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j23r23 · 1 day ago

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Me, reading chapter 7!

Trustfall, Chapter 7

Winter Soldier!Bucky x fem!Reader, 9 chapters plus prologue & epilogue. This chapter is rated Mature, but others are Explicit for sexual contact, which considering it’s the Winter Soldier should be considered vaguely dub!con within an established relationship. Updates will be Tuesdays & Thursdays until complete.

Chapter Summary:

The truth comes out.

Full notes on AO3, but please note the Trigger Warning for Dub!con above.

Prologue ~ Chapters 1 ~ 2 ~ 3 ~ 4 ~ 5 ~ 6 ~ 7 ~ 8 ~ 9 ~ Epilogue

MCU Masterlist

“He’s not your asset anymore,” you say, shaking, but the Soldier pulls you into him, holds you tight, his metal fingers digging into your forearm. You struggle against him—and there it is, the quick-release.

The arm falls with a clunk as you race away. You barely make three steps before you’re tackled to the ground by one of the henchmen, and you scream as your knee hits the concrete, hard and jarring, both in pain and frustration.

“Hey, there, pretty girl,” says the henchmen, a syrupy slick voice in your ear, as his hand gropes to brush the side of your breast.

Just as fast, his weight is gone, and there’s a crack. You stay face-down on the concrete, breathing hard, as the asshole’s body falls to the ground beside you, eyes slowly going dull.

“That was unwise,” says the scar-faced man coldly.

“She’s mine,” growls the Soldier standing over you, and you hear the click of his arm reattaching.

“Hmm. Get her up.”

The Soldier lifts you up with one swift move that leaves your head spinning. “I can give you information about the Avengers. Where they are, how to eliminate them in one move.”

“You asshole,” you shriek, and shove at him, scratching his face with your fingernails, digging under his skin, drawing blood. Not that he seems to feel it; the Soldier tightens his left hand around your forearm and you scream at the sudden sharp pain. “I can’t wait for them to find us and shoot you dead.”

“And I should believe you, why?” sneers the scar-faced man.

The Soldier shakes you. “Ask her. She’ll confirm.”

“Like hell I will!”

The scar-faced man leans in close, and you hold your breath. “What an excellent idea.”

You spit at him, blood mixed with saliva. It hits him on the cheek, and he wipes it away with a handkerchief and a grim, almost admiring smile. “I’m not telling you anything.”

“My dear girl,” he says. “You don’t seem to understand. You don’t have a choice.”

And then he says something else, and with that word, the veils around your mind begin to drop. “Krasevye….”

The world is bleary, confused, too loud and too soft and too bright and too dark, all at once. It’s easier to focus on the small details: the feel of the hard floor under your cheek, the chill in the air, the sound of men talking, barking orders, of the Soldier responding, rote and dry.

Your mouth is dry, thick like cotton. Your head aches, like you’ve woken before you were ready. Your eyes won’t focus, and you push yourself out of whatever fog you’re in, trying to make sense of it.

“—this may be our best chance to remove the remaining Avengers from the playing field.”

“We’ll arrange for immediate transport.”

None of them look at you. They’re busy on the other side of the room, walking around a large table, pointing and plotting, orders thrown in every direction. The Soldier, Scarface, minions in uniform.

You remember Scarface, speaking to you, words in Russian, overlapping with words you’d heard from the Soldier’s lips against your skin. Bucky, in the half-light from a dying fire, and Scarface, glowing in the pink and blue of a nightclub, raising a glass to you in a congratulatory toast.

It burns, the images, deep in your heart. Burns so badly you can barely breathe with it, barely think past it.

“We’ll come in fast and with full power. Less chance of tipping them off.”

“They’ll suspect anyway.” The Soldier, his voice brisk and gruff. “They’re too well trained not to be wary.”

“Then we use that against them.”

You feel sick, even as you stand. But still no one notices you. Not even when you cross to the table, and pull the gun right out of a guard’s holster, and hold it at Scarface’s spine.

Your finger rests on the trigger. It wouldn’t take much.

It’s still somehow too much.

“You can’t do anything if you’re paralyzed,” you say, your voice shaking. “One shot. That’s all it’ll take.”

“Is that so?” says Scarface mildly. “Soldier.”

He moves fast, and hard, and the gun clatters to the ground as he twists it from your fingers. There’s not even a shot to ricochet; before you can blink, the Soldier has your arms locked behind you, held tight to him. His breath dancing in your hair as he turns you to face Scarface, a sardonic smile on his twisted lips.

“You should have just shot me,” he says. “But then, you have wasted a great deal of my time to talking.”

You blink at him, confused. “I’ve never talked to you in my life.”

“Haven’t you? Since the day you walked into the Tower, you’ve been mine. Giving me every bit of information you learned about its security and its occupants. There is not a single shred of information that you have not given to me, willingly and without hesitation.”

You stare at him, shaking your slowly. “No. That’s not… I wouldn’t!”

He leans closer to you. “Krasevye. Chuvstvennyy. Hochu tebya…”

You blink, hard, shaking your head as the fog begins to form around you. The Soldier’s fingers digging into your skin helps. “I don’t… stop it. What are you…?”

“You told me the names of the guards at the front desk: Leo, John, Hassan, Ali. There are three main entrances on Park, 42nd, and Atlantic, but also three other access points that lead into the garage, only accessible by employees with driving privileges. Supplies are delivered to an unmarked door on an alley that cuts through 45th to Atlantic, and must be pre-arranged by calling a specific number. The last access code you used was 513678, and while it was due to expire in another two weeks, it would have been cancelled the moment you were taken by the Soldier, per protocol.

“I know, because you told me. Mixed in with the daily habits and lunch orders and office gossip. There is not one scrap of information that passes through that Tower that you did not give me, willingly, every time I asked. So when I thank you for your service, remember. You have been mine, from the very beginning. And do you know the most important thing you have given me?”

Your breathing speeds up, your heart pounds. Your eyes are wide on him, horror dawning.

“You have given me back my Soldier. A piece of luck, his taking an interest in you, one I did not anticipate but welcomed nonetheless. Without you, I would never have been able to access the Tower and remind him of his loyalties. And without you, I would not be able to use him to destroy the Avengers for good.”

“You bastard,” you hiss, and you try to lunge for him, but the Soldier holds you fast.

You twist, and somehow, jam your shoulder into the Soldier’s solar plexus, and your elbow into his groin. Even the Soldier can’t stand under that assault; he lets go of you just long enough for you to take two steps toward Scarface.

But that’s all you do, before two additional guards flank you. You try to fight, but it’s no use, and to make it worse, one of them punches you in the stomach, just to the side of your still-healing wound, which makes you scream in pain.

No help comes. When you lift your head, you see the Soldier first, on one knee, hands clenched at his side, jaw tight with pain, eyes staring into the middle distance.

“Yes, hold yourself,” the man sneers at him, and the Soldier’s jaw works, though he doesn’t move. The man glances back at you. “She’s rather outlived her usefulness, of course. We can hardly use her in the field again. But I suppose you will do as the Asset’s plaything, since he has taken a liking to you. And I’m sure he’d like to repay the favor you paid him.”

You feel sick, light, loose; the Soldier growls.

“They’ll kill you for taking him,” you spit. “Steve broke his programming before. He can do it again.”

The man’s eyes widen. “My dear girl. Don’t play games with me. You saw Steve Rogers fall. Why do you think they haven’t come to save you yet? Why save you, when you’re the one who killed him?”

Your eyes widen. “No. I—Tony went after him! He’s fine!”

“Take her to her room,” snaps the man. “The Soldier can play when his work is done.”

They drag you away before you can scream, but not before you see the Soldier, staring wide-eyed at you, before he turns back to the table where the plans are being made, determination on his face.

to be continued...

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j23r23 · 2 days ago

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How the turns have tabled 😱

Trustfall, Chapter 6

Chapter Summary:

By the time you wake up, you're halfway through Nebraska... and you have no idea what the Soldier is planning.

Full notes on AO3, but please note the Trigger Warning for Dub!con above.

Prologue ~ Chapters 1 ~ 2 ~ 3 ~ 4 ~ 5 ~ 6 ~ 7 ~ 8 ~ 9 ~ Epilogue

MCU Masterlist

You wake, heated air blasting on your face, strapped to a seat, the world in motion.

When you open your eyes, sunlight blinds you for a long moment, until you realize that the countryside passing the exterior of the car is grassy plains and far-off hills, a few clumps of trees, and a winding, well-paved road.

“What?” you say, blearily, confused. “Where are we?”

“Nebraska. Drink the water,” says the Soldier flatly, motioning to the bottle of water sitting in the center console between you. You sit up, wincing as the wound in your stomach pulls.

“What happened? Why did we leave the farm?”

He doesn’t look at you. “It wasn’t safe.”

“What do you mean, it wasn’t safe? It was the safest.”

He works his jaw, but says nothing. Just keeps driving, a little faster, the knuckles on his right hand a little bit whiter.

You stare at them, the way they’re clenched on the wheel, the way he won’t look at you. The way he’s reverted, a little, back to the stoic, stern, silent Soldier.

Any trace of Bucky you saw before falling asleep is gone.

It takes a moment, before your lips are wet enough to speak. “Soldier. What did you do?”

His hands flex on the steering wheel. It’s the only answer you get for a while.

You’re heading west. You know you’re heading west, further from New York, the team, anything that might help you figure out how to break the Soldier’s reasserted programming.

“It wasn’t safe,” says the Soldier—and it’s all he says, the only answer he’ll give for why you left the farm.

You beg, and plead, and shout. You try to wrestle for the steering wheel; he pushes you aside as if he’s flicking a finger. When he stops to let you pee, you try to run.

He grabs you and throws you over his shoulder—gently, so as not to hurt your stomach—and carts you back, zipties the buckle closed so you can’t break free before he starts the car and continues to head west.

You close your eyes and try not to cry.

It’d been perfect, before you fell asleep. Or nearly. It wasn’t Bucky—you know it wasn’t Bucky—but it hadn’t been the Soldier, either. Some man in between, but he’d said the right things and touched you in the right ways, and you thought…

It doesn’t matter what you thought. You were wrong, because it’s not Bucky who woke up beside you in a sunlit farmhouse bed, but the Soldier driving you further away from anyone who could possibly help you find him again.

“Do you trust me.”

He sounds hoarse, like he’s been screaming into the wind. Maybe he has been; for the last hour, the only other thing he’s said was it wasn’t safe.

You can’t look at him. You want to look at him. You still feel his hands on your skin, holding your hips, kissing your neck, bringing you shuddering to orgasm.

“I thought I’d found you again,” you whisper.

His hands flex on the steering wheel.

“Did you trust him.”

Your eyes fly open. He stares at the road ahead of the car, unblinking. Unrecognizable.

“I did.”

His jaw is tight, but you watch the muscles move under his skin. His chest rises and falls with a single, deep breath.

It wasn’t safe.

You don’t know who the Soldier is, not really. Only that he’s dangerous. Only that Bucky had trusted him to your care.

Had trusted the Soldier not to hurt you.

And so far, he hasn’t. Not really.

It wasn’t safe.

“I trust you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t say anything after that.

It’s hours later, a whole state later, when the Soldier pulls into a spot in an otherwise empty parking garage and turns the car off. It’s dark, late, and every part of you is sore.

“Not a great place to switch vehicles,” you say grimly.

“No,” he says, but it’s more a correction than agreement. He doesn’t look at you. “Who am I?”

Your heart leaps in your chest, a little bit. “What do you remember?”

He makes a fist with his right hand, the knuckles going white, and then releases it. “You first.”

You swallow, hard. “You’re James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky.”

He nods. “And who was I before that?”

You shake your head. “You’ve always been James Barnes.”

He moves so fast, you don’t even know where the knife that he holds to your neck has come from. You can barely breathe, but your heart pounds into your mouth.

“Who. Am. I.”

You swallow, and feel the prick of the knife on your throat. “You’re still James Barnes. Even when you’re the Soldier, you’re still James Barnes…”

He shakes his head, hard. “You’re not getting it, doll. Right now. Who am I. Right now.”

Your lips are dry; your hands shake. You can barely speak above a whisper. “The Winter Soldier.”

He pulls the knife from your throat and sheathes it under his right armpit, nodding slowly.

“That’s right, doll. Remember that, and we might stay alive.”

It’s a long walk down the echoing stairwell. Your entire body aches, sore from sitting so long.

You stumble, and the Soldier grabs your arm, metal fingers wrapping around your bicep, tight enough that they might bruise.

He growls something at you, so low and guttural that at first, you’re sure it’s in Russian.

“What—?” you start, but he ignores you, pulls you straight through the door.

You’re not on the ground level.

You’re still in the parking garage.

There are black trucks, armored, parked so they’re facing away, ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

There are men, armed, guards with helmets and masks and tactical gear, waiting in a semi-circle.

And standing in front of all of them, is a man with a scar down the side of his face, small wire-rimmed glasses, and a sardonic, wry smile.

A man you dimly remember from a night a year in the past. Who congratulated you and bought you a drink, and you never saw him again.

The words the Soldier had growled earlier coalesce into English, like it’s taken you this long to translate them from the original.

The only way out is through.

You suck in a breath, stumbling into the Soldier’s side. His hand tightens, and you almost cry out in pain.

“My Assets,” says the scar-faced man, smoothly, in an accent you almost recognize, “Hail Hydra. Welcome home.”

to be continued...

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j23r23 · 5 days ago

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Please ad me to the taglist, thank you😘

The Domestic Clause (#1)

Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ just in case. Fluff. Slight Angst. Eventual Smut.

Summary: Bucky agrees to a discreet cleaning service to tend to his apartment while he’s away. He never expected the care of someone he’d never met to become the gentlest part of his daily life.

Word Count: About 5.3k.

He didn't want the cleaning service at first.

Too invasive, too fussy. Too awkward to let strangers enter a place that he was still learning to feel like a home. But his staff had insisted, gently but firmly. He was a public figure now. The service company came highly recommended as discreet and secure. No need for small talk or eye contact. Just clean surfaces and food that didn’t come in plastic bags.

The company had a key. They came while he was out. Twice a week, no more, no less. Floors scrubbed, bed made, fridge stocked with two fresh meals, laundry done and folded. Neutral. Efficient. He hadn’t asked for more.

Didn’t think he needed it.

And for almost two months, it stayed that way. Predictable and impersonal.

Then something changed.

It wasn’t obvious at first. Just a faint jasmine scent on the floorboards when he came in one Thursday. A softness in the towels that hadn't been there before. He didn't know what laundry soap she used now, but it remained faintly on his undershirts and stayed there, even under the starch and suits.

And the food. He didn’t remember requesting a change to "homestyle", but something about the new meals felt different. Simpler. Hearty. Less... curated. There were potatoes done the way his ma used to make them, string beans cooked soft and salted instead of bright and snappy. Meatloaf. Stew. Biscuits wrapped in a cloth napkin, like someone didn’t want them to go cold too fast.

He didn’t mind the change. In fact, he found himself looking forward to Tuesdays and Thursdays now. Found himself standing in the doorway just a little longer when he got home.

Found himself breathing deeper.

And he hadn't realized how much that mattered until the jasmine scent was gone, for two visits. A week without it. Like someone else had stepped in for the shifts and didn’t use her supplies. Whoever she was.

He didn’t ask the company about it. That would make it a thing. It wasn’t a thing.

But when it came back, subtle and soft under his front door, he realized he’d missed it.

----

It wasn’t supposed to be a long-term thing.

Just a stopgap. Something stable while she figured things out, something to get the rent paid, to keep food on the table, to keep her hands busy so her head wouldn’t spiral.

That was four years ago.

The flower shop had gone up with the smoke one winter night, an electrical fault, they said. Faulty fuse box. Nothing she could’ve done. And still, the insurance company found a way to wriggle free of every promise. Negligence was the word they leaned on. Cold. Precise. Final. She still dreamed of that smell sometimes, wet ash, scorched petals, the soil turning to a black sludge.

So she cleaned.

Her friend knew someone at the company and vouched for her. It was a clean-cut operation, specializing in silence, efficiency, and making life easier for the rich and important people without ever getting too close. Names weren’t shared. No questions asked. The job was: arrive, clean, cook if requested, and leave before the client came home.

Most were just properties, not homes. Untouched bookshelves, empty fridges, decor chosen by someone with a spreadsheet. She never lingered too much.

When Carla from the Thursday-Tuesday rotation quit -something about her kid and the commute- her boss messaged her directly.

“Solid client. Single guy. High profile. Interested?”

She said yes without thinking before asking for the address.

It wasn’t far. A decent building in a quiet street. She filled the product request form immediately, asking for the brands she liked, floor soap with jasmine, the laundry liquid that didn’t smell like hotel sheets, and the dried lavender flask. Her own little signatures. It wasn’t for them, it was for her. To stick with comfortable scents.

The first time she stepped inside the place, she noticed the simplicity. No clutter. No pictures. No smell of cigarettes. No designer furniture. Just white walls and clean counters and a coffee mug still wet in the sink.

A little lonely if you ask her, but simpler to maintain. She liked it.

Two hours later, the place gleamed, the fridge held two containers of stew, and the air smelled faintly of jasmine and lemon balm. She clicked the door behind her with satisfaction.

It wasn’t a dream job.

But it was good enough.

And after what she’d been through, good enough meant everything.

----

She hadn’t meant to snoop.

It was just a quick wipe-down of the table near the entryway, as always, a change tray, a small pile of unopened mail. Standard. Most of the time, she didn’t even glance at the envelopes, just moved them aside with the back of her hand.

But that day, one slipped, and she caught it without thinking.

Her eyes hit the name before she could look away.

Barnes, James B.

Blocky letters. Government seal in the corner.

Her stomach gave a weird little flip.

She held the envelope longer than she should’ve, her fingers still pressed against the smooth paper. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

James Barnes.

It couldn’t be-

But it was.

She’d watched the hearings on the news like everyone else back then, back when Zemo’s little show had dragged old ghosts into the daylight. A face all over every channel. “The Winter Soldier.” The monster in grainy Hydra footage, all blood, violence, and blank stares. She remembered digging deeper online, reading words she didn’t even want to say aloud, conditioning, assassination programs, cryogenic freezing, psychological mutilation.

And now here she was. Wiping his countertops.

And then the pardon came. The press cycle burned out. People moved on.

Now, he was in a suit, making speeches with his jaw clenched too tightly, his voice low and unslick. Every opponent had tried to gut him with his past, throwing his record into the dirt, dragging out death counts like headlines. But he’d held. Barely. Visibly. A man trying not to bolt every time a flash went off.

A sharp breath escaped her lips. She looked around like the walls might suddenly see her differently.

So he was her boss.

It made sense now, the spartan apartment, despite the nice neighborhood. No trace of friends or family. The closed door at the end of the hall that was always locked, marked clearly on the service sheet as "no access."

She’d joked once, silently, looking at that door, that the guy had spy gear in there. Or was a serial killer, and the day she finds it casually opened and dares to enter… that is how scary movies started.

She placed the envelope back where it had been and straightened it.

He was just a man.

A man who’d been through hell, and wanted clean floors and warm food waiting when he got home. She stood there a second longer, her hand resting on the top of the table. Then moved on. Quietly, like always.

----

She didn’t tell anyone she’d figured it out. The company wouldn’t have liked it, and it didn’t matter anyway, her job hadn’t changed. Wipe. Sweep. Wash. Cook. Lock up. The routine stayed the same. But she didn’t.

Now that she knew who he was, really was, it changed how she moved through the apartment.

She caught herself slowing down near the closed door at the end of the hall, imagining what was behind it. She didn’t pry. Never would. But she started noticing the little things he did leave visible.

A stack of books on the coffee table. Nonfiction, history, psychology, one with bent pages about PTSD. The way he always left the light on in the kitchen window, like he hated coming home to a dark place. A blue coffee mug with a tiny chip on the handle that he still used every day.

And the food.

She started tweaking the meals. Small things at first. Mashed potatoes with extra butter. Slowly roasted chicken instead of grilled. Stew with more salt, more depth.

No complaints.

So she kept going.

On Thursdays, after she cleaned and cooked and made sure everything was just so, she started leaving something extra on the counter.

A small cake.

A batch of oatmeal cookies.

A little apple pie tucked into a glass container, still warm.

Never something fancy. Never store-bought. Comfort things. Something sweet to come home to.

----

It started with the pie.

He came home late that Thursday, later than usual, the suit jacket slung over his shoulder, tie half-pulled, his eyes prickling. He was tired. Not physically, he didn’t get tired, but mentally exhausted.

The apartment smelled like something sweet.

Not the jasmine, that was there too, soft as always. No, this was heavier. Baked. Warm.

He set his keys down and found it on the counter.

Pie. Still holding the faintest trace of oven heat. No label. Just there. Waiting. Like someone knew the kind of day he’d had. Like someone thought maybe a man like him deserved something that tasted like comfort.

He stared at it too long before putting it in the fridge. He didn’t eat it that night. Didn’t want to ruin it with his exhaustion.

But the next day, after a cold shower and half a night’s sleep, he sat at the kitchen island, bare feet on cool tile, fork in hand.

And it was good.

He didn’t tell the service anything. Didn’t leave feedback. Didn't know how. What was he supposed to say? Thanks for the pie?

But the next Thursday, there were cookies. Chewy centers, crispy edges, cinnamon that remained on his tongue longer than it should’ve. He ate them standing up, staring out the window.

By the third week -banana bread, nutty and dense- he started leaving that part of the counter a little clearer. No old mugs, no bowl with fruits. Just space, just in case something else showed up.

And it did.

Always something different. Never too much. Never presumptuous. Just… a simple gift. From someone he’d never seen, whose name he didn’t know, who folded his laundry and cooked his food and smelled like jasmine and something warmer he couldn’t describe.

He found himself trying to imagine her.

Not in a crude way. Not like that. Just- what kind of person did this? Left sweetness behind without asking for thanks? What kind of person looked at a stranger’s life, his particular, lonely life, and thought: he could use something soft?

He started looking forward to Thursdays.

Started coming home earlier, if he could.

And sometimes, on Wednesday nights, he caught himself wondering what she’d leave next.

----

He nearly stepped on it.

The soft clink under his heel made him freeze mid-step, one foot on the air, the other rooted to the floor. He looked down, expecting a dropped spoon maybe, or one of those damn loose buttons that always slipped free from his cuffs.

But it was a chain.

Delicate. Faintly tarnished. A single flower pendant in the center. Tiny petals worked in silver, something between a daisy and a wild rose. He crouched down slowly, brushing it carefully from the floor.

He held it up by the chain and watched it spin gently in the kitchen light.

Definitely not his. No one else had been here.

His mouth tugged into the barest line of surprise.

She must’ve dropped it. This invisible woman who moved through his home when he was gone, who left behind jasmine-scented floors and meals that tasted like someone gave a damn.

The pendant was feminine. A little worn at the edges. Something someone had owned for a while. Not a girl’s thing, not trendy. Something with history.

He found himself thinking: She must be older.

The food made sense now. So did the conditioner, the kind his ma used when he was young, not the chemical-heavy invasive crap most places sold now. And the way things were placed in soft order, not a strict pattern. Not hotel-precise, but thoughtful. Folded throw blanket on the couch. A corner of the towel lifted just so on the rack. She moved like someone used to making spaces feel lived-in. Comfortable.

He imagined her with silver hair twisted up loosely. Glasses maybe. Someone in her sixties. Maybe a widow.

He ran his thumb over the edge of the flower.

He’d return it, of course. Leave it on the kitchen island next visit, maybe tucked into a small dish so she’d see it. But for now… he pocketed it gently. Just for the night.

And for reasons he didn’t examine too closely, he kept it by his bed.

Just until Thursday.

----

She didn’t notice it was gone until she got home.

Her fingers went instinctively to her collarbone while she peeled off her sweater, reaching for the familiar curve of the chain, and touched skin instead. She froze. Then checked the hem, the collar, the folds of the fabric, like maybe it got caught somehow. But it wasn’t there.

She checked the pockets of her coat. Her bag. Nothing.

Her throat closed.

The pendant.

A silver flower, soft-edged with age. It had been her grandmother’s. A gift the day she opened the flower shop, “something to bloom beside you,” she’d said, pressing it into her palm with the fierce kind of pride old women had.

The shop was gone now. Ashes and soot. And now this, too.

She didn’t want to cry, but the grief crept up anyway, quiet and unwelcome. She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her open hands like they might explain where she’d lost it.

It had to be today. It was clasped this morning. She was sure of it.

She hadn’t wanted to say anything. It was unprofessional, and the company discouraged personal contact. But after half an hour of chewing her lip and pacing the kitchen, she gave in and sent a message.

Hi, I think I may have left something at the Tuesday/Thursday apartment. A small silver pendant on a chain. Could you possibly reach out to the client to check if it turned up?

The reply came later. Too short. Too cold.

We’ll pass the message along, but please be more careful in the future. We cannot guarantee a response from the client.

That was it.

She didn’t know if they’d actually tell him. Probably not. He was important. A man like him had more to worry about than a necklace dropped by a service worker.

She sighed, rubbing the spot at her collarbone like she could will its shape back.

It felt stupid to mourn something so small. But it wasn’t about the chain.

It was about her grandmother’s hand on hers. The smell of peonies in the air. That little key they used to hang from the wall behind the register. The shop that had been her heart for six full years before it burned out.

Now that pendant would be somewhere in a trash bin, swept up with crumbs, or stuck to the back of a counter.

Almost poetic, really.

The flower shop was gone. Now the pendant was too.

----

He looked a it longer than he meant to.

He just… liked having it there. On his nightstand. In the quiet. It didn’t do anything, just caught the light in the mornings. But it felt like a presence. A reminder that someone moved through his life with gentleness.

When Thursday came, he gently polished the chain with a cloth, then neatly put it inside the dish where she usually left him the things she found on the floor, like buttons, coins, or a solitary cufflink. But it looked too bare like that. Too transactional.

He hesitated. Then grabbed his coat and headed down the street.

The corner market had a little stand, mostly overpriced bouquets, but he wasn’t after those. He scanned the selection until he found it, behind the roses and lilies. A single stem of fresia. Pale, almost white. Clean.

It reminded him of his ma’s apron pockets.

He took it home, trimmed the end with his pocketknife, and laid it next to the dish.

The necklace, and beside it, the flower.

No note. He wouldn’t know what to write. And she didn’t leave him notes either. He stepped back from the counter.

For a long moment, he just looked at it, this odd little shrine of softness in his too-empty kitchen.

For the woman who folded his shirts like with care.

For the food that tasted like memory.

For the silence that didn’t feel hollow anymore.

----

She wasn’t expecting anything.

By now, she’d accepted the pendant was gone. No one from the company had followed up. If they’d reached out to the client, she hadn’t heard about it.

Maybe she’d dropped it outside. Or it got tangled in the laundry and swept up by accident. Maybe it was meant to be. It was just another echo of the life she used to have. Another piece of the shop, of her grandmother, gone.

That Thursday, she came in like always. Hung up her coat. Tied her apron. She was about to drop to her knees in front of the cabinet under the sink to grab the spray and rag, but as she walked toward it, something caught her eye.

Not clutter -he never left clutter-. But something light. Pale. She stepped closer, curious.

It was a flower. It sat on the kitchen island like it had been placed with care. A single fresia stem. A little old-fashioned, but beautiful and with a wonderful scent. Her breath caught, but not because of what it was, but because of why it was there. Her pendant.

She reached out slowly, and her fingers remained at a brief distance just over the curve of the chain, like it might vanish if she touched it too quickly.

There it was. Pooled neatly inside the “found things” dish.

He’d found it.

She stood there longer than she meant to, with her hand still resting beside the little flower. It wasn’t just the gesture of returning it. It was the wayhe did it. With something lovely and thoughtful.

She decided to bake that lemon cake she loved for that day. The one with poppy seeds in the batter and the glaze. She had bought them to make it for herself, but she wanted to say thank you. So she reached for her purse and put the little bag with the seeds on the counter for later.

----

The apartment smelled faintly of lemon.

It swirled in the air differently than the usual jasmine. As he walked inside, he picked up the sugar, the warm scent of golden batch.

Not store-bought. Tangy-sweet and soft.

He moved toward the kitchen.

And there, right beside the dish, right where he’d left her fresia, A lemon cake, cooling on a small wooden board he didn’t even remember owning, golden, the white glaze still not dried.

He didn’t move for a second. Just stood there, looking at it.

He reached out and ran his index finger lightly over the glaze. It was tacky with citrus and sugar. Fresh.

He cut a slice in silence and sat at the kitchen island to eat it, the plate barely making a sound on the counter. He chewed slowly, letting the flavor unfurl, bright lemon, the crunch of seeds, the softness of something made from scratch.

It was the best thing he’d tasted in weeks.

And somehow, that mattered more than he wanted to admit.

The pendant had meant something to her. He knew that now. The flower had been his way of saying he saw it. And this cake, it felt like her way of saying thank you.

They still hadn’t met. Still hadn’t spoken, probably never will. But something was happening here, two people sharing a quiet room in mismatched moments of the day, still passing warmth between them.

He reached for a second slice.

And for the first time in days, he really smiled.

----

He should’ve checked the schedule.

The Capitol steps shone under his shoes as he stood there, blinking at the empty air where the aides and staffers should’ve been.

No session.

A recess day for constituent travel, or maybe one of those informal pro forma sessions that didn’t need his presence. Whatever it was, no one told him. Or maybe they had, and he hadn’t listened. Either way, he was there, alone, overdressed, and already caught by the click of a single paparazzi camera from across the street.

James Buchanan Barnes, rookie congressman, looking confused as hell.

He bit down a curse and didn’t give the lens anything else to work with, just turned on his heel and headed for the car, schooling his face into neutrality.

Halfway through the drive home, it hit him.

She’s there today.

He gripped the wheel tightly. He could turn around, kill time somewhere, a coffee shop, a walk in the park, or hit the gym even though he wasn’t in the mood. He could also disappear into the back room of his apartment without being noticed and pretend no one was in there.

But who was he kidding? He wanted to know her. The motherly voice behind the lemon cake. The gentle scent of dried lavender on the satchels she left inside his pillowcases, soothing, helping him rest. The woman who turned his empty apartment into something he trusted to come home to.

The elevator ride felt slower than usual. His pulse didn’t match the rhythm of the floor numbers ticking upward.

He reached the hallway.

He stepped in front of his door and heard it, the faint sound of music. Seemed like some kind of pop-rock thing.

Not what he had expected.

As he slowly walked in, he noticed that the music came from the kitchen, so he stealthily moved toward it. He didn’t want to stalk her, just… watch her a little without being noticed.

Baby, I'm preying on you tonight

Hunt you down eat you alive

Just like animals

Animals

Like animals

Ok. He didn’t expect that type of lyrics and the kind lady cleaning his house put together either. Curious, he reached the open door and-

Maybe you think that you can hide

I can smell your scent for miles

Just like animals

Animals

Like animals-mals

It wasn’t an old lady, that was for sure. No ache on her hips, since she seemed to undulate them following the rhythm, tantalizingly fine. Also, she seemed to know the song, since she sang it pretty well as she danced while wiping the counter.

A very suggestive prose, by the way.

He stared at her, and his brain tripped over the disconnection between the image he’d built in his head and the woman in front of him, completely unaware that she was being watched.

But I get so high when I’m inside you-

She turned.

Her yelp was half-squeal, half-breathless gasp. One hand flew to her chest. The other snatched her phone off the counter and slammed the music off with a panicked swipe.

Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, but a few strands had fallen loose as she danced, brushing her cheek. She looked flustered, very much not the prim apron-and-hairnet matron he’d imagined all these months.

They stared at each other.

Heat gathered at the tips of her ears and along her cheeks. Not embarrassment, no, something different. Like her brain was already halfway through cataloging every second of what he’d just witnessed.

Then her expression changed, as if she had snapped out of the initial surprise. She straightened her posture, pulling professionalism over herself like a second skin.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said quickly, looking at the floor. “I- I was supposed to be alone. If I’d known, I would never-”

“No, no,” he interrupted her, stepping forward instinctively. “It’s alright. I- uh. I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

It felt absurd, saying that in his own kitchen.

He cleared his throat. “Something came up, and I forgot today was your shift.”

The lie passed his lips smoothly.

She stood still, with her phone in her hand, every part of her body visibly tense, like one wrong move might get her fired. The cozy warmth from a few minutes ago was locked out behind a door of fear.

He didn’t want that.

He didn’t want her to feel that way at all.

She turned around, reaching for the dish towel she’d set aside, her fingers trembling visibly even as she tried to mask it. “I’ll be done in a few minutes, sir. Or if you prefer, I can return another day to finish-”

“No,” he said again, softer this time. “You don’t have to go.”

She glanced at him, faintly furrowing her brows.

He looked away.

The kitchen smelled like citrus cleaner and something hearty cooking in the oven. The kind of warmth he was craving to find in his nameplate apartment. And here they were, strangers, but he already felt her more familiar than she should be.

“I’ll stay out of your way,” he added, half-mumbling, and stepped back toward the hallway.

----

She didn’t move until she heard his retreating footsteps, and the door shut. The one she was told never to enter, the one locked every time she came.

Her heartbeat hadn't calmed down.

Not even close.

In four years with the company, she had never -never- crossed paths with a client. The contracts were built around that. No contact. No overlap. No room for awkwardness.

And now… this.

Congressman Barnes had just walked into his own home and caught her shaking her ass in his kitchen to a song about animalistic sex.

She exhaled hard through her nose and pressed the heels of her hands into the counter, trying to calm herself.

He didn’t seem mad. That was something.

Not a single sign of disgust or irritation. No barking orders. No tight-lipped reprimand about inappropriate conduct.

But that didn’t mean anything.

People in power didn’t have to scold you to ruin your job. They could just make a call. Ask for a switch. Flag you quietly. Label you unprofessional in one neat sentence.

Fuck.

She bit her lip and forced herself to move, grabbed the rag, and started wiping the faucet.

The pendant. The flower.

Those things had meant something. Or at least, she thought they had. A man who did that kind of gesture wasn’t cold. He wasn’t cruel.

But that was before this shitshow.

Before he saw her dancing around his countertops like a teenager with a hairbrush mic.

What if she got fired?

What the hell was she going to do?

The rent was due next week. Groceries were already thin. She didn’t even want to think about the dentist’s appointment she’d been rescheduling.

She wiped harder, moving her arms faster than they needed to, because if she didn’t keep moving, her hands would start shaking again.

And the thing that made it worse?

She hadn’t felt so seen in a long, long time.

And now all she wanted to do was vanish.

----

He tried to read the bill.

The same goddamn bill he’d opened five times this week and dropped five times more.

Something about infrastructure grants and zoning development for public parks in outlying districts. Important, supposedly. But it droned in his brain like static, paragraphs bloated with legal phrasing, clauses stacked like bricks in a wall he couldn’t make himself scale.

His eyes scanned the same sentence again.

Still nothing stuck.

Because underneath the words, under the dead weight of legislative jargon, he could hear her.

The subtle movements. Efficient. The soft drag of a towel over tile. The squeak of a cupboard hinge. Running water. Her steps.

She hadn’t fled.

But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t.

He rubbed his jaw with the back of his knuckles and leaned back in the chair, briefly closing his eyes, trying to block out the memory of her startled face, of how she froze, how quickly she apologized, how she’d looked at him like he was someone who could undo her whole life with a phone call.

He hadn’t meant to scare her.

He hadn’t meant to catch her, either. The music, the sway of her body. That bright little pocket of joy had been private. Intimate in a way he wasn’t supposed to see.

What if she requested a transfer?

What if she told the company he was intrusive or uncomfortable to work around? What if she disappeared, and the next time he walked through his door, the air smelled like ammonia and pine, the food tasted sterile, and there were no more dried lavender satchels tucked into his pillowcase?

He wouldn't complain.

He’d never say a word.

But it’d affect him more than he liked to admit.

He looked at the time and did some quick math.

She usually left at a quarter past four. Sometimes earlier if she finished ahead of schedule.

If he went out there at just the right moment, said something -anything- it might make a difference.

He didn’t want to corner her. Didn’t want to put her on edge. But he also didn’t want his apartment to go back to what it was before she came.

So he waited.

Just long enough.

Let the minutes tick by.

And when he heard the final rattle of a spray bottle being returned to its caddy, he stood up, cracked the door, and stepped out.

----

She rubbed a bit of cream into her hands, working it into the skin between each knuckle, then reached for her coat and bag by the door. Almost done. One more minute and she’d be out.

She heard the footsteps before she saw him.

She turned her head, and her heart lunched all over again.

He was in different clothes now. Every day stuff, a dark pair of jeans and a worn blue henley that pulled a little across his shoulders. If she’d passed him on the street, she’d think he was a normal guy. Quiet guy. Maybe one of those who always held the door open without making eye contact.

But she knew better.

She straightened her back and made herself speak.

“Is there anything you need, sir?” she asked, almost a murmur.

He stopped a few feet from her and looked up. Sir. He didn’t like how it sounded, it felt awkward. But he understood the boundaries.

He scratched the side of his neck. “I just wanted to say I, uh…” His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to her. “I liked the lemon cake. A lot.”

A beat.

“And I was wondering if… maybe you’d make it again sometime?”

He shifted his weight, slightly uncomfortable. “I’ll get the seeds. The ones you used, if you tell me what they are, and leave them in the cabinet with the spices and the other stuff.”

There it was. A quiet request.

Not only a I liked it, but also a I want you to come back.

The weight in her chest lifted enough to let her smile without thinking.

“Poppy,” she said. “They’re poppy seeds.”

He found himself smiling too. A mirror of hers.

“And sure, sir. I’ll do it again if you want me to.”

There was a pause.

His fingers grazed the back of his neck, like the words he was about to say needed to be coaxed out of him.

“I know about the politics,” he said quietly. “The rules. But… we already broke one.”

His voice was rougher now, gentler.

“Would you mind if we introduced ourselves?” A beat. “Since I don’t know. I feel it’s the proper thing to do.”

She blinked just once, surprised. Not by his tone, but maybe by the fact that he’d asked. Then the surprise changed to a soft smile again, and she gave him her name.

He nodded. “James Barnes,” he said, almost sheepishly. His hands stayed loose at his sides, like he didn’t want to risk making her uncomfortable again. “It was nice to meet you.”

Her answer came gently, but sure.

“Thank you, sir. It was nice to meet you, too.”

Next Chapter

Permanent taglist: @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @sophiemass @alagalaska @identity2212

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes fanfiction #j23r23 recommendations

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j23r23 · 5 days ago

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This is just 🥵😱😍🫠

For the King & Conqueror

viking au

A remarkable but insignificant woman in your village, your life changes irrevocably and in frightening ways the day you wed the son of the village chieftain. Your nuptials were unknown to the fierce viking warrior and king Steven and his men the day they landed on your shores, but he is not unhappy about the opportunity that presents itself in claiming the bride.

Content Warnings: [check individual parts for their respective warnings] DARK STORY, invoking prima nocta, non-consent/rape, stealing of virginity, explicit smut, rough sex, use of pet name (little bride, little wife), human tribute/trade, kidnapped wife

↠ So Black the Darkness Hums ↠ Ceremonial Rituals ↠ Fierce Affirming Sight of Sunlight Steven's POV ↠ Come Down from Battle ↠ more coming soon

What if this Steve were a mob boss instead of a Viking King?

Commentary: an ask about whether or not his queen would consider divorce

#steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader #viking steve rogers #j23r23 recommendations

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j23r23 · 5 days ago

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Love this AU 😍

Really really hope this will continue!!!!

Buck's Eleven Collection

a collection of stories and drabbles related to a massive casino heist in Las Vegas on New Years Eve 1960

Going into a job this big, you have to take the house or know the house will hunt you down and swallow you into its belly. Vegas is unforgiving. Good thing they're the best at what they do.

Characters/Pairings: Bucky x ex!wife Reader, Steve x Pan Am Stewardess!Reader side characters: Bruce Banner, Nick Fury, Peter Parker, Joaquin Torres, Sam Wilson, Scott Lang, Natasha Romanoff, Tony Stark, Clint Barton

Content/Concept Warnings: Thief/Con Artist AU, smoking, 1960s elements, references to sexual acts, pieces with smut marked accordingly

Author Notes: This is an MCU homage to Ocean's Eleven drawing direct inspiration from the 1960 and 2001 films.

ORIGINAL PIECE: BUCK'S ELEVEN [1.6k]

Theoretically if you understand that these MCU characters are in a non-powered 50s/60s AU where they're on a team pulling a heist in Vegas, you can read these in any order, but the rest of the collection will be listed in chronological order of events.

Bookings and Rings Steve x Pan Am Stewardess Reader [0.6k, light smut]

Restaurant Reunion Bucky x ex-wife Reader [1.4k]

Good Luck the team [0.6k]

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

#bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x reader #j23r23 recommendations #j23r23 reading list #bucky barnes au #steve rogers au

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j23r23 · 10 days ago

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Trustfall, Chapter 4

Winter Soldier!Bucky x fem!Reader, 9 chapters plus prologue & epilogue. Explicit for sexual contact in later chapters, which considering it’s the Winter Soldier should be considered vaguely dub!con within an established relationship. There is somewhat dub!conny touching & talking in this chapter. Updates will be Tuesdays & Thursdays until complete.

Chapter Summary:

The Soldier protects what he considers his.

Full notes on AO3, but please note the Trigger Warning for Dub!con above.

Prologue ~ Chapters 1 ~ 2 ~ 3 ~ 4 ~ 5 ~ 6 ~ 7 ~ 8 ~ 9 ~ Epilogue

MCU Masterlist

The fight following the cabin’s destruction is brutal, and fast, and too much for either of you.

It ends with you on your knees in the damp morning grass, shivering and sore. You can’t stop shaking. Four Hydra operatives in tack gear and armed to the teeth stand around you and the Soldier, and everyone’s eyes but yours are focused on their leader, cool and focused and barely smiling.

You stare at the grass, shivering, your arms around you, the wound in your side a dull ache. Your hair is a mess with leaves and grass, there’s a scrape on your elbow and one of your nails has been ripped down to the quick. Worse, your chest aches, from fear and sorrow and the grim realization that you’ve failed.

The Soldier’s boots are at the edge of your vision; still and solid, shoulder’s width apart.

“Well done, Soldat,” he says, his thin, melodious voice soft in the chilly air. “Now kill her.”

You close your eyes.

Of course it would come to this.

You wait, listening to the sound of the frosted grass crunch as he approaches you, and when his left hand grips hold of the back of your neck, you try not to shiver.

But he doesn’t crush down. He holds you, his fingers still, pressed lightly against your skin, the smallest indent.

“Soldat,” says the man, an edge to his voice. “Do it.”

Your eyes spring open when he lifts you to your feet, as his hand changes its grip to wrap around the front of your neck. His mouth open, his blank, emotionless eyes staring intently into your face.

“You’re not Hydra,” you whisper to him, a hoarse, scattered prayer.

And he whispers back, “Neither are you.”

It happens fast. He pulls the gun from his belt and shoots the four operatives, one two three four, neatly in their foreheads, before turning the gun on the man who ordered you dead.

“You aren’t my handler,” says the Soldier, cocking the gun.

The man raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t move, doesn’t cower, doesn’t flinch. “Is she?”

“No,” you gasp.

The Soldier doesn’t glance back at you, but his fingers open as if he’s realized how he still holds your neck. You slump, coughing, gasping for air.

“Will you kill me, Soldat?” continues the man.

“No,” you gasp again. “Don’t.”

The Soldier doesn’t move. The gun remains aimed at the man’s head.

“You heard her, Soldat,” says the man, smug and certain. “You must do as your handler orders.”

You feel sick. “Don’t kill him,” you say, each word a broken plea.

“She’s not my handler,” says the Winter Soldier, and shoots him dead.

It’s not safe to stay, so you run. Straight through the forest, eschewing the actual paths and tumbling through the brush.

The Soldier’s hand is tight on yours, pulling you through without any consideration of your stamina, your status, whether or not you’re stumbling to the ground or barely keeping up.

It’s a little of both.

It’s hours later when he lets you stop, and you sit on a fallen tree, gasping for breath, your sides in stitches, the wound on your stomach aching and sore. You think it might be bleeding again. You’re afraid to look.

It’s not a clearing, exactly; it reminds you of an old, forgotten campground. The Soldier stalks around the area, examining things you wouldn’t know how to find, as you struggle to catch your breath, catch the scream in the back of your throat, try to keep from crying.

“What are you looking for? Where are we going?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Why did you kill him?”

He glances over his shoulder at you. “He was Hydra. He would have killed us if I hadn’t.”

Kill her, the man had told the Soldier.

But he hadn’t. The Soldier killed them instead.

You swallow. “He wouldn’t have killed you.”

“He would have.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I knew him.”

The Soldier goes back to his examination. You try to figure out what he’s seeing. Maybe the placement of moss, indicating a direction? Maybe a hidden cache of food and medicine and a phone you can use to call Tony?

“The man at the Tower,” you say. “The one who started saying the trigger words. Did you know him too?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” The Soldier’s response is short and frustrated. He stalks back over to you and takes your hand to pull you up, and you grunt and wince, doubling over your injury. He frowns. “You’re hurt.”

“Yeah, I’m hurt!” you snap. “Or did you forget that, too?”

He sits you back down on the log, and lifts your shirt before you can shove his hands away.

His fingers are gentle on the bandage, even though he’s frowning. “It’s not bleeding.”

You let out a relieved sigh. “Okay. That’s good.” You watch, but he doesn’t lower your shirt. His hands stay on your stomach, your side, warm palms pressed to your skin.

It’s soothing. It shouldn’t be.

She’s not my handler, he’d said, and then killed the man to prove that he didn’t follow your orders. He stares at your skin, brow furrowed, breathing softly through his mouth.

“Do you remember me?” you ask. “Do you know who I am?”

He doesn’t answer, but the furrow on his brow deepens as he scowls. You try again. “Do you know who you are?”

His fingers tighten on your skin. Just a little, not enough to hurt, not even enough to make you gasp.

“I know you,” he growls, low and deep and solid. He looks up at you, frustration clear in his eyes. “Why do I know you?”

You hold your breath, because you’ve never seen Bucky like this, anger rolling just beneath his skin. But it’s not the cool detachment of the Soldier, either.

It’s both of them.

Words catch in your throat. You could tell him. Your name, what you are to each other. It’d be so easy. It’d be a relief.

“Who are you?” he demands, pulling on your skin now, just a little. A little frantic, a little lost. “Are you my handler? Are you something else? Are you like me?”

Every one of the Soldier’s handlers woke him up. Gave him orders. Sent him out to kill, or be killed. Led him to what they wanted him to be, instead of letting him learn it for himself.

You aren’t his handler. You never wanted to be. You cannot do that to him, too.

You shake your head. “I’m not like you.”

He swallows. “You know me.”

You nod.

“I know you,” he says. “I know what your skin feels like under my hands. I know the scent of your hair. The taste of your mouth. The sound of your sigh in my ear. I know what you’d taste like if you opened your legs and I licked into your cunt.”

The breath catches in your throat; you clench, almost without thinking of it, warmth and wet, and his nostrils flare when you do.

“I know the heat when I sink into you,” he murmurs, softer than a whisper, his thumbs sliding lower on your skin, to the top of your sweats, sliding just beneath the waistband…

You rest your hands on his wrists, holding them steady, and it’s hurt on his face now.

“But I know you.”

“Yes,” you whisper, trembling. Wanting his touch, his lips, his tongue. Everything. “But you don’t know you.”

He stares at you for a long moment, the hurt relaxing into understanding. Acceptance, maybe. He nods, slowly, then stands up and offers you his hand.

“We need to go.”

You nod, take his hand, and follow.

to be continued...

#bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #winter soldier fanfiction #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x you #winter soldier x female reader #winter soldier angst #winter soldier smut #winter soldier

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j23r23 · 10 days ago

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Killing Clint Barton, Chapter 11

Who here has seen a moose? Great. Let's pretend, for the sake argument, that you haven't. Awesome.

Winterhawk (eventually), Major Character Death (obviously), Darkly Funny (hopefully), written for @killacharacterbingo , posting as a WIP but I promise it'll wrap up when the pool closes for the summer.

Excerpt:

“I’m not leaving you in the loop!” “Nah, it’s fine,” says Clint, waving his hand. “If I can get you out, then maybe I can figure how to get me out. Or maybe you can figure it out from the other side. You can be my Al! Either way, you’re the priority here.” “That’s insane.” Clint gives him a look, gesturing around them, as if to say, What about this isn’t insane? Bucky sighs and rubs his head. “Fine. What is your brilliant plan to get me out of the loop?” “Easy,” says Clint. “Kill me.” “What? No!” “You know you want to!” says Clint in a sing-song.

I mean, he kinda does, Clint's not entirely wrong. Read the chapter on AO3.

#clint barton #hawkeye #winterhawk #bucky barnes #clint x bucky #clint barton x bucky barnes

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j23r23 · 13 days ago

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Hej, I'm J!

I began my journey as a reader, immersing myself in the worlds others created. From there, I became an enthusiastic liker, appreciating and engaging with content that resonated with me. Soon, I found myself commenting on pieces I loved, sharing my thoughts and encouraging creators. Reblogging came naturally, as I wanted to share the amazing work I discovered from others.

Eventually, my own daydreams demanded an outlet, and I started writing for shits and giggles, giving life to the stories and ideas swirling in my rotten mind. Now, here I am, part of this vibrant community, striving to spread love and appreciation and also to give back to the incredible artists whose work inspires me every day.

I believe in the power of support and encouragement, celebrating the creativity of others while finding joy in my own creative way.

Tangerine x Reader

Profanities When the sun comes up Getaway heart Bang! Bang! Double booking Unfinished Business It's alright That's my wife Happy wife, happy life?

#thank you for the reblog

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j23r23 · 13 days ago

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why isn’t anyone allowed to be wrong anymore? it’s okay to be wrong. being wrong, and realizing you were wrong, is how you learn and grow.

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j23r23 · 14 days ago

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What's a Little Sex Pollen Between Neighbors?

Characters/Pairings: soft dark Bucky Barnes x curvy Millennial female!Reader Word Count: 7.8k Summary: Your super soldier next door neighbor puts some of his old skills to good use. (Unspecified post-Endgame Bucky)

Content/Warnings: SEX POLLEN-DRIVEN DUBIOUS CONSENT; explicit smut: oral (female receiving), unprotected vaginal intercourse, insemination; alternating POV sections

Notes: This is my week WEEK SIX submission for @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - "please, I need help" and sex pollen.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

As the Winter Soldier, they made him master many skills, including branches of chemistry specifically so he could create compounds necessary and advantageous to fulfilling and expediting his missions. He was so good he even helped develop some of the compounds used by Hydra and in The Red Room.

It had been years since he’d applied the long dormant skill.

But it had also been a year since you moved in next door, and he was tired of waiting.

You were so sweet, so good, and he would treat you so well if you were his.

And you were so deserving.

You ought to have someone dote on you, take care of you. You were fiercely independent, fully capable, but you shouldn’t need to be.

He was more than willing to take care of you. He always insisted it was no trouble to hold a door open for you, to help carry your groceries, to pick up your mail when you were out of town, to help you put together the table you ordered online when it was delivered. Not only was it no trouble, he liked doing those things for you.

He wanted to do more.

He heard you late at night with your vibrator.

He could give you so much better.

How many times had the super’s wife said to him what a sweet couple the two of you would make?

What was the harm with hurrying you along into something he was so sure you wanted with a little sex pollen?

Before he’d been The Winter Soldier, the efficient and essentially untraceable assassin for decades, he’d been a damn good soldier as Bucky Barnes. He was still an asset now whether he was consulting or going into the field. Constantly valued for his keen mind.

Why shouldn’t he use his expertise and strategy now?

It was just traces at first. You hardly noticed.

There’d be the odd moment when you hesitated in a sentence, blinking, eyes glossy as you lost your train of thought. That little fluster was delicious, but not enough. He watched you closely, reading the microexpressions that drifted across your features: confusion, a tiny flicker of heat, embarrassment you squashed down. You’d shake your head briskly, recenter yourself, and apologize with a laugh he could tell was forced.

And he always smiled warmly at you, but inside, it was with the energy of a satisfied smirk.

It was working.

He made minute adjustments. Ratcheted the levels up and down, spiked your mail with just enough to make you breathe deeper when you opened it. He traded in your regular coffee beans for a new bag from the “cool indie shop on the corner,” slipped the powder into the grounds. It was a delicate balance: he never wanted you to feel sick, just hungry. Desirous. Needy.

Once, he heard you through the wall, weeping with frustration. He’d never heard that in your voice before, and it made him burn with satisfaction and anticipation.

But he was always successful in his missions because of his expertise, his ability to gage proper timing.

He struck early, before the city could shake off its Saturday morning haze. Heat already radiated from the bricks, the kind of July swelter that made people yearn for lemonade and picnics and pools. He moved in darkness as much out of habit as necessity, crossing the handful of feet between your fire escape and his with the ease of a man who’d spent too many years navigating roofs and ledges and the soft places between shadows.

The mixture was clear, almost invisible, but he applied it in a glistening line along the edges of your window frames, working methodically. His hands did not shake.

He returned to his own apartment and pulled up the port he’d developed to control your HVAC system, and shut it down just before he knew you were typically up and stirring around on a Saturday morning.

And then he waited.

By 8:37 a.m. your apartment was growing warmer than usual, and you woke with a slick hairline, a sheen of sweat over your skin. He watched you from the camera he installed as you slipped out of bed and down the hall. You pawed at the digital thermostat first, muttering under your breath, but only the error message blinked back at you: HVAC ERROR. CALL MAINTENANCE. You let out a laugh, brittle and bitter, and trudged to the windows, pushing up the panes to at least get the fresh air. You left every window open, desperate for a through breeze.

You braced your palms against the sill and he could see the relief already blooming in your posture as the pane slid open. The breeze was gentle but constant, carrying with it the faintest hint of the compound’s sharp, metallic sweetness. It was immediate, the way it worked instantaneously: you inhaled, unaware, then blinked rapidly. Your jaw slackened for a fraction of a second, mouth parted in an unintentional invitation. Your hands lingered on the window frame, before you pulled them back and wiped one over your brow, while the other went to your chest, and no wonder since he assumed that you’d be feeling an uptick in your heart rate.

And now, he would wait.

He watched you pad into your little kitchen, tugging at the hem of your sleep shirt. You filled the kettle, set it on, and stood at the counter, hands fluttering as if you’d forgotten what to do with them. You took a breath—he could see the shudder of your shoulders—then craned your neck, face tilted to the open window, and inhaled again, a long, greedy drag.

Inside a minute, you began to fidget. Your thighs pressed together, then parted, then pressed again, the rhythm building. Your head tipped forward, eyes closing as you gripped the countertop, knuckles going white. A slick little shiver wound through you. The kettle whistled, shrill and out of place, and you startled so hard the mug tumbled from your hands, landing on the floor with a muted thunk.

Bucky chuckled.

This was going to be fun.

You were not, generally, this unbalanced. You could ride out a wave of sexual frustration for weeks, even months, and never let it show in your polite smile or the hand you’d lend to old Mrs. Lopez on 5B with her packages. You had learned to live with your little obsession with your neighbor Bucky Barnes in the same way you’d learned to ignore the drip in your bathroom sink: a low-level, constant irritant, a fixture of your life that you could, with sufficient self-control, simply tune out.

It was only a quarter past nine in the morning and you were already panting like you’d just climbed six flights in July, not merely rolled out of bed. Something was wrong with your body. Not sick—more like your skin had outgrown you overnight, every inch of you thrumming with an ache that had nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with need.

Because as bad as the heat was, you’d woken up at 3:21am, rolled onto your stomach and pressed your thighs together and rocked your hips, humping your mattress to no avail. It was as unfulfilling as the dream you’d woken up from, a dream featuring your neighbor Bucky Barnes pinning you in place, fucking you so well, so close you could taste the climax, only to have jolted awake, desperate and empty.

Now with no AC, it just figures that the universe would align for the worst day of your sexual frustration to peak when your AC went out.

You had lived through enough New York City summers to know the heat would try to kill you, but you’d never expected it to go for the slow, erotic smother instead.

Great. Now your brain was writing romance copy.

You took a cold shower, or as cold as the pipes allowed, and stepped out feeling more feverish and frustrated than ever. After that you stood in front of the open fridge for several minutes, eating string cheese in small, desperate bites, willing the chill to transfer from your tongue to your bloodstream. It didn't work. Cold air kissed your shins momentarily, but it was already evaporating.

Your phone, sticky with sweat, offered no solutions. The building super had already responded to oyour texts, but with the city-wide sweltering temperatures, he said it was going to be difficult to get someone to come look before Monday. You scrolled through social media, found only posts about the heat, people frying eggs on their windowsills, and, for some reason, an uptick in thirst traps. You slammed it facedown on the kitchen table, stood there, and considered your options.

Maybe you would have to resort to leaning on your own personal thirst trap and endure the torture.

Look but not touch.

As always.

You jogged your memory for Bucky’s likely status. His AC always worked, a source of neighborly gloating he pretended to feel sorry about. You’d seen him on the fire escape last night, watering an improbable pot of basil, so he hadn’t left for one of his mysterious, week-long trips.

You counted on him to be up, and you counted on him to be kind and neighborly. How many times had he said to let him know if you needed anything?

You slipped your feet into flip-flops and padded across the hall, the chill of the corridor almost pornographically relieving. Ignoring the urge to just lie down in the communal patch of coolness, you knocked. Not politely, but as un-desperately as you could manage.

His door opened before the second knock. He wore an old t-shirt and gym shorts in the way of a man who didn’t expect guests but was always ready for them. He grinned, broad and easy, and you wanted to slap it off his face or maybe—maybe—sink your teeth into the soft underside of his jaw, alternate violence and adoration. If it weren’t for the white socks on his feet, he would have been wholly unapproachable. He blinked at you, a little surprised, before his expression softened in recognition.

His blue eyes slid from your face down the length of you—bare-legged, sweat-sheened, half-dressed. If he noticed how untethered you looked, he didn’t say a word.

He just leaned against the doorframe, forearm braced above his head, a little smirk twitching at the edge of his mouth. “Hey, neighbor,” he said, voice just hoarse enough to sound like he, too, had just woken up. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. No, you were not okay. “Yeah, no, my AC’s dead. Reuben says maybe Monday.”

“Damn. That’s rough.” He stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come on in, you can cool off in here. It’s like an igloo compared to the hallway.”

You tried to say “thanks” but it came out thin and breathy. You hesitated in the threshold, pulse hammering in your ears, palms sticky. You were acutely aware of every inch of your skin and the patches where your tank top clung and stuck to your warm skin. You kept your arms tight at your sides and followed him in, trying not to look too hard at the wide set of his shoulders and the deliciously lived-in swoop of his hair.

His apartment was frigid. A gasp left you, startled, as the coolness curled around your ankles and up your shins, relief so sharp it tasted almost like salt. You braced a hand on the wall, felt your knees threatening to buckle for a whole, embarrassing second.

Bucky closed the door behind you and put a hand in his pocket, rocking his weight once up and back on the balls of his feet. As you adjusted to the temperature, your brain came back online, time stretching out but your thoughts not clearing so much as multiplying, all scrambling around the same basic theme: need.

Every little physical sensation felt magnified and weirdly erotic—Bucky’s clean-laundry scent, the chill bristling your nipples, your own rapid breathing, every sound echoing in his silent apartment.

Bucky peered at you with gentle concern, vaguely amused, like he could hold both those things in his expression at once. “You want some coffee?” he offered, casual, normal.

“Only if it’s iced,” you answered, following him into the kitchen.

You perched at his breakfast bar, gripping the edge, trying to appear unbothered. Up close, the scent of his skin and aftershave filled the air, a dizzying magnetism that was entirely unfair. You shifted, restless, gnawing the inside of your cheek.

Bucky moved with measured, assured movements behind the counter, opening a cupboard for glasses, filling them from a pitcher of cold brew. You couldn’t help but follow the flex of his forearm, the way his veins pressed up beneath the thin skin, the way his hands dwarfed the glass when he reached to set it in front of you.

His close proximity, the press of cold air from the vent above, the frisson of want that kept pooling in your belly and lower—god, was there anything left of you but need, at this point? It was getting hard to think, and you had to grip the glass hard to keep your hand from trembling. The iced coffee gave you the jitters. Or maybe it was just him, and the way he looked at you—just for a second, a slip out from behind his affable neighbor mask. It made your skin flare with fresh heat, the want sharper now for the momentary suggestion that maybe he knew exactly how ruined you felt by him.

He didn’t sit, just stood at the other counter a few feet away, tilting back his own glass.

He watched you over the rim, unhurried, eyes steady and watchful, and you thought, briefly, incoherently, that if you didn’t put something else in your mouth besides ice, you were going to say something reckless and humiliating. The coffee wasn’t helping at all. The caffeine sharpened your need, made it into a nervous, electrified ache, made you more aware of the incessant want.

“How’s your week going?” he asked, mild as ever. His voice was a low vibration, something pleasant you wanted to crawl inside.

You tried to recall anything that had happened since Monday, but it all seemed distant, unrelated to the desperate present. “Um. Work’s a lot,” you said, then, quickly, “How about you?”

He waited a beat, as if debating whether to give the default “fine” or to try for something more interesting. “You know. The usual. Little consulting, some paperwork, surveillance for an old friend. Watered the plants.”

There was a small silence. When you spoke, your voice was tight. “Your place is always freezing.”

He shrugged, a smile tugging the edge of his mouth. “Just lucky for once, I guess.” He was looking at you—really looking, with that steady, disarming focus of his, like he was cataloguing everything from the way you shivered to the fact that you couldn’t seem to unclench your legs. “You can hang out as long as you want. I’ve got snacks, TV, whatever you need.”

You needed something, and it was not TV.

But you had worked so hard to manage this—all your strange, out-of-joint attraction to Bucky, your embarrassing daydreams about what it would be like, the impossible softness that sometimes came over his face when he listened to you talk. You knew it was only the pheromones, the chemical trick of proximity that had you feeling so desperately out of control.

God.

He was just being the nice neighbor and friend he always was, and here you were actively fighting some itchyearndesperateneed to fuck him.

Maybe it wasn’t the heat or the coffee. Maybe it was just you, and the unsolvable, hungry problem of wanting him.

You finished your glass with a gulp that left your throat sore. The chill bloomed through your veins, hitting the heat in your core and swirling the want into a sharper, thinner line that tethered you, drove you. You wiped condensation from your lip and found Bucky staring at your mouth. You caught him, or he let himself get caught, because he didn’t look away—he watched, and then, slow and unapologetic, he smiled.

You could feel the edges of yourself getting fuzzy, your boundaries dissolving in the cold and the ache. His name was a bell in your head, a reflex: Bucky Bucky Bucky. You wondered what it’d be like to say it while he was inside you. Or after. Or never.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, but he came closer, leaned over the counter, invading your space as if he knew you weren’t, as if he needed to be sure.

Instead you cleared your throat. “Yeah. Sorry. I think I’m just a little, uh, loopy from the heat.”

His gaze flicked purposefully down your throat, over the pulse jumping there, then back up to your face. “Don’t apologize,” he said, softer than before, which made it worse. “It’s not your fault. Heat’s a killer.”

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound that came out was so thin it hurt. “Is it weird if I jus sit here for a little?”

“You sure you’re okay? No fever?” he asked, his eyes on the exposed column of your throat as you swallowed.

You shook your head and then realized that wasn’t entirely true. “I don’t know. Kind of feels like it.”

“Want me to check?” His question was so innocent you almost missed the note beneath it, the glimmer of amusement in his gaze. “Had to pick up some medical skills in the field. Got really good at feeling foreheads.”

Some combination of mortification and anticipation made you pulse all over. But you wanted the excuse—needed the contact.

“Sure,” you managed, low and hoarse as you scooted your stool a few inches closer to the counter.

He reached across the bar, his cool metal fingers a sharp relief, thumb feathering just under your jaw, palm broad and hot against your cheek. You wanted to press into it like a cat, you wanted to be ruined by it.

He drew in a breath, slow, deliberate, as if he were inhaling more than just your scent. His thumb brushed the hair back from your forehead, and his skin was so much colder than yours—you tingled where he touched you, the contrast as intoxicating as his closeness. “You’re burning up,” he said, with a gravity that made it sound like it was your fault and also exactly what he wanted.

You must have made some noise, some keening thing, because he chuckled, low in his chest. “You okay?” he said again, but this time, not moving back, not letting go.

It wasn’t the move of a guy checking for fever in a platonic way, not really—the way he cradled your chin, thumb brushing over your face, was too familiar, too practiced. His callouses rasped against your skin, a roughness you liked maybe too much.

He started to draw his hand back, and your own moved lightning fast to catch his wrist and bring his touch back to your face. “I…”

“Yes?” he asked, infuriatingly patient.

“Please, I need help,” you whimpered.

The words hung between you, unbearable. He held there, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You stayed, rooted, nails warm on the metal of his wrist, breath short and staccato.

He ducked his head just a fraction, eyes still on you, as if waiting for more. “What kind of help?” he asked.

You couldn’t say it. Not outright. Your grip on him was enough, maybe. You hoped. You hoped not. It trembled out of you: “I don’t know. I just—” You let go, finally, as if releasing his wrist would break the spell. Instead the ache in your palms was replaced instantly by the ache everywhere else.

“You can ask me anything,” he said, as if the answer was simple. You felt the tenderness in the way his hand returned to cup your cheek with unexpected gentleness, thumb stroking along the apple of your cheek, cooling it, coaxing you to keep going.

You shuddered, half in mortification and half in surrender. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you managed, voice high and thin. “It’s not just the heat, I swear, I just—” You pressed your thighs together, pulse jackhammering. “I can’t even think.”

His smile softened, the smugness replaced by something darker, intent. “Hey,” he said, voice lower now, “it’s okay. You trust me, right?”

You nodded, feeling the flush climb to your ears. “Of course I do.” Because you did, more than you’d ever admit. If you didn’t, you’d never be here, letting him touch you, letting your body confess the truth your voice couldn’t find.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, so steady, so direct it made you dizzy.

You tried to answer, but it caught in your throat, a wordless plea. Maybe the problem wasn’t just the heat. Maybe the problem was that your body had been braced for so long against this tidal pull; now it was finally time to give in.

You pressed your thighs together, yet again, and his eyes dropped to the movement immediately.

Then he leaned in, crowding your space, his presence as immediate as the frozen air and the thump of blood behind your ribs. You held your breath, and when he spoke, the words ghosted over your cheek.

“Let me help,” he said. It wasn’t a request.

You nodded, and it was like the cord inside you snapped. He moved so fast, so fluid, that you barely registered being turned—his hands a gentle but unbreakable grip as he rotated you on the barstool, so your knees faced him directly. His palms, one human and one metal, slid up your thighs, thumbs stroking the inside seam, and he sunk to his knees in front of you, the nearness of his face a gravitational force.

The world funneled down to the place where his hands pressed, and you realized he was holding you apart. Not obscenely, not yet, but enough that you were completely open to him, the thin cotton of your shorts doing nothing to hide the flush, the damp.

You made a soft, startled sound—the kind of sound that would have mortified you any other day, but now just seemed like a necessary release valve. The edge of the counter pressed into your back, bracing you, and there was nowhere to look but at him.

He glanced up at you, eyelashes impossibly dark, the blue of his eyes cool and unhurried as the rest of him. “Is this what you need?” he asked softly, one thumb circling closer, not quite touching you where he must have known you needed it most.

“I—” You gripped the counter as your own breath left you high and bright. “Yeah,” you whispered, then stronger. “Yeah. Please.”

Something old and hungry flickered in his eyes; for a second, it was like witnessing a mask falling away, exposing the pure, adoring greed underneath. He nodded, almost formal, and then both his hands bracketed your hips, holding you steady on the stool.

He started at your knee, a glancing scrape of blunt nails and calloused knuckles that sent shivers up your thigh. He traced the seam of your shorts slowly, as if there was all the time in the world, as if he wasn’t about to devour you.

His eyes didn’t leave yours, even as his mouth hovered over the thin cotton barrier. He ghosted a breath across the damp spot he found, and you lost all chance of composure. There was no longer any you, only some open, yearning thing perched on a stool, barely holding itself together. He thumbed the edge of your shorts aside just enough to press against you directly, the heat of his mouth and the shock of his cool fingers alternating in a way that broke your sanity into a thousand flickering, animal senses.

You grabbed at his hair without even meaning to, the urge so primitive it felt like a survival reflex. He hummed appreciatively at the contact, as if you’d pleased him, as if you were doing him a favor by yanking his mouth closer to your cunt. The sound vibrated through you, under your skin, rattling your bones. You tipped your hips, your nerves on fire, and his tongue licked a slow, deep stripe from your inner thigh up, not touching your clit, not yet, just lavishing the tender skin in a way that felt almost teasingly reverent.

You made a strangled noise, one part protest and one part plea, and Bucky’s hands tightened ever so slightly, anchoring you. He mouthed softly at you through the cotton, kissing and tasting like he had planned this moment, fantasized about it, orchestrated it down to seconds.

“God, Bucky, please—” you heard yourself say, shame gone, language stripped down to pure imperative.

He obliged, finally, dragging the fabric aside with both thumbs and kissing you directly, a cool blast of breath ghosting over your slick heat before his tongue pressed flat and broad against your clit. The relief was so acute you almost sobbed, hands convulsing where they tangled in his hair. You heard the low, satisfied growl in his throat as he set in, slow at first, until your hips bucking.

He didn’t tease, not in the sense of withholding; he controlled the pace only so you wouldn’t go off too soon, so you wouldn’t lose yourself before he had you in exactly the state he wanted. He gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking up and down, pinning you gently but completely, and sucked softly at your clit, laved it, flicked it until you heard yourself choking on a sob. Your hands curled into his hair, desperate for more, for anything, and he let you grind against his mouth, so attentive that he’d match every desperate movement with the exact pressure you needed.

It was embarrassing how quickly you came, shameful and glorious at once. You still had enough self-awareness to gasp his name in something like apology. “Bucky, Bucky, ah—fuck, so close.”

He growled, mouth pressed to you, and angled his tongue just-so, and the orgasm hit with staggering force, a white-out that blitzed your vision and stole any words from you. He didn’t stop. He held you through it and past it, swallowing down the shudders and the desperate sounds you made, like he’d known exactly how this would unfold. When you came down it was only because he let you, retreating from your cunt with a last, obscene kiss to your inner thigh.

He stayed on his knees as you caught your breath, looking up at you through the mess of his hair with a carefulness that could almost have passed for concern, were it not for the dark, starved edge to his gaze.

“It’s not enough, is it?” he asked, voice warm and hoarse, a dangerous temptation.

You shook your head before you realized what you were doing. The need was still there, louder if anything, a metabolic demand your body had never known before. The aftershocks of your orgasm didn’t blunt it; they just made you more sensitive, skin electric, greedy for any touch. The taste of his name was still burning on your tongue.

“I don’t—” You tried to get your breath, but every inhale was a plea, an invitation. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.” It sounded like a lie as soon as you said it. You did know, and so did he; the only thing you didn’t know was how far either of you would let it go.

Bucky’s hands slid up your thighs, palms broad and possessive suddenly, not the gentle friend but a man answering a hunger of his own.

He rose in a single uncoiling, smooth and predatory, and you found yourself wanting to press back, to get some space, but you didn’t want space—what you wanted was to be pressed under him, to feel the full weight of him locking you down, holding you together.

He didn’t say another word, just bent and swept you up. His hands were careful, but the grip was decisive, one arm braced under your ass, the other curling around your upper back so your body instinctively folded against his chest. You clung to his shoulders, dizzy from the abrupt motion, but he was already hauling you past his kitchen, navigating the hall with a single-minded purpose. In the living room he set you on your feet behind the couch, spun you so you faced the window, city sun slicing in through the blinds and painting stripes over the room.

He nudged you forward until your hips bumped the cushion, then planted his hands on your waist, pressing you down in a gentle but unmistakable command. You braced your palms on the back of the couch, arms locking to hold yourself upright, the cool leather shivery against your bare thighs. His breath ghosted over your shoulder as he leaned in, mouth at your ear.

“You’re desperate for me to ruin you, aren’t you, pretty girl?”

His tone was so wicked, so knowing, that you felt your knees threaten to buckle. Before you could respond, Bucky’s hands slid down, splayed wide over your hips, and then he used a foot to nudge your legs apart.

The movement was so natural, so certain, that you obeyed without thinking, planting your feet wider, arms braced. Your shorts were still tangled around one thigh and even that didn’t matter, there was nothing in the world but the way his hand slid between your legs and the sound you made when he did. He pressed the heel of his palm right to your cunt, pushing up against the fabric, feeling exactly how soaking, how frantic, you were for him.

Bucky made a low, appreciative noise, and you could feel the shape of his cock, hard and urgent, as he moved in closer behind you. He raked his thumb up your spine and you arched for him, made yourself an offering.

There was a trembling pause as his hands found the elastic, hooked under it, peeled the shorts and your underwear down in a single, devastating motion. He left them tangled around your knees, a shackle you could feel, and then he was there—close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the shape of him, hard and insistent, through his gym shorts.

You heard the rustle of his clothes behind you, the elastic snap of his waistband, the uneven jolt of his breath. You tried not to turn back, to break the spell, but his hand fisted gently in your hair, holding you forward, not cruelly but as if he worried you might float away from him. You felt the graze of his knuckles against the small of your back and then the soft, heavy head of his cock against your inner thigh, thick and achingly hot. You made another helpless sound, impossible to disguise as anything but want.

You half heard him whisper, “Good fucking girl,” and it was more grounding than anything—the way he said it, not for praise but as a pure statement of fact, as if you’d always belonged to this moment.

A heartbeat later you felt him line up, one broad hand bracing your hip, the other guiding himself between your legs. He slid in slow, first just crowning the tip, then a steady, unhurried advance until you pulsed around him, all the breath knocked out of you. He was big, God, he was fucking huge, and you felt every inch of him, slow and relentless, until your body gave up its resistance and let him in all the way.

You choked on a sob and he stilled, letting you adjust, the metal of his hand biting into your hip in an anchoring grip that kept you from collapsing. He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, feather-light, before rolling his hips forward, testing. The drag was so exquisite, so sharp, that your eyes filled up and spilled over before you understood you were crying. It didn’t feel sad or even humiliating; it felt like relief, like every nerve in your body finally tuned to the right frequency.

“There you go,” Bucky murmured, and the silk in his voice slid down your spine. “Let me take care of you.”

You arched back into him, jaw gone slack, and he took the cue, holding onto your hip with steel precision as he drew out, then thrust in to the hilt. The both of you made sounds then—animal, necessary, a tangled braid of shameless arousal. You were seared open, body and brain in ruins for him, and Bucky’s every move felt designed to keep you right at the rawest possible edge without letting you tumble off. With each slow, grinding thrust, he’d flex his fingers into your skin, and you were glad for the force. Otherwise, you might have rocketed apart.

He fucked you like he had nowhere else to be for the rest of his life. Each pass in and out was deep, so deep you saw stars, and he bit down on every gasp and whimper you made like treasure, hoarding them, making sure there was nothing you could give that he wouldn’t take. When you shuddered, he braced you. When you tried to hide your face in your arms, he made you look out the window.

“Imagine how wrecked you look if someone could see you like this, how good you are, how pliant, how utterly fucked out and feral for me.”

You could only groan beneath him.

But that wasn’t good enough.

“Because you are, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you managed to gasp.

“Fuck yeah, you are. Should film you next time so you can see.”

And that promised sentiment or threat or blessed assurance of a next time only barely registered in your head.

You felt the shape and girth of him everywhere, not just inside you but in your fingertips and jaw and even your toes, curled white-knuckled against the plush carpet. It felt like a breaking-open, a shudder that rattled the cage of rib and skull and emptied you in the best way. After the first spasm hit, it didn’t really stop; it just crested and broke, and then again, and again, as he drove you relentlessly through every aftershock.

Your throat was raw from the sounds you made, but you didn't care. Let the whole damn building know, let the heatwave carry it down to the street—anyone who heard would only know what you’d always suspected: that you were made, and remade, by the hands and cock of James Bucky Barnes.

He came with a groan that sounded like it had been torn up from the pit of him. You felt it, impossibly deep, an anchoring warmth at your core. He didn’t pull out right away, just pressed you down and into the couch, his breath ragged against your shoulder, sweat mixing with your own. The sun striped you both, pale and blurred, in the window’s glare. He cupped your waist, held you like he was scared you might disappear. The sound of your pulse was everywhere, in your mouth, your cunt, the tips of your fingers.

Eventually he eased out, then tossed you gently over the back of the couch and onto its cushions, hoisting himself immediatle after you, and settling between your thighs.

You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, he cupped your jaw in both his hands, and you met halfway in a kiss. Slow, charting, but eager to map, to pour into each other.

You should be spent, you knew that, and yet there was still a flickering need for even more, and ultimately you couldn’t keep from squirming your hips up beneath him like a bitch in heat.

Bucky growled but grinned against the crook of your neck. "Already? Thought I wore you out." He was half-teasing, half hopeful, and all of it made you ache more.

You panted, little strains of whimper leaking out as you shifted beneath his weight. "It's not—" You couldn't catch your breath. "It's not gone."

He drew back enough to see your face, the marvel and hunger written in every line of him. He was giddy on it now, drunk on you, the endlessness of your need. His thumb traced a path under your eye, along your jaw, a tenderness just as striking as the force when he'd bent you over the couch.

His hand was already sliding down, finding the tremor in your thigh where you'd hooked your heel into the small of his back. “C’mon, pretty girl, take what we know you need.”

He was still hard, not as superhumanly so as thirty seconds ago, but the evidence of his stamina pressed hot and thick against your thigh. The animal edge to his smile dared you to test him. So you did.

Your hand slid down between the bodies, still trembling, and guided his cock back home. Then you canted your head up, eyes wide, mouth open to him even before he took it. The kiss was deep and viscous as he slid his thick length back into you.

“You gonna let me fill up this tight cunt all day?”

Your head fell back, the surrender automatic. “Yes,” you managed, “please, Bucky—just—”

He didn’t give you time to finish the thought before he buried himself again, the shock of it so perfect you clenched hard around him, a plea and a welcome and a thank you all at once. You couldn’t believe there was anything left in you to give, but every stroke proved you wrong, dragged up a new, desperate need that was only satisfied by the relentless rhythm of his cock and his hands and the way his mouth fixed on you, starved.

He took you harder this time, body layered over yours on the couch, arms caging you in, fists in the cushions, the infected animal in your belly delighted to be conquered. The slap and drag, the obscene wet noise of your bodies meeting, should have been mortifying, but you couldn’t care less. All you could think about was the way he felt inside you, the fullness.

You fucked up into him like it could ever be enough, like you could reach the end of it, but all it did was ratchet higher the more you got. Illogical. Perverse. You wanted it so bad you felt like you might splinter from it.

He kept his eyes open, watching your every twitch and lost syllable, and when he spoke, it was a benediction and a dare all at once. “That’s it,” he cooed, “—take it, sweetheart, take every fucking drop.”

This man who you’d pegged as your polite, kind, helpful, funny neighbor, a gentle giant, a friend but not possibly interested in anything more… how could you have been any more wrong about him? It seemed his need was as insatiable as yours, as rough as yours.

He braced a hand on your ass and fucked into you so deep your vision actually blurred, and you had a moment of floating, refracted through heat and sensation, no thought in your head but the total occupation of Bucky’s cock and Bucky’s hands and Bucky’s words, which were now a white-noise loop of fuck, that’s so good and look at you and you greedy little thing.

You lost count of how many times you came, whether it was three or four or one long endless melt that crested and crashed and kept cresting again. Each time you clenched harder, he grunted, all approval and gratitude, like you were thriving on the mutual destruction. The only thing that finally stopped him was the way your body seized under him, shaking with exertion, whole frame slick with sweat and blown wide open—and even then, he only slowed to kiss the tears off your cheek before pumping in shallow, locking thrusts, filling you a second time.

He rolled and shifted so he was below and you were arranged on top of him, cock still inside you, and petted your head and back, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

But somehow your body still wasn’t done. The pitch of wasn’t as feverish, but you still ached for more, and you shifted, pressing your hands firmly onto his chest and pushing your hips back.

He growled and grinned up at you in approval, letting you take the pace, lazy hip rolls and shallow thrusts, like he was content to be used if only you’d keep him inside your cunt.

"That’s it, baby," Bucky murmured, hands cupping your hips in living brackets of steel and warmth, "workin’ it all out of your system, huh?" He let you ride him at your pace, let you grind and flex and arch your spine in a slow, deliberate torture, as if the last hour hadn’t emptied you. He watched the place where you were joined with worshipful fixation. Sometimes his hands drifted up your plump sides, moving over the sweat slicking over your ribs, sometimes they hovered beside your tits, thumbs circling the soft underside without quite squeezing. He wanted you to take, to use.

It was so much. The room, the man, the way your senses flattened and then sharpened around only the pressure and friction, the molten bracket of his thighs under yours. You could feel the outline and density of him in your gut, could feel the part of him inside you as an ache in your own bones.

Your hair stuck to your face, skin flushed and slick. You looked down at him, saw the blue of his eyes gone wild with something that wasn’t just lust but an infatuation so raw it jolted you harder than any thrust. You felt gorgeous and filthy and alive.

You braced your palms on his chest, the sweat-slick warmth of him grounding you to the world, to the precise coordinates of this couch, this apartment, these four walls where everything inside you had been rewritten. You rolled your hips, slow at first, test-driving this new sense you’d grown this morning. Each drag, each grind made the both of you moan, made his jaw go slack with admiration and something wild behind it.

“You look so good like this,” he whispered, almost reverent. His hands continued to wander, kneading your waist, your ass, committing every detail like a man who’d been in a famine so long he didn’t trust that the feast would last.

You uncurled from his chest and sat up, knees braced against the outside of his thighs. The angle changed everything—it let you drop down with gravity on your side, and the sudden invasion made you gasp, then laugh a little at the reckless power of it.

“Didn’t know you had this in you, pretty girl,” he said, eyes bright with admiration and a little awe, as your bodies met again and again. You shuddered, every nerve ending tuned to the raggedly sweet friction. You braced one hand on the couch back for support, the other pressing his chest flat to the cushions so he couldn’t move, so you could wring every last drop out of him.

He let you, his hands only guiding, though you could feel they itched for more, alternately cupping your ass and tracing the slick line along your spine. He never looked away, and you couldn’t either, not really. Part of you was afraid if you stopped, you’d never start again, that all of being alive was compressed into this blinding, needy cycle, the slow slide up, the brief gasp at the crest, the smashed-together bodies and the static-burst of coming apart.

You both dissolved into it, rode out the rhythm together, a storm system of skin and sweat and salt air. You wanted to memorize every flicker in his face, the way his jaw tensed when you clenched around him, the soft snarl of delight when you scraped your nails up his stomach, the groan from somewhere ancient when you rocked down, hard, and took him to the hilt. Like this, you were animal and angel at once, an ache shaped just for him, every ounce of pain and pleasure remade as a message to Bucky that he could have you, all of you, if only he asked.

This time when you came, it was a slower surrender, a low-voltage tremble that climbed your spine and made you shake all over. You fell forward onto him, collapse and comfort in the same gesture, and Bucky wrapped his arms around you, rocked you gently even as you whimpered from the aftershocks. He kissed the top of your head, and it was tender but also bespoke a possessiveness that you felt curl happily inside you.

“That’s it,” he crooned, lips against your hairline, “breathe. You did so fuckin’ good.” His hands swept over your back, grounding you, stoking the heat that was already beginning to spark again in the depths of your belly. You wanted to fight it, or at least express some normal human embarrassment at the way you’d let yourself melt into a horny puddle in your neighbor’s arms, but the pleasure sparked with every breath and touch, making defiance impossible.

It was fortunate that this man was a super soldier and could give you what you needed.

You wondered how many times you would come before you burnt out completely, or if you’d just fuse into something new, a singularity of slick and want and Bucky’s name.

Bucky knew he could see you through all of it.

He looked forward to being the conduit you found your relief in since he was the architect of this sweet, filthy, exquisite destruction.

And he couldn’t imagine that this brain-altering type of experience wouldn’t yield him exactly what he’d been waiting so long for: you, surrendering to him completely, admitting there was more than neighborly friendship between you, content and eager to finally be his.

The chemicals would burn out of your system in a few more hours, and then he’d take such good care of you in your recovery. He’d keep the AC off in your apartment so he could coax you to accept his invitation to stay all weekend.

He was sure two days was all he needed to secure you forever.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#god have mercy #i think i need a reboot #bucky smut #james bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes

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j23r23 · 15 days ago

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Friday Five Rec List: Stucky Edition #2

Another Friday, another Five Fic Recs. I am so close to lists for Stony and SamBucky and Multiple Pairings, feel free to send me links to round 'em out.

Stucky List #1 ~ Main MCU Recs Masterlist

Going Yard by Brenda (@brendaonao3)

(Explicit, Baseball AU, Friends to Rivals to Lovers) Bucky is a pitcher for the New York Avengers (based in Brooklyn, of course). Shortstop Steve Rogers, his childhood-friend-turned-rival is traded from the Red Sox in a bid to win the World Series. It’s a pretty chancy thing, because the whole world knows that Bucky and Steve don’t always get along on the baseball diamond. What they don’t know is why. I love the backstory, I love the resolution of the backstory, I just love it. (Also, Steve Rogers as a Red Sox is more or less everything I want in life, so.)

❤️

The Adventures of Captain and Mr. America by LoveMeSomeRafael (@lovemesomerafael)

(Teen, ScreenCap fic, Canon Divergence, Crack) Not your usual fanfic. Rafael has screencapped the Captain America movies and rewritten them to be unapologetically 100% Stucky. They’re also cracky as hell, utterly hysterical, and so, so, so much fun. Each chapter can be read in about two minutes, so it’s great for reading on the fly or when you want to binge. I reblog these when they cross my dash, they never fail to make me laugh.

❤️

Honey Honey (series) by Justanotherstonyfan (@justanotherstonyfan)

(Explicit, Avenger!SugarDaddyish!Steve and Modern!MuchYounger!Bucky, Unfinished WIP) So first of all, this is an unfinished WIP that has around 700k words and ends kind of on a cliffhanger so keep that in mind. (That said: not abandoned, just very slow with updates.) The whole world set-up is great and I really love the characterization of James, who was named for the Howling Commando in the 1940s—and yeah, that throws Steve exactly for the loop you think it does. I love James’s characterization, the way the Avengers Initiative is set up in this world, how much Steve’s coworkers care for him (and James’s too, for that matter), and I love how we get to see their very different lives blend together. There’s also a mystery afoot; strange things happening outside the Tower; are they being spied on, and by whom? (Total Winter Soldier vibes, I am so sorry we haven’t seen that conclusion but it’s fun even so.)

❤️

How to Woo the Winter Soldier by writeonclara

(Teen, Canon Divergence after The Avengers, crack/humor) Steve falls for the Winter Soldier at first sight. The Soldier is a well-known international assassin who used to work for Hydra, and doesn’t remember himself much… but he’s really confused why this strangely familiar blond guy seems interested in him. Featuring Terrible Dating Advice from Clint and Killer Friendship Robots from Tony, because it’s that kind of fic.

❤️

I was found and now I don’t roam these streets by hipsterchrist

(Mature, Canon Divergence after CA:TWS, 2012 Tower Fic, TW: for childhood illness) Bucky lives in the Tower, works on getting better, rediscovers Bucky Bears, makes friends with the other Avengers, and is the best superhero of all. Such a sweet and surprisingly teary fic, definitely worth the read.

#stucky fic rec #stucky fanfic #j23r23 reading list

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j23r23 · 15 days ago

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Trustfall, Chapter 3

Winter Soldier!Bucky x fem!Reader, 9 chapters plus prologue & epilogue. Explicit for sexual contact in later chapters, which considering it’s the Winter Soldier should be considered vaguely dub!con within an established relationship. There is a somewhat dub!conny kiss in this chapter. Updates will be Tuesdays & Thursdays until complete.

Chapter Summary:

The Soldier takes you to a Safehouse... but are you really safe there?

Full notes on AO3, but please note the Trigger Warning for Dub!con above.

Prologue ~ Chapters 1 ~ 2 ~ 3 ~ 4 ~ 5 ~ 6 ~ 7 ~ 8 ~ 9 ~ Epilogue

MCU Masterlist

The safehouse is tucked in the mountains; the sweet-looking rustic cottage would be a picturesque and quaint image in the fast-approaching twilight, if you weren’t exhausted and hungry and scared. The wound in your side aches, but when you wince, the Soldier slows down until you’re nearly at a crawl over the bumpy road.

It’s been at least twenty minutes since you left the highway; the gravel grinds as he pulls up alongside the house. It’s pitch black inside; the sky is that iridescent blue which appears right before dark. The Soldier turns off the engine and then turns to hand you a pistol.

“Stay here,” he grunts. “Shoot anything that isn’t me.”

He leaves the van.

You swallow and close your eyes, taking deep breaths to keep from freaking out. By the time you open them again, he’s gone. Probably to do a perimeter check, or turn on the lights, or something equally spy-tastic.

It’s forever before he returns. Or maybe fifteen minutes.

“It’s safe,” he says, and takes you inside.

To your surprise, the house is just as adorable inside as it was outside. Dusty and clearly forgotten for quite a while, but not terrible. There’s a fireplace, and a braided rug, and a soft and squishy couch. There’s a little table and a kitchenette, and some soft lights that glow yellow and make everything look cozy and sweet. There’s an ancient fridge humming as if the Soldier just set it to cool, and there’s a door that leads to a bedroom with a big bed and a set of sheets and blankets and pillows waiting to be arranged.

It's sweet, comfortable, cozy. Or would be, if it weren’t for the rather ornate HYDRA symbol mounted on the far wall.

Anywhere else, anytime else, Bucky would take you to the bed, first. He’d joke about a shower, be helpful in making the bed, then determined to mess the bed up again before making a second shower absolutely necessary. You’d laugh and giggle and it’d be a cherished memory by evening.

The Soldier leads you to the fire instead, where he sits you down on the couch and reaches for the hem of your sweatshirt.

“Wh-wh-what?”

“Your injury requires attention.”

You don’t realize his hands are moving on you until you feel his fingers on the edge of your bandage. You suck in a breath, but he doesn’t pause, frowning.

“Does it hurt?”

“N-n-no.”

There’s a bit of blood on the gauze covering your wound, and he pulls it away with gentle and careful fingers. The wound itself looks like it stopped seeping long before. It still looks awful, but there’s no pus, no discharge, and the skin isn’t discolored or bloated, so you think it’s probably not infected.

His fingers rest soft on your skin, so gentle and delicate that you can barely feel the touch.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, a little shaky. “Let me see your shoulder.”

He frowns, but pulls his hand away and turns his back to you.

The bullet wound is already scabbed over, though you can see the skin pucker around the scab. It’s warm to the touch, but again: no discharge, no pus.

“Already healing,” you say softly. “Wish I had what you’ve got. Does it even hurt?”

“No.” He sounds rough.

“Lucky.”

“No.”

He doesn’t move, though; you run your fingers lightly over the skin around the injury, and he gives one deep shudder, before standing swiftly and starts to assemble the logs for a fire.

“You should sleep,” he says, but you’re already lying down on the couch, your eyes already sliding closed.

You’re asleep before he lights the logs.

You wake when he moves you from the couch to the bed. The rustle of fabric, the crack of the logs in the fireplace. The scent of lavender and dust. A heavy blanket, or several of them, settled over you, and you doze again.

It’s some time later when the mattress dips.

He’s joining you.

He’s warm, blissfully so; you’re shivering hard, but every inch of your skin pressed to his slowly settles against him, and his arms tighten around you.

You breathe in his scent. Bucky’s scent, sandalwood and musk and sweat, and you close your eyes because the urge to tilt your head up and kiss him, half naked in front of a roaring fire in a secluded cabin in the woods…

But it’s not Bucky holding you. Not exactly. His heart pounds in his chest under your ear, you nuzzle your cold nose into his skin, and gradually, you grow warmer. The shivers slow and your breathing eases.

“Soldier?”

He hums in response; a short, quick little noise that is muffled by the blankets and his mouth pressed to your hair.

“You… you stitched me up. Back at the motel.”

“Yes.”

You nod against his chest, your breath shaky. “Thank you.”

He swallows. His skin is so warm, and his hands are so gentle on your back as he pulls you into him.

His breath whispers across your hair. “Sleep.”

You wake, nearly naked, relaxed and safe in his arms, blankets thick and heavy over you. The air is chilly, fresh-smelling of woodsmoke and dust and pine.

The world is silent, except for breath. Your head is pillowed on the soft skin of Bucky’s arm, the muscle relaxed under your cheek. Even breaths, his chest rising and falling steadily, and a little bit lower, you can feel his erection pressing against his underwear, and into your hip.

It’s morning; there’s birds singing somewhere; sunlight on the other side of your still-closed eyelids. He’s awake, you think; he’ll kiss you in a moment, move his hands in possessive directions, pull you into him and onto him and slide himself into you, and just the thought of it makes you want to stretch and wrap yourself tighter around him.

You hum softly, content, rolling away a little, before his arms tighten possessively around you, drawing you back to his chest, and you open your eyes, ready to tease at what will surely be a playful possessive growl in his throat.

Instead, you wake and see cold blue eyes staring at you, dark circles under them, as if he’s been awake all night, watching you sleep, keeping you close, keeping you safe.

It’s the Soldier, and the soft image of morning is shattered. Everything that’s happened in the last day comes crashing back.

The Soldier’s mouth is taut, frown permanently set in the stone of his jaw. His arms are solid around you, unyielding and immovable, but you don’t feel trapped. They’re soft, around your shoulders and your waist; his fingers rest on the soft cotton of your panties, on the dip of your spine just below the strap of your bra. They don’t ask for more than your body already offers.

He’s still in his underwear, too, his cock pressing against the cotton. Morning thick, soft and heavy. In another world, you’d kiss him awake and wanting.

“We need to go back today,” you whisper, and he frowns.

“No.”

“Why not?”

He doesn’t answer; he lifts his left hand from your hip to brush the hair back from your face. “I know you.”

Your heart hammers in your chest. “Yes.”

“You were my handler before.”

“No. Never.”

His hand draws down the side of your face, your jaw, your neck, feather-light and warmed from your skin. “I want to kiss you.”

His eyes are still cold, but there’s something else there, something naked and desperate, something you almost recognize.

Or maybe you just want to recognize it. Because the Winter Soldier was emotionless, an empty vessel waiting to be filled with orders.

If he wants…

“You… you want to kiss me?”

“Yes,” he whispers, naked and raw and so familiar, so much like the man you remember that you lean up and press your lips to his.

And oh, how warm his lips are, how they move against yours in the most perfect ways. How his hand threads through your hair, cradling your head and your neck as he rolls you to your back, covers you with his warm body. He kisses like a hungry man, like he’s been aching for this touch all night, waiting for you to wake up.

Like everything that has happened since you both left the Tower has been a dream, and this is reality. This. You and him, him and you.

He rests in between your legs, you throw your head back as he draws a wet line down your neck with his tongue.

“Bucky,” you whisper, and he goes still. His breath warm on the wet skin he’s left behind, his fingers suddenly tight, painful.

You close your eyes tight and press your lips together, the ache in your heart compounding on itself.

“You… you don’t remember,” you choke out.

He lifts his head to look at you, and your heart breaks further.

He’s confused, lost, cold. You lift your hand and cup his cheek, only to have him turn and kiss your wrist, your arm, right down to your elbow.

You want to let him.

But…

“Stop,” you whisper.

He does, eyes focused on you, a frown on his lips.

You try to smile at him. “Not until you remember.”

The frown deepens. “Remember what?”

“Not what. Who.”

He stares at you for a long moment, before he closes his mouth in a thin line, gives you a sharp nod.

And then, with infinite care, he slides over you, out from under the blankets, careful to keep you covered and warm.

His fingers are warm when they brush against your shoulder. He doesn’t try for any other touch.

You watch as he dresses again, frowning when he looks at the soft jeans, the even softer shirts, the clothes you see Bucky wear so often, they’re like a second skin. But to the Soldier, they’re clearly unfamiliar, undoubtedly tactically unsound, unsafe. He slides the weapons he’s acquired into pockets and waistbands, double-checks the locks on the lone window, and then shuts the curtains with a yank.

“Stay here,” he tells you, gruff, and you hear his footsteps loud on the wooden floor, and then the slam of the front door as he leaves the cabin.

You count to ten, heart pounding in your chest, and then you rise from your perch, your side aching, but your resolve solid. Every Avenger safehouse is equipped with certain things, and you can’t imagine HYDRA would be any different.

Who knows how long it will take to find what you need; who knows how long the Soldier will be, doing his rounds. There is not a moment to lose.

The outer room is bright with sunlight pouring in from the curtainless windows; dust motes float in the weak beams, offering little warmth.

You find the battery in the fourth drawer of the little kitchenette, the handset in the sixth. You put them together with shaking hands, mumbling please please please, until the block phone powers up with a single bar for signal, and a single bar for power.

Not enough for a call. But enough for a text.

Send to *JARVIS

help

The response is immediate.

Please enter authorization code.

You want to curse or throw the phone or scream. Instead, you type your employee code with shaking fingers, followed by:

We’re safe, we’re okay. I don’t know where we are it’s a cabin somewhere in the mountains I think it’s a hydra safehouse. We were in a motel somewhere, we were attacked by hydra. Soldier kept me safe. He thinks I’m his handler. I’m trying to get him to bring me back but he doesn’t want to listen. I don’t know what to do.

Incorrect authorization code. Please enter authorization code.

Just tell Tony! Or Sam or Pepper or Steve. Is Steve alive? Please say Steve is alive, Jarvis, please.

Incorrect authorization code. Please enter…

The phone is yanked out of your fingers before you can even finish reading the response, crushed in metal fingers so quickly that sparks land on your exposed skin. The Winter Soldier drops the wreckage on the floor and grabs you by the wrist, anger etched onto his brow.

“Where did you get this?” he hisses. “They will be tracking!”

“I’m trying to get help,” you snap at him, pulling at your wrist, but his fingers are immobile, solid, tight. You can feel the bruise rising already as he refuses to give way.

“They aren’t looking to help,” he snaps at you. “They’re going to want us dead.”

“No, the Avengers are our friends, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” you insist. “We have to go back, they can keep us safe…”

“Not the Avengers,” he snaps, dragging you into the bedroom and shoving you to sit on the bed. “They’ll kill us if they find us, they’ll know that phone, they’ll track us here, they aren’t safe.”

You barely catch the clothes he throws at you. “I’m telling you, Bucky, the Avengers—”

“Get dressed. We have to go before they get here.”

You start to pull on the clothes, but it’s hard going, with how cold your fingers are, with the pain in your side.

With the way the Soldier is moving, jerky and nervous.

You swallow, thickly. “Who’s coming, Soldier?”

“Hydra,” he snaps. “They’re tracking, they’ll be—”

It’s strange, watching anger shift to confusion. “But…”

He swallows, his mouth working. “I am…”

You stare at him, waiting.

He rubs at his face.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “If you’re Hydra, why would we be running, huh? Think it through. Think.”

“I am… I’m Hy—” He chokes on the word, unable to continue; the confusion and loss in his eyes is the worst thing you’ve ever seen.

“Come on,” you urge him. “You aren’t Hydra anymore, Bucky.”

WHOP-WHOP-WHOP.

You barely have time to register the sound of the helicopter rotors, before the Soldier grabs you by the shoulders and throws you both under the desk as the cabin explodes into flames.

to be continued...

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j23r23 · 17 days ago

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Messaging people for the first time is so hard. What am I supposed to say? Like, "You seem really odd and your blog intrigues me. Do you want to have philosophical conversations or perhaps talk about fictional characters?" What! Whatever. I will just follow you back and stare at your blog with my big beautiful brown eyes.

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j23r23 · 17 days ago

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I'm starting to vibrate because I'm so giddy for more!

Trustfall, Chapter 2

Winter Soldier!Bucky x fem!Reader, 9 chapters plus prologue & epilogue. Explicit for sexual contact in later chapters, which considering it’s the Winter Soldier should be considered vaguely dub!con within an established relationship. Updates will be Tuesdays & Thursdays until complete.

Summary:

Hydra attacks the Tower, fully intending to regain control of their Asset. But Bucky Barnes has a plan. Bucky Barnes has you.

A/N: Inspired by this Tumblr post by @calzone-d, but then it took a life of its own. The working title for this was “Hostage to the Winter Soldier!” (complete with exclamation point, because it’s funnier that way, and if you don’t imagine that title in one of those 1950s B-movie fonts, you’re doing it wrong), but by the time I finished writing, I had Pink’s song stuck in my head, and it’s probably a better fit.

Full notes on AO3, but please note the Trigger Warning for Dub!con above.

Prologue ~ Chapters 1 ~ 2 ~ 3 ~ 4 ~ 5 ~ 6 ~ 7 ~ 8 ~ 9 ~ Epilogue

MCU Masterlist

Everything is pain, from the wound in your side to the sound of your heart beating in your ears, to the screams and the crash of things falling. Your throat aches, you can’t catch a solid breath, and each cough is more painful than the last.

The Soldier holds you close, careful, securely against him. He runs, stops, changes direction, runs again. Every jolt makes you catch your breath and cry out, and every time you do, he muffles your mouth against his shoulder.

You know when you’ve stepped outside, though you’re not sure how or why, only that the weight of the air around you changes, the sound of the sirens in the distance growing louder.

“Where?” you croak, but the chill in the air makes speech even more difficult.

“Away,” says the Soldier, curt and disinterested in elaboration. He looks around, then shifts you as he grabs a jacket someone’s left behind, using it to wrap around you, tie you to him, undoubtedly for better security.

“Buck!” shouts someone—you squint and turn your head, trying to find the source.

The Soldier doesn’t respond.

“Bucky, what’s wrong, is she—?”

It happens fast. One moment, the Soldier is tying you to him; the next, your feet are on the ground, the length of your body pressed to his, which is when you realize you’re on the outside dining patio, up against the wall that overlooks 45th Street.

And standing in the middle of the patio is Steve Rogers, eyes confused. The bulk of the Tower rises behind him, broken glass and smoke pouring from windows.

Steve reaches to you both, but the Soldier aims his gun directly at Steve’s head.

Steve freezes, hands raised. “Buck. It’s me. You know me.”

The Soldier doesn’t answer, except to pull you a little closer to him.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” you try to say, but between the state of your throat and the cough and the wind and the sirens, you can’t even hear yourself.

“Okay,” says Steve—but it’s not Steve anymore, it’s Cap. You’re not sure how you recognize the shift, but he’s calm, soothing, as if he’s trying to convince you both that he’s in control. And then he looks at you. “Do you remember what happened? Did they say something to him?”

You nod, but you’re in too much pain to say anything else. Apparently, it’s all Cap needed anyway; he leans his head to the side, pressing his shoulder against his ear, and speaks low. “Sam, Tony, we’ve got a problem here. I need backup.”

“Right behind you,” says a metallic-sounding voice, and when you look behind you, it’s both Iron Man and Falcon in the air , guns and repulsors aimed straight at the Soldier.

“No,” you try to say, struggling to work your way in between them.

It doesn’t work.

Mostly because he pulls you in, taking one step onto the wall and then leaping from it, up and over Cap’s head to the balcony two levels above.

He makes it.

You almost don’t, your feet scrabbling on the brick wall, but somehow he falls forward in such a way as to pull you with him, and then he’s at a fast sprint for the doors, only to skid to a stop when Falcon lands in between you and the Soldier’s intended escape.

“Okay, Barnes, I know you’re a bit confused right now,” Falcon begins, hands out in a placating manner.

“Not confused,” growls the Soldier. “And not Barnes.”

“Okay,” says Falcon. “Just put her down, man, she’s hurt, and we can help.”

The Soldier’s breath is fast and shallow. “Sam Wilson, codename Falcon, US Airforce 2000 through 2010. Member of the Avengers since 2014.”

“Yeah, that’s me,” agrees Falcon, calm and tight. “So you know you can trust me, right?”

“Wrong,” snaps the Soldier.

“Bucky,” repeats Cap from behind you, and the Soldier turns to glare at him, his grip snug around your waist. “Please. Put her down. She needs a doctor.”

The Soldier slowly lets you slide down until he’s put you down on the ground. He’s surprisingly gentle, but you can’t take your eyes off of him, because he hasn’t taken his eyes off of Cap.

There’s a tension in his jaw, his neck, even his fingers. Every inch of him is poised and ready for attack, and if you had a moment where you thought it might turn out okay—that he’d step away and let Steve take the lead… it’s gone the moment his eyes narrow.

He twists, pulls something from a pocket you didn’t even realize he had. Before you see the knife flash, it’s flying, straight behind you and driving hard through Falcon’s wing, pinning him to the door.

“Uh, Cap?” says Falcon.

“Buck, we don’t want to hurt you,” says Cap from the far side of the roof, his fingers spread wide, his hands out to show he’s unarmed. You can’t quite see his expression from where you’re crouched, but his voice has that calm tension in it, the sort of voice he uses on the guys who are really at risk of going ballistic and causing world-ending explosions. “But she needs a doctor.”

“You won’t touch her.”

“Bucky—” starts Cap.

“I’m. Not. Bucky,” growls the Soldier.

Iron Man grumbles something—knowing Tony, you suspect it’s along the lines of We don’t have time for this—and steps forward, gauntlets raised and glowing blue.

That’s all it takes for the Soldier to lose whatever tenuous grasp he has on civility. The firefight is fast and furious and you flatten yourself against the edge of the rooftop, covering your face until you hear Sam scream Steve’s name.

You look up in time to see Cap falling, not to the lower balcony, but straight down, seven flights to the pavement below.

The Soldier picks you up and moves, leaping from the top of the building straight across the alley to the next, landing with such a jolt that your teeth knock together painfully.

“No,” you moan, because seriously, it hurts, your teeth and your jaw and your head, and the wound on your side.

It’s still not as bad as the stricken look on Sam’s face as Steve fell. As knowing that the Soldier probably pushed him over, that even if Tony manages to catch Steve in time, they’ll never catch the pair of you, because the Soldier’s still running, still holding tight to you.

Bucky, you trusted.

But the Winter Soldier?

“Go back, please go back,” you whimper, clinging to him, because you’ll fall otherwise.

“Shhh,” says the Soldier, surprisingly gentle.

If he says anything else, you don’t hear it; the next jolt, and you faint.

It’s dark when you wake up. Dark and quiet, but you lie on a soft bed, covered in blankets, and your jaw and your head don’t hurt anymore, though your mouth is impossibly dry.

It’s clear, just from the bed and the darkness, that some time has passed; you wish you knew how much. Your throat still hurts, but it’s easier to breathe now, without smoke in your lungs.

The wound on your side aches, sharp when you breathe, but it’s not the burning pain that you’d felt earlier. You take a deep breath, and feel the tug of medical tape on your bare skin, the pinpricks that feel like stitches.

You turn your head, squinting in the dark, and see him. Sitting in a chair between the bed and the window, where the curtains are drawn over most of the glass. There’s only the barest crack, enough for him to see out, and that’s what the Soldier is doing; he’s looking out, keeping watch.

You watch for a moment, trying to focus on him. Maybe you make a sound, turning your head on the pillow; maybe the pattern of your breathing changes enough to alert him. He glances at you quickly.

“Water,” you choke out.

He rises, a slow, sinuous thing, graceful and smooth as he picks up the bottle next to the bed and offers it to you. There’s even a straw for you to use, as if he knew it would make it easier to drink.

Three sips, and you’re exhausted, your head falling back on the pillow, your eyes closing.

“Sleep,” he says, a terse grunt.

You sleep.

There’s sunlight thin around the curtains when you wake, and the Soldier is nowhere to be seen.

You sit up, blearily, your head swimming. The stitches on your stomach ache and pull; your arms shake with the effort.

It’s a motel room; ramshackle, brown and orange, threadbare and probably unchanged since the 1970s.

There’s noise from the bathroom in the back; there’s a phone on the desk across from the bed.

You take a breath, bracing yourself for the pain you know is coming. You swing your legs out and try to stand. It’s not easy; you have to lean on the bed because you’re exhausted and weak, and then it’s a lunge to actually reach the desk where the phone sits.

You take a breath and catch your reflection in the mirror.

You look terrible. Your hair’s a mess, there’s dark circles under your eyes—though that might be the lack of light. You’re not dressed, either, apart from your bra and underwear; maybe your clothes were too blood-stained to leave on you. Probably.

The Soldier would have stripped them off. It sends a shiver down your spine, even as warmth pools unexpectedly between your legs, thinking about it.

“Gorgeous,” Bucky whispered in your ear, sliding the clothes from your body…

No. It wouldn’t have been like that. The Soldier isn’t Bucky. He wouldn’t have looked at your skin, your curves; he would have only had eyes on the wound he tended. Perfunctory, clinical, cold.

You still can’t stop thinking about it. What he might have seen when he tore them from you. If his gaze had lingered at all, if he’d wanted to touch…

You let out a breath and reach for the phone, lifting the receiver to your ear.

The dial tone rings out, loud and clear, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

Fingers shaking, you press the buttons Bucky had you memorize months ago.

7…

Crack.

You suck in a breath and almost fall as the Soldier crushes the phone’s base in his left hand, yanking the cord out of the wall for good measure. Your breath comes fast and sharp and shallow, but his fingers are gentle when they take the receiver from your grip.

“No,” he says shortly, firmly.

“I just want to tell them I’m okay,” you protest.

He wraps his arm around your waist and leads you back to the bed. “No.”

“They won’t hurt me. Or you.”

“No,” he repeats.

There’s no argument in it, either. No heat, no fury. Just cool and staid and certain. No.

You want to cry.

He’s gentle as he puts you back in the bed, and he pushes you toward the center, closer to where the bed is shoved up against the wall.

He crawls in after you, the warmth of his body solid against your back, his left arm solid over your chest, holding you in, holding you close.

“Bucky—”

He grunts, displeased.

“Soldier?” you try, hesitating over the codename.

He’s quiet.

“Sleep,” he says gruffly, his arm tightening around your chest, his breath tickling your hair.

He’s warm; he smells so familiar, his body against your back, the weight of him, the feel of his lips so close to your head. You could close your eyes, ignore the pain in your side, and pretend it’s Bucky who holds you, his skin pressed to yours, his hand warm on your skin.

You have no idea where you are, how far he’s taken you, how long it’s been. If Steve is alive, if they’re looking for you, what will happen when they find you.

He’s not Bucky. He’s the Winter Soldier. You should be scared out of your mind.

Instead, you feel safe and comforted, and you close your eyes to sleep again.

You wake with a start, the Soldier’s right hand over your mouth, his eyes hard and focused.

One metal finger over his lips. An unspoken order to be silent.

You stare at him, eyes wide and frightened, but you don’t make a sound.

And then you hear it; movement, from outside the door. The soft swick of a rappelling line. A light passing bright before it disappears.

The Soldier mouths to you, Move.

You nod, your heart pounding.

You don’t know where he found the clothes, but he helps you put them on; a sweatshirt, loose pants, canvas shoes without socks. You’re still exhausted, your side still aches from the stitches, and you hope you don’t have to run because you won’t stand a chance.

You don’t get a chance.

The Soldier waits by the door, you tucked between him and the wall, and the moment it opens, he presses your face into his chest.

The world erupts into hellfire. You feel the flame of it, hear the whoosh, the screams, the pops of their guns going off as the heat overwhelms the bullets.

You hear the Soldier grunt, shiver against you.

And then it settles into sparks and pops, and he pushes away from you for a moment, and you see the room in flames and ash.

He’d rigged the door to explode, the moment it opened. Four bodies on the ground, dressed in tactical gear and clearly dead.

You cover your mouth, almost sick, even when you see the familiar HYDRA symbol on one of their sleeves.

There’s a shout, and the Soldier rips the machine gun from the fingers of the agent who steps into the room, killing him without hesitation, and then killing three more on the balcony.

There’s blood on the back of his shoulder, oozing from a bullet wound, and you remember him grunting before.

The world goes quiet again.

“Move,” says the Soldier, taking you by the hand.

“You’re hurt—”

“Move.”

You follow him, out of the room and down the steps. You don’t recognize anything, but you think you’re in the mountains somewhere; the hills rise green around you, and there’s a particular smell to being in the middle of nowhere that’s fresh and clean, even with the low-level fire you’re leaving behind.

There’s a van in the parking lot; the Soldier yanks at the door and opens it for you; you crawl inside, while he goes around to the driver’s side.

You do your seatbelt with shaking fingers while he hot-wires the van, and then you’re gone, speeding away without a backward glance.

The Soldier has been driving for half an hour when you finally swallow your fear and turn to him.

“Are they following us?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, his eyes darting between the road and the mirrors, assessing.

“No.”

“Good.” You take a breath. “Pull over. You’re hurt.”

“No.”

You hate this, but…

“That’s an order, Soldier.”

He scowls, but he does what you ask, pulling to the side of the road, angling the van so that he can pull straight back out as quickly as possible.

“Turn around,” you say, trying to stay as calm and collected as you can. “Back to me, please.”

There’s blood on the back of the seat, in addition to what soaks the back of the shirts he’s wearing. The wound looks awful, right up on the high, meaty part of his shoulder. Had it hit his other side, it would have deflected off the metal, but maybe HYDRA knows where to disable him best.

It’s not through-and-through, either—but over the last half hour, the healing powers have been doing their damnedest to push the bullet out, and you see it now, shining dully under the blood.

You swallow, hard. “I need something to dig this out, so it can heal the rest of the way.”

“Glove box,” grunts the Soldier.

There’s not much in there; a few stray pens, some cleansing wipes, which are probably the closest you’ll get to sanitizing anything you actually use.

Then you spy it out of the corner of your eye; a multi-tool, under the owner’s manual. When you open it, one of the tools is a set of pliers.

It’s better than nothing.

You wipe it down with one of the wipes, then clean around the Soldier’s wound as best as you can. You’d remove the shirts entirely, except you doubt there’s anything else, and the last thing you need is him getting hypothermia and going into shock.

He might anyway.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper when he winces as you clean the area.

“Why?” he grunts.

“It’s going to hurt.”

“Do it.”

You swallow, and take a breath, and do it.

He doesn’t scream. But you hear it anyway. The bullet is slippery, and your hands shake too much to get a good hold at first, but then it pops right out and falls to the floor of the van, rolling away.

It’s a long, long moment before he turns, rolling his shoulders slowly, then reaches for the pliers that are so tight in your hand, he has to move each finger one by one until you’ve let go. They drop to the floor with a clatter.

“Done?” he says.

You nod.

“Good.” He touches your cheek, cradling it, rubbing his thumb on the tears that leak from your eyes. The skin between his eyes crinkles, like he’s never seen anyone crying before.

And then he turns back to the wheel, and continues to drive.

It’s a few minutes before you are calm enough to speak.

“Where are we going?”

“Safehouse.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and close your eyes to sleep.

to be continued...

#bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #winter soldier fanfiction #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x you

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j23r23 · 18 days ago

Text

James Potter x fem!reader x Sirius Black

Series Summary: You have been best friends with the Marauders since you were in nappies, and you've loved James Potter for just as long. However, when he start dating his long-time crush Lily Evans everything is different now.

Summary: One Quidditch incident makes an already messy situation even more complicated…

Genre: Fluff, angst

Warnings: friends to lovers, unrequited love, injury, hint of Wolfstar, Jily, things are messy lmao…

ONE / 2 / 3 / 4

December.

Amidst the Christmas chaos and the winter chill, Hogwarts was buzzing with excitement for the end of Quidditch seasons. Because the end meant the Champion match. And for the fourth time in a row, it was Gryffindor VS Slytherin.

You wrap your scarf around your neck, nuzzling into the warmth as the game continues. Lily claps loudly, jumping up, her deep cherry-colored hair bouncing flawlessly around her shoulders, as James bumps a Slytherin midair, sending him spiraling off his broom and under the stands. You wince.

With practiced ease, James snatches the Quaffle and smiles triumphantly. You hold up the binoculars, your cheeks warm. His dark curls fall over his face, his cheeks a little pink from exertion.

You wonder if there's ever been a time James Potter wasn't stupidly beautiful. You lower the binoculars, lost in a memory of a younger James; playing in his parents yard, mud all over his trousers. You don't think there has been.

Suddenly, gasps erupt from all around you and Lily shrieks. You snap out of your daze and look up just in time to see someone plummeting from the sky. James? you think, heart dropping into your stomach. The boy looks enough like him to freeze your blood. A shaking hand covers your mouth as your vision blurs.

"Bullocks," Remus mutters. Remus never swears, but this time he does, and he looks worried. If Remus is worried, everyone should be worried. Peter holds onto the sleeve of your woolen coat, as distressed as everyone else. You turn your head, poor Lily looks like she might faint.

Terrified, you sprint down the stairs, pushing past students and leading the way for your friends to follow. The grass crunches against your shoes as the first fall of snow sprinkles across the greenery. You see two figures in the distance, more players huddled around them. The closer you become, the clearly the scene is;

It's not James. But it's just as horrifying. It's Sirius.

Your heart shatters as you see him on the ground, clutching his arm as groaning in pain. You gasp and suddenly breathing feels impossible. "Oh my—" your voice cracks, drifting as you pause. You don't dare run up to him. Sirius is crying now, and his arm is twisted in a way that makes you feel like vomiting up your breakfast.

You can't look at him anymore. So instead, you turn and look at Remus.

Unlike many of your other friends, Remus Lupin always seems in control. He never looks scared, never anxious, and certainly never looks unsure of himself. James once told you the only time Remus has ever truly looked terrified in front of him is during the nights under the Whomping Willow—the nights they never let you join in on. But now? Remus looks petrified. His body trembles and you throw your arms around him.

"It's okay," you whisper, gripping him tight. Remus wasn't ever really good with bodily injuries, especially when they involved Sirius. "I'm here. He's okay. Promise."

You don't know if Sirius is okay, but your words slow Remus's shaking, so you say them anyway. More arms wrap themselves around you and Remus, Peter's sniffles calming you in the chaos.

The walk to the Hospital Wing is silent. Even James isn't speaking as he tries to listen to the murmurs of the professors as Madame Pomfrey rolls a miserable Sirius's into the dim and cold room. It's snowing hard outside.

Madame Pomfrey doesn't let you all in the room. She only lets James because he makes a fuss when he can't be with Sirius. You, Remus, and Peter wait outside while Madame Pomfrey works to heal Sirius's arm and other injuries. It takes hours and by the time she calls you all in, Peter has fallen asleep on Remus's shoulder and your eyes are bloodshot. When Madame Pomfrey leaves you, the only other person in the room is James. He's sitting beside Sirius's bed, head resting on his arms, seemingly asleep. He's still in his Quidditch uniform.

Sirius's skin is pale—too pale. His eyes are shut, his nose scrunched like he's in pain. But he looks like he's sleeping now. "James," you murmur, approaching him. He lifts his head, blinking groggily. He blinks again, sitting up and touching his chin and cheekbone. His cheeks are marked from the sheets. When James sees you all, he beams.

"Bug," he breathes. He smiles at Peter and then his gaze flickers to Remus's worried expression. "Moony, it's alright. Pads just broke his arm and he has a small concussion. It's nothing super serious. He'll live."

James stands on wobbly legs and walks over. He places a hand on Remus's shoulder. "You can sit with him if you want."

Nodding, Remus moves to Sirius's side. He toys nervously with his fingers, his lip caught between his teeth as he looks at Sirius's bandaged arm and the bandage on his head. You glance at James and guilt hits you, making you feel ill.

You're ashamed.

You're so ashamed that some part of you is glad it wasn't James lying in that bed. Your James. You feel like a horrible person. Your eyes land on Sirius again and you walk by James, kneeling beside Sirius on the opposite side of the bed, pretending not to hear Lily knock and enter the room. Pretending not to notice how James brightens the second he hears Lily's voice.

You take Sirius's uninjured hand—pale and cold—and feel your heart break all over again. "I'm sorry," you whisper, tears falling now. How dare you think of James when Sirius is here, unconscious and hurt? You let out a breath. You are so happy he's okay.

Warm tears drip onto Sirius's hand as you kiss it.

"Hey, Y/n, don't cry," Sirius suddenly croaks, one eye fluttering open. "Someone might think you actually care about me."

Your eyes snap up and a smile curls your lips despite the shame you'd been feeling. You lift yourself up and throw your arms around Sirius's neck, pressing kisses to his cheek.

Sirius laughs, rough and raspy. "Ow—that hurts."

Remus gently pulls you back. "You're hurting him," he whispers.

You glance at the sling holding Sirius's arm and mutter, "Sorry."

Sirius looks at you, his eyes warm and soft. You look away because you don't deserve the warmth in his gaze. You step aside and let Remus talk and hug Sirius. They seem closer than you've ever seen them as Remus smiles brightly, laughing at some stupid joke Sirius made in his sickly state.

"Black, I'm happy you're okay," Lily speaks up from behind you, her tone kind. She's all shimmering emerald eyes and glossy pink lips, and you hate how well she fits in James' side, his arm around her. As if she was made for him. You feel another wave of shame at your feelings.

"Mighty kind of you, Evans," Sirius says, grinning. He sits up fully, groaning a little and he moves his attention to James. "Prongs, who won? Because I swear if Slytherin won, I should've just died from the fall."

"Isn't that a little dramatic?" Remus mutters

"We won." Peter interrupts and walks closer to Sirius. He squeezes Sirus's arm and Sirius grins up at him, patting his arm in return.

"Wormy's always the bearer of good news, thanks, mate."

"Bloody hell, this hurts," Sirius then adds with a grunt. You look back to see him trying to move again. His shirt shifts slightly upwards, revealing his lower stomach and the bandages wrapped tightly around his ribs. Eyes wide, you reach forward and gently press on his shoulders.

"Pads. No. You're hurt," you chide.

Sirius suppresses a moan of pain and winks. "Heartbroken, honey," he teases, bringing up your conversation from a month ago. The one you'd told him never to mention. You freeze. Your cheeks warm and you wish he hadn't said that. It had been weeks since any of your even hinted at it. But he's smiling, and that smile is intoxicating so you can't even be upset with him.

"Heartbroken?" Lily asks, and you want to scream at her to shut up.

"It doesn't matter," Sirius interrupts her, eyes still on you. "Y/n, don't you and Jamie have Charms right now?"

You know he can tell you're annoyed by his tease and he likes it.

You send him a little look as you walk out the doors with James, his hand on your upper back. Sirius leans back, drowning out Remus's words. All he can think about is you. How he wants to kiss you, hold you, mark you as his. And he knows you feel something. You feel the tension, the wanting— but you're in love with James.

And Sirius knows it.

To be continued… NEXT PART

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