#slow burns are gonna be the death of me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

danysdaughter · 11 days ago

Note

i need some absolute heart shattering angst about bucky "dying" and then a few years later he suddenly shows up at the door

AND YOUR WRITING IS SOOOOK CHEFS KISS 🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

lmao babe, I'm not gonna lie, this was soooo vague so I went off the rails with this one a bit, lol, which means I accidentally wrote a mini 15k fanfic

Come Home To Me

pairing | 40s!bucky x fem!reader & platonic!steve x reader

word count | 14.7k words (lowkey this is like a three part story put together)

summary I during the rise and ruin of the second world war, a sharp-tongued brooklyn girl falls for james buchanan barnes—only to lose him to the battlefield, a presumed death, and the silence that follows.

but almost two years later, when the war is long over and the wounds have scarred over, he comes back through her door, proving that some promises do survive the fire.

tags | (18+) brief smut, canon divergence, slow burn, friends to lovers, soft!bucky barnes, strong female character, angst with a happy ending, angst and feels, domestic fluff, pregnancy, bucky barnes needs a hug, period-typical attitudes, racially ambiguous reader, no use of y/n

a/n | I hope this satisfies you guys for the rest of the week, because I will be working unfortunately. lowkey have no idea where this idea even came from, but I'm actually in love with this. for context, they're all the same age so, 1936 - 18, 1941 - 23, 1944 - 26, 1946 - 28

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

Brooklyn, Summer of 1936

Bay Ridge streets smelled like hot pavement, coal smoke, and fresh bread — if you were lucky. If you weren’t, it was just piss and heat and someone hollering three blocks away.

You were leaning against the iron railing outside your building, arms crossed, one scuffed boot propped up behind you. Hair pinned up in a rush, streak of grease on your cheek from helping your mother with the busted fan in the window. You didn’t hear them so much as feel them coming — like a ripple in the rhythm of the block.

“Morning, boys,” you said without looking, voice dry as kindling.

“Sun’s barely up and she’s already packin’ attitude,” Bucky Barnes replied, that usual drawl in his voice like he thought he was the second coming of James Cagney.

You gave him a sideways glance. “And you’re packin’ delusions. Must be somethin’ in the water on your end of the street.”

Steve gave a tired chuckle, already wedged between the two of you in spirit if not in body. He had a half-eaten apple in one hand and worry in his eyes — like always. “Can we go one day without a brawl before lunch?”

You raised a brow. “You think this counts as a brawl? Stevie, this is foreplay.”

Bucky damn near choked. Steve went red all the way to the tips of his ears.

You let the silence sit for just a second too long before snorting, then pushed off the railing. “Relax, Rogers. I wouldn’t flirt with this guy if he was the last swing dancer in Manhattan.”

Bucky smirked. “Don’t flatter yourself, trouble. You’d miss me if I dropped dead.”

“Only thing I’d miss is the peace and quiet.”

But he knew, and you knew, that wasn’t exactly true. You butted heads with Bucky like it was your second job, but there was something magnetic about him — the kind of boy who knew the weight of every girl’s stare but still acted like the world owed him one more.

He dressed like he owned the sidewalk — suspenders slung loose over a plain white tee, sleeves pushed up to show the muscle he never stopped bragging about. Hair slicked back, grin sharp enough to cut a streetcar in half.

You hated that he could smile like that and get away with murder.

Steve, sweet and lean, kept his shoulders tight like he was always bracing for something. He didn’t speak unless he meant it, and when he did, people listened — not because he was loud, but because he was honest. If Bucky was a firecracker, Steve was the matchbook — quiet, flammable, and always trying to keep things from going up in flames.

“Where we headin’?” you asked, pulling a cigarette from your purse. You didn’t light it — just liked the feel of something between your fingers when you talked. “We going to that theater again?”

“Nickel matinee starts in twenty,” Steve said, tossing the apple core into the gutter. “Double feature — G-Men and something with Myrna Loy.”

“Ugh,” you groaned. “Another damn fed movie? They’re just propaganda with prettier faces.”

Bucky gave you a lopsided grin. “You just don’t like cops ‘cause they keep catchin’ you runnin’ your mouth.”

You stepped in close enough that he blinked, caught off guard by how quickly you cut the distance. “I don’t like cops ‘cause they don’t care about girls like me unless we’re dead or useful. Big difference, soldier boy.”

His grin faltered — just a flicker — and Steve, ever the peacemaker, cleared his throat and gently nudged his way between you both.

“She’s not wrong,” Steve said quietly, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Cops only come to our side of the block when someone’s bleeding. Or brown.”

Bucky glanced between you two, then dropped the grin altogether. His voice went soft — maybe even respectful. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just tucked the cigarette behind your ear and started walking. “You never do, Barnes. That’s the problem.”

But still — still — when your shoulder brushed his as you passed, you didn’t pull away.

And he didn’t move either.

After the movie, the three of you settled along the edge of the promenade overlooking the East River, legs swinging above water that glinted dull and gray under the setting sun.

You were mid-rant. Again.

“And don’t even get me started on the benches,” you said, jabbing a thumb behind you like the injustice was sitting right there. “I mean, really? A freakin’ bench? Can’t share a place to sit ‘cause someone’s skin looks different? What kind of country invents trains and planes and peanut butter and still can’t figure out where a person should be allowed to sit?”

Steve nodded slowly, elbows resting on his knees, listening like he always did — not with judgment, not with pity. Just taking it in, quiet and steady.

Bucky popped the cap off a soda bottle with his belt buckle, because of course he did, and took a long sip before muttering, “You sure you don’t wanna run for office? You talk enough for three senators.”

You shot him a glare. “If I ran for office, I’d be dead before I made it to the first speech. They don’t like girls who say what they mean — especially ones who don’t smile while doin’ it.”

Steve winced. “She’s got a point.”

You gestured at him. “Thank you. Steve gets it.”

Bucky held up both hands, defensive but grinning. “I didn’t say you were wrong. I’m just sayin’, maybe the bench thing ain’t our fight. Not really.”

You stared at him. “See? That right there. That’s the problem.”

He blinked. “What is?”

“You thinking just because it doesn’t hurt you means it ain’t your fight.”

Steve looked over at Bucky, brows raised slightly. “You walked into that one.”

Bucky sighed and leaned back on his palms, looking up at the sky like it might hold some kind of answer. “I’m not tryin’ to be the bad guy, alright? I know the country’s busted. I know some people got it worse than me. I just—” He shook his head. “It’s not like I can do anything about it.”

You snorted. “That’s what they all say. ‘Ain’t my place,’ or ‘it’s just the way it is.’ Then you blink, and it’s been seventy years since slavery ended and we’re still out here arguing about who gets to use a water fountain.”

Bucky looked over at you — really looked. You were staring at the river like it had betrayed you personally, eyes hard, jaw set, that fire in your belly burning so bright it practically radiated off you.

“I just think,” you said, softer now but still fierce, “if you’re not mad, you’re not paying attention.”

Steve nodded again, quiet and firm. “You’re right about that.”

Bucky was silent for a beat. Then he said, quieter than either of you expected, “I am payin’ attention.”

You didn’t say anything back. You just sighed.

────────────────────────

One Week Later

It was too damn hot for anything. The kind of sticky, breathless heat that made the whole neighborhood move slow. You were sitting on the curb outside the corner store, nursing a warm soda and fanning yourself with a folded-up newspaper when Bucky came jogging around the corner, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Oh no,” you muttered as soon as you saw his face. “You’ve either done something stupid or something worse.”

He stopped in front of you, grinning and breathless, hands on his hips. “You remember that diner on 10th? The one with the best cherry pies in Brooklyn?”

Your eyes narrowed. “The one with the ‘whites only’ sign in the window?”

“Yeah, that one.”

You stared at him. “Bucky. What did you do?”

He pulled something from his back pocket and held it out — a metal sign, rectangular, scratched and dented, but unmistakable.

The words “WHITES ONLY” had been spray-painted over in red.

“I may or may not’ve borrowed this,” he said, tossing it onto the sidewalk with a loud clank. “And I may or may not’ve told the guy behind the counter he could shove it where the sun don’t shine.”

You stared at him. Blinked. Then burst out laughing — not because it was perfect (it wasn’t), or smart (definitely wasn’t), but because it was so Bucky. Loud, impulsive, dramatic, and maybe even a little dangerous.

He looked proud of himself, then uncertain. “Was that… stupid?”

You stood, brushing your hands on your skirt. “It was loud. It was reckless. And it was probably illegal.”

He winced. “Okay, so yes.”

“But,” you said, stepping closer, eyes locked on his, “you listened.”

Bucky shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “Don’t really like the idea of a place that’d take my money but not someone else's. Doesn’t sit right with me.”

Your throat tightened at that. You hadn’t expected much — just the usual back-and-forth, the teasing and fighting. But this? This was real. Maybe not world-changing, but it was Bucky-changing. And that mattered.

“You know,” you said slowly, “for a guy who runs his mouth like it’s his job, sometimes you say the right thing.”

He gave you that damn grin again. “I’m a man of many talents.”

You rolled your eyes — but this time, you smiled too.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, August 1936

It was late afternoon, and the sun had dipped just enough to turn everything golden. The heat still clung to the brick and concrete like a second skin, but a breeze finally cut through, lifting the hem of your skirt as you stood outside Wilson’s Department Store, eyeing the newest window display.

There it was. The dress.

Soft yellow with a sweetheart neckline, pleated skirt, and delicate white piping along the seams, like something you’d see on the pages of Ladies’ Home Journal if you ever had the spare coins to buy one. It was soft, feminine, ridiculous — and perfect.

And looking like it belonged to a girl who didn’t have to count pennies or scrub floors.

You stood there staring, thumb hooked into your belt loop, brow furrowed. You weren’t wearing anything special — a hand-me-down skirt that was a little too loose at the waist, and a blouse with a stain near the hem you’d tried to cover with a brooch. Your heels were scuffed. Your nails had oil under them from helping patch the neighbor’s busted radio.

You weren’t ashamed, not exactly. You’d worked for every thread on your back. But you still wanted to look nice, sometimes. Wanted to feel like a girl instead of just a fighter.

“Ey,” a voice behind you called. “You gonna rob the place or just stare it down ‘til it surrenders?”

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. That voice had been haunting you since you were thirteen.

“Don’t tempt me,” you muttered.

Bucky chuckled and stepped up beside you, Steve just a step behind with a tired smile already forming.

“What’s the occasion?” Steve asked, looking at the dress too. “Not your usual color.”

You shrugged, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Just lookin’. Ain’t a crime.”

“We were headed to Deluca’s,” Steve offered. “Thought you might wanna come.”

You hesitated — just for a second — then gave a shrug. “Sure. Can’t afford the pie but I’ll steal bites off your plate.”

The three of you fell into step down the sidewalk, the usual rhythm settling in. Bucky tossing a coin up and down in one hand, Steve quietly narrating neighborhood gossip in a tone that suggested he didn’t quite believe half of it, and you walking just a little ahead, tongue sharp and posture tougher than you felt.

“Y’know,” Bucky said after a while, like the thought had only just occurred to him, “never figured you for the dress type. Thought you were more… y’know. Practical.”

You turned to look at him.

“Practical?“

“Yeah,” Bucky said, encouraged by your silence. “Like… you don’t care about all that frilly stuff. You’re not like the other girls. You don’t care about all that stuff. Lipstick and ribbons and whatnot. You’re... different.”

“Different,” you repeated, flat.

Your jaw tensed.

Steve gave Bucky a sharp side-eye, already sensing disaster. “Buck—”

“I mean,” Bucky went on, oblivious, “you’re always talkin’ about politics, and unions, and—hell, you cursed out that priest last week for callin’ Roosevelt a communist—so like you don’t need to be pretty. You’re, y’know... rough around the edges. But in a good way.”

Steve groaned under his breath.

You stopped walking. “Rough around the edges?”

Bucky, to his credit, froze. “No, I meant— Not rough like bad rough. Just— You’ve got character.”

Steve tried. “He’s saying you’re—uh—authentic.”

You turned on Bucky, arms folded. “Let me see if I’ve got this. I’m not like other girls, I don’t care how I look, and I’ve got rough edges and character.”

“No, no—dammit,” Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. “That’s not what I meant. I’m saying you don’t have to put on airs. You’re... you.”

Steve muttered under his breath, “You should stop talking.”

“I meant,” Bucky tried again, hands up, “you’re—different in a good way. You’re smart, and tough, and you don’t need a dress to be beautiful.”

You stared at him, arms folded so tight across your chest you could’ve snapped a rib.

“Oh, so I’m not beautiful now, and I get points for not trying?”

“No! That’s not—Jesus, that’s not what I meant—”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “Buck, for the love of God, please.”

“I meant you are beautiful, but not because you try, just… ‘cause you don’t? Like, you’re not… shallow.”

“So girls who like pretty things are shallow now?”

“No! Not shallow. Just, y’know—less…” He trailed off, realizing he had no end to that sentence that wouldn’t get him killed.

You scoffed. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Barnes, ‘cause your brain’s hangin’ on by a shoestring.”

Steve coughed into his hand to cover a laugh.

Bucky was flustered now — flushed, nervous, trying to backpedal in boots made of wet cement. “All I’m saying is, you don’t gotta change a damn thing. You’re already—you’re already you, and I like you.”

“That’s rich,” you said, backing away him. “Coming from the guy who just said I’m not like other girls. Like being other girls is some kind of disease.”

Steve sighed. “He’s an idiot. He means well—”

“She knows I didn’t mean it like that,” Bucky said to Steve, then looked at you. “C’mon, honey—”

“Don’t patronize me,” you snapped.

His face fell. Just a bit. But enough.

You took a step back, jaw tight. “I do care how I look, Barnes. I just don’t have the luxury of pretending I don’t. I like dresses. I like lipstick. I like feelin’ pretty. But you know what I don’t like?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

“Feelin’ like the only reason a guy’s got anything nice to say about me is because I’m not like the girls he thinks are too much. Like I’m some prize for not askin’ for nothin’.”

Bucky looked stunned, like he hadn’t even considered that angle. Like he’d been trying to give you something and dropped it straight into the gutter.

Steve, quietly, said, “She’s right, Buck.”

You held your stare with Bucky a moment longer, then exhaled — sharp, frustrated, done.

“I’m goin’ home.”

“Wait—hey, hold on—”

You were already turning, fists clenched, eyes burning — not with tears, never that — just anger. Embarrassment. The ache of being seen just enough to sting.

“I said I’m goin’ home,” you called over your shoulder, “before I break somethin’ you can’t sweet-talk your way out of.”

You didn’t stop walking.

And this time, neither of them followed.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, Early September 1936

It had been a month.

Thirty long days of radio silence — no knocking on the stoop, no wisecracks outside the shop where you helped your uncle sort through junked radios, nothing.

Steve had tried. Lord, had he tried — showing up at your stoop like a walking apology letter, rambling about how Bucky was a jackass “but not that kind of jackass,” and half a dozen “he means well” speeches. You’d listened, arms crossed, jaw tight, thanked him politely, and shut the door with the kind of finality that said grudge fully intact.

And honestly? You didn’t miss Bucky Barnes. Not really. Not much.

...Maybe a little.

Now it was a Saturday night. Crickets chirped under the hum of streetlamps and jazz drifted faint from a neighbor’s radio. You were stretched out on the front parlor couch in your slip, your hair pinned halfway, half-heartedly reading a borrowed copy of Gone with the Wind that you’d dog-eared so often you were certain the library’d start charging you.

That was until your Ma called out from the kitchen, voice thick with flour and annoyance.

“Get the door! I’m elbow-deep in potatoes!”

You muttered a few curses under your breath — ones your Ma would swat you for if she heard — and pulled on a robe as you headed for the front door.

You pulled it open, half-ready to bark, “What?” — and then froze.

There he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Hair slicked back like always, but a little messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. No smirk. No swagger. Just Bucky, standing there with his hands shoved into his coat pockets like a schoolboy who’d lost his lunch money.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You blinked at him, arms crossing out of instinct.

“What do you want?”

Bucky shifted on his feet. “Can I... can I talk to you?”

You glanced over your shoulder, then stepped halfway onto the stoop, leaving the door cracked open behind you.

“I’ve been practicin’ this,” he admitted, eyes down. “For, uh. For a while. In my head.”

“Didn’t get a chance to use it on the other girls you insulted this month?”

He winced, hands tightening in his pockets. “No. Just you.”

You said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he began, voice low. “For what I said. For how I said it. I was tryin’ to say you don’t need all that stuff to be beautiful, but it came out like you weren’t allowed to want it. And that’s... that’s not fair. You can want lipstick and dresses and still want to break the whole damn system.”

You arched an eyebrow, still guarded. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Steve,” he muttered. “Well, mostly. And maybe a little from this pamphlet I found at the co-op, but it was all in real small print, and the lady at the desk was real intense.”

That made you almost smile. But not quite.

“I know I talk too much,” he continued. “And I don’t always think before I do. But I’ve been thinkin’ a lot. About how I made you feel. And how I hate the thought that you might’ve thought... you weren’t enough. Or too much. Or whatever the hell it was I made it sound like.”

You sighed quietly, leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t wanna be angry all the time, James. It’s like—people expect me to be. Like the minute I open my mouth, it’s just bark, bark, bark. Sometimes I wish I could just... be. Y’know?”

He looked at you like he understood. Not fully. Not yet. But enough.

“I like your bark,” he said, almost sheepish. “But I like when you’re just you, too.”

You looked down, toes tapping the wooden stoop.

There was a pause — soft, honest, unpressured — before he asked, gently, “Did I blow it? Or... have you forgiven me?”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes like you were calculating the weight of the whole damn thing.

“I’m takin’ one of those quiet moments where I weigh your good qualities against your bad ones,” you said slowly, “to decide if you’re actually worth the trouble.”

He straightened, hands dropping from his pockets like he wanted to prepare for a punch.

You tilted your head. Composed. Narrowed your eyes.

“You made it.”

His grin bloomed across his face — that trademark Bucky Barnes smile, the one he used when he won a game of stickball or caught the last seat on the trolley.

It knocked the breath out of you a little, not that you’d admit it.

“I, uh—” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “I got somethin’. For you.”

He stepped back a bit and pulled something from his coat pocket— a neatly folded bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He held it out.

You looked at him, suspicious. “What is it?”

“Just... open it.”

You frowned, lips already pursed, but your fingers tugged at the twine anyway.

You tugged the string loose and unwrapped the paper — and then you saw it.

Your breath caught.

Soft yellow cotton. Sweetheart neckline. White piping at the seams. The exact dress from the department store window. The one you’d stared at. The one you’d fought about.

Your heart tightened like a fist. “Bucky—this ain’t—this wasn’t cheap.”

“I know.”

You pushed it back into his hands. “Take it back.”

“No.”

“Did you steal this?”

“What? No!” he raised his hands. “I took extra shifts at my pop’s shop. I’m still covered in oil under this shirt. Go ahead, check.”

You gave him a flat look.

He softened. “I remembered you starin’ at it. That’s all.”

You looked down at the dress. Ran your fingers over the hem.

“I’m not takin’ this.”

“You are,” he said firmly. “Because if you give it back, I’ll just sneak it in through your window next time you leave it cracked.”

You stared at the dress. Then him. Then the dress again.

Your lips twitched — damn him — and you rolled your eyes, but you didn’t hand it back.

He noticed the smile threatening to appear on your face.

“Stop lookin’ so pleased with yourself,” you muttered.

“You’re smilin’.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Then, slowly, you held it close, not too obvious, just enough to breathe in the new fabric. Your lips twitched. “Fine.”

He smiled wider. “Fine?”

“Don’t make me repeat it.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Alright.”

Bucky hesitated again, rocking back on his heels. “I should probably head home. Don’t wanna push my luck.”

You looked over your shoulder, then back at him. “Ma’s makin’ shepherd’s pie.”

His brows rose. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “You know it's just me and her, and she always makes too much.”

He cleared his throat. “I mean... if you need help eatin’ it...”

“You comin’ in or what, Barnes?”

His grin turned boyish again — a little crooked, a little sheepish, all charm. “You sure ’cause I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“Oh for God’s sake, Barnes, come in before I change my mind.”

He stepped over the threshold so fast you’d think you’d offered him gold.

And just like that, you shut the door behind him.

Five years Later

Brooklyn, September 1941

The diner smelled like strong coffee, burnt toast, and a little bit of grease — same as it always had. The bell over the door jingled as Steve and Bucky stepped in, the wind from the street trailing in behind them. The place was half-full, same old chipped counter, same tired cook hollering from behind the swinging door.

Bucky slid into a booth near the window, knocking his shoulder against Steve’s as he grinned.

“You’re buyin’. I got grease on my pants for you this morning.”

Steve rolled his eyes, shrugging off his coat. “You volunteered to fix the radiator, Buck.”

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t take effort, punk.” He kicked his boots up under the table and leaned back like he owned the place.

“Always with the dramatics,” Steve muttered.

Just then, the bell on the counter gave a sharp ding, and a voice called over it:

“Well, well. If it ain’t Barnes and Rogers. Lookin’ like you crawled outta a sewer and a church basement, respectively.”

You.

You were in your uniform dress — nothing fancy, blue apron tied at your waist, hair pinned back (mostly), a pencil tucked behind your ear. You had a rag slung over one shoulder and that trademark glint in your eyes.

Steve smiled. “Hey. Didn’t know you were workin’ today.”

“Pulled a double,” you said, striding over. “Mrs. Fratelli called out again. Probably ran off with the meat truck driver like she threatened.”

Bucky’s face lit up the second he saw you.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said smoothly. “Miss me since this mornin’, or you too busy dreamin’ about me in your sleep?”

You gave him a flat look. “I dreamt I ran you over with a trolley. Twice.”

Steve snorted into his water.

Bucky grinned wider. “Still think that’s your love language.”

You leaned in, eyes narrowing as you placed two menus on the table, voice low and teasing. “You keep talkin’, Barnes, and I’ll slip hot sauce in your coffee.”

“I like it when you threaten me,” Bucky said, eyes gleaming. “It means you’re thinkin’ about me.”

You rolled your eyes before bending just a little and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth — soft, familiar, like it wasn’t even a question anymore. Just something you did. His hand instinctively brushed your hip as you pulled away.

Steve groaned and dropped his forehead to the table. “Not in front of me. Please.”

You raised your eyebrows. “I kissed his face, Rogers. Relax.”

“Yeah, but then he’s gonna get all dopey and start sayin’ stuff that makes me wanna drown myself in syrup.”

“Too late,” Bucky said dreamily, eyes still on you. “Already feel like I’m swimmin’ in sugar.”

You grabbed the coffee pot from behind you and poured two cups — sliding one in front of each of them with a pleased smile. “And that’s why I’m rationing how much coffee you get today.”

Bucky raised a hand solemnly. “If lovin’ you means sufferin’ through caffeine withdrawals, I’ll take it.”

“Awful,” Steve mumbled. “You’re both awful.”

You winked at Steve. “You love us.”

“I tolerate you.”

“I’ll take it,” Bucky said.

You were already walking off to the next table, hips swaying, head turned just enough to catch Bucky watching you. You rolled your eyes at him, but there was no bite in it.

He looked across at Steve, still grinning like a damn fool.

Steve sipped his coffee. “You’re pathetic.”

“Maybe,” Bucky said, watching you over the rim of his cup, “but I’m in love with a girl who can verbally eviscerate me and still kiss me like I hung the moon.”

“...Pathetic and doomed.”

Bucky just smiled wider. “Can’t wait.”

The diner’s usual low hum was alive with clinks of silverware and the hiss of coffee pots, but Bucky’s eyes were fixed on only one thing — you.

You were making your rounds like you ran the place, pouring coffee into mugs with an easy flick of your wrist, tossing back quips with regulars who knew better than to get fresh.

Your hair was coming undone in the back, a curl slipping down your neck, and your apron had a grease smudge near the hem — and Bucky swore he’d never seen anything prettier.

Steve followed his line of sight and let out a sigh into his coffee. “You ever blink when she’s in the room?”

Bucky didn’t even look away. “Would you, if that was yours?”

Steve snorted. “She ain’t yours. She lets you hang around.”

“She’s got that look in her eyes today,” Bucky said, head tilting as he watched you swipe a rag across a booth. “Like she’s two seconds away from smashing a sugar jar over someone’s head.”

“That’s just her face, Buck.”

Bucky finally turned to Steve, flashing that familiar smirk. “You remember last fall? That night in Fort Greene, after the street fair? I kissed her—right outta nowhere. Thought she was gonna sock me in the jaw—”

“She probably should’ve.”

“—but instead,” Bucky said, practically glowing, “she grabbed me by the shirt and kissed me back.” He smiled wider, tapping the side of his head. “Swear to God, I thought I’d been knocked out cold. Like I won the damn lottery.”

Steve made a face. “I think I liked you better when you were pining and pathetic.”

Bucky raised his cup in mock toast. “I still am. Just, y’know, happily pathetic now.”

Steve shook his head, a quiet laugh slipping from him. “She keeps you humble.”

“She keeps me honest,” Bucky corrected, and turned back to watch you.

That’s when the radio near the register crackled a little louder than before, catching just enough attention to lower a few voices.

“…German U-boats continue patrolling the Atlantic, with reports of more attacks on British convoys. American destroyer Greer engaged by German submarine in recent weeks. Though no formal declaration has been made, the Roosevelt administration urges continued readiness…”

Your hand slowed on the countertop, just slightly. Conversations across the diner dipped low or stopped altogether. The cook leaned halfway through the window to turn the volume up.

“—and while President Roosevelt affirms America’s stance as non-combatant, whispers out of D.C. suggest it’s only a matter of time. Should Congress act, all eligible men eighteen and up may be called to serve.”

The old man in the booth behind Bucky snorted and muttered, “Guess the boys better enjoy their hot dinners while they can.”

Someone else murmured, “Been coming for a while now.”

And just like that, the warmth in the diner cooled by a few degrees.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just talk. Same as last month. Same as the month before.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still on you as you busied yourself clearing a table, like if you just kept moving, it wouldn’t matter what was on the radio.

That look was on your face again, the one Bucky knew well: that mix of anger and weariness you always wore when the world decided to take something instead of fix it.

Finally, he spoke, voice low. “Nah. It’s real now.”

Steve looked at him. “Buck—”

“I know it’s coming,” Bucky said, trying to sound casual but not quite managing it. “Same way my pop did. He knew in ’17. Signed up before they even came knockin’. Said if it’s gonna come for you anyway, you meet it head-on.”

Steve was quiet. He hated this part — the inevitability of it. Watching people he loved step into something they might never come back from.

Bucky looked down at his hands, fingers running over a small tear in the napkin dispenser. “If I go…”

“You don’t know that you’re going—”

“If I do,” Bucky cut in gently, “look after her.”

Steve blinked. “Me?”

“You’re the only one I trust to,” Bucky said. “She’s got no one left but you and me. Since her Ma passed…”

His voice faltered a little. Just enough for Steve to notice, but not enough to make Bucky admit it.

Steve leaned back, gave a dry laugh. “Buck, she’s more likely to look after me. She’d have me patched up, scolded, and fed before breakfast.”

Bucky smiled faintly. “Then look after each other. Promise me.”

Steve held his gaze. “Alright. I promise.”

They both turned to look at you, now laughing softly with a little girl sitting at the counter, sliding her a cherry from behind the counter when the cook wasn’t looking.

Bucky’s voice was soft, but firm. “She acts tough. Mouth like a sailor. But she’s got this big heart, y’know?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

The radio crackled again.

And in the brief stillness that followed, Bucky looked like he was trying to memorize everything — the sounds, the feel of the place, the curl of your lips and the way your smile came slow but full.

Just in case.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, November 1941 – Atlantic Avenue Train Station

The wind was bitter that morning, the kind that bit through layers and settled into your bones. Steam hissed from the train engine as the platform filled with a quiet hum of voices — families clustered close, trying not to show just how tight they were holding on.

You stood a little behind Steve, arms crossed over your chest, Bucky’s coat wrapped tight around you. The sleeves were a little too long — he always said he liked seeing you swallow up in it. But you kept your chin high, eyes fixed on the tracks like if you didn’t look at him, this whole thing wouldn’t be happening.

Bucky stood a few feet away, saying his goodbyes. He bent to hug his ma first — her face pulled tight and red with holding back tears. His father clapped him on the back with a hand that lingered longer than usual. And Rebecca, red-nosed and blinking back tears, hugged her big brother like she couldn’t believe he was actually leaving.

You shifted your weight, watching the family scene in silence. Steve nudged your shoulder lightly, offering the smallest smile. You didn’t return it, just stared ahead.

Then Bucky turned. Said his final goodbye to his folks, kissed Rebecca's temple and whispered something that made her laugh through her tears.

You watched it all, arms crossed, jaw set.

Steve stood beside you, shoulders hunched, breath curling in the air. He wasn’t saying anything, which you were grateful for.

And then Bucky turned.

He made his way over, bag slung over one shoulder, grin already blooming on his face even though his eyes didn’t match it. He stopped in front of Steve first.

“Well, punk,” Bucky said, trying to keep it light.

“Jerk,” Steve answered, just as steady.

They clasped hands — firm and fast, pulling into one of those hugs that ended with a clap on the back that said all the things they weren’t going to say.

“Stay outta trouble,” Bucky said, forcing a smirk.

Steve gave a small laugh. “How can I? You’re takin’ all the trouble with you.”

Bucky chuckled, low and tired. “Somebody’s gotta stir things up overseas.”

Steve looked at him, jaw flexing. “You’ll be alright.”

“’Course I will.” Bucky bumped his fist against Steve’s arm. “You think I’m gonna let you get taller and better looking than me? Not a chance.”

Steve laughed softly, blinking fast. “Write when you can.”

“I will.”

They lingered a beat longer, then Bucky turned to you.

You didn’t move. Didn’t meet his eyes. Just stared out over his shoulder at the trains, the people, the nothing that didn’t matter.

Bucky stepped toward you, slower than usual. You kept your arms wrapped around yourself, shoulders stiff, almost as if you were protecting yourself.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You’re really gonna make me leave without seein’ those eyes?”

You swallowed, jaw clenched as you pulled your coat tighter. “Train’s gonna leave whether I look at you or not.”

He reached out, gloved fingers brushing your elbow gently. “You’re wearin’ my coat.”

“I was cold,” you said flatly, eyes still fixed on something past him. “Not like I did it for sentimental reasons or anything.”

He smiled. “Course not.”

You didn’t answer. Just shrugged tighter into the coat, blinking fast. Bucky stepped in closer, so close the brim of his cap was nearly brushing your brow.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he said quietly. “Just a little while. You’ll barely notice I’m gone.”

“Don’t lie.”

That made him pause.

You finally looked at him. Really looked. And the moment your eyes locked, something in your face cracked — not broken, but bent under the weight of all the things you weren’t saying. The world behind your eyes was loud, and Bucky could hear every scream of it.

“I’m scared,” you said finally, voice small.

“Me too.”

Another silence. Longer this time.

Bucky’s face softened. “You think I ain’t comin’ back, don’t you?”

“I think a lot of boys say that to their girls before they leave,” you said, voice even but tight. “And not all of ’em get to mean it.”

Bucky reached up, thumb brushing the side of your face, glove rough against your cheek. “I’m not all of ’em. I’m me. And I’m coming back to you.”

You looked down at his chest, fingers curling slightly like you wanted to hold on and didn’t know where to start.

You bit your lip. “If… if something happens—”

“Don’t,” he cut in gently. “Don’t say it.”

“I need to say it, James. I need to—”

“No.” His voice was firmer this time, but not harsh. He leaned in, pressing his forehead lightly to yours. “I’m comin’ home. You hear me? I’m gonna come back and you’re gonna yell at me for leavin’ my boots at your door again, and you’re gonna steal all the covers, and we’re gonna forget this whole goodbye thing ever happened.”

You blinked fast, breathing shaky.

“If you need anything,” Bucky said, “go to my ma. She’ll take care of you.”

You raised your brows, voice dry. “Your ma hates me.”

Bucky blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh. “She doesn’t hate you.”

“She glares at me like I taught Rebecca to swear.”

He paused, then grinned crookedly. “She just doesn’t love you as much as I do.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh — not quite whole, but better than nothing.

He kissed you then. No heat, no show — just steady and sure, like he was trying to anchor the both of you in the moment. Your hands clutched at his coat, pulling him closer for one more second, two, three.

When you pulled back, your voice was quiet.

“Come home to me.”

Bucky rested his forehead against yours. “You’re all I wanna come home to.”

The train let out a loud hiss. Passengers began calling their goodbyes, some already starting to board.

Bucky kissed your forehead, quick and sure. Then stepped back — one step, then two — still looking at you like he didn’t want to turn around.

“You stay warm, alright?” he called, voice louder over the bustle. “Eat something other than burgers and coffee once in a while!”

You scowled faintly. “You’re one to talk!”

He gave you that big, crooked grin, the one that always made your stomach flip.

Then he turned and walked toward the train, duffel slung over one shoulder.

And you stood there in his coat, trying not to let your eyes water in the cold, with Steve silently stepping closer beside you — not saying anything. Just being there.

The train pulled out of the station a few minutes later. And Bucky was gone.

Three years later

Brooklyn, October 1944 – Atlantic Avenue Train Station

The train pulled into the station with a shriek of steel and smoke, hissing to a stop under the gray Brooklyn sky. The platform was packed — families pressed up against the rails, hopeful and desperate, faces turned toward the windows of the arriving train like it might spit out salvation.

You were right at the front, your press badge pinned to your coat as you tapped your heel anxiously against the concrete, not even trying to play it cool. You looked good — hair pinned sharp, lipstick bold, a belted coat cinched over your skirt, the hem just brushing your knees. You always made a point to look good when he came back.

You weren’t just you anymore — not the loudmouthed girl with calloused fingers and second-hand dresses. You were a name in print now. Famous columnist at The Brooklyn Standard, known for stirring the pot and refusing to let anyone — the government, the public, or the boys back home — forget the hypocrisy of this so-called land of the free.

You had a national voice now, but today, that didn’t matter. Today, you were just the girl waiting on her boys to come home.

And then you saw him.

Steve stepped down first, tall and broad and shining like something out of a poster — because, well, he was now. The star-spangled uniform clung to him like it belonged there, a coat trying and failing to hide it, but that open smile on his face? That was all Steve. Your Steve. Brooklyn Steve. The one who carried extra change for the subway because he was sure one day you’d forget.

You didn’t even have time to shout before Bucky followed behind him — slightly thinner than you remembered, bruised under the eyes, but real. Whole. Alive. Still him.

And when he saw you—

“Doll—!”

You didn’t wait. You shoved past a vendor and a couple of sailors, arms already out. You practically launched yourself at him.

Bucky caught you mid-stride, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you clean off the ground. Your legs lifted, and you buried your face in the crook of his neck, arms tight around him like you were afraid he might vanish if you let go. His duffle bag dropped to the ground with a heavy thump as he spun you once, breathless and warm.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your temple. “God, I missed you, baby.”

He held you like he was afraid you weren’t real. Like if he let go too fast, you’d vanish into the smoke and the station noise and all the things he saw out there in the dark.

“I’m not crying,” you muttered against his neck.

You pulled back just enough to kiss his face — everywhere. Cheek, brow, nose, temple. He laughed, a sound somewhere between hysterical and joyful, as you brushed your fingers over the short edge of his hair.

“I’m kissing you so you know it’s me,” you whispered. “So next time you disappear, I’ve got your damn face memorized.”

He grinned, breathless. “Don’t plan on disappearing again.”

You pressed your forehead to his for one more second before turning to Steve, who stood nearby with a patient smile.

“Well, well,” you said, arching a brow and resting your hands on your hips. “Would you look at that. Steve Rogers. Has anyone seen him? Small fella, polite, sketchbook always tucked under his arm? You’re wearin’ his face, stranger.”

Steve laughed — loud and whole and rich. “That’s me, alright. Just with a bit more… calcium.”

Bucky snorted behind you, still clinging to your waist like he hadn’t seen you in a decade. “You mean steroids.”

“Super-serum,” Steve corrected.

“Fancy steroids.”

You grinned, stepping forward to pull Steve into a hug, strong and sure. He hugged you back with those new arms of his, still gentle like he might break you.

You whispered to him as you held tight: “Thank you for bringing him home to me.”

His voice was quiet. “Would’ve brought him back sooner if I could.”

You pulled back and cupped his cheek. “You brought each other back. That’s more than most people get.”

Just then, a kid across the station shouted, “Hey! It’s Captain America!”

Steve flinched slightly, and you rolled your eyes. “Great. They spotted you.”

“You’ve been in the papers too, y’know,” Steve said, tugging his bag higher. “Every time I see your name, someone’s mad about it.”

“Means I’m doing it right.”

Bucky watched you, chin tilted slightly, pride glinting behind tired eyes. “Told the fellas you were raising hell while we were gone.”

“I did more than raise it. I printed it in bold.”

He slid his hand into yours, fingers tight between yours like he hadn’t remembered what it felt like until now.

“We got you for a few days?” you asked, voice softer now.

“Four,” he answered. “Four days, and then they send us back to God knows where.”

You nodded. “Then I’ll make ‘em count.”

He glanced at you, and a little smile flickered on his face.

“You already are.”

────────────────────────

Your Apartment — 2:47 a.m.

The radiator hissed in the corner, clanking loud enough every so often to make you flinch. The warmth it gave off didn’t quite reach the corners of the old apartment. You were used to that — this was the place you’d grown up, after all. The chipped paint, the creaky floors, the faded wallpaper your ma had put up in '28.

Bucky had crashed in your bed as soon as you'd gotten home. You'd followed later, after checking in on Steve — who was passed out in your old room, still fully dressed. Poor guy had barely gotten the boots off before slumping on your old too small twin bed.

Now it was late, maybe two, maybe three in the morning. Outside, the city hummed quiet and cold. Inside, the room was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the streetlamp filtering through the thin curtains. You'd drifted in and out of sleep — curled against Bucky’s side, your head on his shoulder — until the sudden jolt of his body broke the stillness.

He gasped sharp, sucking in air like he’d been drowning, his muscles tensed tight beneath you. You sat up instinctively.

“Bucky?” you whispered, brushing your hand over his chest.

His eyes were wide and wild, not quite seeing. Sweat clung to his brow, and his breath came hard and fast. You gently cupped his face and leaned closer.

“Hey. Baby, it’s me. It’s just me.” You reached up to stroke his hair, fingers tangling through the soft brown strands. “You’re not there. You’re here. You’re home.”

He blinked, chest still heaving as he tried to slow his breathing. Your other hand rubbed soothing circles against his sternum.

“There you go,” you murmured, voice barely a breath. “Breathe with me, okay? You’re safe. You’re with me.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Just breathing. Then he shifted, head pressing into the crook of your neck, his arm curling tight around your middle as if he was trying to burrow into you, as if your body was the only thing tethering him to this world.

The room was quiet save for the sputter of the radiator and the soft rhythm of your fingers in his hair. You didn’t ask too soon. You knew better than to push.

After a long while, his voice emerged — low, ragged.

“They kept us underground,” he murmured finally, voice rough. “No light. Cold. No names. Just numbers. They… they strapped us down, filled us with something. And when the pain started, it didn’t stop. I thought my head was gonna split open. I couldn’t scream after a while. My throat just gave out.”

You didn’t move, just kept your fingers stroking slow, steady lines along his scalp, the other hand curling along the back of his neck.

“I thought…” he swallowed. “I really thought that was it. That I was gonna die in some freezing hellhole in the Alps with no name and no grave.”

“Hey,” you whispered, voice cracking. “But you didn’t. You came back to me.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then, “Sometimes I feel like I left pieces of myself behind. Like I didn’t all make it back.”

Your chest ached at that. You tightened your hold around him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“You’re all here,” you whispered. “And the rest… the rest we’ll find together, yeah?”

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t cry. You didn’t let yourself. Not while he needed you steady.

Silence again. But the kind that wasn’t heavy. Just close. Breathing. Rebuilding.

His head rested over your heart, and you felt him calm as he focused on the steady beat beneath your ribs. Then—

“Marry me,” he said suddenly, muffled against your skin.

You blinked, startled. “What?”

He lifted his head, eyes locked with yours now — clear, steady, fierce in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Let’s get married,” he said again. “Tomorrow. Or today. Whenever you want. Just—let’s do it.”

You sat up a little more, still blinking at him, mind spinning. “James—”

“I don’t want to wait,” he cut in, softer this time. “I’ve been through hell and back, and every time I thought I wasn’t gonna make it, all I wanted was to get to you. Just to be here again. To hear your voice and feel your hands and—”

He grabbed your hand then, pressed it to his chest like he needed you to feel how real he was. “We’ve been through too much. We’re already each other’s, right? So let’s make it real.”

You stared at him — this man you’d grown up with, fought with, fell for. His eyes never left yours.

“I got it all in my head,” he added, quick like he was afraid you’d talk him out of it. “We’ll go down to the courthouse, get the papers. You can wear that yellow dress I got you. I’ll wear that suit Ma made me save for ‘something good.’ Steve and my family can be our witnesses. We’ll get egg creams after and laugh about how fast it all was.”

“You sound like you’ve been planning this,” you muttered, heart thudding.

“I have,” Bucky said, without missing a beat. “Since the day you kissed me instead of sockin’ me in the jaw.”

You looked at him — really looked at him — hair a mess, face a little pale under the moonlight slipping in through the window. He looked tired and strong and so, so sure.

You swallowed. “You know I always wanted more than marriage and housewives and babies, right?”

“I know,” he said gently. “That’s not what I’m askin’ for. I want you, just how you are. Loud and brash and brilliant. I just want to be yours — proper.”

You met his gaze, fierce and full of something too big to name. “I love you. So… yeah. Let’s get married, Bucky.”

Bucky smiled. That slow, boyish, heartstopping smile you hadn’t seen since before the war.

Then you leaned forward, kissed him slow, and pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “You better not change your mind in the morning.”

“Not a chance, doll.”

──────────────────────────────

The Next Evening

The second that Bucky opened the door, he bent low and scooped you clean off the stoop with a dramatic flair that made you yelp and burst into laughter.

“James Buchanan Barnes!” you gasped, arms flailing before looping around his neck. “What the hell are you doin’?”

“I’m carrying my wife across the threshold,” he grinned, eyes bright with mischief as he marched toward the living room like it was a palace. “That’s what a gentleman does, ain’t it?”

You tossed your head back laughing. “This dump is the same place I've been sleeping for years, James—”

“Not the point, sweetheart,” he said, adjusting his grip under your thighs “I’m startin’ traditions here. And one day, when I come home for good, I’m gonna carry you over the threshold of a real house. Big porch. Little garden. No leaky faucets.”

“You’re outta your mind,” you muttered fondly, brushing his hair back from his forehead as he leaned in and kissed you — quick, then long, then quick again.

Your feet finally hit the ground again and your fingers immediately went to the neckline of your dress — the same pale yellow one he’d bought you all those years ago. The satin straps slipped off your shoulders as you took a breath and said, “Can’t believe this thing still fits.”

Bucky tilted his head like a puppy, eyes scanning your body like he hadn’t already memorized every inch of you.

“Why wouldn’t it fit?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you turned toward the mirror. “Bucky, you got me this dress when we were teenagers. I was still livin’ on Ma’s grocery scraps and bad coffee.”

He stepped up behind you, hands curling around your waist as he dipped his head into the crook of your neck. “You look the same to me,” he murmured against your skin. “Just more beautiful.”

You turned toward him at that — letting your forehead rest against his chest. “You always been such a smooth-talker.”

“No,” he whispered, drawing his fingers slowly down your back, “I just speak the truth when it comes to you.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time. His hands slid lower, anchoring you against him. Your fingers reached for the buttons on his shirt with practiced ease.

“You know,” he murmured between kisses, “if you keep smilin’ like that, I’m not gonna make it to the bed.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You got somethin’ against the couch?”

“No,” he laughed, scooping you up again — this time with a little less ceremony — “I just figured the bed deserves the honor tonight.”

You squealed and let your head fall back as he carried you down the short hallway, your yellow dress now barely hanging on. Once in your bedroom, he laid you down gently, reverently, like he was handling something holy.

“You sure you don’t wanna wait till tonight?” you teased as he hovered above you, eyes dark with love and want. “Make it real proper?”

Bucky’s laugh was low and quiet, almost a hum. He leaned down, brushing his lips against your jaw, then your throat. “We’re married. That is proper.”

Your breath hitched as he kissed the hollow of your collarbone.

“You know I love you, right?” he said, suddenly serious — eyes locking with yours. “I’ve loved you since you threatened to throw a shoe at my head for callin’ you mouthy in ‘31.”

You smiled softly and cupped his cheek. “You still talk too much, Barnes.”

“Then maybe I’ll shut up and show you instead.”

And he did.

He kissed you like a promise. He kissed you like you’d never have to say goodbye again.

His kiss deepened slowly, and when his hand slid behind your neck to cradle you closer, you let yourself fall into it. Into him. Into the warmth and security and the slow realization that this was it. You were married. This was your forever.

Bucky kissed like he meant to remember every second.

He tugged gently at the fabric of your dress, fingertips moving with reverence, not rushing, not demanding—just feeling. When you shifted beneath him, he helped you sit up, fingers fumbling a little with the tiny row of buttons down your back.

“Too many of these damn things,” he muttered.

You laughed softly, leaning back into him. “You’ve been wanting to get me out of this dress since the ceremony, admit it.”

His breath ghosted hot against your shoulder as he kissed your skin between each word. “Since before that. Since I saw you this morning and realized I was gonna be lucky enough to call you my wife.”

The dress slipped down your arms, the delicate fabric pooling at your waist, revealing the soft cream of your slip underneath.

Bucky stilled for a second, eyes roaming over you like you were some rare treasure unearthed in candlelight.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, hoarse. “God—look at you.”

You reached up and tugged at his loosened tie, pulling him down into another kiss. “Then look closer, Barnes.”

That broke something in him.

He pressed you back down into the bed, hands everywhere now—still gentle, but needier. His mouth trailed kisses across your collarbone, then lower, tracing the edge of your slip with aching slowness.

“Can I?” he asked, lips brushing the swell of your breast.

You nodded.

He peeled the slip down carefully, like undressing a secret. When your breasts spilled free, he groaned, breath catching like it hurt. His lips closed over your nipple, tongue flicking gently before he began to suck, slow and deep.

You gasped, arching into him.

His hand moved down, smoothing over your stomach, then lower, over the delicate lace of your underwear. He kissed lower still, murmuring against your skin.

“You’re trembling.”

“I’ve wanted this,” you whispered, “for so long.”

“I know,” he said, voice thick. “Me too.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, then dragged your underwear down, baring you completely. You heard the sharp inhale he took as he looked at you—eyes blown wide, filled with awe.

Then he was over you again, chest pressing to yours, and you were tugging at the waistband of his slacks, unfastening the button, the zipper, until he was bare too—hard and flushed and shaking slightly in your hand.

“You sure?” he asked, voice barely steady.

“I married you,” you whispered, guiding him to you. “Of course I’m sure.”

And when he slid into you—slow, deep, stretching you in the most perfect, heart-wrenching way—it was everything. You both gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your legs wrapping around his waist.

He moved slow at first, reverent, lips brushing over yours with every thrust.

“Love you,” he whispered. “So much. Always.”

You held his face as he made love to you, feeling him fill you again and again until your breath came in soft cries and your heart was a song in your chest. The pace built gradually—never rushed, just more. Deeper. Closer.

When you finally came, it was with his name on your lips and his body pressed fully into yours. He followed seconds later, buried deep, gasping your name against your skin like a prayer.

After, you held each other.

Naked. Married. Home.

And when Bucky whispered another love you against your neck, you kissed his temple and whispered back:

“We’ve got forever now.”

────────────────────────

Six Months Later

Austria – Hydra Territory, March 1945 | Before the Assault on Zola’s Train

The snow howled outside the makeshift command tent like a restless animal. A biting wind cut through even the thickest of coats, but inside, by the dull light of a single hanging lantern, Bucky sat hunched over a folded piece of paper — his hands trembling just a little.

He had read it once.

Then twice.

Now a third time.

Each word hit harder than the last, scrawled in your handwriting — slightly rushed, ink smudged near the edge where you’d probably leaned your elbow like you always did.

Steve stepped in, brushing snow off his jacket, eyes narrowing immediately at the look on Bucky’s face.

“Hey,” Steve said gently, careful. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just kept staring at the paper like it held the entire universe.

Steve leaned forward, concern building. “Buck?”

Bucky's gaze stayed fixed on the paper, his thumb rubbing over the last line like it might vanish if he stopped touching it. Then — slowly — he looked up.

And Steve’s heart dropped. Because Bucky Barnes, mouthy ladies’ man, unshakable Sergeant Barnes, had tears in his eyes.

“She’s pregnant,” Bucky whispered, his voice barely there. He blinked, breath catching.

There was a beat of silence — and then Steve's mouth opened in a stunned, breathless laugh.

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve breathed, standing as the words hit him. “You’re gonna be a dad?”

Bucky shook his head, jaw tightening, smile breaking free like light through clouds. “Six months along. She found out just after I left. She didn’t wanna tell me sooner — didn’t wanna distract me.”

Steve stepped forward, gripping Bucky’s shoulder. “Buck…”

Bucky let out a short, shaky laugh and folded the letter up carefully, tucking it back into the inside pocket of his coat, close to his heart. “A kid, Steve. I’m gonna have a baby. With her.”

“She’ll be a hell of a mother,” Steve said softly.

Bucky pulled him into a hug before he even realized what he was doing. The kind of hug men didn’t give each other unless it was earned through blood, war, and years of brotherhood. Steve hugged him back just as tight.

“You gotta come home for this,” Steve said against Bucky’s shoulder. “You hear me?”

“I will,” Bucky said fiercely, pulling back, that old steel in his voice. “We finish this mission. We stop Zola. Then I go home. I’m not missing that. I won’t.”

Steve gave him a firm nod. “One last job.”

“One last,” Bucky echoed, eyes lifting to the mountains beyond the tent wall. “Then I get to hold her. Both of ‘em.”

The snow kept falling. The train would be here soon.

But for a moment, there was warmth in that tent — a pulse of hope beating hard and stubborn against the cold world outside.

And in Bucky’s chest, beneath layers of wool and metal and grief, your letter sat close to his heart — a promise of what was waiting if he could just survive the night.

────────────────────────

One Month Later

Brooklyn, April 1945

Sunlight slanted through the lace curtains, warm and golden on the worn floorboards. Your fingers moved fast across the keys, glasses perched low on your nose, your rounded stomach nudging the edge of the desk.

You were working on an article about women in shipyards. Words came easier when you didn’t think about how long it’d been since the last letter.

You tried not to count the days anymore.

Then — a knock.

Your hands paused over the keys. You glanced at the clock on the wall. Just past four.

With a soft grunt, you pushed yourself up, one hand bracing the small of your back. You crossed the room slowly, brushing crumbs from your sweater, muttering, “If that’s Mrs. Klemanski again askin’ for sugar—”

You opened the door.

And saw Steve.

Your heart jumped up into your throat before you could stop it.

His uniform looked sharper than ever, chest full of medals, that familiar bashful way he stood with his cap held between both hands. Your smile came without permission.

“Steve,” you said, relief threading through your voice. “You’re—wait—where’s Bucky?”

Then your eyes dropped. You saw what he was holding — a folded jacket, a bundle of letters tied in twine, something metal glinting dully between his fingers.

Your smile vanished.

“No,” you whispered, instantly shaking your head. “No—”

Steve’s face cracked. Like something in him broke the second you said it. He didn’t speak. Just stepped forward with trembling hands, like he could soften the blow if he was gentle enough.

You backed away, hand flying to your mouth.

“No, no, no—don’t. Don’t say it.”

“Sweetheart—” he started softly.

“Don’t call me that, Steve—where is he?” Your voice shook, louder now. “Where is he?”

Steve’s eyes welled up. “The train—we were ambushing Hydra. Something went wrong, Buck—he—he fell.”

Your knees buckled a little. You reached for the edge of the wall to steady yourself.

“I don’t understand,” you croaked. “He promised—he said he’d come back. He promised me, Steve.”

“I know,” Steve said, stepping inside, setting Bucky’s things down on the table like they were sacred. “I know. He meant it.”

“No, no—he wouldn’t leave me.” Your voice cracked, nearly childish in disbelief. “He—he was coming home, we were—he was gonna hold the baby, we hadn’t even picked names—”

Steve crossed the space in two strides and caught you just as your legs gave out. He held you tightly against him, like he was trying to keep you from falling apart with just his arms.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, over and over again, into your hair. “I’m so sorry. I tried—I tried to get to him. He was—he was just gone.”

You were shaking. Hands fisting into Steve’s shirt, crying so hard your whole body trembled.

“He was supposed to come home,” you rasped, face buried in his chest. “He promised me, Steve. He swore it. He said—he said after this—he’d come back.”

“I know. I know.” His voice cracked and you felt his tears fall against your hair.

You cried like the world had ended. And for you, it had.

You didn’t even notice the letters scattered across the table, or the chain with the dog tags hanging over the edge. Not yet.

You just held on to Steve like he was the last piece of Bucky left in the world.

And in that moment, maybe he was.

One Year Later

Brooklyn, April 1946, 6:04 PM.

You juggled your bag, house keys, and the folded newspaper under one arm as you pushed open the door to your apartment. It clicked shut behind you with a satisfying clunk — thicker walls, newer locks, good insulation. Worth every penny.

You hadn’t gotten two steps in when the smell hit you.

Garlic, tomatoes, something rich and savory wafting in the air. Your brows furrowed.

You didn’t cook. Not when you’d been running around chasing sources all day.

The quiet babble of a baby's voice reached your ears before you could say anything.

You moved toward the kitchen, already shrugging off your coat.

“Jamie?” you called, more out of instinct and confusion than alarm.

“Hey,” a familiar voice called from the kitchen.

There he was—Steve, of all people—standing at your tiny stove like he owned it, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something in a pot. His cheeks flushed a little as he turned toward you, sheepish.

“I, uh… hope it’s alright. Didn’t mean to intrude,” he said with that boyish, bashful charm.

You leaned your hip against the doorframe, staring. “You're not intruding. Just surprising. Last I heard you were in Marseille.”

“Got back yesterday,” he replied, gently bumping Jamie’s foot with his hand as your son giggled, “And I figured I’d surprise you. Hope you don’t mind.”

You blinked, then shook your head with a soft huff of laughter. “Mind? I’m just surprised Mrs. B let you walk away with Jamie. She told me she was keepin’ him overnight so I could get some rest.“

Steve chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said I could take him. Only because I promised to bring him back with no less than ten fingers and ten toes.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

He grinned. “I counted twice. All still there.”

“I'm just glad Mrs B loves Jamie more than she dislikes me,” you teased lightly, stepping forward.

Steve snorted as he wiped his hands on a towel. “I think she’s finally warming up to you.”

“Only took her a decade and a half,” you said dryly.

Your eyes shifted toward the high chair near the small table.

There he was—your Jamie. James Steven Barnes. Nine months old, dark hair a soft mess on his head, cheeks full and pink, legs kicking in slow, distracted rhythm as he banged a wooden spoon against the tray. He lit up the moment he saw you.

“Hey, baby,” you cooed, crossing the room quickly. You scooped him into your arms with ease, planting soft kisses across his face as he squealed in delight. “Mama missed you somethin’ awful.”

He babbled and reached for your face, hands warm and sticky.

Steve leaned over the counter, watching the two of you with something unspoken in his eyes. Something soft and heavy.

“Thanks,” you murmured without looking up, brushing Jamie’s hair back. “For watchin’ him.”

“Always,” he said quietly.

You glanced at him, then down at the little boy now tucked against your chest. You bounced him gently, kissing the crown of his head.

He looked so much like Bucky.

Jamie’s eyes had his smile in them. That crooked brightness. That same stubborn little crease between his brows when he concentrated. Every day he got older, he looked more like him. Sometimes it ached. Sometimes it made you laugh.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Steve said, breaking the silence. “Nothing fancy. Chicken and potatoes. I followed a recipe from one of those little books Mrs. Barnes keeps in her kitchen. The ones with the oil stains and notes in the margins.”

Your eyes narrowed playfully. “You can read her notes?”

“She writes in cursive. I’m not illiterate.”

You snorted. “I didn’t say it, you said it.”

Jamie giggled, delighted by your laugh.

The apartment had gone soft with golden lamplight. The radio murmured low jazz in the background, and your living room-kitchen hybrid felt, for once, more like home than like memory.

Jamie sat now wriggling in your lap, pudgy fingers smacking the edge of the table as he made soft, happy grunts. You held a spoon in one hand, alternating between your own plate and coaxing tiny, mashed-up bites of potato toward your son’s mouth.

Steve, across from you, ate slower now. The nervous energy that had filled him while cooking seemed to have drained, leaving him thoughtful as he glanced between you and Jamie.

You scraped the spoon along the edge of Jamie’s dish, gently cooing at him, “You’re makin’ more mess than you’re eatin’, baby.”

Jamie shrieked with laughter and kicked his legs against your thigh. You rolled your eyes, smiling, brushing his hair back.

Steve watched, silently fond.

After a moment, you leaned back slightly, sighing. “Steve…”

He looked up.

You hesitated, then spoke, voice gentler than your usual sharpness. “You gotta stop putting your life on pause for us.”

Steve’s brows furrowed. “What’re you talking about?”

“I’m serious,” you said. “You’re here all the time, runnin’ yourself ragged makin’ sure we’re okay. You don’t owe us that.”

“I don’t see it like that,” he said.

“Well, maybe you should,” you said, a bit sharper now. “For God’s sake, Steve… there’s a woman across the damn ocean who’s in love with you. Who you love.”

Steve was quiet, picking at his food. “I do love her,” he admitted softly, after a beat. “I think about her every day.”

You nodded slowly, adjusting Jamie in your lap as he reached for your plate.

“But,” Steve added, eyes lifting to meet yours, steady and sure, “I love you. And I love Jamie. It’s not one or the other. It just… is. And Peggy understands that.”

You looked down at Jamie, brushing your thumb across his cheek as he leaned into you, content. You kissed his temple. “You were here when I needed someone. I’ll never forget that.”

“I wasn’t just here because you needed someone,” Steve said. “I wanted to be here.”

You swallowed thickly.

He cleared his throat, his demeanor shifting. More serious now. “I, uh… I need to tell you something.”

You looked at him. “What is it?”

“I’m going away for a while. Longer this time.”

You froze. “What do you mean?”

“They think Hydra’s back,” he said quietly. “There’s a lead—small, but real. I’ve gotta follow it. Could take a few months. Maybe more.”

Your fingers curled instinctively around Jamie’s waist, holding him tighter.

You were quiet for a long moment. The kind of quiet that stretches over aching bones.

Then you asked, voice tight, “Are you comin’ back?”

He nodded. “I’ll always come back.”

You stared at him, gaze sharp, testing him for truth. “You can’t promise that.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “No. But I’ll try.”

You looked away, blinking hard. “Just… don’t die, Stevie. I can’t lose another man I love.”

You sighed before kissing the top of Jamie’s head and gently passed him across the table. “Take him while I clean up.”

Steve took him easily, and Jamie reached for his face like he always did.

You stood at the sink, your back to both of them, hands trembling as you rinsed plates that suddenly felt too heavy.

Behind you, Jamie giggled.

And Steve said softly, “You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone.”

────────────────────────

Siberia – June 1946

It was colder than Steve had ever felt. The kind of cold that went through bones and memories, through war medals and stitched-up wounds. Snow drifted down in ghost-silent flurries outside the base, the world unnervingly still.

One of the lasts Hydra holdouts. Tucked into a mountain, almost forgotten.

The air inside was sharp with antiseptic and old blood. The hallways were long and shadowed, cracked concrete walls humming under the weight of hidden horrors. The Howling Commandos moved ahead in silence, boots heavy on the ground. Dum Dum took point. Gabe and Morita swept the side halls. But Steve… something had pulled him down this one, this narrow corridor lined with rusted steel doors and buzzing fluorescent lights.

He felt it before he saw it. Something like instinct. Like memory rising from his gut.

Then he saw him.

Encased in thick glass. Wires attached to skin. A cryogenic pod humming low and blue, the frost crawling up from the base, covering the sides in veils of condensation.

Steve froze.

He didn't breathe.

“God…” His voice was barely more than air.

Bucky.

Hair longer, tangled. Face gaunt. But it was him.

Still him.

And his arm…

Steve’s breath shuddered. The left arm was gone. Replaced with cold, glinting steel. Matte black plating layered in Hydra’s signature design, trailing from shoulder to fingertips. Wires snaked from the seams into the pod.

Steve's mouth opened, but no sound came out. It felt like grief all over again—but this time crueler. Because this time, Bucky was here. And Hydra had done this to him. The scars on his shoulder where steel met flesh were jagged and red, raw as if they'd been carved with no thought for healing. His ribs showed under his skin. His hair was matted. There were bruises on his face, half-healed and sunken.

He looked like a ghost.

“Cap?” Dum Dum’s voice came, low and hesitant behind him. “What do we do?”

Steve swallowed hard, eyes locked on Bucky's face. “We don’t touch it. We don’t dare open it. We don’t know what it’s keeping him alive from.”

────────────────────────

Somewhere in Southern England – Allied Base Hospital, One Week Later

It took seven days to move the chamber.

Howard Stark and his team worked around the clock. Peggy Carter coordinated intelligence and security. The best British and American minds worked shoulder-to-shoulder in the converted medical wing of the base. Stark called in every favor he had left. The facility practically vibrated with tension.

And then the pod was opened.

Slowly. Carefully. Oxygen, sedatives, heart monitors. He was intubated, stabilized, removed from cryo. They monitored every breath. Every neural spike.

And then…

Bucky screamed.

Woke like a beast torn from hell.

Hands strapped down immediately. His body thrashed, nearly flipping the bed. He screamed again—no words, just noise. Animal, broken, panicked. One arm flailed wildly—metal catching the edge of a tray, sending it clattering to the floor. A doctor tried to restrain him and got nearly thrown across the room.

Steve rushed in, yelling over the chaos. “Bucky! It’s me—it’s Steve! You’re safe, pal, it’s me!”

But Bucky didn’t hear him.

Didn’t see him.

His eyes—those warm, familiar blue eyes—were wide and glassy. Vacant and terror-stricken. He screamed again and then curled into himself, sobs ripping from his chest. A medic got a sedative in him. Slowly, the tremors faded. His breathing slowed.

Steve stood frozen.

Peggy stepped beside him, placing a hand on his arm. “He doesn’t recognize you.”

Steve didn’t respond. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “They broke him,” he whispered. “They really broke him.”

────────────────────────

Later That Night

The room was dim now. Quiet. Just the steady beep of a monitor and the gentle hiss of the IV.

Steve sat at Bucky’s bedside. His best friend lay still, unconscious again. Shackled loosely—just in case. The metal arm still gleamed under the muted lights. Stark had examined it with thinly veiled horror. “Cut nerves, fused bone, direct-to-brain wiring,” he’d muttered. “Barbaric. Brilliant. Inhuman.”

Bucky’s skin was a mess of faded bruises and whip-thin scars. The tips of electrodes had left circular burns along his chest and temples.

Steve brushed a strand of hair back from Bucky’s forehead, gently. “I should’ve found you sooner.”

He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Bucky or himself.

Behind him, Peggy lingered in the doorway. Watching quietly. “You never stopped believing he was out there.”

Steve didn’t turn around. “I don't what I believed. I just thought that he'd somehow come back.”

Peggy stepped into the room, her voice gentle. “And now he has. It’s just going to take time.”

Steve finally looked up at her, eyes tired. “How do I tell her? How do I go back to Brooklyn, look her in the eye, and say… he’s alive, but not really?”

Peggy didn’t have an answer.

────────────────────────

Southern England – Allied Base Hospital, September, 1946

It had been five months since Steve had last seen you. And it tore at him every time he thought about it. You’d written him faithfully, letters worn with fingerprints and smudged ink by the time he finished rereading them—every one a small, steady light.

You wrote about how Jamie had taken his first steps at the park, how he reached for a pigeon and toppled into the grass with a giggle so loud people turned to look. How his first word, predictably, had been “mama.” How you were trying to wean him off the bottle and that it wasn’t going well.

You’d written with joy—exhaustion sometimes—but joy, nonetheless. You never asked much in return. You never demanded updates. You let Steve share what he could when he could. And he had written back. But he hadn’t told you about Bucky.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he didn’t know how.

What was he supposed to say? “Bucky’s alive, but he doesn’t know he has a son. He wakes up screaming and cries for you like a man who doesn’t know time has moved on.”

You deserved rest. Not more weight.

So Steve kept it in. And he sat with Bucky. Every day.

────────────────────────

Hospital Recovery Wing.

It had been three months since they’d opened the pod.

Bucky was healing—physically, at least. The bruises were fading, and the medical team had finally managed to remove the rusted remnants of Hydra’s control nodes from his scalp. Howard Stark had designed a brace to help ease strain on the shoulder where flesh met steel. There were less screams at night now. Sometimes, there were even full nights of sleep.

But the mind—that was still a maze.

Steve watched from the hallway as Bucky sat near the window, a blanket over his shoulders, hair tucked back behind his ears. He was paler than usual. Leaner. His hands—his real one and the metal one—trembled sometimes when he tried to hold a cup of tea.

But his eyes had life again.

And pain.

And hope.

Steve stepped in. Bucky looked up, and for a second, Steve saw the old grin threatening the corner of his mouth.

“You got news?” Bucky asked, voice still rasped and lower than it used to be, like his throat hadn’t fully recovered from the screaming.

Steve nodded, sitting across from him. “Another lead on Hydra. A nest in the Alps. Small.”

Bucky didn’t care about that. He never did.

His fingers gripped the edge of the blanket. “Steve… just take me home.”

Steve’s heart cracked—again. “You’re not strong enough yet, Buck. You know that.”

Bucky’s eyes were bloodshot, a tremor in his jaw. “I don’t care. I can’t do this anymore, Stevie. I need her. Please—please—just let me see her. She’ll fix me. She always does.”

Steve looked down at his hands, swallowing the knot in his throat.

“She’s pregnant,” Bucky said suddenly. Desperate. “She told me. In the last letter. She’s pregnant and I’m here doing nothing. What if something happens? What if she needs me?”

Steve looked up slowly. He hadn’t told him. Bucky didn’t know.

“No,” Steve said softly. “Buck… she’s not pregnant.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped up in alarm.

Steve stood, pacing. “She was. A year and a half ago. You remember… pieces of it, I know. But it’s been almost two years since the train.”

Bucky looked lost. “But… the dreams. I keep reading her say she’s pregnant.”

“You remember what you needed to. What your heart clung to.”

Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What… what happened?”

Steve pulled a folded photo from his breast pocket. It was worn. The corners curled from too much handling. He handed it to Bucky gently.

It was you.

Holding Jamie.

In your lap, both of you bundled in coats on a bench, smiling at the camera. The baby’s grin was unmistakably Bucky’s.

“That’s your son, Buck,” Steve said quietly. “James Steven Barnes. He’s… he’s beautiful. He just turned one in July.”

Bucky stared at the photo for what felt like forever. His hand trembled as he held it. His lip quivered.

“I missed it.” His voice cracked. “I missed his first breath. First cry. First birthday. His first… everything.”

Steve crouched in front of him. “You survived. That’s what matters now. You get to be there now. And you will. He’s got your hair, you know. Wild as anything. And your laugh. Same crooked smile too, only shows when he’s about to get into trouble.”

Bucky gave a broken, watery laugh. “God. Steve. I gotta see ‘em.”

“I know.”

“I can’t wait ‘til I’m better. I need to see her, Stevie. Please. I need her. She keeps me here—just thinking about her. I hear her voice sometimes, I see her, clear as day. I need—” His voice broke again. “I need to know she’s real. That she’s safe. That she didn’t forget me.”

Steve rested a hand gently on Bucky’s shoulder, firm and steady. “She never forgot you, Buck. Not for a second.”

Bucky looked down, eyes wet. “Do you think she’ll still want me?”

Steve nodded slowly. “She’s never stopped. And Jamie—he’s going to know his father. Just… let’s get you strong enough to hold him first.”

Bucky clutched the photo to his chest and closed his eyes, whispering your name like a prayer.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, October 1946 – Late Afternoon

The apartment was warm and golden with late afternoon light, soft jazz floating low from the radio, and the scent of clean laundry still faint in the air.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, your skirt fanned around your knees, Jamie sprawled across your lap in all his squirmy, wiggly glory. His tiny hands tugged at your necklace with single-minded glee.

“Alright, Jamie bear, time to close those eyes,” you said gently, as Jamie giggled, flopping onto his side in a dramatic act of defiance. “I mean it, Mr. James Steven Barnes—fifteen minutes, that’s all I ask.”

He shrieked in laughter.

“Mama,” he giggled, pointing at you like he’d won something. “Mamaaaaa.”

“Oh, you think I’m funny now?” You leaned in, kissing his cheek noisily. “I’ll remember that when you’re sixteen and I’m threatening to walk you to school in curlers.”

Jamie laughed again, grabbing for your nose this time.

You gave him a side-eye. “Baby, I’m gonna be honest—you’re dangerously close to getting tickled into submission.”

He squealed, thrashing happily as you wiggled your fingers near his sides.

“You little tyrant,” you murmured affectionately, brushing his dark hair back from his forehead. “How can something so small hold me hostage with just a smile? I used to be terrifying, you know. Ask anyone. Your mother used to demand respect.”

He blinked up at you like you were the sun, gurgling some nonsense about “ba-da!” before grabbing his foot and trying to chew it.

You sighed, wrapping your arms around him. “You’re exhausting, and perfect. And I’m already losing this war.”

Just as you rocked him gently, trying to coax him into at least entertaining the idea of sleep, there was a knock at the door.

knock knock knock.

You froze, your hand resting on Jamie’s head. His body went still too, his laughter pausing as he tilted his head in curiosity, those wide, wondering blue eyes staring at the door.

There was nothing ominous about the knock. It was solid. Simple. But something in your bones went cold. Something deep and hidden in your belly clenched the way it had when Steve stood in that doorway a year and a half ago—holding a folded uniform and dog tags, with grief weighing down his eyes like stone.

You swallowed, whispered, “Stay here, baby,” as Jamie stared at you with a questioning look, still quiet.

You padded barefoot to the door slowly, every nerve in your body humming. The familiar creak of the hardwood beneath your feet didn’t comfort you like it usually did. Your hand trembled slightly on the knob, your heart pounding without rhythm.

You opened the door.

Steve stood there, tall and square-shouldered in his uniform, his hat tucked under one arm, and that soft, almost apologetic look in his eyes. You blinked, stunned, still registering the sudden appearance of him. Before you could even form a word—

He shifted.

And behind him stood someone else.

You didn’t breathe.

He was thinner and yet... bigger. Paler. His hair longer, jaw unshaven. The blue of his eyes more haunted. His shoulders stooped, as if the air itself weighed too much. A right hand holding a duffle. The other—

Your eyes dropped involuntarily.

And your breath stopped cold.

A gleam of dull silver. Seamless metal. The joints so real, so smooth, that for a split second, your brain couldn’t compute what you were seeing.

Your gaze snapped back to his face.

Bucky.

You stared.

And so did he.

Your knees almost gave out, hand flying to your mouth.

His eyes found yours—and they filled like floodgates breaking. He didn’t smile. He didn’t say anything.

He looked at you, like he’d been starved and was seeing food for the first time. He took one shaking step forward and whispered your name.

You didn’t think. You didn’t breathe. You just ran.

The tears came fast, blurring your vision, and then your arms were around his neck, and his good arm dropped the bag and wrapped around your waist as you collapsed into him.

You clung to him like your body remembered something your mind was still catching up to. Your fingers brushed the metal at his shoulder for half a second and you froze—staggered, breath caught—but then pressed your face to his throat, choosing his warmth over your confusion.

He was real. Cold metal and warm skin and heartbeat thudding under your hand. He was real.

Bucky buried his face in your neck, inhaling like he didn’t believe you were real, holding you with his one good arm like he’d never let go again.

“I thought—I thought I’d lost you,” you choked out, pressing your face against his cheek. “I thought—I held your dog tags, Bucky—God, I—”

“I know,” he choked. “I know, baby. I’m so sorry.”

Behind you, a little voice called from the living room. “Mama?”

You stilled. Bucky lifted his head.

His eyes were wide.

“That... is that him?” His voice cracked.

You nodded. Gently untangling yourself, you stepped back, reached for his hand, and led him a few steps inside.

You pulled him gently into the apartment, guiding him just far enough for Jamie to come into view—standing wobbly on two legs, gripping the edge of the couch for balance, his gaze locked on the stranger, with big, curious eyes.

“Jamie,” you said softly, crouching beside him, heart pounding, “baby, this is your daddy.”

Bucky’s breath hitched audibly. He dropped into a slow, careful crouch, almost like he was afraid he’d scare the child by existing.

Jamie waddled closer, curious, and unafraid.

Bucky stared, completely still.

Jamie blinked at him. Then his face cracked into a gummy, delighted grin. “Pup!” he declared, mispronouncing it as he pointed at Bucky.

Bucky let out a choked breath of a laugh—half-sob, half-shock. “Hi, buddy,” he whispered, opening his arm slowly, still scared.

Jamie stepped into it without hesitation.

And Bucky wept as he held his son for the first time, cradling that tiny body like porcelain.

You moved beside them, touching his shoulder—his metal shoulder. He flinched slightly, but relaxed when your hand stayed steady.

You leaned in, whispering against the side of his head. “He’s been waiting for you.”

“I missed so much,” Bucky whispered hoarsely. “God... he looks like me. But he’s got your nose. He—he said Mama. He can talk?”

“Just a few words,” you murmured. “He took his first steps this summer.”

Bucky’s face crumpled, and he pulled Jamie closer to his chest. “I’m here now,” he said softly. “I swear. I’m here.”

Jamie reached up, tugging gently at his hair, and Bucky actually laughed—a real one this time.

And for the first time in so long, the ache in your chest loosened—just a little.

Because he came home to you.

And he was real.

And he was yours.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes fluff #bucky fanfic #steve rogers

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manmuncher777 · 3 months ago

Text

How the jjk men would react to an aphrodisiac

Toji -

Being brutally honest, I love a dom man. But I think he would get a little subby. Being such a brat because you forget to tell him about the special chocolates you had bought and now hes been fucking aching for you all day. Then you had the audacity o be at work for the whole day.

“Fuck baby, gonna kill me” the giant of a man was basically whimpering beneath you, splayed out on your couch like a slut while you rode him half to death. Hips slamming down brutally against his thick thighs with all your might, doing your best to get him off.

Your slick now dripping all over his thighs as you rode him, your thighs burning and arms aching but you never slowed.

Toji could do nothing but take it, he had been thinking about this all day. And it was so much better than he imagined it rendered him almost paralysed. Forearm flung over his eyes as he grits his teeth as the feeling of your sloppy cunt swallowing him over and over again, your position allowing his bulbous tip to kiss your cervix. Stretching yourself over his thick cock. It’s like his sense were multiplied, usually he would bent you over and fucked into you until you were a drooling mess. But this time he was the drooling mess, as soon as you sunk down onto him he knew it was endgame

Hearing your big strong boyfriend whimper beneath you turned you on far more than you thought, each movement you made dead set on pulling the most pathetic noise from him.

“S-shit~ haa~” he hissed out at a particularly cruel squeeze of your pussy.

Oh how he wished he could watch you, your flushed face staring at him, tits bouncing with each grind of your hips, but he knew the second he stared into those glossy eyes he would be done for.

“What wrong baby?”You questioned, slowing your movements to teasing drags.

“F-fuck you doll.” He gritted out, hips pathetically bucking into yours trying to chase his pleasure

“Awh im trying baby.” You giggled

Shit that was music to his ears, he never usually lets you lead. But hes thinking he might have to from now on

After hes fucked you for payback however

Nanami -

Oh hes fucking insatiable. I mean hes already obsessed woth you enough as it is. Now imagine that tenfold. So its kind of freak you out when you come home from work to find him sat in your living room, glass of whisky in hand, tie undone, disheveled hair. And a devious look in his eyes

“Come on darling, show me how deep I am” he drawls with a Cheshire Cat like grin on his face. Gripping one of you hands and dragging it down to your stomach. Where he was clearly bulging through you poor little pussy. You did your best in your fuck out state to move his huge hands, bringing it down on the bulge. Only for him to press on it gently, watching the way your eyes lolled into the back of you head, mouth hanging open in a silent scream.

“Oh there? Is that the spot my love?” He questioned, cruel really as he knew you could hardly form the words to answer.

Sure you had seen Nanami feral before but it was nothing like this, nothing as raw and filthy as this. The way his eyes trained on you, never leaving. Watching you like prey, knowing you had no way of escape. His hand every now and then moving to the side that he had place his whisky, taking a sip before turning his attention back to you. Only this time he brought his mouth to yours, transferring the Smokey liquid into your mouth with a sloppy kiss, licking the trail it leaves as it spills from the corner of your mouth.

“Ken~” the sultry action pulling his name from your mouth in a broken whine. His cock fucking you deeper and deeper into the couch with every thrust, dragging through your velvety walls in a way that had his knuckles goin white with how hard the were gripping the cushions

“Oh- fuck say it again baby”

Suguru - (fucking father of all my kids, love of my life, underrated king)

He’s so fucking cruel with it, I mean you cant blame him, you left those chocolates out without sating a word, and then are too busy to pick up your phone all day when all he wanted to hear was your voice while he fucked his fist. So of course hes going to have to teach you a lesson

Hot tears stream down your face, ruining the makeup you had spent so long on that morning. You had just got in from seeing a friend, rushing because of all the missed calls. But instead of coming home to an emergency, you came home to Suguru fucking his hand on your shared bed, before pouncing on you, stripping you down and bending you over the bed.

“That’s it baby, cry for me” he gritted out to you, huge hands coming down to encase you wrists in his grip, using them as leverage to fuck you harder and harder. The slap of skin against skin echoing in the room, slightly masked by your screams of pleasure.

And you did exactly that, pouring tears into your bedsheets, smearing your mascara into the material. His hips snapped so savagely into yours, relishing in the feeling of your thighs trembling

“Sugu~ fuck fuck fuck” his name left your lips so sweetly it almost made him want to show some mercy. Almost.

His hips bucking into yours, fuelled by the sound of your pathetic whines.

“Oh no, not sugu for you tonight sweetheart, thats reserved for good girls” Groaning at he pummels deeper into you, struggling to get his words out as you clench so tightly around him. Getting even more distracted as he watched himself enter you, the way your thighs glisten with your own arousal, the noise your pussy makes as he takes a hand and swipes his digits through your folds

“It’s Suguru to you- fuckin tease”

A scream left you, muffled by the duvet you head was getting buried into. Nodding your head as you accept everything he was giving you.

“Yes Suguru.”

“Oh baby, now you want to play nice? Breaking my heart sweets” he leans down to whisper against the shell of your ear

“Cus im not done with your punishment yet”

Gojo -

Hi - pathetic whimpery mess, thats all - send tweet

“Shit baby, been thinking about this all day” hot breath tickles your ear from the shuddering man. He was fucking wrecked, skin sticky with sweat as he eagerly thrusts into from behind, muscular body hulked over, pressed into your back as he struggles to support himself, his hips moving as if they had a mind of their own, chasing yet another orgasm. “Been thinking about you.” He rambles, eyes squeezed shut as he fucks you, one of his thick arms wrapped around your torso, stopping your escape from his brutal thrusts. “Been thinking about this pretty little pussy” and you can hear the need in his voice, the pitchy whine that leaves him with every word. Silent pleas not to stop. His thick cock stretching you over him, so deep you could hardly speak. Your one choice being to listen to him as he talks to you. Words flowing from him with little thought. His only focus being how well you were taking him

“F-fuck, please let me cum inside” he stutters, a pathetic whisper in your ear. His pretty leaking tip mashing against your g-spot as he spoke, begging.

He never slowed, slamming into you over and over again, unable to stop himself. You werent sure how many times he made you cum already, you werent sure how many times he had cum now. But you couldn’t find it in you to care, hearing him so pathetic and whiny getting you wetter and wetter by the second.

“‘Toru~” You gasped as one of his hands dove sown to your clit, rubbing fast circles on the swollen bud. Legs quivering which each movement of his fingers

“B-baby, you cant ca— fuck- cant call me that.” He shudders against your, eyes rolling back into his skull as he replays the way you said that little nickname of his

“Toru..” you purposely repeat, only to be met by hard thrusts and a deep groan from behind.

One…. Two… three

“Fuck”

A warm sensation filling your belly as he shoots ropes of hot cum deep inside, over and over until he was shaking from the pleasure. Not pulling out before starting his pace again.

“Need more sweets.”

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tteotlma · 1 month ago

Text

Mine to Keep

--- A quiet moment turns heated as Joel reminds you why some things are better kept just between the two of you.

Jackson!Joel Miller x Reader (4kwc)

tw: 18+ MDNI; explicit sexual content, heavy sexual tension, age gap, possessiveness, jealousy, hiding a relationship, emotional vulnerability, mild anxiety, groping (over/under clothes), neck kissing, hair pulling, power imbalance (protective/possessive), soft dominance, slow-burn to heat, lingering touches, close proximity, unspoken intentions, introspection, private/domestic intimacy, mild language.

a/n: BC IM GONNA ACT LIKE NOTHING BAD HAS EVER HAPPENED EVER; have just for some reason been thinking a lot abt pedro lately it’s absolutely insane, also now that lent is over i’ve taken up gardening again and i’m just yearning so inspired again.

The wooden screen door swung open effortlessly, to your surprise, to a clean and empty kitchen save for the half drunk mug of coffee on the kitchen island. The jagged edges of the chipped paint on the door caused your skin to rise as you cushioned the door on your bare shoulder to not let the door slam shut.

You let in a breath about to call out, but the faint sound of music could be heard playing in the other room. Stepping lightly around the corner, and peeking behind the wall you saw your current beau— well, the back of his head but him nonetheless. He was sitting on the sofa, gazing down at something on his lap as the late afternoon sun showered him in rays of light. You watched as small dust particles floated around his frame, and it was then you realized you were holding your breath.

Letting out a small huff of air you hoped the floor wouldn’t creak beneath your shoes as you took slow steps towards the open room. You were in a quiet awe watching a moment of rare vulnerability, the man you figured was just permanently stiff now had his back hunched, causing his shoulders to slouch. Despite his slacked frame he was still broad, taking up a large amount of quiet space. Eyeing the outline of his body, you watched how the muscles of his traps dipped below the neckline of his shirt, only a sliver of sun kissed skin visible between the curls at the base of his head, and the fabric of his ratty t shirt and you could practically feel the heat radiating off of the exposed skin, you found yourself reactively sticking your hand out to grasp that warmth—and grab you did.

You let your fingers graze the side of his neck, finally giving away that you were here. The flesh beneath your fingers went rigid, and a small chuckle hid behind a puff of air left your body. Leaning your body over the back of the sofa your hands again finding the base of his neck fingers entangling in the strands of his outgrown curls tugging ever so slightly.

“Hi.” You whispered, pressing your lips to his temple.

“Almos’ scared me half to death,” He said, trying to play it off by flipping a page of the town newspaper. Your fingers left his hair and slid down his neck, and chest to clasp your fingers together, arms hung around the man.

“Sorry, I just couldn’t resist,” you snickered lightly, resting your chin in the crook of his neck staring at his fingers. “It’s not every day you see Joel Miller relaxing.” Your fingers started roaming his chest again, coming to toy lightly with the stubble on his jawline. His skin was warm from the summer sun, and the Wyoming heat. Joel cleared his throat, rustling the papers in his fingers shifting beneath your weight.

“I wasn’t relaxing, I was jus’ readin’ up.” He shook his shoulders lightly to try and shoo you off, and you did just briefly enough to realize he was wearing his reading glasses, yet another rare sight.

“Right, because Jackson Hole is so big.” You teased, resting your cheek on his shoulder.

He cleared his throat again, beginning to fold the pamphlet between his hands eyeing you from the side.

“Ellie?” He asks tossing the papers to the side, he then moves his fingers to take his glasses off, but you stop him, enveloping his fingers with yours.

“Out with Dina,” you say, a hand finding its way back to his salt and pepper curls tucking loose strands behind his ear.

“Are you—”

“Saw them with my own two eyes at that food hall.” You reassured him, already knowing if he was going to ask for reassurance.

“Next to your very much in love Brother and his wife.” You mumbled, and you felt a deep sigh leave his body and only the sound of music played softly in the background as a pause of silence passed between the two of you. Joel held your fingers, resting his prickled cheek against your forearm as you rested on his shoulders.

“Joel,” you whispered, you took his silence as a sign to continue. “Why don’t you want anyone to know about us?” you said softly, hoping your question didn’t just break this glass bubble you were both floating in.

But it was eating away at you, especially when you saw what seemed like everyone and their brothers' mothers in a tooth-rotting, core cringing relationship.

Joel cleared his throat and shifted in his cushiony seat.

“W-well, uh…” He cleared his throat again, clearly uncomfortable. You kept running your fingers through his hair, gentle and steady, trying to ease him. You knew he didn’t mean any harm with how he was fumbling—he was just like an old car that needed a few tries to get going.

“What’s got you thinking like this?” He quickly rushes out, grabbing your hand, you could feel the heat radiating off of him. You debated on telling him the drawn out version of word jumble, and anxious rambling or tell him outright like you’ve been rehearsing.

“I would just—” You grabbed his hands again, thumbs caressing his calloused fingers noticing the faint tan forming beneath his wrist watch. Suddenly struck with shyness you shrug, toying with his hands. “Sometimes, I’d just… love to hold hands with you.” you said said, voice getting softer with each syllable.

“Sweetheart,” He whispers, pulling your hands, and bringing you around the arm of the sofa. Your hand trails the length of his right arm, muscles taut beneath the pads of your fingers. You watch the hairs on his arm stand, as your nails lightly scratch the surface of his skin. He makes you stand before him.

“Sweet girl,” he murmurs, placing you in the space between his legs, your knees pressing gently against the edge of the sofa. You feel yourself pouting, lips tugging downward despite your best effort to stay composed. Joel’s large hands wrap around yours, rough palms hot against your skin as he brings them to his lips. The soft brush of his mouth on the back of your hand sends a flush to your cheeks, and you shift your weight from one foot to the other.

“As much as I would love to show everyone what’s mine…” he says, voice low, as he leans forward, guiding your hands to rest on his shoulders. He kisses the inside of your wrist, slow and deliberate, before his hands slide up the length of your forearms, settling at your hips, fingers curling into the small of your back.

“Right now…” he presses a small kiss just above your waistband, his lips lingering against your skin before he looks up at you, gaze steady, almost searching. “I just wanna keep this ours, for a little longer,” he murmurs, arms tightening around you. One hand dips lower, fingers brushing over the sliver of bare skin where your shirt lifts, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring it.

"It’s good like this. Just you and me."

You feel him breathe you in, feel the way his fingers linger at your waist, grounding himself in the warmth of your body like he needs the contact to stay present.

"I think about it too," he says quietly. "What it’d be like, not keeping it quiet." His hand rests firm, steady against you, thumb brushing lazy circles into your skin. "But... I ain’t had something like this in a long time."

His voice trails off, thick with something unspoken, thumb still moving like he can’t bring himself to stop, can’t let go.

"I just... I wanna hold onto it a little longer, like this."

You cradle his head in your hands, fingers threading through his hair before dragging down the length of his back, nails scratching softly against the fabric of his shirt as you let out a deep, aching sigh. Joel’s thumbs slip beneath the hem of your shirt, his touch firmer now as he pulls back just enough to see you.

You meet his eyes, face to face, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips at how good he looks—his glasses slipping low on his nose, jaw tense, eyes soft. It only makes your chest tighten more.

You huff, frustration bubbling up.

“I don’t care what anyone thinks,” you say, quiet, yet certain.

Joel’s eyes stay on you, hands steady at your waist.

“I know you don’t.”

He swallows hard, more of his fingers slipping beneath your shirt, onto your skin.

“But this—what we’ve got right now—it’s the only thing in a long time that’s felt…” His eyes search yours, waiting for that unspoken understanding, and when he finds it, he leans in, voice low.

“I’m not ready to give that up. Not yet.”

Your forehead rests against his, as if the closeness alone could quiet the anxiety crawling its way up your throat.

“Can… we really keep going like this?”

Your fingers find their solace in the curls at the nape of his neck, playing with them in slow, nervous motions, your nails lightly tapping against the arms of his glasses with every other pass. You can’t help but watch your hands move, almost detached, like they don’t belong to you anymore.

It’s some quiet reminder—how much you already lean on him, how even now, you’re using the feel of him to steady yourself, to keep your worry at bay.

Joel lets out a soft chuckle to the side as he straightens up, leaning into the back of the sofa with a sigh, his eyebrows scrunched with disappointment but you knew it wasn’t directed at you.

His hands pull you easily, guiding you into his lap, like a missing puzzle piece. Straddling him now, your knees press into the cushion, chest light against his, the steady rise and fall of his breath meeting yours.

His hands move down your sides, and around the curve of your ass to rest against the sides of your thighs, his palm’s warm against the fabric on your legs. “You’re here. I’m here. Is there somethin’ else we need that I’m missin’?”

Your eyes search his, drawn to the fine lines at the corners, the way they crease softly when he looks at you like this. The sun has left its mark on him, scattering faint freckles and warm tones across his skin, like time didn’t just pass—it stayed, settling gently. As if in a trance, your eyes find a way to his lips, holding his face delicately in your hands, you shake your head slowly.

“Baby girl,” his fingers burn against your skin, his voice low, and rough, “I’m tryin’ to keep you to myself, just a little longer.”

His thumb drags slowly over your skin.

“Ain’t ready to let everyone see what’s mine.” And with one more look, you feel yourself caving. You subconsciously lean in closer, absolutely weak to whatever hold he seems to have on you.

“Damn you, Miller,” you whisper, and he lets out a small snort, breath fanning across your lips.

His hands slide up from their place on your thighs, slowly, fingers pressing into the soft give of your skin before settling at your hips, pulling you closer.

You watch his hands, almost dazed, as your jean-covered knees shift, dragging his shirt up ever so slightly along his sides. The fabric rises, revealing the warm skin beneath—soft, familiar, the faint line of his waist exposed in the now dimming light.

You don’t look up. Not yet.

Your hands slide what feels incredibly slow from his jaw down his neck and chest, fingertips tracing the edge where his shirt had risen, drawn to the heat of him. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you steady, waiting.

And then you look at him, really look, taking him in for all he’s worth, and you lean in, tapping your forehead to his, the plastic of his glasses cool against the bridge of your nose. You dip your fingers beneath the neckline of his shirt and pull him closer. Your lips tentatively brush against his, light as breath, your eyes half-lidded, hoping—waiting—for him to meet you there.

When his lips finally touch yours, he kisses you, really kisses you, it’s slow, and deliberate at first, like he’s aware of how delicate this moment is. His breath hitches, just barely, but you feel it in the way his hands dig into your exposed skin, dragging you flush against him, no space, no air, just him.

His kiss stays soft, for a moment. The kind of soft that makes your chest ache, makes you lean in harder, chasing the heat of his mouth, the way his lips part just enough to taste you, to take more. Your hands trail up his neck and down his chest, in slack patterns stopping at times to caress his ears, or toy with his tousled hair.

His tongue brushes yours, just a flick, just enough to make your stomach twist. and you feel his hands slide, lower now, gripping at the curve of your ass, squeezing like he’s trying to keep himself grounded.

You let out something between a sigh and a whimper, and that’s all Joel Miller needs.

The already searing kiss somehow deepens, rougher now, his teeth catching your bottom lip before he soothes it with his tongue, pulling you impossibly close, taking and giving all at once.

You sigh into him, your breath warm between you, your fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, tugging at it as you shift in his lap. The cotton stretches under your hands, bunching in your fists as you press closer, the solid weight of him beneath your palms impossible to ignore.

Your hands roam, slow, dragging over his chest, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric, your fingers curling, groping softly here and there—testing, squeezing, not quite gentle, not rough, just needing, just taking your time as you explore the shape of him. The way he breathes beneath you, steady but tight, makes you linger, pressing your palms flat before curling them again, feeling the give of muscle, the warmth that seems to rise with every touch.

Your hands drift lower, fingers dragging across the stretched fabric, and it’s only when you shift again that you feel it—your knuckles brushing against the sliver of skin exposed just above his waistband. You pause there, just for a moment, fingers tentatively skimming the heat of him, tracing the edge where skin meets denim, where the faintest line of hair disappears beneath the waist of his jeans.

He tenses, breath catching against your lips, and you can’t help the small smile that ghosts across yours.

One hand finds its way back to the curve of his neck, slipping beneath the neckline of his shirt, holding him there, grounding him, grounding yourself. You lean in to kiss him again, your hips pressed firm to his, and your other hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, fingertips grazing the bare skin of his stomach, light at first, like a question, before smoothing higher, feeling the heat, the tension, the way he shifts beneath you like he’s trying to stay still, but he can’t.

His hand slides up your back, slow, firm, until his fingers are tangled in your hair, tilting your head just enough for him to pull you away.

When you let him pull you back, it’s only enough to breathe, to see him with his lips swollen, eyes heavy, chest rising hard beneath your hands. You stay close, your breath still tangled with his, the warmth between you humming, thick.

A slow smile pulls at your lips, fingers brushing the warm skin on his back, light, deliberate.

“My, my, Mr. Miller...” your voice is low, soft, but there’s no mistaking the edge of it, “I’m seeing all kinds of sides to you today.”

You feel the way he tenses under you, the pause in his breath.

Your thumb drags along the curve of his necklline, slow, tracing.

“Didn’t think you got jealous.” The words are almost a whisper, your eyes focusing on his skin exposed fingers ghosting, not quite touching.

“Didn’t know you could be so...” you pause, fingers slipping beneath the waistline of his shirt into the curls at the base of his belly button, your palm warm against the heat of his skin. He gazes down, and watches your hand move beneath the fabric of his shirt. “...soft.”

The heat of the room caused his glasses to slide further down his nose, as we quickly glanced up at you. Smirking slightly at his disheveled state you take your hand that’s on his shoulder and swiftly push his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose before a smirk found its way to your lips.

The weight of his gaze was heavy on you as he doesn’t answer, not with words. Instead, he leans in, his breath hot against your cheek, and then lower, until his lips find the spot just below your jaw, kissing you slow, open-mouthed, like he has all the time in the world, like he’s content to feel you melt into him.

His hand moves from your body, sliding down your arm, fingers tracing lightly until they curl around your wrist, rough and sure. He doesn’t speak, just guides you, pulling your hand from his shoulder, slow and steady, down the curve of his chest, lower, until your knuckles meet the hem of his shirt.

And then he pulls you under.

Your fingers slip beneath the fabric, joining the other hand already resting there, against the warmth of his stomach, where the muscles are tight beneath your touch, where the faint trail of hair leads down, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.

He doesn’t let go.

Instead, he holds your wrist there, pressing your hand lower, like he wants you to feel just how much he’s burning, how much of him is wound up right beneath your palm. His breath stutters against your neck, lips still moving over your skin, kissing, nipping, but slower now—like he’s caught in it, too.

You feel the heat of him, the way he shifts beneath you, hips pressing up ever so slightly, chasing your touch as your hands move together, exploring the firm planes of him, tracing the edge where skin meets denim, groping, lingering, hoping to god you’d take more—but instead, your breath catches, something low in your belly pulling tight, and though you don’t stop, not really, your hands stay, palms still pressed to the bare skin of his stomach, fingers splayed, feeling the way he stays warm beneath you, the tension thick, still humming between your bodies, heavy and close.

You lean back—not far, not fully, just enough to draw in a breath, to see him, to take in the way he looks, the way he’s fallen back into the sofa, not letting go but giving in, his chest rising sharp beneath your touch, his shirt pushed up, bunched high enough that you can still feel him, still press into him, skin flushed deep across his chest, creeping high along his neck, blooming in his cheeks, the color settling there, soft and red and beautiful in a way you weren’t prepared for.

And you don’t move your hands—you can’t—because there’s something about feeling him like this, about having him beneath you, so undone, so real, that makes it impossible to pull away, impossible to even think about letting go.

His hair’s a mess, still tangled from your fingers, the curls at the nape damp with heat, and those glasses—slipping low, crooked, barely holding on—make him look ruined in the best way, like no one’s ever touched him like this, like no one else should ever get the chance.

Your thumb drags slowly over his waist, your other hand rising slightly, feeling the way his stomach still trembles under your touch, and your breath hitches—not from what he’s doing, but from what he is, from what you see, what you feel, what you know.

“Yeah...” the word leaves you soft, low, more breath than sound, your eyes locked on him, watching the way he stays with you, caught in it, flushed and open and completely yours. “No one else should see you like this.”

You feel him shift beneath you, his breath deepening, like he knows, like he’s heard exactly what he needed, and you press your hands to him, firmer now, like you’re holding him there—not just to feel, but to claim, to remind yourself that this, him, all of it, belongs to you.

And you’re definitely not letting anyone else have it.

Not now. Maybe not ever.

---

a/n: WAAAHHHHH I WANT TO KEEP HIM SAFE IN MY ARMS FOREVER (also not really edited so soz for the typos)

PLS REBLOG TO SUPPORT 💛

2K notes · View notes

alygator77 · 2 months ago

Text

motherhood and matrimony

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, smut, masturbation, enemies (annoyances) to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, marriage of convenience, slow burn, fluff, little angst, mentions of death (satoru's father).

a/n. tysm for another follower milestone! as a thank you, here are some ceo! satoru headcanons for my ongoing fic motherhood and matrimony. this can kinda be considered as a teaser for those that haven't read the series. for those that have read the fic, this fleshes out the circumstances between satoru and reader a bit more, giving us a bit of insight from satoru's POV (and showing how down bad he is, hehe.)

ceo! satoru, who walks into meetings ten minutes late, just to prove he can. he never rushes—the clock bends for him, so does the room. postures straighten, laptops shift, conversations hush—eyes flicking away like they weren’t just whispering about the latest tabloid headline with his name in bold.

he doesn’t give them the satisfaction of reacting—never does. because he’s used to the attention. the scrutiny. the weight of being watched.

whatever… he never asked for this. he’s the heir of gojo corp, he just has to exist… right?

ceo! satoru, who doesn't read half the reports placed in front of him—rolling his eyes during company briefings, doodling dicks into the margins of billion-yen contracts. he slouches in a chair that cost more than most people’s rent—twirling a pen, daring someone to scold him. it’s always his father. it’s only ever his father.

“take this seriously satoru. you need to grow up. have you found a wife yet?”

the pressure of his legacy comes dressed in politeness, in tightly-wound ties and family dinners that feel more like interviews. it’s never ‘what do you want?’ only ‘what will you become?’

people think he’s lazy. arrogant. detached.

eh… maybe they aren’t wrong?

and yet, for all his mockery, he still shows up. still puts on the suit. still plays the part with a half-smile and his middle finger tucked just behind his back. because maybe, if he doesn’t take it seriously, it can’t hurt him the way it was always meant to.

ceo! satoru, who keeps people at arm's length, especially women. they whisper his name like a prize—because everyone wants something from him: money, attention, his title, a seat at the table. so? he gives them nothing—flirting without intent, touching without feeling, fucking without consequence.

love is a transaction. intimacy? a liability. and gojo satoru? he’s tired of being collateral.

so, he stays perfect on paper—sharp in the spotlight, hollow behind closed doors. if he gives them nothing, then there’s nothing to take.

untouchable, unbothered, and lonelier than he’ll ever admit.

ceo! satoru, who notices you the moment you don’t notice him. you’re new—his father’s latest hire. just another name slipped into a calendar invite he didn’t read, another title he forgot before the ink dried. nothing remarkable. not at first glance. you keep to yourself, all neutral tones and clean lines. head down, posture straight, buried in your work like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered.

boring, uptight.

that’s his original impression of you.

until he makes some offhand comment in a meeting—low, careless, designed to make the room laugh. but this time, you glance up, meeting his eyes with a scowl.

“...are you finished?” you mumble. cold. quiet. unamused.

the fuck?

it’s always his father. it’s only ever his father. and yet here you are—desk-bound and barely blinking—making him feel like he’s overstayed his welcome—in his own kingdom, mind you.

oh. he’s gonna give you hell.

ceo! satoru, who makes it his personal mission to get under your skin. so, he starts dropping by your office more often. for no real reason—papers he could’ve emailed, questions he already knows the answers to.

“hey miss secretary,” he drawls, dragging the words like velvet across glass. “miss me?”

he pushes. you push back. he reroutes your calendar and you reroute his meetings. he leaves three unsigned forms on your desk just to watch you chase him down the hallway with your heels clicking like gunfire.

“try doing your job sometime,” you hiss.

satoru lives for the moments you slip. he’s used to women shrinking beneath his name. you don’t shrink—you scowl. and it’s addicting. because all that politeness you wear in front of his father is paper-thin around him, and your patience is stretched tight over something sharper.

ceo! satoru, who notices you’ve been late three times this week. not by much—seven minutes, ten at most. but still, late. unusual for someone like you.

you—who normally arrives fifteen minutes early. you—who color-codes schedules and double-checks logistics like it’s second nature. you—who never lets a single thread unravel.

“this company runs on discipline, not excuses,” his father lectures you. “apologies sir… my babysitter has a habit of running late.”

and just like that, the room changes.

ceo! satoru, who said nothing at the time—just watched. you’re a single mom? he’s thinking about the way you never mentioned a child. the way you never once asked for accommodations. the way you kept your head down and your performance sharp, even when your personal life clearly wasn’t giving you much room to breathe. and for the first time, he wonders if he’s been looking at you all wrong.

because it’s easy to call someone uptight until you realize they’re holding the world together with both hands and no help.

you square your shoulders, taking his father’s lecture like you were used to it. why did it seem like you had practice with swallowing apologies you didn’t owe? that doesn’t sit well with him…

ceo! satoru, who didn’t see it coming. not really. one moment his father is mid-sentence, gesturing over untouched steak and quarterly projections. the next, there’s a tremor in his voice—a hand that doesn’t settle, a breath that doesn’t finish. silver clattering to the floor. staff rushing in. panic rising in the air like heat.

he doesn’t remember the walk to the ambulance, only the stillness of his own father’s body.

ceo! satoru, who knows the answer before the doctor speaks. it’s in the look. the way the nurse steps back. the way no one can meet his gaze.

“it was a heart attack… i’m sorry. he didn’t make it.”

he nods. once. what is he supposed to do—to feel? he doesn’t know what to mourn. the father he feared? the man he resented? the stranger who lived down the hall of his own childhood? the man who spent his entire life, trying to mold him—now undone by something even he couldn’t control.

there was no grand ending. no dramatic farewell. just silence.

and satoru—left with all the noise that came after.

ceo! satoru, who stares down at the stipulation in his father’s will like it’s a ghost. and honestly? maybe it is. maybe this is how his father haunts him—not with memories, but with demands.

to inherit full control of gojo corp and the family estate, satoru must be married. with a child. within one year.

he blinks once, then laughs—quiet, disbelieving. of course. of course the man who never trusted him in life wouldn’t trust him in death. control, even from the grave—his father’s final move, final manipulation.

ceo! satoru, who isn’t prepared when it’s you who offers a solution. no dramatics, no buildup—just a simple, “let’s get married.” it takes him a full breath to process it. a fake marriage. a clean deal. a contract that helps you both.

you—already a mother, already the picture-perfect illusion his father wanted him to build. you—who has everything the will demands, and nothing he’s ever had to pretend to want. for a moment, he’s stunned into silence. because you’re not offering him love, you’re offering him freedom.

ceo! satoru, who doesn’t trust easily, but maybe he trusts you? because you’ve never wanted anything from him, never asked for his attention. you’re practical. smart. tired in the same way he is (he’s just better at hiding it).

and sure, maybe what you’re offering isn’t customary. no emotional attachments, no strings. just terms, signatures and survival. it’s not what his father would have wanted. but fuck it, that’s the point.

ceo! satoru, who is not prepared for the way you kiss him at a public event. he tells himself it was just the heat of the moment, knowing you only kissed him to play your role. he tries to conveniently ignore the way your lips part first, slipping your tongue in, sighing against his mouth, leaning into him like you’re his—like he fucking owns you.

but… this is just a charade, marriage of convenience—nothing more. shit. then why the fuck is he rock hard remembering the taste of you?

ceo! satoru, who only meant to jerk off to you once—just to get it out of his system, okay?! clearly that’s all he needs right? he lasts maybe five minutes before he’s groaning your name, hips lifting as he’s spilling cum all over his abs, shuddering as he fucks his own fist thinking about you.

there. that’s it. out of his system—no more, right? (wrong)

ceo! satoru, who doesn’t know what’s worse—the fact that it happens again, or that it happens easier. it doesn’t take much now—just the sight of you leaning over the dining table in a robe, a bare leg bent, hair tangled from sleep. the curve of your neck when you tilt your head. the flash of skin when you reach for something too high.

what the fuck is wrong with him?!

you’re not even doing anything. not really. you’re just there—folded into his space like you belong there. moving barefoot through his estate in oversized sweaters and quiet hums, curling up on the couch without a clue what you’re doing to him.

ceo! satoru, who’s never felt this out of control. not in boardrooms. not in interviews. not even in the middle of his father’s most ruthless lectures. but with you? with you, it’s all unraveling—you’re like gravity.

and now it’s routine—fucking his hand to the thought of you, slipping into his bedroom, pants pushed down, fist tight around his twitching cock, muttering curses into his palm to keep from moaning too loud, because you’re always asleep in the room next door.

it’s just stress relief, he tells himself. a coping mechanism. a release.

taking care of a kid is harder than he expected. the pressure’s always building as ceo of gojo corp. and you—you’re always close. always soft. always there.

ceo! satoru, who imagines you on your knees, in his office, tucked under his desk like a dirty secret. he’s slapping his dick gently against your cheek, rubbing his precum all over your pretty little mouth, encouraging you to part your lips before feeding you his cock, inch by inch.

schlick. schlick. schlick.

his filthy faps echo off the bedroom walls—sprawled out on expensive sheets, cock flushed and leaking down his knuckles as his wrist works faster, panting, groaning, lost in the addicting image of you.

“s-shit—fuck—” he breathes, head tilting back, hips rocking forward. “j-just like that… so good f’me, baby… so fuckin’ good—”

your muffled moans would sound so cute, gagging around his cock, drool dripping down your chin as you blink up at him, teary and beautiful. he’d stroke your hair back, whispering praise, thrusting lazily down your throat.

“fuuuck—look at you, so pretty—s-shit…” he’s fraying at the edges, nearly breaking as his strokes grow faster, messier. “p-please—fuck, need it—need your mouth, please… just wanna—nngh…”

ceo! satoru, who fantasizes about cuming across your tongue—your eyes fluttering closed as he tells you to swallow. and you’d swallow it all, wouldn’t you? looking up at him with ruined lips, cum streaking your chin, smiling all coy with those pouty lips he dreams about every night.

“fuckfuckfuck—” his voice cracks, stomach tensing, cock jerking in his hand. “‘m gonna cum— ‘m gonna—fuck—" he gasps, hips lifting off the edge of the bed as his orgasm crashes through him like a tidal wave.

and it wrecks him.

cum spills over his fist in hot, desperate spurts, leaking between his fingers, dripping down his wrist, painting his abs, his shirt, his thighs in thick creamy streaks.

“g-god… yes… f-fuck, baby… f’you, all f’you…” he whimpers, eyes fluttering shut as your name slips from his lips, over and over again like a prayer.

ceo! satoru, who lies there afterward, sweating and spent, staring at the ceiling like it might tell him what the fuck he’s doing. you’re not actually his—you were never meant to be. sure, you’re his wife, but only on paper, nothing more. so… why do the lines keep blurring? thinning. you’re already under his skin. already in his sheets. in his head. on your fucking knees every time he closes his eyes.

and it’s not just lust anymore.

it’s the sound of your voice when you’re half-asleep. the way you talk to your daughter in that soft, maternal tone, tugging at something deep in his chest. the gojo estate used to feel like a museum. all cold marble and high ceilings, every corner echoing with the absence of something warm. he never realized how empty it felt until you started filling it. slowly. quietly. without trying.

now there’s a pink toothbrush beside his in the bathroom. a collection of tiny socks and hair ties on the entryway table. a soft giggle in the morning light and the scent of syrup in the kitchen air.

your daughter’s toys spill out across the living room rug. your coat hangs next to his in the foyer. your voice carries down the hall like it belongs here.

he wants you like a home he never thought he deserved.

and... that’s the most terrifying part of all.

love is a transaction. intimacy? a liability. if he gives you everything—his time, his trust, the bruised, aching thing in his chest he swore no one could touch—what would you do? would you break him?

a/n. awww... for those that have read the fic it was fun to go back to the start of this story to see how far this pair has come 🥹 i figured ceo deserved his own headcanon, i love my pookie. chapter 10 is in the works. if you enjoyed this teaser consider checking out this fics full masterlist here! i will also be reopening this taglist.

taglist:

@geniejunn @fortunatelyfurrygiver @rosso-seta @acowboykisser @mikyapixie

@shokosbunny @fire-child-kira @aluvrina @laviefantasie @kurookinnie

@poopypipi @painted-hills @stillserene @mira-lol @k-kkiana

@sebastianlover @blueberrysungie @kalulakunundrum @doireallyhavetonamthis @lingophilospher

@ichikanu @artist1936 @christianacj27 @watermelon-online @jkbangtan7

@angelina7890 @aruraa @han11dh @jonesmelodys @k1ttybean

@a-trashbag @jotarohat @khaleesihavilliard @tsukistopglazer @elliesndg

@maskedpacific @that-redheadd @lovelyartemisa @eolivy

@valleydoli @voids-universe @sukunadckrider @aishies-stuff

@saccharine-nectarine @ilianasau @pinksaiyans @gojoslefttoenail

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tonycries · 1 year ago

Text

Wanna Do Bad Things To You

Synopsis. He fucks you like he hates you. You didn’t mean to fuck your old friend-with-benefits - truly - it just kinda happened.

Pairing. Multiple x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! Reader, hate sex, ex-friends-with-benefits, slight angst, he’s still in love with you, unprotected sex, jealous sex (from his side), choking, marking, pet names (my love, sweetheart), swearing.

Word count. 1.5k

A/N. Ummmmmmmm yeah. Art by @_3eam on X.

He fucks you like he hates you.

“Shut the fuck up, you little slut.”

“Do it then. What? Scared he’ll do it bet-”

Cut off by a pathetic gurgle - his large hand around your throat. Ringed fingers tightening right above your pulse, the cold metal digging into your searing skin.

Your vision is bleary, blood roaring in your ears as he leans down, muscled front against your back. His breath is hot against your face as he whispers lowly, “Running your mouth a bit too much, my love. You do the same with him as well?”

Shivers run down your spine - all the way to your cunt, pulsing and clenching furiously around his throbbing tip. Teasing your dripping entrance. Unmoving.

Your walls burn, struggling at the stretch of his thick head, yet still wanting the bastard to fucking move. Such a fucking tease. He was always like this - even back when you two were together, but that’s a story for another time.

Turning to glare at him over your shoulder, “So what if I do? Who are you to tell me what to do?”

You’re either an idiot or a mastermind.

Maybe both. Because you feel his achingly hard cock twitch animalistically inside you, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across those kiss-bitten lips you knew too well. You hated how much you wanted them on yours right now.

“You’re right. I’m not anyone to you.” he murmurs venomously, swiftly capturing the tender skin of your exposed neck, sharp teeth digging into you. Branding you.

You keen, hips bucking uselessly against his bruising grip on your hips as he pulls away. God, you felt so used - and it made your walls flutter around him so desperately.

Two long fingers reach up to squeeze your cheeks together mockingly into a pathetic pout, forcing you to look at him. “But I’m gonna ruin you for everyone. Including that little prick you’ve tried to replace me with.”

Your eyes flutter open in shock - you didn’t even realize they were scrunched up - getting lost in the ones boring into yours, half-lidded and pupils blown ferally. Electricity jolts through your body at the pure lust and rage whirling in his intense gaze.

You two were going to be the deaths of each other.

You two were always going to end up like this.

You’ve barely even finished the thought before his flushed tip is kissing your cervix so painfully good.

“Hah- Oh, fuck. Fuck you.” Eyes rolling to the back of your head as he sheaths himself completely in you. A low hiss leaves his swollen lips as he pulls out agonizingly slow, inch by inch, prominent veins dragging along your g-spot.

“Fuck, you sure you hate me? Because this pussy seems like she can’t get enough of me, hm?”

Whatever retort on the tip of your tongue is cut off by his rock-hard cock bullying its way back into your snug cunt. He fucks you animalistically, heavy balls stinging your pussy as his cock rams in and out of your hole over and over at a relentless pace.

Strangled mewls of ah! ah! ah! leave your swollen lips as large fingers presses tight circles into your clit at a merciless rhythm matching the cadence of his hips.

You mindlessly writhe against him, you felt so full - so split open on his cock. It was too much to handle. He was always too much to take.

“Now now, don’t hah- run away from me, my love. If you’re going to act like such a fucking slut then take it like one.” he purrs, lip curling into a smug smirk that you wanted to smack off his pretty face. You couldn’t stand him - but you couldn’t get enough of him either.

“I’m not the hah- o-one that runs away. And- hngh- I’m not your ‘love’” you grit, because God forbid you go down without a fight - even when you’re falling apart completely under him.

What else could he have even expected? You always did see through him.

God, did he love that bitchy mouth of yours.

Huffing out a surprised laugh, he wraps a strong arm around your waist pulling you deeper onto his throbbing cock - grip hard enough that he knows you’ll have marks to remember him by. Not like he planned on letting you ever forget him in the first place.

“You always did know how to push my buttons, huh, my love?”

“Could say the same for you, sweetheart.”

Fuck that stupid fucking petname. How is it that even after years of not hearing it, his heart still lurches the same as it falls out of your mouth? That annoying, nagging part of his brain wonders if you call him the same thing.

And maybe you could read minds - he wouldn’t be surprised - because you open those pretty lips to say “Though, you’re not my sweetheart anymore, huh?”

Unexplainable anger seethes under his skin in a way that makes him want to claw it off.

“Fuck you.” he hisses, turning your face so his mouth clashes with yours. It’s all bruising urgency and teeth clashing at the breathless dance of your tongues.

His cock speeds up it’s abuse on your cunt, fucking you with impatient, harsh thrusts that have his leaking tip kissing your cervix. Had it not been for his firm hand around your throat, you were sure you’d have been slammed into the headboard creaking in protest.

“You drive me fucking insane. Fuck you.”

He hates the whines of his name falling from your kiss-bitten lips, and how it’s his favorite song.

He hates the tears clinging to your lashes in a way that makes him want to burn down anything that made you cry. Including himself.

He hates the way your cunt clamps down on him as if it hurts to part - he wishes you felt the same.

He hates the way he can’t let you go.

You were perfect, so perfect. Too perfect for him. He was probably better for you - all stability and reassurance where he is nothing but a whirlwind of change.

In one, fluid move, he’s pulled out of the snug heaven of your dripping cunt - flipping you onto your back to stare into those beautiful eyes that haunt him every night.

"Let's forget everything else, if just for tonight."

And with those words, he’s back inside you again, ramming into you with purpose. Though his thrusts are as unforgiving as ever, something about the air feels charged with something different. A rawness that both of you would have shied away from.

“Th-this doesn’t hngh- fix us, y’know.”

“I know, my love.”

His low words muffled as he buries his face into the crook of your neck, kissing the bite mark with a tenderness that doesn’t translate into his hips. And you can’t overthink it - because your head is only filled with him and the way your cunt is milking his thick cock so good.

And later you’ll probably blame your foggy thoughts for the reason why your hands subconsciously wrap around his muscled shoulders, pulling him so impossibly close until you can feel his heartbeat thundering under your touch - in sync with your own. One. Two. Three.

“Ah! Shit. Doing so good, cunt made jus’ f’me. You’re made jus’ f’me.” choked moans leave his throat as he pulls away ever-so-slightly to look into your fucked out eyes.

“Perfect f’me, my love.”

Maybe at his words - or maybe at his predatory, blown-out gaze - you buck your hips to desperately meet his. Breathless moans of his name leaving your bruised lips.

With a final, purposeful thrust of his cock, he pulls you once more into a familiar, searing kiss that sends you both over the edge. You see stars as you cum, mind barely registering the thick ropes of his seed that fill your quivering cunt.

A low groan leaves him as his cum forms a thick, white ring around his base, dripping down your legs and onto the bedsheets that he knew were your favorite. It was feral - and at least for this moment, it made him feel like yours.

Some carnal part of him keeps bucking his hips into you as if on instinct, letting you ride out your highs together. Fucking his cum deeper and deeper the way he would as lovers, his strong arms wrapped around you to keep you from moving away. But he didn’t have to, because right now you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Keeping you close. As if he never wanted to let go - both of your bodies a mindless whisper of what your minds craved.

A delicate intimacy that only your bodies could bring rings in the sex-filled air. And when he finally stops, body collapsing onto yours - he whispers a secret. Meant for only the two of you in this quiet world.

“Fuck me like you still love me.”

Because by God was he in love with you.

- Gojo, TOJI, SUGURU, Atsumu, SUNA, Tsukishima, SAKUSA, EREN

A/N. Maybe I’ll do some fluff next week to make up for this…

Plagiarism not authorized.

7K notes · View notes

killerplink · 3 months ago

Text

DEVOTION

Pairing: Jason Todd x Female Reader

Plot: A fight with Jason gets heated—sharp words, stubborn tempers, neither of you backing down. But when the tension snaps, it turns into something else entirely. Something raw, desperate, and messy.

Words: 10k

The apartment door slams behind you both, the sharp sound echoing in the quiet space. Your heels clack against the hardwood as you stalk toward the bedroom, too pissed to even look at him right now. Jason follows, his heavy boots thudding after you, that cocky swagger in every step even though you're very clearly fuming.

"Are you really gonna be mad all night?" he asks, tone half lazy, half exasperated.

You whip around so fast your hair flies over your shoulder, finger already pointed at his chest. "Yes! Jason, I swear to God, you're fucking impossible!"

His brows shoot up, that infuriating smirk tugging at his mouth. "What'd I do now, doll?"

"What'd you do? Are you serious?" You step closer, eyes flashing, and jab a finger into his chest. "You almost started a fight at the restaurant! Over nothing! Just—someone bumped into me, and suddenly you're ready to crack skulls like you're still some street kid with nothing to lose, except you have everything to lose, Jason! I have everything to lose!"

That softens his smirk, just a little. But it doesn't disappear, not entirely. "Baby, I had it under control."

"No, you didn't!" Your voice breaks on the words, frustration and fear tangled up too tight in your chest. "You never have it under control when you get like that. You stop thinking. It's like you don't even care what happens to you."

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "You're bein' dramatic."

"Oh, fuck you." You turn away, arms crossed tight, nails digging into your own skin like you can hold yourself together if you just squeeze hard enough. "I'm not being dramatic, Jay. I'm scared. Every time you act like your life doesn't matter, it scares the shit out of me because your life does matter. To me."

That knocks some of the wind out of his cocky sails, but true to form, Jason Todd never backs down that easily. "I can handle myself, baby. I've been in worse fights before you even knew me."

"And maybe that's the problem!" You spin around again, hands flung wide. "You're so used to throwing yourself into danger like you've got a death wish, you don't even think about the people who love you, who have to watch you do it. Who have to fucking wait and hope you come home in one piece."

His jaw clenches, that sharp edge of defensiveness flashing in his eyes. "I came home tonight, didn't I?"

"Barely! If Dick hadn't dragged you out of there—"

"—I would've walked out just fine on my own," he cuts in, voice hard, like he's this close to losing his temper too.

You both stand there, breathing hard, anger seeping through every pore. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, anger and fear and love all tangled into a knot you can't untie. And goddamn him, even now, with his blood still running hot from almost throwing down, with that cocky little glint still in his eye—he looks good. Messy hair, jaw clenched tight, that black shirt stretched over his broad chest, his hands flexing like he still has adrenaline to burn.

You want to shake him. You want to kiss him. You want to scream until your throat hurts.

Jason exhales, slow and heavy, like he's trying to ease some of that heat out of his chest before you both say something you can't take back.

"Baby," he says, quieter now, "I'm fine."

Your throat closes up. "For now."

He takes a step closer, hands sliding to your waist, fingers curling into your dress. "I'm not goin' anywhere, pretty girl."

You shake your head, eyes stinging. "You can't promise that."

Jason sighs as he leans down, forehead tipping against yours. "What do you want me to say, huh? That I'll never lose my temper again? That I'll play nice and walk away every time some asshole gets in my face? That's not who I am."

"I know," you whisper. "But it's who I wish you could be. Just for me."

That hits somewhere deep, somewhere tender he doesn't let many people see. But instead of softening, Jason leans into the heat instead because that's how he knows to handle fear, with fire.

"C'mere," he mutters, dragging you into him, arms wrapping tight around your waist. "You wanna fight with me? Do it right here, baby. Get it out of your system."

You shove at his chest, and he catches your wrist, twisting you into him like a dance, his breath warm against your ear.

"Or," he says low, voice all gravel and heat, "you can find a better way to work out all that attitude."

"Fuck off," you snap, but it's weaker now, your anger unraveling into something messier, hotter.

He chuckles, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "C'mon, pretty girl. You're pissed, I'm pissed, and you're standin' here looking like that." His hands slide down, grabbing your ass hard through your dress. "We both know exactly how this night's gonna end."

Your breath catches, nails curling into his chest again, not pushing this time, just holding on.

"Still mad at me, baby?"

"Yeah."

"Good." He grins against your mouth, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. "Let me make it up to you."

Your hands land flat on his chest, shoving him back, catching him off guard enough that he stumbles two steps out of the bedroom. And before he can say a damn word, you slam the door right in his stupid, handsome, reckless face. Not locked, just shut, because locking it feels too final, too mean, and you're pissed, but not that pissed.

Jason stares at the door for half a second, then his forehead drops against it with a low thud, and he knocks his head against it once, twice, just hard enough to feel it.

"Fuck."

He didn't mean to ruin the night. He never means to ruin shit when it comes to you. But the moment that asshole's hand brushed against your ass—innocent or not—it flipped a fucking switch in him. And maybe that's fucked up, maybe he's got a million unresolved issues tied to losing everyone he's ever given a shit about, but you?

You're his. His girl, his future, his everything, and seeing someone else's hand anywhere near you sends him spiraling into that ugly, possessive part of himself that only you've ever managed to soften.

And yeah, maybe the guy didn't mean it, maybe it was just a crowded restaurant and accidents happen, but Jason's not the kind of man who plays it cool. Not when it comes to you. Not when he loves you so much it hurts sometimes, sitting right there under his ribs like a bruise he can't stop poking.

He presses his palms to the door, wishing he could just rewind the whole night—go back to you looking so pretty at the restaurant, all smiles and soft touches, letting him steal kisses between courses. You'd been happy. And then he fucked it up. Again.

Inside the bedroom, you sit on the edge of the bed, fingers curled into the sheets, trying to hold back the sting in your eyes. You won't cry—you won't—but your throat's tight, and your chest aches, and the night feels like it's unraveling right between your fingers.

Tonight was supposed to be fun. It's Tim's fucking birthday, for God's sake. The restaurant had been beautiful, the food actually good for once, the atmosphere soft and warm with all your friends laughing and talking and teasing each other.

And then some random guy brushed past you on his way to the bathroom, bumping your hip, and Jason went feral. You love that he's protective—God, you do—but Gotham is full of crazy assholes, and you don't want him starting a fight with someone who might pull out a gun and blow his brains out over a misunderstanding.

The thought makes your stomach churn, fear sliding ice cold down your spine, and you have to shake it off before it eats you alive. You stand, fingers reaching behind you to unzip your dress, and it slides off your body in a whisper of fabric, pooling at your feet. And that's when you catch your reflection in the mirror, and yeah, no wonder he couldn't keep his hands off you all night.

The lingerie underneath? It's not the kind you wear every day. This is the good shit—black lace and thin straps, sheer panels teasing the curves of your tits, a matching thong barely covering anything, thin enough to show just how wet you already are.

Because for all the shit he's pulling tonight, Jason's still your hot ass, broad shouldered, cocky as hell boyfriend, and your pussy? She does not hold grudges.

You're still mad. You still wanna shake him until his teeth rattle. But you also want him to fuck you so hard you forget why you were even mad to begin with.

You sigh, tug open the bedroom door, and march straight into the living room, chin high, steps confident even though your knees are still a little weak from all that adrenaline. And, yeah, maybe from how fucking good he made you cum this morning.

Jason's slouched on the couch, head tipped back, hands dragging down his face, and when he hears your footsteps, he looks up, and freezes.

His eyes rake over you, slow and dark, tongue darting out to wet his lips like his mouth's gone dry. "Jesus Christ."

You cross your arms under your tits, pushing them up just a little higher. "What? Cat got your tongue, big guy?"

His gaze flicks from your face to your tits to the sheer lace stretched over your hips, and the way the thin strip of fabric between your legs is already dark with how wet you are.

"You're tryin' to fuckin' kill me," he mutters, half to himself, half to you.

You cock a hip, all attitude, even though your pulse is hammering. "Thought you liked a challenge."

Jason pushes up from the couch, moving slow, shoulders broad and tense, every line of him saying he's holding himself back—barely. "You're still mad at me."

"Furious," you agree.

"And you're standin' there looking like that."

You glance down at yourself, trailing a finger over the top of your bra, down the center of your stomach. "Yeah. What are you gonna do about it?"

He's on you in two steps, one hand cupping the back of your neck, the other grabbing a handful of your ass, yanking you flush against him. "Gonna fuck the attitude right outta you, baby."

"Promises, promises."

He kisses you hard enough to steal your breath, hands already roaming, already tugging at the straps of your bra, already ready to tear you apart and put you back together again, but you're faster. You grab two handfuls of his shirt, spinning him around and shoving him back onto the couch. He goes down without a fight, grinning like the cocky bastard he is, because you both know you can't actually budge him unless he lets you.

But fuck, does it turn him on when you try.

Jason sprawls into the cushions, legs spread, hands braced on his thighs like he's daring you to climb on top of him, but instead, you drop to your knees between his legs. His whole body tenses, chest rising slower, breath catching because you—all pissed off, all attitude, all tits spilling out of that black lace bra—are kneeling right there, looking up at him like you're about to ruin his fucking life.

And for once, Jason Todd has nothing to say.

You reach for his belt, slow and deliberate, dragging the leather free of the loops with a sharp tug, and you swear you see his fingers twitch. He's already getting hard, already pressing against the front of his jeans, already so fucking easy for you.

The buckle clinks as you undo it, popping the button next, tugging the zipper down with a sound that seems louder than it should be. And then you pull his jeans and boxers down just far enough to free his dick, and—fuck.

He's so fucking big, already thick and flushed, veins standing out along his length, and a bead of precum clings to the slit, catching the low light. Your pussy throbs on sight alone, clenching around nothing, still sore from the last time he was inside you.

Jason's hand lifts, fingers reaching for the back of your head—because of course he wants to grab your hair, guide your mouth, fuck your throat—but you slap his hand away, sharp and quick.

"No touching."

He freezes like you've just short-circuited every thought in his head. "What?"

"No. Touching." You wrap your fingers around the base of his cock, giving him one slow, punishing stroke, twisting your wrist just the way he likes. "You wanna act reckless? You wanna scare the shit outta me? You wanna start fights over shit that doesn't matter? Then you can sit there with your hands to yourself while I handle this."

Jason's jaw clenches, shoulders tight, every muscle in his thighs twitching, but he obeys. Barely. His hands grip the edge of the couch so tight his knuckles go white.

You lean in, licking up the underside of his cock in one slow, wet drag, ending with a kiss to the tip that leaves your lips shiny with precum. "You're such a fucking idiot, you know that?"

"Yeah, baby," he rasps, voice already rougher. "I know."

You pump him slow, fingers squeezing just right, thumb swiping through the slick at his tip before you slide down again.

"What if you got yourself shot tonight, huh? What the fuck am I supposed to do if you get yourself killed because you can't stand someone breathing in my direction?"

"Fuck." His head tips back, throat flexing, cock leaking even more into your palm.

"Who's gonna love me the way you do? Who's gonna fuck me if you're dead, Jason?" You squeeze his dick just to see his hips jerk. "Who else knows how to ruin me like you do?"

"Baby—"

"No. Don't talk." You flick your tongue against the tip, barely a taste, before you sit back on your heels, jerking him slow and mean. "You don't get to talk, you reckless, possessive, stupid fucking man."

His abs tighten, hands still white-knuckling the couch, and his cock twitches in your grip, a fresh bead of precum sliding down the side. "You love that I'm possessive."

You glare up at him, lips curling. "I do. But not when it puts you in danger, asshole." You kiss the tip again, softer this time. "Not when it makes me scared I'm gonna lose you."

Jason's breath stutters, and you see it. That crack in his tough guy armor, the one only you ever get to see. But you don't let him soften.

Not yet. Instead, you drag your tongue along the underside of his cock again, pumping him faster, twisting your wrist just right, watching his thighs tense and his hips fight not to thrust up into your mouth.

"Keep your hands there," you murmur, voice all sweet and mean at once. "And maybe—maybe—I'll let you cum down my throat."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ."

His head falls back, a bead of sweat sliding down his neck, and you know you've got him right where you want him.

Jason yanks his shirt over his head, tossing it aside, not even bothering with unbuttoning it, because if you're gonna make him suffer, the least he can do is give you something to look at. And fuck, do you look.

Your hands rest on his thick thighs for a second, gaze dragging over every inked inch of him—the dark ink across his chest, the jagged lines along his ribs, the script down his arms that you've traced with your tongue a hundred times before. He's so fucking hot, all muscle and attitude, sprawled out, dick rock hard in your grip, glistening with spit and precum.

"Enjoyin' the view?"

His voice is pure gravel, but there's a waver in it, like he's already hanging by a thread.

"Shut up."

You lean in, dragging your tongue along the underside of his cock again, tracing that thick vein with the tip of your tongue until you reach the head, circling it slowly before you take him into your mouth, lips stretching, jaw aching already, but you don't stop. You never stop.

He's too fucking big, he always is, but you try anyway, sinking lower, feeling the weight of him press against your tongue, the blunt head nudging the back of your throat.

"Greedy little thing," Jason mutters, hands twitching, and you see it. The instinct, the need to grab your hair and fuck your throat until you're crying.

But you slap his thigh sharply. "I said no touching."

"Baby—"

"No."

You sink back down, hollowing your cheeks, sucking him deep until your throat spasms around the fat tip, gagging. Tears prick your eyes, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, but you fucking love it. Love the way his thighs tense, love the way his dick jumps on your tongue, love how fucking desperate he looks.

Jason's chest heaves, fingers curling into fists at his sides. "You're evil."

You hum around him, the vibration making him swear under his breath, and you pull off with a filthy pop, a string of spit connecting your mouth to his cock before you drag your tongue up the side again.

"Yeah? And what's that make you for loving it?"

"Completely fucked."

You grin, all teeth, and take him back into your mouth, bobbing your head faster, sucking him down until you gag again, drool dripping down your chin, slicking his cock even more. Your thighs press together, your pussy throbbing, panties soaked through. You can feel it, the sticky mess between your legs, the ache in your cunt, the way your body needs him, no matter how mad you are.

Jason groans, deep and low, and you glance up at him through wet lashes, seeing the flush on his chest, the tension in his jaw, the muscles jumping in his stomach. He's so fucking close already, you can tell, and every time he tries to lift a hand, you slap it back down, keeping him helpless beneath you, all that strength and power completely useless unless you let him use it.

"Baby, please." His voice cracks, and it's the hottest fucking thing you've ever heard.

You pull off one more time, stroking him fast and messy, your spit slick hand gliding easily along his length. "Please what?"

"Please lemme touch you."

You shake your head, licking up the underside again, tongue teasing his slit before you suck the head back into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks until his hips buck, just once, just enough to choke you again. You swallow hard, tears sliding down your cheeks, and his dick throbs so hard you can feel it on your tongue.

"Be good," you murmur around him, voice muffled and obscene, "and I'll let you cum."

Jason's head falls back, a broken groan ripping from his throat, and you know you've got him. You sink back down, taking him as deep as you can, lips stretched tight around the fat width of his cock, spit and precum slicking your chin as you work him with all the devotion you can muster. What you can't fit—and there's always part of him you can't fit—you stroke with your hand, fingers gliding over the thick base, your palm sticky with drool and his slick.

Your tongue works the head, lapping up every drop of precum he leaks, tasting that salty, addictive tease of what's coming, and you fucking love it. You flick your tongue against his slit, suck gently on the sensitive tip before you sink down again, sucking hard, cheeks hollowed so tight your jaw aches, but you don't fucking care.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Jason groans, his voice wrecked, head tipped back against the couch, muscles tight like he's holding himself together with sheer fucking will. "You're perfect, baby. Mouth so goddamn good—fuck, you always know how to suck me just right."

The praise makes your pussy clench hard, heat flooding your belly, and you double down, bobbing your head faster, working him with both your mouth and hand until your throat burns and your jaw trembles. Every time you pull back, you leave a messy trail of spit and precum glistening along his length, but you dive right back in, tongue swirling around the head before you take him deep again.

"Look at you," Jason breathes, his voice low and rough. "So fuckin' pretty like this. My perfect girl. You love this dick, don't you?"

You hum around him, the vibration making his whole body twitch, and he groans so low it vibrates in your chest. You pull back just enough to gasp, "Love it, Jay. Best fucking dick I've ever had."

"Yeah?" His grin is sharp, dangerous. "Then show me, baby. Show me how much you love it."

Challenge fucking accepted. You take him deep again, swallowing around the head, ignoring the gag reflex that flares up as you press lower, working him into your throat until your nose brushes the skin at the base of his cock. You gag again, spit bubbling past your lips, but you don't stop. You fucking love how heavy he feels on your tongue, how thick and hot and perfect he is, filling your mouth like he was made for it.

Jason's fists clench at his sides, his whole body trembling with restraint. "So good for me, baby," he mutters, voice cracking with it. "So fuckin' good. My pretty, filthy fucking girl. Takin' me so deep—fuck, 'm gonna cum, baby. Gonna fill that perfect mouth."

You moan around him, and that's it. His hips jerk, cock swelling, and then he's cumming, thick ropes of cum spilling across your tongue, hot and salty and so much, it makes you whimper as you swallow, throat working hard to take it all.

He always cums a lot, his balls emptying in pulse after pulse, and you keep sucking, milking him through it, letting every drop slide down your throat until your belly feels warm with it. His cock throbs against your tongue, so sensitive it makes his hips twitch every time your tongue flicks over the head, but you don't stop until you know he's completely spent.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, voice rough and almost shaky. "Gonna kill me one of these days."

You pull back slowly, licking your swollen lips, wiping the mess from your chin with the back of your hand, and grin up at him, all fucked-out satisfaction. Jason pulls you right into his lap, and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.

His hands slide down to grab your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, grinding you down against his cock, still hard and slick with your spit, and you moan when you feel the thick length press up against your soaked lace panties.

"Fuck," Jason mutters, dragging you along his cock again, feeling how drenched you are even through the lace. "That pretty pussy misses me already, huh?"

"Jay," you murmur, voice soft, needy, and when you lean in, he catches your mouth in a kiss—hot, messy, all tongue and teeth, licking into you like he's starving for your taste.

He groans low when he tastes himself on your tongue, dirty and possessive, and you whimper into his mouth, hips moving on their own, grinding down against him, chasing friction.

You break the kiss to breathe, forehead resting against his, and your fingers stroke the hair at the nape of his neck as you whisper, "Do you love me?"

Jason's hands flex on your ass, holding you tighter, and his voice is low, earnest when he says, "You know I do, baby. Love you so fuckin' much."

You lick your lips, eyes dark with want. "Then fuck me like you mean it."

His eyes flash—something feral, something wild, and before you can say anything else, he's moving, standing up with you in his arms like you weigh nothing before he lays you down on the couch, his jeans and boxers kicked off in one rough move. He kneels over you, hands already tugging your bra down until your tits spill out, and he doesn't even bother unclasping it before he's on you.

"Love these tits," he mutters between kisses, licking over one nipple, sucking it into his mouth before letting it go with a wet pop. His tongue flicks over the other, sharp and teasing, before he closes his lips around it, sucking hard until you gasp and arch into him. "So fuckin' pretty, baby. Could spend all day suckin' on these."

You tug at his hair, breathless, moaning when he drags his teeth over your nipple, just the right amount of rough. He leaves a trail of messy hickeys down the curve of your tits, marking you like the possessive asshole he is, and you swear your pussy gets even wetter from it.

He kisses down your stomach, hands already hooking into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down just enough to get access to you. "Love this body," he murmurs, licking over the waistband before kissing your hipbone. "Love this pussy. Love you, baby."

You whimper, spreading your legs instinctively, and he groans at the sight of your panties clinging to your soaked folds, the lace darkened with how wet you are. His fingers trace along the edge of the fabric, barely touching you, just enough to make your thighs twitch in frustration.

Then his tongue flicks out, teasing you through the fabric, just the lightest drag of warmth over your clit, and you jolt, hips twitching up, chasing more.

Jason hums, amused, as he pulls back, blowing cool air against the damp spot where his tongue just was. "So fuckin' wet for me already," he mutters, voice wrecked, his breath hot against your cunt.

His fingers slide down, pressing against the soaked lace, rubbing slow, lazy circles over your clit, just enough to make you ache but not enough to satisfy.

Your hips stutter, desperate for more friction, but he doesn't give it to you. He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, his scruff scratching at your sensitive skin, and then, another flick of his tongue, this time firmer, tracing over your clit through the thin barrier of lace.

"Jay—" Your fingers tighten in his hair, trying to pull him closer, but he only chuckles, the vibrations making you tremble.

"You love this, don't you?" His voice is thick with hunger, fingers still rubbing slow, teasing circles over your clit. "Love bein' all messy for me, panties soaked, beggin' for my mouth..."

He leans in again, dragging his tongue over you, pressing the fabric against your cunt, making it cling to every swollen, aching inch of you. Then his teeth close around the lace, tugging just enough to make you feel it before letting go.

Your thighs tremble, your body desperate for more, but he just keeps playing with you, running his tongue along the slick fabric, soaking it even more, his fingers pressing right against your entrance, but never giving you what you need.

"Jason—" you whimper, pushing up against his mouth, but he only smirks, pressing another teasing, barely-there kiss over your clit.

"Patience, pretty girl," he murmurs, eyes dark, voice rough.

He finally hooks a finger into the crotch of your panties, pulling them aside to bare you to him, and then his mouth is on you. Hot, wet, tongue sliding through your folds before fucking into you, slow and deep, licking you open like he's savoring every drop.

You moan his name, thighs trying to clamp around his head, but his big hands grab your thighs and hold you open, spreading you wide like he's got all the time in the world to devour you.

"Keep 'em open, baby," he growls, voice muffled between your thighs. "Wanna see this pussy when I eat you."

He fucks you with his tongue, nose brushing against your clit, and every time you try to roll your hips or squirm away from the intensity, he holds you down and just keeps going, messy and obscene, spit and slick dripping down to the couch beneath you.

Jason groans into your pussy, the sound vibrating against your clit, and he sucks. Soft at first, just enough to make you gasp, before he latches on and really sucks, lips wrapped around that sensitive bundle of nerves, tongue flicking against it, over and over, relentless.

"F-Fuck—Jay—" Your voice is all breathy, wrecked, your fingers pulling at his hair, but it only spurs him on.

He hums again, mouth still latched to your clit, and then drags his tongue down, lapping at your folds, hot and messy and so deep you feel it in your gut. He groans like he's starving for you, like he could live off this alone, tongue pushing inside again, fucking you slow and deep before dragging up to swirl around your clit.

And then he does it again. And again. And again.

His hands squeeze at your thighs, holding you open, keeping you spread, his thumbs rubbing slow circles into your trembling skin, soothing even as his mouth drives you insane.

"You taste so fuckin' good, pretty girl," he rasps against your soaked cunt, his lips slick, his chin glistening with your arousal. "Could eat you for hours."

He presses a soft kiss right against your clit before flattening his tongue, licking a long, slow stripe up your pussy, gathering every drop of slick before pushing his tongue back inside you.

You keen, legs twitching, and he groans into you, hands tightening, like he can feel you dripping for him.

"Goddamn, look at you," he mutters, breath hot against your cunt as he pulls back just enough to admire the mess he's making of you. "Drippin' down my fuckin' chin, baby—"

The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth on you echo in the room, filthy and desperate, and all you can do is whimper and take it.

When he pulls back just enough to suck your clit into his mouth again your whole body jolts, and he hums in satisfaction, eyes locked on you as your mouth falls open on a gasp.

"C'mon, baby," he murmurs against you, every word vibrating against your skin. "Cum for me. Wanna taste you."

It hits you hard, your back arching, thighs trembling in his grip as you cry out, body clenching tight before it melts into pleasure. You swear you see stars, the intensity making your head spin, and he groans low in his throat as he licks you through it, sucking every drop you give him, cleaning you up with his tongue like a man fucking starving.

He doesn't stop until you're trembling, oversensitive and gasping for breath, your hands tugging weakly at his hair, begging for a break. When he finally pulls back, his mouth and chin are glistening, and he wipes his face with the back of his hand, grinning down at you like the devil himself.

"Goddamn, baby," he mutters. "Tastes even better when you're mad at me."

Jason flips you onto your stomach like you weigh nothing, handling you exactly the way you love—rough enough to remind you how much stronger he is, gentle enough to show he'll never actually hurt you. And you already know what he wants, so you arch your back, pushing up onto your hands and knees, glancing over your shoulder with a bratty little smirk that makes his jaw clench.

His hands slide down your sides, slow, deliberate, before they settle on your hips, fingers digging in just to hear you gasp. Then he grabs the lace of your panties, tugging them down over your ass, baring your soaked cunt and the mess he already made between your thighs.

"Fuck," he mutters, palming your ass, squeezing and spreading you open to get a better look. "Always so fuckin' pretty back here."

The first slap lands sharp, making you jolt forward, your slick thighs trembling. The sting blooms hot across your skin, and you whimper, but it only makes you arch deeper, pushing your hips back toward him.

Jason watches, transfixed, as your pussy clenches around nothing, dripping slick onto his cock when he presses the thick head between your legs. He's still hard, precum leaking from the swollen tip, and you rock your hips, rubbing your soaked folds against him until he curses under his breath.

"Needy little thing," he grits out, guiding his cock to your entrance. "Can't even pretend you're not desperate for me."

He starts pushing in, splitting you open slow, and the stretch knocks the air from your lungs, leaving you trembling under him. "Oh, fuck—"

"Always so fuckin' tight for me," Jason groans, one hand stroking down your stomach, feeling the way your body stretches to take him. His fingers slip lower, over your clit, slick and swollen, and you shiver all over when he rubs slow circles over it. "Goddamn, baby."

You rock back, taking him deeper, moaning as your pussy clenches down hard around him. He curses, leaning over you, chest pressed to your back, and murmurs low in your ear, "You want me to fuck you like I mean it, huh?"

You nod frantically, words catching in your throat, and Jason groans, pulling back just enough to grab your hips, steadying you before sliding in deeper, bottoming out with one slow, brutal thrust.

He gives you a second, like he always does, letting you adjust because he knows he's big, knows he's a lot, and he loves you too much to hurt you.

But you're impatient, your body burning with need, so you glance back over your shoulder, panting, "Thought you said you loved me."

His jaw tightens, a flush spreading down his chest, and he growls, "I do."

"Then fucking prove it," you challenge, and that's it, the last frayed thread of his self-control snaps.

Jason's hips slam into yours, driving his cock so deep you see stars, and you cry out, fingers scrambling for purchase against the cushions. His hands grip your waist, holding you still so all you can do is take it, body jerking with each brutal thrust, wet sounds filling the room every time his cock splits you open.

Your cunt grips him like a vice, soaked and clenching around him, dragging him back in every time he pulls out, and the slick slide is so obscene, so messy, it only makes him fuck you harder. His hips snap against your ass, the slap of skin on skin echoing, and you bury your face in your arms, moaning his name like a prayer.

"Still wanna fucking die, you idiot?" you gasp between moans, glaring at him over your shoulder, and Jason groans, dropping one hand to slap your ass again.

"Shut up," he pants, driving in deep enough to knock the air out of you. "God, baby—you're so fuckin' wet for me."

"Because you're—you're so fucking stupid," you sob, half-scolding, half-moan. "What if—what if you get yourself killed, and who the fuck's gonna fuck me like this?"

"Jesus Christ," Jason groans, the filthy confession sending a sharp pulse of heat straight to his cock, making it throb inside you. "No one, baby, no one else is ever gonna touch this pussy."

He fucks you harder, deeper, grinding into you until you're shaking under him, toes curling, nails clawing at the couch. Every thrust punches little gasps from your throat, and you can't stop talking, can't stop scolding him even as he's fucking you stupid.

"You love me?" you pant, voice high and breathless.

"Love you so much, baby," he groans, leaning over you, lips against your ear. "Love you, love this body, love this perfect fuckin' pussy. All mine, baby. All fuckin' mine."

"Show me," you whisper, voice shaking. "Show me how much."

Jason's hips snap forward, hard enough to drive you into the couch, and you moan his name, cunt squeezing tight around him. "I'll show you, doll," he pants, sweat dripping down his back. "I'll show you exactly how much."

His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, spreading your ass, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks tomorrow, and you'll love every fucking one of them. Each thrust is brutal, his cock sliding in and out of your soaked pussy, so slick with arousal and his precum that it drips down your thighs, making a mess.

"Look at this greedy fuckin' pussy," he groans, thumbs spreading you open wider just so he can watch. "Suckin' me in like you missed this dick."

"I did," you gasp, fingers clutching at the couch cushions. "But you're still a fucking idiot."

Jason grits his teeth, hips snapping forward hard enough to shove you up the couch, your knees scraping against the fabric. Your slick little cunt grips him tight, soft and warm and soaked inside, milking his cock every time he drags back just to slam back in. Precum leaks from the swollen tip, mixing with your slick, and every thrust pushes it deeper, making you feel so full you can barely breathe.

The couch creaks under both of you, the whole thing rocking with the force of his thrusts, and Jason can't tear his eyes away from the way your ass bounces every time his hips smack into you. Your skin glows, sweat-slick and gorgeous, and he can see the way his dick stretches you open, disappearing into your perfect pussy over and over again.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, almost to himself. "You're perfect. This pussy's fuckin' perfect."

"Damn right it is," you pant, pushing back against him until you're stuffed full all over again. "And if you get yourself killed, who the fuck is supposed to fuck me like this?"

That ticks him off just right this time. His hand shoots out, grabbing the back of your neck, not to hurt, but to hold, to control, and he hauls you upright, your back pressed flush to his broad chest. You gasp, legs shaking, the stretch of his cock inside you deeper, hitting that sweet spot that makes you cry out.

"Who said I was goin' anywhere?" he growls against your ear, hand sliding up from your neck to wrap gently around your throat. "You think I'd leave you, baby? Fuck no."

His other hand finds your tits, fingers tugging at the bra you still hadn't taken off, yanking the cups down completely so your soft skin spills into his hand. He palms your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers, and you moan loud, head tipping back onto his shoulder.

"You love me?" you whisper, breath hitching with every thrust.

"You know I do," he pants, fucking up into you, hips rolling slow but deep, stuffing you so full you swear you can feel him in your throat.

"Then fucking show me," you challenge, rocking your hips down to meet him.

Jason groans, fingers tightening on your throat just a little, enough to make your cunt flutter around him. "I am," he mutters, mouth hot on your neck. "Fuckin' you so good no one else could ever touch you— no one else could make you this wet, this fuckin' messy."

He shoves you back down, face to the cushions, ass in the air, spreading you wide so he can see everything. Especially the way your slick pussy stretches around him, sucking him back in every time he pulls out, shiny with your wetness and his precum.

"Fuckin' shit, baby," he groans, watching his cock slide in and out of your perfect little pussy. "You're fuckin' drippin'."

"Because you're that good, asshole," you snap back, voice muffled by the cushions.

Jason slaps your ass hard enough to make you jolt, cunt squeezing down on him so tight his vision blurs for a second. "Yeah? Then why the fuck you talkin' so much?"

"Because you're a fucking idiot," you sob, back arching when he drives in deep. "You don't—you don't need to start shit every time someone looks at me, Jay. You're the only one who gets to fuck me like this, don't you know that?"

Jason groans, hands tightening on your hips as he slams into you harder, hips snapping, driving you into the couch so deep your knees nearly buckle.

"I know, doll," he pants, voice wrecked. "I know, fuck—I just love you so much, I can't stand anyone else even lookin' at you."

"Then—then fuck me harder," you gasp, tears in your eyes from how good he feels, how perfectly his thick cock fills you up, dragging against every sweet spot inside you. "Fuck me so good I can't even think about anyone else."

Jason yanks you up again, your back flush to his sweat-slick chest, his cock buried so deep you swear you feel him in your fucking lungs. His big hand cups your jaw, turning your face toward him, and he kisses you messy, tongue sliding between your parted lips like he's starving for the taste of you. It's sloppy, wet, both of you panting into each other's mouths, sucking on tongues, biting at lips.

You moan into his mouth when his free hand finds your clit, two fingers rubbing sharp, relentless circles over the sensitive little bud. It's too much, too fast, your cunt already stretched wide and soaked around him, every rub of his fingers making you clench down tighter.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, breath hot against your cheek, hips snapping up into you so hard you bounce. "You're so fuckin' wet—you're drippin' all over my dick."

His fingers don't slow down, and you can't do anything but take it, legs shaking, cunt squeezing around him, your swollen clit throbbing under his ruthless touch. The heat coils low in your belly, sharp and fast, climbing so high so fast it almost scares you.

"Jay—fuck—wait, I—"

Your hand flies down, grabbing at his wrist, trying to ease him off your overstimulated clit, but he's not budging, the muscle in his forearm flexing as he presses down harder.

"No," he growls into your ear, voice wrecked. "You wanted me to fuck you like I mean it? This is what that fuckin' means, baby."

His dick pounds into you mercilessly, every thrust dragging against your sweetest spot, thick and hot and leaking inside you, smearing precum along your fluttering walls. You're soaking him, so slick you can hear the obscene squelch every time he sinks in to the hilt as he rubs your puffy little clit.

Your whole body locks up, spine arching, mouth falling open as you cum so hard it knocks the breath out of you, that sharp edge of pleasure tipping you into freefall. Your pussy clamps down on his cock, tight and trembling, and Jason fucking moans, jaw clenched, hips stuttering as you soak his dick with wave after wave of hot, slick arousal.

But he doesn't stop.

"Gimme more," he pants, fingers ruthless on your clit. "C'mon, baby, you can do it, show me how messy you can get."

"Jason, I—fuck—fuck—"

Your thighs quake, eyes rolling back, and when he starts to slap over your clit lightly, it hits like a live wire—your whole body seizes, cunt pulsing around him, and then it happens.

You fucking squirt, hot and sudden, a slick rush spilling from your cunt, drenching both of you in a messy gush that soaks the couch, his thighs, your thighs—every inch of skin that's pressed together—leaving your pussy glistening, clenching around his dick as your juices drip down to the cushions. It's a mess you didn't even know you could make, and Jason loses it.

You both knew you could squirt when you were drunk off your ass, but this? This was all him. And you're both wrecked with it—you, boneless and trembling, him, harder than fucking steel inside you, completely gone for you.

"Holy fuck, baby," he groans, voice somewhere between awe and pure hunger.

Your whole body shakes, tears spilling down your cheeks from the sheer intensity, overstimulated to the point of pain-tinged pleasure, and Jason kisses you through it, swallowing your sobs and moans right from your tongue.

It's still so messy—hot, wet, open-mouthed, tongues licking into each other's mouths, tasting sweat and spit and you, and he groans deep in his chest like you're the best thing he's ever had.

His cock keeps sliding into your soaked, fluttering cunt, so slick it's almost effortless, but you're still so tight, sucking him in greedily. His fingers finally ease off your clit, stroking instead of circling, soothing instead of torturing, but his kiss stays just as hungry. Desperate like he's trying to memorize your taste, the way you moan into his mouth when you can barely even catch your breath.

"Baby," he murmurs between kisses, breathless and tender and filthy all at once. "You're so fuckin' good for me. Love this pussy—love you."

Jason's lips break from yours, sliding down your jaw, over the curve of your throat, hot breath ghosting over your pulse before his mouth seals against your neck. He sucks hard, tongue flicking over the skin, leaving a bruising, sloppy mark.

And the whole time, his hips keep working, dragging his thick cock in and out of your soaked, swollen cunt, slow but deep, hitting every spot that makes your toes curl.

"Fuck, Jay—" you whimper, head tilting to give him more of your neck, hands clutching at his wrists, his arms, anywhere you can reach to steady yourself.

He hums low in his throat, all smug and wicked, and you can feel him smirk against your skin. "You want my cum, baby?"

You moan loud, nodding so fast it makes him chuckle.

"Of course you do," he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, kissing his way up to your ear. "This needy little pussy loves my cum, huh?"

"Yes," you gasp, writhing against him, trying to push back and take him deeper, to make him give it to you.

But he just teases, slowing his thrusts, dragging every inch out before pushing back in so slowly, letting you feel just how thick and hot he is inside you. "Thought you were mad at me, pretty girl."

"I am," you snap, but it's breathless, your earlier fire softened by the way he's fucking you so deep and slow, pulling every sound he loves right out of your throat.

"Yeah?" he smirks, tongue licking over your racing pulse. "Then why should I cum inside this perfect little pussy if you're still so fuckin' mad?"

"Jason—" you whine, pushing back harder, but his hand holds you steady, thumb pressing into your hip, controlling the pace no matter how desperate you are.

"Gotta convince me, baby," he taunts, voice all low and syrupy-sweet, fingers sliding down to your clit just to flick it, making you jolt and clench down hard on his cock. "Why should I fill you up, huh? Gimme one good reason."

"Because I need it," you gasp, fingers clawing at the couch cushions. "Need you to cum inside me, need to feel it—fuck—please, Jay."

"Need it?" He grins against your neck, biting just hard enough to make you yelp. "Sounds like my girl's not so mad after all."

"I am—"

"No, you're not," he cuts you off, fucking into you a little faster, just to hear the pitch of your voice climb. "You just like actin' tough until you're full of my dick, huh?"

You nod frantically, pride shredded, nothing left but raw, aching need. "Yes—yes—God, yes—please, Jay."

"Please, what?" His cock drags against your sweet spot with every thrust, his fingers circling your clit again, faster this time. "Say it, baby. Tell me exactly what you want."

"Want you to cum inside me," you sob, back arching, thighs trembling. "Want to feel it dripping out—want to be so fucking full of you, Jay, please—"

That does it. His grip tightens as he snaps his hips forward, fucking you deep, no more teasing, just hard, filthy thrusts, skin slapping skin, his cock driving into your slick little cunt until the wet noises echo louder than your breathless moans.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, forehead pressing to your shoulder. "Gonna give it to you— gonna fill this perfect pussy up."

You moan his name like a prayer, clenching down so hard it makes him stutter, and then he's gone, hips jerking, cock throbbing deep inside you as he spills, hot and thick, cum flooding your pussy in pulse after pulse after pulse.

It's so much—the heat of it, the way his dick twitches inside you with every spurt, and fuck, you feel everything. The way his cock pulses, the way his cum paints your insides, so deep, so full, your body reacts before you even realize, pleasure slamming through you again, white-hot and all-consuming.

"Oh—fuck—fuck—"

Your whole body trembles, seizing up as you arch, as your walls clamp down hard around his dick, the overstimulation pushing you over the edge again, even sharper this time.

Jason groans, choked and wrecked, because he feels it. The way your pussy flutters, grips him like a vice, milking him, dragging out his orgasm as another thick pulse of cum spurts deep inside you.

"Shit, pretty girl—fuck—"

His voice is hoarse, breathless, hands locking onto your hips as he bucks up, rutting into you with slow, desperate rolls, like he's trying to fuck his cum deeper.

You're soaking him, your release gushing around his dick, slick dripping down to his balls, making everything filthy as you keen, breath hitching, body trembling. The pleasure is so much you can't stop shaking, can't stop gasping, every little twitch of his cock sending more sparks crackling through your limbs.

Jason groans again, deep and raw, his fingers digging into your skin, keeping you right where he wants you, his cock still buried inside, still throbbing, even as his hips slow, his whole body shuddering against yours.

"Jesus Christ, baby—" He swallows hard, head falling forward against your shoulder, voice thick, half-slurred. "Damn near killed me."

But he doesn't let go. He won't. His arms curl around you, holding you close, keeping you locked against him, cock still nestled deep, even as his cum drips out, thick and hot, making a mess between your thighs.

You both shudder, your pussy milking him for everything, his cock twitching, still so sensitive it makes him groan low in his throat as he grinds against you, lazy and slow. You're so full you leak around him, creamy slick dripping down his balls, sticky and hot, smearing where your thighs press together.

It's messy, obscene, perfect, and he loves every second of it.

He kisses your shoulder, still panting, his hand sliding up your stomach to cup your tits, lazy fingers playing with one nipple. "Still mad, baby?"

"Maybe," you mumble, face buried in the crook of his neck, completely fucked stupid.

Jason's laugh rumbles low in his chest, warm and rough and just so him, his lips pressing to your temple in a lazy, affectionate kiss. "You're a terrible liar, doll."

His cock slips free from your fluttering cunt with a slick, obscene noise, your pussy clenching reflexively at the sudden emptiness, already missing him even with his cum still leaking from your swollen slit. It smears down your inner thighs, dripping onto the couch cushion below, and Jason watches it like a man obsessed, fingers tracing over the slick mess he made of you before finally easing you down against him.

You whine, soft and spent, but you don't fight it when he turns you gently, pulling your smaller body right on top of his, the perfect little puzzle piece to his broad, muscular frame. Your skin feels like it's buzzing, every inch of you overstimulated and tender, but his hands are so gentle.

Big palms soothing up and down your back, warm fingers tracing lazy circles along your spine. His lips find your temple again, softer this time, and the two of you just breathe, hearts still pounding, somehow falling into the same steady rhythm.

You nuzzle into his neck, breath warm against his skin, and for a while, the only sound is both of you catching your breath, bodies molding together.

After a long, quiet moment, Jason's voice breaks the silence—rough, hesitant. "I'm sorry."

You blink up at him, your face blissed-out and sleepy, limbs heavy, but you still reach up, cupping his cheek, thumb brushing gently over the scar there. His hand comes up to cover yours, his palm dwarfing yours as he lifts it to his mouth, kissing your palm, his lips warm and soft.

"I'm sorry too," you murmur, voice soft, but Jason just shakes his head.

"Nah," he says, eyes flicking up to the ceiling like it's easier to talk to that than to you. "It was my fault. I just..." he trails off, breath hitching slightly, and for a rare moment, Jason Todd looks nervous.

You wait, patient and quiet, until he finally sighs, his grip on your hand tightening just a bit. "I never had this kind of love before," he says, voice so low you almost miss it. "Ever."

Your heart aches, and you squeeze his hand back, silently urging him to keep going.

"And yeah, I don't—I don't know how to behave sometimes," he admits, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. "I know it's wrong to be so fuckin' possessive. To assume you're mine just because I want you to be."

"Baby," you whisper, brow furrowing, but he keeps talking, like he has to get it all out before he loses his nerve.

"It's selfish and stupid," he says, frustrated with himself. "But I just... I never felt this way about anyone before. And it's fuckin' terrifyin', but it's also the best goddamn thing that's ever happened to me."

Your chest aches, soft and warm and so full of love for this man who's only ever known how to fight for what he wants, and now he's fighting himself, just to figure out how to love you right.

You tilt his chin until he's looking at you again, your eyes wide and soft and just a little stunned, because yeah, Jason's softer with you, you know that. But this? This vulnerability, this naked honesty, this is rare. This is the part of him no one gets to see.

"What are you talking about, baby?" you whisper, thumb tracing his lower lip. "I'm yours. You don't have to doubt that."

His eyes darken, something vulnerable flickering beneath the heat. "Yeah, but—"

"No 'but'," you cut him off, leaning down to kiss him—soft, sweet, no heat this time, just love. "I am yours, Jay. You don't own me, but I belong to you. And that's my choice."

His arms tighten around you, almost crushing you to his chest, but you don't complain. You just melt into it, letting him hold you like he's afraid you'll slip through his fingers if he lets go.

And yeah, maybe your pussy's still throbbing, and there's cum dripping down your thighs, and you both reek of sweat and sex, but right now? Right now, all that matters is this.

You shift slightly on top of him, just enough to press your lips to his chest—soft, lingering, right over his heart. It's steady beneath your mouth, a quiet, strong beat that reminds you he's here. And you hold onto that, breathing him in as you kiss him again, even softer this time.

Jason's hand slides up your back, fingers weaving into your hair as he cups the back of your head, guiding you up just enough to press a kiss to your forehead. It's so gentle, so sweet, and your chest aches all over again, tears pricking at the back of your eyes.

"I'm sorry I said I want you to change for me," you murmur, voice quiet and a little hoarse. "I didn't mean it like that. I just..." you sigh, fingers tracing idle patterns over his ribs. "I knew what I was getting into when we first met. I knew. And I thought that over time, it would be easier to just... I don't know... get used to the idea that one day you might not come home."

His hand tightens slightly in your hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to let you know he's listening.

"But it's not," you whisper, voice cracking slightly.

"I know," he says softly, his lips finding your temple again.

You exhale, shaky and uneven, and your voice wavers when you say, "I just want you to promise you'll always come back to me. I can't lose you, Jason. You're the only person in my life I've ever loved like this, and I just... I can't—"

The words catch in your throat, and you almost sniffle, but Jason's already there, tilting your chin up until you meet his gaze. And fuck, the way he looks at you—like you're everything, like you hung the goddamn moon—it almost breaks you.

He can't stand seeing you cry. Not like this. Crying because he fucks you stupid? Sure, any day of the week. But crying because you're scared of losing him? That kills him a little.

His thumb strokes along your cheek, brushing away the tears threatening to spill. "I promise, doll," he says, voice low and steady and so fucking sincere it hurts. "I'll always come back to you."

You nod, swallowing hard before you nuzzle back into the crook of his neck, letting his warmth wrap around you like a shield. His arms tighten around you again, holding you like you're his lifeline. And maybe you are.

And yeah, there's still mess between your thighs, and the couch probably needs to be burned after what you just did to it, but none of that matters right now. All that matters is this. Just you and Jason, skin to skin, hearts pounding in sync, holding onto each other like the world outside doesn't exist.

After a quick cleanup—you both do what you can with the poor couch, but honestly, there's only so much scrubbing that'll save it—you end up in the shower together, lazily soaping each other up with that vanilla body wash you love. Jason grumbles about how it's too sweet and not him, but the second you press your slick, warm body against his under the spray, he shuts up real fast.

Wrapped in clean clothes, smelling like dessert, you curl up on the couch, freshly dressed in one of his worn-out t-shirts that hangs off your shoulder and a pair of cotton panties. Jason settles next to you in his sweats, bare chested, all warm skin and ink as you tangle yourself around him like the needy gremlin you are.

A box of shitty pizza rests between you—a sad, greasy excuse for a meal, but somehow perfect for tonight—and some trash reality show plays in the background, the kind that makes you both question humanity.

Jason glances at you, his arm stretched around your shoulders, fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin. "So... we good?"

You roll your eyes, groaning dramatically, before leaning over to chomp a massive bite out of his slice, despite the fact you're already holding your own.

"You little brat," he mutters, shaking his head, but there's no real heat in it. If anything, the way he smiles at you—soft, warm, a little exasperated—makes your chest feel too small for your heart.

You just flash him a smug grin, mouth full of stolen pizza, and lean your head on his shoulder, sighing happily. "We're good, Jay."

And yeah, the couch will never be the same, and the pizza's objectively terrible, and the show's giving you both secondhand embarrassment. But with you curled into him, his arm wrapped around your waist, and your bare leg hooked over his thigh, Jason figures he might just be the luckiest motherfucker in Gotham.

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