#but i would be almost entirely the same minus modern medicine

[vamptastic]

it's not like in the transphobes world i could even just go oh okay i'll stop trying to transition and go back to square one - the goalposts are constantly shifting. can i still use a masculine name? what constitutes a masculine name? can i still dress like a man? how does a man dress? does liking other men make me less of a man? and in that case, what would liking other women, as a woman, make me? when have i accepted my role as a woman enough for you? when i wear skirts and dresses? grow my hair? marry a man? carry a child? i'm jewish, do i follow my cultures standards of womanhood or yours? my hormone levels are already that of a 'man' from pcos, should i start taking estrogen? there is no woman version of me to return to, this is just how i am. it's asking me to invent a fascimile of myself that has never existed. i genuinely wouldn't know how to do it. not only would i be profoundly miserable, but i would be an outright different person. the version of me that never realized what was making me so miserable and how to begin to fix it would be dead by now.

[icarusredwings]

"Wade, the girls are here."

"What?"

"The girls. Are. Here!"

"There goes a hare?"

*violently gestures to their daughters*

"Oooh! Look, honey the girls are here!"

*old man face palm*

Laura and Gabby coming to take care of them sometimes, bringing them food, bringing them medicine and constantly nagging at them to take it easy (but theyre both stubborn so they don't) they bring them to gatherings at the mansion on the holidays, refusing to let them be alone.

".. I don't want to go."

"Dad you gotta. They miss you. We all do."

But logan isn't dumb. He's already been to all of their funerals, all of their childrens funerals, and even some grandchildren's funerals. Jeans been dead for over a thousand years. Xavier has been dead for longer.

"Papa. Tell him to come. We can bring Puppins."

Ellie, who's 16 again (because her power keeps regenerating her to a teenage, but she ages normally otherwise) tells her, begging her father to come and do things with her step sisters.

"Come on. I'll drive you." Gabby, who's turned into a fine young lady over the years, barley looking 35 (I might be wrong but I swear she has the same healing as laura and if thats true then shes still alive, I thought she could scar tho so many shes filled with scars and shows wade how proud she is of them)

As proud as they both are of their girls, something just dosn't feel right even going on that side of town. The school by now has fallen apart millions of times and changes slightly with each rebuild. Logan doesn't even recognize it anymore.

They would rather stay in, with themselves. Wade curled up against him, rubbing in between his knuckles, logans head lazily laid against him as they watch a show over 500 years old, their home considered extremely lowtech compared to modern day. They have several "vintage" items like a ps5, which is nothing compared to the ps5X which was releasing later this year to celebrate their 50th playstation. The games have stopped working, their 800 year old laptop collecting dust in a drawer, letters and notes stacked high in a shoe box under the bed, the freezer full of left overs that their daughters keep bringing them.

It sounds depressing but.. theyre happy. Decently anyway minus Wade's once a month breakdown in which he tries to skin himself or clings to Logan for an entire 18 hours straight because hes terrified of him leaving him alone when he dies.

Sure, they've tried to off themselves together a ton already. Making a game out of it a couple hundred or so years ago but now the idea was boring. Theyve tried everything. Explosions, jumping off cliffs, hell, wade handcuffed himself to Logan and shoved him off a boat in the middle of the ocean. Logan almost died but Wade was tired of coming back to life only to drown again 3 times and decided fuck it then dragged logan out before he could actually die because "Ill be damned if your ass gets to leave me! You said eternity mother fucker!" While Logan threw up sea water. "You cant be mad at me because YOU cant die!? This was your idea! I hate drowning! If I wanted too I would have done it years ago!"

And then wade cried because the realization that Logan was only staying here FOR HIM made him extremely emotional. It makes him feel selfish. But "For eternity motherfucker" has been their thing for so long, and a promise is a promise.

So now, here Wade is, his eyes completely glazed over (he has no clue how he can see, he literally is blind but somehow he's not.) Crow feet on the sides of them that Logan absolutly adores when ever he can get Wade to laugh (because god knows they could be 5000 and they will still make each other laugh)

Also- The honeymoon phase never ended. And the fact that down there stopped working about 500 years ago does not stop Wade from slapping his ass- Only to immediately apologize because of how hurt his joints are, knees, ankles, toes, fingers, elbows, wrists, knuckles, hips, you name it- it hurts. Sometimes if Wade is feeling down about how he looks, Logan will whisper something really dirty to him in which Wade will giggle and look at him fondly. "You know damn well you can't do that anymore but im more then willing to try~"

The whole "Wade can't have a sexless relationship" thing was proven false about 300 years ago and while hes frustrated as fuck about it, he's kind of glad. (Though he had an entire crisis when he realized that logan didnt infact stay with him for almost 700 years becuse of his uber good dick skills but rather his personality-)

Theyve been through almost everything together. Even brief apocalypses. Saved the universe more then they could remember, had multiple life times worth of good memories to fondly talk about on rainy days, and have prived time and time again to one another that the other wasn't leaving them. No matter what.

Between the countless fights and arguments, now Logan shouted from his chair "Wade?" After each nap just to be sure he was still alive and here with him, honestly a little more scared of wade leaving him so he wouldn'thave to face the heart break then wade was of logan dying. (That's a ton)

"What?" He'd call back, not wanting to spook him because if too upset Logan will infact stand and force himself to walk. Hell- sometimes wade catches him "walking" puppins by wandering outside with her. Puppins by now is like a 'I went to the backyard and now im tired' kind of older dog, her tail wagging so hard some days that it breaks only to heal itself. Shes been killed by several things. Traffic, coyotes, chocolate, etc but always pops back up. (Tell you what, Wade panicking and hollering for Puppins at midnight after a coyote snatched her, watching her get attacked and taken only for her to come back in one piece, happy go lucky, was something that haunted Logan to this day).

Most nights, they're in bed by 6 pm, and by that I mean they lay there and cuddle for hours until finally their bones joints and muscles stop hurting enough for them to fall asleep.

A thought I would like you to sit on and think about:

When they get old, Poolverine, I mean, and logans easily about 1206 while wades like 1047. Wade obviously doesn't need tonworry about grey hairs and adores logans white hairs, but how would Wade look? Would he get wrinkles? Would he look only 60ish, look much younger than logan since he's almost 50 and looks barely 26? Is he skinner? Just how badly has his body aged? Disregarding comic lore- I wanna know your opinion. Would Logan struggle to walk around? Will the tables turn and he is now part time in a wheel chair? Whats their day like? Cabin in the woods is nice but that requires hunting and long trips to the store. Is puppins old too? Since she's a deadpool shes technically "immortal" too dont you think? How many times a week do they just sit infront of the fire at night, talking about their youth and stories? ... how many funerals have they attended? Do they even bother making friends anymore? Do you think that theyve learned to isolate themsleves from the world and become so codependent that they do absolutely everything together? Do you think in this older state that it takes them longer to heal? Can logan even use his claws anymore or does he soley rely on guns now?

Okay....I have so many thoughts. So many.

So firstly, discussing the way they age. I assume that Wade, because of how his regeneration works, stays the same age. His body always regenerates to that same state- the same age and condition- his body was in when he mutated, which is partly why the cancer is still eating away at his body. I don't think he really will ever age. Maybe his scars change a little over the years, getting rougher and redder as he ages.

I think he does get skinnier- less muscley- purely from them eventually putting up their suits for good and settling in to a more domestic life. I don't think he can put on weight because of the cancer, and I think the chronic pain gets worse too. He has more bad days where he can't really do much but lay in a warm bathtub and wait for the heat to fix his aching muscles.

If he does age though? If his body finally gives in and let's him get older? He is probably a mess, both physically and mentally. Wade feels bittersweet about gaining wrinkles and his hearing worsening. On one hand, he's glad that the world has allowed him the luxury, on the other? He hates that he lookes even worse than he did before. The scars start to turn brighter shades of red, the skin wrinkling and sagging in places, and it makes him even more insecure of how he looks.

Either way, his healing gets a little slower and he can feel the cancer trying to fight it's way in.

Mary Puppins is much the same. She doesn't really get older, just gets tired a little easier, and shakes if it gets too cold.

Logan? Logan ages SLOWLY. Very slowly. Eventually, though, he's getting aches and pains like everyone else, accompanied by wrinkles and joint pain. The claws stop working at some point. They refuse to cooperate with him, and eventually, he gives up. The constant ache of them sat idle causes his hands to shake slightly, and it's something he doesn't really like talking about. The one thing he was good at, and now? Now they don't even work.

I think Logan would panic a little at the idea of ageing- used to practically being the same for so long- but he would accept it pretty quickly. He would be kinda glad at the idea of finally getting older, finally being able to do something 'normal', even if it means he isn't as fast or agile anymore. They aren't sure if it's the poison from the adamantium or not, but his breathing gets a little weaker too. His healing slows down too, and it takes alot longer to heal from the tiniest cut- which he assumes is because his healing factor is trying to deal with the whole aging thing.

Wade would be the one having a full on meltdown. After so long, he finally had someone who 'matched his freak'- someone who truly understood his pain and trauma, someone who wouldn't die on him- and now, here he was, staring at the first sign of a grey hair on Logan's head. It reminds him that one day, he really will be alone, no matter what. Logan isn't going to be around forever, but Wade will.

Once Wade isn't panicking about Logan getting old, and once they realise that Logan is going to continue to deteriorate, they move to a little one floor house just outside of the city. There are no stairs, which helps Logan's aching hips, and the walk in shower (you know what I mean) is ready for when neither of them can get in and out of the tub anymore. They make sure Mary has a nice comfortable bed next to the fireplace, and Logan gets a big enough couch that him and Wade can fall asleep comfortably if they need too.

They don't really talk to anyone after all these years. After watching everyone they love pass away, they don't feel the need to make friends anymore. Logan and Wade both can't deal with the idea of watching someone they love waste away again- not now that they are both ageing themselves.

All they care about now is eachother- and Mary Puppins- and they take care of eachother as best as they can. Logan makes Wade heat packs and helps him clean up whe he vomits, Wade helps Logan move about when he isn't in a wheelchair and massages the aching muscles in between his knuckles.

It's tough, but they manage. They survive by keeping the other alive, and even though they know it'll end badly- either Logan is going to die and leave Wade, or they are both going to die together- it never stops their need to keep eachother safe.

Logan has to watch Wade as the cancer slowly starts to fight back and win, while Wade has to watch Logan age and the possibility of the poison taking over.

(Not the most coherent post, but I had so many random thoughts about it that I wanted to put in here lol, so here it is. Also GREAT QUESTION??? LIKE YES?? GIMME OLD MAN LOGAN AND OLD WADE HAVING TO LOOK AFTER EACHOTHER??)

[navegandoaciegas]

California Bound.

Pairing: Bucky x fem!Reader

Warnings: smut, yandere, homeless!bucky, stalking, home intrusion, obsession, loneliness, sad!bucky, disturbing thoughts, dubcon? This is a dark fic.

Words: 4k

Summary: You’re so lonely and isolate in this city that if you died your neighbours wouldn’t even notice, your colleagues wouldn’t care and your boss would probably be pissed that you didn’t put in your two weeks notice before you went to hell. Bucky is tired of being alone and invisible and he knows you are too. He knows you can mend each other's’ hearts. 

A/N: set after CA:TWS. I’m not a native speaker so forgive me for any mistakes. Please let me know what you think and like and reblog if you liked it :) feedback is always appreciated!

In the unstable state of his scattered mind he can vividly recall a woman in a red dress. 

Some memories are long gone, some are fragmented, and although the lines of her face have been blurred by the passing of time and decades of electrocution, her plump red lips are permanently burned in the back of his brain.

When he closes his eyes, sometimes, he can still see her smile. 

Only she’s not smiling at him.

She’s smiling at Steve, his brother, his friend, his mission. 

Not even seventy years of brainwashing and torture could get rid of the sadness that filled him when she walked past and ignored him as if he wasn’t there, as if nothing else in that room existed except for Steve.

In his memory she doesn’t see him, and nobody has since. 

Perhaps it’s in that moment that he became no one, in that moment he was condemned to an existence of pain, loneliness and invisibility.

He’s a ghost that haunts the dirty streets of Philadelphia, crouched behind the dumpsters of dark alleys, begging the ones who sneer at him for spare change in train stations, lurking in the shadows to pickpocket the rich passerbys of the city.

  The hormone suppressants HYDRA forced on him are wearing off.

He can feel himself slipping, his most primal instincts violently surging back after 70 years of being repressed. His brain goes haywire when he catches sight of a pair of legs clad in a short skirt, the blood draining from his brain and travelling straight to his cock, and he wills himself to restrain his urges.

Modern women are so pretty, and they wear so little clothes. They don’t see him, of course, but he sees them. 

He sees those tight little dresses, those high heels, those long lashes and bright lips.

In another life he could have been like one of the rich boys he often spots outside of clubs, well dressed and well groomed, and maybe those pretty girls would have fawned over him too.

But not in this life.

In this life he’s been alone for 70 years, and his loneliness consumes him so intensely that some nights, when the cold is unbearable and the streets are empty, he wishes he hadn’t been born at all.

In this life he doesn’t shower and shave for weeks on end, and his hair is so greasy and matted that even if he wasn’t in hiding he’d have to wear a baseball cap anyways. When he looks at himself in the mirror he barely recognizes the handsome soldier in a blue uniform he saw at the Smithsonian. The man who stares back at him in the mirrors of soiled public restrooms has deep frown lines on his forehead, dark circles under dull eyes and a patch of white hair on his beard. Only the startling blue of his eyes has stood the test of time.

Those pretty girls wouldn’t spare him a second glance.

 He’s tired of the loneliness that plagues him. He just wishes to be seen.

He wants someone to look at him, really look at him, in anything other that pity or disgust. He wants someone who could hold him at night and take care of his battered soul.

He wants a companion to spend his time with, someone he could talk to; when was the last time he uttered a single word? When was the last time someone touched him tenderly?

You’d think after all he’s been through that being alone would be a walk in the park in comparison, but the emptiness that eats him alive is the most unbearable torture he’s ever been subjected to. It took HYDRA 20 years to break him, it only took the loneliness a couple of months.

  He just wants someone.

Someone who sees him.

And you do. You see him.

 He’s hunched over in a recess in the wall of an alley, violently shaking. The ground beneath him is frozen, the strong winds are like a slap in the face and the heavy-duty winter jacket he was able to steal isn’t doing much to protect him from the harsh weather. Maybe he won’t survive tonight, he almost dares to hope.

He’s still crying when he spots a pair of crisp white sneakers coming his way, and he looks up. He’s seen you around a couple of times, you’re one of the pretty girls who short circuit his brain.

You’re wearing a bright yellow winter jacket and black jeans. You look young, but he can’t tell how young. People nowadays age different than they used to back then. You’re probably way younger than him, although he has no idea exactly how old he is; he was 27 when he went to war, how much has he aged? How young is too young for a man with no age?

The light of the lamps behind you diffuses a soft halo around your body. You shine on your own light, brighter than the sun; you’re an angel so beautiful, so perfect that he doesn’t know if you’re a figment of his imagination.

You crouch down and hand him a bunch of blankets and a warm cup of something, maybe tea? When he grabs it his fingers brush against yours and it sends a jolt of electricity down his spine. He expects you to grimace in disgust at his touch, but you don’t. You smile.

You smile at him.

Suddenly he doesn’t feel the cold anymore, he only feels the warm tingling in his stomach. 

He smiles back, or at least he tries. He hasn’t smiled since World War II, as Nazis didn’t give him a lot of reasons to, to be honest. 

And just like you appeared, you’re gone in a heartbeat.

But he can’t simply let you go like that, so he resolves to summon back the Asset’s stealth and gets up to follow you.

That night when he closes his eyes the smile he sees belongs to you.

-

   They say even your worst day only lasts 24 hours; too bad your worst day has become your worst year so far.

They also say when you reach rock bottom the only way to go is up. They lied about that too.

Somehow today you’ve been scraping the bottom of the pit you’re in and have dug yourself even deeper than the lowest you could get.

You want to say your day can’t get any worse than this, but you know there’s always room for worsening.

The feeble March sun shines through the clouds and you’re dreading the flight of stairs that awaits you since your landlord categorically refuses to have the lift fixed. By the time you get to your door you’re exhausted and can’t wait to shower the day away and lounge on your couch.

 You open up the door to your apartment and get inside in a rush, only to stop dead in your tracks when you notice something is off about your home. There’s an eerie stillness about the open space, and maybe you’re going crazy but it seems like some of your things are not where you’d left them.

Apparently you just unlocked a lowest level to rock bottom.

It takes you a couple of seconds to register it, but when you do the hair on the back of your neck stand up and your brain screams danger at you.

There’s a smell inside that is not yours. It’s the strong, manly smell of sweat, and it wouldn’t be entirely unpleasant if it weren't for the fact that you live alone and don’t usually have men over.

 You never think it’s going to happen to you until it does.

You took self defense in college, you carry pepper spray with you, you always thought if you were in danger you’d be able to defend yourself, or at least bolt away.

They never tell you that fear is paralyzing. They don’t tell that the anticipation of pain roots you on the spot, that your legs feel like they’re made of lead and all you can do is wait for the impact to come. They don’t tell you that the dread that chills the blood in your veins can break the most primal of mechanisms humans have, and the fight or flight response you were counting on to save you abandons you too

When it happens, you don’t even hear it coming; there’s a prickle at the base of your neck and, before you descend into the darkness, two arms envelope you, and you feel the ghost of a kiss on your shoulder.

-

  You try to peel your eyes open when a hand delicately caresses your cheek and lingers on your lips. Your eyelids are heavy, your head is pounding like you’re having the worst hangover in you life and your whole body is aching. You want to speak, you want to shake that hand away, but you are unmoving. 

It reminds you of the medicine induced hallucination you used to have, which were an inconvenient side effect of the same prescription drugs that were supposed to help you sleep. It feels like a sleep paralysis, minus the demon sitting on your stomach. 

-

 You’re slipping in and out of consciousness when you hear it. There’s a voice speaking.

You suppose whoever it belongs to is talking to you. You strain your ears and will yourself to concentrate real hard, despite your brain pulsing in your skull and threatening to burst out.

The voice definitely belongs to a man, and whoever he is, he sounds very soft spoken and polite. Too bad he broke into your house and drugged you.

“So pretty, so perfect for me.”

“We won’t ever be lonely anymore, I promise you that.”

“...cleaned up real good for you...”

“...can’t wait for you to wake up.”

It’s all you can make out in your drowsy state. He peppers your forehead and the crown of your head with soft kisses. There’s two strong arms holding you. You fall back asleep.

-

  The sun shines brightly through the curtains of your bedroom and you want to flip the universe off for lining up the morning rays directly onto your face, and yourself for forgetting to draw the blinds.

You almost cuss yourself out for being yet again late for work when the events of the previous evening rush back to you. You wake with a jolt and you feel terror enveloping you when you see him. 

Fear grips your throat and you want to scream, you want to thrash about and punch him, and yet all you can do is look at him with wide eyes.

You feel your chest heaving but it’s almost like it doesn’t belong to you, it’s not happening to you, it can’t; you breathe but the air won’t reach your lungs. 

The man detects your distress and sits next to you. He carefully reaches for your hand and places on his chest, over his heart.

You are immobile.

You hate yourself for it. You wish you could do something about this but your stupid brain refuses to cooperate.

“Calm down baby, I’m not here to hurt you.” says the guy who gave you morphine. “Concentrate on my breathing, ‘kay? Inhale, hold your breath- good, now exhale, and again.”

He guides you through a breathing exercise that suggests you it may not be the first time he’s had to calm himself or others from an almost panic attack. The steady beat of his heart calms you down.

“Don’t cry, please.” he pleads with you.

You’re back at it again with the inappropriate thoughts for someone who’s been kidnapped and might get killed in the next few minutes, but you can’t not think how handsome your captor is.

He’s got dark hair gathered up in an elastic at the nape of his neck. His jawline is sharp and his cheekbones high. His eyes are the bluest you’ve ever seen, his lips look soft and pink and his nose is small and cute for a man so chiselled and intimidating.

“I promise I won’t hurt you.” he tells you, and smiles almost shyly at you.

There’s a look on his face that should reassure you, because it means that you won’t die today, but it can only mean you’re doomed to something maybe worse than death. 

His expression is tender, like you’re the most precious thing in the world. He seems so affectionate, so loving, that for a moment you wish this was real, you wish your former partners would have looked at you so devotedly.

He takes your hand in his again and traces soothing pattern with his thumb. 

Finally you seem to snap back to reality.

“Who are you?” You manage to squeak out. Your throat is on fire, and you’re grateful for the water bottle he hands over to you.

He frowns and seems to think about it until he manages to mumble a “My name is Bucky.”

He hesitates over his name like it doesn’t really belong to him.

You’re puzzled as to why you’re so calm. You’ve never been a feisty one, that’s true; you spent your life conforming to rules, you always complied to orders because you like to be praised and you hate to disappoint. As a child you feared punishments, being grounded, the look of dissatisfaction on your parents’ faces more than anything else in the world.

But you never imagined you’d be striking a conversation with the intruder in your house like it was an everyday occurrence. 

It only takes a look to understand that you can’t outrun the guy, nor overpower him. He’s built like a bulldozer and his biceps are bigger than you. He said he wouldn’t hurt you, and as absurd as it sounds you believe him, but it doesn’t mean you’d come out unscathered if you tried to fight him.

Maybe you could outsmart him? Comply until he trusts you and then take off?

“I’ve been watching you.”  Oh shit . “You saved my life.”

You can’t stop the remark from escaping your lips. “A thank you would have sufficed, you know, no need to kidnap me and all.” 

You weren’t feisty, sure, but that didn’t mean you weren’t a snarky bitch.

The guy chuckles, and it seems like his own amusement surprises you both alike.

“Two months ago, back in January. I was freezing to death. You came and gave me blankets and tea. It warmed me enough to survive the night. I knew back then you were perfect.”

Oh, God . The one time you decided to be a good citizen and gave the blankets you hogged in your cubicle at work to the homeless guy that was always crouched in the back alley of your office building, then one you’d see when you sneaked out the back to smoke on company time.

You almost don’t recognize him. 

“You’re just like me in a way. I saw you so sad all this time, you hate your job, you’re always alone. I saw you cry because you feel so lonely. I know that it feels like. I’ve been alone for so long.” He whispers the last part softly, and your heart clenches because it’s true, you’re so damn lonely, but you can recognize the loneliness in his eyes too. He cradles your face in his hands. “But I promise you won’t be alone anymore. You got me now.”

“I don’t know- I-I don’t even know you. Please just let me go, I promise I won’t tell anyone. Please don’t hurt me.” You start to plead with him and your words get swallowed by the sobs that shake you. Your heartbeat picks up again. 

You know fear now, the real one, but it pales in comparison of the one you feel when the implication of his words starts to sink in.

He just smiles at you. 

“What do you want?” you manage to whisper.

“You. We’re going to be happy I promise. I read the notes on your phone where you wrote you wanted to travel, remember that?” You nod weakly, recalling the depressive entry about how stuck your boring life is and the bucket list of all the places you’d want to visit.

“We’re going to travel, I’ll take you wherever you want. Just don’t leave me please, be with me.”

You almost ask with what money since you’re homeless my guy, but then a thought strikes you.

You won’t miss your boring life the moment it will slip away from you; you won’t miss being stuck alone in a city you despise doing a job you hate. You won’t miss the homesickness. You won’t miss berating yourself for accepting a job immediately post grad in a city on the other side of America, just because you were scared of being left behind, of being that one person who ends up with no job after college and has to move back to their parents house.

Maybe, had you stayed in your hometown, or accepted that other position in Austin, maybe this shit wouldn’t have happened to you. You’ll never know.

He pulls you into a hug and you’re so startled your crying subsizes. 

He shushes you and coos you while rocking you in his arms. “It’s okay baby, I promise you’re going to like it, you don’t have to worry about a thing, I got it all sorted out for you.”

You’re shocked.

He pushes you down on the bed and as your mind elaborates the worst case scenario possible and as you’re on the verge of another panic attack, he simply envelops you in his arms and puts his head on your chest. 

You’re stunned again.

Almost on instinct you wrap your own smaller arms around his shoulders and he sighs contentedly. You’re so touch starved and desperate for affection that even hugging your stalkers feels kinda nice.

You haven’t touched anyone and no one has touched you in such fondness in almost a year. Hook-ups don’t count. 

You’re so lonely and isolate in this city that if you died your neighbours wouldn’t even notice, your colleagues wouldn’t care and your boss would probably be pissed that you didn’t put in your two weeks notice before you went to hell.

 Lost in thought you only notice he’s about to kiss you when it’s too late.

At first he hesitantly pecks your lips, and then he’s trying to pry your mouth open with his tongue. You don’t know what possesses you to do it but you part your lips.

He’s uncertain on how to move around, like he doesn’t know how to kiss or he’s forgetten how, he has absolutely no idea where to put his hands, and it’s honestly kind of awkward.

You imagine this is what it’s like to kiss a middle schooler.

He pulls away and blushes. “Sorry, it’s been a while.”

You’re stunned yet again.

He’s not apologizing for stalking you, breaking in and drugging you, but because he’s a bad kisser?

He slants his mouth against yours again, this time more forcefully than before. And after almost choking you when he pushes his tongue so deep it would have reached your tonsils hadn’t you had them removed, he seems to get the gist of it, or maybe the muscle memory kicks back in, because even if you won’t admit it to yourself, it feels nice.

You feel sick and twisted but it’s good to have someone desire you, touch you so tenderly, kiss you so passionately. The guys you use to entertain yourself in your solitude never kiss you while they fuck you into oblivion. You forgot how comforting the weight of a warm body on yours is.

You don’t push him away until you feel your t-shirt rip.

His hands explore your body ignoring your pleads to stop.

He’s nowhere and everywhere all at once. One hand squeezes your ass and the other kneads your breasts while he leaves open mouthed, hungry kisses down your throat, until he reaches the soft skin between your neck and clavicles and starts sucking in like a man possessed. You automatically jerk forward and buckle your hips until they touch his and he lets out a groan that travels straight to your already dripping core. 

You hate yourself for it, but you’ve never been this aroused.

You hate yourself for giving in so effortlessly, for being so damn weak, so damn lonely.

It’s mortifying how easy you’re making this for him. 

Your mind tries to will your body to push him from you, but instead of shoving him away your hands grab his shoulder and pull him closer.

You hate yourself because when he dips his hand in your soaked panties as he suckles on your nipple, your body doesn’t even try to protect you. 

You’re at his mercy as he pushes his long fingers through your folds and smears your arousal around, before dipping them inside.

“All this for me, pretty girl?” 

Cocky bastard.

He moans in your mouth as he grinds his hips on your leg and you feel the extent of his manhood. 

“So pretty, so perfect, so good for me.”

It shouldn’t feel this good, but again you’ve been a slut for praise since you came out the womb. You moan and whine in pleasure and he’s clearly very proud of himself for being the one who elicits these sounds from you. His thumb finds your bud and massages it, sending jolts of unadulterated pleasure down your spine.

You’re trembling under his touch. Your legs are shaking, toes curling, and you can’t stop yourself from moaning louder what you ever have. You can feel the familiar tightness in your core that precedes an orgasm, but you need more.

“Please Bucky, please. Faster.” you whine, ashamed of yourself for pleading like that. 

You’re so lost in your own pleasure you don’t notice the look of hunger that crosses Bucky’s face at the mention of his name. He never thought he’d be able to give you so much, he never knew his hand could bring anything other than pain and destruction, but his name sounds so sweet on your tongue.

“Cum pretty girl, cum all over my fingers for me, I know you can.”

And you do. You cum so hard your vision goes black for a second as you lose yourself to the pleasure that travels from your core to the rest of your body.

You’re floating, so dazed that you barely notice he’s undressed you and taken off his pants. When you feel something prod at your entrance, you look down in horror only to find him already lined up with you.

He’s got the prettiest cock you’ve ever seen, and it’s so big, so thick you’re scared he’s going to rip you apart. He doesn’t give you time to react before he’s slamming inside of you.

The scream that rips out of you is animalistic, and he stills.

“God you’re so tight, clamping down on me.” He grunts in you ear as he sets a slow pace.

The pain soon subsides and gives place to more pleasure than you’ve ever felt in your life. He picks up the pace when you stretch around his girth painlessly, and rolls his hips around.

“So good for me.”

“Mine, only mine.”

“My good girl.”

“Taking me so well.”

“Gonna fill you up so good.”

“Fuck, you feel incredible.”

Your pussy clamps down on his cock with each praise he grunts in your ear. You’re so overstimulated and he’s so vocal that you feel like you’re about to burst when you cum again and again for what feels like an eternity, before his movements become sloppier and messier.

You cum once more when he swells inside of you, and you feel the tell-tale sensation of fullness when he fills you up with his cum.

He collapses on you, panting. 

You’re both satisfied and spent.

He kisses you once more, on your lips, and it’s so sweet and tender that you almost cry because you know deep down you couldn’t take one more day of solitude.

His voice is deep and hoarse when he speaks again.

“How ‘bout we start with California?”