Can I get an Anderperry hurt/comfort Drabble please and thank you!! Iâd love if it was a post-canon au where Neil lives. But other than that you have free reign :)
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The stars must look pretty up here, but Todd only has eyes for Neil.
His head is in Todd's lap where he's spread out on the rooftop. Neil never could be contained. The hospital room had no chance.
Todd decided to just help him up here, instead of finding him passed out in the stairwell with his head bashed open. He thinks he's a pretty good boyfriend, despite the fact the thought of Neil doing something he shouldn't makes his heart want to jump from his chest.
It's calm now, though. With his fingers trailing over Neil's cheek and the stars above them.
"Can I tell you something?" Neil asks.
He's done that a lot lately. Asking. Todd hates it. Not because of the words or the fact Neil wants to tell him stuff âpainful stuff, stuff that will make him want to destroy the entire world for making Neil feel that wayâ but because Neil feels like he has to ask.
He doesn't mention it, though. Just humming, whenever the question arises once more.
"Sometimes," Neil starts, his voice shaky, "when I wake up... I'm not sure whether I'm truly alive or if it was all just a dream and I'mâ"
The words stick in his throat. Todd doesn't have to hear them to know what Neil means.
"You're alive," he whispers, because it feels like the right thing to do. Neil doesn't need someone to be gentle, he needs someone to tell him the truth. Todd will be that person for him. "You're here with me, you're alive. Everything's alright."
"I know," Neil mumbles. Tears stream softly from the corners of his eyes. "I know, I just wish I would remember."
"I'll remind you." It's the least he can do. He'd do anything, to show the universe how grateful he is for giving Neil a second chance. "No matter when, or where. I'll remind you."
"How are you gonna do that?" Neil asks. He's looking at Todd now, eyes still teary, but a small smile pulling at his lips.
"Like this." Todd leans down to press their lips together. "Wouldn't be able to experience that if you weren't alive, right?"
"Right," Neil sighs. "Thank you."
Todd only shakes his head, brushing the tears from Neil's cheeks. He'd do anything for him. Now and in twenty years. Anything, always.
If we for a moment forgo canon events and disagreements then I do wholeheartedly hope and believe that Todd and Neil get married during the '70s. It's a sunny afternoon on the perfect day in mid-spring and the light is at its thickest and most golden and Charlie got registered as an officiant just for this day and not everybody's present - Meeks can't make it from Switzerland on short notice, but they get a photo of him and prop it up on the coffee table at the perfect angle to see. Neil keeps wondering if he's going to get the pre-wedding jitters and does end up pacing around the living room early in the morning, but it's less cold feet and more impatience. (Turns out it's kind of hard to get cold feet when your almost-husband is sitting drowsily on the couch to keep you company and he keeps almost nodding off and you keep remembering all the ways in which you love him.) Ginny barges in at noon with hairspray and a sewing kit and insists on making bouquets with shitty grocery store flowers for both of them and Todd's suit ends up with a hastily added elbow patch and Neil's tie doesn't match his pocket square, because one's from Cameron and the other's from Knox. (Something borrowed, something blue...) It's perfect. In the end they go out on the balcony and Charlie's wearing this really tacky priest outfit, just really shitty fabric so that he's probably sweating bullets, and the collar's come untucked, and at the last moment Chris shrieks, "You forgot your bouquets!" and throws one with such good aim it hits Todd in the face. But they get through the vows and both of them only cry a little, because Cameron cries enough for all of them combined, and then that's it - over - and married. And as Charlie beams and says they can kiss there's a well-timed shower of rice from the balcony above, and congratulations, from some upstairs neighbours and well-wishers. Pitts catches the kiss on his expensive video camera and he also catches the cheering, which is so loud that, four blocks away, a lone man packing up his street food van pauses in closing boxes and thinks that there must be a party going on. He's right. And at the end of the night when the last loved one leaves and shuts the door gently behind them to not disturb the newlyweds lying together on the couch, silent with happiness, it's still perfect. At that moment it doesn't matter that there is no piece of paper, or no registry office, or that if Todd has an accident Neil might not be able to visit him in the hospital room. There will be tears for those things, but they come later. For now they're married. The beautiful thing never changes.
⎠synopsis: bucky's gotten good at keeping his distance from his harmless, sunshine-y neighbor. but when you get taken because of himâbecause someone figured out you're his weak spotâhe realizes how spectacularly that plan backfired. turns out the winter soldier's soft spot is a lot more dangerous than he thought.
⎠pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader
⎠disclaimers: violence, kidnapping, blood and injury, torture (not graphic), angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, established feelings but complicated relationship, second person POV, fem!reader, miscommunication, intense yearning, emotionally constipated!bucky, past trauma, mild language, fighting sequences
⎠word count: 10.6k
⎠a/n: first fic on this blog and it's basically just 10k words of soft bucky yearning xoxo
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The first time Bucky Barnes sees you, you're trying to shove a couch through a doorway that's at least six inches too narrow, and losing spectacularly.
He's coming home from another pointless congressional hearingâthe kind where everyone talks in circles about defense budgets while carefully not mentioning the alien invasion from three months agoâwhen he spots you in the hallway. You're wedged between the arm of what looks like a vintage velvet monstrosity and the doorframe of 4B, hair escaping from whatever you'd tried to contain it with, muttering a stream of increasingly creative profanity.
"Fuckingâcome onâyou absolute bastard of aâ"
The couch shifts. You yelp. Bucky's halfway down the hall before he realizes he's moving.
"Need a hand?"
You twist around, and something in his chest does this stupid, inconvenient flip. Your face is flushed, one cheek smudged with what might be dust or maybe yesterday's mascara, and you're looking at him likeâwell. Like he's not Bucky Barnes. Like he's just some guy in the hallway who might know how geometry works.
"Oh thank god," you breathe, and the relief in it makes his mouth twitch. "I've been battling this thing for twenty minutes. I think it's winning."
He assesses the situation with the same tactical precision he'd use for a Bulgarian arms deal, if arms deals came upholstered in emerald green and smelled faintly of vanilla perfume mixed with fresh sweat. The angle's all wrong. You've been trying to force it through horizontally when it needs to go vertical, then rotate.
"Here." He steps closer, and you shift to make room, your shoulder brushing his chest in a way that absolutely doesn't make his pulse stutter. "If we flip itâ"
"Oh, you're strong," you say, like an observation about the weather, as he essentially deadlifts one end of your couch. The metal arm whirs faintly. You don't flinch. "That's convenient."
Convenient. Right. He maneuvers the couch through the doorway in three efficient moves, trying not to notice how you smell like coffee and something floral, how you hover just inside his peripheral vision like you're trying not to crowd him but can't quite stay away.
"There." He sets it down in what's clearly the only spot it could go in your tiny living room. The space is chaosâboxes everywhere, art leaning against walls, books stacked in precarious towers. "You just moving in?"
"Yeah, fromâ" You wave a hand vaguely eastward. "Nicer neighborhood. Turns out freelance graphic design doesn't pay for Manhattan rent. Who knew?" The self-deprecation comes with a grin that transforms your whole face, and Bucky has to look away, focus on the box labeled 'KITCHEN SHIT' in aggressive Sharpie. "I'mâwell, you probably don't care what my name is."
He does, actually. Cares in a way that makes his teeth ache.
"Bucky," he offers, even though you clearly already know. "4C."
"The grumpy congressman." Your grin goes wider, teasing. "I've seen you on C-SPAN. You look like you're being held at gunpoint during those hearings."
"Feel like it too," he mutters, and the laugh you give him hits like a shot of whiskeyâwarm and slightly dizzying.
"Well, Congressman Barnes of apartment 4C, you've just saved my Saturday. Can I pay you in beer? I've gotâ" You dig through a box, emerge triumphant with two bottles. "Hipster IPA or hipster IPA?"
He should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember what happened the last time he let someone get closeâthe scar on his ribs from Belgrade still aches when it rains.
Instead, he finds himself accepting a bottle, listening to you chatter about the neighbor who warned you about the rats (definitely real) and the ghost (probably not real but who knows), watching how you gesture with your whole body when you talk, like you're too much for your own skin.
It's dangerous, how easy you are to be around. How you look at him like he's just Bucky, not the former Asset, not the killer, not the congressman who can't pass a single fucking bill. Just a guy who helped with your couch.
He stays too long. Drinks two beers. Helps you unpack exactly three boxes before some long-dormant self-preservation instinct kicks in and he makes excuses about constituent emails.
"Thanks again," you say at the door, and there's something in your eyesâcuriosity, maybe. Interest. "For the couch. And the company."
"No problem."
He's halfway to his own door when you call out: "Hey, Barnes?"
He turns. You're leaning against your doorframe, backlit by the disaster zone of your apartment, smiling that smile that makes his chest tight.
"I make really good coffee. You know. If congressional hearings ever drive you to caffeine dependency."
It's an offer. An opening. Everything in him screams to close it, lock it down, maintain operational security. Instead, his traitorous mouth says, "I'll keep that in mind."
He's so fucked.
The thing is, Bucky's gotten good at keeping people at arm's length. Seventy years of being a weapon teaches him that distance equals safetyâfor them, not him.
When you're already dead, what's a little more damage?
So he shouldn't notice when you start leaving your apartment at 7:23 every morning, shouldering a bag that's always slipping off your shoulder. Shouldn't time his own exits to avoid those encounters, then feel like an asshole when he succeeds. Definitely shouldn't lie awake listening through the thin walls as you sing along to whatever pop music you play while cooking, off-key and enthusiastic.
But here's the other thing: you make it really fucking hard to maintain distance.
You leave cookies outside his door with notes that say things like "for emergency constituent-induced rage" and "survival fuel for C-SPAN." You knock when you know he's home, ask to borrow sugar or vodka or a screwdriver, then stay to chat like his apartment isn't just bare walls and a couch Sam made him buy. You touchâcasual, constant. A hand on his arm when you laugh, fingers brushing when you hand him things, like physical contact isn't something that makes his brain static out.
"You're a really good listener," you tell him one evening, three weeks into whatever this is. You're sitting on his floor, back against his couch, because you'd knocked asking for wine and then somehow ended up staying. Your knee presses against his thigh. He's catastrophically aware of every point of contact. "Like, actually good. Not just waiting for your turn to talk."
"Not much of a talker," he says, which is true and also easier than explaining that he's memorizing everythingâhow you twist your rings when you're nervous, the way your voice drops when you're saying something real, how you look in his space like you belong there.
"Bullshit." You bump his shoulder. He doesn't flinch anymore, which is either progress or a sign he's completely fucked. "You're just selective. Quality over quantity."
You say things like thatâobservations that feel like being seen, really seen, not just looked at. It's terrifying. It's addictive. It's going to get you killed.
Because here's the thing Bucky knows down to his bones: everything he touches turns to ash. Everyone he cares about becomes a target. And youâwith your sunshine laugh and your disaster apartment and your way of looking at him like he's worth somethingâyou're exactly the kind of light that attracts the worst kind of dark.
He should stay away.
He doesn't.
"So," Sam says, watching Bucky check his phone for the third time during their coffee meeting. "Who is she?"
"What?" Bucky pockets the phone. You'd texted asking if he knew how to fix a leaky faucet. He knows seventeen ways to kill a man with a faucet. Fixing one can't be that different. "Nobody. Work thing."
"Uh-huh." Sam's doing that face, the one that means he's about to be insufferably perceptive. "That's why you just smiled at your phone. Over a work thing. You. Smiled."
"I smile."
"No, you do this thing with your mouth that's like a smile's evil twin. This was an actual smile. So. Who is she?"
Bucky takes a long drink of coffee, considering how much lying is worth the effort. "Neighbor."
"Neighbor." Sam leans back, grinning. "Cute neighbor?"
The memory of you last night, paint in your hair and gesturing wildly about your latest client, flashes unbidden. His silence is apparently answer enough.
"Buck. Man. This is good. You needâ"
"I need to not get people killed," Bucky cuts him off. "I need to remember that anyone who gets close to me ends up hurt. I needâ"
"You need a life," Sam interrupts right back. "You need to stop punishing yourself for shit that wasn't your fault. You need to let yourself have something good."
Bucky's jaw works. The phone buzzes again. He doesn't check it.
"She doesn't know what she's getting into," he says finally. "She'sâ" Bright. Warm. Good. "She's not part of this world."
"So keep her out of it." Sam makes it sound simple. Like there's a way to compartmentalize, to have you without putting you at risk. "Be her neighbor. Be normal. Be happy, for once in your goddamn life."
Normal. Right. Because nothing says normal like a centenarian ex-assassin with more kills than most armies and a metal arm that could crush a skull like an egg.
But then he thinks about your smile when he fixed your garbage disposal last week. How you'd said "my hero" in this teasing, fond way that made him want impossible things. How you treat him like he's just Bucky, not a weapon someone else aimed.
"I don't know how," he admits, quieter than he meant to.
Sam's expression softens. "Nobody does, man. You just try anyway."
The faucet thing turns into a whole production.
You answer the door in tiny pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that says "FEMINIST KILLJOY" in glitter letters, and Bucky's brain shorts out for a solid three seconds. Your hair's piled on top of your head in what might generously be called a bun, and there's toothpaste at the corner of your mouth, and he wants toâ
"Oh good, you're here," you say, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. Your fingers are warm through his henley. "It's making this noise like a dying whale. I tried YouTube tutorials but I think I made it worse."
The kitchen is a disaster. Tools scattered everywhere, water pooling on the floor, YouTube still playing on your laptop ("âsure to turn off the water main firstâ"). You've clearly been at this for a while.
"Did you turn off the water?" he asks, already knowing the answer from the growing puddle.
"I turned off a valve," you say defensively. "Several valves. None of them seemed to be the right valve."
He finds himself fighting a smile as he locates the actual shut-off. You hover behind him as he works, close enough that he can feel your breath on his neck, keeping up a running commentary that's part apology, part stand-up routine.
"âand then the wrench slipped and I maybe screamed a little bit, and Mrs. Nguyen next door started banging on the wall, and I had to yell that I wasn't being murdered, just defeating by plumbingâ"
"Hand me theâ" He turns to ask for the wrench at the same moment you lean forward to see what he's doing. Your faces end up inches apart. Time does that thing where it forgets how to work properly.
Your eyes are very wide. There's a water droplet on your cheek. Bucky's hand twitches with the urge to wipe it away.
"Wrench," he manages, voice rougher than intended.
"Right. Wrench. That's aâ" You scramble backward, nearly slip on the wet floor. He catches your elbow automatically, steadying you, and your skin is so warm under his fingers it feels like a brand. "Thanks. I'm not usually this much of a disaster. Actually, that's a lie. I'm exactly this much of a disaster, you've just caught me on a particularly disastrous day."
He fixes the faucet in under ten minutes. You insist on making coffee as payment, which turns into leftover pizza, which turns into three hours on your couch watching some reality show about people making elaborate cakes. You provide running commentary that's funnier than the show itself, and Bucky finds himself actually laughingânot the dry chuckle he's perfected for public appearances, but real laughter that comes from somewhere deep in his chest.
"See?" you say during a commercial break, grinning at him. "I told you this show was addictive. Next week they're making a life-size dragon cake that actually breathes fire."
"Next week?" The words slip out before he can stop them, too revealing.
Your grin softens into something else, something that makes his chest tight. "Well, yeah. You can't miss fire-breathing dragon cake. That's un-American."
It becomes a thing. Thursday nights, your couch, increasingly ridiculous cooking shows. You always have too much dinner ("I'm terrible at portions, shut up"), he always fixes something that's broken ("it's not broken, it's just temperamental"), and somewhere between cake disasters and your laughter, Bucky forgets to maintain distance.
"Your boyfriend's here," Mrs. Nguyen announces loudly when Bucky knocks on your door a month later, because apparently the entire floor has decided they're invested in whatever this is.
"He's not myâ" Your voice cuts off as you open the door. You're wearing a dress, which is new. Red, which is newer. Lipstick, which is going to kill him. "Hi."
"Hi." His brain's stuck on the curve of your shoulder, the way the fabric clings. "Going out?"
"Wedding. Old college friend." You're fidgeting with your earring, a sure tell that you're nervous. "I hate weddings. All that optimism and overpriced chicken."
"So don't go."
"Can't. I already RSVP'd, and I'm a good friend even if I'm a wedding-hating gremlin." You pause, still fiddling with the earring. "Unless..."
He knows what's coming by the way you're biting your lip. "No."
"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"
"You were going to ask me to go with you."
"...okay, so you did know." You lean against the doorframe, giving him a look that's probably supposed to be convincing but mostly just highlights how your eyes catch the hallway light. "Come on. You're a congressman. You must love overpriced chicken and small talk."
"I really don't."
"There's an open bar."
"Still no."
"I'll owe you one. One big favor. Anything."
That makes him pause, but not for the reason you think. The idea of you owing him anything makes his skin itch. You already give too muchâyour time, your laughter, your casual touches that rewire his brain. But the idea of watching you navigate a wedding alone, of other people getting to see you in that dress...
"Fine," he hears himself say. "But I'm not dancing."
The smile you give him could power Brooklyn for a week.
He's absolutely, catastrophically unprepared for how you look in candlelight.
The wedding venue is one of those rustic-chic places that thinks exposed beams equal personality. You're at table eight, which puts you safely in "college friends but not close enough for the wedding party" territory. You've been providing whispered commentary all through the ceremony ("five bucks says she wrote her vows the night before"), your shoulder pressed against his in a way that makes paying attention to anything else physically impossible.
"See that bridesmaid?" You nod toward a blonde who's definitely already three champagnes deep. "That's Amber. We were roommates sophomore year. She once tried to seduce our RA by leaving Post-it poetry on his door."
"Did it work?"
"Depends on your definition of 'work.' She did get his attention. Also a conduct violation." You're playing with the stem of your wine glass, fingers tracing patterns. "Thanks for this, by the way. I know wearing a suit and making small talk isn't exactly your idea of fun."
He could tell you that wearing a suit is nothing compared to tac gear, that small talk is easier than Senate hearings. Could mention that the way you keep unconsciously leaning into him makes any discomfort worth it. Instead: "It's fine."
"Such enthusiasm." But you're smiling, soft and maybe a little fond. "Dance with me?"
"I said no dancing."
"You said that before you had champagne. And before they playedâ" You tilt your head, listening. "Oh my god, is this Bon Jovi? We have to dance to Bon Jovi. It's the law."
"That's not a law."
"It's a law of wedding physics. Come on, Barnes. One dance. I promise not to step on your feet much."
The thing is, he can't say no to you. It's becoming a problem. You want him to fix your sink? Done. Need someone to hold your laptop while you Skype your mother? He's there. Want him to dance to "Livin' on a Prayer" at some stranger's wedding? Apparently, that's happening too.
You're a terrible dancer. Genuinely awful. You have no sense of rhythm, keep trying to lead, and you're laughing too hard to even pretend otherwise. It's perfect. He spins you out just to watch your dress flare, pulls you back too close, and for a momentâyour hand in his, your face tilted up, surrounded by fairy lights and other people's happinessâhe forgets why this is a bad idea.
"See?" you say, slightly breathless. "Dancing's not so bad."
His hand is on your waist. He can feel your pulse through the thin fabric. "No. Not so bad."
Someone bumps into you from behind, pushing you fully against his chest. Your hands come up to steady yourself, one landing over his heart, and he knows you can feel how it stumbles. Your smile falters, shifts into something else. Something that looks dangerously like realization.
"Buckyâ"
"They're cutting the cake," he says, stepping back. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "Should probably watch. For your show."
You blink, then recover. "Right. Yeah. Cake."
But you're quiet for the rest of the reception, and he catches you looking at him with this expression he can't decode. Like you're working through a complex equation and not liking the answer.
He drives home. You spend the ride fiddling with your phone, uncharacteristically silent. When he pulls up to the building, you don't immediately get out.
"I'm sorry if Iâ" you start.
"Don't." It comes out harsher than intended. He tries again, softer: "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Feels like I did." You're still not looking at him. "I forget sometimes, that you'reâthat we'reâ"
"Friends," he supplies, even though the word tastes like ash. "We're friends."
"Right." You finally meet his eyes, and there's something careful in your expression now. Guarded. "Friends."
You're out of the car before he can figure out what to say to fix this. He watches you disappear into the building first, red dress like a wound in the grey evening, and knows he's fucked everything up without quite understanding how.
You pull back after that.
It's subtleâyou still smile when you see him in the hall, still text him memes at inappropriate hours. But you stop knocking on his door for impromptu dinners. Stop touching him casually. When he offers to fix your eternally-dripping showerhead, you say you'll call the super instead.
"You're moping," Sam tells him two weeks later, during one of their mandatory "make sure Bucky's not spiraling" brunch dates.
"I don't mope."
"You're the Black Widow of moping. The Michael Jordan of emotional constipation." Sam pauses. "That neighbor you mentioned?"
Bucky's silence is damning.
"What'd you do?"
"Why do you assume I did something?"
"Because you always do something. You get close to someone, panic, and pull some self-sabotaging bullshit." Sam's voice gentles. "Talk to me, man."
Bucky stares at his coffee like it holds answers. "She wanted to dance."
"...okay?"
"At a wedding. And Iâwe danced. And it was..." He doesn't have words for what it was. How you felt in his arms, how the world narrowed down to just the two of you, how for a moment he forgot he was dangerous. "And then I shut it down."
"Why?"
"Because." He sets the mug down too hard, coffee sloshing. "Because she's sunshine, Sam. She's late-night cooking shows and glitter pens and leaving snacks for the delivery guy. She has no idea what I've done, what I'm capable ofâ"
"Did you ever think maybe she does know and doesn't care?"
"Then she's naĂŻve."
"Or maybe she just sees you better than you see yourself." Sam leans forward. "Buck, you can't protect people by pushing them away. That's not how it works."
"It's worked so far."
"Has it? Because from where I'm sitting, you're miserable, she's probably confused as hell, and nobody's actually safer."
Bucky wants to argue, but then his phone buzzes. Your name pops up: my smoke alarm is having an existential crisis. is it supposed to beep in morse code?
He's already standing before he realizes it.
"Go," Sam says, shaking his head but smiling. "Fix her smoke alarm. Talk to her like a human being. Maybe try not to fuck it up this time."
Your door is already cracked when he gets there, smoke rolling out in lazy waves.
"I'm not on fire!" you call before he can knock. "Well, the oven mitt was, but I handled it."
He finds you on a chair, ineffectively fanning the smoke detector with a dish towel. You're wearing those little pajama shorts again and his brain still isn't prepared for the sight.
"How does an oven mitt catch fire?" He reaches up, disables the alarm with practiced ease.
"Well, when you forget it's on your hand and rest it on the stove burner..." You shrink a little at his look. "I was distracted."
"By what?"
You don't answer, just hop down from the chair. This close, he can see the flour in your hair, the way you're worrying your bottom lip. "Thanks. Sorry for texting, I know it's lateâ"
"Why are you apologizing?"
"Becauseâ" You make a frustrated gesture. "Because I'm trying to give you space. Because you clearly regretted the wedding thing and I'm trying not to be that neighbor who develops inconvenient feelingsâ"
"Feelings?" His brain snags on the word like cloth on a nail.
You go very still. "Shit. I mean. Not feelings. Just. You know. Neighbor...ly concern. Very platonic. Super appropriate."
"You're a terrible liar."
"Yeah, well, you're terrible atâ" You stop, visibly collecting yourself. When you speak again, your voice is carefully level: "I like you, okay? More than I should. And I know that's not what you want, and I'm trying really hard to be okay with that, but you standing in my kitchen looking all concerned while I'm having a feelings crisis is really not helping."
The words hit him like a physical blow. You like him. More than you should.
"You don't know me," he says, defaulting to the easiest argument.
"Bullshit." There's heat in your voice now. "I know you reorganize my bookshelf when you think I'm not looking because the chaos bothers you. I know you bring me coffee on Tuesdays because you noticed I have early meetings. I know you have nightmaresâyeah, the walls are thinâand I know you pace afterwards like you're trying to walk off whatever you dreamed about."
Each observation feels like being flayed open.
"I know you're careful," you continue, softer now. "I know you think you're dangerous. And I know you've probably got reasons for that. But Bucky? I also know you'd never hurt me. Ever."
"You can't know that."
"Why? Because you're what, too damaged? Too dangerous?" You step closer and he should step back but he's frozen. "You carry my groceries. You fixed my faucet. You danced with me at a wedding even though you hate dancing. Really dangerous stuff there, Barnes."
"You don't understandâ"
"Then explain it to me." Your chin juts out, stubborn. "Give me one good reason why we can'tâ"
He kisses you.
It's the wrong thing to do. Selfish. Stupid. But you're standing there in your flour-dusted pajamas, looking at him like he's worth fighting for, and his self-control just...snaps.
The sound you makeâsoft, surprised, maybe relievedâshorts out every rational thought in his head. Your hands come up to frame his face, fingertips cool against his burning skin, and then you're kissing him back like you've been waiting for this, like you've been drowning too.
You taste like smoke and whatever you were baking, sweet with an edge of burn, and he's dizzy with it. His hands find your waist, fingers spreading wide against the soft cotton of your shirt, and he pulls you in until there's no space between you, until he can feel your heartbeat hammering against his chest. You're so warm, so alive, radiating heat like a small sun, and he wants to map every degree of it with his mouth, his hands, hisâ
Reality crashes back like ice water.
He jerks away, but his hands won't let go of your waist, like his body's in revolt against his better judgment. You're both breathing like you've run milesâharsh, ragged pulls of air that fill the space between you. Your lips are swollen, kiss-bruised, and he did that, he marked you, and the savage satisfaction of it wars with the knowledge that he's just made everything infinitely worse.
Your eyes are huge, pupils blown wide, and you're looking at him like he's just rearranged your entire understanding of the universe. One hand is still on his face, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth like you're trying to hold the kiss there, keep it from escaping.
"That's why," he says roughly. "Because I wantâbecause you make me want things I can't have."
"Says who?" Your eyes are very bright. "Who decided what you can have?"
He doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't know how to explain the mathematics of survival, how everyone he's ever cared about becomes a liability, a target, a grave.
"I should go," he manages.
"Or," you say, "you could stay."
The offer hangs between you like a lit fuse. He can see the future unspool in both directions: leave now, go back to safe distances and polite nods in the hallway, watch you eventually move on with someone who doesn't come with a body count. Or stay, and risk you realizing what a mistake you're making. Stay, and selfishly take whatever you're willing to give for however long you're willing to give it.
You're still looking at him, patient and terrified and hopeful all at once.
He leaves.
The word echoes in his head all the way back to his apartment. Coward. Coward. Coward. But it's the right thing to do. The safe thing. You'll hurt for a while, maybe hate him a little, but you'll be alive to do it.
He doesn't sleep. Just sits on his couch, staring at the wall that separates your apartments, listening to the muffled sounds of you cleaning up. The shower runs at 2 AM. He knows you cry in the shower when you think no one can hearâlearned that three weeks into being neighbors, when your freelance client stiffed you on a big project. He'd wanted to break the fucker's legs then.
Now he wants to break his own.
You're a better person than he'll ever be, which is why you still smile at him in the hallway.
It's careful now, contained. The kind of smile you'd give any neighbor, not the one that used to light up your whole face when you saw him. You don't knock anymore. Don't text about your smoke alarm or your leaky faucet or the rat you're convinced lives in the walls. You just...exist, parallel to him, in a way that makes his chest feel like it's full of broken glass.
"Fixed it myself," you say one morning when he catches you wrestling with a new deadbolt installation. Your drill slips, gouging the doorframe. "YouTube University, you know?"
He could fix it in under a minute. Could show you how to align the strike plate properly, how to test the throw. Instead: "Good for you."
Your smile flickers. "Yeah. Good for me."
Mrs. Nguyen gives him dirty looks now. The whole floor does, really. Like they know he's the reason you don't laugh as loud anymore, why your music's quieter, why you started getting grocery delivery instead of making three trips up the stairs, arms overloaded, dropping things and cursing cheerfully.
It's fine. It's working. You're safe.
He tells himself that every night when he hears you through the walls, moving around your apartment like a ghost of the person who used to dance while cooking.
Three weeks post-kiss, Valentina calls them in for a mission that's barely legal on a good day.
"Weapons shipment," she says, sliding photos across the conference table with her usual theatrical flair. "Enhanced tech, off-market, very much not supposed to exist. The kind of toys that make governments nervous."
"So we're stealing them," Walker states, not asks.
"Recovering," Val corrects with a smile sharp enough to cut. "For the safety of the American people, of course."
Yelena snorts. Alexei's already studying the compound layout like there'll be a test. Bob's doing that thing where he shrinks into himself, trying to become invisible. Bucky catalogs exits, counts guards in the surveillance photos, and tries not to think about how you looked last night, hauling groceries with your hair falling in your eyes.
The mission goes sideways in minute three.
"Intel was wrong," Ava's voice crackles through comms, too calm for the situation. "Triple the guards. Andâ"
The explosion cuts her off. Then another. The "barely defended warehouse" is a fucking fortress, crawling with military-grade security who definitely got the "shoot to kill" memo.
"Fall back," Bucky orders, but Alexei's already charged ahead, yelling something about Soviet glory. Walker's trying to flank, Bob's panicking, and somewhere in the chaos, Yelena starts laughing like this is the best thing that's happened all week.
It takes two hours to fight their way out. By the end, Bucky's left arm is sparking, his ears are ringing, and he's pretty sure at least three ribs are cracked. Yelena's favoring her right leg, Walker's bleeding from somewhere he won't admit, and BobâBob's dissociating so hard Bucky has to physically guide him to the extraction point.
"Well," Val says over comms, observing from her safe distance, "that was bracing."
Bucky doesn't trust himself to respond.
They limp back to New York in sullen silence. No debriefâVal's already spinning the disaster into something palatable for the brass. Bucky goes straight home, ignoring Sam's calls, ignoring everything except the need to get somewhere quiet before he starts breaking things.
His hands are still shaking when he reaches his floor. Adrenaline crash, probably. Or the delayed realization that they'd all nearly died for some bureaucrat's idea of asset recovery. Orâ
Your door is open.
Not open-open. Cracked, like it didn't latch properly. Like someone left in a hurry. Orâ
The deadbolt is broken.
The one you installed yourself three weeks ago. The one he'd watched you struggle with, pride keeping you from asking for help.
Bucky goes utterly still.
His body moves before his brain catches up. He's through your doorway, cataloging details with mechanical precision: lamp knocked over, books scattered, coffee table shoved sideways. Signs of a struggle. Signs ofâ
Blood.
Not much. Just droplets on the hardwood, leading toward the kitchen. But enough. Enough to make his vision tunnel, his chest compress until breathing becomes theoretical.
"Sweetheart?" The pet name slips out, raw. No answer. He clears each room like he's back in Hydra facilities, except his hands won't stop shaking because this is your space, your things, yourâ
Your phone is on the kitchen floor, screen cracked. There's a handprint on the wallâbloody, smeared. Too small to be anyone's but yours.
Something inside him breaks. Clean, sharp, like a bone snapping. The careful distance he's maintained, the walls he's built, the conviction that keeping you at arm's length would keep you safeâall of it crumbles in the face of your empty apartment and that small, bloody handprint.
He's already moving, phone out, calling in favors he's been hoarding. Because someone took you. Someone came into your homeâthe home he was supposed to be protecting by staying awayâand took you. And they're going to learn exactly why the Winter Soldier's name still makes people flinch.
His phone rings. Unknown number.
"Barnes." He doesn't recognize his own voice.
"Ah, the infamous Winter Soldier." The voice is male, amused, completely at ease. "I was hoping we could talk."
"Where is she?"
"Safe. For now. Though that really depends on you, doesn't it?"
Ice spreads through his veins, familiar as an old friend. This is what he was trying to prevent. This exact scenario. You, hurt because of him. You, taken because someone figured outâ
"What do you want?"
"You've been playing house, Barnes. Getting soft. Forgetting what you are." A pause, calculated. "I'm going to remind you. And your little neighbor? She's going to help."
The line goes dead.
Bucky stands in your ruined apartment, surrounded by the evidence of his failure, and feels something fundamental shift. Not breakâhe's been broken before. This is worse. This is the cold clarity that comes after, when there's nothing left to lose.
Someone made a mistake today. They touched you. They made you bleed.
He's going to paint the city red for it.
"Buck, slow downâ"
"No." He's already moving, gathering gear with brutal efficiency. The weapons he's not supposed to have. The tech that's definitely illegal. Every favor, every resource, every skill Hydra beat into him over seventy years.
Sam's on speaker, trying to be the voice of reason. "You can't just go in guns blazingâ"
"Watch me."
"This is exactly what they want. You, isolated, operating without backupâ"
"They have her, Sam." The words come out raw, flayed. "They took her because of me. Because I was stupid enough to think distance would keep her safe."
Silence on the other end. Then: "What do you need?"
That's why Sam Wilson is Captain America. No more arguments, no more trying to talk him down. Just immediate, unwavering support.
"Intel. Cameras in my building, surrounding blocks. Last twelve hours." He straps a knife to his thigh, then another. "And get me backup."
"I can rally your team. Get Walker, Yelenaâ"
"No." The word comes out sharp. Another knife. Extra magazines. "The Thunderbolts are compromised. That clusterfuck of a mission proved it."
"Buckâ"
"They're not ready for this. Half of them can barely work together without Val pulling the strings." He's checking his tactical vest, muscle memory taking over. "This isn't a government op. This is personal."
"So what, you're going in alone?"
Is he? Bucky stops, considers his options. The Thunderbolts are a mess on a good dayâWalker's still trying to prove something, Bob's hanging on by a thread, and Alexei treats everything like a performance. They're not who he needs for this.
"They touched her," he says simply.
"I know, man. I know. Butâ"
"Get me what intel you can. I'll handle the rest."
"Buck, come on. At least let meâ"
"They have her, Sam." His voice cracks, just slightly. "Every second we waste talking, they could beâ"
"Okay. Okay. Intel coming your way. But Barnes? Don't do anything stupid."
"Too late for that."
Bucky stops in your doorway, looks back at your apartment. There's a photo on your bookshelfâyou and him at the building's July 4th party. Mrs. Nguyen had insisted on taking it. You're laughing at something, leaning into him, and he's looking at you likeâ
Like you're everything he never thought he'd get to have.
"I'm coming for you," he tells the empty room. A promise. A threat. A prayer to whoever might be listening.
Then he disappears into the night, and the Winter Soldier goes hunting.
The trail goes cold in six hours.
Whoever took you, they're not amateurs playing at being dangerous. They're ghostsâprofessionals who know exactly how to disappear in a city of eight million people. Every camera angle's been scrubbed. Every witness suddenly develops amnesia. Even the blood in your apartment leads nowhere; cleaned of DNA markers by something that makes Bucky's teeth ache with familiarity.
"Talk to me, Buck." Sam's voice through the earpiece, carefully level. "Where are you?"
Bucky stands on a rooftop in Queens, staring at another dead end. Another empty warehouse that should have had something, anything. "Nowhere."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got." His metal hand clenches, servos whining. Below, the city keeps moving, oblivious to the fact that you're somewhere in it, hurt, taken because of him. "They're good, Sam. Too good."
"We'll find her."
We. Like this isn't Bucky's fault. Like his past isn't bleeding into your present, staining everything he tried so hard to keep clean.
He drops from the rooftop, lands hard enough to crack pavement. A passing couple startles, hurries away. Good. He doesn't feel particularly human right now anyway.
Hour twelve. Yelena finds him in your apartment, sitting on your couch like a grieving statue.
"This is pathetic," she says, stepping over the crime scene tape he'd ignored. "Even for you."
"Get out."
"No." She perches on your coffee table, uncharacteristically serious. "You think sitting here feeling sorry for yourself will find her? You think guilt helps?"
"I saidâ"
"I know what guilt looks like, Barnes." Her voice cuts, precise as the knives she carries. "I know what it is, failing someone youâ" She pauses, searching for the English word. "Care about. But this?" She gestures at him, at the apartment, at the bloody handprint he can't stop staring at. "This is just... как ŃŃĐž... self-pity? No, worse. Useless."
The laugh that tears out of him is ugly. "Thanks for the pep talk."
"Someone needs to knock sense into your thick skull." She leans forward. "Whoever has her, they want you like this. Emotional. Sloppy. Making mistakes."
"I know that."
"Then stop giving them what they want."
Easier said than done when every surface in this apartment carries your ghost. The mug on the counter with your lipstick stain. The book splayed open on the side table, marking your place. The sweater thrown over the chairâhis sweater, actually, stolen three weeks ago when you'd claimed your apartment was freezing.
"Keep it," he'd said, trying not to notice how it made something primal in him satisfied, seeing you wrapped in his clothes.
"Just until I fix my radiator," you'd promised, but you'd worn it three more times that week, and he'd never asked for it back.
"Barnes." Yelena snaps her fingers in his face. "ĐĄŃОкŃŃиŃŃĐšŃŃ. Focus."
"I am focused."
"You're spiraling." She pulls out her phone, shows him surveillance footage he's already memorized. "Look again. Really look. Use your brain, not your bleeding heart."
He wants to tell her he's looked at nothing else for twelve hours. Instead, he watches you leave your apartment at 6:47 PM, mail in hand. Watches you come back at 6:53. The timestamp jumpsâ7:31 to 8:15, forty-four minutes missing. By 8:15, your door's ajar and you're gone.
"Professional crew doesn't need forty-four minutes for grab," Yelena says, her English getting rougher as she thinks. "So why take so long? What were they doing?"
Bucky's phone buzzes. Unknown number.
His blood turns to ice, then flame.
"You're going to want to watch this alone," the familiar voice says. "Though I'm sure your friend is lovely. Hi, Yelena."
She stiffens. Bucky's already moving, putting distance between them, some instinct screaming danger.
"Just me," he says. "Let her go."
"See, that's your problem, Barnes. Still trying to protect everyone. Still thinking you can control who gets hurt." A pause. "Check your messages."
The video file is already there. His hand shakes as he opens it.
You're in a concrete roomâcould be anywhere, everywhere, the kind of place that exists in every city's bones. Sitting in a metal chair, wrists zip-tied but not apparently hurt beyond the cut on your temple still sluggishly bleeding. You're still wearing his sweater.
"Say hello, sweetheart." The voice comes from behind the camera.
You look up, and the defiance in your eyes makes his chest seize. "Go fuck yourself."
The slap comes fast, snaps your head sideways. Bucky's phone creaks in his grip.
"Language." The camera shifts, focuses on your face. "Try again."
You spit blood, manage a smile that's all teeth. "Hi, Bucky. Nice weather we're having."
Another slap. Harder. Your lip splits.
"I told you he made you weak." The voice continues conversationally as you work your jaw, testing damage. "The Winter Soldier, reduced to playing house with some nobody. It's embarrassing, really."
"You talk a lot for someone hiding behind a camera," you mutter.
This time it's a fist. Your head rocks back, and when you look up again, your nose is bleeding. But you're still glaring, still unbroken, and Bucky loves you so fiercely in that moment it feels like drowning.
"Here's what's going to happen," the voice continues. "Every hour Barnes doesn't come alone to the address we'll send, things get worse for you. And before you get any ideasâ" The camera pans to show three other men, armed, professional. "âwe've planned for contingencies."
Back to you. Blood drips onto his sweater. You notice the camera returning, look directly into it. "Don't you fucking dare," you say, and despite everythingâsplit lip, bloody nose, zip-tied to a chairâyou mean it. "You hear me, Barnes? Don't youâ"
The video cuts.
Bucky stands very still in your empty apartment, phone in pieces at his feet.
"That bad?" Yelena asks.
He can't speak. Can barely breathe around the rage threatening to tear him apart from the inside. Somewhere in the city, you're bleeding because of him. Hurt because he was selfish enough to let you close, stupid enough to think distance would be enough.
Another text. An address in Red Hook. Come alone or we start cutting.
"Is trap," Yelena says, dropping articles like she does when she's focused. "Obviously trap."
"I know."
"You can't just walk in there like idiot."
"I know."
"So what's plan?"
He looks at her, and whatever she sees in his face makes her step back. "I give them what they want."
"Barnesâ"
"They want the Winter Soldier?" His voice sounds wrong, mechanical, like something dredged up from permafrost. "They've got him."
The address leads to a warehouse because of course it does. These people, whoever they are, lack imagination. Bucky counts heat signatures through thermal imagingâsix outside, unknown inside. Doable, if he's what he used to be. If he's willing to be what he used to be.
"Don't you fucking dare."
Your voice echoes, but it's drowned out by older programming. By muscle memory that never quite faded, no matter how many therapy sessions or good days or shared dinners with someone who looked at him like he was worth saving.
"In position," Sam's voice, because fuck going alone. Fuck giving them what they want. "West entrance."
"Rooftop," from Yelena.
"Back door," Walker, surprisingly. "For the record, I think this is stupid."
"Noted," Bucky says, and walks through the front door.
The space is exactly what he expected. Concrete floors, exposed beams, the kind of place that swallows sound. They're waiting for himâfive men in tactical gear, no identifying marks. Professional contractors, not ideologues. Which makes this personal.
"Dramatic entrance. I respect that." The voice from the phone materializes into a man in his forties, military bearing, forgettable face. He's standing next to a metal table laid out with tools that make Bucky's scars ache. "Though you were supposed to come alone."
"Yeah, well." Bucky spreads his hands, easy target. "I've never been good at following orders. Ask anyone."
"Funny." The man circles him, predator studying prey. "That's not what your files say. 'Perfect compliance.' That was the phrase, wasn't it?"
Old wounds, precisely targeted. These people have done their homework.
"Where is she?"
"Close. Alive. For now." The man stops in front of him. "You know, I studied you. The Winter Soldier. Hydra's perfect weapon. And then you just... stopped. Became this." He gestures dismissively. "James Barnes, failing congressman. Playing superhero. Pretending you're not what we made you."
"We?"
The man smiles. "Not Hydra, if that's what you're thinking. Hydra was sloppy. Cult-like. No vision beyond control." He pulls out a tablet, shows Bucky a logoâa chimera, three-headed. "Cerberus. We're more... refined. We deal in weapons, not world domination. And you, Barnes? You're a weapon pretending to be human."
"Cool speech." Bucky's cataloging angles, distances, how fast he'd have to move. "Must've practiced in the mirror."
The man's smile tightens. "Bring her out."
Two more men emerge from a side room, dragging you between them. You're conscious but barely, feet stumbling, head lolling. They drop you on the concrete, and you don't get up.
Everything in Bucky goes very, very quiet.
"So here's the deal," Cerberus continues. "You're going to work for us. Exclusive contract. Your particular skills in exchange for her life."
"No." Your voice, cracked but clear. You push yourself up on shaking arms, meet Bucky's eyes across the warehouse. "No deals. No trades."
"Sweetheartâ"
"Don't you 'sweetheart' me." You manage to get to your knees, swaying. Blood's dried on your face, but your eyes are blazing. "You think I don't know what they're asking? You think I'd let youâ" You have to stop, catch your breath. "I'd rather die than be the reason you become that again."
"How touching," Cerberus says. "But not your call." He nods to one of his men, who pulls out a knife. "Barnes? Your answer?"
The knife moves toward you.
The world explodes.
Flash-bangs through windows, smoke grenades, the distinctive whine of repulsor beams. Cerberus shouts orders, but it's too lateâthe Avengers don't do subtle when one of their own is threatened.
Bucky moves. Not the measured approach of a soldier, but the brutal efficiency of a weapon. The man with the knife goes down first, arm snapping under metal fingers. The second barely has time to scream. He's not thinking, just reacting, just removing threats between him and you.
Someone shoots him. Barely feels it. Someone else tries hand-to-hand, which is adorable. He puts them through a wall.
"Barnes!" Sam's voice, sharp. "Shield up!"
He spins, catches the thrown shield, uses it to deflect a spray of bullets meant for you. You're trying to crawl to cover, leaving bloody handprints on the concrete, and the sight shorts out whatever restraint he had left.
When the smoke clears, Cerberus is the only one left standing. Backed against the wall, gun trained on you because of course it is. These people are predictable to the last.
"Come any closer andâ"
Yelena drops from the ceiling, lands on him like gravity given form. The gun goes flying. Cerberus goes down choking on his own blood, Yelena's knife finding the gap in his armor like it was designed for it.
"Predictable," she says, wiping the blade clean. "I told you they were predictable."
But Bucky's already moving, dropping to his knees beside you. You're conscious, breathing, alive. That's all that matters. Everything elseâthe mission, the cleanup, the questionsâfades to white noise.
"Hey," he says, hands hovering over you, afraid to touch. Afraid to hurt. "I've got you."
"Took you long enough," you manage, then promptly pass out in his arms.
He catches you, holds you against his chest, and something in him breaks. Or maybe it finally, finally mends. Either way, he's done pretending distance keeps anyone safe. Done acting like he deserves to make choices about your safety without you.
"Med team's three minutes out," Sam says quietly.
Three minutes. He can hold you for three minutes. Can keep you safe for three minutes.
After that? After that, everything changes.
But for now, in the blood and smoke and aftermath, Bucky Barnes holds the person he was stupid enough to fall in love with and makes a promise:
Never again.
Never fucking again.
The medical bay at the Tower is too bright, too sterile, too full of people who keep looking at Bucky like he might snap. Maybe he will. He's been sitting in the same chair for four hours, watching machines monitor your breathing, and every beep feels like an accusation.
"You need to get that looked at," Sam says, nodding at the blood seeping through Bucky's shirt. Gunshot wound, probably. He honestly can't remember.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding on their fancy floors."
"I'm fine."
Sam exchanges a look with Yelena, who's been uncharacteristically quiet since they arrived. She's cleaned the blood off her hands but keeps flexing them, like she can still feel it.
"At least change your shirt," she says finally. "You look like extra from horror movie."
He doesn't move. Can't move. Because what if you wake up while he's gone? What if you open your eyes and he's not there, again, like he wasn't there when they took you?
"Barnes." Dr. Cho's voice cuts through his spiral. "She's stable. Three broken ribs, concussion, various contusions, but nothing life-threatening. She's lucky."
Lucky. The word tastes like copper in his mouth. Lucky is winning the lottery, not surviving a kidnapping because you had the misfortune of living next to him.
"When will she wake up?"
"Soon. The sedatives should wear off within the hour." She pauses, studying him with that look medical professionals get when they're about to say something pointed. "You, however, need treatment. You're actively bleeding on my floor."
"Sam already made that joke."
"It wasn't a joke." But she moves on, knowing a lost cause when she sees one. "I'll send a nurse with supplies. Try not to die before she wakes up. The paperwork would be tedious."
She leaves. Sam leaves. Even Yelena eventually wanders off, muttering something about vodka and terrible life choices. And then it's just Bucky and you and the steady beep of machines he'd tear apart if they stopped working.
Your hand is smaller than his. He knows thisâhas known it since the first time you grabbed his wrist to drag him to see some neighbor's new puppyâbut it feels more pronounced now. More fragile. Your knuckles are split from fighting back, and there's still blood under your nails. His blood? Theirs? He doesn't know, and the not knowing makes him want to put his fist through the wall.
"You're spiraling again."
Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it might as well be a gunshot for how hard it hits. His head snaps up to find you watching him, eyes half-open but alert.
"You're awake."
"Mmm. Kind of wish I wasn't." You try to sit up, wince, immediately abort that mission. "Fuck. Did anyone get the number of the truck that hit me?"
"Don'tâ" He's hovering, hands fluttering uselessly, afraid to touch you. "You shouldn't move. Dr. Cho saidâ"
"Dr. Cho can kiss my ass," you mutter, but you stop trying to sit up. Your eyes track over him, cataloging damage. "You're bleeding."
"It's nothing."
"It's literally dripping on the floor, Barnes."
"It's fine."
You stare at each other. Four hours of practiced speeches evaporate in the face of your actual consciousness, leaving him with nothing but the memory of your blood on concrete and the sound you made when they hit you.
"So," you say finally, voice carefully neutral. "Cerberus. That was fun."
"Don't."
"Don't what? Make jokes about my kidnapping? Process trauma through humor? Acknowledge that you're sitting there bleeding because you decided to Rambo your way throughâ"
"You could have died." It comes out louder than intended, raw. "You almost died because of me."
Something shifts in your expression. "Buckyâ"
"No." He's standing now, needing distance, needing space between him and the way you're looking at him. "You don't get toâto act like this is fine. Like this is some funny story you'll tell at parties. They took you because of me. They hurt you because of me."
"They took me because they're assholes who thought they could use me as leverage." You're struggling to sit up again, ignoring whatever pain it causes. "That's on them, not you."
"You're only leverage because I was selfish enough toâ" He stops, runs his hand through his hair. "I knew better. I knew what would happen if I let someone close, and I did it anyway."
"Let me get this straight." Your voice is gaining strength, and with it, heat. "You think you 'let' me get close? Like I didn't have any say in it? Like I didn't practically force-feed you cookies until you acknowledged my existence?"
"That's notâ"
"And what, you think keeping me at arm's length would've magically made me safer? News flash, Barnes: I live in that building because it's what I can afford. That makes me a target for regular criminals on a good day. At least with you around, I had someone who actually gave a shit if I made it home."
"Don't." The word cracks. "Don't act like I was protecting you. I'm the reason you were bleeding. I'm the reason theyâ"
"You're the reason I'm alive!" You swing your legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with determination that makes his chest tight. "You think they took me because they wanted leverage? They took me because they were cleaning house. Because they knew you'd gotten soft, gotten close to someone, and that made you unpredictable."
You stand, sway, catch yourself on the bed rail. He moves forward instinctively, and you hold up a hand.
"No. You don't get to touch me right now. Not when you're about to do something stupid and noble and self-sacrificing." You take a step, then another, closing the distance between you despite your own warning. "They were going to kill me either way, Barnes. Whether you came for me or not. The only difference is that you did come, and now I'm alive to be really fucking pissed at you."
"You don't understandâ"
"I understand perfectly." You're close enough now that he can see the bruises forming on your throat, the way you're holding your ribs, the tears you're refusing to shed. "You think you're poison. You think everyone you touch gets hurt. You think the best thing you can do is be alone forever because that's what you deserve."
"Stop."
"No. Because here's the thing, James Buchanan Barnesâyou don't get to make that choice for me." Your voice breaks, just a little. "You don't get to decide I'm better off without you. You don't get to kiss me in my kitchen and then run away like a coward. And you sure as hell don't get to sit there bleeding and act like it's some kind of penance."
The medical bay feels too small suddenly, like all the air's been sucked out. You're looking at him with eyes that see too much, that refuse to let him hide behind the careful walls he's rebuilt in the last three weeks.
"They hurt you," he says, quieter now. Lost.
"Yeah. They did." You reach up, slowly, telegraphing the movement. Your hand cups his face, thumb brushing over the bruise on his cheekbone. "And it wasn't your fault."
"How can you say that?"
"Because blaming you for what they did is like blaming a bank for getting robbed." Your other hand comes up, framing his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "You're not responsible for other people's evil, Bucky. You're only responsible for what you do about it."
"I should have protected you better."
"You literally threw yourself between me and automatic gunfire."
"I should have never let them take you in the first place."
"Oh, so you're psychic now? Can predict the future?" Your laugh is watery. "Add that to the resume. Congressman, ex-assassin, part-time fortune teller."
"This isn't funny."
"It's a little funny." But your smile fades, replaced by something fiercer. "You want to know what's not funny? Spending three weeks watching you shut me out. Sitting in that chair, knowing you were hurting, and not being able to do anything because you decided I was better off without you."
"You areâ"
"Finish that sentence and I swear to god, Barnes, concussion or not, I will punch you in your stupid, self-loathing face."
He almost smiles. Almost. "You could barely stand five seconds ago."
"Adrenaline's a hell of a drug." But you're swaying again, and this time when he reaches for you, you don't stop him. His arms come around you carefully, mindful of injuries, and you lean into him like you've been waiting for permission. "I'm so fucking mad at you."
"I know."
"Like, incandescently furious."
"I know."
"You don't get to leave again." It comes out muffled against his chest, but he hears the steel underneath. "I don't care if the entire population of supervillains decides I'm their new favorite target. You don't get to leave."
His arms tighten fractionally. "Sweetheartâ"
"No." You pull back enough to glare at him, and even bruised and exhausted, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "No 'sweetheart.' No soft voice and sad eyes. You're either in this with me or you're out, but you don't get to half-ass it anymore. You don't get to knock on my door at 2 AM because you had a nightmare and then pretend we're just neighbors. You don't get to dance with me at weddings and then act like it meant nothing. You don't get toâ"
He kisses you.
There's no grace in itâjust collision, pure physics as his mouth finds yours with the same brutal efficiency he'd use to take down a target. Except this isn't violence, it's something worse. It's capitulation. It's three weeks of want compressed into the space between one heartbeat and the next.
The noise that escapes youâhalf gasp, half sobâunlocks something feral in his chest. Then your teeth catch his lower lip, sharp and unforgiving, and his vision whites out entirely. You kiss like you fight: dirty, determined, taking no prisoners. Your tongue slides against his and his knees actually buckle, what the fuck, he's faced down alien armies without flinching but you're going to be what finally kills him.
His hands fly to your face, metal and flesh cradling your jaw like you're something precious even as he devours your mouth like you're anything but. You're pressed so tight against him he can feel every hitch in your breathing, every shudder that runs through you when he angles his head and deepens the kiss into something filthier, something that has you making these broken little sounds that he wants to bottle and keep.
The medical bed hits the back of your thighsâwhen did he walk you backward?âand you use the leverage to pull him down, down, until he's curved over you like a question mark, like gravity itself has reorganized around the heat of your mouth.
When you finally break apart, it's only because biology demands it. You're both wreckedâbreathing like you've run marathons, lips swollen and spit-slick, staring at each other like you're not quite sure what just happened.
Your pupils are blown so wide he can barely see the color of your irises. There's a flush spreading down your throat, disappearing beneath the hospital gown, and he has to physically stop himself from following it with his mouth. His hands are trembling where they frame your face, thumbs pressed to your cheekbones like he's checking you're real.
"That's not an answer," you manage, but your voice is thoroughly fucked, and your hands are still twisted in his vest like you'll shoot him if he tries to move away.
"Yes, it is."
"No, it's really not. It's a deflection. A really nice deflection, butâ"
"I'm in." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. Like defusing a bomb. Like coming home. "I'm in. Whatever that means, whatever that looks like. I'm in."
You study him for a long moment, and he tries not to fidget under the scrutiny. Finally: "You're going to therapy."
"I'm already in therapy."
"You're going to actually talk in therapy instead of just staring at the wall and hoping Dr. Raynor gets bored."
"...fine."
"And you're going to let me have a say in my own safety. No more unilateral decisions about what's 'best' for me."
"Okay."
"And you're going to teach me self-defense. Real self-defense, not just how to throw a punch."
"Deal."
"Andâ" You sway again, this time more dramatically. "Oh. Okay. Maybe sitting down now."
He guides you back to the bed, hands steady even if nothing else is. You let him fuss, let him adjust pillows and pull up blankets, and he tries not to think about how easily you fit into his hands. How right this feels, even with blood on his shirt and bruises on your skin.
"For the record," you say as he settles back into the chair beside your bed, "I'm still mad."
"I know."
"Like, really mad. There's going to be yelling. Possibly throwing things."
"I can take it."
"And groveling. Lots of groveling. I'm talking flowers, chocolates, the works."
"Noted."
You reach for his hand, lace your fingers through his. "And you're going to tell me you love me."
He freezes. You squeeze his hand.
"Because I know you do. I've known since you reorganized my bookshelf by genre and then pretended you didn't. And I love you too, you absolute disaster of a man, but I need to hear you say it. When I'm not concussed and you're not bleeding. When we're both safe and no one's trying to kill us and we can actually have a real conversation about what this means."
His throat feels tight. "I can do that."
"Good." You close your eyes, exhaustion finally winning. "Now get your gunshot wound treated before you bleed out on my watch. I'm not explaining that to Sam."
"It's not that bad."
"Bucky."
"Fine."
But he doesn't move. Not yet. Instead, he sits there holding your hand, memorizing the way your fingers fit between his, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the fact that you're alive and here and somehow, impossibly, still want him around.
The sun's coming up by the time a nurse finally corners him, threatening sedation if he doesn't let her treat the gunshot wound. You're properly asleep by then, fingers still tangled with his, and he lets the nurse work around your grip rather than let go.
"She's tough," the nurse comments, applying what are probably too many bandages.
"Yeah."
"And stubborn."
"Definitely."
"Good." She pats his shoulder, maternal despite being half his age. "You're going to need it."
He doesn't ask what she means. Doesn't need to. Because you're rightâhe's a disaster. A work in progress on his best days, a barely controlled catastrophe on his worst. But you looked at all that and decided he was worth fighting for anyway.
The least he can do is try to prove you right.
When you wake up again, he's there. When Dr. Cho kicks him out so you can rest, he goes to therapy and actually talks. When Sam asks if you're together now, he says yes without qualifying it.
And when you're finally released, when you're back in your apartment with its new locks and its carefully cleaned floors, when you knock on his door at midnight because the nightmares found you tooâhe opens it. No hesitation. No distance.
"Hey, neighbor," you say, and the smile you give him is worth every risk, every fear, every moment of doubt.
"Hey yourself."
You step inside, and he closes the door behind you, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, Bucky Barnes stops running from the possibility of happiness.
synopsis: After you confided in Bucky about your past, he began to ice you out - shooting you dirty looks instead of his usual smiles... especially when he sees you blushing for Steve.
warnings: 18+, angst, smut (fingering, oral - f receiving, masturbation, dirty talk, softdom!bucky, possessive sex, maybe slight size kink ish? but about bucky being big, blushing kink? is that a thing? if it is, bucky has it), references to past violence committed by bucky and accidental destruction / injury caused by reader, cursing, jealous!bucky, shy!reader, panic attacks, no use of y/n, eventual fluff, reader is down so bad for bucky
word count: 12.2k
note: i have just started using tumblr in the last few weeks and this is my first ever time writing an x reader fic / smut so please be kind, this is scary!! if i have done anything wrong in terms of formatting, tagging etc. please let me know bc i am still learning the ropes!
Bucky had shown you something like kindness once. Being the newest recruit to the team and joining under the circumstances that you did, it had seemed like he understood you and your baggage better than the others did back then. Not that there were ever any grand gestures of goodwill; there never was with Bucky. But he would pick you up something for lunch without you having to ask, make you a coffee in the morning, ask how you were doing. And when you told him, he listened - as in, actually listened. Thinking back on everything you told him made you feel so brainless and short-sighted; made you feel like you had given up something deeply personal you couldnât now claim back.Â
Nowadays, he brushed off any attempt at conversation. He wasnât the most forthcoming conversationalist with anyone but he was particularly cold towards you, sometimes going so far as to completely blank you when you would ask him a direct question. And that was fine - just fine. But you couldnât quite pretend you didnât still look for him in every room. Couldnât pretend you didnât look at him first when anything significant happened, even when it hurt.
âMaybe you should spar with Steve today,â Natasha suggested not-quite-indifferently, popping a hand on her hip. âChange things up a bit, you know.â
You felt the traitorous heat flood to your face before you had even really processed the comment. You knew the formula by now; someone would make a teasing comment about Steve, your entire face would light up red with heat, the whole team would try to suppress a smirk (or pretend to try), and then Steve or Wanda would show mercy by changing the subject.Â
You hated Bucky more than ever in those moments. Because your eyes would instinctively move to him, in time to see the disgusted expression on his face, as if he couldnât believe anyone was entertaining the idea of you and Steve. You hated him, but you also hated yourself. Because of how inferior it made you feel - because of how far under his thumb you were, even after all of his stony silence.
âSheâll be training with me again,â Wanda said, voice light and airy, before turning to you. âYouâre not free of me until you move that damn elevator.â You jumped on the escape she offered with a reply about the assignment, your face pink and body numb with embarrassment. You could hear Nat and Sam snickering behind you as you walked with her toward the back of the room. Steve was shushing them about as effectively as a substitute teacher.
âSuch an open book.â Wanda laughed as you both came to a stop by the elevator, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear affectionately. âNow letâs try to open your mind.â
You focused your attention on the elevator - prodded the corners of it with your mind, felt its crushing weight on your tongue⌠and pushed.
Your telekinesis hadnât suddenly appeared the night you tore down your college dorms. You had been in the business of ignoring it and covering it up throughout your childhood and young adulthood; hoping it would just go away. But it didnât. It lingered and grew like a tumour until it was no longer possible to shut your eyes to it. The day your old life ended - that day in the NYU dorms - was the worst of your life. It wasnât just the calamity and ruin - the total destruction of the building - and it wasnât even the subsequent confinement by SHIELD. It was those endless, agonising hours that you spent in your own dorm room, books and stationery flying everywhere, feeling that the pot was boiling over, feeling that the force inside you was reaching a glorious, devastating crescendo and trying your best to stop it.
Wanda had been trying to help you tame this force, turn it into something palatable that SHIELD could bend to its own will. But Wandaâs powers were different to your own - easier to manage. You couldnât yet say how well this taming was working.Â
âYou almost had it. Try again.â
You sighed, bone-tired after the mental gymnastics of attempting to send a ten-ton freight elevator up 80 stories without the adrenaline rush of being on the field. You stretched your shoulders and glanced around, eyes catching Steve and Bucky sparring at the opposite end of the gym. Bucky barked a loud, rough laugh watching Steve charge at him. He moved as rapidly as an arrow from a bow, sending Steve flying past him. He turned swiftly to kick his backside on the way. Steve stumbled and Bucky smirked wickedly.
There was something wolf-like about Bucky. His fierce, blue eyes maybe, or his stern bearing. But looking at him now, with his wide-mouth grin, shoulders loose and his eyes soft with no fixed gaze - he looked more like a playful dog. You had never seen him look that way before, not even when you first joined the team. He was all dark clouds and edges sharp enough to cut yourself on, but right now it all cleared up for just a moment. He was beautiful. It sent the breath right out of your lungs.
You had hardly committed the view to memory when Bucky caught your gaze. He stopped short, caught off-balance, and the two of you stood on opposite ends of a long hall, staring for just the blink of an eye. And then his expression changed; the relaxed grin turning to a straight line, the brilliant gleam in his eye extinguishing. You were met with that revolted expression he seemed to save especially for you.
You caught fire. You could feel your veins bulging, straining against the skin on your temple - fury and humiliation congealing to replace any awe or admiration you had been experiencing. The injustice of the whole affair was gnawing at your insides.
You remembered what it was like to confess everything to Bucky. You laid bare all your sins - some that you hadnât even been able to mention in your court-mandated therapy sessions. You remembered the look of understanding and empathy that had bloomed in his blue eyes that night, only for him to give you the cold shoulder the very next day.
 A throbbing rage was working its way up your gullet. Hadnât he said that he understood? That he, of all people, knew what it was like to live with the remorse and agony of inflicting pain and suffering to others against your will. You hated him. You hated him.
âYou did it!â
The fire died immediately. You swung round to look at Wanda who was ogling you in wonder and exhilaration. It was only then that you noticed the digital indicator above the elevator displayed the number 80. You had moved it up without even realising. Without even trying.
âYeah, finally.â You smiled tightly at her. She was beaming at you with pride that made it impossible to admit that it had been a fluke.
âIâm so proud of you,â she gushed, grabbing you into a hug. âGo to your room for a nap, you must be exhausted. Weâll practice again tomorrow.â
You didnât hesitate.
âTo recap, the objective is simple: kill the power, get inside, reach the 40th floor and extract the data from the mainframe - quietly. Leave no trace, no noise, not even a shadow. Needs to be clean and tight. You will have a team, led by Garcia, but theyâll all be offsite. Youâll be going in alone.â
Bucky shot up abruptly from the meeting room table. âWith all due respectâŚâ he said, throat bobbing up and down while he seemingly considered his words. âI think I might need someone with a little more experience on this one. Doesnât sound like we can risk anything here.âÂ
You bit your cheek and watched the pen in front of you twitch and shake of its own volition. You focused on not sending it flying across the room.
âNo.â Maria said. âYou have both been picked specifically for this mission. The stairwell is monitored by cameras that are run by backup power systems so the stairs is not an option. Once that power goes out, youâll need someone who can move that elevator up to your floor. And like I said, you will have Garcia with you remotely.â
Daniel Garcia, a non-commissioned army sergeant around your own age, stood at the back of the room, nodding resolutely to confirm his confidence in the plan.
âWell then maybe Steve-â
âNo.â she repeated with finality. âYou have been assigned this mission for your stealth. We canât afford any loose ends. Youâll get the detailed brief after the meeting.â
You saw as Bucky cringed at the word âstealthâ. His clean-up jobs as the Winter Soldier had been plenty stealthy. He knew that was what she was referring to. Everyone did. A beat passed while he seemed to weigh up his options and then he sat down.
You willed away the humiliation that sat heavy in your stomach and forced yourself to keep your face impassive. You could feel the eyes around the table trying to catch a subtle look at you.Â
You had moved the elevator a few more times since your first accidental success, but never with ease and never in the timeframe specified by Maria just now. As Maria moved on to discuss the next mission, you glanced over at Wanda, who was looking at you with absolute confidence you wished you could have a share of.Â
You had done the regular SHIELD field training - they had practically kept you in solitary confinement for three years after the NYU disaster, which gave you plenty of time to learn the ropes. But you had never been assigned a mission that relied solely on your âpowersâ, as they called it. Sure, it came in handy to be able to throw someone around like a ragdoll in combat without lifting a finger, or drop a car on someone who was about to let it rip with a machine gun. But if all else failed, you could still go on like a regular field agent. Your telekinesis had never been an absolute requirement for the success of a mission before and you wondered what might happen if, in the critical moment, you simply couldnât. You looked over at Bucky who was already staring directly at you, and you knew he was already thinking the same thing.
Bucky, along with most others on the team, was clued into just how unpredictable this power of yours was. Before you had begun to train with Wanda, it appeared exclusively in times of emotional turmoil, which made it difficult to control or forecast. Even now after all of your training, those times were still when the power was at its highest⌠strong enough to bring down an entire building, brick by brick.
And therein lay the crux of the issue.
You knew the reason why everyone wanted you to be with Steve, even if nobody would say it out loud. He was so boyish, so All-American. His stable, grounded nature - it would make sense to put you both together. He would always make sure you donât fly off the handle. He would know how to tame that little troublesome force of yours, would be able to subdue it with nothing but soft smiles and reassurance. And recently, you had been considering it.Â
You blushed at the teamâs comments about Steve only out of embarrassment and diffidence. But you caught the way Steve had been suppressing a smile recently when the teasing started, even while trying to change the subject. The way he had been targeting you with those boyish smiles more frequently, as if waiting for you to be brave enough to smile back in the same way. And you started thinking maybe it wouldnât be so bad to spend more time with someone like Steve - someone who could help you domesticate that creature inside you.
But if coming clean to Bucky had changed him from a friend to someone who detests you so abruptly, you didnât want to think about the reception you would get from someone as pure and good Steve. Buckyâs body had been used for almost seventy years to murder targets and civilians alike - but you could still feel the look of disgust from the far end of the table slithering up your spine.Â
The heat in Serbia was utterly oppressive. It was the middle of the night, but the heat still pressed on you like a weight, sizzling all your nerve ends and heightening your agitation. Dampness collected at the back of your neck, curling those small hairs that were not long enough to be tied into your neat plait. You had woken up in a Belgrade hotel that morning, sheets soaked and eyes crusted shut with perspiration. It had only become hotter since.Â
You had been searching despairingly for something to say to Bucky for the last hour, but everything you thought of came off as a bit desperate and the heat was making you flustered. So you just kept your mouth shut instead. Bucky was wired like a barbed fence - you worried one wrong move would make you bleed. And besides, he would have to say something eventually.
Minutes passed. Every second was fraught with tension - you both knew this was it, you two would have to speak for the first time in weeks. You were both standing alone in a blind spot, four blocks away from the building you were targeting.Â
He puffed out a breath. âInto position. Theyâre ready for us.â
You gave him a curt nod. How goddamn anticlimactic. You trailed behind him as the team in your ear got ready to shut out the power to the building.
âGet movinâ.â he barked at you without looking in your direction. You scowled to yourself.
âShut up,â you whispered, not intending to be heard. He shot you an unforgiving look - his stern brow furrowing intimidatingly. It made your cheeks flame and you sped up, embarrassment settling in. Just like a child who had cursed under their breath. You noticed Bucky grinning slightly in your peripherals but you were too sheepish to feel at all astonished.Â
The tower you stopped in front of was robust and imposing; it wasnât half the size of Stark Tower, but looked far more intimidating. It stood tall, brutal and grey, asserting itself proudly amongst the other smaller buildings. Your heart thumped out of sync with the rest of your body as you glanced upwards.
âYou ready?â Bucky asked, searching you intently with his eyes as you approached a side entrance. You just blinked back at him. You hadnât been expecting that.
If you were surprised by the question, you were immensely more so when Bucky refused to move. Like he was really waiting for your answer. His eyes held yours steadily, with none of the usual revulsion. You just nodded at him once, not able to manage much more.
He searched your expression one last time before nodding back and shooting a quick âNowâ to Garcia in his ear. He waited for the red light on the door handle to go out and pushed it open.
The building was pitch black, but still cool from the AC that had been running seconds prior. The drastic change in temperature induced small bumps to surface over your arms.Â
There were still a few people in the building - security and late workers. You could hear a few of them call out in surprise in the otherwise deathly quiet. Maria had briefed you both to expect this. Bucky didnât delay for a second, following the directions he had been provided with certainty, even in the complete absence of light. You followed closely after him, the tactical light on his gun showing you the way.
It took you a second to realise you had made it to the elevator hall when Bucky stopped. You looked around at them all and felt them with your mind, working your way around their edges and weighing them up: 6 options, all passenger lifts, all 2 tons or less.Â
Easy. If Bucky would stop looking at you.
You focused your attention to one of the elevators and attempted to pick it up with your mind. But at each attempt you struggled to blot him out. You could see him without looking, gazing at you with thinly veiled disapprobation and judging the worth of your abilities on these few seconds. It weakened your will.
âPerformance anxiety?â
âShut up,â you snapped, eyes flicking over to him. âYouâre being intimidating on purpose.â
âAm I really that scary, darlinâ?â
Your breath caught. Something about the way he said it - low and dangerous - made your stomach wound tight, betraying your own brain. His eyes were boring into you in the same stony way as always - but in that moment, in the darkness of that hall, it didnât look like disgust or disapproval. It looked more like hunger.Â
He was closer to you than you had noticed. You could hear his breath, coming out in steady puffs. Could feel the heat radiating from his body in waves and caressing your skin. You wanted - you needed him to be closer. You trembled under the intensity of the gaze, feeling that familiar heat rushing to your cheeks. His eyes followed it, pupils dilating - blowing so wide as if trying to swallow the picture. You couldnât help it - you let out a breathy gasp. It was quiet, probably imperceptible to anyone but Bucky. But something snapped. You watched as the look in his eyes went from hunger to all-out desire. There was no denying it anymore. You watched his hand twitch, as if deciding whether to reach out and touch -
There was a shout in the distance. Something in Serbian. You did not understand but Bucky seemed to.
âGet the lift.â he said, his voice low and cold. âI wonât look.â
You blinked dumbly at his composure. Your body was still in flames while his had turned to stone in an instant. You could already see his jaw twitching with impatience as you gathered yourself. Your breath was coming out in mortifying pants.
It did not take you long to summon the elevator this time. You pried apart the doors with ease, stepped in with Bucky, and sent it up to floor 40. You were still too dazed to even feel a sense of accomplishment after stepping out.
Bucky stalked over to the mainframe immediately while you hung self-consciously by the elevator, holding it up where it was with practiced ease. You tried not to think about him - about what just happened between the two of you, but you couldnât help but be hyper aware of him. You werenât even looking at him but you could feel him. Could almost still feel the heat radiating from him.
You were in agony as the seconds dripped by steadily. You had your back to Bucky, holding your breath - somewhere between stillness and frenzy. You waited to hear a soft sound, a step, a thought. But he worked quickly and silently before returning to your side, tucking the small hard drive into a pocket. It must have taken him less than five minutes in total.Â
You were about to say something - you werenât even sure what it was - but booming male voices emerged nearby. In immediate and blind panic, you let go of the elevator and listened to it rattle, tumble and fall 40 floors to the ground. You froze for a beat, processing what you had just done.
Bucky grabbed your waist with bruising strength and jostled you into a corner. You werenât completely out of sight but it was all you had time for. Three men - two of them burly and one thin - came sprinting to the platform and peered down the elevator shaft, shining industrial flashlights at it and speaking in rapid Serbian. You couldnât understand what they were saying - it was all that you could do to lock eyes desperately with Bucky, grasping at any shape of composure while anxiety clawed its way up your chest. He was staring right back, maintaining your gaze steadily. His strong hands were still on your waist, gripping you tightly, as if he thought you might run if given the chance.Â
The darkness of the building was your best friend. If any of them moved their heads just slightly to the right, they would have seen you. And then it would all be over. Not that you would be in any danger, necessarily. Bucky could take all three out so quickly and so quietly, it would hardly cause even the slightest fuss.
But that wasnât the objective. The objective was to keep it clean, tight, quiet. You had already fucked that up. Royally.
Something appeared to have been decided and the three men darted to a door across the hall. Bucky immediately dislodged himself from where he held you in the corner and took your hand gently instead to pull you out in front of the elevators again. The adrenaline was withdrawing from your body so rapidly that you felt faint.
âThey think the elevator plummeted because of the power outage but theyâre going down to the ground floor to take a look. We gotta get down there before them or we will be stuck here. I need you to call up another elevator. You think you can do that for me, doll?â
You think it was the confidence and calm in Buckyâs face that gave you the strength to rally. You werenât entirely certain that he wasnât faking it, but if he could watch you mess up so badly and still be able to appear to have faith in you, then you should be able to suck it up.
You nodded once and moved on autopilot. The elevator was summoned, the doors were pried apart and the two of you went hurling at breakneck speed towards the ground floor. Once you got to the platform, you made sure to close both doors behind you - leaving no trace, though you supposed it hardly mattered at this point. Bucky grabbed your hand again and the two of you went sprinting through the same door you came in.
The journey back to your hotel was a dim and blurry haze. You allowed Bucky to communicate with the team while you focused on your shame alone and tried not to let it swallow you whole. There was nothing to be said between the two of you; everything was perfectly understood. You had compromised the two of you and Bucky had been forced to save both the mission and your skins. The moment you shared before any of it went down felt like another timeline now - all you could think was that you had now finally proved to him once and for all that you had earned his disgust and distrust.
You were trembling by the time you made it back to your hotel room, hanging on to your emotions by the smallest thread that was slipping through your grasp by the second. When you opened the door to the dingy apartment, you hadnât expected to see Bucky marching in behind you as you went to close the door. He was still chatting busily on the phone.
âYes. Yeah, all secure. No complications in that regard. Canât we discuss this in the brief once weâre back, Garcia?â
You glanced at him warily and you saw him glance warily back. You hadnât heard him bring up your fuck-up yet, but there was always time to think about that later. Right now, you just needed him out.
âNo, itâs fine. Ok. Talk later.â
With the phone back in his pocket, yourself and Bucky both blinked at each other. The silence was unrolling itself across the two of you - stretched, thin, awkward.Â
âIâd like to be alone, please.â you said. Your voice sounded pathetic and small even to yourself.Â
Bucky shifted on his feet, blue eyes flitting across the room. âThey thought it was the power outage that caused it. I heard them say it.â
You didnât have the patience to be comforted awkwardly by Bucky out of obligation right now - or the time. You could feel that familiar pot threatening to boil over, felt unreleased energy sparking in your temples and fingertips. You needed him gone before he could witness whatever it was that was about to burst forth.
You could have borne it, maybe, could have folded up the shame and tidied it away to deal with later - had it been anyone else there with you but him. But knowing how well acquainted he was with your sins and the guilt that they inspired meant you couldnât hide from him. He had even heard it told from your own lips - long before he became a ghost to you.Â
He saw you for what you were. You felt it in every glance he shot your way, his face plastered with resentment. In the long, cold silences. In his unadulterated horror at even the smallest suggestion of a relationship between you and his friend. You didnât need him to tell you what he saw; you already knew.
âIâd like to be alone, please.â you repeated. Your voice didnât waver this time, but you could feel your eyes lose focus - becoming glazed with your blind panic.
âYou might wanna be, but it doesnât look like you should be.â was his gruff response.
The energy in your temples was spreading its way down your throat and to your chest - electricity was sizzling and bubbling inside you. âWhy are you here? Weâre not friends.â
You were snapping at him now. You needed him gone.
A clothes hanger soared out of the open wardrobe and you knew it was too late. Knew there was no time now to get him to leave.Â
You sat on the end of the bed and brought your knees to your chest, pressing your forehead to the top of your knees, allowing your face to touch the bare and warm skin below the hem of your shorts.
You tried this every time. It never worked.
The bedside lockers began to inch forward, as if being drawn by an attached rope. You didnât see or hear this, all you could hear was a whirring - but you could feel yourself doing it with your mind. As if you were pulling them with your own hands by no choice of your own.Â
Buckyâs hands - warm and calloused - pulled your face free from where it was locked to your thighs. He cradled your cheeks with both hands and forced your eyes to his own.Â
âIâm gonna need you to calm down for me, doll. Can you do that?â
His hands were rough on your skin, the kind that belonged to years killing - but they cradled your face like you were something sacred. It struck you sideways, the strangeness and gentleness of it, before a vase went pummeling to the floor and the panic pulled you back under.
âYou donât need to be nice.â you forced out, your voice muffled and strange. âJust let me deal with it.â
The speed was picking up. The framed posters were flying from the walls, clothes were shooting out from your suitcase. Trying to stop it from exploding was the worst part. You knew you were trying to fight the inevitable but it seemed that to just resign yourself to it would be unforgivable, even if it was like trying to plug a river with your thumb.Â
Buckyâs hands moved from your face to your hands, clutching them with a numbing grip. You were briefly surprised to glance up and find him unshaken. His jaw was clenched, but you couldnât see any other signs of unease. His blue eyes were trained on you with unaffected calmness and care. His voice was low and subdued, almost a whisper, when he spoke.
âItâs not your fault, darlinâ. Shit happens and we deal with it. You got us outta there, didnât you? We got it done, didnât we?â
A beat passed while you just looked at him.
He slowly let go of your hands, bringing his flesh arm to your back and metal arm to the underside of your knees. The metal was pleasantly cool against your skin. Lifting you with impossible ease, Bucky tentatively brought you to his lap. Slowly, giving you plenty of time to look or sound an objection, he covered you in an embrace.
Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around him and breathed him in, suppressed shakes and sobs escaping from your body. You scramble to get closer, to feel his body beneath your touch - warm and solid. Bucky didnât say much - he murmured a few encouraging words, repeating that it is not your fault, repeating that you got them out of there. But it felt like he was holding all your pent up silence, your pain, your guilt, just for a few moments. It felt like you were able to put it down and let him take it on for you temporarily.Â
You werenât sure when the objects stopped flying across the room. You surrendered your power to Bucky, and sobbed into his shoulder until you were worn out.
When you woke up, everything was put back into its rightful place. The objects you broke were either mended or cleared out. You found yourself beneath the duvet.
And Bucky was gone.Â
Bucky had been extracted from Serbia early.
There were still some loose ends to tie up in Belgrade but this was evidently below his paygrade. You were left to wrap up the mission with the rest of the team.Â
Dan Garcia was more than happy to keep your mind occupied with conversation while his team worked. You found that it was no wonder he worked his way up the army ladder so young, being as he was; handsome, charming, and very personable. You could admit, however, that his charm as it was applied to you sometimes tested the bounds of friendliness or professionalism, and you sometimes came away from the workday with a headache that was not only induced by the Serbian heat. But at least it kept you busy.Â
You knew your own feelings well enough to identify that emptiness you felt when you discovered Bucky had left the hotel room and the country.
You were in love with him.
You thought maybe you always had been, since the very first day he took you under his wing at Stark Tower.
You hated him for it, but hated yourself more.
If you were pathetic enough to let a love like this survive the cold-shoulder Bucky had been giving you, maybe you needed a bit of a reality check.Â
In a way, you supposed it was better like this. You needed a few days to get your head around what had happened between the two of you anyway and steel yourself to the fact that it will never mean anything. Because youâre still you and heâs still disgusted by all your baggage and guilt and yes, okay, maybe somewhere in the darkest recesses of your brain, you sometimes thought that you shouldnât really be allowed to love someone and be loved back anyway. The force with which you wanted him was humiliating and unrelenting, but at least in Serbia you didnât have to dread bumping into him over breakfast.
By the time you did make it back to Stark Tower, you were all anxious uncertainty. Not only about how Bucky would react after your episode, but also about what the team knew of the events. You knew Bucky would have told them about the elevator but the hotel? Would he have said anything about that?
When, however, you walked into the kitchen on the evening of that first day and were met with a host of congratulations, coupled with some not-very-subtle digs at Bucky for initially doubting you, you knew he hadnât said a word about any of it. Not the elevator, not the hotel. Nothing.
You werenât sure if this concealment was a wise decision on his part, but as the decision was already made (and admittedly because it yielded the best outcome for you), you elected to say nothing of the events to anyone else.
Bucky hung back while you spoke to the rest of the team. You were sure that he had concealed the events in Serbia for your benefit, but you could not reconcile this man who refused to even look in your direction with one that would be so kind to you. You could reconcile this man even less with the one who held you close to him just a few short days ago.
He didnât sit down at the table with the rest of the team and the message was clear. Nothing had changed.
When Steve winked at you and said, âIt was all my training, of course.â, Bucky audibly scoffed from where was standing. The team pretended not to notice, but you could see the way their movements slowed down. Sam looked over at Bucky, perplexed. Bruce kept his eyes to his food but didn't eat. You were worried Bucky would say something - expose your failure from Serbia - when Wanda contributed a second scoff. âYou wish, Rogers.âÂ
You smiled and took a swig of your drink, but it felt like razorblades going down.
You saw Dan Garcia walking past the door to the kitchen as you were finishing up your meal. He peered in the door to smile at you and a sense of obligation, as well as a desire to escape Buckyâs presence, propelled you out of the room to greet him.
âHey. Wasnât expecting to see you here.â
âMaria called me in to deliver the report.â he said, holding up a thick manilla envelope for display. âI guess email feels too impersonal.â
He was on the wrong floor for that, but you didnât point it out.
âRight,â you laughed. âMaybe she wants to do some team bonding.â
He rolled his eyes, a smile etching itself on his face.Â
âHope youâre getting the heroâs welcome you deserve,â he said.
You shifted. âThatâs a bit generous.â
âCome on,â he pressed on, not catching the way your eyes were flitting towards the door. âYou did a great job. You deserve a bit of credit.â
He was clearly also not aware of the elevator incident. You paused, hoping he would change the subject. When he didnât, you simply said, âCouldnât have done it without you, Garcia.â because no other response was immediately coming to you.Â
He dismissed this and emitted a booming laugh, but the compliment was felt. He lost a fight against a grin and stood straighter, his chest puffing forward like a pigeon.Â
âPlease,â he scoffed. âI sat in a truck talking to a pretty girl who knew exactly what she was doing. Very humbling.â
Your face went hot. You hadnât meant to embolden him with the compliment - had rather meant to change the focus away from your own fake accomplishments.Â
You floundered a bit and Garcia, likely mistaking this for flattery, puffed his pigeon chest out a little bit more.
You hadnât taken any heed of Bucky walking towards you - not until he was standing directly in front of you.Â
All 6 feet and 5 inches of Buckyâs figure was imposing and intimidating. It was always stupefying to see him and feel the power of his presence, no matter how accustomed to him you were. You were also well used to his formidable glares, but you werenât used to seeing them directed at someone else. Garcia didnât notice that anything was amiss, still smiling at you.
âHi, Barnes. Howâs it going?â
âWhat are you doing here?â he asked, voice sharp enough to cut glass.
Now, Garcia looked at him properly. You could identify the second that he registered Buckyâs severe countenance, losing his smile, chest deflating. He blinked.
âHave to drop a report to Maria.â he said, smiling with forced ease.
âBetter get to it then.â It was a command. A dismissal, flat and unmistakable.
You watched Garciaâs mouth open and close. Bucky wasnât like this with him, ever. You had seen the way they got along. He treated the agents well - always steady, calm, fair, even when annoyed. He never pulled rank on him like this.
Garcia turned to you with a tight, polite smile that didnât reach his eyes. âSee you later.â
You murmured a goodbye and watched him take off down the hall, shoulders tense.Â
Yourself and Bucky stood across from each other as his footsteps faded, neither of you speaking. Buckyâs cold expression attached itself to you in the absence of Garcia, and you waited for him to explain what had just happened.
Instead of explaining and without even offering an excuse, Bucky took one last glance at you before taking off down the opposite corridor. You watched him go with astonishment - had almost let him disappear out of sight - but your legs moved quicker than your mind.
He was a fast walker. You ran to keep up.
âWhat the fuck, Bucky? What was that?â
He didnât look at you, just continued walking down the corridor. You felt your blood pressure spike, a rattling pain entering into your head and your vision blurred with anger. You felt you might have started screaming at him, then and there - demanding explanations and apologies - but he spoke.
âHe shouldnât be here. This is our floor.â
You rolled your eyes.
âWhen has that mattered before? We get visitors up here all the time.â
âVisitors are invited.â he snapped. âHe isnât wanted here.â
Bucky made it to a door and began to open it, but you slammed it shut again using your mind. It wasnât necessary - you knew that - but you put so much weight behind that slam, it physically pushed him back. For just a beat, his eyebrows raised and he looked at you in complete astonishment.
You refused to feel embarrassed anymore. You refused to keep playing on his terms.
âWhy do you get to decide that he wasnât wanted here? Why do you get to make that call?â You were cracking open now; the boards of your restraint were splintering. You werenât really talking about Garcia anymore - didnât give a damn about him - but Bucky chose not to notice.
âDonât be stupid.â he barked. Energy was surrounding you both, whirling around the two of you and capturing you both in a bubble. His voice lowered now, sending your heart rate skyrocketing. He came closer, towered above you.Â
He was looking at you with a deep heat that settled in your bones and warmed you from the inside. His eyes looked the same way they did in Serbia, that moment before the world came crashing down. Hungry.Â
Your entire body flushed. You wished more than anything that you could control your reaction to him - wish you could fight that pierce of want he sent through you.
âYou really think he was here for paperwork? I know what those sergeants are like, doll. I used to be one of them. He was here for you.â
Your courage was leaving you fast. Your face tingled and went pink with heat as you felt his words low in your abdomen. You watched his sharp, stubbled jaw twitch as he focused on the blush on your cheeks, his eyes blowing dark and wide.Â
OhâŚ
Something about the way he was entranced by your blush was lighting a fire in your skin and coiling something up tight in your belly.
âWhat if thatâs what I want?â you managed cautiously. You were bluffing.
He reached out and finally - finally - touched you, his large, calloused hand enveloping your face and running his thumb over your blushing cheek. The warmth of his hand travelled to your stomach and nestled low. You fought to stay still, to hide how badly you wanted him, but tremors were running through you.
âItâs not though, is it darlinâ?.â he whispered, his low voice spreading over your body like honey.Â
You felt completely bare and exposed to him - you couldnât hide anything from him, couldnât pretend any longer.
âKills me to see you give those pretty little blushes away to Steve but I can almost believe he deserves them. They arenât meant for boys like Garcia.â
He leaned closer before you could process his words and placed a featherlight kiss on the edge of your neck. You gasped, the feeling of his warm lips sending shockwaves all the way down to your navel.
Bucky pulled away from you, breathing heavily and completely broken. You blinked back at him, struck dumb by the feeling of him so close and desperate for him to continue. It took you a second to realise that you were surrounded by broken ceramic.
You glanced dimly at the now-broken vase on the floor. It had flown from the table and hit the wall less than ten feet from you. You could feel small, beige pieces of clay crunch beneath your shoes as you shifted uncomfortably. A sudden chill came over you, wiping out all the heat left by Buckyâs kiss to your neck. You recognised it as the same Japandi sculptural vase that littered every floor on the building - nothing special or irreplaceable about it. But the moment was over.
You stumbled awkwardly away from Bucky, watching his metal fingers twitch, as if aching to grab you again. It was almost comical how quickly you had gone from wanting him closer - willing to do anything to have him - to wishing he was a million miles away.Â
You squirmed for a bit, reluctantly looking over at him. He was now also looking at the fragments on the carpeted floor. You struggled to get a read on him, like he was retreating into himself and going to a place you could no longer reach. If anything, he just looked tired.Â
This was too much. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to force your mind blank, squashing down your embarrassment and shame. The last thing you wanted was to send the table flying with it.
âIâll, umâŚâ you staggered out, âI better go ask someone to help clean that up.â
You shuffled down the corridor quickly, ignoring Buckyâs voice calling your name behind you and thanking your blessings that he did not decide to follow.
You were wretched. Completely immoveable.Â
Steveâs text inviting you to join the team for some beers in the communal area had been unanswered for the last hour. You didnât consider the offer for even a second but you did wonder if Bucky was down there with them. You doubted it.
You didnât even have the energy for your telekinesis to play up and throw some shit around. All you had the energy to do was to replay your conversation with Bucky over and over again - the arguing, the look he gave you when you blushed, his lips on your neck. You could still feel it as if it left a bruise.
His words: Kills me to see you give those pretty little blushes away to Steve but I can almost believe he deserves them.
What did that mean?
You thought maybe you knew but it felt too ludicrous, like something you invented to make yourself feel better. Your stomach capsized each time you replayed it.Â
You couldnât understand what his feelings were - maybe it was pointless to even try.Â
He could pretend that nothing happened between the two of you in front of the elevators in Serbia. Could even say that the way he held you in your hotel room that night meant nothing - that he was just doing his job. But he couldnât pretend now - not after his lips had touched you the way they did.
Your phone lit up from your pillow.
STEVE: Come on down
STEVE: Donât make me come get you!
You sighed.
You couldnât really fool yourself into believing you ever felt anything more than friendship for Steve, but it was nice to think about sometimes. Like, the thought of being with someone who actually wanted you back made you feel hopeful about your future. The idea that some day you could fall for someone who didnât look at you with disgust while thinking of your past transgressions - like you could be normal.
Damn Bucky for ruining that for you. One sentence from him and now you canât even think of anyone else without a dull ache forming in your chest.
You didnât even know how long you had been horizontal for, but it was too long. You fought every muscle in your body to haul yourself out of your bed and to the kitchenette. You knew there was nothing in your fridge worth eating but you looked anyway: sour cream, half a jar of pasta sauce and some peaches that were probably gone off. Nope.
A knock at your door made you stand up straight, closing the fridge. Annoyance prickled at your skin.
âIâm tired, Steve.â you called out, hoping it would be enough to deter him but doubting it. âI think Iâll stay in.â
âMaybe later.â you added gently when you didnât get a response.
Dead silence from outside your door. You rolled your eyes and mouthed a silent âFuck thisâ. Begrudgingly, you trudged over to the door, ready to shoot down his ploy to get you out the door.Â
Bucky stood in front of you, somber and irritable. He looked down at you grumpily, his jaw clenched and a wrinkle between his brows. His hair was mussed up, like he had been running his hands through it. Your heart lurched.
âNot Steve. Sorry to disappoint.â he grumbled.Â
You were stunned. You fumbled for a bit, feeling awkward and out of place in your own skin, but could eventually do nothing but absently step aside and allow him to enter.
He crossed the threshold hesitantly and when you closed the door behind him, you turned to observe him. It was so bizarre to see him in your room. He was almost too big for it, towering over everything and taking up your space. You watched his eyes travel around the studio, fixing themselves to your recently-vacated bed, to the books on your shelf, to the pictures on the walls of your loved ones who you hadnât called in far too long, to the dishes in your sink.Â
You wondered if this was just as strange for him. You wondered if he had ever pictured what your room might look like. You had imagined his. In your mind, Buckyâs room had no pictures or posters. His shelf was filled with books - modern classics and sci-fi - which kept his mind occupied when insomnia had its grips on him. It was neat and tidy aside from a leather jacket draped over the arm of his sofa and a lazily made bed.Â
Bucky fixed his sullen stare on you.Â
âI wanted to apologise.â
You werenât sure what you were expecting. Not that.
âWhat for?âÂ
âForâŚâ You had never seen him in as much discomfort before. And you had seen him get shot. âI shouldnât have gotten close to you⌠like that. Earlier.â
âYou shouldnât have got-? Oh fuck you, Bucky.â
You could think of plenty of things he could apologise for, but that wasnât one of them. For a moment, you just stared at his astonishment. He was surprised by the fury and humiliation he found buried in your voice. It almost made you more enraged that he was surprised. Like he didnât know what he was doing when you were feeling every bit of the blow he just dealt you.
The anger was helping you ignore the brutal chasm in your chest but didnât quite do enough to fend off the humiliated tears.Â
âDo you think Iâm some sort of machine? That I donât have feelings? I know what Iâve done, I know what you think of me. I donât need you to make me pay for it every day - it haunts me enough, Bucky! Do you think I am heartless enough to not feel this by myself? Because youâre wrong. I have as much heart as you, and if I can see yours past everything you have done, then you should be able to see mine too.â
You didnât fully know what you were saying. If you had been thinking, you might have regretted bringing up his past but all you could think about was your own pain. You could hear glass smash somewhere behind you but you didnât look. Bucky was startled, his blue eyes distraught, hands reaching out for you.
âI donât expect anything from you, but this is cruel, Bucky, itâs not fair.â you wailed, squirming to evade his grasp. âYou canât play with my feelings like this and expect me to- let me go!â
You could see Bucky through blurry eyes, even as you did your best to wiggle out of his grasp. He said your name like a plea, but you could barely hear him. He had gone pale, face awash with panic and mouth ajar.
âNo, thatâs not-â he ushered out, desperately. His eyes were searching for yours but they wouldnât meet him. âI never thought less of you for anything that happened in your past. How could you think that? Me, of all people.â
You froze finally, slightly dazed.
âWhat?â you tried to say, but it came out as a croak.
ââI canât help but want you, but I canât let myself have you. Iâm no good for you, sweetheart. No good for anyone, but definitely not you.â
âI donât understand.â
âI love you.â
The words fell in front of you and landed at your feet.
You finally looked at him. He was looking down at you, brooding and handsome. You had never seen him like this, so hopeless and scared - it terrified you. Your mouth filled with cotton.
âThat doesnât make sense.â
âI know,â he laughed bitterly, with a sad, resigned smile. You hated how cavalier he was being about this. Was this some sort of joke to him?
His grip on your forearms loosened as he became sure that you wouldnât bolt, but he didnât drop them.
âIf you⌠then whyâŚâ you couldnât get the words out. Your tongue suddenly weighed a ton in your mouth.
âYou gave me a look, couple months ago.â Bucky said, mouth twitching at how ridiculous it sounded. âWhen you were telling me about your past. Looked at me like I could⌠I dunno, kiss the pain away or something. Killed me, darlinâ. Because I know Iâll just make it worse. Iâve got too much shit toâŚâÂ
Bucky was struggling. You could see him grapple with his words, force them out. He was so pathetic and beautiful, you had to stop yourself from leaning into him.
âBecause you should be with someone like Steve. Someone whoâs good, all the time.â he said coldly and his brow furrowed like he didnât want to admit it. âYou said you wanted to feel normal again. Thatâs not something I can help with.â
You bit your cheek hard until a bitter, metallic taste flooded your mouth. Something was blooming inside you as much as you tried to suppress it.Â
All that shame, all the ruminating over how you had shared too much⌠all for nothing. He loved you.
âYouâre idiotic.â you breathed.Â
An attractive little line formed in between his brows and he pouted, uncharacteristically boyish.Â
âI donât want Steve. Never have.â you said. âI canât feel normal around someone who is good all the time - it makes me feel, like, some freak of nature or something. I have only ever felt normal when Iâm with you.â
The words swim between you for a moment.Â
Bucky was ravaged. His pretty, blue eyes met yours in what you now recognised to be adoration. He was almost dazed at your confession. You could tell he was uncertain of how to act, what to do. You looked at him for a beat.Â
âDid you have to choose that day to go cold on me?â you continued. âI spilled my guts and you just⌠I thoughtâŚâ you couldnât finish your thought because his face crumpled as he seemed to understand all at once. The way his constant rejection retraumatised you, made you feel subhuman.Â
âIâm so sorry, sweetheart.â he said, voice low and gravelly. His face was twisted with agony and he wiped a large hand over his face. âI never meant to make you feel that way, I just thought you would be better off with space. Every time I looked at you, I just thought about how you would be happier with someone else and it made me feel sick. Jesus, Iâm sorry. Nothing you said changed how I feel about you. I think nothing could.â
It was too late for this, right? It should be, butâŚ
You stepped closer to him, shoes touching and faces a hairâs breadth apart. Slowly, hesitantly, your hand travelled up between the two of you. Buckyâs throat bobbed up and down as he watched it move and you felt a shallow gasp escape him when it landed on the side of his neck, gently cupping the skin there. His eyes fluttered closed, like he had been waiting for this for years.Â
You stood there for a second, bathing in the reaction he had to your touch.Â
You wished you could have made him sweat a bit more, maybe even beg. But you knew this would be the outcome whatever way you swung it. Knew it would end up with his hot skin on yours, and you had waited for that long enough. You couldnât help it. Something about him was made just for you, molded specifically for you to love and keep.
âI love you too.â you whispered.
He leaned forward to kiss you then, his hand guiding your face to his carefully and pressing his lips to yours with great restraint. The other hand went to your waist and pulled you towards him.Â
The feeling of his coarse lips, the scrape of his dark stubble against your jaw - it was unearthly. Your heart was pounding and you knew he could hear it. Your lips moved tentatively against his at first. Slowly.
You couldnât quite believe that this was happening. It felt like something from one of your dreams. You almost expected to wake up, bedsheets soaked and a hollow throb wracking your body.
His lips were so sweet against yours and you thought you could feel every ounce of his love in the gesture. You wanted to stand there with him - just like this - all night.Â
But the heat in your stomach slowly melted its way between your legs. Your brain went haywire. You couldnât think - couldnât even feel anything except his hands, his lips, his body against yours. He was overwhelming your senses and sending you into overdrive.
Bucky made a low, dark sound against your lips, feeling you respond to him, and you stilled. You parted from him for just a second, breathing heavy. His eyes were dark, glassy, focused on you - traveling your face and heavy with desire. He was a man possessed. You knew there was no going back now. Couldnât if you tried.
When you kissed him again, there was nothing tentative about it. It was messy and raw. Hands reaching to his neck, chest pressing up against him, thighs pressing together, desperate for friction. Closer, closer, closer. The need for him was building in you. You were afraid to ever stop, in case he walked away again.
âTryinâ to be a gentleman here.â he said between kisses. You didnât stop.Â
You could feel Buckyâs restraint breaking. His hands travelled downwards and you could feel the imprint of each individual finger grip possessively on your hips and he pulled you closer and, shit, his hands felt beautiful on the flesh of your hips. He lifted you with almost impossible ease and you instinctively wrapped your thighs around his waist. You could feel him stiff against you when he sat you both down on your unmade bed, you now straddling his lap. It sent a thrill up your spine, your whole body wired with nothing but pure want while his hands stroked and squeezed your bare thighs.
The way his mouth moved against yours was sinful and he felt so big and broad against your touch. You had thought about him like this almost obsessively. You wanted more. You wanted everything he had to give you.
The thumb of his metal hand dipped into your loose lounge shorts and caressed a line where your abdomen cascades down to your groin. You gasped at the sudden cold sensation, pulling out of his kiss and throwing your head back. He attacked your neck, lathering kisses there instead. Lips, tongue, teeth.Â
You had lost all sense of yourself, completely immersed in him. You jumped, feeling his hand enter your underwear and his thumb brush your clit lightly. It knocked the wind out of you - forced a moan from your lips. A frame came crashing down from the wall with a loud thud but neither of you paid it any attention. Bucky responded with a groan of his own and ground his finger down harder. The metal ridges on his hand created a friction you had never before in your life experienced.Â
Bucky raised his head. âCan you feel how wet you are, sweetheart?â he murmured, eyes half-lidded and hazy with desire.Â
You could. You were dripping. You could see the evidence on his jean-clad thighs.
He continued to rub loving shapes inside the now-transparent fabric of your underwear. You saw stars. âMaking such a mess. Iâve barely touched you yet.â
Yet.
âLook at that.â he murmured, brushing a finger of his unoccupied hand over the heat that was blooming in your cheek. âGoing all pink for me.â
You squirmed and whined and bucked desperately for him, hips canting and gyrating, feeling completely out of your mind. You were embarrassed by Buckyâs vulgar words and his probing focus on your face but you didnât have the power to hide anything from him.
He slipped a finger inside you and you felt a streak of white-hot pleasure burst through you. You gripped him and grinded down, almost against your own will. The cool metal finger was delicious against your warmth. Bucky sighed and you felt the gust of breath hit your mouth. You kissed him again.
âYou should see yourself right now, baby. Cute and shy and blushing while you wiggle around, trying to take my finger deeper. So perfect.â
He was torturing you. He smiled wickedly and refused to move a muscle, basking in how you whined and twitched for him. You knew he was waiting for you to beg for him to move but you couldnât form words.
You were past embarrassment, too far-gone. You grabbed his large shoulders and began to grind your hips up and down pathetically, whimpering his name.Â
Bucky was clearly not expecting this. His eyes blew wide as he watched you feverishly, drinking in your movements. âSo pretty fucking yourself on my finger.â he whispered and you were suddenly landing softly on the bed.Â
Bucky was standing above you, towering over. You hadnât really thought about how you might be affecting him, too focused on the bruising pleasure he was sending through your veins. But he looked wrecked. Messy hair, swollen lips, dark eyes piercing through yours with desire. You could see the large, hard outline of him through his jeans, his crotch and thighs now wet and sticky with the evidence of your burning need for him. All traces of that cocky superiority were gone, replaced with a sort of desperation.
âCan I make you feel good? Please?â It came out as a plea.Â
You thought about teasing him, saying something cheeky and coquettish, making him beg. But he had already knocked any resemblance of control out of your head. You werenât even sure if you could pretend anymore. You just nodded.Â
With painful leisurliness and precision, Bucky lifted you into the centre of the bed. His strength was always a surprise to you, even knowing that he was a super soldier. He lifted your entire body like you weighed no more than a feather.Â
You tugged at the fabric of his t-shirt and he pulled away to raise an eyebrow at you, but lifted it off, followed by his jeans. He was left in only a pair of black briefs. You had been around Bucky while he was shirtless before, but had never been brave enough to let yourself look for more than a few seconds at a time. His arms supported his weight as he covered your body with his own on the bed, hills and valleys of huge, tanned muscles pulled tight. You let your eyes fall to his chest, where his dog tags sat, wet with perspiration, between huge pectoral muscles. His thighs were large and all muscle and you pictured yourself sitting on them. But it was his underwear that caught your attention, really. The black fabric was straining against the giant outline of his cock. You couldnât look at it too long - you were already shaking with want. He was so big and pretty and yours.
He smiled at your wandering gaze and pressed his lips to yours again, swallowing each noise you made hungrily. You sank your head into the pillow and let him kiss you, feeling lightheaded and gooey at the reverence you could feel coming from him in waves. His mouth felt so right on yours, it almost made you angry. How could he have made you wait so long for this?
You would give him hell later, maybe. Right now, he was moving his kisses down your neck, leaving a trail of sizzling skin behind him. When he reached the top of your crewneck, he played with the hem, eyes looking up to you for a split-second for permission. Your lips twitched into a smile. His finger had already been inside you.Â
He seemed to understand and pulled your top over your head gently, under which your breasts were bare. Reaching down with both hands, he slid your drenched shorts and panties down your legs until you were completely bare before him.
He pulled up onto his knees to stare at you like this for a moment, drinking you in lazily with dark eyes. His eyes paused at your breasts and travelled down your stomach slowly before catching on your glistening heat. He made a strangled noise at the back of his throat as he saw it properly for the first time. You flushed under his gaze, a hint of self-consciousness tugging at you suddenly.
âI love it so much when you blush for me, sweetheart. Hated seeing you get all hot and bothered for Steve. Iâll keep this pretty pussy so busy, youâll never think about him again.â
You hadnât noticed his arm moving down until his hand found your clit again, calloused fingers clutching and rubbing with jealous vigour on your clit. You were so wet, he had to grind down hard to find the right friction.
You cried out and heard a loud crash somewhere in your apartment, making Bucky chuckle.Â
âNever felt like this for Steve.â you said, voice breathy and whiney. âWas just- ah- was just embarrassed. By everyoneâŚâ
You couldnât finish your sentence. Bucky was grinning wide at you, possessive and wolfish, rewarding you for your confession by sliding one finger into you and then two. You thought your eyes might have rolled back momentarily but you werenât sure.
âThought you got sick of waiting for me. Moved on to Steve.â he growled, pushing his fingers in and out of you with punishing languidness. âBut the whole time you were just mine, werenât you?â
âYours.â you agreed, nodding frantically.
âFuck.â he moaned, wide eyed, flushed, desperate. âIâll give you everything you want. I love you.â
You thought you might want to hear that again, and again, and again.
Bucky pulled you to the edge of the bed and got to his knees in front of you. He began to kiss your breasts, taking each nipple into his mouth briefly before continuing on his way down your stomach, nipping the skin there lightly with each kiss. You lay back and could feel his cold dogtags trailing against your skin. When he lingered for a second on the basement of your stomach, you could feel them knocking against the heat between your legs. You shivered.
Finally, finally, he looked up at you, caught your eyes, and lowered his beautiful mouth to where you needed him most.Â
The sounds you made were obscene but you had no control over them. Instinctively, you tried to close your thighs, feeling overwhelmed by the pleasure he was affording you, but he pried them apart instantly while licking a stripe up your pussy.
You felt his finger probe your entrance lightly, teasing you with just one inch while he latched on to your clit and sucked.
He could have made you come apart at the seams in a matter of seconds and he knew it, slowing down or stopping when your moans became a little too whiney.Â
âI think about seeing you like this all the time.â he admitted in between kisses and licks to your clit. He gave you another few inches of his finger and stroked your walls. âLegs spread and whining for me like a brat. Canât sleep without thinking about making you come on my tongue.âÂ
The image of Bucky alone in bed, thinking about you like this with a metal hand on his cock, had you gasping. Your mind instinctively tossed over your bedside locker. It landed on its side with a loud thud. It sounded like the leg might have snapped off.
Bucky barked out a laugh, seeing it collapse beside him where he was kneeling at the floor. For probably the first time in your life, you laughed at this strange, troublesome power of yours too.
It lasted only a second.
Bucky pulled his finger out completely before adding another, pushing both in to the hilt. They were so long and thick - you all but screamed at the sudden fullness. A dish exploded in the sink.Â
âSo responsive.â he said, awe-struck. âYou only have two of my fingers, sweetheart. Canât wait to see how you take my cock. Maybe tomorrow. Iâll fill you up so good.â
His words were striking you dumb. It occurred to you briefly in your pleasure-drunk haze that you would probably never again be able to be with anybody but him. Not after feeling what it was like with Bucky. It wasnât like this with anyone else. This was it.Â
âI love you.â you whispered to him, brushing your hand through his dark hair. The look he gave you in return was so adoring and soft, it almost made you burst into tears. You didnât know you could be loved like this.
But then he was grinding his fingers in and out of you and you yelped at his exquisite, excruciating pace. You grinded down further on his fingers and you were speaking in tongues, babbling nonsense.
âI love you, Iâm yours, Bucky. All yours. I love you, please, feels so good, I love- ahâ
You suddenly jerked on his fingers, laying up on your elbows and noticing that Bucky had his unoccupied hand in his underwear, stroking himself to the sight of you, the feel of you, your words.
The hand Bucky had inside you slowed - almost stopped - to prevent you from coming. You were so close. You wanted to see what he was doing under his briefs. Wanted his tongue back on you. Wanted to come. But you didnât have the words, your debilitating shyness overriding anything.Â
He saw your flustered state and smirked, continuing to stroke himself at a brisk pace, almost gloating.
âWhatâs wrong, sweetheart? You want my tongue back? Gonna have to use your words.âÂ
âBucky, please.â you begged.
âPlease what?â he mocked you, throwing his head back at the pleasure he was giving himself.
You flashed red and he breathed a laugh. Irritation flashed through you quickly and before you could think about it, your mind was probing out gently. With great carefulness, you used all your concentration to slowly and gently push Buckyâs head downwards.
All amusement fleeted from his face and was replaced immediately with a dark kind of astonishment. âFuck, baby,â he sighed, completely ruined. âNot so shy when you need me this bad, huh?â You saw his hand grip himself tighter. He surrendered himself to your power.
He allowed his head to be pushed down, immediately pressing his tongue flat and sloppy against your clit, circling. His fingers sped up inside you, pistoning in and out with a desperate and mismeasured pace.
âYouâre so messy, sweet girl.â You felt his words vibrate against you.
You looked down. A mix of your slick and Buckyâs spit was spilling all the way down your trembling thighs and onto the floor. You might have cared even a few moments ago but you were too far gone, slurring praises and âI love youâs.Â
 âYou gonna come, baby?â
You nodded, not checking whether he saw. He was making beautiful noises against your clit.
âGood. Iâm about to spill into my underwear at the taste of you.â
Your vision went white and you fell apart. When your orgasm took you, you grabbed his hair instinctively and screamed, cunt pulsing and squeezing around his fingers, bucking your hips up to grind against his mouth. You dimly heard furniture and decorations and tableware crashing around you but you barely noticed it. If anything, it just reinforced that the world was crashing down around you with the intensity of the experience.
He was talking you through it, telling you how good and messy and pretty you were. He continued to make out with your pussy as he spilled into his underwear, muttering filthy praises about how good you tasted.
It took you a moment to come to. When you finally opened your eyes, you saw he had moved you back into the bed and under the covers. The room was in tatters, clothes strewn everywhere, furniture in pieces, broken glass on the floor.
Bucky let out a throaty laugh, watching you look around the room in astonishment. âYou made a mess in more ways than one.â
Heat began to bloom in your abdomen and face again at his words and he laughed again. âGive this old man a chance to recover, sweetheart.â
You giggled and looked at him with shy interest, not sure where exactly to go from here. You wanted him closer but didnât know how to ask.
Bucky smiled, staring down at you with such a loving gaze, it made you feel like you were floating. âStill shy? After all that?â
âStop.â you groaned, slapping his bicep. You forced him closer using your mind, and he slipped towards you with a yelp, blue eyes wide with fascination. âIâll never get used to that.âÂ
âIâll never get used to this.â you sighed, nuzzling into his chest and breathing in his smell.
âWell you better.â He placed a kiss on the top of your head and you melted. âBecause Iâm done with all that self-sacrificing bullshit. Iâm all yours now. But I think we better fuck in a padded room from now on.â
When you sat down at breakfast with the team the next day, you affected a casual indifference. You didnât arrive with a pep in your step, didnât send any moonstruck looks Buckyâs way, didnât chat any more or less than normal. You sat beside Steve, same as always. Chatted with Wanda, same as always. Ignored Bucky, same as always.
It was inevitable that the team would eventually find out about yourself and Bucky. But, for now, it felt like an electric, intoxicating secret - something just for the two of you.
Bucky wasnât quite as good as you at hiding his stares. You felt his stare prickle and light up your skin, but nobody else seemed to notice.
Sam called for your attention and you turned to him, still laughing at something Wanda had said. âWhat the hell did you do to Steve?âÂ
âWhen?â you asked, raising a perplexed eyebrow.
âLast night. He went to go get you for beers with all of us. Poor guy came back without you, red as Tonyâs goddamn suit. Wouldnât tell us anything except that you were busy.â
Your head snapped over to Steve who was sinking in his chair, looking like he wanted to slip and melt into the ground.
Your face exploded with heat and your eyes shot to Bucky instinctively.Â
All eyes one-by-one followed yours to Bucky, who was leaning back in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk dancing on his lips.
going on a date with bucky barnes and it all goes so nicely, so sweetly, so smoothly. you both had so much fun, chemistry and a good time. he's charming, witty and he keeps flirting and complimenting you at every chance he gets. he held your hand all night long, neither of you even noticed it, it just happened naturally, your cheeks hurt from how much you're smiling and both of your hearts are at ease.. that's until the date comes to an end, it's time to pay and you ask him if he wants to go 50/50.
that would be the first time he lets go of your hand that night, it's unintentional just happened out of pure shock. "50... what.." the confusion on his face, you'd think he's an alien seeing earth the first time.
"you know.. 50/50.. we'll split the bill between us"
"split the bill?" he asks and you just nod, he'd blink at you, "50/50.. splitting the bill.. what is this about, i asked you on a date"
now it's your turn to be the alien seeing earth for the first time, "we are on a date, bucky. this is a date"
"no, it's not a date."
"it is a date"
"you're asking me to split the bill, this is not a date"
"oh my god sam was right, you can be such a drama queen." you laugh, he just stares at you, blankly. "it might've been a while since the last time you went on a date so let me break it down for you.. these days, people who go on dates split the bill, they go 50/50" you shrug, "it's normal"
"it's normal? you've done it before?"
you nod, "every date i've been on has been 50/50 yeah"
bucky nearly flips the table. bucky who spent all of his three dollars in the 1940's trying to win a teddybear for a girl he had a crush on, bucky who used to save up most of his income in an old shoe box underneath his bed so he can take his girl to a nice diner, bucky who went to the florist to get you a bouquet of roses and didn't even ask for the price just handed his credit card because to him your smile is priceless, bucky is about to have a stroke.
"you've never been on a date" he says, face still blank.
"yes i have"
"no you haven't. this is your first date." he says, "i'm your first time." he smirks and you blush at the possible implication. "50/50.." he scoffs under his breath, "what else are you gonna tell me next? i should walk on the inside of the sidewalk? keep my jacket on when you're cold? sleep further from the door? not open doors for you? jesus sweetheart what has the world come to?"
you hide your smile, you love it when he rambles like that, he's so calm yet so offended all at once somehow, it's funny and endearing. "what's wrong with walking on the inside of the sidewalk?" you joke and he rolls his eyes making you laugh, "so.. no 50/50? are you sure?" you ask one last time, hands on your purse on your lap.
he keeps his eyes on you as he pays the bill, glaring playfully, gets up and pulls out your chair before putting his black leather jacket on your shoulders, "no doll," he offers you his hand which you quickly hold, intertwining your fingers with his, and opens the door with his metal hand, "no 50/50."
This was so cute I want a series. Iâm begging on my knees. Bucky learning about dating now a days âno oneâs ever gotten you flowers?â âOnly on Valentineâs Dayâ
when you go on your 2nd date, he'd get you flowers again and you'd be like "thank you bucky this is so sweet but you don't have to buy me flowers every time, i still have the ones from our last date" and he'd just stare at you like wtf
"those are from our last date, these are from this date. for someone who claims to have been on dates in this day and age, you seem very shocked by what dates usually entail." he smirks but then sees the look on your face and frown, "please don't tell me you've never gotten flowers before.."
"i've gotten flowers before... once.. from my ex.. on valentine's day... four years ago" you shrug as if it's nothing, as if it's normal but bucky is a stiff as a board next to you, if he glared any harder his eyes would pop out of their sockets.
the idea of you never getting flowers is absurd to him. in the 40's, he used to save up money to buy flowers for his girl and even when he couldn't afford it, he'd pick and collect wildflowers and make his own special bouquets, he even had his sister teach him how to tie a bow so he'd wrap them up all nicely. bucky's never met up with his sweetheart without getting her flowers. ever.
"you're giving me a headache" he'd rub his forehead with his metal hand all dramatically.
you'd smack him playfully, "you don't get headaches" he'd grab your arms and pull you close, hugging you tightly.
"well you just gave me one and soon you'll give me an aneurysm too. why did you settle for these assholes, baby?" he chuckles but he's dead serious. "making you split the bill, not getting you flowers, i'm gonna start asking for names"
you laugh into his chest but he's actually considering it, almost. it's a crime, he thinks, those guys are criminals.
since that day, bucky would get you flowers every single time he sees you, it could be a single rose, a wildflower, hell, sometimes he'll bring you a leaf to make you laugh but he'll never ever show up empty handed.
joel miller x fem!reader, fluff + hurt/comfort, ~1.3k words.
You and Joel find a spring after months on the road. Youâre both delighted for the opportunity of getting clean, but the hair he will see on your body makes you hesitate.
all i need to hear
joel miller x fem!reader, fluff + hurt/comfort, ~2k words.
Joel thinks youâre still beautiful in Jackson. It takes a lot of convincing on his part for you to believe him, but he tries his hardest until you do (tw body insecurity).
we donât have to talk about it
joel miller x fem!reader, hurt/comfort, ~1.5k words.
Joel raises his voice at you and it has you shaking on the floor. You both go from there (tw implied domestic violence).
your voice, in the night
joel miller x fem!reader, hurt/comfort, ~1.7k words
Fear makes it hard to sleep. When spending the night alone in a tent proves impossible, Joel tries his best to soothe you while keeping the both of you safe.
highway to your heart
joel miller x fem!reader, hurt/comfort, ~2.5k words
Youâre unaware itâs the early morning of Sarahâs birthday. Joel sinks into your arms and lets go for the first time in a very long time.
tender
joel miller x fem!reader, hurt/comfort, ~1.6k words
Worried about your upcoming appointment at the Jackson clinic for your first yearly check up, you go to Joel for reassurance.
jade i was wondering if i could request smth where steve and his gf are out and he leaves really quick to go do something and when he comes back he see his girl crying, so he gets all worried and protective, but later realizes sheâs crying happy tears?
i hope that made some sense. tysm!! i LOVE your writing
âYouâre not close enough,â Steve says. Heâs annoyed, just a smidge, but nothing with malice as he wraps his arm around you to tug you into frame. âIâve only got so many.âÂ
âStop complaining,â you say, shuffling as flush to his side as you can be.Â
Steve smells like heaven. He has nice arms, a better smile, and heâs pressing a grin to your cheek as he turns the camera to take your photo. Itâs hard to do it back to front, but nobodyâs around to take the photograph for you.Â
It flashes. The Polaroid pops out with a chug, though the picture has yet to develop.Â
âCameraâs should come with more film,â you say, blinking the shock of the flash from your pupils. A white ring stays floating in the air, kissing his nose as you turn toward him again.Â
âCameraâs should have unlimited film. How the fuck am I supposed to take enough photos of you if every one costs ten cents? Iâll be broke by August.âÂ
Steve puts the camera down. Heâs in sweatpants and a hoodie, your favourite outfit on him. You fell in love with the idiot who wears tight jeans and polos, but you stay in love with the guy he is in the evenings, when he gets on the line begging you to come over, to move in, to see yourself to his hip and stay forever. Itâs more than encouraging to be liked loudly. I love youâs are new between you and he doesnât seem to notice, he passes them out like candy. Broke the dam and canât stop saying it.Â
âAnd itâll be okay,â he says, taking your fave into both hands. ââCos shit, I love you.âÂ
âI love you,â you say softly.Â
He grins. A tender kiss is interrupted before it can occur, shocked out of happening by the landline ringing on the wall. âShit, that might be Robin. Iâll be right back,â he promises.Â
He tumbles off of the couch to rush to the kitchen where the phone rings, and you sit there with your heart pounding, wondering how you got this lucky. You always thought youâd never be loved, that there was something fundamentally wrong with you that stopped affection in its tracks. Then you met Steve, and heâs been unapologetic about how much he wants you. He asked for a date ten minutes after you met, another one when the first was barely over. Things went so well he didnât have to ask you to be his girlfriend, he just sort of stuck to you like heâd been glued on, but he did ask eventually, and the answer (undoubtedly a yes) had seemed to shock him anyway.Â
Steveâs just crazy for you.Â
Heâs so pretty, so sweet, so funny. He doesnât get how much of a catch he is, all that fake confidence hiding a loser who loves like breathing.Â
Youâre as happy as youâve ever been in your whole life. The tears come naturally, small, warm beads that slip down your cheeks unhurried.Â
You take the photo youâd just posed for and hold it up to your eye level. Itâs a cheesy coupleâs picture âSteve looks like he adores you, and you look like youâre burning up with joy.Â
You sniff and hold the photo primly in both hands against your lap.Â
âBaby?âÂ
You sniff again, wiping your cheeks as you turn to Steveâs concerned voice in the door. âHey. Sorry.âÂ
âDonât cry,â he says, sitting down where heâd been, couch cushion dipping under his weight. âHey, please donât.âÂ
âNo, sorry.â You pass him the photo. âItâs just a really good photo.âÂ
He pauses. His eyes flicker between you and the photo, your wet cheeks and the frame of you with your face leaning into his kiss.Â
âItâs great,â he agrees, arm behind your shoulders. âHappy tears, right? I donât have to beat anybody up?âÂ
You tip your head to encourage a kiss that he gives immediately. Insanely happy tears. âYouâd have to beat yourself up,â you say.Â
âYou think I wouldnât? For you?âÂ
You laugh wetly and slouch into his arms. âDonât be stupid.âÂ
âThatâs my middle name. Right before Lover.âÂ
Steve âStupid Loverâ Harrington? You laugh and demand more kisses, the kind he probably shouldnât take a photo of.Â
hii! I was wondering if you could write a fic with reader and any marauder (they all fit) and maybe helping or becoming protective over the reader after a concert or party after a creep follows the reader? đ
I went through a similar experience with a guy following me around after I went to the restroom after a concert, and it ruined my night if i'm being honest, I was scared đ I'm not the most shy of people and usually I can handle myself but it was pretty dark and idk the adrenaline from feeling happy to scared shifted pretty quickly. Luckily I found my friends and let them know and we quickly went back to our car (along with a few dirty looks from my friends god bless lol). I swore I could go to the restroom by myself- will not be doing that again :(
you can ignore this request if it makes you uncomfortable!
thank uu
iâm so sorry that happened to you! â(they all fit)â= poly marauders!
Thereâs something about post concert depression, especially when youâre with the band.
Your glitter eyeshadow is smudged, eyeliner untouched. Youâd been shaken around in the pit of your boyfriends fans, and yet the paint hasnât budged. God bless water-proof makeup. The world seems prettier like this, touched by alcohol and the feeling of soaring pride for your boyfriends. The glittery lights and signs of time square never fail to dazzle you, even now as you lean against Sirius morosely.
âMâhungry.â You frown, toes tipping up towards Sirius, though you fear the mumble may have been more for yourself.
His attention is diverted towards the boys as they discuss what to do now. Plans of how to get home and where to eat. His finger taps your cheek slowly, his focus paying you no mind. Words like Uber, hotel, room service echo throughout their very repetitive conversation.
âSirius.â
He looks down, a little shocked and sorry at his own attention. âYes, lovely?â
âMâhungry.â
âHungry?â He asks, cringing. Youâre about thirty minutes from the hotel, and even then, room service will take another thirty.
âSo hungry.â
He sighs, unsure of what to do.
âThereâs a hotdog stand over there.â You grab his tattooed bicep to balance yourself as you point to your right.
He thinks, peering down at you. âThis wonât ruin your dinner?â Itâs midnight, but still.
âNo,â you sing, reaching up to cup his cheeks. âI really want a hotdog.
He flushes, looking away from your wandering eyes. Normally he wouldnât let you out of his sight. They would never let you out of their sight in a place like this. But the cart is in eye view of the boys, and he has faith in you not to stray, even in your inebriated manor. Itâs not that they donât trust you, they just prefer to keep you safe themselves. Is that okay?
âOkay,â He murmurs, pulling out his wallet, handing you his card. âAt least get the good toppings.â
âI always get the good toppings.â You pull away.
The walk is short and the cart is colorful. Red and white stripes, curvy calligraphy. It shines in your inebriated vision. Beautiful. The queues not long, just an older man waiting in front of you, but it feels like forever as the generous man (with the toppings as well) takes your order and wraps it in warm aluminum foil.
You take the hotdog eagerly. âThank you.â
Itâs heavy in your hands, warm too. You yell Siriusâ name excitedly, waving the hotdog above your head for him to see. He laughs, thumbs up until you bump into a man, smile fading, concern etching his brows.
âOh,â you murmur, looking up. âIâm sorry.â
âNo problem,â he smiles. Itâs uncomfortable, not the smile of a friendly civilian.
You laugh. Itâs polite, anyone can see that, but he leans closer. He smells like liquor, a disgusting discovery that has you subconsciously leaning away.
âYou new around here?â
An actual laugh stumbles out of your lips. âLondon? No.â
He takes this as an entrance. âYou should show me around.â
âNo, thank you.â You try to walk past him. Towards Sirius whoâs already walking over. âGoodnight.â
âWait,â he grabs your arm, pulling you back. His fingers dig into your elbow painfully.
âWhat the fuck,â you gasp, pulling your arm away roughly. âdonât touch me.â
âCâmon,â The man slurs, fingers reaching for you again. âDonât be-â
âHello?â Sirius walks up, all stock. He grabs your forearm pulling you to him firmly, getting in between you and the man. Heâs not much taller, but more intimidating in demeanor. âDo we have a problem?â
âNo,â the man scoffs.
âCause it looks like you put your hands on her.â
He scoffs again, clearly inebriated. âWe were just talking.â
âWell, conversations over now.â
âShe can make her own decisions.â
âFuck off, bro.â Sirius waves his hand dismissively. Quickly, he walks you towards the boys who are peeking their eyes up from the Uber app.
âShe was asking for it.â
Sirius reels back, dropping your forearm to shove the scary stranger in the chest. He pushes hard, the man losing his balance as he falls to the ground in a sickening thud. You gasp loudly, the unexpected conflict startling you. Vaguely you hear Sirius say something to him, but youâre too focused on the way the man looks up at you.
James and Remus are there in seconds, quick on Siriusâs heels. They pull at him, up and off the man. There were no real punches thrown, no real injuring blows, it wasnât even enough to form a crowd. But still, youâre shaken. You shiver like a leaf under your Jamesâ leather jacket, suddenly not feeling the warmth of the alcohol youâd consumed before the concert.
Slowly, you stumble back and way from your boys, to the bench next to the shitty bar youâd passed on your way home. That had been scary, but youâre safe; that had been scary, but Sirius dealt with it. You bring your hand up to your chest, setting the hotdog you had been eager to buy down next to you.
âHi,â Remus pushes aside the hotdog to sit next to you. âAre you okay?â
You look up to the boy, blindingly beautiful in the streetlights and advertisements. âYes.â
He pushes some stray hair from your face. âHe didnât hurt you?â
âI think it was more startling.â James sits on the other side of you, kissing your temple firmly. âIâm sorry he did that.â
âItâs okay, Iâm okay.â
âSheâs okay.â Sirius gruffs from where he walks over.
He sounds cooler than he thinks he looks. Heâs not bruised, bloodied, or bandaged, if he were he thinks heâd look cool enough to breeze over. But then again you look mad, so maybe he doesnât want that.
âDonât be upset,â Sirius crouches to your level. Youâre in the arms of a solid Remus. âhe was a creep.â
âAre you hurt?â
âAre you trying to tell me something?â He laughs roguishly. âI thought I looked good tousled.â
He does, and you know heâll look good on the tabloids tomorrow too. Sirius black gives black eye? You sigh at the thought.
âYou do.â James feeds Sirius.
âAt least someone in this relationship cares for my ego.â
âYou look good.â
âOh, now you tell me.â
You laugh, letting Sirius stare at you like you hung the moon.
âKiss em?â He pushes his knuckles in front of your lips. His fingers throb lightly, you can feel it on your lips.
âThat was stupid.â
âCâmon,â Siriusâ eyes roll as he pulls you up. âYouâve got a hotdog to eat.â
âTell me why I have to go to this godforsaken Gryffindor party again?â You bugged Regulus.
He sighed in annoyance as you two roamed the halls. âBecause my godforsaken Gryffindor brother is forcing me to. And if I have to go you do too.â
You rolled your eyes. âBecause thatâs what best friends do. Torture each other.â
You were dressed casually, black sweater hanging off of your shoulder. You wore a green crystal necklace, as well as various rings and earrings. The walk to the Gryffindor commonroom was quiet, the halls empty as you and Regulus reluctantly made your way.
âArenât you worried weâre going to get caught?â You continued to pester Regulus.
âNo.â He answered shortly. âSirius has got Filchâs monitoring down to a perfect science. Well, maybe not perfect, but a science nonetheless.â
You arrived to the Fat Ladyâs portrait, huffing as Regulus gave the password.
As you walked inside, your sensed were overwhelmed by the bright strobe lights, loud music, and lingering scent of weed.
âReggie!â You heard a voice call out, and you looked around to spot no one else other than Sirius Black.Â
He was dressed in tight black skinny jeans and a band shirt, eyeliner smudged with a wicked smile on his face. He had his arms around his boyfriends, Remus Lupin and James Potter. Remus was dressed in his Hogwarts uniform, his white button up unbuttoned a few at the top, revealing his chest. His tie hung loosely around his neck. James was dressed in ripped jeans and a Gryffindor Quidditch sweater. All three boys had smiles on their faces, each paying attention to different things. Sirius was beckoning Regulus over, James was chugging a drink, and Remus was in a heated conversation with Lily Evans.
You tried not to grimace. Egh, Gryffindors.Â
Regulus grabbed your arm as he weaved the two of you through the crowd towards his brother.
Sirius flashed you a cheeky smile as you made eye contact. âBrought another snake with you?â
âNot willingly.â You retorted.Â
Regulus sighed. âYouâll get over it.âÂ
âHey!â James announced rather drunkenly. âYouâre in my Transfiguration class.â
You nodded, crossing your arms. âAnd Potions.â
That perked up Remusâ attention. âYou have Potions with us?â
Before you could answer, Sirius answered. âYea, she sits next to Snivilus.â
You let out a chuckle at the nickname for your classmate. Remus also let out a small laugh as he got up from his seat.
âShe laughs?â Sirius quipped.
âOn occasion.â Regulus answered before you could snap back at him.
You glanced around the party, letting the brothers bicker between each other.Â
You felt a tap on your shoulder and turned to find Remus Lupin. His hair wisped over his eyes as if just swept by the wind, and his honey eyes seemed to glow under the different lights the common room had shining. You blinked a few times.Â
He smiled at you, holding up a cup. âCare for a drink?â
You took the cup from him, not letting yourself smile as big as you wanted to. âWhat is it?â
He seemed to be looking at you in adoration. Before he could tell you, Sirius interrupted. âThink weâre trying to poison you, darling?â
Regulus quipped back. âDonât hit on my friend, Sirius!â
âYou think that was hitting on her? Please, I-â
âI think thatâs enough, honey.â Remus walked forward to put his hand on Siriusâ shoulder.
He huffed and leaned into Remusâ touch. You felt fire light in your chest. Were you jealous?
You took a large swig of your drink, ignoring the harsh aftertaste it left in your throat. Remus looked at you in amusement, while James looked at you impressed.
He got up and grabbed your wrist, looking into your eyes. His eyes were brown like melted chocolate. He pushed up his glasses and spoke excitedly. âWanna do shots?â
Before you could answer, he dragged you away from the group and towards a table that had an assortment of drinks on it. The drink Remus gave you mustâve been pretty strong, because your mind had no qualms with taking shots with Gryffindor Quidditch coach James Potter. Your body was starting to feel it after two or three shots, and you allowed James to put his arm around you as he guided you back to the group.
You felt heat in your face as James proudly announced, âLittle snake took shots with me!â
Regulus looked at you in shock. âI am not dragging her drunk ass back to the dungeons.â
âIâm not,â You hiccuped. âIâm not drunk, Reggie.â
He sighed and pinched his nose, then glared at Sirius for introducing you to the nickname.Â
âDonât worry, she can stay with us.â Remus suggested, taking note of how you clung to James.
Regulus nodded. âIâm out of here.â
He looked at you, grabbing your head with both of his hands to force you to make eye contact with him. âDonât drink anymore.â
James psshâed and held you tighter. âDolly can do what she wants, even if thatâs more shots.â
Regulus looked at Remus for help. Remus waved him off.
âI heard that Sirius is stashing some drinks up in the dorm,â He raised his eyebrows.
âI am?â Sirius asked, getting a nudge from Remus. âRight, yea, I may or may not be.â
âUpstairs!â You demanded. âThe lionâs den!!â
James snorted as he stumbled with you. âThis way little snake!!â
Hi! Do you do requests? If no you can ignore this! If yes,
I was thinking, since Iâve seen you write for Joel miller also, the reader gets into some sort of romantic relationship with Joel. They have some intimate time but she panics and they have to stop, which confuses Joel but it turns out the reader has been s*xually assaulted in the past, which was traumatic for her. The reader thinks Joel will leave her now bc a) sheâs a fair amount of heads younger, and b) she panicked when they were intimate. Besides that Joel is not so good at talking about his feelings and stuff. Although he isnât good at it, he surprises the reader by being sweet and staying with her?
I hope you donât mind me asking anonymously, Iâve been through something similar and am not comfort with it yet. Anyways, thank you so much in advance if youâd want to write about this â¤ď¸
Breath
Joel Miller x Reader
Warnings: panic attack, mention of sa, hurt/comfort
Summary: You are not ready for the next step and it's fine.
A/N: I'm sorry you had to go through it. I hope you will find some comfort in my story and thank you for your request. If I wrote something wrong/hurtful or anything similar please tell me and I will correct it. I didn't write anything specific, so it can be before or after the breakout, whatever you want.
You don't notice it at first. Your mind is too busy with Joel surrounding your every sense to see the obvious signs until it's too late.
You fall too fast and too hard.
"J-Joel," you say his name. Your voice is barely louder than a whisper and not nearly enough to make him stop. He is still on top of your, kissing down your neck and the soft curve of your shoulder. His lips are gentle, but it doesn't bring you comfort anymore. Even though he keeps his weight on his arms, he still becomes too heavy to the point you can't breathe. The air gets stuck in your burning lungs with every inhale and exhale. Your palms are warm and sweaty. Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt. You want to push him away, but your muscles don't obey your command.
Panic presses against your ribcage.
"Joel!" You gasp. "Please, stop!" The words feel heavy as they roll down your tongue. Your kiss-swollen lips tingle with every syllable you form.
Hearing your pleas, the man on you immediately pulls away until he is at your side, watching your trembling form with a mix of frown and confusion.
"What's wrong, Y/N?" He asks. He doesn't know what to do. Your whole body shakes, and sweat rolls down your temple. Your gaze is glassy and terrified.
"I'm sorry," you choke out. Tears escape your eyes until you feel their salty taste on your lips.
"No," he says, sitting up. "Tell me what to do."
"I-I don't know," you sniff. "I don't know."
"Okay, okay," he breathes out. "Can I hold your hand? Can I touch you, Y/N?"
After your nod, Joel intertwines his fingers with yours. Your hold is weak on his hand.
"Breath, Y/N," he says. "Close your eyes for me, sweet girl, and breath."
Your eyelids fall shut on their own accord.
"That's right," he praises. His voice is a soft, warm rumble in the quiet house. "And now breathe in. Keep it in. That's right. Good girl. And out. Do it again for me. Breathe in. Good. You are doin' so well, Y/N. Don't stop. And out."
You follow his every word obediently until you relax. Your muscles lose their tension, and the stretching feeling in your chest slowly but surely disappears. You still shake, but you don't care. Joel makes sure your focus is on him and on him only.
"You are doing so good, Y/N," he says. "Don't stop, okay? I will go and get you some water. Don't open your eyes and continue breathin', okay? I won't go far. I leave the door open so you can hear me, but don't stop breathing, okay? In and out. Good girl."
In.
And out.
In.
And out.
In.
Out.
"Good girl," Joel hums. "How are you feelin'? Can you sit up?"
You move slowly and carefully as the world comes back to you. You are still on the bed. Your back is against the wooden headrest. The cover is wrinkled around your legs. Your shirt is on the floor.
"Do you want your shirt?" Joel asks when he follows your gaze. "Or do you want one of mine?"
"Can I get yours?" You croak.
"Of course, love," he says. "But drink it first, okay?" He adds, holding out a glass of water for you.
"Thank you," you gasp between two gulps.
"Do you want more?" He asks after a few seconds, exchanging the empty glass for a shirt you put on immediately. The soft fabric cocoons you into his familiar, musky scent and warmth.
"No," you reply. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me, Y/N," he says, putting down the glass and sitting down on the edge of the bed. He is far enough, so you don't feel crowded but not enough to make you feel bad or alone. "Do you need anythin' else?"
"No," you shake your head with another deep breath. You feel tired but much better than a few minutes ago. Your chest is light, and you can move your limbs again. You are fine, you remind yourself.
"Can you tell me what happened?" He asks carefully, watching your every reaction. "Did I do somethin' wrong?"
"No," you shake your head. "Not you."
"Then? What happened?"
Joel has a guess, a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he doesn't want to bring it up if you don't. Whatever you tell him or don't is your choice.
"I-" your breath hitches. "Uhm- Something happened⌠I-" The gears in your head creak and turn as you try to find the right words, but whenever you want to say it out loud, something stops you. The back of your eyes starts to burn, and your throat tightens.
Joel moves closer, still watching your reaction. "Can I hold your hand?"
Without answering, you reach out for him, holding onto his fingers. "I'm sorry."
He frowns. "Why? You have nothing to be sorry for."
"But-"
You knew when you met the man in front of you that maybe you weren't ready for a relationship with intimacy, but you couldn't help yourself. You wanted his warm brown eyes, soft smile, and everything that came with him.
"No buts," he says stubbornly, but you are stubborn too. And your fears are too big not to tell them.
"But maybe you would be better with someone else," you tell him. Even the thought of Joel being with someone else breaks your heart, but you want to give him a chance. You don't want him to stay with you because he thinks you are too young and vulnerable. You want him but not his pity.
Hearing your words, he scoffs, and the frown deepens between his thick brows. "I don't even want to hear about it, Y/N. Do you understand? I want you. And everything that comes with you."
"Are you sure?" You ask, blinking the tears away from your eyes.
Silence follows your words, but you know Joel better than misunderstand it. You know he has some trouble with words sometimes, and you don't hurry him.
"Can I hold you?" He asks after a while, and when you nod, he crawls up next to you until he can curl his arm around your shoulders, and you rest your head on his chest. His scent fills your nostrils, and his heartbeat under your ear helps to keep your calm.
"You have the reins, okay?" He asks after a while. "You dictate the pace. If you want to tell me somethin', I'm here, and if I do somethin' you don't like, you tell me, and I stop, okay?"
"Thank you," you tell him, sliding your arm around his middle to hug him tighter.
"Don't thank me, Y/N," he murmurs. His breath fans over the top of your head. "I'm here for you."
summary steve finds out that falling in love can be really, really easy. you find out what itâs like when somebody wants to take care of you [10.5k]
warnings fem!reader, fluff, mutual pining, getting together, dustins next-door neighbour!reader, sick fic, hurt/comfort, reader is implied to weigh more than nancy, youâre upset one time and steve goes overboard, small s4 spoilers no major plot details, post s3 pre s4, feat. the lunch club, karaoke, rollerblading, sunbathing
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A vast green jungle, so damp the forest floor bathes your ankles in rainwater runoff. The air is thick with humidity and smells green. Earthy, the sweet scent of petrichor tickles your nose, and-Â
A shadow distends over the yellow pages of your paperback, dark, eating up the image of the amazon and replacing it with reality â a normal summer's day in Hawkins.Â
Steve Harrington stands in front of you, his body blocking the sun and its warm glow. The light throws a halo around his head and turns the ends of his brown hair golden.Â
"Watcha reading?" he asks in lieu of âhelloâ.
"Ever read Journey to the Center of the Earth?" you ask him, leaning towards him invitingly.Â
You love to mess with him like this, watch his cheeks slowly pink as you bend towards your knees with a demure smile playing on your lips.Â
"Yeah, I did. In middle school," he says, trying his best to play it cool, hands pushing deep into the pockets of his pants.Â
"Well, it's nothing like that."Â
The grin he gets when he realises you're messing with him is adorable. He chuckles warmly and pulls a hand through his hair, looking down at the ground and then up at you again with a bashful pinch to his thick eyebrows.
"You're looking for Dustin?" you ask. You haven't seen your young neighbour since this morning. "He ran off earlier with his huge radio thing."Â
Steve rolls his eyes. "Typical. I paid him fifteen dollars," he says, his frustration clear, "fifteen dollars, Y/N, to fix my Walkman like three weeks ago. Every time I come by he's out. Little shit probably hasn't even looked at it."Â
You like Steve. He's a great looking guy who's more than nice when he sees you even though you're always pushing his buttons, and his poorly hidden fondness for Dustin is something you find heart-squeezingly attractive. You don't think twice about your next move.Â
You stand up from your lounger and have to shield your eyes from the sun, tucking your book under your naked arm. "If you want⌠I have a cassette player I'm not using. I got a Walkman for my birthday." You don't give him an opportunity to say no as you start for the front door.Â
"Are you sure?" Steve asks. You hold the door open for him, standing at the threshold with a grin.Â
"Positive. It's collecting dust, at this point."Â
"I mean, sure, if that's cool. Just until Dustin gets his act together," he says, pushing past you. His hand brushes your hip.Â
"That's cool," you confirm, walking behind him through your open kitchen and living room. "It's on the left."Â
Steve pushes into your bedroom. The window's open, breezing around the smell of fresh linens and the hydrangeas in the planter on your sill, shifting the gauzy white curtains.Â
The suncatcher hanging from the window sprays rainbow kisses over your walls and posters, your laundry basket full of summer dresses and discarded night shirts. The carpet is freshly vacuumed and plush underfoot as you beeline for your desk. Steve hovers by the door before leaning his weight against your bookshelf, eyes taking it in curiously.Â
"Cyndi Lauper," Steve says, eyes on a big poster of said singer with her iconic orange hair and hat. You raise your eyebrows at him, pleased, and he shrugs. "She's famous."Â
"You like her?"Â
"Nah," he says. "But I'll listen to anything. Except Depeche Mode; sharing a player with Robin all summer has sailed that boat."Â
"Yeah?" you ask, kneeling down in front of your desk to dig through the cabinet underneath. You frown, up to your elbow in bric a brac and forgotten trinkets. "It's in here somewhere."Â
"Yeah. I mean, maybe not anything. I don't think I have the palate for some of those rock and roll bands. Dustin made me listen to Black Scabbard in the car last week andâŚ"
"Black Sabbath," you correct lightly, pulling out of your cupboard with a relieved huff.Â
"Right," he says.Â
You look over your shoulder to find him perusing your bookshelf, his hand running lightly over the shiny glass paper weight you use as a book end. He teases the spine of a hardback book curiously but must feel your gaze, turning to you with a sheepish smile.Â
"Do you like to read?" you ask.Â
Steve wrings his hands held at his hip. "Sure, I don't mind it. Bigger fan of movies."Â
"Right, Family Video must get pretty distracting," you say, walking towards him on light footing to offer the dinged-up cassette player. "She's well loved but she works, I swear."Â
He takes it from you, fingers brushing the backs of yours. "Thank you."Â
You shift from one foot to the other â because oh my god there's a boy in my room â before smiling with teeth. You stop. "You're welcome. Want a drink?"Â
"UhâŚ"Â
"I've got pink lemonade."Â
"Oh, then definitely."Â
You lead him into the kitchen and install him at the kitchen table with two empty glasses. The carafe of lemonade is beautifully cold from the refrigerator with slices of lemon and strawberry bouncing around the top as you pour it. The condensation wets your fingers.Â
Steve looks handsome and maybe slightly silly behind your homely oak table, all clean cut and well dressed. You feel bare beside him in your tank top and flowy midi skirt, too much skin.Â
"Are you hungry? I make a mean BLT," you say, bringing your feet up onto the chair, knees digging into the table.Â
"I'm good, thanks," he says.Â
"Are you having a good time of it at FV? They denied my application, but that's 'cos Keith has a vendetta against me for wiping out his score on the Palace's Tempest."Â
"You're a Tempest girl?"Â
"Everybody plays Tempest," you say.Â
Steve gives you a look. "Nerds play Tempest."Â
"Fine, every nerd plays Tempest," you allow, rolling your eyes. "Lemme guess, you're a Centipede guy. No, worse! You play Pac-Man. I can tell."
His silence is enough to make you giggle in triumph, elated to have sussed him out so quickly. Â
"How did you know that?" he asks finally.Â
"You called Black Sabbath 'Black Scabbard'. You're not a nerd."Â
"I could be."Â
"But you're not."Â
You share a steady look over the table. His eyes are bright with mirth, a sleek brown like fresh brewed coffee. You love the shape of them, deepest with the round under eye blanketed in straight black lashes. A red polo stretches across his chest. You find your eyes drawn down the length of his arm to his hand where he's drawing circles around the rim of his glass. He takes it into his hand and you watch his wrist bend, his arm flex as he brings the cup to his lips and a drop of condensation drips onto the table mat.Â
"I don't look the type?" he asks after a rough swallow. He sounds almost incensed.Â
"No, of course you don't. King Steve," you croon.Â
He crosses his arms across his chest and leans back, looking you up and down showfully. "Neither do you."Â
He's all charming smiles as he raises his chin and shakes his head, lips stretched up in an open-mouthed smile.Â
"Tempest," he mutters in bemusement.
You burst into laughter, quick to defend yourself when there's a pounding knock at the door. You're still laughing as you stand, calling to Steve as you walk to the door, "Tempest isn't even that nerdy! It's the Dragon's Lair dorks you need to watch out for. Oh, hi baby. What's wrong?"Â
"You haven't seen Steve, have you? His cars outside," Dustin announces, standing under the porch with his wild curls stuffed under a hat, his pulley cart ditched halfway between your yard and his.
"He's in the kitchen. You want some lemonade? You look frazzled," you offer, brushing your hand over his sunburned shoulder lightly as he scoots right past you.
"Thanks, Y/N." Dustin strides into the kitchen with purpose, glaring at Steve pretty heavily as he takes your seat at the table. "Why are you here?"Â
"Fucking charming. I came to see you, Henderson, but you're never home. Too busy finding secluded knolls to radio your girlfriend and play karaoke."Â
"Dick," Dustin says, though he defrosts as you fill a glass for him.Â
"What do you want?" Steve asks him.Â
"Why do you assume I want something?"Â
"Donât be coy, you're not Madonna. It's tacky."Â
"Dick," Dustin says again, glaring.Â
"Dustin, do you want something to eat? You shouldn't go out in the sun all day by yourself, you know? What if you get heat stroke?" you ask.Â
Steve gives you a strange look like he's puzzled with you. You smile back at him, hand coming down on the back of Dustin's chair easily.Â
"Steve, I need a ride to Mike's," Dustin says, completely ignoring you.
Steve kicks him under the table. "Manners."Â
"Can I please have a ride-"Â
"To her, dipshit. Jeez, what's wrong with you? She asked if you're hungry."Â
Dustin beams at you innocently, soft cheeks rounding. "No thank you Y/N you're a godsend and I appreciate you very much," he says all in a rush, turning back to Steve, the act entirely dropped. "Now can we go?"Â
"Christ, fine. I'm gonna get you one of those rewards cards for being a shithead. This incident would be a double stamp, by the way."Â
"Uh-huh," Dustin says.Â
The younger teen chugs his glass of lemonade and spins off, calling a thank you over his shoulder. Steve gets up to follow him, your old cassette player held carefully in his hands.Â
"I'm sorry about him."Â
"Don't be. I've known him his entire life. He's in a phase," you inform him with a small grin, shrugging as if to say, what you gonna do?Â
"Long phase. Thank you. For the player and the lemonade."Â
"You're welcome," you say warmly, walking him to the door.Â
Dustin's already in the passenger seat, having taken his pulley cart back inside. He makes a hurry up motion from behind his window and Steve mutters expletives to himself, giving you one last smile before he trudges off.Â
The two boys wave at you through the windshield. You wave back.
When Steve's car has winked from view you take your lemonade and paperback outside again to lie under what's left of the sun. You try your best to fall back into the jungle and conjure its sights and sounds, only you keep finding your thoughts wrapped up around a certain boy's laugh and the face he makes as he does, that startled grin, a fist half raised to his mouth.Â
-
"Y/N!" A familiar teen voice accompanied by battering knocking at your front door.Â
You pull it open, still in your pajamas, hair a mess. His knocking had woken you up. You'd had about ten seconds to check you hadn't drooled too violently in your sleep before he was calling your name, and so you hadn't bothered getting dressed.Â
You wish you had. Dustin stood at the door with Steve Harrington behind him, a happy smile on both their faces.Â
You try not to flinch as you throw an arm across your chest subconsciously. "Hi?" you ask. "Is everything okay?"Â
Dustin's dressed for the beautiful weather in shorts and a shirt with sleeves so short it may as well be a tank top, a hat perched familiarly over his cute curls. Steve is dressed in a tormenting pair of jeans paired with a denim jacket. Double denim. He looks hot, physically and figuratively.Â
"Do you wanna come skating?" Dustin asks urgently.Â
You blink at him, pulling the edges of your strappy vest down to cover your navel, plaid bottoms low on your hips â you're a mess. Â
"Skating? I don't have one."Â
"A skateboard?" Dustin asks, shrugging. "Bring your rollerblades."Â
You err at the door, leaning your weight against it as you think. "When?"Â
"Now!" he says.
"I don't want to hold you up," you say, aimed more towards Steve than Dustin.Â
Steve smiles, hooking cheeks pink with the heat, and is about to talk when Dustin says, "He made me come ask you, he's fine to wait."Â
You bite back a smirk at Steve's deer-in-the-headlights expression and nod happily. "Alright. Twenty minutes and I'll be ready. If that's okay?"Â
"Totally," Steve says.Â
You close the door most of the way and catch a look over his shoulder, finding his pretty friend Robin in one seat and a gaggle of Dustin's friends in the back.
You hear a sharp thwarping sound as you spin away followed by a "What the fuck, dude?" from Dustin and hope that he hasn't tripped over one of your flower pots. You get ready and spend at least ten minutes worrying after your appearance in the mirror before grabbing the skates and jetting into the kitchen. You gather as many impromptu snacks you can find and shove them into a grocery bag, struggling to lock the door behind you in want of a free hand.Â
Steve jumps out of the driver's side to open the side door for you. You smile gratefully and dump the snacks and your skates in the footwell before climbing in, an empty seat between you and Dustinâs redheaded friend.
You're saved from the awkwardness of seeing people you've met but don't quite know by their ongoing debate, something about which Bruce Springsteen song is best.Â
âItâs obviously Dancing in the Dark. I donât really know why weâre still talking about this,â Robin says from the passenger seat.
âYouâre just saying that because itâs his most popular,â the girl next to you says.
âThings are popular for a reason.â Robin shrugs.Â
âYeah, Max. Plus, popular or not, itâs his best.â
Max scrunches up her entire face. âBetter than Iâm on Fire?â
Thereâs a long pause where each child deliberates. Dustin and Mike dissolve into fierce looks.Â
âNobodies talking about Born in the USA,â Steve says into the quiet, eyes on the road but head tilted back.
âShut up, Steve,â Mike says, looking as exhausted as he usually does when youâve seen him coming in and out of Dustinâs. Though it's been a while, he hasn't changed. Perpetually done with people's shit.Â
âDisrespectful,â Steve murmurs. His eyes flash to the rear view, catching you red-handed as you stare at him. âWhat do you think?âÂ
âAbout what?â
âAbout Springsteen."
You consider him, his smile, his gaggle of cruel children. âI like Born in the USA,â you say nonchalantly.
âThatâs two points,â Steve says triumphantly.
The skatepark is pretty busy because of the good weather. You and Steve end up unpacking your snacks onto a blanket Robin lays out whilst the boys go look for their friend Lucas, who's supposedly already here.Â
Max doesn't seem pleased with this revelation, sitting down heavily by Steve's picnic basket. Steve offers her a PB&J from the basket and a cold caprisun and she perks up, but not a lot. You want to spend time with Steve, you're not disillusioned into thinking you're anything but a flower under his attention, blooming and wanting, but Max's sad eyes get the better of you.Â
Too late for introductions, you dive straight in. âWhatâs in the Walkman?â you ask, nodding at the player sticking out of her jacket pocket, the foam padded headphones around her neck.Â
âWild Things Run Fast, Joni Mitchell.â It sounds like a question.Â
Youâve struck gold immediately. âI love Joni Mitchell! Have you heard her new stuff?â
Max seems alarmed and happy at once, red messy braids swaying as she lifts her chin. âI mean, only what theyâve played on the radio.â
âHer album came out this October, Dog Eat Dog? I have the cassette if you wanna borrow it. Itâs amazing.â
âReally?â she asks. Sheâs peeling the crusts off of her sandwich, one side at a time, dropping them into the small pile of discarded Saran Wrap.Â
âFor sure. Youâve heard Shiny Toys?â Max nods. âItâs all as good as that one. Seriously.â
âAwesome,â she says, taking a huge bite of her sandwhich.Â
You realise you mightâve come on a little strong and try to backtrack into cool territory again, hand brushing Steveâs ankles as you lean away from the poor girl, smiling sheepishly.Â
âMy mom loves Joni Mitchell,â Robin says.
âRobin," Steve chides lightly.
âWhat?âÂ
You and Steve share a look thatâs so familiar it gives you pins and needles in your hands, something small between the two of you clicking into place. Or at least thatâs how you feel.
Max has almost finished her sandwich by the time Mike returns. âAre you ready?â he asks her.
She clambers onto her feet and grabs her skateboard from behind Steve. The two walk away, a distance from Dustin and Lucas, who both seem to have acquired a pair of skates each. Dustin in knee pads and a helmet, Lucas without.Â
âWhy would you say Max listens to mom music?â Steve asks incredulously once theyâre out of hearing distance.Â
Robin shakes her head, similarly incensed. âI didnât say that.â
âThere were so many other things you couldâve said, Robs.â He sounds less mad and more pitying.Â
"I didn't say that! I said my mom listens to her. She does!"Â
"Don't take offense. Robin got dropped as a baby," Steve says to you offhandedly.Â
You know the best course of action here and you take it â in what world would you make an enemy of a boy you might like's best friend who is a girl? Not this one. Plus, Robin seems super nice.Â
"I'm not offended. My mom loves Joni too," you say cheerily, smiling at Robin, unabashed.
You're slightly disappointed when she looks away towards her lap, until she says, "Projections a bad look on you, Harrington. He has, like, a flat head," she tells you.
Steve starts yammering loudly. "Shut up! My head's perfect, you're being ridiculous. Perfectly round and ordinary, thank you."Â
"Yeah, I'd definitely say your head's perfectly round," you agree through giggles, reaching for your skates.
You have a funny feeling that a silent conversation is happening as you slide off your shoes and into the skates, lacing up tight, but when you look up Robin's sifting through the accumulated snack pile and Steve's looking the opposite way, towards the kids.Â
You clear your throat. "Are you guys gonna skate too?"
"Steve is."Â
"I didn't bring-"Â
"He's borrowing mine. It's too hot, I can't skate. And I don't have the coordination, anyway."
Steve looks at Robin, at you, Robin again. "I'm not good," he says. You take it for yes.Â
Steve gets on his skates and straps out of his denim jacket, exposing the distracting lengths of his arms. He's better than he gives himself credit for, steady on his feet. He knows how to stop and start, and you smile to yourself when the two of you skate off towards Dustin and Lucas, following their journey around the skate park, careful to stay clear of the bowls and rails.Â
"You're good! You said you weren't good!" you say to him.Â
"I'm not good."Â
"You're doing great!"Â
He smiles gratefully, the expression at home over his warm features. He's not really a very smiley guy, you've realised, his lips often pulled up into a grimace or a cruel approximation of a smile, sarcastic. It suits him. You go to say as much, eyes eating up every little detail of him.Â
"Hey Steve? You should-" and your foot pops over a rock.Â
You shriek and throw your arm out towards him. Steve catches you with impressive strength and speed as your leg buckles. You've quickly righted yourself and he brings you to a slow but not quite stop. Stopping on skates is easier said than done, especially old skates with the front guards already worn down.Â
"Are you okay?" he asks.Â
You've taken his hand without thinking, the two of you widening apart and then coming together like the eclipse of a blinking eye.Â
You pull your hand away apologetically, the warmth of his palm lingering.Â
"I'm sorry!" you say.Â
"Donât be. Last thing I wanna do is have you crack your head open on my watch. Iâm glad you didnât wipe out."Â
"Thanks to you."Â
You slow and stop. Steve does the same, the two of you clumsy for different reasons. He watches as you calm your racing heart.Â
"Shit, I really thought I was gonna fall. You're a lifesaver." You stare straight into his eyes, their sunlight honey brown, smiling with complete genuineness. He's more than pretty. "Thank you."Â
Steve swallows and his smile is warmer, somehow, impossibly warmer. Maybe it's the beautiful weather, maybe it's the beautiful boy. You suddenly feel very, very hot.Â
"I think I might need to sit down."Â
"Oh, shit," he says, reaching for your arm. You're about to correct his touching â you're not dizzy, just a little nauseous. Only, his hand. His fingers clasped around your elbow, his face fiercely protective.Â
You let him guide you back to the picnic blanket. One hand around your elbow, the other behind your sun-warmed back, and somehow his hand is the hottest spot.Â
"Are you okay?" Robin asks, shielding her eyes from the sun. The book in her lap slips shut as she straightens.Â
"She's okay," Steve says. âToo hot. Budge up."Â
Robin moves over on the blanket and throws the basket open. Steve reaches in for a capri sun and passes it to you. It's lukewarm, though the day is so hot it's a relief to drink it.Â
"Steve's really good," you tell her after a noisy suck, the orange plastic straw stabbing your lip. You frown down at it.
"I saw you guys whizzing around. Public menaces, both of you," Robin says, though she smiles as she does. You know she's joking. You don't want to think it in case it's not true, but you feel like maybe she wants to be friends.Â
"We prefer speed demons," Steve says easily, still kneeling at your side.Â
"They should lock you up."Â
You snort and almost squirt juice from your nose, spluttering and coughing as you bend at the waist. Steve pats your back less than gently and then more so as you move your hand towards him.Â
"I'm okay," you cough, embarrassed at how you must look hacking your lungs out.Â
Steve's hand, again on your back, rubs a stern line. "Chill out, Y/N. You can't die before dinner."Â
"We're getting McDonald's," Robin supplies.Â
"Don't tell the kids," he says, smirking.Â
He's still rubbing your back. You suspect you might agree to anything while he's this close.Â
"You sound like such a dad when you say shit like that."Â
Steve scowls at Robin's words and pulls his hands away, crossing them over his chest. "Don't say that. Babysitter is more than enough, don't you think? Y/N?"Â
"An older brother?" you suggest to Robin's extreme delight.Â
She laughs. Steve scrubs at his face with both hands until his eyes are red.Â
-
Robin's sick and Steve's going crazy by himself, manning the desk at FV with almost no energy and even less enthusiasm. A week since he'd held your hand and he can't seem to stop thinking about it.Â
He catches himself staring at his own empty palm and clenches his fist, bringing his eyes back to the door in case someone walks in and he has to pull off the headphones of your borrowed cassette player.Â
Steve had discovered a forgotten cassette inside, listening to it out of curiosity the night you'd given him the player and then every night since then. He felt guilty about keeping it without saying anything but he was only borrowing it, he reasoned. He'd give it back when Dustin fixed his skipping Walkman. Â
The tape was Van Halen II. And Steve's not stupid, he knows who Van Halen are, but he's never sat and listened through any of their full albums. Now he can't stop, constantly rewinding back to the same song, over and over.Â
He does so now, fingers clumsy and too big over small buttons until the first line kicks in, powerful and high energy like a burst of fresh air.Â
Have you seen her?
So fine and pretty.
He grins as it plays, thinking of you instantly. Your smile and your legs, the wind whipping at your skirt and exposing stretches of skin he can't stop remembering. You on your rollerblades, the second time after an emergency PB&J, skating in front of him without looking behind you.Â
"Don't let me crash into someone, okay?" you'd asked, swaying from one side to the other as you shifted your weight.Â
"It'll be too late to stop you if I see someone! Turn around!" he'd demanded, though his fondness had peeked through.Â
You'd thrown your hands out. "You'll have to steer me!"Â
And so he'd grabbed your hands and you'd laughed like a fool as you skated together, squealing through close calls and bumpy ground.Â
He thinks of your hands in his, their weight and size, the magnetic pulse he'd felt between them, how happy you'd seemed to be with him.Â
He was harbouring a crush on you. Too old to deny what it feels like to want a pretty girl, Steve wonders if this is entirely a good idea â letting himself like you when the possibility of rejection feels high. You are, as Dustin had promised him, out of Steve's league. "Don't try your luck, dude."Â
Steve thought for a second that his thinking about you had summoned your image, your easy walk and the elegant way about your hands and how you held them, in a blue dress with matching strappy mary-jane's, white socks with the ruffle tops. He blinks. No way he could think up anything as pretty.Â
You push open the door and grin from across the room, a large tupperware of some type in your hands. His eyes move up from your fingers where they clutch plastic, your wrist, your arms. The puff sleeves of your dress are short and cuffed, similar to the matching ruched neckline that shows enough to make him swallow. A necklace lays in the valley of your chest, a silver chain with a blue flower at the end, small but thick. Five round petals, a cutout missing that shows a circle of your chest beneath.Â
"Steve," you say, like you'd been in mid conversation. "Please tell me you have a sweet tooth."
He pulls the headphones from his head and leaves them around his neck, fixing his hair as casually as he can when he says, "Sure, I like candy."Â
You set your container down on the counter and crack it open, the rich, buttery smells of its contents quickly filling the room.
"I made penuche for Dustin's mom's birthday, but I made so-" you drag the word out, lips a gloss-sticky 'o', "much of it. I can't eat it all. And she said I wasn't allowed to give it to Dustin 'cos he keeps using the f-word."Â
His laugh is startled but genuine. "Not the f-word."Â
The fudge is a light brown, almost pink in the neon tinted lighting. It smells divine, and he's saved from an internal debate about what's cool when you push the tub towards him. "Do you like fudge?" you ask him.
He takes one and you take one, and he tries not to look at you as you eat, or when you scratch gloss and a crumb from the corner of your mouth.Â
"Youâre a modern Martha Stewart," Steve says happily.
"Only on special occasions. Where's Robin?" you ask, elbows braced on the counter and leaning in.Â
"Sick. Apparently."Â
"Apparently," you repeat, grinning. "What, she didn't look sick?"Â
"She talked to me on the phone. She sounded sick," he concedes. "Good things it's Thursday."Â
You look around the completely empty store. "This is what it usually looks like on a Thursday?"Â
"It's Hawkins. Half the people here get their VHS from the library, the others drive out to Blockbuster. We get about as much foot traffic as an ice cream stand in September."Â
"It's 'cos you take too long to get the new ones,'' you say. "No offense."Â
"The tone of someone personally victimised by a Family Video wait list."Â
"You got me. I've been trying to get the Breakfast Club for two months!" you complain, scratching your chest lazily.Â
Steve crosses his arms over his chest until his hands are hidden, rolling his eyes. "Oh, so this is bribery penuche."Â
You blink at him and then your lips part in horror, pretty eyes widening. "No!"Â
"It totally is. You're trying to butter me up," he says, suave tone disrupted by the need to giggle at his own pun. "Y/N, how could you? Here I thought we were starting to be friends and you're using me for my video store?"Â
His mock horror puts you eat ease when you realise he's joking. "I really wanna see that movie," you say dejectedly. You reach for another piece of fudge and bite it in half, your chewing morose. "It feels like everybody saw it at the movies but me."Â
"Of course they did. Why didn't you?"Â
You glare at him. "I was busy!"Â
"For the month it was in theatres?"Â
"Yes!" you defend yourself from his teasing. "I have things to do!"Â
"Like what?"Â
"Like school!"Â
"Everybody has school."Â
"You're picking on me after I brought you candy. This is so cruel." You don't sound like you've suffered any cruelty. Steve might say you're really enjoying yourself.Â
"Sorry, sweetheart."
You glare at his insincere pet name. "Whatever. Oh, hey, how's she treating you?" you ask, eyes on the cassette player. "Steve, you have my Van Halen tape! Thank god, I thought I lost it."
"Right. Sorry, I meant to give it back," he lies.Â
You shrug your shoulders. "Keep it however long you want to. It's good, right? Which one's your favourite?"
He pulls the headphones out and rewinds back before setting the player in front of you. You raise your eyebrows at him but click play, and the audio starts abruptly, loud and mid quality.Â
Yes, it's love in the third degree.Â
You grin, head bobbing, eyes flitting to his with approval written all over your face. You don't seem to hesitate before you sing along under your breath, high pitched but quiet.
"Ooh, baby baby. Won't-cha turn your head my way?"Â
He feels a little enchanted by you, that same magnetism he'd felt between his hands, can't believe how pretty you are and how sweetly you move. You laugh at yourself as you sing the next line, an intense, almost theatrical look upon your face. Like you're swooning.
"Ooh, baby baby. Ah come on! Take a chance, you're old enough to-" You flare your eyes at him and nod, mouth open encouragingly.Â
He won't join in, no matter how electric he finds you. You roll your eyes and your shoulders roll in a half-dance as you hum along to the chorus.Â
Dance the night away.Â
"You're no fun, Steve," you complain, giggling.Â
"You're enough for the two of us."Â
You peer over the counter, still moving with the music as you ask, "What were you doing? Before I came in?"Â
"Looking through the computer at what's late being returned. Riveting, extremely hard work."Â
"Do you get, like, secret intel on what new movies are coming in?"Â
"Sure we do. Wanna see?" he asks.Â
You creep around the counter and stand by his side. He scrolls through the system and translates acronyms for you. "This is the coming in," he says, drawing a line down a list of movie names. "These are what's being moved back to the headquarters."
"Headquarters," you repeat, leaning in to see the screen more clearly. You browse the new titles idly, slipping closer and closer to the computer.Â
"You'll burn your retinas."Â
"Invaders from Mars, Youngblood, Black Moon Rising," you list thoughtfully. You turn on your heel. "I don't know any of those. You got a chic-flicks section?"Â
You're really close. Steve looks at you, this close, this pretty, his hands itching to touch you. He leans in and your arms fall to your sides, the space between you growing ever smaller.Â
"We do," he says slowly, eye to eye, almost daring you to look at his mouth instead. He wants you to. He wants to look at yours.Â
You're steadfast, not impassive but certainly unreadable as you say, "Show me?"Â
Steve reaches for the mouse behind you like he was always intending to, hiding any smugness he feels when you exhale noticeably. You turn back around, his arm brushing over yours as he sorts through the tag system to show you "ROM-COM INCO".Â
"These are all the ones we have coming in. You know any of those?"Â
"Hannah and Her Sisters. I saw that one."Â
"Finally had some free time?" he asks wryly.Â
"Shut up, Steve."Â
"You know⌠I can keep the Breakfast Club for you. Next time it comes in."Â
The smile you give him is blinding. "Thanks, Steve."Â
"Yeah, no problem." He hopes the sudden increase in temperature is mutual.Â
-
Your backyard is a field of flowers. Maybe dramatic, but Steve's never seen so many, a heavy green spotted in chartreuse, vermillion, bright oranges and pink-white. You lay on a towel in the grass surrounded by them, the sun lighting you up, your skin glowing and perfect.Â
You're in black, spandex type shorts and a bikini top. Steve feels like a perv for looking, so he clears his throat. You don't budge.Â
He creeps closer. You're in headphones listening to your Walkman. He can hear the music from where he stands at your backdoor, so it must be loud. He stands over you and hopes his shadow will wake you up. When it still doesn't he gets concerned, kneeling down carefully with his knees digging into your towel.Â
"Y/N. Hey," he says.Â
Still nothing.Â
He pulls your headphones off gently, looking over your face in worry. You must be sleeping.Â
"Y/N, you shouldn't sleep out here. You'll get sun stroke," he says. He strokes your arm though he shouldn't. He can't help himself, his fingers pressing into the crook of your elbow.
You blink awake and then slam your eyes closed. Steve adjusts himself to block the sun from your face and you manage to pry your eyes open, confused.
"Hello."Â
"Hey," he says. He can't help the fondness that plays over his smile.
"Shit." Your eyes go wide and you cover your chest with your arm. "I'm naked."Â
"You're not naked," he says.Â
"I'm naked. Stop looking at me."Â
Steve turns away obligingly.Â
"Stop laughing at me, Harrington."Â
"Is there anything I'm allowed to do?" he asks, though he does stop laughing.
"I'm so embarrassed. I was sunbathing and I must've fallen asleep."Â
Steve lets his eyes stray to your naked thigh. He stares at your skin, follows a stretch mark upwards and then swiftly peels his gaze away. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be a total perv. I can go wait in my car."Â
"You're not a perv. I'm being a priss. Sorry. I know I'm not, like, a model and I wasn't expecting to have this much skin on show. I don't look like Nancy Wheeler."
You sound more nervous than Steve has ever heard you. Worse, you sound dejected, though you've tried for nonchalance. Steve stares at you until you raise your chin, your fingers pinching meanly at your thighs.Â
"You're messing with me," he says.
"What?" you ask, incredulous. "I'm not messing with you."Â
"You gotta know you're beautiful. That's, like, a stone cold fact. A hard truth. You're beautiful. Who cares if you don't look like Nance?"Â
You sigh, though it's not very believable when you're smiling so much. "She's really pretty."Â
"So are you."Â
"You know what I mean, Steve. She's⌠small."Â
"She's a small woman," he agrees. "That doesn't make her prettier than you."Â
"You're sure?" you ask quietly.Â
Steve means it a hundred percent when he says, "I'm sure."Â
The two of you sit there for a few seconds. He can hear your breathing and he's wondering if you can hear his.Â
"What are you doing here?" you ask.Â
Your hand is still held across your stomach but you're thankfully looking more relaxed. Steve meant what he said, you're beautiful, he couldn't care less that you're taller or that you weigh more than his ex. You're fucking pretty, and seeing you all laid out and sun kissed has made him kind of crazy.Â
"Steve?" you ask.Â
"Oh. I brought you The Breakfast Club. Just got it back in this morning," he rushes to say, grabbing the VHS tape from where he'd left it on the ground. The Family Video spine is glaringly ugly compared to you and your flowers.Â
"Woah, thank you!"Â
"You're welcome. It's under my name though, so don't keep it late. Can't disprespect the FV name. I'm going for employee of the month."Â
You giggle. "You are? Are you the top contender?"Â
"Nope."Â
You laugh some more, the sound delicate and sweet as spun sugar, in Steve's humble opinion.Â
"Not that my fellow employees try any harder, but Keith just picks himself every month for the free credits."Â
You rub your fingers across the front of the box. "I won't be late. I mean, I'll watch it today, I've been so excited to see it."Â
Steve stands up. "Sorry to disturb your idyllic sunbathing."Â
"Idyllic," you murmur, smiling. "You're good, Steve. Thank you for the movie."Â
"You're welcome. I'll see you later?" he asks, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, slowly backing away.Â
"No," you say. He raises his eyebrows and you look sheepish but not shy when you continue, "Do you wanna stay? Watch the movie with me? I have stovetop popcorn and soda and everything."Â
"What about the great weather? You don't wanna waste it."Â
You force your hands between your thighs and hunch forward slightly. "I do wanna waste it. I mean, I've had enough for today, don't you think? I'm a half hour from heat stroke."Â
"You're looking pretty warm," he says. Anything to take you up on your offer without sounding too interested.Â
-
You're trying not to give Steve the side eye. Trying, but he's very attractive and very close, and he keeps making funny jokes. It's annoying how hot he is.Â
Steve has slouched back and his jeans have slowly edged down, exposing the flesh of his hip. Not that you've noticed, or anything.Â
You cram a big handful of popcorn into your mouth and flick your eyes back to the screen. You'd really wanted to see this movie but Steve keeps capturing your attention, again and again, over and over. You can't believe you'd asked him to stay and he had, can't believe he brought the VHS for you in the first place.Â
That's a dedicated employee right there.Â
You shuffle closer to him under the guise of sharing your popcorn. Your shoulders touch.Â
"Thanks," he says. His thigh hits your thigh as he takes a handful.Â
"Steve," you say softly.Â
"What?"Â
"I don't feel well. I think the sun killed me."Â
He throws his arm around the back of the couch and twists, careful not to upend the popcorn bowl as he looks over you searchingly. You've seen Steve play caretaker before, but being under his watch is different. He's almost a different person as he checks you over.Â
"You feel sick?" he asks. He holds his hand out between you, his knuckles at your eye level. "Can I?"Â
You tilt your head back and close your eyes. Steve presses the back of his hand to your forehead and pets down softly, feeling for your temperature.Â
"You're still really warm. Let's get you cooled down."Â
Steve springs up and knocks the bowl. You blink, slightly disoriented as he disappears into the kitchen, picking up spilled popcorn off of the couch and eating it with slow chews. Now you think of it, your arms hurt, too.
Steve returns and sits on the edge of the sofa, a bag of peas in his hand. "I raided your freezer. Lean your head back."Â
"I'm fine," you say, but tilt your head back anyways, gasping when the cold hits you. Â
"You might actually get heatstroke. Do you know how dangerous heat stroke is? You need to cool down. Where's the A/C?"Â
"It's on."Â
Steve feels along your cheek gingerly. "I can't believe you fell asleep outside. What's that about?" He pauses. "Are you sleeping okay?"Â
"I'm sleeping fine."Â
"Are you sure?"Â
His wrist turns and you feel the pad of his fingers rather than the back, the palm of his hand as he cups your face.Â
You peek through your lashes at him. His eyebrows are pinched and his bottom lip juts out in a concerned pout.Â
"You can tell me."Â
The way he says it â well, you imagine you could tell him anything. He sounds warm and worried. This close you can smell his cologne, something heavy with sage, a little bit of lilac hidden under unmistakable bergamot. It's all so comforting and the sun has loosened your tongue.Â
"Maybe not so much. It's⌠it's hot. You know? AndâŚ"Â
"What?" he murmurs. Your heart skips as his thumb rubs over your cheek.Â
You close your eyes like your confession might take form. "I'm kind of lonely, lately," it sounds like a question, "and it's- it keeps me up sometimes. I don't know, it sounds stupid when I say it out loud."Â
"It doesn't sound stupid."Â
"No?"Â
"No, I get it." He pulls away but doesn't move too far, his hand still holding the freezing peas to your forehead, the other brushing against your arm as he drops it in his lap. "These days Dustin doesn't leave me alone. I don't want him to, either. The same with Robs."Â
You let your head loll to the side. Steve doesn't look shy or scared to tell you, talking almost matter of fact. "But my parents were never home when I was in high school. They still aren't. I felt it more back then."Â
"Yeah. I don't know. I never see anybody. Besides Dustin," you say. "We have him in common."Â
"You see me."Â
"When I'm annoying you at work."Â
"You don't annoy me." He's stern though he abruptly turns into a conspirator whispering secrets. "Robin's fuse gets shorter with me everyday."Â
"How come?" you ask, co-conspirator.Â
"I can't stop watching the door."Â
You lift your head. Steve takes back his bag of peas and feels along your forehead, now cold enough to ache.Â
"Here, hold these to your chest. I'd do it for you, butâŚ"Â
You take the peas and hide a terrible smile, heart racing between your ears. Your nausea has flipped completely into butterflies and they're rabid, knocking at your abdomen insistently.Â
You're trying to think of a way to make him say nice things again when there's a knock at the door.Â
"Dustin," you both say.Â
"Jinx, buy me a soda," Steve says.Â
You glare at him and he laughs all the way to the door.Â
"Why are you always here? Where's Y/N?"Â
"She's got heat stroke."Â
"I don't!" you call hoarsely.Â
"You sound like you do," Dustin says. "Can one of you give me a ride?"Â
"She has heat stroke."Â
You climb onto the back of the sofa to look down the hallway. Dustin stands at the front door with a huge piece of engineering in his arms that you don't understand, wires and ciricuits and things.Â
"Remeber when you used to bike everywhere? What happened to that?" Steve asks, sounding majorly pissed. You can't work out why he's so frustrated but it makes you laugh again.Â
The two boys turn to you with twin looks of confusion.Â
"I can't bike there, genius. This won't fit in the basket."Â
You laugh again, twice as loud.Â
"What's wrong with her?" Dustin asks, shaking his head.Â
"What don't you understand about heat stroke?
"Potential heat stroke," you interject. Â
"She fell asleep in the sun. I don't know how long she was out there her brain might be totally jellified, dude."Â
"You should take her to the hospital."
You clamber onto aching limbs and walk until your behind Steve, reaching for his elbow automatically. "I'm fine, babe. What's your doohickey?"Â
Dustin smirks and pulls the weight closer to his chest. "Prototype."Â
"For what?"Â
"Top secret."Â
You giggle some more, wobbling with the force of it. Steve sighs and wraps his arm around your back, his hand under your arm to grip you at the ribs.Â
Dustin gets wide eyes like a looney tunes character. "What's going on here?"Â
"Nothing," Steve hisses. "Look, let me set Y/N up with the works and I'll drive you where you want to go, you brat."Â
Dustin drops his suspicion, having got what he wants. "I'll wait in the car. Feel better!"Â
"That's three stamps on the shithead card, shithead!" Steve calls after him. The two of you watch his retreating figure and then Steve is manhandling you (not too roughly) down the hallway and back onto the sofa.Â
"I'm not dying, Steve."Â
Steve puts your popcorn bowl in your lap and the frozen peas back on your chest. He fills your glass either the warming carafe on the coffee table and then bends down to talk to you, entirely too intense.Â
"Are you good?" he asks.Â
"Perfect. I don't even feel hot anymore."Â
He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay. Listen, I'm gonna go drop Dustin off, and then I'm gonna call you to make sure you're not dead."Â
"You don't have to do that, Steve," you say, moving down into the couch, a cushion falling over as you do. He straightens it out, cups your face in his hand so fast you think you've imagined it and then squints at you.Â
"Don't die of heat stroke."Â
He starts to walk away and you're startled. Unfairly, you don't want him to go, and you call, "Steve?"Â
"Yeah?"Â
"What about The Breakfast Club?"Â
He grins at you, a lazy, King Steve kind of smile. "I was always gonna leave that here. So you can come 'annoy' me at work when you return it." He pulls a hand through his hair and gives you a once over and then spins on his heel. "Make sure you answer when I call!"Â
You lose sight of him as he leaves, the couch backing too tall. He shuts the door kindly and you can just about hear the crunch of gravel as his car pulls away.Â
"He was definitely flirting with me," you say to yourself, pouring a sweet handful of popcorn into your mouth. You're smiling so wide it's hard to chew.Â
-
Dustin bursts into Family Video with his small entourage, Mike and Lucas, and an urgent look on his face. Steve quickly stops his facade of being busy when he clocks them.
"What? Need to borrow ten dollars?" he asks, rolling his eyes.Â
"Actually, it's about Y/N," Dustin says.Â
Steve stretches across the desk on his elbows.Â
"What about her?" he asks, suspecting a waste of time.
"She was crying her eyes out in her backyard last night."Â
Steve blinks, feeling a pit open up in his chest. "What? Why?"Â
"WellâŚ" Dustin says. "I didn't ask."Â
Steve pictures your pretty face crinkled with tears, sitting on the paving stones outside your house. He wonders what would make you cry, sob, whatever it was. You'd confessed to being lonely though he sort of hopes that the feeling has ebbed now that he's calling you every day. At first, under the guise of checking up on you, but, I don't think I'm at risk of heat stroke anymore Steve. It's been a week and a half.Â
Better safe than sorry.Â
"Nancy said she saw her outside outside Bradley's Big Buy last night looking miserable," Mike adds, in one of his worst outfits, a mismatch of colours and long socks, a visor that Steve once tried to bribe Dustin to destroy on a hot day with his magnifying glass. The small burned spot perseveres at the caps edge.Â
Steve feels weirdly proud at their concern and better, their detective skills. The three of them look like they could solve crimes, a mystery gang. Lucas is the only one dressed well in Steve's opinion, though that might be because he's in similar fashion, a nice polo and blue jeans.Â
"You don't know what's wrong with her?" Lucas asks.
His pride wanes. "Oh, you guys are here for gossip?" he asks scathingly.Â
"No!"Â
"You're her boyfriend, right?"Â
"Not-" Steve swallows, "exactly."Â
Robin, who had been listening from her stool a few feet back, strides over and falls into place by his side, braced by her elbows.Â
"If Steve were her boyfriend, we'd know why she was crying," she says, earning a round of boyish chuckles.Â
Steve nods and then understands her meaning, feeling stupid for assuming Robin would say something that wasn't mean while at work. "Fuck off, I'm a good boyfriend."Â
Four sets of eyebrows raise.Â
"I am! I'm romantic."Â
"You smashed our trellis and dislodged a drain pipe," Mike says.Â
Steve pins the dark haired boy with a smarted look.Â
"Sorry, is that not romantic? Sneaking out to see a girl?"Â
"Sneaking in to a young woman's bedroom," Robin says dryly.Â
"Pervert style," Dustin agrees sagely.
"Jesus Christ." Steve turns away from his band of adopted heathens and takes the phone into his hand. "I'm gonna call her."Â
"And what? Tell her we were spying?" Dustin says.Â
Steve holds the cold plastic to his neck. "Were you?"Â
"Girls lie about their feelings, anyway. You're never gonna get a straight answer," Lucas says morosely. "Trust me."Â
He slams the phone down. "What am I supposed to do?"Â
They stand in a heavy silence. Steve can feel a headache clipping his heels, approaching fast, stress and a sharp worry for you. He really doesn't see why he can't call you and check in.Â
"Something nice?" Robin suggests, picking at her nails.Â
"Like what?" he asks. Though, as soon as he says it, he already has the beginnings of an idea. Whether its a good one or not is anyones guess.Â
-
Somebody knocks the door and all you can think is, oh god why me?Â
You're in a bad approximation of pajamas - your comfiest and yet your sloppiest, old and worn and unattractive. Fresh out of a stress-cry shower, you've only just managed to catch your breath.Â
It's like you told Steve, everything lately feels so lonely. You'd gone grocery shopping by yourself and had known without a doubt that you were moving unseen through the world. Something about deciding between TV dinners. Nobody knew where you were, what you were doing, or where you were going. The only people seeing you were the storegoers of Bradley's Big Buy and your disgruntled cashier. You doubt you'd made a good impression.Â
It was maybe a silly thing to feel overwhelmed by, but you felt it anyways. Sick with loneliness and then panic. A thousand what ifs had filled your head; you couldn't stop thinking, what if it's like this forever?Â
What if I feel this lonely forever?Â
You'd finished grocery shopping with a peculiar numbness weighing you down and then you'd gone home to cry in the garden, comforted and horrified by your flowers. They were pretty and you'd planted them and it didn't matter, you were still alone. A ladybug had crawled over the nearest planter and you'd watched it until you calmed down, knees crossed and elbows digging into your thighs, pins and needles in your hands.Â
Another insistent knock. You consider ignoring it and curling up into a ball. Something hooks you out of it. What if it's Steve?Â
If it's Steve, you're gonna feel very embarrassed about your appearance. You check your reflection in the sheen of a photo frame and sigh, rubbing your face with one hand as you open the door.Â
Steve stands a few feet away, leaning against the side of his car with a pair of shades slipping down his nose. He takes them off.
You're so happy to see him you forget your rumpled outfit.Â
"Hi," you say, half-shouting to cover the distance.Â
"Hey beautiful!" Steve shouts, properly, loud and unabashed.
The door digs into your tummy. You don't know what to say. His compliment flusters you from the get go.Â
"Hi," you say again, laughing under your breath.Â
"Hey."Â
"What are you doing here?"Â
"Somebody told me you weren't feeling well!"Â
You frown, thoughts racing, and suddenly summon the image of your nosey young neighbour. You take a step back instinctively and Steve must see it because his face goes stony.Â
"I'm sorry, I know you probably didn't want me to know. But- when I found out you were upset, I couldn't ignore that. You'll have to forgive me."Â
You try pushing the smile off your face with your hand and stand there scratching your top lip. "No. No, it's okay."Â
He raises his eyebrows and takes a few big steps towards your house. You step out onto the porch and he closes the space between you, holding his hands out. You take them and he envelopes you, warm hands pulling you along and up the path.Â
He walks backwards. "Don't let me crash into someone, okay?"Â
A memory. The two of you hand in hand, ground flashing under your skates.Â
"Okay," you say weakly.Â
He squeezes your hands and drops them, a foot from the car. "Stay," and he doesn't finish, turning away from you. He opens the passenger door, the door behind and then the trunk.Â
The smell is beautiful. A floral wave.Â
The sight is something else. A carpet of bunches, bell-shaped freesias and carnations, roses in darkest red, chrysanthemums, dahlias, tiny orchids and irises; gorgeous purple irises with white centred petals buffeted by frilly sweetpeas.Â
"They didn't want to give me the buckets but I told them I had a really pretty girl waiting for me, and if they suffocated in the heat then I was gonna drive right back and complain loudly." He stands by your side and nudges you. "Break out in tears."Â
"That's a lot of flowers," you mumble.Â
"Half the store. The other half's on standby."Â
"Standby?"Â
"I worried you might not have the space."Â
"I won't."Â
Your gaze flits over soft petals and light green stems, thorns and leaves and greenery, baby breath tucked in by plastic wrapping.Â
"Why did you do this?"Â
"YouâŚ" he laughs at himself. "Okay, so. The day you had heat stroke-"Â
"I didn't have heat stroke. I had heat exhaustion."Â
"Semantics. You were lying in the backyard. Just⌠sleeping. I was waiting for you to look up and see me, and I couldn't- I still can't get the image out of my head. You looked unreal."Â
You feel hot all over as he searches for words. He's smiling wide as he talks, like he can't believe how happy he is. It's infectious.Â
He shakes his head. "Anyway, I know you like flowers. Obviously. So."Â
"So you got me a florists?"
"Half."Â
You hug your torso. The idea that somebody would do this for you, that Steve would do this for you, is so alien you can't comprehend it.Â
"They're for me?" you whisper.Â
"For you. All of them."Â
You look at him, the flowers, him again, and start to laugh. You throw your hands up to your cheeks and giggle like a little kid.Â
"Why are you laughing?" he asks, an undeniable affection in his curiosity.Â
"Why would you do this for me?" you ask in a similar tone.Â
He purses his lips and shrugs. "You could've called me. I want you to know that."Â
You scrub your hot cheeks and shift from foot to foot. "I was being silly."Â
"It's not silly. It's not stupid. And even if it was, I still want you to call me. These are 'call me' flowers. Call me first."Â
You wrap your hand around the top of the door and lean in for a look at the sea of flowers. Pollen sticks sweet in your nose.Â
"Do you like them?"Â
The smallest hint of insecurity. You can't stop laughing, joy warping every word. "Yeah, I love them," you say over your shoulder, feeling as though you've become nothing but a vestibule of breathless wonder.Â
"I didn't know which one was your favourite."Â
All of them, you think. Not sure you could pick one, your eyes bump from bouquet to bouquet.Â
You try to blink them away but tears form quickly, lashes heavy with them as you stand up straight and wipe under your eyes with the back of your index finger.Â
"Thank you, Steve."Â
"You're welcome." Steve comes up behind you and takes your shoulder into his hand, thumb rubbing roughly over your shirt. "C'mon, don't cry. I got you all those flowers because I don't want you to cry, not to make it worse."Â
"They're really pretty," you say, strained, pushing the bottoms of your palms into your eyes to stop from sobbing. That would be dramatic, you argue with yourself, so dramatic, but this is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for you.Â
"Shit," he mutters.Â
You tense up as his hand moves across your back to grip your other shoulder and he hugs you to his chest, left hand stroking the length of your upper arm, encouraging your hands from your face.Â
"You're okay, baby," he says.Â
You sniffle as his right hand climbs your shoulder to cup your neck. He pulls your face to his mouth and presses a kiss into your temple, warm and tingling, firecrackers under the skin. You turn your face to look at him and he pulls back, his chin jutting down.Â
The shape of his lips lingers on your forehead, a burn. White hot.
Steve wipes the tear tracks from your face with the side of his hand.
"I know what'll cheer you up," he says.Â
You miss his touch as soon as he's gone. He leans over the passenger seat, the chair and its footwell both bursting with flowers, and turns on the radio. You watch him click to the cassette player. He turns the volume up high and then pulls out.Â
Slowly, the song builds into a zinging guitar.Â
"Oh my god."Â
"Have you seen her? So fine and so pretty," Steve sings with no hesitation. You're startled by his confidence.
"Fooled me with her style and ease," he continues, holding out his hand.Â
You take it, listening to him fight his way to the right pitch, his voice cracking.
"And I feel her from across the room-" He takes your second hand, gaze electric. "Yes, it's love in the third degree."Â
He tugs at your hand, nodding until you join in.
"Ooh, baby, baby," you sing weakly, searching for footing.Â
"Won't-cha turn your head my way?" he begs.Â
"Ooh, baby, baby," you both sing, Steve with more passion, pulling your arm one way and another in an awkward dance.Â
"Come on, take a chance, you're old enough to," and here's where you both go weak and high and enthused all at once, glad the stereo's up so high you can't really hear it when you both shout, "dance the night away!"Â
It's not quite night yet. You've a lot of dancing to do if you're gonna listen to Van Halen's instructions, the sun a half-disk of gold on the horizon, the sky raspberry pink bleeding up into darkening indigo.Â
Steve grins at your growing enthusiasm and twirls you around. You only allow him this, too afraid to step on his toes as you come to a stop.Â
He hums along and you clutch his hand. You covet the other where it's held to his chest, pushing your fingers through his. They fit together perfectly.Â
"Am I ever gonna get that tape back?" you ask.Â
"No," he says, laughing loudly. "No way. I love this song."Â
"I love this song too. That's why I bought the album."Â
"You said however long I wanted!"Â
"I didn't think you'd stick around this long," you confess.Â
"I did," he says. He leans down, stops. "Can I kiss you?"
You nod and beat him to it, hand at his collar as you step on your toes and press your mouth to his. You're both smiling, your eyes closed tight and your lips tight together until he pulls back, pulling his hand from your brushing grip to stroke the side of your face, rough in his rush.Â
When you come back together it's slower, your lips parted mid-giggle as he moves in. You sigh, a high-pitched and embarrassing sound from the back of your throat that's quickly swallowed by his ardency.Â
"Stop laughing at me," he admonishes playfully.Â
"I'm not! I'm not, I'm really happy," you defend yourself, setting back on your heels.Â
You've forgotten all about your pajamas and the icky feeling in your chest. With Steve's palms to your cheeks like this â like you're something worth being cradled in careful hands â you can't feel anything but happy.Â
"I don't have enough vases for your flowers," you apologise as he chases you down, dropping kisses over the corner of your mouth and the apple of your cheek.Â
"Good thing I begged for all those buckets," he says, brown eyes squinting with the force of his cherubic smile. His pert nose flares with a silent laugh.Â
"Good thing," you agree.Â
He holds you by the shoulders. "Good thing," he says again.Â
You descend into another round of laughter that leaves you panting for air, your head dropping into his chest. "A really good thing."Â
"I didn't go overboard, did I?" he asks, petting the nape of your neck.
"You did."Â
"Sorry, I-"Â
You wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze him as hard as you can. He groans lightly as he encircles your shoulders, the tip of his nose a butterfly's wing against your forehead, impossibly light and skipping, back and forth and back again.Â
"I'm gonna make you flower shortbread," you say eventually, soaking in his warmth, his closeness.Â
"Yeah?"Â
"I swear. And more penuche. What's your favourite? I'll make you whatever you want. What do you have a sweet tooth for?"Â
"Could I get another kiss?" he asks quietly.
You tilt your head back and wait. Steve isn't quite smiling though his eyes boast an emotion you're afraid to name, unbearably fond.Â
"Are you gonna kiss me again?" you ask into the gap.Â
"In a sec, just⌠let me look at you," he says, hand cupping your cheek.Â
You blink back a stinging wave of tears and smile, tracing over his features greedily.
"You're beautiful," he says.Â
Itâs funny. You were thinking the same thing about him.
Title: Friday, Iâm In Love
Summary: Eddie Munson is a metal head and certainly does not like The Cure. Not even a little bit. Not even for you.
Warnings: Smoking (cigs + pot), probably swearing, angst, jealously, fighting (angst because of a misunderstanding, with a happy ending)
Request: Eddie x Goth!Reader, who likes The Cure (among other bands) and teases Eddie about being close minded when it comes to listening to goth music, and they bond over being weirdos/outcasts. Basically a timeline of Eddie and the readers relationship- first meeting, first fight, first break up
A/N: Iâm aware The Cure didnât release Friday Iâm In Love until 1992, and Eddie is in high school in the mid 80s, but suspend some disbelief here because I just think this is a cute idea <3
A/N 2: Takes place a year before Upside Down stuff and Season 4
Before, you were asking about âour daughterâ. Itâs crazy. But⌠it really got me thinking⌠what if⌠you had come with me all those years ago.Â
You want to know what would have happened? âWhat if?â Weâd wake up everyday⌠in a tiny apartment⌠over a failing laundromat.Â
EVERYTHING EVERYWHERE ALL AT ONCE (2022) dir. Daniel Kwan, Daniel ScheinertÂ
A whimper cuts through the crisp air of the bedroom. Outside, the world is quiet and ignorant of the comfort youâre not feeling. Flipping over once again, you open dry eyes to glare at the clock on the bedside table. 4:34 am. It taunts you, just sitting there with itâs red numbers blazing. Itâs too bright. It amplifies the feeling of wrong encompassing you. Sheets lay uncomfortably across your bare legs, hair sticking to your neck, even your breathing feels tight and forced. Youâre about to lose your mind. Annoyance bubbles up in you.
Face pinching, you let out a sharp breath and make your decision. Throwing the blankets away from your body, you scramble to stand up. The cool air flows over you, goosebumps appearing along open skin. You send a glance over to your companion, whose thankfully still sleeping. Some of the tension in your shoulders melts away at the feeling of no longer being trapped.
As quietly as you can, you make your way through the house. Avoiding floorboards that creak and pieces of furniture scattered around is much harder when itâs pitch black, but slow and steady wins the race. Stepping into the kitchen, as gentle as you can, you restrictive a cup and fill it up with water. Trudging to the couch, you let yourself fall with little glory. The silence envelops you as you take small sips from your cup, trying to will yourself to sleep. The longer you sit there, the more frustration creeps up on you, making your lips wobble with force to keep in your emotions. Maybe the chilly early morning air will help, you hum in thought.
As gently as you can manage in your harried state, you set your cup down and make your way to the back door, slipping outside. A small breeze greets you making a shiver wrack your body and forcing you to huddle in on yourself to conserve body heat. Before long, you canât even really feel it anymore. Itâs just numb.
You stare at the cracks in the pavement by your frozen toes.
A noise breaks you out of your thought, whipping around to meet the face of your lover. You frown.
âWhy are you up?â You ask with a quiet voice, trying to preserve the quaint atmosphere. Clayâs face is scrunched up and riddled with sleep, eyes barely open. One hand is gripping his shoulder, a frown set on his face. You turn to your original pose, facing forward towards the beginning rays of the morning. It doesnât surprise you, but your breathing still stutters when warm hands touch your shoulders and slide down your cold arms, wrapping themselves around your waist until your back is sufficiently mushed against his chest.
âWhaâ you doinâ?â comes the slurred response, voice reverberating through your body. The beginnings of regret lick at your insides, but you melt into his embrace anyways.
âCouldnât sleep,â you reply. You turn your head towards his head resting on your shoulder and press a kiss into it. âYou should be asleep though,â
You make way to remove his arms but they only tense and keep you in your spot. You huff in amusement, exhaustion making all your emotions feel dulled. Rolling your eyes, you press your nose into his temple. Despite feeling guilt for waking him up, you couldnât help but be grateful heâs here with you.
âClay,â you mumble, âGo to bed, please,â
He only hums and starts to gently sway from side to side. âNot without you,â
In spite of yourself, you smile. âWhat time is it anyway?â
He kisses your shoulder. âJust past six, I think,â
You pull back out of surprise. Clay opens his eyes and squints at you, confusion painting his face. Open-mouthed, you turn to see the sun has crept out over the sky rise. âOh,â you breathe, âI hadnât⌠I didnât realize,â
Large hands turn you around. He seems more awake now, brows furrowed and green eyes alight with concern. âYou okay?â
âYeah,â you say, âIâve just been up longer than I thought,â
Your frustration from earlier comes back at full force, hitting you so hard you practically face plant into Clayâs shoulder in a hurry to seek any semblance of comfort. You wrap your arms around him, squeezing tight in hopes to calm down. It doesnât work as well as you hoped. Clayâs started to sway again but youâre too caught up in your emotions to really notice or care. Your fists clench and you press your face more forcefully into his neck, gasping breaths escaping you. Tears burn your eyes but you refuse to let them fall. You donât even know why youâre crying. God, this is so stupid.
Hiccuping, you try your best to explain yourself. âIâm sorâry, Iâm sorry, I donât, I donât even know whyââ you cut yourself off to try and intake a breath. A soothing hand rubs your back as Clay gently shushes you.
âHey,â he murmurs, âItâs okay, youâre okay. You can cry, honey, I promise itâs okay,â
The reassurance does nothing to stop the tears, they only add fuel to the fire. At one point, you lost control of your muscles, falling limp into waiting arms. Clay just patiently waits, whispering sweet nothings and pressing kisses into any surface available. Eventually, your tears dry up, replaced by bone deep exhaustion. Warm rays of sunlight hit your back, chasing the chill of darkness away.
Clay slowly pulls back, keeping you at arms distance as he searches your face for something. He must not find what he wants, because heâs frowning and brings a hand to your cheek, which you immediately press into. âHow are you feeling, honey?â
You hum noncommittally, staring into his eyes. âBetter,â you whisper. You take a hold of his other hand and swipe your thumb across it. âYou should go back to bed,â
He scoffs. âAnd leave you here? Fuck no,â
You roll your eyes. âIâm fine now, okay? Youâre probably tired,â you try to argue. Clay doesnât take any of it, promptly sweeping you off your feet. Instinctively, your arms fly around his neck before you realize exactly what heâs doing. Heâs able to step through the threshold of your home and close the door before you start to wiggle.
âLet me down!â
He shoots you a mischievous grin. âNo!â
You giggle as he starts to speed up, bursting into your bedroom. His hands leave you and you become weightless. Eyes wide and breath caught in your throat, you make eye contact right before you squeeze them shut in preparation. You hit the bed with a whump! and bounce a few times. Quiet cackles reach your ears and you roll your eyes.
âYeah, yeah,â you mutter, crawling under the covers. When youâre not immediately joined, you raise your eyebrows and pat the space next to you. Clay breaks into a wide grin and flops next to you. The next several minutes are composed of you two trying to get comfortable, with several jabs to the ribs and snorts shared between you.
You nuzzle your head on his chest and breathe in deeply. You stay there, hand idly drawing patterns across his abdomen while his breathing slows down.
When itâs been far to long, in the safety of your room, you whisper, âThank you,â
You donât have to look up to hear his smile. âYou donât need to worry about waking me up, okay? I care about you,â he mutters back. Fondness overcomes your entire being and you donât know how to expel it in a way that shows how truly grateful you are. You settle for a kiss to his chest, a small I love you. Clay only squeezes you in reply. I love you too. Here, wrapped in love and comfort, your eyes slip shut to greet a blissful sleep.
âď˝ĄË note: ahhh this was such a cute idea I'm so glad you requested this I was totally blushing writing this, hope you enjoy it!!
Dream
you have hit the jackpot with this one
streaming without a face cam means you can plop down in his lap whenever you like
still, it doesnât stop you from getting a bit shy, especially with Dreamâs teasing nature
it doesnât help that heâll mention youâre with him 24/7
whether heâs just on call with some friends or streaming in front of thousands of people, he sneaks in comments here and there that make your face heat up
but itâs not like heâd let you leave, of course not
âChat you should see them right now, all snuggled up against me. No no, where do you think youâre going, baby. Youâre staying right here on my lap.â
George
he may not be the most touchy boyfriend, but there is nothing he loves more than a good cuddle sesh
he can never resist when you lay down on the couch and make grabby hands at him
but if he ever mentions it, youâre as embarrassed as could be
if weâre being honest, he enjoys making you flush just as much as he likes taking naps with you
youâll 100% accidentally find out that his lock screen is a picture of you curled up against him in bed and heâll never let you live it down
âLook at you, sound asleep on my shoulder, all snuggled up... I think youâre drooling a little.â
Sapnap
he definitely feels the same as you
heâs not always confident enough to make contact first, but he absolutely revels in the moments youâre together
after the first couple of dates, he finally musters up the courage to kiss you when he drops you off for the night
and to be quite frank, he wasnât the only one blushing afterwards
he tries to act cool afterwards, but heâs grinning like an idiot
youâre not much better, doing the whole ârun inside and slide down the doorâ thing like youâre a movie star
he definitely texts you that night
âI think we should do that more often, honey. Even if you get all shyâ
Karl
Karl is well known for his love of physical touch and you couldnât be happier with it
but the trouble comes when he gets too bold with his love
one minute heâs having a chill stream, just talking to chat
and suddenly itâs chaos, because youâve walked into the room and Karl finally has someone to shower in affection
heâs got his hands wrapped around you, holding you close, before he pulls back and plants a kiss right on your lips
âKarl you canât just kiss me on stream!!!â âBut you liked it :)â cue flustered silence from you
Quackity
not necessarily the type to be super outward with his feelings but adores your presence
so as long as youâre in the room with him, heâs happy
still, you just feel the need to be as close to him as possible
youâre watching a movie, nothing out of the ordinary for you two
what isnât normal is you climbing on Qâs lap and wrapping your arms around his shoulders
when you do muster up the courage to lean back, heâs a blushing mess
which of course, makes you a mess as well
âW-what was that for. You canât just jump on me out of nowhere. Ugh... Iâm gonna melt.â
Wilbur
another one who loves when you get shy
in fact, he actively seeks it out because he thinks itâs adorable
never does it in front of chat though, he wants to be the only one who sees you all shy
first thing he does in the morning is draw you up against him and give you kisses all over your face
heâll pull your face back with his hands and just wait to feel your cheeks heat up against his palms
he does that annoyingly cute laugh when you dive under the covers to escape him
âOk, ok, no more hiding. Let me see that beautiful face of yours darling.â
Niki
Niki is very similar to you in the sense of clinginess, takes every opportunity to drape herself over you wherever you are
but the second the two of you realize just how sappy youâre being...
both of your faces are heating up, total tomato fest
sheâll get all blushy if you snuggle up next to her
you push through the embarrassment just to chase her around the room for kisses, to which she pleads for her catâs help
âNoooo Zuko save meeeee! Theyâre going to smother me with kisses!â
Sam
this big teddy bear canât deal with how bashful you get
of course, he still canât deny you when you give him puppy dog eyes and ask for a kiss
this in turn gets him shy and suddenly youâre both giggling like high schoolers
loves cuddling with you at night because youâre too tired to deny him
buries his head in your shoulder because he can feel your whole body heat up
âYouâre not gonna slip away in the middle of the night, are you honey? Nahhh, you like me too much to do that.â
Punz
omg this cocky mf would love to show you off, even if you get embarrassed
would full on make out with you on stream if you didnât stop him
still, that doesnât put an end to him flustering you in public
holding you hostage on his lap while on call with friends, sneaking kisses in public and always having a hand on you
he likes to call it âexposure therapyâ, but itâs very obvious he just likes seeing you kiss drunk
âBabe, how are you ever gonna get over your shyness if we donât do anything. Then again, you are pretty cute when youâre flustered.â
Foolish
he can not get over your blushy face
just breaks into a smile whenever he sees you get all flushed
doesnât seem to understand why that makes you even more embarrassed, though
will 100% wrap you up in a blanket burrito so you canât escape
sits you on his lap during a long stream, every once in a while, he gives you a kiss on top of your head
puts up a little sign on stream that says âcuddle time, donât mention the burritoâ because he doesnât want you to leave because of chat
âWhat? No chat, you canât mention them! Theyâre gonna get all shy!â
