tearsandtechno

[tearsandtechno]

kissing lesson (perv!eddie x inexperienced!reader)

summary: you tell eddie you’ve never made out with anyone before so he offers to teach you.

cw: f!reader , a little dumbification , heavy petting

an: as requested by a lovely nonnie , inspired by this hc list! banner pics just for funsies, no descriptive language used for reader!

you’re sitting at the table in eddie’s kitchen, spinning the stem of a cherry between your fingers. there’s an empty soda can between you and a half eaten bag of chips by him, and neither of you are doing a damn thing except talking shit and wasting time.

“what’s the worst kiss you’ve ever had?” you ask, tossing the cherry stem toward the trash and missing completely.

eddie smirks, leaning back in his chair like he’s just been waiting for that question. “oh, easy. mall parking lot. ninth grade. swear the girl tried to lick inside my nose.”

you laugh. “what the hell—was she confused?”

“maybe just ambitious,” he says, shrugging. “what about you?”

you hesitate. twist a ring on your finger. “i… don’t really have one.”

“what, never had a bad kiss?”

“not really. i haven’t had enough to compare.”

that makes his eyebrows lift. “how many have you had?”

you give him a pointed look. “none of your business.”

“oh, so like… one?”

“maybe.”

he leans forward on his elbows, voice dropping. “maybe?”

you sigh, cheeks warming. “fine. i’ve kissed people. just—not like… like that.”

“like what?”

you glance away. “slow. messy. with tongue. whatever.”

he blinks. pauses. and then he’s laughing, loud and delighted.

you cross your arms, suddenly flushed. “shut up.”

“wait, seriously?” he says, grinning. “you’ve never made out with anyone?”

you shake your head quickly. “i mean, not properly.”

he whistles low. “christ. you’re tellin’ me no one’s ever sucked on your tongue a little? licked into your mouth, nice and slow?”

your face burns. you look at him, eyes wide. “should they have?”

eddie’s already shifting in his seat, spreading his thighs wider under the table. “jesus, sweetheart.”

you roll your eyes. “stop acting like it’s a crime.”

he grins, all teeth. “it kinda is, actually. that’s like… a public service someone’s failed to provide.”

you scoff, leaning back in your chair. “so dramatic.”

he hums, low and thoughtful. “that’s tragic.”

“you’re being dramatic.”

he licks his lips. leans in. “i could show you.”

your eyes snap to his.

he shrugs, like it’s no big deal. like he hasn’t already seen every thought behind your eyes. “just a lesson. nothing crazy. i’m very professional.”

you laugh nervously. “professional?”

“mm hmm. top marks in tongue sucking 101. hands on instruction. or, uh—mouths on.”

you shove his shoulder but don’t lean away. “you’re such a perv.”

“and you’re curious.”

his voice dips. eyes flick to your mouth. “just one kiss, sweetheart. we’ll go slow.”

you try to laugh it off, but your voice comes out softer. “you’re so full of shit.”

he shrugs. “maybe. but you’re the one sittin’ here thinkin’ about it.”

you hesitate. your thighs press together.

you open your mouth to argue—don’t get the chance.

“c’mere,” he says, already pushing back his chair. “lesson one: come sit on my lap.”

“…okay,” you whisper.

and that’s when he pulls you into his lap—and the lesson starts.

you step between his knees and he guides you down with big, warm hands, settling you on his lap like you belong there. he smells like leather and weed and old laundry detergent. his rings are cold where they brush your thighs.

you sit still, a little stiff. your heart’s beating way too loud.

he doesn’t kiss you yet.

instead, he tips your chin up with two fingers and leans in close—close enough to feel the heat of his breath on your lips, the brush of his nose against yours. his voice is barely above a whisper.

“just relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “i’ll go slow.”

your mouth parts slightly. he smiles.

“don’t think,” he tells you. “just follow me. easy.”

then he kisses you.

and it is easy—because he makes it that way. slow and soft at first, just lips. he pulls back slightly, then nudges in again, coaxing your mouth to open a little more with the barest brush of his tongue. his hand moves up, cradling your jaw, holding you steady as he kisses you again, this time deeper.

your lashes flutter.

his tongue licks into your mouth—gentle, steady, warm. you copy the motion without thinking, and he hums like you’ve done something right.

“good,” he whispers, nose brushing yours. “just like that. don’t rush.”

your hands grip his shoulders, clinging for balance as he kisses you again—longer this time. messier. your lips part wider, your tongue starts to move, and something clicks in the way he groans into it, like he feels it too.

“that’s it, baby,” he murmurs, tongue dragging wet and heavy over yours again. “you’re such a fast learner.”

before you realize, you get lost in it— his lips are sticky with your gloss. spit’s smeared at the corners of his mouth, and more drips when he pulls back just a little, panting. your tongue chases his. chases the mess. he chuckles, cupping your cheek in one hand and wiping your lip with his thumb, then sucking it into his mouth.

“fuck, you taste good,” he says, voice all warm and gravel soft. “what is that? cherry?”

your breath stutters. “guess.”

his hand slips under your skirt, big and warm on your bare thigh. his other hand slides around the back of your neck, tugging you close again, his nose bumping yours.

“focus, sweetheart.” his voice drops an octave. “i’m tryin’ to teach you.”

you blink, dazed. your thighs clench over his. he’s already hard underneath you, has been since the second time you sucked his tongue into your mouth, slow and messy and eager. you’re still not sure if you’re doing it right, but eddie keeps groaning and twitching under you, so. probably.

“open up,” he whispers.

you do.

his tongue pushes into your mouth again, slow and thick. not kissing, not anymore—just licking, deep and lazy, like he’s savoring you. you whimper, hips twitching forward without meaning to. he’s palming himself now, slow under the table where you can’t see. you can feel the movement, the tension in his arms. feel his cock pressing up under your soaked panties through both layers of denim. he huffs a laugh, pulling back just enough to speak.

“jesus,” he breathes, lips brushing yours. “you gonna kiss every guy like this now?”

you shake your head fast, eyes wide. “n-no—just you.”

he groans. his grip on your thigh tightens, jaw flexing.

“yeah, baby. fuckin’ right just me.”

his tongue’s back in your mouth before you can say anything else. sloppier now. your chin’s wet. his spit’s in your mouth and yours is on his. he keeps it going—licking, sucking, breathing you in. you think you could come from this alone, from the heat of him under you, from the way he keeps muttering—

“god, that’s it. sweet fucking girl.”

“so eager, bet you’d let me fuck your throat just to practice.”

“you feelin’ dumb yet, baby? you look it.”

your lashes flutter, and he smiles against your mouth.

“there she is,” he purrs. “knew you’d get stupid on my tongue.”

you try to kiss him again but miss, mouth sliding over his cheek instead, and he lets out the filthiest laugh—then grabs your face with both hands and kisses you. rough. filthy. his tongue everywhere. all spit and noise and heat.

you’re squirming now. moaning into it. trying not to grind down but failing. he groans again, hand flying to your ass and grabbing, dragging you hard over his cock like he needs the friction or he’ll die.

you barely manage a word. “eddie—”

“shhh,” he says, licking at your lips again. “lesson’s not over yet, baby.”

he cups your chin. tilts your head. keeps kissing you like it’s his fucking job. you never want it to end.

you think you’ll beg if he stops. you think he’d make you.

[tearsandtechno]

Steve Harrington x Fem!reader 2K. A choose your own adventure fic.

I LIKE TO THINK OF YOU AS MINE: APARTMENT TWO

He wasn’t here.

It was just passing midnight and he still wasn’t here.

Did you care? You weren’t sure. You thought you were supposed to. But maybe that burning annoyance in your chest was more to do with the pitying stares your guests were giving you rather than your boyfriend’s actual absence.

The apartment was full, almost too full, of people. Friends, colleagues, old classmates, probably some strangers. The balcony door was open, people lingering inside and out as the warm summer air made the living room feel even fuller. Music was playing, just loud enough that your landlord wouldn’t throw a fit and the lights were low, the lamps casting a warm haze against the brick walls. Empty pizza boxes lay on the coffee table and bottles of alcohol were piling up on the counters, a sea of red cups on the island that separated the kitchen from the living room. The sink that was once full of ice and beer was now a slurry of water and other questionable substances, a pie crust floating on top like a tiny boat.

You looked at the door but it didn’t open. In fact, it hadn’t opened since Robin had taken in the tower of pizzas two hours ago.

He wasn’t coming. And that was fine.

Someone you knew from high school bumped your shoulder as they drunkenly staggered to the bathroom, mouthing an apology as they went. You smiled and tried not to glare at the couples that were cosied up in various corners of the room, girls sitting on laps, men’s arms draped around their significant other, people who had only met that night kissing in the places the light didn’t reach.

If you found out someone had hooked up in your bed that wasn’t you, you’d throw the entire thing off the balcony.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been standing in the kitchen corner but by the time you’d taken another sip of your gin, it was too warm. Screwing your nose up, you dumped it in the sink and tried to avoid looking at the oven clock. Robin was on the sofa with Nancy, both of them curled into each other, nose to nose as they whispered, exchanging kisses like secrets. Jonathan was on the balcony, his joint a ruby red dot in the dark as he passed it to Argyle.

You sighed, you looked at the clock. You could help it. Twelve twenty six. With everyone this tipsy and preoccupied, there was a good chance you could make it over to your bedroom door. It was too loud to sleep but maybe you could slip on your Walkman and zone out until everyone left—

“What’s with the face?” A finger poked at your cheek.

You swatted it on instinct, frowning as you turned to hide the expression you could seem to shift. “What’s with your face?” You retorted childishly and you heard a laugh that only deepened your scowl.

You hopped onto the kitchen top before reaching for the half empty bottle of wine someone had seemingly forgotten about. Not bothering with a glass, you flicked the lid off and watched it land over by the stereo, draining most of the drink in one gulp.

“That bad, huh?” Steve was leaning onto the counter and peering up at you from beneath his lashes, cheeks pink from the heat and the alcohol. “What time did he say he was comin’?”

You chose not to answer, finishing off the lukewarm wine instead. Your wrinkled your nose at the sour notes it left on your tongue, silently blaming Robin for her cheap taste in drink. You felt rather than saw your roommate soften, Steve leaning in close like he always did, an overfamiliar feeling of comfort washing over you. He smelled like the same cologne he’d worn since he was sixteen, the laundry detergent you both used. His elbow bumped your knee, his face close to your own despite you sitting up higher than him.

“He’s a dick. Anyone called Kyle is a dick,” he told you softly but matter of factly. The kitchen was emptier now, the guests sprawled over the couches and crowding around the dining table to play beer pong. “I dunno why you’re with him.”

You’d heard the same sentiment from Steve’s lips a million times before. And maybe a few months ago, you’d have done more to defend your boyfriend and his actions. You would’ve sat up a little straighter, spoke a little louder, been a little bolder. Maybe even sounded like you were in love when you argued his corner for him.

Now? Now you just shrugged. ‘Cause you really didn’t have an answer. But still, you moped. Mostly because you were drunk and it was too warm and everyone else seemed to having more fun in your own apartment than you were.

“C‘mon,” Steve groaned, moving to stand between your legs. “You look too sober.” He was too tactile when he was drunk, more so with you than anyone else, Robin liked to note. An overgrown puppy, all messy hair and pink lips that were pouting at you. His brown eyes were too familiar, as glossy as his mouth, both due to the beer, the whisky, the wine. “Have some fun. Play w’me.”

You warmed at the suggestion, ears burning as Steve grasped at your knees, his hands hot even over the denim of your jeans. If he’d have been anyone else, you’d have brushed him off, pushed him away with the toe of your shoe but you didn’t. It was Steve.

Your Steve.

So you pretended that you hated it anyway, head thrown back as you groaned and mumbled something about being tired and then Steve was whistling towards the balcony door, gesturing to Jonathan and suddenly there was a joint in his hand and the sweet, heady smell of weed was under your nose.

“Steve,” you warned.

Not for his sake, but for yours. You didn’t do great when stoned, you got silly and sloppy and needed someone to hold your hand and make sure you had access to hot Che-

“There’s a bag of Cheeto’s at the back of the cupboard,” the boy mumbled, too busy cupping his hands around the joint that was balanced between his lips. He was looking down at it, the flick of the lighter he’d taken from his back pocket making the planes of his face glow amber, long lashes casting shadows across his cheeks. “I hid them for you earlier.”

You swallowed thickly at his words.

He looked at you as he took a long draw, hair falling over his eyes, a smirk playing in the corner of his mouth. He blew out towards the ceiling, held the joint out to you in offer. “It’s fine, I’ll look after you, you know I will. You gotta loosen up, enjoy yourself, yeah?”

You took it, sullen, offended at the insinuation that you didn’t look like you were having fun at all. Which was an entirely correct observation, and clearly sulking in your own kitchen proved that too well. You brought the roll up to your lips, brows furrowed and your eyes still glancing at the door, hoping, waiting. Then Steve’s hands were back on your legs, a little higher than your knees now, thumbs brushing the outside of your thighs and—

“Fine, fuck it,” you mumbled and you took a hit, lungs filled, eyes closed and you could hear Steve chuckling, the sound filled with an affection you’d heard time and time again.

Steve watched as you took a draw, much shorter than his own, and his hands were on your thighs the whole time, the heat of his body too close to your own. If anyone was looking, you would’ve looked much more than roommates, too much for best friends. He was leaning in, smiling, cheeks rosy for the warmth in the apartment, eyes trained on the way your lips were wrapped around the joint and when you blew out, he laughed, congratulating you with a gentle butt of his forehead against your own.

“Atta girl,” he murmured and you wouldn’t have heard him over the music and the laughter and the chatter of your friends but oh my god, he was so close. Had he been that close the entire time? “C’mon, let’s go play.”

It was a lot easier to leave the corner of the kitchen once the weed had settled in your chest. It didn’t clear your head, not exactly, but it pushed out any thought of your boyfriend and replaced it with a fuzzy feeling, a blurry kind of softness and it made you enjoy the music more, it made your shoulders drop and god, Steve’s hand was so much bigger than your own.

You let him tow you around after him, his smile matching your own in that dopey, sleeping kind of way. You swayed into each other when you both hollered at someone’s shit joke, your hand clasped in Steve’s, your heads touching as you leaned into him to talk, lips brushing his ear and suddenly the night was so much better. Your body bumped against his as you both moved between your friends, laughing too hard at things that were all too stupid and when Steve grabbed another beer, he offered you one too. But you wrinkled your nose and shook your head, leaning into his side instead and Steve smelled so nice and he was so warm, his shoulder the perfect height for you to rest your head against.

He grumbled when you took his drink from him a few minutes later, sipping at it for something to do because Argylewas talking about the new guitar he’d just bought and you had no idea what any of the words meant, but Steve was nodding along animatedly. He still had a hand on you, his fingertips playing with the waistband of your jeans, just at the back of your hip where your shirt had begun to ride up a little. His thumb brushed and pushed at the denim, a mindless, drunk-stoned action but it made your skin buzz and fizz and—

“Babe?”

You turned, the apartment a little off kilter, or maybe that was just you. It spun in slow motion, the old sofa blurring into the floor and the brick walls and suddenly the kitchen was upside down and your boyfriend was standing on the ceiling.

Wait, no. No he wasn’t.

He was right in front of you, all pressed slacks and blue button down shirt, the collar loosened and his brow creased with what looked like annoyance. Steve’s hand dropped from your waist, too casually, too slowly. He was looking at your boyfriend too but Kyle was staring at where Steve’s hand had been.

The weed and wine and gin and beer - Jesus Christ - it swirled in your stomach, an overwhelming sense of disappointment lurching into your chest at the fact that not only was Kyle almost four hours late, but that he’d actually still turned up. It was a horrible feeling of intrusion, like he’d interrupted something and when Steve raised his brows at him and leaned over to take his beer back from you, you felt the shame heat your neck.

Kyle pulled a face at you and held out his hands, as if waiting, as if he was confused as to why you hadn’t already jumped into them. You moved forward, a little slowly, your feet feeling heavy and behind you, Steve took a drag from the beer you’d been sharing, still making too much eye contact with your boyfriend. You could feel them staring at each other even as you hooked your chin over Kyle’s shoulder, his arms around your waist as you hugged him in greeted and his hands found the same spot Steve had, expect his fingers were much colder.

And then, without much else said, not an apology, not a reason, not even a kiss, Kyle swung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him in a way that was possessive, not loving. “So, you coming to mine or what?”

You blinked, confused, almost… offended? But Kyle grinned and you blinked again, the weed and the wine making your mouth feel fuzzy or maybe you were just speechless at the audacity the man seemed to have and then god, no, oh fuck—

Steve was frowning, brows furrowed but his lips were curved into an amused smirk and he opened his mouth, something withering or insulting sitting on his tongue and Argyle walked away with wide eyes before it came out.

You braced yourself.

[tearsandtechno]

if scary why look sweet

[tearsandtechno]

clean (18+)

part of the august writing challenge

today’s word: toothbrush

contents: gender unspecified reader; handjobs (steve receiving); sort of messy?; cute domestic bliss type of thang; two divas in love 🫶🏻

You stare at him down the hall for awhile, one of his shirts slung over your body. Steve’s freshly showered, a towel hanging low on his hips, body dewy. You can smell his expensive shampoo all the way from here: rich sandalwood and cashmere. He’s doing his skincare, all meticulous about it, leaning close into the mirror while putting his even more expensive moisturizer on.

You finally tip toe over, smiling, coming up behind him at the sink and wrapping your arms around him.

“Hi,” you say softly, resting your chin on his shoulder.

“Hi,” he says back, smiling at you in the mirror.

“What’re you doin’?”

“Getting ready for bed.”

“Without me?”

Steve laughs. “You could’ve came with me. But you wanted to watch your dumb show instead of sharing the shower with your hot boyfriend.”

“God forbid.”

“You really should get ready, too.” He picks up his watch from the sink. “Almost midnight, honey. That pretty brain of yours needs at least eight hours a night.”

You hum. “But I don’t want to sleep.”

You move your hands up to his torso. He sighs, letting his eyes flutter shut for just a moment. “Baby, I’m tired, I don’t know if I have it in me.”

“That’s okay,” you coo into his ear. “I can do all the work, if you want. We don’t have to.”

He bites his lip, contemplating, looking at you through the mirror.

Your grin widens. “Handy? Or blowie?”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Don’t talk like that.”

“That’s exactly what you call them!”

“No I do no— oh,” he gasps, your palm finding his cock through the towel. He grips the sink lightly while you palm him, pressing kisses into his freckled shoulder.

“Which one?” you press. “Or do you want both? I can do both.”

He exhales deeply, hips slightly thrusting into your hand, growing hard. “H-handjob. Please.”

“Okay,” you grin, “keep getting ready for bed, honey.”

Shakily, he grabs his toothbrush. “Don’t distract me,” he warns, though he’s fighting a smile.

“I won’t, promise.”

You wait until the brush and paste are in his mouth before gently unraveling the towel. It falls to the floor in a heap. You trace your fingers up his thighs before finding his cock again, halfway to hard and so, so pretty.

You keep tracing your fingers around him. Up and inside of his thighs, his stomach, his balls, the vein on the underside of his shaft. Steve clears his throat, mouth full of toothpaste.

Sinking your teeth into his shoulder, you finally wrap your palm around him. Moving gentle and slow, not quite enough to cause friction. He exhales, and you watch his brows begin to furrow in the mirror.

“Does that feel good, sweetheart?”

He nods, a whimper stuck in his throat.

“You’re so thick and heavy,” you whisper. You kiss wetly up his neck and to his earlobe, pressing your lips to it. “Look at you, baby. You’ve got the prettiest cock, don’t you?”

Steve leans forward and spits his toothpaste out. “You’re killin’ me,” he says thickly, making an effort not to drip on himself.

“Am I distracting you?”

“Uh, yes,” he hisses.

You remove your hand from him, beginning to step back. But he grabs you, biting on the toothbrush between his teeth, and pulls you back to him.

“Didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

You giggle. “What?”

He takes his toothbrush out. “I said, I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

“You sound hot with your mouth full.”

He laughs, but abruptly stops when you spit into your palm. He watches in the mirror as you wrap your hand around him and shudders.

“Shit,” he murmurs.

“Don’t think you’ve brushed for two minutes yet, baby. Gonna get cavities.”

You know Steve always likes a challenge. So he goes back to brushing, doubling down his efforts to stay focused.

Your hand moves slowly up and down his cock, and you watch his face through the mirror. Steve tries desperately not to get distracted, but you see his eyes becoming hooded, pupils blown. A pink blush creeping onto his cheeks and ears.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper. “So pretty.”

He spits again. “I look like a wet rat.”

You both burst into laughter, your hand going slack so that you can hold onto him.

“You kind of do.”

“Don’t agree!”

“A cute wet rat,” you defend. “With big hands and muscles.”

“Whatever,” he scoffs, bringing the toothbrush back to his mouth.

He gasps when you move your hand back to his shaft, movements faster.

“I think it’s been about two minutes now,” you whisper.

He’s quick to spit and rinse, humping into your palm greedily.

“God dammit,” he moans. “Feels so good, baby, treat me so good.”

You kiss his neck again, sucking love bites into the hot, sensitive skin. He tastes clean and it almost upsets you. You like tasting him. In fact, you’re a bit shocked he requested a handjob.

“What else d’you have to do?”

You watch his brows furrow. He tries to think, but you can tell he’s unraveling. Pretty lips parted, hunched over, his hands gripping the edge of the sink harshly.

“I… I’ve gotta… was gonna shave….”

You gently nip his earlobe. “That can wait, don’t you think?”

Steve immediately agrees, nodding fervently.

“Baby, baby, baby… faster, please, need it….”

You spit on your hand again, relishing in his groans. When you place your hand back on him, you do the opposite, moving steadily.

“Tease,” he hisses, bringing his hand down to yours. He moves you how he wants, helping your hand stroke him, letting his hips buck into you. “Makin’ — shit, distracting me like this.”

“You love it,” you goad. “Love being taken care of, huh, Steve? Love being worshipped.”

“Oh Jesus.” His voice cracks and his eyes roll back, toes curling on the tile below. The hand not enveloping yours grips the sink harder while he sucks in hair through his teeth.

“Come on,” you coo. “Watch yourself. Look how hot you are when you cum for me. I want to see it so bad, Stevie, help me make you cum.”

He groans again, throwing his head back.

“Watch my nose!”

He grins lazily. “Thought you wanted me to focus on comin’?”

You tighten your fist and push into him from behind, forcing his hips to move. He gasps out your name, cock pulsing, his hand moving fast over yours.

He grits his teeth. “Gonna cum, shit, shit —“

He spills over your hands, thick shots of cum painting the basin of the sink.

“Good boy,” you whisper, watching with wide-eyed wander. “Coming so much for me, so fuckin’ hot, Steve, there y’go.”

He pants, leaning forward and bracing himself with one hand against the wall beside the mirror. He groans, something guttural and deep, sounds so good. His cum slows, until his cock is left twitching and hot in your palm.

Another kiss to his shoulder. “You’re going to sleep so well tonight.”

“Yeah?” he breathes, running his clean hand through his wet hair. “You need some help sleeping, too?”

You frown. “I’m okay, honey, you’re tired.”

He cranes his head to look at you. “Not tired enough for you to sit on my face.”

Your face heats and you gently shrug your shoulder.

“If you insist….”

[tearsandtechno]

better in the dark (18+)

part of the august writing challenge

word of the day: flute

contents: reader with a vagina and breasts; gender unspecified reader; high!steve and high!reader; oral (reader receiving); steve cums in his pants :/ classic

Steve’s so high. Eyelids practically closed, all blissed out, cheeks pink. He’s giggling at everything, and perpetually confused.

“And it sucks, because Vickie plays clarinet, and I play, you know, trumpet, and I’m first chair, so I don’t even always get to sit next to her at concerts, and I really really want to.”

Steve blinks slowly. “Huh? I thought Vickie played flute?”

“Steve!” Robin sighs, exasperated, throwing her hands up. “Do you ever listen to anything I say?!”

She looks at you, just as high as Steve. You’re not quite in the room, even though you’re sitting across from her. Spaced out, ditzy.

“Can you please keep him in check?”

“No,” you answer honestly.

Steve giggles and covers his face with his hands. “We’re so screwed.”

Robin throws a pillow at him. “Bedtime, dingus. You too,” she adds, glancing at you. “You need to get it together before he makes me lose my mind.”

“Sorry,” you say weakly, forcing yourself upright. “Eddie didn’t say this shit was so strong.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she waves you off.

You step over to Steve, taking his hands and hauling him up. He stumbles into you, then wraps his arms around you and buries his face into your neck.

“Tell Robin she’s bein’ mean.”

She groans and throws another pillow at him. “Don’t be gross in there either, okay? My mom will kill me if you mess up the bedsheets.” She shudders, like she can’t imagine anything worse.

Steve immediately forgets what she’s said the moment the guest room door is closed. He’s on you in an instant, pressing you gently into the door, catching your lips in his.

And it feels good. So good to be brainless and mindless and enveloped in him.

“Hi,” he breathes, hands finding your ass.

“Hi.” You feel shy, his hooded eyes locked on you. Instantly horny.

“Robin said we can’t mess up the sheets,” he says.

You tug on his t-shirt pitifully. “I know.”

But then he kneels and looks up at you, hands on your knees. “Then we won’t use the bed.”

Your breath hitches, but you try to remain cool. Casual, even. “Who says I wanna fuck you, anyway?”

He scrunches his nose, smiling. “Aren’t you cute.”

You’re dangerously close to falling when he pulls your shorts down, knees already weak. And you’re definitely close to falling when he uses his thumbs to spread you open, admiring you.

Your legs shake when his mouth is on you. He’s sloppy with it, not as precise as usual, which you’re perfectly fine with. You like feeling the heat of his mouth everywhere, his tongue feverishly trying to taste every inch of you.

You need to hold onto the door, or something sturdy, but your hands instead wrap into Steve’s hair. He grunts, flicking his red eyes up at you.

“You’re beautiful,” you whimper, trying hard to not make any noise. “So — oh, so pretty, honey.”

He moans and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you in, bringing your leg up to rest on his shoulder. Now he’s really working his tongue, surely making his jaw ache, but he’s relentless.

You coax him on through strangled whimpers. “Good boy, Steve, y-you’re so good at that.”

He’s all you can think about. His tongue, the softness of his hair, the little whimpers and moans he’s letting out. Thank god he’s buried in your cunt - he can get so loud.

You come undone quickly and easily. Just takes Steve sucking on your clit for a few seconds before you’re coming, shaking over him, bringing a hand up to your mouth to stifle yourself. It hardly works.

Steve grunts and groans while he works you through it. When you look down, you see him humping the air desperately.

“Shit, Steve,” you whine. “Fuckin’ desperate.”

He pulls away from your pussy to gasp, resting his forehead on your stomach and panting.

“Oh my god,” he groans. “I - oh my god. I just came in my pants.”

You gasp loudly. “No way.”

He looks up at you pitifully. It seems to have sobered him up. “Way.”

You shake your head and pet his hair, giggling. “Y’get so pathetic when you’re high, huh?”

He hisses, still gripping on to you. “Don’t say that shit. Gonna get me hard again.”

[tearsandtechno]

prepare to be sick of me

[tearsandtechno]

[tearsandtechno]

brb i’m gonna cry

[tearsandtechno]

Forever Mine

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 21.2k words

summary | you were the best thing that ever happened to him — and that was exactly what you wanted him to believe.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, rough sex, oral sex (f!receiving), two smut scenes, stalker!reader, obsessive!reader, manipulative!reader, gaslighting, psychological manipulation, soft control, emotional dependency, baby trapping, breeding kink, fluff, smut, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort (manipulative), dark romance, power dynamics, emotional possession, flipped stalker trope, strategic relationship building, marriage, parenthood, bucky barnes is whipped, found family (manufactured), groomed attachment, soft!dad bucky

a/n | me if I was in the MCU (jk)

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @uzmacchiato

April 2024 First Meeting

Bucky wasn’t a fan of spring in the city.

Too many people. Too much noise. The air too warm for layers, but he wore them anyway — hood up, gloves on, jacket zipped — because it was easier to feel overheated than exposed.

He kept his head down as he moved through the crowd on West 47th, letting the noise of traffic drown out the chatter in his own skull. Morning rush hour meant no one looked too closely. Perfect.

Or it should have been.

He spotted you only in passing at first — standing near the edge of the sidewalk, angled toward a shop window, holding a small hand mirror. You were brushing your fingers along your cheekbone, touching up lipstick maybe. Hair catching the morning light, coffee in the other hand. The kind of ordinary picture he was used to glancing past.

Only, as he stepped closer, you turned. Quick — almost too quick.

And then the coffee hit.

It was hot, sharp against his jacket sleeve before he even registered you stumbling back. The paper cup dropped from your fingers, liquid soaking in fast, blooming across the front of your white blouse.

“Shit—” The word came out before anything else, his hands coming up uselessly, hovering between your shoulders and your arm like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you. “I’m— I’m sorry. I wasn’t—”

You glanced down at the spreading stain, jaw tightening like you were holding something in. “I— I have a meeting,” you muttered, like you were talking to yourself more than to him. “Of course this happens now…”

Bucky winced. “Here—” He was already shrugging out of his jacket, the air hitting his sleeves like a reminder he’d regret this later. “Take this. Just to cover it up until you can—”

You shook your head immediately, taking a step back. “No. It’s fine. Accidents happen. Don’t worry about it.”

“Let me at least buy you another coffee,” he said quickly, still holding the jacket out like maybe you just hadn’t heard him. “And a shirt or something—there’s a shop right around—”

“I’m fine,” you cut in again, softer this time, almost apologetic, like you didn’t want to make him feel bad but also really needed to get away. Your voice had that rushed edge to it, but not frantic. “Seriously. I just need to go.”

Bucky glanced at your blouse again, the dark coffee already drying in jagged edges. He could practically hear Sam in his head telling him to stop letting people walk off with problems he’d caused. “I really don’t mind—”

“It’s fine,” you repeated, stepping sideways into the flow of the crowd. “Water under the bridge. Totally fine.”

You gave him one more faint smile — not dismissive, but final. Then you turned and slipped into the moving stream of pedestrians, your pace quick, almost purposeful.

He hesitated, jacket still in his hand.

For a second, he thought about following — just enough to press the jacket into your hands whether you wanted it or not. But the crowd had already swallowed you up. And it wasn’t like he could shout after you without drawing attention.

Still, he stood there for another beat, scanning the faces ahead as if you might turn back.

You didn’t.

────────────────────────

One Month Later Second Meeting

Bucky wasn’t really paying attention to much of anything when he pushed his cart down the produce aisle. Just the quiet hum of the refrigeration units and the low music overhead, some ’80s pop song playing like it was trying too hard to cheer people up.

He stopped at the fruits section, scanning the shelves for plums. He didn’t even know when they’d become a habit — something about the taste, the simplicity of them, the fact it helped him remember things.

That’s when he saw a woman.

Standing by the stacked baskets of peaches and plums, head tilted as you inspected one like you were weighing the worth of it. The aisle was empty except for you, which meant there was no mistaking it.

It was you.

The woman from the street. The one he’d dumped a cup of coffee on last month.

Most people would’ve turned around right there. Pretended they needed something from the other end of the store, avoided the potential awkwardness.

But for reasons he couldn’t explain — maybe guilt, maybe curiosity — Bucky kept walking forward.

“Plums,” he said when he reached you, his voice coming out rougher than he meant.

You glanced up, brows pulling together in a faint, confused crease. “Sorry?”

Bucky cleared his throat, tried for a faint smirk that probably looked nothing like one. “They’re good this time of year.”

It sounded stupid the second it left his mouth.

Your confusion didn’t fade.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Uh— I’m… the guy who spilled coffee all over you. Downtown. About a month ago.”

For a beat, you just stared at him like you were searching your memory. Then your expression shifted — the small widening of your eyes, the slight downturn of your lips in recognition. “Oh… right,” you said slowly, almost hesitant.

“Yeah,” he muttered, suddenly hyper-aware of how ridiculous this was. “That was me.”

“Hi,” you said, the word soft, polite.

“Hey.”

It hung there between you for a second, both of you standing in front of the plums like neither quite knew what to do next.

Bucky cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Listen, about that coffee—”

You were still holding the plum in your hand, looking at him like you weren’t sure if he was about to apologize or confess to some bigger crime.

“I, uh…” His mouth twisted like the words physically hurt to get out. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been paying more attention. I just—”

He trailed off, realizing he was rambling to someone who probably hadn’t thought twice about it since.

You hadn’t said anything, just stood there, watching him with that polite, unreadable expression.

Bucky let out a quiet sigh, trying again. “I’m James,” he said finally, sticking to something simple.

Your mouth curved into the faintest smile, like you were both amused and maybe a little charmed by how bad he was at this. You told him your name, and it sat warm in his mind the second you said it.

“Right.” He nodded, a little too fast, and then… nothing. Just the hum of the cooler and the faint sound of some kid whining two aisles over. You both stood there, staring in this weird not-uncomfortable but definitely awkward silence.

Yet you didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. Not in the way most people in the city were — always glancing at their phones, shifting toward the exit. You stood there, weight relaxed, like you were giving him the space to figure out whatever the hell this was.

“Hey,” he said after a beat, surprising even himself. “Do you… wanna grab a cup of coffee? You know, for the one I spilled on you.”

Your brows lifted just slightly, your smile curling into something softer, almost confused, like you couldn’t quite tell if he was serious. “It’s ten p.m. on a Tuesday.”

“Decaf, then,” he said, not missing a beat.

The corner of your mouth twitched like you were trying not to laugh. “You don't look like you drink decaf.”

“Not usually,” he admitted, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “But I figured… you know. Fair’s fair.”

It came out gruffer than he intended, like an apology and an invitation wrapped into one. He could feel that familiar, awkward heat creeping into the back of his neck, but he kept his gaze on you, waiting.

You tilted your head, letting the silence stretch just enough to make it look like you were actually weighing the offer. Your eyes dropped briefly to the plums in your hand, then back to him, like maybe this was a coin toss in your mind.

Bucky stayed still, watching you — and maybe that was why it felt like a bigger deal when you finally let out a small, almost reluctant breath and said, “Okay, James.”

You said his name slowly, like you were trying it on for size. No flicker of recognition, no double take, no oh-you’re-that-guy-from-the-news. Just James.

And that… did something to him. Most people knew who he was now, or at least thought they did. You didn’t seem to care — or maybe you didn’t know — and somehow, that made your answer feel more genuine.

Bucky’s mouth pulled into the faintest smile, one corner higher than the other. “Alright then.”

────────────────────────

He ended up picking a small café a few blocks from the grocery store. One of those places with low lighting, scratched wooden tables, and the faint smell of burnt espresso that clung to the walls. It was quiet enough for conversation, but not so empty that it felt like an interrogation.

They got their coffees — his black, yours decaf — and a couple of glazed donuts because it felt like the kind of thing you were supposed to get with coffee. You took a seat by the window, the city lights outside casting a warm reflection across your face.

You were the one to break the silence. Leaning back in your chair, coffee cupped loosely in your hands, you asked, “So, James… what’s your deal?”

He blinked. “My deal?”

You nodded, casual, like you weren’t digging for anything too deep. “Yeah. You just… I dunno. Seem like you’ve got a story.”

That threw him a little. Most people either knew the story or thought they did. You didn’t seem to. And maybe that was why he stumbled over his answer. “Uh… nothing special. I keep to myself. Do my thing.”

You arched a brow, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “That’s vague as hell.”

“It’s the truth,” he said, shifting in his seat.

You just smiled knowingly, like you could see through him, but didn’t press. Instead, you glanced at the donut on your plate, tore off a piece, and popped it into your mouth. You chewed, swallowed, then said flatly, “These donuts are terrible.”

Bucky’s head jerked slightly at the bluntness, and before he could help it, a huff escaped him. It was quiet but real — the kind that crept up unexpectedly. “Guess I’ve had better,” he admitted.

“I work in a bakery,” you said simply, sipping your coffee. “So I have the authority to say that.”

“Maybe I’ll have to come by,” he said without thinking. “Try some of your desserts.”

You looked at him, eyes glinting, head tilting just a fraction. “Is that some kind of innuendo?”

“What? No—” He almost choked on his coffee, sputtering a little. “No, I was being serious. Actual bakery stuff.”

You bit back a laugh, but the way your lips twitched gave you away. “Relax, James. I’m just messing with you.”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Yeah, I’m starting to figure that out.”

It was strange, how easy it was to talk to you. Bucky wasn’t great at… this. Conversations usually felt like work — too much effort to keep up, too many pauses he didn’t know how to fill. But with you, he didn’t notice the time passing.

You’d sip your coffee, tilt your head, say something that made him laugh without meaning to, and it all just… happened.

And you smiled a lot. Not the fake kind either. The real ones that crinkled the corners of your eyes, that made him wonder what you looked like when you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe.

He caught himself staring more than once, and when he realized how long they’d been sitting there, the barista was already hovering. “Sorry, guys. We’re closing up.” Her tone was polite, but it was still the gentle shove toward the door.

Outside, the air was cool, city sounds echoing off the buildings. You both stood there for a second, neither really sure what came next.

You were the one to break it. “Well, thanks for the coffee,” you said softly, giving him that same easy smile, “I’ll see you around, James.”

You turned slightly, like you were about to go — and maybe that’s what made him do it.

“Wait—” He shifted his weight, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I mean… we should… uh…” He frowned, trying again. “Go out. Sometime. You and me.”

It came out more like an order than a question, and his jaw tensed like he was annoyed at himself for it.

You looked at him, eyebrows lifting just a little, like you were amused but not in a mean way. “Are you asking me, or telling me?”

Bucky’s mouth twitched in a half-smile. “Guess I’m not good at either.”

“Guess not,” you said — and then, without missing a beat, “Alright. When and where?”

That made him freeze for half a second, eyes narrowing like he had to replay your words in his head. “Uh—”

You just stood there, patient, still smiling like you had all the time in the world.

“Tomorrow,” he blurted. “Uh… that diner on 8th. Six o’clock?”

“Okay,” you said easily, like you hadn’t just completely hijacked the momentum of the conversation.

And just like that, you turned, walking away into the night — leaving him standing there with the ridiculous thought that he already wanted to see you again.

────────────────────────

The Next Day First Date

Bucky didn’t remember agreeing to the date so much as the fact that it had just… happened. You’d looked at him with that easy smile and said, “When and where?” — like it was nothing. And somehow, without thinking, he’d said tomorrow and six o’clock.

Now it was tomorrow. Six hours away. And he was pacing his apartment like a caged animal.

It had been decades since his last real date — and if he didn’t count that mess with that waitress last month (which he didn’t), then this was his first since 1942.

Leah had been kind. Pretty. She’d said yes when he asked her out, and for a moment he thought maybe he could do this, maybe he could be… normal. Then she’d mentioned Yori’s son, and the bottom had dropped out. That wasn’t a date. That was guilt with beer.

This though? This felt like something else. And maybe that was the problem.

Because you were just… a pretty girl. That should’ve made this easier. But it didn’t. You had a way of looking at him that knocked him off balance, like you could see right through him without making him feel exposed. You laughed easily. You spoke without hesitation. You weren’t awkward — hell, you probably didn’t even know what awkward felt like.

Meanwhile, he felt like a guy trying to speak a language he hadn’t practiced in eighty years.

He stopped pacing long enough to glance at the jacket draped over the back of his chair. Too formal? Too casual? In the forties, you wore a suit and tie. In 2024, people wore jeans to weddings. The idea of showing up underdressed made his stomach tighten — but overdressed felt just as bad.

He sat, bounced his knee. Stood up again. Every time he thought about the way you’d smiled at him, that slow curve of your mouth, he felt something coil in his chest. It wasn’t nerves exactly — more like… anticipation.

Not that he’d admit that. To himself or anyone else.

By the time the clock ticked past five, he’d changed shirts twice, Googled “first date small talk” (and immediately slammed the laptop shut), and muttered a few possible openers under his breath. None of them sounded right.

Catching himself in the mirror, he tugged at his collar and smoothed his hair back. He looked… fine. Not good, not bad. Just fine.

He told himself it was just dinner. Just a date. Just you. But that didn’t explain why his chest was tight, or why his palms felt damp.

You were just a pretty girl. And he was just a guy trying to keep up.

At least, that’s what he thought as he grabbed his keys and stepped out into the warm May evening.

────────────────────────

Bucky had been sitting in the booth for five minutes already — too early to be casual, but late enough that he hoped it didn’t look like he’d been waiting all day.

The place wasn’t fancy, but it was clean, warm, with a faint hum of conversation that made it feel… safe. Neutral ground. He’d picked it for that reason.

The flowers sat in front of him, wrapped in brown paper — not a big bouquet, just enough to look thoughtful without overdoing it.

At least, that’s what he hoped.

He’d stood in the florist shop for ten whole minutes debating whether flowers were still something you did in 2024, or if they’d come across as… desperate.

Maybe he was desperate.

His gloved hands tapped against the table as his eyes flicked to the door every time it opened. He ran through a hundred worst-case scenarios in his head — the conversation dying after two minutes, you looking bored, him saying something that made you leave.

And underneath it all, that other thought.

The one that never quite left him.

You didn’t know who he was. Not really.

You didn’t know you were about to have dinner with someone who’d been a murderer, a weapon, a name whispered in fear for decades. You didn’t know the blood on his hands.

A part of him felt relief at that — maybe you’d just see him as a guy named James, nothing more. But the guilt hit just as fast. It wasn’t fair. You didn’t get the choice to decide if you wanted to sit across from someone like him.

His knee bounced under the table. His hand curled around the flowers again, like the rough paper could ground him.

The door opened. And everything went quiet.

You stepped in like you weren’t even aware the whole world could tilt toward you without trying. Black dress, simple but clean lines, fitting you just enough to make his chest tighten. His first thought was that he’d underdressed. His second thought was that he couldn’t look away.

Your eyes found him in the corner, and that small, slow smile broke across your face.

It wasn’t wide or showy. Just… soft. The kind of smile that made the noise in his head fade, made his shoulders lose a fraction of their tension.

For the first time all day, he wasn’t thinking about what he was going to say, or if he’d mess this up. He just knew you were walking toward him.

And that, somehow, felt like enough.

You slid into the booth across from him, the faint scent of your perfume slipping into the air between you. Up close, that black dress looked even better — understated, but it clung just enough in the right places to make his throat tighten.

His hand went to the bouquet almost on instinct, pushing it toward you like he was afraid if he didn’t do it immediately, he’d chicken out.

“Uh… these are for you,” he said, voice low, awkward, almost apologetic. “Figured it… y’know. Might be a nice thing.”

You blinked down at them, and he had no idea if you were surprised, amused, or trying to decide if you even liked flowers. That hesitation stretched for a beat too long, and his stomach tightened. Maybe this was too much. Maybe—

Then you looked up at him, smiling in that slow, deliberate way again. “Not many guys bring flowers anymore,” you said, taking the bouquet. “Guess I’ll have to forgive you for being old-fashioned.”

Something about the way you said it made him huff out a laugh — but he still shifted in his seat, the tips of his ears warming.

“Old habits,” he muttered, full on knowing you wouldn't catch the double meaning.

You brushed your fingers over the petals like you were committing the flowers to memory before setting them gently beside you on the seat. “They’re beautiful,” you added, and for a second, he felt like maybe he hadn’t already messed this up.

When the waiter came to take your orders, you didn’t look at the menu for long. Confident, decisive — nothing like him, who kept second-guessing whether the steak here was even good.

As soon as the waiter left, you leaned in just slightly, elbows resting on the table. “So, James… was this place your first choice? Or did you have, like, a list of approved restaurants for a random Wednesday night?”

He smirked — or at least tried to. “I’m not that bad.”

“You seem like the type who thinks about these things,” you teased.

If you only knew, he thought.

You twirled the straw in your water glass, glancing at him over the rim. “So… you said last time you just keep to yourself. Do your thing.”

He nodded, keeping his posture casual even though he could feel every muscle in his shoulders locked tight. “Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

You leaned in just a little, chin resting on your palm. “Okay, but… what’s your thing? Like, what’s the long-term goals?”

Bucky blinked. “The what?”

Your lips curved and you tilted your head, almost amused. “Your goals… long-term.”

It was such a simple question, but his mind went blank. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, trying to come up with something that sounded halfway decent. “I dunno. I, uh… haven’t really thought about it.”

The corner of your mouth lifted. “So you’re just floating through life, huh?”

He frowned, but there was no edge to it. “Guess so.”

“Not the worst thing,” you said, sitting back and taking a sip of your drink. “Some people like the drift.”

He studied you for a moment. You didn’t ask it like you were judging him, or trying to dig too deep. It was just… curiosity. Pure, easy curiosity. And yet somehow it made him feel like you could see right through him.

“What about you?” he asked, deflecting.

You shrugged. “Work. Pay my bills. Try not to lose my mind in the process. I’ve got smaller goals — learn how to make a croissant that doesn’t deflate, try every cocktail on the menu at O’Malley’s, maybe get a dog one day.”

A laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it. “That’s your big plan? Pastries, alcohol, and a dog?”

“Pretty solid life, if you ask me.”

He shook his head, smiling to himself. He’d expected this to be awkward, expected to feel the way he always did around new people — like he was under a microscope, like every move was being analyzed. But with you… it was just talking.

The waiter came back with your plates, setting a steaming plate of pasta in front of you and a medium-rare steak in front of him. You thanked the waiter without breaking eye contact with Bucky, like you didn’t want the conversation to slip away.

“So no dreams of retiring on a beach? No cabin in the woods?” you asked as you picked up your fork.

He thought about it for a beat. “Cabin sounds nice.”

“There you go.” You pointed your fork at him. “Long-term goal: cabin. Look at you making progress.”

Bucky huffed a laugh and shook his head, but inside, he was already picturing it — and, to his own surprise, you were in that picture too.

The conversation didn’t slow down after that. It wasn’t forced, either — just one topic folding into the next, your questions pulling him along, your little comments sparking thoughts he didn’t even realize he had.

Every time you smiled, his chest felt like it loosened a little. Every time you laughed, it felt like something in him woke up just to listen.

And before he knew it, the plates were cleared, the check was paid, and you were both standing at the door, the cool night air rushing in.

“You, uh…” He scratched at the back of his neck. “You headed home?”

You gave him that small, easy smile that made him feel ten years younger. “Yeah.”

“Can I… walk you?” He tried to sound casual, but it came out tentative, like he wasn’t sure if it was overstepping.

You tilted your head in that way you did when you were thinking, then nodded. “Sure.”

Something about that word — the way it rolled off your tongue, unhurried and warm — made his pulse skip. He held the door for you, falling into step at your side as you stepped onto the quiet street.

The city was winding down, streetlights casting halos on the pavement. Your heels clicked softly against the sidewalk while his boots fell into a slower rhythm to match yours.

For a while, you didn’t speak, and that was fine with him. He found himself just… watching you out of the corner of his eye. The way the breeze tugged at your hair. The way you tucked your hands into your coat pockets but kept your shoulders loose, like you weren’t afraid of anything.

“You live far?” he asked finally.

“Couple blocks,” you said. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna make you walk across the city.”

He smiled at that, but didn’t say anything else, afraid he might break whatever this was — this quiet, this ease.

When you finally stopped in front of a brownstone, you turned to him, your eyes catching in the streetlight. “This is me.”

Bucky nodded, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “Right. Uh… thank you for asking me to walk you.”

That earned him a soft laugh. “Pretty sure it was your idea, James.”

He blinked, thrown for a second, then nodded again, sheepish. “Yeah… yeah, right.”

And then… nothing. His mind blanked. If this had been back in the ’30s, the polite thing would’ve been to kiss your cheek, tip his hat, say goodnight like a gentleman. But it wasn’t the ’30s anymore. People had boundaries. And he had no idea if crossing that invisible line would ruin everything.

Still, the urge was there — humming beneath his ribs, pooling low in his chest. You looked so damn pretty in that black dress, the flowers he’d given you cradled in your hands. He could smell your perfume, faint and warm, and it was killing him not to close the distance.

You caught it. The way his eyes lingered, the faint crease between his brows. That tiny flicker of indecision.

Your teeth caught your bottom lip like you were thinking about it and that was when you stepped forward — deliberate, slow, your heels clicking against the pavement.

You didn’t just close the gap — you took control of it. One hand lifted, your fingers curling lightly along the line of his jaw, your thumb brushing over the scruff on his cheek. His breath caught instantly, eyes locking on yours, the flicker of surprise almost boyish in his expression.

And then you leaned in.

The kiss was soft but unflinching, holding him there for a few long, head-spinning seconds. His brain stalled completely — no wariness, no hesitation now, just you, the faint press of your body, the taste of your lipstick, the warmth of your palm against his face.

By the time you pulled back, his lips were still parted like he hadn’t realized it was over.

“Thank you for the date,” you murmured, giving him that small, sweet smile again, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Goodnight, James.”

And just like that, you stepped past him and slipped into the building, leaving him standing there on the sidewalk — still feeling the ghost of your touch on his cheek, still trying to remember how to breathe.

────────────────────────

Three Days Later Second Date

You didn’t expect him to ask you on another date so soon.

But here you were — only three days after your first date, and Bucky Barnes was already inviting you out again. Saturday evening. A picnic date in Central Park, of all things.

Not some busy lawn where people tossed frisbees or jogged past, but one of those quiet corners where the trees closed in enough to give you privacy, the sound of the city tucked far behind the green.

It was… old-fashioned. Which made sense, given who he was.

You sat across from him on a checkered blanket, a wicker basket between you — the whole thing looked like it had been pulled straight out of some black-and-white film. He’d even brought sandwiches wrapped in brown paper, a couple of glass bottles of soda, and what you were willing to bet were store-bought cookies.

And like before, you kept the conversation going. Asking him about the park, about what kind of food he liked, about what he did when he wasn’t… well, whatever it was he actually did now. He’d answer, but never with much detail — pausing often, like he was trying to figure out the right words, like he was still deciding how much of himself to give away.

That was fine. You didn’t need him to hand over his life story.

You already knew that.

It wasn’t hard to smile, nod, and throw in the right laugh at the right time. You leaned into his pauses, let the silences hang just long enough to make him want to fill them. He’d shift a little when you tilted your head at him, his eyes flicking to your mouth like he wasn’t sure if he should be looking there.

If he thought you didn’t notice, he was wrong.

And all throughout the date, between bites of sandwich and sips of soda, you couldn’t help but wonder when he’d actually confess who he really was.

You’d already known from the moment he bumped into you — hell, from before that. But you wanted to hear him say it.

So, you decided to give him a little push.

You let your gaze drift away from him mid-conversation, scanning the trees, the open green beyond.

Slowly, your brows drew together, the faintest frown pulling at your lips. You didn’t speak at first — just kept glancing around, your expression tightening like you were trying to puzzle something out.

Finally, you said it. Soft. Almost embarrassed. “James… people are starting to stare. I don’t… I don’t know why.”

The shift in him was immediate. His shoulders, relaxed a moment ago, pulled tight. His jaw clenched. His eyes darted past you, scanning the edges of the park.

You tilted your head at him, feigning confusion. “It’s fine,” you added quickly, like you were trying to brush it off, “I just… thought maybe I had something on my face or—”

“No.” His voice was quiet, but it had that weight to it, the one that made people shut up and listen. “It’s not you.”

You blinked at him, all innocence. “Then what—?”

“Maybe I should walk you home,” he cut in, already beginning to gather up the blanket and basket. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

You kept your face neutral — maybe just a little uncertain — but inside, you could feel the hook sinking deeper.

“Okay,” you murmured, and let him help you up, his hand firm but careful at your elbow.

It was sweet, how gentle he was. It was even sweeter knowing you’d planned this moment from the start.

The walk back was quiet at first. The city sounds filled the gaps between you — the low hum of traffic, a siren somewhere blocks away, the occasional rush of wind that made you hold your skirt down.

You noticed he kept glancing at you like he was trying to time something, trying to figure out the right moment.

Finally, a few blocks from your place, he let out a sigh. “So… my name isn’t just James.”

You looked at him, brows raised, a faint smile tugging your lips. “Okay…?”

“It’s James Barnes,” he said, watching your face for any flicker of recognition.

You tilted your head slightly, the smile still there. “Barnes. Got it.” Like you were just making a mental note, nothing more.

Bucky let out a slow breath, then shook his head faintly. “No. James Buchanan Barnes.”

The name landed like a weight between you. You stopped walking without meaning to, staring at him as the pieces “clicked” together.

“Oh.” Your voice was soft, your eyes a little wider now. You brought a hand up, half-covering your mouth. “Oh my god—wait. I’m… I’m an idiot.”

He frowned immediately. “What? No—”

“I knew I recognized you from somewhere,” you rushed out, shaking your head at yourself. “And here I’ve just been—God, I’m so—”

“Hey,” he cut in, his tone sharper now, trying to pull you out of it. “Don’t do that. Don’t—don’t make it a thing about you being stupid.”

You bit your lip, looking away, embarrassed. “I just… I feel like I should’ve known—”

“I liked that you didn’t,” he said, and there was an odd softness to it. “I kind of liked you not knowing who I was. It was… nice. Normal.”

You looked back at him then, letting your gaze linger, like his words had just made you see him differently.

“Normal’s good,” you said softly.

You took a couple more steps, the sound of your shoes clicking against the pavement, before glancing over at him. “So… why do things have to change?”

That stopped him in his tracks. He looked down at you — really looked — eyes scanning your face like he was searching for something underneath your words.

“You’re really okay with that?” he asked finally, voice low. “Going out with… someone like me?”

Your brow furrowed, your lips pressing into a faint, almost thoughtful purse.

“Are you?” you countered gently.

He blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Are you okay with it?” you repeated, tilting your head a little. “Because… it seems like you’re the one who’s more hesitant about this than I am.”

He exhaled sharply, his gaze sliding away like the weight of his own history was tugging it down.

“I mean,” you continued, your voice even, not pushing but not backing away either, “I get it. Because of… yeah.” You let the word trail off, letting the unsaid things hang in the air — the things you knew he thought about himself every day.

His jaw tightened, and for a moment you swore you could almost hear the gears in his head turning. He looked back at you, his blue eyes clouded but intent.

“Yeah,” he murmured finally. “Because of… yeah.”

You studied him for a second, watching the way his jaw shifted like he was still carrying the weight of that confession.

“So…” you tilted your head, voice easy but deliberate, “what do you want me to call you? James… or Bucky?”

He didn’t answer right away. His brows drew together, really thinking about it, like the question was heavier than you meant it to be.

Finally, he exhaled, gaze settling back on you. “James,” he said quietly. “I… I like being James with you. I’m trying to get used to being Bucky Barnes again, but…” he hesitated, the corner of his mouth twitching almost sheepishly, “James feels… easier. Lighter. With you.”

A slow smile spread across your face, soft but deliberate. Without breaking eye contact, you slipped your arm through his, your hand looping into the crook of his elbow like it belonged there.

Leaning in just enough for your lips to brush against his cheek, you murmured, “Good ’cause I like being with James.”

It was quick, simple — but you felt the way his stride faltered for just a fraction of a second, his breath catching like he didn’t know what to do with the way those words landed.

────────────────────────

One Week Later Third Date

The first date was to hook him.

The second was to soften him — to show him you were safe, someone he could trust without even realizing it. Someone who’d never push too hard, never pry… but who’d listen to every word like it mattered. You knew exactly what that would do to a man like James Barnes.

And the third? The third was to turn trust into something else entirely.

The kind of connection you couldn’t just walk away from without feeling the absence like a phantom limb.

You’d kept the night light — a small jazz club tucked in the quieter part of the city, a little whiskey, easy conversation, nothing too loud or overstimulating. You let him set the pace, let him laugh more than you talked, let him think he was the one leading.

By the time you were back at your building, he was looking at you like you were gravity itself — and you didn’t let him look for too long before you moved in.

You barely had the key out before his hand was on your hip, the other bracing against the doorframe, his breath warm against your mouth. The kiss hit fast — a low, almost desperate press of lips that made you smile into it. You could taste the whiskey on his tongue, feel the tension in the way his body pressed into yours.

Your back hit the cool metal of the door, and you let out the kind of quiet sound that made his fingers flex against your side. His mouth dragged from yours to your jaw, his stubble catching on your skin as you tilted your head, giving him space, giving him permission.

His metal hand skimmed down your waist, and you could feel the restraint in him — the way he wanted more but was holding back, trying not to push too far too fast.

You, on the other hand, had no such reservations. Your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer until there was no space left between you. You caught his mouth again, deeper this time, teeth catching his lower lip before your tongue traced against his. He made a low sound in his throat, one you filed away instantly — a tell, a weakness you could pull from later.

Then, suddenly, he broke the kiss — just enough to breathe, just enough to murmur against your mouth, “We should… probably slow this down.”

You blinked up at him, lips still parted, feeling his breath ghost over them. “Yeah… yeah,” you said, though your fingers were still hooked in his shirt like you had no plans to actually let go.

There was a beat — that awkward, suspended moment where neither of you knew what to do with all that tension — and then, completely straight-faced, you asked, “So… you got any hobbies?”

The question caught him off guard so hard you could see it in his face. His brow furrowed, mouth opening like he wasn't sure if you were joking. “Uh…” He blinked a few times, like he was flipping through a mental list that was embarrassingly short. “I like to… read?”

You nodded, like you were genuinely considering this while still catching your breath. “What have you read?”

There was a stumble in his answer, his gaze flicking briefly away as though embarrassed. “Uh… The Hobbit.”

You pulled back half an inch, your brows lifting. “The Hobbit? You read The Hobbit?”

He shifted his weight, defensive but sheepish at the same time. “…Yeah?”

And without missing a beat, you grinned and said, “That’s kinda hot.”

The corner of his mouth tugged up, almost disbelieving. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed, your voice low enough to make him swallow.

And then you were both leaning in at the same time, the kiss reigniting instantly, just as heated as before — maybe more. His hand slid up your side, the other finding the back of your neck, and you could taste the faint trace of a smile against your mouth before it turned hungry again.

You didn’t break the kiss when you pulled him through the building’s front door, not even when you started walking him backwards toward the stairs. His hand stayed locked at your hip, your mouth moving against his in hot, deliberate bursts between breaths.

The elevator ride was a blur of glances and unspoken tension — his chest rising and falling, your lips still tingling from where his teeth had grazed them. You could feel the battle in him, that rigid line between wanting and restraint.

By the time you reached your apartment, you had no trouble coaxing him inside. You guided him straight to the couch, giving him a gentle push until he sat, his legs spread slightly, hands resting awkwardly on his knees like he wasn’t sure what to do next.

You took care of that.

Climbing into his lap felt natural — slow, unthreatening, like you were still playing. You straddled him, your knees pressing into the cushions on either side, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

Bucky’s eyes darted to yours, and then down to your mouth. You could see it again — that hesitation, the restraint. So you leaned in, brushing your lips over his once, twice, before deepening the kiss just enough to coax him into leaning forward, his hands finally settling on your hips.

You were just getting lost in him again, the warmth of his mouth, the press of his hands, when Bucky pulled back suddenly. His breathing was uneven, his forehead resting briefly against yours before he leaned back enough to meet your eyes.

“I, uh—” He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I haven’t… done this. Not since… 1942.”

You blinked, tilting your head, the corner of your mouth tugging upward. “You mean—”

He gave a small, almost sheepish nod, his cheeks heating.

A slow grin spread across your face. “So… this’ll be like your first time again?”

“Don’t say it like that,” he muttered, but the flush in his face deepened.

You bit back a laugh, leaning forward to kiss him again — softer this time, deliberate — your hand coming up to cup the side of his face. When you pulled back just enough to whisper, your tone was almost teasing. “Don’t worry… I’ll be gentle.”

His jaw flexed, his blue eyes flicking away for a moment before coming back to yours. “I’m just… worried I won’t last.”

You gave him a small, knowing smile. “That’s fine,” you murmured, your lips brushing his as you spoke. “We have the whole night.”

And before he could answer, you kissed him again — slow, coaxing, until you felt him melt back into it.

You rolled your hips against him, slow at first, then harder, letting the friction build until you could feel the hard line of him beneath you.

“Fuck—” he groaned, low and almost pained, his head tipping back for a second before you dragged his mouth back to yours.

His metal hand slid up your back, cold even through your dress, the contrast making you shiver as his flesh hand gripped your ass, pulling you against him in a way that made you gasp. You rocked on him harder, and the sound he made — somewhere between a groan and a curse — went straight to your core.

“Jesus, doll…” he muttered against your mouth, his voice wrecked, his hips twitching upward involuntarily to meet your movements.

You grinned against his lips, rolling your hips just right, grinding down until he was cursing under his breath. “You like that, James?”

His response was a rough, desperate kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting you like he couldn’t get enough.

The rhythm between you grew messier, hotter — all friction and panting and little sounds that filled the quiet apartment. Your dress had ridden up around your hips, and his grip had turned bruising, like he was fighting not to lose control completely.

Your lips broke from his just long enough to whisper against his ear, “Take a breath, James.”

His grip loosened a fraction, and you leaned back, still straddling him, your hands sliding to the straps of your dress. His eyes followed every movement like he couldn’t look away.

You let the straps fall slowly down your shoulders, holding his gaze the whole time before sliding the dress up and over your head, then tossing it aside.

The way he looked at you — hungry, reverent, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed — made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t expect. You reached behind you, unhooked your bra, and let it fall.

Bucky’s breath caught, his jaw flexing like he was holding something back. His gaze raked over you, lingering in places that made your skin feel like it was burning, but he didn’t reach out — almost like he thought touching would break the spell.

You smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to his mouth before murmuring, “Your turn.”

He hesitated, and you knew why. You could feel the tension in him, the way his body stiffened when your fingers brushed the hem of his shirt.

“You can,” you said softly, but with an edge of certainty that left no room for doubt. “I want to see you, James.”

For a moment, he looked like he might refuse. Then, almost reluctantly, he grabbed the back of his collar and pulled the shirt over his head.

You didn’t let your gaze flick away from the scars that marred his skin, or the gleam of metal that caught the low light of your apartment. You let your eyes take in every detail, slow and deliberate, until his breath started to quicken under your stare.

“God, you’re beautiful,” you said, and meant it in a way that made him swallow hard.

You leaned in, pressing your mouth to his neck, tasting the salt of his skin. You let your lips travel to the edge of his jaw, down to his collarbone, over a scar that looked like it had been there for decades. Your fingers traced the seam where flesh met vibranium, and you kissed it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He shuddered beneath you, and you felt some of the tightness in his body begin to melt.

“See?” you murmured against his skin. “Nothing here I can’t handle.”

His hands found your hips again, steadier now, and when you kissed him this time, he kissed you back without hesitation, pulling you closer, letting you feel every inch of him.

Your fingers slid into his hair, keeping him close, and you could feel the last traces of tension bleeding out of him. That guarded, wary edge he carried like armor was slipping — and you were the one peeling it away.

When your lips left his neck, his mouth moved lower without you even asking. His head dipped, and his lips brushed over the swell of your breast. You let out a low sound, arching into him, and that was all it took — he wrapped an arm around your waist and took your nipple into his mouth like he’d been starving for it.

“James—” your voice cracked, your nails digging into his shoulder.

He groaned against your skin, the vibration shooting straight through you, and you swore you could feel him getting harder beneath you. His tongue circled, teasing, before he sucked hard enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand came up, fingers rolling and squeezing your other nipple until you were practically squirming in his lap.

“Fuck—” you gasped, heat pooling low in your belly, “—you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, lips slick, eyes dark with something feral.

You didn’t even try to play it cool. “I need you,” you said, the words spilling out rough and desperate. “I need you in me right now or I’m gonna fucking die.”

For a split second, he froze — like the full force of your want for him had short-circuited his brain. Then his jaw set, and his hands gripped your hips tighter, almost bruising.

“…You sure?” he asked, voice low and gravelly, like it physically hurt him to wait for your answer.

“James,” you whispered, leaning in until your lips brushed his, “if you don’t fuck me right now—” you bit his lower lip, hard enough to make him groan, “—you’re gonna regret it.”

That was it. Whatever was left of his guard shattered. And you didn’t wait for permission — you didn’t need it. Not when you could feel him, hard and heavy against you, straining against the denim.

Your hands moved between you, fumbling for the button of his jeans before dragging the zipper down in one smooth, determined motion. Bucky’s breath stuttered, his hips jerking involuntarily when your fingers slipped inside, brushing over him through the thin cotton of his boxers.

“Fuck—” he hissed, his metal hand gripping the couch cushion like he was afraid to touch you too hard.

You looked him right in the eye, daring him to stop you, and then you shoved his jeans down just far enough to free him. His cock sprang out, thick and flushed, and you wrapped your hand around him, stroking once just to feel the way he twitched in your palm.

His head fell back, a low groan rumbling from his chest. “Baby—”

“Shhh,” you murmured, shifting just enough to hook your fingers into your panties and drag them aside. “I can’t wait.”

Before he could even process it, you lined him up and sank down in one slow, deliberate motion.

Bucky’s entire body jolted beneath you. His hands flew to your hips like he was going to push you away — but instead, his fingers dug in, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes were wide, mouth parted, chest heaving.

“Holy—fuck—” The word came out broken, almost like a whimper, and that alone made you clench around him.

You leaned forward, your breasts brushing his chest, your lips grazing his ear. “Told you I’d be gentle,” you whispered, rocking your hips just enough to make him groan again. “But right now? I’m gonna make you lose your mind.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you started to move — slow at first, letting him feel every inch of you clench around him, before you shifted your weight and began to ride him in earnest.

Bucky’s head dropped back against the couch, a ragged moan tearing from his throat. His flesh hand slid up your thigh, gripping hard, while his metal hand stayed fixed at your hip like he was terrified you’d pull away.

You set the pace — hard, fast, bouncing on him until his thighs flexed beneath you, until his hips started to jerk upward in time with yours.

The moment he began thrusting into you, the sound that left him was almost pained — years of restraint breaking all at once. “Ohhh, fuck—baby—”

You leaned in close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, your breath hot as you whispered, “That’s it, James… just like that… give it to me.”

He groaned again, a shiver running through him at the sound of his name on your lips.

“You feel so good inside me,” you breathed, grinding down between bounces so he could feel how wet you were for him. “God, you’re so deep—”

His hips snapped up harder, faster, chasing that rhythm. You rewarded him by dragging your lips along the line of his jaw, sucking at his neck until you knew you’d leave marks there — marks he’d have to think about later, maybe even hide.

“Fuck, I’m—” His voice broke, his metal hand clutching you tighter, forcing you down onto him as he drove up into you with desperate, uneven thrusts.

You kissed his ear, biting lightly before murmuring, “Don’t hold back, baby… I want it all.”

That did it — his eyes screwed shut, a choked noise spilling out as he slammed up into you like he was trying to get even deeper, every thrust shaking through both of you.

“Shit—” he hissed, forehead pressing to your collarbone like he needed the contact to ground himself. But it didn’t last.

With a sudden growl, Bucky shifted beneath you, his hands gripping your waist like you weighed nothing. Before you could react, he twisted the two of you, rolling you onto your back without ever slipping out of you.

Your gasp turned into a moan when he settled above you, caging you in with his broad shoulders, bracing himself with his metal arm against the couch. His flesh hand slid under your thigh, pushing your leg higher, deeper, until the angle made you see stars.

Then he started moving — really moving — and the couch creaked in protest under the pace. Deep, filthy thrusts that had you gasping his name, every snap of his hips forcing you further into the cushions.

“Jesus, James—” you panted, nails digging into his back.

He groaned against your neck, his breath hot and ragged. “Can’t—stop—” he managed between thrusts, like he was talking to himself as much as to you.

Your head tilted back, mouth falling open as you pulled him down for a desperate kiss, swallowing the sounds he made. You felt the tension in him, the way each movement was turning rougher, more unrestrained.

“That’s it,” you murmured against his lips, pulling his metal hand from the couch and pressing it to your throat — not enough to choke, just enough for him to feel how hard your pulse was racing. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me.”

He groaned like the words burned through him, his hips slamming into you harder, faster. His eyes locked on yours, glassy and wild, and you knew right then he was gone — lost completely in you.

Your hands clung to him, nails dragging down the scars of his back as his pace grew erratic — that telltale stumble of rhythm that told you he was teetering right on the edge.

His forehead pressed against yours, breath ragged, eyes squeezing shut like he was fighting it, trying to hold on.

“Don’t—” he started, but you cut him off, voice low and sweet against his ear.

“James… I want you to finish in me.”

He froze for a fraction of a second, hips buried deep inside you, his entire body trembling. “You— you don’t—”

“I want it,” you whispered again, cupping his jaw so he had to look at you. “I want you. All of you. Don’t hold back from me.”

Whatever control he’d been clinging to shattered.

A deep, guttural sound ripped from his chest as he slammed into you harder, desperate, chasing the inevitable. His metal hand drifted to your thigh, holding you open for him, while his flesh hand fisted the couch cushion beside your head like he was trying to keep himself from completely falling apart.

Your own release crept up fast — too fast — his thrusts hitting that perfect spot over and over until your legs were shaking around his waist.

“James—” you gasped, pulling his mouth to yours, kissing him deep as you clenched tight around him.

The sound he made against your mouth was half a groan, half your name, and then he broke. His hips stuttered, buried as deep as they could go as he spilled into you, the heat of it pushing you right over the edge with him.

You cried out into his mouth, your nails sinking into his shoulders, your entire body arching into his as the two of you came together — messy, unrestrained, yours.

When it was over, he collapsed against you, chest heaving, his face tucked into the crook of your neck like he couldn’t bear to let you go. You could feel the rapid thud of his heart, the way his breath still came hard and uneven.

Your fingers threaded lazily through his hair, still a little damp with sweat, your other hand tracing soft circles along the line of his spine. His weight was heavy on you, solid, grounding — and you didn’t push him to move.

“Hey…” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, like you were afraid to disturb whatever fragile peace had settled over him. “You alright?”

There was a long pause. You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against yours, the subtle shift of his breath against your collarbone.

And then, without lifting his head from where it was tucked into the warm crook of your neck, he spoke — low, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it.

“I’m more than alright,” he said. “I’m… perfect.”

The word sounded foreign on his tongue, like it had been years — decades — since he’d felt it.

You smiled, not the teasing kind you’d given him earlier, but something softer. Your hand cupped the back of his head, holding him there like you were keeping the world away from him for just a little longer.

“That’s good,” you whispered. “That’s just how I want you.”

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a hum, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer. You could feel how reluctant he was to let the moment pass, how badly he needed this — to be held, to be wanted without condition.

You didn’t press for words. You didn’t need them. Every small shift of his body against yours, every quiet breath into your skin, told you what you needed to know.

And somewhere in the quiet hum of the moment, you felt it — the shift.

The wall he kept between himself and the world? You’d just stepped inside it.

────────────────────────

Three Months Later

The quinjet hummed around them, the steady vibration of the engines filling the space. Sam sat across from Bucky, leaning back with that look on his face — the one that meant he was bored enough to start prying into someone else’s business.

“So,” Sam started casually, “you gonna tell me about her, or do I have to drag it outta you?”

Bucky didn’t even look up from checking the mag on his sidearm. “About who?”

Sam gave him a flat look. “Don’t play dumb with me, man. The mystery girl you’ve been seein’. The one that’s got you walking around like you’re… I dunno, not completely miserable.”

Bucky clicked the mag back in place and set the gun down. “You’re imagining things.”

Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Oh, am I? Because last time I called you, you sounded—” He put on an exaggerated, low imitation of Bucky’s voice — “‘busy.’”

Bucky’s lips twitched, but he stayed silent.

“C’mon,” Sam pressed. “What’s she like? What’s her name?”

Bucky stared at the floor for a long moment, jaw tight. “None of your business, Sam.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Translation: you really like her and you’re afraid I’ll scare her off.”

Bucky shot him a look. “No.” A pause. “…Maybe.”

That got Sam grinning. “Uh-huh. So what’s she like?”

Bucky hesitated. He could’ve brushed it off. He could’ve just said “normal” and left it at that. But Sam was his friend. His only friend, really. “She’s… different,” he admitted reluctantly. “Smart. Funny. Knows how to make me shut up without even trying.”

Sam chuckled. “Sounds like a saint.”

Bucky looked away, fingers flexing against his knee. “…I really like her.” The words felt heavier than he expected. “Like… more than I should.”

Sam tilted his head. “Yeah? That’s good, right?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Sam leaned forward a little. “You know her well?”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean—where’s she from? Family? Friends? What’s she do, besides makin’ you act all—” Sam gestured vaguely at him—“less grumpy?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Why are you asking me this?”

Sam held up a hand. “I’m just sayin’, Buck… after everything you’ve been through, maybe make sure you know who you’re lettin’ in.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “I do know.”

“Do you?” Sam’s tone wasn’t accusing, but it was steady. “Look, I’m not tryin’ to mess with you. I want you happy, man. I just don’t wanna see you blindsided.”

Bucky sat back, arms crossed, irritation creeping in. “…You done?”

Sam gave a small shrug. “Yeah. I’m done.”

But Bucky could still feel the words sticking in the back of his mind, even as the quinjet kept on toward their mission.

────────────────────────

Five months.

If someone had told Bucky Barnes back in Wakanda that he’d be here now — in a steady relationship, with someone who actually wanted him around — he’d have laughed in their face.

And yet… here you were.

Perfect. Too perfect.

You were all the things he didn’t think he could ever have — kind without being condescending, patient without pitying him, sweet in ways that didn’t feel fake. You listened when he talked. You didn’t push when he didn’t. You gave him space when he needed it, and held him close when he didn’t know he needed that, too.

And God, you were genuine. Or at least, you seemed to be.

That was the problem.

Bucky had lived long enough to know that perfect didn’t really exist. Not for him. And that little voice in the back of his head — the one that kept him alive through decades of torture and conditioning — kept whispering that nothing this good could be real.

At first, it was just little thoughts. Harmless. Easy to shove aside. But lately it was growing. Festering. Like a splinter buried too deep to pull out.

He’d watch you laughing at something stupid on TV, hair falling in your face as you leaned against him, and his chest would tighten — not from love, though he did love the moment — but from the sharp, nagging fear that there was something he wasn’t seeing.

He told himself it was paranoia. That Sam’s questions months ago had just gotten under his skin. That you’d given him no reason not to trust you.

Still…

He now noticed when you’d change the subject after certain questions. He noticed when you’d smile just a bit too easily in moments that should’ve felt vulnerable.

He noticed because he couldn’t not notice. It was wired into him to see the things other people didn’t.

And the worst part?

The more that doubt grew, the more he hated himself for having it. Because if he lost you over nothing — over his issues — Bucky knew he’d never forgive himself.

────────────────────────

It was supposed to be an easy night. Movie, takeout, you curled up against him — the kind of thing he’d learned to look forward to.

But his head wouldn’t shut up.

You were leaning into his side, hand absently tracing the seam of his Henley, your attention on the movie — and Bucky could feel himself pulling away. Not physically, but somewhere deeper.

He hated it. Hated that he couldn’t just enjoy the damn moment.

Still, the words came out before he could stop them. “So… what was it like growing up in Chicago?”

You glanced at him, a little surprised at the question, but answered. Simple, vague. He pressed again, asking about your family, your friends, places you used to hang out.

After the third or fourth question, your brows knit together. “Why are you asking me all this?”

Bucky tried to keep his voice even. “I just realized I don’t know that much about you.”

You tilted your head, confused. “You know plenty.”

He shook his head slightly, the frustration prickling under his skin. “No, I don’t. You know everything about me — hell, the world knows everything about me — but I…” he trailed off, jaw tightening. “I know next to nothing about you.”

Your eyes narrowed a little, your nose scrunching the way it did when something rubbed you the wrong way. “The whole world doesn’t know everything about you, James. But sure, they know more about you than most. That’s not my fault.”

You shifted, pulling away from his arm and standing up, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. “Why are you acting like this?”

And that was it. The dam broke.

“Because I don’t know if I can trust something that feels this… perfect,” he snapped before he could rein it in. “Every time I ask something real, you dodge it. Every time I try to get to know you — really know you — you smile and change the subject. And maybe that works for other people, but not for me. Not after everything I’ve been through.”

You just stared at him, your expression unreadable.

Bucky raked a hand through his hair, his voice low but hard now. “If we’re gonna be together, I need to know you’re not hiding something from me. I can’t— I won’t— go through another situation where I don’t see it coming until it’s too late.”

You didn’t answer him at first.

You just stared down at the blanket bunched on the couch, jaw tight, like you were holding something in.

Bucky’s chest was already tight, heart thudding harder than he wanted it to. He waited.

And then, finally, you spoke. Your voice was quiet. Flat at first. “It was true when I said I didn’t have family in Chicago.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed. He stayed still, watching you.

You took a breath, still not looking at him. “My mom died when I was six. Home invasion.”

He blinked, the words hitting him sharper than he expected.

You swallowed, your voice dipping even lower. “Thing is… I didn’t even know she was dead at the time.”

Bucky’s stomach knotted.

“I remember brushing her hair that morning. Talking to her. Asking why she was still sleeping in the afternoon.” You let out the smallest, bitter laugh. “I fell asleep on her chest that night. The next day too.”

A shaky breath escaped you as you reached up and wiped a stray tear with the back of your hand.

“It wasn’t until the police came… three days later… because the neighbors noticed the window was broken…” Your voice cracked, and you pressed your lips together for a second before finishing. “…Three days. I spent three days with her body, thinking she was just… asleep.”

Bucky’s hands curled into fists against his knees, the weight of your words sitting like lead in his gut. He felt sick. Guilty. Ashamed for even pushing.

Finally, you lifted your head — slowly. Your eyes were glassy, rimmed red. You met his gaze, and your voice was barely above a whisper.

“Do you feel better now?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Do you feel closer to me now?” you asked, your lips pursed, like you were holding yourself together by a thread.

And all he could do was stare at you, feeling that ache in his chest grow heavier, every ounce of irritation he’d felt earlier dissolving into raw shame.

You stared at him for a long, long second. His face, his expression, his guilt — all of it. And then you scoffed. Soft, sharp, bitter.

Your gaze dropped, breaking away from him like it hurt to look. “You know what…” You shook your head, your voice low but cutting. “I think I’m gonna go home.”

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened. “What?”

“I just—” You exhaled hard through your nose, the sound almost like a laugh but with no humor in it. “I don’t wanna be here right now.”

Something in his chest lurched. It was like you’d just reached in and yanked him out of whatever fog he’d been sitting in. His whole body went tense.

“Wait, no—” He shot up from the couch so fast the blanket slid off his lap and onto the floor. “Sweetheart, please… don’t—”

You were already stepping toward the door, grabbing your bag from where it hung on the chair.

“Just—listen, okay? I didn’t mean—” He was moving around the coffee table to get to you, words tumbling over themselves, his voice rushed, almost frantic. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve pushed, I— I’m an idiot, I don’t think sometimes—”

You didn’t slow down, didn’t look at him.

“Please,” he said again, softer now but still desperate, his metal hand twitching at his side like he didn’t know if he could touch you without making it worse. “Don’t walk out like this. Not like this.”

Your fingers wrapped around the doorknob—only for it not to turn. You froze, looking up. Bucky’s metal hand was braced flat against the door, holding it shut. His knuckles were tight around the edges of the plates, his arm locked like he was physically anchoring you there.

“Please,” he said, his voice low, strained. “Don’t go.”

You didn’t look at him. Your eyes stayed fixed forward, shoulders tight. “Let go of the door, James.”

He didn’t move. “I’m sorry,” he rushed out, voice breaking at the edges. “I didn’t mean it like that. Please don’t leave like this.”

Your head tilted slightly, your breath sharp through your nose. Then, slowly, you turned to face him.

“I can understand,” you said quietly, “where all your doubt and mistrust comes from. God knows you’ve had enough reasons to feel that way.”

His eyes flickered, guilt written in every line of his face.

“But what you said to me tonight—” You shook your head. “It wasn’t fair.”

“Baby, I—”

“No.” You cut him off, your voice soft but final. “Maybe we’ve been spending too much time together. Maybe… we should take a little time apart.”

His chest rose and fell hard, panic tightening every word. “No. No, I don’t want that. We can— we can fix this. I just—”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” you said, stepping back from him and the door. “When I feel better.”

The look in his eyes nearly stopped you—but you turned away before it could.

You opened the door and stepped into the hall, leaving him standing there, still holding the doorframe like he needed the support, the silence in his apartment pressing in around him until it was deafening.

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The next morning, sunlight bled through your blinds in soft, dusty lines, warming the sheets around you. You stayed in bed longer than usual, lazily tracing your fingers over the fabric, listening to the faint hum of traffic outside.

Your phone was on the nightstand, face down. You knew it would already be buzzing.

This was part of your next move. And, maybe, just a little bit of punishment for going off script.

Your past was your past — jagged, bloody edges smoothed down by time, but still yours. Messy, ugly, yes — but more than twenty years behind you. He had no right to dig it up like that. No right to look at you like you were some puzzle he needed to solve to make you safe.

And last night, when you’d told him, I’ll call you tomorrow, you already knew you wouldn’t.

Almost like clockwork, it started.

The first text came before nine.

Morning. I’m sorry about last night.

Then another, a few minutes later.

Can we talk? Please?

By noon, there were six more, all variations of I didn’t mean it, please call me, I just need to see you.

By mid-afternoon, the messages tripled. The tone shifted — still apologetic, but heavier now, more desperate.

And then the calls began.

The first time his name lit up your screen, you let it ring until it died out. The second time, you silenced it before the first ring finished. The third, you just let it buzz in your hand, your thumb hovering over accept, knowing you wouldn’t press it.

You read every message. You didn’t respond to a single one.

By early evening, you could almost see him — pacing his apartment, jaw tight, thumb running over the edge of his phone like it was a trigger. Telling himself to stop. Telling himself to give you space. Failing miserably.

That gnawing, hollow feeling would be sinking in now. The weight in his chest. The restlessness in his hands. The way he’d keep thinking of the sound of your voice, the feel of your touch, the way your smile hooked him without effort.

The withdrawal was starting to take hold. And the best part? You didn’t need to lift a finger. He’d come to you.

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You had given him four days. Four, maybe five, before the silence became unbearable and he caved. Before he came knocking at your door like a stray, looking for warmth, for you.

But he surprised you. He lasted a week. Seven whole days without seeing you. Without hearing your voice. Without touching you.

When the knock came, it was almost quiet enough to miss. Three soft raps against the wood, tentative, like even his hand was unsure whether it should be there. You paused in your kitchen, head tilting slightly toward the sound, the smallest flicker of a smile tugging at your lips before you schooled it away.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Which meant there was only one person who could be standing on the other side of that door.

You took your time crossing the room, letting your bare feet make soft thuds against the hardwood, your expression carefully shifting into something neutral. Concerned, maybe. Curious. Certainly not expectant.

The lock clicked, and you opened the door slowly. And there he was.

God, he looked miserable. Pale, like the color had been drained out of him. Dark, heavy bags carved into the skin beneath his eyes, shadowing them, making the blue seem even more raw. His hair was a little disheveled, his jaw unshaven, like he’d been too busy — or too restless — to care.

For a moment, he just stood there, his broad shoulders rising and falling as if the walk to your place had been exhausting. His eyes moved over you like he was memorizing you all over again, as though a week apart had been months.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft — hoarse, like he’d been swallowing too many words before they could escape.

“Can I come in… please?”

The “please” was quiet, almost fragile, carrying the weight of the days you’d kept yourself from him. The kind of please that made you want to pull him inside and fix every inch of him.

But you didn’t move right away. You let the moment stretch — just long enough for him to shift uneasily on his feet, his hand tightening around the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder, his gaze darting from your eyes to the floor and back.

You pursed your lips, your hand still resting lightly on the edge of the door, like you were actually considering telling him no.

Your eyes held his for a long moment. He didn’t look away. He looked like a man ready to take whatever you decided to give him — even if that meant shutting the door in his face.

You let the pause drag just long enough for his shoulders to sink, for his jaw to tighten in that quiet, bracing way that told you he was preparing for rejection.

Then you shifted. Your head tilted slightly, and your lips softened into the faintest, unreadable smile. Without a word, you stepped back, swinging the door open wider.

He moved past you immediately, the tension in his frame palpable — like stepping over your threshold was the first deep breath he’d taken in a week. You caught the faint scent of his cologne as he brushed past, that worn, familiar mix of cedar and soap and something faintly metallic.

He stopped just inside your living room, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides. He didn’t sit. Didn’t touch anything. Just stood there, taking you in like he wasn’t sure where to start.

You closed the door quietly behind him, leaning against it for a second, letting him feel your eyes on his back.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your voice soft but even.

He turned halfway toward you, his mouth opening like he wanted to say no, but what came out instead was, “I… couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Your brows rose slightly, but you didn’t move closer. You stayed where you were, making him bridge the space.

And of course, he did. Slowly, he crossed the room toward you — every step careful, like he was afraid to spook you. His gaze searched your face, looking for some sign, some opening.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice low and thick. “For what I said. For… all of it. I just—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I messed up. I know I did.”

You let your silence hang in the air between you, your expression unreadable, forcing him to keep going.

“I just… I don’t wanna lose you,” he admitted, and that raw edge in his voice almost made you smile. Almost.

You didn’t answer right away.

You just stood there, your arms loosely crossed, studying him like you were trying to decide if the man in front of you was worth the trouble. Your silence stretched long enough that he shifted his weight, his shoulders tensing like he was bracing for you to tell him to leave.

“You really hurt me, James,” you said at last, your voice quiet but heavy. No anger. Just disappointment. You watched the way his jaw tightened at the sound of his name, the way his eyes dropped for half a second before finding yours again.

“I know,” he said immediately, almost desperately. “And I hate myself for it. I was—” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “—stupid. I was scared, and I… I let it get in my head.”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze run over him — the pale face, the dark circles under his eyes, the slight slump in his frame. “And what happens next time you get scared?” you asked softly. “Do I get accused again?”

He flinched. It was subtle, but you caught it.

“I’m not gonna make that mistake again,” he said, his voice firm in that way that meant he was trying to convince himself as much as you. “I swear, sweetheart, I’ll do better. I just… I need you to give me that chance.”

You let your lips press together in a thin line, then slowly exhaled, glancing toward the floor like you were weighing his words. “I don’t know, James,” you murmured. “I don’t know if I can trust that yet.”

The panic that flickered in his eyes was quick, but it was there. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Please. Just—don’t shut me out. I can’t…” He stopped himself, swallowing whatever words were about to come out, but the meaning was clear.

You let the silence hang between you again, long enough for him to start fidgeting with his gloves. Then, finally, you gave a small sigh, softening your expression just enough.

“Alright,” you said quietly, as though you’d just made a reluctant decision. “One more chance.”

His relief was almost palpable — his shoulders loosening, his exhale shaky.

You gave him a faint, almost weary smile, then stepped aside toward the couch, letting him follow you deeper into your space. He trailed after you like a man starved, grateful just to be let close again — exactly where you wanted him.

Then, with a slow exhale, you stepped toward him. He straightened a little as you closed the space between you, his hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare.

“James,” you said quietly, your eyes locked on his, “you hurt me.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

You studied him for a beat longer… then finally lifted your hand to his jaw, your thumb brushing over the rough edge of his stubble. He leaned into your touch like it was the first bit of warmth he’d felt in days.

And then you kissed him.

Not forgiving, not yet — but slow and deep enough to make his knees go weak. You felt the way his breath caught against your lips, how his hands finally came up to your waist, pulling you in like he was afraid you’d vanish again.

He melted into you, completely. His shoulders dropped, his tension bleeding out as his mouth moved against yours with quiet desperation. It wasn’t just a kiss to him — it was an anchor, proof you were still here.

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against his lips, “Please don't make me regret this.”

“I won’t,” he breathed, already leaning back in for more.

This time, the kiss turned hungrier. You tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head, your fingers splaying over the warm muscle of his chest. His breath hitched when you pressed your body against his, and when you guided him backward toward your bedroom, he didn’t resist for a second.

By the time you pushed him down onto your bed and straddled his lap, his hands were everywhere — his flesh hand gripping your thigh, his metal one sliding up your spine like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold you closer or never let you go again.

“God, I missed you,” he murmured against your mouth, the words almost a groan.

You smiled faintly, brushing your lips along his jaw. “Show me,” you whispered.

And he did — with a kiss that turned into something far rougher, far more desperate. The kind of sex that blurred the lines between apology and need, that left him gasping your name like a prayer.

By the time it was over, he was sprawled against you, damp with sweat, his face buried in your neck, muttering quiet promises you knew he’d keep — because now, after this, he’d be even more afraid to lose you.

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Six Months Later May 2025

You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the rich red fabric over your hips, letting your gaze linger on your reflection. The dress clung perfectly — a slow curve from shoulder to waist, from waist to the flare just above your ankles. Your lipstick matched it exactly, and you’d taken extra care with your makeup, the soft glow on your skin catching the warm light of the room.

You tilted your head slightly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, checking the angle again. Every detail was deliberate. Every choice calculated.

You didn’t hear him at first — not until the familiar weight of his hands slid around your waist from behind, his chest fitting flush to your back like it had always belonged there.

“Mm,” Bucky’s voice was low, already warm with something heavier than words. His head dipped, the scrape of faint stubble brushing against your neck as his lips found the spot just below your ear. He kissed once, slow, then again — lingering, like he needed the taste of you before anything else tonight.

You felt his breath as he murmured, “We could skip dinner.” Another kiss. “Stay in instead.”

The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the heat of him pressed against you, his nose grazing along your jaw as if he was memorizing it. His hands splayed wider over your stomach, pulling you closer, and you caught his reflection in the mirror — eyes half-lidded, locked entirely on you.

“It’s our anniversary,” you reminded softly, though your voice didn’t carry much protest.

“Exactly,” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin again. ���I want you to myself tonight.”

You turned slowly in his arms, the soft fabric of your dress brushing against his shirt as you faced him. His hands didn’t leave your waist, thumbs stroking absent circles over the curve of your hips.

You smiled, slow and knowing, letting your hands slide up from his shoulders, fingers curling into the hair at the back of his head. You felt the way his breath deepened under your touch, his body leaning into you like it was instinct.

“Dinner first,” you murmured, your tone soft but edged with promise. Your nails scraped lightly against his scalp, just enough to make him shiver. “And then…” You tilted your head, brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth without giving him the kiss he was angling for, “…you can have me for as long as you want.”

His eyes darkened immediately, the muscles in his jaw flexing as if he was weighing whether to argue. His hands slid lower on your waist, pulling you that fraction of an inch closer until your bodies were flush, the heat of him pressing through your dress.

“You’re killing me,” he muttered, his voice a low rasp. His mouth found your neck again, one slow, hot kiss just under your ear.

“That’s the idea,” you teased, still stroking the back of his head, guiding him without force, letting him think he was the one choosing to stop.

For a moment, he just breathed you in, his lips lingering against your skin like he was storing it away for later. Then, with a quiet groan, he finally leaned back enough to look at you — frustration and hunger warring in his eyes.

“You’d better eat fast,” he warned, but his grip didn’t loosen, his thumbs still brushing over your hips like he needed the contact to keep steady.

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The restaurant glowed in warm, golden light, the kind that softened everything it touched — the gleam of the silverware, the deep reds of the wine in your glass, the way James’ eyes caught the low light like they were lit from within.

A year.

It felt strange, thinking back to that first coffee after the grocery store — how awkward he’d been, how carefully you’d drawn him out. Every step, every move since then, deliberate on your part. And yet, sitting across from him now, you knew it wasn’t all calculation.

You’d worked for this. Planned for it. But somewhere along the way, it had stopped being just strategy.

Because you did love him. You just needed him to love you more.

Your lips curved softly as you looked at him, letting your gaze linger in a way that you knew would make his pulse skip. He was watching you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing, his elbows resting loosely on the table, wine glass untouched in front of him.

It was still startling sometimes — the intensity in his eyes when he looked at you. Like he was memorizing you, every time. Like he was afraid if he blinked, you’d be gone.

“You’re quiet,” you said, your voice light, teasing just enough.

“Just… taking you in,” he replied, and there was no hesitation, no attempt to disguise it.

You tilted your head, letting a slow smile bloom across your face. “After a year, you’d think you’d have me memorized by now.”

“I do,” he said without missing a beat. “But I still like looking.”

The corner of your mouth lifted, a warmth settling in your chest that you didn’t have to fake. You reached across the table, your fingers brushing over his hand, the contact grounding him. You could feel the subtle shift in his posture, the way his shoulders eased as soon as you touched him.

The waiter came and went, dropping off plates you barely noticed. The whole time, his attention never strayed from you. It was the kind of focus you’d nurtured, protected — and now, it was yours entirely.

And as you sipped your wine, your thumb idly stroking over the back of his hand, you thought about how far you’d brought him from that guarded, skeptical man you’d met.

He’d come to love you exactly as much as you’d wanted. Now you just had to make sure he never stopped.

And now… now you just needed to secure it.

Preferably with the ring you’d seen carefully hidden in his drawer — the one where he kept his dog tags and those other small, weathered pieces of his life he couldn’t let go of. You’d found it weeks ago, tucked inside a worn leather pouch. Platinum band, simple but heavy. Not new. Not flashy. The kind of thing James would choose for forever.

You hadn’t let on that you knew. You’d just been waiting for the moment.

So when he ordered the soufflé for you—“her favorite,” he told the waiter—you sat up straighter, gaze fixed on the dessert menu as though you weren’t paying attention, feigning complete ignorance.

By the time the warm, delicate dish was set in front of you, you’d already pictured it. The glint of the band as your fork broke the surface. His hand reaching across the table, his voice low and a little nervous. The quiet satisfaction of knowing you’d planned every step to this moment.

You took your first bite, light and airy, the sweet steam curling up toward your face. Your heart was steady—your smile soft, practiced—as your fork dipped again, searching.

And then… nothing. Just chocolate. Just a normal soufflé.

You blinked once, twice, forcing your expression to stay exactly the same. You made yourself hum softly in appreciation, licking a smear of chocolate from your spoon as though you hadn’t expected anything else.

James was smiling at you, leaning back in his chair with that relaxed warmth you’d learned to draw out of him. Completely unaware of the tiny shift in your chest, the cool note under the sugar on your tongue.

“Good?” he asked.

You smiled, perfect and easy. “Perfect.”

And you let the conversation move on, your face never betraying the faint, careful recalibration already happening in the back of your mind.

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You weren’t even a full step into the apartment before he was on you — hands gripping, mouth crashing into yours like he’d been holding himself back all through dinner and was done pretending now.

His lips were hot, desperate, devouring yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. You felt your back hit the wall, the cool plaster stark against the heat of his body pressed flush to yours. His metal hand braced beside your head, caging you in, while his flesh hand roamed — down your waist, over your hip, gripping hard like he needed to feel every curve at once.

You gasped into his mouth when his thigh pushed between yours, the friction already enough to send sparks straight through your core. He swallowed the sound greedily, his tongue sliding against yours, his kiss rough and claiming.

“God, this dress…” he growled against your lips, his fingers dragging the hem up your thigh without hesitation. “Been thinkin’ about gettin’ you out of it all night.”

You arched into him, grinding against the thigh wedged between yours, your hands threading into his hair and tugging hard enough to make him groan. He bit your bottom lip in return, one hand cupping your ass and pulling you harder into him until you could feel exactly how hard he was through his pants.

“Bucky—” you breathed, but it came out more like a moan when his mouth trailed hot, wet kisses down your jaw to your neck. His teeth scraped over your pulse before his tongue soothed the sting, his breath coming rough and fast against your skin.

Your dress was bunched high now, his fingers already finding the edge of your panties, dragging along the lace just to feel you shiver.

“Tell me you want me,” he rasped against your throat, his voice low and filthy, more command than request. “Say it.”

“I want you,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. “I want you now.”

That was all it took. His mouth crashed back to yours, kissing you hard as his hand slipped under the lace, fingers teasing you until your knees nearly buckled.

When you broke the kiss suddenly, your palms pressing against his chest to push him back just enough to catch his confused, darkened stare.

“Wait here,” you breathed, lips still swollen from his mouth. “I have a surprise for you.”

His brows knit, suspicion and curiosity mixing in his expression. “What kind of surprise?”

You just smirked, stepping out of his reach and smoothing your dress back down over your hips as you started toward the bedroom.

“Hey—” he started, pushing off the wall to follow you, but you turned, holding up a hand.

“Nope,” you said firmly, your tone light but edged with finality. “You can’t come in.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, a half-smile tugging at his lips despite the heat still written all over his face. “Why not?”

“Because,” you said simply, already stepping inside, “it’ll ruin the surprise.”

And before he could take another step, you closed the door and turned the lock with a decisive click.

On the other side, you heard him let out a low, frustrated groan, the sound deep in his chest. “You’re killin’ me, baby,” he muttered through the wood.

You just smiled to yourself, leaning back against the door for a second before moving toward the closet, already planning exactly how you’d make him wait — and exactly how you’d reward him for it.

So you took your time with the zipper, letting the red dress pool at your feet before stepping out of it and draping it neatly over the chair. The silk lingerie you’d chosen for tonight was new — deep black, sheer in just the right places, the lace framing your curves in a way you knew would undo him the second he saw you.

You ran your palms slowly over your hips, adjusting the straps, smoothing the garter into place. The mirror caught the way the fabric clung to your skin, the way your hair fell loose over your shoulders. You looked like a secret — one meant to be unwrapped slowly, savored, and remembered.

And all the while, you let him wait outside the door, pacing, restless, already half-gone with anticipation.

If Bucky was too scared to take the next step — to slide that ring from his drawer onto your finger — then you’d take the step for both of you.

Marriage was fine. Marriage was symbolic. But it wasn’t permanent. What would keep you and James together forever was obvious.

A baby.

Your reflection smiled back at you, slow and knowing. You’d stopped taking your birth control a week ago, carefully tracking your cycle. Tonight fell just before ovulation — the point when your body was primed, when the odds were stacked in your favor.

You adjusted the bra’s clasp and smoothed your hands down your stomach, picturing his expression when you stepped out there. The way he’d grip you, lose himself in you, be far too lost to think about anything but the moment.

And afterward… well. By then, the future would already be in motion.

You reached for the door, letting the anticipation hang for just another heartbeat before unlocking it. The lock clicked, and you turned the handle slowly, letting the door creak open just enough for the light from the bedroom to spill into the hall.

Bucky was right there. He’d been pacing — you could tell by the restless way his weight shifted from one foot to the other, the faint flex of his jaw.

And then his eyes landed on you.

The change was instant.

Every ounce of tension in him coiled tighter, his pupils blowing wide, his gaze dragging over every inch of you with sharp, hungry precision. You saw the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking like he was holding himself back by the thinnest thread.

“Jesus Christ…” he muttered, almost under his breath — not reverent, not even surprised, but like the sight of you had just punched the air out of his lungs.

You leaned lightly against the doorframe, letting the strap of your bra slide just enough against your shoulder to make his eyes follow the movement. “You like?” you asked, voice slow, sultry.

His answer wasn’t words.

In two steps, he was on you, his hands already at your waist, pulling you into him hard enough that your back hit the doorframe. His mouth crashed onto yours, hot and rough, teeth catching your lower lip before his tongue swept in, claiming you with an almost desperate urgency.

You felt the hard line of him through his pants, pressed firmly against your stomach, and the way his hands roamed like he couldn’t decide what part of you to touch first. His metal hand gripped your ass with possessive force, while his flesh one dragged up your side, fingers brushing the edge of your bra, curling like he was about to tear it off.

He broke the kiss just enough to breathe against your mouth, his voice ragged, almost animal. “You’re fuckin’ killin’ me.”

Then his lips were back on you, trailing down your jaw to your throat, biting just enough to make you gasp before sucking hard enough to mark you. You could feel his restraint fraying — every touch growing rougher, more urgent, the kind of need that burned through thought entirely.

The door to the bedroom was still open behind you, and he was already walking you backward through it without breaking from your mouth.

You barely had time to register the way his arms shifted before he bent, gripping you under your thighs.

“Bucky—!” you gasped, the sudden lift catching you off guard, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

He carried you like you weighed nothing, his mouth never slowing — moving from your neck to your collarbone, kissing, biting, sucking with the kind of hunger that had your back arching into him.

You laughed breathlessly, the sound breaking into a moan when his head dipped lower, his mouth closing over your nipple through the thin lace. His teeth caught the peak, his tongue flicking against it, the heat of his mouth soaking through the fabric until it was damp.

“Fuck—James—” you panted, gripping at his hair, your nails scraping against his scalp.

He growled low against you, the sound vibrating into your skin, and then you were being dropped onto the bed — not carelessly, but with the controlled force of someone who needed you exactly where he wanted you.

You bounced once against the mattress, the lingerie strap sliding further down your shoulder, before he was over you, caging you in with his arms. His hair had fallen loose from where you’d been gripping it, his breath rough and fast, eyes fixed on you like prey he was about to devour.

He didn’t wait for permission.

His hands were already roaming, pulling at straps, pushing lace aside, his mouth finding every inch of newly exposed skin like he’d been starved for it. The kiss he dragged back to your mouth was hot, messy, almost uncoordinated in its urgency, and you felt his hips pressing hard into yours, grinding as though the friction alone might undo him.

“Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ night,” he rasped against your lips, his voice almost shaking from how badly he wanted it.

His mouth left yours suddenly, his breathing heavy, eyes blown wide and fixed low like he’d just made a decision he couldn’t come back from.

“Lay back,” he growled, already moving down your body.

You barely had time to register it before his hands hooked behind your knees, spreading them wide. The cool drag of his metal fingers along your inner thighs made you shiver, while his flesh hand gripped firmly, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

Then he was kneeling between your legs, lowering himself until his broad shoulders pressed against your thighs. He dragged you closer in one rough pull, your ass right to the edge of the bed, before hiking your legs up and over his shoulders.

The lace of your panties didn’t last long — he pushed them aside with a flick of his thumb, the air hitting you for a second before his mouth was on you.

You gasped sharply, your fingers fisting in the sheets as his tongue slid through your folds, slow at first, then firmer, more deliberate. He groaned low when he tasted you, the vibration making your hips twitch.

“Fuck, baby…” he muttered against you, already diving back in like a man starved, his tongue circling your clit before sucking it into his mouth with filthy precision.

Your back arched, a breathless moan spilling out as your hands flew to his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan again — and the sound went straight through you. His grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you open, keeping you his.

Every movement was hungry, urgent, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. He alternated between deep, slow licks and fast, sharp flicks of his tongue, never giving you a chance to settle, keeping you right at that dangerous edge.

“James—” you gasped, your thighs trembling against his shoulders.

He pulled back just enough to look up at you from between your legs, his mouth glistening, eyes dark and wild. “Not stoppin’ ‘til you fall apart for me.”

And then his mouth was back on you, more relentless than before, his need to taste you completely taking over.

He didn’t let up — not even a little.

Every stroke of his tongue was purposeful, calculated in that chaotic, desperate way only Bucky could manage — half control, half raw instinct. His flesh hand gripped your thigh hard, fingers digging in, while his metal hand pressed flat against your hip, holding you down when you tried to buck up into him.

The room was filled with the wet, obscene sounds of him eating you out, the low hum of his groans vibrating against your most sensitive spot. You could feel every flick, every pull of his mouth, like it was designed to unravel you completely.

“Fuck, James—” Your voice was breaking now, your grip in his hair tightening until your knuckles ached.

He only groaned in response, the sound deep and rough, like the taste of you was driving him half mad. His tongue changed pace — slow circles, then sudden, precise flicks — keeping you from finding any kind of rhythm, keeping you teetering.

Your breathing quickened, legs twitching against his shoulders, your thighs trying to close on instinct, but his hands were unyielding. He knew exactly where you were, exactly how close.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured against you, his lips brushing your soaked skin before sucking your clit back into his mouth. “Come for me.”

That command — the sheer gravel of his voice — tipped you over.

It hit you hard, your body arching off the bed, a sharp cry leaving your lips as the orgasm rolled through you. Your thighs clenched around his head, your fingers pulling hard at his hair as you rode the waves, every nerve ending singing with him between your legs.

But Bucky didn’t stop. He kept working you through it, licking and sucking until you were trembling, breathless, your hips twitching at the overstimulation. Only when you whimpered his name in that needy, almost pleading tone did he finally lift his head.

His mouth was glistening, his lips red and swollen, his eyes so dark they were nearly black.

“Not done with you yet,” he rasped, crawling up your body without breaking eye contact.

You barely had time to breathe before his mouth was on yours — hot, messy, and deep — and you tasted yourself on his tongue. His hands were already pushing your knees wider, lining himself up without ceremony, his cock heavy and hard against your entrance.

“Gonna fuck you with your taste still on my mouth,” he growled into the kiss, and then he was sliding into you, deep and slow at first, groaning low as your walls clenched around him.

The stretch had you gasping, still sensitive from his mouth, your nails raking down his back as he pressed all the way in, his hips flush to yours.

“Fuck… you feel perfect,” he panted, his forehead dropping to yours for a moment — before pulling back and thrusting into you again, harder this time, setting a pace that told you he was about to fuck you until neither of you could breathe.

The first few thrusts were deep and heavy, knocking the air from your lungs, the kind that made your body jolt and your nails sink deeper into his skin. Bucky’s breath was already ragged, his mouth hovering over yours, stealing your gasps with every push.

Then something in him snapped.

His pace shifted — no more measured control, just raw, driving force. He fucked into you like his body was working on instinct alone, hips slamming into yours hard enough to make the bed creak beneath you. The sounds between you were filthy — wet, sharp, every thrust punctuated by the slap of skin and the low, guttural groans tearing from his chest.

“James—” you moaned, your voice cracking as his cock hit that perfect spot over and over, each thrust deeper than the last.

“Can’t… fuckin’ stop,” he ground out, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you’d be marked in the morning. His metal hand slid up to hold your thigh high, opening you up even wider so he could drive into you with everything he had.

Your back arched, breasts brushing against his chest, and he ducked his head to mouth at your throat — biting, sucking, marking you like he needed the world to see who you belonged to. Every movement screamed possession, his body claiming yours in the most primal way.

The way he was fucking you — it was the definition of breeding, even if he didn’t know it. Every thrust was deep, purposeful, like he was trying to get as far inside you as possible, to make sure you’d feel him long after he was gone.

And you let him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him in, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a single inch of space left between you. “Don’t stop,” you gasped in his ear, your voice low and urgent. “I want it all, James. Every drop.”

That broke what little restraint he had left.

He growled — an actual, raw sound from deep in his chest — and slammed into you faster, harder, the bed frame thudding against the wall in rhythm with his thrusts. His head was buried in your neck, his breath hot and frantic, his hips driving like he was chasing something buried deep inside you.

You could feel him getting closer — the tension in his thighs, the way his thrusts grew rougher, more erratic. His teeth scraped your skin as he gasped, “Fuck—gonna—”

“Yes,” you cut in, your nails dragging down his back. “Inside me. I want it inside me.”

That was it.

With a guttural curse, his hips slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you. The heat flooded you in thick pulses, and he stayed there, grinding into you through it, his breath breaking, every muscle locked as if his body refused to pull away.

You tightened your legs around him, keeping him there, your hand stroking through his hair while you whispered soft, breathless praise into his ear — feeding the moment, cementing it.

By the time his weight finally slumped over you, his cock still buried deep, you could feel his heartbeat pounding against your chest.

And you knew. If this worked—if tonight went exactly as you’d planned—he'd be yours forever.

────────────────────────

One Month Later

It had been exactly a month since that night. The night you’d set everything into motion.

Now you sat on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows on your knees, staring down at the small plastic stick in your hands. Two pink lines. Clear as day.

The satisfaction that curled low in your stomach was warm, steady — not giddy, not frantic. This was what you’d planned for. What you’d worked toward. You let yourself sit in it for a moment longer, letting that small, satisfied smile pull at your lips.

Now came the real work — finding the perfect way to tell him.

And James? He was right where you’d left him. Sitting on the couch, watching some old movie, waiting for you without any idea how much his life was about to change.

You rose slowly, placing the test gently on the edge of the sink for a moment as you composed yourself. The smile softened, the corners of your mouth pulling down just slightly. You practiced the look in the mirror — worried, almost sad, like you weren’t sure what to think.

Perfect.

When you finally opened the bathroom door, you moved slowly, your bare feet making soft sounds on the floor. Bucky glanced over from the couch immediately — and the moment his eyes caught your face, you saw it. His posture changed, that quiet alertness switching on like a flicker of electricity.

“What’s wrong, baby?” His voice was low, careful, already tinged with concern.

You stopped just a few feet from the couch, chewing your lip like you didn’t quite know how to start. Then, without a word, you held the test out toward him.

He frowned slightly, reaching for it — and then froze when he saw.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. His eyes stayed on the little stick in his hand, his brows furrowing like the two pink lines were in a language he couldn’t quite read.

Then it hit him.

His gaze flicked up to you — wide, uncertain — then back to the test again. His fingers tightened slightly around it, his jaw working like he was trying to form words and finding none.

“I… I thought…” he finally managed, his voice rough, unsteady. “I thought we were keeping it safe.”

You blinked at him, letting your eyes go wide, your bottom lip trembling just enough. “We were,” you said quietly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself. “I mean… I thought we were.”

His hand went through his hair, dragging hard, the motion jerky and restless. “I—” He stopped, his breath catching. “I just… I don’t understand. This wasn’t—”

He cut himself off again, and you let the silence stretch, watching him wrestle with the storm behind his eyes. His chest rose and fell faster, his grip on the test loosening until it rested in his palm like it was fragile.

You stepped closer, your arms wrapping lightly around yourself, shoulders curling inward as though you were smaller somehow. “James…” Your voice was so soft it was almost a whisper. “What are we gonna do?”

His head lifted at that, his eyes searching your face — and finding what you wanted him to see. The uncertainty. The fear. The quiet plea for him to take control, to protect you.

“I—” He swallowed hard, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t know yet. I just… I need to think. But we’ll figure it out. We’ll… we’ll figure it out.”

He reached for you then, pulling you down onto the couch beside him, his arm curling protectively around you even as his mind clearly spun. You let yourself lean into him, your cheek against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.

Inside, you were calm. Because he’d just said we’ll figure it out. That was all you needed to hear.

────────────────────────

Two Months Later

The morning light spilled across your bedroom, soft and golden, catching on the band of platinum wrapped snug around your left hand.

You turned it slowly, admiring the way it glittered in the mirror. Simple. Heavy. Perfect.

Your eyes shifted lower, to the faint swell beneath your tank — the tiniest curve of your belly, only just beginning to show. Three months.

You ran your palm over it absently, your reflection looking back at you with a knowing smile.

It had been a month since James proposed. You could still see the scene perfectly when you closed your eyes.

He’d cooked for you that night — your favorite meal. You remembered the smell of garlic and herbs filling the air, the low hum of old music coming from the speaker, the way he kept glancing over at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

At the time, you’d thought he was just a little more fidgety than usual. Later, you’d realize he’d been working up the nerve.

After dinner, he’d reached into his pocket—slow, careful—and set a small box on the table between you.

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he’d said, voice just shy of steady, blue eyes fixed on yours.

You’d blinked, keeping your tone careful, hesitant. “James… are you sure this isn’t just because of…?” You’d glanced down toward your stomach without finishing the sentence.

His face had shifted instantly, that stubborn line setting into his jaw. “No,” he’d said firmly. “This isn’t about obligation. I love you. I don’t want to be with anyone else. And I’m in this for the long game, sweetheart. Always have been.”

You’d let the silence linger just long enough for him to reach across the table, his hand covering yours, his thumb brushing your ring finger like it already belonged there.

“Say yes,” he’d murmured. “Please.”

And, of course, you had.

Now, standing in front of the mirror, the ring catching the light and the small curve of your belly just beneath it, you couldn’t help the small, satisfied smile that spread across your face.

Everything was falling right into place.

────────────────────────

Eleven Months Later July 2026

The door shut behind him with a dull click, the sound of the lock sliding into place almost drowned out by the faint hum of music drifting from the kitchen. Something warm and rich was in the air — garlic, maybe rosemary — and for the first time all day, Bucky felt his shoulders start to loosen.

He let out a slow breath, setting his briefcase down and dropping his keys onto the entryway table. They landed with a soft clink against the wood, right beside the silver picture frame that had been there since the move.

His gaze found it immediately, like it always did.

You, in your wedding dress, smiling down at the tiny bundle in your arms — your daughter, barely two months old, swaddled in ivory silk to match you. She was sleeping in the picture, her face soft and serene, her little fists tucked against her chest.

And there he was beside you, in the fancy tux he’d married you in, looking straight ahead at the camera. But even in the photo, it was obvious — his eyes weren’t on the lens.

They were on you. Like they always were.

The tiredness in his bones eased just a little as he stood there, taking it in for a few seconds longer before he made himself move, the smell of dinner pulling him down the hall toward the kitchen.

From the doorway, he could see you — hair pulled back, one of his old t-shirts hanging loose over your frame, swaying your hips gently to the rhythm of whatever old song was playing as you stirred something on the stove.

You didn’t even hear him come in—not until his arms slid around your waist from behind, the heat of his body pressing into your back. You startled just slightly, then relaxed immediately into the familiar weight of him.

“Something smells good,” Bucky murmured against your neck, his voice low and rough from the day.

A smile tugged at your lips as you tilted your head, giving him room when his mouth brushed your skin in a slow, lingering kiss. You turned in his arms, hands resting on his chest as you leaned up to give him a proper kiss — warm, unhurried, the kind that felt like a homecoming all on its own.

“I’m making beef stew and roasted vegetables,” you said when you pulled back, watching the faint flicker of relief cross his features. “Your favorite. Should be ready in a few minutes.”

His shoulders seemed to ease instantly, the tension melting from him as his thumb traced the edge of your hip.

“So you can go get undressed,” you added with a little smile, “and greet a special someone.”

That got the faintest, tired laugh out of him. “Yeah?”

You nodded toward the living room, where the faint sound of a baby’s cooing could just be heard over the music. “She’s been waiting for you.”

His face softened instantly, his lips curving into the kind of smile that was only for her—and for you. Without another word, he kissed your forehead and slipped out of the kitchen, already tugging at his tie as he headed toward the sound.

Bucky rounded the corner into the living room, the exhaustion of his day already fading as his eyes landed on the little playmat spread out across the floor.

There she was.

Shelly — four months old, dressed in a soft pink onesie, kicking her legs and swatting at the dangling toys above her with all the chaotic energy of someone discovering the world one grab at a time.

“Hey… Seashell,” he said softly, and the moment she heard his voice, her head turned toward him like it was instinct. Her little face lit up, her mouth curling into that wide, gummy smile that made his chest ache in the best way.

“Oh, there’s my princess. My pretty girl,” he murmured as he crouched down beside her, his voice low and warm just for her.

Her legs kicked faster, arms flailing as if she could launch herself into him by sheer willpower.

“You waitin’ for me, huh?” he asked, leaning in to press a kiss to one chubby cheek, then the other, then back again, his scruff making her squeal and squirm in delight.

She answered him with a long string of babbles — high and excited, her tiny hands reaching for his face like she had something very important to tell him.

“Oh yeah? You talkin’ to me, Shell?” he grinned, catching one of her hands gently in his and pretending to listen with the gravity of a serious conversation. “Uh-huh. No kidding. That so?”

Her blue eyes — his blue eyes — locked on him, bright and full of life, while every other feature was you. And he loved that. Loved that she was the perfect blend of both of you, but in all the ways that mattered, she was entirely her own little person.

“You’ve been keepin’ your ma company while I’ve been gone?” he asked, pressing another kiss to her cheek just because he couldn’t help himself. “Good girl.”

She rewarded him with another loud squeal, her tiny fingers curling around his thumb like she never wanted to let go.

From the kitchen doorway, you watched them for a moment — Bucky still crouched on the playmat, talking to Shelly like she was giving him a detailed report, his big hands so gentle as he scooped her up and pressed her close.

By the time you set the table, she was tucked in her highchair, the soft click of the tray locking into place as Bucky adjusted it. She babbled happily, smacking her palms against the surface while he set a small bowl of mashed sweet potato in front of her.

“Alright, Seashell,” he murmured, scooping up a little on the tiny spoon. “Open wide.”

She did, but halfway through the bite, her blue eyes flicked toward you. When she saw you setting down the stew, her legs started kicking again, and she let out a happy squeal.

Bucky grinned, glancing over his shoulder at you. “See? She’s a mama’s girl,” he teased.

“Only because I feed her the good stuff,” you shot back, sliding into your seat.

Dinner was easy. Domestic. Bucky took a bite of his stew, then scooped up another spoonful for Shelly, making exaggerated faces until she giggled and leaned forward to take it. He kept his left hand on the table, fingers brushing yours every so often as if he couldn’t stop reaching for you.

You caught him stealing glances between bites — that same soft, almost disbelieving look like he still couldn’t believe this was his life. His wife. His daughter. The warmth of this apartment.

Shelly babbled between spoonfuls, her little voice filling the air with nonsense words that Bucky responded to like she was telling the best story he’d ever heard.

“Oh yeah? You don’t say,” he told her seriously before looking at you. “She’s tellin’ me all about her day.”

“Sounds like she’s got a lot to say,” you said, smiling.

“She gets it from you,” he teased, but the way his eyes lingered on you for a second longer told you exactly where his heart was.

It was easy. Simple. Exactly the picture you’d worked for — and now, it was your reality.

You watched him from across the table, the way his big hands looked almost comically careful as he held that tiny spoon, coaxing Shelly into another bite. He talked to her the whole time, his voice low and soft, filled with a patience that seemed endless when it came to her.

“Good girl,” he murmured when she swallowed, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek before scooping up the next spoonful. She giggled, kicking her little feet, babbling something that made him grin like she just told the best joke in the world.

And your heart… God, your heart felt so full you almost didn't know what to do with it.

Every step. Every careful choice. Every word, every moment, every move you made — it was all for this.

James Buchanan Barnes, sitting at your table in your home, feeding your daughter with that kind of quiet devotion that didn't need to be spoken to be felt. Completely, entirely yours.

And Shelly… your perfect little girl, with his eyes and your smile, the living proof of everything you worked for.

You didn't feel smug. You didn't feel victorious. Not right now. What you felt is love. Pure, unfiltered, bone-deep love for the man across from you and the baby between you.

And as you watched them together, Shelly reaching for him with those tiny hands while he laughed and kissed her again, you felt it — a burst of true happiness so strong it stole your breath for a second.

Your husband. Your daughter. Your family.

Exactly as you planned. Exactly where they belong.

Forever yours.

a/n — I had to cut a bunch of gaslighting scenes, as well as reader's backstory scene. and a fluff scene where bucky talks about the wedding and baby ☹️. and I still had a whole thunderbolts arc, and more manipulation where she includes Shelly in it, sigh.

General Bucky Barnes Masterlist:

@xamapolax @gilwm @shereadzzz @princeescalus @Onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @Ashpeace888 @Bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @herejustforbuckybarnes @deedzreads @novaslov @LuminousVenomVagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @Excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @Millercontracting @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @Lilac13 @Fayeatheart @c3liaaaaa @Ozwriterchick @miaspaperplanes @EspressoPatronum454 @melsunshine @slutforsr @thousandsplendidsunss @c-grace56 @barnesonly @theoraekenslover

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[tearsandtechno]

what a weirdo i need him bad

[tearsandtechno]

fuck me, he knows what he’s doing the performative little diva

[tearsandtechno]

i can’t do this anymore

[tearsandtechno]

not funny

[tearsandtechno]

joseph & pedro vs the friendship quiz

[tearsandtechno]

just living his best life

[tearsandtechno]

⟡˙⋆

[tearsandtechno]

what if i just kill myself