Underneath It All

I have never known what I am doing. I’m 31. This blog is dedicated to fanfiction. I reblog a lot of 18+. Many of the authors have repeatedly asked for no minors to read or interact with their work. Please respect that. My main blog is @rainbowconnection36

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

Imagine Bucky's so obsessed with going down on you that he gets off just from the taste and sounds while rutting against the bed.

Tastes Like Heaven

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, smut, oral sex, dry humping, all consensual.

Word count: 1.4k

The mattress sank under Bucky’s weight as he got comfortable in his favorite place— between your thighs. Vibranium braced against your hips while his warm flesh hand splayed across your lower abdomen, holding you still. He was hungry. Eager. Ravenous even. You were laid out before him. Temptation. The tantalizing scent of your arousal was too much for him to resist. He hadn’t even taken off his boxers yet. He didn’t really need to for you to see how much this affected him. The front was already soaked through, the thick outline of him strained and twitched every time your hips rolled needily in his direction.

“Patience, princess,” he rasped, his voice rough. His normally blue eyes were almost black with desire. “Just— fuck— just let me. Need to taste you.”

You nodded. Breathless. Your fingers twisted in the sheets. Ready. For him. You loved when he got like this. Wound up tight. He’d been like that all evening. Hands restless. Constant glances. Jaw working like he was trying to find the right words for what he wanted. You were ashamed of how long it took you to understand. To read into the meaning of his stares.

Now you knew. He was starving.

The first drag of his tongue was slow. Deliberate. Starting from your entrance, it moved flat and hot, right to your clit. You gasped. Spine arching off the bed. And he groaned. As if he’d been punched in the chest by a wave of pleasure. The sound vibrated straight through your core.

Of course, then he did it again. Taking his time. Curling the tip of his tongue just enough to catch your sensitive bundle with more pressure than before. Just enough to make your core clench, before he flattened out to lap at you. Like he was trying to drink you whole. The sounds he made were obscene. And it felt devastating.

Every pass of his tongue sent a fresh flow of liquid heat spilling through your core. It pooled low in your pelvis, making your thighs tremble with anticipation. There was something unique about him. About his tongue. The texture was perfect. Soft. Wet. Insistent. He wasn’t teasing you. He was worshipping your body.

The broad strokes made your clit throb. Swollen and needy. While the pointed flicks against your entrance made your walls flutter, clench around nothing. You could feel yourself getting wetter, slicker. Every time his lips sealed around your clit, he sucked. Gentle, then harder. You swore you could feel your heartbeat pulse there. Just there. Loud and lascivious in your ears.

“Bucky—”

His name cracked as it fell from your lips.

His answer was a low broken moan against your cunt. Accompanied by a swift jerking of his hips. The mattress dipped under his weight as he ground down. Hard. Cock rubbing against the sheets, through damp cotton. You felt the rhythm under you. Slow at first. Then faster. It matched the way his tongue worked you. Every roll of his hips pushed his face deeper. His nose nudged your clit when his mouth slid lower to fuck into you with slow, filthy thrusts.

It was too much. And not enough. The pressure inside you built in thick, heavy waves. Your clit felt huge. Oversensitive. Every suck drew out a bright spark, sending it shooting up your spine. Your thighs shook harder than ever. To the point where you couldn’t even keep them open. He didn’t care. He just hooked his arms under each knee and pushed them wider, opening you completely. The cool vibranium pressed against your left thigh felt like ice against your fever-hot skin and you moaned. A sound so unrestrained that it echoed off the headboard.

It wasn’t just you feeling the heat. He was leaking. You could sense it. The wet slide of his boxer fabric. The way his breathing hitched every time he rutted forward. His tongue never stopped. Licking. Sucking. Circling. Dipping inside again and again. Like he couldn’t decide which part of you tasted best. Your hips started chasing him without permission. Grinding up into his mouth. Smearing yourself across his lips. His chin. His stubble scraped so perfectly against your tender skin.

“Oh God… Bucky, your mouth…”

Your words dissolved into a whimper when he sucked hard. Cheeks hollowed. Tongue flicking fast and merciless over your clit. Your whole body locked up. Heat coiled tighter. A molten knot right behind your pubic bone. Right inside your core. Every muscle in your pelvis fluttered. Clenched. Fluttered again. You were dripping down his chin. Down the crease of your thigh. Soaking the sheets beneath you.

He moaned again. Right into your cunt. Thunderous. Wrecked. And his hips… they snapped down harder. Even the mattress springs sang their protests. You felt the way his cock dragged against the fabric. You pictured the way the head must be catching. Leaking. Precum making everything slicker. His rhythm faltered for half a second, like he was picking up on your thoughts. He looked up, smirking, then started up again. Desperate.

You were close. So close it hurt.

Your pleasure had a life of its own now. A feral beast eager to be fed. Teeth bared. Sharp. Bright. Almost painful. Each pull of his lips sent sharp bolts of lightning arcing through your clit. Up your spine. Down your thighs. Your walls pulsed. Empty and aching. Begging to clamp down on something. Your fingers found his hair. Gripping tight. Trying to hold him in the place you needed most while your hips rolled shamelessly against his face.

He let you ride him. Let you use his tongue. His lips. Even the bridge of his nose. He let you smear yourself all over him while he ground his cock into the mattress like a teenager who’d never touched anyone before. His breaths came in harsh pants against your cunt. Hot and erratic. His fingers dug into your thighs hard enough to bruise. They anchored you from getting lost in your haze of ecstasy. Kept you pinned exactly where he wanted you.

You broke first. The orgasm hit you like a freight train. Sudden. Brutal. White-hot bliss. Your back bowed. Mouth opened in a silent scream that morphed into his name. Your clit throbbed under his tongue but he kept sucking through it. Drawing out your climax until your thighs clamped around his ears and your whole body shook apart. Slick gushed against his lips. He drank it down like a man parched. A guttural sound on his lips that vibrated straight into your overstimulated nerves.

And then he came. Hard.

You felt it in the way his whole body seized. Hips stuttering. Grinding down into the mattress with short, helpless jerks. A broken moan tore out of him. Muffled against your cunt. His shoulders were hunched. Muscles locked. Cock pulsed again and again as he spilled into his boxers. Onto the sheets. Rutting through the aftershocks while his tongue gave one last slow, trembling lick over your drenched pussy.

He didn’t pull away. Even after you stopped shaking. Even after your hands went lax in his hair. He stayed. Pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses against your swollen folds. He gently lapped up the mess he’d made. Even though his breathing was ragged. Chest heaving. And finally, when he lifted his head, his face was wrecked. Lips swollen and shiny. Chin dripping. Eyes glassy and dazed.

You reached down, thumb brushing over his wet bottom lip. “You okay, baby?”

He laughed once. Voice hoarse. “Think I just came harder than I have in seventy years… just from eating you out and humping the goddamn bed.” His cheek rested against your lower belly now. Exhausted.

“You’re easy,” you grinned, mind still floating as you ran your fingers through his hair.

“I’m yours,” he corrected, voice low, reverent. And with that, he crawled up your body. Careful. Moving slowly until he could drop his forehead against yours. His boxers were a disaster. Dark, clinging and sticky. But he didn’t seem to care. “You taste like heaven. And I’m never gonna get enough.”

Your laugh turned into a soft moan when he kissed you. One of those slow, deep kisses where you could taste yourself on his tongue.

The worst— no, best— thing thing about it all was that he was already half-hard again. And you had a feeling the sheets weren’t surviving the night.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

give me fever

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: you and Bucky hate each other, so it's not unusual for him to act cold around you. but this is differant. this is... feral. and you're starting to wonder what's wrong✦

✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, enemies to lovers, ragebating Bucky Barnes, emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (dry humping, manhandling, bucky's feral, emotional sex, dry orgasm, truly foul dirty talk, hyperspermia, pussy eating like crazy, fingering, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, mean!bucky, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦

✦wc: 11.1k✦

✦Author's Note: i'm so normal about sex pollen✦

It doesn’t bother you. If you tell yourself enough, you’re really going to believe that it doesn’t bother you.

But he’s everywhere. 

There isn’t a corner of the damn building without Bucky Barnes. You go to the kitchen and he’s there making a sandwich, watching you move around the counter like he thinks you’re going to bite him. In the gym he’s at the weights and the punching bags, and you try to ignore him but he grunts and moans and you think he’s doing it on purpose. the living area he takes over the TV and watches whatever he wants to catch up with the times. No matter how politely you ask him to switch to something else, he always tells you to just wait. Then you try, but he’s spread out on the couch until your knees have to bump, and your face gets all hot, and you have to stomp away before you start acting on all your stupid thoughts.

Because it’s not just Bucky’s eternal presence and stubbornness and smirking that burrows under your skin. It’s that you like it.

That when you’re next to him on the couch, all you can think about is that place where your body’s connect. He’s warm. Tall and warm. Your skin tingles at the contact point, and whenever he shifts it’s like you’re being shot up with a drug.

“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”

You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”

“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“

“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m not-“

“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.

“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.

“Congratulations.”

You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-

Get a fucking grip.

“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”

Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.

You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.

It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.

“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.

That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.

You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.

As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.

Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.

The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.

“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.

Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.

You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.

“I was busy.”

“Too busy for your job?”

“It’s not my job-“

“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.

“Have you been carrying that around all day?”

“That doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it really does-“

Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“

“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“

“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“

“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”

Bucky blinks, recoiling slightly. “Defer? What, you-“

“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.

But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.

“Why’re you skipping.”

You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.

“I have a date.”

“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.

“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.

Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.

“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”

“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.

“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“

The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.

“What’s-“

“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.

“No, he’s not-“

“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”

Then he’s gone.

And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.

You just need to know what the fuck that was.

There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.

He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.

You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.

And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.

“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.

You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.

At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.

“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”

He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.

The mission is over.

Two days early.

Your jaw tightens.

Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.

Something went wrong, and they have to come back.

You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.

But they’re back early.

And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all. 

You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.

Maybe they really did just… Finish early.

You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.

Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.

“You need to go, Buck-“

“I’m fine-“

“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“

“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“

Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.

He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.

His hand is hot.

Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.

He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.

“Hi.” You whisper.

His throat bobs. “You’re back.”

“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“

“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”

Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.

“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.

He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.

“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.

“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“

“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.

He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.

“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”

Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.

“How was your date?” He grunts.

“Bucky-“

“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.

The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.

You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.

Get a fucking grip.

“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”

And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.

But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.

“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”

Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.

Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.

Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.

You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.

“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.

You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.

“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”

Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.

That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.

You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.

Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.

He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.

You somehow—just barely—fight it.

“Why can’t I access these files.”

Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.

“Barnes-“

“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”

You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“

“Steve should change that.”

God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.

“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”

Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.

“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”

You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.

And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.

You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.

Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.

Instead, you find Bucky. 

He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.

You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.

“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.

He just nods.

You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.

“You want hot chocolate?”

A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.

And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.

His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.

Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.

“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”

You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.

But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.

You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.

That he wants to be here.

Near you.

He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.

Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.

It’s almost a moan.

You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.

But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.

You feel almost sick.

It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.

His fever is building again.

You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.

When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.

You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.

If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘

But it is Bucky.

And he’s never going to make anything that easy.

You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.

“Hi.” You say lamely.

He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“

“Bucky, are you-“

“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.

You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.

But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.

“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“

“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”

You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.

And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.

“Bucky-“

“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”

You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.

But you do go right to Steve.

“What happened on the mission.”

Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.

“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“

“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”

Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’

“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“

“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”

You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”

Steve sighs. “Is it you?”

“Yep.”

He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.

“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“

“I really don’t care.”

“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.

You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.

“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“

“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.

“No, you just won’t tell me-“

“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“

“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“

“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”

“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.

“I know how it sounds-“

“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“

“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”

You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole. 

“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Steve-“

“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”

You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.

“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”

Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.

“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“

You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.

And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.

“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”

You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”

Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”

You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.

But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.

“What are the symptoms?”

Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”

Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”

“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”

“But- Bucky-“

“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”

“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”

Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”

“Before or after the mating?”

Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“

“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”

“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“

Steve says your name plainly. You blink.

“What-“

“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”

You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.

“Steve-“

“I didn’t say anything-“

“Yes, you did-“

“Nope.”

You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”

Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.

“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”

This is a bad idea.

Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.

But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.

After you fix this for him.

If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.

Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and  move to Indonesia.

But if he doesn’t turn you down…

You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.

“Fuck off, Stevie-“

“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response. 

Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.

He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.

His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.

You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.

“You shouldn’t be here-“

“Steve said you need me.”

You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-

“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.

“I- I made him.”

He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”

“I was worried about you-“

“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“

“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”

Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.

“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.

“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“

“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”

He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.

“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“

“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“

“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.

“Who says?”

“You’re an ass to me-“

“You’re an ass to me.”

“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”

Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.

“Me neither.”

You nod. “But…”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”

You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.

“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“

Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.

It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.

Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.

You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.

“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”

And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.

But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.

You didn’t know you could want him more.

“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”

For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.

Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.

“You- You got no idea, do you?”

Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“

“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”

And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.

“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.

“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”

“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”

He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.

“Didn’t you?”

You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“Bet I imagined more.”

And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.

You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.

“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”

You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.

“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”

Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.

You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.

“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”

He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.

“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“

Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.

“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“

He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.

Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.

You can’t have that.

“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”

Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.

“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”

You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.

“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”

He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“

You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.

“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.

“How?”

“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“

His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.

“You think this is funny?” He rasps.

You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”

He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.

“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“

“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.

He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“

Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.

There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.

A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.

Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.

“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.

Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.

Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.

You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.

He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.

“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.

And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.

“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.

You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.

Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.

“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”

You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.

Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.

“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”

You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.

You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.

“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”

And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.

So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.

Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.

“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”

You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.

“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”

He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.

“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”

You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.

Permission to go further.

His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.

“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”

In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.

A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.

Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.

“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“

“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“

 His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.

Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.

“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”

He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.

“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“

Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.

He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.

Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.

You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.

“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”

You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.

“Aren’t you?”

“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“

“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”

You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.

“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“

He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.

And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.

“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“

The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.

Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.

He’s jerking off while he eats you out.  He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.

Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.

Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.

“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“

Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.

You don’t want to.

With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.

“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“

Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles

“Good girl.” He coos.

You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you might’ve failed.

“Strangling my fingers, doll.” He teases, pulling them right out.

You whimper. You’re too wet and ready not to take something. It’s really not fair to make you wait.

“I know.” He kisses your brow, voice rough. “Trust me, I fuckin’ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-“ His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. “All yours.”

You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.

But you’re at an advantage.

Bucky’s hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like it’s an effort to speak. He’s still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.

You want him to give in.

So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.

Bucky growls again, and there’s no more teasing.

His mouth pushes over yours, and it’s not a loving kiss. It’s rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.

“Wanna be a brat.” He grunts. “Gonna get fucked like a brat.”

You almost beam. Yes, please.

Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesn’t waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. You’re so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t roll back.

He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. He’d prepared you too well. You’re more than ready within seconds.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. “Move.”

If he’d told you to wait, you wouldn’t have been surprised.

But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.

The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.

“The- There-“ You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. “Fuck, baby, right there-“

Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep you’re worried he’s going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.

He’s not even fucking you like a brat. He’s fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like you’re just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.

You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now you’re just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.

“Oh- Oooooh-“ You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. “Buuuucky-“

His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasn’t slowed or relented, but there’s a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.

That’s what he’d said he’d do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.

Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.

“Good girl.” He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.

He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.

“You fuckin’ like it, don’t you-“

“Love it.” You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. “Love you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-“

Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like you’re going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. You’ve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.

And he’s not even done.

The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Bucky’s ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before you’re being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.

You’re dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. You’re all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.

He hasn’t just ruined you. He’s pulled you apart a million times over, until you’re just a puddle that sings his name.

You don’t even fully realize he’s done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.

Then Bucky kisses you, and it’s slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but it’s lost the strained quality. He’s fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.

“So soft.” He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.

You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Jesus, doll. You’d think you were the one that got sex drugged.”

You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.

They’re blue again.

“You’re back?” You breathe, and Bucky grins.

He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.

“I’m back.”

 You’re ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You don’t think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.

You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. You’d never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think you’re some kind of freak for just saying you love him.

He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.

God, he’s so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now you’re never going to get to touch him again-

Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.

He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-

“Love you too.” He says against your lips. “Just- Uh- While we’re saying it.”

Oh.

Or that. That’s nice.

You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.

Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.

“You’re stayin’ the night, right?”

You almost snort. There’s no getting rid of you now. You’re going to stay forever, and as long as he’ll allow after that.

“Yeah. I’m staying.”

✦End note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

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[smorgaswhored]

At your back door yellin’

(cause I wanna come in)

pairing: grumpy!trailer park!Bucky x fem!trailer park!reader

warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, smut (soft dom!Bucky, breeding kink, unprotected p-in-v, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, ass play, multiple positions, dirty talk, squint for daddy kink), age gap (r mid 20s, B late 30s), use of nicknames (ex: “kid”), mechanic!Bucky, semi-slow burn, so much angst, arguing, mentions of troubled pasts (ex: bad parents) mentions of prison, mentions of alcoholism, smoking, drinking, no use of y/n

words: 30.2k (WTF!!!!!!!)

summary: When your neighbor saves you from a tight spot, you go out of your way to thank him. You quickly find out that he doesn’t want your thanks — actually, he doesn’t want anything to do with you. The hurt stings while the curiosity burns, but the cracks begin to show when tensions rise. Is it a classic neighborhood dispute, or is there something bigger hiding beneath the surface?

sammy speaks: celebrating 1k+ followers by taking a trip to angst town. thank you for reading and following my blog, I love all you dearly!🤍 also rip to all the letter g’s that did not make it into this fic, you’ll see what I mean

“That doesn’t sound too good, hun.”

Through the windshield, you spot your neighbor standing in front of the hood with a full laundry basket against her hip. Donna’s eyes sweep suspiciously across your car, as if she thinks the ticking of your engine could double for a time bomb.

You groan, your forehead meeting the steering wheel with a dull thud. “I know.”

“What’s wrong with it? Battery dead?” she asks, coming over to your rolled down window. You crack an eye open at her.

“When I know, I’ll tell ya.”

Her answering look is sympathetic.

“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”

“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.

“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”

Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”

Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”

“Have I met him?”

“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”

You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.

Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”

You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.

“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”

“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.

You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.

You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.

Out steps a mountain of a man.

Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.

“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.

“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”

His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.

“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”

He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.

“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”

You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.

“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“

“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.

Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”

Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.

“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.

Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’

But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.

“Try it again,” an order, not a request.

Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.

“Terminal clamp.”

You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.

“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.

“Pop it,” he calls out.

You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.

You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.

Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.

“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”

He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.

“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”

“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.

“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.

“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.

Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”

You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.

“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.

“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”

A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”

A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”

You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.

“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”

Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.

He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”

He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”

“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”

He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.

“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.

“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”

His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.

“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“

“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.

“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“

“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.

“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.

Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”

That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.

“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”

He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.

“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.

“Shit—“

You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.

You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.

It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.

That’s worth celebrating.

You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.

You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.

You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.

Bucky.

The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…

You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.

As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.

You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…

You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.

Nothing.

Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.

Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.

Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.

With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.

You really wish you kept those beers.

When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.

Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?

The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.

You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.

You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.

You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.

Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.

When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.

Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.

He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.

You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.

You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.

You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.

But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.

Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.

The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.

Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.

But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.

By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.

You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.

“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.

He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.

You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.

So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.

On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.

You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.

Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.

Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.

You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.

So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.

This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.

The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.

Occam’s Razor strikes again.

You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?

Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?

Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.

Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.

It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.

You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.

The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.

You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.

“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.

“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”

“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”

She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”

You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.

“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”

“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.

“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”

There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”

You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.

“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”

“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”

“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”

“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.

You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.

“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.

“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.

“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.

“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”

You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.

“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”

You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”

Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”

Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.

“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.

“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.

“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”

A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”

You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.

While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.

You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.

Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.

You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.

It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.

Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.

One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.

Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.

The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.

“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.

Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.

“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.

“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“

“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”

She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”

You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.

You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.

You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.

Your lips part.

Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.

He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”

You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.

“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.

Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”

“Then you should drink with us.”

“Not interested.” You blink.

“…why not?”

He shrugs.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.

A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”

“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”

Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.

Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.

Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.

Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.

Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.

Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.

You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…

Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.

This turns out to be easier said than done.

You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.

Then a knock interrupts.

You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.

Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.

“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.

Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”

His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”

Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.

“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”

He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”

“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.

“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”

“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.

“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.

“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.

“Then at least let me watch.”

Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.

“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.

“Smells good.”

His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.

“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.

“I told you not to call me—“

“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”

Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.

“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”

From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“

Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.

“You asked me to fix your shower.”

“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.

“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”

Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”

He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“

“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”

“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”

“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”

He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.

“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”

You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”

“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”

You scoff.

“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”

“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”

With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.

“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.

“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.

“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”

You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.

“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”

Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”

“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”

He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”

“What night?” Bucky grunts.

“The night we were drinkin’.”

He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”

“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”

He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”

Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”

He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”

Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.

“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”

“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”

“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.

“It’s — well, I’m just—“

“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.

“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”

You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?

You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.

“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.

“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.

“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.

For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”

You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”

“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”

“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.

“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.

“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.

Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.

“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”

You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”

“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.

“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”

“I thought you got things to do today.”

“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”

It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.

A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“

“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—

“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.

“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.

“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.

“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”

Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”

He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”

Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.

“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”

“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.

“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”

You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.

“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.

“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.

“And?”

You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“

Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”

He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”

A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.

The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.

A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.

A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.

Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.

A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.

But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.

You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.

When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.

You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.

You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.

Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.

You take a large sip of beer for courage.

“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”

You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.

Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.

“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.

Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.

“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”

Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”

“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”

“I doubt that.”

“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”

“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“

“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”

There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.

“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”

He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”

Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.

Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.

You blink.

“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”

Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”

“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.

“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”

“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”

“I got what?”

“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”

Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”

The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.

“Uh…”

He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?

You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.

“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.

“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.

“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.

He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”

“Please don’t,” you groan.

He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—

“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.

You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?

But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.

For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.

Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.

Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.

When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.

“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”

By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.

You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”

Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”

Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”

You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”

She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”

“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.

“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.

“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.

“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“

After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.

Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.

That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.

The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”

Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.

“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.

“Good to see you again, Viz.”

You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.

But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”

“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”

“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.

“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.

“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.

“Nat’s just a friend.”

“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”

The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.

Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”

You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.

As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.

You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.

“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”

You’re dragged away before you can say a word.

Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.

As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.

Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.

Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.

“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.

Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.

“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”

A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”

“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”

“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”

“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”

“Maybe four years ago,” he says.

“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.

“Whaddya mean?”

He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“

Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.

“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”

The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”

“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”

“Nope — not Texas.”

You pout. “Gimme a hint.”

“East coast.”

You stare.

“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.

“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”

“Worse. Brooklyn.”

Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”

“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.

“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”

“A story for another time.”

He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.

“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.

He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.

“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.

You balk. “I never said that—“

“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.

“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.

Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”

“Yeah — do you know him?”

He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.

“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”

“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”

Bucky nods. “Good…good.”

Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.

“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.

“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”

You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.

Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.

“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.

You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.

“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.

“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.

Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.

“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”

“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.

“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”

“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.

“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.

“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”

You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—

“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”

Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—

“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.

The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.

“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.

“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”

Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”

You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”

Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”

She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.

“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.

“Thought I’d walk you back.”

You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”

“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”

“You can see my door from here.”

“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.

Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”

“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”

You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”

“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”

“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.

Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.

“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.

Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?

“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.

“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.

“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.

“You think that’s enough to stop me?”

Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”

Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.

It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.

Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.

But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.

You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.

Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.

Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.

While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.

You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.

“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”

Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.

Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.

“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.

Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.

So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.

When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.

You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.

And then you hear it.

It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.

A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.

You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.

But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”

Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.

Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.

Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.

You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.

Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”

You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.

His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”

Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”

“But you didn’t.”

The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.

“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.

“Bullshit,” he counters.

“It’s the truth—“

“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”

You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”

“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”

There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.

“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.

“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.

“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.

You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.

But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.

“I know,” you whisper back.

This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.

He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.

You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.

You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.

And then he kisses you.

Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.

You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.

His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.

The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.

“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.

His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.

And then he gently pushes you off his lap.

Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.

“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.

“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”

“Then why did you stop?”

He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.

“I know. You shouldn’t.”

Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”

He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”

“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.

“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”

You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”

“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”

“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“

He barks out a humorless laugh.

“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”

All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—

He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“

“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”

Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.

“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”

His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.

“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.

He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.

The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.

Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”

Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.

He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”

Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.

“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.

The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.

Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.

What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.

Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.

But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.

And Bucky…

You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.

You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.

His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.

He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.

Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.

On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.

Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.

You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.

So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.

The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.

But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.

You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.

The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.

But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.

“Where’ve you been?”

You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.

“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”

His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”

You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.

“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.

“What for?”

“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”

He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”

A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”

Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.

“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”

Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”

He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”

A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”

“You need money?”

“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“

“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”

“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“

“Because it helps me to not think about you!”

The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.

“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.

“Gee, thanks.”

“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”

“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”

“Kid…”

“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”

“That’s not why I’m here—“

“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”

Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”

“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“

Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.

You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”

You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”

He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”

Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”

“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”

His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.

Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.

But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.

His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.

“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.

“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”

The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…

“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”

He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…

You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”

As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.

Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.

“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”

You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.

“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”

Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.

“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”

A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.

Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.

You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”

Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.

“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”

He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.

You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.

It’s the easiest decision to make.

You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.

Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.

“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”

“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”

He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”

Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”

“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.

“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.

It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.

“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”

His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.

“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.

Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.

“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.

“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”

Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.

Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.

Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.

“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”

You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”

“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.

“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.

But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.

But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”

His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.

“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”

“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.

“More, Bucky, please.”

He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.

“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.

His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.

You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.

“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.

“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.

“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”

You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.

“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.

“But—“

“No.”

You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.

Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.

Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.

He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.

“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.

“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.

“S-so— so good—“

“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”

“…m-more?”

Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.

He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.

“Bucky,” you warn.

“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”

A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.

“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”

The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.

“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”

He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.

The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.

He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.

“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.

He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.

Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.

“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.

You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”

He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for your old man, don’t you?”

“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.

“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”

His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.

You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.

“Eyes on me, baby.”

And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.

You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.

With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.

His good girl.

“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.

“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”

A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.

Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”

The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.

“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”

“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”

“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.

“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”

Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.

“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.

The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.

Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect to the hands he holds down, and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”

You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.

“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, placing a bruising kiss on your lips as his hips pummel into yours.

“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”

Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.

His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.

“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”

His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.

“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”

Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”

All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.

“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.

“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.

“Shit—“ you exhale.

Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.

“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“

“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”

He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.

“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”

His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.

“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“

Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?

“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.

Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.

“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.

“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”

He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.

A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”

There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.

“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”

Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.

“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”

You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”

“Me? Never.”

A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.

“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.

“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.

His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”

A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”

He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”

You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.

“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.

“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”

Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.

Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.

sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!

good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!

as always I appreciate all the love and feedback, and thank you again for following this blog❣️

[tunetales]

39. You almost got yourself killed.

with protective Azriel!!!

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "You almost got yourself killed!"

The battle was over, but the smell of smoke still clung to the air thick enough to choke on.

Your ears rang.

Somewhere in the distance, soldiers shouted for healers. Metal scraped against stone. Wings thundered overhead as Illyrians landed across the ruined field, but all of it sounded muffled—far away beneath the frantic pounding of your heart.

Because Azriel was on his knees.

Blood soaked through the side of his leathers, one hand braced against the ground while shadows writhed violently around him, unsettled and feral. He looked pale beneath the splatters of dirt and ash, his breathing shallow.

And all you could see—over and over again—was the moment he'd shoved you out of the way.

The moment that spear which had been meant for you had skewered through his side.

You reached him before he could stand properly.

“What in the hell were you thinking?” Your voice cracked so sharply it startled even you.

Azriel blinked up at you.

You had never shouted at him. Not once. Not in all the time he'd known you.

Around you, a few nearby soldiers very wisely pretended not to listen.

“You almost got yourself killed!” you snapped.

The words tore out of you far louder than intended, shaking with panic more than anger. Your hands grabbed fistfuls of his leathers as though you needed physical proof he was still there.

“You—” Your breath hitched violently. “You threw yourself in front of it.”

Azriel’s expression shifted then. The surprise faded, replaced by something softer. Something worried.

"Why would you do that?!"

His face tightened slightly, as though he didn't understand why that part upset you.

“It was going to hit you,” he said quietly.

The sheer simplicity of it nearly broke you.

Your vision blurred. “So your solution was to die instead?”

“I wasn’t going to die.”

“You don’t know that!”

Your voice cracked again, and that—more than the shouting—seemed to hit him.

Because suddenly Azriel was moving despite the obvious pain, rising just enough to reach for you.

But you got there first.

You practically threw yourself at him.

Your arms wrapped around his neck so tightly he staggered a little from the force of it, and then he was holding you just as fiercely, one hand sliding into your hair while the other anchored around your waist.

You were violently trembling.

Azriel felt it immediately and his entire body softened.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured.

The tenderness in his voice shattered the last of your composure.

“I thought—” Your words dissolved into a shaky breath against his neck. “I thought I was watching you die.”

Azriel went completely still.

The shadows around him quieted instantly, settling low and calm for the first time since the battle ended.

You buried your face against him harder, clutching at the back of his leathers. “Don’t do that to me,” you whispered brokenly. “Please don’t do that to me.”

His arms tightened.

You could feel his heartbeat against your chest. Strong. Steady. Alive.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

And Azriel almost never apologized for battlefield decisions.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, tears mixing with soot on your cheeks. “You scared me half to death.”

Something anguished flickered across his face then.

Not from his injury, but from you hurting. He hadn't even thought when he'd acted, it had been purely been protective instinct.

His thumb brushed beneath your eye carefully, reverently, as though he hated every tear he found there.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“Because you’re an idiot.”

A tiny breath of laughter escaped him at that. Tired. Disbelieving.

You glared at him through wet eyes, which only made his expression soften further.

Then his forehead rested against yours.

“You are my life,” he said quietly.

The words wrapped around your battered heart and squeezed.

Azriel’s voice dropped even lower. “Every instinct I have is built around protecting you.”

“But not at the cost of you,” you whispered fiercely.

His eyes closed briefly, as though hearing that hurt him more than the wound in his side.

“You don’t understand,” he admitted softly. “If something happened to you—”

“You think I’d survive losing you?”

That finally made him open his eyes.

Real shock crossed his face then. Genuine, vulnerable shock.

You cupped his face with trembling hands. “Azriel, I love you. If you had died in front of me tonight…” Your voice faltered. “I don’t even know what would’ve been left of me after.”

For a moment he simply stared at you.

Like no one had ever said something like that to him before.

Then he kissed you.

Not gentle. Not careful.

Desperate. Relieved.

His hands framed your face like he couldn't bear even an inch of distance between you, and you kissed him back just as fiercely, pouring every ounce of terror and love and gratitude into it.

Alive.

He was alive.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was uneven.

“Don't worry sweetheart, you’re stuck with me,” he murmured against your lips.

You let out a watery laugh. “Good. Because if you ever pull something like that again, I’ll kill you myself.”

A quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest.

Then he tucked you impossibly closer, pressing a kiss into your hair while his shadows curled lazily around both of you at last.

Safe.

Together.

Exactly where he intended to stay.

Taglist:

@nyxmoretti @itmekelpy @plants-w0rld @nebarious @delulustar @starinisstuff @totis-things @sparkyspiers @booksstarryskies @kuraeiii

[tunetales]

I think you would eat up a who did this to you trope with Azriel 😛😛

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "Who did this to you!?"

Authors Note: Lowkey this may be one of my favourite tropes...

Training in the Illyrian camps had always been brutal.

You knew that long before you decided to train.

Bruises were common. Bloody lips happened. Even Cassian had once shrugged at a dislocated shoulder like it was a mild inconvenience.

But this?

This was different.

The male across from you circled slowly, wooden training sword spinning lazily in his hand while several others watched from the sidelines. The afternoon sun beat harshly against the training ring, sweat sticking your leathers to your skin.

“You’re distracted,” the Illyrian sneered.

You tightened your grip on your blade. “I’m fine.”

He smirked.

Then he struck.

Hard.

The force of the blow rattled down your arm painfully enough to numb your fingers. Before you could fully readjust your stance, he swept your legs out from under you which you tried to clumsily recover from.

Pain exploded across your cheekbone as the hilt of his weapon clipped your face hard enough to send you finally sprawling.

The world tilted sickeningly.

You hit the dirt hard.

A few males laughed nearby.

Humiliation burned hotter than the sting of your cheek.

“Get up,” he barked.

You did.

Again and again, he came at you too aggressively for a sparring match. Every strike was meant to hurt. To embarrass. To prove something.

And when you managed to land a decent hit to his ribs—

His temper snapped.

The next shove sent you crashing directly into one of the wooden posts surrounding the ring. The male hit you hard enough that your vision blurred.

You stumbled backward as his hand grasped the front of your leathers, boots skidding across the dirt as he dragged you away forcefully into the middle of the ring, before slamming shoulder-first into the ground once again.

Something cracked painfully along your ribs.

Pain exploded across your side and a sharp gasp escaped you before you could stop it.

The training ring went quiet for half a second.

The male looked almost satisfied.

“You’re weak,” he spat.

You swallowed hard against the pain radiating through your ribs. “I said I’m fine.”

But your voice sounded strained even to your own ears.

He eventually grew bored and wandered away.

You ignored the looks from the others as you left the ring, forcing your breathing steady while your side screamed with every step. You didn’t want pity. Didn’t want a scene.

You especially didn’t want Azriel finding out.

Unfortunately for you, the universe seemed personally committed to ruining that plan.

You had barely made it beyond the training courtyard when shadows curled around your ankles.

Your heart dropped.

Azriel stepped from the shadows directly in front of you.

He took one look at your face and froze.

His eyes took everything in.

Your split lip. The darkening bruise across your cheekbone. The rip in your leathers exposing bloodied skin beneath. The way you were holding your side like breathing itself hurt.

The world seemed to go silent around him.

Even his shadows stilled.

“Who did this to you?”

The words were terrifyingly calm.

You immediately straightened despite the pain. “Az, it looks worse than it is—”

“Who.”

You had heard him interrogate enemies with more warmth than that single word.

You swallowed hard. “It was training.”

Azriel’s gaze dropped to the blood soaking through your side.

Then to the trembling hand you were unsuccessfully trying to hide behind your back.

His jaw flexed once.

“Training,” he repeated softly.

The shadows around him began writhing violently.

You stepped forward quickly before he could vanish. “I’m alright.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That does not comfort me.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word and suddenly the anger on his face looked dangerously close to panic.

Azriel moved toward you slowly then, like he was holding himself together by sheer force. His scarred hands hovered near your waist, hesitant—as though he was afraid touching you would hurt.

“Let me see.”

You winced as he carefully moved your arm from your ribs.

Blood stained his fingers instantly.

He went utterly still.

The kind of stillness that meant something terrible was about to happen.

You knew it immediately.

“Azriel,” you said carefully.

His hazel eyes lifted to yours.

Cold. Lethal.

“Who,” he repeated quietly, “hurt you?”

You hesitated for half a second too long, your eyes instinctively flickering over to the male in question.

That was all he needed.

His shadows surged violently around him as understanding settled across his face.

You grabbed his wrist immediately. “Please don’t kill him.”

His gaze snapped back to yours, and somehow that terrified you more because his expression remained perfectly calm.

“I need you to go inside.”

You blinked. “What?”

Rhysand’s mother’s old house sat just beyond the camp, warm light glowing faintly through the windows.

"Go inside."

"Not unless you come with me."

He didn't say anything for a moment, but eventually he nodded his head sharply.

You heaved a sigh of relief, as much as your ribs allowed you anyway.

Azriel guided you towards the house carefully, one hand firm against your back while shadows circled restlessly around both of you.

“Azriel, I'm fine—”

“You’re hurt. You can barely stand.”

That shut you up because unfortunately he was correct.

Pain stabbed sharply through your ribs with every breath now, your head spinning unpleasantly from whatever damage had been done to your face.

Azriel opened the door and guided you inside with startling gentleness compared to the fury radiating from him.

The moment the door shut behind you in your room, he turned toward the small wash basin, grabbing a cloth to press carefully against the blood at your side.

His hands shook, so slightly that anyone else may have missed it.

But not you.

That scared you more than the injuries.

“Azriel…”

His eyes flicked upward.

You softened immediately at the sheer rage and fear warring there.

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

Something painful crossed his face.

“No,” he said quietly. “You aren’t.”

He cleaned the blood from your cheek with impossible care, but every new bruise he uncovered only darkened his expression further.

When he touched your ribs, you inhaled sharply.

Azriel closed his eyes.

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

Then he stood.

You immediately grabbed his hand. “Don’t.”

His fingers curled tightly around yours for one brief second.

“You know I can’t let this go.”

“He was just a bit rough, that’s all—”

“He enjoyed it.”

Silence.

Because again—he was right.

Azriel crouched in front of you then, both hands cupping your face carefully despite the blood still staining your skin.

“You are not supposed to look like this after training,” he said softly.

The fury in his voice made tears sting unexpectedly behind your eyes.

You leaned into his touch instantly. “Please don’t kill him.”

A shadow of dark amusement crossed his face.

“I’m going to try not to kill him.”

“Azriel.”

His thumb brushed gently beneath your swollen cheekbone.

“I’m simply going to remind him,” he said softly, “that if he ever touches you like that again, training or not, they’ll never find enough of him left to bury.”

You stared at him.

He stared calmly back.

Oh, he meant business.

“Azriel—”

He leaned forward, kissing your forehead tenderly before you could continue arguing.

“Stay here.”

And before you could stop him, darkness swallowed him whole.

You groaned softly, dropping your head back against the chair. “Mother save that male.”

It was nearly an hour before shadows finally stirred near the fireplace again.

Azriel stepped from them silently.

Your head snapped up from where you’d been anxiously waiting wrapped in blankets.

He looked entirely uninjured.

Calm.

Too calm.

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Did you kill him?”

Azriel paused mid-step like he genuinely needed to consider the question.

“No.”

Suspicion flooded you instantly. “Azriel.”

His mouth twitched faintly.

“I didn't kill him.”

“I don't believe you.”

A soft huff of laughter escaped him then as he crossed the room toward you.

The tension in your chest eased immediately despite yourself.

He was alive. He was safe. Most importantly, he was here.

Azriel crouched beside your chair, hands settling carefully around your waist as though checking you were still real.

“I merely reminded that filth,” he said mildly, “that training with you does not grant him permission to brutalise you.”

You squinted. “Define reminded.”

A pause.

“He will struggle to sit comfortably for a few days.”

“Azriel.”

“And perhaps his hand is broken.”

You stared at him in shock.

Azriel looked entirely unrepentant.

“He shouldn’t have touched you.”

The possessive fury beneath the quiet words made your stomach flip.

You sighed tiredly. “You’re terrifying.”

His expression softened instantly. “Not to you though, right?"

You smiled gently at him, brushing some stray hairs tenderly from his forehead. "Of course not."

The rest of the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

His hands slid carefully up your arms, pulling you gently into his lap despite your quiet protest about your ribs.

Azriel ignored you completely.

He tucked your head beneath his chin, wings curling protectively around both of you while his shadows settled at last.

Safe.

You felt his lips brush softly against your hair.

“No one hurts you,” he murmured quietly, “and walks away unchanged.”

Taglist:

@nyxmoretti @itmekelpy @plants-w0rld @nebarious @delulustar @starinisstuff @totis-things @sparkyspiers @booksstarryskies @bxm-2121 @spookypersondinosaur @kuraemiii @karolamurdock @shadowmaurader @acourtofbatboydreams

[x-strwbrry]

ghost_s_riley_sys_failure.exe

simon ghost riley x female reader, age gap, 18+

It started with a fucking software update. You were the tech-wiz, the specialist who could navigate any system with a few clicks of a mouse. He was the grizzled veteran, a legend in the field who could disassemble and reassemble a rifle blindfolded but couldn't figure out how to connect his laptop to the projector. Captain Price had assigned you to 'show him the ropes,' a phrase that now made you want to laugh hysterically.

You’d leaned over Ghost’s shoulder, your breast pressing softly against his bicep as you pointed at the screen. "So, you just right-click here, and select 'duplicate display.' See? Simple."

He’d grunted in response, a low, non-committal sound. But he hadn't been looking at the screen. He'd been staring at the curve of your neck, the way your hair fell from your loose ponytail, the sweet scent of your vanilla shampoo. You were wearing a soft, pink top that day, with a heart-shaped neckline that dipped just low enough to show the swell of your breasts. When you leaned forward to grab the mouse, the fabric gaped, offering him a brief, maddening glimpse of your lacy bra.

And that's when it happened. A hot, sharp pang of arousal, his cock stirring in his cargos, thickening and hardening with a speed that was both shocking and humiliating. He was a man who controlled every aspect of his life, his body a finely-tuned weapon. And yet, here he was, getting a raging hard-on from a glimpse of lace and the scent of vanilla, all from a girl young enough to be his daughter. He’d shifted in his seat, gritting his teeth behind the mask. "Got it," he’d rasped, his voice rougher and heavier than usual. "You can go."

You’d given him a curious look but hadn't pushed it. You just gathered your things and left, oblivious to the absolute storm you'd unleashed inside him.

That night, Simon Riley jacked off with a ferocity that scared him. He came to the thought of your plump, soft ass in those tight tactical pants, the memory of your tits, so fucking perfect, spilling from that ridiculous top. He came so hard his vision went white, and the shame that followed was a cold, bitter pill. He was twice your age, your lieutenant. He was a pervert, a dirty old man lusting after the sweet young thing on his squad. He told himself it was a one-time thing, a moment of weakness brought on by a dry spell.

He was wrong.

It became a constant, low-grade torture. Every mission, every briefing, every training exercise was a minefield. He'd watch you on the firing range, your stance perfect, your brow furrowed in concentration, and he'd imagine that young look on your face as he fucked you slow, deep, and brutal. He'd see you laughing with Johnny, your head thrown back, your throat exposed, and he'd fantasize about wrapping his hand around it, feeling your pulse flutter against his palm while he stretched you open. He tried to keep it professional, throwing up walls of gruff indifference. But he was obsessed. He started finding excuses to be near you, to catch another whiff of your perfume, to see that heart-shaped neckline. He told himself it was just to ensure your safety, that he was just being a good LT. It was a blatant lie.

You weren't any better. You'd gone back to your room that first day and pressed your thighs together, your panties damp with arousal. You'd thought about the sheer power in his body, the gravel in his voice when he said 'got it.' The guys your own age were disappointing. They were fumbling, cocky boys who thought a quick rutt was the pinnacle of pleasure. They didn't have the knowing, dominant look in Simon's eyes. They didn't have hands that could probably snap you in half but would hold you with a surprising, possessive tenderness. You started trying to get his attention, wearing your hair down, choosing softer tops, 'accidentally' dropping your pen in front of him. You craved his gaze on you, the forbidden heat of it. You wanted to know if you affected a grown, hardened killer the way he affected you.

The breaking point came during a late-night gear check. The armory was empty, the only sound the hum of the fluorescent lights. You were checking your vest, your back to him, when he approached.

"Your strap's loose," he said, his voice close to your ear, the deep rumble vibrating through your spine.

You turned, and he was right there, a towering wall of muscle and barely restrained, older need. His eyes were dark, fixed on your mouth. "I can fix it," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.

He didn't move. "Let me."

His hands, so large and calloused, moved to your hips, his thumbs brushing the bare skin where your shirt had ridden up. The touch was electric. He pulled the strap tight with agonizing slowness, his knuckles intentionally dragging against the underside of your breast. Your breath hitched.

"Simon," you breathed, a question and a plea all at once.

"This is a bad idea," he growled against your lips, even as his hand slid up to palm your breast, squeezing it hard.

"The worst," you agreed, arching into his touch, your hands fumbling with his belt buckle.

The conversation that followed, between frantic kisses and discarded clothes, was the most honest you'd ever had. You told him about the immature boys, the unsatisfying encounters. He told you about the loneliness, the years of rigid discipline that had left him starved for a connection that wasn't just physical.

"I wanna be dirty with you," you confessed, your hand finally wrapping around the thick, heavy length of his cock. It was perfect—thick, so thick you could barely get your fingers wrapped around it, with a heavy, prominent vein that ran up the underside. The head was a flushed, angry red, leaking pre-cum constantly, a slick bead that you couldn't help but lean forward and lick away, savoring the salty, musky taste of him.

Simon hissed, his eyes rolling back.

"I wanna do all the things they were too scared to do."

"Fuck," he groaned, his hips thrusting into your fist. "You have no idea what you're askin' for, sweetheart."

"Show me," you demanded, dropping to your knees before him. "Show me how a real man fucks."

Si was a man of control, of discipline, but with you, that control shattered completely. He kissed you like he was starving, like he was trying to crawl down your throat. His tongue was everywhere, licking into your mouth, tasting you, demanding you taste him back. The kisses were wet, filthy, obscene. He sucked on your tongue, a groan rumbling in his chest that made your pussy clench around nothing.

When he had you naked, spread out for him on the armory table, the real depravity began. He loved your ass. He spanked it first, the sharp crack of his hand against your young flesh echoing in the room, leaving a red handprint that he'd later kiss better. You were writhing on the table, begging for more, for him, for anything.

Then he spread your cheeks, his breath hot against your most private place. "Simon, please," you whimpered, a mix of shame and desperate need in your voice.

He didn't answer with words. He just leaned down and licked a long, slow stripe over your tight hole. The sensation was so wrong, so intense, that you saw stars. He didn't just do it; he devoured you. His tongue was pointed and firm, pressing against the furled muscle, circling it, probing it. The sounds he made were utterly nasty—wet, lewd slurps and groans of pleasure as he ate your ass like it was his last meal.

And while he was doing that, his fingers were at your pussy, playing with your slick folds, spreading your wetness. He pushed two fingers inside you, curling them to hit that spot, all while his tongue was still working your ass. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, a mind-breaking pleasure that had you sobbing his name.

He didn't care about the mess. He didn't care about anything except making you fall apart. He talked to you while he did it, his voice a low, dirty murmur against your skin. "You like that, don't you, you dirty girl? Like an old man tongue-fuckin' your tight little arse? Gonna make you come so hard, babygirl."

And he did. Every single time. You came with a scream, your body shaking. And Simon, your perverted, perfect Simon, was right there to catch you, to hold you, and to whisper in your ear how much he loved his filthy little girl.

When he first pushed his dick inside you, it was a stretch that bordered on pain, a delicious, burning fullness that stole your breath. You had to claw at his back, your nails digging into the hard muscle as he worked himself in, inch by agonizing inch.

"Breathe, love," he groaned, his voice strained. "Just breathe. You can take it. You're gonna take all of this cock."

And you did. Because you wanted to. You needed to. Once he was fully seated, he paused, his massive body trembling with the effort of holding still. You felt it pulsing inside you, a hot, living thing, and you were already overwhelmed.

Then he started to move. He didn't fuck you fast at first. He fucked you deep. Long, slow, grinding strokes that hit so deep you swore you could feel him in your belly. He watched your face the entire time, his dark eyes cataloguing every twitch of your expression, every gasp and moan that escaped your lips.

"That's it," he praised, his voice a low, dark rumble. "Look at you, takin' my fat cock like you were made for it. Such a tight little pussy, squeezin' me so good."

He loved to make you beg. He pulled out almost completely, leaving you empty and aching, until you were a whimpering mess, your hips lifting off the surface, trying to get him back inside.

"Simon, please," you begged, tears of frustration pricking your eyes. "Please, I need it. I need your cock."

"Where do you need it, sweetheart?" he taunted, the head of his cock just nudging your entrance. "Tell me how much you want it."

"In my pussy," you sobbed, shameless. "Please, fuck my pussy with your big cock. I need you to fill me up."

That's when he slammed back into you, setting a brutal pace that had the structure around you rattling. The sounds were obscene—the wet slap of his skin against yours, your own high-pitched, youthful moans mixing with his deep, guttural grunts.

"That's my girl," he growled, his hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just a possessive, grounding weight. "Ride my cock, baby. Take it all."

You did. You took everything he gave you, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, your whole body trembling with the force of his thrusts. He'd turned you into a trembling, begging mess, just like he wanted. He fucked you against the shelves, your legs wrapped around his waist, whispering the most depraved things in your ear.

"You like this, don't you? Like being fucked by an old pervert? God, you're so tight, so fuckin' perfect."

You were obsessed. You were addicted to the taste of him, the feel of him, the delicious wrongness of it all. You sucked his cock like it was your new religion, loving the way his hands would fist in your hair, the way he'd lose his composure, his quiet grunts turning into deep, guttural groans.

He was just as gone on you. The way you looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes as you swallowed him down, the way you screamed his name when he made you come, the way you begged for more—it was a fucking revelation. He'd never felt this desperate, this utterly consumed by someone whom he was actively corrupting.

And when he came, it was with a roar of your name. His cock jerked inside you, and you felt the hot, thick spurts of his cum painting your insides, so much of it that it started to leak out around his shaft, trickling down your thighs.

"Attagirl," he panted, his hips still moving, still fucking his cum deeper into you. "Fuck, I'm fillin' you up, baby. Gonna keep you full of me all night."

But the best part, the part that made you utterly his, was that he didn't stop. Even after he was finished, even after he had emptied himself inside you, his cock stayed hard. He kept moving, using his own cum as lube, the filthy, wet sounds getting louder, more lewd.

"Simon," you whimpered, overstimulated, your body already exhausted.

"One more," he grunted, his mouth crashing down on yours. "Gimme one more, sweetheart. I know you can. Cum on my cock again, fuck me empty, baby.”

And you did. You always did. You shattered around him again, your body a limp, sweaty, satisfied wreck. He was your LT, your pervert, your own personal drug, and you wouldn't have it any other way. You loved being his dirty little secret, the one he fucked into oblivion and then held so tenderly afterward.

It became your secret, a filthy, thrilling addiction. You'd find hidden corners of the base, steal moments between missions. He'd bend you over his desk, or you'd ride him in the front seat of his car in the darkened motor pool. The conversation flowed as freely as the sex, a mix of dark humor, shared trauma, and explicit fantasies. You'd talk about everything and nothing, your connection deepening with every dirty word and whispered confession.

One night, after a particularly grueling mission, you were both too exhausted to even make it to the bed. You lay on the floor of his quarters, a tangle of limbs and sweat-slick skin.

"I'm ruined for other men, you know," you murmured, tracing a scar on his chest. "No one's ever gonna fuck me like you do."

He let out a low, dark chuckle, pulling you closer. "Good," he rumbled, his lips brushing your temple. "Because I'm a selfish, perverted old man, and I'm never letting you go."

And in the quiet darkness, with the scent of sex and gun oil hanging in the air, you knew he was right. You were his, completely and utterly, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

[shadowdaddiesclub]

The Rescue

Azriel x reader Hurt/comfort - Angst

When you go missing behind Hybern's lines, Azriel doesn't need the word to know what you are to him. The shadowsinger goes full rage mode to bring home what belongs to him.

Azriel hadn't slept in two days.

He wouldn't have called it sleep even if he'd tried. Not with your scent going cold on a jacket he refused to let anyone move from the war table. Not with the shadows themselves seeming restless, curling and snapping at his heels like they, too, couldn't settle.

Somewhere behind Hybern's lines, in a camp his spies had barely confirmed and couldn't yet locate, you were his one unbearable thought, over and over, a wound that wouldn't close because he didn't know how deep it went.

"You need to eat something," Cassian said, for the third time that hour, sliding a plate toward him that Azriel didn't look at.

"I need a location."

"We're getting one," Rhys said, calm in the way that meant he was working very hard to sound calm. "Az. Look at me."

Azriel didn't. He couldn't. If he looked up he thought something in him might come apart in front of both of them, and he didn't have that to give right now, not when every piece of him needed to stay sharp enough to be useful.

"You're no use to her half-mad," Rhys said, quieter now. "You know that better than anyone. Going in blind gets people killed. Gets her killed."

"Don't you think I know that." Azriel's hands curled into fists on the table, knuckles white. "You think I don't feel every second she's out there? It's not just worry, Rhys, it's wrong, something in me is wrong, like a piece of me is missing and I can't—"

He cut himself off, jaw clenched, but it was too late. Rhys and Cassian exchanged a look over his bowed head, quick and wordless, the kind neither of them would have bothered hiding a year ago.

Neither of them said anything else about it. The silence stretched a beat too long, taut with everything unsaid, until Azriel couldn't stand to sit inside it any longer.

"Then find her!" The words tore out of him, sharp enough that Cassian actually flinched, his fist coming down on the table hard enough to crack the wood beneath it. For a moment fury was the only thing holding him upright, black and consuming, aimed at everything and nothing, at Hybern, at the map, at his own uselessness standing here instead of out there.

Then it broke, just as fast as it had risen, and what was left underneath was worse. "I can't. I can't sit here and do nothing while she—" His voice cracked clean through, low and raw, nothing like him at all, and he didn't finish it. He didn't have to. No one in that room could remember Azriel unraveling out loud about anything, and yet here he was, hands braced on the splintered table, shaking too hard to hide it, saying more with his silence than he ever had with his voice.

Cassian's hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and steadying, and said nothing more. There was nothing left to say.

Azriel didn't answer that. Couldn't. He'd never said the word out loud, not once, not even alone in the dark where no one could hear him say it, and it was clawing its way up his throat now regardless of whether he wanted it to.

He barely registered the next hour. Fragments only: Mor's voice near the door, the map dissolving into hurried coordinates, his own shadows dragging themselves back to him at last, reeking of stone and rust and the copper tang of your blood. They whispered a place to him, finally, a name scratched into the corner of Hybern's territory, and it was enough. It had to be enough.

Rhys caught his arm before he could vanish into the dark, and for once there was nothing calm left in his face at all.

"Bring her home, Az." Rhys said it quiet and fierce, every year of their friendship packed into three words.

Azriel didn't answer. He didn't need to. He was already gone.

The camp reeked of tallow smoke and wet stone, Hybern's banners hanging limp somewhere above the earthworks. Azriel came down out of the dark like something the night itself had been dreading, and for one suspended second he simply stood in the doorway of the holding tent and looked at you, and something in his chest didn't break so much as stop.

You were slumped against a post, wrists bound above your head, one eye swollen shut, your shirt torn and dark with more blood than a person should lose and still be breathing. Your skin had gone pale under the bruising, lips cracked, head hanging like it cost too much to hold up.

But your chest still rose. Still fell. He fixed on that, on the rise and fall of it, because it was the only thing keeping him upright himself.

He hadn't even crossed the threshold when he heard boots approaching from the path behind him, unhurried, almost bored. A soldier shouldered past him into the tent without so much as a glance, chain looped over one fist, already reaching for something laid out on the table, a blade, a brand, it didn't matter what. He was already reaching for the next thing he meant to do to you.

Something in Azriel simply gave way.

He didn't remember crossing the tent. He remembered the man's skull under his bare hands, one on either side, and the sheer animal need to make it stop, make it end, wringing every ounce of restraint he'd ever built right out of him.

Shadow poured off him faster and darker than he had ever let it move, lashing around the soldier's throat and wrists and ankles, dragging him down and pinning him there. Then it was just his hands. No blade. No weapon. Nothing between him and the reason you were bleeding but his own strength and his own fury.

It was over in seconds. It felt like it took an hour and no time at all. When he came back to himself the man was dead on the ground, skull broken beneath his palms, blood slicking his fingers and dripping steady onto the dirt, and his hands were shaking again, for an entirely different reason.

You hadn't made a sound the whole time. Not one.

He was in front of you before his pulse had slowed at all, and everything about him changed the instant he reached for you, the same hands that had just broken bone going impossibly gentle, like you were something that might come apart if he moved too fast.

Blood still clung to his knuckles, drying tacky between his fingers, and some distant part of him hated that it was the last thing to touch you before he could get you clean. He cut the bindings with Truth-Teller, angling the blade away from your skin with a precision that had nothing to do with skill and everything to do with fear of hurting you further.

When the ropes fell away he didn't pull you to him. He gathered you instead, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other sliding beneath your knees. He lifted you like you weighed nothing at all. Like you were the most fragile thing he'd ever held in his long, long life.

"I've got you," he murmured, easing you against his chest by degrees, watching your face the entire time for any flinch, any wince, adjusting his hold instantly at the smallest change in your breathing. He smoothed the hair back from your bruised temple with two fingers, barely a touch, reverent in a way no one alive had ever witnessed from him, not Rhys, not Cassian, not even Mor in four centuries of friendship. "Slowly. I'm going slowly. I won't hurt you, I promise, I've got you."

The male who moved through the world like a blade himself was holding you like porcelain, like something sacred, every motion measured down to the smallest fraction he could manage.

The second he had you settled fully against him, safe, held — you broke.

Not loudly. You didn't have the strength left for loud. Just silent tears, spilling fast and endless down a face too bruised to show much else, your whole body shaking with the effort of holding them in even now, even safe, like some part of you still didn't believe it was allowed to stop being strong.

"I'm here," he said, voice wrecked, pressing his mouth to your hair, to your temple, anywhere he could reach that wasn't hurt. "I'm here. I got you. I'm not letting go."

You turned your face into his throat instead of answering, and he felt every silent sob against his skin like a blow.

"I didn't tell them anything, Az," you finally whispered, so faint he had to lean in to catch it. Your fingers found the front of his jacket, closing around the fabric with what little strength you had left. "I didn't break."

He pulled back only far enough to look at you, at the pride flickering somehow through the wreckage of your face, like that was the one thing you needed him to know before anything else, more than the pain, more than the fear still shaking through you.

"Oh, sweetheart." The words came out rough, worn thin, entirely too soft for a male whose hands were still slick with what he'd just done. "I know. I know you didn't. You never would have."

"I wasn't scared," you breathed, though the tremor in your voice said otherwise, said everything.

"My brave girl," he murmured, voice splintering on the words, and pressed his forehead to yours, shadows curling tight and close around you both like they could shield you from the memory of the last hours if they just held on hard enough.

You just held on, fingers still fisted in his jacket, forehead still pressed to his, as he rose in one smooth motion, already scanning the tent flap, already listening for boots that weren't his.

He didn't have long, Hybern's camp would notice the silence soon enough, and he moved fast even as he held you like glass, shadows sweeping ahead of them to smother torchlight, to muffle sound, clearing a path out of the dark before either of you had to think about it.

Twice he froze mid-stride, shadows flattening against the earthworks as a patrol passed close enough to hear breathing, and both times he angled his body between you and the open air without seeming to decide to at all, like it wasn't a choice so much as instinct. By the time the wards of the camp fell away behind them and he finally broke into open sky, his heart was still hammering, though nothing in the world could have made him admit that out loud.

"I'm taking you home, love," Azriel murmured against your hair, voice rough with everything he wasn't letting himself say outright. "Wherever I am, that's where you belong now." The words came out low, unguarded, more than he meant to give away, and neither of you was steady enough yet to call him on it.

Somewhere over the tree line, your grip on his jacket went slack, and he knew, without needing to check, that you were gone under.

The townhouse door didn't open. It exploded inward, torn off one hinge as Azriel didn't so much land as crash through the threshold, wings still half-spread, shadows boiling off him in every direction and swallowing every lamp in the front hall at once. A vase shattered against the wall. Wood splintered underfoot. He was already moving, already shouting, before the door had even finished swinging on its ruined hinge behind him.

"MADJA!" His voice tore through the quiet halls, raw and cracking, nothing like the male who moved through this house on silent feet, who never raised his voice for anything. "MADJA, NOW! I need her now!"

He didn't wait for the echo to die before he was shouting again, a second time when no answer came fast enough, a third when he still didn't hear footsteps, some ragged, unraveling part of him convinced that if he stopped shouting for even a second, it would mean he'd given up.

Rhys and Cassian came down the stairs at a dead run, half-dressed, Cassian's shirt still hanging open, and neither of them slowed at the sight of Azriel with you in his arms, they just moved faster. Cassian was shouting orders before he'd even reached the bottom step, barking for hot water, for linens, for someone to send word to Madja now.

Rhys crossed the hall in three strides, gripping his shoulder hard, steadying him, though nothing about the moment felt steady at all. Mor was already gone, winnowed out to fetch the healer herself.

The rest of the house erupted right behind them. A door slammed open somewhere above, more feet pounding down the stairs two and three at a time. Nuala came flying out of the kitchen with a lit candle still in hand, wax spattering the floor behind her. Somewhere a glass shattered. Someone was shouting for towels, someone else for water, voices overlapping and tripping over each other in the dark, the whole household jolted awake and moving at once.

"Someone get her, NOW," Azriel snarled, to no one, to everyone, shouldering his way into the nearest bedroom without waiting for an answer, still cradling you, limp and unmoving, your head lolling against his chest with none of the strength left to hold itself up, like you might shatter against his own urgency, the whole house in motion around him, doors banging, feet pounding, his family scrambling to keep pace with a fear that had no shape yet, only speed.

He laid you down on the bed like it cost him something, like every inch of distance between his hands and your skin was a small betrayal, and even once your head was settled against the pillows his hands wouldn't stay still, hovering over you, touching your jaw, your throat, your wrist, as if he couldn't decide which part of you needed him most and so tried to hold all of it at once.

"Stay with me," he said, low, urgent, voice fraying at the edges. "Stay with me, sweetheart, come on, look at me, come on—"

You didn't answer. You hadn't answered in longer than he wanted to think about, your face slack and pale against the pillow, your breathing shallow but steady, at least, steady enough that he clung to that single fact like a lifeline, repeating it to himself under his breath, steady, she's steady, she's still breathing, like it might stop being true the moment he stopped saying it.

Madja swept in with Mor close behind her, already rolling her sleeves, already assessing the damage with the practiced eye of someone who'd seen far worse than this and survived worse still. "Azriel. I need room to work."

He didn't move.

"Azriel." Sharper now. "I can't help her with you hovering over every inch of her like a wall."

"I'm not in your way."

"You are exactly in my way." Madja's eyes flicked, not unkindly, to where his hand was still fused to your jaw. "Let me see her ribs. Let me see what they did to her wrists. I promise you, I am not going to hurt her worse than she already is."

His jaw worked. For a moment it looked like he might actually argue with a healer three centuries his senior, might plant himself at your side like a second spine and refuse to be moved by anything short of a direct order.

That order came in the form of two sets of hands.

"Az." Cassian's voice, low, careful, right before he and Rhys took an arm each and hauled him bodily back from the bed. Azriel fought it, snarling, shadows lashing out toward both of them before some last shred of reason clamped down and stopped him from actually hurting either of his brothers.

"Let her work. Let her work, you're going to break her ribs worse holding on like that."

"Get off me," he snarled, teeth bared, shadows spiking off him in every direction, nothing left in his voice but raw animal warning.

"Listen to me." Rhys's grip didn't loosen, arm locked hard across Azriel's chest, voice low and even despite the effort it clearly cost him to hold on. "I know you're not thinking straight right now. I know. But you have to let Madja touch her, Az. You have to let her work. You can hate us for it after."

Azriel strained against them for one more heartbeat, every muscle in him screaming to get back to your side, and then, all at once, the fight went out of him. He sagged between his brothers like something had been cut, chest heaving, eyes never once leaving your face even from three feet away.

When he finally spoke his voice had gone somewhere Rhys and Cassian had never heard it go before, cracked open, stripped of every wall he'd ever built, nothing left to hide behind. "I can't lose her. I didn't have time with her." It came out small, almost childlike, nothing like a warrior who'd just crushed a man's skull with his own hands. "Not enough time. I needed more time."

Something wet caught in his throat, and he pressed the heel of his hand hard against his eyes, furious with himself for it, unable to stop it either.

Rhys and Cassian exchanged a look over his bowed head and eased their grip, though neither of them stepped far.

Madja, wisely, didn't waste the opening. She worked fast, probing your ribs with careful hands, checking your pulse, lifting one eyelid and then the other with a frown that deepened by the second, while Azriel stood frozen between his brothers, hands opening and closing at his sides, aching to be back at your side and not trusting himself yet to go there gently.

"Two ribs broken, maybe a third," Madja murmured, moving to your wrists next, tsking softly at the raw, rope-burned skin beneath the deeper marks scored into it. "That, I can fix. That, time and salve will handle." She straightened, wiping her hands on her apron, her expression giving nothing away yet. "Let her rest. Sleep is the best thing for her right now."

"Why isn't she waking up?"

"She's been through a great deal, Azriel. Give it time." Madja glanced past him to where Rhys, Cassian, and Mor still hovered in the doorway, none of them having moved an inch since they'd first crowded in behind him. "The rest of you, out. She needs quiet." Her eyes flicked to Azriel, still hovering close, and something in her expression softened, understanding written into it in a way she didn't bother explaining to the others. "He stays."

Rhys didn't argue. He gripped Azriel's shoulder once, wordless, and steered Cassian out ahead of him before he could protest. Mor lingered a moment longer in the doorway, something soft and worried in her face, before she too slipped out and pulled the door most of the way shut behind her, leaving it cracked just enough that none of them would be far.

Then it was just the two of you.

Azriel didn't move from that spot at your bedside, not once, not even as the hours bled past and your breathing stayed shallow and even and your eyes stayed closed. He just sat there in the low lamplight, watching you breathe, memorizing the rhythm of it like he was terrified it might stop the second he looked away.

"I'm here, love," he said quietly, to a room that couldn't hear him. "I'm staying. Just, please, come back."

The hours passed like that, in silence, in lamplight, in the small, endless proof of your breathing. Somewhere past midnight Nuala came and went with fresh bandages and a look she didn't voice. Somewhere after that the candle guttered low, and Azriel didn't move to relight it, content to sit in the dark with your hand in his.

Sleep never came for him. He didn't want it to.

Azriel simply watched the night bleed slowly toward morning, waiting for a sign that didn't come.

---

MAIN TAGLIST : @sjejejjej @theyouthfullmoon @maplesdapperthoughts @jaziona92 @lilah-asteria @chillinini @spookypersondinosaur @sunmoonsweets @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @narcissanarcissa

[beasbrain]

I Pine, I Perish

description: a cutie lil fic where eddie is just completely obsessed with you. who knew all he needed to bring you two together was jason carver beating his ass?

pairing: yearning!eddie x you (fem!reader)

tags: yearning!eddie, protective!reader, eddie x reader, no y/n, reader insert, slow (ish) burn, first kiss, happy ending, fluff the house down boots, high school romance, so much fucking yearning, eddie's head over heels

WC: 4.5k

TW: bullying, violence, some smoochies

A/N: requested by @midgardian-rogue hope you enjoy!! sorry for the wait! life is kicking my behind. i haven't forgotten about you all. reblogs are always appreciated my loves<33 hope you all enjoy an ounce of some innocent fluff before final girl pt.2 bc......

People talked about love like it happened all at once. Like it was lightning. Like one look across a crowded room, and suddenly the rest of your life made sense.

Eddie Munson thought that was complete and utter bullshit.

Love wasn't lightning; it was erosion. The kind that wore you down one unnoticed glance at a time until one day you looked up and realized you'd built an entire religion around someone who didn't even know your favorite color.

Everyone knew you.

Not in the way they knew Jason Carver, Jason demanded attention. You never asked for it…it simply just followed you.

Teachers smiled a little wider when you answered questions. Freshmen gravitated toward you on the first day of school like frightened birds, somehow knowing you were safe.

It was infuriating. Not because Eddie disliked you. God, that would've made things so much easier, no. You were kind.

Genuinely, painfully, kind.

The kind of person who remembered birthdays without writing them down. The kind of beauty that had nothing to do with your face. Though...that certainly wasn't hurting anything.

You smiled with your whole body. Your shoulders, your eyes, even your laugh looked warm. Sometimes Eddie wondered if the sun waited for your permission before coming up. Which—

Jesus Christ.

See? This was exactly the problem. He couldn't even think about you without sounding like he'd swallowed a Hallmark card. He'd never even spoken to you. Well, not really.

Sure, there'd been little moments. A borrowed pencil sophomore year. A quiet "thank you" when he'd held a door open. Passing each other in the hallway enough times that nodding became an unspoken ritual.

But conversations? Actual conversations? Those belonged to people who lived on the same planet. You lived somewhere else entirely.

Some place made of honor roll certificates, volunteer hours, and Sunday mornings that probably smelled of pancakes instead of cigarette smoke.

Eddie had long since accepted that there were invisible lines running through Hawkins High. Athletes. Nerds. Burnouts. Band kids. Freaks. You somehow belonged to all of them, while he belonged to exactly one.

Hellfire. The trailer park. The people adults warned their children about. 

Wayne always said Eddie had expensive taste. Not in clothes or cars, but people.

"You always go lookin' at things that ain't yours to carry," Wayne had muttered once while Eddie admired an old cherry-red Gibson through a pawn shop window.

At the time, Eddie thought he meant guitars. Now he wasn't so sure. Because every morning, without meaning to, he'd find himself searching the parking lot before first bell. Just to see if your car was there.

And every afternoon, he'd linger exactly thirty seconds too long outside English because he knew your classroom was across the hall. Not enough to be obvious, just enough to catch one glimpse.

Then he'd spend the rest of the day pretending that was somehow enough, though it never was.

The thing about memories was that they lied. Or maybe they just... polished themselves over time.

Eddie couldn't remember what he'd eaten yesterday. Couldn't remember what movie he'd watched with Wayne the week before. But he remembered that afternoon, every stupid, humiliating second of it.

It had been almost exactly a year ago.

The last bell had rung, sending Hawkins High spilling into the hallways in a tidal wave of backpacks and locker doors slamming shut. Eddie had lingered by his locker, stuffing loose campaign notes into a folder while Gareth argued with Jeff about whether dragons were technically reptiles.

He never heard Jason coming. The locker door slammed shut before Eddie could grab it, the metal rattling loud enough to make nearby students jump.

"Well, if it isn't the freak."

Eddie sighed. "Christ, Carver. Don't you ever get tired?"

Jason leaned against the neighboring locker with that smug grin Eddie had grown to hate. Andy and Chance flanked him like loyal guard dogs, each wearing the same self-satisfied expression.

"Nah."

Jason reached out, flicking Eddie's shoulder with unnecessary force.

"I actually look forward to these little chats."

"I don't."

"Funny."

Another shove. Not enough to knock him down, but just enough to remind him who had thirty pounds and varsity sports behind him.

"You know," Jason continued loudly, making sure the people walking by could hear, "I heard you recruited another freshman into your little Satan club."

Eddie rolled his eyes. "You guys are really obsessed with us."

"Just looking out for the town."

Same script, different day. Eddie had learned years ago that fighting back only made it worse.

So he leaned against the lockers and waited for them to get bored. He almost missed the footsteps approaching.

"What are you doing?" Your voice wasn't loud.

Jason turned first. "So, this doesn't concern—"

"It concerns me now."

You stepped between passing students without the slightest hesitation, your backpack still hanging off one shoulder.

"Move."

Jason laughed. "Excuse me?"

"I said move."

Andy scoffed. "You serious?"

Without another word, you planted a hand square against Andy's chest and shoved him back just enough to force him away from Eddie. Not hard, but just enough to make it clear whose space he'd invaded.

Jason stared at you, his jaw tightening. "What the hell is your problem?"

"My problem?" you echoed. "Three against one seems pretty pathetic to me."

"We're talking."

"No." You folded your arms. "You were cornering him."

Jason took one step closer. "I'd be careful if I were you."

Eddie's stomach dropped.

But you didn't move. Hell, you didn't even blink.

Instead, one eyebrow lifted. "What?"

Your voice stayed infuriatingly calm. "You gonna hit a girl?"

Jason's expression hardened. "I didn't say—"

"No?" You tilted your head. "I mean... you've already got one thing in common with your father."

You paused, eyeing him up and down.

"It'd be a shame if you decided to copy the rest of his behavior too."

Jason's face went red. Not from embarrassment, but pure fury. The kind of fury that made his nostrils flare.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"No?" You shrugged. "Then prove me wrong."

For a moment...Eddie genuinely thought Jason might do it. Might shove you. Might yell. Might finally snap.

Instead, Jason looked around. He couldn't touch you, not here. Not with everyone looking.

Jason just clicked his tongue. "Whatever."

He shot Eddie one last glare. "You're not worth it."

Then to you, "Careful who you stick up for."

You smiled. "I'll keep that in mind."

Jason scoffed before turning on his heel. "C'mon."

Andy and Chance followed without another word.

Eddie realized he'd been holding his breath. "...Thanks."

You turned toward him. For a second, he thought you might say something profound. Something unforgettable.

Instead, you smiled; that warm, easy smile he'd only ever seen from across classrooms.

"Don't mention it." You adjusted your backpack. "See you around, Eddie."

Eddie? Not ‘Munson’? He thought. 

Then you just…walked away. Like standing up to Jason Carver was no bigger a deal than holding the door open for someone. Eddie watched until you disappeared around the corner.

He didn't realize Gareth had come back until someone elbowed his ribs. "Dude."

"Hm?"

"You okay?"

Eddie kept staring at the empty hallway. "...yeah."

A year later...Eddie could still tell you exactly where you'd been standing. Exactly what you were wearing. Exactly how your hand had looked when you shoved Andy away from him.

He'd spent three hundred and sixty-five days trying to convince himself it hadn't meant anything. That you would've done it for anybody. It was probably true. But God knows that didn’t help slow his crush on you down in the slightest. 

There was a reason Eddie loved the Hawkins Fall Flea Market. Sure, half the vendors were selling ceramic geese in tiny bonnets or dusty kitchenware that should've been thrown out sometime during the Nixon administration.

But every now and then...Someone's grandfather died, and suddenly there'd be a box full of first-edition fantasy novels.

Or vintage dice. Or a stack of Dragon magazines someone didn't realize were worth something. Treasure hunting. That's what Wayne always called it.

"You never know what you're gonna find."

Eddie had been elbow-deep in a cardboard box labeled COMIC BOOKS - 25¢ for nearly twenty minutes before giving up his search for anything remotely Dungeons & Dragons related.

No dice…literally.

With a dramatic sigh, he wandered farther down the rows of tents, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket as he smiled to himself. It wasn't exactly exciting, but it was comfortable.

He almost walked right past the record stand.

It was tucked between a vendor selling antique fishing lures and another covered in old comic strips and movie posters. Milk crates overflowed with vinyl records while wire racks displayed cassettes in crooked little rows.

Naturally...Eddie wandered over. His fingers skimmed over faded album covers. Thin Lizzy. Rush. Van Halen. Not bad. Then—

"...No way."

He hadn't meant to say it out loud, but there you were. Standing on the opposite side of the rack, your brows pinched together in concentration as you thumbed through a crate marked HEAVY METAL.

You wore an oversized forest-green sweater with the sleeves pushed over your hands, faded jeans, and beat-up Converse he'd never seen you wear to school. Your hair was tucked behind one ear as you carefully flipped through albums like you actually knew what you were looking at.

There was no universe in which this made sense. You belonged in the classical section. Or maybe folk, something acoustic. Not Iron Maiden. Motörhead. Judas Priest.

He blinked hard, almost thinking he was staring at a mirage. Nope, still there.

You looked up and caught him staring again. A smile spread across your face almost instantly.

"Oh." You laughed softly. "Hi, Eddie."

His mouth opened, but nothing happened.

"You... um..." Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. "You like... music?"

God, just bury him now.

Your smile only widened. "I dabble."

"I just..." He gestured helplessly toward the crate. "I wasn't expecting..."

"Me?"

He nodded.

"I wasn't expecting me either." You grinned to yourself before looking back down at the albums. "My dad's the reason."

"You've got a metalhead dad?"

"The biggest."

You laughed. "He swears everything made after 1984 is garbage."

"Smart man."

"I told him you'd probably say that."

Eddie's head snapped up. "...You've talked about me?"

The words escaped before he could stop them.

You looked equally surprised. "I..."

A tiny laugh escaped you. "I mean..."

You ducked your head for a second. "You know... around school."

Right, of course. Don't be stupid, Munson. The thought that your family even knew his name made something warm bloom in his chest.

You continued sorting through the cassette, then suddenly stopped.

"Oh."

Your fingers landed on one. Without hesitating, you slid it free from the rack and held it toward him. "I think you'd like this."

He looked down. Mercyful Fate.

Eddie stared at the cassette, then back at you. "You know Mercyful Fate?"

"I know enough." You shrugged. "My dad played this one so much I practically know it by heart."

Eddie took it carefully, almost afraid it'd disappear if he moved too fast. "You've heard this?"

"'Come to the Sabbath' used to scare me when I was little."

He barked out a laugh. "You've gotta be kidding."

"Nope."

"You don't exactly scream..." He motioned vaguely toward you. "...Mercyful Fate."

"And you don't exactly scream honor roll."

He blinked. "...Fair."

You smiled victoriously before turning back to the rack. After another moment of searching, your face brightened. "There it is."

You pulled out your own cassette. The Cure: Disintegration.

"See?" You held it up proudly. "I have range."

Eddie laughed. "I'll allow it."

"I appreciate your approval."

The older vendor wandered over. "You kids find everything?"

You nodded. "I think so."

As the man rang up your cassette, Eddie was still standing there holding the Mercyful Fate tape in both hands like you'd just gifted him the Holy Grail.

You paid, tucked the cassette into your canvas tote bag, and looked back at him. "I'll see you Monday?"

He swallowed. "...Yeah."

"Don't wait too long to listen to that." You pointed toward the cassette still in his hands. "I'd like to know what you think."

Before he could ask exactly how you planned to do that...you were already walking away.

You lifted a hand over your shoulder. "Bye, Eddie."

He watched until the crowd swallowed you whole. Only then did he glance back down at the cassette.

"You gonna buy it?"

The vendor's voice startled him. "Huh?"

"You've been holding it for five minutes."

"Oh."

Eddie looked down at the cracked plastic case, then toward the direction you'd disappeared. "...Yeah."

He smiled to himself. "I think I have to."

The cassette wasn't rare. He'd seen three copies of the same album over the last month. It wasn't even his favorite Mercyful Fate record. But this one? This one had your fingerprints on it.

By Wednesday, Eddie had listened to the Mercyful Fate cassette four times. Not because it had suddenly become his favorite album, it hadn't.

But every time King Diamond's voice crackled through the speakers of the van's cassette player, Eddie could picture your smile across that flea market record stand.

"I think you'd like this."

Wayne noticed by Tuesday night. "Ain't this the same tape you played yesterday?"

"...Maybe."

"You finally wear out your Sabbath tapes?"

"...No."

Wayne glanced over the rim of his newspaper. "...Girl?"

Eddie nearly combusted on the spot from how red his face was.

The cafeteria buzzed louder than usual as homecoming week had officially taken hold at Hawkins High. Construction paper streamers hung lopsided from the ceiling.

The student council had somehow convinced the administration to decorate every available surface in orange and green, making the cafeteria look like it had exploded.

Eddie hated it. He hated pep rallies, football, and he especially hated homecoming. And he especially especially hated listening to Jason Carver talk about the "spirit of Hawkins."

"So," Gareth said through a mouthful of fries, "we skipping the pep rally?"

"We're legally obligated to."

Jeff nodded solemnly. "It's in the Hellfire constitution."

Mike frowned. "We have a constitution?"

"We do now."

Laughter bounced around the table. Then Dustin elbowed Eddie. "Dude."

"What?"

"Twelve o'clock."

Eddie looked up. You moved from table to table carrying a thick envelope and a clipboard tucked against your chest. Homecoming tickets, of course.

You stopped at the basketball table first. Jason smiled, and you smiled back politely. Professional and nothing more. Then the band kids. Then the theater kids. Then—

Hellfire...and Eddie's heart immediately forgot how to function.

"Hi, guys."

You smiled at the whole table before your eyes landed on him.

"Hi, Eddie."

God. You always said his name like it belonged in your mouth.

"Uh... hey."

"So," you said, setting the envelope on the table. "I'm making my rounds."

You held up two small orange tickets. "Homecoming tickets. Five dollars."

Jeff snorted, Mike looked horrified, while Gareth dramatically searched his empty pockets.

"We're allergic."

"I figured."

Then you looked back at Eddie. "Oh."

Your smile softened. "Did you ever listen to the cassette?"

His brain completely abandoned him. "...Yeah."

"And?"

"It was..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "...Really good."

"'Really good?'" You looked mock offended. "I thought it'd at least earn a 'life-changing.'"

"I was trying not to sound insane."

"So you liked it?"

"I—" He smiled before he could stop himself. "...Yeah. A lot, actually."

"I knew you would."

Something warm settled in his chest. You knew. Not hoped, not guessed, knew.

Which is why, when he said, without thinking, "I'll take two."

Silence, which even made Eddie freeze. What?

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. "...Two?"

He stared at the tickets. Abort mission. Abort mission. FUCK! Too late.

"Uh..." His hand was already digging into his pocket. "Yeah."

He slapped a crumpled ten-dollar bill onto the table before his brain had the chance to intervene. "I'll take two."

You looked at him for a second longer than necessary, then the smallest smile tugged at your lips. Then, you handed him the two orange tickets. 

"Our music committee isn't nearly as good as Mercyful Fate."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"I'll see you around?"

"...Yeah."

You gave the table one last smile. "Have a good lunch, guys."

Then, you disappeared toward the next group of students, and the second you were out of earshot...

Five heads slowly turned toward Eddie.

"...What the hell was that?" Dustin snaps.

"What?"

"You hate homecoming."

"I don't hate—"

"You called it," Gareth interrupted, "'capitalist propaganda with crepe paper.'"

"I stand by that."

Jeff leaned across the table. "So why," he asked carefully, "did you just buy..."

He held up two fingers. "...two tickets?"

Eddie blinked. "...Did I?"

"You were there." Mike snorted. "I'm pretty sure you even paid for them."

Eddie looked down at the tickets in his hand as though they'd magically appeared there.

"...Huh."

Gareth burst into laughter. "'Huh?'"

"'Huh?!'"

"You bought two!"

"I know!"

"Do you?!"

Dustin reached across the table and plucked one from Eddie's fingers.

"'Homecoming Admission.'"

He looked around dramatically. "Guys. I think Eddie the Banished has suffered a traumatic brain injury."

Jeff nodded. "Only explanation."

"You've spent three years talking about how dances are government mind control."

"They are."

"So, who are you taking?"

Eddie opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Because...he hadn't thought that far. He hadn't thought at all. He'd just wanted another excuse or another thirty seconds of hearing your voice.

"...Nobody."

Five skeptical expressions. "Nnnoooobody?" Gareth echoed.

"Nope."

"So you just bought two tickets..."

"Yep."

"...For fun?"

"...Sure."

Mike deadpanned, "That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."

Dustin slowly smiled. "Oh."

"Oh no," Eddie muttered.

"Oh, no."

Dustin pointed across the cafeteria, where you were still making your rounds. "You bought two tickets because you're gonna ask her."

Eddie nearly choked on his Coke. "I am absolutely not."

"You absolutely are."

"I absolutely am not."

Jeff grinned. "Dude."

"You've been listening to that cassette all week."

"You don't know that."

"Wayne told my mom."

Eddie's head whipped toward him. "...Wayne, what?"

"My mom was at the trailer dropping off your uncle's casserole dish."

Jeff shrugged innocently. "He said—and I quote—'Boy's been playing the same damn tape for three days. Must be love.'"

The entire table erupted while Dustin pointed triumphantly. "Called it."

Eddie dropped his forehead onto the cafeteria table with a groan.

By the time Hellfire finished packing up their campaign books in the theater room, basketball practice had just let out. Which meant letterman jackets, inflated egos, and Jason Carver. Perfect.

Eddie spotted them before they spotted him, or so he thought.

"You boys have another séance today?"

Gareth groaned.

"Just keep walking."

That had been the plan. Until Tommy H stuck his foot out, and Gareth caught it too late.

His books were scattered across the pavement, dice bouncing in every direction. One tiny d20 rolled nearly twenty feet before coming to rest beneath a parked truck.

"Oh, my bad," Tommy said without sounding sorry in the slightest.

Gareth muttered a curse beneath his breath as he knelt to gather his things.

Eddie was already moving. "The hell's your problem?"

Jason shrugged. "Gravity."

"You tripped him," Eddie says, pointing between Jason and Tommy. 

"I don't know, Munson." Tommy grinned. "Looked pretty clumsy to me."

Jeff and Dustin immediately stepped toward Gareth, helping gather his books. Eddie stood between them and Jason.

"C’mon, man. At least pick on someone with a fighting chance."

Jason smiled as he chimed in. "I am."

The shove came so fast that Eddie barely had time to react, his shoulder slamming into the side of a parked car. The metal echoed.

"Jesus, fuck—" Eddie shoved him back, causing Jason's smile to disappear.

"Oh. There he is."

The first punch caught Eddie across the jaw, causing white to explode across his vision. He stumbled back, so Andy grabbed his jacket from behind. Then, Tommy landed one on his ribs. Someone else kicked the back of his knee.

Three against one, again. He heard Dustin yelling, Jeff trying to pull somebody off, and Gareth shouting Eddie's name.

"...Enough!"

Everything stopped as a familiar voice cut through the chaos like a knife.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Eddie blinked through blurry vision and saw you.

You were marching across the parking lot faster than he'd ever seen anyone move as your backpack swung wildly against your side.

Jason scoffed. "Stay out of it."

"No."

You shoved Andy away from Eddie so hard that he stumbled backward. "I said that’s enough."

Tommy laughed. "Oh, here comes Wonder Woman."

You ignored him completely. Instead, you crouched beside Eddie. "Are you okay?"

He tried to answer, but instead, blood dripped onto his shirt. Your face tightened as you looked back up to analyze the scene: three basketball players, one bleeding boy, and his friend's reactions somewhere between horror and panic. 

"You should be proud of yourselves."

Jason rolled his eyes. "He was acting insane. He pushed me for Christ's sake."

"That's bullshit."

Jason took a step closer. "What do you care?"

"I care because you three are acting like a bunch of fucking neanderthals. And for what? What the hell did he ever do to you?"

He laughed. "You really gonna defend this freak?"

You stood slowly until you were eye level with him. "I'm defending someone who can't fight three people at once."

Jason clicked his tongue. "You're wasting your time."

"No." You shook your head.

"You know..." You looked Jason up and down. "For someone who talks so much about honor..."

Your eyes drifted toward the gym. "...you sure need a lot of teammates when you throw a punch."

Jason's jaw clenched. "You should go."

"You first."

You kept your gaze fixed on Jason, putting on the best ‘don’t fuck with me today’ face you could muster.

His eyes dart between you and Eddie, a small and almost sinister grin forming. Then, he scoffed.

"C'mon. This freak show isn’t worth our spots in Friday's game.”

The last of the basketball team disappeared across the parking lot. Jason threw one final glare over his shoulder before climbing into Tommy's truck.

"...Jesus Christ." Your voice was barely above a whisper. Eddie looked up just in time to see you drop to your knees again beside him.

Your eyes darted over his face: the split lip, the scrape across his cheek, the beginnings of a bruise blooming beneath his eye.

"Dustin!" you called over your shoulder. "Go to the nurse's office!"

Dustin looked between you and Eddie before immediately taking off toward the school. "I'll get an ice pack!"

You nodded once before turning your attention back to Eddie. "Can you sit up?"

He managed a small nod even though every rib protested. You slipped an arm beneath his shoulder, helping him lean back against the brick wall of the school.

"So much for keeping your pretty face."

Eddie let out a weak laugh. "...Didn't know I had one."

You rolled your eyes. "Shut up."

Your backpack slid into your lap, frowning as you rifled through its contents. "No..." You dug deeper. "No..."

"Ah! There."

You pulled out an old black T-shirt, faded nearly gray with age. Eddie recognized the logo immediately: Iron Maiden, The Number of the Beast tour.

He blinked. "You just carry band shirts around for fun?"

"My dad leaves them in my car." You shrugged, "Guess they make good makeshift paper towels."

You hesitated. "Can I?"

He nodded before he even knew what you were asking. You folded the shirt into a small square before gently dabbing at the blood on the corner of his mouth; your touch was impossibly careful.

With your face inches from his, he’s embarrassed about how many times he imagined being this close more times than he cares to admit.

"You know..." You sighed, "...That was really stupid."

"Hm?"

"What were you thinking?" You wiped another streak of blood from his cheek. "There were three of them."

"They were picking on Gareth."

"I know."

"So..."

"So you decided to get yourself killed?"

"I wasn't gonna let them jump him."

"I know." You say with an exaggerated sigh.

You make another careful swipe of the shirt across his lip, "You don't always have to be the one who saves everybody."

He watched you instead of answering. Your brows were pulled together, bottom lip tucked between your teeth in concentration.

"Eddie?"

He hadn't realized he'd been staring. "What?"

"You okay? You keep looking at me and, like, zoning out. Do you feel dizzy?"

"Oh." His voice came out embarrassingly quiet, "Uh, no. Sorry."

"Oh." You reply, a tiny smile tugging at your lips.

“Huh?” He swallowed.

His brain screamed at him to say literally anything else. Comment on the weather. Ask about homework.

"I think I really like you."

You froze mid-wipe of his cheek, eyes quickly meeting his. 

Eddie groaned and closed his eyes. "Fuck—Forget I said that."

"Oh."

Fantastic. She sounds uncomfortable. Wonderful.

"I didn't mean—"

"No." Your hand gently caught his wrist before he could keep spiraling, "I just..."

He opened his eyes, and to his delight, you were smiling.

"I've been wondering how long that was going to take."

His eyebrows knit together. "...What?"

"I was starting to think you were never going to say it."

"...Say what?"

"That."

You laughed quietly. "I've liked you for over a year, Eddie."

His brain stopped. "No, you don't."

"I do."

"You can't."

"I can."

"You..." He searched your face for the joke, "You've liked me?"

"Since you helped that freshman find the theater room on the first day of school last year."

"...That's why?"

"You spent fifteen minutes walking him around the building."

"He looked lost."

"I know." You smiled, "That's kind of my point."

He stared, then laughed, a disbelieving and breathless laugh.

"I've spent an entire year convincing myself you were completely out of my league."

"I've spent an entire year waiting for you to realize I wasn't.”

His heart nearly flew out of his chest just then.

"But then..." You shrugged, looking almost sheepish. "You bought the second homecoming ticket, so I just assumed you found someone else to ask."

"...WHAT?"

The word exploded out of him so loudly that a flock of birds scattered from the nearby trees.

You blinked. "What?"

"No!" He sat up a little too fast before immediately grabbing his ribs. "Ow—Jesus Christ."

"Eddie! Jesus, would you calm d—"

"No, no, listen." He pointed emphatically toward the school. "I bought the second ticket because you were standing there."

"...I know."

"No, I mean—" He groaned. "I wasn't thinking."

"I've noticed."

"I just wanted an excuse to keep talking to you."

You stared.

"So my brain went..." He mimed throwing something across the parking lot. "'Buy two tickets.' But uh, I didn't have a plan after that."

A laugh bubbled out of you. "So..."

He continued, growing increasingly animated. "...then Gareth asks, 'Who're you taking?'"

"And?"

"And I realized..." He buried his face in his hands. "...I had absolutely no idea what I was doing."

Your shoulders started shaking. "Oh my God..."

"I panicked."

"I can tell."

"I said I bought them for fun."

"You told them..." you managed between laughs, "'for fun?'"

"I know!"

"That's the worst lie I've ever heard."

"I KNOW."

"They believed you?"

"They absolutely did not."

You laughed even harder, and he found himself laughing, too.

"I have spent," he said through a grin, "the last four days wondering who the hell I was supposed to ask because apparently I'd already committed."

Your laughter slowly faded into something softer.

"So..." You looked at him carefully. "...Who were you planning on asking?"

He gave you the most incredulous look. "You."

"Really?"

"You literally just admitted you thought I found somebody else."

"I know, but..." You smiled. "I wanted to hear you say it."

Eddie shook his head in disbelief. "You're evil."

"A little."

"You've been letting me suffer this whole time?"

"I thought it was kind of cute."

"Oh, that's cruel."

"It was a little cruel." You say, shrugging.

He smiles the biggest smile he can muster, considering the pain shooting through what feels like every inch of his body, and releases a deep sigh. 

"So..."

"So?"

He reached into the pocket of his denim vest, wincing as his bruised ribs protested.

After a second of fumbling, he pulled out the slightly crumpled orange homecoming ticket, holding it out between two fingers.

"I know this isn't exactly the most romantic timing."

You looked down at the ticket, then back up at him.

"But..." His smile turned nervous, "...would you maybe wanna go to homecoming with me?"

You could’ve just verbally said yes, but fuck that.

You broke the final inches of distance between you, your lips meeting his. He kissed you back instinctively, one hand finding your waist, smiling into the kiss. You smiled too.

"Hss—" Eddie jerked back with a sharp wince, immediately bringing a hand to his mouth.

"Oh, my God!" Your eyes went wide. "Shit! I'm so sorry!"

"No, no—" He laughed despite himself, carefully pressing two fingers against his split lip. "I just forgot I got punched."

"You idiot."

"Yeah..." A grin spread across his face, "...Worth it."

You rolled your eyes, but he caught the smile tugging at your lips.

"This time," you murmured, leaning closer again, "try not to throw yourself into it like you're storming a castle."

"I make no promises."

"I know." You cupped his cheek, much gentler now. "So let me."

This kiss was much slower; you barely brushed your lips against his at first. He practically pulled you into his airspace, completely ignoring any stinging sensation because, hell, he’d thought about this at least a thousand times. 

Afterward, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.

"I've wanted to do that," he admitted softly, "for... probably an embarrassing amount of time."

You laughed. "Me too."

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize your face. "So..."

"So?"

"Does this mean you'll go to homecoming with me?"

You pretended to think about it. "Hmm..."

"Don't do this to me."

"I suppose."

He let out the most dramatic sigh of relief. "Thank God."

Before you could tease him for it, he was kissing you again. His hand found your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your jaw as he smiled into it, and you smiled back.

Then you felt the subtle tension in his hand. The way his fingers tightened ever so slightly against your skin. The sharp inhale he tried, and failed, to hide.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. "You're hurting."

"I'm surviving."

"Eddie."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

He grinned, lopsided because of his split lip. "I've imagined kissing you about a thousand times."

You laughed softly.

"And not once did Jason Carver punch me beforehand."

You rolled your eyes, your thumb carefully brushing beneath the bruise blooming under his eye.

"You are unbelievable."

"I've been called worse."

"I'm sure you have."

His forehead rested against yours, his smile refusing to leave. "I don't think anything could ruin today."

"...Ahem."

The two of you froze and slowly turned your heads.

Dustin stood a few yards away, an ice pack dangling from one hand. He looked from Eddie to you, then to the fact that you were still sitting impossibly close together, practically entangled. 

A slow, knowing grin spread across his face. 

"...I guess you don't need that ice pack then?"

missed u guys sm:,) more coming soon, pinky promise <3

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[caeruleusbarnes]

Childhood Crush

pairing: avenger!bucky x avenger!reader

word count: 5k

summary: After having a little too much to drink, your best friend revealed your little secret to your boyfriend, one you didn‘t actually want him to know about just yet.

warnings/tags: drinking, reader has some insecurities, other than that there‘s honestly just fluff, Bucky is down bad just like always

author’s note: I don‘t think there‘s much to say about this one, I just hope you‘ll like it!

dividers by @cursed-carmine

You should've known that taking all those tequila shots with Joaquin had been a bad idea.

He couldn't keep his mouth shut even if his life depended on it when he was drunk. You'd been there when he got truly shitfaced for the first time, after all, which meant you knew exactly what you were talking about.

Back then, you had to watch as he confessed his feelings to his highschool crush Grace in such a heartfelt way it made every romcom look cheap. After he was finished, you were also the one that had to deescelate the situatioon when Grace's boyfriend beat the shit out of him.

So admittedly, you should've known better.

And now you were paying the price.

The party had died down a while ago. Now, only the Avengers were still there, sitting together on the couches surrounding a small table, the air was buzzing in a way it only ever did after a good time and a little too much to drink.

Bucky's arm was comfortably wrapped around you as your head rested against his shoulder, the alcohol in your blood making you sleepy as the energy slowly wore off.

"You alright, sweetheart?"

Your boyfriend's voice wasn't much more than a low rumble, quiet enough that only you could hear him.

You tilted your head just enough to be able to properly look at him and the concern in his stupidly beautiful eyes made you smile. "I'm good, Buck."

Letting your gaze roam over his features now, you relished in taking all the details of his face up close. The stubble on his cheeks was freshly trimmed, the pale skin of the scar tissue right above his left eyebrow barely visible in the low light. You could see his crow feet clearly as a grin spread over his face and you loved how much they had deepened over the last few months of your relationship.

You adored that you were a part of the life he was having right now, the one he was happy in. Happiness looked good on him and it was a sight you were never going to be sick of.

You were absolutely and completely mesmerized by the man sitting next to you, and he noticed. Of course he did.

"Enjoying the view?"

"Mhmm."

The agreement came almost too easy. You never hesitated when it came to telling your boyfriend how you felt about him, loving how flustered he always got because of it. "You're pretty."

Just like expected, you got to watch how heat creeped up his neck, tainting his cheeks in that adorable way you loved so much.

"And you're unbelievable. You can't just say stuff like that."

"Why not?" Now, you really couldn't help yourself. "You're even prettier with that blush on your face, Sarge. It suits you."

Flustring your boyfriend really was your favourite thing in the world. Unfortunately for you, Sam interrupted the moment before you had the chance to watch the cute pink taint turn into a deep crimson red.

"Hey, love birds! We're still here, you know? Stop looking at each other like that, it's unnerving."

A crease quickly formed in between Bucky's eyebrows, just like it always did when someone interrupted the two of you. Sam had once joked that if it was up to Bucky, he'd devote every single second of his life to you and everything that kept him from doing so was just an annoying inconvenience.

You had laughed it off, but Bucky never actually corrected him.

"Am I not allowed to look at my girlfriend?" Bucky sounded offended by the mere idea of it, but Sam only rolled his eyes.

"Man, you can do whatever you want, it's not like I could stop you if I wanted to. The only thing I'm saying is that it's getting a little out of hand. I figured that the sexual tension might wear off as soon as the two of you got your shit together and finally confessed your feelings, but somehow it has only gotten worse. It would be disgusting if it wasn't so cute."

"Actually, it is disgusting," Tony agreed with Sam. "This is supposed to be team bonding quality time. I didn't sign up for all the eye fucking."

"Guys, you don't know what you are talking about." Joaquin joined the conversation now aswell, still holding the beer that he had been sipping on for the last thirty minutes now. His shit eating grin was so big as he looked between you and Bucky, you knew you were fucked before he even opened his mouth again.

"It's not disgusting, the word you're looking for is destiny. Seriously, these two were meant to end up with each other from the beginning."

For quite a few seconds, everyone just stared at Joaquin. Even Thor looked like he was contemplating if this was the sign that the boy needed a glass of water.

You, on the other hand, already knew exactly where this was going.

And you didn't like it one bit.

"Corny as fuck, but he isn't wrong," Natasha pipes up, trying to save whatever Joaquin just said and make it sound a little less… well, like something Joaquin would say. "The chemistry has been there ever since the two of them started working together."

You couldn't even deny that. You and Bucky have both been on the team for quite a while now, but you only started getting closer to each other when you were assigned to be mission partners for the first time. From then on, the bond between the two of you quickly developed into something you could barely call a friendship anymore.

The tension had finally snapped after Bucky'd caught a bullet for you on a mission and neither of you could hide what you were feeling for each other anymore.

That had been five months ago.

You knew damn well that Joaquin was not talking about any of that, though. No, your best friend had something completely different and way more embarassing on his mind.

"Since they've been working together? Ha, that's funny. This is going all the way back to seventh grade, guys, I'm telling you."

"Joaquin, I swear to god, if you don't shut your mouth right fucking now I am going to throw your ass out of the window and you'll know how it feels to fall twenty-one floors without any wings to save you."

It was an empty threat, but it was the best thing you could come up with right now. Your voice was mostly steady, but there was also a slight hint of panic that you couldn't quite hide. This wasn't how you wanted Buckyy to find out about your little secret and you definitely did not want the others to know about it, either, who all looked equally confused right now- which was understandable. To them, Joaquin was speaking in riddles and you were making threats- trying, at least. Joaquin didn't even seem half as intimidated as he was supposed to be.

He only grinned at you, not intimidated at all.

If he didn't mean so much to you, you were onvinced that you would seriously contemplate throwing him out of the window now.

"No you won't. You love me too much for that."

"I'd actually love if you shut your mouth, Torres."

"Alright, that's enough. It's normal that Torres isn't making any sense, but you-" Sam pointed his finger at you. "Make even less sense right now. Do you wanna tell us what this is about?"

"No."

"Oh, totally."

Joaquin and you answered at the same time, but instead of respecting your decision, he seemed almost offended by it. "C'mon, he'll find out at your wedding anyway! I'll just tell him now and than you got it out of the way and can get married in peace."

"Joaquin, there won't be- we've only been together for five months," you hissed, your cheeks turning pink now as you were discussing the future of your relationship with your best friend whilst your boyfriend was still very much sitting right next to you. He hasn't said anything yet, but you were painfully aware of his hand still resting against your waist, his body heat seeping into your side.

"Five months, five years- that's just the fine print. Do you see how he looks at you? He'd marry you on the spot, paper rings and all. You wouldn't even have to ask."

Joaquin didn't even glance up as he scrolled through his phone, looking for the evidence of what you've said sixteen years ago when James Buchanan Barnes hadn't been anything more than a man from a different time… and a poster in your room.

"That's why it's so important that he knows now. He has to know what he is getting himself into. You've been manifsting this since middle school, after all."

"I'll show Sam your fanpage, Joaquin."

To others, the threat might seem ridiculous of you considered that you'd threatened to throw him out of the tower just a few minutes ago, but you knew your best friend. You knew that making edits of The Falcon when he 'd sixteen and still ages away from actually working with Sam was one of his most well kept secrets.

Usually, you wouldn't use it against him and play dirty like this, but he wasn't exactly giving you a choice.

This had to be enough to keep Joaquin from showing Bucky that goddamn video.

At least you hoped so.

"Dude, I honestly think that I'd care about that if I wasn't this far gone right now, but I really don't. Show him the edits, I ate with that shit."

Well, damnit.

Your shoulders slumped in defeat as you watched Joaquin, accepting that there was nothing you could do to stop him anymore.

Bucky was looking at you curiously, wanting to know what this was about, but you couldn't bring yourself to look at him.

No, you were too embarrassed for that.

"There it is!" Joaquin's grin only grew as he finally found what he was looking for.

It wasn't a big deal. At least it shouldn't be, but you still felt a knot tighten in your stomach as you dreaded Bucky's reaction.

You had been a kid. It wasn't more than a fun story you should be able to laugh about, but you weren't.

Not when you were scared that this might be something that could scare Bucky off.

Joaquin turned his phone around, the display now visible for everyone to see.

"What are you doing, Joaquin?" The twelve year old version of you was grinning at the camera and currently sitting at the kitchen table in your old childhood home, a poster and plenty of markers lying in front of you. You were wearing your favourite neon pink shirt and a ponytail so high, only a pre teen could make it look cool.

Or Ariana Grande, but that was besides the point.

"I'm documenting this." Joaquin's voice sounded so young and carefree, a chuckle went through the room. You still remembered how much his voice had changed during puberty and if this were any other situation, you probably would've laughed too.

"I gotta show this to your husband on your wedding day, just so he knows he was never your first choice to even begin with."

Now your younger self was laughing, at least, a high pitched giggle slipping past your lips as you glued a picture of Bucky to your poster. "He will at least have to look like him, that's for sure. Otherwise I don't want him at all."

"You do realise this is kind of weird, right?" The camera moved unsteadily as Joaquin clumsily set it down with a loud thud before he sat down next to you. "He's dead. And even if he wasn't, he'd be way too old for you. He was born in, like, 1900."

"10th March 1917, actually."

"You even know his birthday! I don't even know Grace's birthday and she is, like, the love of my life."

"Maybe he is mine, how would you know?" There was offense in your voice now, the kind that a kid's voice always carried when they were hearing something they didn't like.

"Dude, he is dead. Do you wanna stay single for the rest of your life and find out if he is really the man for you when you're already six feet under the ground?"

"At least I'd be single by choice, Joaquin. You're just bitter because Grace doesn't like you back."

"Okay so first of all, ouch, and second of all, that is not the point. The video is supposed to be about you and your future love life, which isn't looking all too hopeful when your requirements are that he looks and acts exactly like James Barnes. You don't even know the guy! What if he was a total douchebag?"

"His name is Bucky."

"What?"

"His name, Joaquin. It's Bucky," You repeated yourself and pointed at the bold letters on your poster that formed his name."It literally stands right here."

"Oh, so now a stupid nickname is mandatory too, huh? Do you really think you are ever going to find a man like that?"

"I think if my man is still somewhere out there, I'll know. And then, you have my permission to show him this. Now turn the camera off, J. There's barely any storage anymore."

The video ended and for five very long seconds, the room was very, very still. Nobody said anything as they were still staring at Joaquin's phone, who really couldn't look any more pleased with himself, but the only thing you could focus on was how loose Bucky's grip on your waist has gotten.

Now, wasn't that just fantastic?

"Oh my god." Tony was the first to speak, because of course he was. "Would you look at that. The woman's been plotting on her man ever since middle school. Isn't that romantic?"

"What the hell were you making that poster for? Your room?" There was a big, disbelieving grin on Sam's face, like he couldn't really believe what he just witnessed was actually real.

"It was Hero's day at school." The defense was weak, because you knew damn well that you'd put it up in your room afterwards. "Felt fitting at the time."

Wanda seemed to sense your very deep ly felt embarassment, because she joined the conversation now aswell, just in a less mocking way than Tony, Sam or Joaquin.

"I think it's cute. Everyone had a crush at that age right? I did. And Joaquin apparently did, too. Did you and that girl ever end up together?" Her curiosity seemed to be sincere, but you knew that she was trying to nudge the conversation into a different direction, which you appreciated.

"Well, it's kinda complicated-"

"That's his way of saying no," You interrupted him dryly. "He was into her for, like, seven years, but decided to shoot his shot at the one time she had a boyfriend. Didn't go too well for him."

Joaquin only scowled at you whilst the others laughed and Sam shook his head with a snicker. "Man, I gotta say, quite the devotion the two of you got there. Though it seems like it worked better for one than it did for the other." His eyes flickered to Bucky for a second, who still hasn't said a word the whole time, which was slowly but surely freaking you out. And because you couldn't handle the silence anymore on his end anymore, you decided that this was the perfect moment for you to leave- right fucking now.

"You're never going to let this go again, are you?"

"Not a chance, lover girl."

"Whatever." You placed your glass on the table before you got up, again not daring to look at Bucky, even though you could feel his eyes burning into you from where he was still sitting on the couch. "I think this is my sign to go to bed, that was enough embarassment for one night."

You didn't care about the embarassment, at least not really. That you could handle- what you couldn't handle was your boyfriend probably thinking that you were a scary freak who has been obsessing over him ever since she was twelve.

"Joaquin's fan account is called 'SamWilson_FireFalcon', by the way. You're welcome."

That was the last thing you said before you left the room, your heels clacking against the ground as the only thing on your mind was getting as far away from Bucky as possible.

About twenty minutes later, you were sitting cross legged on your bed, hair thrown up in a bun, your face bare of any makeup and dressed in nothing but one of Bucky's old shirts.

You realised quickly that putting it on might've been a mistake, because now you were even more aware of the lack of his presence.

Maybe you shouldn't have left like that.

Maybe bolting like that had been a bad idea and you should've just wait to see how he'd react, but you you'd been scared. Joaquin didn't mean any harm by it, of course he didn't. He was drunk, it was a fun story from when you were kids and from the outside, it did seem like a lighthearted joke.

You weren't sure if it was that for Bucky, though.

Everyone watching it had reacted, at least in some way. Laughter, commentary, something. The only reaction you got from Bucky was his arm going slack around you.

And that wasn't exactly the kind of thing that could reassure you in this situation.

Bucky had said from the beginning that he wanted to take things slow with you, and you respected that.

Unfortunately, him finding out that you've been crushing on him ever since you were a young girl was about as slow as crashing into a wall with a speed of 100 miles an hour.

Before you could start to properly think about what that might mean for your relationship, there was a light knock on the door.

You knew who it was. Hell, you would recognise that sound of metal knuckles against wood anywhere, but you relished in the silence for a moment longer before you told him to come in.

Your heart twisted in your chest as he appeared in the doorway, because you really, really didn't want to be having this conversation right now.

Actually, all you wanted to do was be with your boyfriend, which was kind of ironic, because he was also the last person you wanted to talk to right now, scared of what he might have to say.

The alcohol you still had in your system didn't help one bit with the nerves, either.

Usually, Bucky could calm you down in a situation like this. He was the only person that could. 

Now, your heart felt like it was going to jump out of your ripcage when yoour eyes met his.

"Hi." Your voice came out a tad smaller than you wanted it to and you were almost mad at how much this was getting to you.

"Hey, sweetheart." The familiar softness in his voice should've been enough to calm you down at least a little bit, but right now, it didn't have a reassuring affect at all.

Right now, it just felt like the quiet before the storm.

And that storm could potentially be a breakup.

Maybe you were jumping to conclusions here, but your fear wasn't unjustified. You had experienced way too often that big emotions like that were too much and enough of a reason to make people leave.

So actualy, it was more like a hurricane, tsunami and tornado were all coming in at once.

You watched as he slowly walked over to the edge of the bed, his eyes constantly on yours as he sat down.

For a moment, the two of you just looked at each other. 

You were painfully aware of the distance between you, the crease of his eyebrows that you didn't know how to place yet.

Which was weird, because you usually always knew what was going on in his head.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." The lie came easier than it should, especially around Bucky. "Just… a little embarassed, that's all." You could at least try to act as if everything was fine, but you failed miserably when the laugh that was supposed to reassure him came out thin.

Yeah, definitely wouldn't win an Oscar for that one.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Pretend like everything is okay even though it isn't." His voice wasn't exactly harsh now, but it sounded… stern. Protective, almost. "You don't ever have to pretend with me, sweetheart. Joaquin shouldn't have done that, not against your will and not with all the others being there. You're allowed to be upset about it."

You knew that your boyfriend was one of the most considerate people in the world, but you still hadn't expected this.

Actually, this was the furthest away from the reaction you'd expected.

"You're not mad at me?"

The look on Bucky's face would've been funny if it you weren't so scared of the answer.

"Mad at you? Honey, why on earth would you think that?"

The utter confusion in his voice confused you now, too.

Wasn't the answer obvious?

"Well, that was kind of a lot, wasn't it?"

Now that he asked, you couldn't stop yourself anymore. You've never been good at keeping things from Bucky, anyway.

"I just don't want you to think that I am just with you to prove a point. I promise, I had been way over that crush before we ever started dating and this is not, like, me obsessively holding onto a childhood crush. Does it seem obsessive? I swear it isn't, it's just always kind of been a joke between me and Joaquin but now that you know it doesn't feel all that funny anymore and I'm just scared that you'll think less of me now or-"

"Sweetheart, you need to breathe. C'mon, take a deep breath for me."

You didn't even realise that you'd been rambling until Bucky interrupted you, your inhale stuttering a little as you did as you were told. "There you go, just like that."

You kept your focus on him now as you matched your breathing to his, giving yourself time to calm down a little before you started talking again. "I just don't want you to think that we are together only because that's what I wanted all those years ago. I want you, Bucky. Just like this, not the some version I used to read about. And I was going to tell you about it someday, just… not now. You said you wanted to take it slow and that whole thing… it didn't feel slow. Not at all, to be honest.

Bucky held eye contact the whole time you were talking, patiently waiting for you to finish and let the silence sit between you for a moment longer afterwards, just in case you wanted to add something else.

"Doll, there is absolutely nothing you need to be worried about. Sure, maybe the way Joaquin portrayed it was a little weird, but that's because the guy can't handle a drink, not because you did anything wrong." Bucky slowly reached for you, carefully placing his hand against your waist like he wasn't sure how far he was allowed to go right now.

"And I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at myself. Mad that I didn't stop Joaquin right then and there because you were clearly uncomfortable and then didn't even talk to you after watching it. I was being an idiot, and I'm sorry."

Without letting go of your waist, he let himself slip down from the matress knelt down on the floor in front of you, his chest pressed tightly against your knees as his other hand found your body, too.

"I know we aren't just in a relationhsip because of that. We both know that you have been more than patient with me over the last few months, which you wouldn't have been if this wasn't real. I know that, doll. You're doing a damn good job at showing me everyday what I mean to you, whih honestly drives me absolutely crazy." Bucky's eyes were so expressive again, you felt almost ridiculous for the panic you had spiraled into just a few minutes ago, because it suddenly felt completely unjustified.

"I love you so much, sweetheart, it honestly scares me sometimes. I never thought that I'd ever be able to feel something like this, but you keep proving me wrong every day, because my love for you only seems to grow. And even though I hate to agree with him, Joaquin is right. I would marry you right now, in this outfit, with nobody to witness it but us. But you deserve better than that, and my ma would be turning in her grave if she found out that I way rushing things with an amazing dame like you."

"Dame, huh?" You couldn't help but laugh and your change in mood made Bucky grin, too.

"The most amazing one I've ever met. Why do you think I gave you those, huh?" Bucky gently, so gently, raised his hand and tugged on the dogtags that were resting around your neck.

"I'm already yours, sweetheart. I have been ever since that young girl from Miami decided that I was the man for her long before I had any chance to prove that I was worth even a second of your time. I've never believed in soulmates, doll, not even before the war. But you make it very hard not to."

Bucky reached for your left hand now, pressing a kiss against your finger right where a ring would be sitting now if he was down on his knees for a completely different reason. "I don't want you to ever be scared about being too much. You couldn't be, even if you tried. I love you, exactly how you are, way too much for that. As a matter of fact, I will fall in love with you again and again for the rest of my life until my heart is so full of love it won't fit anymore and even then I won't be able to stop. Do you understand that?"

Now, you felt like your heart might be bursting out of your chest at any moment. Holy fuckin shit.

"You can't just say stuff like that, Buck." Your fingers grabbed at the fabric of the shirt that had been driving you crazy for the whole goddamn evening now and you tugged on it, which Bucky seemed to understand immediately because he stood up, giving you the chance to pull him into the bed with you. One of his arms was wrapped tightly around your waist, but the other one was braced against the matress, careful not to crush you beneath him.

You didn't want him to be careful, though. You wanted him to be as close to you as physically possible, so you tugged on him a little more forcefully, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and your legs around his waist, which made his chest rumble with one of his stupidly handsome laughs.

Before James Buchanan Barnes, you'd never ever thought that a laugh could sound handsome, but here you were anyway.

"I'm too heavy, sweetheart. Wouldn't wanna crush you."

"Don't care." Your voice was muffled because of how tightly you were pressing your face against his chest, inhaling th scent of clean soap, fabric softener and something so achingly him it made you dizzy.

Every single concern of him breaking up had suddenly vanished into thin air. He'd just proved that there was not a thing you had to worry about, because your man was just as crazy about you as you were about him. "Just want you close, Buck."

That seemed to make him budge a little bit, because he carefully lowerd some more of his weight on top of you. He was still mindful of not hurting you, but now you were enveloped by nothing else but him.

For a very long time, the two of you just stayed like that, breathing in sync as your bodies were tangled together so closely, you could almost feel your hearts beating together, too.

"Can I tell you a secret?" You just hummed against his chest, signaling Bucky to go ahead.

"I think I've been in love with you ever since you first introduced yourself to me back when you'd first joined the team." He let that sit between you for a moment, thinking about how to continue.

"I didn't know that it was love back then, off course. I just knew that I was thinking about you so much it was actually driiving me crazy."

Bucky laughed a little at the memory and flipped you over so you were lying on top of him now, just so he could properly look at you. "We didn't end up on that mission out of coincedence, either. I asked Steve to assign us together."

Now, that did surprise you, because back then you had been completely convincd that Bucky didn't want to have anything to do with you. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," He confirmed. "I had no idea how to approach you, especially because every time you came into a room my brain just turned into mush. Missions were familiar ground though, so I figured that if we'd just get assigned together as often as possible, I'd get to know you without making a fool of myself."

You had to laugh, the sound more disbelieving than it was amused. Everytime you thought your boyfriend couldn't get any more perfect, he did another thing that rattled your entire brain chemistry. "You are completely out of your mind, do you know that?"

"Nah, sweetheart." He grinned up at you, carefully brushing a hair strand out of your face.

"Just in love."

[tunetales]

I think you would eat up a who did this to you trope with Azriel 😛😛

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "Who did this to you!?"

Authors Note: Lowkey this may be one of my favourite tropes...

Training in the Illyrian camps had always been brutal.

You knew that long before you decided to train.

Bruises were common. Bloody lips happened. Even Cassian had once shrugged at a dislocated shoulder like it was a mild inconvenience.

But this?

This was different.

The male across from you circled slowly, wooden training sword spinning lazily in his hand while several others watched from the sidelines. The afternoon sun beat harshly against the training ring, sweat sticking your leathers to your skin.

“You’re distracted,” the Illyrian sneered.

You tightened your grip on your blade. “I’m fine.”

He smirked.

Then he struck.

Hard.

The force of the blow rattled down your arm painfully enough to numb your fingers. Before you could fully readjust your stance, he swept your legs out from under you which you tried to clumsily recover from.

Pain exploded across your cheekbone as the hilt of his weapon clipped your face hard enough to send you finally sprawling.

The world tilted sickeningly.

You hit the dirt hard.

A few males laughed nearby.

Humiliation burned hotter than the sting of your cheek.

“Get up,” he barked.

You did.

Again and again, he came at you too aggressively for a sparring match. Every strike was meant to hurt. To embarrass. To prove something.

And when you managed to land a decent hit to his ribs—

His temper snapped.

The next shove sent you crashing directly into one of the wooden posts surrounding the ring. The male hit you hard enough that your vision blurred.

You stumbled backward as his hand grasped the front of your leathers, boots skidding across the dirt as he dragged you away forcefully into the middle of the ring, before slamming shoulder-first into the ground once again.

Something cracked painfully along your ribs.

Pain exploded across your side and a sharp gasp escaped you before you could stop it.

The training ring went quiet for half a second.

The male looked almost satisfied.

“You’re weak,” he spat.

You swallowed hard against the pain radiating through your ribs. “I said I’m fine.”

But your voice sounded strained even to your own ears.

He eventually grew bored and wandered away.

You ignored the looks from the others as you left the ring, forcing your breathing steady while your side screamed with every step. You didn’t want pity. Didn’t want a scene.

You especially didn’t want Azriel finding out.

Unfortunately for you, the universe seemed personally committed to ruining that plan.

You had barely made it beyond the training courtyard when shadows curled around your ankles.

Your heart dropped.

Azriel stepped from the shadows directly in front of you.

He took one look at your face and froze.

His eyes took everything in.

Your split lip. The darkening bruise across your cheekbone. The rip in your leathers exposing bloodied skin beneath. The way you were holding your side like breathing itself hurt.

The world seemed to go silent around him.

Even his shadows stilled.

“Who did this to you?”

The words were terrifyingly calm.

You immediately straightened despite the pain. “Az, it looks worse than it is—”

“Who.”

You had heard him interrogate enemies with more warmth than that single word.

You swallowed hard. “It was training.”

Azriel’s gaze dropped to the blood soaking through your side.

Then to the trembling hand you were unsuccessfully trying to hide behind your back.

His jaw flexed once.

“Training,” he repeated softly.

The shadows around him began writhing violently.

You stepped forward quickly before he could vanish. “I’m alright.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That does not comfort me.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word and suddenly the anger on his face looked dangerously close to panic.

Azriel moved toward you slowly then, like he was holding himself together by sheer force. His scarred hands hovered near your waist, hesitant—as though he was afraid touching you would hurt.

“Let me see.”

You winced as he carefully moved your arm from your ribs.

Blood stained his fingers instantly.

He went utterly still.

The kind of stillness that meant something terrible was about to happen.

You knew it immediately.

“Azriel,” you said carefully.

His hazel eyes lifted to yours.

Cold. Lethal.

“Who,” he repeated quietly, “hurt you?”

You hesitated for half a second too long, your eyes instinctively flickering over to the male in question.

That was all he needed.

His shadows surged violently around him as understanding settled across his face.

You grabbed his wrist immediately. “Please don’t kill him.”

His gaze snapped back to yours, and somehow that terrified you more because his expression remained perfectly calm.

“I need you to go inside.”

You blinked. “What?”

Rhysand’s mother’s old house sat just beyond the camp, warm light glowing faintly through the windows.

"Go inside."

"Not unless you come with me."

He didn't say anything for a moment, but eventually he nodded his head sharply.

You heaved a sigh of relief, as much as your ribs allowed you anyway.

Azriel guided you towards the house carefully, one hand firm against your back while shadows circled restlessly around both of you.

“Azriel, I'm fine—”

“You’re hurt. You can barely stand.”

That shut you up because unfortunately he was correct.

Pain stabbed sharply through your ribs with every breath now, your head spinning unpleasantly from whatever damage had been done to your face.

Azriel opened the door and guided you inside with startling gentleness compared to the fury radiating from him.

The moment the door shut behind you in your room, he turned toward the small wash basin, grabbing a cloth to press carefully against the blood at your side.

His hands shook, so slightly that anyone else may have missed it.

But not you.

That scared you more than the injuries.

“Azriel…”

His eyes flicked upward.

You softened immediately at the sheer rage and fear warring there.

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

Something painful crossed his face.

“No,” he said quietly. “You aren’t.”

He cleaned the blood from your cheek with impossible care, but every new bruise he uncovered only darkened his expression further.

When he touched your ribs, you inhaled sharply.

Azriel closed his eyes.

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

Then he stood.

You immediately grabbed his hand. “Don’t.”

His fingers curled tightly around yours for one brief second.

“You know I can’t let this go.”

“He was just a bit rough, that’s all—”

“He enjoyed it.”

Silence.

Because again—he was right.

Azriel crouched in front of you then, both hands cupping your face carefully despite the blood still staining your skin.

“You are not supposed to look like this after training,” he said softly.

The fury in his voice made tears sting unexpectedly behind your eyes.

You leaned into his touch instantly. “Please don’t kill him.”

A shadow of dark amusement crossed his face.

“I’m going to try not to kill him.”

“Azriel.”

His thumb brushed gently beneath your swollen cheekbone.

“I’m simply going to remind him,” he said softly, “that if he ever touches you like that again, training or not, they’ll never find enough of him left to bury.”

You stared at him.

He stared calmly back.

Oh, he meant business.

“Azriel—”

He leaned forward, kissing your forehead tenderly before you could continue arguing.

“Stay here.”

And before you could stop him, darkness swallowed him whole.

You groaned softly, dropping your head back against the chair. “Mother save that male.”

It was nearly an hour before shadows finally stirred near the fireplace again.

Azriel stepped from them silently.

Your head snapped up from where you’d been anxiously waiting wrapped in blankets.

He looked entirely uninjured.

Calm.

Too calm.

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Did you kill him?”

Azriel paused mid-step like he genuinely needed to consider the question.

“No.”

Suspicion flooded you instantly. “Azriel.”

His mouth twitched faintly.

“I didn't kill him.”

“I don't believe you.”

A soft huff of laughter escaped him then as he crossed the room toward you.

The tension in your chest eased immediately despite yourself.

He was alive. He was safe. Most importantly, he was here.

Azriel crouched beside your chair, hands settling carefully around your waist as though checking you were still real.

“I merely reminded that filth,” he said mildly, “that training with you does not grant him permission to brutalise you.”

You squinted. “Define reminded.”

A pause.

“He will struggle to sit comfortably for a few days.”

“Azriel.”

“And perhaps his hand is broken.”

You stared at him in shock.

Azriel looked entirely unrepentant.

“He shouldn’t have touched you.”

The possessive fury beneath the quiet words made your stomach flip.

You sighed tiredly. “You’re terrifying.”

His expression softened instantly. “Not to you though, right?"

You smiled gently at him, brushing some stray hairs tenderly from his forehead. "Of course not."

The rest of the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

His hands slid carefully up your arms, pulling you gently into his lap despite your quiet protest about your ribs.

Azriel ignored you completely.

He tucked your head beneath his chin, wings curling protectively around both of you while his shadows settled at last.

Safe.

You felt his lips brush softly against your hair.

“No one hurts you,” he murmured quietly, “and walks away unchanged.”

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[tunetales]

could i request prompt 11 with cassian please? :)

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "You're shaking."

The wind in the Illyrian camps is different from the rest of Prythian.

Sharper. Crueler.

It cuts straight through leathers and skin and bone until even breathing starts to ache.

By the time night falls, you’re exhausted.

The day had been long—training females who still flinched every time they made a mistake, quietly correcting stances when the males nearby muttered disapproval, pretending not to notice the glares burning into your back.

Cassian had been gone most of the afternoon, dragged from one meeting to another with camp lords and commanders already testing his patience.

You’d told him you’d be fine.

Now, standing alone in the small house assigned to you both, you’re beginning to regret that.

The fire crackles weakly in the hearth.

You’re still cold.

You sit curled near the edge of the couch, wrapped in a blanket that doesn’t help nearly enough, fingers tucked under your arms as you stare numbly into the flames.

Your body won’t stop trembling.

You’re so tired you don’t even realize the door has opened until—

“Sweetheart?”

Cassian’s concerned voice.

You look up slowly.

His expression changes the second he sees you.

“Gods,” he mutters, crossing the room instantly. “You’re shaking.”

You try for a smile. “It’s freezing here.”

“That bad?”

You nod once.

His jaw tightens slightly, eyes sweeping over you—checking for injury first, instinctively.

Then he kneels in front of you, large hands immediately finding your arms.

His palms are warm. So deliciously warm that you let out a small breath at the contact.

“How long have you been like this?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t know. A while.”

His frown deepens. “You should’ve sent for me.”

“You were busy.”

“I don’t care.”

The answer comes too fast. Too firm.

His thumbs rub gently up and down your arms, trying to coax warmth back into them.

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs.

“I noticed.”

That finally gets the faintest twitch of a smile from him.

“Smart mouth.”

You would grin back if your teeth weren’t threatening to chatter.

Cassian notices immediately and his face softens.

“Oh, honey.”

Before you can protest, he’s standing and pulling you up with him effortlessly.

You make a small sound of surprise as he sits first—then drags you directly into his lap, wrapping the blanket fully around both of you.

Warmth engulfs you instantly.

Cassian’s chest at your back. His wings curving forward around you like shields. His arms tight around your middle.

You practically melt against him.

“There,” he murmurs against your hair. “Better?”

“A little.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. Then another to your cheek.

“You worked too hard today.”

“So did you.”

“Yeah, but I’m built for this weather.”

You snort weakly. “Show off.”

He huffs a soft laugh, tightening his hold slightly when another shiver runs through you. Without another word, one hand slips beneath the blanket to take yours.

Your fingers are ice cold.

Cassian actually winces.

“Gods above.”

He brings your hand to his mouth immediately, breathing warm air over your knuckles before pressing kisses to your fingertips one by one.

You blink, heart squeezing painfully.

“Cass…”

“What?” he murmurs, still rubbing warmth back into your hands. “Can’t have my girl freezing to death on me.”

“I’m not dying.”

“You’re dramatic enough that I can’t be sure.”

You elbow him weakly.

He catches your hand before you can pull it away, kissing your palm this time.

"You know, there is a quicker way I can get you warmed up..."

You snort. "Does it involve less clothes?"

Cassian's grin turns positively wicked. "Maybe."

You roll your eyes, though it lacks any real bite when you’re still curled against him beneath the blanket, half frozen and entirely too comfortable in his lap.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he murmurs, tightening his arms around your waist, “you continue to keep me around.”

“Debatable.”

Cassian laughs before he says softly, “Come here."

As if you aren’t already practically inside his ribcage.

He shifts you more fully against him until you’re completely tucked into his chest, your legs draped over his, wings cocooning you both from the draft slipping through the old cabin walls.

His chin rests lightly on your shoulder.

You can feel the heat radiating off him now.

Steady. Safe.

“Meetings go badly?” you ask quietly after a moment.

Cassian groans dramatically into your hair.

“The worst males alive,” he mutters. “I considered throwing at least three of them off the mountain.”

You laugh softly.

“There she is,” he says immediately, smiling against your skin. “That’s the sound I wanted.”

You relax further into him.

Another shiver passes through you, smaller this time.

Cassian notices anyway.

He rubs his hands firmly along your arms beneath the blanket before pressing another kiss behind your ear.

“Still cold?”

“Not as much.”

“Good.”

Silence settles comfortably.

The fire crackles.

Snow taps softly against the windows.

And Cassian just holds you.

No teasing now. No games. Just warmth and steady affection poured into every touch.

After a while, he murmurs quietly:

“You know I’d leave every meeting in Prythian if you needed me.”

Your chest tightens.

“I know.”

“And next time,” he adds, voice gentler still, “tell me sooner.”

You tilt your head slightly, brushing your nose against his jaw.

“Yes, General.”

He snorts softly.

Then pulls the blanket tighter around you both anyway—

Like he can shield you from the cold through sheer stubbornness alone.

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[tunetales]

39. You almost got yourself killed.

with protective Azriel!!!

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "You almost got yourself killed!"

The battle was over, but the smell of smoke still clung to the air thick enough to choke on.

Your ears rang.

Somewhere in the distance, soldiers shouted for healers. Metal scraped against stone. Wings thundered overhead as Illyrians landed across the ruined field, but all of it sounded muffled—far away beneath the frantic pounding of your heart.

Because Azriel was on his knees.

Blood soaked through the side of his leathers, one hand braced against the ground while shadows writhed violently around him, unsettled and feral. He looked pale beneath the splatters of dirt and ash, his breathing shallow.

And all you could see—over and over again—was the moment he'd shoved you out of the way.

The moment that spear which had been meant for you had skewered through his side.

You reached him before he could stand properly.

“What in the hell were you thinking?” Your voice cracked so sharply it startled even you.

Azriel blinked up at you.

You had never shouted at him. Not once. Not in all the time he'd known you.

Around you, a few nearby soldiers very wisely pretended not to listen.

“You almost got yourself killed!” you snapped.

The words tore out of you far louder than intended, shaking with panic more than anger. Your hands grabbed fistfuls of his leathers as though you needed physical proof he was still there.

“You—” Your breath hitched violently. “You threw yourself in front of it.”

Azriel’s expression shifted then. The surprise faded, replaced by something softer. Something worried.

"Why would you do that?!"

His face tightened slightly, as though he didn't understand why that part upset you.

“It was going to hit you,” he said quietly.

The sheer simplicity of it nearly broke you.

Your vision blurred. “So your solution was to die instead?”

“I wasn’t going to die.”

“You don’t know that!”

Your voice cracked again, and that—more than the shouting—seemed to hit him.

Because suddenly Azriel was moving despite the obvious pain, rising just enough to reach for you.

But you got there first.

You practically threw yourself at him.

Your arms wrapped around his neck so tightly he staggered a little from the force of it, and then he was holding you just as fiercely, one hand sliding into your hair while the other anchored around your waist.

You were violently trembling.

Azriel felt it immediately and his entire body softened.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured.

The tenderness in his voice shattered the last of your composure.

“I thought—” Your words dissolved into a shaky breath against his neck. “I thought I was watching you die.”

Azriel went completely still.

The shadows around him quieted instantly, settling low and calm for the first time since the battle ended.

You buried your face against him harder, clutching at the back of his leathers. “Don’t do that to me,” you whispered brokenly. “Please don’t do that to me.”

His arms tightened.

You could feel his heartbeat against your chest. Strong. Steady. Alive.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

And Azriel almost never apologized for battlefield decisions.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, tears mixing with soot on your cheeks. “You scared me half to death.”

Something anguished flickered across his face then.

Not from his injury, but from you hurting. He hadn't even thought when he'd acted, it had been purely been protective instinct.

His thumb brushed beneath your eye carefully, reverently, as though he hated every tear he found there.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“Because you’re an idiot.”

A tiny breath of laughter escaped him at that. Tired. Disbelieving.

You glared at him through wet eyes, which only made his expression soften further.

Then his forehead rested against yours.

“You are my life,” he said quietly.

The words wrapped around your battered heart and squeezed.

Azriel’s voice dropped even lower. “Every instinct I have is built around protecting you.”

“But not at the cost of you,” you whispered fiercely.

His eyes closed briefly, as though hearing that hurt him more than the wound in his side.

“You don’t understand,” he admitted softly. “If something happened to you—”

“You think I’d survive losing you?”

That finally made him open his eyes.

Real shock crossed his face then. Genuine, vulnerable shock.

You cupped his face with trembling hands. “Azriel, I love you. If you had died in front of me tonight…” Your voice faltered. “I don’t even know what would’ve been left of me after.”

For a moment he simply stared at you.

Like no one had ever said something like that to him before.

Then he kissed you.

Not gentle. Not careful.

Desperate. Relieved.

His hands framed your face like he couldn't bear even an inch of distance between you, and you kissed him back just as fiercely, pouring every ounce of terror and love and gratitude into it.

Alive.

He was alive.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was uneven.

“Don't worry sweetheart, you’re stuck with me,” he murmured against your lips.

You let out a watery laugh. “Good. Because if you ever pull something like that again, I’ll kill you myself.”

A quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest.

Then he tucked you impossibly closer, pressing a kiss into your hair while his shadows curled lazily around both of you at last.

Safe.

Together.

Exactly where he intended to stay.

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[tunetales]

hii i love ur fics 😊 i was wondering if you could write something more about overprotective az hehe maybe a little jealousy 🤭

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Authors Note: As chosen by you all and as you requested! I hope I did this justice — I just go feral at the thought of an overprotective, territorial Az 😍

The morning light in Velaris was soft.

Golden. Warm. Lazy in the way that made it feel like the world wasn’t quite awake yet.

You were tangled in the sheets, half draped over Azriel, your head resting against his chest as his fingers idly traced slow patterns along your arm. His wings were tucked loosely behind him, one slightly curved around you like a habit he didn’t even realise he did anymore.

It was quiet, peaceful, the kind of moment you didn’t get together often enough.

Which was probably why your mind decided now was the perfect time to start thinking aloud.

“I’ve been considering something,” you murmured.

Azriel hummed softly beneath you. “That sounds dangerous.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shifting slightly so you could look up at him. “I’m serious.”

His gaze dropped to yours, warm but amused. “That doesn’t make it less dangerous.”

You nudged him lightly. “I mean it.”

“Go on then,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

You hesitated for a second—then said. “I think I want to learn how to use a bow.”

That got his attention.

Not sharply, or alarmed, but clearly surprised enough that his fingers stilled against your arm.

“…A bow?” He repeated.

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Why?”

You lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “Well…history has proven I’m not exactly gifted at close combat.”

That earned you a quiet huff of amusement.

Azriel's hand slid from your arm to your waist, thumb brushing absentmindedly along your side. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

You narrowed your eyes slightly. "I am improving."

"You tripped over your own feet last time."

"That was your fault!"

"You tried to disarm me and ended up disarming yourself."

"That was—strategic."

He huffed again, this time clearly trying to keep his snickering at bay. "You nearly broke your wrist."

"I did not."

"We both know that's not true, sweetheart."

You pushed lightly at his chest. "You're insufferable."

"And yet," he murmured, voice dipping slightly, "you keep asking me to teach you."

You rolled your eyes - but there was a small smile tugging at your lips.

"That's my point," you said. "Close combat clearly isn't my strength. So I thought...maybe archery."

His hand still at your waist again.

You felt the shift this time.

Subtle, but there.

"I don't think that's necessary," he said quietly.

You frowned slightly. "Why not?"

Azriel's gaze softened - but there was something else beneath it now. Something firmer.

Because I don't want you anywhere near a battlefield.

But he would never say it like that. Instead, his fingers resumed their slow movement along your side.

"You don't need to fight," he said. "Not like that."

You propped yourself up a little more, studying him properly now. "That's not really your decision."

"It is if it keeps you safe."

There it was.

You sighed softly, but not in frustration - more like you'd expected this. You’d only managed to start initially training with him because he thought it would be good for you to learn some self-defence moves.

"I don't want to be helpless, Az," you said gently. "If something happens, I want to be able to help. Protect you. Protect our family."

His jaw tightened - just slightly.

"You do protect us," he said. "In other ways."

You shook your head. "It's not the same."

"It is to me."

Your expression softened a little at that, but you didn't back down.

"I'm not saying I want to run into battle," you added. "I just...want the option. To not be completely reliant on everyone else."

Silence settled between you for a moment.

Azriel studied you.

And gods, he understood.

Of course he did.

He knew what it meant to want control over your own safety. To not feel powerless.

But-

You. Hurt? In danger?

No.

His hand slid from your waist to your jaw, thumb brushing lightly along your cheek.

"You'd need to build your strength first," he said quietly. "A bow isn't easy to handle. It takes time. Training."

You perked slightly. "So you'll teach me?"

A flicker of something - amusement, fondness, deflection - crossed his face.

"I didn't say that."

"Az—“

He leaned in before you could continue, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

Gentle. Affectionate. Disarming.

"You don't need it," he murmured against your skin.

You exhaled softly, already knowing you weren't going to win this argument right now.

"That's not a no," you muttered.

Azriel sighed. "Let me think about it."

You pulled back just enough to glare at him lightly. "Well how long will you need—“

You didn't get to finish, because suddenly, he shifted quickly and effortlessly.

And the next thing you knew, you were on your back, Azriel hovering over you, braced on his arms as his wings flared slightly behind him.

Your breath caught.

"Az—“

"I think," he said, voice lower now, something teasing creeping in, "you're thinking too much this morning."

You narrowed your eyes, though your heart had already picked up speed as he settled between your thighs. "I'm having a perfectly reasonable discussion."

"Mm," he hummed. "Debatable."

His hand slid down your side again, slower this time to the hem of your nightgown. His lips began to skim along your jaw.

He was distracting you.

"This is deflection," you accused weakly.

"Is it?"

"Yes," your voice came out breathless despite the accusation.

His lips began to ghost down your neck.

"You were saying something about needing to fight," he murmured.

You swallowed.

"...I was."

Your hands came up to rest on his shoulders. You couldn't help but run your fingers through the hairs at the back of his neck as he began to suck lightly on a particular spot he knew would make all thoughts from your mind completely evaporate.

You know you hadn't won, but you also knew this conversation was over.

For now.

-

A few weeks had passed since your conversation with Azriel.

Any time you tried to broach the subject again, he was conveniently busy, or too tired, or his head would end up buried between your legs so the only thing that came out of your mouth were cries of his name.

But Azriel knew he would have to talk to you about it again sooner rather than later.

Truthfully, he wasn't against the idea - he just hated exposing you to violence of any sort. He wanted to look after you. Protect you. But, he also knew you were stubborn and wouldn't drop the subject no matter how much he stalled.

It also warmed his heart to know that, despite his profession and hardened exterior, you wanted to try and protect him if that time ever came.

He promised to himself after returning from his latest mission, he would bring up the topic himself and grant you your request.

His brilliant, strong willed, beautiful mate.

The mission wrapped faster than expected. Cleaner than expected. And for once, instead of lingering, instead of double-checking every shadow and loose-end—

He came home.

To you.

He didn’t announce himself beforehand like he usually did.

He wanted to surprise you, so he followed the bond instead. The bond tugged faintly, warm and steady, guiding him towards the training ring.

Towards you.

The thought of you was enough to soften something in his chest after days of being the Night Court's infamous Shadowsinger and Spymaster.

Until he stepped inside, and he froze.

You stood in the centre of the ring, bow in hand.

Drawing. Focused. Determined.

And behind you—

Rhysand.

One hand guiding your elbow. The other one at your waist.

“Relax,” Rhys murmured. “You’re fighting the bow instead of working with it.”

Azriel went very still.

Shadows coiled tight around him, reacting before he could.

You released the arrow.

It struck the target—not perfectly, but close enough for your face to light up.

“Did you see that?” You laughed, turning slightly.

“I did,” Rhys said, smiling down at you.

From the sidelines, Cassian grinned. “Not bad. Give it another go.”

Azriel didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Because this—

This was what you’d asked him for.

Now he was watching Rhys stand where he should have been.

Watching someone else guide your hands.

Your body.

Hearing your laughter - that laugh he loved so much - directed at someone else.

Something dark and sharp twisted low in his chest.

Mine.

The thought came unbidden. Unrelenting.

"Relax your shoulders," Rhys murmured, stepping even closer behind you. His hand came up lightly, adjusting your arm, the other still lightly touching your waist to steady you. "You keep holding tension here."

You exhaled, trying to follow the instruction.

"Better," he said.

Azriel's jaw tightened.

It was too close.

You didn't even notice his arrival. You were too focused.

"Draw slower," Rhys murmured near your ear.

The arrow released.

Closer again, but still not hitting the centre of the target.

"Ugh, why can't I get it closer?" You complained.

"Rhys, her stance is too rigid," Cassian chimed in, approaching the two of you now. "She needs to relax more."

Azriel's eye twitched as Cassian now loomed over you, taking your hand that was holding the bow in his and spreading your fingers to steady your grip.

"Take a deep breath," Cassian coached and you complied.

As you breathed in, your chest pushing outwards and your shoulders coming back slightly - your body almost brushed against them both you were so close. With Rhys standing behind and now Cassian in front of you, practically sandwiching you between them - his brothers -

It was too much.

Azriel moved.

He didn't think. He just reacted.

One second he was across the ring and the next—

He was there.

"Enough."

The word cut clean through the air.

Everything stilled.

You turned, startled.

"Az—?"

Relief and pure unadulterated joy spread across your face as you realised you weren't imagining him or his voice. He was here, in front of you.

You almost swung the bow at both Rhys’s and Cassian’s faces by accident in your haste as you threw yourself at him, wrapping your arms tightly around him.

"When did you get back? I didn't think you would be back for another day," you asked.

Azriel didn't answer immediately, but his arms wrapped instinctively around you in response.

His gaze flicked to Rhys. Then to Cassian.

Something in Azriel's expression went cold.

Both males noticed and slowly - deliberately - they took a step back.

Cassian was already grinning like this was the best entertainment he'd had all week.

"Well, well," he drawled. "Look who decided to—“

"Cassian."

Azriel didn't even look at him as he said it - but the warning was clear.

You pulled back slightly, noting Azriel's tone, your heart doing something strange. "Everything okay?"

His eyes snapped to yours.

And just like that - everything softened.

"You're using a bow," he said.

It wasn't a question.

You winced — it hadn’t really occurred to you that he might’ve been upset that you had started training without him.

"...Yes."

He noted the bow in your hands. On the way your fingers held it. Not quite right. Not how he would've shown you.

His jaw tightened.

"Give it to me."

You blinked. "What?"

"The bow."

Your grip loosened instinctively. You handed it over. He took it from you gently, despite the command in his voice.

Then he stepped closer.

"You want to learn?" He said quietly.

Your breath caught at his tone. "Yes."

Something in his gaze darkened. Possessive. Territorial.

"Then you learn from me."

It was a statement. Final.

Your heart skipped.

Azriel stepped behind you.

Closer than either Rhys or Cassian had been. He purposefully pressed up against your back, the curve of your ass sitting snugly against his hips as he almost curled around you to adjust your hold on the bow.

He repositioned you - almost manhandling you the way he wanted you. Not too dissimilar to how he positioned you in other ways.

Nudging your feet apart with his own to spread your stance wider. Pressing a hand to your lower stomach to coax you to stand straighter. Brushing your hair away from your neck so he could bend down and have clear access to your ear as he murmured instructions.

It was claiming.

And incredibly sexy.

Your breath hitched. Your body temperature rose.

His shadows slipped forward, curling around your arms, your shoulders - like they were wrapping you in him.

Marking you.

Mine.

"Draw," he instructed.

You did.

Your hands trembled slightly - not from the effort. From him, from how close he was.

You were aware of every point of contact.

"Slowly," he said.

His voice was steady, but tight, controlled.

"Release."

The arrow flew.

Dead centre.

You blinked.

"Oh—!"

A delighted laugh escaped you before you could stop it. "Did you see that?!"

"I did," Azriel said quietly.

But there was something softer in his voice now. Less sharp, more...pleased.

You turned your head slightly, beaming up at him. "That was so much better!"

"It was," he agreed.

Behind you—

Cassian made a choking noise.

Rhys didn't even try to hide his smile. "Fascinating," he mused, folding his arms. "It's almost like she just needed the right teacher."

You perked up immediately. "Exactly!"

Azriel went very still.

Cassian snorted. "Yeah, Rhys, clearly you were doing it all wrong. Maybe you needed to stand a bit closer—“

A warning rumble sounded from Azriel's chest.

You missed it, too busy nocking another arrow, excitement bubbling in your chest.

But Cassian and Rhys caught it. They shared an amused look between them.

You took a deep breath, taking aim again. Azriel's hands still very much on you.

You released. It struck dead centre again.

You practically squealed in delight.

Behind you, Cassian clapped slowly. "Incredible. Truly. A natural talent."

You beamed. "Right!?"

Rhys snorted. "Yes, clearly all she needed was...motivation."

Cassian leaned closer to him, stage-whispering loudly, "Or a six-foot-tall shadow with attachment issues glued to her back."

Azriel didn't react.

Didn't even look at them.

But his hand on your waist tightened slightly.

You missed it completely, too busy lining up another shot.

"Alright, one more," you said. "I think I'm getting the hang of it."

"You are," Azriel said, quieter now, but the pride in his voice was clear.

Cassian squinted at the two of you.

Then he grinned.

Rhys sighed, already knowing what was coming. "Cassian—“

"Let me help," Cassian said, stepping closer.

Azriel stilled as Cassian reached for you, all easy confidence. "Here, you should spread your fingers like this—“

His hand reached towards yours—

And that's when it happened.

A low, quiet, dangerous snarl. "Don't."

The word wasn't loud, but it cut through the air like a blade.

Cassian froze mid-reach, still grinning like an idiot.

"Oh?" He said, far too innocent. "Why can't I help?"

Azriel's gaze snapped to him. Sharp. Cold.

"Back off," he growled.

You blinked.

"...Az?"

Cassian's grin widened. "You know, I was just trying to help—“

"You've both done enough."

Rhys fully turned away at that point, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Cassian placed a hand over his heart. "Wow. We're just trying to help our dearest sister-in-law, Az."

You turned in Azriel's hold now, brows furrowing slightly.

"They were just helping me," you said, a little confused. "I asked them to."

Azriel's attention snapped back to you instantly.

And just like that—

All that sharpness? Gone. Softened.

"Because you were bored?" He asked.

You shrugged a little. "Well...yeah. You were gone. I wanted to do something useful with my time."

Something flickered in his expression. Not anger. Something closer to I should've been the one.

"I told you I'd teach you," he said.

You gave him a look. "No, you didn't."

A pause.

"...I implied it."

You snorted. "You absolutely did not."

Cassian barked a laugh. "I'm pretty sure you told me, Az, that you didn't want her to learn."

Azriel shot him a look that promised violence.

Cassian just grinned wider. "You can't get territorial after you refused the job, brother."

You blinked between them. "Wait — territorial?"

Azriel went very still.

Cassian pointed. "Oh, she doesn't even know."

"Know what?" You asked, now fully turning in Azriel's arms.

Because you were still very much in them.

One hand still at your waist, the other still loosely around yours.

He was close. Very close.

You looked down, finally noticing how close your proximity was now you weren't focusing on your aim.

"...You can let go now, Az," you said, innocently.

Azriel didn't even hesitate.

"No."

Cassian lost it.

Rhys outright laughed.

You looked back up at Azriel, trying very hard not to smile. "You do realise they were just helping me, right?"

"I know."

"Okay..."

"But they're not anymore."

Cassian wiped a tear from his eye. "Gods, he's unbearable."

You opened your mouth to say something else and suddenly—

The world tilted.

"Azriel—!"

You yelped as he effortlessly hoisted you over his shoulder.

The bow was gone from your hands in one smooth motion.

Your dignity?

Also gone.

"Az!"

Cassian doubled over laughing. "Oh, this is the best day of my life—“

Rhys crossed his arms casually, thoroughly entertained. "Going somewhere, Azriel?"

"Yes."

You smacked lightly at his back. "Put me down!"

"No."

"Azriel!"

"You're done training."

"I just got good!"

"You're done for the day."

You twisted slightly, trying to look at him. "They were helping me because you weren't here!"

A pause.

Then, quieter—

"I'm here now."

Your heart did something annoyingly soft.

Cassian called after you, "Don't worry, we can have another session tomorrow!"

Azriel didn't even break stride.

"Try it and see what happens," he said darkly.

You groaned, hiding your face in Azriel's back despite the very undignified positioned. "This is so embarrassing."

Azriel hummed, completely unbothered.

His grip on you steady, secure, and like he had absolutely no intention of letting you go anytime soon.

And he didn’t. Not until he got you back to your shared room.

If you knew that this would be the reaction you’d of received—

—you’d of asked Rhys or Cassian’s to train you sooner.

[tunetales]

just binged your stories & am obsessed! 😍 could you write something with eris?

Moments (Eris x Reader)

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: Moments with Eris.

Authors Note: I had a few requests for Eris’s version so here it is. Pre-established relationship below. Scenes aren’t in any particular order, but are simply inspired by different moments. No warnings below.

The moment the mating bond snapped into place and you crossed the threshold of the Forest House as Eris’s mate, the smokehounds decided something very important.

You were theirs.

Not in the way Eris was theirs — commander, master, High Lord.

No.

You were precious.

The first time you knelt to greet them, expecting wary sniffs and territorial growls, you were instead nearly bowled over by a wall of smoke and muscle. Massive heads shoved beneath your hands. Warm, dark eyes blinking up at you with startling gentleness.

Eris had stood there, stunned.

“They don’t usually do that,” he murmured.

One hound had promptly leaned its entire weight against your legs as if proving a point.

From that day forward, you were never alone.

If you walked the corridors, at least two shadows followed.

If you read by the hearth, one enormous body would curl at your feet while another rested its heavy head in your lap, rumbling softly when you scratched behind its ears.

If you so much as sighed in your sleep, a head would pop up from its resting place to check you were at peace.

Eris loved it.

Truly.

When duty pulled him from you — border disputes, court politics, Beron’s lingering messes — he left knowing that nothing short of an army would reach you without going through fangs first.

“You’re safer than I am,” he once told you dryly, watching three hounds rearrange themselves around your chair like sentinels.

But there were…downsides.

Like the fact that they had very strong opinions about sleeping arrangements.

Eris would return late, exhausted, craving nothing more than to bury himself beside you — only to find every available inch of mattress occupied by smoke and smouldering fur.

“They are in my spot,” he would say flatly.

You, barely visible beneath a tangle of limbs and blankets, would shrug. “They were here first.”

One hound would open a single eye at him in a lazy challenge.

He refused to admit he sometimes lost that battle.

Then there were the incidents.

Two of the hounds had decided to race each other down the corridor the exact moment you stepped out of a room. You’d barely see the blur of movement before you were on the floor, wrist twisted painfully beneath you.

The howl that followed had shaken the rafters.

Not from you.

From them.

They’d circled you immediately, whining, pacing, nudging you gently with their noses as if trying to fix what they’d done. One had even pressed its forehead to your shoulder in apology.

Eris had arrived seconds later, fire already flaring, only to find you half-laughing through the sting while two enormous beasts looked ready to exile themselves in shame.

“They didn’t mean to,” you insisted while he inspected your swelling wrist.

“I know,” he sighed, though he shot them a pointed look. “You nearly injured my mate.”

They hadn’t left your side for three days after that, not even when you went to the bathroom.

And then there was the one time with the sentry.

A young, overzealous fool, who grabbed your wrist during an argument — not roughly, but enough.

The reaction has been instantaneous.

Ferocious snarls.

A flash of teeth.

The sentry was on the ground before he could even register the mistake, two smokehounds practically mauling him while another bolted from the room in a streak of shadow.

Eris had felt the alarm through the bond before the hound even reached him.

By the time he arrived, the message was clear to every other fae in the Autumn Court.

Do. Not. Touch.

You’d been more shaken than hurt, and Eris had gone frighteningly still in a way that made even the hounds obey the snap of his fingers instantly to allow their master to enact his own punishment.

Afterward, when everything was settled, he’d found you seated on the floor with all three beasts pressed against you like oversized guards.

“They protected me,” you’d murmured softly.

“Of course they did,” he’d replied. “They love you.”

And that was the thing.

For all his mild exasperation — for the stolen spaces, they way they followed you around like smouldering ducklings — he loved that you loved them.

Loved that when he wasn’t there, you weren’t alone.

Loved that you laughed when one nudged a book from your hands demanding attention.

Loved the sight of you framed in firelight, a hound’s head resting trustingly on your thighs.

Sometimes, late at night, when he finally managed to edge one aside and slide into bed beside you, he’d press a quiet kiss to your temple and murmur:

“I’m glad they love you, otherwise I’d have to ship you back to where you came from.”

There was a well timed growl before one shifted closer, half squeezing Eris half off the mattress.

You snorted.

“I’d like to see you try.”

He’d grumble.

But he’d relent and stay.

Because they weren’t just his hounds anymore.

They were yours too.

And the way your smile softened when they curled around you?

That alone made every inch of stolen mattress worth it.

The House of Wind feels different.

Quieter.

Warmer in a way that has nothing to do with the fire burning in the hearth.

You’re seated on one of the plush sofas, carefully cradling Nyx in your arms while Feyre sits nearby with that luminous, exhausted new-mother glow. The baby is still impossibly small, despite being a few months old now, wrapped in dark fabric, tiny wings twitching in his sleep.

You were besotted.

Across the room, Rhysand stands beside Eris, both of them pretending not to stare.

Eris has seen battlefields without blinking.

He has faced Beron’s cruelty without flinching.

But this?

This makes him unnervingly still.

You adjust Nyx gently, murmuring something soft and instinctive. The baby’s hand curls around your finger and you beam at Feyre’s praise at how natural you are with him.

And Eris’s breath catches.

He doesn’t miss the way your expression changes — how your features soften into something almost reverent. Protective. Fierce in a quiet way.

Rhys notices it too.

“Careful,” Rhys murmurs, arms crossed, violet eyes gleaming faintly. “It appears your wife may be thinking of hiding my son under her cloak before she leaves.”

Eris arches an eyebrow. “It appears that way.”

Rhys smirks. “Ever thought about having any of your own?”

“No.”

The sudden, almost harsh, reply from Eris catches Rhys by surprise. He doesn’t miss the underlying tension however as Eris continues to watch you — regret perhaps, longing, apprehension.

After a moment, Rhys says quietly. “You’d be surprised what you’re capable of. When it’s yours.”

Eris doesn’t look at him. “You presume much.”

“Do I?” Rhys’s tone is mild. “You’re not Beron.”

The name lands like a stone dropped into deep water.

Eris’s jaw tightens — but he doesn’t snap.

Instead, he keeps watching you.

Watching the way you instinctively shift Nyx into a more comfortable position when he stirs.

Watching the way you smile as you carefully brush your fingers through the dark hair on top of his head.

Watching the warmth in your eyes.

“I thought,” Eris says after a long pause, voice lower than usual, “that I would never want one.”

Rhys hums. “And now?”

Eris is silent.

Because now…he isn’t imagining a child raised in fear, as he was.

He’s imagining you in the Forest House, sunlight through the autumn leaves, smokehounds sprawled like loyal guardians by your feet.

He’s imagining small footsteps in those halls.

He’s imagining breaking a cycle instead of repeating it.

“I think,” Eris admits quietly, “it depends on who the mother is.”

Rhys’s smirk turns softer. “It usually does.”

—

Later, you reluctantly hand Nyx back to Feyre. Eris is quieter than usual as you say your goodbyes.

Back in your guest chambers, you shrug off your cloak, smiling faintly. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”

Eris doesn’t answer immediately.

He’s watching you instead.

“Yes,” he says finally. “He is.”

You pause, noticing something different in his tone. “What is it?”

He steps closer, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear — a touch more thoughtful than teasing.

“I’ve been reconsidering something,” he says.

“Oh?” You reply lightly. “Should I be concerned?”

“Possibly.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Eris.”

He exhales once — steadying.

“For a long time,” he begins carefully, “I thought I would be a poor father.”

You blink.

That’s not how you expected this conversation to go.

“You wouldn’t,” you say immediately.

He huffs a quiet, humourless breath. “Beron made me believe otherwise.”

Your expression softens. “You are nothing like him.”

He searches your face, as if testing the truth of it.

“And if I were?” He asks.

“Then I wouldn’t be standing here with you if I believed that.”

The certainty in your voice stills him.

A beat passes.

Then, casually — far too casually — he says:

“Shall we make one?”

You choke.

“WHAT?”

Eris doesn’t have the decency to look apologetic. If anything, he looks amused at your spluttering.

For as long as you’d known him, you knew Eris had complicated feelings about children. It was something that you had never asked or pushed him about, content to spend the rest of your days just the two of you if that’s what he wanted.

“You’re insufferable,” you wheeze, coughing into your hand. “You cannot just — you cannot phrase it like that!”

He tilts his head. “How would you prefer I phrase it? Let’s fuck like bunnies until—“

“No!” You gasped, smothering the rest of his sentence with your hand. “Perhaps something less barbaric.”

His lips twitch as you pull your hand away.

He steps closer, hands settling at your waist, this time with unmistakable tenderness.

“I meant,” he says more softly, firelight dancing softly behind his amber eyes, “that I would like to try. With you. If you wished it.”

Your indignation melts into something breathless.

“You’re serious,” you whisper.

“Terrifyingly.”

Emotion flickers across your face — surprise, warmth, hope.

“You’d be a wonderful father,” you murmur.

He brushes his forehead against yours. “Only if they inherit your patience.”

You laugh quietly. “I have no patience for you thinking less of yourself.”

He considers that.

Then smirks. “Very well. But if they start commanding smokehounds before they can walk, that’ll be your fault.”

You smile, heart full, hands sliding up to rest on his chest.

“I don’t know about that, their father is very bossy.”

Eris narrows his eyes at you in a playful glare. “Oh, yeah? Get on the bed then, Mrs Vanserra.”

You almost choked again.

“Now? Eris, we can’t, this is Rhys and Feyre’s home—“

“Of course we can,” he says, beginning to walk you back in the direction of the large bed. “I see no reason for us to delay.”

“Eris Vanserra,” you basically shriek as the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you fall down on the bed.

He leers over you, smug warmth curling around you both. “Are you concerned about the proximity of Rhysand’s bedroom?”

“Yes!”

He considers that, then murmurs, “I’m sure the High Lord of the Night Court has heard worse.”

You swat his chest. “You’re unbelievable.”

He catches your wrist gently, bringing your knuckles to his lips.

“I am serious,” he says again — softer this time. “About wanting this. About wanting it with you.”

The humour drains just enough to let hit truth shine through.

Your expression shifts.

“You’re really ready?” You whisper.

He brushes his nose against yours. “I’m ready to stop letting Beron dictate what I believe I’m capable of, especially if you believe in me.”

That steals your breath far more than his earlier boldness.

You slide your hands up his shoulders. “We’ll talk about it properly,” you say gently. “When we’re home. In our own court. In our own bed.”

His eyes darken slightly at the last part.

“Very well,” he concedes.

Then, after a beat, he adds lightly, “We need to think of an emergency to get us back to Autumn.”

You snort. “You’re so impatient.”

“And yet,” he murmurs, pressing a slow kiss to your mouth, “the Mother chose you for me.”

You can’t argue with that.

Though as he pulls you closer, you hiss under your breath, “If Rhys or Feyre hear so much as a creak—“

Eris smiles against your lips, nipping them playfully.

“Then perhaps they should invest in thicker walls.”

The dream always starts the same.

Cold stone. Smoke thick in the air. Beron’s voice — low, disappointed, venomous.

He’s younger in the dream. Smaller. Less lean. Forced to kneel.

The first blow lands.

He doesn’t make a sound.

The second, third and fourth one, he grits his teeth to keep the sounds at bay.

Fire lashes his back, across his shoulders. The smell of burning fabric and skin punctuates his nose.

Beron circles him slowly. “Weakness,” his father says. “You reek of it.”

Eris says nothing — it was always better to say nothing.

“Let me show you what weakness does to a man.”

The doors open.

The guards drag someone in.

You.

Your wrists are bound. Your face and mouth bloody where you’ve clearly fought them.

A wrecked sound slips past Eris’s lips before he can help it.

He tries to move — to stand, to reach you, to protect you — but he is powerless.

Beron’s smile shifts.

“So this,” his father murmurs, stepping towards you, “is what you thought you could hide from me.”

“No—“ Eris chokes out.

Beron lifts a hand.

Flame curls around his fingers.

“Love makes you weak.”

The fire strikes you.

You scream—

Eris bolts upright in bed.

Your scream is still ringing in his ears.

For one horrible second, he doesn’t know where he is. His skin is damp with sweat, chest heaving, power crackling dangerously close to the surface.

He turns—

The space beside him is empty.

Cold.

The world narrows.

“—No.”

He’s out of bed before the thought finishes forming, bare feet hitting the floor hard enough to rattle the side table. Panic roars through him, primal and violent.

The bond is there — but fear distorts everything. Makes it distant and wrong. It clouds clear thinking.

He strides out of the bedroom, fire flaring instinctively along his arms.

He finds you immediately.

Curled up on the sofa near the low-burning hearth, wrapped in a blanket, a book resting in your open lap, a cup of tea on the table beside you.

Very much alive.

Very much unharmed.

You look up, startled at the sudden rush of heat and movement. “Eris?”

He doesn’t answer.

He crosses the room in long strides and drops to his knees in front of you like a man who has just outrun death itself.

You blink, confused and also concerned — and his hands are on you.

Checking.

Your arms. Your face. Your shoulders.

“Eris—“ you say again, softer now. You see the wildness in his eyes, the terror, and you understand.

Without a word, he gathers you up.

He lifts you straight off the sofa and into his chest like you weigh nothing at all.

You gasp faintly at the sudden movement, arms automatically winding around his neck.

He sits back down with you in his lap, one hand firm at the back of your head, pressing you against him as if he needs to feel you as close as possible to believe it’s real.

His breathing is still uneven.

“Hey,” you murmur gently, fingers reaching to brush into his hair. “What happened?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Just holds you tighter.

After a long moment, his voice comes — rougher than you’ve heard in a while.

“I couldn’t find you.”

Your heart squeezes.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you explain softly, “I didn’t want to wake you, so I came out here.”

His jaw tightens at that —not in anger at you, but at the memory still clinging to him.

“I thought…” he swallows. “I thought he had you.”

You still.

“Beron?”

He nods once against your shoulder.

“It was him,” he says quietly. “It started how it always does, but this time they dragged you in. And he—“

His hand flexes involuntarily against your back.

You shift in his lap so you can see his face properly. There’s no mask right now. No court composure. Only lingering horror.

“It was just a dream,” you say gently.

“I know.”

His eyes avoid yours.

You cradle his face between your hands. “Look at me.”

He does.

“I’m here,” you whisper. “He will never touch me.”

His eyes flicker — some part of him wanting to argue that nothing is impossible.

So you press your forehead to his.

“And even if he tried,” you add softly, “you’re not that powerless boy anymore.”

Something in him eases at that.

Not fully.

But enough for now.

After a while, his breathing finally steadies and his fire dims back to a low warmth instead of a threat. He’s comforted by the feel of your heartbeat against his chest and the soft scratches your fingers make against his scalp.

“Do you want to go back to bed?”

He nods.

Without a word, he stands again — still holding you — as if the thought of you walking alone for a few seconds is unacceptable.

You smile faintly against his shoulder as he carries you back into your bedroom.

When he lays you down this time, he doesn’t leave an inch of space. One arm under your neck. The other wrapped securely around your waist. Your leg hooked over his.

Protective.

Anchoring.

You press your hand to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm.

“I’m here,” you murmur sleepily.

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I know,” he replies.

And this time, when sleep takes him again, it’s quieter and peaceful.

Because you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Eris’s office in the Forest House is unusually quiet.

Which means one thing.

Eris is stressed.

You can tell by the why he’s hunched over his desk, papers scattered everywhere, quill scratching aggressively across parchment like the ink has personally offended him.

His advisors shoot you a look as they stand huddled by the door, clearly nervous to disturb him or face his wrath.

But you were his wife, his mate — and that’s why they had summoned you.

If there was anyone who could pry him from his mood, it was you.

So you did what you always do when the High Lord of Autumn looks like he might burn half the court down out of irritation.

You baked.

A chocolate cake, specifically. Rich, warm, slightly molten in the centre — easily one of your best yet.

You cut him a generous slice, place it carefully on a plate, and walk into his office with the kind of optimism only someone carrying cake possesses.

“Eris?” You say gently.

He doesn’t look up.

“Mm.”

“I brought you something.”

Still writing, he waves a distracted hand. “Leave it.”

You step closer and set the plate down near his elbow. “It’s cake, one of your favourites.”

That gets a reaction.

Just not the one you hoped for.

“I’m busy,” he says sharply, eyes still on the parchment. “Not now.”

The words snap through the room before he even realises how harsh they sounded.

Silence settles for a second.

You blink.

A single eyebrow raises.

You shrug, unwilling to let Eris’s temper dampen your spirits.

“Okay.”

You pick up the plate again, walk around his desk, and sit directly across from him.

Eris doesn’t notice at first.

He’s still scribbling furiously until—

A soft moan rings out.

“Mmm.”

He ignores it.

Then it happens again.

“Mmm—oh wow.”

His quill slows.

Across the desk, you take another bite of cake, closing your eyes dramatically.

“Oh gods,” you sigh happily, “that is so good.”

Eris’s eyes flick up.

You’re leaning back in your chair, savouring the bite like it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.

“Mmm,” you hum again, licking some chocolate from your fork. “I outdid myself.”

His eyes narrow.

You ditch the fork, instead using your finger to gather some chocolate frosting from the edge of the plate and licking it off.

Slowly, sensually, your finger making a small popping noise as your lips enclose around it. Your head tips back slightly as you let out an entirely unnecessary, exaggerated sound of appreciation.

“Mmm—“

The quill snaps.

You look up innocently.

Eris is staring at you now.

Really staring.

“What,” he says slowly, “are you doing?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“You know what you’re doing.”

You take another bite, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

“Mmm—oh, Eris,” you murmur. “—so good.”

His jaw tightens.

“Are you finished?” He asks.

“With the cake?” You say thoughtfully, “No, I’m savouring it.”

You drag your finger through the frosting again.

Eris watches the movement like it’s personally offending him.

“You’re making those sounds on purpose.”

You widen your eyes. “What sounds?”

Right on que, you lick your finger.

“Mmm.”

His chair scrapes against the floor as he leans back, crossing his arms.

“You’re insufferable.”

You shrug slightly. “You said you didn’t want any.”

“I said not now.”

“Well,” you say, swirling your fork around the plate, “now it’s mine.”

Another bite.

Another pleased sound.

His gaze drops to your mouth.

Then the cake.

Then back again.

You can practically see the moment his patience snaps.

“Bring the cake to the bedroom.”

You pause mid-bite.

“…What?”

Eris stands slowly from his chair, expression dark with something far more dangerous than stress now.

“I believe,” he says calmly, “you were trying to get my attention.”

You swallow. “Maybe.”

“Congratulations,” he murmurs. “Now you’ve got it.”

You lean back in your chair. “Are you done being grumpy?”

“Oh, I’m very done.”

You glance at the cake. “What if I want to finish it here?”

Eris walks around the desk with slow, predatory steps.

When he stops in front of you, he gently takes the plate from your fingers and sets it aside.

Then he leans down, voice low near your ear.

“I don’t want to get chocolate all over my desk.”

Your breath catches.

“You can keep making those sounds, just not over cake.”

Your face warms instantly, your body automatically tensing.

He straightens, smirking at the flushed look on your face.

“Bedroom. Cake. Now,” he says.

Mission accomplished.

The balcony on the House of Wind glows with soft laternlight, the air humming with anticipation as guests gather for Starfall.

You stood near the railing, glass of wine in your hands, watching the sky deepen into a velvety blue that promises the first stars will be falling soon.

Somewhere behind you, Eris is trapped in a conversation with emissaries from the Winter Court — also invited alongside Autumn to the annual Night Court celebration.

Diplomacy, allies, and the sort of polite posturing that comes with being the mate of the newly appointed High Lord of Autumn Court, was not your scene.

So you slipped away for a moment of quiet.

A mistake, apparently.

“Enjoying the view?”

You turn to find a very tall, broad Illyrian warrior leaning casually against the railing next to you, wings folded behind him. His grin is charming, confident, and entirely too familiar for someone you’ve never met.

Cassian, you believe.

“Very much,” you reply politely.

He steps closer, glancing up at the sky and then back to you. “First Starfall?”

“Does it show?”

“Only a little,” he says with a laugh. “Most people here pretend they’ve seen it a hundred times.”

You smile despite yourself.

“And you?”

“Oh, I’ve seen it plenty,” Cassian says easily. “But I’d say the company tonight might improve the tradition.”

He holds out a large hand towards you, flashing a charming grin at you. “I’m Cassian. What’s your name gorgeous?”

Ah.

So that’s where this is going.

You’re amused — also slightly flustered — did he not know who you were?

“(Y/N).”

You reach out and shake his hand.

“Which court are you visiting from?”

“Autumn, if the colours didn’t make it too obvious,” you lightly joke.

The deep burgundy dress you wore tonight was stitched with flowing layers and leaves that shimmered in the light — a dress for a lady of Autumn whilst honouring aspects of Night.

His eyebrows lift slightly — he didn’t hide the fact his eyes lowered to appreciate your dress before fixing on your face once again.

“It’s nice to see Autumn sending someone so lovely — you’ll have to thank Eris for me.”

You laugh softly.

“I’ll be sure to pass the message along.”

He grins wider. “Or you could stay in the Night Court. We treat our guests very well.”

“Do you?”

“Absolutely,” he says. “In fact, the beds are very comfortable—“

A warm hand slides around your waist.

Not subtle, or gentle.

Possessive.

You don’t even need to turn your head to see who it is.

Eris appears beside you like a flame taking shape.

Cassian freezes before he can finish his sentence.

Eris’s arm settles firmly around you, drawing you tight into his side. His fingers press hard into your hip, searing your skin through the layers of tulle, thumb brushing once in a silent claim.

“General,” Eris greets smoothly.

Cassian blinks.

“…Eris.”

You feel the faint rumble of amusement in Eris’s chest.

Cassian’s eyes flick between the two of you — your proximity, Eris’s hands, the way you’re not pulling away and settle against his side as if you belong there.

The deathly glare Eris is currently pinning on him.

Realisation dawns.

“Shit,” Cassian says slowly.

Eris tilts his head. “Yes.”

Cassian drags a hand down his face. “Oh, that’s unfortunate.”

“For you,” Eris replies calmly.

You bite your lip to stop a laugh.

Cassian straightens, looking deeply embarrassed now. “I didn’t realise you were—“

“My mate,” Eris finishes.

Cassian winces.

Before the awkwardness can deepen, another voice drifts in.

“Well, this is interesting.”

You turn to see Rhysand approaching, violet eyes glinting with amusement.

He takes in the scene instantly.

“Cassian,” he says, “why are you trying to start a war with Autumn by flirting with their High Lady?”

“I didn’t know!” Cassian sputters.

Eris’s fingers tighten just slightly, and you knew his temper was beginning to simmer — the air around you started to swelter.

“No harm done, he was just introducing himself,” you say, trying to diffuse the situation. You press your hand to Eris’s chest, turning more into his hold. “Isn’t that right, my love?”

Eris’s eyes narrowed and you don’t miss the fiery undertone to his voice. “Yes, he was merely being…friendly.”

“Very friendly,” you add innocently.

Cassian points at you. “You didn’t tell me!”

“You didn’t ask,” you reply sweetly.

Rhys chuckles under his breath.

“Well,” he says, clapping Cassian on the shoulder, “Congratulations. Why don’t you go and flirt with Viviane now and start another diplomatic incident?”

Cassian looks like he might throw himself off the balcony as Rhys steers him away, laughing.

Cassian throws one last horrified look over his shoulder at you, “I’m sorry, I swear I didn’t know!”

The moment they disappear into the crowd, Eris exhales slowly through his nose.

You glance up at him, already smiling.

“Oh no,” you say lightly, “is the terrifying High Lord of Autumn pouting?”

“I do not pout.”

“You absolutely pout.”

His arms tighten around your waist in response, pulling you firmly into his chest.

“I let you step away for ten minutes,” he says, with mild irritation, “and an Illyrian general attempts to charm my mate.”

You laugh, resting your hands against his chest, adjusting the lapels of his jacket.

“Charm might be a generous description.”

Eris raises a brow. “You seemed entertained.”

“Well,” you say innocently, “it was amusing.”

His eyes narrow.

Your smile widens.

His hands slide from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you even closer — entirely unnecessary given how close you already are.

You tilt your head. “You’re being very territorial tonight.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

His thumb traces along your back.

“Perhaps,” he murmurs, “I’m reminding certain Night Court warriors who you belong to.”

You laugh, nudging him slightly. “He didn’t know who I was.”

“That doesn’t make it any less irritating.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease, “you should be flattered.”

“Flattered?”

“That your mate is apparently so irresistible.”

His gaze drifts slowly over your face.

Down your chest.

Then back up again.

“I am already well aware of that,” he says.

You try to maintain your teasing expression, but it softens under the weight of his attention.

“And besides,” you add lightly. “You arrived just in time to make your little dramatic entrance.”

“Good.”

“You enjoyed that part, didn’t you?”

Eris doesn’t pretend otherwise.

“Immensely.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath.

His hand drifts again — this time settling at your waist with unmistakable familiarity as he leans down slightly to nip at your ear lobe.

“Though next time,” he murmurs near your ear, “I may simply throw him off the balcony.”

“You absolutely will not.”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether he tries again.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say fondly.

His expression softens slightly, though the possessive warmth remains as this thumbs traces slow circles at your waist.

“Stay close for the rest of the night,” he murmurs.

“Because you’re worried someone else might flirt with me?”

“No,” he says smoothly. “I’d much rather keep my hands on you.”

You couldn’t help the involuntary squeak as both his hands reach down to grab your ass. You lightly slap his chest, biting your lip to keep your smirk at bay.

“Possessive male,” you mutter.

“Hopelessly,” he agrees.

You roll your eyes, but lean back into Eris’s hold as he turns you so your back is pressed against his chest. His arms wind around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder as a cascade of stars begins to fall overhead.

His hands refuse to leave your waist for the rest of the night.

Not that you’re complaining.

[belleeebelleee]

Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Bucky thinks you're too young for him, despite the fact that he's already half in love with you.

The first time James Buchanan Barnes looks at you too long, he nearly walks into a glass door.

Sam laughs so hard he wheezes.

“Man, that is embarrassing,” Sam Wilson says around his grin.

Bucky scowls at him, rubbing his shoulder where it clipped the frame. “Shut up.”

Sam’s eyes slide toward you across the compound gym.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the mat with Alpine sprawled in your lap, completely unaware of the catastrophe you’ve apparently caused. One of the recruits is talking your ear off while you nod politely, scratching behind the cat’s ears.

“You got it bad,” Sam says.

“I do not.”

“You walked into a door.”

“Poor design.”

Sam snorts. “Sure.”

Bucky ignores him. Mostly because there’s nothing he can say without sounding defensive.

Or worse.

Truthful.

Because the problem is this:

You’re too young.

Not immature. Not reckless. Not incapable.

Just young.

Young in the way sunlight is young. Like fresh starts and futures and people who still buy furniture instead of inheriting ghosts.

And Bucky—

Bucky is over a hundred years old with blood on his hands that will never come clean.

So no.

Absolutely not.

Not happening.

Unfortunately, his heart seems to have missed the memo.

You join the Avengers in the least dramatic way possible.

No alien invasions.

No secret prophecies.

No world-ending catastrophe.

You’re simply very, very good at your job.

You’re a trauma medic attached to a relief organization the Avengers occasionally partner with, and after patching up three agents, one diplomat, and Sam Wilson himself during a mission in Madripoor, Fury offers you a permanent position.

You say no.

Twice.

The third time, Pepper Potts calls personally.

By the fourth offer, you finally cave.

Which is how you end up living in the compound three floors beneath a supersoldier who actively avoids you.

At first, you assume he just doesn’t like people.

Natasha informs you otherwise.

“Oh, he likes people,” Natasha Romanoff says dryly over breakfast. “Just not many.”

You glance toward the empty seat Bucky abandoned the second you walked into the kitchen.

“…Did I offend him somehow?”

Natasha actually chokes on her coffee.

Across from her, Sam suddenly becomes deeply fascinated by his cereal.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” Natasha says immediately.

“Absolutely nothing,” Sam agrees.

You narrow your eyes.

Neither elaborates.

You begin noticing things after that.

Little things.

Bucky always leaves the room when you enter it—but somehow your favorite tea always appears stocked in the kitchen.

You mention once that the compound hallways are freezing, and two days later there’s a thick knit blanket folded neatly outside your door with no note attached.

You complain about a stubborn cabinet hinge in your apartment.

The next morning it’s fixed.

No one admits responsibility.

But when you thank Bucky casually over dinner just to test a theory, he nearly inhales his drink.

“…Wasn’t me.”

You smile slowly.

“Okay.”

He stares at you like you’re dangerous.

Which is ridiculous.

You’re wearing bunny slippers.

The age gap becomes obvious one night during a movie marathon.

You, Sam, Peter, and Bucky are sprawled across the common room while some absurd eighties action movie plays on the screen.

Peter groans dramatically. “This CGI is awful.”

“It looked good at the time,” you argue.

Bucky turns his head.

“At the time?”

You freeze.

Sam bursts into laughter so violently he almost falls off the couch.

“Oh my God,” he gasps. “She thinks the eighties are ancient history.”

“They are ancient history,” you defend.

Bucky stares at you with something between horror and disbelief.

“You were born after the eighties?”

“…Yes?”

“The nineties?” he asks weakly.

“Yes.”

Peter pipes up helpfully. “She was born in 1998.”

Bucky looks like someone shot him.

You blink. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Sam says gleefully. “He is not.”

Bucky stands abruptly.

“I’m going for a walk.”

Sam loses it completely.

After that, Bucky avoids you harder.

Which would almost be impressive if he weren’t terrible at hiding the fact that he cares about you.

He watches you constantly.

Not in a creepy way.

In a protective way.

Like he’s making sure you’re breathing.

You catch it in fragments.

His eyes tracking you during missions.

His body subtly positioning between you and danger.

The way he relaxes when you laugh.

The way he goes still when someone touches you for too long.

You start understanding the truth before anyone says it aloud.

Bucky Barnes is in love with you.

And for some insane reason—

You’re falling for him too.

It happens slowly.

Then all at once.

You fall for his quietness first.

Most people assume silence means emptiness.

Bucky’s silence is full.

Heavy with observation. Care. Thoughtfulness.

He notices everything.

The exact way you take your coffee.

The songs you hum absentmindedly.

Which nightmares leave you restless.

You realize he starts leaving the compound gym earlier on mornings after you wake from bad dreams.

Like he’s trying to make breakfast before you get there.

Like feeding people is the only comfort he knows how to offer.

And God.

When he smiles?

Rare. Small. Crooked.

It feels precious.

Like discovering something hidden beneath ice.

The problem is that Bucky refuses to let anything happen between you.

The closer you get, the more distance he forces between you afterward.

You’ll spend hours talking on the roof at night—sharing stories and terrible coffee and quiet laughter—and then he’ll avoid you for three straight days.

It hurts more than you expect.

Because you know he feels it too.

One night, after a mission in Prague, you finally corner him.

He’s sitting alone in the hangar cleaning his weapons when you walk in.

“Did I do something wrong?”

His hands stop moving instantly.

“No.”

“Then why are you avoiding me?”

“I’m not.”

You fold your arms.

He sighs.

“You shouldn’t be down here.”

“Bucky—”

“You should be out with people your own age.”

The words hit like cold water.

You stare at him.

“…What?”

He doesn’t look at you.

“You’re young. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

“And?”

“And I’m not…” He swallows hard. “I’m not someone you build a future with.”

Anger sparks sharp and immediate.

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

His jaw tightens.

“You think this is a joke?”

“I think you’re scared.”

That gets his attention.

Steel-blue eyes snap to yours.

“You don’t know what I am.”

“I know exactly what you are,” you fire back. “You’re kind. You’re loyal. You’re infuriatingly self-sacrificing. You bring me tea when I’m stressed and pretend you didn’t. You stay outside the medbay when I work late because you think I don’t notice.”

His expression fractures slightly.

“You deserve someone better.”

“No,” you say softly. “I deserve to choose.”

Silence stretches between you.

Raw.

Fragile.

Bucky looks wrecked by it.

By you.

“You don’t understand,” he whispers. “I remember too much.”

Your anger fades instantly.

Slowly, carefully, you walk toward him.

He goes perfectly still.

“I know,” you say gently.

“You’re twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-eight.”

“That’s not helping.”

Despite everything, you laugh quietly.

His eyes close briefly like the sound physically affects him.

“You’re gonna wake up one day,” he says roughly, “and realize you wasted your life on an old man with too many ghosts.”

You crouch in front of him.

“James.”

He looks at you helplessly.

“You are not hard to love.”

Something inside him breaks.

You see it happen in real time.

Like a wall finally cracking after decades under pressure.

His metal hand flexes once.

“You shouldn’t say things like that to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to believe you.”

Your heart aches.

So you do the only thing that feels right.

You take his hand.

Both of them.

Flesh and metal.

Equally.

“I mean it.”

Bucky stares at your joined hands like he’s never seen anything so devastating.

Then he pulls away.

Not harshly.

Worse.

Carefully.

Like it costs him everything.

“I can’t.”

And he leaves.

You cry exactly once about it.

Natasha finds you sitting on the kitchen counter at two in the morning eating dry cereal from the box.

“You look terrible,” she says.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

She takes the cereal from you.

“…He said no?”

You nod miserably.

Natasha sighs the sigh of someone deeply exhausted by male stupidity.

“He loves you.”

“I know.”

“Unfortunately, he’s also an idiot.”

A startled laugh escapes you.

Natasha bumps your shoulder lightly.

“Give him time.”

Time, unfortunately, turns out to involve disaster.

Because of course it does.

This is the Avengers.

Nothing emotionally significant can happen without explosions.

The mission in Bucharest goes sideways fast.

An arms deal.

Bad intel.

Too many hostiles.

You’re there strictly as medical support, tucked safely in the quinjet several blocks away.

At least, that’s the plan.

Then the building collapses.

Your comms erupt with shouting.

“Medic down—”

“—need extraction—”

“Where’s Barnes?”

Dust fills the air.

You’re dragged from the wreckage half-conscious with blood running down your temple and your left leg trapped beneath concrete.

And then Bucky arrives.

You’ve seen the Winter Soldier before.

Cold.

Efficient.

Terrifying.

But this?

This is different.

This is rage.

Pure, horrifying rage.

He tears through debris with his metal arm like the rubble personally offended him.

Someone tries to stop him.

That person immediately regrets it.

“BUCKY—” Sam shouts.

Bucky ignores everyone.

His eyes find you.

And you swear the entire world stills.

“Hey,” you whisper weakly.

He drops to his knees beside you.

Hands shaking.

Actually shaking.

“Don’t move,” he says, voice rough with panic.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

Your attempt at humor nearly destroys him.

You can see it.

Blood loss makes everything hazy, but one thing becomes crystal clear:

Bucky loves you so much it terrifies him.

He lifts the concrete slab like it weighs nothing.

The second you’re free, he gathers you against his chest.

Protective.

Desperate.

Your face presses against tactical gear and leather and the frantic pounding of his heart.

“You’re okay,” he mutters, like he’s trying to convince himself. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay.”

His forehead rests briefly against your hair.

For one tiny moment, the world disappears.

No missions.

No history.

No fear.

Just him.

Just you.

Then your pain catches up.

You hiss sharply.

Bucky immediately pulls back. “Medbay. Now.”

The quinjet ride is chaos.

You fade in and out while Bruce works on your leg.

Bucky never leaves your side.

Not once.

At some point you wake to find him sitting beside your cot, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s praying.

“You stayed,” you murmur.

His head snaps up instantly.

“Yeah.”

“You hate medbays.”

“I hate hospitals.”

“Still counts.”

A faint huff of laughter leaves him.

Relief flickers across his face just hearing you joke again.

You watch him quietly.

Disheveled hair.

Blood on his gloves.

Exhaustion carved into every line of his body.

And underneath it all—

Love.

So much love.

“Bucky.”

His eyes meet yours.

“Come here.”

He hesitates.

Then obeys.

You shift carefully, making room for him beside the cot.

“Doll—”

“Please.”

That word wrecks him every time.

He sits carefully beside you.

You lean into him immediately.

No hesitation.

His entire body locks up.

Then slowly—

Slowly—

He wraps an arm around you.

Like holding you is both instinct and privilege.

You rest your head against his shoulder.

“I meant what I said before,” you whisper.

Silence.

Then quietly:

“I know.”

“You still think you’re too old for me?”

A long pause.

“…Yeah.”

You snort softly.

He looks offended.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” You tilt your head back to look at him. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you’re using age because it’s easier than admitting you’re scared someone might actually love you enough to stay.”

Bucky goes still.

Dead still.

The truth lands hard.

You see it.

And because apparently you enjoy emotional violence, you add gently:

“I think everyone leaves you eventually, and you’re trying to leave first.”

His breathing catches.

For a second you think he might walk away again.

Instead, he whispers:

“You make me want things.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“What kind of things?”

“A home.” His voice is barely audible. “A future. Somethin’ normal.” He swallows hard. “Kids, maybe.”

Your eyes sting unexpectedly.

Bucky looks horrified he admitted that aloud.

“You’d be a good dad,” you say softly.

He laughs once.

Broken.

“No, sweetheart. I wouldn’t.”

“You already are.”

His brows pull together.

You smile faintly. “You take care of everyone. Especially the people you love.”

The word hangs there.

Love.

He doesn’t deny it this time.

Instead, he reaches up carefully and brushes hair away from your face.

His fingertips linger against your cheek.

Warm flesh hand.

Not the metal one.

Like he still thinks the other might hurt you.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers.

Your heart pounds.

“Why would I do that?”

His eyes darken with emotion so intense it almost hurts to look at.

Then finally—

Finally—

He kisses you.

Soft at first.

Tentative.

Like he’s waiting for the world to punish him for wanting this.

But the second you kiss him back, everything changes.

His hand slides behind your neck.

He kisses like a man starved.

Like he’s been holding himself back for months and doesn’t know how to do it anymore.

It’s not frantic.

It’s worse.

Careful.

Reverent.

Every brush of his mouth says something he doesn’t know how to speak aloud.

You pull back breathless.

Bucky’s forehead drops against yours.

“I’m in so much trouble,” he mutters.

You laugh softly.

“Because you kissed me?”

“Because I’m never gonna stop wanting to do it again.”

Dating Bucky Barnes is surprisingly domestic.

You expect intensity.

Drama.

Brooding declarations in the rain.

Instead, you get:

Quiet mornings.

His hand at the small of your back.

Shared coffee.

Movie nights where he falls asleep with his head in your lap despite insisting supersoldiers “don’t nap.”

You get Alpine deciding you’re her favorite human.

You get Bucky standing in the kitchen at midnight making grilled cheese while listening to you ramble about terrible reality television.

You get a man who loves fiercely but carefully.

Like your happiness is something precious he’s been entrusted with.

The age gap still bothers him sometimes.

Usually in small ways.

Pop culture references.

Technology.

The occasional existential crisis when you tease him about being born before penicillin.

“You are never saying that sentence again,” he informs you gravely.

You grin. “You were literally alive during swing dancing.”

“So were old people in the nineties.”

“You are old people in the nineties.”

He glares.

Then kisses you to shut you up.

Which honestly feels like a win.

The real turning point comes six months later.

It’s after a mission.

A bad one.

You wake in the middle of the night to find Bucky sitting on the edge of the bed staring at nothing.

Nightmare.

You recognize the signs now.

Without speaking, you move closer and press against his back.

His shoulders tense briefly.

Then sag.

“You okay?” you whisper.

“No.”

Honest.

Always honest with you now.

You wrap your arms around his waist.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Long silence.

Then quietly:

“I saw you die.”

Your chest aches.

“In the dream?”

He nods once.

You press a kiss between his shoulder blades.

“I’m still here.”

“For now.”

The fear in his voice destroys you.

You turn him gently until he faces you.

“You know what’s really unfair?” you murmur.

“What?”

“You think loving you is a burden.”

His eyes flicker downward.

“But loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

Emotion crashes across his face so openly it startles you.

You touch his jaw softly.

“I’m not going anywhere, James.”

And for the first time—

He believes you.

You can actually see it happen.

The shift.

The surrender.

His walls finally lowering completely.

Bucky pulls you into his lap and buries his face against your neck.

Holding you so tightly it feels instinctive.

Necessary.

“I love you,” he says roughly.

Not tentative.

Not fearful.

Certain.

“I love you too.”

He kisses you afterward like he finally understands he’s allowed to.

A year later, Sam finds Bucky in the compound kitchen staring at a jewelry website with naked panic.

Sam nearly drops his smoothie.

“Oh, this is serious.”

Bucky slams the laptop shut.

“Get out.”

Sam grins slowly. “You’re proposing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re absolutely proposing.”

Bucky scowls.

Sam’s expression softens unexpectedly.

“You happy?”

Bucky glances toward the hallway where your laughter echoes faintly from another room.

His entire face changes.

Softens in a way that would probably terrify his enemies.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “Yeah, I am.”

He proposes on the roof.

No audience.

No elaborate setup.

Just the city lights below and cold evening air curling around both of you.

You’re rambling about something completely ridiculous when he interrupts suddenly:

“I wanna spend the rest of my life loving you.”

You blink.

“…What?”

Bucky looks nervous.

Actually nervous.

More nervous than when facing down armed mercenaries.

“I had this whole speech planned,” he mutters, frustrated. “Was supposed to be better than this.”

Your heart starts pounding.

He drops to one knee anyway.

“I know I’m older than you.”

You snort through sudden tears. “Slightly.”

“Brat.”

You grin shakily.

Bucky takes your hand carefully.

Reverently.

“But every good thing I have now started with you.” His voice roughens. “You made me believe I could still have a life after everything.”

Tears spill down your cheeks immediately.

“So yeah,” he says softly. “Marry me?”

You don’t even let him finish reaching for the ring box before you’re kissing him.

Bucky laughs against your mouth for the first time since you’ve known him.

Pure happiness.

Unrestrained.

“Yes?” he asks breathlessly.

“Yes.”

Again.

“Yes.”

He slides the ring onto your finger with shaking hands.

Then pulls you into his arms like he never intends to let go again.

And this time—

He doesn’t.

[drabblesandsnippets]

tw: sweet to spicy Soft!Bucky who was terrified of asking you out. Fumbling his way through the first few attempts until his intentions were finally clear enough that you took pity on him.

Soft!Bucky who spent hours getting ready for the first date. Picking the right outfit. Buying the perfect flowers. Meticulous backup plans to the backup plans in case anything fell through.

Soft!Bucky who agonized and researched small talk topics and safe subjects to keep the conversation flowing. Only to never seem to run out of things to talk about with you.

Soft!Bucky who took advantage of every comfortable silence to study you. To memorize signs that might one day warn him that you were growing frustrated. Or trying to hold back your enthusiasm for something you were clearly excited about.

Soft!Bucky who promised to never let you hide. Especially from him. New music that made you squeal had him spinning you around the living room to dance. Books that made you cry had him kissing away your tears, holding space for you to mourn characters that burrowed deep in your heart.

Soft!Bucky who holds your hand at every opportunity. Walks in the park. Cuddling on the couch. Standing in the kitchen, so he can wrap his arms around you. Bury his face in your neck and breathe you in. Comfort. Safety. Home. A warmth that settles deep in his chest, thawing out his frozen fears of never deserving love.

Soft!Bucky who would spend hours kissing you if you let him. Gentle brushes of his lips on your temple. Apple of your cheeks. Tip of your nose. The corner of your mouth to make you smile. Tender kisses against your lips to prove his devotion to you. Only turning hungry when you'd invite him in, tongues meeting in a slow dance that leaves you both breathless.

Soft!Bucky who never stops showing how much he loves you. Date nights, even years into the relationship. A vow of, "I'm never gonna stop spoiling you, sweet girl," kept from the very beginning. Fancy dates to go dancing that end with you making out in the back of a limo. Living room picnics with blanket forts and whispered secrets under fairy lights.

Soft!Bucky who only has eyes for you. Making it his mission to overwrite all your insecurities. Mapping every inch of your body with his hands. His lips. Tongue. Tracing your soft flesh until there's no doubt left that you're perfection incarnate.

Soft!Bucky who nearly came at the first taste of you. Trembling thighs spread open for him, glistening pussy all puffy and gorgeous. Begging to be devoured. He only lasted as long as you did. Tongue swirling around your clit, fingers buried deep, walls fluttering around his thick digits. The scream of his name making him lose his goddamn mind.

Soft!Bucky who apologized for coming so fast by having you ride his face. His cock aching and leaking again by the time you're grinding against his mouth, chasing your pleasure, thighs threatening to smother him. His rough grip never leaving you wondering if you're taking too much.

Soft!Bucky who doesn't let you go until you've nearly drowned him, smug face dripping with the evidence of his talents. Your mouth landing on his the moment you sink down on his thick length, tasting yourself as he bottoms out inside your slick heat.

Soft!Bucky who always lets you adjust first. Half-lidded eyes drawn to the pleasure contorting your face, your hands gripping his shoulders with each deliberate rolls of your hips.

Soft!Bucky who never stops praising you. Even when the pleasure leaves him breathless. Words stuttering out between harsh gasps of incoherent curses. Feel so good. Can't get enough of you. - Takin' me so well, baby, like you were made for me. - You're so fucking hot, sweetheart. Ridin' me like you never wanna stop.

Soft!Bucky who takes over the moment your muscles start to protest. Rolling you onto your back, his hands wrapped around the back of your thick thighs, encouraging you to just lay there and take it. Let him fuck you nice and deep until your tensing up again. Pussy quivering, trying to milk him dry.

Soft!Bucky who refuses to fill you up until he's tasted you again. Beard sure to leave you sore as he tongue fucks you towards oblivion. Nose bumping against your clit with each filthy thrust, mouth slurping against your dripping pussy while you grip his hair.

Soft!Bucky who takes his time to ease back inside you. Palms flat next to your ears, fingers flexing against the mattress, hips nestled between your still shaking thighs so he can savor this. Punctuating each of your whimpers with soft kisses along your neck, nose brushing sweat-slick skin, nostrils flaring at the intoxicating scent.

Soft!Bucky who doesn't pick up the pace until your sobbing against his throat, nails clawing at his back, encouraging his thrusts to turn sloppy. The exquisite wet slapping of flesh each time he bottoms out adding to the keening symphony filling the space around you. Hurling him towards the point of no return.

Soft!Bucky who needs to feel you squeeze his dick one last time. His free hand slipping between your heated bodies to give you exactly what you need. Direct pressure. Filthy praise. Guttural moans that have your velvet walls squeezing the last bit of sanity of out of him.

Soft!Bucky who, even while chasing the delicious friction and pumping you full of endless ropes of cum, is still careful with you. Most of his weight shifting to his limbs, tongue soothing the spot his teeth had started to sink into it, his fingers ever careful of squeezing the back of your neck where he was holding for leverage.

Soft!Bucky who scoops you up the moment his vision clears. Heartbeat still pounding in his ears, but at least he can check on you. Bring you out of your cock-drunk stupor with lazy kisses and targeted caresses, bypassing all your oversensitive spots.

Soft!Bucky who only breathes deep once you snuggle close, giggling about being worn out, body lax against his. Trusting him to take care of you in such a vulnerable state.

Soft!Bucky who isn't sure he deserves the peace you bring into his life, but has slowly started to learn not to question it as much. To just accept it. Appreciate it. Cherish it. Like he'll always do with you.

Banners by @cafekitsune

[mcrdvcks]

saw this tweet and got inspired that i wrote it at 3 am in the morning before going to bed, lol (insomnia my old friend).

warnings/tags: 2.1k words, soft!bucky, fem!reader, smut, soft sex, oral (f!receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, mention of brushing hair from face, aftercare (that gets interrupted by a certain little kitty)

You’re sprawled on the living room floor, arms tucked behind your head, watching Bucky knock out push-ups like it’s nothing. His hair is half-tied, sweat clinging to his neck, and every time he dips low above you, he presses a quick kiss to your lips.

“Twenty-seven,” he murmurs against your mouth. Another peck. “Twenty-eight.”

You try to keep still, to be good, but it’s hard when he’s hovering over you like that—shirtless, muscles flexing, eyes flicking down to your lips every few seconds like he’s starving. You arch a brow. “Are you actually counting or just making out with me between sets?”

His grin is unfair. “Multitasking.”

You roll your eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“Twenty-nine.” This time the kiss lingers—soft and warm and just a little bit… distracted. His lips move against yours like he’s forgetting the workout altogether, his body lowering a touch too far as his chest brushes yours.

Then, without warning, your hands slide up to grab his shoulders, pulling him down fully until he collapses over you with a huff of laughter.

“Hey,” he says, voice muffled as he nuzzles into your neck, “you’re interrupting my form.”

“Maybe I wanted a longer kiss,” you mutter, already trailing your fingers through the damp strands at his nape. “Sue me.”

His chuckle rumbles against your collarbone. “Gotta finish my reps, baby.”

You tilt your head, letting your lips skim his jaw. “Then consider this your new set.”

That does it.

He shifts, one metal hand bracing by your head, the other sliding down your side until his fingers grip your thigh. He parts your legs with his knee slowly, deliberately, slotting himself between them as his mouth finds yours again—deeper now, slower. Hungrier.

Your breath catches, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“Still multitasking?” you whisper against his lips.

Bucky smirks. “Not anymore.”

His mouth was warm on yours again, slow and deep this time, his tongue teasing at the seam until you opened for him with a sigh. Your fingers slipped under the band of his shorts, nails dragging gently over the curve of his lower back, the skin hot and damp with sweat.

"Fuck," Bucky murmured into your mouth. "This is a way better workout."

You laughed softly, but the sound caught in your throat when he rolled his hips down against yours—slow, measured pressure that made your breath hitch and your thighs tighten around him instinctively. You weren’t wearing much, just your sleep shorts and an old tank top, and he… he was hard.

Very.

"Jesus, Buck—"

"Mmh. That’s what happens when you lie under me bein’ all cute ‘n kissable." He mouthed along your jawline, his voice honeyed and rough. "You think I’m made of steel, baby?"

"Parts of you, maybe," you teased, rocking up against him. That earned you a low groan, and the sound raked straight through your core.

"Keep that up and I’m gonna fuck you right here on the yoga mat."

"Promises, promises," you breathed, pulling his mouth back to yours.

Bucky shifted, kneeling between your legs just enough to drag your shorts down, the fabric catching slightly on your thighs before he peeled them off entirely. His gaze dropped, metal fingers brushing down the curve of your inner thigh, warm and reverent.

"Goddamn," he muttered, like it physically hurt to look at you. "You’re fuckin’ soaked already."

"Wonder why," you whispered, hips lifting toward him in offering.

He didn’t dive in. Not yet. He leaned down again, pressing kisses along your belly, your hip, the inside of your thigh like he was trying to memorize the map of you. Then his mouth reached your cunt, and the first warm flick of his tongue made you arch off the mat.

"Ah—f-fuck, Bucky—"

"Shhh." He pressed your thighs open with both hands, slow and firm, tongue curling just enough to drag a ragged little moan from your throat. "I got you."

The strokes of his tongue were gentle at first—just long, unhurried laps that made your muscles twitch. But then he sucked, just once, right over your clit, and you damn near came off the floor.

"Bucky!" you gasped, one hand flying to his hair.

He groaned low at the sound of his name on your lips like that, like it meant something. Like you couldn’t help it. His tongue flattened against you again, slower now, savoring every twitch of your hips beneath him. You tugged at his hair—half encouragement, half desperation—and he smiled against your skin.

“That good, sweetheart?” he murmured, lips brushing your inner thigh.

You nodded, too breathless to speak, hips already chasing after his mouth when he pulled back just slightly to look up at you. Your chest was heaving, tank top twisted and barely covering you now, eyes glassy and dazed with want. He could’ve stared at you like that forever—completely undone for him.

“Jesus,” he whispered, almost reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

Then he ducked his head again. This time his tongue moved with purpose, working tight circles around your clit while his fingers slid up to tease at your entrance. You moaned when he pushed one inside, then two, stretching you slowly, curling just right until your back arched off the mat.

“B-Bucky—oh my god—”

“I know, baby,” he crooned. “I know. Feels good, huh?”

He fucked you with his fingers, steady and gentle, mouth never leaving your clit. You were soaked—slick and pulsing around him—and when your legs started to tremble on either side of his head, he only doubled down.

“C’mon, give it to me,” he whispered hoarsely. “Wanna feel you come on my fingers.”

Your release crashed over you moments later, your thighs squeezing around his head as you cried out his name. He kept going through it, coaxing every last tremble and twitch from you until your hand tugged at his hair again in a half-sob, overwhelmed.

He finally pulled back, lips slick, eyes dark with adoration.

“Hi,” he said softly, crawling up your body and pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek, then your lips. You could taste yourself on his tongue and it only made you whimper.

“Hi,” you breathed back, still trembling a little. “That was… not a push-up.”

He laughed, a warm rumble against your chest as he pulled you into his arms, cradling you like you were breakable.

“Nope,” he agreed. “That was cardio.”

You buried your face in his neck, giggling breathlessly. “God, I love your workouts.”

“Yeah?” he grinned, nudging your nose with his. “Good. ‘Cause I’m nowhere near done with my sets.”

You were still trying to catch your breath when he hooked an arm under your thigh and shifted—rolling his hips against you again, cock heavy and throbbing against your sensitive center. Even through the fabric of his shorts, the pressure made your body jolt with aftershocks.

“Bucky—” you breathed, voice catching. “Too soon…”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, slow and sweet. “Then let me be gentle, sweetheart.”

You didn’t have the strength to argue—not when he pulled back just far enough to shove his shorts down, revealing the thick line of him, flushed and dripping at the tip. He stroked himself once, then again, groaning low in his throat as he looked at you. Legs still spread, body flushed and trembling, eyes locked on him like he was something holy.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost like it hurt. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty it makes me stupid.”

You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing along the stubble on his cheek. “Then come be stupid with me.”

That broke him. He lined himself up, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, slow and teasing until you whimpered and lifted your hips in a silent plea. Bucky groaned at the sound, bending down to kiss you as he started to push in—inch by inch, filling you until you gasped into his mouth.

“Shit, baby,” he hissed, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re so warm… always so tight f’me.”

He moved carefully at first, rocking his hips in smooth, shallow thrusts as he kissed you—your mouth, your cheek, the tip of your nose. Everything about him was overwhelming in the best way: the stretch, the heat, the love in his eyes as he watched your body take him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in, needing him close—all of him. His chest pressed against yours, heartbeat pounding through both your bodies as he began to move a little faster, a little deeper, letting the rhythm build naturally.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Feels so good, Bucky…”

“I know, baby.” His voice was rough and low, but gentle. “You’re doin’ so good for me. Always so perfect.”

Each thrust made your toes curl, the way he filled you just right—just enough pressure, just enough drag. He kept one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your thigh to anchor himself as he rocked into you, slow and worshipful.

“I love you,” you whispered.

That did something to him. His movements faltered for half a second, and then his mouth was everywhere—your jaw, your neck, the hollow of your throat—as he thrust deeper, groaning like he couldn’t bear to hold back anymore.

“I love you too,” he gasped against your skin. “So fuckin’ much, baby—don’t even know what to do with it.”

You were close again, the pressure building so sweetly it almost hurt. Your nails dug into his back, your breath coming in gasps, and Bucky felt it—knew it.

“That’s it,” he panted, lips brushing your cheek. “Let go for me. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

You came with a shuddering cry, clinging to him as he held you through it, whispering soft praises into your ear. A few more thrusts and he followed with a low, broken groan, burying himself deep as his release spilled inside you, warm and pulsing.

Bucky didn’t move for a while, just breathed with you—your heartbeats slowly syncing in the warm silence of the living room. The yoga mat was definitely not meant for sex, but the way his body covered yours, keeping you grounded and safe, made everything else irrelevant.

Eventually, he shifted just enough to look at you, brushing the damp hair back from your face with gentle fingers. “You okay, doll?”

You nodded sleepily, your legs still loosely wrapped around his waist. “Mmm. Might be dead, actually.”

He chuckled, nose brushing yours. “You’re not dead. You’re just well-exercised.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, but you were grinning. “Your definition of cardio is criminal.”

He kissed your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You whined when he pulled out, hips twitching at the loss of warmth. He soothed you with another kiss, this one soft and lingering, before standing—naked and shameless as ever—and offering you his hand.

You took it with a dramatic groan. “If I can’t walk, I’m blaming you.”

“You say that like it’s a threat,” he smirked, helping you upright and into his arms. He didn’t even bother grabbing your shorts—just scooped you up bridal-style and padded down the hall toward the bathroom like you weighed nothing.

“Show-off,” you muttered, resting your head against his shoulder.

He just hummed and pressed a kiss to your hair.

The bath was quick, lazy, and full of sleepy kisses and wandering hands—but no more than that. He washed you gently, careful with every touch, even when you teased him for the way he cooed over your sore thighs. He even gave your forehead a little kiss after toweling you off.

“Such a sap,” you whispered, smiling into his chest as he wrapped you in one of his old T-shirts.

“Only for you,” he murmured, his voice low and sweet.

Back in the living room, Bucky tossed the rumpled yoga mat aside and collapsed onto the couch with you on top of him, arms wrapped securely around your waist. You nestled against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, your fingers tracing the faint line of a scar near his collarbone.

Just when you were about to fall asleep, a soft meow broke the peace.

You cracked one eye open. “No.”

But it was too late.

Alpine jumped delicately up onto the couch, tail flicking, and immediately made her way across Bucky’s stomach like it was her designated nap zone.

“Alpine,” Bucky said, voice full of fake betrayal, “I just had her, baby, c’mon…”

Alpine responded by kneading into his abs and curling up in the most inconvenient position possible—smack between the two of you.

“She’s jealous,” you said sleepily, reaching over to scratch behind her ear. “You ignored her during your little cardio routine.”

“I was a little busy.”

“She doesn’t care.”

Bucky sighed dramatically, stroking Alpine’s back with one hand while the other curled tighter around your waist.

“Fine. Family cuddles it is.”

You smiled and nuzzled into his neck. “Best set yet.”