowed hard, squeezing your hand. “I didn’t let myself.”

For a second, you thought he might retreat, close himself off the way he always did when the past clawed its way too close… but he didn’t.

That night, he stayed longer than necessary.

He didn’t speak much after the session ended, but he didn’t rush out the door either.

Eventually, you made a simple offer. “Tea?”

You expected a refusal. But to your surprise, he nodded.

So you brewed a pot, and set a cup in front of him.

The conversation drifted to nothing of importance—the weather, the strange antics of the Kamar Taj apprentices, the book you’d been reading.

—

When he came in for the next session, brought you a cup of coffee. “Figured it’s only fair,” he said sheepishly.

This time, you reached further into the arm’s past.

First you saw a bar— a man in an American army uniform. He ripped Bucky’s arm apart from the elbow down.

You recognised the flags on the scene— this was the Korean war. Bucky recognised the man as Isaiah Bradley.

Then, you pushed through.

You saw a man in a lab coat, and the Winter Soldier strapped to a table. He was fixing his metal arm.

You heard a title whispered in fear. “Zimniy Soldat.”

In this period of his life, Bucky knew no such thing as warmth. He knew no mercy. He was punished for losing.

You gasped as you pulled your hands away. Bucky’s breathing was ragged, his forehead damp with sweat. He didn’t look at you — his gaze was locked on the table.

“I didn’t really remember that one,” he admitted. “They wiped it.”

You squeezed his hand without thinking. “I’m still here, Bucky.”

His grip tightened ever so slightly. “I know.”

—

Somewhere along the way, the conversations stretched far beyond the sessions.

Bucky stayed a little longer each time. At first, it was for the usual tea. Then, he would stay for meals. Then he’d stick around just to sit with you, watching as you worked with ancient scrolls or prepared lessons for novices.

You teased him about how the coffee he brought had become a habit. “You trying to bribe me into liking you, Barnes?”

He’d smile shyly. “Is it working?”

You wouldn’t admit it, but it was.

One day, after one of your sessions he brought something… interesting up. “Your gifts,” he whispered. “How do they… work?”

You tilted your head.

He wasn’t asking for small talk. He was asking because he trusted you. Because after all the things you saw in him, all the nightmares you witnessed in the metal limb he hated so much, you were never fazed. He wanted to know why.

So you told him how it started when you were young. How, when you were twelve, you touched an ancient dagger and saw every soul it had killed. How the visions consumed you, how you saw uncontrollable flashes of blood, of screams, of deaths.

“How did you deal with it?” he asked.

You hesitated. “For a long time, I didn’t,” you admitted, “I was scared to touch anything at all. I never knew when it would happen. It was… exhausting, seeing things I couldn’t control.”

He looked at you with recognition— he knew what it was like to be a passenger driving through horrors you never asked for.

“Then I went to Kamar Taj,” you continued. “To learn how to control it. I trained in sorcery, I put a leash on my gifts. Now… I only see the past when I focus. It’s easier this way.”

Bucky considered his response for a moment, then asked, “Do you ever wish you couldn’t see it at all?”

You swallowed. “Sometimes.” you admitted. “There were things… I wish I could unsee.”

Bucky’s eyes dropped to the floor. “I get that.”

And you knew he did.

After that, he started worrying. You noticed it in the way he hesitated before speaking, the way he looked guilty everytime you walked through the door.

One evening, after a particularly heavy session, he ran his vibranium hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t keep doing this.”

You frowned. “Doing what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely between you. “Dumping all this shit on you. You’ve got enough to deal with, and I—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “It’s not fair to you.”

Your brows furrowed together. “Bucky—”

“I mean it.” His voice was quieter now, but no less serious. “I’ve seen what you do. How much it takes out of you. And I keep coming back, expecting you to just… listen. Like you don’t already have enough on your shoulders.”

You stepped closer, fingers gliding softly along his human arm, tracing his bare skin. The touch was intimate enough to make his breath hitch.

“I can handle it,” you insisted, “I want to handle it.”

He didn’t answer. He studied your face, searching for some sign that you were lying, or that you were just saying what you thought he wanted to hear.

But there was no pity in your eyes, just resolution.

Strange had told him once that you were one of the kindest souls he’d ever met. Bucky hadn’t believed it at first. After all, he didn’t believe in kindness without an agenda.

But now, he wasn’t sure what to believe anymore.

Soon, the stolen glances stretched longer. The not-so-casual touches lingered just a little too long. He held your hand longer than necessary during sessions. The hugs before he left grew tighter, sometimes you weren't sure he even wanted to let go.

You both knew you were falling for each other—but neither of you said a word.

Bucky wouldn’t say it. Vulnerability had never come easy to him; it was the very reason he was here in the first place.

And you cherished this—whatever this was— too much. You weren’t willing to risk scaring him away.

—

The memories from this particular session hit harder. You were reaching sixty, seventy years back.

You saw another Hydra facility. Another mission.

This one was early—one of the first ones he went though. His handler’s voice echoed in his mind. The soldier had done what they ordered him to, he had eliminated the target. But then you saw a child.

She was a witness.

The Soldier turned, his gun raised—

Bucky’s hands trembled before the vision even ended. You barely had time to react before he wrenched his hand from your grip and shoved back from the table, stumbling to his feet.

“I can’t—” His voice broke. “I can’t do this.”

“Bucky—”

“I killed her.” His blue eyes were wild, frantic. “I don’t even know her name, and I killed her.”

Tears welled in your eyes. It had been a long time since a vision had made you cry. “It wasn’t you.”

“Don’t.” He shook his head violently. “Don’t tell me that. I was there. I pulled the trigger.”

“You were a prisoner.”

“That doesn’t change what I did.”

“No.” You insisted, standing up and wiping at your face “But it changes why.”

He didn’t argue.

Breaking down, desperate sobs ripping through him like hands clawing out of his chest. His knees buckled, and before he could collapse, you caught him.

Ever so gently, you lowered him to the floor, holding him as he fell apart.

“Bucky,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around him. He clutched at you like a lifeline, his face buried in your shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

He didn’t believe it, but he held on anyway.

That night, Bucky stayed. Not only because he wanted to, but because he needed to.

You didn’t say much— you didn’t have to. Instead, you quietly laid out pillows and blankets on the couch in your quarters at Kamar Taj. “You can sleep here,” you told him.

And he did.

The next morning, you stirred first as sunlight filtered through the door. Shifting beneath your blankets, you turned your head toward the couch.

He was still there.

His body curled slightly, breaths slow and steady—the most peaceful you’d ever seen him.

You weren’t sure how long you watched him, memorising the rare ease in his face, the way the tension had melted from his shoulders.

Later, before he left, he hugged you.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You held on a little longer than usual, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his jacket, unwilling to let go just yet. Surprisingly, he let himself lean into it, let himself accept it.

Because the truth was, last night had been a catharsis he hadn’t even realised he needed. So when he finally stepped back, there was something different in his expression. The haunted look that had always lingered in his eyes had eased, if only slightly.

For the first time, Bucky didn’t look like a man drowning.

He looked like a man who might finally learn how to breathe.

—

You thought today would be the last session.

The Hydra arm rested on the table one final time, but it felt different now. Lighter, maybe. The memories were still there—they always would be—but they no longer clawed at Bucky’s chest like an open wound. He had vented them out to you, piece by piece, and you had listened.

Someone finally listened.

When the visions faded, you found him already watching you. His blue eyes, so often cloudy, were clearer than you’d ever seen them before. “That’s it,” you said, hands hovering over the arm as the last wisps of the protection runes dispersed into the ether. “There’s nothing more to read from it.”

Bucky exhaled a long breath that felt like a closing door— or maybe the opening of a new one. You waited for him to stand, to leave.

But… he didn’t. Instead, his hand moved to the front pocket of his jacket.

“I, uh—” He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I have one more thing.”

You blinked as he pulled out a silver chain, dog tags dangling from his fingers, gleaming faintly in the dim light.

This felt more… intimate.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

He turned the tags over in his palm, running his thumb over the worn engraving. “You know the Winter Soldier,” he said quietly. “But I want you to know…the soldier.”

Bucky met your eyes, searching for something—hesitation, uncertainty, a reason to stop. But you didn’t look away.

“You’re sure?” you asked softly.

He nodded. “I am.” His fingers tightened around the tags before extending them toward you.

Without another word, he placed the tags into your hands.

Without a word, you re-summoned the runes and you reached for his other hand, his human hand.

The hum of magic stirred once again.

You saw him falling.

The wind roared in your ears as Bucky plummeted from the train in the Alps. His arm—his real arm—torn from him.

You went further back.

You saw The Howling Commandos sitting around a firelit camp. Bucky grinned, a boyish, carefree thing, clinking his canteen against Dum Dum Dugan’s. They were celebrating a successful raid.

The dog tags were clearly connected to Bucky in a way the Hydra arm never was. It was demanding you further back.

Then you saw Zola in a Hydra lab Steve rescued him from. Metal restraints bit into his wrists. Bucky was unconscious, but the dog tags remembered a needle pressed into his arm, the unactivated serum flooding his veins.

No. No. The object was telling you to go further back.

You saw gun fire and mud– this was the trenches.

Bucky had a rifle in his hands, the deafening blast of artillery shaking the earth beneath him. Bucky was there, a young man, charging forward.

No. No. No. You needed to go back.

You were almost there.

The visions slowed.

Yes.

This was it. The dog tags wanted you to see… this.

You first heard the crackle of a radio.

You found yourself in a modest Brooklyn apartment.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, hair neatly combed, his Army uniform crisp in the dim light. In the other room, his sisters chattered excitedly.

His mother stood before him, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “You look so handsome, James.”

Bucky ducked his head, the tips of his ears burning. “Ma, you’re embarrassing me.”

“Good.” She cupped his face, thumb brushing against his cheek. “You be careful out there, sweetheart.”

“I will.”

When you returned from the vision, you were trembling. The dog tags were still clutched tightly in your hands. This… contained the unbreakable threads of the young man he had once been.

“I’m not him anymore,” Bucky said quietly. “But I’m not the Winter Soldier, either. I don’t know who the hell I am.”

“You’re both,” you whispered, rubbing a finger on his knuckles. “And neither.”

He looked at you like you were the first person to ever say those words, the first person to see him.

Your hand still still curled around the dog tags, the metal pressing into your palm like an anchor. “Bucky, I—”

“I just—” He cut you off, his voice dipping to something barely above a whisper. “I just… I wanted you to know.”

Your throat tightened. “I’m glad I do now.”

Your pulse roared in your ears. Your hand stayed in his, even though you didn’t need to hold it anymore, even though you probably shouldn’t.

You stood, clearing your throat, and pressed his dog tags back into his palm. He followed.

“I…” You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. “As much as I like having you around, I have a class to teach soon.”

“Right.” His voice was rough, if not a bit disappointed. But he didn’t step back.

Instead, he stepped closer.

He was so close now, you could see the flecks of silver in his stormy blue eyes, the way the lines around them relaxed when he looked at you. You could see the faint scar along his jaw. He parted his lips slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

His eye flicked to your lips—just for a second. And godammit, you wanted him to close the distance. To kiss you. To let go of whatever invisible tether was holding him back. To let himself have this— have you.

But he didn’t.

And neither did you.

Instead, his forehead dropped to yours. His metal hand hovered just above your waist, wanting, but never quite making contact.

Neither of you moved.

The moment stretched, until finally, he stepped back.

“I should go,” he said more to himself than to you. But his eyes told another story.

You nodded, even though every part of you wanted to reach for him. To tell him to stay.

“Okay.”

Bucky turned toward the door. His fingers hovered over the handle.

“Bucky,” you called out.

He stopped.

You swallowed hard. “I’ll see you next week?” You asked

There was no reason for him to come back. You had read his old arm. You had read his dog tags. There was nothing left to read.

But somehow, he knew he would find another excuse.

“Yeah.”

—

Later that night, the courtyard was quiet, the last of your students leaving after training. The lanterns lining the stone pathways flickered gently as you stretched out your arms, feeling the satisfying ache of exertion settle into your muscles.

You barely had a moment to enjoy the silence before you felt a powerful presence behind you.

“Strange,” you said without turning around.

He let out a low chuckle. “Impressive.”

You rolled your eyes before finally facing him. Stephen stood there, arms crossed over his chest, his cloak shifting slightly with the evening breeze. He looked entirely too smug for your liking.

“What do you want?” you asked, already suspicious.

He tilted his head. “Oh, nothing really. Just noting how distracted you were today.”

Your head tilted inconfusion. “Distracted?”

He took a step forward with his eyebrows lifting in an I-know-more-than-you way. “Your spellcasting was slightly off. Not by much, of course.” His smirk deepened. “Wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with a certain super soldier, would it?”

Your stomach dropped. “I—”

“No, no, don’t even try to deny it.” Strange waved a hand, “I see the way you look at him.”

You crossed your arms. “I don’t—”

“You do,” he cut in, as if he was having fun watching you squirm.

You tried to keep your expression neutral. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Oh, please.” He dismissed, “You might as well have a neon sign pointing at you that says I am in love with James Buchanan Barnes.”

Your face burned. “I—I am not—”

“You are,” came another voice.

You turned around to find Wong strolling into the courtyard.

“Not you too,” you groaned.

He stopped beside Strange, regarding you with both amusement and respect. “I thought we were waiting to see who’d break first.”

Strange shrugged. “I got impatient.”

You turned to Wong, desperate for someone to be reasonable. For fuck’s sake, isn’t the sorcerer supreme supposed to be reasonable? “You don’t actually believe this, do you?”

Wong sighed. “You train all day, wield magic beyond comprehension… and yet, you remain utterly clueless.”

“I am not clueless!” you protested.

Strange snorted. “Oh, you are.”

You huffed. “Even if—and that’s a big if—I had feelings for Bucky, it wouldn’t matter. Because he doesn’t feel the same.”

Strange and Wong exchanged a look.

Then, Strange let out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s just tragic.”

You glared at them. “It’s true.”

Wong crossed his arms. “And what, exactly, makes you think that?”

You hesitated, suddenly feeling a little ridiculous. “Because… he just doesn’t, okay?”

“Ah, yes,” Strange blinked. “Flawless reasoning.”

You shook your head with a sad smile. “I know he doesn’t.”

Because why would he? Bucky Barnes, who had seen the worst of the world, who had lived through unimaginable horrors— and still came out a good man, what would he want with you?

You refuse to dignify them with a response. Instead, you turned on your heel and marched toward the temple doors.

You didn’t look back.

—

The week after, Bucky arrived with a worn canvas bag in his hands.

“Things from before,” he clarified. “Before the war.”

The bag was filled with small trinkets. A dog-eared playing card. A tarnished pocket knife. A button from an old jacket. Every piece had a story, and with each memory you glimpsed, Bucky unraveled a little more.

From the card, you saw him running through the streets of Brooklyn, Steve’s laughter echoing behind him. You saw late-night card games in cramped apartments. You felt the satisfaction when he won and the frustration when he lost.

The knife had been a gift from his father. The button was from a coat he’d shared with one of his sisters one particularly brutal winter. Nothing fancy — just pieces of a life lived.

When the visions stopped, he could almost believe he might be happy again.

After the session, Bucky’s vibranium fingers traced absent circles on the armrest of his chair. “What are you up to after this?”

You hummed, pretending to think. “Trying to avoid some novice sorcerer who asked me to try a sex magic ritual.”

Bucky choked on air. “Sex magic is a thing?”

You chuckled, holding back a smile. “Yep. Sometimes it’s used for healing. Sometimes for severing bonds. You can even curse people with it, but cursing people through means of intimacy is technically forbidden magic.” You shrugged. “But this guy? He just wants to sleep with every sorceress in Kamar Taj.”

Bucky blinked. “That’s… I—” He shook his head like he couldn’t quite process it. “And people fall for it?”

“Not really.” You laughed softly. “He can’t even open a portal yet. So no, no one’s really falling for it.”

Bucky tried to force out a laugh but couldn't— he was trying to find humour in it but failing.

Because he was now thinking about it. He was already seeking alternative ways to let his thoughts out— this was just another step further.

Then, after a moment, his voice dropped. “Would it…” he considered his wording, “Could it help me?”

The question caught you completely off guard. You stilled, your fingers curling slightly against your robes. “Sex magic?”

“You said it could be used for healing.” He nodded once. “Can it heal… my mind?”

“It could. But it’s… more of a painkiller than a real fix,” You swallowed. “It would only work if you want it to work.

“I do.” His words were quiet, but firm. “I want to.”

You coughed, perhaps a tiny bit of jealousy kindling in your gut. You shook it off, though. “I can refer you to a specialist,” you offered, “They do this for a living, so you’d be in good hands. And you can have gender preferences if that makes you more comfortable.”

“What if I’m only comfortable with you?” Bucky said without thinking.

You froze, looking like you’ve just seen a ghost.

Fuck, Bucky thought, I screwed it up, did I?

Your lips parted. “I—I mean—” You were tripping over your words, looking for something, anything to say. “I can do it. I’ve trained in it, but…”

Bucky frowned slightly. “Is it something that requires a fee?”

You blinked, then laughed softly. “No, not for me, anyway. I could do… it as a favour to you.” A favour? you thought to yourself. What were you saying? You were just spitting shit out now. “But like I said, I don’t specialise in it. I’ve only done it with trained sorcerers.” You explained hastily.

And you certainly haven’t done it with anyone you cared about.

Bucky’s eyes didn’t waver, though. “Then only if you’re comfortable.”

His voice was steady— the same way he’d spoken when he handed you his items.

“I…” You swallowed. “I’ll think about it.”

—

After Bucky left, you spent the rest of the evening pacing your study, rearranging the same three books on your shelf, and trying — failing — to think about anything else. Bucky’s words kept echoing in your mind.

You hated how much your heart fluttered at the thought of him. You hated how part of you was already thinking about what it would be like. Not just the ritual, but also Bucky, trusting you like that.

Perhaps, to him, you were more than someone who could listen. Perhaps, you had become his sanctuary.

By morning, your resolve crumbled.

Which was how you ended up in the library with Wong, nursing a cup of tea and fidgeting with the hem of your sleeves. The Sorcerer Supreme sat across from you, already halfway through his own cup.

“I need your advice,” you said finally.

“Of course.” Wong nodded, watching you carefully. “What about?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then groaned. “This is going to sound ridiculous.”

“Highly likely.” He took a sip of his tea. “Go on.”

You let out a deep breath. “Bucky asked me if I’d consider doing a sex magic ritual with him.”

Wong blinked. Then, without missing a beat, calmly set his cup down. “I see.”

“Not like that,” you rushed to explain, heat creeping up your neck. “He’s not trying to seduce me or anything. He’s just—he’s struggling. He wants to heal. And I know the ritual can work without being necessarily romantic.”

“And yet you’re clearly thinking about it more than you’d like to.”

You winced. “Yeah.”

Wong didn’t respond immediately. You were glad you found him here without Strange— Stephen would never get through this conversation without making an inappropriate joke

Wong studied you.

For a while, you braced yourself for a lecture. Maybe a reminder of the ethical considerations. The emotional risks.

Instead, he said, “You should do it.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been working nonstop,” Wong continued, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re exhausted. Mentally and physically. Even the sunshine of Kamar Taj needs restoration.”

“I’m fine,” you argued, though the slight tremor in your voice didn’t help your case.

Wong raised a brow. “Are you?”

You scowled. “Okay, maybe I’m a little stressed.”

“You’ve been more than a little stressed,” he corrected. “And while I’m not suggesting you treat this as a casual fling, engaging in a ritual with someone you trust can be beneficial. For both of you.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but… he wasn’t wrong. The ritual wasn’t just for the participant seeking healing. The practitioner often experienced a sense of renewal too. It was a mutual exchange of energy.

And you did trust him.

But…

“That doesn’t mean it’s a good idea,” you pointed out. “Especially considering—”

“Your feelings for him?” Wong interrupted, a rare smile on his lips.

You stared at him. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Wong—”

“Please.”

You buried your face in your hands. “This is a nightmare.”

“It’s not,” Wong said. “It’s simply… life. And if you do decide to go through with the ritual, I suggest you stop pretending your feelings don’t exist. They’ll only complicate things further if you ignore them.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “So, what? You think I should sleep with him and see what happens?”

“If that’s what you want.” Wong shrugged. “You groaned again, sinking further into your chair. “I can’t believe I’m talking to you about this.”

Wong looked a bit too proud of himself. “I’m an excellent confidant.”

“You’re an ass.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He stood, gathering the empty cups. “And don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

You let out a breath of relief. “Thank you.”

“…Unless Strange bribes me.”

“Wong.”

“Or if he’s really annoying. Then I might have to tell him just to see the look on his face.”

“WONG!”

—

You stared at your phone for a long time. Wong’s words still echoed in your mind— you needed to be honest.

Right. Honesty. Simple.

You took a breath, then hit the call button before you could overthink it.

It barely rang twice before Bucky answered.

“Hey.” His voice was lower than usual, like he hadn’t expected you to call but wasn’t exactly surprised either.

“Hey,” you echoed, gripping the edge of your desk. “I… I’ve been thinking about what you asked.”

There was a pause before he answered, “Yeah?”

“I...” You exhaled slowly. “I want to help you.”

You could hear the way Bucky was processing your words, turning them over in his mind.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Bucky let out a vulnerable breath. “When?”

You swallowed. “Would this Friday work?”

There was a shift in his tone— was he... excited? “Yeah. That works.”

“Alright,” you said. “I’ll take care of everything. Just… bring yourself.”

“I can do that.” His voice was so gentle now’s “And, uh… thanks.”

You closed your eyes. “Always.”

—

When the day came, you had chosen one of the private sanctuaries deep within Kamar Taj— it was quiet, undisturbed, and you had protected the room with advanced wards before he even got here. The torches flickered steadily along the walls.

Bucky stood a few paces away, clad in the same deep red Kamar Taj robes as you. They had been enchanted to help regulate emotions, to keep things from spiraling too fast. It was a precaution, one suggested by the specialists you had consulted.

And yet, despite the calming influence, you could feel your heartbeat rush.

Bucky’s hands were clenched into fists at his sides. He wasn’t nervous—at least, not in the way most people would be. He just.. didn’t not know what to expect.

You took a breath, centering yourself. “Alright,” you started, your voice even. “Let’s set some ground rules.”

Bucky gave a single nod. “Shoot.”

You shuffled in your spot, “This is no strings attached,” you reminded him, even as something in your chest ached at the words. “Just… what you asked for. A way to work through it. That’s all.”

Another nod. “Understood.”

You exhaled slowly, pushing forward. “The specialists advised some precautions.”

Bucky raised a brow. “Precautions?”

You ignored the way his voice sent a shiver down your spine. “No kissing,” you said, “Not on the lips.”

That made him pause. His head tilted slightly, “Why?”

“It… it’s too intimate,” you admitted, clearing your throat. “Or so I’ve been told.”

His eyes remained unreadable, but you kept going. “It could complicate things. Distract me from the spells I’ll be casting.”

Bucky’s eyes flickered down to your hands as you lifted them, fingers curling, magic beginning to weave between them. Gold and amber light swirled, delicate but potent, a shifting balance of power between your palms.

“This is a give-and-take,” you said, more to yourself than him as you worked the spell into being. “Healing magic in sex is… an exchange of energy. It takes pain and converts it into pleasure. Shifts the weight of it.”

Bucky’s eyes followed the movement of your hands, the glow illuminating his beautiful features.

“And you can do that?” He asked.

Your fingers traced symbols in the air, sealing the magic between you both. “I can handle it,” you said simply.

You took a deep breath as you cast another rune. “You ready?” you asked

“I…” he said, “yes.”

And then he took a step forward.

Oh. This is really happening.

You reached for the belt of your robes first, fingers steady as you untied the knot and let the fabric slip from your shoulders. The red fabric pooled at your feet, and beneath it—nothing. You were bare under his eyes, under the flickering torchlight.

Bucky sucked in a deep breath. His gaze studied you. And fuck— his pupils dilated, his lips parted just slightly—

"You're beautiful,” he said without thinking.

“Thank you,” You swallowed, heat curling at the base of your spine, but you kept your hands steady as you reached for his robe next. “May I?”

Bucky nodded.

Your fingers brushed against his waist as you untied the fabric, and his breath hitched. The robe slid from his broad shoulders, revealing inch by inch of muscle, of scars that told a story only he truly knew. And fuck— he was gorgeous.

Your mouth felt dry.

The flickering torchlight caught the planes of his chest, the deep ridges of his abdomen, the lines of his collarbone. His vibranium metal arm gleamed under the glow, its intricate gold inlays reflecting the fire. He was all rough edges, but still so devastatingly gorgeous. “Wow,” you said under your breath, barely realising you spoke it aloud.

You didn’t think Bucky would hear you, but he did. He chuckled, leaving heat creeping up your neck.

“Nervous?” He teased.

“Hm,” you didn’t even try to deny it. You wet your lips, “maybe a little.”

A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he said nothing as you raised your hands to your chest.

With deliberate precision, you traced the first rune over your sternum, whispering the incantation under your breath. The air around you shimmered, golden threads of magic unfurling from the sigils and sinking beneath your skin. The protective spells settled over your ribs, anchoring the energy exchange, ensuring neither of you took more than the other could bear.

You reached for his hand and guided him toward the bed.

A flick of your fingers sent a soft, golden light washing over the sheets. Protective runes wove themselves into the fabric, ensuring the bed would hold the weight of the magic about to pass between you. They pulsed once, then dimmed, leaving only the lingering warmth of your spell in the air.

Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, watching you with dark, unreadable eyes. He was waiting.

You straddled his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours. His hands came to rest on your waist, fingers splaying over your bare flesh. You could feel the restraint in them, the way he held himself still, waiting for your lead.

Your breath fanned against his neck as you pressed your lips to his pulse point, magic curling from your touch, sinking into him like sunlight through water.

His breath stuttered.

You traced a slow path downward, pressing lingering kisses along his throat, across his collarbone, down the center of his chest. His fingers flexed against your hips, not in a demand, but in quiet, aching need.

You could feel it—the coil of tension beneath his skin, the way his breath deepened as your mouth brushed lower. The way his muscles tensed under your touch.

But this was more than desire. This was magic.

You pulled back just slightly, summoning the power to your fingertips.

Golden light flickered to life along your hands as you traced intricate runes across his skin. Each stroke of your magic marked him, not just with symbols, but with intent—with protection, grounding, balance. They pulsed softly as they sank into his flesh, wrapping around his ribs, down his back, anchoring him to you.

Bucky let out a slow breath, his head tipping back slightly as the magic settled into him. His eyes, when they found yours again, were heavy-lidded, dark with something deeper than want.

When you moved back up, he met you halfway.

His lips found the curve of your throat, pressing slow, reverent kisses into your skin. You sighed into his touch, the runes on your body flaring in response, golden light illuminating the space between you.

Bucky’s hands skimmed up your spine, pulling you closer, his mouth tracing a path along the sensitive skin beneath your jaw. You gasped, pressing against him as the energy between you shifted, crackling like lightning, settling into something slow and molten.

The ritual had begun.

The magic thrummed between you, a living thing that pulsed in time with your racing hearts. The golden runes etched into your skin glowed softly, responding to the ebb and flow of power, to the exchange of energy passing between you and Bucky.

His hands moved slowly. You realised, he was mapping you out. He was trying to learn your body. The heat of his touch left trails of warmth along your spine, across your ribs, down the curve of your back. You shivered, not from cold, but from the sheer intensity of it.

This felt… sacred. More than it has ever before.

You guided him as much as he guided you, breathing heavily as his lips found the hollow of your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. Magic rippled at the contact, light flaring and then settling into a rhythmic pulse.

It built between you, curling and twining like the roots of an ancient tree. His name fell from your lips in a whispered sigh as he pressed closer, his breath warm against your ear.

His forehead pressed against yours for a moment, his fingers tightening at your waist as the runes burned brighter. The connection between you was solid, magic weaving around your souls, tethering and healing.

And as you moved together, the world beyond the walls of your sanctuary ceased to exist. There was only this—only him, only you, only the inexorable pull of magic in whatever little space there was between your bodies.

A high tide of energy curled through your veins, vibrating beneath your skin. The golden runes flared between you, pulsing in rhythm with your shared breath, your racing hearts. Each touch sent another wave of heat rolling through you both, coiling tight like a bowstring drawn to its limit.

Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his fingers pressing into your waist as though anchoring himself, His breath was ragged against your ear, almost wrecked. “You feel that?”

You did. Fuck, you did. It was like the entire universe had narrowed down to this. To him.

The runes along your skin burned white-hot for a suspended moment—And then…

As you both came undone in each other’s arms. A final pulse of energy crashed over you, through you.

Fuck, did it feel so good.

It was all-consuming.

The magic burst outward in a golden flare, illuminating the room, The torches flickered wildly.

Bucky shuddered beneath you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. You held him close, your fingers buried in his hair, your own body trembling from the aftershocks of power.

You stayed still for a long moment, letting the last remnants of magic fade from your skin, the runes cooling to faint, dormant sigils.

The ritual had worked.

The energy was balanced, pain had been siphoned, the tension had drained.

The world beyond these walls felt unimportant. There was only this peace that settled deep in your bones, as if the ritual had stripped away every last thread of stress you built that week.

Bucky laid on his back, one arm folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. His vibranium fingers traced absent patterns against your bare shoulder. “For the first time…” His voice was hoarse. “My mind feels… quiet.”

You closed your eyes. God, he hadn’t known peace for years. Maybe decades. And knowing that now, even if only for a fleeting moment, the ghosts that haunted him were silent, made you feel… good. You had played your part in that.

You let your fingers drift up, brushing over his shoulder. “It will return,” you murmured. “This is… a temporary fix. It will last for a week, give or take. Could be shorter, could be longer. Magic’s funny like that.”

Bucky hummed, considering your words. Then he said—

“I guess I’ll see you next week.”

Your lips parted. He was serious. You could hear it in the rasp of his voice, in the way his fingers trailed against your skin.

You should have reminded him this was supposed to be a one time thing, that this wasn’t something to rely on.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you swallowed, let the warmth of his body seep into yours, and whispered,

“Yes.”

—

And that was how it started.

Every week. Same chamber. Same time.

Bucky returned to you without fail, stepping into the ritual space stripping off his robes without a word, letting you paint the runes over his body like a prayer.

For him, it was a reprieve—a chance to quiet the endless noise. For you, it was an escape, a way to bleed out the exhaustion of your work at Kamar Taj, to lose yourself in the rhythm of magic.

It was supposed to be a ritual. A transaction.

But it never felt that simple.

“You’ve been handling high-stress situations remarkably well.” Strange once asked, not looking up from the book in his hands, but you felt his attention nonetheless. “Unusual, given how you used to— well, react to pressure.”

You kept your expression carefully neutral, turning a page in your own book as if you hadn’t heard him.

But Doctor Strange never let things go so easily. “And then there’s the chamber you keep booking.”

You froze.

That was all he needed.

He looked up, narrowing his eyes. “It’s Barnes, isn’t it?”

Your fingers curled against the parchment, but you didn’t speak.

Strange sighed, closing his book with a thud. “Let me guess,” he said, “You keep telling yourself it’s just the magic.”

“It is just the magic,” you said.

He gave you an unimpressed look. “Magic has a way of ruining things when you refuse to acknowledge the other half of the equation.”

“There is no other half.” The words came out too rushed.

Strange tilted his head, almost amused. “So you’re saying there’s absolutely nothing else going on here? No… affection? No feelings?”

You let out a deep breath, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “This isn’t about feelings. It’s a means to an end. He needs the pain gone. I need—” You stopped yourself before you said too much.

But Strange caught it anyway.

“Mm.” He hummed, tapping his fingers against the table. “Well. I’m sure that logic will hold up forever.”

Strange was right, and you knew it.

Love was an ancient, primal force — was never something to take lightly. It wasn’t just a word or a feeling; it was a power. A force that could shift the very fabric of existence. And in magic, it was one of the most unpredictable powers. Love was strong enough to bind, to mend, to destroy.

And yet, you refused to acknowledge it.

So you had drawn extra runes for protection. Carefully layered wards against emotional entanglement, even though each time Bucky touched you, they frayed a little more. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That the tenderness in his touch was just the magic. That the way he took care of you afterwards was just a side effect of the ritual.

Bucky didn’t feel the same. He couldn’t. Right?

But love demanded to be acknowledged, and Bucky didn’t know this— but the last couple of sessions in the chambers, the magic had taken from you more that you could give, simply because the primal force love was angry that it wasn’t taken seriously. It had drained you, but Bucky still left you satisfied. And besides, he still reaped the rewards.

So you would stay quiet, sacrifice a part of your energy as long as he stayed happy with this arrangement

Because if you did say what you felt out loud… and he did not reciprocate his feelings… well. You just couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Losing this, whatever this was.

—

Over the past few weeks, your retroactive clairvoyance has begun to spiral out of control. And you… weren’t sure why.

You had spent years mastering it, learning how to pull at the past with intent, how to channel the energy with purpose.

But now, you felt like you were a kid again.

Now, the visions struck without warning. at times when you least expected them.

Worse, when you did try to summon memories, to command your gift, sometimes... nothing happened.

It had started subtly, with a missed glimpse here, a half-formed vision there. Then, two days ago, you had tried to trace the origins of a simple feathered pen, only to feel nothing. It was as if the object had never been touched by time at all.

And yet, later, when your fingers had accidentally brushed against a spear in the armoury, you had collapsed.

Your breath had ripped from your lungs, your mind had been yanked under the surface of the earth.. You had seen everything— the battles fought with that weapon, the blood spilled in its name, the hands that had held it, those that died clutching it.

Your gift was becoming volatile. Unpredictable.

Something must be interfering. Something must be disrupting the balance.

Or maybe… something was feeding on it.

Deepin the marrow of your bones, you felt a presence. A whisper. A demand.

Let us out, it said. Acknowledge us.

And then, an unwelcome thought crept into your mind

You could not be sure, but perhaps, the ancient powers of love were trying to get your attention.

—

And then, at the next ritual session, you felt it.

The magic was different. It felt… wild.

Bucky had been inside you, his body wrapped around yours, hands tracing over your skin as the spell reached its peak. But then — it happened.

White-hot, searing energy shot through your chest. Your gift took over, and the moment your fingers brushed over the metal of his vibranium arm, the past came flooding in.

You had accidentally gotten a vision from it.

You saw Bucky, in his dimly lit bedroom.

The sheets were messy, his hair tousled. He was splayed out, chest heaving, lips parted.

Oh.

His hand was wrapped around himself, needy and desperate. And his eyes were shut, his brow furrowed in pleasure.

“Fuck,” he’d groaned.

Then, he said your name.

Your name slipped from his lips, the most sinful sound you’d ever heard.

The vision shattered.

You jolted back to the present, feeling Bucky’s release as he sent you over the edge, too.

Still tangled together and catching his breath, Bucky pressed his forehead against yours as the magic ebbed.

But before you could make sense of it, he cupped your cheek with his vibranium arm.

That touch sent another vision through you.

This time, you were in a diner.

Bucky and Sam sat across from each other in a worn-out booth. Bucky stirred his mug absently, eyes fixed on the dark liquid as if it held the answers to all his problems. Sam, on the other hand, lounged back against the vinyl seat, a grin tugging at his lips.

“So, are you ever gonna tell her?” Sam’s tone was teasing, but the question was genuine.

To be fair, he hadn’t met you in person, but he’d heard plenty about you over the past few months. Bucky couldn’t stop talking about you.

Bucky shook his head. “No.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “No?”

Bucky’s fingers tightened around the mug. “What if she doesn’t feel the same?” He said, barely above a whisper. “What if I lose her?”

Sam scoffed. “You’re not gonna lose her, man. You two are practically—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Well, based on what I’ve heard…”

Bucky shook his head. “We’re just… each other’s release.” The words felt forced, like he didn’t believe them. “We don’t even kiss.”

Sam snorted. “But you love her.”

Bucky didn’t deny it.

“Yeah,” he whispered, “I do.”

Oh.

You were suddenly back in your body, Bucky’s arm still around you as he came down from the high, the ritual concluding.

He loved you.

Bucky Barnes loved you.

The reason your magic had been so unstable, the reason your gift had slipped beyond your control, was finally clear.

Strange was right. It was love.

Love had been drawn to the ritual like a moth to a flame. It had sensed what you refused to acknowledge, had pressed against the wards you put up, demanding to be seen, demanding to be felt.

And you had denied it.

You had locked it out, convinced yourself that what you and Bucky had was nothing more than a necessary exchange of energy, that it was about balance, about relief.

But required love, especially when amplified by magic, was not something you could simply ignore without consequence.

What… what were you supposed to do with this knowledge?

Bucky’s grip on you loosened, but he didn’t let go. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his breath warm against your collarbone.

“I—” Bucky started, but stopped, swallowing hard. His throat bobbed against your skin, hands flexing on your waist. He didn’t seem to know what to say.

You weren’t sure you did, either.

Bucky finally lifted his head, just enough to meet your eyes. His eyes were dark, his pupils still blown. Hesitantly, as if he could sense that you were deep in though, he whispered, “Are you okay?”

You managed a nod. “Yeah,” you said, though your voice was quieter than you intended. “You?”

Fingers grabbed the dip of your hip. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I think—” His lips parted, then pressed together again. “I think I still need you.”

Not the magic. Not the ritual. You.

When Bucky lifted his head, when his hands skimmed over your sides you leaned in.

Because you wanted him, too.

Instead, you chose to surrender, and you kissed him.

The moment your lips met his, everything clicked into place.

The magic that had been unstable and unpredictable, suddenly calmed. No more volatile surges, no more restlessness. You hadn’t realised how hard you’d been fighting it, how you’d buried it beneath duty, beneath ritual, beneath rules meant to keep you at a distance.

But there was no distance now.

Bucky let out a shaky breath and groaned against your lips, his fingers cradling your face like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

His lips moved against yours, like he’d been waiting for this as long as you had. And maybe he had. Maybe you’d both been waiting too long, afraid of what love might do to you.

But love was never the thing that made your magic unstable. Denying it was.

Your powers had always been an extension of you, and now, as Bucky kissed you—truly kissed you—they settled. They recognised what you had refused to admit.

That you loved him.

You had loved him before the rituals. And now that you’d acknowledged it, now that you’d let it in, everything made sense.

Bucky pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath still uneven, warm against your lips. His hands trembled slightly where they held you, as if he were afraid to let go. His voice, when he finally spoke, was small.

“…That was against the rules.”

You let out an adorable laugh, fingers slipping into his hair, tugging just enough to make him sigh. “So was falling in love, Bucky,” you sighed, “But you had no problem admitting that to Sam Wilson.”

Bucky froze, his entire body going rigid beneath. His face went red. “How—” he stammered, swallowing hard. “How did you know that?”

You smiled, tracing the part where vibranium met flesh on his shoulders. “A certain arm told me,” you said sheepishly.

“I—” His mouth opened, then shut. His grip on you tightened, bracing to hear a rejection.

But you didn’t let him spiral.

“Bucky.” Your voice was soft, you let your fingers trail down his cheek, over the rough stubble along his chin. “It’s okay.”

He swallowed hard.

“I do, too,” you said.

For a second, he didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe.

“Y-you do?” His voice cracked on the words, barely above a whisper. He looked so… relieved.

You smiled against his mouth, letting your teeth graze his lower lip ever so slightly before whispering, “I love you.”

The runes around you responded. It pulsed in golden waves.

Bucky’s hands framed your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. You… were something he couldn’t believe he had.

“You mean it?” His voice was hoarse.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, tracing gentle circles against his skin.“Of course I do.”

Oh.

Maybe the sorceress who could see the past with a touch was the perfect match for the soldier who struggled to say things out loud.

"I love you, too," he said, surprised by how easily the words came.

The words barely left his lips before the runes exploded. It looked like the magic was… celebrating.

Gold lines started to burst outward, flooding the chamber in waves of light, wrapping around you both like a living thing. It pulsed, an ancient force swimming in the air, satisfied at last.

Love had been acknowledged.

And now, the ritual was finally whole.

-end.

extra note: I've been getting a lot of explicit smut requests lately, and as mentioned in my bio, I really enjoy writing steamy and suggestive scenes. I'm more than happy to write emotionally charged moments like the ones in this story, I won’t write overly explicit or vulgar content because it’s just not my strength! There are so many talented writers out there who would write them better than me <3

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

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings

636 notes · View notes

insertsparkleshere · 1 month ago

Text

Strawberry delight

1.5K words | smut | female reader| ao3; 2698rr

!wrote this in like 30 mins. it’s unedited and just a drabble!

The dripping of gotham’s downpour reverberates around your apartment, your fingers dragging idly against your phone screen.

the clunking footsteps of his boots is what causes your head to lift, eyes trailing over to him. your roommate—jason.

he was an interesting person, always so quiet. withdrawn into his own character. nevertheless the apartment doesn’t become overthrown with his belongings, he’s never too loud and the bathroom remains relatively clean.

he stalks through, giving a brief grunt of acknowledgment before focusing on the pastries left out on the counter, taking one and sliding it into his mouth.

your eyes dart away, instead moving to once again focus on the dull blue light that gave enough occupation inside your mind.

a silence sits, as it often does.

you could hear the ‘thunks’ hitting the hardwood floor as he drops his boots off, the crackles of his leather jacket being taken off and the clinks of his guns.

because he was an ‘outlaw’ as he liked to call it, the first time you heard the term you gave a swift laugh only to be met with a pointed look from him.

since moving in, becoming roommates and somewhat learning about him you had begun to search up on ‘red hood’.

it was an interesting side to see of the man you lived with, how the same person who gave loud coughs in the darkest hour also managed to tremble fear into the crime of gotham.

“you going to bed soon?” he mumbled out and your gaze once again lifted to the man, his hair was ragged, his pallid skin sporting some more bruises here and there.

You didn’t answer for a moment, genuinely thinking. you should—you know you should, however your day had been so busy that you’d decided this was the first time you’d frequent some personal moment.

“maybe.. soon?” you hummed, eyes darting over the fresh bruises, the purple fading into the ones he held under his eyes. he often came home like that, with blood dripping or new cuts and scrapes littered.

jason focused on you, holding his tongue against his cheek as he gave a nod before slithering off to the bathroom, yanking one of his towels as he did.

his roommate, the same one who often worked at that restaurant on forty-eighth street, the same one who took it upon themselves to help with his washing if found, the same one jason longed for.

he felt so..childish. yearning for a woman who possibly only saw him as the other half of the rent. however he couldn’t help it—heaven knows he’s tried to quell it.

he’s tried to keep his distance, do what he’s done since he’s moved in. and a part of him can’t properly figure out why he’s so captivated with a person he only half knows.

Jason wasn’t often one for intimacy, he turned away from it—revolted at the thought of anyone’s eyes seeing the scars that littered his skin and soul, but you, ohh you.

maybe it was the fact he had seen you in the latest hour, curled up and reading a book he knows every word to. maybe it was the fact you always managed to help him out when you knew he needed it.

or maybe it was the fact you didn’t coddle him, you didn’t force a friendship or a connection, you had this understanding—knowing, that he didn’t want that. and jason loved it.

he loved the fact he didn’t have to try to remain pleasant, or the fact he didn’t need to swerve from some soul opening questions, no. because all you would do is see a new wound and let him know where you’d last placed the bandages.

or, you’d notice his toothbrush was looking a little worn in and you’d get a new one, or you noticed his dirty clothes had piled up and washed it, or—there were a lot of reasons.

and jason loved it, the unsaid words, the comfortability with somebody who doesn’t expect something, he can deal with that, he wants that!

and okay—maybe! just sometimes when he’s finally in bed for the night and not prowling the rooftops, and maybe when he hears a certain vibration does his ears perk up, maybe he still’s his breathing and maybe his sweatpants go a little lower than his crotch.

maybe his hand wraps around himself as he matches the moans you make, maybe he thinks of all the ways he can have you arch yourself into him and—

he wanted you, deeply. and not just sexually. (although he does want that) he wants to sit and talk about books, he wants to learn why you always manage to sneak strawberry into any dessert you make, he wants to taste cherry every time he kisses you.

but, jason died when he was 16.

so he wasn’t exactly good with women, he can be friends. obviously he’s not a weirdo, however the moment a woman shows any interest or he himself is attracted, he scatters away like a wounded dog.

he’s afraid, he’s 23 and the most action he’s had was with his own fist, and your so gorgeous—to him, especially to him. he reasons with himself, on the nights when the wind picks up and the rain casts sideways.

he reasons that, you wouldn’t want him. he’s a traumatised man who’s spent more time on his strength then he has on his personal growth.

so, he instead focuses on the moments when your shirt rides up when reaching for a cup, when you get stuck in thought and your lip slightly juts out or when your moans and whimpers paint the cracking wallpaper.

a part of him is scared to ruin that silent agreement, to remain as friendly roommates who never pry, who always help but never with words.

once he’s moved from out of the shower he can already feel himself half-hard and a ugly feeling settling in his gut, the two contradict each other and yet it stings.

“i’m gonna kill you if you used all the hot water!” you shout out, an empty threat and more of a joke than anything and despite that ugly mess sitting in his gut, his lips crinkle up.

however he offers a mumble apology and moves to his room.

he hadn’t realised until he heard the soft ‘click’ of your bedroom door shutting that he’d ended up staring at a wall again, deep in thought.

he gives a sigh, deciding that he should go to bed. his bones hurt, his head hurts and he has many cuts and bruises he’s refused to heal, and just as he bundles up in his sheets, ready to rest his head from all that plagues him.

he hears that sound, the one that haunts him when his cock gets too heavy. he bites down on his lip—and as most times, he feels guilty. he always feels guilty.

but when you let a particular sinful whimper out he gives a groan, his head slumping against his pillow as his fishes his hand into the boxers he has on.

he gives a few soft strokes, the crevices of himself felt by his hand, and as he often does he ceases as many sounds as he can just so he can hear your voice.

he listens, and he imagines. imagines all the way he can have you, have those cherry glossed lips wrapped around him, have his hands on the soft planes of your skin as you direct yourself on him.

he imagines having your voice not be restricted, having you moan so loud the apartment a street over yells at him. he wants it all, so selfishly does he.

he can imagine himself curling into you, or you curling into him once all is done. he’d slither his hands up and down your spine and relish in the way you’d let a giggle out or maybe shiver.

he’d whisper all the ways you light up, the ways you make him feel floating. he’d smell the strawberry on you and he’d hope you taste as good as the fruits.

he begs—pleads! to have his hands wrapped around your thighs as you threaten yet fail to clamp them shut as his tongue works you to heavens you’d never known of, he’d have you all pitchy, all whines and whimpers.

he’d be dirty, but only if you like it. he’d spit all over your glistening cunt and rub it into your folds, tease your begging hole and whisper sins into your ear.

or, he’d map out every perfection on the god-like body you donned, making sure you know how gorgeous you are every time his hips met your ass. he’d hold tightly, afraid it was all a dream.

and the closer he got he’d heard you beg for him, beg to have him, that you need it. you need his cock, you need him. and he’d cum, anywhere you wanted—he’d do anything for you.

it’s only when he hears you shuffle and get comfortable in bed, and when his cum gets cold on his chest that he remembers he doesn’t have that, no matter how much he hopes.

196 notes · View notes

insertsparkleshere · 2 months ago

Text

this is fucking beautiful

A Long, Long Time

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, smut (p in v, fingering), light angst, fluff, humor, action, no use of y/n, friends to lovers, post-TFATWS, past Steve Rodgers/Reader, truth serums.

Summary: The truth doesn't hurt. It's not freeing, either. It just sits in your chest, until it's pried out, and you're looking it the eyes with nowhere to run, and Bucky knows you love him.

But he's not running either.

Author's Note: I love making scenarios. I love making Bucky feel loved. Kevin Feige I'm in your walls.

Word Count: 9.2k

You’ve never been good at fighting for things.

It’s not because you’re weak, or don’t care, or don’t have anything to fight for, it’s just not what you do.

Fighting for things means that you’ve already lost them. That you had something, and you weren’t smart or good enough to keep it, and you’d lost it. Failed. Had a chance to do it right and destroyed it, held something in the palm of your hand and crushed it to pieces.

It’s not logical, or reasonable, but it’s what you do. You’d tried to explain it to Steve once, and he’d frowned at you like you were insane.

“If you had it, doesn’t that mean it was worth fighting to have?”

You’d shaken your head, turning your fork between your hands with a long sigh. “No, it means I had it, then… I guess dropped it. If it was worth having, I wouldn’t have dropped it.”

“What if you didn’t drop it?” Steve had raised his brows, and you’d stabbed your fork into your food, almost chewing right through your cheek.

“But I did.”

“How about if it’s indestructible?”

You’d given him a flat look. “Anything can be destructible if you’re destructive enough.”

“Then what if someone knocked it out of your hands-”

“I feel like you’re getting too caught up on the metaphor,” You’d mumbled, and Steve had shrugged.

“It’s just not making sense. You’re saying you had it. If you love something, you fight for it. To keep it.”

You’d hummed. “I thought if you loved something, you let it go?”

“That’s a loose rule. You can’t be letting everything you love go, or else you’ll end up alone.”

Maybe you’d just never loved something. Maybe whatever you’d been told to read as love was wrong, or you’re just defective and not capable of the raw, tear-the-world apart love that Steve had been talking about. And everything falls through your fingers because it can sense that, and fighting for it would be holding it hostage.

“You’re not going to fix me in one conversation, Steven.” You’d muttered, kicking his shin under the table. “Eat your pancakes.”

Steve had sighed, but listened.

Then, years later, he’d gone back in time to Peggy, and you hadn’t bothered to stop him.

You hadn’t loved him, but it had been the closest thing you’d ever had to something. More than just a body for warmth, more than just flat word for the sake of speaking, more than just company for the prayer of not being stranded. For a very long, long time you’d been certain that Steve had been your shot. That you’d missed it because you had horrible aim and sand for bullets, and now you were alone just like he’d warned you’d be.

And you’d been wrong. You’d been so horribly, impossibly wrong, because you’d been right. All the wires and nerves had gotten tangled and crossed in your body, and you’d been right about the wrong thing, and you’d ended up so lost that the sky had gone black until one star blinked at you, and guided you home.

You’d never loved Steve. He’d never been your shot.

And when love had hit you—really, truly fucking hit you—it hadn’t been like the train or comet or blow to the gut people had always told you it would be.

It had been clear. The world had gotten sharper, and colors had been more vibrant, and you’d known.

You’d never been in love before.

You were in love now.

In half a second, you’d fallen into it, and you’d never be able to crawl back out. You didn’t know how to fight for it, but you could wait for it. You could lie here like you were in a grave and wait for flowers to bloom above you, and then maybe he’d pick them and know you’d grown them for him.

Because Bucky doesn’t know that you love him. You don’t know how to tell him, either, because every other time you’ve said it suddenly seems like at lie, and no words are big enough anymore.

And Sam had fucked it. One day you’re going to shove him into the ocean or something, because he’d found you after the Blip and told Bucky you were the girl. The one that Steve had found in a crowd and kept, who was smarter and kinder than someone named Sharon, who they’d been supposed to find and take care of, but gotten sidetracked.

That would’ve been like a noose on your heart, in you’d really heard that part of Sam’s sentence. That Steve had told him to find you and look after you, but then left anyway, only for Sam to completely forget.

But you hadn’t heard him.

You’d been staring at Bucky, and the world had been clear, and you hadn’t been sure if it was a ringing in your ears or some sort of fucked up, heavenly choir.

Maybe it had been adrenaline, in that first moment. You’d told yourself, over and over, that maybe it had just been the rush of meeting him, because Steve had told you so much already.

But then you’d followed them back to New York, and it had been love. It had been long, heavy love that was stronger than anything you’d ever felt, and made you do stupid, pathetic things to just keep yourself in Bucky’s orbit. It started with being whatever he and Sam asked you to be, because you didn’t feel expendable, but you wanted to be irreplaceable. You’d made yourself so useful in every way possible. With research and computers and undercover work where you got to hang off Bucky’s arm and smile at him, and he’d smile back like he loved you, and it was just the job but fuck, it was like a drug.

Being in love had made you smarter, as the months passed. You could do stitches and relocate joints, fly a plane and read in two new languages, and an average hacking job but an outstanding acting one. Your cooking has gotten better, mostly making different kinds of eggs, because it’s something you do with Bucky once a week, and you can play the piano, because he’d mentioned he liked it once.

You were going to rot away here. Loving Bucky in silence and never saying anything, and it would be a soft and gentle death because Bucky does like you. You’re friends, and he’s called you important to him and yelled at you for being reckless, but not wanting you to die isn’t the same pure, wrathful love you feel for him.

But you’re the girl. Steve’s girl. That was left behind and fell into Bucky’s care. That he keeps around for you—some unknown shift had occurred, and you know you’re not being allowed to remain in Bucky’s orbit because Steve asked him to keep you there—but as a friend.

You can be a friend. You can be whatever the fuck Bucky needs you to be, just as long as you’re allowed to stay here.

And being his friend is easy. Doing things for him is easier. Loving him, even in numbing silence, is the simplest thing in the world.

“This is so fucking stupid.” Bucky had grumbled last week, glowering at his paper, and Sam had shrugged.

“I think it’s fun.”

Bucky had shot him a glare. “We’re using glitter gel pens, Sam, you know this is stupid.”

“I happen to like glitter gel pens.” Sam had shot you a grin across the table as he said your name, and you’d narrowed your eyes in a silent warning he’d completely ignored. “Do you think it’s stupid?”

“The pens or the lists?”

Sam’s grin had grown. “Lists?”

You’d shrugged, dropping your gaze to your own blank sheet of paper. “They’re kinda dumb, but I’m still going to do it.”

“See, Buck?” Sam had raised his brows at Bucky’s scowl, then turned back to you. “How about the pens?”

“I like them.” You’d spun yours between your fingers, trying not the feel Bucky’s gaze over your skin. “But I like glitter, and Bucky doesn’t-“

“I like glitter.” He’d grunted, scowling at his own pen. “But it doesn’t belong in pens. It’s impractical.”

Sam had rolled his eyes. “They can write, man, that’s all they gotta do.”

“Yeah, Buck. You have no whimsy.”

You’d smiled at him, and he’d returned it, but it had been the only smile he’d offered for the rest of the day.

But the point hadn’t been to get him to smile. It had been to make him do the lists, because his therapist said it was important, and if he didn’t, he’d be in violation of his pardon conditions again. It had taken a very long, tense afternoon to get it done, but he’d handed his list to his therapist the next day, and you’d kept your crumbled in your jacket pocket since.

And you still weren’t fighting for things.

You think it’s how you ended up here. In this warehouse, your head spinning and everything a little too bright.

You can’t really remember, and this might just be an incredibly odd dream. Your tongue feels loose in your mouth, your skin has an odd buzzing feel over it, and this couch is made of what’s probably velvet, and you’re pretty sure Spiderman is standing right next to you, holding your list.

Your list. He’s reading your list. No one’s supposed to read that list, and you almost broken Sam’s hand for trying, and you know Sam-

“What the- fuck-“

Spiderman looks up at you right as you topple off the couch, his eyes widening his suit.

“Oh, shoot, sorry, ma’am-“

He pulls you back up to your feet, this list still in his hands, and you’d try to grab it but your whole body feels like jelly and mist. Nothing in you but your thoughts, floating around and narrowing in on the list, why does Spiderman have your list-

“What-“ You groan as he sets you back on the couch, closing your eyes to try and ward off the bile rising up your throat. “Why- What is- What happened?”

“Um,” Spiderman’s voice cracks slightly, sounding almost uncertain. “You were poking around where civilians shouldn’t be, miss- And I was looking in the same lab-“

You frown, keeping your eyes squeezed shut. “Lab?”

“Yeah, uh, one of the secret evil government ones-“

“Fuck.”

It’s coming back in small, hazy pieces.

Bucky told you that you didn’t need to do this, but you’d done it anyway. You weren’t recognizable, and you were careful and smart, so you’d be in and out before Sam and Bucky realized you’d gone and the building’s security realized you weren’t there for a meeting.

Something had happened. You’d gotten the evidence you needed, and there had been vial or canister, and you’d knocked it over because your phone had started ringing, and it had been Bucky. You’d think you’d declined the call, or just let it ring to voicemail, but he’d sent you a very angry text seconds later.

He’d noticed you were gone faster than you thought he would. He’d worked out what you were doing, and he was coming to grab you because you were being stupid, and when he’d called you a second time, you’d-

You’d thrown your phone in panic. It had broken the canister. And everything had gone black.

“Do you, uh,” Spiderman clears his throat from somewhere in front of you. “You look like you remember what happened?”

You give a half-nod, letting out a long breath. “Where am I?”

“You’re in my warehouse.”

You open your eyes at that, and Spiderman shakes his head.

“It’s a safe warehouse. Really safe. The safest. You collapsed, ma’am. I couldn’t just, uh- leave you on the floor? Alone? But-“ He looks down to your list, then back to you with an expression that’s somehow nervous through the mask. “May I please ask you a question?”

You can’t really go anywhere. And he’s already read your list, so there’s not much to lose.

“Sure.”

“Does the Bucky from your list have a metal arm? Because it’s not a- uh- I’ve only met one guy named Bucky, and he tried to punch me because we were doing this big fight at an airport, and he had a metal arm, and he’s not- uh- he seemed alright, but it was super complicated, and if this,” he points to your list, his voice growing higher and higher by the second. “Is the Bucky I know, then- uh- Is it?”

“Yeah,“ you let out a long, breath, and something is cloudy over your skull. Your Bucky does have a metal arm. “It is.”

“Oh, okay.” Spiderman blinks at you, then the list. “You, uh- You guys seem close, then. That’s cool.”

For a second, you want to lie. Just say you’re not that close, just co-workers, and Spiderman doesn’t need to be thinking about Bucky because it’s really, totally nothing.

But you can’t lie. The words just die at the top of your chest, and you can’t even bite your tongue and swallow the truth, or you’ll choke on your own spit.

“It’s- I- I love him.”

You’ve never said that aloud before. Not even to the mirror. But Spiderman just shrugs like it’s nothing, and then gestures to your list.

“Yeah, I uh- I worked that out, ma’am. He’s on here like ten times.” Spiderman’s eyes narrow on the paper. “Upstate, where you can see the stars. Bucky’s ass and arms. Candles. My blue vase. The color blue in general. The color brown, too. Bucky’s hair when he actually uses his fucking conditioner. Bucky’s eyes. Bucky when he’s sleepy and his Brooklyn accent slips. Cotton Candy ice cream.” Spiderman looks up at you with a nod. “Oh, that stuff is really good, there’s a place in Queens that makes it, and it tastes like- well, cotton candy-“

“That’s nice.” You mumble. “Can you please- just- I already know what the list says-“

“Right, of course, sorry.” Spiderman pauses, bouncing slightly on his feet. “It’s a nice list though.”

You sigh. “I know. That was the point.”

“To make a nice list?”

“Yep.”

Spiderman sounds like he’s frowning. “That’s- uh- Why? I mean, you don’t have to tell-“

“It was for Bucky’s therapy. He had to make a list of all the good things in his life, so Sam and I did it with him.”

You didn’t want to tell Spiderman that. He’d even been about to say you didn’t have to, but you did. He asked, and if you don’t say the truth, it feels as if all the oxygen will burn up in your lungs.

That can’t be good.

“Hey, kid?” He sounds like a kid. And if he’s not, he doesn’t correct you. He only nods and takes a step closer, waiting for you to continue. “Do you know what I gassed myself with.”

“Um.” Spiderman swallows. “No? But I have a guess-“

“Is your guess truth gas? Because my guess is truth gas.”

“Yeah, it is. I mean, that’s my guess too. You’ve, uh, you’ve been really honest. Not that you’re not an honest person, I don’t know you, but I’ve asked a lot of personal questions-“

You give him a flat look. “You could stop doing that, you know.”

“Uh- Yeah. Sorry. I will.” Spiderman glances over his shoulder, then back to your list. “He’s gonna be looking for you, right? Mr. Barnes?”

“Probably.” You mumble, and Spiderman’s eyes widen.

“Are you guys, like, together-“

“No, we’re not.”

“Oh.” Spiderman gives you what’s likely meant to be an apologetic expression, “Sorry, that was another personal question. But, uh, if you’re not together, why-“

“We’re friends. And he was-“ You let out a breath through your teeth, and maybe you should just ask Spiderman to put tape over your mouth before this gets worse. “Not happy I was in the lab. And he has to protect me. He promised Steve.”

“You knew Captain Rogers? That’s so-“

“We were fuckbuddies.”

Spiderman’s eyes widen again. “Oh. Good- Good for you.”

He gives you a weak thumbs up, and you manage to pull your arms over your body into a tight hug.

“Do you, uh- Do you want me to call Mr. Barnes for you-“

“Yes, please.”

You list off Bucky’s number, and when he picks up in only seconds, you think you can hear him shouting at Spiderman through the phone.

If you were lucky, you’d convince Spiderman to knock you out again. To eliminate the truth serum problem by force, and make it so you don’t have to look Bucky in the eyes when he arrives. But you suggest it, get shot down, and don’t push it further.

And when Bucky bursts into the warehouse—Sam right on his heels and looking far too amused for the situation—you really wish you’d fought harder. Fought at all.

You can’t do this. You can’t listen to Bucky snap at Spiderman for being an idiot and kidnapping you, and watch Sam’s eyes light up when Spiderman explains the whole truth gas thing.

“So anything we ask her, she’s gonna have to tell us the truth?”

Bucky’s jaw twitches as he glances at you. “Truth gas isn’t real. It’s just the aftereffects being knocked out-“

“It’s real, Mr. Barnes-“

“Only one way to find out.” Sam cuts off Spiderman with a wide grin, saying your name in a mockingly casual tone. “What was the best thing you and Cap ever did in bed?”

“Sam-“

Bucky looks like he’s going to throw Sam into the wall, but he’s too late.

“Face-sitting.” When this is over, you’re going to shoot Sam yourself. “I liked the beard a lot.”

Sam’s grin looks like it’s going to start glowing. “Damn, good for you girl. You know, if you like beards-“

“Sam.” Bucky’s voice has dropped to almost a growl, and he’s not looking at you anymore. “Go start the car.”

There’s a long moment where they seem to be having a silent conversation—Sam wearing a shit eating grin and jerking his head in your direction, Bucky looking like he’s one brief moment away from strangling Sam with his bare hands—but before you can figure out what’s happening, Spiderman’s tapping on your shoulder.

You manage to angle your head to frown at him, and he’s holding your gaze in the silence, pointing to your list in his hands, then Bucky.

“Does he know you-“

“No.” You cut off the kid’s whisper before he can finish the sentence, because Bucky will fucking hear him. “Don’t say it.”

“Don’t-“ Spiderman pauses, then nods frantically. “Oh, yeah, sorry- Just- This is yours.”

He shoves the list back into your jacket, right as Sam walks outside with a dramatic sigh, and Bucky turns back to you, his expression unreadable.

“You weren’t supposed to go in alone.” He grunts, and you swallow.

“I know.” You give him a small, nervous smile. “Sorry.”

“I- No, you’re not.”

“I am.” You insist, somehow managing to lean forward as he approaches, and something strange flashes over Bucky’s eyes. “I can’t lie, Buck, I really am sorry, I- I didn’t want to freak you out, I promise-“

Bucky shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “Alright. I got you. Hold on.”

You blink at him. “Hold-“

Bucky hauls you over his shoulder without another warning, and you can barely hear Spiderman’s shouted goodbyes and last apologies over the drum of your heart.

“Bucky-“

“Not now.” He grunts, squeezing your thigh with a hand, and that’s not fair. Your body goes molten from it, and he doesn’t know that, and if he asks why you’re suddenly breathing so heavy you’ll have to tell him that you can feel an ache in your core, it’s all his fault.

Bucky doesn’t seem all that interested in talking, though. There are no lectures about being insane and getting yourself drugged. No snaps or grumbles about not telling him where you were going.

He won’t even look you in the eyes, and it’s a million times worse. He just sets you flat on your back in the car and moves to the passenger’s seat, and Sam’s sympathetic look only makes you taste more bile.

Maybe this was a straw on something you hadn’t thought could break, and he’s going to tell you that you’re done. That if you can’t listen, you’re not allowed in the field anymore, and that’s not his fucking call to make but you know Sam won’t stand against him. You work with Bucky the most, and if he says he doesn’t want you anymore, you’re out.

He’ll still be your friend, but you’ll see him less. No more long train rides or later nights in hotels where you can watch him sleep like a fucking creep, imagining he’s holding you to his chest instead of a pillow. And without you there he’ll meet someone, and she’ll become his world, and you’ll be left with this glass over your heart that only becomes stained with color when Bucky looks at you. You’ll be stranded again, and Bucky will be guiding someone else home, and that grave you’ve dug for yourself will bloom a million times until you’re buried under it, and Bucky never removes the dirt from your lungs.

“So.” Sam breaks the silence, and maybe if you bite off your tongue you can save yourself from what’s coming. “Truth gas, huh?”

“Yeah.” You mumble, feeling the flush heat your face, and Sam hums.

“How’s it feel?”

You pause, but only to find the right word. “Fuzzy. Like- Drunk, but paralyzed and also kind of high.”

“Damn, that sounds nice-“

“It’s not.”

“Sam.” Bucky mutters, and you wish you could see him. If his arms are crossed, if he’s scowling, if he looks revolted by the sight of you. “I’ll crash the fucking car.”

“No, you won’t. Hey,” Sam drawls your name, and you can hear his grin. “You remember Singapore?”

“Yeah, I remember the country-“

“You remember the mission we did there, during the Avenger’s break-up era?”

You swallow. “Yes.”

“You remember how you and Cap vanished for like, an hour?”

“Sam.” You let out a long breath, and try your fucking hardest to dodge this. “You know I do-“

“What did you guys get up to?”

“Sam.” Bucky growls, but it’s—again—too late.

“I made him get food with me.”

“See, Buck,” Sam says, and you can see him gesturing in your periphery. “It’s not that bad-“

You cut him off, and you can’t stop yourself. “Then we had sex. I gave him a blowjob.”

There’s a long heavy silence, and you think they’re doing the silent conversation again. You can feel your every nerve, alight in your body, and if Bucky doesn’t kick you out you might just run away anyways. He can’t want to hear about it. Steve was like his brother, you’re talking about how you used to fuck his brother, and edging dangerously close to a worse conversation where Bucky tells Sam to shut up, and you agree, and when Sam asks why you’re siding with Bucky, you say it’s because you love him-

Sam says your name again, and whatever silent threats Bucky had given him didn’t seem to be sticking. “What would you do if Steve came back?”

“Nothing.”

That’s an easy one. Sam’s asked you that a million times before, and he seems to be convinced that whenever you say nothing, it’s a lie. That you’ve been hiding how you’d break down in tears and throw yourself into his arms, declaring that your love is undying when it’s never even existed at all, sobbing until Steve forgives you for not asking him to stay.

You’re pretty sure that Sam thinks that, if you’d asked Steve to stay, he would’ve. And you don’t really care either way, because he hadn’t stayed. He’d made his choice, and it had maybe left you hollow for a few months, but now you know that what had been a small bullet wound with Steve was really nothing at all.

It would be a gash through a vital organ, if it had been love. It would’ve been your spine out of your body and your brain leaking out of your mouth, your skin flayed by the loss.

Because Steve had only been a compass. You could make another one, or find another one, and it only guided you north. If he came back, you’d only offer him a hug and a smile, because he’d still be your friend but there was nothing more to do.

Not when your heart wasn’t screeching for him. Not when you had a home, and a way back to it that you might be about to lose, and why isn’t Bucky saying anything-

“Why’s that?” Sam drawls your name, and something twists in your gut. He sounds too casual, as if he’d expected that answer. “Thought you were Steve’s girl-“

“We had sex, Sam, we weren’t soulmates-“

The fuckface doesn’t drop. You hope Bucky stabs him. “But you loved him, right?”

“I never loved Steve, he was just-“ You’re going to fuck vomit. “He was my friend, and the sex was good, really good, but it wasn’t love.”

There’s another silence, and maybe if you do vomit, you’ll choke on it and pass out.

“Told you, Buck.” Sam mutters, and you frown into the air.

“What did you tell him-“

Sam cuts you off with a chuckle. “Tell ‘er, man, what have you got to lose-“

“Sam.” Bucky grunts, and you can hear his glower. “If you don’t drop it, now-“

“Jesus, hold onto your ass. Here, how about-“

“I’m fucking serious-“

“So am I.” Sam cuts off Bucky’s hiss, humming your name like nothing is wrong in the world at all. “How do you know you didn’t love Steve?”

“It wasn’t what love feels like.” You mumble, and maybe you can talk around this. Answer the questions truthfully, without saying the thing.

“Interesting. And what does love feel like?”

“Good.”

“What’s good.”

“Love.”

You swear you could hear Bucky snort, or at least cough.

“Alright, smartass.” Sam mutters, and you can hear him tapping on the wheel. “You ever been in love?”

Fuck. “Yes.”

“How many times?”

“Once.” You’re going to throttle him. Drown him. Take Bucky up on that crash the car thing, because Bucky will be fine, but maybe you and Sam will die and then you can fucking murder his ghost-

“Anyone we know?” Sam’s voice is far too casual. He knows. You don’t know how, but the shithead knows.

“Yeah.”

“Really?” Sam chuckles to himself, and Bucky better punch him now, before it’s too late-

“Yes.” You mutter, pressing on your eyelids until you can see little spiraling patterns. “Sam-“

“Who?”

You try to swallow it. You really fucking try to choke on it, to just let it kill you, to bury yourself before this can ruin everything, and Bucky won’t even be your friend anymore-

But you have no powers. No extraordinary will or resolve or healing factor, to flush the gas out of your system at will or bite down that immovable fact.

It’s more than truth. It’s a tenant, a law, something as simple as cold air will sink and time will keep moving.

You will. You just will. You’ll always fucking do it, and there’s no world ending disaster to save your from say that you simply do and have and will love-

“Bucky.”

You think it’s a mercy, how the gas is fogging over your brain. You hear something slam into something else, but the car keeps moving, and a tight silence hangs over the rest of the ride that you allow yourself not to feel. You just keep your eyes closed and pretend nothing happened at all, because you’ve broken it, and you’re done.

It has to be done. Bucky knows, and he said nothing in return. You don’t have to worry about it, because this is going to kill you, but you’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Bucky isn’t saying anything, and even Sam has stopped talking, and you’re going to fucking wither and fall away into nothing but you’ll be fucking fine. Bucky doesn’t owe you anything. Just because you love him like the water loves the moon and bees love flowers and trees love birds doesn’t mean he has to give you anything in return.

To him you’ve just been his friend, and loving Bucky might be clarity for you, but for him it’s probably strange. You’re Steve’s girl that got left behind. You’re the little shadow that he’d already been planning on surgically removing from his wake, and you loving him shouldn’t make that different. He’s not going to just love you because you love him. If anything he might think you’re trying to twist his will, make him feel guilty for planning to push you away, force him to let you cling to him a little while longer out of obligation.

The same obligation that has him carrying you inside, when you finally park the car.

He must think you’re asleep. Must not want to wake you and force that conversation, with how he’s holding you in your arms like you’re a damsel or princess, and not just another piece of luggage.

You’re greedy. You won’t pretend to wake up, because you’re greedy, and you want this for just one more second. To let your face press into Bucky’s chest, to smell the coffee on his shirt, and amber of that old cologne he wears when he thinks he doesn’t have mission to do.

You’d ruined that. You’d made him grab you from a warehouse, made him carry you inside, and you don’t know why he’s setting you on your bed with such care when you fucked everything-

This isn’t your bed, it smells like that cologne, and a piney shampoo, and the blankets are thinner than yours.

“I know you’re awake.” Bucky’s voice is low, from somewhere across the room, and you really wish you could sit up. “I’m goin’ out with Sam to check out the lab, make sure nothing else got fucked on your trip. I-“ He pauses, and you can hear a slightly shuffling before he speaks again. “Don’t move. Please. I’ll be back.”

You couldn’t move if you wanted to. The gas is still running through your system, and when the door closes behind Bucky, exhaustion slams into your chest.

It’s not sleep exhaustion. It’s drifting in and out consciousness, the light of the room seeming to shift as you roll around Bucky’s bed—this has to be Bucky’s bed, and you don’t really want to think about that too hard right now—ending up with your face buried in his pillow. You think you can, at some point, hear people moving around near you, but it’s nothing. The world, right now, is just you, in Bucky’s bed, breathing an imprint of him in as your limbs start to grow heavy, and motion returns to your body.

But you stay in Bucky’s bed. You don’t have the strength to move. Physically, at first, but then that’s just an excuse.

You don’t want to move. You won’t fight to convince Bucky to let you stay, but you also won’t fight to set yourself free before he kicks you to the curb.

So you just wait. And you’re tired enough that you don’t hear him come in.

You yelp as a big, cool hand presses to your brow, and your eyes shoot open to find Bucky already watching you.

“Lab is fine.” He mutters. “And Sam’s out. He’s walkin’ it off.”

You don’t respond, and Bucky’s throat bobs slightly.

“I didn’t beat him not. Not go for recovery and shit, but I did yell at him a lot. And he’s sorry. He’ll be bringin’ you cake later, to show it.”

Another beat of silence, and Bucky won’t stop looking at you.

“Ice cream cake.” He grunts. “You had a fever, for a minute. Think the cold will help.” He switches hands, frowning as he scans over your face. “You feelin’ better?”

You let out a long breath, and you can’t do this. You can ride it out, but you can’t do it.

Bucky grunts your name when you don’t answer, his brow furrowing slightly. “I need you to tell me you’re feelin’ better.”

You just blink at him, and give a tiny, weak nod.

“Are you gonna talk to me?” His voice sounds strained, and you can’t fucking do this- “I- You don’t need to explain, I just want you to stop ignoring me-“

“You were ignoring me first.” You mumble, and you sound like you’re whining. This is horrible, and if Bucky wasn’t going to toss you away before, he will now. “You wouldn’t look at me.”

Bucky’s jaw ticks. “I’m looking at you now, doll.”

“Bucky-“

“Is the truth gas gone?:

You blink at him. “I- Maybe, yeah-“

“Tell me a lie, then.” His tone is urgent, and maybe the gas isn’t gone. Maybe you just finally fell into full sleep, and this is a dream.

“Um…” You blink at him, your voice barely a rasp. “I can’t think of anything.”

“Shit, how about- Who ate my dumplings?”

“Sam.” You whisper, and Bucky frowns.

“He said you did it, so that’s a lie-“

That manages to pull a weak smile out of you. “And you trust him?”

“I-“ Bucky runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. “You’re right. What about this. What color are my sheets?”

You frown. “You can see them, Buck, they’re blue-“

“I know, you just gotta lie. Say they’re pink.”

“They’re pink?”

“Thank fuck.” Bucky lets out a long breath, watching you carefully as he continues. “No interrupting me until I’m done, got it?”

“Bucky-“

“Got it?”

His tone isn’t harsh, but it’s sharp. Almost desperate.

You can’t fight.

All you can do is nod, and whisper, “Okay.”

“Good.” He braces his shoulders, the same movement as when he’s prepping for a fight, his eyes never leave yours as he speaks. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I thought- Shit, I was sure I’d fuck something up. Ask why you snuck off on that mission, and you’d say because you didn’t trust me to do it, then I’d ask why, and you’d- goddamn it-“ He cuts himself off with a groan, his word almost pushed through his teeth. “I didn’t want to hear it, doll. I didn’t want you to tell me what I knew, cause then it would be real, and I’d have to live with that. You’re, I never even hoped for it, cause that’s just not how this is supposed to work, and he might have left but he’d have to come back- I woulda always come back for you, wouldn’t have left you in the first place but the kid’s always been a punk, might’ve taken him a second- But you- Wait-“

Bucky reaches into his pocket, and you shouldn’t have agreed not to interrupt him. You’re only half-following what he’s saying, and he’s pulling out your fucking list, and maybe if you can’t fight it’s time to run-

Before you can move, Bucky’s hand lands on your thigh, holding you in place as he scans over the list. Like he’d been ready for you to go.

Gripping you so tight, he might not want you to leave.

“I don’t think my accent slips that much.” He says, and you swallow. “And I try to use the conditioner, but sometimes I’m in rush.”

You swallow. “Bucky-“

“And that vase is shit.” He puts down the list, looking back to you with a heavy caution in his eyes. “I only made it cause Sam threatened to hide my arm, if I didn’t do that stupid fucking pottery class with him. Not nearly as good as that sunset painting you got in your room.”

“I-“ You take a heavy breath, forcing the words out, slow and neutral. “It’s a nice painting.”

“Sam mentioned Steve made it for you.”

“He did.” You mumble. “During the Blip.”

“But you don’t love it.”

You shake your head, and Bucky’s eyes narrow.

“Really is a horrible vase.”

You only shrug.

“Shit-“ Bucky sighs, glancing to his nightstand. “Can I show you something?”

You nod—words are really too much, too dangerous—and Bucky opens the side drawer, pulling out his own crumpled paper, almost identical to yours, and places it in your hands.

He doesn’t have to tell you to read it. Your eyes are scanning over the paper before you can stop them, and you’re not going to choke on vomit or spit or words.

You’re going to choke on your heart, right in your throat and trying to find a way out of your body. Maybe to blind you, before you can see too much and this all becomes hopelessly reality.

You’d tried not to think about what Bucky’s good things list contained. If you made even a single appearance. It always hurt too much, because what if you didn’t. What if he was apathetic of your presence—not hate, you would know if Bucky hated you—and you’d have strangle your own love a little further, bury it even deeper, wander after him a little more aimlessly, because what was home for you wasn’t anything for him-

“Sam tried to steal this, before I gave it to my shrink.” Bucky mutters. “He’s been trying to convince me to stop making assumptions about you and Steve for months, and his methods started to get out of line few weeks back. This,” Bucky taps the paper, still clenched in your hands. “Was his idea, not the doctors. He’s gonna be so fuckin’ annoying now, swear to god if he hired the spiderkid I’ll rip off his wings and toss him off the roof-“

“Bucky.” You whisper, and you’re worried you’re going to tear the already worn paper. “Do you mean this?”

He nods before the last word is even fully out of your mouth. “Never meant anythin’ more. Didn’t think you’d ever even see it. Or read it.”

You can tell that. His handwriting is rushed, and scratchy, and the words are almost illegible. The header says Good Things - JBB, in big letters, and everything else you have to squint to read.

Bucky likes Sam, but there’s an added note of sometimes in the margins. He likes YouTube, and that has a note as well, explaining there are a bunch of videos about how to upkeep his bike and fuck with the stereo of Sam’s car so it only connects to your phone.

All his items have little notes added on. Bucky likes the flowers in the park, because they make you smile when he puts them in the vase he made you. He likes peppermint ice cream because you always steal some of it, and then give him some of yours. He likes eggs because you make them for him, and the piano because you play it, and Russian because you can read it now, and sometimes you’ll pass notes like teenagers just to piss Sam off, and that makes him laugh.

And Bucky likes you.

That one is underlined five times, and crossed out, and moved to very bottom of the page with a different header.

Best Things - JBB.

You look up at him with wide eyes, and he looks guarded. Worried.

“You need to say it first.” He mutters, scanning over you carefully. “Because you want to say it. You need to- Shit,” Bucky sits a little taller, his voice hoarse as he says your name. ”You need to want this.”

You can hear the missing word.

Bucky.

You have to want Bucky.

And you’ve never fought for anything in your life. You’ve been like a chemical, reacting in a chain without any desire or thought to build yourself into anything more. It’s never mattered what you’ve wanted before, not with anyone. Steve finds you, then leaves you, then Sam finds you, then Bucky finds you, and you burst and bounce off of all of them without a thought because that’s what you do.

You don’t fight for things.

But you’d never been in love before either, and it’s moving you faster and with more fire than the truth gas had. You love Bucky, so this isn’t blood spilt in his name or a bullet bruising your organs to protect him. No plans or strategies or broken bones, because this isn’t something that can be broken. You dropped it but it’s still fully intact and filled with something better than you’ve ever had before, so you do more than fight for it.

You’ll spit and bite and snarl to keep it in your hands. You’ll build something out of roses around it until nothing can take it, and then you’ll still defend it with everything you have, because to you it will still be clear and delicate and more resilient than the ocean.

And when you finally speak, there’s something strong to your voice that hadn’t been there before, because you want Bucky to hear it. To never doubt that, at the end of the day, you want him.

It’s clear. And the words flow out of you even easier than when you’d had no choice.

“I love you.” You push up onto your knees until you’re barely a breath away, your body still only steadied by his hand on your thigh. “You. James Barnes. Nobody else. Ever.”

“That’s good.” He mutters, his free hand reaching to cup your face. “Shit, that’s- Are you-“

“I’m sure,” you offer him a small smile. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Bucky.”

His lips twitch slightly, and you’ve never seen his eyes so dark. You can fucking feel it. Across your skin and in your gut, right into your vein and more electric than a storm. If you bother to think back, he’s looked at you like this countless times, but it’s as if one last veil has been lifted, and it’s really written all over his face before he can say it.

“I love you, too.” Bucky says your name in a soft voice than you’ve ever heard, his hand squeezing on your thigh, and you’re gone. Flying and falling and growing into him, up to him, over him.

You’re almost fully pressed over him.

He doesn’t seem to mind at all.

“I’m going to kiss you now.” He pauses, raising his brows like he’s expecting you to flinch away.

You can’t have that.

Your hands fist in his shirt in half a second, and you yank him down into until you’re certain he feels it the same way you do. That this going to be immovable. You’ll mold into Bucky and climb on to his lap and open your mouth when he groans and presses his tongue on your lower lip, but that will only ever be for him. Your love for him will only ever fucking build, until it’s bursting through the atmosphere and coating everything, and you’re never lost again.

The kiss deepens from long and slow to almost frantic. You can taste whatever fruit and coffee he’d been having while you were knocked out, and you can feel his every muscle ripping when he pulls you tighter to his chest, and you need him. More. All of it. You can bite at his lips and moan at his tongue down your throat, half claw your way up his body and grind down onto his leg, but you need more-

Bucky grunts your name, pulling back with his hands planted on your hips, and at some point you’d managed to straddle his thigh.

He’s not letting you move, as he scans over your open, flushed features, and you can’t stop the whine that leave your lips.

“Jesus, baby-“

You let out another weak sound as the ache between your legs becomes painful, and drop your brow to his. “Fuck- Bucky, you can’t just say that-“

He frowns at you, brow furrowing slightly. “What are you- you mean baby?”

“God-“ You whack his arm, trying to roll your hips against him, but you barely even manage to squirm. “You’re such an asshole-“

“Yeah, ‘m sorry, ba- pretty girl.” He’s trying to help you, but pretty girl is worse, and you start to kiss over his jaw just have something.

Biting and nipping along the line of his scruff, moving your hands under his shirt to trace over his stomach, and abdomen, and-

“Shit-“ Bucky knocks your hand away with a grunt, the metal hand starting to rub firm circles on your waist. “I’m tryin’ to be a gentleman, doll, get you on a date first-“

“Date later.” You mutter, moving one hand back up to tug at his hair. “Want this, Bucky, I- I’ve been- Fuck-“ You yank at his hair again as Bucky growls, attaching his lips to your neck and sucking, wet a long line over your collar bone as he starts to guide your hips back along his thigh. “God, that feels so good-“

“I know, baby.” He smirks against your skin when you moan, and you bury your face in his shoulder. “But we’re goin’ on that date later, alright?”

“Yeah, yes please, just-” you nod desperately, tugging at Bucky’s shirt. “Off, please-“

He leans back for a second, pulling his own shirt over his head before ripping yours off, diving his head to kiss along the line of your breasts and he holds you steady on his thigh.

You’re going to fly out of your skin. Somewhere in the dizzying, building high of Bucky’s mouth anywhere he can get it, and your arms wrapped around his neck as you grind onto his thigh, he lifts you up for half a second and rips your jeans off, right before guiding you right back to where he’s decided you belong.

Riding his thigh with your cunt forming a dark spot on his jeans, your moans muffled in his chest or swallowed by long, heavy and bruising kisses.

And you’re close. You’re so close, and you can feel his cock straining right where your clit keeps bumping, and he’s started to lick and bite at nipples, and god, he’s so fucking good-

“Think you can cum like this, baby?” Bucky’s words vibrate through your whole body, and you moan against his lips. “I can help you, if you need a little more, all you have to do-“

“Please.” You whisper, squirming in his hold as he starts to kneed at your skin. “Fuck, Bucky, please, more-“

He silences you with another rough, almost branding kiss—as if he’s trying to push himself into your body, when he’s already been there for what may be forever—and grabs your leg, swinging it over until you’re fully sat on his lap, your bare pussy exposed to the air.

Bucky pushes a finger into your cunt without warning, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing harsh, firm circles until your gasping into his open mouth and yanking at his hair, every other strangled sound just another plea for more.

He gives it. Two fingers, pumping in and out of you, and it feels so good, you’re going to light on fire and burn because his thumb is just pressing down on your clit as his fingers crook at rub on the sensitive point inside of you, and he’s so fucking good-

Something white-hot and tight snaps in your core, your pussy starts to spasm and make wet sounds you’d never heard before, and you cum on Bucky’s hand with a high, relieved gasp of his name in his ear, yanking on his hair one last time. Bucky’s groan rolls through your whole body until a small, softer orgasm leaves you shaking in his arms, and when you pulls back, he’s watch you with an open, reverent expression.

Bucky pulls his hand out of your still quivering pussy, his gaze fixed on the wet mess you left all over his fingers, and you almost apologize before you see the expression on his face.

It’s hunger. And when his eyes drop only slightly to his own pants, you can see a large, wet stain around his crotch.

You swallow, looking back up to meet Bucky’s stare, and somehow the love on his face is clearer than before. Almost ardorous, and he’s licking his fingers clean without breaking your stare, and fuck, he’s already pressing right into your inner thigh again-

“You came in your pants.” You whisper, and Bucky shrugs.

“You squirted.” He glances down to his hand, then your parted lips, and his eyes flash slightly. “Can you open for me, babydoll?”

That one’s dangerous. You might do anything Bucky asks, if says it in that low, devout voice and calls you babydoll.

He groans as you obey, wrapping your lips around those same fingers that had been inside of you and sucking, moaning and licking around him, trying to show him what you’ll do for him if he lets you fall to your knees for him, touch him, taste him instead of your own release-

“God, you’re perfect.” Bucky mutters under his breath, and you start to grind down onto his already hard dick, steadying yourself with your fingers dug into his chest. “You want- Shit- I think you want more-”

You cut him off with a moan and a nod, and that’s all it takes.

It’s almost impossible, how fast Bucky has you tossed backwards on this bed, towering over your naked body for only half a second as he rips his own jeans off, right before falling forward and kissing you until you’re dizzy and melted into the mattress, scraping at his back for more because you can feel his cock, free and big and pressed right onto your stomach-

Bucky rises up with wide eyes, his attention flicking to the nightstand. “I- Uh- Wasn’t expectin’ to do this anything soon-“

“Are you clean?” You trace your hand over Bucky’s jawline until his eyes fall back to yours. “Because I’m on the pill, and the last guy was a virgin.”

Bucky blinks at you for a second, then snorts, dropping his brow to yours.

“You think you’re funny, doll.” He mutters, kissing slowly along your neck. “But I’m clean, and if you’re sayin’ what I think you are, you’re gonna be feeling me in that sweet pussy for a month.”

You swallow, a smooth shiver moving up your spine. “Promise?”

“Fuck- Are you-“

“Stop asking if I’m sure, Bucky-“

You cut yourself off with a squeak as Bucky slams his cock into you, and your back arches off the bed.

He must have somehow grown from seconds before, because fuck, he’s big. Splitting you open and filling you up until you’re already seeing faint stars, big. Driving you out of your mind just by sitting inside of you without friction, and that thought enters your head and now all you can think about is Bucky moving-

“I’ve got you, baby.” He mutters in your ear, and you must have said that aloud, because he starts to fuck you.

Really, properly fuck you until you can’t really tell where Bucky’s stopping and you’re beginning. Pounding into your cunt, with his skin slapping against yours and a big, rough, warm hand pulling and flicking at your nipples as his mouth attacks your skin, and fuck-

“Bucky-“ You gasp, your words morphing into a whine as he slams into that already raw, abused spot inside of you. “Fuck- I-“

“I know, baby,” He kisses over your face, never breaking pace as he soothes you. “Think you can come again, pretty girl? Gimme once more, before I fill your- Shit- Fill you up like you-“

Bucky groans your name as you squeeze around him, and any deceptively soft words turn in animalistic glowers as he drills into you.

You’re not sure when you cum. If it’s when Bucky starts to repeat that he loves you, over and over in your ear, his movements growing unmeasured and desperate as his cock stared to slam into your pelvis. It might have been when the metal hand found its way to pinching and rubbing your clit, or when Bucky angled your hips up and started to drill into you at an impossibly deep angle.

But you know that you don’t think you’ll ever fully come down from this high. That even as Bucky paints your cunt white with his own release and a roar of you name, you’re still floating, and everything is just a blur of salt and blue and pine and Bucky and good. He’s leaking down your thighs, but remaining buried inside of you as you both take long, ragged breaths, and he’s good. Warm and sprawled over you, strong and caging you in his arms like you’re a work of art or diamond, all yours and good.

“You promised me a date,” you mumble in his ear, and he chuckled, turning his head to kiss your cheek.

“I did, didn’t I. You think Sam’ll notice if we got out tomorrow night?”

You roll your eyes. “I think Sam is lucky he’s not getting poisoned after that shit.”

“You want me to poison him, doll, just say the word-“

“No-“

“How about head trauma. I can give him head trauma-“

You giggle, running your fingers through Bucky’s hair until you swear you can hear him fucking purring. “Don’t give Sam head trauma. It would make you sad.”

“Shut up.” Bucky grumbles, squeezing you a little tighter. “You never said yes to dinner.”

“Dinner sounds perfect.” You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and there’s the ardor again.

You’ve never felt anyone’s pure attention do that to you before him. Make everything in you soft and feral all at once, because it will only make you bloom but you’re certain now that you’d rip the fabric of time and space apart to keep it.

“I love you.” You whisper, and Bucky’s grin splits his face.

Those grins are rare. Teeth and joy and light and all Bucky, more priceless every rare metal and magic in the world.

But they’ve never been rare for you. He’s almost always offered them to you like they were nothing, and if loving Bucky was clarity, admitting it is omnipresence.

You’re everything, and everywhere, and you love him, and you don’t know how you’d never seen that he loves you back. It’s been written in crude but deep words, everywhere you could ever look.

“I love you, too.” Bucky brushes a little hair out of your face, his eyes almost sparklingly like stars on yours. “Think it’s okay if I show you, a lot, for a long time?”

Your smile hurts your cheeks, and you think the light in your body could outshine the sun.

“Yeah, it’s- please.” You lean up to press your lips to Bucky’s in a soft, slow kiss. “Please do that.”

He smirks, nodding as he tangles his hand in your hair.

“Whatever my girl wants, I’ll get her.”

“Good.” You whisper. “Cause I’m yours.”

And this is it.

You’re home.

End Note: Sam Wilson and his silly fuckeries. Biggest little brother energy in the world.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)

@globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr @Youdontknowe @panicking-outside-the-disco @ambiguous-avery

@generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @ilovedeanwinchester4 @tiana-kh @woaheasytig3r

@winchester-whiskey @jsudsgf @deans-yn @jofinka @megara0224

@funkenniffler @disappearintofanfiction @solsborg @sheneedsjesus @bonkydarnes

@whimsicalcherry @charliethemanticore @cats-chaotic-mind @forzalando @roseblue373

@sleepysongbirdsings @angrydragon90 @dumbwhorestuff @biodegradable-glitter-fest @idontwannabehere78

@miss-marmalade @cowboysandcigarettes @mgchaser @starrylanex

@foolinthera1n

464 notes · View notes

insertsparkleshere · 2 months ago

Text

ts is so cute

🍕 pizza delivery 🍕

frat boy!logan sargeant x pizza delivery driver!reader

w.c.: 1.6k

warnings: like, two curse words. that's it.

summary: logan hunter sargeant from alpha phi kappa either really fucking likes pizzas or has a big fat crush on you. maybe both.

picture credits from pinterest :)

honestly, was prema’s pizza that good? sure, it might have been made with sauce from vine-picked tomatoes, hand-grated cheese, and italian-sourced pepperonis, but was it good enough for someone to order a grand total of fifty pizzas within a five day period? probably not.

still, you stand corrected, because the unmistakable order receipt, a carbon copy of the one from yesterday, again, states the same order: 10 x-large pepperoni pizza - extra cheese.

it cannot be healthy eating this many pizzas per day.

nevertheless, you hurriedly rip the receipt from prema pizza’s tiny, half-broken printer and head past the front of house towards the kitchen to fetch the order to deliver. the yeasty smell of fresh dough and aroma of garlic bread intensifies as you slide between a few employees and squeeze into the kitchen. to your surprise, a neat stack of exactly ten pizza boxes are placed on the counter, along with a sticky note with your name on it.

frederik, one of the longtime pizza makers, nods his head in greeting at you before pointing towards the stack.

“arthur told me to tell you that he stacked all of your orders over there before he clocked out for the day,” frederik notes, before turning back to rolling out the pizza dough. there’s somehow a glob of dough in his hair and flour in the shape of a hand imprint on his back, but you pretend you don’t notice.

instead, you beam at him and give him a mock salute.

“thanks, fred!” you respond. “it’s actually just one whole order, though.”

he whips around, brow wrinkled.

“one order?? who hell is this guy??”

you shrug, and instead turn your attention to shoving as many pizza boxes as you can into one warmer bag. as hard as you try, you can probably get a max of three in the bag.

“eh, don’t remember his name.” you say dismissively. “kinda cute, blonde hair, blue eyes? he’s been ordering the same thing for the past five days, though.”

frederik wipes his dough-covered hands on his apron before snatching up the receipt you set on the counter.

nosy fuck.

“okay, well, why is this kinda-cute, blonde hair, blue eyed-” he squints at the name on the paper- “logan sargeant possibly having a twenty person pizza party every day?”

oscar, the main cook, stops his rapid throwing of pizzas into the oven and perks up when hears the name.

“logan sargeant?” he asks, head tilted in question. “i swear he’s in my tuesday morning english lectures- i’m kind of mates with him. he’s literally so american, though. perhaps that’s why he’s obsessed with pizzas- all that typical american culture and stuff.”

frederik “hmms”, tapping his chin exaggeratedly.

“i think, he has a big fat crush on our little pizza delivery girl here- why else would he order, like, a billion pizzas? plus, it’s not like oscar here does our pizzas any justice when he’s out here hurtling ingredients onto pizzas then shoving them into the oven at top speeds.”

you roll your eyes before snatching the receipt back from frederik.

“you don’t get to have an opinion on anything pizza related- we still remember you’re a psycho who likes pineapple on pizza,” you shoot back.

oscar laughs at your words and throws a handful of flour from the dough board at frederik’s head.

“yeah, fred, pineapple on pizza is a crime, mate.”

by the time you split up fred and oscar from having a full blown fight with the pizza ingredients, shove all the pizza boxes into your warmer bags, and arrive at the allotted house, you are sure you are about to get yelled at by kinda-cute-logan-sargeant for being late with his absurd amount of pizzas.

the warmer bags weigh down your arms and you basically teeter towards the door that has the same ugly hand-painted, peeling sign that you had eyed up the first time you delivered the pizzas. it crudely labels the house as the frat house “alpha phi kappa.” you take account the other things on the porch as you wait-

three empty beer bottles.

one tattered miami dolphins’ football flag.

two beat-up traffic cones.

one upside down, dusty, motorcycle-looking helmet with a giant american flag printed on the side.

four broken string lights + one working string light.

one questionably green couch that had a giant spring coming ou-

the door creaks open suddenly and the porch light comes on, effectively startling you and blinding you at the same time.

a guy with bleached-blonde hair sticks his head out, eyeing you wearily. one of his eyebrows has a sharp slit in his eyebrow, leaving a clean gap in the arch.

“yeah?” he asks, as if you haven’t been at this god forsaken frat house for the now-fifth time in a row.

“oh-” you stutter out. “i’m- i’m here with your pizzas? um, for logan?”

he breaks out in a wide grin immediately, before shoving the door open with a bang.

“oh, well why didn’t you say so?” he jokes, tilting his head to the side. he pats his forest-green hoodie, obviously looking for his phone, but when he comes up with nothing, he lift one finger towards you.

“give me one second, let me get logan for you,” he says, before bolting away.

the door is still wide open, so you just stand there uncomfortably in the open doorway. you can literally see their entire floorplan, from the semi-trashed living room to the cluttered kitchen, to even the backyard sliding door that leads to a glowing swimming pool. a dude you are pretty sure is franco from your mechanical physics class stalks by the stairwell next the door, sipping something that looks suspiciously like maté. you give him an awkward wave that he returns.

a minute later, the blonde guy thunders down the stairs, dragging a concerningly red-faced, kinda-cute-logan with him.

“okay, here’s logan for ya,” the guy says, beaming once more, before full-on galloping back up the stairs.

“al-right,” you drag out. tearing your eyes away from whatever that was, you face logan, who has somehow turned more red than before. “your pizza?”

you slide all ten boxes towards him, making sure to open the lid of the first one to show him pizza one of ten that was handcrafted to meet his specific needs- x-large pepperoni with extra cheese.

logan barely looks at the pizza before giving you a quick thumbs up.

“yeah, that’s um, perfect! you know me too well, haha.”

you begin to see where this is going. maybe frederik was right.

raising an eyebrow, you nod.

“well, considering this is your fifth consecutive order in a five day period…yeah.”

logan leans against the doorframe, obviously trying to look cool.

“what can i say? your pizza is.. um… top-tier. like if it was a race, it would go, like first place podium over all the other pizza places.”

before you can respond, a car swerves into the driveway of the frat house. a guy with the fluffiest brown hair you have ever seen climbs out the car. when he sees you with the pile of pizzas in the doorway with logan next to you, a devilish grin spreads across his face.

“ah, it’s the pizza delivery girl, eh, cabrón?” he remarks to logan. turning to you, he cups a hand dramatically around his mouth like he was telling a secret. “did logan here tell you about his pizza shrine?” he asks, before squeezing past the two of you into the house.

logan’s eyes widen almost immediately.

“CARLOS, no-”

a what?

this must be a joke, right?

alas, when you tilt your head into the doorway, past logan who was trying to look inconspicuous, you spot it.

a corner of the freaking frat house was turned into a pizza shrine. each one had multiple sticky notes on them, one of them reading: “great delivery today, she smiled at me.” and “her laugh is cute.” in scrawled, messy handwriting.

ok, frederik was definitely right.

“so, uh… do you typically do this with all your pizza delivery girls?” you interrogate, fighting back a smile.

logan looks at you with visible panic.

“wait, wait, i can explain!”

carlos, or whatever his name is, yells from inside the house.

“HE EVEN FRAMED THE RECEIPT FROM THE FIRST TIME YOU DELIVERED! IT’S ABOVE THE FIREPLACE!”

the blonde in front of you huffs, one hand covering his face in embarrassment.

“i’m gonna kill him,” he mutters.

you laugh at his reaction, feeling oddly endeared by the presence of the literal shrine and apparent framed receipt atop the frat house fireplace.

“do you even like prema pizza?” you gently question.

logan scratches his head sheepishly.

“i mean, the pizza is cool an all that, but like, you’re like, um, cooler.”

well, logan couldn’t be more apparent. if he wasn’t going to make a move, though, you would. you couldn’t keep making pizza deliveries forever.

you pull out your phone.

“if you, you know, ever want to hang out- without the pizza excuse, just text me okay?”

logan looks like he’s about to implode.

he nods aggressively, before taking at least two tries to type his phone number with the speed he’s trying to input his contact info.

“a pizza shrine??” arthur shouts, voice blaring from your phone. “ugh!! why do i always miss these things when i go home! -and then what happened?”

frederik laughs from his spot next to oscar, huddled close in a semi-circle around you in the dark, the only light coming from the call on your phone.

“and then, he gave her his number, that’s what, arthur. because i was right!” frederik trills, leaping around the just-cleaned kitchen of the empty pizzeria. “i just knew that it wasn’t because he liked the pizzas here.”

oscar rolls his eyes.

“well, i’m just saying it could be a factor, frederik.”

just then, your phone lights up with a ding.

logan 🇺🇸🍕: are you down for a pizza date? i actually do really like prema pizza.

oscar leaps up with a celebratory shriek, directed at frederik.

“ha! i was right too!”

general taglist: @ellelabelle @n0vazsq

234 notes · View notes

insertsparkleshere · 2 months ago

Text

i might actually start fucking crying

scorn to change my state | jason todd x fem!reader valentine's special ♡

but first free palestine !! jason and sionis!reader exchange valentines and make it clear that they really really really like each other. featuring sonnet 29 by william shakespeare. tw: insecure reader, slightly less insecure reader. lots of kissing. abuse of italics a/n: this is my over the top boquet of valentines flowers for all of you, forgive the corniness. for more sionis!reader, see the links below. magic hands | is this love | tremble & shake

Jason is fairly certain there’s a small amount of dynamite lodged in his chest, ticking along with his heartbeat.

He’s beginning to worry that this was a stupid Valentine’s present. But what else was he supposed to get a woman who didn’t need anything? He wasn’t well versed enough in jewelry to not fuck it up and neither of you had time for some kind of excursion. A fancy date seemed like too much of a given, like that couldn't be the present.

Maybe it wasn’t even the right move to get you something. You're...prickly. He’s prickly. Outward affection is a rarity in this relationship. Physical affection makes him jump. Praise makes you defensive. Neither of you are good at receiving gifts - you hadn’t even exchanged Christmas presents. You’ve been lowering your emotional walls brick by stubborn brick, so maybe such a direct gift would be too much. Maybe making a point to celebrate a holiday all about love would be too much for you.

But then you’d thrown him through a loop the other morning when you let out a sweet sigh and declared that you “just love Valentine’s Day.”

Then this had quite literally fallen from the shelf and into his hands with a mighty thump in Gotham Used Books. The worn cover was the same shade of red as his helmet. The rose pattern looped around the title in a similar fashion to the floral stitching on your favorite top; the one you always wore on formal dates. And when he flipped the book open, the medieval sketch in the forward could easily be you.

You had mentioned that you wanted to read more this year. And the cashier with the English degree had assured him that this was a safe pick. It's sweet, the kind of thing a good boyfriend buys. The content is romantic, but it’s not over-the-top-teddy-bear-diamond-ring-romantic. Most importantly, he thought you would like it.

He just wants you to like it.

Now he's not so sure.

Of course you’re wearing the damn flower shirt. His eyes keep drifting to the swirl of gold, blue, pink and red flora that thread your chest; particularly the blush petals that sit right over your nipples. Your perfume turns the room into a garden, clean like iris, dark like cherries and warm like chocolate. Even simply sitting crossed legged in your bed, you’re regal.

You shove a small white box wrapped with expensive ribbon in his hands. He’s never seen such a look of pride on your face until he pulls the ribbon and opens the lid to find another box, this time in black leather with a gold trim.

“A box within a box? How did you know!”

“C-orny,” you blow a raspberry at him. “It’s in the box, dummy.”

“Will wonders never cease,” he teases back, flipping open the clasp. You scoot forward in anticipation. Your excitement can’t mask the anxiety in your eyes. Takes a breath, mentally preparing himself for whatever lays inside. You’re not the kind of woman to waste her time. Whatever’s in the box, he’s deserving of. At least, he is in your eyes - but that counts for a lot.

Nestled in plush cream satin is a round silver rendition of di Vinci’s Vitruvian Man on a thin curb chain.

“You have the same glower,” you simper with a full set of teeth.

Jason scoffs in amusement. You really aren’t wrong, he thinks to himself as he traces over the meticulous detail, trying to be as feather light as his heavy touch can be. He’s just not sure if that’s a good thing.

“Flip it over,” you urge him, your voice shrinking ever so slightly. He does so, holding the coin sized pendant to his eye to read the engraving.

For My Hero.

Jason’s chest swells with something that must be joy. A amygdaloid chorus of ‘She loves me! She loves me! She loves me!’ drowns out every other noise in his brain. For a moment, a red filter colors his vision and he’s certain the only explanation can be that his pupils have morphed into comically large cartoon hearts.

But when he looks back at you, you’re about to combust. Your eyelids have receded into your eyebrows, which in return have receded half way up your forehead. You’re keeping your rosy fingernails from fidgeting by digging them into your heated cheeks. The corner of your lip is twitching and he can tell that you’re resisting the urge to chew on it. The smudge of lipstick on your front teeth tells him you’ve already given in at least once.

“Geez, dude, take a breath,” he snorts.

“If you don’t like it, we can always return it and exchange it for something else,” you squawk nervously. “Or we can find a different chain if you want it longer or-or a different style or, y’know, like whatever…”

Jason grins a dopy, lopsided grin. It’s such a rare treat to see you so goosey. He knows he should probably feel bad about much he’s savoring the nervous look on your gorgeous face. However, his usually so ceaseless voice of guilt cannot be heard as the ‘She loves me! She loves me! She loves me!’ chorus begins to belt.

“It’s beautiful, baby,” he says, lifting it out of the box and clasping it around his neck. He can feel the weight of it on his sternum; not too heavy, just enough to remind him it’s there. He glances over at your full length mirror and admires the way the metal gleams from across the room, proudly shining against his charcoal t-shirt. His face contorts into the same glower as the design, turning back when it makes you giggle sweetly.

“So, you like it?”

He leans forward and kisses you softly, running the pendant through his fingers.

“I’m never taking it off,” he swears on your lips. He means it too.

You laugh again and when you pull away, Jason catches the heavenly scent of your skin. The rustle of newspaper on literature yanks him back down to earth.

“My turn?” You ask, the trademark coy smile returning to your lips. You tap the poorly wrapped package in his lap. The chorus in his head reverts back to the tick of the bomb strapped to his arteries, drumming in time with your fingers.

Fuck, he got you such a bad fucking gift.

“Uh, yeah, yeah, sure,” he says, the words rolling out of his mouth before he can grasp them.

You snatch the package with a bounce and your mattress creaks like a disappointed groan.

“The comic section? How’d you know!” You tease, poking the tip of your tongue between your teeth.

“Just open it, princess,” he chuckles, despite how badly he does not want you to open it. He threads the ribbon from the necklace box between his fingers, painfully aware of how fine the velvety material is as he watches you tear back the coffee stained Garfield and Charlie Brown he used as wrapping paper.

Your eyes narrow in what he hopes is concentration, following the flowers and vines to the title. “Shakespeare’s Complete Sonnets and Poems,” you read aloud in a tone too flat for his liking.

“I know it’s not…You said you wanted to get more into reading, so I just…thought…It’s…” he trails off dumbly, rubbing the back of his overheated neck. “Poet..try?”

You don’t seem to be paying his bumbling much mind, however. You flip open the front cover and recite, “To my Sonnet Twenty-Nine. With all my love and respect, J.T.”

Oh God, he forgot he'd written that.

Jason thinks he maybe makes another attempt at speaking that comes out as little more than a sad gust of air. You waste no time rifling through the book until you find the poem in question. Every swish of a turning page clangs like the beat of a death march.

He sucks in a breath when you land on the right page. You read the poem in dead silence, your lips moving soundlessly in tandem with your eyes flying along the words.

‘When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope, With what I enjoy most contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at the break of day arising From sullen earth sings hymns at Heaven’s gate; For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That I scorn to change my state with kings.’

He recites in his head. He’d read it over and over and over again up until he wrapped it up this morning. It was as if Shakespeare had reached into the storm of Jason’s brain and pulled out the eye of the hurricane. How many times has he sulked over all the ways his life could be different and resented those who represented the things he could no longer have- only to look beside him and remember he had something they didn’t. You.

Despite everything he’s seen, Jason is a skeptic. He’s not a non-believer, in fact, he’s pretty sure he believes in God. But he’s apprehensive about the forces of the universe. If they’re out there, they aren’t looking out for anybody…except for when Aphrodite or Jesus or Shakespeare created you.

Ol’ Will must’ve had a vision of you; the lark with the sharp mouth and the soft lips. He must’ve foreseen you sitting in your floral shirt with the petals over your nipples and the blue jeans that hug your ass, the ones that make you feel good about yourself. He must’ve dreamt about the way you make a saggy dollar bin paperback look like it cost a million dollars. It's the only way the poem makes sense.

Ever since Jason started seeing you, the whites of his eyes shine brighter and gold flecks have begun to twinkle in his hazel irises. His skin is clearer, his hair is softer, his posture straighter. Even the tension in the crease of his scowl has been alleviated. His laughter has become more frequent, much to the amusement of his friends. His fashion has become more deliberate. Maybe he's dressing for your approval, but it's made him feel more confident, attractive even. He doesn’t feel so in pain all the time.

And his scars…those ugly faults that become medals of honor when blessed by your holy caress. God only knows how you manage to soothe the discolored purple of his bruises into a dark cherry. And he had never noticed how the pale pink of his autopsy scar complimented his cool undertones under you had given him a wine-fueled verbal dissertation on why he looked so good in red.

You reach the end of the poem and Jason’s chest constricts with dreadful anticipation for you to say something. However, your gaze goes back to the start. Of course it is, of course you’re reading this stupid sonnet with care and attention. For someone who throws caution to the wind with her own words, you’re painstakingly analytical about everyone else’s. Jason adores that about you until it’s him pinned under your microscope.

He's predicted the next movement of masked criminals based on the quiver of a nerve without breaking a sweat. For whatever reason, his skills mean nothing when it comes to you. He tries to analyze your face, but it’s so furrowed in concentration. Your eyes are flitting back and forth between verses, breaking everything down.

Fuck, he’s an idiot. You have an allergy to compliments and he’s just given you a damn book oversaturated with them. You must be uncomfortable, you look uncomfortable. This is too intense for you. It's too much all at once. It's suffocating. Embarrassing. Needy.

Why can't he just be normal? He's scared you off. This is why he can't be in relationships. He can't not fuck it up. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

“It's like the most basic one after the one about a summer's day," he mumbles. At this point he's kneading a sore in the nape of his neck. "I know, it's-"

"It's beautiful," you correct whatever he was about to say. You finally raise your head and your eyes are misty. He straightens his spine as he realizes he’s made you cry. "It's really beautiful, Jaybird. It's..."

You draw your arms into your side. You're getting shy on him.

"What is it?"

But he's not much braver.

"Is this...Why did you pick this one?"

“I…What do you mean?” he asks dumbly.

You shift, looking down at the sonnet, “It’s just that you said in the inscription, ‘to my Sonnet 29.’ What’s special about this one?”

HIs cheeks burn something fierce. He has no good answer. Well, he does, but you’re going to think it’s stupid, "It just...it, y'know, it stuck out to me."

You peer back at him with that laser sharp precision, “Why?”

“Why?” he repeats, leaning forward like he hadn’t heard you correctly. You nod, cocking an eyebrow like you’re suspicious of his intentions. He trips over his tongue as he tries to come up with some nonchalant answer, “it’s just…it’s, like, really iconic, y’know-”

“Do you like me?” you ask suddenly. There’s an insecure waver in your voice.

Jason blinks.

“Do I like you?” It’s a stupid question. He’s shocked you even have to ask. No shit he likes you. He adores you. He loves you. “Of course, I like you. You’re my Valentine, of course, I like you.”

“I’m…yours?”

His heart races. It’s been so long since he actually did this.

“Would you like to be?”

You immediately open your mouth, but your answer hesitates on your honeyed lips.

Cruel cold doom spreads through Jason’s chest, icing over all the joy he just felt. You’re going to tell him no. You’re going to tell him no and he’s going to have to live with that.

But instead you say, “Are you being serious?”

You’re scared. He’s scared you. He doesn’t dare speak, doesn’t risk a tone. He nods slowly, holding your gaze.

“Because I do want to be yours. I want you. I-I…I really like you,” you continue with a slight shake. “But I just have to make sure that you’re one hundred percent sure that you want me. Like really want me. Like in this poem.”

You’ve never been this vulnerable without the influence of substances. He has to take a moment to admire your bravery. When it first became clear that this relationship warranted more than sex, you would’ve rather died than be this open. If you’re being this honest with him, then he owes it to you to do the same.

After all, he’s already let you this far into his life. He’s already told you he’s the Red Hood. He’s already shown you every inch of his body. He’s already given a book of sonnets.

“If I didn’t want you, I wouldn’t have given you that poem. Fuck, baby, I wouldn’t even be here with you right now,” he swears. He gently takes the book from you and wraps his hands around yours. His palms cover the backs of your hands completely, calluses on lotioned knuckles. Just touching you made him softer. If only you could see yourself the way he sees you.

When you drop your eyes to your lap, he keeps going, “Look, I know I’m not Shakespeare and I’m not…great at being romantic. But I don’t get close to people very often. I definitely don’t get this close to anyone ever. I don’t even do hook-ups, but from that first night in that bar, I knew there was something special about you. I…”

“But why? I mean,” you shift uncomfortably. “I’m mean. I’m not even nice to you when all you do is tell me I’m beautiful and give me fucking sonnets. So why-” your voice catches in your throat and you blink rapidly, as if to hold back tears. “I just…I’m not worth more than the sex, Jay.”

For a fleeting moment, Jason congratulates himself on picking the right Valentine’s present. You really do get each other. However, the horror that you aren’t feeling the same relief keeps him from preening.

“No, no, no, baby,” he shakes his head vigorously. “You-” he lets go of your hands. “Are-” he grips your hips. “The light-” he pulls you into his lap, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Of my life.”

You sniffle as you roll your eyes, “Don’t be cheesy.”

Jason snorts, hugging you close to his chest, “I’ll be as cheesy as I want.”

He kisses your cheek and when it makes you smile, he kisses your nose, then all the way down both sides of your jawline. He catches either corner of your lips before leaning you back to shower your neck, basking in the way your throat vibrates with laughter.

“‘Cause,” he continues, cupping the back of your head. “It’s Valentine’s and the most beautiful girl in the world is crying ‘cause she doesn’t know how beautiful she is. Or how she’s made an amateur romantic out of scraggly old miser.”

He grazes his teeth along the crook of your neck, groaning as his crooked nose brushes against where you sprayed your perfume this morning. “I think about you every second of the day. I count down the minutes until I get to see you again. There are days where the thought of coming home to you keeps me going through the worst kind of bullshit. Because when I’m with you, life is worth living - just like the sonnet said. You make everything worth it because you are worth everything.”

You let out a tiny gasp when Jason rolls you onto your back. His biceps flex as he hoists himself on top of you and bends his elbows to trail his reddening lips down the v plunge of your shirt. The medallion sits heavy on your bra line. You can feel its coolness seep through your shirt, if only because it’s such a stark difference from his body heat.

“Haply I think on thee, and then my state,” he recites between the kisses he’s leaving on your collarbone. “Like to the lark at the break of day arising.”

You give him a full belly laugh and it’s the most lovely sound he’s ever heard. Now he lets himself preen, rubbing his cheek along the green stitches dotting your neckline.

“I like who I am when I’m with you,” he hums along your sternum. He can’t believe how easy these words are coming to him. “I like having something to feel happy about all the time. I like you.”

“Even when I’m mean to you?” You whisper cautiously.

He repositions himself to rest his forehead against yours, “You’re not mean.”

“Yes, I am-” you protest, but Jason’s having none of it.

“No, you’re not. You’re a little snarky, but it’s sexy as hell,” he says. “But yes, I like you even when you’re snarky. Especially when you’re snarky.”

He kisses you again, deeper this time. He lavishes your favored lip, setting a comfortable rhythm. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull his body flush against yours. Manicured nails comb through the base of his hair, the way only you know he likes it. A large hand cups your cheek, a thick thumb stroking your cheekbone because only he knows how it makes you purr.

“Like to the lark at the break of day arising,” he croons when he comes up for air, pink mouth newly adorned with gloss. “From sullen earth sings hymns at Heaven’s gate.”

“For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,” you pick up, taking a moment to admire the silver pendant hanging in your face before tangling your fingers in the chain and tugging your man back to you.

You sink into each other with ease. Your touch exchanges a thousand sonnets without speaking a single word. Maybe he didn’t buy the book for the flowers or the drawing or your desire to read. Maybe he bought it because the universe saw a chance for him to tell you the things he can’t quite say himself.

“That I scorn to change my state with kings.”

216 notes · View notes

insertsparkleshere · 2 months ago

Text

the way my jaw fucking DROPPED holy SHIT

AMERICAN JESUS | LS2

an: i had this song on loop the other day and if you think of anybody else when you listen to american jesus, i fear you're incorrect and to @obxstiles who said my fics have a theme - kiss my bottom xx

wc: 3.6k

THE HEAT CLUNG TO EVERYTHING, thick and unrelenting, settling into the cracked pavement and rusting trailer roofs like it had always belonged there. Cicadas hummed in the dry grass, their endless chorus filling the gaps between distant laughter and the occasional bark of a dog. The air smelled of dust and gasoline, of cigarette smoke drifting lazily through open windows. Somewhere in the distance, a radio crackled, playing an old song about love and leaving—a song no one in this town ever seemed to listen to properly.

Logan smelled like cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, the kind you pick up at a gas station for three bucks and change. The scent clung to his denim jacket, worn soft from too many nights spent in the backseat of his old Chevy or passed out on someone’s cigarette-burned couch. He had a cross around his neck, silver and slightly tarnished, swinging against his chest when he leaned over her, grinning that lazy, lopsided grin.

"You always look at me like you expect me to save you," he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

She didn’t answer, just traced the chain around his neck with her fingers.

His cross hung around his neck, but it felt like a hollow promise—a symbol of something he had never believed in, yet wore like a shield. He was her contradiction.

Sunday morning light poured in through the trailer’s thin curtains, cutting across his bare shoulders, his long blond hair messy from the night before. She should’ve been in church. That’s where she used to be, wearing her best dress, hands folded in prayer, eyes cast down like a good girl was supposed to. But Logan had ruined all that. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe she’d never really believed in salvation until she found it in the passenger seat of his car, windows down, radio humming with Springsteen.

"Where are you at, sweetheart?" he asked, voice soft.

She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was a little past ten. If she listened close, she could probably hear the choir from First Baptist ringing out across town, voices lifted in a hymn about redemption.

She had never really believed in redemption, either.

Logan stretched, the cross around his neck catching the light for a brief moment before it disappeared beneath his tanned skin. He smirked, watching her with those blue eyes, the ones that made her feel like she was walking a tightrope between damnation and something close to freedom.

"You’re thinking too much again," he murmured, reaching for a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand.

She watched as he lit it, the flame flickering, his lips parting slightly as he inhaled. The scent of smoke curled through the air, mixing with the warmth of last night.

"You always say that," she replied, pulling the sheet up over her chest, though there was no one around to see her. Just him. Just Logan, sprawled out beside her, all lazy limbs and sun-kissed skin.

"Because it’s always true."

She sighed, rolling onto her side, facing him. Outside, the heat was already settling in for the day, cicadas humming from somewhere beyond the cracked-open window. The trailer park was quiet, most folks either at work or still sleeping off the night before.

She used to wake up to the sound of her father’s voice, sharp and slurred, barking orders like a drill sergeant. Get up. Get dressed. Church starts in an hour. If she so much as hesitated, the belt would find its way across her back. She still flinched sometimes when she heard the scrape of leather, even though the man who wielded it was long gone.

Logan reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His touch was surprisingly gentle for a boy who’d grown up fighting in car parks and sneaking beers behind petrol stations.

"You ever gonna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?" he asked, exhaling smoke towards the ceiling.

She swallowed. "You already know."

His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through it before he smirked again, shifting onto his back. "Yeah. I do."

That was the thing about Logan, he didn’t push. He never had to. He knew all her secrets already. Knew why her hands shook sometimes when she held a kitchen knife. Knew why she never talked about her father. Knew why she had mud on her boots that wouldn’t quite scrub off.

She glanced at the clock again. Half past ten.

"Church should be letting out soon," she murmured.

Logan chuckled, tilting his head towards her. "You miss it?"

She thought of wooden pews and whispered prayers, of a God who never answered when she needed Him most.

"No," she said. "I don’t."

Logan smiled, reaching for her hand, fingers warm against hers. "Good," he said. "’Cause I was thinking we take a drive today. Maybe find somewhere quiet."

Somewhere quiet.

She knew what that meant.

Somewhere far from town. Far from questions.

Far from the place that sneered at them.

She exhaled, her fingers tightening around his. "Yeah," she said softly. "Let’s go."

Logan grinned, tapping ash into the tray beside the bed before leaning down, pressing his lips against hers. He tasted like cherry wine and smoke, and maybe, just maybe, something close to salvation.

They left the trailer with the windows down, the hot wind rushing in, tangling her hair as Logan’s old Chevy rumbled down the dusty road. He drove one-handed, the other resting on her thigh in that effortless way of his, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. The radio crackled with static before settling on something familiar—Springsteen, again.

She watched him from the passenger seat, the way the sun caught in his hair, turning it gold at the edges. His cross swung against his chest with every bump in the road, a quiet reminder of the boy he was supposed to be. The boy he never really had a chance to become.

"Where we going?" she asked, stretching her legs out, sock clad feet propped up on the dashboard.

Logan took a slow drag of his cigarette before flicking it out the window. "Somewhere quiet."

She didn’t ask for details. Logan always had places, hidden spots just outside town, where the grass grew tall and the world felt still for a little while. Places where no one cared if you drank warm beer straight from the can or carved your name into the wood of an old picnic table just to prove you existed.

She liked those places.

They stopped at a petrol station just off the highway, the kind with sun-faded signs and an old man behind the till who barely looked up when they walked in. Logan grabbed a bottle of Coke and a pack of gum, slipping a couple of cigarettes into his pocket when no one was looking. She didn’t say anything. She never did.

Back in the car, he popped the cap off the Coke and took a swig before passing it to her. It was warm, syrupy sweet on her tongue.

"You ever think about leaving?" she asked suddenly, staring out at the road ahead.

Logan glanced at her, his smirk faltering for just a second. "Leaving where?"

"Here. This town. The trailer park. Everything."

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders before lighting another cigarette. "Yeah," he said eventually. "All the time."

She watched the smoke curl from his lips, disappearing into the heat of the afternoon.

"You?" he asked.

She thought of church bells and hushed voices. Of Sundays in her best dress, of hands folded in prayer. Of the way people looked at her now, the way they whispered when they thought she wasn’t listening.

"Yeah," she said. "All the time."

Logan tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, staring at the road ahead. "Maybe we should, then."

She turned to look at him, but he didn’t meet her gaze. His eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, like he could already see the road stretching out beyond this town, beyond the life they were supposed to live.

A new beginning.

A second chance.

She swallowed. "Maybe."

Logan finally looked at her then, his lips curling into that slow, knowing smile. He reached over, resting a hand on her thigh, warm and solid.

"You and me, sweetheart," he murmured. "We could be something else."

She didn’t know what that meant. Not really.

But she wanted to believe him.

And for now, that was enough.

They drove for another hour, the town shrinking behind them, swallowed by long stretches of empty road and endless sky. The radio crackled now and then, struggling to hold onto a signal, but Logan didn’t bother tuning it. The hum of the engine and the wind rushing through the open windows were enough.

She knew they were heading somewhere out past the old quarry, where the land flattened into fields that went on forever, where no one came looking for you unless they had a reason to. Logan had a habit of finding places like that, forgotten corners of the world, quiet and still, like time stopped moving when you stepped into them.

Eventually, he pulled off the main road, the tyres kicking up dust as they rolled onto a dirt track, weaving between overgrown trees and rusting fence posts. The sun had started its slow descent, burning deep orange at the edges, casting long shadows through the windscreen.

"This it?" she asked, tucking her feet beneath her.

Logan just smirked. "You’ll see."

The car jolted over a pothole before the track finally opened into a clearing. It wasn’t much—just a patch of dry grass and a few trees bent with the weight of the heat—but it had a view. Beyond the hill, the land stretched wide, dipping and rising like a rolling sea of gold and brown.

Logan killed the engine and climbed out, stretching his arms above his head before rounding to her side of the car, tugging the door open. "Come on, then."

She followed him up the hill, the grass scratchy against her ankles, the scent of sun-baked earth thick in the air. At the top, he dropped onto the ground with all the grace of someone who had never cared much for manners, leaning back on his elbows.

She hesitated for a moment before sinking down beside him, the warmth of the day still clinging to the ground beneath them. From here, the world felt endless. No houses, no roads. Just open sky and the quiet hum of cicadas, the occasional rustle of wind through the grass.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

She lay back, staring up at the sky. The first traces of night were creeping in, turning the blue darker at the edges, the faintest hint of stars beginning to emerge.

"It’s nice," she murmured.

Logan turned his head to look at her. "Yeah?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

He smirked, reaching into his jacket pocket, pulling out a crumpled cigarette. He lit it with a flick of his lighter, taking a slow drag before holding it out to her.

She hesitated. She never smoked. Not really.

But tonight felt like something different.

So she took it.

The smoke burned her throat, but she didn’t cough. Logan grinned, watching her from beneath lazy lids.

"Look at you," he murmured. "A proper rebel now."

She rolled her eyes, but she smiled.

They sat like that for a while, passing the cigarette back and forth, the silence settling easy between them.

After a while, Logan shifted, resting his arm behind his head. "If you could go anywhere," he asked, voice slow and thoughtful, "where would it be?"

She exhaled, watching the smoke drift into the darkening sky.

"I don’t know," she admitted. "Somewhere else."

Logan hummed. "Not much of an answer, sweetheart."

She turned her head to face him. "What about you?"

His gaze flickered, like maybe he’d never been asked that before. He took another drag before shrugging, exhaling through his nose. "Maybe out west. California, maybe. Somewhere warm."

She smirked. "Logan, it’s warm here."

"Yeah, but this ain’t the good kind." He stretched his legs out, tapping the cigarette ash into the dirt. "I mean real heat. The kind that don’t come with dirt roads and trailers and shitty jobs you can’t get out of."

She considered that.

"Think we could make it?" she asked, voice softer than she meant it to be.

Logan turned his head again, eyes dark and knowing.

"You and me?" He reached out, brushed his fingers over hers. "We can make it anywhere."

She swallowed, something heavy settling in her chest. She wanted to believe him.

Maybe, for tonight, she would.

The cigarette burned down to the filter, and Logan flicked it into the dirt, watching the ember glow for a second before the wind snuffed it out. The sky above them had darkened, stars stretching out in patterns she used to think meant something. Fate, destiny—things she’d been raised to believe in. Things she wasn’t so sure about anymore.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, picking at the loose thread on the hem of her skirt. Logan was staring up at the sky, his arms folded behind his head, cross glinting in the low light. He looked at peace in a way he never did in town, like he was meant to be out here, away from everything.

She swallowed, then said it. "We should leave."

Logan didn’t move, didn’t even blink, like he’d been expecting it. "Leave and go where?"

"Anywhere."

That made him smirk, the corner of his mouth curling. "Not much of a plan, sweetheart."

She shrugged. "Don’t need a plan. Just need a car and the road."

He turned his head then, looking at her properly. "And what about money?"

She exhaled through her nose. "You always find ways to get money."

That made him laugh, a quiet, knowing sound. "Can’t argue with that."

She leaned back on her hands, staring out over the horizon. "There’s nothing for us here, Logan. Not anymore."

His smirk faded slightly, but he didn’t look away.

"You know I’m right," she continued, voice softer now. "This place—people like us don’t get out. They get stuck. They spend their whole lives trying to make do with what’s left." She shook her head. "I don’t want to be like that."

Logan was quiet for a long moment. Then he let out a breath, slow and steady. "You really wanna do this?"

She turned to him. "Yeah. I do."

Another pause. Then Logan sat up properly, elbows resting on his knees, fingers rolling the lighter between them.

"You ever been further than the next town over?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No. You?"

He gave her a lopsided grin. "Nope."

Silence stretched again, but this time it felt different. He was thinking about it, she could tell. Turning it over in his head, measuring the weight of it.

Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Alright, sweetheart," he murmured. "Let’s go."

Her heart kicked in her chest. "You mean it?"

Logan smirked. "’Course I mean it. Told you—we can make it anywhere."

She stared at him, searching his face for hesitation, doubt—anything that might make her second-guess this. But there was nothing. Just Logan, looking at her like this was always meant to happen.

A slow smile spread across her lips.

"Then let’s do it," she said. "Let’s leave tonight."

Logan ran a hand through his hair, glanced back at the car. "We’ll need gas. And I should probably grab a few things from my place."

She nodded. "Alright."

Logan grinned. "Let’s go then sweetheart."

He stood, brushing the dirt off his jeans before reaching down, offering her a hand. She took it, letting him pull her up, their fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary.

"Guess we’re really doing this, huh?" he murmured, voice low.

"Guess we are."

He leaned in then, pressing a kiss to her forehead, his lips warm and soft against her skin.

"Race you down," he said, before turning and heading down the hill, back towards the car.

She stayed for a moment, staring out at the horizon, feeling the weight of it settle in her chest.

This was it.

By morning, they’d be gone.

The drive back into town was quieter this time. The excitement, the rush of making a decision that felt like freedom, had settled into something heavier. It wasn’t regret. It wasn’t fear. It was just real now.

Logan tapped his fingers against the wheel, a rhythm that didn’t match the faint hum of the radio. She kept her gaze on the road ahead, watching as the familiar buildings came into view—half-empty shops, a petrol station with flickering lights, the church standing tall in the distance like it always had.

She thought about how different it would look in the rear-view mirror.

They pulled into the trailer park, the gravel crunching beneath the tyres. The place was mostly quiet, save for a few people sitting outside their homes, the glow of cigarettes blinking like fireflies in the dim light.

Logan killed the engine, glancing over at her. "You coming in?"

She nodded. "Yep, I’ll grab my bag."

He smirked, but there was something distracted about it. "Come on princess.”

She climbed out, the air thick and warm, heavy with the scent of dry grass and burnt-out summer heat. Inside, the trailer was dim and stuffy, the air hanging still. She moved quickly, grabbing her duffel bag from under the bed, stuffing in clothes, checking a few old photos, anything she couldn’t bear to leave behind. Not that there was much.

A few minutes later, she heard Logan from the bathroom, the door creaking as he stepped in.

"Got what you need?" he asked, leaning against the frame.

She nodded. "You?"

He lifted his backpack. "Enough to start."

She gave him a small smile, zipping up her bag. "Then let’s go."

But before they could take a step, the flash of blue and red cut through the thin curtains, washing the inside of the trailer in harsh, flickering light.

Her breath caught.

For a second, she just stared at it, her pulse hammering in her throat.

How fitting, she thought.

Red, white, and blue.

Logan had always been her American Jesus.

The one who saved her. The one who saw her as something more than what this town had tried to make her.

Now, those same colours had come to take him away.

A sharp knock at the door.

Logan didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, pulled it open.

Two police officers stood outside, their faces unreadable beneath the glow of the flashing lights. One of them, an older man with tired eyes, reached for his handcuffs.

"Logan Sargeant," he said, voice firm, "you’re under arrest for the murder of—"

Her father’s name rang out in the night.

Everything went still.

Logan didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just turned his head, looking back at her.

And that was it.

That was how they knew.

The secret they had buried in the dirt, in whispered promises and muddy footprints.

The truth that had tied them together tighter than love ever could.

Was found.

Logan blinked, his face unreadable for a fraction of a second before he let out a sharp breath, shaking his head.

"What?" he scoffed, furrowing his brows. "Murder?" He let out a dry, humourless laugh. "That’s a mistake, buddy."

The officer didn’t so much as flinch. "You have the right to remain silent," he continued, reaching for Logan’s arm.

Logan took a step back, hands raised slightly. "Hang on a minute. You lot seriously think I—" He turned to her then, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and something deeper, something desperate. "Tell them, sweetheart. Tell them the truth."

The truth.

The word sat heavy in the air, curling in her stomach like smoke, thick and suffocating.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

The other officer, a woman with a tight jaw and watchful eyes, stepped forward, already pulling out the cuffs. "Logan Sargeant, you are under arrest for the murder of—"

His name again. Her father’s name.

Logan turned back to them, laughing, but it was hollow, crumbling at the edges. "This is ridiculous. I didn’t—I wouldn’t—" He sucked in a sharp breath. "Just ask her. She’ll tell you."

All eyes turned to her.

Tell them.

She could end this. She could stop it before they dragged him away, before they slammed the car door shut and took him somewhere she couldn’t follow.

But her throat felt tight. Her chest burned.

She couldn’t move.

Logan’s eyes locked onto hers, searching, pleading. "Sweetheart," he murmured. "Come on now. Say something."

She wanted to.

But she just stood there, fists clenched at her sides, watching.

Logan’s breath hitched, like he’d just been punched in the gut. His jaw tensed, something shifting in his expression—hurt bleeding into realisation, betrayal settling like dust in the space between them.

"Jesus," he breathed, shaking his head. "You’re really gonna let this happen?"

Her hands trembled.

"Logan—"

The click of the cuffs cut through the air like a gunshot.

His body jerked slightly as they tightened around his wrists, but he didn’t fight. He just stared at her, his face suddenly unreadable, like a book with the last pages torn out.

The officers moved quickly now, guiding him towards the car.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Logan looked back one last time, eyes dark beneath the flashing lights. Not angry. Not even afraid. Just… lost.

"Guess that’s my answer then," he murmured.

Then they pushed him into the back of the car.

The door slammed shut.

She stood there, sock clad feet on the warm gravel, watching as the blue and red lights washed over her skin, as the car pulled away, as Logan disappeared into the night.

And she didn’t make a sound.Because if she did, they’d know she killed him.

And that she’d made the call.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow

91 notes · View notes

insertsparkleshere · 2 months ago

Text

virgin/inexperienced!jason todd my beloved

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #red hood #dceu #dc

43 notes · View notes

insertsparkleshere · 2 months ago

Text

this is beautiful what the fuck

Written In Skin

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, love confessions, smut (p in v, oral both receiving, fingering), light angst, fluff, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: Bucky's been gone on a mission for about a week, and you love him, so you wait. And when he returns, he has a question that might finally let you say those three words aloud.

Author's Note: If this man was real I'd let that metal arm do unspeakable things to me. Enjoy!

Word Count: 6.9k

Nights are, always, too long.

Empty. Hollow. Lonely. Just you and the world, but it turns too slow as every shadow grows long, because you keep watching them like they might shift into Bucky, and he’ll be home.

You know why he’s not home. You’re the one who told him you’d be fine if he took this mission, who’d reminded him that—even though it may not seem or feel like it when it’s just the two of you in the whole world—everything keeps moving all the time, and the world needs him more than you do. That it’s healthy to be able to separate for a few days, and absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it’s not like you wouldn’t be here when he got back. You’d always be here when he got back. The world could crumble to ash and the earth could shake and the sky could cave and crush you to only guts and skin, but your heart would keep itself beating until Bucky got home.

That last part had been the only thing you’d said that wasn’t a lie. Nobody needs him more than you do, and it wasn’t like there weren’t other superheroes who could handle things. Bucky shouldn’t have to do this, just because it was a Hydra related mission. Steve and Wanda didn’t do all the Hydra missions. Tony didn’t do every single one of the Stark Industry weapons related missions. Nat did most of the Red Room missions, but she asked to. Everyone had ghosts over their shoulders and monsters under their beds, but Bucky had you—curled on the mattress and staring at the ceiling and waiting for him, always waiting—and you might not be an agent, but you could fight off those skeletons better than any blood on his hands ever could.

And he could do the same for you. Every single part of you that always ached and cracked and wounded could be cured by him. The pieces would hum and peel until they was raw and soft and easy, just as long as Bucky was there. Here. At your side and never walking away.

It was Bruce who’d suggested that wasn’t healthy. That maybe two traumatized, semi-unstable individuals developing an unbreakable co-dependency might prove to be worrying in the long run.

And he had struck a nerve. Not that you might be developing a codependency—everyone had been throwing that word around without thought since Steve had made everyone attend the seminar, and you weren’t sure any of them understood what it actually meant—but that, when it came down to it, you might not be good for Bucky.

Maybe that’s why you’d told him you’d be okay without him. Because you would be. You’d survive—because it was only a week, and you weren’t a child—but you’d still miss him like he’d taken your lungs out of your chest every single moment. You’d pace your room and wander the compound until the sun rose then set, and absence would not make the heart grow fonder, it would only make it squirm and look everywhere for something it needed, but you couldn’t offer, until Bucky returned.

Absence made your heart try to grow out branches, pushing through your whole body until it felt like you could just feel Bucky’s warmth behind you, until everything you looked at was another thing to grab and replace the missing place where he was supposed to be. You cleaned his mug, because it had still had coffee stains, and he hates that. You did his laundry and folded his clothing and beat the shit out of a punching bag because there’s a wired feeling over your bones that you barely managed to loosen. You’d finished all the paperwork early, walked to town to buy some plums, and yelled at Sam a little louder than you’d needed to, but he’d asked when the team would be back and you didn’t know.

It wasn’t your job to know. And every time you asked FRIDAY, you’d get the same pre-recorded message from Steve that they were offline due to the remote location and hazardous conditions, but an SOS signal would still make it through if needed.

There was always a little part at the end for you. It only played when you asked.

Steve would say your name over the speakers, and his voice would grow gentle, and you’d want to break something. “Bucky won’t say it to me, but he misses you. We haven’t even left yet, but I know he misses you, because I know him, and he gets grumpy when you drive to the city for a meeting and he can’t go with you. Just know I’m writing a list of all the sappy stuff he says, and when we get back, I’ll give it to you. He’s fine. Please don’t punch Sam.”

Maybe Bruce had been onto something, with the co-dependency thing.

Maybe he’s just never been in love before.

Because that’s what this is. It’s love. You know it, deep down in the very fibers and nerves of your existence, that this is love. That whatever you’d thought love had been before, you’d been wrong, because this is it and it’s bigger than the universe could ever hope to stretch.

You’d felt it start to bloom when you’d met him, exchanging only small nods and casual words, and he’d looked you in the eyes. He’d had really pretty eyes.

It had taken root when he’d let you hold his hand during an attack on the base, and you hadn’t felt anything as grounding and simple as his touch in your whole life.

And then it had hit you all, at once without warning, only a few months later. You’d already been sleeping together. You’d already been something, but it was something where you’d find him at night and creep out by morning. But then Bucky had folded himself on top of you and fallen asleep, and you’d had no way to escape—not that you’d wanted one—and it had been a tidal wave and hurricane and wildfire, consuming and bright and immovable, world-ending but cleansing.

You loved Bucky Barnes. You know how to do it like it’s breathing. You know him like he’s been with you your whole life, just a little covered by something like time or knowledge. Like there’s been a part of you flailing in your mind, that’s just been waiting to find him and tangle into his body.

And there was never a good time to say that.

So you just kept waiting. You let him guide this. Let him officially ask you out with a nervous, almost battle-ready stance, and let him slowly and silently move all of his things into your apartment until he was all but officially living there, and watched him every waking second with the same song of I love you spinning around in your head and making the world so, so colorful.

It’s easy to wait, if you still get to have him. It’s not corrosive, to love Bucky in silence, because you’re still loving him. You can whisper it when you know he can’t hear—just to say it, and feel the addictive high of how even if he’s far too asleep to understand what you mean, he always shifts a little closer to your body and holds you a little tighter—and show him in ways you hope he can see.

Most of the time it’s just that. Just this. Just wanting him and nothing else, and proving it by waiting. The light of your phone is starting to strain your eyes, and head feels a little light from exhaustion, but you’ll wait until you pass out or Bucky comes home.

For the last few weeks, it’s been the former, and you’d wake up with your phone near your neck and your face in Bucky’s pillow, which smells less and less like him with every single passing night.

And tonight is a miracle.

Because the door creaks open, and you know who it is before you even fully register the noise.

You’re already sitting up on your knees before he’s even in view. You’re so tired the word is blurry and time is moving through syrup—slow, but not in a way that’s painful—but Bucky walks into view and he’s clear. It’s dark and he’s barely through the shadowed doorway, but by some external force of nature you’d morphed those same shadows back into Bucky, and he’s here, and nothing has ever been brighter.

“Bucky.” You whisper, and you don’t know why you’re saying it. You both know who he is. But it still feels important to say. It’s less of a word and more of a prayer, because he’s still in the door and you need him here. Next to you.

His eyes flash slightly in the dark, and when he says your name it becomes a call to something deeper in your body than instinct. You crawl forwards until you’re on the mattress, smiling up at him because he’s beautiful and it’s easy.

“Hi, baby.” You watch him move from the door to stand before you, and it’s like the moon has fallen right into your hands. Bigger and more important than you could ever dream to be, but still falling for you. Into you. Eclipsing and shielding you from the rest of the dark sky, catching every bit of light the world has to offer and turning into a beacon, always telling you where you are. Reminding you that you’re right where you need to be.

Here.

With Bucky.

“You didn’t need to stay up for me.” He mutters, hold your face between his hands, scanning over your likely openly exhausted features with a small furrow in his brow. “I’ve told you, sweetheart, you need sleep-“

“That’s rich from you, Barnes.” Your smile doesn’t waver, and you move your hands to keep his where they fit so well. “And I’ve told you, don’t tell me what to do.”

His lips twitch slightly, but he still shakes his head. “You’re human. You need rest.”

“You’re human too”

“I’ve got the serum.”

“And?” You raise your brows, leaning into his thumb as it strokes over your cheekbone. “I think it’s more like a rectangle-square situation.”

He gives you a flat look. “You’re just saying shit again-”

“No,” You hum, your smile widening. “All super-soldiers are human. Not all humans are super soldiers. You need sleep too, Buck-“

“That’s not what we’re arguing about, doll-“

“Are we arguing?”

His lips curve into a small smirk, and you think you won. If Bucky’s smiling, you won.

“My Ma raised me better than to argue with such a pretty girl,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your brow. “But she also told me to never let my girl do stupid things like waiting until 3am for me to get home.”

“It’s 2:45.” You hum, tangling one hand in his hair and pulling him fully down towards your lips.

The kiss is long, and slow, and deep. There’s more longing behind it than passion, because you care more about imprinting him back onto your body where time had started to soothe over his marks, and you know Bucky cares more about trying to drug you with the taste of him so that you’ll go to sleep easy.

And there’s the song again. I love you. I’d wait until I was vines and ruins because I love you, and I don’t really need sleep because you’re home and you’re better and more vital than sleep ever could be.

You know Bucky would disagree with that sentiment. And you can almost see the weight on his shoulder that tells you the mission wasn’t easy, because if it was he’d be grumbling to you about how annoying the rest of the team had been. But he’s mostly silent, and only kissing you in that deep, hypnotic way, so when he starts to crawl over you and corner you back to the headboard—his mouth barely leaving yours, his metal arm holding you to his chest as you wrap our legs around his waist and hang off his body like a koala—you let him.

You need him. You’ve missed everything about him, but you’ve really missed him being as close as the world would allow, and you’re already warm and dizzy and pliable just from his half-innocent touch and smell and warmth, but Bucky looks so heavy. He’s burying his face in your neck and splaying out over your body without trying to take it further, and he’s more important than anything, so you can hold it. You can wait until morning to jump his bones, and for now you’ll just be a lighthouse, steering him full back home and keeping him safe from jagged nightmares and crashing, unforgiving thoughts.

You let your fingers comb and drift through his hair, humming a soft tune as his measured, slow breaths fan over your skin, and you’ll yell at Steve in the morning about pushing him this far. When he’s like this it’s hard to see—he’s always brooding and silent and grumpy, but there are small shifts and tells you’ve memorized, that feel like drops in air pressure before a storm—and you may not blame Steve for missing them, but you still need to be angry at something for bruising your Heart like this. And Steve, who won’t take it personally and knows how deeply Bucky is grooved into your ribs and vital organs, is better than anyone else.

The only other options would be the Hydra soldiers.

And you have a very strong feeling they’re all quite dead.

“You believe in soulmates?” Bucky mutters your name, and you blink down at him.

“Soulmates?”

“Yeah.” His words are muffled by your body, his hold on you tightening slightly. “The stuff about destiny and fate and two strings together. Steve called it, uh, fateism.”

“Fatalism?”

He hums in agreement, and you can almost hear his frown. “I’m tired.”

“I know, Buck.” You drag your fingers over his scalp. smiling at the air. “Why?”

He shakes his head. “I asked you the first question, doll. You answer first.”

You sigh, studying the back of his head as if you could read it as well as his face. “Will my answer matter?”

Bucky just shrugs. If he was so adorable and sleepy, and if you weren’t so wrathfully and immovably in love with him, you would’ve kicked his stoic, silent ass.

“I don’t. I never really have.” You mumble, and the muscles in his back tense.

“Yeah, it’s stupid-“

“But,” you push on, pulling gently on his hair until he angles his chin to rest on your chest, and he meets your gaze. “I don’t believe in souls.”

Bucky raises his brows at you. “Your co-workers are a god, a raccoon, and a sentient computer-”

“Artificial Intelligence,” you correct with a small smile. “He doesn’t like being called a computer.”

He gives you a flat look. “You know what I’m saying-“

“Yeah, but I still don’t believe in souls. I think it’s- It’s more complicated than that.”

Bucky opens his mouth like he’s going to protest, but you push on.

“I like that it’s more chaotic. It’s like- it’s-“ You let out a slow breath, scanning over his face. “Buck, you’re a hundred years old. I’m not an assassin or superhero or agent, but I still found you. And we’ve both fought for our lives to get through everything, and it’s only sheer luck and force is what got us here, and now I get to love you against all the odds.” You swallow as you hear yourself, and Bucky’s eyes widen. But you press on. If you’re saying it, you need to say it. All in.

He whispers your name, but you press on.

“I don’t believe in souls, Buck, but I believe what I can know.” You trace your hand over his cheek, offering him a soft smile as he watches you with wide eyes. “And I know that when you’re here, I love you, and when you’re not, my body knows it better than my mind does. I- It’s physical. It can feel it, right here.” You tug his left arms out from around body, and press it to your chest. “It’s like you’re a part of me. Not a missing piece or other half. Just… more. Of the same.”

You fall silent, and Bucky’s just staring at you. He stares a lot, though, and you can’t tell if this is a good I love you too stare, or a frightened how could you love me stare, and maybe he doesn’t love you and you’re just going have to keep living with that-

Bucky’s hand drifts up from your chest to frame your face, and when he shifts the light catches on his face, and you can see it in his eyes.

Awe.

He always kisses you like he’d been gone a thousand years, and Hydra might burst through the door and rip him away. It doesn’t matter if it’s a gentle, lazy kiss or a rough, desperate one. He’s always kissed you like he means it.

And this time, it’s somehow more. It’s everything. It bigger than any star you’ve seen burning in the dark, and taller than trees that are older than he is, stronger than the cracked pavement you’ve bruised your knees on so many times, crawling across the tar and gravel just to get to Bucky.

This time, Bucky kisses you the same way you missed him.

Like it’s oxygen and water and sunlight and opioids, all shot into your blood and making you into something new.

He kisses you like he loves you, and it’s bursting out of him like an animal from a cage.

And once it’s free, it only seems to grow. Demand more, with his arms caging you against the mattress as he rises up over your, and his tongue presses into your mouth and down your throat, and one hand is dropping to trail up your thighs and play with the hem of your shorts, and God, nothing has ever mattered more that this-

Bucky pulls your lower lip between his teeth before starting to kiss a sloppy line down your neck, and a brief moment of lucidity creeps its way into you head.

“Why’d you-“ You gasp as he starts to suck on your neck, stubble scrapping your skin, and your words becoming soft and airy. “Bucky- I- You didn’t say why you asked-“

“Had to stop and refuel the Quinjet, and Steve made us all go to a lecture a town over-“

You blink at the ceiling. “Lecture-“

“Little college. Punk is Captain America, he can walk in wherever he wants.”

“Oh.” You swallow, tangling your hands into his hair as he squeezes at your waist. “But why-“

“It’s Steve. Not the point, doll.” Bucky nips at your skin, and you can hear the low amusement in his voice. “The guy was talking about philosophy and souls and destiny, got me thinking ‘bout you-“

“What about- Fuck-“ You gasp as he sucks another mark onto your neck, your hips starting to grind up into his body. “What about me-“

“You’d know if you let me talk, pretty girl.” He drawls, and you nod a little stupidly, but his lips have brushed over the very base of your throat, and his hand has started to trail under your shirt to play with your tits, and it’s the metal one and it’s cold but it sends shivers of pleasure through your whole body-

“Bucky-“

“I was thinking about you because I don’t believe in that shit either, but I believe in you.” Bucky’s voice is rough and deep against your skin, rolling through your whole body and turning you into something molten and soft as he rolls your nipple mindlessly between his fingers. “Believe in how gorgeous you are, how good you are, how you’re somehow still here, still mine-“ He makes a low, grunting sound as you yank at his hair again, trying to tug him back up to you. “Shit-“

You cut his groan of your name off with your mouth crashing down, pulling him into a long, bruising kiss that ends in a high whine when he pulls away. You’d feel pathetic if you couldn’t feel his own arousal, thick and long and poking against your inner thigh-

“Please-“

“I know,” he mutters, kissing the corner of your mouth as your hips buck shamelessly up into his erection. “I’ll take care of you, doll, but I gotta-“

You shake your head. You get what he’s trying to say, you can hear every word through your bloodstream without him needs to say it, and you need his breathing to be ragged and spent on feeling you rather than talking-

“Want you,” you whisper, trying to roll him onto his back with palms flat against his chest. “Want to taste you, make you feel good, please-“

Bucky’s eyes widen, and the look of pure awe is back. “You’re- You wanna put your mouth on me-“

Your nod is desperate, and his nostrils flare as his metal hand glides back down your stomach, pinning your hips to the bed as he scans over your open, desperate face.

“Don’t know how I manage to swing you, doll.” He mutters, and you can’t do anything but watch him with parted lips and heavy breaths. He’s looking at you like you’re holy. Like he could- maybe- by some miracle-

“Bucky, I-“

He pulls you up into a longer, slower kiss that just as deep and fervorish as the last one, and you know it before he says it. And you really don’t care about the whole lecture—Steve will probably tell you in great detail about it later anyway—you just care about this, about Bucky, right here and home and touching you, and he tastes like coffee and dried fruit-

“Love you,” he murmurs against your lips, and you’re right one the edge just from the words. How he says them like they’re an immovable fact, the same way he’d say the sky is blue or my name is James Buchanan Barnes. Something he knows, maybe in the same, deeply ingrained way you know it. “Been trying to tell you I love you, but you’re not really letting me talk-“

“Sorry.” Your whisper is breathless and soft, and Bucky just chuckles, running his thumb over your lower lip with a low hum.

“No, you’re not.” He pushes his thumb slightly into your mouth, and lets out a low groan when you start to suck on him without a second thought. “You really wanna suck my cock, don’t you.“

You hum, flicking your tongue against him a silent response, and his throat bobs.

“Can’t say no to you, sweet girl,” he grunts, and when he pulls his thumb away with a pop and brushes the hair from your face, you can almost hear his brain turning.

“But?” You ask, raising your brows as he continues to just stare at you. “I can hear you thinking, baby-“

A small smile tugs at his lips. “Course you can,” he mutters, cupping your face in one hand. “You look real tired, not gonna push you-“

“James Barnes.” You tug at his hair again, your tone dry and flat. “If you tell me you love me, and then stop me from giving you the best head of your life, I’m gonna leave you.”

He swallows, his cock twitching against your thigh, and when he speaks his voice is hoarse.

“You stay lying down.” He grunts. “And I fuck you after.”

You giggle, your smile wide and easy. “I think I can live with that.”

He nods, presses one quick, slightly softer kiss to your lips, and pushes off of your body for only a second to fully shed his clothing.

He really is beautiful. Broad and strong, all muscle that’s soft in the best places, the metal of his arm shining in the dark like something that’s more godly than mortal, and his hair frames his face so well as his eyes grows almost animalistic on yours, so barely controlled as he pulls off his boxer and-

You might be drooling. He’s perfect. You never get over it, how he looks like he was sculpted and crafted, how he’s like some fallen angel in the dark of your bedroom, and how you feel full just from looking at his dick, fully erect and wrapped in his hand. He’s stroking it slowly, watching you squirm and rub your thighs together on the bed and reach up for him to just join you-

You’re just about to beg when Bucky crawls back onto the mattress, moving fully over your body until his metal arm is braced on the headboard and the red tip of his cock is pressed carefully against your lips, refusing to just push through them-

You drop your jaw open without a thought, digging your nails into his thighs for proper grip and half-batting your eyelashes in a silent plea for him to just take. He always gets too little, and he asks for less, and you’re his to just fucking take-

“Fuck,” Bucky mutters, slowly easing himself into your mouth, throbbing against your tongue when you hollow your cheeks and moan around him. “Gotta take it easy, doll, won’t last-‘

You run your tongue over every part of him you can reach, and he cuts himself off with a deep moan, his hips bucking so he hits the very back of your throat.

“Shit- You’re gonna kill me-“ He half-growls as he tries to pull further out, and you flick your tongue over the tip of his cock, already weeping with pre-cum. “You- I’m tryin’ not to hurt you, sweetheart-“

He won’t hurt you. You’re grinding against the sheets as you watch Bucky above you, his metal arm leaving a dent on the bed frame and his eyes fully blown with raw want, and nothing he could do would ever hurt you. So you squeeze your hands against him, crane your neck slightly to pull him further back into your mouth, and you know he gets the message because his hand tangles in your hair and yanks it back slightly, forcing your eyes onto his.

“Told you to stay down,” he grunts. “I’ll take such good care of you if you listen, sweet girl. Look so fucking pretty takin’ my cock, but you want me to fuck your mouth-“

Your moan is loud and unashamed around him, and his hips jerk once more.

“Shit- That’s-“ Bucky squeezes his eyes shuts—he’s fucking thinking again—and then nods to himself. “You want me like this, doll?”

You hum around him, and his grip on your hair tightens.

“Hold onto me. Tight.” He grunts, and it’s the only warning you get before he finally gives you what you want, and moves.

He’s still restrained. Carefully controlled. You know he’s holding himself back, because even though Bucky’s bumping the back of your throat and groaning about you, he always just stops before you’re choking on him and his every thrust into your mouth is perfectly calculated and measured. No matter how you moan and drool and suck, running your tongue over the tip of his cock when he pulls almost fully out and swallowing when he pushes back inside, he’s keeping himself in check.

But all it takes is moving one hand to squeeze his balls, and you get the first rough slam of his hips and a beautiful, loud moan from deep in his chest.

Bucky glares down at you, his voice gravely and low. “What’re you doin’.”

You give him your best innocent expression, repeating the movement and hollowing your cheek around his cock.

“I-“ He hisses through his teeth as he slams deep enough for your nose to bump his abdomen, and you whine. “You’re- Fuck-“

It’s an offering. You’re still playing with his balls, and not trying to squirm away when his thrusts start to become uneven and sloppy, and he knows what you want so he doesn’t have to hold back, you don’t want him to hold back-

And when you swirl your tongue around the base of his cock, gagging around him when he pushes down your throat and squeezing his thigh in silent reassurance, he snaps.

This is what you wanted. Bucky really, properly fucking your face until you’re a whining, needy mess below him, your hips rolling against the sheets for any relief because you need one hand to cling to him and the other to keep touching him, to keep urging him on as he drives his dick in and out of your mouth with an abandoned, the best, most sinful noises you’ve ever heard escaping him in a mix of swears and praise and growls of your name-

“God- so fucking good, you’re-“ He cuts himself off with a groan, and you know he’s close. You can see it in the tension across his muscles, and hear it in the deep noises that are rolling through your body. “Shit-“

You let your eyes roll back in your head as you keep your grip on him tight, and Bucky’s climax shakes his whole body and his cum shoots down your throat. Heavy and salty and God, he’s so good-

He’s still dripping down your chin when he pulls out, and you barely have time to try and wipe off with shaking fingers before Bucky’s right back over you, kissing you deep into the mattress and running a soothing, cool touch down your burning skin.

“Such a good girl,” he mutters, his metal hand moving into your short grazing right over your slit through your ruined underwear. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, can’t believe you get this wet just from getting your face fucked-“

You shake your head, grinding desperately into his taunting hand and throwing your head back as his fingers graze over your clothed clit. “Just for you, Bucky, only this- Fuck,” he’s stared to kiss a wet, open line over your collarbone, and you don’t know when he ripped off your shirt, but you don’t really care. “It’s you-“

“Me?” He smirks against your skin, his voice a little too soft and devout to be mocking. “Am I the only one who’s ever gotten you this needy, sweet girl? Is all this,” he tears off your panties, shoving two broad, metal finger right into your cunt and drawing a high gasp from your throat. “Just for me?”

“Yes,” your hands dig back into his hair as his tongue flicks right over your nipple and his fingers start to pump, and you’re going to ascend or burst into flame or scatter across the universe like a million stars or something- “Bucky, please-“

“I’ve got you,” he mutters, his fingers scissoring and crooking inside of you under you’re a puddle of needy sounds below him. “Always got you, doll.”

He really does. Bucky knows just how to play you like an instrument, how to finger fuck you so that you stay right on the edge but never go over. Neglecting your swollen clit in favor of pressing right against that deep, sensitive spot inside of you that he can rub his fingers against, all while kissing and marking you over your chest. Then suddenly returning to steady thrusts of his fingers and sucking and biting at your nipples until you’re yanking at his hair and he growls around you, and repeating the pattern over and over in cycle until you’re out of your mind-

More than out of your mind. You’re going to die. This is too much, and not enough, and you need to cum so bad but Bucky’s being mean and keeping you from falling, crashing up into the sky and coming fully unraveled below him-

“Bucky,” you swallow another loud, hopeless whimper as he hums against your skin. “Wanna cum, need it, you’re- Fuck-“

He rises back up over you, but doesn’t stop moving his fingers in and out of your dripping pussy. “That feel good, sweet gi-“

“Yes.” You cut him off with another half-screaming moan, and he chuckles.

“Think you can cum like this? Just with my fingers, fucking your pretty pussy until you’re screaming my-“

“Bucky,” you scratch at his shoulders and try to push off the mattress, desperate to get his mouth back anywhere on your skin. “Please, Bucky, please-“

He smirks again, shaking his head as he drops down to give you a tauntingly soft kiss, his voice rough and deep as he speaks against your lips. “You never let me finish talking, you know that?”

“I- sorry.” You mumble, but you don’t really mean it. Not when his fingers hit a new, rough and world-shattering pace, and you’re so close-

“Don’t be sorry. Love you too much to really care. Love that you get mouthy and needy and so fucking loud for me.” Bucky’s kiss deepens like he’s trying to fuse his mouth to yours, right as his fingers yank out of you without warning, leaving you squeaking in protest and clenching around the air.

“Why-“

He laughs, pushing back up to watch you as he drags your arms up, pinning them over your head with a grin. A real, wide grin of adoration and wonder, scanning over your body like he has all the time in universe to just watch you, flushed and panting and squirming on the mattress, pouting and glaring at him because he doesn’t have all the time, you feel like you’re going to explode and he needs to save you-

“Want you to cum on my cock,” he hums, trailing soft fingers down your body, watching you shiver and lean into his touch with a dark, reverent expression. “That sounds good to you, doll?”

You nod, spreading your legs as wide as you can manage. You’ll take anything, as long as Bucky’s the one giving it.

“Yes.” You whisper, your eyes trailing down his body to where he’s started to stoke his cock, lining it up with your weeping cunt. “Bucky, please-“

Your plea is cut off with a scream that’s a half curse, half prayer of his name, because Bucky slams into you and you break apart in a second. Then he hits that deep spot, his thumb pressing down and rubbing furious circles on your clit, and it’s euphoria. Wracking your whole body with sobs of his name as the pleasure crests higher and higher, and Bucky just keeps fucking you.

It’s not clear when he starts and you end, but you’re too far gone to really care. The first orgasm wanes for only a second before a second, smaller one rushes through you in an aftershock, and by the time Bucky falls down to kiss you—harsh and starved with his dick filling you up and hitting you so deep you know you’ll feel it for a week—you’re so fucked out you can only moan and whine against him. His tongue pushes down to trace over your teeth and press against the back of your throat as he growls praise of good girl and taking me so well and so fuckin’ beautiful, and all mine, feel so good, cum for me again, doll, c’mon-

You squirm beneath him as your third orgasm washes through your body and your back arches off the bed, your pussy squeezing and fluttering around his cock as he keeps fucking into you, harder and harder until you’re sure the bed is going break, until you’re gasping his name and begging him to cum with you, you’re going to fall apart for him one more time so please fall with you-

Bucky hauls you up his chest as he sits up, his mouth never once parting from you as he moves you to sit in his lap. Your arms wrap around his neck on instinct as his hands moves to grab at your hips, guiding you up and down his cock, meeting your with a thrust that hits so deep in your body you think you’re going to lose your voice screaming his name-

“Last one, doll,” he grunts in your ear, drawing rough circles on your hips as you gasp against his shoulder. “You got one more for me, and I’ll fill you up like you want-“

You nod like a bobble-head, because God, you do want it, want all of Bucky in whatever way he’ll offer it, but you do also think he could tell you to fly and—in this moment, where he’s hammering into you and you’re nothing but a blissful, cockdrunk mess against him—you’d find a way to pull it off.

Bucky pulls you into one last, heavy and deep and smooth kiss—set in a stark contrast to how he’s bruising your cervix and dragging you into the fire of one last, mind-numbing and head-spinning orgasm—and when you breath his name into his mouth, he cums with a roar that seems to shake the whole earth.

The world becomes all color and good and Bucky as you fall right over the edge with him, his release hot and warm in your body and his breathing ragged against your skin as you both float down from your highs, and stay a tangle of heartbeats and limbs in the center of the mattress. He holds you so carefully against his chest, like you might shatter or dissipate if he makes the wrong move, and you play with his hair, letting your brain return to your body.

Bucky clears his throat, his hands pausing their untraceable patterns on your skin as you bury your face in his neck.

“I love you. A lot. Just so you know.” His voice is almost sheepish in your ear, and you giggle.

“I think I’ve got that, Buck.” You hum, your nails digging into his back and he starts to shift beneath you. “What’re you-“

“Gotta take care of my girl.” Bucky’s muttered words in your ear are more of a command, angled at himself as he tries to pull his half-hard cock out of where he’s still sheathed in your body. “Made a mess of you, doll, need to clean it up-“

You shake your head, tightening your grip around his neck. “Stay.”

He leans back to frown at you. “I am staying, but you’ve got my cum dripping down your thighs-“

“Romantic-“

“Shut it.” He flicks your nose, his eyes softening slightly at your still-dazed smile. “You need to be cleaned up-“

“I need you.” You squirm to press impossibly closer to his body, dropping your brow against his chest. “We can just stay like this,” you roll your hips, and Bucky lets out a low hiss as his cock twitches inside of you. “And I think you like that I’m a mess-“

“I like you, pretty girl. Could even say I love you-”

You smile at him. “You have said it-“

He rolls his eyes with a grunt, tugging you fully forwards and pinning you to his chest. Your yelp turns into a loud, happy sound when he catches your chin and tips it back, giving you a long, easy kiss that doesn’t ever seem to be waning of that new, fully unleashed love quality. “And you are a mess, I’m not just gonna-“

“Don’t want you to clean me up,” you hum, scratching slightly at his back in one last plea to stay like this. Maybe turn to stone and be crawled over with ivy and flowers, your body still wound with Bucky’s and the whole world this bright, happy feeling forever. “Please.”

He pauses, leans back to scan over your face, and you let it paint all over your features. You do love him, and that’s not revolutionary but it’s Bucky so it’s stronger and can withstand more than anything else in the world. You know he can see it, how if you were shot down into the core of the earth or vaulted up into the cold of space, you’d still love him as ash or frosted, broken and scattered particles. Because it’s all you. Every single bit of you that’s tangible and capable of being anything at all loves Bucky, and it right here.

For him to see, and have, and take.

And you know he’s worked it out, because his face splits into a painfully rare, wide grin that makes him barely look past twenty-five. That’s all boyish charm and glee and pride, and that Steve’s told you used to be common, but has become something reserved for only moments like these.

Moments where Bucky gives in to your plea, and shifts you both so he’s against the headboard and you’re still curled on his chest. He never once unsheathes himself, never once breaks his gaze from yours, and when your both settled, he presses a gentle kiss to your brow and lets it linger until you’re almost stained by his touch. Where you can feel how much he loves you in every breath and pound of his heart, against his skin and almost taste it in his throat when he kisses you once more.

And the sun is starting to break through the window in a million, iridescent colors as Bucky stays right here.

Right where he belongs.

With you.

End Note: I could write dissertations and movies and plays and speeches about love being something that rewrites your whole body chemistry, and how that's honestly more romantic than predetermination or soulmates to me. This is me doing that but where's it's not going to annoy my friends.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

@foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr @Youdontknowe @panicking-outside-the-disco

@Ambiguous-avery @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @ilovedeanwinchester4 @tiana-kh

@woaheasytig3r @winchester-whiskey @jsudsgf @deans-yn @jofinka

@megara0224 @funkenniffler @disappearintofanfiction @sheneedsjesus @bonkydarnes

@whimsicalcherry @charliethemanticore

323 notes · View notes

insertsparkleshere · 2 months ago

Text

ugh this is so cute i love jay so much

have a little Jason drabble inspired by me going to my work bestie’s bachelorette party tonight. yes, yes I did imagine all this while getting ready and what about it? also consider this a part of my jason gets the girl series.

Jason Todd is a worrier. You knew that the very first night you met him when he automatically assumed that you, a woman living alone and wearing fuzzy pajamas, would be a danger to him. You know that now by his incessant questions that he’s been pelting at you for the past hour.

“You’ll keep in contact with me, right?” he asks from the other side of the shower curtain.

“Of course, Jay,” you reply as you twist like a contortionist while shaving your legs.

“I know it’s a bachelorette party, but please don’t drink so much that you don’t know what’s goin’ on around you, baby,” he says, voice raised so you can hear him over your hair dryer.

“I know, Jay. I’ve not forgotten where we live!” you shout back as reassuringly as you can.

“You sure I can’t convince ya to stay here with me?” he asks, only half joking, as you flip through the hangers in your shared closet looking for what to wear.

“You’re making a very convincing argument,” you concede as he kisses down your neck. “But no. Alas, I cannot be a shitty friend.”

“Fine. But at least wear somethin’ that goes with the jacket I got you,” he grumbles.

You laugh under your breath. This man. He’s such a worry wart. But you get it. Jason goes out every night into the belly of the beast, sees the worst of the worst. He knows what happens to vulnerable young women in this city, and you can’t blame him for his overprotective nature. So if wearing the tan leather jacket, a smaller replica of the one he wears as Red Hood, that has a tracker sewn into the interior is what he needs to ease his anxious mind, you’ll do it without complaint.

“It’s a gorgeous jacket, Jaybear. It goes with everything,” you say as you scratch soothingly at his scalp.

“You know where you’ll be tonight?” he asks from the foot of your bed, watching you as you put on your makeup.

“Uh huh. We’re not going to any bars or clubs or anything like that. Maid of honor just rented a penthouse in the Diamond District. We’ll probably spend the night eating pizza and drinking cocktails,” you answer as you try not to stab yourself in the eye with your mascara wand.

Jason makes a little grunt of agreement. You idly think that he sounds just like his dad, but you also don’t say that because you’re not a complete idiot. Also because you once told Jason he looked like Bruce and how miraculous that was since he was adopted, and he spent the next three days mumbling 'don't look anythin’ like the old man’ every time he glanced in a mirror.

You glance behind you in the vanity mirror to see the love of your life. His expression tugs your heartstrings. He looks so…melancholy. Emotions are storming in his sea green eyes and all you want is to ease his worries. You lay down your makeup brush and pad over to him, settling down in his lap. His hands come up automatically to rest on your hips, thumbs stroking over the softness.

“What’s wrong, angel?” you whisper, smoothing out the creases between his furrowed eyebrows with the tips of your fingers.

“I don’t—” he stops abruptly, tries to find the words he needs. “I’m not tryin’ to be overbearing. Don’t wanna be one of those guys that tells their girl what to do.”

He takes a breath and you stay silent. He has to get this out and you’ll wait as long as it takes.

“I just…worry. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I can’t lose you. I can’t,” and his voice breaks like stained glass. “I wouldn’t survive it. I know this is fuckin’ stupid. Me actin’ like this over a bachelorette party but I just…I can’t stop thinkin’ about all the things that could happen.”

Oh. Oh, your sweet, loving, heaven sent boyfriend. You know his past haunts him, that this city haunts him. You wish you could take all his worries away and wrap him in a nice warm blanket. You’d tuck him away from the world, keep him safe and happy and cared for all his days if you could.

“Jason, look at me,” you tilt his head up with your fingers under his jaw. “I promise you I will do everything in my power to be as safe as possible. I won’t drink irresponsibly. I’ll make sure to text you if anything, and I mean anything, starts to get weird. It won’t, but if it did you would be on speed dial. And trust me, angel, I have no intentions of staying the night.”

You don’t. Good friend or not, you can’t sleep well if you’re not wrapped in the strong arms of the man beneath you.

“So I expect you to be waiting on that tricked out bike of yours to pick me up,” you beam at him, run your hand through his hair because you know it makes him melt into your touch.

“I’ll be waitin’ for you,” he says, a solemn promise that extends far beyond tonight.

“Good. Now that being said, I will be bringing home all the dick decorations because I wanna plant them in your brother’s apartment. Just to fuck with him,” you giggle.

Jason lights up for the first time tonight. His green eyes gleam with mischief and adoration.

“Oh, you are my fuckin’ soulmate, baby. I’ll help you break in.”

1K notes · View notes

insertsparkleshere · 2 months ago

Text

i think i reposted this already but it deserves to be reposted again

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

6K notes · View notes