aemilia

that one writer // 21 // kinda queer i guess

[aaaemilia]

Masterlist

hi!! i'm aemilia. i write to keep my hands busy. mainly for marvel but anything i'm feeling in the moment. feel free to stop by and say hi!

always open to more inspo from yall! requests are always open :)

don't lie x reader fics always hit different. see masterlist below!

bucky barnes x reader

breathe for me - b.b.

long day at work? finals just destroying you? you come home tense and sore, exhausted. bucky's hands work wonders.

mine to care for - b.b.

he needed it desperately. you wanted him rough. of course he stays to clean you up (and then some).

new years eve - b.b.

you invite bucky to your workplace new years eve party, one that you had to help plan, then run. bucky makes sure you enjoy yourself at least a little.

after hours (avenger!bucky x f!receptionist!reader)

sick day - b.b. (sick!reader)

you work in the avengers tower as the overnight receptionist. you should've stayed home sick. but you didn't, and now you have a hydra-trained super soldier taking care of you.

sick day II - b.b. (sick!bucky)

he took care of you when you were sick. you maybe gave it to him after. he's in denial of being sick and you're absolutely not having it. he needs someone to take care of him every now and then, right?

private stall - b.b. (18+)

your day before your shift as the tower's overnight receptionist was ungodly busy. bucky's day was rather mundane. you're both pent up, and he wants to take care of that. now. while you're on the clock.

kate bishop x reader

you can tell me - k.b. (18+)

kate has always been good at hitting her mark. but sometimes being good also means knowing when to stop. (aka, sex with kate is always good because she notices when it's no longer feeling good - even before you say it)

the early morning of - k.b. (tw: mentions of domestic violence)

the walk across the city is cold. Kate's apartment is warm. the hardest thing you've ever done is show up on Kate Bishop's doorstep at 1am, still in your work uniform soaked through with snow. Or, you leave, Kate stays.

the early morning after - k.b.

~ coming soon ~

wanda maximoff x reader

~ coming soon ~

arthur morgan x reader

~ coming soon ~

(mad props to @ leviathanslayahproductions for the help with the banners)

[aaaemilia]

the early morning of - k.b.

pairing: kate bishop x fem!reader - 3.7k words

warnings: mentions of sexual assault, implied domestic violence, bruising and marks from physical violence, care and comfort, leaving an established abusive relationship.

summary: the walk across the city is cold. Kate's apartment is warm. the hardest thing you've ever done is show up on Kate Bishop's doorstep at 1am, still in your work uniform soaked through with snow. Or, you leave, Kate stays.

author's note: this one is rough. there is no explicit violence present, but direct references to it. please don't read if you're not in the right headspace for it. but i probably needed to read this at one point and maybe you do too.

-x- masterlist -x- talk to me! -x-

--x--

You’re exhausted by the time that you arrive on her doorstep, hair windswept, nose red from the cold and definitely not because you were half-sobbing when you left your own apartment. You’d grabbed the work bag you had just recently hung by the door, still in your uniform. Your work shoes soaked your feet on the walk over, the few inches of snow that had fallen yesterday turning to slush and ice that was absolutely not made for an evening stroll.

You’d texted her a short little thing as you were standing in front of the foyer of your apartment building, a quick Do you mind if I come over tonight? No worries if not. You had been worried she wouldn’t reply, that she’d be asleep already or on some Avenger mission somewhere else in the city. You had her spare key; you wouldn’t enter without permission. It was nearly 1:30am. You’d gotten home barely 45 minutes prior. The text was read before you even stepped out into the cold.

Literally would never say no to you

Are you hungry? I have leftovers, or I can find some obscure place that’s open this late

You had smiled at your phone, fingers turning cold in the winter air. You hadn’t put your gloves back on, hadn’t even grabbed them from where you left them on the entryway table. You hadn’t thought to put on your boots, or your beanie. You were just lucky enough to put on your coat – not even the thick winter one you took up to the mountains, just the one you wore to work when you knew you wouldn’t be outside for too long. Sleek, professional, not meant for this weather. Flakes accumulated on your shoulders, on the top of your head. You didn’t think too much about how cold you were, though.

I’m okay. Maybe some tea would be nice.

There is a pause after that text, after it’s read. Typing, then not. Typing again.

Do you need me to come get you?

It would have been nice, sure, to get a ride over to her place. But you weren’t really thinking straight. Everything felt so fast and yet so slow, like your head couldn’t keep up with the time. You couldn’t remember that you hadn’t had dinner – hadn’t eaten since your late breakfast earlier that morning – and that you had planned to eat your own leftovers when you got home. You couldn’t really conceptualize your bus ride home, or unlocking the front door. But you could remember the way his hand grasped your shoulder, how the movement shoved you against the corner of the pantry when you when to grab yourself a snack while your food heated in the microwave. You could feel his hand close over your throat, every fingers placement as he squeezed, getting you onto the floor, him over you.

You couldn’t remember what he had said to you at that very moment, but you would later, when you would recall the incident. All you knew how to do at that moment was leave. That was all you needed to do.

So, when you ring the buzzer to the little Hawkeye’s apartment, you aren’t surprised that the door clicks open immediately. And you’re not shocked that she’s waiting for you with the front door cracked open.

She looks you over, tries to hide that she’s so worried. But she wears every emotion on her sleeve, you would know better than to think otherwise. She opens her mouth to speak, when you finally make it to the landing of her front door, closes it again when you stop in front of her. You’re shivering underneath your work clothes. Your hair is damp from the snowmelt.

“It’s late,” She finally tells you, opening her front door wider to let you in. The house smells of warmth and the candle she knows you like – the one she always buys a few of when she finds, because she knows how much you like it. Do you burn it when I’m not around? You had asked her one day, when the little shop you’d first found it at had three and she picked up them all. Only when I miss you.

You take a deep breath, “I feel like I just got off work.” A lie, you both know it. It had been hours since you clocked out of your shift. Days since you left the apartment. Years since you started your walk.

The front door locks. You don’t motion to take off your coat. Kate looks like she’s been pacing since you texted her. Your favorite blanket is on the couch, as is the hoodie you always sleep in when you stay over. She has your mug out and the kettle ready, just in case you were serious about tea. The TV is playing something that you know she wasn’t watching.

And her eyes are full of worry. The same worry that she looks at you with when you go to work sick but only finds out after. But also the worry that she’s going to fuck up whatever comes next.

You close your eyes for just a moment, so you no longer have to look at someone who looks at you with such pity. She knew, of course she knew what was going on. Of course she had told you to leave him, that you could come stay with her whenever you needed. Offered the help of the particularly buff Avengers if you thought he would need that kind of encouragement to leave.

When you open your eyes, your vision is fuzzy and your eyes are so wet – when did they get so wet? – and you’re shaking again but not from the cold, even though you can’t feel your fingertips or your toes or your nose or even the tips of your ears. You don’t really feel Kate hugging you at first, pulling you into her, wrapping her arms around your body, hands on your back. Not at first. But you do smell her when you tuck your face into the crook of her neck, when skin finds skin. The dampness of her skin is from you – you realize – and the saltiness from your eyes. You decide it's best to keep your eyes closed.

You feel her warm breath against your ear when she tells you, “God, I’m so proud of you. I’m so fucking glad you’re here. I was so worried when you texted me.”

You breathe out a soft laugh, which comes out more like a sniffle, which turns into the hardest you’ve ever sobbed in front of her before. Maybe in front of anyone, aside from him. Aside from when his hands are on you and you feel so stuck – in the hallway, in the pantry, on the bed – when your body has no other reaction than to panic and to cry. Such a worthless thing, how your body would turn to sobbing, to begging him to let go, to stop. You’re upset that you ever let him see you like that.

But she’s shushing you, not rushing you, rubbing her hands over your back until you feel some need to pull yourself together. She lets you pull away from her, to wipe your tears with the sleeve of your coat jacket, to rub the blurriness from your eyes. Your breathing is shaky and you feel like you’ve used every ounce of energy that you had left.

You try to apologize, find you’re too tired.

She leans in, presses her lips to your forehead. “Sweet girl, lets get you into something warmer.”

Kate Bishop is a woman of many words. She doesn’t know when to be quiet, how to be quiet. You’d let her ramble all evening before, your head in her lap, listening to how her last mission went or how training with Clint had whooped her ass, or how this show she was watching had this huge plot hole that they only had four episodes to fix. She would see you try to stay awake for as long as possible, to find some follow up question through your haze of sleep to show her that you were still listening. She’d always just pull the blanket farther over you, dim the lights, fingertips finding their way through your hair. She’d promise to set an alarm for you for work, or to wake you before it got too late because he was expecting you home.

You never spoke about how her hands would linger on you when she hugged you goodbye, or how she’d have you promise to text her when you home safe, or how she’d send you late-night photos of her and Lucky just so she could get your response, just to know that you were okay.

But Kate Bishop was unusually quiet as she slipped off your work coat, hung it by the door next to hers. She didn’t say a single word until she led you to the bathroom, where she set some pajamas out for you. “I have options, if you’d like something different.”

But you shook your head, gave her a smile, let her give you the privacy of the too-bright overhead lights and the cold tile on your feet as you slipped into a pair of sweatpants and her oversized cropped t-shirt. You had worn it before, another movie-night turned sleepover. A night that he was too busy playing games with his friends for him to notice you gone so late. You’d texted something about a headache, he responded with okay and nothing else until the next afternoon when he asked if you’d washed his favorite work pants last time you did laundry, and if so, where you had put them away. Kate’s hands always found their way to the warm skin of your belly when you wore this shirt, when you’d sit on the couch with her only to find yourself cuddled up close, her holding you close from behind. You would feel her breath at the back of your neck, feel the movements of her chest when she’d laugh at something in the movie.

You always fell asleep so quickly on movie nights. You felt so bad. She did it on purpose, wanted to know that you were getting some rest somewhere you felt safe.

You turn the light off without looking yourself in the mirror. You don’t want to see your reflection – your puffy and red eyes, the tenderness around your collar that you fear is darkening already.

You pad down the hallway, your work clothes folded neatly on the back of the toilet, your underwear hidden away like you’re at the gynecologist’s office and not like you’re at your best-friend-maybe-more’s house who has definitely seen you in less than the pajamas you’re in now and has definitely seen your underwear both on and off of you.

And you find Kate in the kitchen, standing over the stove, setting the kettle to boil. She has another mug out, for herself, and a teabag in each. She looks less worried when she watches you put the hoodie on that she left out – her hoodie, your hoodie now.

She hadn’t owned a kettle prior to your arrival in her life. You had come over one night to finish up some work, and when she offered you a drink and you asked for tea, she had to boil the water on the stovetop in a saucepan. It was at the same little shop that she finds your favorite candles that you found this pretty little kettle – a dusty mustard yellow with these little flowers on it and a wooden handle. She told you that you needed it for her place, you said it didn’t fit the vibe. She got it anyway, because it would remind her of you.

She kisses your forehead again, when you come up next to her, lean against her side, letting her arm wrap around you. “Go sit on the couch, I’ll bring your tea when it’s done steeping.” But you press your temple a little more into her shoulder, let your arm fall around her waist, waiting there. There’s a stillness in the room, the warm light, the faint bubbling of the water heating.

Kate kisses the top of your head, “I’ll be there in a sec, sweetheart. I’m clumsy. I don’t want the water to get you.”

You nod, let yourself filter over to her living room. You’ve spent a lot of evenings, particularly as of recently, on Kate’s sofa. You had your established sides, your favorite pillow that Kate always arranges near your spot. She had your favorite blanket ready, and you tuck yourself within it.

You let your legs stretch out over the cushions, let yourself rest against one of the arms. There’s only a small standing lamp on, and the light over the kitchen stove. Kate must have turned off the entryway light while you were dressing. The place felt like a nap, sleep which your brain was coming to understand that your body needed desperately. Your hands didn’t feel quite yours, nor the length of your legs. You were warm and comfortable and floating between a place of presence and dissonance. You hear the kettle whistle, Kate pour the water in the mugs. You don’t notice how much time spans the steeping, only hear her peddle open the trashcan, discard of the leaves. The metal of a spoon against the porcelain of a mug. The scratch of the porcelain on the countertops as she picks both mugs up.

“Alright, I made it just the way you like it,” She sits next to you as you pull your legs up, hands you a warm mug. It’s hot, but it makes your fingers feel a bit more present. It smells of earl grey and honey and maybe a hint of lavender.

You prefer her next to you then her sounds in the kitchen, but you’d prefer both compared to being at your apartment.

Kate holds her own mug unsurely in her hands, uncertain of what to do, of what to tell you, of where to go now. You give her a small look, part your lips to take in a smaller, shaky breath. But you smile at her, and it makes most of her tension fall away.

“I’m okay.” You tell her, before she asks you. You know she wants to.

Kate looks at you like she knows better, which she does. You both do. Nothing that happened to you tonight was okay. Neither of you wanted to say the words domestic abuse or assault.

“I’ll be okay.” You correct, take a quick sip of tea before regretting it – much too hot – and placing it on the coffee table to cool. “I’m…glad I’m here.”

She nods. She has so many things she wants to tell you. Wants to set things right, figure things out, has no idea how to do anything helpful besides sit right here.

“I just don’t really know what happens now.”

“We don’t have to figure any of that out right now.” She tells you, places her own mug aside. “Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?”

“I’m fine, Katie. I’ll eat something in the morning.”

She puts her mug down, clicks through streaming services, puts on your comfort movie. Something you’ve seen a hundred times, and then another hundred times with her, right here on her couch. You drink your tea, she drinks hers. The both of you pretend to not be drowning in the presence of the other person, the desperation of wanting to be touched coinciding with the need not to ruin what was already built.

You can feel the puffiness in your eyes as you look at the TV, close them to hinder the burning of how dry they are now that your breathing is steady and your head has quieted down. You take a deep inhale, let it out slowly, shakily, swallow harshly at the end. Bite your lips together when you open your eyes back up to see Kate looking at you with such concern, as if she’d burn the world down if it meant you being safe.

Her eyes flick to your neck. You know the bruises must be showing.

“It’s been worse before,” you tell her, in a half-hearted attempt to make it sound okay, and which absolutely does not make her feel better.

Her fingertips come up, slowly, to trace the outline of where his hand had been maybe an hour, maybe a decade, ago. There is care in the softness of her touch, the lack of pressure, just presence. Your skin is soft at the base of your neck, as she traces her way down its length, and oh so tender.

You feel as if you’ve never been touched before when she puts her hands on you in such a way.

“I’d kill him if you let me.” There is a lightness in her tone that you appreciate. You were beginning to feel as if you could’ve cried simply because she was so close to you again, if you hadn’t used up all your tears prior. They have a funny way of replenishing.

You look at her sideways, a small smile hinting on your lips. “Then you would go to prison, and that would be bad.”

Kate shifts so that her knees are touching yours, closer to you on the couch, looking at you fully. You pretend not to care how red your nose must be, the stiffness under your eyes, the way your lips must be bitten partially raw from the way you gnawed on them on your walk over in the cold; you hadn’t even noticed the latter until you were climbing the stairs to your favorite Hawkeye’s warm apartment.

“That wouldn’t be too bad,” Kate’s voice is soft even in her humor, “I’m sure there are, like, special pardons for Avengers. Or, like, Avengers adjacent.”

“But if you’re in prison, where would I go?” She looks at you closely when you say that, the sadness that lingers in your voice, the shakiness at the edges.

Kate puts her hand at the back of your neck, just at the base, soft hands and even softer movements, sitting forward just enough to press her lips to your forehead. Her skin is warm and her presence is warmer. You wish she’d never pull away.

“I’m not going anywhere, sweet girl. I promise.” Her hands slide down your shoulders, your forearms, keeping you here, present in her company. She lets you close your eyes and drink in the touch, even as you flinch when she reaches your wrists. You don’t watch her turn them over in her hands, the lingering yellow and the newly forming red and purple.

“You should report this.” She tells you quietly, when your eyes are still closed and your hands in hers. It comes out as little more than a whisper, as if she’s trying not to spook you.

You sigh, this shaky little thing. “Who would believe me?”

“There are…support groups, and people we can talk to.” When she had planned to talk to you about this - when she first noticed how you flinched when doors shut too loudly and when you talk about your boyfriend as something fragile, ready to combust at any moment – she thought she’d have her information in a row. She wanted to present you a full case – here, look, people will listen and trust you and help you find your footing. She wanted to have phone numbers and addresses and emails on a printed list. She wanted you with her, she wanted to be with you, wanted you to know you’d have her support, whatever that needed to look like.

But you shake your head once, can’t meet her eyes again. “I’m so tired, Katie.”

She nods, doesn’t want to fight you on this. It is your decision to make. But she does hesitate, asks you softly, “Can I take a picture?”

You know why she wants to. You know she’s just trying to help.

It takes all of your strength to say yes. You keep your eyes closed as she pulls the neck of your shirt – her shirt – enough to expose your collarbones, the shape of his hand imprinted there. You jump at the flash, even through your closed lids, and she whispers these honeyed little words to you to calm you back down. You don’t even truly know what she says, only that she says them, only that they attempt to calm the quick beat of your heart.

She holds your hands out onto your lap, shushes you when you flinch again, kisses your cheek when she’s done. “You did so good for me, sweet girl. So brave.”

You're exhausted. Beyond exhausted. You're holding onto Kate's sleeve without even realizing it. You never want to open your eyes, heavy as they are.

But bed seems like such a journey away, so many steps, so much weight beneath the sheets. You just want Katie, the way she lets your head fall against her shoulder, gently removes your hand from the sleeve of her hoodie to grasp it with her own.

"You want to stay out here for a little bit?" Her voice is so quiet next to you, as if not to spook you, where your head rests against her shoulder.

Desperately. She feels you nod against her, grabs your blanket off the back of the couch to throw it over your lap. The couch itself isn't that wide, but there is just enough space for you to pull her down next to you, let her slide behind you, pull your back against her chest. She settles an arm over your waist, thumb circling little strokes over your lower belly.

Kate kisses the top of your head, nuzzles herself closer. "I'm so glad you're here."

"You've said that already," But your voice is groggy, barely heard over the muffled TV sound.

"Doesn't mean I can't say it again."

You slide your arm over hers, the one that rests over your waist, stopping her thumb only to interlock your fingers.

"I missed you, Katie."

"I know, sweetheart."

Tomorrow would be difficult. You'd probably feel worse, your eyes swollen and your throat sore and your bruises stiff. Tomorrow probably had phone calls and hard conversations and decisions and fear.

But tomorrow wasn't here yet. Tonight, Kate was.

-x- part 2 -> the early morning after - k.b. -x-

[aaaemilia]

you can tell me - k.b.

pairing: kate bishop x fem!reader - 2k words

warnings: lesbian sex & aftercare, pain during sex, mentions of fingering/oral, strap def involved.

summary: kate has always been good at hitting her mark. but sometimes being good also means knowing when to stop. (aka, sex with kate is always good because she notices when it's no longer feeling good - even before you say it)

author's note: spring semester did me so dirty i thought to take classes over the summer too. here's to me finding a few free minutes to get this out of my head. also happy pride!!

-x- masterlist -x- talk to me! -x-

~ minors DNI ~

--x--

The moment your throat let out the smallest of whimpers, a little gasp of pain that you didn’t mean to let escape, she slows.

“You okay?” Kate leans closer to where your face was buried in the pillow you were clinging to as she fucked you near to death. And she was good at it, too good at times.

There were nights that she chased her own orgasm for long enough to leave you limp, your legs trembling enough for you to postpone your shower until the morning, thighs still slick and sticky with the fluid she coaxed out of you with her fingers and then her mouth and then the strap – of which she was currently wearing.

She's careful not to push herself further into you when she kisses your shoulder, waiting for an answer. The room is thick with sweat, the heat of your bodies in the enclosed space. You can feel the warmth of her breath against the back of your neck, and you can ever so slightly feel the tremble in her arms as she holds herself up.

Kate had been working herself for quite some time now, you could imagine how tired she is. How close she is.

You shake your head, yes, although the movement is stifled by the pillows. She hesitates for a moment, holds her movements back. She knows you better than that; that was not a sound of pleasure. But sometimes pain is pleasure and sometimes you want it badly enough for her to continue, so close to finding your own end; she trusts you.

One more kiss to your shoulder blade before she places her left hand on your hip, right hand back on your shoulder to guide you back onto more fully, to fuck herself into you with a gentleness that almost makes you cry outright.

The sound Kate makes when she finds rhythm again almost makes you think you can take it until the end. The desperate little noises that escape her lips when she’s biting them hard enough to near bleed. When she’s bucking her hips in such a way that presses her sensitive clit against the plastic mound tucked between her legs. And god the way that little toy vibrates against her walls, pressure amplifying when she bottoms the strap out inside of you.

You make a sharp sound, loud enough to make Kate pause in her tracks. Or, well, her thrust.

It had felt so good when the two of you had started. Kate kissed her way from your lips, your neck, your collarbones that she nipped at, the ever so sensitive tips of your breasts. She licked her way down the plane of your belly, pressed feather-light kisses to your hip bones, then right above your knees. She took her time, lips and tongue and hands against your inner thighs before she finally found her way to the heat of you, absolutely aching for her fingers or her mouth or preferably both.

Kate had curled her fingers inside you in such a way that made you forget that you had neighbors, and that the walls of your apartment were rather thin.

(The two of you had giggled, one night, when watching some movie on your laptop in bed, when the couple that lived above you went at it for twenty very passionate minutes. Teased about how long he lasted. About the very sudden shower after. You didn’t even have time to process that the very same couple was probably listening to you cum against your girlfriend’s mouth, against her fingers, back arching enough for her to hold your hips down with her free hand.)

She always got flustered when the harness of the strap got tangled, on the off-nights that it was pulled out of the bedside table. You’d get up to help her if she needed, her cheeks flushed, your legs still shaking. And she was always so gentle when guiding it inside you, letting you acclimate to the size of it – but after her fingers and her mouth, you were always slick and ready to take it in.

And it had felt so good then. You had wanted more, begged for it, nearly cried when she pulled her fingers out and didn’t replace it with something else immediately.

You don’t know what changed.

Maybe you were overheated – the AC in your apartment was never blowing enough cool air during moments like this – or maybe overtired from work or maybe your body had just decided that, hey, one orgasm is enough for tonight. Maybe it was everything or maybe it was nothing at all. But you started feeling too tight and too dry and you were a little in your head and the way the silicone felt, even lubed as it was, rubbing inside of you felt like a bit too much.

You didn’t wanted to disappoint her. She had yet to finish herself. Gave all her pleasure to you when she got on her knees and put her fingers inside of you.

“I – I’m sorry,” you’re slowly opening your eyes, sitting up a bit more, “Maybe we need more lube or a different position-“

“Babe,” Kate hasn’t moved a fraction of an inch since you had made that sharp noise, “We can stop.”

You take a deep inhale, swallow harshly. “We don’t have to.”

“Are you saying that because you want to keep going, or because you think I want to?”

Well, fuck. And when you don’t respond, take a second to collect your thoughts or maybe even gain the strength to sound convincing enough to say that you want more, Kate loosens her grip, thumbs over the curve of your waist in a gentle little motion, before pulling out entirely.

She makes a small sound herself, of resisting pleasure. There was only a small surface for her to grind on tucked inside the lining of the harness, a small bud tucked inside of her that you had set to a teasing rhythm – you and her both knew that Kate planned to take her time tonight, to coax your pleasure out of you, to find her own meanwhile.

She wouldn’t lie and say that it hadn’t felt really damn good, that she could have finished herself off like that given the time. But she simply reaches down, holds that little button down to stop the vibrations. Slides the toy out of herself.

You shift from your knees to your side, curl up against the pillows, refuse to meet her eyes except when you accidentally find them when scanning the mess of clothing on the floor to find something to wipe yourself off with. She’s able to find the clean cloth left in the nightstand before you’re able to find anything yourself.

You give her a quick thanks but it came out so soft you doubt she even heard you.

You feel her shift on the bed, walk over to the bathroom and flick the light on. You hear her shuffling around, the clink of something being set in the sink, the running of the faucet.

You’re facing away from her, but you see the glow of the bathroom light turn off. When Kate comes back into the room a few moments later, dressed only in a pair of underwear and a loose shirt, she finds the blanket that had been discarded, shoved to the foot of the bed and halfway onto the floor, tosses it over your still naked body.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” Kate’s voice is low and soft as she climbs onto the bed next to you, cuddles up against your back, a hesitant but warm arm sliding around your center, “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” You shift at the self-accusation, turning around to face the woman in your bed. She didn’t even get in the covers herself, just laid with her bare legs out against the sheets. “No, it wasn’t you, I promise. You actually did a really good job.”

She almost smiles at that, but it doesn’t wipe the concern from her face.

“I… it was me. I don’t know what happened.” Your voice is a bit raspy from your previously heavy breathing, your mouth dry. “It just…started to hurt a bit. I couldn’t find an angle that didn’t but I knew you were enjoying it. I didn’t want to stop.”

She looks a bit sad when you say that. Reaches up to smooth back your messy hair out of your face. Tucks the blanket tighter around you. You hadn’t even realized you were shivering, didn’t even think you were cold enough to be shaking as such.

“If it’s hurting you, then we stop.” Kate says it like a fact, like you didn’t have a mini crisis over even asking to change positions. “If you’re not liking it, we stop. If you need to pee but not in like a I’m about to cum way but in a I can’t focus unless we take a break way, then we stop.”

She’s so close, foreheads only a few inches from each other. You’re almost certain she hears the breath you let out that you didn’t even know you were truly holding. “I just wanted you to feel good too.” It’s barely a whisper, and you have to swallow hard to coat your throat after.

“Babe, all of this felt good. Tasting you feels good. My fingers inside you feels good. When I had you on your back and you bit my arm to keep from making too much sound-“

“-Kate, please-“ She knows you’d fluster at the reminder, the way you sunk your teeth into the flesh of her forearm when it was right next to your head, when she had your knees against your chest and your hips elevated just right-

“-that felt good. Even though I look like I lost a fight with a street dog and will have to explain this very teeth-shaped bruise to Clint. It all felt good. What didn’t feel good was seeing you in pain.”

You look up at her, wide eyed in the dimness of the room, unsure of what to say next.

She leans forward, presses her lips to your hairline, lets you close your eyes and lean into it. “If I was in pain, you’d stop, wouldn’t you?”

The answer is an immediate yes. Of course you would. Your lack of a verbal answer but a very distinct look in your eyes answers her enough.

“Although,” She stands, scanning the room for a clean sleep shirt to toss to you, maybe a fresh pair of underwear if one can be acquired at this late hour, “I don’t mind when you bite. Well, maybe only a little when I have to see Clint. It’s hard to explain to an old man that you’re having like, crazy lesbian sex on a weeknight.”

She finds an old but clean shirt of hers to throw at you before you can roll your eyes too hard.

“Do you wanna shower now or in the morning?” Kate sits at the edge of the bed, lets her hair back down from how it was rather hastily tied up to be out of the way.

You sit up only enough to slip the shirt over your head, to find your underwear and put them back on – some decency still required. “In the morning, please. I don’t think I can stand up if I wanted to.”

“Because you’re in pain?”

“Because you did good, Katie.”

She hums. You know she likes the praise, even though you know she won’t admit it after a night like this.

“Water or Gatorade?”

You tuck yourself more fully under the covers, adjust the pillows so they’re in less of a multi-position sex session placement and more of a bedtime placement. She’s already down the hallway; she already knows your answer. Because she listened last time, knew what you needed before you had to ask for it.

You’re barely awake when Kate pads back into the bedroom, making sure you drink enough to not feel like you lost all of the liquid in your body when you wake up in the morning. But you do feel her crawl back behind you, now in the covers, bare legs against your own, an arm pulling you closer against her chest.

You’ll be sore in the morning. You typically were. But you’d sure feel a lot worse if it weren’t for her.

[softlybarnes]

“fuck the government”

girl, best believe I want to. badly.

[tenderwhumps]

whump is fun because you see a character and are like “i love you so much that i want to see you sobbing and covered in blood. i need you dying in a hospital bed. i need you cold, wet, and miserable. i love you and want you to suffer unimaginable horrors. then you can have a kiss on the head as a treat”

[agentinlove]

[aaaemilia]

new years eve - b.b.

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader - 3.8k words

warnings: office/workplace sex, fingering, oral sex, backshots.

summary: you invite bucky to your workplace new years eve party, one that you had to help plan, then manage. bucky makes sure you enjoy yourself at least a little.

author's note: happy belated new year everyone! i appreciate all the love on my other works <3

-x- masterlist -x- talk to me! -x-

~ minors DNI ~

Workplace parties were always chaotic, especially when they came with an open bar and too many of your GM’s golf friends turned business partners. After workplace awards were handed out and raffle drawings completed and the caterers began clearing dinner to wait for the ball drop, you had to step away. 

The reserved conference rooms had opened into a large space that held the coworkers you loved and those who you couldn’t quite remember the names of but saw in passing, down to the people you weren’t even sure had worked for the company in years. And their significant others or friends they snuck in. Your work was exhausting but at least they took care of you during the holidays, sometimes. 

But the event was loud and you were already a few drinks in, and someone had to bear the brunt of planning this event - you - which means you couldn’t really enjoy it when the caterers would ask you questions on preference and allergy even though you had given them an exact list this afternoon, or when your GM had insisted a professional decorating team come in because business partners and leads would be in attendance too, which meant you had to keep them on schedule too.

Someone would have found you, complained that you weren’t enjoying the event enough, if you simply clung away from crowds and nursed a white claw until the clock struck midnight and you could take yourself home. So you grabbed the boxes of raffle tickets and headed back to your office, to draw, to email winners, to give your GM the list of receivers before he got too wasted to remember to announce, and to maybe take your first deep breath of the night.

Your office is quiet, still compared to the music and crowds and semi-wasted men who thought they knew how to do your job better than you, even though you’d been doing it for years. You close the door behind you, slip into your chair, cross your legs, click on your computer. 

You are able to recycle the losing raffle tickets in the bin by your desk, pull up the document with the links to all purchased prizes, and just begin placing the winners information in when a soft knock rattles your door and the door cracks open.

James.

He’s in the black suit you’d helped him pick out before he had some Avengers charity event to go to but no tie, top button undone, hair slicked back. He gives you a soft smile. 

“Couldn’t find you out there,” He tells you as he slips into the room, closing the door behind him. 

“Needed a minute.” You sigh, eyes flicking back to your computer, “I didn’t think you’d make it.”

“You asked.” He places himself in the chair across from your desk, looks you over. He sees the light flush on your cheeks, the way alcohol rosies them, the way the black dress you had left the house in that evening hugged your frame, cupped your breasts in just a way that made him want his hands on them. He can see the curve of your waist, your bare legs under the desk, the way you pinned your hair up to keep it out of your face for the night.

You stop typing, look up at him, knew his eyes were on you. “How was your day at work?”

He knows you’re not that serious in the question, but he answers anyway. “Normal Avengers stuff, I guess. Meetings, threats, media stuff.” He’s trying very hard to keep his eyes on yours and not on the way your dress dips over your collarbones, the hollow of your throat that dips every time you swallow. He clears his throat, “Party going well?”

You huff out something between a laugh and a sigh, “As well as it can.”

“That bad?”

“No, no, of course not. The dinner was phenomenal and I definitely chose the correct bartender, and people have been complimenting the decor all evening, which is great because I had to watch them like toddlers or they would still be setting up at this moment.” He can see the frustration on your face, the tenseness in your jaw as you think about the next task at hand, eyes flicking between your monitors. 

He sighs for you, “This can’t wait until the party’s over?”

“Boss wants them out before the end of the night. Something to do with end of year gifting.”

Bucky hums, moves to slip off his outer jacket, hangs it over the arm of the chair next to him. 

“I’m sorry,” You tell him as he leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees, “Give me ten minutes to finish sending these out, then we can go eat and drink until countdown. I’m sure you didn’t want to stay in my office the whole evening. Feel free to get started, I can meet you out there.”

“I’m wherever you are, sweetheart. Take your time.”

“Next year, I promise I’ll ask for the time off.” You’re typing as you talk to him, “We can actually go out, hang with your friends. Maybe get tickets to a rooftop bar that has too high of a cover at the door.” He’s out of his seat, although it’s really just a blur behind your focus on your work. “They asked me to help with this before Thanksgiving and I’d already asked for holiday time off and I felt too guilty to say no.” He’s leaning against the back of the desk now, eyeing the work you’re doing while rolling up the white sleeves of his button down, buttoning them up by his elbows. 

“Sweetheart, take a deep breath.” You spin in his chair to look at him fully once he says that. “I’m just happy to be here with you.”

You do take a deep breath, maybe just because he told you to. When you uncross your legs, place your heeled feet on the floor, his eyes flick down. 

You give him a look, don't take him seriously. “You matched your shoes with your belt. I’m proud of you.”

He scoffs, “You’re not allowed to talk about how I look when you leave the house like that.”

“Like what?”

He takes a shaky inhale, mouth slightly parted, “How much time did you say you needed?”

You swallow, “Maybe like ten, just need to fill out like two forms and get these emails sent out.” 

“Can you take fifteen?”

“Why-” But Bucky is getting on his knees - not crouching in front of you, fully on his knees - hands on your thighs. Oh. He presses a kiss to the inside of one knee and you’re automatically sliding down farther in your office chair, letting him part your thighs, placing himself between them.

“James-” Your eyes flick back to the door, the closed but unlocked door to your office, “My entire workplace is here, including higher ups.” But he’s pushing up your dress, breath warm against the insides of your thighs as he presses featherlight kisses up them.

“Then you better stay quiet.” He’s gentle at first, just kisses, until his mouth sucks a bruise into the soft skin of your thigh. You let out this soft whimper, slide down further, grip the side of your desk. “Careful now, sweet thing, can’t be that loud when I’m not even touching you yet.”

Your pupils are blown when he looks up to you, brushing over you with the back of a finger, the wetness of you soaking through your panties. You nod, once, sharp, needy.

He hums in approval, slides a finger along the side of the fabric - black, thin, lacey with just enough fabric to cover you, to curve around your ass in a way that makes him keep them on half the time, just pull them to the side when he puts himself inside you. “So you did think I would be here.”

You swallow as his fingers hook the top of your underwear, as you lift your hips enough for him to slide them off of you - this time isn’t about him, and he doesn’t want this piece of fabric in the way. “I hoped you would show.”

He slides them down your legs, off your feet, tosses them somewhere under your desk. And suddenly you’re breathing heavily, in your workplace, at the edge of your chair with your thighs spread, Bucky between your legs on his knees looking up to you with those pleading eyes. And you’re soaked. 

“So pretty for me, sweet girl.” His mouth meets you without hesitation, his tongue slow at first, flat and gentle to get you used to the feeling, the sensitivity. He takes time to memorize every movement you make, every shift of his tongue that makes you press your hips forward, needing more of him. One hand is on the edge of your desk, the other grasping the arm of your chair, white-knuckling the armrest to keep yourself as quiet as possible as his strokes become longer, firmer, from your entrance to your clit, tasting every bit of you.

“Bucky, you-” You suck in your breath, swallow down a moan when his eyes flick up to you but his mouth keeps working, his hands clamped around your thighs to hold you open for him, “You said fifteen minutes.”

He hums, and you let your head fall back against your chair with the feeling of it. But he pulls his mouth away, lips wet with your slick and his saliva. “You’re too good not to savor.” 

You nearly roll your eyes at his words, would have if you didn’t feel his flesh hand let your leg down, for his fingers to tease your entrance. And God his eyes are still on you, a few stray hairs brushing his temples. He lets your other leg rest on his shoulder. 

“Is this what you wanted, sweetheart?” He licks the moisture from his lips as you look down at him. You nod shakily, but he doesn’t motion to move. “Be a good girl and use your words.”

Fuck.

“Please, Buck-” Your hips shift up ever so slightly more, wanting him, more of him. “I need you inside me.”

He puts his fingers in his mouth, licks them slick, keeps his eyes on yours as he enters you. “There it is, that’s my good girl.” He would start slow, just the gentle in and out motions, but you’re already so wet, so ready for him, his fingers are curling and finding just the right spot to make your thighs tremble.

“Fuck, James -” The hand gripping your armrest moves to his hair, pulling him closer, putting his mouth back on you. And his tongue is steady around your clit once he’s back, his fingers curling into you. And you’re making this sound from the back of your throat, biting back full moans, encouraging him. There is so much he wants to say, to tease out of you, but he feels your breathing change, the way your thighs shake and your back arches, and god he just wants to feel you come on his tongue. So he doesn’t change a damn thing, same pace, same pressure, lets you find your orgasm through him.

You clench around his fingers as you finally find release, one heel digging into the carpet and the other knee holding him steady, keeping him close to you. He keeps licking, gentler now, until you’re shuddering, grabbing his hair to pull him away.

“Sensitive,” You breathe, “God, fuck - okay, okay, stop.”

He smiles, presses kisses down your thighs, leaving a trail of slickness. “Never get tired of that taste.” When he finally pulls out of you, finds your underwear to wipe his fingers clean. “Never.”

You blink down at him, cheeks flushed, a few pieces stray from your updo. 

“How’d I do?” His hands trace your thighs, shifting away, letting your legs close slightly more. He stretches out his knees when he stands, searches for his coat pocket to find his clean handkerchief to wipe you clean. 

Your eyes flick to the clock. 13 minutes. “Pretty damn good.” You stay languid until he offers you a hand to stand. 

And he kisses you, careful not to smudge your lipstick. “Time to get back to the party, then?”

-x-

The crowd is a little more tipsy by the time you return, the length of your dress smoothed back down and your hair fixed in the bathroom mirror. You handed off the information to the necessary raffle winners, checked in with the catering team who was serving dessert by allergy and preference, made sure there was no one getting too rowdy at the bar. 

Bucky filters behind you, never too far, never too close to be hovering. He stands beside you when you talk and laugh with coworkers, lets you get a few drinks into him, even if it is really just to keep something in his hand. He keeps a hand on your lower back or your waist, watches you sip your champagne, lipstick marks on the glass, the way your fingers hold the dainty stem of your glass or absentmindedly play against the base. 

Between being reintroduced to partners you’ve met before and promising to grab drinks with a coworker you only ever see in passing, you find Bucky gone. Maybe a trip to the bathroom, maybe grabbing another drink. Five minutes, then ten. Your eyes scan the crowd - he always stands out a little, even if he doesn’t mean to - but you only see the same folks you’ve been seeing all night. No awkwardly quiet supersoldier nursing a beer or a drink you ordered for him.

At the fifteen minute mark, you start actually looking.

He’s not hidden in some hallway, or talking to the bartender. Hasn’t been stopped by one of the accompanying husbands who noticed the metal hand. You text him once, not even read. 

If he’d gotten called away for some Avenger-level threat, he would’ve texted. Found you before he left so you wouldn’t worry.

You only thought to check your office last.

Maybe he left something in there earlier, or needed some quiet for a minute - a sentiment that you could understand. Maybe he needed to take an important phone call. Your office door was closed as you had left it, but you could see the thin line of light coming from beneath it, as if your desk lamp had been turned back on.

You crack open the door, peek inside quietly in case you disturb him. 

Well, in a way, you suppose you do.

He’d be lying to you if he said he wasn’t achingly hard since you came against his tongue. The dark color of his suit had hidden the lick of precum that had leaked through his boxers when his fingers were inside you, the pretty picture of your body spread out for him in your own office, panties tossed to the side, a pair he knew that you’d never put back on before returning to the event. He’d let you be professional as you talked to your coworkers, did his best to stay professional himself. But every time he looked at the dress, your heels, he could feel your legs over his shoulders and the way your hips squirmed when he pushed that very dress up.

He needed a moment to take care of himself. No better place than your office, scene of the crime, where he could imagine exactly how he wanted to finish himself off, what had been going through his mind since you’d reached your own orgasm. You, bent over your desk, palms flat on the wood, skirt hiked up to your waist. His hands would grasp your hips, pull you back into him, steady pumps from base to tip.

His cock was heavy in his hand, pulled through the open button and zipper of his suit pants. Slick with his spit, he stroked slow and deliberately, thumb brushing over the drips of precum that were forming the second he got himself out of his boxers. His other palm flat on the desk, right where he’d have yours. 

His eyes flick up to yours, his hand pausing for just a moment as you step in, shut the door behind you.

“This is where you ran off to?” Your eyes aren’t on his, but on his absolutely desperate hardness in his palm. His jacket had been thrown off again, sleeves up, the veins of his forearms pulsing. He’d been at this since the moment he stepped away from you.

But his hand is already moving again, missing the sensation, even his own friction. “I - yeah. Couldn’t get you out of my head. Couldn’t keep talking to strangers while I still had your taste in my mouth.”

You hum, step closer to him, watch his hand move over his length. His breath shutters as you get closer, put a hand on his waist, kiss his shoulder.

“And how did you imagine me, James?” You pull his wrist away from his cock, take it in your own hand, and he groans at the touch. “Was it like this?” Your touch is nowhere near as fast, as hard as he’d like it, but he knows you’re teasing him. Too much of this would send him over the edge of its own. “Was I on the desk, my legs spread open for you?” You think for a moment, letting the time linger as you stroke him through, “But you’ve already had me open for you, haven’t you?”

“Bent over the desk,” He tells you quickly, his words shaky. His hips pump into your hand, once, “Just like this, right here. Me behind you, slow at first, then-” He bites back a groan as you use the slick of precum to run your thumb over the head of his dick, “Then I’d stop thinking and just feel you.”

You hum once more, in approval, he can hear the smile in it. But you kiss his shoulder once more, and get to your knees. “I should get you ready first, no?”

Oh, he'd never turn that down.

You look up to him for a few steady strokes before placing your tongue on the tip of his dick, circling the swollen redness of the head. Salty, slick. He clenches his eyes shut hard, his hand sliding against your cheek, nestling itself in your hair, guiding you deeper onto him. 

“God, sweetheart.” And fuck the sound he makes when you take him as far as you can. You let him fuck your mouth, gently, deeply, until you pull away, choking, a long string of saliva connecting your mouth to him. His dick glistens with your spit as you stand, drips off the tip as you lean yourself onto your desk, lining yourself up with him.

“Is this how you imagined it?”

He’s unbelievably hard. This view, the curve of your ass, your bare thighs. He pulls up the length of your dress reverently, enjoying the moment of you coming into view. You curve yourself up to him, stance just wide enough for him to step close, guide the head of his dick between your already slick folds. Your legs tremble at the sensation, the heat of him dragging past your hard clit.

Your eyes look up to the clock. “Twenty minutes until midnight. They’ll want me back out there soon.”

He grabs your hips, thrusting against you until the friction against your clit is just enough to make you whimper. “I almost finished in your mouth, love. I wouldn’t worry about midnight.”

There's little resistance as he slides into you, your warmth engulfing him easily with how slick you are. “God, James. You’re so hard.”

He starts off gently, letting you ease onto his length. But he is impossibly erect, had been for too long, the base of his cock aching for release. One that would come much quicker than he’d like with you pull him in, clench around him with the upwards curve of his cock scrapes into you just right. 

One hand on your shoulder, the other metal hand cool at your hip, allowing him to set the pace just like he wanted, pull you deeper onto him. Once he’s found that rhythm, the one that’ll pump his orgasm right out of him, his licks his fingertips and wraps his arm around you, finding your clit.

Your hips are just far off the desk enough for him to have the angle. It’s gentle, consistent little circles, never too hard on the sensitive nub. With his fingers on your clit and his dick buried within you, it’s only a matter of time before your legs start trembling, clenching your thighs closer. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, you can’t do that,” But he doesn’t even pretend to slow his thrusts, “I’m already so close.”

It hits you quickly, your second orgasm that night. You’re on your elbows, forehead pressed into the curve of your arm to keep you from crying out. Your knees would’ve given out if Bucky didn’t have such a grip on your hips, putting your ass right where he wants you, flush against his hips.

“Fuck, baby, I’m-” In the wave of your own orgasm, you push your hips back into him, meeting his pace. He groans hard, fucks you faster, chasing. His rhythm gets sloppy, deeper, until he finally pulls out of you, a hot splash of cum spraying your ass, the backs of your thighs. Multiple thick, hot ropes paint your lower back until he uses his hand to get every last drop out. 

His hand palms your ass, grasps your hip. “Sweetheart,” He leans down, kisses your shoulder, “You’re beautiful. So good to me.”

You’re breathing heavily, head still in your arms, attempting to catch your breath. He cleans you up, just as he did earlier, with the handkerchief he tucked back into his pocket. You’re still damp but he wipes most of the stickiness away, pulls your dress back down. He dries himself off, puts himself away, tucks his shirt neatly away with still shaking hands. 

Once you shift yourself back up, you prop yourself on your desk, let your feet hang, pressure off your ankles and the heels you’re still in. 

It’s then that you hear the crowd of coworkers just down the hall roar, the squeal of plastic horns and the boom of fireworks outside your window. Clock struck midnight.

“You have great timing.” You tell him, hand on his waist to pull him closer.

He’s between your knees, hands on your upper arms to hold you close, steady. You look up to him expectantly, and he smiles into his kiss.

[aaaemilia]

mine to care for - b.b.

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader - 1.3k words

warnings: aftercare, mentions of rough sex and physical marks, fem receiving oral, showering together.

summary: he needed it desperately. you wanted him rough. of course he stays to clean you up (and then some).

author's note: can't get enough of this man.

He finished inside you. Deep, all the way in, hips pressed flushed against yours, groaning your name into your skin. His body is curled over you like he can’t stand to not be touching you.

One last thrust. Then another. Until he stills, thighs and arms still trembling.

It’s breathless, blinding.

You’re still underneath him, panting, trying to catch your breath and regain feeling in your legs. You’ve got one up around his hip, used to pull him deeper, the other one spread lazily out to allow him as much access as he needed. You feel the pulse between your thighs, the ache in your hips from the tension, the movement against him, the places where his hands held you tight. You think you’ll be bruised by morning, not that you really care. 

His forehead drops to yours, the ends of his hair damp with sweat. “You okay?”

You’d ask him to take you, to get all his pent up frustration from work right here with you. He’d hesitated, of course he had, but he’s a pleaser through and through, and he wanted to make his girl satisfied. And fuck after he got over you, your legs hooked around him, lifting your hips to get him as deep as possible, he took the hint. He was a gone man after your nails scratched the skin of his back, when you’d bite his forearm to keep from crying out too loud. 

“More than,” But your voice is still trembling from the exertion, swallowing harshly.

He opens his eyes to search yours, scans your body beneath him. Your hips are red from when he had you on your knees, ass pressed against his hips, letting him guide your hips back as fast, as hard as he needed. He’d always been a bit too soft when you have him press his teeth into your skin, scared to hurt you, but when he got the base of your neck and you bucked your hips into his still clothed need, searching for any kind of pleasure you could get with him still so far away, he’d been more tempted to try harder.

“You sure?”

You give him a lazy smile, lean up to kiss his cheek. “I promise, James.”

He kisses you once, sloppily, against your already kiss-bitten lips. Then your cheek, the curve of your jaw, down your neck. He’s gentle over the marks he’s bitten and sucked into the skin of your shoulders. 

He stays inside you for as long as he can, just to feel you pulse around him, the heat of your center. And when he does finally pull out, it’s slow and gentle, and you both shiver at the loss. 

His hands feel the skin at the back of your thighs, leaning down to press a kiss to the inside of your knee. With his proximity, he can watch himself pour out of you, mix with your own slick as it drips between your folds, out onto the pillow still under your hips. 

You don’t pick your head off your own pillow until you feel his breath against you.

He kisses your clit once, barely presses against it, and you inhale shakily, whisper his name. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning you up.” He locks eyes with you, and the view of this man settling between your thighs, his arms wrapping around your thighs to spread you open for him, soft yet firm, still flush from his own orgasm, is just enough to end you. He knows you’re sensitive, knows you’ll be squirming under his touch. “Relax, sweet girl. Let me take care of you.”

He laps at you gently at first, getting you acclimated to such an intimate touch after such a rough evening. You’re still sore - the good kind of sore that wrecks you to your core - but he’s so gentle as his tongue traces you, lapping up the trails of his cum that still flow out of you.

Bucky doesn’t press his fingers into you, not this time. You’d had an evening of him inside you already - on your stomach, on your knees, on your back, whatever position he put you in that had you whimpering his name - and he wanted you gently. His tongue traces a steady pattern, even once your hips try to lift off the bed and your hand finds his hair, keeping him steady.

“Fuck, James - right…right there.” You look down at him, a man on a mission. You push his hair out of his face, tuck it behind his ear, letting your fingers trace the hot skin of his face. “God, my sweet boy.” 

Something about your words strikes him, and he groans against you. He feels your breath pick up, the little noise you make at the back of your throat, the way your body tenses when you’re right there. It’s only a matter of time until you’re cumming again, right there on his tongue. His arms hold down your thighs, but he feels them tremble around his shoulders. 

He lets you ride it out, kisses your thighs when you’re too sensitive for him to continue. He watches the rise and fall of your chest slow, the fluster on your cheeks still dissipating. Bucky places a final kiss to the inside of your knee before standing. 

Your eyes are still fluttering open when you hear him step into the bathroom. He runs the water, returns with a warm, damp rag. He cleans off the slick from the inside of your thighs, kisses you softly when you finally sit up. 

“Want to shower?”

You just hum in agreement, let him walk with you to the bathroom, to start the water. Of course he slides in behind you, lets you stand under the hot water, presses kisses to your forehead as you let the heat soak into you.

“You let me do a number on you, sweetheart,” He tells you, running his fingers over the ridges of your shoulders as you lean back to rinse your hair. 

“About time you did.” You push water off of your face. He pretends he doesn’t see you eyeing the damage you did on him. 

You let him massage the shampoo into your scalp, to help you rinse it out, to keep a hand at your waist almost constantly, grounding you, grounding himself. You try to return the favor, but he’s taller than you and you’d truly need him on his knees to do the best job. So he washes his own hair while you trace the lines of muscle on his back, his stomach, to soap him down and kiss his chest once he’s rinsed off. 

He gets out first, lets you stay in the warmth until he’s slipped on a pair of boxers and found you a shirt of his to wear that he leaves on the bathroom counter, until the bed is remade and he finds you fresh underwear. He lets you have your space, some time, until you emerge from the bathroom, hair toweled dry and in his clothes. The lights in the bedroom have dimmed, he has your water bottle refilled on the nightstand. 

“Tired?” He teases, untucking the covers for you to slide into.

You shoot him a glare, slide in the covers anyway. He lets you tuck into his side, the bare skin of his chest, places an arm around you to keep you there, rubbing absentminded circles into your back through the thin fabric of his shirt. He turns on the TV to something quiet, just to fill the space with light and sound. He knows you won’t be awake much longer.

You’re so warm, tucked up against his skin. You press another kiss to his chest, just to feel him hum, to kiss your forehead. He’s right, of course. You fall asleep soon after.

[aaaemilia]

sick day II - b.b.

pairing: avenger!bucky x f!receptionist!reader - 3.3k words

warnings: just a chest cold, fluff and comfort

summary: he took care of you when you were sick. you maybe gave it to him after. he's in denial of being sick and you're absolutely not having it. he needs someone to take care of him every now and then, right?

author's note: when i first finished sick day, i wasn't planning on continuing it but i felt like our boy needed some love himself. (also sry for the nfl reference your girl is a certified chiefs hater - bang bang)

-x- sick day pt. 1 -x- masterlist -x- talk to me! -x-

Four days after you lose your fever and your head stops spinning enough for you to make it back to your own apartment, you’re back into your rhythm of work. Late nights and early mornings. Badges and paperwork and security walks. His hoodie at the edge of your bed to wear to sleep. The faint taste of lozenges on your tongue because that damn cough is sure to never go away. 

Bucky’s 2am visit starts with silence.

Not the comforting kind of silence he normally brings, when he shows up halfway through your shift to make you tea and keep you company. He stands a little stiffer than normal, but you know for a fact they hadn’t been called away to any alien-themed mission or terror threat. For all you know, the whole team had been here, in the tower, with their meetings and paperwork much like yourself.

He looks like he got his ass handed to him and he’s desperately trying to hide it. The stiffness in his stance, arms cross across his chest. The paleness of his face but the flush on his cheeks. There’s no hey sweetheart or questions about your shift - the kind you answer the same every night. He makes his way over to the reception desk a bit slower than normal.

You glance up from your computer, trying to make it seem like you hadn’t been watching him since he stepped out of the elevator. “You okay?”

He doesn’t like the knowing inflection in your voice, answers “Yeah” much too quickly. His voice is low, rough, like it hasn’t been properly cleared all day. “Just checking in.”

You hum, drag your eyes over the details of him. His eyes are faintly bloodshot, his hair a little more unkempt than he typically is seen with you around. There’s a shine on his forehead that pastes down his baby hairs, one that doesn’t look like sweat from training. He’s blinking slower than normal, as if keeping his eyes open is taking more effort than it should.

“You sure?” You don’t believe him for a moment, and he hears it in your voice.

“I’m fine.” He leans on the desk with his flesh arm, feeling the cool of the countertop under his skin. 

You push back in your chair slowly, “Did you sleep today?”

“Did you?” He tries to smile. It almost comes close to one.

“Delfection. Cute. I’m not the one sweating through my sleeves.”

His eyes flick up to yours for just a moment, a spark of guilt confirming what you already knew and what he won’t admit.

“Long day in the gym.”

“You smell like you showered not too long ago.”

He had, actually. Between waking up in sweat-soaked sheets with his t-shirt plastered to his skin and the absolute burn in his throat, he tried to shower it off. And while the steam did feel better on his lungs, he was able to stay not-sweat ridden for approximately twenty minutes until it all came right back. He had hesitated before coming down to see you, to have you see him like this. He’d never admit it, but he wanted to see you anyway. Plus, you would’ve probably texted  him anyway somewhere between your second cup of caffeine and the particularly troublesome piece of paperwork when you always liked to complain, and he would’ve come down to see you anyway.

He opens his mouth to find some kind of retort, but instead answers with a rough, scraping cough into his sleeve. You wince at the sound as much as he winces at the end.

“You shouldn’t be here.” You stand from your seat, shuffle through your backpack to find the cold medication that you had recently stopped taking yourself. 

“I’m fine.” But after that cough, his voice is coming out hoarse and weathered.

“Okay, and I don’t work the night shift.” You find a cool bottle of water from the breakroom, open it before handing it to him. He shoots you a glare, one you can tell he doesn’t mean. “Easier if we don’t lie to each other.”

“Serum shouldn’t let me get sick like this,” He downs the pills with one quick sip of water, but takes a few more gulps just to feel the cold liquid down his throat. 

“Well, a lot of things happen that shouldn’t. Like the Chiefs winning back to back superbowls. But here we are.” 

“Aren’t they out of the playoff picture now?”

“Have you been following American football just to impress me?”

“Is it working?”

“Stop deflecting. You have a fever, your voice is shot, and if I had to guess, you haven’t eaten anything for at least twelve hours.” You fold your arms over your chest. “You think the serum makes you bulletproof, and yet here you are. Drenched and in denial and probably contagious.”

He grumbles, something low in his throat, “You don’t know that I have a fever.”

You step closer to him, press the back of your hand against his flushed cheek, then his forehead, coming away slightly damp with his sweat. You’re so close against him, and the red in his cheeks and the extra shine in his eyes, and the way his lips are parted just slightly - you’d kiss him if you had stayed there a moment longer. But you hadn’t, because a second, even rougher sounding cough wracks through his chest.

“Okay James, enough of this. I’m walking you back.”

He doesn’t fight you this time. Not when you call for the overnight security to cover the desk for a few minutes, not when you slip his keycard from his hoodie pocket to get him back into his quarters. He lets you guide him with a hand on his back into his apartment, through the dim and quiet halls, still at this late hour.

He settles onto his couch with a heavy sigh - the very couch that you had just recently spent many hours sleeping through fever dreams and chills. 

“I didn’t want to bug you,” He tells you, as you make your way into his kitchen. This man, at minimum, needs a cup of tea - anything to help his throat.

“Bug me?” You try not to clank things around too loud as you set the water to boil, “You let me spend two straight days in your bed only coughing and getting your sheets sweaty, and not in a good way. You okay with chamomile?”

“I can make my own tea.”

“You’re sick, I’m not negotiating with you.” You find honey buried in his cabinets, let the tea steep and cool before you hand it to him. He hadn’t moved an inch since you left him in the living room. He takes a large sip, chokes it down uneasily.

“Jesus, James. You’re supposed to at least somewhat enjoy it.” You get on your knees in front of him, and for a very brief moment his breathing stops. Hesitates. But you reach out for his boots, unlace them, slip them from his feet.

“I’m not incapacitated,” He tells you between now smaller sips.

“Never said you were.” You place his boots aside by the door, let him finish his tea before helping him pull his hoodie over his head. “Come on, let's get you horizontal.”

He doesn’t fight you as you walk him down his hallway to his bedroom, although he pretends that you don’t notice him bracing himself on the walls when the fever wrecking his brain makes him a bit too dizzy. He slips his jeans off, slides between the covers that you pulled back for him. You settle him onto pillows slightly elevated - a chest cold always comes with difficulty breathing. You tuck the covers back over him, let him settle into them.

“You’re bossy when I’m sick.” His voice is deep, rough. His eyes are barely open.

“I learned from the best.” You push back the stray hair on his face, let him lean into your touch in a way that he’d never admit to doing. You use the moment to feel the temperature of his fever, tracing from the skin of his forehead to his cheek, letting them trail a little down the side of his neck where his skin is flushed. It’s tacky, the skin beneath your fingers, but he lets out this little sigh as he turns to face you.

“I gotta go back down,” you tell him softly, “My shift’s not over yet.”

He hums, lets his eyes close.

“I’ll be back in a few hours. The second I’m off, I’m coming back up here and you better not have gotten out of bed.”

Finally, he murmurs, “Wasn’t planning to.”

You don’t tell him that you hate to leave him like this, when he looks like he finally pressed pause on his ever-present need to be strong, when he’s letting you see him something close to vulnerable, to take care of him. This solid man you’re used to seeing now soft and glassy-eyed under his covers. You don’t tell him that if you could, you’d sit next to him, run your fingers through his hair, hold him until his fever broke, the flush left his cheeks and the colors returned to his face. 

Instead, you lean down, press a kiss to his temple, promise to be back.

-x-

Your shift ends, finally. It’s all quiet hours of setting up the day, of sending emails and passing on your shift. You return your masterkey, log out of the computer for the next shift, and head straight for the elevator. 

You’re tired, sure. Not that it really matters right now. 

When you slip back into his apartment, it’s quiet. Still. The only lights on are the small floor-level lights in the hall and the one over the stovetop you left on after making tea. They cast a warm golden glow across the apartment. 

You slip off your sweater, your shoes, leave them by the door with your work bag. It's just you, padding down the hallway you’ve learned over the past few days, into the bedroom of the hopefully sleeping super soldier.

You find him exactly where you left him, almost. He’s still in bed, but the covers are a bit more ruffled and he looks like he made a half-hearted attempt to finish the tea you made. He pulled a hoodie back on, then looked like he decided it was too hot but too hard to take back off, so the sleeves are pushed up past his elbows. His hair is a bit sticking up, but he sits up slowly, runs his finger through it. 

He sniffs, voice rough, “Hey.”

“You didn’t sleep,” You leave the door cracked, just enough, sit on the bed next to him.

“Didn’t want to miss you.”

Your chest pulls a little. He has a casual-ness in his voice, that tells you that it most definitely is not casual. The truth is heavy in his eyes, what you can see of them through the dim light filtering in through the closed curtains and the cracked bedroom door.

You kiss his temple again, not able to say anything else. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks. I missed you too.”

You consider getting into bed with him right now, to find a clean shirt of his, to strip off your work clothes and not leave until you’re sure he’s asleep. But you hesitate, looking towards the bathroom door.

“You still have all those meds you forced into me?”

“I didn’t force anything.”

“And you weren’t holding me hostage.” You find them in the medicine cabinet, some fever reducer, something for the cough. He’s waiting for you to return, legs over the edge of the bed and sipping the now-cold tea, likely just to show you that he still can, that your time didn’t go to waste. “Think you can eat anything?”

He sighs when you sit next to him again, handing over his meds. 

“I’d rather just go to sleep.”

“I don’t want you to feel sick, taking meds on an empty stomach.”

He breathes out a laugh that definitely becomes a cough half-way through. “They replaced my arm without any pain meds. I think I can take two Nyquil with just tea.”

You look up to him with these soft eyes that always strike him right where it hurts. It's the way you look at him when he makes less of his pain, that makes him want to take back his words.

“That doesn’t mean you have to.” You’re searching his own eyes for something that he can’t quite name. But he lets you get up, to make two quick pieces of toast, slather on something that will make it less dry for him to swallow. He gets through a piece and a half; that’s enough for you.

You place the now-empty mug and plate into the sink before sliding into bed next to him. He lets you tuck his hair behind his ear, out of his face, to trace the lines of his jaw with the back of your finger, the stubble now growing there. 

You let him guide you over, onto your other side, so he can press his chest against your back, tuck his legs into yours. You can feel the heat radiating off him as he gets closer, brushes your hair aside to place a kiss to the back of your neck.

“Was starting to think you were a fever dream.” He mumbles, settling in close.

You hum, a smile on your face, “Nope. Just your girl. With tea, and NyQuil.”

“Hot.”

You laugh, and you can feel him smile against you, the warmth of him much more than just his fever.

You stayed curled against him for a while, his arm draped over your waist, heavy and loose like he’s only half-conscious of it. But when you shift, even slightly, he tightens his hold, wordlessly, instinctually. 

Of course you stay. You wouldn’t consider leaving.

You can feel when he drifts into sleep, fitful as it is. His breathing is ragged, and every few minutes his body stirs with a cough from deep in his chest. You feel his fever - still warm, not warming. The room is so still, you feel the tug of sleep that pulls behind your own eyes after being up all night. 

You wait for him to still before considering sleep for yourself. You tried, once, to sit up, maybe read the paperback that you had left on the nightstand from your own sick day, but he had mumbled something incoherent and kept his grip on your waist firm, and you didn’t want to bug him any more than necessary. Eventually, his breathing evens out just a bit, his lips parted in sleep. The creases by his eyes ease, the hold on your waist just a bit looser. It’s not until then that you let yourself sleep, too.

-x-

When you wake, the light shining through the curtains tells you its at least halfway through the afternoon. The room is basked in a soft grey light. Sheets are tangled around your legs, your neck a little stiff from your attempt to move as least as possible to not disturb the man who slept next to you. 

But you don’t move - not at first. 

Bucky is still asleep beside you. His breathing is uneven, thick in his chest, but not quite as labored as before. Every few minutes he stirs, frowns a bit in his sleep, shifts deeper into the pillows. His hair is messy, his lashes damp at the corners. 

When you press your hand to his forehead, you find the heat dissipating but still lingering. He’s on the mend. You knew he would be. He’s too stubborn to let anything get him sick for long.

You brush a hand through his hair, kiss his fever-slick forehead, just enough to soothe him before you slip out of bed, ease through the house carefully.

You don’t particularly feel like rummaging through his cabinets and fridge, but you do order takeout. Something warm and soft and healing. Not too greasy but greasy enough. Broth heavy soup and dumplings, warm rice, ginger tea. Enough for the both of you.

You’re in the kitchen, opening containers and separating dishes into bowls and pouring tea when you finally hear him pad out into the hallway. He’s in his sweatpants and hoodie, sleeves still rolled up. His hair is still rumpled with sleep but there’s a bit more color in his cheeks and he seems a bit less dizzy than before. There’s still a crease on his cheek from his pillow and his eyes are bleary, but he’s vertical.

And he’s looking for you.

His voice is as rough as sandpaper when he says, “You didn’t have to.”

You give him a soft smile, “Morning, stranger. You hungry?”

He hesitates, thinks for a moment, nods his head. “A little.”

The two of you eat on the couch. There’s not much talking, but the TV is on and soft in the background. You hand him a mug of tea to sip from every few minutes, and he stops fighting you after the second time. You can tell it feels good on his throat, how he closes his eyes when he sips it, how he eases back into the cushions.

He looks tired, even though he just woke up. The tiredness that stays in the bags under his eyes, the shakiness of his hands, as if eating had taken all the energy he had. He’s pressed up against you when he finally finishes his meal, warm on your side. Not quite as fever warm, just warm, just him.

“I think I’m gonna shower,” He finally mumbles, clearing his throat. “Steam helped last night.”

You nod, “Don’t lock the door.”

He almost smiles, “Worried I’m gonna pass out naked?”

“Yes, actually.”

He moves around his place soundlessly, and it’s much the same as he goes for his shower. You can hear the water turn on. You clean up after dinner while he’s away, place leftovers in the fridge, start the dishwasher. And when he returns, he’s in a fresh shirt and sweatpants, looking just a little more alive. His damp hair curls lightly, even though he keeps running his hands through it to get it out of his face. 

“Come here,” you say, already sitting down again, legs tucked beneath you, patting your lap. “It’ll feel good, I promise.”

He hesitates like it costs him something. Maybe it does, letting himself be this vulnerable in front of you, letting himself lean on you. 

Bucky settles down slowly, rests his head on your lap, lets you throw a blanket over the rest of him. He’s on his side, facing the TV that you both know he won’t be watching. There’s an arm thrown over your legs and one tucked up against his chest, as if he can’t fully relax yet. But once you begin running your fingers through his drying hair - slow, languid strokes over his scalp - he lets out something close to a soft groan.

Every few passes through his hair, you let your fingers linger towards his temple, brush across his forehead or trace his jawline. Your other hand you let fall to his chest, occasionally drawing lines down the skin of his arm, or rest against his chest, grounding, still. 

He tries to stay awake, he really does. He’s already slept through most of the day, hadn’t been present while you spent your day with him. But your hands are so soft and steady, soothing. Every time he motions to cough you whisper these sweet, honeyed words that settle him right back down. And the moment he grasps your hand in his, pulls it against his chest, lets you keep running your free hand through his hair, he’s absolutely done for.

[aaaemilia]

private stall - b.b.

pairing: avenger!bucky x f!receptionist!reader - 2k words

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), office bathroom sex, unprotected sex, biting, fingering, too many commas

summary: your day before your shift as the tower's overnight receptionist was ungodly busy. bucky's day was rather mundane. you're both pent up, and he wants to take care of that. now. while you're on the clock.

author's note: return of my favorite overnight security guard. i need to keep my hands busy until the next semester starts up again.

~ minors dni ~

--x--

The first time the two of you had been caught by the overnight security guard, it was nothing close to scandalous.

Bucky had been leaning over the counter of the reception desk, the back of his pointer finger drawing soft lines on the back of your hand. It was a gentle touch, nothing more than that, and you were still wholeheartedly completing your assigned paperwork for the night. But Thomas, your favorite of the overnight security guards mostly because he let you dim the ungodly harsh overhead lights once the halls quieted, could see the affection that was plastered on the super soldier's face, the care, the want. Bucky had stepped away quickly when he noticed Thomas' presence, gave him a curt nod. Thomas had only given them a knowing look, leaving you there like a father scolding his daughter for making out with the boy in the backseat of a car.

The second time had gone a bit differently.

You had a busy day prior to clocking in for work, having slept very little and still having barely enough time to get everything you needed done. The world isn't built for a sleep schedule like yours. You were pent up, and the last thing you wanted to do was be stuck behind a desk instead of getting your frustration out in literally any other way. Trip to the gym? Long aimless walk?

Bucky had a day filled with typical Avengers meetings and paperwork, long emails he didn’t read and plans for future superhero stuff. Average, boring.

You had worn a soft dress and this pair of deep red heels that you had seen him eye weeks prior, and your hair was pinned back enough for him to see the curve of your jawline and the soft skin of your neck. 

Easy access.

On your way back from the office where you dropped off your paperwork, the clock nearing 2:30am, you were stopped by a Mister James Barnes, who led you to a far, rarely used bathroom, private stall, locked the door, and had you pressed up against it before you could truly comprehend what was happening. 

He’s already semi-hard as he places his hands on your waist. You feel him straining against the fabric of his pants as his mouth found your neck, the skin that had been teasing him since he saw you walk into work. 

“So eager already,” You murmur to him as he pushes aside the collar of your dress, sinking his teeth into your skin, sucking on the spot until a deep red mark remains. God he loved to see his marks on you, and you always made such pretty sounds when his teeth found your skin, his mouth sucked and kissed marks onto your flesh. You buck your hips into his as his mouth finds the spot at the side of your neck that takes away your breath and makes your vision go blurry, a soft noise escaping your lips.

He takes your noise as encouragement, lifts you up, lets you wrap your legs around his waist as his mouth finds yours, tongue pressing for access as he supports your legs, hands on your ass. Your thighs find the bathroom counter as he places you upon it, pressing his quickly stiffening erection against the heat of your center, positioned almost perfectly for him to press himself into you. 

You grasp his hair in your right hand, pull it back, expose his neck for you as his mouth leaves yours.

“What's wrong, James?” Your breath is hot on his neck, the stubble that has grown since he shaved that morning. “What made you desperate enough to take me at work?”

You use the access you have to his neck to place your tongue against the hot skin of it, drawing a line from the base to just below his ear, sending an instantaneous shiver not only down his spine, but right to his dick, begging to be released from his jeans. 

He bucks his hips into you, the need of him against the thin cotton of your panties. Keeping his flesh hand on your waist, the chill of his metal hand curls around your throat, not hard, not heavy, just enough to pull you off his neck.

"Sweet girl, you seem just as hungry as me."

You fumble with the button of his jeans while he pulls you back to his lips, letting out something close to a groan once you undo the zipper, slip your hand down the front of him. He's greedy, tongue against yours, teething at your bottom lip. His mouth only leaves your once you finally, finally, pull him out of the front of his boxers, his flesh in your hand. He grinds against the touch, basking in the warmth of your palm, letting you wrap yourself around him for a few soft, languid strokes that leaves him anything but satisfied.

When his hand finds the inside of your knee, spreading your legs apart, he finds no resistance. You look up to him with those begging eyes, leaning back on your hands, head leaned back just enough for him to see the blossoming bruises that he left on your throat and chest.

He breathes out a quick fuck before opening his hand, leaning over to spit into it. He lets himself look you over - the flush of your cheeks, your dress pushed up, knees spread, covered in those marks that he made - while he stroked himself slick, just enough to slide into you without resistance.

But you're soaked, of course you are, with him over you like this. You know he can feel it when he pulls your panties to the side, just enough to run a finger wet with his saliva down your folds. You have to bite your lips to stop a whimper from escaping as his finger slides into you, first one, then two, pumping them ever so lightly.

"Come on James," You whine, shifting your hips up, giving him deeper access, "We don't have all night."

He curls his fingers, and that shuts you up real quick. "You don't want me to take care of you?"

"I want you inside me." You're nearly panting with his fingers inside you like this, the way he brushes his thumb over your clit for just a fraction of a second.

He kisses you hard as he lines himself up with the heat of you, still slick, still wanting. He takes a moment to run his tip where his fingers just were, down your pulsing center, until he slips inside you gently, achingly slow. A gentle lover, even on a time limit.

He waits until you relax around him, allowing him to move smoothly, deeply, one hand on your waist and one holding your knee up around his waist. His movements are molten, soft and hot, pumping all the way to the base of him, pulling nearly all the way out just to feel the way your walls clench against him. But he's needy, you can feel it in the way he grasps at your hips, the way that hand slides up just enough to thumb over your stiff nipple, toying with it.

You let out something close to a whimper, and he locks eyes with you. "Sensitive there, sweetheart?" But he keeps his finger moving until you're squirming on the counter.

Bucky is careful not to slam into you, to keep his grunts quiet in the echo of the empty bathroom stall, in the silence of the overnight hallways. You watch the focus on his face, the way he watches himself slide in and out of you, the tensing of his abs, the way his muscles cut over his hipbones, defining each thrust. You watch the way his hands grab your skin until you have to throw your head back when his pace quickens.

"You all right, sweet thing?" He asks you, and you're able to flutter your eyes open just enough to nod, to see the beads of sweat forming on his hairline, his hair falling in front of his face. God, fuck slips past his lips until he slides you off the counter, spins you to face the mirror, and bends you over the counter itself.

He takes you from behind, hands on your hips, a quickening pace. He can feel you getting close, the way your legs tremble and the way you tighten around him as his dick finds just the right spot inside you at this angle. Your head is in your hands, eyes clenched shut, bitting into the skin of your forearm to keep from crying out. But you're making these muffled humming noises that tells him to keep going, so he slides a hand up your front of your dress, enough to grasp the mound of your breast, kneading it in his palms. He fingers your hard nipple just enough for you to use your leverage to press back into him, to meet his pace against his hips, taking him to the hilt.

Fuck you're close.

"I'll finish quick like that," His breath is hot at the back of your neck as he leans over you, but you continue your motion as you feel his pumps become more erratic, staggered.

His left hand on your waist, his right on your shoulder, letting him pull himself into you.

"Fuck, James, right- fuck right there."

He keeps his pace steady, letting you find your finish, until your legs are trembling, barely able to hold you up, letting you ride it out over his cock. His head is so sensitive, the way it's pressed against the hilt, the way you clench around his shaft as you cum.

He knew it wouldn't be long after you finished that he'd find his own.

Bucky makes a shuttered noise from deep in his throat, teeth finding the flesh of your shoulder that the dress had slid aside to put on display, as the strength of his orgasm hits him, staying buried within you, filling you up with every last drop until it begins to drip down your thighs.

He doesn't pull out, not right away. He kisses the spot he had bit into, to take the sting away, then plants kisses over the ridge of your shoulder, the back of your neck. And when he finally softens enough to slide out, his fingers fill you quickly, and you gasp at the sudden movement.

"Gotta keep every last drop in, don't we?" God he's still so close to you, and your body aches for him, the warmth that had filled you just moments ago slicking his fingers for easy access. Two, then a third, enough for you to whine as they curl into you just were you like them.

You could cum again if you had the time.

But he kisses the soft skin of your neck once more, slides out his fingers, wipes them off on a paper towel. You hear the dispenser on the counter beside you while you keep your head in your arms, eyes closed, trying to steady your breathing. The water runs warm, and he uses it to dampen the towel, to wipe down the stickiness of your thighs.

Three heavy knocks, sounding like the sturdy back of a flashlight, echoes in the now-still space. Thomas. The overnight security guard. Bucky stops moving instantly, your breathing halts.

"You two have five minutes to finish up before I use my masterkey to unlock this door."

Fuck.

You stand unsteadily. Bucky clears his throat, puts himself away.

"Was that good enough for you, James?" You tease as you straighten the length of your dress, fit your hair in the mirror, try to look like you didn't just cum on the cock of the supersoldier who pulled you into the office bathroom. But he pulls you into him, presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"Always enough for me." He watches you wipe your smudged lipstick with the corner of a paper towel, leaning close to the mirror. "Just let me taste you next time, yeah?"

Yeah, next time.

[aaaemilia]

breathe for me - b.b.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader - 745 words

warnings: just back rubs. no gender specific language for reader.

summary: long day at work? finals just destroying you? you come home tense and sore, exhausted. bucky's hands work wonders.

author's note: it got ungodly cold over this past week. your girl is not used to real winter weather. anyway, enjoy.

--x--

Winter days always seem a bit rougher than summer days. Maybe it’s the bite of the cold, making your nose run and your fingertips lose feeling. Maybe it’s the ever grey skies that darken only a few hours into the evenings.

Either way, he was waiting for you to come home.

You had asked, on your commute to work that morning, if you could swing by that evening after work to have dinner. Just something warm, something you didn’t have to think about. 

Of course he said yes. You already had the spare key on your keyring.

Your chest ached by the time you stepped into his place - the sparsely furnished but trying to look more normal apartment - with the winter chill seeping through the layers of clothes you wore. But the heater was on, one you knew he only raised the temperature on before you came over, and it allowed the blood to flow back to your fingers and your toes and your cheeks.

“Long day?” Bucky slides out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

You’re slipping off your shoes and hanging your coat when you look up at him. “Something like that.”

He knows something is wrong just by the way you drop your keys, the way you shrug your work bag off. “Dinner is in the oven, should be ready in less than an hour.”

“What did you make?”

“Baked ziti. You’ll have leftovers for work tomorrow.”

You nearly sigh into him as he finds you, pulling you into his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “God, I love you.”

“I know.” His voice is low, but you feel him smile when he kisses you again. “Go lay on the couch. I’ll help you feel better.”

You hesitate, just for a moment, “Ugh, James, I just had the longest day at work and I spilled half my coffee before even stepping into the office and-”

“Just trust me, sweetheart,” He guides you with a hand on your lower back, gently forcing you towards the living room. You concede, flopping onto the couch, your head leaned back on the backrest, groaning like it's physically painful, even though it's exactly what you need.

"Work that bad?"

"I don't even want to think about it."

He breathes out something close to a laugh, "Lie down, baby. On your stomach."

"I don't trust you," But of course you do, and you do it anyway. You grab a pillow to hold, press your face into it, let your legs stretch out onto the length of the cushions.

He finds a small spot to sit next to you, and you feel the brush of your shirt untucking from your pants, exposing the soft skin of your back.

The first press of his palm between your shoulder blades, the heel of it warm, feels like a spell. He settles his metal hand on your hip, still, grounding.

He starts just at the base of your neck, strong fingers kneading in slow circles, thumbs sliding down either side of your spine. His movements are deliberate, confident, not rough but firm. He knows exactly where you carry your tension, your weight.

"Just breathe for me, sweet thing." And when he reaches your lower back and presses just right, you let out this soft sound, something close to a whine, a moan.

"There you are," He whispers, leaning in close as his hands work towards your tailbone, the tightness held in your hips, "Knew you were in there somewhere."

"Don't say things like that like," You murmur, but your face is pressed into that pillow and your eyes are closed, and you can't really focus on your words with his hands still on you. "You'll ruin me."

"Good," He finds the lick of skin at the base of your neck, presses his lips to it, breath warm against you, "About time someone did."

He doesn't stop until you're liquid beneath him. Your shift is wrinkled halfway up your spine, cheek pressed to the pillow that smells like him, lips parted. You can smell the warmth of his cooking in the oven, his leftover cologne from when he sprayed it on that morning.

"You keep doing that and I'll fall asleep before dinner."

"You sleep, you don't eat," His hands round the curve of your hips, and you have to close you mouth not to make a sound, "And I made garlic bread."

--x--

[aaaemilia]

sick day - b.b.

pairing: avenger!bucky x f!receptionist!reader - 5.3k words

warnings: soft hands and sweet words, a killer fever, cuddles, non-sexual undressing, probably too many commas

summary: you work in the avengers tower as the overnight receptionist. you should've stayed home sick. but you didn't, and now you have a hydra-trained super soldier taking care of you.

author's note: tis the season of absolutely everyone being sick. also mad props to our overnight workers because who else survives off like only cookout yet keeps these places running? its also finals week, sry in advance for my used-up braincells.

--x--

You had quickly gotten used to the overly-bright fluorescent lighting that filled the main halls, although you did quietly ask the security guard, a week or so in, if you could dim them once the halls had stilled for the evenings.

The halls were always quiet by 2am, the time that most of the overworked scientists and overachieving interns finally went on their way. But tonight, both the lights seemed too bright and the halls too loud as you tried to complete your nightly paperwork.

You shouldn’t have come in, you knew that.

Your throat was raw when you had woken up the morning prior and your head was pounding by the time you were out of the house, but you had made it through your shift the night before, and planned to do just the same tonight. Except you were fairly certain that the fever that crashed behind your eyes was trying to take you out permanently, and that if your body continued trembling with chills, you might just shake out of your skin. You had taken a walk once, then twice, trying to clear your heavy head and your lungs that didn’t seem to be getting enough air, but you were certain that it had only made things worse, because by the end of your second lap around the halls, you were using the wall to stay upright and almost lost your vision entirely.

It was during your routine check-in with the night guard that you caught a glimpse of the super soldier that frequented your desk, just a figure in the doorway until Thomas, your favorite of overnight security, slipped away to continue his rounds. 

“You sound terrible,” He tells you, leaning up against the counter.

You glare up at him, or what you hope was a glare beyond the paleness of your face. “You always know how to flatter a woman.”

He leans in closer, brushes the backs of his fingers against the flush of your cheeks, “You have a fever.” You would tell yourself that the flush was only from the fever, and most definitely not from how gently he touched you.

“And you have terrible timing. I’m fine.” Certainly did not sound that way.

“I could see you shaking from the hall over.” 

You consider, for a brief moment, to continue to entertain the thought that you were completely fine and not on the verge of tears based purely on the fact of how hard your head was pounding behind your eyes. You could feel the way he looked at you, with pity, concern. He was still leaning so close. 

You sigh once, heavy, slip your glasses off your nose and place them on the stack of paperwork you need to get through before the shift change at 7am. You close your eyes, use your knuckles to apply pressure to your eyes. You lick your dry lips, find your mouth even dryer.

At some point between taking off your glasses and realizing that you felt utterly terrible and did not know if you could keep up the charade of being fine for five whole more hours, the super soldier had rounded the desk, leaned against it, placed a hand on your back to rub small circles into it.

“James,” You warn, but it comes out as little more than a shaky whisper. Your eyes flick up, scanning the room; of course no one is there to see the two of you.

“You should be home, sweetheart.” This man must have intentions to kill you, you conclude, speaking to you like that.

“I made it fine yesterday, I only have a few hours left.” But you could feel yourself leaning into his hand, letting him deepen his touch as his hand made his way up to your neck. He brushes your hair to one side, soft and cool metal fingers against your skin.

“You almost fell on the front steps trying to leave yesterday.”

“Are you always watching me?”

“Someone has to,” But his voice has a lightness to it as he pulls away from you.

“I only have a few more things to finish up for the night. There is a tour coming in tomorrow, and they all need paperwork and temporary badges, and that doesn’t even include the intake paperwork for them visiting. And I have to scan this stuff over to like four different departments, which is rude because none of them are going to read it.” By the end, your voice had nearly gone completely, but you didn't care. 

He just hums in response, slips away from the desk momentarily. But you know he’s going to be back, he always is when he leaves like that. And when he does return, you have your glasses back on, flipping through the files on your desk, trying to get through a bit of everything before you can’t keep your eyes open anymore. It’s nearing that point when a mug is slid across your desk, warm and smelling heavenly - just the way you likes on late nights.

“You didn’t have to-” you begin, looking up at Bucky, who stops you immediately with “I didn’t say I had to.” Holding his own mug, he slides onto the edge of the desk, folds his long legs beneath him, watches you take a long sip, eyes fluttering shut.

“You spoil me.” You near moan as the hot liquid calms the ache in your throat.

“This is nothing. You look like you’re three pages away from passing out right here. It would be bad press.”

“What? ‘Avengers overwork woman to brink of death, paid her pennies more than minimum wage.’ That's front page news right there.”

He bites back a smile, that loose goofy grin that he doesn’t let out too much. “When was your last day off?”

You turn away from him, back to your work, “My coverage called out last week, so… last Tuesday? But I had like three back to back doctor's appointments that I had to squeeze in before the end of the year, so that doesn't really count. And I worked a double on Thursday because my morning shift overslept by multiple hours.”

He cradles his mug in his hands, takes an absentminded sip from it. “You can tell me if I’m buggin’ you.”

“No,” You say quickly, “You’re not, I promise.”

You don't see him hide his smile in his mug of tea as you continue working, but you do notice that he never leaves. He stays tucked at the desk, flipping through your notebooks or whatever literature you're reading. He watches your hands work, as you type or write sticky notes for the next shift, labels folders or clips documents together. Occasionally, you'll reach for the cup of tea he made for you, or even sneak a glance to see what he’s doing, so silent behind you. 

When the clock reads 4:30, you hear him shift, slide off the desk, pick up your empty mug and take them away. The average office worker and scientist may begin to filter in around this time, and you find he always leaves before then.

“Mister Barnes bugging you?” Thomas, the night guard, wanders down the hall, again on one of his nightly patrols.

“Oh, same as usual,” You give Thomas a sideways look, but he knows better.

“You sound bad.”

“Thank you Thomas.”

He has a fatherly smile when he looks at you, it reminds you of home. “Find someone to cover your shift tomorrow, yeah? You need a day off.”

“You’ve been here every day that I’ve been here.” 

“Sure, but I don’t have a second job and a super soldier to babysit every night.”

You sigh, “He’s just worried about me. I… might actually be coming down with something.”

“First, might is a strong word for someone three shades paler than they should be. Second, that mug of yours isn’t the only thing he’s trying to fill up-” “Thomas please-” “I’m just telling you to be careful, is all. These people have power and influence, they can take advantage of whatever situation they want.”

You put your head back in your hands, “It is quite the fairytale, isn’t it? The receptionist and her boss? People used to try to get me to sleep with them all the time when I used to work in hotels.”

“Actually?” Bucky returned empty handed, his hands tucked in his pockets - and you know he heard too much of your conversation with Thomas.

“Don’t act so surprised. I happen to look very good in a uniform. But yes, it was my job to be nice to these people, they take it the wrong way.” Something changes in his face when you say that, he seems to shrink back. You regret it immediately. “The plight of all female service workers. I’m sure waitresses have it worse than I did. And things are much calmer here. There’s no, like, strangers puking into our pottery when they come back too wasted from a night out. Or at least they do it respectfully.”

“I’ve definitely seen a few of them losing their guts on their way back to their rooms.” Thomas adds, “Probably a few more things that I wouldn’t like to see again.”

“Night shift always sees more,” You shrug, filing your documents away. 

“I’ll see if someone can cover for you tomorrow if you won’t ask yourself,” Thomas says as he steps away to continue his rounds, “Let me know if you need a ride home. You look two steps away from losing your guts yourself.”

“A pleasure as always, Thomas.” You try to call after him, but your voice gets lost in your throat and it comes out much squeakier than you anticipated. 

“Text me if you need anything?” Bucky gives you, as you settles yourself back in your chair. Just over two hours, you have faith.

“Of course, Barnes.”

--x--

You are much worse after those two hours were coming to a close. You scanned people in, handed out documents, said too many good mornings for your throat to handle, tried to make yourself one more cup of tea before realizing that you definitely could not stand for that long. You smiled through the shift turnover, handed over documents, sent emails, turned in your keys.

You stumbled once getting your jacket on, a sway in your step. Your bookbag seemed much heavier than it was on your way in. The morning light hurt your head much more than you anticipated, and you had nearly made it to the elevator down to the main floor when you heard him call to you.

“You going home?” His voice is low, soft from where he stands, leaning against a far wall - he was waiting for you.

“Rather sooner than later.”

He looks at you for a second, the kind of full body scan that you always shiver beneath. He steps closer, scanning the paleness of your face, the way your body still trembles with chills. “No you’re not.”

“What?”

“You’re not going home.”

“James-”

“You can barely stand up straight. The weight of your books alone looks like it’ll take you down, much less commute hour traffic.” He reaches up to you, just like he did before, resting the back of his hand against your cheek, then your forehead. He hums in disapproval, “You’re burning up.”

“No worse than earlier, and I made it through my shift.”

“I wouldn’t call that making it through your shift if you nearly fell asleep and said good mornings twice that weren’t verbal at all.”

“Do you watch me through my entire shift?”

But he gives you such a soft look, so much tenderness behind his eyes. You're startled by it, the humility it gives you. “C’mon sweetheart.” He takes your bag off your arm without you asking, and your body doesn’t protest one bit, “You’re staying with me.”

“I can’t-”

“You’re not making it home this morning,” He doesn’t say it like an order, but a fact. You have no room to wrestle with it. “You can rest in my quarters. Couch’s clean. You’ll be closer if you need anything.” Something about his words makes you dizzy, much more so than the fever that is leeching the energy from your body and any resolve you have to fight him on his proposition. He’s got quiet conviction in his body and care in his eyes, and he waits there until you whisper okay and he taps his badge to get them up to the Avengers’ apartments.

You can’t hear the hum of the servers from the higher floor, the flicker of the fluorescent lights. It’s all polished and dim and silent, steady.

He’s at the far end of the hall. You know the layout, mostly for late-night food deliveries that you leave by the door, but you have never been inside. He scans them in, guides you with a hand at the small of your back. 

The space is clean, sparse. Metal and wood, few touches of color. The windows are heavenly. Although it does look like he’s still trying to learn to be human again, the single throw blanket on the couch, the few frames on the walls, the space is warm, yellow lights and curtains and a few dark painted walls. And his couch - god his couch - might just be the most comfortable thing you have ever sat on. You let out a long sigh; Bucky doesn’t let you see how pleased he is that you're resting. He simply bends down in front of you, begins unclasping your shoes, the ones you always wear to work, the ones that click on floors, always alerting Bucky that you're nearing, or at least moving. On special days, the days you know important visitors are coming, or maybe even when you've slept and feels a bit more lively, you wear a pair of heels. Bucky happens to love the heels, but he would likely love you in anything that you wore.

Biased opinion.

“James, you really don’t have to.” You sit up quickly, too quickly, but he’s fast to slip them off, places them aside, moves to the kitchen where he finds a spare hoodie hanging over the back of a barstool. 

“I want to.” He hands you the hoodie, “Probably a bit more comfortable than your work clothes. I’ll, um, I can-”

“Could you actually help me with my buttons?” You ask shyly, first slipping off your sweater, “I don’t think my hands want to cooperate with me.”

He hesitates, but not because he doesn’t want to help you. 

“I have no ulterior motives, James-” Your eyes look tired, worried at his hesitation.

“I know that, sweet thing. Of course I’ll help.”

He stands close, too close, close enough where you can feel his breath against your chest once he removes your outer layer, the button up you wear at the desk. But he’s gentle with you, helps you slip it off, lays it over the back of a barstool so it doesn’t wrinkle. He helps you slip your undershirt off, until it’s just your work pants and bra. You don't get to see the flush on his own cheeks as you turns around, letting him unclasp your bra. You slip on the hoodie while you're still facing away from him.

“I figured you knew how to unclasp a bra.” You tell him, now snuggly in his hoodie, sleeves falling past your hands. 

“I was quite the gentleman back in the day.” You just hum at his comment, finding your way back to the couch.

Bucky did not know what was worse - the sight of your bare back, the ink on your soft skin and the muscle tone he wasn’t aware you had, or you tucked into his hoodie, the one that smelled like him.

“I’ll, um, get you a better blanket. Maybe a proper pillow.”

You're already curled into the side of the couch when he returns, making yourself small on the space, knees tucked up to your chest and arms held close. He has you lift your head to place the pillow beneath you, drapes the soft cloth over your body.

“You can’t sleep yet, sweet thing. We gotta get some meds in you.” You hum a protest, but you're easy in his hands when he returns with a few pills and a glass of water. You're close to sleep by the time you lay your head back down on his pillow, shaking just a bit less than you were before. He touches his hand to your forehead once more, the skin hot beneath his touch, notices you lean into it through the fog of your fever.

He would sit with you all day, if he could. Cancel all his plans, change back into pajamas, let you curl into his lap instead of his pillow so he could keep his fingers in your hair and his hand on your back. He’d cook you food - real food, something slow and warm. He’d get up if you needed anything the second you thought you needed it. He’d keep a cloth on your forehead cool and wet, even as it warmed with the heat of your fever. He wanted to hold you, to let you slip into his bed - a proper bed, not just a blanket on the couch - let him follow, wait until you fell asleep tucked against him. 

“You know,” You mumble, tucking yourself even more into the blanket, even through your fever, “I didn’t think the first time I got undressed in front of you would be because I have a fever too high for my hands to work right.”

“What were you imagining, a mission gone awry?” His voice hummed with warmth, a kind of heat that nearly matched your fever.

“Something like that.”

He ran his fingers through your hair gently, just the once, before standing. “Text me if you need anything, okay? Anything at all.”

“Even if I just want you to come back?”

He couldn’t hide the smile in his voice, even though he knew you would likely not remember the edge of this conversation, your face already easing as you drifted to sleep.

“Even then, sweetheart.”

–x–

When you open your eyes, the light is much sharper and the curtains are drawn. Your body is stiff and your eyelids are heavy, and the sip of water you take might be the best thing you've ever consumed - and your fever clouds your head heavily. You were hoping when you woke that your body would feel refreshed, a bit lighter. You think you feel worse. 

Shuffling in the hall startles you, and you move your head much too fast to look at the figure standing in the dark. You can see the glow of the bathroom light from his bedroom as he steps out in sweats and a loose shirt, something comfortable, something casual. His hair is damp as he runs his fingers through it, and the room smells fresh and showered. 

You would bask in this view of him if you didn’t feel like shit.

“You’re awake.” He had checked on you every few minutes since he got back to his place, and even worried that you'd wake when he showered.

You clear your throat, “You look disgustingly refreshed.”

“Figured one of us should.” He chuckles, and you would be playfully offended if your body would let you. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I lost a fight.” You try to push your hair out of your face, smooth it back, give yourself some dignity.

“Not far from it,” He settles himself next to you on the couch, and you can smell his aftershave, his shampoo, the fresh scent of skin. 

You groan, hiding your face back in the pillow, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be here. I’m such a mess and-”

“I called you out of work for tonight,” He tells you, interrupting, “You need rest. Maybe real food. When’s the last time you ate?”

You think for a moment too long, “Um, yesterday morning, maybe? Before my meeting.”

“No wonder you feel so bad. You wanna order in, or do you want me to cook?”

“You cook?”

“Come on, I’ll make you something warm.” 

“Do you…” You hesitate, “Do you think I can shower?”

He had been worried, when you stopped him. But he gives you a sideways smile and his eyes soften, and guides you over to the bathroom. It’s still a bit steamy from his own shower, but he gets you a fresh towel and helps you start the water, leaves the door cracked on his way out in case you need anything. 

The water feels like heaven against your skin, warm and soothing and steady. Of course the Avengers would have wonderful water pressure. You use his soap, his shampoo and conditioner, finds that he left a fresh hoodie for you on the bathroom counter. One perhaps a bit less sweaty than the one you napped in. 

Bucky had to take a deep breath before he could speak once he saw you come out, hair damp around your shoulders, in just your underwear and his hoodie. All soft cotton and comfort. 

“Sorry, I… I really didn’t want to put my work pants back on.”

“Whatever you’re comfortable in.” But this time he couldn’t hide the flush on his cheeks. 

He made you soup, warm and hearty, the kitchen space filling with the scent of herbs and broth. He looked good in his space, at home. He served them two bowls, placed a fresh glass of water by yours, two more pills to help your fever stay down. You slid into a barstool, sipped lightly at the broth.

“James, this is phenomenal.”

He smiles as he sits beside you, “It’s nothing.”

You sigh into the next bite, “You’re gonna have to cook for me more often.”

He chuckles slightly, “I can make that happen.”

Your movements are languid but you feel less fuzzy after your shower, as if your head had cleared slightly, even if it hurt to keep your eyes open for any longer than necessary. You could feel his eyes on your every few moments, ensuring you were eating, that you were still upright in your seat. 

“You called me out of work?” You ask after you let your few bites settle, taking a slow sip of water.

“You weren’t planning on doing it yourself.”

“They weren’t… suspicious that it was coming from you?”

He shrugs, “I told them I caught you on your way out this morning, that you looked like death, and I offered to let them know you needed the night off. Not the most suspicious thing done around here.”

You just hum, leaning back in your chair.

“I’m not holding you hostage here.”

You give him a look.

“Only a little, and only for your own safety.” Bucky softens, leans forward to tuck your hair behind your ear, now drying in the warmth of the kitchen. “You’re okay. No one knows.”

“It’s not that-” You turn in your chair, a bit too fast, swallows down the dizziness. “I don’t know what I’d do without this job.”

“I know.”

“I want to be here.”

“I know sweetheart.”

Did he know? Did he know that every time you punched out, you wished for him to find you to walk you home, or offer his jacket like he did that one time in the rain? Did he know that when he talked you through your assignments, asked questions about your work, that it eased your mind about the workload you had set out for yourself? Did he know that the tea that he made was better than yours just because it was his hands that made it? You look up at him carefully, questioning, even though you're sure you already know the answer.

“Movie night on the couch?” He offers to the woman sitting in her underwear and his hoodie in his kitchen. “Might rain tonight, I’m not having you get more sick on your way home.”

“And you said I’m not a hostage here.”

“Let me take care of you.” And his words shut you up real quick. He motions to your bowl, slides off his chair, “Eat a few more bites for me, I’ll set up the living room.”

You do as you're told, swallows down a few more bites, sip at the broth. You hear him shuffle around, the TV click on, blankets being folded. And when he returns, he hums at the sight of your nearly empty bowl. “That’s my good girl,” He murmurs, slipping the bowl away from you to place in the sink, “Let me know if you need any more, okay?”

You bask in his praise, let it settle in the space behind your eyes where your headache dissipates. You let him guide you back to the living room, settle you on the couch and drapes the blanket over you, before he places himself next to you, with enough space to be hospitable.

“You do this with all the receptionists that work here?” You lean a bit closer as he puts on a movie, background noise for your inevitable nap. You feel the meds he gave you with the food making you drowsy already, or maybe it’s just the slowly dropping fever, or whatever is clawing at your lungs and throat. 

He doesn’t answer for a moment, lets you temple find a spot on his shoulder, your arm tuck around his own, holding him close as you eyes begin to flutter. You barely made it ten minutes into the movie; he didn’t expect any different. “I’ve, well, I’ve never actually brought anyone back here before.”

You clear the sleep from your head, sit up to look at him. “Really?”

“I’m a 106-year-old trained Hydra assassin. It’s a hard tagline for a dating app.”

“You’re on the apps?” You find whatever energy you have left within you, lightened by the conversation - Bucky Barnes went on terrible hinge dates? He’d been ghosted on tinder?

“Steve made me an account, once. I deleted it immediately.”

“So, what has your dating life looked like since…?”

He’s blushing, but he keeps his eyes trained on the screen ahead of him, takes a deep inhale. “Sometimes I try to flirt with the receptionist downstairs, but I don’t know how well received that is.”

You give him a soft smile, tucking your head back against his shoulder. “That’s crazy, you’re so…”

“So what?” He jostles his shoulder, makes you sit back up to look at him.

“No, nothing. You’re just so hot, and you’re so sweet. You use pet names that would make any girl melt. You have that silly little smile you try to hide, and phenomenal hair? You think all the ladies would be fawning over an Avenger like that.” But you simply put your head back down, pretend you doesn’t notice that his shoulders are more tense than they were before.

He’s quiet, sighs something close to amusement, “You think I have women lining up for me?”

You hum a sleepy agreement, “You underestimate your appeal, James.”

“You’re delirious.”

“I’m observant,” You correct, “You don’t see yourself like the rest of us do.”

His eyes flick down to you, the woman nearly asleep on his shoulder, whose fingers are running absentminded circles over the skin of his flesh arm. You're warm, perhaps too warm from the fever, but steady. He can feel your soft breath evening out. “And how do you see me?” He hated himself for asking, could feel the burning in his chest for the answer.

You exhale, something soft, almost a laugh, almost a sigh. “Someone good. Someone kind, even when he doesn’t have to be.”

The movie runs in the background, a hum compared to the noise in his head. Occasionally, he can feel your eyelashes flick open, or you breathe out a laugh when something funny happens on screen. He sits with your words. 

“That’s not how most people see me.” His jaw is tight, you can feel the tenseness in his body.

Your voice is little more than a mumble when you answers. “Then most people aren’t paying attention.”

You meant to continue the conversation, if you hadn’t used all your energy eating his soup and showering in his bathroom and teasing him about dating apps. He feels your arm loosen around his, your head slump just a bit more against him as sleep pulls you under. He stays still, his arm holding you up, hand now stilled but holding his arm nonetheless. 

He lets you stay there until the credits roll, until the late evening hours become night. You look so small tucked up in his hoodie, under his blanket. You're so still in your sleep, your breathing so shallow. But you look so comfortable up against him, so right. You looks so young, without your hair made up, without your makeup on, and it makes him hesitate for a moment. The trust you put in him, to take care of you.

The nagging insistence that he’s taking advantage of this situation, just like Thomas had said, lingers in his head. 

“Come on, sweetheart. Let's go to bed. Can’t have you waking up with a crick in your neck.”

You mumble something incoherent, something close to a protest.

“Okay sweet thing, I’ll do it for you.” His arms find the back of your knees, your shoulders, lifting you gently, effortlessly from your spot on the couch. Shushes you when you fuss.

You mumble his name, rest your head in the crook of his neck, and he thinks for a moment that he should hold you forever. Just like this, right here. But he walks you down the hallway, nudges his bedroom door open with his hip, places you in the sheets he wished he washed before you came over. You curl into them quickly, head against his pillow, but your eyes open. You look for him.

You have to clear your throat before you speak. “Are you staying?”

He would do anything if you asked. He slides in next to you, careful not to jostle you too much. You find his side, your cheek against his chest. After a moment of stillness, of him trying to calm his heart and his breathing, you slip your hand under the cotton of his shirt, finding the skin of his stomach, his chest, leaving your hand there. His arm had moved instinctively around you, pulled you close. 

“You’re warm.” You mumble, eyes closed. 

“Too warm?” He worries.

“Never.” You still quickly against him, let sleep take you over again. It’s early for you to be going to bed, hours still until your shift would start, hours before Bucky considers sleeping himself. But he wouldn’t move for the world, not with you against him like this, and with your warmth and your presence in his bed, he finds himself asleep soon too.

[ageae]

[klaustozier]

"i miss my baby girl", i say with deep sadness about the grown ass man i love, who is deeply troubled and traumatized and who happens to be a fictional character.

[thebookbutterfly]

fanfiction isn’t enough, I need to chew on him

[aurora-sadprose]

put down that c.ai thing and read y/n fics like god intended.

[greatpower-greaterresposibility]

Every single one of my fictional crushes would be covered in bite marks btw. I’d have to be muzzled 70% of the time bc biting is my love language. I’d be such a fucking menace. Especially the more muscular ones they literally have built in chew toys