riot

20 . she / they

[classygumi]

☆ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⊹ are you real?

. masterlists. rules / tag system ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

.

⠀☆ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⊹ am i dreaming again? ⠀⠀⠀⠀

i can never tell.

. will i wake up soon? ☆ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⊹

please DO NOT repost, plagiarize, modify, or translate my works. DO NOT feed my work into any AI system. ©️2025-2026 classygumi

[cryingintheclubdhmu]

Salt Circle of Doom .ᐟ

────୨ৎ────

Pros, Habit didn’t have to worry about you finding his murder basement and freaking out. Cons, you fully believed the paranormal websites you read and were using the misguided facts against him.

This is what he gets for being attached to a human.

!! Habit x F! Reader !!

-> Requested a while ago and very silly :p ->

Divider by @sister-lucifer

────୨ৎ────

— ^ ^ —

Habit had never been this entertained in his life.

Apparently, he’d really done it now. Made you so mad that you couldn’t even stand to look at him. To the point where you had gone out of your way to put a physical barrier between the two of you.

Kind of.

About a month ago, during the night of your anniversary, his darkest secrets had come to light. Divulging his true nature, on top of exposing his less than savoury appetite.

However, you’d actually been quite the accepting bunny, and the grand reveal had gone over surprisingly smoothly.

You told him that you’d love him no matter what, that you trusted him with his monstrous features and all. He would always be the man who held your heart, through and through- the sappy shit. Which was great, except that it still left him with one issue.

Mortal superstition.

Wrong mortal superstition.

See, humans had a bunch of dumb rituals regarding the supernatural. From ghosts to demons to anything they deemed otherworldly, there was a stupid ass “protection practice” to go along with it. Including, but not limited to, salt circles.

Your kind believed that a tiny ring of minerals could shield you from the powers of the beyond. Like it’d somehow ward off man-eating demons and beasts in the night.

Absolutely fucking moronic, in his opinion. Alas, his rabbit was far from the sharpest tool in the shed, and said rabbit was currently fuming.

You had refused to talk to him after he burned your Gengar stuffed animal to a crisp. Haunter- whatever. It wasn’t his fault; the dumb fuck was left forgotten in the back of his old car.

The car that he had swiftly exploded to get rid of evidence last Thursday.

That thing would have been safe in his house if it were that important. But it wasn’t. How was he supposed to know you’d care?

“I left it there because I was sleepy after the road trip!” You’d told him, yet he couldn’t help but disagree. He’s been tired, and he’s never forgotten you somewhere. If your love was true, the purple whore would’ve lived.

Still, from the moment you found out till now, AKA this morning, you had been sulking. Mourning the loss of your poor, ugly teddy bear and ignoring your very generous boyfriend.

He’d even said he would replace it if its death bothered you so much- yet you had turned away. Saying that “It wasn’t the same”, before returning to your egregious task of giving him the cold shoulder.

You had somehow gotten angrier as the day went by. You’d gone from just complaining about it to full-on shoving your hand in his face when he’d try to talk to you. The attitude, the audacity you had was astonishing. He didn’t understand how you got away with these things- why he let you get away with these things.

Either way, you do, and he does. So now he was face to face with a salt circle in his own bedroom after a long day of work.

It was a laughable sight. You were curled up on the floor. Your knees to your chest, in the middle of the ring, with your back towards him and muttering insults under your breath. There was no way you genuinely thought this would work, right?

“Bonbon-”

“Go away, demon.”

He snorted, closing his lids for a moment to regain his composure. He inhaled slowly before speaking, attempting to keep his tone stable. “You can’t be serious. Really? A fuckin’ salt circle?” You huffed, foot thumping once. “It’s what you deserve.” The words were spat out with venom, and he bit back a snicker. “C’mon, don’t be like that.”

Stepping closer, he dropped down onto the floor. Sat on the edge of the barrier when he sighed, leaning back on his hands with his legs crossed. “I pinky fucking swear I will get you a new one, kay?” He cocked his head to the side, and you glared at him from over your shoulder.

“I don’t care. You knew I loved him- it’s the principle.” He rolled his eyes at that, groaning exasperatedly. “It’s a teddy bear. I promise it didn’t go out screaming, idiot.” You whipped around, your body now turned towards him. “He was my baby. And you let him burn in a car, Habit.” You argued with so much passion that one would believe he’d just slaughtered your firstborn.

And trust him, he’d know.

Habit pinched the bridge of his nose, slumping forward. “May his soul rest in peace. The bitch is dead. Sorry for your loss.” He smiled, hands clasped together in faux sympathy. You let out an irritated ugh, and glanced to the side sharply. “You wouldn’t get it. Not everyone’s unfeeling- you soulless vagabond.”

He couldn’t help the snigger that escaped him, clearing his throat when your frown deepened. You were so cute like this, your twitching nose identical to a bunny's.

He rested his cheek in his palm, amused. “Yeah, I’m the worst, right?” You pouted, squinting at him. “You are. You’re so mean-” He interrupted you, his smile only widening by the second.

“And corrupt, and heartless, and super, super evil. I know.” He chuckled at your expression, lazily tracing shapes against the hardwood. “Hate to break it to ya’- but that’s kind of my whole thing, sweethearts.” He matched your sorrow, jutting out his bottom lip mockingly as you balled your fist. Determination fuelled by vengeance burning behind your pupils.

“I’m breaking up with you.”

“Aw, man.”

“And I hate you.”

“Ouch.”

You puffed, crossing your arms. “I’m being serious.” He straightened up, exhaling while he rolled his shoulders back. “Baby-” He walked his fingers to the brink of your protection circle, clicking his tongue.

“You’re actually gonna’ let another man get between us?” His phrasing made you pause- a crack in your defences that he noticed immediately.

He could just brush the stupid salt aside, but it was fun letting you think it wasn’t worthless. “I’m your favourite, ain’t I?” He said, voice dropping lower. Half-lidded as he persuaded you. “I mean, if you think about it, it’d be crazy-” He nudged the fine mineral with his nail, and you chewed on your inner cheek.

“You’re so special- you know that? Out of everyone on earth, you’re the only person I give a shit about. My favourite bunny, I’d do anything for you. I’d burn down this whole fuckin’ town if ya’ asked, and you’d really throw that away for some toy?”

He purred, hypnotizing. You faltered for a second, opening and closing your mouth- then you deflated. “Bitty…”

He grinned, sharp canines flashing in the dim light. “There’s my girl.” Your lover nodded at the barrier, winking at you.

“Let me in, sweethearts.”

A vivid lilac circled his irises, quick and nearly imperceptible. A reminder of exactly how inhuman he truly was. You hummed, hesitating before you reached out. Your hand swiped at the salt, and he pounced.

Your shoulders knocked against the ground, Habit caging you with his arms bracketing your head. A muted rumbling echoed out from his chest, and he snickered, chuffing. “Such a crybaby. Locked me out for what, huh?” He nipped at your throat, the sensation making you giggle softly.

Ever since you found out about his situation, his animalistic leaning traits had begun surfacing more.

He’d snap his teeth at you at random and growl under his breath if something was irritating him. To be fair, it wasn’t entirely hidden early on, as he’d bite you quite often, but now it was obvious how suppressed most of his habits were.

He reminded you of a large wolf. Territorial and aggressive to outsiders, yet loyal all the same. The eating people part threw you off- he did need to eat, though. Your boy was at the top of the food chain; it was just natural law, you supposed. He was good to you and loved you in all forms. You couldn’t complain.

Unless you could, because only a second later, he sank his teeth into your shoulder. Just the way an overexcited dog would.

“Bitty!” He licked the indents, his laughter muffled by skin. “It’s what you deserve.” He threw your words back in your face, and you huffed. Looping your arms around his neck anyway. “It is not. You were mean to me first.”

Despite his annoying tendency to chew on you, the domesticity was undeniable. He was so warm, his cadence playful in your ear as he muttered half-assed apologies.

Cuddled on the floor and wrapped in his embrace, you nuzzled your cheek into his. Except your bliss was starkly halted when a clatter rang out.

Abrasive, the distinct sound of metal made you both pull back, glancing to the side. A dagger still speckled with red had fallen out of his tool belt in the shuffle, and you deadpanned, judgement heavy in your gaze. “Please tell me you at least used mouthwash before you bit me.” He ran his tongue along his teeth.

“Mm, about that…”

“Habit, you are so gross- oh my god.”

“You’re fine—”

— ^ ^ —

This was very fun to write HAHA

[classygumi]

babs found favor in my silly little idea guys i WIN

[blinkbunni]

I live for shy reader fics. Like that’s my BABY right there.

[classygumi]

letting yall know rn, im updating my blog’s theme so if there’s mismatched headers or anything ignore it 😇😇😇 thank yuuuuuuuuuu

[classygumi]

the universe had to hate you.

there was no other excuse, no other reason.

you’d never cared for the concept of soulmates, their undisputed existence and fate’s capabilities in shifting one’s entire life around the presence and affections of another.

you thought it was ridiculous, even from a young age. growing up with the teaching that there is a person who is destined to be yours, born just to exist alongside you, meant for a future full of love and beautiful memories.

you stopped believing in the goodness of the world early on.

the cracked stone walls you were confined in, the chains that circled your limbs, the bland and unfulfilling meals that spilt on the floor because the guards were too cruel to hand it to you properly. you were a subject of testing, a means of scientific exploration and an inhumane method of advancement.

swirls of magic—pale, transparent, sparkly—that smoothed over your knuckles and caressed your fingers were the result.

now, you were here.

free, salvation in the form of bloodied independence as a shield, and the desire to see if life was more than four walls, restraints, and iron bars.

to your disappointment, very little in the world impressed you, the wonders of life doing little to pique your curiosity.

but the gall and stupidity of fate? that deeply impressed you.

the crowd was whispering, mostly. the tiny conversations, many of which you could hear with a tilt of your head. a woman contemplating divorce with her husband, a hushed explanation that she had met her soulmate while being unfaithful. a man smiling broadly as he recounted his experience with his soulmate, a kind man who respectfully asked for him number. the young girl who was gushing about being able to see the fantastic four in real life—

you frowned.

oh, right. that’s why you were here. here in a public space, dressed in your favorite black ensemble. the show was cram packed with fans, admirers, and haters alike, all assembled to witness the astronomical anomalies that are the fantastic four.

you were here for advice.

advice you were too stubborn to admit needing, but not foolish enough to go without. so, you elected to purchase a ticket and see if the trip has been worthwhile.

you sincerely doubt it.

but, if the esteemed reed richards commented on the bizarreness of suddenly being a human shaped by cosmic force and becoming a household name, it would be worth it.

the lights dimmed, and the whispers bled into silence. you sat in the very back corner, having purchased the seat next to you so that nobody could sit next to you. cheers erupted as the host invited the family in.

benjamin grimm, the thing. a cruel name, in your earnest opinion. it depicted him as some sort of monster, a name that was slapped on something nobody could be bothered to understand.

reed richards, mr. fantastic. it suited him, you’d long decided. his capabilities were remarkable, and as he was the leader of the team, it seemed appropriate.

susan richards, invisible woman. you, never one to admit it, adored her. the woman with nerves of steel and a degree of class that made you nervous to look at her. her name, a simple and unoriginal choice, but it meant something. invisible, the one thing susan could never quite be, regardless of her powers.

and then there was him.

johnny storm, human torch. creative, somewhat. you weren’t quite sure how to categorize him, and that deeply irritated you. interactions with the public indicated he was an arrogant womanizer, but you saw the insanely different way he moved with his family. he was encouraging, supportive, loyal.

“how are you all tonight?” the host grinned at the family, expression full of mirth and genuine excitement to have this opportunity. “we are well,” reed answered calmly, “thank you for the invitation.”

the first few conversations were a little awkward, given reed’s inability to talk casually and his frequent redirection to facts and statistics, and the way johnny kept lighting the tips of his fingers aflame to entertain the small child in the front row.

“so, i’ve got to ask, mr. richards,” the host began carefully, “what’s it like? going from a normal life to being some of the most capable beings in the universe?”

you tuned in, eyes narrowing at their body language. they all seemed unsurprised, prepared to answer these kinds of questions.

“it’s…jarring,” susan gently crossed a leg over the other, and reed placed a hand on her knee, “to say the least. we’ve had to readjust everything we knew. it was, well, it still is,” she laughed a little, “hard to figure out our places in the world.”

“i wouldn’t say i’m content,” ben admitted with a solemn tone of reluctant acceptance, a beat of vulnerability in his voice, “but, if this is how i can best help my family and the world, i think i can live with it.”

you sat with that.

he hated what he’d become, what the world had labeled him as. a thing. not quite man, not quite monster, but he took his role with stride.

what would the world think of you?

the paralyzing effect of your powers, the ice cold sensation that penetrated nerves—what could you do to help the world with a curse that knows nothing but how to inflict pain?

“…questions from the audience. is that alright?” you blinked back into the real world, recognizing the shift in tone as a method of relieving the sad tension in the room. “johnny! johnny!” you heard a woman shout, her hand raised wildly. he nodded, blue eyes locked on her.

“have you met your soulmate?”

you noticed the expressions change in an instant.

susan looked worried, reed’s eyes fell to the ground, and ben simply observed.

“not yet,” he shortly said, and your brows knit at the fading hope that lied beneath his words. was someone as popular and esteemed as johnny storm saddened that he had not met his soulmate yet? a man like him, given the powers of a thousand suns, a figure that saved the city nearly every week—and he was concerned about soulmates?

“do you want to?” she pressed, ignoring the host’s gestures for her to sit.

“it’s a dream of mine, yeah,” he admitted, picking at the sleeves of his sweater, “isn’t it everyone’s? i mean, meeting the one made for you sounds pretty nice, right?”

“no,” you whispered under your breath, quiet as a mouse. the man two seats from you didn’t even turn his head, neither did the woman sitting in front of you. johnny’s head jerked over, and you tensed in an instant. his eyes scanned the crowd, and you froze when your gazes connected.

“johnny?” susan asked, her face the elegant picture of confusion, “what’s wrong?”

confused whispers scattered among the crowd as johnny stood, eyes still locked with yours. his lips quirked up into a tiny smile, “i’d like to change my answer, ma’am.”

you felt your racing heart in your throat.

“i think i just found her.”

johnny storm had always loved the idea of finding the person meant for him.

he remembered grinning so wide when his darling sister found hers, so smitten as people surrounding him found their matches. benjamin with alicia, susan with reed, pete with MJ…

now, it was his turn.

ever since he’d make eye contact with you in that crowd a few months, he’s been a man obsessed. he dissected the list of guests, he tracked leads through ticket sales, and he found nothing. all he has is your unimpressed face, the barely concealed terror in your eyes, and the way you practically vanished.

johnny was losing it.

and you were hiding.

you had never wanted a soulmate, never wanted to meet them. a soulmate would not magically revert your stoic and horrible views of the world, they would simply be another disappointment for you to catalogue. your powers were spiraling, the inability to release the conserved energy wearing you down—your self restraint barely able to remain normal.

this was the last thing you needed.

johnny storm didn’t know what he was getting into, but you did.

he was seeking a woman who hated herself as much as the world, a woman who preferred isolation and little connection to love and family, a woman who wore fear and caution as a shield. a woman who had a fragile soul, a heart that she feared putting into the wrong hands.

you’d gone without affection your entire life.

johnny had a loving family, a plethora of fans and friends that kept him going.

you weren’t compatible. you didn’t need him.

you paused, the small screen in front of you displaying a news report that you had already predicted:

WAS SHE A GHOST? HUMAN TORCH IN SEARCH FOR HIS SOULMATE!

you picked at your ripped tights, shooting a glance at your kitchen. its cabinets and fridge were growing bare, and you knew you would have to make an inevitable trip to the store.

your gaze shifted back to the screen, and you saw a candid photo of johnny storm himself. his eyes were slightly discouraged, but he still donned a smile that radiated pure hope and joy. he was walking through the city, an outfit so casual it made your heart ache.

you crossed your arms at the number displayed on the screen.

you bit your lip, should you get it over with? should you tell him you want nothing to do with him?

before you could let the fire of hope fester inside you, you yanked the landline up and dialed the wretched number. it rang briefly, and when it answered, your hands shook.

“this is johnny,” he greeted smoothly, “you a fan or are you the girl i’m looking for?”

you didn’t reply. the words you’d prepared suddenly flashed away, replaced by a feeling you couldn’t name, “why are you looking for her?”

you could tell he was confused, startled by your words. he laughed, “because…she’s my soulmate, and i’d love to get to know her? i’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life.”

“you have everything in the world you could ever want,” you muttered, “a loving family, a powerful gift, fame, success admiration—“

“there’s something missing,” johnny cut you off, “i don’t know if you’ve found yours yet, but i promise it’s like everything just fell into place.”

“i found mine.” the words tasted bitter in your mouth.

“how did it make you feel?”

“afraid.”

you heard him chuckle, as if the way the conversation was going was amusing to him. it was more therapy than it was a tip in locating his soulmate. “i’m sorry,” he murmured, “i hate it didn’t feel this way for you. i’m plagued with her, and all i got to go off of is her pretty face. i hope she sees my message and reaches out.”

“she will,” you whispered before you could stop yourself, “but do you think she’s worth all this?”

“yeah,” johnny breathed, voice all-knowing, “you’re worth every second.”

your heart began to race, your face warming as you were stunned into silence.

“cat got your tongue?” he mused, “i’m more than a pretty face, baby. knew it was you the first word you said.”

your breathing quickened as you went to hang up:

“wait.”

you shakily held the phone back to your ear.

“are you really afraid of me? of this?”

“there’s nothing,” you cruelly whispered, a soft crack in your voice the only emotion, “soulmates mean nothing to me. life means nothing to me.”

“i don’t believe that. what happened to you? nobody is scared and disgusted by love like this without reason,” his voice ached, sadness dripping off his tongue. “too much,” you admitted, vulnerable, “enough to make me believe i’m not worthy of anyone. especially not you.”

“you haven’t even given it a chance—“

“i gave fate enough chances,” you replied, feeling your eyes well with tears and your heart harden, “i won’t make that mistake again.”

johnny’s voice died as you dropped the phone back on the receiver. you shut off the television, knees kissing the carpet as you fell on the ground. you curled into a ball, the painful ringing of the severity of what you just did bouncing in your skull.

you told johnny storm you didn’t want him.

you were long used to depriving yourself of new things, things that you silently craved for that you buried beneath reality and false expectations.

but this was new.

this guilt for protecting yourself.

the phone rang incessantly. you tore the wires from the wall with a crook of your finger.

your tears soaked the carpet fibers. your eyes red and dry.

across the city, johnny storm sat against the wall with the phone in hand, the only sound a piercing beep of a call that had long been disconnected.

the person he’s been yearning for his whole life hated herself enough to shove him away, to shove away the person meant to show her that life is worth living and that love is a beautifully safe thing.

johnny, for the first time in his life, didn’t know what to do.

he didn’t even know your name.

didn’t know what to do about the woman who cried herself to sleep on her floor, wisps of magic embracing her so comfortingly.

he still wanted you, he decided then. he would teach you love, he would teach you care, he would teach you. he would help you.

i have enough love for the both of us.

riotrants: self indulgent as hell. i think soulmates are so beautiful, i think being paired with someone who just wants to love you no matter how hard to love you are is so special. everyone deserves love, love of any kind. i’m sad. this reader means so much to me. she is, in case you didn’t notice, like wanda in the sense of her magic (wattpad fanfiction canon event), but hers is very emotion oriented. it paralyzes, much how she feels paralyzed by human interaction and the expectations of normal life, and it’s cold, much how she presents herself…

part two

[classygumi]

this is so insane to me.

i’m so grateful for all of you, my first follower to my thousandth. i’m so happy you guys have found something worthy in my imagination and my writing.

thank you!! :3

which first? 2-part series! (for a very very very late (predictable) 1k special)

black sheep kent! reader x jason todd

alpha-passing omega! reader x alpha! tim wright (potentially suggestive)

anxious / shy medic! reader x re9! leon kennedy

riot’s button :3

Voting ended onJul 10

[classygumi]

HEAR ME OUT with the medic reader…vampire leon…HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT

[classygumi]

it’s here…

[classygumi]

riotrants: result of this poll! this is part one, and i do predict that the second part will definitely be more suggestive and a little darker in terms of like obsession...but like reader is into it so is it really bad?? sorry if this is bad but i think its cute...and i honestly think i had too many ideas for one fic? maybe I was a little courageous and i tried to do too much?? i dunno

leon kennedy was no stranger to the woes and horrors of life.

the years had not been kind to him—outbreaks, infections, wars, plagues, lethal pursuers, countless missions and protection details, a certain grief and displeasure for life—so, naturally, the universe's biggest joke was that he could no longer die.

leon was fifty-one.

he was fifty-one when he was bitten by a bloodthirsty creature, left to die in an alleyway. his bullets did little against the regenerating being, the impenetrable shield of skin that bullets and blades simply tickled.

he used to love the warmth of sunlight on his skin, now it makes him curl in on himself in discomfort. he cannot enter a room without invitation, his heart remains quiet in his chest, he ran cold—but he did not let his new identity, his unfamiliar lifestyle deter him.

he used it, contorted it into something he could use for good.

his strength for conquering foes, his speed for evasion and lightning fast combos, his perfect vision and hearing for scoping out areas and gathering intel.

no one questioned it. no one dared ask how leon had acquired half the information he did, they simply remained in the unknown. their blindness to his methods was not fully an oversight, not a mere glance at his capabilities with no further interrogation—an oddity they could not be bothered to investigate.

rather, it was more the fact that leon was practically a ghost.

he moved in and out of rooms with predatory stealth, he smiled when appropriate and left conversations as smoothly as a man with the intensity of disarming a nuclear weapon could, but there was one variable his clientele always noticed.

leon spent hours in the medical ward.

he'd drop a file on the desk, and brush past the questioning gazes and duck into the medical wing of the establishment.

behind the swinging doors, they could not witness how the cuts that leon's body had long healed slowly began to split open.

the blood in his veins was not his, neither was the blood that trickled from the wounds he forced to reappear.

he stepped into the clinic, hand poised at the rather large gash on his side as if it were hurting, and his lips quirked into a tiny smile.

there you were.

sat at your desk, files of patients stacked a mile high on your desk as you scribbled down medications and prescriptions that needed to be filled. you perked up at the sound of shuffling, your eyes widening at the sight of him.

he heard the elevation in your heart rate, the way your body had begun to pump blood far quicker at the mere sight of him. he heard the soft tremors in your breathing as you stood, hands reaching for the cart of supplies.

"mr. kennedy," you greeted, voice nervous.

"sweetheart," he mused, tone deep and utterly fond, "how many times have i told you to call me leon?" you ignored him, pointing at the uncomfortable space for him to sit on. he sat, unashamed in the way he watched you gently cut his torn and bloodied clothes off him.

"not so bad today," you murmured, gloved fingers tracing down the line of his arm to examine his injuries. he allowed you to lift the limb, and he saw your face fall at the sight of the gash, "i take it back...i know you don't usually, but, um, we really ought to get your blood tested—“

he chuckled, shaking his head, "i'm alright. just need my favorite nurse to patch me up, yeah?" and to be honest, he had no idea what all you would have found if he had agreed to get his blood tested.

animal enzymes, low iron, high sugar...

you didn't need to worry about that.

he felt the soft press of your fingertips as the needle pierced his skin, and he did his best to suppress his healing factor. he loved the way your brows knit together as you worked, the warmth that radiated off your face as more of his skin was revealed. he could tell you wanted to spark conversation, to make the awkwardness you were feeling dissipate, but he was perfectly content like this.

your kind hands patching him up, and the worried glint that intensified in your pretty irises the more blood you cleaned up.

but his peace was swiftly disturbed.

his eyes narrowed at the gauze that peeked from under the collar of your scrubs, "what happened?" you paused, and leon immediately picked up on the shift in your breathing. you were uncomfortable.

"nothing you need to worry about," you settled on with a tiny, weak smile as you tied off his stitches. you slid off the gloves, dropping them into the biohazard bin as you watched him closely, "i'll send you some painkillers and ointment to the pharmacy—“ before you could step back to your desk, leon's hand clasped around your wrist.

this thumb brushed soothingly against the fabric of the long sleeve you wore beneath your scrubs, slipping it under the hem around your wrist to press against your pulse.

"i know when you're lying, sweetheart. did someone get handsy with you?"

you were flustered beyond belief when he rose to his full height, eyes still connected with yours. you looked away, suddenly interested in the crack on the tile that maintenance still had yet to fix. instantly, his other hand lifted to direct your face back to him, and he saw the way your lips pressed together in a fit of nerves.

"tell me," he whispered, tilting his face closer, "you know you can tell me anything, honey."

your hands lifted to grip his wrist, "just...just a patient that, um..."

leon waited, patient as always.

"he was mad i wouldn't refill his pain medicine," you quietly recalled, "he sells them to other people on the street, and he...he tried to—“

"what's his name?"

you gave him a look, glossy eyes and quivering lips, "i can't tell you." he nodded once, he understood that. it just meant he would have to find out himself. he lowered his hand from your jaw, but he let you continue to hold it. after all, it had been the most affectionate you'd been in a while. you picked at his watch as he hooked a finger into the collar of your scrubs. he carefully pulled the fabric to the side, and he frowned at the large area the gauze covered.

"what did he use?" he asked then, feeling the way you shivered at his cold finger tracing the edge of it, "you can tell me that."

you nodded towards your desk, and he followed. leon saw the scalpel that was in a bag, and it was still covered in your blood.

"i need to change the dressing," you muttered, trying to pull away from him. leon kept you still, gaze meeting yours once more, "may i help you?" you looked a little surprised, and it made him smile.

"what? medics need care, too."

"not from patients, usually," you squirmed free, assembling the items you would need. leon watched you closely, the way your hands paused at the hem of your scrubs, the nervous glance over your shoulder. "want me to close my eyes?" he smirked at your flinch, "you cut my clothes off, sweetheart. it's only fair you let me help."

it was true. leon was only in the tank top he'd worn under his gear, you'd cut off the rest of his upper layers.

"okay," you pulled the top over your head.

the thin long sleeve you wore was accessible, and it was incredibly easy to maneuver. you felt the chill of his palms as they slid over your shoulder blades, delicately turning you to face him. he pried the gauze from your skin, careful where the tape seemed to cling a little more than in other spots. the area was clean, bloody where the scalpel had dug deep, and he deeply exhaled, a breath that barely quelled his rage.

your blood smelled sweet, just like the rest of you.

thankfully, leon had years of endurance and withstanding temptation under his belt. in this moment, he would sooner kiss you than he would sink his fangs into the fragile skin of your throat.

"he did a number on you, baby," he grumbled, and he bit back a smile at the very sudden increase in your heart rate. it hadn't quite slowed down since his initial appearance, but it certainly hadn't spiked that high. he wondered then what it would be like, you by his side until forever ends.

you kept your head turned away as he worked, the gentle smear of ointment and the cautious placement of gauze and tape. your cheeks felt permanently hot, and the weight of his gaze made your stomach churn and your hands shake.

you squeaked when his face neared your chest, and his hands found your waist to stabilize you. his lips pressed sweetly against the gauze, and he pulled away to boyishly smile at you, "kissed it better for you, sweetheart."

you slid your scrub shirt back on, and shy little smile playing on your lips. you parted them to reply when the door slammed open. your smile fell, gaze hardening at the amount of blood that spilled on the tiles. leon collected his items, sending you a wink on his way out. you smiled internally, utterly ready to scream about that later—but right now, you had a dying woman on your table, and she was more important than your little crush.

leon left the building, the soft crinkle of the bloodied gauze in his pocket the only sound. he slid onto his motorcycle, securing the helmet over his head and smiling. his fingers wrapped around the handles, kicking up the post and zipping away.

he'd be back tomorrow. he knew he would.

you did, too.

naturally, he was upset by the interruption, but leon was mature. he understood that things happen, and he was more than happy to step away to let you work. you loved helping those in need, and that was something he deeply admired about you.

the way you'd smile warmly at those on the streets, entering a nearby cafe to order as many coffees and hot chocolates as possible for the ones that lived on the sidewalks and in alleys.

the taste of the gauze proved something he already knew—

you were sweet. inside and out.

leon's love and affection was overwhelming, he understood that. you were terribly shy and remarkably easy to fluster, so he wanted to take his time. he loved seeing the red that kissed the tips of your ears, the anxious twisting of your necklace, your bouncing knee he so badly wanted to plant his hand on. he wanted to soothe you, to cater to you, to hold you, to love you.

to keep you.

[classygumi]

i miss soulmate AUs so much

i need to write them

[mcrdvcks]

he was chaos, he was revelry

summary: Bucky tells you to go out and have a day at the mall and get whatever you want. When you only buy a $20 Squishmallow, he has to intervene. word count: 2.9k+ pairing: mafia!bucky barnes x fem!reader notes: if you don't know, i'm a sucker for mafia dark romance books. like literally a whore when it comes to reading them on my kindle. most of the time it's the female character spending thousands of dollars with the male character's money because it's enemies to lovers, but here's a little twist on it! <3 warnings/tags: mafia au, sweetheart!reader, shy!reader, bucky is the mafia boss and rich, fluff, bucky loves his girl

The sun barely filtered through the heavy curtains when you padded into the kitchen, the tile cold under your socks. The scent of strong coffee hit you first, followed by the low rumble of Bucky’s voice from the adjoining office.

You’d gotten used to it, mostly—the way his mornings started in one world while yours stayed in another. You could hear him through the cracked door, his voice sharp, all steel and threat. “If he thinks he can skim off my shipments, he’s got another thing coming. I want him handled by noon. Make it clean.”

A pause. The scrape of a chair. His tone dipped even lower. “And tell the Rosetti crew if they send another man sniffing around my docks, I’ll gut their operation and leave the bones for the rats. Yeah. That’s all.”

Silence followed, broken only by the soft click of the call ending. And then the door opened, and suddenly you weren’t in the world of the Barnes Syndicate anymore.

“Morning, doll,” Bucky murmured, his voice rich and warm like the coffee he carried. The sharp edges of his morning melted away the second he saw you standing there in your oversized sleep shirt, hair a little mussed, hands tucked in your sleeves. His whole face softened, like the violence of a few minutes ago was just smoke he could brush off his shoulders.

“Hi,” you whispered back, smiling shyly as he walked over and pressed a kiss to your temple. He smelled like cedar and the faint bite of cologne, a mix you’d long since decided meant home.

“Made your tea,” he said, nodding toward the counter. Sure enough, the mug was there, steeping just the way you liked. “Sit. Eat something for me, yeah?”

You obeyed, curling into the chair as he slid a plate with toast and strawberries your way. He perched on the edge of the table, still in his black dress shirt and vest from early meetings, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the gleam of his metal arm in the morning light.

“You’re free today, right?” he asked casually, as if he hadn’t just threatened someone’s life two minutes ago.

You nodded, chewing on a strawberry.

“Good. I want you to go out, doll. Shopping. Whatever you want. No limit.” He leaned in to kiss the top of your head, and you could hear the indulgent smile in his voice. “You’ve been holed up here too much.”

Your first instinct was to refuse. “Bucky, I don’t need anything—”

“Not what I asked,” he interrupted gently, but with the kind of authority that made your cheeks warm. “Humor me. Take Natasha with you. Let her carry the bags.”

You blinked. “Bags?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Plural. Go spoil yourself for me, sweetheart.”

---

Natasha Romanoff was the perfect bodyguard. Or maybe the scariest one. She leaned against the mall’s marble column in black jeans and a leather jacket, sunglasses hiding her sharp eyes. Everyone who glanced her way looked twice, then decided they had somewhere else to be.

Meanwhile, you hesitated at the entrance of yet another gleaming luxury store, feeling like a kid sneaking somewhere you didn’t belong. The displays were immaculate—handbags behind glass, shoes lined like art pieces.

“You can go in,” Natasha said dryly behind you, arms folded. “You’re the girlfriend of James Barnes. They’ll probably carry you to the register if you ask.”

“That’s… worse,” you muttered under your breath, earning the faintest twitch of a smirk from her.

You wandered inside anyway, letting the sales associates swarm. They started listing the merits of different bags and scarves, but your heart wasn’t in it. The idea of spending thousands of Bucky’s money on a purse that would just sit in your closet made your stomach twist.

After an hour of store-hopping, you had… nothing.

Natasha raised an eyebrow as you walked past a fountain, hands still empty. “You’re going to break his heart, you know.”

“I’m looking!” you insisted, cheeks warm. “I just… don’t need any of this.”

Then, as if fate had a sense of humor, you spotted it.

A wall of squishmallows.

You froze in the doorway of the toy store, heart stuttering at the sight of the soft pastel sea of plush animals. There, on the middle shelf, was the one you’d been eyeing for weeks: a fat little lavender bunny with floppy ears and a permanent sleepy smile.

You drifted closer, fingers brushing the soft fabric like it was spun sugar. Price tag: $20.

Behind you, Natasha sighed, long-suffering. “This is what gets her attention. Not the diamond bracelet. A… blob.”

“It’s not a blob,” you whispered defensively, hugging the smaller version in your arms first. It was only $9.99, which felt safer somehow, but after a long stretch of indecision—cuddling it, putting it back, and staring at the bigger one—you finally picked up the larger bunny.

It was so soft.

“Okay,” you mumbled to yourself, taking it to the register. Natasha trailed after you, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe this was her life now.

Hours later, back in the car, your entire “haul” sat on your lap: one squishmallow. The driver’s rearview mirror reflected the barest twitch of his mouth, like he knew exactly how Bucky would react.

You clutched the plush closer and sank into the leather seat, shyly happy in a way that didn’t need anything more than this $20 marshmallow bunny.

---

Bucky’s evening had been a blur of phone calls and quiet threats. He’d wrapped up a meeting in his office, loosening his tie as he sank into the leather chair and finally glanced at the credit card notifications on his phone.

He expected a list of designer boutiques, a jeweler, maybe that cozy little bookstore he knew you loved. He’d practically begged you to go wild, and he wanted to see the proof in numbers.

Instead, there was just… one charge. $20.48 – Playtime Toys.

Bucky blinked. He stared at it like it might rearrange itself into something sensible. “Twenty… dollars?” he muttered under his breath, scrolling to make sure the statement wasn’t glitching. That was it. The entire day out, with Natasha as your guard, and you’d spent less than a single steak at his favorite restaurant.

He called his driver first. “Where’d she go today?” Bucky’s voice was calm but suspicious.

The driver chuckled quietly. “Couple clothing stores. Looked around. Bookstore for a while. Stationery shop too. She didn’t buy anything. Just… looked.”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “And the toy store?”

“She found a stuffed animal, boss. Held the small one for a long time. Put it back. Eventually bought the bigger one. That was it.”

Bucky sighed and ended the call. He sat there for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. He could practically picture you, wandering the mall like a shy little ghost, falling in love with a plush toy instead of anything remotely expensive.

He wanted to be exasperated. But mostly? His chest ached with something warm and stupidly fond.

---

The penthouse was quiet when he returned, the only light spilling from a single lamp in the living room. His steps softened instinctively when he spotted you curled up on the couch, fast asleep.

You were on your side, hair falling over your face, the TV murmuring some late-afternoon sitcom rerun. And nestled against your chest, clutched in both arms like a lifeline, was a plump lavender bunny squishmallow.

Bucky froze in the doorway, the sight hitting him like a punch. God, he was ruined for this. His cold, lethal world fell away entirely as he walked closer. You’d tucked your cheek against the plush, and he noticed—when he leaned down—that faint, familiar scent. His cologne.

He huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh, crouching beside the couch. “You sprayed my cologne on a marshmallow bunny, doll?” he murmured, brushing a knuckle over your soft hair.

You mumbled something sleepy, half-lost in a dream, nuzzling the squishmallow closer.

Bucky sat on the coffee table, elbows on his knees, and just… watched you for a moment. The only person in his entire world who could fall asleep clutching a stuffed animal while he had men stationed with rifles on the roof.

He finally, gently, tugged the bunny from your arms. You stirred with a tiny whine, lashes fluttering as you blinked up at him, bleary and soft. “Bucky?” Your voice was a whisper.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, lowering himself onto the couch and pulling you into his lap with one smooth motion. You melted against him instantly, head on his shoulder, the residual warmth of sleep making you pliant. He pressed a kiss to your hair. “We need to talk about your… shopping.”

You perked up faintly, confusion knitting your brows. “Shopping?”

He held the squishmallow up like evidence. “This. This is all you bought?”

Warmth flooded your cheeks. “I… I didn’t really see anything I needed…”

“Doll,” he said, voice low and thick with amusement and a hint of frustration, “I told you to spoil yourself. I gave you a driver, Natasha, my card… and you spent twenty bucks at a toy store?”

You squirmed in his lap, shy and defensive. “I like it. And… it was enough.”

He stared at you for a long moment, then let out a slow breath and shook his head, lips twitching. “You’re killing me, you know that?”

“Sorry…” you whispered, eyes dropping.

“No, no, don’t you dare apologize.” His voice softened instantly, the steel melting into warm honey as he cupped your cheek. “I just… I want you to have things, doll. Pretty things. Comfortable things. Everything.”

“I don’t need everything,” you murmured, leaning into his palm.

He kissed your temple, his metal hand rubbing slow circles on your thigh. “Then I’ll just have to keep trying until you take at least something from me that costs more than a marshmallow.”

You giggled quietly, burying your face in his neck. “It’s a bunny.”

“Uh-huh,” he teased, hugging you tighter, the plush squished between your bodies. “My terrifying reputation out there, and at home my girl smells like sugar and sleeps with a bunny.” His thumb stroked along your jaw, and he whispered, “you’re mine, doll. And I’m gonna spoil you whether you like it or not. Starting tomorrow. No more twenty-dollar limits.”

“Bucky…” You whined softly, but your arms tightened around him anyway, secretly loving every second of his indulgent attention.

He chuckled low in his chest, already plotting which stores he’d personally escort you to next—because clearly, leaving you to your own devices had resulted in a lavender squishmallow and absolutely nothing else.

---

You woke to warmth. It was the slow kind—like sunlight through gauze, or fingers tracing your hip beneath the covers. The sheets were tangled around your legs, and your cheek was pressed into Bucky’s chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your ear.

His arm was slung low around your waist, all protective weight and heat, and you barely had time to stretch before his hand slid up to your ribs. “Morning, doll,” he murmured, voice still rough from sleep.

You made a soft noise in reply, pressing your nose to the crook of his neck. He smelled like expensive soap and the clean spice of his cologne—the same one you’d sprayed, just a little, onto the squishmallow now sitting like a sentry on the couch across the room.

His chest rumbled under your cheek. “You smell like that damn bunny again.”

You smiled sleepily, too warm and soft to be embarrassed.

“You gonna let me do this properly today?” he asked after a moment. His voice was lighter now, teasing, but there was a thread of something real beneath it. “Let me spoil you?”

Your hand found his shirt—half unbuttoned, likely from some midnight phone call you’d slept through—and you nodded against him. “M’kay,” you mumbled.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and it lingered. “Good girl.”

---

You’d never shopped with Bucky before. Not like this. Sure, you’d trailed beside him during quick errands or sat with him while he bought suits—but this was different. This time, you were the purpose. The focus.

You’d barely made it out of the car before the first store employee spotted him.

The shift was immediate.

People noticed him the moment he entered any space. Not because he made noise—he didn’t. Bucky moved with the coiled calm of someone who knew the world would part for him whether he asked it to or not. His arm slid around your waist as you stepped into the first shop, and just like that, every sales associate in the building looked like they were preparing for royalty and war all at once.

You leaned into his side instinctively. “I think they know who you are,” you whispered as a woman in a sharp black suit all but sprinted to the counter to alert someone else.

Bucky smirked. “That’s the idea.”

“I don’t need—”

“Sweetheart.” He stopped you with a gentle squeeze around your waist. “We are not doing the bunny stunt again.”

You flushed immediately. “It wasn’t a stunt—”

“Mm.” He leaned down and brushed a kiss behind your ear. “Start picking things. Or I’ll start picking for you.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already steering you toward the displays, one hand low on your back.

The boutique was quiet and spotless, everything sleek and expensive. You gravitated toward a soft knit sweater first—cream-colored, slightly oversized.

Bucky watched you run your fingers along the hem, then plucked it off the hanger himself and handed it to an assistant. “This one. In three colors.”

You blinked. “Three—”

“Cream, navy, and that soft pink. You’ll wear that one at home.”

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter. He was already moving on.

By the third store, you had a growing collection of bags hanging from his metal arm—cozy sweaters, soft linen dresses, a pair of boots you’d admired silently until he caught the look in your eye and made the purchase without blinking.

You tried to be subtle about what you liked.

He noticed everything anyway.

When you paused too long at a shelf of delicate hair clips, he picked out two and handed them to the attendant with a nod. When your fingers drifted toward a candle with a vanilla-peach scent, it was quietly added to the growing pile.

And when you looked guilty every time he paid?

He leaned in close, speaking low so only you could hear. “You don’t get it yet, do you?” he murmured, thumb brushing your hip. “All of this? It’s for you. Always has been.”

You swallowed hard and didn’t trust yourself to reply.

---

By noon, you had four shopping bags of your own and six more hanging from Bucky’s arms, none of which he’d let you carry. You insisted on at least holding one—and he handed you the smallest, lightest one with a smirk.

“I’m gonna have to build you a closet just for gifts,” he muttered as the two of you walked through the marble corridor of the high-end mall.

“I don’t need a closet.”

“You need shelves. A dressing room. Hell, a second apartment.”

You gave him a look. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you spent twenty dollars on a plush rabbit like I haven’t buried people for more expensive things.” He turned to face you, stepping into your path and backing you up gently against a column. His arms caged you in without touching, just the looming warmth of his body in that damn black jacket he looked so good in.

You blinked up at him, flustered by the attention—and the grin playing at the edge of his mouth.

“Let me take care of you,” he said, softer now. “Let me give you everything. You don’t have to be shy with me. Ever.”

Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of the bag you were holding. “I’m just… not used to all of this.”

“I know,” he said, leaning closer, his forehead brushing yours. “But get used to it. Because I’m never gonna stop.”

---

By the time you returned to the penthouse, you were exhausted, glowing, and more than a little overwhelmed.

Bucky insisted you go lie down while he had the packages brought in and sorted.

When you finally walked into the bedroom, the bags were neatly arranged in a corner—and your squishmallow was still sitting upright on the couch by the window, as if it had stood guard the entire time.

You smiled at it, then dropped into bed.

Moments later, the mattress dipped beside you, and Bucky pulled you into his chest with a content sigh. “You did good today, doll.”

“I bought stuff.”

“You let me buy stuff for you,” he corrected, arms curling tighter around your waist. “Progress.”

You tucked your face into his neck, voice muffled. “You still mad I only bought a bunny?”

“Still can’t believe it,” he said, chuckling. “But I’ll allow it.”

You let out a soft laugh, heart so full you didn’t know what to do with it. Outside this room, he was the head of the Barnes Syndicate—ruthless, respected, feared. But here, with you, he was the man who carried ten bags through a mall just to see you smile.

[cryingintheclubdhmu]

⌞ 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐞 [◉"] ▷⌝

𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴: lıllılı.ıll. Hoodie x F! Reader .lllııılı..lıllıl

"Stalker’s Tango - Autoheart ⋅" ★ ➤ ➤

𝟶𝟷:𝟻𝟷 ━━━━━━●─── 𝟶𝟹:𝟶𝟹 ⇆ ◁ ❚❚ ▷ ↻

W/C: 8.2k // Summary: Hard work was hard work. Brian’s day to day consisted of blood-labour, ridding of evidence, and a drink, if he was in the mood. He didn’t have time for relationships- until a stranger starts following him around.

He believes it’s fate. So, when you break into his house, he decides to keep you. People did say it was good to have a wife to come home to, right?

Tags: Stalker! Reader, Yandere! Hoodie, Dom! Hoodie, Dubcon-adjacent, cunnilingus, oral (m-receiving), breeding, baby trapping (ish), 69, felching, overstim-to-watersports-pipeline, p in v, pet play (kinda?), he calls you puppy like twice, humiliation, intox, choking, kidnapping technically but you really want it, and talking you through it

A/N: This one is really freaky but have fun reading !! ^3^

➽──────────────❥

Brian was quite the romantic, in his opinion.

A full week off, the cabin that he and Tim ransacked months ago was finally of use. However, his companion had been sent on another solo job, and the house was empty aside from him.

He had his laptop propped up on the counter, the screen displaying a recipe he’d been wanting to try. It was rare that proxies got downtime, and he’d finally had the chance to unwind.

A home-cooked meal, ingredients he’d painstakingly saved up for, and an ice-cold beer on the side. It was going to be perfect.

In theory.

The thing with being a killer was that you didn’t get to practice your culinary skills much. Which meant that he couldn’t just eyeball it. Which also meant the chicken was burning and slightly oversalted.

He was glad he’d only used a third of the meat to start with, because this was not going as well as he wanted it to. He sighed, shucking the charred remains into a bowl- when a clatter echoed from the hall.

He switched the stove off, wiping his hands on a rag. He was wondering when you’d show up.

You were his stalker- affectionately. He’d caught you staring at him across the gas station two months ago, and you’d been tailing him ever since.

At first, he was cautious. You could’ve been a spy or someone who got too nosy about business that wasn’t your own. However, after a week of his own research, he realized you were neither.

You just had a crush on him. It was obvious that, less than five days in, you were beyond flustered even being near him. A cute little thing, he thinks.

Your lack of skill was endearing, and he didn’t mind playing pretend. If you wanted to watch, he’d indulge you. Hoodie was going out of his way to pose for your pictures, doing the absolute most in broad daylight.

Stretching with a grunt, flexing his arms more than necessary. He’d wipe split liquor from his chin with the bottom of his shirt, giving you a direct view of his V-line and pecs.

Yet you would be too nervous to even hold the camera properly, sprinting off with a blurry shot at best. He had worked his abs the day prior, too. A shame, really.

Don’t get him wrong; he liked the whole cat-and-mouse act, but you were hopeless. He doubted you’d ever follow him home or break in, so he had to lure you out of your shell. Use a breadcrumb trail to get you into position. The works.

Earlier that week, he’d talked obnoxiously loud on the phone. Telling Tim about his plans, about how he thought he should “Go shirtless more often.” Maybe even invest in a pair of low-hanging sweats, you know?

He ducked into an alley, waiting for you to linger just around the corner, then he dropped the exact address. It was like shaking a bag of treats at a stray cat. Almost too easy.

Now, standing in the kitchen, Brian decided to make you a taste tester. You were already here, and he’s sure you’d be willing.

The sound of shuffling, followed by the thump of footsteps, grew closer. He could hear you cuss quietly; your struggle to sneak around had him holding back a laugh. How polite of you to remove your shoes.

Craning his neck to the side, he occupied himself with re-oiling the pan, his chain catching the light in slivers. He was bare from the waist up, his boxer band snug against his hips. He was a man of his word, after all. Though he was curious about how you’d react. If it were an enclosed space with no readily available exits, would you be bolder?

You had come all this way, and he hoped that you’d push yourself out of your comfort zone. It’d be rude not to. He prepared this evening for both of you; the least you could do was surprise him a bit.

His back was still turned when you tiptoed into the room, hunched over to make yourself smaller. He saw you nearly trip in his periphery, and he grinned, a plan stitching itself together in his head. He wanted to check exactly how inexperienced you were. And yeah, perhaps he didn’t have the right to be jealous- but he’d be lying if he said the idea of not being your first didn’t bother him.

You liked him so much that you probably walked here despite the trek. Probably giggled thinking about him, cheeks warm as you debated on what to take as a souvenir. To Hoodie, that was special.

Watching was a love language, one that he was uniquely fluent in. Who better to settle down with than someone who understood it perfectly, right? The muted padding of your socks on hardwood.

Two creaks to his right, about three paces away. Then silence. Three paces… Ah, you were going for his jacket. Except that the coat in question was his usual one, the leather thick, made for harsh weather. As much as he wanted to let you take it, he’d need it on the way back.

He clicked his tongue, speaking curtly. “Take somethin’ else, baby. I’m still wearin’ that one.” The metal tapped the glass stovetop, the burner switched back on, and you hummed. “Oh, okay. Thank you.” You swivelled on your heel, scanning the room for other items.

Thirty seconds passed. You picked up a stray glove lying on the coffee table. One full minute. You debated between snatching the empty cup near the sofa and going for his sweater thrown across the armchair. If you organized the items well, you could fit both in your bag. Another minute. The clock ticked by, repetitive while you searched.

“You hungry?”

“Um, a little-”

You shot up.

Eyes wide, your satchel fell to the floor, and Brian arched a brow. “I’m testing a new recipe. Thought you’d wanna’ try.” He was facing you now, a smirk gracing his lips when he cocked his head to the left, giving you a once-over. “You gonna’ stand there all night? It’s bad manners not to greet the host.” Teasing.

With his arms crossed, the contours of hard muscle were etched harshly under the dim light. His happy trail peaked over the elastic band, leading up to his navel, scars littering his torso. His chest was covered in sparse hair, the plush squished together. And he was so tall. Broad, his shoulders sculpted, a steel cross pendant framed in the middle of his pecs—

“It’s also bad manners to stare.”

You met his gaze in an instant and stuttered, unsteady on your feet. “Sorry- I didn’t mean to, you know. Well…” Your palms were clammy, heart racing a mile a minute. Yet he seemed relaxed, too calm for someone who had just found out their home was being intruded on.

He raised his hand, beckoning you with a finger. “C’mere.” He swivelled around after, and you were quick to obey, scrambling over when he placed two chicken breasts into the skillet. You stood awkwardly by his side, the meat sizzling against blistering oil. The kitchen felt claustrophobic. You didn’t know what to do with your hands.

Brian was right there. You could practically smell him.

Why would you think that?

That was weird. This was a terrible idea. But he clearly wasn’t normal either- he couldn’t be. No regular person would be unbothered by a situation like this.

“You’re good with chicken, yeah? It’s all I got, but if you really ain’t like it, we can order something.” You nodded at that, shoving down your inner monologue. “No, it’s okay. Chicken’s good.” He mirrored your response. Flipping the meat with tongs as he grunted. “Mm. I made a salad to go with it. You want a vinaigrette or ranch?”

“… Ranch. Please.”

“Water or beer? There’s wine in the cellar, too.”

“Water’s fine.”

The chicken had developed a sear. Golden brown when he gave it another flip. “You sure? We can open a bottle. Promise, I don’t mind.” He said, unhurried. The kitchen was quiet aside from the sound of his tongs hitting the pan once in a while, the proximity making you sweat. You fidgeted with your sleeves. “Okay.”

A meek reply, he smiled, checking the meat's internal temperature with a food thermometer. “Alright- help me plate this; then we’ll eat.” The heat was shut off, and he moved to wash his hands, opening the cabinets a second later. He pulled out two bowls, balancing them in one hand, and grabbed wine glasses with the other.

Once he’d placed the cutlery on the counter along with everything else, he glanced at you. “Well, I’ll be damned- I didn’t burn it this time. Should call you my lucky charm, darlin’.” Your ears were warm, and you avoided his eyes, stepping closer. “Y-yeah. It looks good.” The meal was put together swiftly, Brian handling it alone despite his earlier request.

You should do something. He had asked- maybe he just forgot?

“I’ll bring the food to the table while you get the wine.” You tittered, a nervous laugh escaping you.

He stared at you for a moment, features blank enough to have your blood running cold, then he grinned. Chuckling as if you’d said exactly what he wanted to hear. “Sure. Dining room’s right around the corner; I’ll be back in a bit.”

He walked past you, and you swallowed, picking up the bowls carefully before trudging into the hall. A light switch was flicked up, porcelain sliding onto the oak surface when you set the bowls down. You made another round to return with the glasses, taking a seat afterward.

He breached the doorway with a bottle in hand and settled in across the table. “That coat ain’t stuffy?” Nodding at you, he uncorked the wine. The dark red sloshed against the glass, both your cups filled halfway. “I mean, I don’t notice it. I guess.” This was definitely not how you thought this would go.

He stabbed his fork into the chicken, taking a bite as you followed hesitantly. “It’s warm in here. Yer’ gonna’ melt in that thing.” He snickered, and you tried your best to smile. “I can take it off if you want.”

A pause, then he gave you a look. “If I want?” Twirling the utensil slowly, he tapped it against the bowl once, sighing.

“You’re acting like I’m keepin’ you hostage, honey. Relax.” He drawled, lazily chewing while you faltered. “I’m relaxed- I was just saying.” Now that he had pointed it out, you were overly aware of the jacket’s weight.

The material hung heavily on your shoulders, almost dragging you down, your body heat simmering beneath the layers.

The once spacious table had shrunk, the walls closing in like you were trapped in a bubble. You could suddenly feel everything. The way the wooden chair stuck to your thighs even through the denim, the clink of glass each time he took a sip.

It was as if the air around you had grown tight, and the bulbs overhead thrummed loudly. Buzzing on your skin, suffocating you with its vibrance. You tugged at the zipper despite his reassurance, shrugging off the coat. Conversation. Be present.

“Thank you for cooking.” You said, breathing out at the ease in temperature, as he chuckled. “Oh, of course. It’s your first time here. I gotta’ impress you.” Winking at you, he reclined a tad, cutting off another chunk of the meat. “So, you do this often?”

A casual question. His tone was unhurried, still eating like this wasn’t absurd. You were simply a friend dropping by, a fun companion he’d met at work, and not a stranger who broke in. Your nerves fought your infatuation, your mind at war with itself.

Should you be grateful that he was so forgiving, or concerned that he wasn’t? He hadn’t interrogated you at all. Hadn’t shouted at you, sneering in disgust, appalled at the extent of your obsession.

The man was treating you shockingly well, nearly too friendly in your presence. The uncanny fondness he showed you made your head hurt- but you liked him.

His attention was addicting. The laughs he’d give you had your cheeks hot. It’d be smart to run, to sprint as fast as your legs could carry you. It was just that your crushes never really worked out, and he was everything you’d wished for, served on a silver platter.

Brian had been courteous all night, considerate towards your preferences. Regarding you with thought and flirting with you as if he returned your feelings. You couldn’t help the sugary giggle that slipped past your lips.

“No, I don’t get out much. I haven’t had dinner with someone like this since last year.” He grinned at that, humming when you swallowed a mouthful. “Yeah?” His fork clattered against the bowl's rim, chair squeaking under him, and he arched a brow.

“What about the stalking, then?”

You choked.

Blinking, your sputter was rushed. Posture turned stiff. “I- I wasn’t trying to. I just- I don’t know. Um.” He rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward. “Wasn’t trying to… what?” His gaze was analytical, and he shrugged, tapping a rhythm onto the oak. “It’s okay; we can be honest. I saw you takin’ pictures of me earlier, but ya’ ran off before I could pose properly.” His cheery nature had you restless in your seat.

Taking off your jacket had been a godsend, because you were currently boiling from the inside out. Had you been that obvious? You shifted in place, rubbing your ankles together. “Sorry.” Your sad mumble made him snigger, head slumping down, with his shoulders shaking. “Yer’ real cute, I’ll tell you that-” He straightened himself, exhaling.

“Really, though. You ever done this with anybody else?”

He was having fun- maybe you should too.

He appeared content when you acted comfortable, so it couldn’t hurt to banter.

You steeled yourself, suppressing the butterflies in your stomach. “What if I have?” You were ready for a laugh, a witty remark, but the second you glanced up, the hairs on your nape rose.

Brian’s grin had been wiped clean off, and he stared with an iciness you weren’t expecting. Slowly, as he stuck his tongue against his inner cheek, he narrowed his eyes.

Head tilted by a fraction. “Who?” While his cadence was monotone, his body language was screaming at you. Wound up like a caged tiger waiting for you to drop the key.

You simpered, strained. Attempting to brush it off. “Ah, I wasn’t-” He interrupted you, tunnel-visioned on your previous statement. “Did you like ‘im? I swear I won’t say nothin’.” The way his jaw tensed told you otherwise. He was smiling again, but it was off. Too sharp, not reaching his eyes, his chuckle hollow at best.

He spoke with barely contained animosity, working himself up the more he thought about it. “You keep the photos you took back then, or no? Tell me, c’mon. Do ya’ think about him?” His gaze was bordering on manic, agitated in his own skin. You rambled quickly. “No! There- there isn’t anyone else. I was kidding.” He froze at that, expressionless.

The silence prickled you, tension thorny amidst the stalemate- before he whistled low. Teasing lilt returned when he shook his head playfully. “You’re cruel, dolly. Thought you were gonna’ break my heart there.” The mood switch was jarring, and you forced yourself to adjust, scooping up another bite. He gestured to your still-full glass.

“Try it. It’s good.”

“Right- yeah.”

The cup was chilled in your palm, and you took a large swig, downing the rest in record time. The alcohol wasn’t terribly strong, but it burned nonetheless. You cleared your throat, and the glass was set back on the table, liquor kicking in almost immediately.

Being a lightweight had perks, though you weren’t sure that applied to your current predicament. It was fine- just something to calm yourself down.

Yet, drink after drink, the wine’s effect increased tenfold. Every time you emptied your glass, he’d pour you one more, evening the playing field by matching your pace. Except his tolerance was far higher than yours.

You had gone through a full bottle, on your second, and he was still impeccably upright. But he’d take care of you if you got too messy, wouldn’t he?

His hand smacking against the surface made you jolt, his cheer loud. “Goddamn, pretty miss. You sure can drink!”

You laughed at his excitement, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. It was easy to forget how scary he’d been only a moment ago. Especially with the intoxication settling in, you were on cloud nine.

You swayed a little. “Only if I’m trying to look cool.” The buzz soothed your jitters, and all you could focus on was the curve of his jaw. He was so pretty, charming like the princes you’d read about in storybooks. His scars gave him an edge, while his dimples made him appear sweet. A perfect balance.

Your eyes drifted to his lips, memorizing the hue. They looked soft, perhaps a bit chapped from the weather, but you’re sure they’d feel nice. You had dreamed about him daily, fantasizing about his hands on you, thinking about what he’d say.

It had begun about two months ago- the stalking, that is.

You had met him one year prior.

The rain had been brutal, flooding the roads and drenching you in the downpour. Winds so strong that the water droplets battered against the concrete like hail, thunder shrieking into the night. You were terrified, shaking in a thin jacket on the side of the road. The man you’d been chasing had lied to you.

He had smiled when you confessed, asking you to dinner. Texting you for days, swearing he was over the moon. He picked you up that night, and the drive was grand, filled with laughter the entire way. However, when you arrived at the designated location, instead of a cozy picnic under the stars, you found an empty parking lot.

He ushered you out of the car, and trusting him, you did so happily. Then it happened. The skidding of tires, overlapping voices, your heartbeat in your ears. His friends yanked you by the hair, snipping off chunks.

They jeered, they mocked and humiliated you- for believing someone like him could ever love someone like you.

They left you in pieces, sobbing on the cold cement. The storm began shortly after, and you were forced to drag yourself home, lost in the whirlwind. And that’s when you ran into Brian.

His truck had come to a stop on the highway, engine still rumbling, while he stepped out. You were blocking the road, and even though he seemed annoyed, he let you hitch a ride.

If he noticed your state early on, he didn’t say anything- not until you asked.

“Is there something wrong with me?”

He’d grunted, glancing at you briefly. “No.” He was probably just pacifying you. Probably just making sure the stranger in his passenger seat didn’t throw a fit. But it was enough.

You had spent your entire life being unsure. You never knew where you fit in. The town was small, and for whatever reason, it seemed like you were born wrong. You were always too loud or too quiet. Either too promiscuous or a prude. Your affection was viewed as an abomination, the person at the centre of your desire recoiling at the idea.

You were the one just slightly out of frame in photographs, the friend who walked on the grass, and was never saved a seat at the table. A background character in a picture-perfect scene, unneeded.

You would be alone in a full room, forgotten about, even if you screamed at the top of your lungs. Isolated since the moment you opened your eyes, in a broken home with parents who held you for necessity's sake.

Nothing ever made sense; nobody ever had the right answers. But he did. You asked him if you were off-putting; you asked if you were disgusting to be around. You asked him over and over again if he thought you didn’t belong. Not providing any information for him to logically respond to. Yet that didn’t matter, and his reply would remain the same.

“No.”

Because Brian was different. Because he understood.

You tried so hard to ignore the constant flashing memories of that drive. You did things to distract yourself, going out more, indulging in new hobbies. They never stuck, though.

Soon enough, all you could think about was him. He was the only person who made you feel seen, the only one who comforted you when you offered nothing in return.

Because Brian was good.

You had the pictures of Brian taped to your wall. You saved Brian’s half-smoked cigarettes to kiss when you were sad. Brian was sweet to you. Brian’s voice was smooth like warm honey. Brian was—

“— Alright?”

Your pupils snapped up to his, and he huffed, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I said, are you alright?” When you failed to answer, he snickered. “I’ve been callin’ yer’ name for the past five minutes.”

You pouted, tittering while you slumped forward. “Oh, sorry.” He got to his feet, rounding the dinner table and snagging the nearly empty bottle along the way.

“We hafta’ do something about those nerves of yours. Apologizin’ after every sentence- you’re worrying me, baby.” His grasp was firm on your jaw, tilting your head back.

The glass rim nudged against your parted lips, and he grunted. “Don’t worry, I got you.” Bitter, with undertones of sweetness coating your palate. You gulped desperately, deep scarlet dribbling down your chin.

It was starting to overwhelm you, and you clumsily reached for his wrist. Pawing, trying to pull back, but his grip refused to waver.

“Shh, s’okay. Nice an’ easy- jus’ like that.” He murmured, hushing you. Your lungs burned, the lack of oxygen making your head spin. Your eyes were barely open by the time he withdrew, and he brought the bottle to his mouth, downing the remaining liquor. He exhaled after, breathless.

The wine hung limp at his hip, his grin satisfied. “Atta’ girl.” He ran his tongue along his teeth and slouched slightly.

Tapping your bottom lip once. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.” With that, he hauled you up, your arms wrapped loosely around his neck as he walked down the hall.

He kicked open the bedroom door, stepping to the mattress before laying you down.

He crawled to kneel between your legs, resting on his haunches. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.” You giggled drunkenly and nuzzled your head against the sheets. You were floaty, the duvet soft beneath you. “Mm… ‘m pretty?” You slurred, making him laugh. “The prettiest thing I ever seen, sweetheart.”

The linen smelled like him. He was looking at you. Hazy, you were so excited it felt as if your chest would burst. “Fuckin’ perfect.” His touch brushed over your collar, dragging down to your stomach, an inch above your waistband. “Did you pretend it was me when you used yer’ fingers?” He muttered, drawing shapes.

You hid your face behind your knuckles, bashful under his gaze. “Mhm.” The mellowed light from the bedside lamps bathed him in gold, his grin sultry as he hummed. “Show me.”

You pouted at that, and your whine had him hungry. “You wanna’ be good for me, don’t you?” Urging you softly, he nudged your shirt by a smidge, thumb hooked along the edge. You’d do anything he asked. Anything at all, even if it was mortifying.

The cotton scrunched over your chest when you tugged up your shirt, and his eyes flickered to the button of your jeans, expectant. “Go on.” He hadn’t even done anything, yet you were already on the brink of tears.

Complying anyway, unsteady fingers reached to undo the zipper, your hips shimmying slightly. You slid a hand into your underwear, gathering the wetness, before you circled your clit.

Your little gasps were mouthwatering. The plush of your chest squished together in a frayed bra, moving a bit every time you’d jolt at your own touch. He rubbed his thumb up and down against your skin, one palm on your hip, the other settled beneath your thigh. Keeping your legs open despite your embarrassment.

“Does it feel good?” He uttered, and you nodded pitifully. You’d done this countless times, but his focus had heightened your senses.

Brian was so close to where you needed him, separated by only a couple of layers of fabric. Your mind wandered, images of how he’d take you filling your head.

Would he be rough, or would he break you with care? Ruining you, leaving you crying for more when he’d slow his rhythm to a grind. Would he make you cry, or would he have you high off endorphins, nurturing your obsession until you couldn’t handle it anymore?

You slipped your fingers into your messy cunt, humping your own hand in desperation. He clicked his tongue. “You can do better than that.”

With thinly veiled disapproval, he squeezed your waist. It had you scrambling to appease him, and your cunt squelched loudly. However, it appeared your pace wasn’t up to par.

His warmth left your hip, and he cupped his knuckles atop yours over denim. Forcing your digits inside deeper, rocking you onto his large palm. “Ah- Brian.” You whimpered, soaking your panties.

It was sloppy inside your underwear, with arousal sticking to your inner thighs. “Did you say my name like that by yourself, too? Or did ya’ get shy?” He said mockingly, drinking in the view, when he continued.

“Imagining me touchin’ you here- bet you made a fuckin’ mess on your toys.” He had your darkest secrets laid bare, and you whined.

The weight of his hand had your body in overdrive, the constant shlick-shlick of your fingers pumping inside loud and exposing. “Not my fault- couldn’t help it- mmph.” You couldn’t even defend yourself properly, pitchy gasps interrupting your argument. It had greed gnawing at the base of his skull, the need to break you spiking.

He drawled the words, lazily bouncing you. “C’mon, princess. Give it to me.” The coil in your gut curled tightly. Your clit was rutting against your palm with every thrust, the reality of his proximity crashing into you.

Your pussy pulsed, twitching wildly as you came. Lids shutting while you arched. You hadn’t even caught your breath yet, and he grabbed your wrist.

Your fingers glistened with the proof of your orgasm, held in the air. “Mm.” He cocked his head to the right, amused. Then he pulled your hand to his lips, swirling his tongue around your digits. He groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

Brows furrowed, swallowing, his saliva mixed with your slick, dripping down your arm. Depraved- starved. He withdrew a second later, swiping away the residue with his thumb.

The sight made you clench down on nothing, and he smirked, releasing your hand. He traced up your ribs, kneading your breasts through the bra. Toying with your sensitive buds until you writhed. Hickeys were littered all over your throat, down the valley of your chest, with Brian hovering above you.

He snagged your waistband blindly. Yanking your jeans and panties down your thighs before he reclined, hauling them off completely, the pair thrown aside. He was back over you in a blink, his patience dwindling.

His cock was throbbing, so hard it ached as he dropped his hips, grinding against your bare core. The coarse cotton slotted between your folds, making you mewl lewdly.

You were drenching his sweats, staining the fabric with your lust. He had your cunt pressed flush to his bulge. “You want me?” Grunting into the hollow of your shoulder, husky. You could feel him twitch, the ridges of his length snug to your cunt. You ran your fingers through his hair, your arms thrown around his neck. “Please- please.”

You were too empty. Needy to the point of anguish. “Want it- I-I wan’ it, please.” Your begs landed like burnt sugar, blistering and tooth-rotting.

He pulled away just enough to examine your desperation, nose brushing yours, and you slipped your hands down past his chest. Palms flat on his shoulder blades, holding him close. He cooed. “Poor baby. I’m so mean, hm?” Yet the way he angled his face to lick a stripe up your cheek betrayed his sincerity. You were crying.

You didn’t notice the blur in your vision, didn’t realize how pathetic you’d become. “Brian.” His name sounded close to a prayer coming from you, and all he did was hum, basking.

He tasted your tears sweetly, so coddling it was suffocating. “I know. It’s okay; I’ll take care of you.” He mumbled against your skin, extending an arm down to untie the drawstrings.

The elastic sagged, and he freed his shaft out of his boxers, cockhead sticky with pre. He lined himself up to your neglected pussy, tip catching on your weeping hole. “Deep breaths, yeah?” Then he sank in by an inch, stretching your entrance to accommodate his girth.

Just his tip thrusting in was enough to have you shaking. It was almost too good, the pleasure making you want to go limp. Mind-numbing and wracking you in waves. You were drooling, stupid on him before he even filled you.

Brian was thick. His cock felt heavy, bullying its way inside slowly as he rolled his hips. “Hah- nngh, s’good.” You slurred, eyes unfocused- he chuckled roughly. “Actin’ like you ain’t ever been fucked, my girl.” He rocked himself deeper, halfway in while you squirmed. “Not the same.” You whined, and your nails dug into his shoulders.

“No?” Whispering over your mouth, he gritted his teeth- and it took all his willpower not to split you in half when you shook your head. “Mm-mm, wasn’t you. Doesn’t-ah- feel good if it’s not you.” You were too adorable for your own good.

Pliant under him, staring at him as if he were your saviour, the hero in your story. It made him possessive. Dangerously so.

It made him want to keep you. Trap you here with him with bolted locks on the doors. The outside world wasn’t fit for people like you. You didn’t deserve the harshness it offered, didn't need to be subjected to the cruelty of strangers.

You’d clearly been through so much already; this level of obsession doesn’t just manifest overnight. You had most likely been struggling with no one to turn to. A sweet thing like you, all alone? It wasn’t right. The only logical option would be to protect you. That’s what any caring husband would do— wasn’t it?

If you were sick, Brian had to be decaying by now. He thought he could suppress it, but his fixation had begun consuming him.

Latching onto his organs, infecting him like a parasite. He’d lived as a ghost from his early adulthood till the present. He didn’t have an identity, never had a real place to call home. Feared wherever he went. Yet you never saw that.

You never categorized him into an isolated box. Instead, you held onto him for comfort. He was someone you deemed safe, and the feeling it gave him was indescribable. You wanted this- you wanted him. You loved him.

But he loved you more.

Hysteria pumped through his veins, the last of his sanity shattered. “Such a smooth talker, huh? You’re too good to me, dolly.” He snapped his hips forward without warning, piercing you to the hilt. His calm demeanour had developed an edge, and you jerked off the mattress. He was ripping you, forcing his cock in mercilessly.

You wailed, pain shooting through you sharply. He was so big it hurt. Tearing your poor cunt, the sting making you sob- yet he was finally inside. Brian was really here; he was inside of you, and it felt fucking euphoric. All the nights of picturing this very moment were incomparable.

Nothing came even close to his weight on top of you, nothing paralleled the fullness of being speared on his length. The scent of his need, his sweat tacky against your skin when he rocked in further.

Your head was spinning, heart beating violently behind your ribs. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. The wires in your brain fizzled, bolts sparking before they ruptured.

The thick drag of his cock was driving you insane. You could feel each throb of him, every vein, the curve of his shaft prodding against your most sensitive spots. He had carved his signature into your womb, branding your core with his lust. It was drowning, limerence so strong it was unbearable. Its hands had wrapped around your throat, and your lungs were on the brink of collapse.

He was here and fucking you. You were finally Brian’s girl. The sheets were a disaster beneath you, crickets chirping outside in tune with your pants.

Your breathing grew short, overwhelmed, while you struggled to hold back from arching.

It was too much. It was too much- you couldn’t handle it. He was making your pussy feel too good— you love him, you love him- youlovehimyoulovehim—

Brian watched in awe as your shoulders bowed. You scratched at his arms, frenzied. Eyes wide, with your spine lurching to form a semi-circle. “Hah- ah -'m cumming- can’t-” You rambled, irises rolling up, your ankles locked around his waist. You had hearts in your pupils, and he cooed. “Oh, sweetheart. Yer’ makin’ it hard to wanna’ let you go.”

Pulling out to just the tip, he slammed back inside your abused hole. Snickering drunkenly at the moan you let out. “You’d let me keep you, yeah?” He rasped, setting an agonizing pace. Slow and deep strokes, his girth pumping in and out. The bedframe creaking, his toned pelvis smacking against your mound wetly.

“Let me be selfish an’ have you to myself-” The smell of sex and fever was pungent in the air, aphrodisiac-akin. “I’d treat you nice, baby. Keep ya’ real pampered.”

Brian looked debauched. His hair stuck to his forehead with perspiration, skin flushed from the heat. The sculpted muscle under your touch had you whining, and he grunted when you twitched around him. You were so fucking tight, milking him for all he was worth.

“I’d spoil you, get you a diamond bright enough to make bastards cry.” His words rumbled deep in his chest, the bass of it making you shiver. “I’d show you off good- my sweet little wife; they’d be seething jus’ lookin’ at you.” He rolled his hips skillfully, grinding his cockhead against your cervix.

“So jealous they’d lose their fuckin’ minds cause they couldn’t touch you-” Your thighs trembled fiercely. His base kept rutting into your clit, your lids drooping. Eyes crossed as he worked you open. “Because they couldn’t fuck you the way I do.” He murmured, his baritone hypnotic next to your ear.

“They’d never reach this deep, hm? Couldn’t make you sound this pretty, not like I could.” He nipped at your jaw, leading up to the corner of your mouth. “Cause yer’ my baby, ain’t you?” Then he molded his lips to yours, groaning into you. He tensed his arms, his hips ramming forward- hard. Fisting the covers near your head when he sped up.

You choked. Suffocated by the kiss, his tongue shoved down your throat, starved and ruthless. “B-Brian-” You hiccuped, muffled by his hunger. Your teeth clacked together, and he licked at your canines, devouring you greedily. The mattress squeaked with every thrust, mahogany battering against the wall.

The headboard slammed into the plaster, decorative frames tumbling onto the ground from the force. Brian was fucking into your cunt like he was mad at it.

Balls slapping against your ass, harsh as he reclined, with ribbons of spit connecting you. Your kiss-swollen lips and lewd expression had him crazed, irate at the thought of anyone witnessing you vulnerable.

It was barbaric, pummeling into you animalistically. Bruising your pussy and splitting you on his cock like a toy.

“Fuckin’ look at you-” He yanked at your bra swiftly, snapping the front wire clean in half. Your tits spilled out, bouncing in rhythm with his hips. He had one arm bracketing your head, his free hand groping your chest- the calloused grip making you jolt.

“You’re mine. Nobody else’s.” He snarled, each syllable spat out with ice. He could see the fear fighting against your lust at his change in tone, and he snickered meanly. “Don’t get scared, now. You wanted this.” The pleasure was sharp, Brian refusing to take mercy on you for even a millisecond. “You chased me- followed me around like some lost puppy desperate for cock-”

The noises coming out of your throat barely sounded human. You were dizzy, orgasm building rapidly from the nonstop stimulation. “So you’re gonna’ act like it, you understand?” He sat up a tad, wrapping a large palm around your windpipe, your leg thrown onto his shoulder. His chain swung over your face, clinking when it’d hit his chest.

You snatched the pendant between your teeth, and the groan that left him was guttural.

A gluey ring had formed at his hilt, spilling down his balls, off-white lacquer staining the linen. He squeezed harder, and you were lightheaded from his clasp, drooling. “If I catch any motherfucker bein’ sweet on you, I’ll fuckin’ gut him.” He sneered, his lip curling up in a borderline growl. Utterly livid.

“I’ll blow his brains across the wall- cut him up and feed him to the fucking dogs, you hear me?” The threat made you clamp down on him like a vice, and you writhed aggressively, the steel slipping from your mouth. You mewl, cumming, with your vision blacking out at the edges. The tightness had him hissing, his chest heaving as he spurted against your cervix, stuffing you to the brim.

The room was quiet for a minute, nothing but your shaky breaths and his rough exhales ringing in your ears. You were boneless atop the sheets, sleep creeping in, only for your nervous system to restart when he abruptly freed himself. “You ain’t impressing me that easy-” He slumped next to you, sprawled on his back; then he grinned.

“Sit on my face.”

Despite your weak limbs, you hurried to follow his instructions. Stumbling closer and clumsily straddling his head, you hesitated before he clicked his tongue. “Not like that. You gotta’ earn it, dolly.” He gave your hip a pat, nodding past you. Oh.

Fire lit your cheeks, and you readjusted accordingly. Now facing away from him, your palms resting on his stomach, you’d never felt more exposed. It was such an embarrassing position, your still leaking pussy shoved right in front of him- but his voice disrupted your panic. “You’re a smart girl. I know, you know what to do.” You swallowed thickly.

Pitching forward, your body lowered until you were flush on top of him. His length was coated in your release, glistening when you let your jaw fall slack. You took the head into your mouth, and suckled at the tip, your hand stroking up the base. He tasted heavy. Like salt and musk, you moaned around him. Lashes fluttering closed.

You forced him deeper, tears bubbling on your waterline- you jumped at the warmth of his tongue. He was circling your clit, licking up your spillage. His nose buried in your slit while he lapped at your cunt.

The lingering sensitivity from your last orgasm had yet to fade, and you shuddered above him. Pathetically clawing at his thighs, your nails raking against the skin. Leaving angry red scours as he gorged himself on you.

You were attempting to focus with all your might. It was simply difficult to form a coherent thought, let alone use your mouth, when Brian was eating you from front to back.

He would hum around the throbbing bud, tracing figure-eights, then he’d tug your hips backward. Fucking you onto his tongue, the muscle probing past your entrance just to return to flicking along the rim.

Slick and spend covered his lips, pouring down his chin and onto his collar. It was debased, dirty the way he had you spread wide. Your jaw had become worthless. You could hardly crane your neck to suck him off properly, practically limp. He didn’t mind too much, though. He had promised to spoil you, so this was par for the course.

He bucked up suddenly, planting his feet for leverage. The new angle had your folds smothering his maw, and he gulped languidly. Taking advantage of your exhaustion, fucking your throat with the only anchor being the weight of your head. Every time you gagged at the intrusion, the vibrations would cause his eyes to disappear up into his skull.

Your pooling saliva made your mouth feel fucking perfect. Warm and sopping wet, the best cock sleeve he’d ever felt- second only to your pussy. You hollowed your cheeks, and he cussed against your heat. “Fuck- good puppy.” You wanted to stay here forever.

The praise had you burning alive, and you gathered whatever pitiful strength was left to take him all the way. Nose shoved into his hilt, slurping pornographically. It was disgustingly messy.

The entire lower half of your face was smeared with cum, his tip knocking into the back of your throat over and over. Being stuffed like this had you hiccuping. The dual-ended pleasure ransacking your frame, making you quiver uncontrollably.

You didn’t have time to warn him; your vocal cords were basically useless at this point. Good puppy. You were good. The phrase replayed on loop, and you spasmed.

Squirting as he pumped hot milk down your throat. You drenched his chin, splattering up to his brow, soaking the pillow.

And Brian laughed. Pinching your ass just to hear you whimper.

His cock slid past your teeth, flopping plump on his navel. Syrupy strings clung to your lips, and his seed bubbled when you coughed. You were the definition of obscenity. Skin painted with white ropes, your puffy cunt on display.

He manhandled you off him effortlessly, flipping you onto your stomach before propping up your hips.

Your thighs were trembling something awful, yet, if anything, he thought that made you more beautiful. Wrecked and corrupted, all by his hand. No less than stunning. He fisted himself, jacking off against your slit. His length collected your dripping arousal, and he tapped it against your clit.

“Jus’ one more, princess. Be strong for me, yeah?” Taunting, he steadied you with a firm hand on your waist, nudging himself in line with your pussy. He could see it clear as day.

Sitting down after work with you, his pretty wife, joining him for dinner. He was sure you’d be happy, fitting just right into his life. Keeping you was fate, the natural order of things.

“T-Too much- nngh- Brian- ah.” Aw, you didn’t even know what you wanted. How precious. He hummed, gently petting your hip. “Oh, it’s alright. You ain’t gotta’ worry about talking.” Then he bottomed out in a single quick thrust, groaning in pure satisfaction. “Fuck-” The overstimulation made you so tight, like doused silk around him.

With his head lolling back, he rolled his hips. Fucking you lazily, low pants punching up his throat. A muted, simmering ecstasy. Brian believed that you were heaven-sent.

His balls slapped against your folds while he used you to chase his own high, the soft plap-plap-plap of skin on skin echoing through the room. Stretching his neck, he glanced down, entranced. Watching his girth slip back and forth from your ruined hole.

You were crumpled into the pillows, eyes glazed over. It felt as if you couldn’t breathe, your air stolen by the repetitive thumps of his length. In and out, in and out. Deliberate and measured. You scarcely remembered your own name, and you could do nothing but moan. Taking him face down ass up like a cock-drunk whore.

Your clipped gasps were muffled by the stuffing, and he sniggered, sounding absolutely gone.

“I’ll get ya’- mmh- all the jewels y’want. Gonna’ set you up real comfortable- we can renovate. Make the cabin so pretty you’ll never wanna’ leave.”

He was force-feeding you the fantasy, injecting it into your bloodstream before you could even comprehend the gravity of his fixation. “I’ll build you a little swing in the yard. It’ll be nice to relax out there when you’re carrying.” He glided his tongue over his canines and hauled you back onto him. “It’s good for you to get some sun, dolly.” Pounding into your cunt with abandon, rabid.

Your need had created a puddle on the duvet, your pussy drooling incessantly. You thought you were going to die like this- your nerves scorched at the ends, his ardour devastating and inescapable.

His chest heaved, every muscle tensed from exertion. Hoodie’s pupils swallowed his irises until his eyes resembled voids. Obsidian tinting with mesmeric transfixion.

“Sounds like a fuckin’ dream, don’t it? S’why I gotta’ make sure it takes.” He slurred, lids heavy. “Treat this pretty pussy the way it deserves.” The liquid filth rolled off his tongue like molasses, and he snapped his hips sharply, making you paw at the cushion.

Brian stretched you on his girth for hours, having your tunnel memorize his shape. Fucking you through the mattress, then yanking you up.

Pressed against his chest, with his bicep locked around your throat. He bounced you onto him, and your shoulders bowed. Spine curving beautifully, your lover as the archer.

He was breeding you mean, and loving you tender. Filling you steadily, his promise of “one more” was simply a courtesy.

You had gone fucking dumb on it. Blacking out between the orgasms that he pulled from you, only to awake mid climax, your frame convulsing.

Snot and spittle smearing all across your features. Everything was spinning, your mouth permanently fixed in an ‘O.

However, the cant he had your hips at made his shaft strike onto the extra delicate spot inside you. Pushing right against your bladder. You’d finished almost a full bottle of wine, and the unrelenting friction of his cock inside you was catching up.

Overflooded, his appetite seemingly endless. The heat in your gut was blending with sharp spikes- your body sending out alerts in flares.

“Wait- ah- ah- B-Brian. Guh- gonna’—” You jerked forward, struggling against the iron bar over your neck. Though your fight was useless. His hand on your waist wrenched you back before his touch descended. “S’alright, darlin’. Make a mess for me- I got ya’.” He purred, drawing letters onto your clit.

‘B-R-I-A-N’. Over and over, claiming. Marking you, obsessed by classification. Your legs quaked, joints locking- you flung your head back. “I can’t-please- feels different- I can’t.” Your peak was approaching speedily, and he kept hitting your sweet spot. Striking bull's-eye, not missing even once. You writhed, your walls squeezing him desperately.

His palm pressed flat over your lower tummy, feeling the protruding bulge. You were so fucking cute, it made him want to cry.

“C’mon, you wanna’ cum? yeah? Give it to me- fuckin’ give it to me, honey.” He rambled, cock throbbing inside you. “Ngh- Oh, fuck-” You sobbed, thrashing, your blunt nails sinking into his hips.

The added pressure was nauseating. You’d been holding it in too long- it hurt. His weeping tip rammed into your cervix, once, twice, three times—

Your eyes rolled, and it gushed out of you furiously.

Warm as it poured down your thighs, drenching both his pelvis and the covers. Humiliation- exhilaration taking hold of you. The pleasure had you going slack. Arms limp by your sides, a complete factory reset.

He dropped his head, teeth piercing your shoulder when he spilled hotly into your cunt. Brian’s hips jerked as he rode out the aftershocks, grunting. “Shit.”

He mouthed at the bite, kissing up your neck. “You really are a puppy.” His chuckle was hoarse, and he unwrapped his bicep from your throat, easing you two down.

Now, with you resting in his lap, he swept the hair away from your damp forehead. Pecking your temple sweetly like he hadn’t just rearranged your guts.

“We can go for a drive tomorrow. Stop by yours an’ pick up yer’ things- get you settled here.” Your delirious nod had him grinning, and he slipped his length out from your pussy.

Shuffling to lie on his back, your cheek resting on his chest. Brian hummed, trailing his finger along your spine. You phased in and out of consciousness while he spoke. “Poor girl, I really tuckered you out, huh?”

He was terribly comfortable, and you felt so safe. Snug in his embrace, your body was exhausted, your breath finally evening out.

His voice acted as a lullaby, and sleep threatened to drag you under. But not before he pressed his lips to your crown, muttering to himself.

“Bet Tim’s gonna’ be excited to meet you.”

➽──────────────❥

A/N: No officer I let him do that trust

[classygumi]

me after reading this

[classygumi]

this is so insane to me.

i’m so grateful for all of you, my first follower to my thousandth. i’m so happy you guys have found something worthy in my imagination and my writing.

thank you!! :3

which first? 2-part series! (for a very very very late (predictable) 1k special)

black sheep kent! reader x jason todd

alpha-passing omega! reader x alpha! tim wright (potentially suggestive)

anxious / shy medic! reader x re9! leon kennedy

riot’s button :3

Voting ended onJul 10

[classygumi]

HEAR ME OUT with the medic reader…vampire leon…HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT

[classygumi]

this is so insane to me.

i’m so grateful for all of you, my first follower to my thousandth. i’m so happy you guys have found something worthy in my imagination and my writing.

thank you!! :3

which first? 2-part series! (for a very very very late (predictable) 1k special)

black sheep kent! reader x jason todd

alpha-passing omega! reader x alpha! tim wright (potentially suggestive)

anxious / shy medic! reader x re9! leon kennedy

riot’s button :3

Voting ended onJul 10

[classygumi]

HEAR ME OUT with the medic reader…vampire leon…HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT

[classygumi]

this is so insane to me.

i’m so grateful for all of you, my first follower to my thousandth. i’m so happy you guys have found something worthy in my imagination and my writing.

thank you!! :3

which first? 2-part series! (for a very very very late (predictable) 1k special)

black sheep kent! reader x jason todd

alpha-passing omega! reader x alpha! tim wright (potentially suggestive)

anxious / shy medic! reader x re9! leon kennedy

riot’s button :3

Voting ended onJul 10

[classygumi]

this is so insane to me.

i’m so grateful for all of you, my first follower to my thousandth. i’m so happy you guys have found something worthy in my imagination and my writing.

thank you!! :3

which first? 2-part series! (for a very very very late (predictable) 1k special)

black sheep kent! reader x jason todd

alpha-passing omega! reader x alpha! tim wright (potentially suggestive)

anxious / shy medic! reader x re9! leon kennedy

riot’s button :3

Voting ended onJul 10

[marwrite]

i loved her first

summary: your father did everything for you. because of it, the men in your life had called you spoilt, unreasonable, a girl with unrealistic expectations. after years of heartbreak and disappointment, you start to believe them- until clark kent proves that love can be gentle, steadfast, and safe enough to let yourself fully trust it.

clark kent x fem ! reader

themes: tooth rotting fluff, whatever the opposite of daddy issues is, clark being so sweet and domestic. princess treatment, reader being oh so wonderfully loved, very feel good. enjoy! xx

Your father would do anything for you.

From the second you were born, you had zero need to lift a single finger. Your shoes were always tied. Ice cream always scooped. When the rhinestones started falling off your favourite bejewelled headband, it was replaced within a matter of minutes.

By the age of fifteen, you had your own personal chaffeur. He'd drive you around the block with a big grin and a janky car that rattled when it turned, while your mom watched proudly from the living room window.

He loved her too, of course. So very much. Sometimes, they'd go about their day and you'd just smile and watch them; how he spun her around the kitchen table, the giggles that fell from her lips, the open bills forgotten on the table right next to them. None of them mattered. They ceased to exist the second they laid their eyes on one another.

He'd kiss her cheek, ruffle your hair, call you both his best girls.

You told yourself it was a love you wanted one day- when you were a little bit older maybe, when the right man finally came along. Your father showed you best how a woman should be treated; made it so that princess treatment wasn't a 'luxury' to you, nor would it ever be.

It was a god-given, fully expected birthright.

However, little girls had to grow up sometime.

So when twenty-two finally came, and you packed your bags and headed off to the big city of Metropolis- your father's tearful wave accompanying the faint smell of smoke that always clung to him in the hug goodbye- you simply didn't have it in you to prepare for the dangers ahead.

"You call me if you need a thing," he said gruffly, though the tears in his vision contrasted his voice completely. You nodded, falling into yet another tearful hug, "Don't be a stranger."

You tried.

But- as expected- life took over. You got busy. You'd still call, but visited far less frequently.

And the downside to previously having such a loving dynamic followed you right through adulthood.

The deadbeat boyfriends that you trusted, the almost-fiancé that only wanted a ring on your finger for the status. They took your naivety as gospel and used it to load their pistols of incompetence; missed dinners, connections to their exes, coersion.

How could they be so awful, when your father had only ever shown you the kind side to men? How did you accumulate so many horrible dates, land in so many awful situations that would have the man who raised you barrelling down the freeway with narrowed eyes and anger emcompassing every acceleration?

Your first situationship wasn't real. It was experience.

Your first ever boyfriend didn't like you. He liked the idea of you.

And your second boyfriend-turned-fiancé had none of the qualities you wanted in a partner. So when he came home one day, excited over colour swatches and bouqets for a wedding you just couldn't envision- well, you broke it off. Right then and there.

Because he'd never proven himself, not really. And you needed that proof like your very existence needed oxygen.

He never opened doors for you, never bothered to memorise your coffee order. The vanity you bought months and months ago sat untouched, collecting dust at the corner of the room because he'd promised to put it together one day and just... never did.

Your father would have. He would have driven the whole twelve hours down to central, just to get his hands on a hammer and a nail, and you'd be powdering your face in a fresh mirror within minutes.

So, you took a leap of faith and ended the three year relationship. You moved out into your own studio apartment right in the heart of Metropolis, a few blocks away from all your favourite places.

You thought, maybe love just wasn't for you. Perhaps there was something wrong with you that meant nothing human would ever measure up. Or perhaps, you winced, you truly were as spoilt as your many exes had accused you of being.

"Daddy's girl." your first one had scoffed.

"Ain't ever gonna land a good man with that attitude," the second one spat.

"How... but... I-I did everything right." the third lied tearfully.

But then, just when you started to lower your expectations and announce to the world that you were finally giving up on finding the perfect man, you met him.

Clark.

Clark Kent.

And everything those horrible exes had tried to convince you that you were flew entirely out of the window.

He was soft, sweet. You both met on a rainy day in July, the water warm and faint, making everything smell like fresh air and ozone.

"Oh! I'm sorry-" you blushed, your body bumping against his as you failed to watch where you were going.

"No, no- that's alright," his smile was kind. Patient. The type of smile to base a frequent daydream off of. "Please, after you."

"Thank you."

He'd held the door to the café open for you to walk inside, watching quietly as you claimed your seat in the corner of the lobby before going up to order yourself a drink.

Clark got his first. He paid for yours in advance, tipping the barista 40%, before slipping unannounced straight back out of the door.

When you finally decided on an oat milk vanilla latte, he was gone.

The second time you met him, the key to your apartment had jammed in the lock, and you'd gone back down to the lobby to ask someone for help.

And for some reason, the kind man from the coffee shop was right there; only just about to get in the elevator, when he caught your eye and once again, let you in first.

You were neighbours, would you believe? A few floors apart, sure, but living in the same building regardless.

What were the chances? You made a mental note to thank him for your coffee another time, hopefully on a better day under happier circumstances.

"How's your morning been?" he asked you politely.

On a good day, you typically wouldn't overshare- it was just super unfortunate that he happened to catch you on a very, very, very bad day.

So naturally, you told him everything.

How the wind had ruined your hair the very second you stepped out of the building to go to work; how none of the emails you'd sent made any sense, and how your lunch was gross despite the fact that you always got the same thing. Then finally, how you came home absolutely exhausted and still, your key got stuck- with nobody in reception willing to lend a helping hand.

"It's a couple hundred dollars for a locksmith," Clark's eyebrows raised, in a slightly stunned way that would have had you blushing if you weren't already so frustrated. "I'm not one, but... I could take a look? If you'd like? I grew up on a farm, and we had these old fashioned keys that'd get jammed all the time... I know my way around a keyhole."

You tried not to let the surprise on your face show. You didn't have to beg, plead, barter for this man to help you out- he just did, wanted to, for seemingly nothing in return.

And you weren't even acquiantances, let alone friends. He owed you nothing and still, came to your floor and jimmied the key right out. No struggle, no sighs of exasperation to make you feel bad- just a pleased smile and a twinkle in his beautiful blue eyes.

"There," he grinned, plopping it in your palm carefully, "All fixed."

You thanked him, weak at the knees. It was then that you realised just how gorgeous Clark really was- if it wasn't the baby blues, it was the smile, the dimples in his cheeks and the impressive way his shoulders filled out the dress shirt he wore.

But most importantly, he was kind.

That just made him all the more stunning.

You ran into each other for a while. Often in the elevator, and afterwards he'd walk you to your door like it was midnight in Gotham. Never asking to be invited in, just happy to speak to you for an extra twenty seconds of his day.

When you did eventually muster up enough courage to ask him to come inside, you had no idea what you were in for. Truly.

Because that one cup of decaf coffee turned into multiple. It turned into dinner under the lowlight of your apartment (a thanks for the coffee he'd bought weeks ago) and another dinner a couple of weeks later at Clark's penthouse (a thanks for your thanks for the coffee he'd bought a month ago), right at the top of the building you both shared.

Naturally, it turned into something more.

A drawer at his, a space at yours. Two toothbrushes in both bathrooms, one tube of toothpaste. Your mugs began to invade his cupboard space, amended articles with his neat handwriting filling your coffee table.

So when Clark asked you to be his girlfriend four months after your first official date, of course, you said yes. Because by then, you already knew.

He wasn't like the others. They were boys, silly little things that knew nothing of what it meant to really, truly love someone.

But Clark did.

He remembered everything about you, not even just the important stuff like what you didn't like and what you loved- he remembered the exact way you liked your clothes folded, your skincare routine, how you hated cobblestone paths because it made your footing uneven. You were a carefully penned article, one that he was determined to memorise.

Clark never made you feel like you were asking for too much. If anything, he made you feel like you deserved it all and more.

The bookshelf arrived on a Tuesday afternoon.

It came in a flat-packed cardboard box that was nearly as tall as you were, dropped unceremoniously in the hallway outside your apartment by a delivery man who barely spared you a glance before disappearing back into the elevator.

"Delivery for ya, little lady."

You stared at it for a long moment.

Clark was working late at the Planet. He had texted you that morning, a bunch of emojis clouding his gentle words of, Don’t wait up, honey. Perry’s got us chasing three different stories today.

You told him to take his time. Said you’d order takeout, enough for him to come home to, and curl up with a book.

Instead, you dragged the box inside.

It started innocently enough. A pair of scissors slicing through packing tape. The rustle of protective styrofoam that went everywhere and made you huff. Instruction manuals unfolding like complicated maps written in languages you only half understood.

"God." you muttered miserably, narrowed eyes glaring at the box with vice.

By step four, you were sweating.

For step six, you had somehow assembled two panels backwards. Step nine wasn't any better, because that was when the screwdriver slipped in your grip and your knuckles slammed hard against the unfinished wood.

You hissed, sucking in air through your teeth, blinking rapidly as tears pricked your vision. A thin line of red blossomed across your skin.

It wasn’t even the pain that made your chest tighten. It was the echo of a memory.

A different apartment. A different box. A different man sighing loudly from the couch while scrolling through his phone, irritation dripping from every exhale as you asked, softly, if he could help you assemble the vanity he’d promised to build weeks ago.

In a minute.

After this game.

Why can’t you just do it yourself?

It had taken you three weeks of gentle reminders and swallowed pride before he finally assembled it- muttering the entire time like your request was a personal inconvenience. Only to drop to one knee a couple of months later, claims of you being the love of his life dripping from his mouth like venom.

The screwdriver clattered from your hand. You tried again anyway, because who else was going to do it?

Clark found you sitting cross-legged on the floor when he finally came home, surrounded by wooden panels, scattered screws, and instructions wrinkled beyond recognition. The bookshelf leaned precariously against the wall, uneven and half-assembled like it might collapse if someone breathed too hard.

The smile on his face dropped, gaze trailing down your arm to your hand, wrapped clumsily in paper towels speckled pink.

He froze in the doorway.

"Honey?"

You looked up, offering a sheepish smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "Hi."

His eyes flicked between the blood, the mess, the lopsided shelf, and something inside his expression shifted. Not anger- never anger with your sweet, careful Clark- but a quiet, wounded confusion that hit you harder than you thought it would.

"…Why wouldn’t you ask me to do it?" the softness in his voice made your throat tighten.

You shrugged, suddenly fascinated by the carpet fibres beneath your fingertips. "You were working. I didn’t want to bother you."

Clark set his bag down slowly, carefully, like sudden movements might shatter something fragile between you.

"You’re never a bother," he said gently, kneeling in front of you. His large hands hovered near yours before carefully taking your wrist, inspecting the cut with such delicate concentration it made your chest ache. “Does this hurt?”

"Not really."

It did. Just not in the way he meant.

So, you explained it to him.

The string of bad exes. The sighs of annoyance that used to follow your requests like thunder chasing lightning. The vanity you once loved and now hated because it took weeks of quiet grovelling just to convince someone who supposedly loved you to build it.

The slow, creeping shame that made you believe asking for help meant being difficult. Being high maintenance. Being too much.

"I just..." you winced, "I just got so used to my dad doing everything for me. I'm sorry."

Clark listened to every word.

"You never have to be sorry for that," he told you gently, reaching a warm hand out to soothe you. "All it means is that you grew up knowing what real love looks like."

You went quiet for a bit, not really knowing what to say back. Never in your life had you told a man about your dad and been met with anything other than an eye-roll or a raised eyebrow.

"I’m not like them," he then said, softly.

You swallowed.

"I said I’d take care of you," he continued, his thumb ghosting across your knuckles with careful tenderness. "Let me take care of you."

There was no arrogance in it, no possessiveness. Just quiet certainty, like gravity. Like sunrise. Like truths that simply existed without needing to be proven.

And then, because your ever-loving boyfriend was Clark Kent, he kissed your injured hand like it was the most natural thing in the world before standing up, rolling his sleeves to his elbows, and assembling the entire bookshelf in under thirty minutes.

"Take a seat, baby," he cleared the couch of instruction manuals and nails for you, "Relax for me, okay?"

You didn’t question how he managed it so quickly. You just watched him, warmth blooming in your chest like something long frozen had finally begun to thaw.

It reminded you of home. Of laughter spilling from kitchen walls, smoke clinging to familiar flannel, strong hands that had spent your entire life making the world feel softer around the edges.

And maybe that was why the next step felt less like a choice and more like destiny.

Meeting your father was… inevitable.

Terrifying for both of you, but inevitable.

Clark ironed three different shirts before settling on the blue one you told him brought out his eyes. He rehearsed greetings under his breath. He even brought flowers for your mother, even though she’d insisted repeatedly over the phone that it wasn’t necessary.

"We just want you both here, safe!" she chirped happily. Even so, you still felt like throwing up and Clark was still ruffling a nervous hand through his unruly hair.

Your father opened the door with that same familiar scent of cedar clinging to him, his pose rigid, still protective, still the safest place you’d ever known. He sized Clark up in less than three seconds.

Clark extended his hand immediately.

"Sir," he nodded slowly, "it’s an honour to finally meet you."

Your father gripped his hand firmly, gaze sharp but not unkind. When he spoke, you felt your boyfriend loosen up a little, though the dread was still apparent in the way he stayed a respectable distance away from you.

"Any man willing to drive six hours just to make sure my daughter doesn’t travel alone already gets a few points in my book." your father replied.

Dinner was loud. Warm. Filled with overlapping stories and constant laughter that bounced off the four walls you'd grown up in. You watched them carefully, nervously, but it didn’t take long before your shoulders relaxed.

Because your father refilled your glass without a word.

And Clark draped a neatly folded napkin across your lap, a soft smile brushing your lips before he turned back to your mother’s story.

When your plate ran low, your father quietly spooned more onto it, telling the story of the day you were born as if the two moments were on- care and memory intertwined.

And then Clark, silently, took the cherries from his own dessert and placed them on yours, his fingers brushing yours just enough for you to notice, your favourite part of a favourite thing now doubled.

Together, wordlessly, seemingly without noticing- they moved around you like two steady orbits around the same sun.

By the end of the evening, you wandered toward the living room while they insisted on washing up. You meant to help, but your footsteps slowed when you heard your father’s voice through the kitchen doorway.

He handed Clark the final dish, water dripping from his hands.

"I know you’re a good man," your father said quietly. "And I trust you’ll take care of her. But please… if anything ever changes. If you ever feel different… don’t hurt her."

Silence stretched for a moment.

"Just bring her back to me."

You peeked around the corner just enough to see Clark swallow, his shoulders straightening with quiet resolve.

"Yes, sir," he said, steadily.

"But please... believe me. I would never hurt her. I wouldn’t even think of it."

Your father nodded once, satisfied. You pressed your hand against your mouth, blinking rapidly as emotion swelled behind your ribs.

And Clark was right. He never hurt you. Never even came close.

Not even when he finally told you he was Superman.

He confessed on a quiet evening, glasses set carefully on the coffee table between you like a confession waiting to breathe. His voice trembled in a way you’d never heard before, words tumbling out in uneven fragments about responsibility and fear and how loving you had become both the bravest and most terrifying thing he’d ever done.

You listened. You watched the man you loved stand before you stripped bare- not of strength, but of certainty.

You forgave him before he even finished explaining.

Because deep, deep down, you believed that you had always known.

Maybe not consciously. Maybe not in ways you could put into words. But the late nights, the impossible saves. The way he sometimes looked at the sky like it was calling him home, the sirens that alerted him more than they should.

You loved Clark Kent. And in turn, you were also in love with Superman.

It didn’t change the way he warmed your side of the bed before you climbed in, or how he held all eight grocery bags in one hand and yours in the other. It didn’t change the way he still insisted on tying your shoelaces if he noticed they were loose, dropping down on the busy pavement just to provide you some ease.

If anything, it only deepened your understanding of how extraordinary it was that someone capable of carrying the world still chose to come home and carry you, too.

Years passed.

The love- as well as the space- that you both shared, grew.

Two apartments turned into just one, and that one apartment became a four bedroom house just outside of the city; one bought with a nursery and young child's bedroom in mind one day.

Your wedding day smelled like fresh flowers and nervous anticipation.

Your father’s arm trembled slightly where it linked through yours as he walked you down the aisle, though whether from emotion or age, you couldn’t tell. You clutched him tighter, grounding yourself in the steady rhythm of his steps.

Clark waited at the altar, eyes glassy, smile already breaking across his face like dawn spilling over the horizon. His good friend Jimmy sobbed into a napkin, Lois right next to him hissing to pull it together- though you could see it too, the glossiness in her piercing blue eyes.

Halfway down the aisle, your father leaned closer.

"I loved you first," he whispered, voice thick with unshed tears.

"I know," you whispered back, hoping for a joke, hoping for a threat towards the only man in the world you knew he'd ever approve of. Anything to ease the nerves, the dread of everyone's eyes on you.

But instead, your father nodded towards where Clark stood, voice barely a croak.

"And now, he gets to love you forever."

Your chest squeezed painfully, beautifully, as he placed your hand into Clark’s waiting one.

Clark held it like something sacred, irreplaceable, something he would protect with everything he was and still had yet to be.

Your father pressed a kiss to your forehead before stepping back, pride and heartbreak and joy colliding in his eyes all at once. When the officiant began to speak, and you caught Clark's eyes boring so lovingly into your own, it was then that you fully realised.

You were never impossible to love.

And it was never that your expectations were too high.

You were simply raised knowing what love looked like when it was done right- when it showed up without being asked, when it stayed without being begged, when it took care without making you feel guilty for needing it.

Clark never tried to compete with the love you grew up with. Never tried to make you feel smaller for wanting it to last forever. He never asked you to unlearn the gentleness your father built your world around, or reshape yourself into something easier to hold.

Instead, he treated it like something special, something worth protecting. Something worth proving, day after day, that it could exist outside childhood memories and smoke-scented hugs goodbye.

And in the end, he never tried to stand where your father had. He simply stepped in beside him, honoured- ready to continue the love that raised you.

i cried a little while writing this. hope you're all doing amazingly !! so so happy to be back xx

[winteryn]

ROUGH HANDS, STRAWBERRY KISSES & OTHER SOFT THINGS farmer!bucky barnes x teacher!reader [26.2k]

— ⟢ SUMMARY: navigating your first relationship feels overwhelming at times; every touch, every question, every new feeling makes you wonder if you’re doing things right. thankfully, bucky loves you with enough patience and gentleness to turn every new experience into a reason to hold you a little closer. or, a collection of moments in which your boyfriend teaches you that love was never supposed to feel frightening—not when it’s held in careful hands like his. — ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; pre-established relationship; older!bucky (he's just mentioned to be older than reader, but both age are unspecified); gentle!bucky; protective!bucky; insecure!reader; reader is mentioned to wear skirts & dresses; size difference (author likes her men tall & beefy); non-sexual & light d/s dynamic; pet names feast & praise festival; reader uses jamie a lot bc the author finds it cute & intimate; domestic fluff; tooth-rooting romance; light angst; one (1) small argument; discussion about dealing with arguments in a healthy way; toxic family dynamics (reader's parents mentioned); brief discussion about the future & having kids; smut; big dick bucky organization (🙂‍↕️); soft dom!bucky; scent kink & possessive behavior; nipple play; pussy pronouns; pussy inspection; oral (f receiving); fingering; sex in public places; unprotected sex (I imagined reader to be on the pill but nothing is mentioned); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; squirting; creampie.

A/N: so... I won’t lie, I’m a little anxious. this story is extremely self-indulgent and stems from a deeply personal place. I know it might not be many people’s cup of tea but writing this was actually therapeutic after my friend gave me a sort of reality check about my love life lmao. one last thing, the order is not chronological. hope you’ll enjoy! series masterlist

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO WEAR MATCHING CLOTHES Sitting cross-legged on your bed, your laptop is balanced precariously on your thighs. The cursor has been hovering over the same cream-colored sweatshirt for almost twenty minutes now, your eyes flicking uselessly between the product picture and the tiny sizing chart beneath it as if either one could help with the actual problem here.

Because unfortunately the problem is not the hoodie per se, but that Bucky owns the exact same one. Well, almost exact. His is a beautiful shade of forest green, faded slightly at the cuffs from use and permanently smelling like fresh air, and the cedar and rose body wash he keeps in his shower. You saw it weeks ago, the first time he picked you up to drive you to work because you had planned to grab dinner together later. His broad shoulders easily filled the doorway of your house, holding two coffees and wearing that stupid hoodie that somehow made him look even larger. You remember trying to subtly peek at it while he drove, only to end up staring shamelessly at the way the sleeves strained around his forearms every time he turned the steering wheel.

And now here you are, thinking about matching clothes like a sixteen-year-old girl with a Pinterest board titled someday. It’s embarrassing enough that you need to physically close the laptop for a couple of seconds, before opening it again with a sigh.

You don’t even know why this matters so much. You have never done this before—the soft, easy parts of a relationship. You have never had someone long enough to build small habits with, someone steady enough that you could easily picture yourself sharing jokes only the two of you could understand over morning coffee, or reaching for their hand in the grocery store without spending days working up the courage first. You are still learning how to ask for things without feeling guilty afterward. Still learning how to want openly. And Bucky... God, Bucky makes it so much worse by being so impossibly patient about everything. From the very beginning.

Your first date had barely even started before he showed up with flowers hidden awkwardly behind his back, his left hand rubbing at the back of his neck almost sheepishly when he handed them to you.

“Before you say anything, sweetheart, my mama raised me right and she’d come back from the dead to beat my ass if I showed up empty-handed.”

Your laugh was so loud and unexpected that he stared at you for a good moment like he had just been entrusted with a beautiful, precious gem.

Then there was the second date. And the third. And somehow every single time, he never failed to surprise you with his sweet thoughtfulness. Sometimes it was wildflowers from his property he’d personally tie together with twine. Sometimes big yet tasteful bouquets of stargazer lilies that you would immediately put in a vase and proudly display on your dining table. Once, peonies so full and soft they had shed pink petals all over the inside of his truck.

He opened every door without making it feel performative, always guiding you carefully with one warm hand on your lower back as if that had become instinct before he even realized it. And then came the night of your fourth day, when he walked you to your door, lingering awkwardly while you fumbled with your keys.

You remember smiling nervously. “So… what exactly are we doing here?”

Bucky had taken a long moment to look at you, blue eyes softening under the faint light of your doorstep. “I was hoping I could court you properly.”

Court you. Who even says that anymore? Apparently, James Buchanan Barnes.

You stared at him while your heartbeat climbed into your throat. And because silence had stretched a little too long, he had immediately stepped in to reassure you.

“Only if you want me to, sweetheart. No pressure.”

No pressure. As if he had not already made your entire understanding of men shift off its axis.

Sometimes, it frightened you how naturally Bucky fit into your life. It started with warm drinks and pastries between classes because, “my pretty girl shouldn’t have to survive on burnt coffee from that old thing in the staff room”; with calling you every night just to hear your voice before bed, and taking you out on dates every Friday. Yet he could not stand going the rest of the week without seeing you, which was how sunny Sunday walks around his property became routine, along with Wednesday lunches at the little diner where his aunt’s friend, Pat, worked and spent the entirety of your meals watching the two of you with the sort of fondness reserved for people who are obviously in love yet keep shyly tiptoeing around each other.

Bucky loves intensely in all the quietest ways, which somehow makes asking for things complicated. Because what if one day you asked for something silly enough that made him realize how inexperienced you really were at all this?

Your eyes land back on the hoodie again as you chew at the inside of your cheek. Before you can overthink yourself out of it, you click purchase.

The first time you wear it around him is for movie night next Saturday. You have been shaking with excitement for weeks over the special twenty-fifth-anniversary screening of The Lord of the Rings. Bucky had agreed to come with you without even letting you finish explaining why it mattered so much, only to follow it up with an amused, “don’t gotta sell it to me, doll. I’ll take you wherever you wanna go.”

You almost change three times before he arrives. By the time his truck pulls up in your driveway, your stomach is churning so badly you feel like throwing up. It’s a hoodie that just happens to be like his, so what? People wear hoodies every day, they’re such a common piece of clothing... This is not a confession of undying love.

Still, the moment you pull open your door and find Bucky waiting on the other side like he’s been standing there just long enough to start missing you, you realize the sweater has perhaps not been your most emotionally neutral decision. His eyes find your face immediately, his default frown melting at once. But before he can even say hi, his gaze drops on the cream-colored fabric. You watch with horror the exact moment recognition settles in.

There is a brief, heavy pause, and then that slow, familiar curve of his mouth appears—not teasing in any cruel sense, never that. Just quietly pleased, enough that heat crawls all the way up your neck. And because your brain seems biologically incapable of letting you experience vulnerability like most people, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“I thought the color looked nice.” The words tumble over each other so quickly they barely sound coherent by the end of the sentence.

Bucky blinks, clearly caught off guard by your sudden defensiveness, before one dark eyebrow lifts, amusement flickering across his face in the gentlest possible way.

“Nobody said it didn’t, baby.”

You promptly look away as if the floor might offer some kind of mercy, pretending to be preoccupied with the sleeve of your hoodie while internally mourning what little dignity you have left. Bucky doesn’t let you sit in it alone for long, though. Taking a step closer, his warm presence is grounding enough that all the static noise in your brain fades. His hands naturally find your waist like they have always belonged there, before he softly nudges you forward.

“C’mere, sweetheart. Let me say hi properly.” He murmurs, leaning down to press a slow kiss on your lips, grinning at your unguarded, little giggle when his stubble tickles your skin.

The cold evening air makes you shiver, and you instinctively tug your sleeves further over your hands while Bucky leads you to his pickup truck, parked beneath a flickering streetlamp. You can sense his quiet amusement, though he is kind enough not to mention the hoodie outright. Still, every now and then you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye with that same smitten expression reserved for you only.

Once you reach the passenger side, Bucky opens the door before you can even think about touching the handle yourself, one hand braced against the top of the frame while you climb inside.

“Watch your head.”

You duck obediently beneath his arm, trying very hard not to think about how quickly you have fallen into these tiny routines with him.

As Bucky rounds the hood and slides into the driver’s seat, your heart finally starts calming down. You might survive the evening with minimal humiliation, after all. But then, he just has to reach across and smoothly pull the seatbelt into place for you—the way his knuckles brush your thigh briefly through the fabric of your jeans still manages to send your thoughts scattering again.

“You’re fidgeting.” He mentions quietly, eyes flicking toward your hands where they are twisting nervously in the sleeves of your hoodie. “What’s going on in that pretty head, hm?”

You shake your head, far too quickly to look convincing.

“Nothing. I’m just a little cold.”

Bucky hums under his breath like he doesn’t believe you for even a second, yet doesn’t comment and instead lets his gaze fall on your sweater one more time before returning to your face. The smile that spreads slowly across his lips is so openly fond that your cheeks start burning.

In a careful movement, he leans over the center console and kisses you, his calloused fingers cupping your jaw with impossible tenderness.

“You look lovely tonight.”

That almost makes your heart explode out of your chest.

The next time he picks you up for lunch on your day off, your breath hitches as you freeze on the threshold. Because Bucky is leaning against the hood of his truck in his dark green sweatshirt, looking so boyishly handsome with his sunglasses pushed up into his long hair.

His expression loosens when he sees your features fall in realization. God, he looks so unfairly gorgeous when he gets that look in his eyes, the same one that suggests every sharp edge exists only for the rest of the world, never for you.

“There’s my pretty girl.”

Your stomach flips violently as he pushes himself off the imposing vehicle to cross the short distance, his hands easily settling at your hips the second he reaches you. He bends to kiss you hello, unhurried despite the cold, and your palms unconsciously come up to touch his chest.

“I missed you so much, baby.”

You are still too busy internally combusting to softly point out that you just saw each other two days ago for bowling night with your friends, Natasha and Darcy. Your fingers curl tighter in the fabric, and Bucky notices instantly.

His thumbs stroke once the curve of your waist. “You okay?”

You nod eagerly.

“You wore it.” The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them, gaze still lingering on the hoodie in pure wonder.

Bucky glances down at himself, and then at your own sweater before meeting your eyes, the right corner of his mouth lifting adorably.

“Thought we’d look real cute if we matched.”

You feel dizzy at his effortless answer, devoid of any trace of irony or hesitation. And that’s the thing about Bucky, you realize again as you stand there trying to steady your pulse: he doesn’t treat these moments like anything out of the ordinary. He simply folds them into the shape of his care for you.

Before you can collect yourself enough to answer, he is already guiding you forward with an arm around your shoulders, opening the passenger door ahead of you with that same practiced care. The warmth of the truck hits you almost dazedly after standing still in the cold.

“Heat’s been on for a bit.” He remarks at your blink of surprise as he settles into the driver’s seat, his chin lightly nodding at the backseat, where two of his heavier jackets are folded neatly, placed with deliberate care so they will not shift during the drive. Beside them a fuzzy blanket sits just as methodically arranged.

“I know it’s not the warmest of hoodies.”

When you look back at him, he sends you a small wink. At your stunned silence, his fingers gently move beneath your chin to have your complete attention, your heart already beating too fast for you to pretend otherwise.

“You alright there, doll?” He asks with a small crease between his brows.

You nod too quickly, not entirely sure what words would even hold up under the weight of everything you are feeling right now. Bucky lets out a low sound that might almost be a laugh if it were not so gentle, and then he is leaning in just enough to press a peck to the corner of your mouth.

“Y’know, I think I’m getting attached to this whole matching thing. Sends a pretty clear message.” He murmurs against your skin.

From that point on, it’s an unspoken agreement that has tenderly carved its rightful place between you both. It never turns into a conversation so much as it becomes a habit for the two of you. A jacket chosen to match the tone of your skirt, a top swapped for a darker color, small details that only make sense when you realize he’s genuinely paying attention to you, building your relationship one quiet choice at a time.

And months later, there are mornings when he is sitting at the edge of the bed with coffee in hand, his eyes lazily following you move around his room as you get ready. They eventually land on your shoes.

“You wearing the brown boots today?”

You glance down at your outfit, confirming it with a small nod as you keep applying your mascara. Bucky hums once in acknowledgment, already pushing himself up with a low groan to reach for his own pair in the shoe rack.

“Then I’ll wear mine.” He mumbles casually.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO TAKE PICTURES TOGETHER The local coffee shop is a half-forgotten hole-in-the-wall tucked between a bookstore and a florist, the kind that only feels busy because the tables are close enough that conversations blur into one another in a soft, overlapping hum. Today it’s warmer than usual for the season, sunlight spilling lazily across the pavement outside almost indulgently after days of grey skies and persistent rain. It coaxes people into lingering longer than they probably intend to as though no one is in any particular rush to leave.

You are sitting across from Bucky at a small round table on the patio, your cups half-full and an empty plate sitting between you, remnants of the slice of red velvet cake you shared earlier still scattered across it. He stepped away only a few minutes ago, murmuring something about the restroom and brushing his knuckles briefly against your shoulder as he left.

In an attempt to occupy yourself while you wait, you take out your phone, your thumb moving absentmindedly across the screen as you scroll through whatever comes up. Until a specific post catches your attention so suddenly it stops you entirely.

It’s one of those photos you have seen countless times while looking for outfit inspirations on Pinterest, clearly curated despite its effortless appearance. A girl sits on what you assume must be her boyfriend’s lap while the camera is angled downward just enough to capture their shoes together, his heavy worn boots resting beside her delicate heels. The entire image is framed in warm light that makes it look like wanting something and simply having it without hesitation.

The contrast is cute rather than discordant.

You find yourself stuck on that picture as your chest tightens, because there are still so many small things that you don’t know how to ask for yet, things that feel too silly to voice even though they linger in your mind longer than you would like to admit. A lap. A picture. His boots beside your pretty Mary Jane heels… It feels ridiculous to desire it this badly, yet you keep staring at your phone as if hesitation could soften the sting of being dismissed. Or worse, laughed at.

You don’t notice Bucky returning until the chair across from you shifts under his weight, the scrape of it pulling you sharply into the present as you instinctively place your phone back on the table a tad too quickly for it to look natural. He sits down pretending to not have noticed any of it, reaching for his coffee.

“Alright, lovely?” He asks, voice unbothered.

You open your mouth, then close it again almost immediately, your mind caught between embarrassment and the awareness of how easily he always seems to understand you. Bucky notices your uncertainty, but doesn’t push, instead loosely rests his forearms on the table to lean closer.

“Hey,” his voice lowers just enough to gently pull you out of your thoughts. “What were you saying before I got up? About yesterday’s meeting?”

It’s such a simple question yet it almost disarms you completely. People don’t usually do that—they interrupt you to start new conversations, change direction, lose track halfway through and then forget about it entirely. But Bucky is looking at you like your words were simply waiting there for him to return to them.

So you blink once, a little startled, then slowly exhale as memories come back with a sharp pang. About that stupid staff meeting. About Ms. Cox.

The words come out carefully at first, testing how much space you are allowed to take up, but the more you speak, the clearer Bucky can see frustration still fresh beneath your composure. 

“There is this student, Mark. Ms. Cox keeps insisting that he’s lazy and just—” You exhale tiredly. “She believes he doesn’t care about school.”

His jaw subtly tenses as he nods for you to go on.

“And I tried to explain that it isn’t that simple,” you continue, your fingers fidgeting on your lap. “Because it’s true that he struggles with math, but he works really hard, always does his best. He just needs time. And she… well, she went off on me.”

His brows draw together. “Went off how?”

Your eyes fall on the table before you adjust in your seat, as if moving could shake off the discomfort.

“She accused me of inflating grades to make myself look like a good teacher.” You admit quietly, the accusation leaving behind an ugly taste of shame on your tongue despite your innocence. “Because students do well in English. Including Mark.”

You can practically sense Bucky biting back his irritation, his frown deepening as he watches you shrink just talking about it.

“And the principal just let it slide?” His voice roughens slightly at the edges despite his effort to keep it even.

You huff out a small breath that resembles a laugh, devoid of any humor. “She has been teaching there forever. They just don’t deal with her anymore. Alice described her as—ah, sorry. Alice is the—”

“The art teacher.” 

You finally look at him, blinking in surprise.

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a small nod, a brief smile crossing his features.

“I remember.”

“Oh.” You have mentioned your colleagues only once since you started going steady, your meager dating experience having taught you that nobody was really interested in your life—especially your job. They focused more on meaningless, polite conversations punctuated by some generic compliment about your eyes, or your dress, that could guarantee them some sort of reward at the end of the night.

“Um.” You clear your throat, trying to ignore the intensity of his gaze. “So, Alice described her as a vindictive woman and since she’s close to retirement, they let her do whatever she wants because it’s easier than arguing with her.”

You hesitate for a second. “Years ago, there was this new physical education teacher...” Your voice lowers a little as if she might appear out of thin air and point her condescending finger at you. “She refused to approve his one-day school trip unless it was on her day off, because she didn’t want her schedule disrupted.”

Your jaw clenches briefly. “He told the principal… and after that she kept filing complaint after complaint about his ‘lack of professionalism’, until the school ended up not renewing his contract the next year.”

“What the fuck?” He mumbles under his breath, his lips pressing together tightly. “Wait—and they just expect you to take it?” His nostrils flare with a slow exhale.

“Pretty much.” You shrug, though it feels heavier than you intend.

For a moment, Bucky just sits there with his jaw tight as he chooses to not push his annoyance outward yet, mainly because he is waiting for you to let it all out. It’s in that pause that your eyes move unconsciously to the side of the table. Your phone is still there, the screen dark now, but not locked properly. You realize it too late, when a notification from that stupid teachers’ group chat—the one filled with nothing but good morning texts, good night wishes, and painfully unfunny memes—briefly wakes it and reveals that picture again, bright and candid.

Bucky’s attention promptly lands on it too. He doesn’t comment, which only makes your stomach tighten further as you hastily reach for your phone, turning it face down with too much force.

“What was that?” He asks casually, quiet curiosity dancing in his eyes.

“Nothing.” You answer too fast and his eyes narrow slightly, more observant than suspicious.

“That didn’t exactly sound like nothing, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, then deflect again, weaker this time. “Just a random picture.” You shrug, hoping to appear disinterested. “I was on Instagram and forgot to close it.”

That earns a pause from him, his head tilting just a fraction as he studies you more carefully.

“A picture you don’t wanna show me?” He asks gently.

You shake your head, eyes shyly falling on his arms. At that, Bucky simply shifts in his seat, his hand crossing the small space between you—not to take your phone, but to find your wrist and gently guide it to his lips. When you peek through your eyelashes, you almost flinch at how close he is now, his thumb reverently stroking your knuckles before his other hand cups your chin deliberately.

“You can tell me anything.” His voice is steady in a way that doesn’t leave room for pressure, only reassurance. “Y’know that, right?”

You shiver at the proximity. You do know, that’s the problem, how could you forget when Bucky stands before you, always so careful and sweet? And still, you are never entirely sure how to stop the words from breaking in your mouth.

“I just… saw something,” you confess weakly. “That I thought would be cute to recreate together.”

Bucky’s expression softens instantly.

“What is it, sweetheart?” 

You swallow thickly, fingers flexing once under his hand. Then, barely above a whisper, you manage it. “I’d like for us to take pictures like… couples do.”

He observes you silently, expression unreadable, until a small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, patient and knowing all at once. He nudges his chair back a little farther to make room for you, patting his thigh once.

“C’mere.”

You blink. “What?”

He nods toward his lap.

“C’mere, doll.” He repeats quietly, reaching for your wrist before you can overthink yourself into refusing, to guide you around the table.

The realization of what you are doing hits in one overwhelming wave of self-consciousness the second your weight fully sinks on his lap. Bucky is bigger than you in every conceivable way, broader and heavier with muscle, solid where you are soft. His thick forearm dusted with dark hair keeps you close to the warmth of his chest, and his strong thighs spread comfortably beneath yours. When his palm settles on your knee to keep you balanced, the rough heat of his skin bleeds straight through the thin fabric of your stockings, and a small involuntary shiver runs through you. It’s humiliating how dizzy it makes you feel, because Bucky appears completely at peace behind you. You are trying not to implode from his touch and there he is, sitting back and holding you as if that’s exactly where you are meant to be.

Your unsteady hands finally reach for your phone, trying to angle it properly, breath catching a little when his fingers flex against your waist.

“You’re thinking way too hard.” He murmurs near your ear, his salt-and-pepper stubble faintly scratching your skin.

“I’m not.” You insist weakly.

Bucky hums low in his chest, unconvinced, the sound of it vibrating through his body into yours.

“Baby,” he calls out gently, mirth lying beneath his words. “You’ve taken six pictures of the table.”

Your face burns.

“I’m trying.” You mumble horrified, sighing in relief when you finally manage to frame your shoes correctly while he chuckles behind you.

“I know. You’re doing just fine, sweetheart. Take all the time you need...” He releases a slow exhale, then under his breath, “I’m definitely not complaining right now.”

The faint rasp in his voice and the way his thumb strokes the skin of your knee only make your pulse stumble harder. Finally, after another moment of fumbling and readjusting yourself against him, you manage to take a few proper photos.

The knot in your chest loosens gradually as you look through them. They are good. Not overly posed or awkward as you feared, but cute and intimate in that effortless way you had envied earlier. His scuffed work boots are beside your neat Mary Janes, your knees tucked between his jeans-clad ones, the edge of his large hand visible against your thigh like a quiet reminder that the man holding you is very much real, and that’s him.

A coy smile brightens your features. It’s a small, absent-minded gesture, yet Bucky is completely enraptured.

“There she is.” A comment under his breath, meant for himself.

You feel him lean closer to look over your shoulder, his chin brushing your cheek as his gaze settles on the screen, and the expression that crosses his face afterward is so openly proud that you feel the sudden urge to squirm out of giddiness.

“They came out pretty nice, huh?” 

You nod before turning back to properly look at him, still smiling.

“Thank you, Jamie.”

The words leave your mouth instinctively, sincere. Still, Bucky furrows his brows at you. His hand leaves your knee to curl delicately around your chin, guiding your face until your eyes meet properly.

“You don’t need to thank me.” His voice low but firm—a fact rather than a suggestion. “I love spending time with my girl. Y’hear me, baby?”

Your next breath catches in your throat so fast you almost choke on it. His expression softens further at whatever he sees on your face, his thumb stroking once your bottom lip before he closes the distance between your lips.

“You ask me for something, I’m gonna give it to you if I can.” He adds quietly against your mouth.

You swallow thickly, answering with an imperceptible nod that makes him hum, pleased. For a while, it’s just you and him. Tucked against his chest with the phone still loose in your hand, you sit sideways on his lap, his arm tightening around your waist the more your body grows pliant. The initial embarrassment melts into pure bliss once his forehead comes to rest on yours, his blue eyes fiercely glinting with devotion as they trace your pretty features.

You would probably stay here all afternoon if you could: no talking needed, just the safety of his arms. Eventually, though, duty creeps back in enough that you stiffen slightly, and Bucky loosens his hold at once, watching you get up. The hand on your thigh lingers for one last meaningful squeeze, goosebumps prickling across your covered skin.

The second your feet touch the ground again, you suddenly become aware of your slow breathing; of how his touch made you completely forget that you were sitting in your boyfriend’s lap, making out in the middle of a café situated on the main street, for anyone to see.

“I should probably go.” You mumble, smoothing your flowy dress unnecessarily to avoid his eyes.

A small smirk tugs at his lips at your clumsy attempt to regain composure.

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

By the time you reach the parking lot, your embarrassment has faded into a fuzzy tingle in the back of your head. Bucky opens the driver’s side door for you without breaking stride, one large hand resting automatically against the top of the frame while you climb inside. Your movements are a little languid as you place your palms on his chest for another kiss—quick and sweet and still a little flustered—but before you can pull away fully, his fingers close gently around your wrists.

“Send me those pictures later.”

You almost flinch in surprise. “You want them?”

That earns you a look.

“Sweetheart,” he starts slowly, like the answer should be painfully obvious by now. “Of course I want the pictures we took together.”

You promise you will do that once you get home, and Bucky lets you go only after one last heated kiss that has you sighing dreamily the entire drive back.

Later that night, long after you have changed into pajamas and curled beneath your blankets, your phone lights up with a message from him. It’s a reel of a chubby orange cat dramatically rolling onto its back for belly rubs. The giggle that falls from your lips is immediate, because you know how much Bucky loves these silly videos.

Still smiling, you tap back to reply but your fingers freeze, because his profile picture has changed. And there, framed in a tiny circle at the top of the screen, are your shoes beside his boots.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO WEAR HIS CLOTHES Bucky’s bedroom smells like him. Not cologne, or any sharp, artificial department store fragrance sprayed onto stiff collars and wrists... but a scent warm and lived-in. Cedar and clean detergent tangle together with fresh air drifting in through cracked windows, traces of earth and hay and early morning breeze clinging stubbornly to heavy fabrics, no matter how many times they are washed.

The whole house smells like sun-warmed wood floors and open fields after rain. Like stepping onto his farm and understanding right away why he belongs there.

The shower is running somewhere down the hallway after a long day spent driving deliveries back and forth across town, leaving you curled near the headboard with the remote in your hand, halfheartedly scrolling through movies while waiting for Bucky to come back. Your attention drifts eventually, pulled away from the television by the sight of one of his flannels folded over the chair near the dresser. It’s clean, probably left there after laundry day, thick dark fabric softened with wear. Before you can really stop yourself, your gaze lingers.

There is something strangely intimate about wearing someone else’s clothes. Not just in the obvious sense. It’s like stepping quietly into the shape of their life, wrapping yourself in something that has spent time caressing their skin, that carries their warmth and scent and the evidence of their existence in every seam. And maybe that’s exactly why your heart flutters at the thought. You stare at the flannel for another few seconds before finally setting the remote aside and climbing off the bed, moving almost cautiously toward the chair like it might bite you halfway there.

With a meaningful glance toward the door, you listen to the muted sound of running water, before carefully lifting it from the chair. The moment you pull it closer, his scent fills your lungs completely, clean and grounding and unmistakably Bucky. Without thinking too hard about it, you peel off your own sweater and slip his shirt on instead. The sleeves hang long past your wrists as the heavy fabric settles warmly around your body, and suddenly you are standing in front of the mirror near his dresser, turning slightly from side to side while smoothing your hands absently over the front buttons.

You feel ridiculously happy. Safe, somehow. Because it reminds your body that it never needs to stay on guard if he is there.

For a moment, you simply stand there smiling privately at your reflection. You are so entranced by it that you barely notice the bathroom door opening.

“Hey doll, did I tell you that yesterday those sneaky ducks nearly knocked over—”

Bucky stops mid-sentence. The silence that follows is sharp enough to make your stomach drop.

You glance at him through the mirror with wide eyes and freeze. He is standing just outside the bedroom doorway with his hair still damp from the shower, a grey henley stretched across his chest while he drags a towel over the back of his neck, but all movement stops the second his eyes land on you.

On his flannel wrapped around your body.

His gaze languidly follows your curves like he is trying to commit them to memory, scared you might vanish like some beautiful, cruel dream. Because his girl is standing barefoot in his bedroom wrapped in pieces of his life. And Bucky looks at you like he just forgot how to breathe.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, heat rushing into your face as you turn around. “I’m so sorry, I—I saw it there and—”

The towel drops forgotten onto the end of the bed as he carefully shortens the distance. The closer he gets, the quieter you become, until the only sound left is the faint clucking of the chickens outside.

Up close, you swallow at his gentle eyes, though there is something else lingering beneath them, proud and possessive.

“Are you apologizing for wearing my shirt?” He lifts an eyebrow.

Your lips part unhelpfully, but they close again on a second thought. Bucky’s eyes flick toward the sleeves swallowing your hands before he reaches out, large fingers carefully rolling the cuffs back for you one at a time, movements unhurried and practiced despite the roughness his hands are used to.

“There,” he murmurs. “Better.”

When he finally glances back at your face, there is a spark of amusement dancing in his gaze. “You keeping this one, sweetheart?”

“What?” The question catches you off guard enough that you huff out an embarrassed chuckle.

“The shirt,” he nods at it, still delighted. “Think it’s yours now.”

“Bucky, no. I can’t just steal it.”

“Sure you can.” He shrugs easily.

Your eyes widen. “What—no!”

A real smile finally breaks properly across his face, devastatingly fond.

“Angel,” he murmurs patiently, hands warm against your waist. “You’re standing in my bedroom looking happier than you have all week. Think I’d be pretty stupid to ask for it back.”

You awkwardly tuck your chin down, studying your socks.

“You’re exaggerating.”

A quiet laugh falls from his lips. “You were twirling around in front of the mirror.”

Your head snaps up at that, your jaw dropping indignantly.

“I was not!”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was simply checking how it fit.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Before you can argue back, his hands slide a little more securely around your back to pull you closer, eyes dropping briefly to the flannel.

“Looks better on you anyway.” He murmurs.

“That’s a lie.” You focus on a spot on his neck, too shy to meet his gaze.

“Ain’t.”

“It’s your shirt.” You retort weakly.

“Not anymore.”

The certainty in his tone makes your stomach flip. Bucky watches the reaction happen in real time, something unbearably tender crossing his face at your attempt to further hide from his gaze, before he leans just enough for his forehead to touch yours.

“Y’know,” he starts casually, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your sides through the fabric. “I like seeing you in my clothes a little too much to complain about it.”

Your chest warms at the sincerity in his voice, yet you keep stubbornly staring at his chest, trying and failing to stop the grin tugging at your mouth.

“I think that would get out of hand very fast.” You mumble, finally meeting his eyes.

He smirks down at you. “Would it now?”

“You have a lot of nice flannels.” Your arms wrap around his neck, prompting him to get impossibly closer.

“Mhm.”

“And your hoodies are comfortable.” The tip of your nose brushes his.

“That so?” His brows shoot up playfully.

“And your jackets smell good.” You admit before you can stop yourself.

That finally earns you a proper grin. Far too pleased with himself.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls. “You’re in real trouble then.”

You groan tiredly, throwing your head back in despair but his arms don’t allow you to stray too far from him.

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you.” His hands settle more firmly. “Just thinking I oughta start keeping extras around.”

His brows then lift as though he has just reached a very reasonable conclusion.

“Actually,” he corrects himself, voice thoughtful. “Might need to make a rule.”

You squint up at him suspiciously. “A rule?”

“Yeah.” He nods once, completely serious despite the subtle, teasing smile. “Think the second you walk through my front door, you’re legally required to put on one of my flannels.”

“Legally required?” You ask unimpressed.

“Mm-hmm.”

You shake your head pensively. “I really don’t think you can do that, Jamie.”

“Sweetheart, I own the property.” His expression turns impressively solemn, his lips grazing yours as he speaks.

“Means I make the laws around here.”

A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, bright enough that Bucky beams at the unguarded sound.

“No exceptions either, baby. Could be ninety degrees outside, I don’t care. Flannel goes on.” He hugs you tighter, his next words nothing short than a low murmur in your ear.

“Don’t even need to wear anything else underneath.” A squeak unexpectedly falls from your lips as his palms land briefly on your ass, squeezing the soft flesh before sliding back on your waist.

You sigh fondly despite the heat crawling up your neck. “This is the dumbest rule I’ve ever heard.”

“And yet,” his eyes drop briefly to the flannel before returning to your face. “Here you are.”

At some point, Bucky doesn’t announce it anymore. The moment you step inside the farmhouse, he’s already reaching for one of his flannels and holding it out—doesn’t matter if you’re staying for hours or just long enough to share a meal and a quiet evening that doesn’t demand anything from either of you. And then he’s crossing the distance between you in a few unhurried steps to pull you into his chest. He lowers his face into the slope of your neck, and breathes in deeply, again and again, like he needs the second breath more than the first.

Something unmistakably you—familiar, layered with the faintly sweet body cream you always use—mixes with his own scent that lingers in the weave of the flannel, worn-in and musky. His shoulders drop every time unfailingly, the tension he carries out in the world has no choice but to disappear.

His obsession for your scent doesn’t stop there, it only exacerbates when you are finally lying on his sheets, the two halves of the flannel crumpled at your sides as Bucky pants against your chest. He kisses you desperately, clutching your bare thighs until you are left warm and moaning under his roaming hands caressing your body with reverence. His palms map the dip of your waist, stroking along your ribs, until they encompass the swell of your breasts, gently kneading the skin as his lips trace a wet path from your mouth to that sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you whine so sweetly.

Your lips part around a breathy squeak the moment the calloused pads of his thumbs delicately circle your nipples, a low hum vibrates unintentionally in his chest at how fast they harden.

“Wanna hear you, princess.” He murmurs against your collarbones. “Let me hear how good it feels, c’mon.”

Bucky takes his time. You feel as light as cotton candy in his arms, sighing at every brush of his lips against your nipples. His mouth is hot and his tongue eager against the tender surface.

“Jamie!” You gasp as he starts sucking. His hand fondles the other breast, whimpers filling the dark room as his fingers playfully tug and flick your nub until your back arches so beautifully. His other hand grasps your thigh, leaving behind delicious reminders of his lust.

The gentle licks soon turn into harsher suckles, and your hands shoot forward to anchor yourself—one of them twists the sheets until your fingers hurt, the other sinks into his locks. Bucky exhales sharply at the light sting when your fingers pull at his hair, loving how the wet sounds bounce off the walls.

“Prettiest tits I’ve ever seen.” He growls. 

“Jamie, it’s—oh my God.” Your head falls back when his lips take care of your other nipple, the one left behind now damp and tingling.

“Mhm, I know princess, they’re so sensitive. You gonna come in your cute panties?” You nod eagerly. Bucky’s dark eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features like a predator observing his prey, his mouth wicked on your poor abused nubs. Until the pressure in your belly is just too strong, and to your sheer surprise, your orgasm hits you out of nowhere. Your breasts are tingling with sensitivity, your hips frantically humping the air as your pussy throbs painfully at the lack of stimulation, clenching around nothing.

“That’s it, my needy girl. Look at you, coming just from having your tits sucked.” He grits out, giving your breasts one last, little smack a harsh squeeze. 

Your skin is sticky and your lungs burning as Bucky finally moves between your shaky legs, peeling off your ruined panties with a swift, practiced movement. His calloused hands are firm on your thighs as they spread you open, silently watching your pussy as it pulses and drips, the unbearable ache mixing deliciously with the embarrassment of being this exposed for him—not a single ounce of shame in Bucky as he inspects it more thoroughly. 

First, it’s his thumbs gently spreading your folds, his eyes devouring the way it tenses under his intense hunger. A shiver runs down your spine when his index finger slowly traces the tender slit, marveling at the way your slick sticks to his digit.

“Jamie...” You whine, your body—still so sensitive—lurching at his delicate teasing.

“Look at the pretty mess you made.” He whispers amazed, leaving a soothing kiss on your hipbone. You hear a sharp inhale as he buries his face into your core, his eyes rolling back at how strongly your scent hits his lungs. With blissful serenity written all over his face, his tongue starts lapping at your clit with lazy strokes. A strangled gasp falls from your lips at the sensation, your hips moving helplessly under the arm that blankets your stomach as Bucky hums satisfied at the drops of sweet arousal blessing his senses. 

You almost choke on a delirious moan the moment a long finger slips inside, the hand grasping his sheets shooting down to grasp his wrist instead.

“Gonna bury my face here every morning, sweet girl.” He mumbles, a second finger joining the other inside you. “Make you soak my beard so I can smell your pussy all day at work.”

“Shit!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.

Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare. It’s so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving his hips wild against the mattress. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine. 

When he momentarily pulls away with a wet squelch, he groans in delight at the intoxicating taste. “C’mon princess, time to make a mess on my face.” He rumbles, mouth already latched back onto your clit, sucking with a steady rhythm as his fingers hit your sweet spot at the right speed.

Your body shakes from the unbearable pleasure washing over you, but Bucky refuses to stop, only pressing himself further into your clenching pussy, his tongue insistent as he pumps his fingers quickly.

“‘M gonna—Jamie!” You sob, hips jerking up as he pushes you right over the edge for a third time, this orgasm just as powerful as the others. Thoroughly consumed by him, you tremble and writhe, wailing when you squirt all over his face, soaking the sheets and your inner thighs as well. Bucky is not doing any better, resting his forehead on your mound. He tries to regain his breath after almost coming in his boxers as if touching a pretty, naked woman for the first time.

When he finally has a steadier grip on his self-control, he licks his lips with a low hum, shifting both of you until you are straddling him, your head lying limply on his chest as he plants sweet, little kisses on your forehead.

“Breathe, angel.” He murmurs, voice still rough with arousal. “You did so good for me, lovely.”

You blink, still spent and disoriented, but as his arms gently pull you higher, your sensitive core accidentally brushes against his erection. Bucky is still kissing you, noticing your little shiver but not thinking much about it—he knows you must be sleepy and tired. Yet he couldn’t be far from the truth.

Your hips gently rut against his thigh, squeaking under your breath when it finally touches your naked clit. Bucky’s body goes rigid for a heartbeat, suddenly catching on what’s going on in that pretty head of yours. You keep moving your hips, now thoroughly and shamelessly humping his thigh. His arms squeeze your waist hard, eliciting a surprised gasp out of you.

“What are you doing, doll?” He rasps out, his voice heavy with lust. He planned to take care of himself in the bathroom, maybe paint your tits with his cum if you insisted on helping... But how can he keep his composure with such a beautiful, sweet woman in his arms, so desperate for his touch?

Your head lifts enough for you to meet his gaze. “Please, Jamie.”

“Please what?” One of his hands grasps your jaw. “Use your words.”

You moan shamelessly, the warm tingle in your core impossible to ignore now. “Your cock... please.”

“You’re making a mess.” He mutters absently, his chest heaving at the sweet sight. And suddenly, his tongue is slowly tracing your bottom lip. A whimper escapes you, before his fingers tighten on your jaw as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he would with your pussy. 

“You need my help, baby?” He reiterates, his gaze marveling at your fucked-out expression. At your eager nod, Bucky swallows thickly, fingers digging into your hips until you are forced to stop the desperate rocking motion of your hips.

It takes a single look at your big, shiny eyes and suddenly you are on your back, his cock so thick you start to tear up. “I know, I know. baby girl. It’s big, hm?” He coos, carefully kissing your cheeks and licking up the little tears like a ravenous beast.

“Eyes on me, princess… There you go, that’s a good girl.” Your mouth falls open into a perfect round shape, squeaking as his hips thrust forward leisurely. Bucky takes in the sight of your pussy stretched nicely around his length with pride burning hot in his chest. He would be lying if he said he isn’t getting impatient himself, unable to ignore anymore the fervent urge to see you unravel on his cock.

“Hold on to me.” You obey, eagerly wrapping your arms around his neck, your breasts pressed against his soft torso dusted in dark hair.

Once his cock slams right back into you, you gasp, nails digging into his back as he sets a brutal pace. The sounds of your skin slapping against his fill the room obscenely along your little whines of Jamie.

It only spurs him on because, “Fucking hell—yes, baby. Your Jamie.” Before searching your lips to pull you into a filthy kiss.

His calloused fingers dig into the plush of your ass, keeping you anchored to him just to see your eyes roll back at the delicious friction between your clit and his pubic hair. 

“She’s so tight.” He grunts. “Keep clenching like that and I’ll make you leak for days.”

Your legs squeeze around his waist, drawing him impossibly deeper. “Please.”

He takes note of the way your eyes start to roll back as your pussy flutters eagerly, even if you do your best to keep them on him just like he told you... His pretty angel is always so good for him.

“Jamie...” You breathe out, body squirming between his sturdy arms built by years of hard work in the fields rather than gym. “’M so close—oh my God, yes right there!”

“I know, princess.” He mumbles, never breaking his rhythm. “Fuck, can feel her squeeze me so good, wanna keep me there forever, huh?” His lips twist smugly. “Don’t worry sweetheart, this cock’s all yours.”

Your breath stumbles in your throat as though there’s not enough air. Bucky is right there with you, brows pulled in concentration when he feels the familiar ache in his belly. His thrusts grow deeper, more purposeful, almost primal in their intensity, and you can tell by the tension in his jaw and the slight tremor in his arms, that he’s fighting for control. Even lost in pleasure, he is always putting you first.

“Tell me when you’re close.” He grits out, leaning down to steal a wet kiss that is more tongue than lips. “So I can fill my pussy up. That’s what you want, right princess? Wanna feel my cum drip out of you while you sit all cute watching me cook, hm?” 

Your words come out in a warped, pathetic moan as he stuffs your mouth with two thick fingers. Your tongue is already playing with them, a sad whine clawing out of your throat when Bucky takes them out. It’s not even seconds later that you are tossing your head back, your words barely coherent as you tell him you are coming, his two wet fingers rubbing your clit at the right speed.

“That’s it.” He drawls through his teeth, his rhythm clumsily faltering at the thought of your pussy completely covered in his white cream. “Just like that, beautiful.”

Your vision blurs at the edges as pleasure consumes every single crevice of your body until your brain only knows how to scream your boyfriend’s name. Until there’s nothing but the delicious shape of his cock. You clench so tight his hips can barely move, pulsing and shaking around him as your hazy eyes cross, before rolling back.

Bucky follows moments later, pressing deep inside you as a full shudder travels down his body. His face is insistently pressed into your neck, trying to muffle the roaring groan that rumbles through his chest. The contact grounds him as his cock twitches and swells inside you, borderline animalistic in the way his fingers clutch your hips when he finally fills you up—the thought of leaving a part of himself inside you only prolonging his orgasm.

“Oh, my pretty princess.” Bucky pulls you tighter against him like he cannot bear the thought of letting go yet, both your hearts still hammering in sync as the aftershock pulses beneath your skin. His warm breath tickles your collarbones, and although his limbs are trembling with exhaustion, his hips still thrust lazily inside you to make sure not a single drop goes to waste.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU START REACHING BACK By the time Bucky introduces you to his friends properly, you have already learned something important: everyone else gets a different version of him than you do.

You begin noticing the pattern before he ever points it out himself. People straighten when he walks into a room, some of his new employees still stumble over their words when he speaks to them, and children stare at him in open fascination because he is broad and carries himself with grounded confidence without appearing arrogant. And honestly, you understand it. Bucky looks like someone built to endure anything. His hands are coarse from years of work, permanently marked with small scars and callouses from repairing machinery, hauling feed, and spending entire days beneath brutal weather conditions without complaint. His voice settles low and gravelly in his chest, and whenever he frowns in concentration—which is often—he appears unapproachable to anyone who doesn’t know him well enough to recognize that his silences are rooted in reflection rather than coldness.

Then there is the version of him that exists around you, so quiet in its devotion that you only begin noticing it gradually, through dozens of tiny moments. He automatically slows his pace to match yours whenever you walk together—just enough that your shorter steps never have to hurry to keep up with him. On the nights you stay over, he reaches past you to test the shower water before you step under it.

And somehow, it extends to even the smallest, most ridiculous things. Like the time you gasp at the sight of a spider near the kitchen sink and instinctively dart behind him before you can stop yourself. Embarrassment burns on your cheeks at your own reaction as you quietly ask him if he can please take it outside instead of killing it. Bucky only glances back at you, visibly amused by the fact that you are clinging to the back of his shirt like the spider personally declared war on your bloodline. Then, he easily cups it beneath a glass, slides paper underneath, and carries it out onto the porch with all the patience in the world. And when he comes back inside, there is a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as you mumble a sheepish thank you from the safety of the hallway.

And maybe, the thing that affects you the most is how instinctive all of it seems for him. His care exists in reflexes. In the quick appearance of his hand over the sharp corner of an open cabinet before you can bump into it while bending down. In the way he reaches for your hand whenever a crowd grows too dense around you, thumb constantly stroking your knuckles in reassurance before you even realize you needed it. In the way he notices your social battery draining only by the slight slump of your shoulders, then gently finding reasons to get you home before exhaustion fully settles into your bones.

It feels less like being looked after and more like being... considered. Constantly. Carefully. Which becomes a problem eventually. Because the safer you feel with him, the more affection you want to give in return. And unfortunately, loving someone openly without constantly doubting yourself is still difficult for you.

Despite how naturally Bucky seems to exist inside your life now, there are moments where you feel painfully aware of your own inexperience. You want to reach for his hand first, sit beside him in diners instead of across from him, kiss his cheek whenever he starts rambling about the farm with that subtle enthusiasm that makes him look so unfairly adorable. You want to curl into his lap during movie night and play with his hair and bury your face into his chest whenever he hugs you.

Every little touch from him feels so dangerously addictive now that you know what it’s like to be handled with genuine tenderness. But every single time you think about doing any of it, your brain betrays you. What if he thinks you are clingy? What if you interrupt him? What if he only tolerates it because he knows you have never done this before?

So instead, you hesitate. But the thing about dating someone who observes the world as methodically as he does is that very little escapes him for long, especially when it concerns you. Therefore, he just starts making things easier. When the two of you sit together somewhere public, his hand begins resting palm-up beside yours on purpose—an open invitation without forcing you before you are ready. He starts pulling you gently against his side halfway through movies, and sometimes, while talking with Steve or Sam out on the porch, he pats his thigh absentmindedly without interrupting the conversation at all, silently inviting you closer. Eventually, sitting on his lap is expected and anticipated. And every single time he notices your hesitation before kissing him first, his head tilts downward before you can even decide whether to ask.

But it’s the first time you meet Steve and Sam properly that you understand how clearly his devotion to you reads to everyone else.

Dinner happens at a small place near the edge of town after one of Bucky’s longer delivery days, rain clouds gathering thick and heavy outside while the restaurant buzzes warmly around you.

You keep squirming nervously beforehand despite Bucky reassuring you the entire drive there.

“Baby, believe me, you’re worrying over nothing. They already like you.” He repeats patiently while turning into the parking lot.

You glance over suspiciously. “They’ve never met me.”

Bucky snorts under his breath, one hand settling on your thigh to give it a comforting squeeze.

“Sam’s heard about you so much he already acts like he knows you.”

“That’s not reassuring.” You mumble, sinking a little lower in the seat.

A beat passes in which the car slows as he searches for a parking spot, and you take the opportunity to dramatically exhale like your entire future depends on this night going well.

“You’re meeting my friends, not attending a parole hearing.”

“They could easily be the same thing.” You insist. “Meeting your partner’s best friends is basically like meeting... I don’t know—their adoptive parents.” Bucky snorts, shaking his head.

“Don’t laugh! I’m serious. There’s judgment involved. Silent scoring. Probably some kind of test I don’t know about yet.” You hastily list with your fingers.

That pulls a chuckle out of him, warm and low in a way that only worsens your dramatic suffering.

“Baby—”

“No, because what if they hate me?” You whine, already spiraling. “What if I say something weird? What if I accidentally make Steve uncomfortable? He looks like the kind of man who says ‘language’ unironically.”

Bucky laughs harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly.

“Steve absolutely says language unironically.”

“See? I’m going to swear once and he’s never going to recover from it.”

His grin only grows as the car comes to a stop, but he doesn’t turn it off yet. Instead, Bucky leans back slightly in his seat, head turned to watch you with that infuriatingly entertained expression that makes your anxiety feel personally mocked.

“You’re one to talk anyway.” You quip before he can say anything.

His eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”

“Because let’s talk about the first time you met Nat and Darcy.” You smile innocently, straightening up. “You kept me on the phone for forty minutes because you didn’t know what to wear.”

There’s a beat of silence, before his entire posture shifts.

“Hey, I wanted to make a good first impression.” He frowns.

“You were debating a tie,” you repeat slowly. “For bowling.”

“It was a new environment.” He shrugs.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “It was bowling!”

He simply shakes his head dismissively. “You don’t understand the social dynamics—”

“You were spiraling,” you cut in, now completely turned in your seat to face him. “I remember it very clearly. You kept throwing clothes on your bed that I’ve never seen you wear to this day.”

“I was being thoughtful.” He answers quickly.

“That’s anxiety.”

“That’s being prepared. And my first impression went fine.”

“Yeah, because I talked you out of the tie.”

You lean back in your seat, absolutely delighted now despite your earlier panic.

“I see how it is. I don’t need to worry about meeting your friends, but you needed a forty-minute emotional support phone call about whether you needed a tie for a bowling alley.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, clearly trying not to laugh at being exposed so thoroughly.

“It was a valid concern, I wanted to be respectful, sweetheart.”

“To who? A bowling ball?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, having run out of arguments to defend himself.

A grin takes over your lips as you nod in victory. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Bucky laughs properly at that, fondly shaking his head at you. The sound makes the knot in your chest loosen despite the anxiety, and when his hand eventually reaches over the console to intertwine your fingers together, you finally feel like you can breathe a little more easily.

“Steve and Sam are gonna like you. That’s not even up for debate.” He says anyway, quieter now.

You purse your lips, the teasing softening just a little.

“And neither is the fact that you’re still nervous about a tie.” You add gently.

His head briefly falls forward as he sighs dejectedly. “It was a good tie.”

And that, somehow, makes you laugh all the way out of the car.

Inside, Steve and Sam hug you instead of shaking your hand, and within less than twenty minutes, both men seem to realize something deeply unsettling about Bucky Barnes.

Namely that he becomes ridiculously, unbearably soft around you. For starters, his hand settles automatically against the back of your chair while you sit down. At some point, he subtly pushes your drink closer because he knows you forget to hydrate when too engrossed in a conversation, his attention entirely shifting on you whenever your lips part, no matter what topic.

And then there is the hand-holding “incident”.

You are talking about your disastrous attempt at baking banana bread last weekend, when your eye briefly catches Bucky’s hand resting near yours on the booth seat.

His large, warm palm tilted upward.

Your gaze keeps drifting toward it despite yourself, because you want to take it so bad. God, you need to feel his skin against yours. But... What if you are misinterpreting it and he is ashamed of being affectionate in front of his friends? What if Steve and Sam think it’s excessive?

Without looking away from Sam, who is now complaining about boat repairs, his hand moves another inch closer until his knuckles brush lightly against yours.

Your heartbeat quickens embarrassingly fast at how obvious he makes it for you.

Hoping nobody is going to notice how you keep squirming in your seat, your hand moves before you can change your mind. Bucky’s fingers close around yours like he had been eagerly waiting for you all night. His thumb strokes once over your knuckles as he replies to his friends, completely unfazed.

Across the table, Sam goes still. Steve, on the other hand, is trying very hard to hide a smile behind his beer. Because the thing is, they have both known Bucky for years. They know him as reserved and controlled and difficult to read most of the time. Yet, what they are witnessing now is essentially an imposing Anatolian Shepherd collapsing happily onto its back because someone finally understood that looking scary doesn’t mean hating cuddles.

Once you are back at the farmhouse, rain is crashing heavily against the roof, therefore Steve and Sam help Bucky move a few things into the barn before the weather worsens further. Afterward, everyone ends up scattered throughout the kitchen while you make lemonade because inside it feels warm from all the damp clothes and humid air.

You are standing near the counter slicing lemons when Bucky walks in, settling beside you after washing his hands.

His gaze automatically drops to the knife, then to you. Then back to the knife.

“You’re holding it wrong.”

Your chin snaps up, eyes blinking at him in confusion.

“What?”

Instead of answering verbally, Bucky steps behind you until the softness of his belly is touching your back. One hand covers yours around the handle while the other steadies the cutting board before showing you a safer angle to hold the knife.

“There,” he murmurs near your shoulder. “Less chance of slipping.”

The entire interaction lasts maybe twenty seconds, yet the butterflies in your stomach go absolutely feral. The worst is that Bucky doesn’t even seem aware of what he does to you half the time. To him, this is simply how he loves, through guidance and care.

A little later, after his friends disappear into the kitchen for more lemonade while loudly arguing over the score of some recent football match, you end up curled beside Bucky on the couch, on the brink of dozing off to the soothing sound of rain tapping against the glass. Your head rests on his chest while he absently rubs slow circles along your arm, and eventually your fingers find his hair without much thought.

You expect tolerance at most. Maybe amusement. Instead, the second your nails lightly scratch his scalp, Bucky goes completely still, before his eyelids flutter shut. A deep, slow breath leaves his nose, his posture slumped as he leans unconsciously into your touch. His expression is so devastatingly content that you feel a mix of pride and joy burn hot in your chest.

From the kitchen doorway, Sam witnesses the scene in horrified fascination.

“Steve!” He whispers sharply.

The other man can’t help but burst into helpless laughter because there, curled around you in complete bliss, sits the same man who once made a grown mechanic squirm just by staring at him too long during an argument over tractor parts. Meanwhile Bucky, fully aware you are being watched, slowly opens one eye to glare at them with pure annoyance.

“What.”

“Man, you know your imaginary tail is wagging so hard I can practically hear it from here?”

Bucky silently stares at Sam for exactly five seconds, and without any shame whatsoever, tightens his arm around your waist to pull you closer.

“Yeah,” he rasps out. “And?”

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU NEED HIM THE MOST Bucky simply moves through your life with the quiet assumption that if something can be made easier for you, then of course he will do it. One freezing morning in late November, you walk outside expecting the usual miserable routine of scraping ice from your windshield before work while trying not to freeze your fingers off in the process, only to stop short at the sight of your car already running softly in the driveway, pale exhaust curling into the cold air while warm light glows through the windshield.

And there he is, leaning casually against his pickup truck with two cups of coffee in his hands. Wrapped in his heavy work jacket, Bucky looks entirely unbothered by the bitter cold biting at his skin this early in the morning. You stare at him with wide eyes before glancing at your car. Then back at him.

“Did you come all the way over here just to start my car?”

His eyebrows pull together, genuine confusion touching his face.

“You hate being cold, sweetheart.”

Bucky never treats care as some grand romantic gesture that deserves applause. To him, love exists in maintenance, in noticing and remembering. It exists in the way he arranges himself around the sharp edges of your life without ever making you feel ashamed of needing help.

By the third month of your relationship, he already knows you forget meals whenever work gets too stressful, so he begins leaving containers of food in your fridge after particularly exhausting weeks, usually with little notes written in neat handwriting.

Eat something besides crackers today.

This one’s got vegetables in it. Don’t roll your eyes.

At first, a mix of embarrassment and old habits makes you protest.

“Jamie,” you sigh one evening while unpacking groceries he absolutely did not need to buy for you. “I can feed myself.”

“I know you can.”

The answer comes calmly, his attention never even leaving the frozen peas he’s putting away in your freezer.

“Then why are you doing all this?”

That finally makes him look at you, blue eyes steady and open.

“Because yesterday you had cereal for dinner and called it a balanced meal.”

Heat floods your face instantly. “It was one time.”

“It happened last Tuesday as well, baby.”

Your eyes squint at him betrayed. “You remember way too much.”

“You tell me things,” he shrugs lightly, shutting the fridge with his hip. “And I pay attention.”

Yes, Bucky pays attention. To everything. He notices the way your head starts to ache more than usual after difficult meetings at work; the moments you shrink because someone talked over you while discussing something important; the days you’ve had too much coffee and not nearly enough water before you’ve even registered it yourself. Once he recognizes a pattern, he simply starts building small routines around it—never demanding, or controlling. But guiding you so tenderly that by the time you notice, he’s already taken the weight you carry and made it easier to bear.

“Three coffees, baby.” He reminds you one afternoon after spotting the suspiciously large iced drink in your hand during lunch.

You promptly clutch the cup closer to your chest.

“This is tea.”

Bucky stares at you for a long moment, before his eyes lower meaningfully to the giant logo on the side of the cup.

“Sweetheart,” he starts patiently. “That thing smells like melted tiramisu.”

Your smile is sheepish. “It’s been a hard week.”

The teasing falls from his face at the exhaustion in your voice, concern replacing it so quickly it makes warmth bloom beautifully behind your ribs. He steps closer without hesitation, one broad palm settling on the back of your neck while his other hand cradles your cheek—a gesture so instinctively soothing that your entire body loosens before you can acknowledge it.

“I know, princess.” He murmurs softly. “Still need water though.”

And somehow—impossibly—you find yourself listening. He never makes care feel humiliating, because every reminder sounds far from correction and more like loving you so much it physically pains him seeing you not taking care of yourself the way you deserve. However, having someone pay attention to you this reverently is still complicated when, for your whole life, you’ve been used to being the responsible one, the accommodating one, the person who notices everybody else’s needs before they can become problems. Teaching only sharpened instincts you already had mastered long before adulthood: constantly anticipating, organizing, soothing, fixing. Somewhere along the way, taking care of yourself became secondary to making sure everyone else was never burdened by you.

Then Bucky arrives and begins undoing those habits piece by piece without ever criticizing you for it.

There is one particular parent-teacher night that leaves you painfully exhausted and miserable, so much that your eyes burn with unshed tears the entire walk to your car. One parent spends twenty minutes speaking over you every time you attempt to explain their child’s struggles in class; another openly questions whether you are “experienced enough” to manage disruptive students, because “you definitely don’t look like you are”. And Ms. Cox still finds enough energy afterward to criticize your “overly emotional teaching style” in front of half the faculty before finally leaving for the night.

By the time you make it home, you feel like an empty shell. You sway on your feet while eating half a granola bar in the dark, then drag yourself into bed wearing one of Bucky’s old sweatshirts—the same ones you shyly asked to have for particularly hard nights where his absence presses heavy on your heart. Yet, you spend nearly two hours staring miserably at your ceiling because exhaustion apparently does not guarantee sleep.

You and Bucky already said goodnight earlier. Normally he insists on calling before bed no matter how busy either of you are, but tonight he could feel how drained you were by text alone. Still, sometime after midnight, loneliness finally outweighs guilt. And even as you beg him to stay in bed and rest, insisting it’s late and he should be sleeping, he still replies with two simple words that make your heart flutter.

Already driving       12:22am

Twenty-five minutes later, headlights sweep across your curtains and you get out of your bed with a pained groan, your legs heavy as you shuffle into the kitchen in fuzzy socks. Bucky is already inside, carrying a paper bag in one hand, concern settling visibly between his brows the second you appear.

“Hey there, princess.” He whispers, leaving everything on the counter so he can pull you against him.

And that’s the moment your body goes frighteningly limp as you realize how badly you needed Bucky to hold you, knowing he would never ask for anything in return.

“I’m okay.” You quickly try to reassure him, but don’t do a very good job when your words come out slurred against his jacket.

His low hum expresses clear disagreement, one hand smoothing slowly over your back before he pulls away enough to cradle your cheeks.

“You ate dinner?”

The hesitation on your face answers for you.

His jaw clenches slightly. “Sweetheart.”

“I wasn’t hungry.” You blurt out, dangerously close to tears.

“I know, angel.” His voice turns to a whisper in front of your distress. “But you had a long day.”

There is no irritation in his voice, only concern wrapped in gentle firmness that somehow makes embarrassment crawl up your throat anyway. But before shame can take you away from him, Bucky leans down to press a long kiss on your forehead.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “I’m not angry.”

Your shoulders visibly lower a little.

“Sit down for me while I make you something warm, okay?”

And there it is again, that tingly sensation spreading low in your belly whenever he speaks like that, calm and assured and already prepared to handle things for you before you can break.

You curl beneath your favorite blanket on the couch while he heats soup and makes some chamomile tea. Watching him in all his composure as he takes care of you, moving around your house, and opening cabinets without needing directions because he already memorized where everything belongs months ago... Well, it nearly undoes you completely.

“You always think about me like that?” You ask feebly once he finally appears with a tray that he momentarily places on the coffee table.

Bucky glances at you from where he’s adjusting the blanket around your legs. “Like what?”

“Like… this.” You swallow, not liking how your throat is starting to tighten. “Taking care of things—of me, before I even notice what’s wrong.”

“‘Course I do, princess.” He answers quietly.

Tears dangerously sting at the back of your eyes, but your teeth promptly sink into your bottom lip before you can succumb to them. There is a brief moment suspended in time in which Bucky’s eyes search your expression, before he moves to kneel on the floor in front of you, palms already reaching for your jaw. 

“You spend so much time looking after everybody else.” He starts under his breath. “I just want... somebody looking after you too.” His thumb strokes the skin of your cheek and that’s when you notice the lonely tear that escaped the last thread of your control.

“I wanna be your safe place. Want you to know you can come to me. Always. You don’t gotta hold it together with me.”

“And when it gets too much out there,” he adds after a beat. “Or here,” his knuckle gently brushes your temple. “I’ll be right beside you. I’ll catch you. Every time.”

You built a relationship based on care and mutual trust, something you never had before but deeply craved. For quite a long time, those sleepless nights spent wondering when it will finally be your turn, soon turned into cruel reminders that maybe, after all, you just were not built for that kind of love. So you kept running yourself into the ground for everyone else without anyone actually noticing how much that cost you. Some people though, Bucky said, weren’t even worthy of those pretty eyes looking their way, let alone your kindness. Still, a small flame of hope kept burning in your heart—the hope that someday, someone would truly see you. Nobody has ever tried to earn your trust enough for you to hand over your vulnerability. But with Bucky, you bloom so easily in the warmth of his love.

Rain has turned part of the farm path into thick mud after a storm, and despite Bucky repeatedly warning you to not wear your pretty shoes near the fields, you ignored him confidently right up until your foot sinks deep enough into the mud to trap you completely. Bucky turns at the sound of your horrified gasp, and immediately starts laughing.

“Bucky!” You whine while trying unsuccessfully to yank your shoe free. “Stop laughing.”

“Sweetheart,” he says through obvious amusement while walking toward you. “Why’re you wearing those heels out here?”

“I didn’t think it would be this bad.”

“Mhm.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re being mean.”

His grin only grows as he reaches you.

“Far from it, princess. C’mere.”

Before you can ask what he means, both hands settle firmly around your waist and suddenly your feet leave the ground entirely. A startled squeak escapes your throat as your boyfriend lifts you effortlessly out of the mud like one of those bags of fodder he so easily carries around the farm.

“Bucky!”

“You were getting stuck.” He smirks.

“I could’ve figured it out myself.” You mumble shyly.

“I know you could.”

His words are tinged with mirth as he carries you back toward solid ground, one arm secure around your waist while your hands instinctively clutch his shoulders.

“Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stand there watching you struggle.” Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with guilt anymore, your hands instinctively curling a little tighter into the collar of his jacket as the real meaning of it sinks deep in your heart.

This becomes another habit somehow. He lifts you onto kitchen counters while cooking because otherwise you “hover too much.” Carries you inside from the truck whenever you fall asleep during long drives home from town. Sometimes, after particularly exhausting school days, he simply hooks an arm beneath your knees and picks you up before you can properly protest.

“Jamie, I can walk.” You mumble sleepily against his collarbone.

“I know you can, baby.”

“Then put me down.”

“No.”

The answer comes calm and completely immovable while he adjusts you more securely against his chest.

He looks down at you. “You’re tired.” As if that is enough of an explanation.

You squint at him, but he raises one eyebrow before your overworked brain can elaborate something witty to retort with.

“You gonna keep arguing or you gonna let me hold my girl?”

Being with him has a way of quieting the constant vigilance in you as your body learns—gradually, unconsciously—that Bucky’s strength never asks you to fear it. All that’s left is a fuzzy, unfocused warmth you can’t quite name. And over time, you begin realizing that what affects you most is not the carrying itself, but what it represents. Around him, you are allowed to take up space without apologizing for it first. You are allowed to keep him company as he works, to cling to him through difficult days and cry without trying to make yourself smaller afterward.

The first time you break down in front of him happens after a bad argument with your mom. You spend nearly ten minutes apologizing between sobs. Bucky listens quietly the entire time before finally reaching up to tenderly wipe your tears with his thumbs, brows drawn together in soft confusion.

“Princess,” he asks gently. “Why’re you apologizing for being upset?”

You open your mouth, but then close it again helplessly. Because once again, you were about to slip back into the bad habits you are carefully working through together. Bucky’s expression morphs instantly in silent understanding.

“C’mere, baby.”

And just like always, you go.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO BE PART OF HIS WORLD For a long time, you are convinced that helping Bucky with work will only make things harder for him. Not because he ever said that—quite the opposite, actually. But he moves through the farm with effortless capability, making everything look so easy. He knows where every tool belongs, which fence post is beginning to loosen before anybody else notices, the sound each engine is supposed to make—immediately catching when something is wrong.

Meanwhile, you once managed to stall your own car three times in a row trying to leave the school parking lot because your brain was too tired to function properly. So naturally, the idea of “helping” him feels laughable. Standing in the middle of his world feels strangely similar to trying to communicate in a language you don’t speak fluently yet. Still, that doesn’t stop you from wanting to try. Loving Bucky means wanting to understand the shape of his days and exist inside the life he built long before you arrived in it. You want to know what his mornings look like at sunrise, learn the routines his body slips into automatically after years of repetition, and more than anything, you want to stand there beside him without feeling like a guest.

His blue eyes catch the golden afternoon sunlight so prettily as he glances up from where he’s crouched in front of the fencing, near the south pasture.

“What’s up, lovely?” One corner of his mouth lifts when you linger there without answering right away, your hands fidgeting against the wooden post as if looking for something to ground you.

“What?” He teases lightly. “My girl misses me already?”

You huff a quiet laugh through your nose, eyes dropping briefly to the tools scattered beside him.

“Maybe a little,” you mumble. “I just wanted to see what you were doing.”

His expression softens instantly at that. “C’mere, then.”

You step closer without thinking.

“You wanna help?”

You hesitate under the weight of the question. “Only if I’m not gonna be in the way.”

The offended look Bucky gives you makes you chuckle lightly. He frowns, standing to full height while wiping his hands against his jeans.

“You being here is the opposite of in the way.”

And there it is again—that wonderful ache in your chest. You shift your weight from foot to foot, head ducking a little at the sheer love in his words. His rough fingers slowly hook beneath your chin to tilt your face back toward him.

“You wanna stay with me while I work?” He asks softly.

You nod silently.

“Then stay.”

Simple as that. No sighing. No tolerating your presence to avoid arguments. No making you feel like affection must be earned through usefulness.

After that, he begins finding small ways to pull you into his world. Nothing overwhelming that leaves room for you to panic about messing things up.

“Hold this for me.”

“Pass me that small wrench, pretty girl.”

“Sit over there where I can see you, and watch your step.”

At first, your help is mostly symbolic. You hand him tools, hold flashlights, keep him company while he works beneath trucks or repairs broken equipment in the barn. At some point, Bucky quietly sets up a small table near his workbench for you, sanding the wood smooth and making sure to buy a comfortable pillow for the chair so you can sit there for hours grading assignments and planning lessons while he moves around you.

One afternoon, while you are perched on the workbench as he works beneath the hood of his pickup truck, you accidentally hand him the wrong tool three times in a row. By the third attempt, you groan dramatically. Your face falls into your hands.

“I’m fucking useless.”

Bucky leans back enough to look at you, expression deeply unimpressed.

“Hey.” The single word lands firmly enough that your head snaps up at once. “You ain’t allowed to talk about my girl like that.”

You simply stare at him as he reaches out to squeeze your knee before taking the wrench from your hands.

“Besides,” Bucky adds casually. “You’re real cute when you boss me around with the wrong tools.”

You burst out laughing despite yourself, shyly looking away once you notice he has been busy admiring you with a smitten grin.

Every single time insecurity starts curling around your throat, ugly and uninvited, Bucky is there to loosen it with his careful hands before it can choke you. Dismissing insecurity is far too easy, yet that’s what most people do. It makes them uncomfortable and impatient, so they wave it away with empty reassurance. They joke about it, call it overthinking... They turn vulnerability into a shameful weakness. Because acknowledging it properly would require them to sit inside someone else’s discomfort for a while. But Bucky never treats your vulnerable moments like inconveniences he has to endure. He looks at them directly in the eye until they stop feeling quite so monstrous inside your head.

The way you feel warm all over has nothing to do with the late afternoon sun spilling gold across the land. He had sounded genuinely insulted, because loving you also includes protecting the way you speak about yourself. He cannot stand cruelty directed at you even when it comes from your own mouth.

Your pulse flutters embarrassingly beneath your skin.

His attention returns to the engine eventually, muttering something under his breath as he reaches deeper beneath the hood. Your eyes focus on the rolled sleeves exposing his strong forearms slightly soiled with grease, then slowly travel up the faded flannel stretching across his broad chest, before noticing the crease between his brows. The low hum he gives every now and then when something cooperates correctly makes your pussy throbs, your mind clouded with memories of your thighs around his head.

Your legs swing idly as you sigh, watching him work for another silent moment.

“You know,” you murmur thoughtfully. “For someone who says he likes having me around, you sure are ignoring me right now.”

Bucky snorts softly without looking up.

“I’m working , sweetheart.”

“Mhm.”

He glances at you briefly, one eyebrow lifting. “What?”

You exhale dramatically, leisurely looking around the shed. “I think you’re pretending to fix the truck because you secretly enjoy making me suffer.”

A low chuckle rumbles out of him at that, though he still turns another bolt calmly like you are not trying to derail him on purpose.

“You surviving okay over there, pretty girl?”

“Barely.”

“You’ll make it.”

The problem is that he sounds entirely too entertained by this. Your eyes narrow slightly at his tone. Then, after a moment of consideration, you shift a little closer along the edge and let your thighs part slightly, your hands landing on the wooden surface by your sides to slightly push your chest forward.

Bucky notices immediately from his peripheral vision, but all he gives you is a low, “Careful, doll.” Without any real heat in it.

You stare at the side of his face for another second, then toss your head back enough to deserve an award.

“Mhm...” You hum mournfully. “If my boyfriend really loved me, he would stop fixing stuff and pay attention to me.”

This time Bucky laughs unguarded, the sound rough around the edges as he finally leans back enough to look at you.

“Oh, so that’s what this is?”

You try to appear unbothered. “What?”

“You being a needy girl.”

Heat crawls immediately into your cheeks, still you keep your eyes on his.

“I am not needy.” You insist.

His mouth twitches, incredibly amused. “No?”

“No.”

“Mhm.”

You huff softly, crossing your arms while he turns back toward the engine with entirely too much satisfaction for your liking. And unfortunately—for the both of you—you are an incredibly stubborn woman. Which means your brain immediately decides to make things worse by jumping down the bench and silently approaching the vehicle until you are leaning down the edge of the hood, right beside your boyfriend. 

“Maybe there are more interesting things you could be doing with your hands right now.” You murmur, eyes dragging slowly over the length of his body.

The wrench stops turning at once. For one very dangerous second, the entire world seems to go still with it. Bucky exhales slowly through his nose before straightening to his full height, wiping his palms across his jeans with deliberate calm that somehow feels infinitely more threatening than any other reaction.

“Oh, you’re trouble today.”

You try to hold his gaze without shrinking under it, but that becomes significantly harder once he starts edging closer to you, the stupid tool that confused you completely forgotten. The light teasing in his face has shifted into something heavier, a kind of seriousness that has your panties completely ruined.

“Looking at me like that while I’m trying to behave...”

You swallow. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

His nostrils flare for a brief moment, one large hand sliding around your waist while the other braces on your hip, and before your brain fully catches up, he is backing you a few slow steps toward the side of the shed. The wall presses lightly against your back, Bucky’s frame crowding you back into stillness, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him through every layer between you. His thumbs stroke your sides rhythmically as he studies you with an expression that almost makes you forget how to breathe.

“You’re playing with fire, doll.”

You tilt your chin up despite the way your pulse stumbles. “I just wanted your attention.”

Bucky’s jaw flexes once. “Oh, you got it.”

His mouth claims yours like he is afraid you will disappear if he doesn’t, the hand on the curve of your waist tightening possessively while the other traces the length of your neck, until his fingers dig into your jaw to keep your head tilted exactly how he wants it. A small, unintentional whimper is muffled against his mouth as your fingers curl tight into the front of his shirt, and Bucky exhales softly through his nose like the sound nearly undid him too. It is rough, urgent... Too much and still not enough.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough for his forehead to rest briefly against yours. Both of you breathe a little unevenly, his palms still heavy on your skin, as though he has no intention whatsoever of letting you wander too far now that he finally has you pliant and whining for him.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, gaze frantically going back and forth between your hazy eyes and your lips glinting with his spit.

“I need you, Jamie.”

And he is kissing you again, slower this time but no less distracting, and you are just beginning to melt properly into him when his hands slide beneath your sundress, harshly grabbing the back of your thighs.

“Jamie—”

“C’mon, up sweetheart.” He rumbles in your mouth, already pushing you higher against the wall.

Your giggle dissolves into a wanton moan when his tongue slides back between your lips, fervent and eager, your fingers tangling into his hair while his grip tightens instinctively on your ass.

“Fuck.” He pants wrecked, his bulge pressing insistently against your covered core.

“Jamie, please.” You toss your head back as his lips frantically move over your neck and cleavage, more lapping and biting at your skin than actually kissing. 

“So fucking sweet.” He grunts, humping you like an animal right in front of the open door of the shed. 

See, Bucky is… well, particularly insatiable. It’s not enough to spend Sunday mornings slowly grinding into you until you are begging him to make you come, tears staining your cheeks as he coos at you. It’s not enough to bend you over the kitchen counter and thrust his cock into your pussy from behind, his warm and heavy body pressing you down as you hold onto the edge of the wooden surface for dear life. It’s also not enough for his fingers to not-so-subtly slip beneath the hem of the blouse you just spent ten minutes adjusting to your liking, just to squeeze your tits because “They’re missing me, doll”.

And he never seems to care if you are late for something, or how long it takes... or where you are. Like that time he pulled into the deserted parking lot of a random mall on the way back from your cousin’s engagement party because one of her friends had flirted with you a few too many times—even with Bucky standing just a couple of feet away, talking to your aunts while openly glaring at him. He growled an amused, “Try not making a mess on the seats, princess” before you ended up squirming and moaning in the backseat of his pickup truck, still fully clothed as his hand slid down the front of your unbuttoned pants. He was three fingers deep inside your pussy, his other hand gripping your jaw to keep your eyes on his as he whispered how good he was going to fuck you later in his bed, and how good he’d make you cream all over his cock. His dick was straining against the confines of his pants, painful and throbbing because you were so pretty with your lips parted around your little, unrestrained whimpers, your half-lidded eyes staring hazily at him, and then… the bright flash of red and blue lights blinded you both in an instant.

By the time the two police officers knocked on the window car, you were both just about composed—his jacket lay on his lap to hide the impressive bulge while you leaned against his shoulder, carefully performing a convincing enough bout of nausea to explain why you had been parked there so long. They told you that someone had reported a vehicle acting suspiciously nearby and Bucky quickly chimed in, matching their story just enough. However, the car in question disappeared down the road the moment you parked. A brief, measured silence followed, until one of the officers glanced at you. Then at Bucky. Then back at his partner, clearly deciding that whatever they might have walked in on was not worth pursuing further. 

Or that time your first picnic date turned into Bucky keeping a hand on your mouth as he fucked you right in the middle of the blanket you had so carefully arranged, imagining quiet naps beneath the trees and lazy kisses. Instead, you had squirted all over it after Bucky had growled into your neck that you needed to be quiet, or else one of his employees might catch you. Still hard, he hastily lay between your thighs for his earned “dessert”.

You have always managed to get away with it before—never caught, never interrupted, always just out of reach of consequence. Until now.

The wall rattles with a particular hard thrust of his hips, loud enough that the sound travels straight through the large space, followed immediately by a sharp, unceremonious clatter from somewhere above your head. Before either of you has even processed what’s happening, something tumbles from the nearby shelf and lands directly on Bucky’s head with a force that makes you both flinch at the same time.

Your boyfriend jerks back instantly, a harsh curse slipping out under his breath as one hand flies up to the exact point of impact, while his other arm tightens around you, still holding you close out of reflex even as he recoils.

“Oh my God—” You gasp, eyes widening in horror as you register what just happened. “Bucky!”

“’M fine.” He grunts automatically, though the tight set of his jaw and the faint squint in his eye suggest otherwise.

You wriggle out from his hold with anxious urgency until he sets you back on your feet, quickly reaching for his wrists as though you can physically prevent any further damage. He keeps muttering under his breath about “fucking shelves” and “the motherfucker who put that damn thing there.”

“Sweetheart, it was just a flashlight, not a bullet.” He grits out to reassure you.

“Who cares, it hit your head!” You argue frantically. “Move your hand, let me see.”

There is a long, theatrical pause, during which Bucky clearly considers refusing out of principle alone, but eventually he exhales through his nose and lowers his hand with exaggerated reluctance, revealing nothing particularly dramatic beyond a faintly annoyed expression.

“There,” he sighs. “Still alive.”

You stare at him with genuine devastation shining in your eyes.

“Oh, baby.”

And that is the moment everything shifts. Because your tone changes completely, your panic dissolving into something softer and infinitely more dangerous as your hands come up to his face without hesitation, cradling him with careful precision while your thumbs brush lightly over his cheeks. You inspect him with big, worried eyes, pouting at him like he has just survived something far more dramatic than an ambush by a shelf.

Bucky, for his part, goes still in a way that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with your attention. It’s almost humiliating how quickly his entire focus narrows down to you. The way your thumb absently brushes his cheek. The way your voice drops into a gentle, breathy coo every time you ask if he is alright. The way you keep smoothing your thumb over the bruise like it physically pains you to see him like this. And somewhere in the middle of it, a thought forms with unsettling clarity—he really likes this.

“You poor thing,” you murmur mournfully. “Does it hurt?”

Bucky blinks once, twice. “A little...” He admits slowly, though the word feels less like an answer and more like an experiment he is conducting purely for the sake of seeing how you respond.

You frown. “Oh, Jamie.”

He leans into your soft palms without thinking, eyelids lowering in complete bliss.

“Mhm.”

“Do you feel dizzy?”

“... Think I might now that you mentioned it.”

The crease in your brows deepens at once, fingers sliding into his hair as you begin checking for other bumps, your touch careful and thorough in a way that turns his brain into pure mush.

“You need ice.”

“Mhm.”

“And water.”

“Probably.”

“And you should sit down for a minute.”

At that, something entirely too satisfied slips into his expression, subtle but unmistakable. Because you are standing in front of him on the verge of tears, treating this huge, rough man like a wounded woodland creature.

“You’re real sweet when you worry about me.” He murmurs, smitten.

You roll your eyes even as your hands stay on his face. “Someone has to take care of you.”

That’s all it takes. He is not going to discourage this behavior in any way, shape, or form.

Bucky lets you guide him toward the chair beside the workbench without resistance, lowering himself into it with slow obedience. The moment he is seated, you are immediately between his knees, hovering, checking, fussing, entirely focused on him as though nothing else in the world currently matters. Which, unfortunately, becomes the highlight of his entire week.

“There’s a bump.” You murmur to yourself, brows drawn together in concentration.

“Mhm.” He agrees gravely, as if this confirms a deeply unfortunate outcome for his future.

“You could’ve been seriously hurt.”

And Bucky just watches you, completely lost in the way you move around him with anxious care, your hands never quite leaving him. There is something recklessly addicting about being the center of your attention that settles into him far too easily, like it has always been waiting there for you to unlock it. It goes to his head faster than the flashlight ever could.

“Are you still feeling dizzy?” You fret.

Bucky tilts his head slightly as if genuinely considering it, though the truth is he could not care less about his symptoms.

“…Little bit.” He decides finally.

Your eyes widen. “You do?”

“Might need mouth-to-mouth.” He adds, entirely deadpan.

You stare at him in disbelief. “James.”

“What?” A pause, thoughtful. “I got a concussion, sweetheart. Have some compassion.”

“You don’t have a concussion.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Your voice briefly cracks with amusement.

He sighs as though genuinely disappointed by the medical community. Still, he looks unbearably pleased with himself.

“Stay still,” you mutter pensively, already turning toward the small freezer tucked away nearby. “I’m getting ice.”

Bucky watches you go with an expression bordering on lovesick, his lips twisting into a soft curve. By the time you return, he has already shifted slightly, spreading his knees just enough to make space for you again. His hands find your hips as soon as you’re close enough, steadying you, holding you in place while you press the ice gently against the bump, your face still pinched with concentration.

“Too cold?” You ask softly.

“Nah.” Then, after a beat, entirely too casually, “Still think you should kiss it better, though.”

You roll your eyes, yet your small smile betrays you. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Can’t believe you’d say that while I’m injured.” He retorts, tone solemn. “I got hit real hard, doll.”

“You said it was a flashlight.” Your eyebrow raises skeptically.

“Still could’ve knocked loose my precious brain cell.”

That finally does it, a laugh slipping out of you despite the anxiety still lingering in your stomach. It’s soft and breathless and completely unrestrained, and Bucky’s hands squeeze your waist, as though he is physically anchoring himself to it.

“What am I going to do with you?” You sigh, fingers threading carefully through his hair. It occurs to you with a fond, helpless kind of clarity that you have accidentally created a monster. One who is absolutely going to treat every minor inconvenience like a life-threatening injury, if it means being doted on by you.

This time, there is no hesitation when he answers, voice quieter but absolutely certain.

“Keep spoiling me like this.”

The words come out lazy and teasing, yet they land heavier than either of you anticipate. Because he means it a little. Maybe a lot. Your expression softens in response, the final threads of panic melting away into something far more vulnerable. Then, much to his delight, you lean down and press a long kiss to the top of his head.

“There,” you murmur. “Better?”

Bucky goes still beneath you, before his arms wrap more firmly around you, pulling you just a fraction closer until his chin can comfortably rest on your torso.

“Yeah,” he whispers, reverent eyes looking up at you. “Way better.”

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU SPEND MORNINGS TOGETHER The two of you are stretched across his bed after a late dinner and a movie downtown, the television flickering low pale light across the room. One of Bucky’s older hoodies hangs from your shoulders, and the comforter pooled around your legs still carries faint traces of that comforting earthy scent that always seems permanently stitched into everything he owns.

You are trying very hard to stay awake. The week has been horrible: your students restless from too many rainy recesses indoors, paperwork piling endlessly across your desk, and parent emails arriving faster than you could answer them. By the time Bucky picked you up earlier that evening, your body had already been aching with fatigue. Still, you are determined not to fall asleep here. Because despite the fact that Bucky has never once made you feel unwelcome in his space, there is still a nervous little part of you convinced that accidentally crossing invisible boundaries will somehow ruin everything. Falling asleep in his bed feels far more intimate than kissing him does, strangely enough, because it means trusting him enough to stop monitoring yourself.

So every time your eyelids begin slipping lower, you stubbornly force them open again. Unfortunately, Bucky notices the way your responses slow down halfway through conversations and the increasingly delayed reaction every time he asks you something about the movie. Your body keeps unconsciously curling closer and closer toward his warmth before you catch yourself and straighten again. At one point, your head dips toward his chest for too long you abruptly jerk yourself upright.

Bucky glances at you, his hand leisurely rubbing along your arm, and one corner of his mouth already threatens to lift.

“You don’t gotta stay awake for me, doll.”

His voice comes low and soothing beside you, yet your eyes widen abruptly.

“I’m awake.”

Bucky hums softly, deeply unconvinced. “You sure?”

“Yep. I was listening.”

“To what?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, your eyes fluttering shut in defeat when you realize you absolutely set yourself up for that.

Bucky’s chest shakes slightly with restrained laughter at your weak glare.

“I’m serious.” You slur, shifting upright again beneath the blankets with all the determination of somebody seconds away from losing consciousness. He hums patiently, still rubbing slow circles against your sleeve.

You try very hard after that. You focus on the movie, ask questions about the actors… You even sit up straighter just to prove you are perfectly fine. Then Bucky’s hand slides absentmindedly beneath his shirt to rub slowly along your bare hip instead.

And honestly, after that, you never really stood a chance. Bucky glances down after a couple of silent minutes and finds your body curled into his side while your breathing evens out gradually beneath the faint sound of the wind outside. And something about the sight hits him so deeply it hurts. Because he knows this is not easy for you yet. That you are still learning how to be yourself around another person without feeling like an inconvenience. 

Your boyfriend slowly adjusts himself against the headboard so you can settle more comfortably on him, one hand pulling the comforter higher around your shoulders before he lowers the volume of the television. You stir faintly at the movement, brows pinching briefly in your sleep, but his hand promptly strokes your back with gentle movements.

“There you go,” he murmurs quietly. “Go back to sleep, pretty girl.” The tension melts from your muscles so quickly beneath his touch that Bucky’s eyes linger on you in silent wonder for a long moment. He presses one long kiss on your forehead, and sometime later, sleep finally finds him too, quiet and unguarded with you tucked safely against his side.

The next morning, you wake feeling unexpectedly well-rested. For several peaceful seconds, your mind drifts lazily through the hazy border between sleep and awareness. It’s only when your body stirs with a slow, languid stretch that you realize you are pressed against something solid.

Solid, pleasantly warm, and… moving?

Memories crash into you all at once—the dinner, the movie... Bucky’s bed.

Your eyes fly open.

Early sunlight catches along the broad expanse of his bare forearm where it rests heavily around your waist, like he fell asleep making sure you were always close throughout the night. Mortification hits you like a punch in the stomach. You can’t believe you were careless enough to fall asleep in his bed without discussing it first, the surprise quickly curdling into guilt as you picture him stuck with you there, too kind to wake you up.

Trying to not be swallowed by panic until you are completely alone, you carefully shift beneath the blankets only for Bucky’s hold to tighten automatically around you. A sleepy hum leaves him, followed by his voice a second later, raspy and deep.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

You turn carefully enough to find him already watching you through heavy-lidded eyes, hair messy from sleep and jaw still shadowed with yesterday’s stubble.

“I’m sorry.” The words come out before you can even think about it.

Bucky blinks slowly, his soft smile falling at once. “For what?”

“For falling asleep here.”

“You were tired.” He frowns.

“I know but… I didn’t mean to bother you.”

The second the words leave your mouth, something in Bucky’s expression morphs into painful understanding. You genuinely believe this inconvenienced him.

“You silly girl,” he murmurs fondly, pulling you closer by your waist. “You fell asleep during a movie. That ain’t exactly a crime, y’know?”

You stare down at the comforter instead, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “I just didn’t wanna impose.”

Long fingers are already sliding beneath your chin, guiding your face back toward him with impossible patience.

“You think I’d rather have you driving home exhausted in the rain at midnight? Hm?”

Your lips part slightly. “Well—”

“No, baby.” His thumb delicately brushes your bottom lip. “I’d rather have you here with me.”

It feels hard to breathe properly when faced with the certainty in his voice.

“I liked waking up next to you.”

The confession lands directly beneath your ribs.

“You did?” Your eyes observe him wide with hope.

“‘Course I did.” A sleepy little smile tugs at his mouth. “I...” He huffs out an abashed chuckle, and you recoil a little, completely caught off guard. Because Bucky has never once looked this flushed since your first date.

“I’d really like it if you stayed over more.”

“Really?” It’s nothing short of a whisper.

“Mhm.” His hand drifts slowly along your side as his gaze lingers on your face with devastating devotion.

“Don’t really like the idea of you driving home late all the time anyway, and…” He pauses briefly, almost thoughtful. “I wanna wake up with you in my arms.”

The room suddenly feels far too warm. Bucky shifts slightly closer again, his other arm coming under you to anchor your body to his, his nose teasingly grazing yours.

“Wanna have my mouth on you before either of us even gets outta bed, and be late because we inevitably get carried away with our little kisses.” He whispers lazily against the slope of your neck, pressing a peck on your collarbone that makes you shudder.

“Wanna make breakfast together and watch you steal half the bacon off my plate after you said you weren’t hungry.” His mouth barely brushes your cheek. “Wanna sit at the kitchen table while you talk my ear off about your day before it even starts.”

Nobody has ever spoken about wanting you in their life as a fantasy too fragile to touch. But Bucky has already made space for you in his future without hesitation.

And then he completely ruins you by adding under his breath, “You look good here, sweetheart. With me.”

The same hesitation holding you back melts completely after that.

“I liked waking up next to you too.” You whisper, cheeks warming up at your own brave confession. But the bright smile he gives you is completely worth it. 

Staying over becomes less of an exception and more of a habit neither of you wants to break. Soon enough, pieces of you begin appearing around the farmhouse: a spare toothbrush beside his sink; a brand new box of your favorite strawberry lipgloss that Bucky bought for you to specifically use when you stay over; your favorite cookies tucked into one of the kitchen cabinets—because Bucky noticed you always look for them first in the mornings.

He never rushes you into the day. Even when he has technically been awake for hours already, he moves through the morning with a steady, unhurried ease, as though the world itself knows it can take a break around him.

Sometimes you wake to find him already watching you quietly from the pillow beside yours, one arm still draped across your waist while pale sunrays spill across the sheets between you. Most mornings, you simply cuddle closer for a little while, listening to him breathe, memorizing the warmth of his arms around you, letting yourself exist without urgency for once.

“Morning, baby.”

His voice still sounds rough around the edges from sleep when he leans to meet you halfway, pressing a slow kiss on your mouth that lingers far longer than necessary because neither of you is in any hurry to separate yet.

Downstairs, the kitchen already smells faintly of coffee he started earlier. You are halfway through pouring cream into your mug when dread hits you like a bucket of icy water. Bucky notices immediately from his seat at the kitchen island, where he’s reading the newspaper like every morning.

“What happened?”

You sigh softly, your head falling back with a groan. “I still have to finish prepping activities for today.”

Instead of looking disappointed that your attention has shifted elsewhere, Bucky simply studies you thoughtfully for a moment before setting his mug down.

“Show me.”

You turn in surprise. “What?”

“Show me what you gotta do.”

“You wanna help me lesson plan?” Your eyebrows raise in amusement.

“Correction, I wanna spend my morning with you.”

So eventually you spread everything across the wooden surface: worksheets, glue sticks, colored markers, laminated reading cards, paper cutouts for today’s classroom activity. Bucky watches the process unfold with intense concentration, a deep crease between his eyebrows while he studies your materials.

“This all for one class?”

“Mm-hmm. Reading exercise, drawing activity, vocabulary review…” You point at each group of items.

Bucky gives you a slow nod, despite still looking vaguely overwhelmed by the amount of paper involved. Without thinking much about it, you hand him a stack of cut-out shapes that needs to be organized by color. He takes them at once, no hesitation whatsoever. Several minutes later, you glance up and nearly snort out loud when you realize he’s sorting them not only by color, but by shade. After that, he busies himself with other simple tasks, like passing markers to you in color order because he noticed you unconsciously arrange them that way yourself, and flattening laminated sheets carefully beneath one rough hand while you cut around them.

At one point, Bucky picks up one of the worksheets and studies it with intense concentration, his brows slowly knitting together the more he reads through the page. You barely pay attention at first, too focused on cutting out paper stars for the reading activity, until silence stretches suspiciously long. When you are done, you find Bucky still staring at the paper as if studying a government document.

“These kids gotta circle the adjective?”

You blink once. “Yes?”

He glances down at the paper, then back at you. “They know what an adjective is?”

“Most of them.” You chuckle at his genuine curiosity.

Bucky shakes his head like the information has sincerely overwhelmed him.

“When I was their age, I was eating dirt behind the barn.”

“Bucky.”

“I’m just being honest, sweetheart.” His finger taps the worksheet once. “These little kids are out here identifying pronouns and shit at eight in the morning.”

You are laughing too hard now imagining a smaller, frowning Bucky eating dirt and running around the pasture hugging lambs probably larger than him. Bucky watches you with obvious satisfaction, until his eyes narrow at another page on the table.

“Is that a frog?”

You grin at him. “That’s the reading mascot, Sir Ribbits.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “The frog helps them read?”

“He encourages them.”

Bucky stares at the cartoon amphibian for another long moment before giving it a satisfied nod.

“Good for him.”

After hunching over papers for what feels like hours, you stretch your arms with a tired little moan. Bucky is already rounding the table to rub your stiff shoulders, and instead of flinching, you simply lean back into it.

By the time everything is finally packed away, the kitchen table is covered in marker caps and paper scraps. He gathers the last stack of worksheets into neat piles before you can even reach for them.

“You’re weirdly good at this.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you prop your elbow on the table and rest your chin against your knuckles.

Bucky glances up from the papers. “You let me into your world,” he says simply. “Figured I should learn it too.”

He never expected you to abandon pieces of yourself to fit into his life more easily. Instead, he stepped gently into yours, observing every detail with patience and the kind of love that makes ordinary mornings feel sacred without either of you even realizing it.

A strange heaviness weighs in your body on Thursday morning but Bucky is so warm, and still dozing beside you with one of his large hands resting on your stomach. So you yawn, lazily letting your eyes blink at the window just enough to not abandon that pleasant, fuzzy state of drowsiness. But then they accidentally land on the clock on your nightstand and the realization is like electricity in your veins.

“Oh no.”

The words catch painfully in your throat while you scramble upright so fast the mattress shifts violently beneath you.

“No, no, no, no—”

Bucky wakes with a jolt at the desperation in your voice, his brows pulling together while he pushes himself up on one elbow, still heavy with sleep but already alert.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

You are throwing the blankets aside, heart hammering painfully while you frantically open your closet. “I’m so fucking late.”

He glances once toward the clock and sits up fully.

“Okay.” He says calmly, rubbing one hand briefly over his face before standing. “Hey, sweetheart. You need to breathe.”

But your thoughts pile over each other in a chaotic succession to acknowledge the note of seriousness tinging his voice. Stumbling around your bedroom, you mentally list everything waiting for you at school, and fuck! You still need to print the spelling worksheets—

Suddenly your chest feels too tight for your lungs.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you whine shakily while yanking open dresser drawers with far more force than necessary. “Why didn’t my alarm go off?”

Bucky watches you for approximately three seconds before deciding this has gone on long enough.

“Sweetheart.”

You barely hear him.

“Where are my tights? Fuck—”

The sound of your name in his low voice is like an arm dragging you out of the fog. You look up just in time to see him step directly into your path, his palms settling carefully on your upper arms before your nervous pacing can continue.

“Sit down for me.”

The words are not sharp, but there is enough firmness in his voice that your body pauses anyway.

“I don’t have time to sit down.” You argue weakly, still breathless.

“You got thirty seconds.”

“Bucky—”

“Thirty.” His thumbs stroke once over your arms. “Then you can go back to panicking all you want.”

And somehow, despite yourself, a tiny startled laugh almost escapes your throat. Your spiraling does not scare him, he has already decided he can handle it.

Reluctantly, you fall back on the edge of the bed, your right knee already bouncing anxiously. Meanwhile, your boyfriend moves around the room with military efficiency despite being startled awake not even five minutes ago, opening drawers you left hanging crooked and pulling out clothes with far more success than you had managed one minute earlier.

“This sweater okay?” He asks, holding up the brown-colored knit you wear most often to school.

You nod quickly. “Yeah.”

“What about bottoms?”

“The dark jeans. Not the—no, the other ones.”

A sleepy smile pulls at his mouth. “Doll, you own six pairs of those.”

“They’re different.”

“Mhm. I’m learning.”

He lays the clothes neatly beside you before his eyes meet yours.

“I’ll get the shower running.” You are already half-way up but he stops you promptly with a hand on your shoulder. “You stay put for one minute and focus on your breathing.”

Your body slumps back on the mattress dejected. “I don’t have one minute.”

“You do,” he calls back over the hallway. “You just decided you don’t.”

And annoyingly enough, hearing him say that steadies your heartbeat embarrassingly fast. Bucky never meets your panic with more panic, but with this quiet expectation that life will go on if you slow down to take a breath.

By the time you finally hurry into the kitchen twenty minutes later, still trying to button one sleeve, you stop short at the familiar sizzling of the pan. Bucky is standing near the stove in grey sweatpants and an old dark henley, hair still messy from sleep and posture relaxed while he slides scrambled eggs onto a plate.

“Sit.” He says after spotting you hovering on the threshold.

“Bucky—”

He turns toward you fully then, watching you with that deeply patient expression of his.

“C’mere.”

You comply with a sigh as he slides the plate in front of you alongside a toast, some jam and a travel mug of coffee already prepared exactly the way you like it.

“You need protein.”

You massage your temples to soothe the impending headache. “I’m gonna be late.”

“You’re already late,” he points out calmly, leaning against the counter. “Now, you can either be late and fed or late and miserable.”

You stare at him and he promptly raises one eyebrow. “You done fighting me on this or you got another argument ready?”

That finally pulls a reluctant laugh from you. “You’re bossy in the morning.”

He shrugs easily, now understanding why you arrive home every afternoon looking like somebody has been ruthlessly peeling pieces off you since sunrise.

He then helps without making a performance out of it. Your coat appears folded neatly over a chair, and your keys get placed directly beside your coffee as you try to eat faster. When your lunch bag nearly gets forgotten on the kitchen counter, Bucky simply hooks two fingers through the strap and places it near your coat.

“Every morning you skitter through this part like a startled little thing.” He murmurs eventually.

Your answer is a tired sigh. “Because I’m always running behind.”

“Nah,” he corrects gently, stepping behind your chair to put his hands over your shoulders and press a kiss to your temple. “You just got it in your head that if you ain’t running yourself ragged, you’re not working hard enough.”

The words hit uncomfortably close to home, leaving you staring down at your empty plate in silence. Bucky promptly kneels beside you, intertwining his fingers with yours.

“You hear what I’m saying, princess?” He mumbles softly.

“A little.” You nod reluctantly.

“You don’t gotta earn rest by wearing yourself thin.”

Your throat tightens unexpectedly, not used to have your exhaustion treated like something deserving tenderness instead of expectation. Before the moment can settle too heavily inside you though, Bucky glances toward your bag where papers are sticking halfway out.

“You got everything?”

You finally look up, straightening just a little. “I think so.”

“That usually means no.”

You groan softly. “Please don’t start.”

He chuckles under his breath before walking over to the bag for a checkup, clearly having observed this exact routine unravel before. Within seconds, he pulls out your half-empty water bottle.

“You forgot to fill this.”

“Oh.” You frown.

“And your portable charger.”

“Oh.” Your shoulders slump.

“And doll?” His eyes lift to you knowingly while he holds up the folder with all the notes for your lesson currently bent sideways. “This thing’s fighting for its life.”

Exasperated, you hide your face behind your hands while he fixes the folder carefully before zipping everything properly closed. But the bag is too full and when your fingers close around the handle a few minutes later, the zipper gives away anyway, and frustration spikes sharply enough that your eyes sting.

“Why won’t this stupid thing—”

Before you can fight with it further, Bucky steps in and takes the bag from your hands. One smooth motion and the zipper slides perfectly into place.

“There.”

Your entire nervous system settles slightly from that tiny act alone.

You finally make it to the front door—still flustered, still behind schedule, still trying to mentally catch up with the day waiting outside. But you are no longer drowning in it.

You grab your car keys, expecting some hurried goodbye while Bucky cleans the kitchen. Instead, he is standing directly in front of the door, and without a word, his hands reach down and fix your collar where it folded awkwardly.

“Text me when you get there.”

“I will.” His eyes search your face for another moment, cradling it between his warm palms.

“You did good.”

You stare at him incredulously. “I overslept by almost an hour.”

“And you still got up,” Bucky comments simply. “Still got dressed. Still ate breakfast. Still remembered your stuff. That’s what matters, baby.”

He never measures your worth through perfection, only through effort. Through whether or not you are being gentle enough with yourself while surviving difficult days.

He leaves a long kiss on your forehead, completely unbothered by the clock ticking loudly behind you.

“Now go teach your little gremlins.”

“They’re not gremlins.” You roll your eyes fondly.

His left eyebrow raises in skepticism. “One of ’em tried to lick glue yesterday.”

“He said he wanted to know if it tasted like blueberries because the bottle was blue.” You mumble defensively.

“Mhm.” He presses one last kiss to your lips. “Tiny gremlins.”

You shake your head, chuckling as you reach for the door. And while walking to your car, you realize with pleasant surprise that your breathing is a little steadier. Controlled. Because Bucky stood beside your panic and refused to let it carry you away.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU ARGUE FOR THE FIRST TIME Pickup was already chaotic: one of the first graders had burst into tears after losing her glitter-covered pencil somewhere near the cubbies, a little boy had refused to put on his raincoat because he insisted it was “for babies,” and by the time the middle school students started flooding the shared hallway, you already felt like hiding beneath your blanket and sleeping for two days.

That’s when the shouting starts—two eighth graders near the front doors, chest-to-chest, yelling loud enough to make half the younger kids stop in place.

You don’t even think before stepping in.

“Hey!” You call sharply, moving between them before either could swing properly. “That’s enough.”

One of them backs off immediately. The other glares at you. He is taller by several inches, angry in the ugly, reckless way teenagers sometimes become when they realize they can intimidate adults physically now. His face twists the second you tell him to step away from the younger students.

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I absolutely can,” you answer promptly, trying to keep your voice collected because several of your students are staring with huge frightened eyes. “Go cool off in one of the classrooms.”

He laughs, a sharp and bitter sound, before stepping closer.

“You think because you teach stupid little kids that you can boss everybody around?”

You ignore that part. “Watch your language.”

That only makes him angrier. “You gonna write me up?” He mocks. “Go teach somebody the alphabet or something.”

He starts talking over you, muttering insults under his breath, waving his hands too close to your face while you try to de-escalate things without frightening your students more than they already are.

And then Bucky walks in. He has come to pick you up because your car is still at the mechanic after the tire issue earlier that week. The second he steps through the school doors and sees some teenage boy towering over you while a crowd of scared children has shrunk back against the wall, something in him visibly sharpens.

Once the boy swings one hand again while barking the umpteenth insult aimed at you, too close to your shoulder this time, Bucky is there in seconds.

“That’s enough.”

His voice cuts through the noise so coldly that even the younger kids go quiet.

The boy freezes. Honestly, anybody would in front of a six-foot-something man wearing rough work clothes still dusted faintly from the farm, and a face that rarely softens around strangers.

“You’re done yelling at her, and you better start showing some respect to your teachers.” He continues evenly. “You understand me?”

The boy mutters something under his breath about you not being his teacher, prompting Bucky to take a step closer. The younger snaps his head up, before taking a step back.

“Try again.”

Silence.

Then finally, begrudgingly, “Yes, sir.”

The principal arrives not even a minute later after hearing the commotion, quickly pulling the boy away while apologizing profusely to you both, and the altercation ends as quickly as it started. At least physically. Emotionally, it’s heavy as a boulder on your shoulders, because the entire drive home, Bucky is quieter than usual, so tense that you feel the need to tentatively reach for the handle at your side and roll down the car window for some fresh air.

His hand still rests on your thigh, he still opens your door, and asks if you have eaten. But there is something bothering him underneath all of it. And eventually, while he is cooking dinner later that evening, it finally surfaces.

“You shouldn’t have stepped between them like that.”

You look up from where you are sitting at the kitchen island grading some assignments. “What?”

Bucky keeps stirring something in the pan, shoulders tight beneath his henley. “He was bigger than you,” he continues carefully. “And he was already angry.”

“He’s a kid.”

“He’s fifteen.”

“He’s still a student.”

His jaw clenches briefly. “And if he had hit you?”

With a slow sigh, you decide to put your pen down—these are all signs that you are not getting out of this conversation anytime soon. 

“He wasn’t going to, I had it under control.” You rebut tiredly.

“Didn’t look like you did.”

The second those words leave his mouth, something ugly inside your chest twists painfully. His voice is controlled, far from cruel, but those words feel like a knife ruthlessly stabbing an old scar that refuses to heal properly. And suddenly, you are twenty-two again, standing in your parents’ kitchen while your mom frowns at your teaching degree paperwork.

Teaching little kids? What are you gonna do with that?

You’re wasting your time, this won’t pay bills.

“Well, I handled it anyway.” You look back at the paper in front of you, quietly.

Bucky exhales through his nose, still focused on the stove. 

“Sweetheart, I know you were trying to help, but—”

“I did help.” You frown at his back.

“You can’t just jump between two angry teenagers.”

“I’m a teacher.”

“And I’m saying you don’t gotta throw yourself in front of people to prove that.”

That one hurts too. It tastes like doubt, criticism... disappointment.

“I know how to do my job.” You croak out.

Bucky finally turns then, brows drawn slightly.

“I didn’t say you don’t.”

But his voice is firmer now, frustration slipping through the cracks of his apparent composure despite himself, and when he gestures with the wooden spoon in his hand, his tone rises just enough to make you flinch before you can stop it. The movement is barely noticeable, more out of surprise than anything. Except Bucky freezes.

You don’t even realize your eyes have dropped somewhere on the counter in front of you until his voice changes completely.

“Sweetheart.” A soft, tentative sound, but you are already shaking your head.

“It’s okay.” Your voice sounds wrong and dismissive even to you and Bucky’s expression shifts into painful realization.

He sets the spoon down without another word, turns off the stove, then gingerly walks toward, still keeping his distance so you won’t feel cornered.

“C’mere a second, baby.”

You hesitate, because your body already knows the shape arguments are supposed to take, even if your mind is trying to remind itself that this is your Bucky. Your Jamie.

Still, somewhere deep inside you, disagreement has tied to punishment long ago, to that awful tightening in the air that used to settle over rooms after somebody got upset. You are used to conversations turning cold the second emotions become inconvenient; to silence stretching for hours or even days because you were the one expected to smooth everything over—apologize first, speak softer, take up less space. Growing up, anger always came with withdrawal attached to it. Simple disagreements morphed into slammed cabinets and heavy sighs and someone suddenly acting as though your mere presence had become irritating. And even though Bucky has never treated you that way, your instincts still brace for him to go quiet in that unbearable way that turns a home into a suffocating prison.

But his hand rests on your back as it gently guides you toward the couch, settling beside you but still leaving enough room to breathe. Bucky does not like the way you move cautiously around him, the way you slowly lower yourself onto the same couch that has held you both through late-night talks that stretched until early morning, and movie nights that ended in soft, unhurried kisses.

“We’re not doing silence, okay?”

Your eyes fall on the floor. “I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.” His voice stays gentle. “You started disappearing on me halfway through that conversation.”

“I was listening.” You stare at your fingers fidgeting on your thighs. 

“No, angel.” He shakes his head once, his eyes never once straying away from you. “You got quiet because you thought I was gonna turn into somebody I’m not.”

The stinging pressure behind your eyes becomes unbearable. Bucky braces his forearms on his thighs, leaning forward with a slow exhale instead of pressing closer.

“I’m not mad at you.” He adds in a whisper. “I was worried for you.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I know.”

“Do you?” His tone is impossibly feeble now, because suddenly this is not about the hallway anymore, but a habit that was acquired through mortification and fear. Bucky studies your face for another second before speaking again.

“Ain’t no reason for you to be scared to talk back to me, sweetheart.” His brows pinch faintly. “And if I say something that hurts you, I need you to tell me.”

You let out a shaky breath, your voice coming out weaker than you intend to. “It wasn’t just that.”

Bucky straightens at once at the first crack in your armor, unconsciously getting closer. 

“Then help me understand.”

Eventually, with trembling hands and wet eyes, you open up. About your mom and how every time you came home exhausted during your first teaching year, she would look at you like you were failing at life itself. About how your dad used to scoff whenever you talked about your students, because “Teaching kids how to write their name isn’t a real career”. About how even the tiniest mistake sounded like proof you were incapable.

And the more you speak, the worse Bucky looks. By the time you finish talking, it feels like a weight has finally been removed off your chest, yet he looks genuinely sick with guilt.

“Baby,” he mumbles, reaching for your hand. “I wasn’t doubting you. I would never do that.”

You shrug weakly. “I know you weren’t trying to.”

“But I still made you feel that way.”

That’s what finally breaks you, because he’s not defending himself, nor minimizing it.

Tears spill before you can stop them, and your Bucky is already there with open arms to catch you.

“C’mere, babygirl.”

You climb into his lap without hesitation, burying your face against his neck as his arms wrap around you securely. One large hand slides slowly up and down your back, and you try really hard to swallow down your sobs, but you only end up making a bigger mess of his shirt.

“I’m so sorry, princess.” He whispers against your temple. “And I should never’ve raised my voice at you.”

“You weren’t yelling.” You answer shakily.

“You still flinched.”

The shame in his voice makes your heart ache. His hold tightens around you instinctively at your whimper.

“I wasn’t angry at you.” He mumbles urgently. “I was angry at the whole damn situation. At that kid thinking he could talk to you like that after nearly starting a fight in front of your students.” His jaw tightens briefly before he continues. “Couldn’t stand there listening to some mouthy little bastard trying to scare you in front of those little kids.”

Your eyes close in sorrow as the image of their startled faces comes back cruel and still fresh. 

“They were terrified.” You sniffle and his arms squeeze you just a little tighter. 

“I know why you stepped in.” he sighs. “You love those kids like they’re your own for eight hours every damn day, and you can’t stand the idea of any of ’em feeling helpless in a place that’s supposed to be safe.” His palms cradle your cheeks to slowly coax you out of his chest, the urge to see you so strong it pulls hard at his heart. 

“You walk into that school every morning and spend your whole day teaching them how to read and write and believe in themselves. And you’re so fucking good at that, angel. You teach ’em how to be brave enough to admit when they don’t understand something. How to speak up without being scared of failing. How to be kind with each other when the world already gives them enough reasons not to be.” A faint, helpless sort of admiration softens his face then, like he still can’t believe he gets to love and be loved by someone as precious as you. 

Your lips shake as you give him a pained smile, tears still sliding relentlessly down your cheeks.

“Years from now those kids probably won’t remember every worksheet you gave ’em, but they’ll remember how you were patient with ’em. That you listened.” His teeth clench when his voice wavers a little. 

“So yeah, I know exactly why you did that. But that boy still thought he could stand there and talk to you like you were nothing.” He exhales slowly, forehead leaning against yours. “And baby… I got scared too.”

Your chest heaves, something akin to panic swirling in your stomach, because you have never seen your boyfriend look so devastated.

“You matter to me more than being right in an argument,” the words come out rough, his throat working hard around the tight knot lodged there. “So if I get scared and it comes out wrong sometimes, I need you to remember it’s only because the thought of something happening to you tears me apart.”

You nod slowly before folding yourself back against him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you bury your face in the warmth of his chest. And then you simply exist together for a long while, curled into him with your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt while his strong arms hold you safely close to his heart.

The living room has gone quiet around you, the stove forgotten for the moment, as your breathing gradually evens out. He is the one who breaks the silence first, clearing his throat lightly as his lips brush your forehead.

“We’re gonna argue sometimes,” he murmurs carefully, almost reluctantly, like the thought alone upsets him as well. “I can’t promise we’ll never get frustrated with each other.”

Your arms tighten around him at that.

“What I can promise you,” he continues softly, pulling back just enough to look at you properly, one hand coming up to cup your jaw with impossible tenderness. “Is that I’m not gonna stop loving you when things get hard.”

A fresh set of tears settles at the corners of your eyes, because that’s the part you never learned growing up—that the love of the people close to you was not supposed to be conditional.

Bucky’s thumb brushes beneath your eye. “And I’m really, really sorry, sweetheart.” His voice full of genuine regret. “I hate that I made you feel small for even a second.”

You shake your head urgently, not liking his expression. “You didn’t mean to, Jamie.”

“Yet I still did it.” He shifts slightly beneath you then, settling you more comfortably against his chest before continuing quietly.

“Next time one of us gets too worked up, we stop.” His tone is thoughtful now, already trying to build something safer for you with his bare hands. “Nobody keeps pushing the conversation just to win it. We sit down, we breathe, maybe hold each other if that’s what you need, and then we talk when it actually feels like us again instead of our anger. How’s that sound?”

You nod eagerly, before letting out the tiniest watery chuckle against his shoulder.

“That sounds very therapist of you.”

Bucky huffs a soft laugh of his own through his nose. “Probably because I’m thinking real hard how I never wanna be the reason my girl cries like this again.”

A sob threatens to spill out at the pain beneath his words, so you press your face against his neck insistently—as if that could physically stop your own anguish. Bucky plants a gentle kiss on your temple.

“And if I ever get loud again,” he continues with quiet embarrassment, brows pinching in guilt. “You tell me straight away, okay? There are no excuses for it. Don’t sit there holding it on your own while I’m thinking everything’s fine.”

You nod slowly. “I can do that.”

“Promise?” He mumbles, teasingly pushing the tip of his nose against yours.

“Promise.” You leave a tiny peck on the corner of his mouth and only then does some of the tension finally leave him.

His hand slides upwards, fingertips scratching lightly at your scalp just how you like, a soft sigh escaping him at the feeling of your body melting against his. 

“You okay now, babygirl?” The whispered question comes out so sweetly, so sincerely worried, that it nearly brings you to tears all over again.

He gets a simple nod as an answer, and that’s enough for him to understand you are still quite overwhelmed to communicate with words. Bucky considers your body for a moment, his eyes moving carefully over you like he needs to be absolutely certain before he believes it. Your shoulders are no longer drawn up near your ears, and your hands have loosened, clutching lightly at his shirt instead of gripping it desperately. Your breathing has finally settled as well, slower and steadier against his chest. Even your eyes have lost their heat, no longer shiny with panic but tired and present in the moment. Only when he seems fully convinced that you are no longer bracing for something awful to happen does his expression finally ease.

“I got you,” he murmurs quietly against your forehead. “Even when we get things wrong, I still got you.”

Later that night, long after your chagrin has faded and dinner has finally been eaten cold straight from reheated plates, you lie on him with your ear resting directly over his heartbeat. Usually Bucky melts into the sheets whenever you cuddle him like this. Tonight, he stays strangely rigid beneath you.

Lifting your head slightly, you look at his handsome features kissed by the dim, warm light coming from the lamp on his nightstand.

“Jamie?” His fingers pause where they have been tracing absently along your spine, eyes fixed emptily on the TV screen.

“Hm?” He blinks once, hastily turning toward you, like your voice had suddenly pulled him out of whatever thought he had disappeared into.

“You alright?”

The silence that stretches afterward allows anxiety to creep onto the edge of your ribs, before he carefully maneuvers the both of you so you are lying on your sides, facing each other.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Always.” His jaw clenches before he meets your eyes.

“Were you scared of me?”

You almost flinch back. “What?”

“Tonight.” He grunts, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Or before. At any point.”

You stare at him in genuine disbelief. “Bucky—”

“I know I ain’t exactly…” He huffs. “Mr. Friendly with strangers.”

You snort softly because the statement sounds so painfully sincere.

“I’m serious, doll.” His gaze absently lands somewhere on your collarbone. “Most people think I’m angry before I even open my mouth.”

You frown at the tinge of sadness in his voice.

“And then tonight happened,” he continues quietly. “You flinched when I raised my voice and—”

“That wasn’t because of you.” You quickly correct him.

“But I can’t stand that your body reacted like that around me.”

You push yourself upward, cupping his face between your hands until he finally looks at you properly. “James Buchanan Barnes,” you whisper solemnly. “I have never been scared of you. And never will.”

His expression softens at the full name.

“You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel safe.” His eyes still refuse to meet yours, but from the blush settling high on his cheeks, you reckon it’s out of shyness rather than bitter insecurity.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” He shakes his head once. “I see a good,” you murmur softly. “Gentle, patient man.” Your voice lowers even further at that, warmth blooming through your chest when he finally looks at you. 

“You always reach for my hand before we cross a street without even thinking about it. You remember which side of the bed I sleep better on; you peel oranges for me because you know I hate the smell on my fingers, and you always turn the porch light on before I get to your house so I never have to walk up in the dark alone.” An adoring grin tugs at your mouth then. “You look at me like I’m the prettiest girl in the world. All the time—even when I’m exhausted and cranky and covered in glitter glue from school projects.” 

“So no, Bucky. I don’t think there’s anything about you to be scared of.” You sigh dreamily, lying back down. “You’re my Jamie.”

He swallows hard, jaw tightening for a moment as he fights for control over the tears threatening to spill.

“I love you.” He whispers abruptly, like he can’t hold it back anymore.

Your breath hitches, and then your smile breaks open so wide your cheeks start to ache. “I love you too, Jamie.”

The second the words leave your mouth, Bucky is pulling you over him for a feverish kiss that steals the oxygen from your burning lungs.

That night, he carefully rolls until he’s the one resting on your chest, his arms locked securely around your waist. And for the first time in your life, disagreement ends with someone offering silence as a space to settle instead of weaponizing it.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN HE THINKS ABOUT FOREVER You are sitting with crossed legs on the couch in one of Bucky’s flannels and thick socks, Alpine dramatically sprawled on your lap as one tiny paw stretches lazily beneath your chin. Her purring is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs every time your fingers drag slowly through her white fur. She arrived in the middle of January wrapped inside one of Bucky’s old flannels, small enough that at first you mistook her for some white bundle of fabric against his chest. You still remember the way he had stepped through the front door that evening with rainwater clinging to the shoulders of his jacket and damp locks at the nape of his neck, one large hand carefully cupped beneath the trembling kitten like he was afraid she might dissolve if he held her too tightly.

“Found her near the south fence,” he had explained quietly while you fretted over them, your heart already breaking at the sight of the little thing. “No collar. Could barely stop shivering to eat.”

Alpine had looked miserable then, all wide blue eyes and soaked fur, but the second you reached for her, she had pushed her tiny face straight into your palm with a desperate little squeak that made Bucky huff a soft laugh. And that was it for you.

Months later, Alpine rules the farmhouse like she personally pays the mortgage. She follows Bucky everywhere when he is home, winding around his boots while he cooks or trying to climb directly into his lap whenever he sits down for more than five minutes. But with you she turns even softer, almost spoiled in the way she melts instantly against your affection. The moment you walk through the front door, she is meowing to be picked up, trotting across the hardwood floors before you even have time to take your shoes off. Sometimes she is eagerly waiting on the back of the couch like she somehow heard your car turn into Bucky’s lane.

He pretends to find it deeply offensive.

“Think she likes you more’n me now.” He had grumbled once while watching Alpine stretch shamelessly in your arms instead of his. You laughed, finding him extremely adorable.

“She sees you every day.”

“Exactly,” he had replied, narrowing his eyes at the cat like she had personally betrayed him. “And apparently that means nothing anymore.”

Tonight is no different.

“There’s my pretty girl,” you murmur as your hands delicately cradle her face. “Yes, there she is. Sweet baby.” Alpine answers by shoving her tiny face directly beneath your chin.

“Oh, you want more attention?” You gasp theatrically. “What a shocking development!”

From the doorway, Bucky watches the entire thing unfold in silence with the shadow of a fond smile lingering on his lips, one shoulder leaning against the frame separating the living room from the kitchen and thick arms crossed loosely over his chest. There is dirt still faintly smudged along one forearm from work outside, his flannel pushed up to his elbows, hair still slightly messy from where he dragged his fingers through it earlier. But all of that roughness fades beneath the look in his eyes. Because you are sitting there treating that tiny stray kitten like she hung the moon. Carefully kissing her head. Adjusting the blanket around her. Holding her with such tenderness, like this is the only language your body knows how to speak.

“Needy thing.” You murmur affectionately before pressing another kiss between her ears.

“You say that like you’re any better.”

The sound of Bucky’s teasing voice makes you glance up immediately. Alpine notices him too, her ears perking instantly before she lets out a tiny chirp of recognition. Still, she makes absolutely no attempt to leave your arms. The floor creaks softly beneath his boots as he finally pushes away from the doorway and walks toward the couch. You give him a sweet smile before your attention drops back to the kitten currently trying to chew on the sleeve hanging over your hand.

“Your daughter is biting me again.” Bucky snorts quietly as he lowers himself beside you, one arm immediately stretching around your shoulders.

“My daughter?” He repeats, pulling you closer. “That cat stopped being mine the second you started baby-talking her.”

“Mmh, that’s not true.”

“Princess, you carried her around this house for three hours yesterday because she sneezed once.”

You frown. “She was sick.”

“She had dust on her nose.”

You gasp softly in mock offense while Alpine flips onto her back, completely unconcerned with the argument happening over her custody. Bucky watches you scratch carefully beneath her chin, your entire face softening without restraint every time she purrs louder. Something in his chest pulls so hard it almost feels unfair, because you have no idea how gorgeous you look, and that he could stand there for hours just watching you pour your love out so freely.

Bucky reaches down then, scratching gently beneath Alpine’s chin until the kitten practically melts in your lap. “She sits in front of the door when you leave, y’know.”

Your eyebrows lift in surprise. “She does not.”

“Mhm.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Walks around crying for twenty minutes like her entire life just fell apart.”

“That’s dramatic.” You tell her with an exaggerated pout.

“Says the woman holding her like an actual infant.”

You look down instinctively. She has, in fact, moved to lie against your chest beneath the blanket with only her tiny head visible. “… Okay maybe a little.”

Bucky chuckles softly, the sound settling warm and deep inside your chest. You eventually notice his silence as somewhere deeper in the house the dryer hums low and steady. The air smells faintly like coffee and detergent and the water lily and sheer musk candle you lit earlier before sunset. When Alpine decides it’s time for the second round against the buttons of the flannel, your smile fades gradually as you become aware that Bucky’s still looking at you.

“What?” You ask softly. He blinks once like he has to pull himself back into the room.

“Nothing.” He murmurs automatically, though it’s very clearly not nothing.

Your eyes narrow a little. “James.”

His expression shifts then, softening even further until it almost looks thoughtful, his gaze drifting toward Alpine.

“I keep picturing something,” he breathes out absently. “Not in a big, dramatic way. Just… small things stacked together.”

Your breath catches quietly.

“Waking up,” he continues, almost like he can see it somewhere in front of him. “And not having to rush outta bed right away. Coffee that gets cold because neither of us remembers it’s there. A kitchen that’s too full of noise for how early it is.” His frame moves with the faint breath of amusement that slips through his lips, but it never breaks the softness of the moment.

“And coming home at the end of the day knowing it doesn’t matter how it went out there,” he adds more quietly, finally meeting your eyes. “Because there’s still you here.”

You can barely breathe now, your heart doing a strange little stutter. He says it so easily. Like these thoughts have existed inside him for a long time already. Like he’s visited them before and kept coming back to them over and over again.

Bucky shifts slightly closer on the couch without even seeming aware he is doing it, his free hand settling warm on your knee, his thumb brushing back and forth on your bare skin.

“I don’t know all the details yet,” he whispers, eyes moving from your eyes to your lips. “But I know it keeps coming back to the same thing. You being here. That’s the part my mind doesn’t change.”

Bucky leans closer until his forehead finally rests against yours. “If someday you decide you want kids, I’ll build something bigger for us. A place with too much noise, toys everywhere and muddy boots by the front door.” His smile grows almost boyishly giddy now, soft laughter warming his words. “Maybe a little boy with your eyes... and a little girl with your smile.”

Your chest rises sharply, your love for this sweet man soaring so suddenly in your heart it almost hurts. Tears burn hot behind your eyes before you can stop them.

“And if you don’t want that,” he continues gently, certain that every path still leads to you anyway. “Then we’ll keep the farmhouse just the way it is and spoil every animal we’ve got. Those damn ducks already act like they’re running the place anyway.” A watery laugh escapes you despite the lump in your throat, and Bucky smiles at the sound, his nose brushing lightly against yours.

“You wanna travel? We’ll travel. You wanna stay here forever teaching little ones while I complain about tractors and rain?” His hand squeezes your knee once. “Fine too.” Then the teasing fades from his expression entirely.

“Any future is right if you’re in it.”

Your vision blurs completely to the point a few small tears escape anyway, Bucky reaching up almost instinctively with his rough thumb to carefully brush away the wetness beneath one eye.

“I love you,” he whispers, thick with emotion. “I just need you.”

You stare at him for one helpless second before you finally cup his face.

“I love you too, Jamie.” You manage shakily, chuckling at how wobbly your voice must sound.

And yet, you couldn’t care less, because his lips are on yours—soft, reverent. One hand moves on your waist while the last rays of sunset spill warm gold across the walls around you.

Alpine promptly puts her front paws on your chest halfway through like she refuses to be excluded from this sweet moment. You feel Bucky laugh gently against your mouth at the feeling of fur brushing against his neck, but even then, he stays close enough that your foreheads still touch.

“Everything else,” he murmurs quietly, like a promise made as much to himself as to you. “Can figure itself out around that.”

— ⟢ END NOTES: as I mentioned in another post, nowadays it’s hard to find someone who is willing to put real effort into a relationship, but with this story I wanted to focus on the more positive side of dating—especially how someone like this reader, kinda insecure and with little relationship experience, might navigate certain situations for the first time + the degree of trust it takes to let yourself be vulnerable for the first time with someone. honestly there was so much more that I wanted to write, but because of the 1000 blocks limit, I had to cut out many scenes, shorten the smutty parts and make longer paragraphs (hope it doesn't look bad). I also intend to further explore the non-sexual d/s dynamic in other stories, because this one-shot was just a collection of moments so I thought it'd be better to keep it pretty tame. what was your favorite moment 🥰? thank you so much for reading 💕 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

🏷️ general bucky taglist: @itzzkayla @randomfanpage @astraea-and-her-novels @heavenlypjm @spinsteringintoamillionpieces @pandasslol @wildflowersandvibranium @scribblesandquotes @beans-and-toast @singulartoast @gentlelimerence @secretxion14wells @maplesyrizzup @phantom-wolf-girl @norucking @punkh3arted @r4isins @doctorbitchcrxft @butterfly-lover @usernamee18 @secretdream2 @sambuckystony @cowboylikeh @jasontoddswhitestreak @shrupshrooms @bibiishin @sheriff-bodecker @ninauh @metal-armed-muse @mehmeh331 @iloveshawnieboi @namjoohnie

[classygumi]

does anyone even care about flins anymore because oh my god i miss him