This "piss on the poor" website better fucking stop misinterpreting me saying "the Louvre heist of the Napoleon family jewels exposes how its shitty working conditions are endangering its collection and calls into question whether European museums can truly protect their colonial loot 'better', which matters in cases of active demands for repatriation like those of China and the Old Summer Palace artifacts, which makes this event a net positive since the stolen stuff don't actually matter that much relative to everything else in the Louvre" as "the Louvre heisters deliberately heisted the jewels to repatriate them to China"
It also shows that killmonger didn’t even have to do all that. He could have just walked in and taken all that shit and it would have been like eh these things happen
The US is crazy bc like so many people have intense conspiracy theories about the government like "I think there's a secret elite group of people who control everything" and you can tell them "actually you're not completely wrong, it's just not a secret group of people, it's a bunch of rich people and lobbyists who are doing it all out in the open" and they'll be like "hmmn I don't think it's THOSE people though. I prefer my racist & antisemitic theories"
They'll be like "I heard there's a powerful ring of pedophiles who are influencing the country" and you'll tell them "I mean yeah that's what the Epstein files are about" and they'll say "no I'm pretty sure this has to do with The Queers actually"
Summary: You and Bucky are a couple now. And the only obstacles between you is what's in your own head.
Word count: 4.2 K
Pairing: Firefighter! Bucky Barnes x Principal! Reader; Jake Jensen x Reader, Platonic.
A/N: I just can't get enough. I have a lot to say about them. Sorry @nissaimmortal, they are not being as good a we thought they should be. 😬 Lot's of you all have given me inspiration for this chapter through your reblogs and comments, so if you see something familiar, yes I did! Here is the previous part. I'm so caught up in these two that I've agonized over this part. Don't know if it's good, but here you go. This was inspired by an abandoned AU from last year and then this ask from a few weeks ago. I can't get him out of my mind. Bucky is a firefighter and both him and Reader are burn survivors. Tell me how you feel by reblogging, commenting, sending asks, dm'ing and the like. Interaction is life.
Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. This fic/au deals with fires, burns, burn survivors and recovery. There are graphic descriptions of burns, injury, and pain. Angst, but definitely smut and fluff. Bucky and Reader are burn survivors. Body image issues because of scarring. People clocking you and Bucky, a precocious messy teenager and his crew. Pining, phone calls, chaos texting, mirror selfies, sweet goodnights, THOSE THREE WORDS, graphic discussions of sex, definitely Dom Bucky, oral (f receiving), talking you through it, bed humping, cuming in pants, but not the money shot.
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I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.
-------
When you got to school Monday morning, you were smiling.
Which was suspicious. Too suspicious.
Lorraine, your secretary, gave you her usual nod at the front desk, but her eyes lingered like she knew something.
You breezed down the hall, heels clicking against the tile, and had nearly reached your office when Jake materialized, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, that permanently arched brow aimed squarely at you.
“Someone’s glowing,” he drawled, falling into step beside you.
“Good weekend?”
You tried not to react, but failed, because the corner of your mouth betrayed you with a twitch.
“Actually,” you said carefully, “I was helping my…”
The word caught. Boyfriend still felt too new.
“…Lieutenant Barnes. He was injured Friday night. Cracked scapula, some burns. He’ll be okay.”
Jake’s brow stayed raised, his smirk unreadable.
“Your Lieutenant Barnes?”
You didn’t bite, just met his gaze until he smirked wider and moved on down another hallway.
“Sorry he’s hurt. Guess he’s getting A+ care.”
Your ears burned. You quickened your pace, ducked into your office, and locked the door behind you. Pressing your back against the wood, you let out a long breath.
And, of course, thought about how Bucky had somehow negotiated your staying until this morning.
And leaving your panties behind.
Your used panties.
Your thighs clenched at the thought of what he was doing with them right now. You straightened your pencil skirt in the mirror, forcing your expression into something resembling composure.
You really were glowing.
You were no better than your teenagers, you thought.
But you could be a professional.
A professional with a hot, rugged, needy, maddeningly handsome firefighter boyfriend.
Of course you could.
-----
It didn’t help that Tristan Salazar, senior class president and perpetual thorn in your side, had radar for this sort of thing.
You were halfway through morning rounds, coffee in one hand and clipboard in the other, when he fell into step beside you, curls bouncing, blazer crooked like he’d slept in it.
“Principal Lookin’-Too-Happy,” he greeted, grinning like he’d found a new headline.
“Morning,” you said, not slowing. “That your new campaign slogan?”
He jogged to keep up, eyes flicking over you with unnerving accuracy.
“That glow? Either you got a raise, or you got some serious lovin’ this weekend.”
“That is wildly inappropriate, Mr. Salazar.”
He grinned wider.
“Hey, just saying. Ever since the courtyard popcorn fire fiasco, when you and Lieutenant McHottie were staring each other down like an old-school CW pilot audition, your whole vibe’s different. Good different. But different.”
You stopped walking. He didn’t.
“Not judging,” he added quickly, walking backward now, curls bouncing, eyes bright with mischief.
“Just… maybe warn us if y’all elope. Jensen in charge is chaos.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Elope?”
“I mean, the way you two looked at each other? Half the senior class thought the sprinklers were about to kick on. If there’s a wedding, I want a line in the program under witness to sexual tension.”
You turned on your heel and kept walking. He trailed after you.
“Anyway, I like him,” Tristan added breezily.
“He looks like the kind of guy who reads instructions and folds his laundry. You need that balance.”
You stopped just long enough to level him with a stare.
“You didn’t turn in your AP Lang assignment. You need that credit to graduate.”
His grin faltered.
“And this is why I should keep my mouth shut.”
“Mm-hmm.”
You kept walking. He called after you.
“Just don’t be weird at Homecoming, okay? We need you for the group photo!”
You didn’t answer. But you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling, either.
-----
By lunch, Amyra popped in from her bookkeeping job at central office, salads and seltzers in hand, her grin locked and loaded.
“Jake says you’re glowing,” she announced, dropping into the chair across from your desk.
“And Tristan Salazar says he’s shipping you and Lt. McHottie, which I’m guessing is Bucky’s alias. Should I start dress-shopping?”
You dropped your pen.
“They’re both insufferable.”
Amyra shrugged, spearing a forkful of salad.
“You’re not denying it, though. He’s okay?”
“He’s healing,” you said softly. “Sling, PT, burns. Annoyed he can’t do much, but he’s fine.”
Her smirk grew.
“I have a feeling who he wants to do. Glad you two finally admitted it.”
You lobbed a napkin at her head, but your frown lingered.
“Maybe it’s Stockholm Syndrome, because he pulled me out of that fire. Maybe he doesn’t actually want to be… tied to me.”
Amyra crossed her eyes, sighed, and shook her head.
“You know that’s not...never mind, you have three degrees. I’m not arguing with you.”
Her gaze flicked to your hand, absently rubbing your thigh over your skirt.
“Are you worried about…?”
You exhaled, staring at your desk.
“Sometimes I wonder what he sees. I know he’s seen it before, but…”
“Babe,” Amyra’s tone softened, though her grin stayed. “He literally pulled you out of a fire. Wrapped that leg himself. He didn’t flinch then, and he’s still calling, texting, and apparently making you smile like this.”
She tilted her head, assessing you.
“Let the man look at you the way he wants to. Sounds like he’s dying to.”
You groaned into your hands, unwilling to trust the warmth bubbling in your chest. Amyra just laughed and switched the topic, letting you stew in it.
—---
Bucky, meanwhile, was quietly losing it.
The apartment felt hollow without you. He couldn’t work out, couldn’t even do more than basic PT without Shea threatening to tape him to the couch, and every time he caught his reflection, bandages, sling, prosthetic, burns, it was like looking at a patchwork project.
But then he thought about you.
About you curled up beside him in his bed, drowning in his hoodie, lips swollen from one too many goodbye kisses, laughing softly when he’d murmured, don’t forget to leave me something to remember you by.
His mood shifted fast.
He angled his phone toward the mirror and snapped a shot—sweatpants slung low, bandage covering most of the angry red skin on his shoulder. He wasn’t perfect. Not by a long shot. But the way you’d touched him this weekend, the way you’d looked at him like he wasn’t broken, told him you wanted him anyway.
He grinned as he typed.
Lt. Barnes: Thought you might need motivation to get through your Monday.
He could picture your face the moment you locked your office door to open it.
The photo nearly made you drop your phone.
Shirtless. Hair tousled. Bandages stark on one shoulder, sweatpants hanging low enough to be criminal, a sinful cut of abs and a dark trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband.
And the outline of his cock, thick and impossible to miss, made your pulse skip.
You scanned the rest of the image, your eyes catching on his stupidly handsome face, the hint of a smirk like he already knew you’d stare at this picture every spare second. But his eyes, dark, hungry, and unashamed, were what made your breath catch.
And then there were the scars. The ridges you’d traced this weekend, not out of pity, but because they were his. Because he’d let you see him, really see him, and hadn’t flinched when you looked.
He hadn’t sent this just to tease. He wanted you to know he was still thinking about you. Maybe that he thought you were beautiful, too.
Your thighs pressed together beneath your desk as you typed back.
Wow.
Your phone buzzed again almost instantly.
Lt. Barnes: Can’t stop thinking about this weekend. From the ER to your arms.
Can’t stop picturing you at work, bossy and hot as hell.
Can’t stop thinking about that smile you gave me yesterday.
Right before you handed me your panties.
Your pulse thudded hard, heat rising to your cheeks.
Lt. Barnes: Can’t stop dreaming about having you back in my bed. Wishing I could have you under me. Around me.
But mostly, I just want you here.
That last line hit deeper. Not just lust. Longing.
You swallowed and typed back.
I’ll call you tonight.
Lt. Barnes: I’ll be waiting. Dreaming about you.
Wearing my hoodie. No panties.
Because I’ve got them.
Wrapped around my hand.
You didn’t answer. Not yet. You needed air. Caffeine. Something to stop you from grinning like a teenager who’d just spent all weekend making out with the firefighter of her dreams.
------
By the next week, Bucky was already in a mood.
As quickly as Tuesday, despite you spending most of the weekend taking care of him again, he was back to pacing his place like a caged animal.
The sling chafed, his burns itched, and every time he tried to sleep, he woke up half-hard, aching, and dangerously close to snapping his phone in half because all he wanted was you curled up in his bed again.
Shea’s voice echoed in his head on a loop: No heavy lifting. No weight-bearing. No rigorous activity.
Bucky wanted to fight the man for doing his job.
Instead, he was muttering under his breath, working through PT stretches in the living room, and gritting his teeth as he flexed his shoulder.
The doorbell rang just as he eased himself out of the band, still grumbling.
Steve, Syverson, and Ari were all on his porch when he opened the door. Wearing identical grins.
“Jesus,” Bucky muttered. “Is there a sign out here that says ‘Come Harass Me’?”
Sy brushed past him, dropping sandwiches on the counter.
“We needed to make sure you weren’t laid up and miserable. You’re insufferable when you’re bored.”
Ari lingered near the door, sipping his coffee, his smirk sharp.
“You don’t look miserable. Which is… interesting.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Ari said smoothly, “I saw your principal leaving yesterday morning. In your sweatshirt. Looking glowy. Hot. And very… not miserable.”
Steve barked a laugh before Bucky could respond to Ari calling you hot.
“No way. She stayed over again? Barnes, you dog.” He grinned. “You already in there?”
Sy gave a low whistle.
“Damn, Barnes. Most guys wait until they’re not strapped into a sling to seal the deal.”
Bucky’s ears went hot.
“It’s not like that,” he muttered.
“Uh-huh,” Steve drawled. “Totally platonic. Just her, staying over, cooking for you, tucking you in.”
Sy smirked. “She must really like you, since Shea hasn’t cleared you for… anything fun.”
Ari finally set his coffee down, tone flattening.
“You can thank me, by the way.”
Bucky frowned, caught off guard. “For what?”
“For dragging your stubborn ass out of that fire,” Ari said, eyes glinting. “You wouldn’t be standing here if I hadn’t.”
The room went quiet. Bucky’s jaw tightened, because Ari wasn’t wrong.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I know. Thanks. You didn’t have to do it.”
“Of course I did,” Ari said, his voice softening for once. “You’re my brother. Even if you’re a stubborn jackass who doesn’t know when to ask for help.”
Bucky swallowed hard. That one hit.
Then Ari’s smirk slid right back into place.
“So don’t make me fish you out again. And don’t be an idiot trying to prove something to your principal while Shea’s still got you benched. I’m not hauling you out twice because you can’t think with your big head on the job.”
Bucky grunted, heat crawling up his neck. They all knew him too well.
He grabbed a sandwich, muttering, “You all need new hobbies.”
Steve chuckled. “Nah. Watching you squirm? Highlight of my week.”
Bucky glared half-heartedly, unwrapping his sandwich.
“You’re all assholes.”
“True,” Steve said easily, grabbing his own. “But we brought lunch. Eat before you sulk yourself into another injury.”
Despite himself, Bucky’s mouth twitched. He texted you under the table.
Lt. McHottie ❤️🔥: Your fan club’s here. They’re annoying. Send help. Or pictures.
He didn't think you would answer right away. But you did. You were still floating from the weekend.
You: Poor baby. Should I send something to cheer you up?
Bucky smirked down at the screen, already typing.
Lt. McHottie ❤️🔥: Always.
You glanced around your office, unbuttoned your blouse just enough to reveal pushed-up cleavage, the edge of black lace, and the faint shadow of a hickey along your collarbone. A teasing snap of your fingers brushing your neck and your lips barely visible in the frame.
You sent it with a single caption:
You: Still thinking about your favorite color?
Bucky’s phone lit up on the counter just as Steve leaned over to grab another sandwich.
Steve caught a flash of the photo before Bucky could tilt the screen away. His brow shot up.
“What was that?”
Bucky scowled, locking his phone. “Nothing. Mind your own.”
Sy snorted. “That didn’t look like nothing.”
Ari just sipped his coffee, eyes glinting.
“No wonder he’s not miserable.”
Bucky muttered, “All of you can get the hell out,” but his mouth twitched anyway.
—---
By Thursday, you were at Bucky’s place for the evening PT session Shea had insisted on, watching him try to rotate his arm without looking like he wanted to punch a wall.
“Relax,” you said from behind him. “You’re overcompensating with your back. Let your arm do the work.”
“Easy for you to say,” he grunted. “You’re not the one who feels like your shoulder’s held together with duct tape and a prayer.”
You stepped closer, fingers grazing his good shoulder as you guided his posture.
“Stop being stubborn. You’ll heal faster if you don’t try to brute force it.”
“You bossing me around, Principal?”
“Someone has to,” you shot back.
But when he shifted again and the bandage on his upper chest tugged loose, revealing the faint, angry line of a healing burn, his jaw tightened. His gaze flicked away before landing back on you.
You smoothed the gauze back into place gently, your voice softening.
“Does it hurt?”
“Only when I let it remind me what I can’t do yet,” he muttered.
You hesitated, then brushed your fingers over his hand.
“It doesn’t make you any less.”
His blue eyes softened. For a long moment, neither of you moved, the air tightening as his thumb traced your wrist. Then he leaned in, kissing you deeply, his good hand sliding to your waist.
But Bucky pulled back first, resting his forehead against yours.
“God, I want you,” he rasped. “When I can hold you the way I want. Not careful. Not halfway.”
Your pulse thudded, but you nodded. “Okay.”
He kissed you again, softer, more certain. “It’ll be worth the wait.”
-----
That night, as you brushed your teeth, your phone buzzed.
You pressed play on his voice message, his low, rough voice spilling into your ear:
“Doll… can’t stop thinking about you tonight. The way you kissed me. The way you looked helping me stretch. The color of your nipples. You’re driving me insane.”
There was a pause, his breath catching faintly, before his tone dropped.
“Soon as Shea gives me the green light, I’m taking you apart slowly. Making up for every night I had to lie here hard as a rock, pretending I wasn’t.”
Your breath caught, toothbrush still in hand.
“Save your voice for me,” he murmured, his voice fraying at the edges. “You’re gonna need it.”
You replayed it twice before thumbing back a reply.
You: How am I supposed to sleep now, Barnes?
The typing dots popped up instantly.
Lt. McHottie ❤️🔥: That’s the idea.
By Wednesday of the third week, Bucky was practically vibrating by the time Shea walked into the exam room.
The doctor flipped through his chart with the same calm detachment that had been driving Bucky crazy since the hospital.
“Burns are healing well. No grafts needed. Range of motion is good. Sling stays one more week for support, but you can start light duty at the station.”
Then Shea looked up, brow arched.
“And at home, if you’re careful.”
Bucky’s smirk was instant. “Define careful.”
“No lifting anything heavier than a hose or a pair of panties,” Shea deadpanned.
“No overhead reaching, no sudden jerks, and still no full-out weight-bearing. But…”
He snapped the tablet closed.
“You can use what still works. Just don’t make me bandage you up again.”
Bucky grinned, already pulling out his phone as he replied.
“Understood, Doc.”
----
You were halfway through an evaluation write-up when your phone buzzed.
Lt. McHottie ❤️🔥: Cleared for light duty. Let me have Friday through Sunday, Doll. Bring your laptop. You won’t get much work done, but bring it anyway.
Your pulse jumped.
You: So Shea approved you for paperwork, not sex.
Barnes: Shea approved me for light duty. May not be able to go all the way, but damn it, he said I’m cleared to handle a pair of panties. Guess you’ll have to come supervise.
By the time Friday rolled around, you were hopped up with anticipation.
You barely had time to kick off your shoes before Bucky’s good hand slid around your waist and pinned you gently to the wall, his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that burned away three weeks of restraint in a single breath.
“Missed you,” he rasped against your lips.
“You saw me Tuesday,” you whispered back.
“Not like this.”
—----
Dinner was a lazy blur of takeout containers, half-empty wine glasses, and you half-heartedly tapping at your laptop. By the time you finally shut it and flicked off the living room light, Bucky was already propped on his good side against the headboard in his bedroom, TV on low, but his eyes fixed on you, not the screen.
You changed in the bathroom, peeling off your work clothes and tugging on a soft tank top and sleep shorts. The mirror caught your flushed cheeks and the nerves you still felt when the hem brushed over the marred skin on your thigh.
When you stepped into the bedroom, he shifted over without a word, the mattress dipping as you crawled in beside him.
His vibranium arm came around you instantly, anchoring you to his side, your cheek resting against his chest.
“I’m not trying to get in your pants,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp.
You smiled faintly against his chest. “Liar.”
He huffed a laugh.
“Okay, I am. But that doesn’t change the fact that I love you.”
Your breath caught. The world tilted. You lifted your head, searching his face in the dim light.
“What?”
His eyes were steady, and he was unguarded in a way you hadn’t seen before.
“I love you,” he said again, softer but firm. “I know it’s fast. I know we haven’t even– ”
You kissed him before he could finish, the kind of kiss that left you dizzy and breathless.
When you pulled back, your voice trembled.
“Good.”
His brow furrowed faintly. “Good?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to catch up,” you whispered.
He exhaled hard, his whole body releasing the tension in his shoulders, the clench in his jaw, and the quiet fear he’d carried since the fire.
“You mean it?” he asked, voice rough.
“I love you,” you said.
“Didn’t know it until after you stopped taking me to PT. But I can’t stop hearing it in my head. It’s loud.”
His eyes closed, and when they opened again something softer and sure had taken root there. His arm tightened around you, holding you close as his breath warmed your hair.
“I can’t fuck this up,” he murmured, the words brushing your temple.
“You’re not going to,” you promised.
He kissed you softly and smiled faintly against your skin.
“You came over. You stayed. You love me. And you’re in my bed.”
His voice cracked, soft and hoarse.
“I think this is the part where I start believing I deserve it.”
You didn’t answer.
You just curled closer, your fingers slipping under his shirt to trace the warmth of his torso, the rain’s steady rhythm filling the quiet as his heartbeat slowed beneath your palm.
------
You woke in the middle of the night to his lips brushing your shoulder, his fingers teasing your nipple as his voice rumbled low against your skin.
"Bucky..."
“Sweetheart…”
You turned your head into his kiss, catching his mouth for a slow, sleepy tangle of lips just as his hand slid down your stomach.
His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shorts, brushing along the seam of you through your panties, and finding you already hot, wet, and pulsing.
His breath grew heavier as he murmured against your ear, “You’re killing me. You know that?”
Your gasp was half a moan when his fingers slipped under the fabric, circling your clit with slow, expert strokes. The kind of strokes that made your hips lift, your head tip back, and a soft sound escape your lips before you could stop it.
“Bucky...”
“May not be able to fuck you yet,” he rasped, his tone rough, commanding.
“But damn if I’m not gonna make you cum.”
Before you could breathe, he had your shorts and panties stripped away with one hand, tossing them aside as he eased you onto your back. His thumb brushed lazily over your folds, dipping between your slick heat just enough to make his jaw flex.
“Jesus…so wet. You’re gonna break me,” he muttered, voice catching.
You rolled your hips into his hand, biting your lip as he circled your clit with maddening patience, your breath catching on every pass.
Then, without warning, his fingers slipped away. He lifted them to his lips, tasting you with a deep, low groan.
“Sweet as honey,” he muttered, his voice dark.
“Knew it. Christ, I can’t…”
Before you could ask what he meant, he was sliding lower, his good hand gripping your thigh firmly as his mouth replaced his fingers, tongue laving over your clit with unrelenting precision.
He was so good at that.
He savored every reaction, before locking onto your clit and sucking until your hips jerked and a whimper escaped you. He looked up at you, blazing blue eyes locking on yours as his hand tightened on your hip.
“Stay still, babydoll. Don’t make me chase you. I can’t hold you down like I want to yet. Be a good girl for me and take it.”
The words seared through you. His tongue worked you open, stroking and circling until you were trembling, your fingers buried in his hair as your thighs threatened to close around his head.
“You’re so perfect,” he rasped between strokes, his thumb brushing a faint scar along your thigh. “Every inch of you, baby. Don’t ever hide from me.”
You shifted just how he wanted.
“Good girl… just like that.”
He circled your clit again, relentless, building you higher until your breath broke into desperate gasps. Your first orgasm hit hard, your hips jerking as your vision blurred.
But he didn’t stop.
“That’s it,” he rasped, his voice raw.
“One more for me. Let me hear how pretty you sound when I ruin you.”
His mouth angled, flicking and sucking until another climax ripped through you, sharper and harder, your moan strangled as your back arched.
You reached for him, desperate to touch, but his hand caught yours, pinning it lightly to the mattress.
“No,” he growled softly, his breath ragged.
“You can make it up to me when I’m cleared. But for now, let me spoil you.”
You pouted, but his mouth was back on you, his tongue pressing deeper, stroking with a rhythm that had your thighs quivering.
That was when you felt it, the subtle grind of his hips into the mattress, the ragged catch of his breath, the faint stutter in his jaw as he hinged it open and licked you open deeper.
Bucky was unraveling even as he worshiped you.
“Cum with me,” he ordered, his voice fraying at the edges.
“One more, baby. I need to feel you fall apart while I lose it for you.”
That tone, low and commanding, tipped you over the edge. Your third orgasm slammed through you, your body locking tight, his name spilling raw from your lips.
“Ahhhhh. Buckyyyyy!”
That sound undid him. With a guttural groan, his forehead pressed to your thigh as his hips rocked once, twice, and he came quietly against the mattress, his breath hot and stuttering against your skin.
For a long moment, there was only the patter of rain, your ragged breathing, and the faint tremor in his as he slowly eased himself upright.
“Stay,” he murmured, kissing your thigh before slipping off the bed to clean up.
When he came back, fresh sweats slung low on his hips, he slid beside you without a word, pulling you close like he couldn’t stand to let you go.
His lips brushed your temple, his voice soft but steady. “I love you.”
Your throat tightened as you whispered back, “I love you too.”
No hesitation. No fear.
Just truth, steady and certain, as he kissed you slow and deep, his faint smile ghosting against your lips.
His arms held you tight as the aftershocks trembled through you, his warmth anchoring you until your breathing slowed and your body softened against his.
-----
Sunday night, he kissed you slow at the door, his good hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he was memorizing you.
“Next Friday. Same time. Same place. I’ll be out of the sling, and I’m taking you out. Gonna show you off.”
Your lips curved against his jaw as you whispered, “Can’t wait.”
His eyes softened, lingering on yours for one last beat before you stepped into the cool evening.
The door shut softly behind you, the promise of the next weekend humming between you like a live wire.
Summary: You ran to the hospital wondering if you'd lost him. By the time you left, that question was answered.
Word count: 4.6 K
Pairing: Firefighter! Bucky Barnes x Principal! Reader; Ari Levinson, Steve Rogers and Syverson x Reader, Platonic.
A/N: I just can't get enough. I have a lot to say about them. This time, my love @nissaimmortal helped out with the injury, hospital scenes and ideas for later 😈. Here is the previous part. I'm head over heels for stubborn, angsty, grumpy, burning-for-you firefighter Bucky Barnes. 🫠 This was inspired by an abandoned AU from last year and then this ask from a few weeks ago. I can't get him out of my mind. Bucky is a firefighter and both him and Reader are burn survivors. Tell me how you feel by reblogging, commenting, sending asks, dm'ing and the like. Interaction is life.
Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. This fic/au deals with fires, burns, burn survivors and recovery. There are graphic descriptions of burns, injury, and pain. Angst, but the beginnings of smut and some fluff. Bucky and Reader are burn survivors. Medicated Bucky, burn injury and recovery, Dr. Shea 👀 and hospital feelings. A lil bit of language, a lot of teasing from Steve and Sy, the "what are we?" conversation, clothes wearing kink, ssponge bath references, same bed, no sex, sbut almost, size kink if you squint, dirty talk, yearning and burning, Norwegian wood, rule follower Bucky, they finally say the things!
I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘
I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.
-----
The automatic doors hissed open as you all but ran inside, your heart battering your ribs like it wanted out.
Syverson was the first one you saw, too big for the plastic chair he was trying to fold himself into, two coffees balanced in one hand. He stood the moment he spotted you.
“He’s okay,” Sy said immediately, voice low and steady. “He’s banged up, but he’s okay.”
You could barely breathe. Your eyes darted past him to where Ari sat slouched in a chair, turnout coat unzipped, soot streaking his temple. He looked up at you, expression unreadable.
Steve was at the nurses’ station, talking quietly with someone behind the counter. When he turned and saw you, relief crossed his face like a tide. He crossed to you quickly, just as Sy pressed a warm coffee into your shaking hands.
“You wanna sit?” Sy offered.
You shook your head, knuckles white around the cup.
“Where is he?”
Steve touched your shoulder gently.
“Come on. I’ll take you back.”
You hesitated only a second, just long enough to glance at Ari. He stood, brushing soot off his pants, then opened his arms without a word.
You stepped into the hug, your heart pounding against him. He patted your back once.
“He’s too stubborn to stay down,” Ari murmured near your ear.
You pulled back, eyes stinging.
“Thank you.”
He gave you a tired half-smile.
“Take care of him.”
You nodded and followed Steve down the corridor.
“They’re keeping him overnight,” Steve said as you walked. “Cracked scapula. Second-degree burns on his shoulder and upper back.”
You stopped in your tracks.
Steve paused beside you.
“It’s not life-threatening. But it’s serious. And he asked for you. Before the pain meds, before anything else.”
The door to his room was slightly ajar. You paused again, grounding yourself. Then stepped inside.
Bucky was propped up in bed, his flesh arm bound in a sling, fresh white bandage stretched over his shoulder and collarbone, gauze peeking out from under the edge of his gown.
The skin on his face was flushed and red in patches, shiny with ointment. A nurse had clearly tried to clean him up, but there was still soot in the creases of his fingers.
His eyes found you and softened instantly.
“You’re here,” he rasped.
“You’re an idiot,” you whispered, stepping in.
“You could’ve texted,” you joked.
He blinked slowly.
“Phone’s under a thousand pounds of smoldering wood.”
You huffed, half-laughing, half-sobbing.
He held out his hand. You crossed the room and his fingers grasped your waist like you were his lifeline, like you were the one saving him.
Steve lingered less than half a minute before stepping back.
“I’ll give you two some time.”
The door clicked shut behind him. Bucky’s eyes were glassy, but locked on you.
“Were you scared?” he asked.
You let out a breath. “I was terrified.”
“Shoulda seen the other guy,” he muttered, then frowned.
“Wait. No. It was a roof. Roof was the other guy.”
You laughed through your tears, brushing soot-dusted hair from his forehead.
“You’re high as hell.”
He looked up at you, suddenly so sincere it broke something open.
“I missed you,” he said. “Every second.”
You swallowed hard, hovering at the edge of the mattress.
“You scared the shit out of me.”
“I know,” he murmured.
“Was thinkin’ about you the whole time. Even in the ambulance. Thought, if I make it out, I’m gonna stop being such a fucking coward.”
You went still, eyes sweeping over the white gauze and the sling, the bruises already blooming across his collarbone. His hand slid from your hip to your wrist, thumb caressing you, distracting.
“I was gonna come over after shift,” he whispered. “Tell you I’m all in. That I don’t want to be just your friend. That I never did.”
Your chest squeezed.
“You mean that?”
He nodded slowly.
“I want you to be mine.”
Then he blinked.
“Wait. That sounded cooler in my head. You don’t have to be, like, mine-mine. Not like a dog or a sandwich. Fuck, I’m bad at this.”
Your mouth dropped open.
“A sandwich?”
He grinned faintly.
“Like, the kind you don’t share.”
“Oh my God,” you laughed, and leaned in before he could say anything worse.
His lips were warm and dry, the kiss soft and sweet and over too quickly. When you pulled back, his pupils were blown.
“You kissed me,” he said, dreamily.
“You kissed me first,” you whispered.
“I did?” He smiled. “God, I’m good.”
You cupped his face, forehead to his.
“Try and sleep, Buck.”
“Stay?” he mumbled, already drifting. “Please? Just sleep.”
You hesitated.
You looked again at the bandages, at the line of burn dressing that disappeared beneath the gown. At the fingers curling slightly from pain and meds. His body had already been through so much, had lost so much, and now it was hurt again.
Your chest ached at the thought of it.
“This is nothing.” he said suddenly, eyes fluttering. “Lost a whole damn arm once.”
He said it like a joke, but it wasn’t funny.
You swallowed hard.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
There was something fragile in his voice now.
“Please don’t leave.”
You exhaled slowly. Then climbed carefully onto the narrow bed, easing into the space beside his good side, mindful of the sling, the dressings, and the IV. His vibranium arm shifted with a soft mechanical sound, opening around you.
He made a soft, content noise and buried his nose in your hair.
“You smell good,” he slurred.
“You smell like smoke.”
“Mmm. Sexy.”
You smiled into his chest.
“Go to sleep, Barnes.”
But his voice was already fading.
“You’re warm… gonna marry you someday…”
You froze.
“Bucky?”
But he was already asleep, his breath soft and steady in your hair.
You lay there in the too-bright room, listening to the beeping of machines and the slow, steady rhythm of his heart, trying to decide if you imagined what he just said, or if you’d be brave enough to believe it.
—----
You stirred awake to the steady rhythm of Bucky’s breathing and the distant murmur of a hallway monitor. It was quarter after six, the lights were dimmed, his hand was still resting on your waist, and his vibranium arm was cradling you protectively like it had been all night.
He was breathing, warm and alive.
You shifted just enough to press a soft kiss to the edge of his jaw. You were careful not to touch the gauze taped over his shoulder or jostle the arm strapped to his chest.
He blinked awake slowly, eyes still a little heavy, but clear enough now to find your face and smile.
“You’re still here,” he rasped.
You brushed your fingers lightly through his hair.
“Told you I’d stay.”
The door creaked open just as you leaned in for another kiss.
“Hey, sorry to interrupt,” came a new voice, warm, unassuming, with a faint rasp like someone who didn’t sleep much.
“Just need to check his chart and give you the plan for discharge before I go off rotation.”
You turned, still curled beside Bucky, to find a man in blue scrubs standing in the doorway. Tall. Handsome. Tousled hair, stethoscope draped casually around his neck, tablet in hand. He looked a little surprised to see you in the bed, but not judgmental.
He just… took it in.
“Dr. Shea,” he introduced himself, eyes flicking briefly to Bucky.
“Ortho consult overnight. You were pretty out of it, so I wouldn’t expect you to remember.”
Bucky squinted.
“Yeah. Not ringing a bell.”
“That’s okay,” Shea said easily.
“Cracked scapula’s holding. Burn team cleaned you up. Second-degree, no grafts needed. You’ll be sore, but you’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”
He scrolled briefly through his tablet, then looked up.
“You’ll be discharged this afternoon once we get the final check from burns. Just a few reminders: stay in the sling for at least a couple of weeks. The burns are dressed, just keep them clean and dry for the next 24 hours. Change it tomorrow afternoon. No overhead reaching, no weight-bearing on that side, and no rigorous activity while you’re in the sling or until you’re cleared.”
His tone was clinical, but the pause before rigorous activity was just long enough.
“You’ll also need to start PT next week to maintain range of motion.”
Bucky smirked.
“Define rigorous, Doctor.”
Dr. Shea didn’t even glance up.
“Anything that might pull at your scapula. You can figure it out.”
Your mouth went dry.
“We’ve only kissed,” you blurted, then immediately closed your eyes, mortified. You were running off at the mouth.
Dr. Shea looked up with a raised eyebrow, but he didn’t miss a beat.
“Right. Something to look forward to in recovery. Just keep it PG-13 for a few weeks.”
Then he turned and walked out without another word.
You stared after him, cheeks on fire.
“Oh my God.”
Bucky was already scrolling on his phone.
“Are you…are you looking up PG-13 movies?”
“I’m just researching my injury,” he said, deadpan.
You swatted his uninjured arm.
“You’re researching what you can get away with before we’ve even set the ground rules.”
“Ground rules?”
Bucky looked at you fully and watched as your cheeks colored deeply.
“Are you gonna call me to the office if I break one, Principal?”
You bit your lip. “…Maybe.”
You were so caught up. So fast. And then he kissed you again, slowly, thumb tracing your jaw. His good hand slid behind your neck, pulling you closer, and just then, the nurse walked in and froze.
So did you.
So did Bucky.
The nurse blinked. “…I’ll come back.”
You laughed, and Bucky chuckled, then winced, groaning at the movement. He pushed his pain button for more meds.
“Great,” he muttered. “They’re gonna write a note in my chart.”
“Oh yeah,” you said, nuzzling closer.
“Patient exhibits signs of excessive clinginess.”
He smiled, tired and warm, already drifting again.
“Damn right I do.”
Even as sleep pulled him under again, one thought looped through his mind: I said it. And she didn’t run.
—
The door opened again around 9 am, and this time it was Steve. He looked like he’d gotten some sleep and a shower, and he had a bag from the bakery down the street from the firehouse. Your stomach growled and Bucky side-eyed you.
“Aw, come on,” Steve’s voice drawled.
“You two couldn’t keep it in your pants for one night?”
You startled slightly, but Bucky just grinned as his good hand slid round your waist.
“Didn’t even try,” he said.
Steve rolled his eyes.
“I came by late last night to check on him, saw you both curled up like a damn Hallmark movie. Nurse said she didn’t have the heart to kick you out. I took advantage of the lust and went home for some shut eye.”
You flushed but didn’t move from the bed.
“I figured if he flatlined in the night, at least he’d go out happy.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Bucky muttered as you flipped Steve off.
The blond grinned at both of you.
“You good to go?”
“Soon,” Bucky said, glancing at you. “She’s taking me home.”
Steve raised a brow.
“Pretty sure you’re supposed to be recovering, not seducing your ride.”
Bucky didn’t miss a beat.
“I’m a very persuasive patient.”
You blinked, your pulse stuttering at the heat in his voice, at the unmistakable pride in his touch as his hand slid over your hip like it belonged there.
Steve groaned.
“God, you two are disgusting.”
Bucky just tugged you closer, fingers flexing over your side, casually possessive.
“Get used to it.”
You gave him a half-hearted glare, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you, twitching into a smile. Then you climbed out of the bed, lightly brushing your hand over Bucky’s good shoulder.
Bucky looked at you, concerned.
“Hey. I’m sure you didn’t get much rest tucked into this hospital bed next to an injured half-metal man. It means everything.”
You two shared a look. There was something in his eyes that you couldn’t quite name.
“Go home, eat, get some rest. Then, if you feel up to it, come back. I can get this punk to take me home.”
“I’ll be back, Barnes. I’m gonna return the favor.”
Then you paused, realizing how that sounded.
“I want to.”
He looked up at you, eyes dark and unreadable for a beat.
"I’ll be back around 1.”
Bucky gave you a soft smile.
“I’ll be waiting.”
—--
You came back at 12:45.
Bucky looked up when you stepped in, dressed in a loose firehouse tee and some sweats, fussing with his sling, hair slightly damp from what had to be the world’s most awkward sink rinse.
His eyes softened the second they landed on you.
“There she is,” he said.
You set the bags down and crossed the room.
“There you are,” you whispered, cupping his jaw gently.
“Ready to go home?”
“With you?” he rasped. “Always.”
Later, you helped him sign the discharge papers, thanked the nurses, and laughed when he muttered something about being on a no-fun list until further notice.
But when he tried to carry his own bag, you sprang into action.
“Nope,” you said, snatching it off the bed.
“Slings and scorched backs mean no heavy lifting.”
“It’s literally a backpack,” he grumbled.
“It’s literally my problem now.”
He gave you a look so fond and so wrecked with affection that it stopped you mid-step.
“What?” you asked softly.
Bucky blinked. “Just… you.”
You swallowed hard and turned toward the door before your face gave you away.
The ride to his place was quiet. Not awkward. Just heavy with everything you hadn’t said yet.
The kiss from the night before still felt stamped on your lips. The heat of his hands, the weight of his body, the wrecked sound of his voice when he’d asked: Is there a world where this works?
You hadn’t stopped thinking about it.
Not once.
—
He lived in a modest house, on a quiet street, with a worn welcome mat and a potted plant struggling for survival on the porch. You carried his bag while he unlocked the door with his good hand.
“Feels like I should carry you,” he quiped.
You snorted.
“You have a cracked scapula.”
“I have a vibranium arm.”
“And I have common sense. Now go sit down before you fall over and I have to explain to Dr. Shea why you’re back in the hospital.”
He grumbled something under his breath but obeyed, easing carefully onto the couch while you moved around the space, fluffing the couch pillows, opening a window for air, checking his fridge and putting in a grocery order.
“You’re gonna make someone a really bossy wife someday,” he called.
“I’ll add it to my résumé.”
He chuckled, then let his head fall back on the cushion with a quiet groan.
“God, I missed this.”
“What, being injured?”
“No,” he murmured. “You.”
You turned away again, something tight catching in your chest.
—
That evening, you helped him out of his sling and sat beside him on the edge of his bed, your fingers careful as you peeled back the bandages after he took a bath.
The burn cream had done its job, but the skin was still angry, raw and glistening along the slope of his shoulder and collarbone.
You swallowed hard.
“Sorry,” you murmured, reaching for the gauze and saline.
“This might sting.”
“I’ll live.”
He was quiet for a moment, then his lips quirked.
“You know,” he said, eyes still on the ceiling, “when I dressed your burns, you asked if I was gonna give you a sponge bath.”
Your face heated instantly.
“I was joking.”
“I wasn’t.”
You paused, fingers mid-wrap.
He looked at you now, gaze steady.
“I thought about it,” he said, voice low.
“About you. All the time. Even when I was trying not to.”
Your breath caught.
“Me too,” you whispered.
His gaze dropped to your mouth, and something in the air went electric. You smoothed the last bit of gauze into place, heart hammering.
“I could do it, even though you just got clean,” you said, keeping your voice light. “Give you that sponge bath. Just for symmetry. You could talk me through it.”
He gave a ragged little laugh.
“You say that like it wouldn’t kill me.”
“I’d be gentle,” you murmured.
“Don’t be,” he rasped. “Not if we ever…when we… I mean… if you want to.”
He broke off, shaking his head and looking at you with those baby blues. Your heart lurched as he continued.
“God, I’ve wanted to touch you forever.”
“You did,” you whispered. “Last night.”
He nodded slowly, eyes hungry.
“Wasn’t enough.”
Your hand found his where it rested on the blanket. His fingers grabbed yours instinctively.
“I do want to,” you whispered. “But we’ll wait,” you said.
“You’re still healing.”
“I know,” he said. “Doesn’t stop me from dreaming about it.”
“You dream about sponge baths?”
He groaned, tossing his head back on the pillow.
“You’re evil.”
You smiled and leaned down, pressing a kiss to the edge of his jaw.
“I’ll be right back,” you whispered.
“Let me grab clean clothes and your meds.”
He caught your hand before you stood.
“You staying tonight?”
“Until you kick me out.”
“Never gonna happen.”
He looked you up and down.
“Will you wear my hoodie…?”
He didn’t say the … and nothing else part. But somehow, you heard it.
You cocked your head and he was two seconds from tackling you on the bed you were so cute.
“Which hoodie?”
—
That night, you curled up beside him in his bed, in his fire station hoodie and leggings for protection, his good arm cradling your waist. His breath was warm against the back of your neck, his hand resting over your ribs like it belonged there.
“You still awake?” he murmured sometime past midnight.
“Yeah.”
“I can take the couch,” you whispered. “If you’re uncomfortable. You’re hurt.”
He tightened his grip a fraction.
“Not that hurt. And that’s not why I’m uncomfortable.”
His voice was doing things to you and you shuddered.
“You’re healing, Bucky.”
“I heal better with you here.”
You let that sit for a long moment.
“Doctor said no rigorous activity.”
He huffed into your hair.
“I’m not gonna break his orders. But I want to.”
Silence.
Then his hand slid an inch lower over your waist.
“You have no idea how much I want to.”
“Bucky…”
Your voice was wrecked.
“Don’t make me beg.”
You turned toward him slowly, careful not to jostle his shoulder.
“For what?”
He kissed you, softly. Slowly. And when he pulled back, his voice was wrecked with restraint.
“For the next kiss.”
You kissed him again.
And again.
—--
You woke to the sound of rain against the windows and the steady rhythm of Bucky’s breath behind you.
The bedroom was dim, the light outside gray and soft. Warmth radiated from him, his body curled close. His vibranium arm was still around your waist, his palm pressed low against your belly like he was holding you in his sleep.
You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to breathe.
Because something was pressing against you. Insistent. Hard.
And huge.
This was very much not part of his healing injury. You blinked and shifted the tiniest bit. Yeah. That was definitely…
“Morning,” came his voice, gravel-rough with sleep.
You swallowed. “Morning.”
“Sorry,” he muttered, not sorry at all.
His hips shifted behind you, amplifying the unmistakable shape of his cock nudging against your ass through the thin barrier of his boxers and your leggings.
“It’s just…” he sighed. “Norwegian wood.”
You laughed, startled. “Excuse me?”
“Morning wood,” he groaned. “Like the song?”
You were grinning now, face flushing hot. “You are ridiculous.”
“And extremely hard,” he whispered.
“That part’s not a joke.”
You couldn’t help it, you pressed back slightly, just enough to feel him twitch.
He hissed into your hair. “Sweetheart…”
“Sorry,” you said, smirking.
Bucky exhaled a long, slow breath against your neck.
“You keep doing that, I’m gonna break my own heart and Dr. Shea’s protocol.”
“You’re the one pressing it against me.”
“You were already there,” he rasped. “I woke up like this and thought I was dreaming.”
You turned over slowly, careful not to jostle his sling, and came face to face with him, messy hair, pink flush, eyes dark and wide and starving.
“Doc has to clear you,” you whispered.
“I’m not going to make it,” he whispered back.
You reached up and ran your fingers through his hair, thumb tracing the curve of his temple.
“I could help,” you offered softly.
“Just… a little.”
He closed his eyes, jaw clenching.
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want you so much,” he said, voice strained, “and I’ll never forgive myself if I can’t give you everything when it happens.”
Your breath caught. You searched his face.
“I can wait,” you said.
He opened his eyes, and the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted, nearly broke you.
“But I can’t stop wanting you,” he said. “Every second. Even now.”
He leaned in, mouth brushing yours maddeningly slow.
“I want to be inside you so bad it hurts,” he whispered.
And your pussy clenched.
You whimpered before you could stop yourself, and he froze, jaw locking, pupils blown. The edge of restraint between you stretched thin. Too thin.
His hand rubbed against your back.
"You're not wearing a bra under my hoodie, are you?"
You pressed your forehead to his and shook your head.
“Goddamn,” he rasped. “You don’t know how many nights I lay in this bed wondering what color your nipples are.”
“What do you think they are?”
You were on a fast train to hell.
He gazed at your mouth.
“Probably the same color as those delicious lips of yours…”
You fought not to squirm, but the way your clit pulsed was impossible to ignore, and you could already feel the wetness dripping down your thigh. Bucky’s hand flexed against your hip, his breath ragged.
“But until I can do it right,” he murmured, voice cracking, “until I can hold you down and make you feel everything I’ve been holding back… I’m gonna have to wake up like this.”
You kissed him deeply, your hand cupping his face and his vibranium fingers gripped your hip, anchoring you. When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard.
“Guess you better start learning restraint, Barnes.”
He laughed, beautifully wrecked, and grabbed a pillow, wedging it between you.
“I’ll be strong.”
—-
You hadn’t moved in ten minutes.
You were till curled against Bucky in the soft quiet of the morning, his hoodie clinging to your skin, your fingers loosely laced with his over your waist, and the pillow still wedged between you.
The storm outside had slowed to a drizzle. The air inside was warm and intimate. It was a perfect Sunday morning.
Neither of you had spoken since Bucky whispered I’ll be strong. But now his low voice broke the silence.
“Hey.”
You tilted your head just enough to look at him. He was watching you, blue eyes darker than you’d ever seen them. His thumb brushed your knuckles.
“I know we haven’t really… said it, not while I was lucid,” he murmured.
“But I feel like I need to. Just so it’s clear.”
You held your breath. His jaw flexed.
“This isn’t just weekend comfort or messed-up timing. It’s not just the trauma. It’s you. It’s always been you.”
Your heart started pounding.
“Bucky…”
“I don’t want this to be some undefined–”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
You both froze.
Then, louder: “Lieutenant, open the damn door before I kick it in.”
Bucky blinked. “No fucking way.”
You sat up, dazed. “Is that…?”
“Syverson,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Son of a bitch.”
You scrambled to your feet, smoothing your hair, heart still racing from everything you didn’t get to say. Bucky swung his legs out of bed, calling toward the door as you followed.
“It’s not even noon!”
Sy’s voice came through, smug as hell.
“Brunch waits for no man. Or woman.”
You shot Bucky a panicked look and he gave you a long, slow once-over, his hoodie to your knees, your kiss-swollen lips, the heat still in your cheeks, and smirked.
“He’s gonna see everything, sweetheart.”
You flipped him off. He laughed, raised an eyebrow, and you knew what he was thinking. You ignored him, padded to the door, and opened it.
Sy stood there with a paper bag, three coffee cups in a carrier, and the exact expression of a man who knew exactly what he’d interrupted.
“Well,” he said, stepping in and eying your outfit. “Guess I should’ve called.”
You snatched the coffees and turned on your heel.
“You think?”
Bucky was now sitting on the couch, grinning.
Sy whistled.
“Someone looks well cared for.”
“Get out,” you and Bucky said in unison.
Sy just grinned, pulled a cinnamon knot from the bag, and parked himself at the kitchen island like he owned the place.
“I’ll eat and go,” he promised.
“I just like watching the beginning of a beautiful, emotionally repressed love story.”
You glared. Bucky groaned.
And just like that, the what are we talk was gone, buried under donuts, sarcasm, and the looming presence of a man who definitely knew too much.
But it was coming.
You could feel it.
—--
Sy left around 1:30, the paper bag empty, coffee cups drained, and one last wink thrown your way as he shut the door.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he called. “Actually, never mind. Do everything.”
The door clicked shut. Then silence.
You stood in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, trying to catch your breath. Bucky was still on the couch, watching you with a softness that made your chest ache.
You didn’t move right away. Then you crossed the room.
“Where were we?” you asked softly.
He tilted his head, eyes never leaving yours.
“Right around the part where I said this wasn’t just about the trauma.”
You nodded.
“I know it’s not,” you said. “Not for me either.”
“It’s always been you,” he said.
“Even when I was pretending I didn’t want you. Even when I was trying to keep things professional.”
You stopped in front of the couch, too keyed up to sit. Too raw.
“You were by my side through everything,” you said.
“When I couldn’t walk without help. When I couldn’t stand to look in the mirror. When I was sure no one would ever touch me again. And you never asked for anything.”
He swallowed hard.
“I didn’t want you to think I was just another guy who wanted something from you.”
“But I wanted you to,” you whispered. “That’s the thing. I wanted you.”
The weight of his gaze nearly knocked you over.
“I’m scared to name this,” you said, voice shaking. “Because it already feels like everything.”
Bucky’s voice was low.
“Then let’s just say the truth.”
You nodded, breath shaky as he straightened slightly, his eyes fierce now.
“I want to be yours,” he said.
“Fully. Not halfway. No blurred lines. And I want you to be mine.”
Your breath caught.
“I already am,” you said.
He blinked like he couldn’t believe it.
You stood between his knees, and his hand slid up your thigh, thumb slipping beneath the hem of the hoodie you still hadn’t taken off.
“So what are we?” you whispered.
The dreaded question. The overdue one. He looked up at you like he was seeing the sun rise.
“We’re together,” he said.
“You’re mine. I’m yours. That’s it.”
You nodded once. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoed, hoarse.
Then his fingers tightened just enough to make your breath hitch.
“Now come here,” he murmured. “And let me kiss my girlfriend properly.”
You smiled, wide and wrecked, and when you leaned down and kissed him, it wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate.
pixelskylines
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